Spellcasters (17 page)

I did the same with my faxes. A quick scan of the first page and if it contained the words “interview” or “burn in hell,” I dumped it into a file folder, then stuck the whole thing under “H.” By the time I finished sorting, I was quite proud of myself for handling things so calmly and efficiently. Over two dozen faxes and e-mails condemning me to eternal damnation and my hands barely shook at all.

Next I made the incredibly stupid mistake of searching the Internet for references to my story. I told myself that I needed to know what was out there, what was being said. After reading the first headline, “Satanic Witch Cult Surfaces Near Salem,” I really should have quit. But I had to keep going. Of the three articles I scanned, two mentioned the “missing Boston baby” rumor, one said I’d been seen skulking around at the local humane society, two accused me of being a member of some Boston “Hellfire Club,” and all three said I’d been found at the site of Cary’s murder “covered in blood.” After that, I decided ignorance really was bliss, and turned off my computer.

It was now ten-fifteen. Time to put on a pot of coffee for Cortez. As I was measuring coffee into the filter, the phone rang. I checked the display. Unknown caller. To answer or not to answer? I chose the latter, but poised my hand over the “talk” button in case a friendly voice came on.

“Ms. Winterbourne, this is Julie calling from Bay Insurance …”

Insurance? Did I have insurance with a place called—oh, wait, no, Bay
Insurance was a new client. As the voice continued, I hit the talk button, but the machine kept running.

“… cancel our order. Given the, uh, publicity, we’ve decided that’s for the best. Please bill us for any work you’ve done to date.”

“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”

Too late. She’d hung up. I’d lost a contract. I closed my eyes, inhaled, felt the sting. Why hadn’t I imagined this, that my business could be hurt by the publicity? But I couldn’t worry about it. If they didn’t want my services, screw ’em. It wasn’t like I had trouble finding customers. Once or twice a week I had to turn someone down because my schedule was full. Besides, sure, I might lose a few contracts, but I might also gain some.

While I waited for the coffee to brew, I decided to slog through the rest of my phone messages. As if to prove me right, three calls later, I hit this message:

“Hi, it’s Brock Summers from Boston. I’m with the New England Perception Group and we’d love to have you do something for our website …”

Maybe the old saying is right. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.

“… already have a website,” Mr. Summers continued. “But we’re very interested in having you do some enhancements. I’ve seen your work and I know several people in our field who’d also be interested …”

This was good. Really good.

“… please check out our current website at www dot exorcisms r us dot com. That’s e-x-o-r-c-i-s-m-s-r-u-s, all one word. We do séances, poltergeist exterminations, exorcisms of course—”

I hit delete and sank into a kitchen chair.

“Uh, Paige?”

I turned to see Savannah in the kitchen doorway, binoculars in her hand, a troubled look in her eyes. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the front window.

“Let me guess, we have new lawn ornaments.”

She didn’t smile. “No, that’s not—well, yes we do, but they’ve been there for a while. I was peeking out now and then, seeing how many there were. Then, a few minutes ago, I thought I saw a woman with red hair standing down the street, so I grabbed these to check.”

I jolted up from the chair. “Leah.”

Savannah nodded and fidgeted with the binoculars. “I was watching her—”

“You don’t need to worry, hon. Robert faxed me some notes last night about Volos, and if she’s more than twenty yards away, she’s too far to
hurt us. One good thing about having a crowd out front is that she won’t dare get too close.”

“It’s—it’s not that.” She glanced at the window again and squinted, as if trying to see Leah in the distance. “I was watching, right? And this car drove up. She walked onto the road, and the driver pulled over, and …” Savannah inhaled and passed me the glasses. “I think you need to see this. You can see better from my room.”

I went into Savannah’s room and walked to the window. There were at least a half-dozen cars lining our street, but my gaze immediately went to one parked five doors down, across the road. As I saw the small, white four-door, my breath caught. I told myself I was wrong. It was a common type of car. But even as I lifted the binoculars to my eyes, I knew what I would see.

There were two people in the front seat of the car. Leah sat in the passenger’s seat. And on the driver’s side? Lucas Cortez.

“Maybe there’s an explanation,” Savannah said.

“If there is, I’m getting it now.”

