Otherworld 11 - Waking the Witch (12 page)

“So there’s a schedule?”

“What if there is?”

“Then I should know it.”

“To keep you from making any premature moves?”

“No, so I can decide if it’s worth it.”

I only laughed. We kissed a while longer, until I put on the brakes, and we sat down on the grass, looking up at the stars.

When I snuck a look at him, I felt my pulse quicken. That surprised me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this happy on a date. This comfortable. This hopeful. It wasn’t the racing heart I got when Adam was around, but it was something. It was definitely something.

We sat there quietly for another minute, then Michael said, “So you said you worked through school. Which college?” When I didn’t answer, he reddened. “Okay, that was presumptuous of me.”

“Nah. It’s cool. No college. Maybe someday. I wasn’t ready. I’d planned to go through for art, then realized it wasn’t what I wanted to do with my life. You know how some kids deal by writing angsty poetry? That’s what art was for me. I still enjoy it, but the older I get, the less I do. Good thing I realized that before I blew a bundle on tuition.”

“Smart move. I wish I’d taken a few years off. At eighteen, I barely knew what I wanted to do with my weekend, let alone my life.”

“You don’t like being a cop?”

He shrugged. “Don’t love it, don’t hate it. I won’t stay in the job forever.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I have no idea. I’m not exactly the most impulsive guy in the world. It takes me a while to make a decision.” He paused. “I do know one thing I want, though.”

“What’s that?”

“A third date.” He put his arms around me and kissed me again.

W
e dropped off the tire behind the garage and got back to the motel around eleven. As tempted as I was to invite Michael in, I settled for making out at the door. He made it easier by saying he had a few things to check out before he headed back to his motel. He promised to call me in the morning.

I stood outside and watched him go. Was this something? It felt like something.

YET AGAIN, I’D been dropped off for the night, but had no intention of staying in. Days were for interviewing witnesses and following leads; nights were for breaking into places. I wanted to get into Cody’s office and, if I could, exact a little revenge for this afternoon.

One problem with this plan? Cody’s office, according to my map of Columbus, was on the outskirts, near the sawmill. He had another in Vancouver, but I suspected I stood a better chance of finding something damning here. There had to be plenty of buildings in Columbus that would make nicer—and more convenient—offices. So why would you keep a place out there? Only if you had business you didn’t want to conduct in town.

First, then, I needed my bike. The garage was a couple of blocks away. Columbus wasn’t exactly a dangerous place to wander at night, so I headed over.

My bike was inside a side bay, which the resident mechanic kid had either forgotten to lock or never bothered to. I rolled out my bike, got my tire, took my tool kit, and set to work.

In the half hour I was there, two cars passed the Main Street intersection. The lack of activity only made me extra cautious. I’d cast a perimeter spell around the lot so I could concentrate on changing the tire. When I was finishing up, someone breached the spell, setting off a mental alarm.

I looked up sharply. I stood. Even called out a “Hello?” just to let the intruder know I’d noticed him. Silence answered.

I cast a sensing spell. Yep, definitely a presence. A human-size one.

There was only one streetlamp near the garage, and my bike was under it. The full moon vanished behind clouds. When I stepped past the circle of light, I had to squint into the shadows. A flashlight would have helped. But I had a spell-powered one, so why would I weigh down my saddlebags with that? Well, maybe if I was being stalked by a human who shouldn’t see me tossing a ball of light into the air.

I cupped my hand and cast the light ball inside it, to look like a flashlight. Kind of. Then I strode toward the garage, the light leading the way.

Metal tinkled across asphalt, like someone had kicked a screw. It came from the west side of the shop. I extinguished the light and ran that way just in time to see the heels of someone darting around the corner. White soles. Sneakers.

Knockback spell at the ready, I rounded the rear of the garage. Empty. There was, however, a convenient Dumpster. I slid off my boots and crept along the wall until I was beside the bin. I listened and flexed my fingers, ready to cast at the first squeak of a shoe. When all stayed silent, I whispered a sensing spell. It came back positive.

