The Witch’s Grave (4 page)

I slipped my car into a parking space at Regional Medical Center and quickly opened the door. The hot morning air poured into the cool interior, and the sudden brightness had me shading my eyes. Only 10:00 a.m. and already heat shimmered in waves off the concrete lot. Grabbing my purse, I settled my sunglasses on my face and exited the car. I walked with purposeful steps past the heliport where the helicopter that had transported Stephen sat waiting for the next emergency. A couple of women dressed in navy scrubs milled around the emergency room entrance, while at the main entrance a car waited for a man who was being wheeled out the doors by a nurse.

I slowed my steps and tightened my grip on my purse as an unpleasant thought crossed my mind.
What would Bill say when I told him about Stephen’s date book? Could he arrest me for withholding evidence?

Entering the revolving doors, I shook my head to chase the thought away—Bill always threatened to arrest me. As I entered the hospital lobby, the smell of carnations, roses, and lilies from the gift shop near the information desk assaulted me.

Behind the desk sat a woman manning the phones. A wide gold bracelet winked in the artificial light as she picked up
the receiver and lifted it to her ear. I heard her answer the caller in a crisp, polite tone. Walking up to the desk, I waited while the woman efficiently pressed buttons, transferring the call to the correct room.

“May I help you?” she asked, looking up at me.

“I’m here to see Stephen Larsen, please,” I replied.

She ran a finger down the patient list and stopped. A frown wrinkled her brow. “Are you a family member?”

“Ah…” I hesitated for an instant while I debated about telling a lie, but since I’ve always been a rotten liar, I said, “No.”

“Mr. Larsen is in the Cardiac Surgery Intensive Care Unit and only family members are allowed.”

“I’m Ophelia Jensen and Stephen is a friend. May I speak with his doctors, then?” I pleaded.

Her face softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry, but that’s not allowed either.” She gave a quick glance over her shoulder and continued in a hushed voice. “We’ve had a lot of reporters asking questions.”

“I understand, but could you at least tell me how he’s doing?” I asked, giving it one more shot.

“All I can say is, at this time he’s in critical but stable condition.” She sounded as if she were delivering a canned statement.

My forehead wrinkled. “That’s it?”

“I’m sorry,” she answered with a nod.

Defeated, I spun on my heel and walked out the doors into the bright sunshine. Hoisting my shoulder strap higher, I paused and shoved my hands in my pocket.
Dang, dang, dang!
I’d really wanted to see Stephen for myself, but the guardians at the gate weren’t going to let me. With the toe of my loafer, I nudged a small piece of gravel and pondered my next move.
You don’t have one, Jensen.
Pursing my lips, I blew out a long breath and took a half step forward.

“Wait,” someone called from behind me.

Turning, I saw a man dressed in a tan suit, with navy shirt and striped tie, running down the sidewalk toward me.

“Did you say you’re a friend of Stephen Larsen’s?” he asked.

Caught off-guard, I stuttered, “Yes.”

The man came closer. “Did I hear you say you’re Ophelia Jensen?”

Suspicious now, I eyed him cautiously. “Yes.”

“Weren’t you with him during the shooting?”

I shaded my eyes against the bright sun and looked over the man’s shoulder. Right behind him stood a technician holding a video camera.

Crap, a reporter!

I stepped to the side in an effort to go around him. “No comment.”

His steps mirrored mine and he blocked me. “What do you think happened? Was it an accident or attempted murder?”

“No comment,” I replied, trying again to dodge him.

“Did Larsen say anything at the time of the shooting?”

His question stopped me, and I clutched my purse containing Stephen’s date book tightly to my side as a light from the camera hit me in the eyes.

“Ah, ah, no,” I stammered.

The reporter moved in and stuck a mike in my face. “How long have you known Larsen? What was he doing in Iowa?” he asked, firing off the questions.

“That’s enough,” a rough voice boomed from next to me as a hand grabbed my arm and began hustling me back toward the hospital.

“She said ‘no comment,’” Bill called back to the reporter.

Once inside the building, he marched me past the woman at the desk. With a surprised look on her face, she watched Bill escort me down a hallway.

“I figured you’d show up this morning,” he muttered as we made a left at the end of the hall.

“They won’t let me see Stephen,” I said, rushing to keep my steps even with Bill’s. “The lady at the desk said he’s critical but stable.”

