Otherworld 11 - Waking the Witch (19 page)

A
fter we left, I said, “Were you serious about that dream crap?”

Adam shrugged. “It makes sense. Her psyche can’t deal with the guilt, so it displaces it with a dream about the death of someone else’s daughter.”

“It’s not just her psyche that can’t deal. Carol Degas is a human ostrich. And that dream? I think it’s bullshit.”

“Well, one thing I’m ninety-nine percent sure on is that Brandi wasn’t a witch. Nor did Carol somehow find out that Tiffany Radu was one and kill her, thinking she was following a Christian precept. Seeing all the religious stuff in her house made me think we might be onto something, but there’s no witch-hunter—” He stopped, frowning.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing. Just ...” He shook his head. “Nothing. Anyway, back to the dream, I’m wondering if it’s more than a garden-variety guilty conscience. ”

“You think she had something to do with her daughter’s death?”

“Not overtly, but maybe there’s something she’s not telling us. Or something she isn’t really aware of herself.”

“If she does remember something, we’d better hope it comes in another dream, because short of hypnosis, that woman isn’t going to ...”

When I trailed off, it was his turn to look over and say, “What?”

“I need to trace a call,” I said.

I CONNECTED TO the office database and dug up the number of a half-demon phone company exec who helped us whenever she could, repayment for Paige getting her out of a Cabal commitment uglier than any cell phone contract.

“Lina,” I said when she answered. “It’s Savannah Levine. Can you check a phone record for me?”

“Absolutely. Do you have the number?”

I gave it to her, then said, “I need to know if any calls were placed from that number on the night of November 18 last year.”

“There’s one.” She rattled it off. “Do you want me to check the source?”

“No, I recognize it. Any other calls after that?”

“No.” Keyboard tapping chattered across the line. “But there is one from the second number, made just over an hour later to a cell phone.” She gave me the number. “Do you want me to check with the cell company for the registered owner?”

“Maybe not. Hold on.” I pulled up my contact list and entered the number. “No, seems I already know it.”

I thanked her, then signed off and told Adam what I’d found.

“Shit,” he said.

“Do you remember what caliber of gun was used in the murders? Thirty-eight, wasn’t it?”

“Right.”

“The kind of gun a guy in Columbus might keep under his mattress, wave around when he’s drunk, get confiscated if it’s not properly registered ...”

He frowned, but didn’t ask, just drove as I explained my theory.

PAULA AND KAYLA were at home, Paula clearing away the breakfast dishes as Kayla got out her books for the first lesson of the day. I introduced Adam. Kayla sized him up.

“You’re a private eye?” she asked.

“I don’t look like one?” he said.

“No.”

He laughed. “How about Savannah? Does she?”

“More than you.”

“It’s all about the edge,” I said. “I have one. You don’t.”

“All right,” Adam said to Kayla. “Forget the lock-picking lesson, then.”

“Lock-picking?” she said.

He took a lock-pick gun from his pocket and her eyes rounded.

“I was going to give you a lesson while Savannah talks to your grandma,” he said. “But if I’m not proper PI material, then I wouldn’t be a proper teacher ...”

“What’s this?” Paula said, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

I introduced Adam as my coworker and friend, then said, “I need to talk to you alone, Paula. Is it okay if Adam takes Kayla outside, shows her how to use the lock pick?”

She looked at Adam. “I don’t think—”

“Please, Grandma?”

“They’ll be right at the front door,” I said. “If we sit in the living room, you can see them through the window.”

“I suppose so ...”

They left. We went into the living room, and Paula positioned her chair where she could see the front steps as they worked on the lock.

“There’s been a major development in the investigation,” I said. “I wanted you to be the first to hear it. As you know, the gun used to kill Ginny and Brandi was never found.”

“Has it been?”

“No, but it’s been identified as a gun that was stolen from the police station’s evidence locker a few years ago.”

Paula glanced at me and I kept my eyes as wide as possible, giving no sign I was bullshitting her. I was good at that.

I continued, “That’s when you worked at the station. Do you remember it?”

“Vaguely,” she said. “It wasn’t in the evidence locker, though. Just in the office. Confiscated from Bill Martin—a local no-good. They figured he’d broken in and gotten his gun back.”