Cardboard boxes were scattered around the base. I found the sturdiest, grabbed the edge of the bin, and swung up onto the box. It started to collapse just as I lifted off it.

The top of the bin was dented and filled with what I prayed was rainwater, not garbage sludge. I pushed to my feet and took one slow step across, knockback spell prepped to send my stalker reeling back the moment he noticed—

A sharp intake of breath.
Above me.
I wheeled to catch only a glimpse of someone dressed in black before he plummeted off the other side of the roof. Footsteps pounded pavement. I jumped down and tore off, but by the time I reached the street, it was empty.

I stood on the sidewalk. Looked left. Looked right. Nothing. Shit!

I cast my sensing spell. Someone was still nearby. I turned as a dark figure stepped from the shadows. My hands flew up in a knockback, cut short when I saw the scowling face of Bruyn’s older officer.

I glanced down at his shoes. Loafers. Dark soles. Damn.

“Breaking and entering is a crime, Miss Levine,” he said as he strode over to me.

I looked around at the shops, mostly vacant. “Breaking in ... where? And if I was, I wouldn’t park my bike under a streetlamp.”

His scowl deepened.

“I’m fixing it,” I waved at the tools still scattered around the bike. “The tire blew and they were keeping my bike here while I grabbed a new one from Vancouver. My bike.
My
tire.
My
tools. I didn’t break in anywhere.” Well, technically, I did, to get my bike, but I didn’t see the need to mention that.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone at night,” he said. “We’ve got a killer on the loose, who likes ’em young and pretty.” He smiled, as if imagining me lying inside a ring of crime-scene tape.

“I didn’t realize how late it’d gotten,” I said. “Thanks.”

I started back to my bike, then turned.

“Did you see anyone else out here?” I asked. “I could have sworn I heard footsteps just a minute ago. That’s why I was looking around.”

“Nobody but me. That’s the way it should be, this time of night.”

He stood watch while I packed up my gear. I thanked him for that, though I knew he was just doing it to make sure I left. And I did. With this cop on the lookout, I couldn’t exactly take off for Cody’s office on the far side of town. And my bruised body was telling me it was ready for bed.

Back at the motel, I grabbed a couple of cookies—one of Paige’s and one from the cult. Paige’s were better, but the others were decent enough. I was pulling off my clothes when my cell phone rang. “Break on Through,” which I’d set as Jesse’s ring tone.

“Yes, I know, it’s late,” he said when I answered. “Did I wake you up?”

“Nope. Just getting ready to turn in.”

“Good. I probably should have just texted, but I found something.” A pause. “Not that you can do anything about it tonight. Never mind. It can wait.”

“Oh, no you don’t. If it’s exciting enough to call me after midnight, I want to hear it.”

He paused. “Okay, so I was going through the files again, making notes, trying to find connections. You know that Alastair Koppel used to live in Columbus, right?”

“He went to high school here, but he never came back after college. His parents moved away ten years ago, when they retired. No other family in town.”

“You’ve done your homework then. Did you notice when he left?”

“Before—no, during college. He was going to college in Portland, so he commuted. That must not have worked out too well. In his third year, he moved out of his parents’ place. Or second year. People weren’t clear on that.”

“It was 1983.”

“Okay, 1983.”

“Anything else happen in 1983?”

“No idea. I wasn’t born.”

“But someone else was. And it seems someone on this investigation is a CSI fan.”

“What?”

“They went a little crazy gathering DNA. They got DNA profiles on Ginny, Brandi, Claire, and just about everyone questioned. Except Cody and his wife, who knew their rights and refused. When I was writing up the file, looking for connections, I saw one, and I faxed the profiles to a buddy to confirm. He just got back to me.”

He stopped. I could feel his excitement buzzing down the line.

“DNA ... 1983 ...” I said. “Shit ... 1983. The year both Ginny and Brandi were born. Our cult leader is Brandi’s father, isn’t he?”

“Not Brandi’s.”

“Ginny’s?”