I felt Bill’s hand on my arm tense.

“The bullet hit Larsen in the heart—”

My steps faltered. “The heart? How did he—”

“Live?” Bill finished the sentence for me. “The bullet didn’t rip the heart, but acted like a plug and prevented him from bleeding to death.” With a tug, we continued down the hallway.

“The surgeon repaired the hole, but during the surgery, Larsen aspirated fluid into his lungs, so now they’re worried about pneumonia.”

“Are you going to let me see him?” I asked.

His eyes darted my way. “You got two minutes, then you’re going to answer some questions.”

Oh, goody.

With a punch of his meaty hand, Bill hit the large button next to a double door and it whished open. Feelings of pain and suffering rushed out at me. I pulled back.

Dang—I’d been so focused on seeing Stephen that I hadn’t thought about what it would be like visiting an intensive care unit. I hadn’t taken the time to guard my senses, and they were now on full alert.

Bill gave me a puzzled look, but I ignored him and shut my eyes. Lowering my head, I envisioned a white shield surrounding me, a bubble of light that nothing could penetrate. When I felt it strengthen and hold, I opened my eyes and joined him.

Industrial carpeting led to a circular nurse’s station complete with monitors and computers. The individual rooms all had double glass doors, and were positioned in a horseshoe shape around the station, so while sitting there one could observe all the patients.

I waited nervously while Bill approached a woman near the nurses’ station, wearing a white coat and holding a clipboard. Jerking his head in my direction, they spoke softly for a couple of minutes. With a nod, he pivoted and came back to me.

“This way,” he said, taking my arm and leading me to Stephen’s cubicle.

Although I trusted my shield to block the sensations eddying through the unit, I still kept my head down as we walked past the rooms. I didn’t want to risk it wavering. We stopped in front of a glass door. I raised my head.

Stephen lay like a marble statue atop a bed surrounded by medical equipment. Numerous wires and tubes led from the equipment to his still form. Standing in the doorway, I heard the soft whoosh of a pneumatic machine.

I approached the bed and pointed to the machine with a tube leading to Stephen’s mouth. “What’s that?” I asked

“A respirator. And the doctors have him highly medicated. They want him to stay as still as possible. No thrashing around.”

As I asked my next question, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. “Will he make it?”

Bill shifted uncomfortably. “You know how doctors are…noncommittal. He’s made it this far.”

Stephen looked so alone and defenseless—his only company the machines, the only sound the whoosh of the respirator and the rhythmic beep of the monitors. Laying my hand on his arm, the tears gathered in my eyes and slid down my cheeks. With trembling fingers I flicked them away.

“Does he have any family?” I asked in a thick voice.

“We managed to track down his agent today. He said Larsen’s mother is in France right now on a tour. He’s trying to reach her. He also gave us the name of an assistant, Karen—”

“Burns.” I finished his sentence. “Stephen mentioned her.”

“Did he mention how to reach her? His agent gave us a number, but there’s no answer.”

Thinking of the book in my purse with Karen’s number listed, I put a protective hand on the strap resting on my shoulder. “No,” I replied honestly. It was the truth—Stephen hadn’t given me her number or address—I’d found it. And no need to tell him I’d already tried the number and had the same result.

“Come on,” Bill said, taking my arm again. “We have to leave now.”

With a last glance over my shoulder, I allowed him to lead me from the room and down the hall to a door that said family. He motioned me inside.

My legs suddenly weary, I sank gratefully down onto one of the love seats. Bill seated himself on a chair at a right angle to mine.

“You seem calmer today, so I want to hear everything that happened from the moment you met Larsen,” he said without preamble as he removed a notebook from his pocket.

With a sigh, I told the story again, more coherently this time, but leaving out the kiss. It had no bearing on Stephen’s shooting.

“…I was trying to stop the blood seeping from the wound when Stephen asked me to take the book from his pocket—”

“What book?” Bill exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

“Ah, this one,” I replied as I removed the Baggie from my purse and handed it to him.

He towered over me and his eyes drilled into mine. “Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?”

“Um, I forgot all about it.” I squirmed against the back of the love seat. “With all the excitement…”

Bill watched me with skepticism.

“Honest…I was in shock…I stuck the book in my pocket when they pulled me away from Stephen and didn’t remember it until last night.”

“Why didn’t you call me then?” he asked, settling down on the love seat.

My teeth gripped my bottom lip for a second. “It was late?”