“Maybe, but that’s not what they think now. In fact, Chief Bruyn swears he knew who took it, he’s just not telling me.”

Paula swallowed.

“Of course, whoever took the gun isn’t necessarily Ginny’s killer,” I said.

Paula nodded.

“But the person who did take it should come forward before Bruyn comes knocking. I’m sure whoever took it had a good reason. But then, when it went missing, she couldn’t exactly report it, since it was stolen goods in the first place.” I caught and held Paula’s gaze. “That gun must have been taken by someone who had access at night. Someone like the cleaner.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t me. It ...” She hesitated, then said, “It was Ginny. She came to see me one night. Brought me coffee. I knew something was up, but I thought she just wanted money. Then, a week later, when Bill came back for his gun and it was gone, I knew what Ginny had come for. Everyone in town knew the gun was in that office. I confronted her and she admitted it. Said she’d run into some trouble with a dealer and she needed it to scare him off. She wouldn’t let me give it back, so I bought her a lockbox and made her keep it in that, away from Kayla.”

“And it never occurred to you she might use it on Kayla?”

She should have jumped at that, shocked. But she only shook her head, her gaze once again fixed on the girl outside the window.

“No,” she said, barely over a whisper. “It never did.”

“But that changed at 12:38 on November 18 last year, didn’t it?”

Now she glanced over sharply. “What?”

“November 18. The night Ginny and Brandi died. You got a call at 12:38 from Carol Degas.”

“Did I?” She shrugged. “I suppose I might have. Carol would sober up at all hours of the night and call me, suddenly concerned about where Brandi was.”

“Except that night she knew exactly where Brandi was. Going to Ginny’s apartment to take Kayla, already drugged, to an abandoned building where they planned to kill her and make it look like the work of a sexual predator.”

“N-no. Ginny—Ginny would never ...” Paula shook her head. “Kayla was her daughter.”

“Which makes it all the more reprehensible. Especially when her motive was to get back her abusive asshole boyfriend. Cody told Ginny he didn’t want her because she had a kid. She decided to remove that obstacle. Carol overheard and called you. She passed out while she was still on the phone, woke up the next day, and convinced herself it was all a dream because Kayla wasn’t dead, and Brandi and Ginny were.”

“Carol Degas is a drunk,” Paula said. “I don’t care if she’s cleaned up and found religion. She still has a brain like Swiss cheese. Have you talked to her? She can barely remember what day it is. Kayla is alive. So whatever Carol imagined never happened.”

“Because you stopped it. Carol called. You got hold of that gun and you tracked them to that abandoned building and you shot them—”

“No! It wasn’t like—” She stopped short and glanced at the phone. “I think I need to call my lawyer.”

“Sure. You do that and I’ll call the sheriff’s department and they can continue this conversation.”

Paula looked out the window. She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Glanced toward the phone. Then said, “Why
isn’t
Chief Bruyn or the sheriff’s department here?”

“Because I haven’t told them.”

She peered at me, trying to gauge my motives.

“It wasn’t like that,” she said finally. “Carol called to tell me what she’d heard. I didn’t believe her. Ginny would never do such a thing. Clearly Carol was dead drunk. I almost went back to bed.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

I let the silence drag on for half a minute before saying, “You told yourself Ginny would never do it, but you couldn’t rest until you made ” sure.

Paula nodded. “I knew the building. When I got there and saw Brandi’s car out back—” She sucked in a deep breath. “I didn’t have the gun. Obviously Ginny was drunk or stoned and not thinking straight and all I had to do was snap her out of it.”

She stopped again. I waited her out.

“I found them in the basement. Kayla ...” Her voice cracked, gaze shooting back to the window. “Kayla was on the floor. They’d pulled off her pajama bottoms and her panties and ...”

She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t go on for another minute, then said, “They were fighting. Brandi thought they needed to make it look as if she’d been violated ...” Another crack in her voice. “That’s when Ginny started having second thoughts. But Brandi had the gun. Ginny’s gun. She turned it on Kayla, and I thought—I thought Ginny would stop her. This was her daughter. Kill her own child? For a man? How could I raise—?”