“Yep. Seems Paula Thompson wasn’t exactly being honest when she said there was no connection between her daughter and Koppel. The cops never noticed it because, obviously, they were only holding the DNA profiles to compare to a potential suspect’s, not crossreferencing—”

My phone blipped, telling me I had an incoming text. It was from Michael.

Lne bsy. Fnd s/t. Cody. Imp. Anyway u can come? 384 SW 3rd Ave. B careful.

“Michael just texted me,” I said to Jesse. “He found something and he’d like me over there. I’m guessing it’s that delivery Cody had scheduled for tonight.”

“Right. You go, then.”

I hung up, called Michael, and got a message that the line was busy-probably as he tried to call me again. When it went to voice mail, I left a message, then I grabbed my jacket and sneakers and hurried out.

S
outhwest 3rd Avenue. I knew exactly where the street was, because I’d wanted to go there tonight. Cody’s office was on that road, in a generic office block, with a medical and dental clinic on the first floor. Built to service the sawmill, I bet. Give workers a convenient place for daytime appointments and give contract and auxiliary companies a convenient place for their offices. Now though, every entry on the communal front sign was taped over, every decal sign on the windows partly scratched away.

Just past that lone office building, there were a couple of abandoned warehouses. The address Michael had sent led to one.

I killed the engine three buildings back and coasted to a stop. Nothing says “company” like the roar of a motorcycle on an empty road. All was quiet, though. I sat there, helmet off, listening. I cast a sensing spell. Nothing.

I rolled the bike alongside the other warehouse and parked it in the shadows. Then I called Michael again. The phone went straight to voice mail. I switched to text and messaged him a simple
I
’
m here.

No answer.

I crept along the building, then stopped. More listening. More looking. More casting. All negative. I double-checked the address.

Had he even meant Columbus? In this part of the country 3rd Avenue was a common street name. Maybe it was Battle Ground or Vancouver.

But we knew Cody was expecting a delivery. Could it be a coincidence that Michael’s address led me to abandoned warehouses only doors away from Cody’s office? I doubted it. Besides, Michael thought I didn’t have my bike back. It would be tough enough for me to get out here, let alone to another town.

Still ... Abandoned warehouse. Deserted road. Urgent late-night text message. Can’t contact the sender. Yep, paranoia was warranted.

I cast a blur spell and zipped to the rear of the warehouse. The door was unlocked. With my back to the wall, I eased it open and cast a fast sensing spell. Only the faint pulse of small heartbeats came back. Rats, cats, or other furry squatters.

Had Michael come and gone? If he had, why not text me again?

I cast a blur spell and slid inside. The windows were filthy and when the door closed behind me, the light went out. Damn it, I needed a flashlight. Everyone said I relied too much on my spells. They might have a point. I used the light ball. It was easy enough to extinguish in a hurry, and safer than stumbling in the dark.

As I stepped past the entrance, I caught a whiff of smoke. There was the acrid scent of burned paper, but something sweeter, too. My shoe sent a white tube rolling silently across the floor. Cigarette? I bent. No, a joint. Was that what I smelled? Yes, I know what pot smells like—never tried it, knowing drugs could do funky things with my powers. But the scent seemed sweeter. Spicier. Cloves?

I walked a few more steps and picked up another burning scent. Candles. I found one on the floor, as if it had been dropped. I picked it up. Still warm. The sides were rough. I brought the light ball down lower and saw faint scratches. Symbols.

The hair on my neck prickled. A ritual? Was this what Michael found? Or, worse, stumbled on?

I walked slower as I scanned the floor for chalk marks. I found disturbances in a thick layer of dust that seemed to serve the same purpose. Ritual markings. Like the chalk mark in the crime-scene photos, they were faint. Easily overlooked.

Someone had definitely conducted a ritual here tonight.

I cast the sensing spell again. Still negative for people. I had my cell on vibrate, but I checked it anyway. No calls. No texts.

As I made my way deeper into the building, the dust on the floor thickened and I could make out footprints; lots of scuff marks at first, then clear impressions in spots where no one had ventured in a while. Men’s loafers. Like Michael’s.