“That sounds like more of a question than an answer.” He held up a hand when I opened my mouth to reply. “Never mind.” Bill paused and rubbed his bald head absentmindedly. “I’m sure I already know the answer. Did you read it?”

Lowering my head, I stared at a spot on the floor. “Yes.”

Based on his reaction when he learned I had the book, I wondered what he’d say if he knew I not only read it, but copied it. The thought gave me a chill.

Seconds ticked by in silence. Raising my head, I turned toward him. “There’s not much in there. Just Stephen’s schedule and some phone numbers.” I stopped. “One thing I noticed—I think he either did, or planned to, talk to Antonio Vargas.”

“Vargas? The family that lives on the old Murphy place?”

Since Bill’s handcuffs still hung on his belt after my confession, I felt more at ease.

“Yes.” I crossed my legs and laid an arm across the back of the love seat. “Isn’t that odd? I mean…why would Stephen want to talk to Mr. Vargas? How did Stephen even learn of the Vargas family in the first place? Why—”

Bill shook a finger, stopping me. “That’s enough, Ophelia,” he said in a stern voice. “We’ve been through this before. Stay out of it.”

Dropping my arm, I leaned forward. “But Bill, I could help,” I argued. “Haven’t my talents—”

He cut me off before I could finish. “Stop right there. I haven’t decided what’s up with this ‘talent’ of yours.” He rubbed his head again. “I don’t know if you really do have some kind of gift, or if it’s just blind luck. You do seem to have the uncanny ability to—”

“But—” I tried interrupting him.

“I mean it, Ophelia. I won’t have you blundering around in
this
investigation like you have in the past.” He shoved his handkerchief in his pocket. “You’re only going to put yourself in more danger.”

More danger? I didn’t like the sound of that.

“Stephen’s the one in danger,” I said. “Unless you think the shooting was an accident, someone tried to kill him,” I pointed out reasonably.

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, ‘maybe’? Stephen and I were alone—no one else was in the area when the shooting occurred.”

“If this was attempted murder, some forethought had to go into it. If it was premeditated, the victim was selected and a plan set in motion.” Bill sat forward, his book clutched in his hand. “You follow me so far?”

“Yes.”

Looking down, he trailed a finger over the pages of his notebook. “You were facing away from the woods with your back toward the shooter. Larsen stepped around you right before you heard the shot.”

“But—”

He snapped his notebook shut and stood. “I checked with Claire. Larsen was a surprise guest.” Bill watched me with concern written on his face. “You weren’t. Everyone expected you to be there.”

Driving back to Summerset, I stewed over Bill’s words. Me? Did I have enemies? Well…yeah. Over the last couple of years I’d been pulled into several police investigations, but as far as I knew, all guilty parties were now safely locked away as guests of the prison system. Enough time hadn’t elapsed for anyone to be paroled.

My mind flew back to Tink’s kidnapping. It had been perpetrated by a woman who was a follower of Tink’s crazy, and homicidal, Aunt Juliet. Winnie had totally bought into Juliet’s fractured view of the world and of magick. Her plan had been to nab Tink, spring Juliet from the mental facility holding her, and resume their happy cult. Not very realistic on her part.

Were there any other former cult members carrying a grudge against me? I didn’t know. They’d all seemed to fade into the shadows prior to the night Juliet tried to raise a demon. And the truth was, except for Winnie, I hadn’t met any of them. If they were lurking about, I wouldn’t have recognized them.

Anyone else? I ticked off the names of people I’d helped put in jail. Did they have families or friends looking for revenge? Maybe…anything’s possible.

My thoughts brought me no comfort. In fact, if I didn’t watch it, paranoia would become my new best friend.

The ringing of my cell phone broke into my unpleasant thoughts, and grateful for the distraction, I flipped it open.

“Hello.”

“Jensen, sounds like you came close to losing your grip on that broom yesterday.”

I almost dropped the phone in surprise. “Ethan…how did you—”

His low chuckle sounded in my ear. “I heard a news report about the shooting of some author near Summerset, Iowa. Knowing you, I figured you’d be involved, so I called Bill and he filled me in.”

“Where are you? Are you going to be popping up in Summerset again?” I crossed my fingers as I asked the question. In spite of all our disagreements, Ethan believed in my talent—he’d help me figure out what was happening.

“The answer to your first question is, ‘I can’t tell you.’”