I strode into the kitchen, picked up the cordless phone, and hit redial. The line connected to Cortez’s cell phone. Again, he answered on the third ring.

“Lucas Cortez.”

“Hey, it’s me, Paige,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice. “Any chance you could pick up some cream on the way into town? There’s a corner store right off the highway. Are you there yet?”

“No, not yet. I’m running a few minutes behind.”

The lie came smoothly, without a millisecond of hesitation. You bastard. You lying bastard. I clutched the phone tighter.

“Do you prefer table cream or half-and-half?” he asked.

“Half-and-half,” I managed to say.

I lifted the binoculars. He was still there. Beside him, Leah leaned back against the passenger door.

I continued, “Oh, and be careful when you drive in. I’ve got people hanging around my place. Don’t pick up any hitchhikers.”

A pause now. Brief, but a definite hesitation. “Yes, of course.”

“Especially redheaded half-demons,” I said. “They’re the worst kind.”

A long pause, as if he was weighing the possibility that this was a coincidental joke.

“I can explain,” he said finally.

“Oh, I’m sure you can.”

I hung up.

A
fter hanging up on Cortez, I stormed into the kitchen and slammed the phone into the cradle so hard that it bounced out again. I scrambled to grab it before it hit the floor. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get it back into the cradle.

I stared down at my hands. I felt … I felt betrayed, and the depth of that feeling surprised me. What had I expected? It’s like the parable about the scorpion and the frog. I knew what Cortez was when I let him into my life. I should have expected betrayal. But I hadn’t.

At some deep level, I’d trusted him and, in some ways, that betrayal stung even more than the Coven’s. With the Coven, I’d hoped for support, but deep down I knew better than to expect it. They’d told me from the start that they wouldn’t help. That was rejection, not betrayal. Cortez had taken advantage of that rejection to insinuate himself in my life.

“Paige?”

I turned to Savannah.

“I thought he was okay, too,” she said. “He tricked us both.”

The phone rang. I knew who it was without checking caller ID. He’d had just enough time now to get Leah out of his car. I let the machine answer.

“Paige? It’s Lucas. Please pick up. I’d like to speak to you.”

“Yeah,” Savannah muttered. “I’m sure you would.”

“I can explain,” he continued. “I was driving to your house and Leah hailed me. Naturally I was curious, so I pulled over and she asked to speak to me. I agreed—”

I grabbed the receiver.

“I don’t care why the hell you spoke to her,” I said. “You lied about it.”

“And that was a mistake. I fully admit that, Paige. You caught me off guard when you called and—”

“And you had to stumble and stammer for an excuse, right? Bullshit. You lied without a moment’s hesitation. You lied so smoothly I bet a lie detector wouldn’t have caught it. I don’t care about why you spoke to
Leah, I care about how easily you lied, and do you know why? Because now I know you’ve got a talent for it.”

A slight pause. “Yes, that’s true, but—”

“Well, at least you’re honest about that. You’re a skilled liar, Cortez, and that tells me that I can’t believe anything you’ve said to me so far.”

“I can see where—”

“What I saw out there today only convinces me that my first instinct was right. You’re working for the Nasts. I told myself that doesn’t make sense, but now I get it. They made sure it wouldn’t make sense.”

“How—?”

“I’m a programmer, right? I think logically. Send me a smooth, sophisticated, well-dressed sorcerer, and I’d see through that scam in a minute. But send you and I’ll say, this guy can’t work for a Cabal. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical. And that was the whole idea.”

A pause, so long I wondered if he’d hung up.

“I believe I can clear this up,” he said at last.

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“I haven’t been entirely forthright with you, Paige.”

“Wow. Really?”

“I don’t mean about being associated with the Nasts. I’m not. Nor was my motivation, as stated, entirely inaccurate, though I am guilty more of omission than deceit.”

“Stop right there,” I said. “Whatever you tell me next will just be more lies. I don’t want to hear them.”

“Paige, please. Just listen. I told you the version of my story that I believed you would find most palatable and would therefore—”

“Hanging up now,” I said.

“
Wait!
You are, I believe, well acquainted with Robert Vasic. You’re friends with his stepson, Adam? Would I be correct in assuming you trust him?”