She shook her head and took another deep breath. “I thought she’d do something, but when Brandi pointed that gun at Kayla’s head, Ginny stopped arguing and closed her eyes. Just closed her eyes. I screamed. I ran forward and there was a shot. It went past me. I hit Brandi. She fell and I jumped on her to get the gun and we were struggling and I saw Ginny standing there over us.

“I got hold of the gun, but Brandi wouldn’t let go. It fired. I don’t know who pulled the trigger. I yanked the gun away and I got up, and Brandi was lying there, dead, blood pumping out. I heard this sound and I thought it was Kaylawaking up and I turned and there was Ginny, bent over, hands to her chest, blood running through her fingers. The bullet had gone right through Brandi and into her.

“Ginny was still alive. I told her I was going to get help, that she’d be okay, but she started crying, saying she was sorry, it was Brandi’s idea, she begged me not to leave her. I tried to calm her down so I could get help, but she kept crying and then ...” Paula looked away and brushed a hand over her eyes. “And then she was gone.”

“So you called the only person you thought you could count on. Ginny’s father.”

She looked up sharply.

“Phone records,” I said. “One of the girls at the house saw him coming in late that night. He’d gotten a call on his cell from you.”

“Alastair’s a smart man,” she said. “I thought he’d know what to do. He knew Ginny was his daughter—he’d already figured it out and we’d agreed to keep it a secret. But for this ...”

“He owed you.”

She nodded. “I wanted to turn myself in. It was an accident. But Alastair said I’d lose custody of Kayla. I couldn’t bear that. So we left Ginny and Brandi there and he helped me take Kayla home. I hated doing that—leaving her in that apartment alone—but Alastair said I had to. We put her to bed and locked the doors. Alastair took the gun and my clothes. He said he’d burn the clothing and get rid of the gun. Then I sat up all night and waited for Kayla to call me when she woke up and her mom wasn’t there.”

“And then you sat back and watched as Bruyn zeroed in on an innocent man.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “Innocent? That’s one word I wouldn’t use to describe Cody. Do you want me to say I felt bad about that?”

“You decided he deserved it. He gave Ginny the ultimatum that started everything.”

“No. Cody didn’t expect her to do that. He wanted to get rid of her, so he said the problem was the one thing she couldn’t change. Or so he thought. But would I feel guilty if he went to jail? Not for a minute. Did I push Chief Bruyn in his direction?” She met my gaze. “I did not. You know that as well as anyone. I told you the truth about Cody and how he treated my daughter. That’s it.”

“But then Claire found out the truth. You had to kill her, and when her brother got too close—”

“No. Absolutely not.” Paula’s eyes blazed. “I had nothing to do with that young woman’s death or her brother’s. The night Claire Kennedy died, I was at a friend’s in Portland. I had a job interview the next morning. Kayla was with me. And the night Detective Kennedy died, I was right here, playing bridge with my sister, Dorothy, and Lorraine from the diner. We heard the sirens when the police went by.”

I pressed her, but I knew she was telling the truth. It would be too easy to check her alibis. Besides, I’d never seriously thought she was responsible for Claire’s and Michael’s deaths. Even intentionally killing Ginny and Brandi to save Kayla had been a stretch.

“Alastair says whoever killed Claire Kennedy staged it to look like Ginny and Brandi’s deaths,” she said. “They wanted it to seem like we had a serial killer. Probably hoped Cody would be charged with Ginny and Brandi so they could pin her death on him, too.”

“Then it has to be someone who knew that Alastair planted that occult stuff at the original site. That was never released to the media.”

“Occult?” Paula looked genuinely confused.

I took the photos from my bag and pointed out the ritual circle and other signs. “Alastair must have done that after you left.”

“No, those things weren’t there.”

“You must not have noticed them. They’re too subtle—”

“No, I would have seen them. When I went to confront Chief Bruyn about his grandson showing those photos to Kayla, he tried to say they’d been in his desk all along. He shoved them in my face, the bastard. Made me take a good look at them, too. Those things weren’t there.”

A
s I stood, Paula eyed me warily. “Now what? Do I need to call lawyer?”