“Right. The undercover thing. My second question?”

“No.” I heard the regret in his voice. “Not this time. I’m right in the middle of something.”

A surprising pang of anxiety hit me. “Something dangerous?”

“Hey, Jensen, you almost sound like you care.”

“Ah, well, I owe you. You helped me find Tink—”

Ethan laughed. “And almost received a reprimand as a result of our less than ‘by the book’ tactics.”

“See what I mean…I owe you.”

His voice grew serious. “No, I’m safe. This assignment is more tedious than dangerous, but that’s all I can say about it. How about you? Are you going to stay out of trouble?”

His question hit too close to home. “I suppose Bill told you his crazy theory?”

“Yup. You don’t agree?”

“No, it’s nuts,” I blustered. “I’m just a librarian. Who’d want to shoot me?”

“You mean other than Bill every now and again?” he asked with a laugh.

“Very funny.” I frowned and gave a long sigh. “This is serious. Stephen might die.” My words sounded bleak.

Silence at the other end lengthened, and for a moment I thought I’d lost our connection. When Ethan spoke, the teasing tone had disappeared from his voice. “I know you don’t want to think someone took a bullet meant for you, but you need to consider the possibility.”

“I have, and everyone who might hold a grudge is still in jail.”

“Look, Ophelia, Bill’s a good cop. If he thinks you might have been the target, you should listen to him—”

“It doesn’t feel right,” I said, cutting him off. “There’s more to this. I sense Stephen was the shooter’s quarry, and I was there for a reason…” I paused. “…but I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

Ethan’s voice took on a hard edge. “Don’t be stupid, Jensen. Don’t rely on your talent to keep you safe.”

“If I can’t count on myself, who can I count on?” I shot back.

“I told you—Bill,” he replied curtly.

My eyes narrowed and I felt my mouth settle into a stubborn line. It was pointless to argue. Regardless of Ethan’s teasing, he was still a cop, and cops stick together.

“Is delivering a lecture the only reason you called?” I asked finally.

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t do anything dumb.”

“Well, thank you so much for your faith in my ability to take care of myself,” I said sarcastically, and snapped the phone shut, disconnecting us.

I was still fuming when I reached the library twenty minutes later. Marching up the steps, I flung the door open.

The library was empty except for Darci. She took one look at my face and stepped away from the counter. “Forget that question. I was going to ask how you were, but I can see.”

I slung my purse on the shelf under the counter and gave her a scathing look. “How am I? I’m tired of everyone treating me like I’m some kind of idiot. I’m tired of everyone hovering over me as if I can’t take care of myself. I’m tired of no one listening to me.”

“All righty then,” she said with a bright smile, and scooped up a pile of books. “I think I’ll just return these to the shelves now.”

“I’m sorry,” I said with a shake of my head. “It’s been a frustrating morning.”

“No sweat,” she replied, placing the books back on the counter. “Do I dare ask
who’s
not listening to you?”

With a deep breath, I tried to compose myself as my eyes traveled around the room that had been my home away from home for the last several years. A mobile that local students had made during National Library Week spun gently, while the new air conditioner hummed quietly in the background. Rows and rows of neatly arranged books filled the old building, and I felt a sense of pride at what I’d accomplished since moving to Summerset.

The place had been falling apart. The roof leaked. The beautiful wood plank floors were covered with ugly rust carpeting. It was drafty in the wintertime and roasting in the summer.

I’d worked hard, and so had the community, to restore the character of the old building. We now had a library everyone could be proud of, and every year we had more and more books checked out.

Contrary to what Bill and Ethan might think—I wasn’t an idiot. I’m good at a lot of things, and being a psychic was one of them,
I told myself.

Feeling better, I turned to Darci and quickly related the morning’s events.

“Wow,” she said thoughtfully when I was finished. “You don’t think there’s a chance—”

“No,” I interrupted, “Bill and Ethan are both wrong. I
know
it. Whoever pulled that trigger wanted Stephen dead. I just don’t know why or who yet.”

Darci didn’t answer, and I saw the doubt in her eyes. Disheartened, my short-lived confidence faded and my shoulders sagged. “You don’t believe me either.”

“It’s not that,” she replied kindly, “but let’s be honest…your visions haven’t always been on target.”

“I read the signs wrong.”

“Are you sure you’re reading them right this time?”