“Adam?”

“Robert.”

“What does Robert have—?”

“Ask Robert who I am.”

“What?”

“Ask Robert who Lucas Cortez is. He doesn’t know me personally, but we have mutual acquaintances, and if Robert is not inclined to vouch for my integrity, then he will be able to recommend someone who can. Will you do that?”

“What’s he going to tell me?”

Cortez paused again. “I think, perhaps, at this stage it would be better if you heard it from Robert first. If I tell you, and you choose not to believe me, you may decide not to follow up with a call to Robert. Please call him, Paige. Then phone me back. I’ll be at my motel.”

I hung up.

“What’d he say?” Savannah asked.

I shook my head. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

“Yeah, sometimes I can’t figure it out either. Too many big words.”

I hesitated, then dialed Robert’s number, but got the machine again and didn’t bother leaving a message. My finger was still on the disconnect button when the phone rang. “Williams & Shaw Legal” and a Boston phone number scrolled across the call display. Had my commercial lawyer found someone willing to represent me? God, I hoped so.

“May I speak to Paige Winterbourne?” a nasally female voice asked.

“Speaking.”

“This is Roberta Shaw. I’m an attorney with Williams and Shaw. Our firm works with the Cary Law Office in East Falls. Mr. Cary has asked me to assist with the disposal of his son’s current caseload. I’ve come across your folder among the deceased’s files.”

“Ummm, right. Actually, I am looking for someone to take over the case. If anyone at your firm would be interested—”

“We would not,” Shaw said, the chill in her voice bordering on arctic. “I am simply calling to request that you take possession of your file immediately. It is not in perfect order, but I am not about to ask Mr. Cary or his daughter-in-law to transcribe any of the notes. Under the circumstances, they shouldn’t need to look at this file again. Out of consideration to the family, I will ask that you refer all questions to me. The billing will also come from my office.”

“Look,” I said. “I don’t know what you heard, but I had nothing to do with Mr. Cary’s—”

“It is not my place to dispute that matter. I have many files to go through today, Ms. Winterbourne. I would like you to collect yours this afternoon.”

“Fine. I’ll pick it up at the office—”

“That would hardly be appropriate, would it?”

I gritted my teeth. “Where do you suggest—”

“I will be at the Barton Funeral Home all afternoon. They’ve established an office for me in the funeral parlor, so I may consult with Mr. Cary easily while disturbing him as little as possible. You may meet me there at one o’clock.”

“At Grant Cary’s visitation? Now that’s what
I’d
call inappropriate.”

“You will come to the service door,” she said, biting off each word as if it cost her untold effort to speak to me. “There is a parking lot at the side of the building. You turn off”—papers shuffled—“off Chestnut. I assume you know where the funeral home is?”

“On Elm,” I said. “Beside the county hospital.”

“Good. Meet me there at one, in the side parking lot by the service door. Good day, Ms. Winterbourne.”

So, with Cortez out of the picture, I was now officially on my own. If this had all happened a year ago I’d have said “no problem,” and been glad for the chance to prove myself. Last fall, when the rest of the council had been reluctant to rescue Savannah, I’d been ready to go in on my own. Had I done so, I’d be dead. No question about it. I’d be dead and I might have got Savannah killed doing it. I’d learned my lesson then.

Now, faced with another big threat, I knew I needed help and was prepared to ask for it. But who? If I asked someone in the council, I’d put their life at risk for something that was a witch problem, and should therefore be handled by witches. But our Coven had abandoned us. Where did that leave us?

I tried instead to concentrate on doing exactly what Cortez had been coming over to do. Formulate a plan of action. But here I was stuck. If I went out and tracked down Sandford and Leah, I’d have to take Savannah along, and would probably end up delivering her straight into their hands. For now, the wisest course of action seemed to be to lie low, defend us against their attacks, and hope they simply decided Savannah was more trouble than she was worth. While it irked me to take a defensive position, at this point I refused to take chances with Savannah’s life.

At twelve-thirty, I checked the crowd outside. Maybe I was being optimistic, but it seemed to be shrinking. When I went to tell Savannah to get ready, I found her lying on her back in bed. She opened her eyes when I walked in.