“Not unless you killed Claire or Michael Kennedy. Claire’s mother is my client, so her death is my professional concern. Her brother’s death is my personal concern. As far as I can see, you had nothing to do with either, so ...” I shrugged and put my notebook into my bag. “Not my concern.”

“What about the gun? If Chief Bruyn suspects I stole it—”

“He doesn’t. I lied. You’re in the clear.”

She let me get to the hall, then she called, “Savannah.”

I glanced back.

“Thank you,” she said.

“If it’d been me,” I said, “I’d have shot Brandi, and it wouldn’t have been an accident.”

I went outside and said good-bye to Kayla, then watched as Paula threw open the door and bent to hug her.

AS ADAM DROVE, I relayed Paula’s story.

“I can see how it happened,” Adam said when I was done. “It’s Alastair who’s full of shit. They wouldn’t take Kayla away for a clear self-defense case.”

I shrugged. “It might not have looked all that clear to him. But she’s wrong about the photos. She just didn’t see the signs—the cops didn’t, remember? If Alastair is into Santeria, he knows enough about rituals to fake one and give the murders a satanic cult angle.”

Adam’s fingers tapped the steering wheel, his gaze distant.

“What?” I said.

“He could, but would he? Wouldn’t anything cultlike have them looking in his direction? Then, if they found the Santeria—which he wasn’t hiding very well—he’d be the new prime suspect. Maybe the cops never noticed those ritual signs because they
weren’t
there. Where did Jesse get his set?”

“From a contact. A friend—” I swore. “They were doctored before Jesse got them.”

WE COULD VERIFY that theory easily enough—just look at the real photos. But when I called the station, Bruyn was out. I wanted to stop by anyway, but Adam eased me off, not wanting us to jump to conclusions so fast.

“Remember Claire did have that pewter bead in her hand,” he said as he drove. “Sure, I think it would be dumb for Alastair to stage it, but maybe he didn’t see that.”

“He was panicked and did the first thing he could think of. But if that’s true, then it seriously cuts down on the suspects for Claire’s murder.”

“Let’s say Claire found evidence that Paula killed Ginny and Brandi. She goes to Alastair to get his advice. He kills her.”

“Then Michael starts getting close. Alastair lures him to a warehouse staged for a ritual—”

The Jeep thumped into a pothole. My stomach heaved and I grabbed the dashboard. Adam hit the brakes and my breakfast almost hit the windshield.

“Shit! I’m sorry.” He eased the Jeep to the side as I bent forward, eyes closed.

“Kleenex,” I mumbled, trying not to open my mouth too far.

“Right. Okay. I’ve got napkins.”

He passed them to me and I spat out the stuff in my mouth. As I wadded up the tissues, an opened pack of gum appeared in front of me. I took a piece, and chewed before saying, “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“You haven’t been feeling well?”

“A bit nauseated.” I glanced over. “And no, it isn’t morning sickness. Somehow I doubt I’m a suitable candidate for the next immaculate conception.”

“I was feeling a little off myself first thing, and it’s definitely not morning sickness for me. Could be the flu. Any other symptoms?”

I told him about the headaches and the spellcasting.

“You’re having trouble casting spells?”

“Just a few misfires. It’s nothing.”

“You should have told me. If I’m watching your back, I need to know that your spells are on the fritz.”

“Let’s just get to the motel and talk to Jesse about the photos. Avoid the potholes if you can.”

He pulled back onto the road.

“Maybe whoever gave Jesse those photos did the doctoring himself,” I said. “He wanted Jesse to investigate Claire’s death, so he Photoshopped the others. I keep going back to that witch theory. If Ginny and Brandi’s deaths weren’t connected to Claire’s, then that makes even more sense. Claire could be a witch. She’s killed. Two weeks later, I’m being stalked and Tiffany—who we know is a witch—is killed.”

Adam didn’t say anything. When I looked over, he was staring straight ahead.

“What?” I said.

“I just keep ...” An angry shake of his head. “About the witch thing. It’s tweaking a memory, and it’s driving me crazy because I can’t figure it out. I’m going to check a few more things in the database, then I may have to break down and call Dad.”

THE FIRST ORDER of business at the motel was to talk to Jesse and get specifics on where he got the crime-scene photos. When we pulled in, though, the parking spot in front of his room was still empty.