The tracks led to a set of wooden stairs going up to an observation deck. I could see a couple of desks up there, and more boxes. Extra storage and a place for a security guard to work, looking out over the floor below. The perfect place to get a good view of the whole warehouse.

Michael’s were the only prints leading up. As I started to climb, I noticed something dart between boxes below. Glowing green eyes flashed. A hiss. Then a waving tail as a cat tore off.

I seemed to be attracting cats these days. I shook my head, glanced back up the stairs, and cast my sensing spell. Nothing. I cast again, to be sure. Nothing. Michael must have gone down a set of stairs I couldn’t see. I’d find those, then maybe climb up and get a look from above.

The cat moved alongside me, hopping over the boxes, turning every few seconds to spit at me, pissed off, it seemed, because I insisted on traveling in the same direction.

I sent a few sparks flying its way and it gave me one last hiss, then tore off ahead, still keeping to the same path.
Determined
to head in this direction, however nervous I made it. I followed.

It had slid between two rows of boxes. A tight squeeze, but I made it. When I shone the light ball ahead, another cat turned, hissing, orange fur puffing. I stopped and it lowered its head to the floor again. A rasping sound. It was licking the floor. I tossed the light ball over it. Tendrils of blood snaked across the concrete.

I raced forward, elbows knocking the boxes on either side. Ahead, I saw a leg stretched out. Light chinos. Brown loafers. I pictured Michael from earlier, his tan pants and darker shoes.

I shoved my way through, sending boxes crashing. Michael was draped over the remains of a smashed wooden crate. On his back, face turned the other way, head at an angle that was wrong, just wrong. Blood dripped from his fingertips, slow and steady, a pool growing on the concrete floor beneath him.

I stood there, brain stuttering, telling myself it was someone else wearing clothing like Michael’s. It wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him.

Then I thought I saw him breathe and I dropped beside him, slipping in the blood and not caring. My fingers went to his neck. No pulse. His skin was chilled, clammy.

I turned his face toward me. His head moved easily. Too easily. His neck was broken.

His eyes were open. Open and empty.

No, I’d seen him move. Goddamn it, I’d seen him move. How could he break his neck? What could—?

I looked up. The ledge of the observation deck was twenty feet above me.

He stepped back too far. Went over the edge. Hit the crates. Hit the cement. Broke his neck.

No! Goddamn it, no! Not Michael. He’d never be that careless.

My phone vibrated. It was like an electric shock and I jumped. I fumbled and pulled it out. Jesse. I answered.

“Hey, just wanted to make sure everything’s—”

“Michael. He‘s—I found Michael. He fell. He’s—” I squeezed my eyes shut. “He’s dead.”

When Jesse didn’t answer, I said, “He’s dead. Michael’s dead.”

“Shit ...” He floundered, then came back, firm. “Are you still at the scene? Have you called 911?”

“N-no. I should. I will.”

“Do that. I’m on my way.” A pause. “Where are you?”

I gave him the address.

“Call 911 and hang tight. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t move anything. Don’t touch anything. Got it?”

I said I did. Then I hung up. I pressed 9, and crouched there, finger poised over the 1.

This was no accident. I was sure of that.
Sure.
He’d been murdered.

Dead.

Oh, God.

Dial the numbers, damn it.

A squeak behind me. I turned to a flashlight shining in my eyes. Beside it, the barrel of a gun. The phone fell. My hands shot up. Sparks sizzled from my fingertips.

“Drop it!” a voice barked.

The flashlight swung out of my face and I saw Chief Bruyn. The younger officer stood behind him.

“Hands up,” Bruyn said.

They already were, but I hoisted them higher, palms out. My fingers had stopped sparking.

“She had something,” Bruyn said to his officer. “Find it, then take her out to the car.”

“I had my phone,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I dropped it when you startled me. I was dialing 911. It’s Michael Kennedy. He ... he fell. From up there.” I pointed. “He’s dead.”