“Yes, and I’ll prove it.” I clenched my hands at my sides. “There’s some kind of connection between Stephen and me. And whatever that connection is, it’s going to lead me to who shot him and why.”

Darci leaned against the counter. “How do you intend to do that? Use the runes? They won’t convince Bill and Ethan.”

“I know. I’m going back to the vineyard after work. After school, Tink’s helping Abby at the greenhouse. I’ll have time to run out there then.” I snapped my fingers. “I’ll call Claire and ask her for a copy of the guest list. See if someone had a connection to Stephen.”

“She’ll tell Bill.”

I flounced away from behind the counter and headed for the stairs leading to my office. “So? I don’t care. He can’t arrest me for asking for a list.”

“Humph,” Darci snorted. “Bill said last time he had a jail cell with your name on it. What if he decides to put you in protective custody?”

I turned at the top of the stairs and faced her. “He can’t without just cause.”

Darci rolled her eyes and glanced up at the ceiling. “You need to be careful.”

I laughed. Darci telling me to be careful? What a switch. Thanks to some of her brilliant ideas, we’d rifled files, snooped through offices, been chased by killers, and been locked in a magician’s box at gunpoint.

Her cheeks turned a faint pink as if she read my mind. “You know what I mean,” she defended herself. “You’ve had a rough time of it lately. What if your abilities are a little off-track as a result?”

My eyes widened in surprise. Her words mirrored the same thoughts I’d had last night.

Sensing an advantage, Darci took a step toward me. “I want you to think about something before you rush off to prove that you’re right. You’re willing to risk your own safety, but are you willing to risk Tink’s and Abby’s?”

Darci stayed at the counter while I caught up on paperwork in my basement office. Alone with my thoughts, I tried to concentrate on ordering books. The words and cover pictures swam before my eyes, and a task I normally enjoyed failed to hold my attention.

My gaze caught the photo of Abby and Tink, smiling at me from the corner of my desk, and my mind wandered to Darci’s question. My answer was no. I’d do whatever necessary to protect them. If I pursued my “hunch,” would my actions place them in danger? Possibly. But if Bill’s theory was correct, and someone wanted me dead, they might be at risk under those circumstances, too.
What was it called? Oh yeah, collateral damage. Inadvertent casualties.
The thought was unacceptable to me.

Pushing myself back in my chair, I gave up reading the catalogs. Maybe it would be better if I took a vacation and left town. Could Abby hunt me down using her psychic talents? Nope. Remote tracking hadn’t worked that well when we were trying to find Tink, but knowing Abby, she’d give it her best shot. I’d already mentioned to Abby that I wanted to know why Stephen.

What if I changed my tactics? Went back to acting like the “old” Ophelia—the one who had to be dragged into a mess like this kicking and screaming. I’d pretend that I had no intention of being involved, keep them in the dark about
any potential danger to me. Say nothing about any dreams, premonitions, rune warnings, etc. Neither one of them knew I felt a strong connection with Stephen. It might work.

I slapped my forehead. Darci—I’d already shot my mouth off to her about what I intended to do, and she knew about my dreams. If she thought I was up to something, she’d go straight to Abby with her concerns. I’d have to fix that. I’d use the same approach with her as I planned with Abby. I’d tell her she was right, that I’d reacted out of stress.

Come on, Jensen, Darci’s no dummy.
I scratched my head.
Okay, so I’d wing it when the time came.

I leaned forward, picked up a pen and doodled on my order form. Exactly what were my options? I felt deep inside that staying out of the investigation wasn’t one of them. If my instincts were correct, I was being led down some preordained path to, at this time, a murky conclusion. One choice would be to pursue what few leads I had and
get
in trouble. I wrote the word
trouble
and underlined it.

Or, if Bill was right and I was the intended victim, unless he put me in protective custody, he couldn’t watch me 24/7. I’d be waiting for the killer to come after me and
be
in trouble. I wrote
trouble
again.

I stared down at the order form.
Hmm, trouble versus trouble.
Either way I was screwed. So which approach did I take? Offensive or defensive? The answer hinged on how much faith I had in my ability to find a solution. Bill blew off my ideas, Ethan doubted me, and even Darci was skeptical. I wouldn’t be getting any support from them, and I couldn’t risk asking Abby or Tink for help. I’d be on my own.

Did I have enough strength to see me through?

Yes.

I picked up the phone and dialed Claire.