“Shit,” I said. “I gave him the file.” I walked to Jesse’s door. “Time for a little B&E. Not like he hasn’t done the same to me ...” I murmured an unlock spell under my breath, then grabbed the handle and—

The knob didn’t turn. I tried again. Then tried harder.

Adam shouldered me aside and used the lock-pick gun. The door opened.

We went in. As Adam retrieved the folder, I closed and relocked the door, then started to cast.

“Savannah,” Adam sighed.

“It’s bugging me, okay?”

I cast the spell. The door stayed locked. I focused harder and cast a fourth time and felt a whisper of relief as I heard that familiar click. The door opened.

I held out my hand and cast a light ball. When nothing happened, a weird sensation like panic settled into the pit of my stomach. As I started to cast again, my fingers trembled. I stopped and made a fist.

“Savannah ...” Adam said. “You aren’t feeling well. We’ll deal with it.”

“Just give me a sec, okay?”

I concentrated and cast. The light ball shimmered, then went out. Another cast. It returned and stayed. Weak, but steady. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

Adam reached out, as if he was going to put his arms around me, but stopped short.

“No need to keep your distance,” I muttered. “Apparently, I’m not that dangerous today.”

“Apparently you’re sick today.”

“I need my spells.”

“They help, but you don’t need them. Not as much as you think you do.”

“Let’s get back and check out that file.”

“Changing the subject and completely ignoring the point I’m making.”

I shook my head and grabbed the file.

I LEAFED THROUGH the file. The crime-scene photos—and other pages—weren’t there. I read the rest, looking for anything that disagreed with Paula’s story. Nothing did. Good. As I read, Adam searched his database.

“Fuck,”
he said. I jumped, papers sliding to the floor. By the time I’d gathered them back up, he was on his feet, still holding his laptop, reading it as he paced, mouth set, forehead furrowed.

“Found something, I take it.”

“Witch-hunters,” he said.

“Ah, an old and noble profession, a mere step down from that most esteemed position: Grand Inquisitor. Hate to break it to you, but the witch-hunts ended a few hundred years ago.”

“Not for some people.” He turned his laptop around to show me. “These ones date back even further than the Inquisition. Very rare. Very elusive. Young women who are trained from birth.”

“To hunt witches?” I shook my head. “If such a thing existed, I think I’d know about it.”

“Did I mention the rare and elusive part? They usually kill in a way that looks like suicide or natural death, which is what was tweaking my memory. I was searching on the Bible verse, though, and they don’t usually leave such an obvious sign.”

I bent to read the screen, then tapped the database title. “It’s filed under myths and legends. Meaning it’s bullshit. Mysterious trained assassins secretly killing witches?” I shook my head. “Just the kind of bogeyman a Coven—or sorcerers—would create to turn us into the cowering mice they want us to be.”

“Okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. First, the Inquisition. Then the witch-hunts. Then centuries of quaking in the dark, too damn scared to cast a light ball, terrorized by our
own
kind. Nobody does this to werewolves or vampires or half-demons. Why witches?”

“Um, because no one believes in werewolves or vampires or half-demons.” Adam put the laptop aside. “You’re preaching to the guy who’s heard the same sermon from Paige for the last twenty years. Witches get a bum deal. Always have. Personally, I’d blame sorcerers, but considering you’re a sorcerer, too ...”

“Blame
male
sorcerers. Or maybe just males in general. Inquisitors, judges, hangmen ... they were all male.”

“Are your spells still on the fritz? Or should I slink from the room while I still can?”

“I’m kidding. You know that. There are just as many bitches out there as bastards. Equal opportunity asshole-ism.”

I plunked onto the bed, picked up his laptop, and read the entry.

According to the myth, witch-hunters had begun as an actual supernatural race. The Benandanti. I’d heard of them. A small race of Italian
demon-
hunters, not witch-hunters, although they’d been known to go after any supernaturals who used their power for evil. They were extinct now. No one seemed to know why. According to this legend, though, they’d been wiped out and replaced by witch-hunters.

Witch-hunters had been priestesses who’d held absolute power over their people with garden-variety magic—the kind every street magician knows. Then their people started trading with a nomadic tribe, which included families of Benandanti.