The officer patted me down as I spoke. Bruyn checked Michael, then called the sheriff’s department and doctor, then phoned the other officer, telling him to get over there. When he hung up, he walked back to Michael.

“He called me here,” I said. “I found him.”

“Sit her down over there,” Bruyn said, pointing. “And stand guard.”

“Stand guard? You think I killed—?”

I didn’t finish. Stupid question. I’d been found over a dead body.

“Michael sent me a text. It’s still on my phone.” I pointed to it on the ground. “Just check—”

“Get her away from here,” Bruyn said.

“You want her in the cruiser?”

“No, just over there.” He pointed. “In case the doc has questions.”

The other officer arrived, then the doctor. He didn’t ask me anything. I don’t think he even knew I was there. Having me sitting twenty feet away as they discussed the case wasn’t exactly smart policing. After the doctor left, Bruyn seemed to figure that out, and had the young officer take me to the cruiser as the sheriff’s department arrived.

“Someone called 911 before me, didn’t they?” I said to Bruyn as I left. “Reported a disturbance? Just in time for you to find me with the body.”

He said nothing, but I could tell by his expression that I was right.

“That would be your killer,” I said. “He saw me arrive and is probably out there, right now, watching us.”

“There’s no one else for a mile.”

“We’re on a street with a bunch of empty buildings. Any one of those would be the perfect place—”

“We didn’t see anything.”

“Do you think the killer parked his car out front and left the lights on?”

He glared and swung open the back door of a king cab pickup marked “Columbus Police Dept.”

With a roar of tires and cloud of dust, another pickup swung into the lot. Jesse jammed it into park so fast the brakes hiccupped.

“Is she okay?” he called, running over as the officer prodded me into the back.

“I’m fine,” I said. “The prime suspect, it seems, but otherwise fine.”

“Suspect?” He wheeled on the cop. “Are you serious? She called it in.”

“No, someone else beat me to it,” I said.

“This is stupid. She got a text—”

I held up my hand as I climbed in. “It’s okay. I’ll answer their questions and we’ll get this straightened out.”

The officer tried to shut the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He glared down at my feet—which were well within the cab confines—then at Jesse, who stood three feet away. He tried again. The door wouldn’t shut, held by Jesse’s telekinetic powers.

“Do you want me to call anyone?” Jesse asked.

“Not yet. I should be able to sort this out on my own.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought you’d say. I’m here now, I can help, and if we need Lucas, he’s only a call away.”

“That’s enough,” the officer said.

He gave the door a sharp wrench and Jesse’s telekinetic control over it snapped as it slammed shut. Jesse stood there, watching me, looking anxious.

“I’m okay,” I mouthed.

He headed into the warehouse. The officer shouted at him to stay out of there. Jesse ignored him. The cop glanced from me to Jesse, and decided to remain at his post. A few minutes later, Jesse came out, escorted by the older cop.

“Look, just
talk
to her,” I heard Jesse saying. “She was here because she was lured here. Set up.”

I didn’t catch the officer’s answer, but Jesse’s face darkened. He said something back, too low to hear. The cop stiffened, then pointed to Jesse’s truck.

“Fucking rednecks,” Jesse called back as he stormed off.

The cop’s flashlight went flying. A parting shot from Jesse. As the Deputy chased after it, Jesse mouthed “I’ll fix this” to me. Then he climbed in his truck and peeled out.

It got very, very quiet then, left alone with a silent cop standing guard.

Michael was dead.

The guy I’d just gone out to dinner with. Just laughed with. Talked with. Kissed and thought “this could be something.”

I kept seeing him. Hearing his voice. Smelling the faint scent of his cologne. Then smelling blood, jerking out of the daydream, shivering, eyes prickling. I didn’t cry. I don’t cry. I wished I could. But all I could do was keep playing those memory loops. Michael alive. Michael dead.

The chief finally came out. He didn’t say a word to me, just motioned for the officer guarding me to follow. Leaving the other cop guarding the scene, he got into his car. We followed him back to the station.