The Benandanti, true to their nature, didn’t much like the priestesses. When the priestesses realized the Benandanti had real supernatural powers, they cried foul ... and accused them of being exactly the kind of evil the Benandanti fought. When people wouldn’t listen, the priestesses decided to eradicate the Benandanti. That took a few generations, and by the time they succeeded, they’d ironically slid into the role of the Benandanti, convincing themselves that they were the righteous ones ridding the world of evil spellcasters. So, when the Benandanti were gone, they moved on to a more ambitious target: witches.

The entry described a secret society of women who spent their childhood and adolescence preparing for the day when they would kill a witch or two. When they “came of age,” they finally got their chance. It reminded me of religions where the young adults spend a few years traveling, spreading the word and making converts. Only these girls hit the road in hopes of killing a few witches before rejoining civilian life, marrying and raising the next generation of assassins.

Like your standard myth, it made a good story, which is why my gut reaction was to treat it as such. And yet...

According to the legend, there were very few of these families remaining, as elusive as snow leopards. When they killed, they did it in a way that wouldn’t raise any alarms, even among witches. Wasn’t that exactly how Claire and Tiffany died? One the apparent victim of a serial killer. The other likely a suicide.

Witch-hunters were said to recognize witches on sight—as sorcerers do—then stalk their victims until they found exactly the right circumstances. What if one had been following Claire Kennedy? That witch-hunter comes to Columbus, and discovers another witch ... then another. She’d think she’d struck the jackpot.

Kill Claire and link her death to the first two crimes. Kill Michael when he got too close. Kill Tiffany in an apparent suicide. And then? Well, there’s one witch left ...

“If this is right, you’re in deep shit,” Adam said, around the time I came to the same conclusion.

“I’m not backing off.”

“I don’t expect you to. Just don’t blast me with an energy bolt if I dog your steps until this investigation is done.”

“I won’t.” I eased back on the bed, pulling my feet up. “My spell casting has fizzled, remember? Damned inconvenient time for the flu.”

Adam went still. Too still. I was about to ask if he was okay, when he grabbed his laptop and began typing furiously. When he looked up, his eyes were dark with worry.

“What have you been eating?” he asked.

“Um, lots of stuff. As usual. Most of it bad for me.”

“No, what have you been eating
regularly?
In the last few days. Something I might have had, too.” His gaze shot to the door. “The coffee shop. You had three meals from them, and I’ve had one ... No, I was feeling a little off before that. Something else then. What have you been eating a lot of? Especially something given to you by someone else—”

His gaze swung to the table and he let out an oath. I grabbed the box of cult cookies.

“You weren’t eating these, though,” I said. “You finished off Paige’s.”

He shook his head. “No, I swiped a cult one, too. I had to see if they lived up to the advertising. I liked Paige’s better, so I finished hers.”

“Witch-hunters are young women, right?”

“Yep, and there’s a whole house of them on the hill, making cookies. Who gave you the box?”

“Megan, but it was sitting on the counter before that. I’d stepped outside with one of the girls. Anyone could have come in and dosed it.” I thought back to every contact I’d had with the young women at the cult. “It could be Megan, could be Deirdre, could be Vee ...”

I remembered someone else. Someone I’d had far less contact with. “The new girl. She was watching me, and she saw me talking to Tiffany. Remember when we were at the house while Tiffany was being killed? Megan was asking where she was.”

“Looks like we’ve got our—”

“Except for one thing. She was Claire’s
replacement.
She arrived in town at the same time I did.”

“Doesn’t mean she wasn’t here before. But, yeah, that makes it a little less clear cut. We need to take a closer look at
all
those girls. I can’t say for sure that it’s the cookies, but that’s my guess. There are a bunch of poisons that can inhibit spellcasting.”

“Poisons?”

“That’s why I’m worried. I know you’re going to hate this, but I want to get you to Portland, pay a visit to Dr. Lee.”

Lee was the physician used by most area supernaturals when they had a health concern that went beyond a cold or flu. In an emergency, we can use a regular hospital, but whenever possible we avoid it—there are things in our systems that can give wonky test results and raise eyebrows.