The Witch's Key (12 page)

Soon, a clear image came to me: a lock of hair and a
leather pouch sitting on an open shelf. I saw a bookcase by a bed
and a silver ring with the devil on it. The devil’s eyes glowed
crimson red and two big horns protruded from his forehead. I looked
up at Lilith. She seemed poised with anticipation.

“It’s in your room,” I said.

“Is it?”

I nodded toward the hall. “Let’s go see.”

She followed me from the kitchen to her bedroom. I
went inside and stopped at a bookcase by her bed. “It’s here,” I
said, pointing. I reached down, grabbed the leather pouch off the
bottom shelf and tossed it to her. She pulled the drawstrings open
and peered inside as I stood confidently by, sure that I had just
scried my way into witchcraft history.

“Ooh! My ring!” she exclaimed. “I wondered what
happened to that.” She reached into the pouch and pulled out a
silver ring with a devil’s head on it, complete with horns and
those crimson red eyes.

“What else is in there?” I asked.

She stole another peek. “Nothing.”

“What?” I crossed the room and snatched the pouch
from her hands. “There’s no snippets of hair?” I looked in the
pouch myself, ran my fingers into its corners and even turned it
inside out. “I don’t get it. Where’s the snippets of hair.”

“There not there,” she said.

“But I saw the pouch. I saw the bookcase and the
ring.”

“Yes. Thank you. I didn’t realize it was in
there.”

The irony of it made me laugh. “You didn’t know the
ring was in there?”

“Uh-uh. It’s been lost for ages.”

“Then why didn’t you scry for it?”

She smacked me flat-handed on the chest. “Pah—leeese.
I’m so absentminded, if I went around scrying for everything I ever
misplaced, I would need a hill of beans a mile high.”

“So, is this typical? Do you often find something
other than what you are scrying for.”

“What, me?”

“Yes.”

That made her laugh even more. “Oh, dear me, no.
Aren’t you cute.” She started down the hall, polishing the ring on
her shirtsleeve. “But thanks for finding my ring, anyway.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon spilling dried
beans out on the table in hopes for finding the missing lock of
hair. I wanted to prove to Lilith and to myself that I could do it.
Partly because I wanted to show her that, as a witch, I was worthy.
The other reason stemmed from what Leona said about me completing
the cycle. I considered that maybe the scrying test was Lilith’s
way of getting me to do that without tipping me off as to the true
purpose of the test. I reasoned that anything I could do to
complete the cycle was worth the try. Unfortunately, by early
evening, the mystery remained unresolved.

Carlos and Spinelli picked me up at the apartment in
an unmarked sedan an hour after sunset. I hopped into the back seat
and we headed off down Monroe toward Minor’s Point. For the recon
mission I dressed in layers, starting with a black tee shirt under
a dark flannel long sleeve and topped with an army green fatigue
jacket. Lilith helped me distress my blue jeans to look like they
had been through hell and back by tearing holes in the knees and
back pockets. Then, for more visual stress, she shredded the cuffs
and popped out a couple of the belt loops. On my way out the door,
she cautioned me to be careful not to ruin the jeans. I laughed at
that, but after shutting the door, I realized she meant it.

Carlos had taken my advice and dressed similarly in
layers. The only difference was his new smell, which reminded me of
garbage.

“That’s what it is,” he said, after I questioned him
about it.

“Garbage?”

“He went Dumpster diving,” said Spinelli. “He wanted
to get the authenticity right.”

“Was that your idea?”

Carlos piped in, “No, it was mine.” I believed he
felt a certain amount of pride for his quick-thinking ingenuity. I
rolled my window down and asked Spinelli to step on the gas.

“So, I thought you guys were supposed to be here
right at sunset,” I said. “What happened?”

Spinelli answered, “We had to stop for supplies,”

“Like what?”

Carlos produced an unlabeled bottle from a paper bag
between his knees. “Moonshine.”

“Moonshine?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you find that?”

“The liquor store.”

“The liquor store sells moonshine?”

Spinelli said, “It’s not real moonshine. It’s
tequila. He thought it would look more hobo-like if he removed the
label.”

“You’re kidding.”

Carlos looked a bit put out by my questioning the
idea. “No,” he said, “hobos love their moonshine. Besides, if we
try going into the jungle without some booze we might get
stabbed.”

“That’s crazy.”

“No, he’s right,” said Spinelli. “Transients can get
fiercely territorial. It’s bad etiquette to join a group at a
campfire without an invite or a bottle or both.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I read up on it.”

“Really?” I settled into my seat, comfortable with
that, but suddenly feeling very inadequate about my dress,
specifically my lack of hardware. I knew that Carlos was carrying a
weapon, most likely his Glock 17, snuggled nicely in his shoulder
holster along with a back up piece, a smaller 5-shot 38 around his
ankle. But those would do me no good if he went and got himself
stabbed right in front of me. When I hatched the idea of
infiltrating the hobo community to gather intel, I hadn’t
considered it an especially risky operation. As we got closer to
the drop off point, though, I began to reconsider.

“Dominic,” I uttered, almost as a question. “I know I
don’t have authority to carry, but—”

“Say no more, sir.” He passed a semi-auto 9mm with
custom rubber grips over his shoulder. “Here.”

I took the weapon and tucked into the backside of my
jeans. “Thanks. I’ll give it back to you after tonight.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, and I watched him and Carlos
exchange glances and smiles. “It’s yours. It’s from both of
us.”

“What? No. I couldn’t.”

“Uh-uh, not another word. It’s the least we can do to
show our appreciation.”

I swear, those two never cease to surprise me. “All
right. Thanks,” I said, and left it at that.

As we neared the drop off point, I saw Spinelli’s
expression in the rear view mirror change. He made a face like
Carlos sometimes does while trying to calculate the percentage of a
waitress’ tip. I asked him what the problem was. “It’s your
monikers,” he said.

“What monikers”

“That’s just it. You don’t have one.”

“Do we need one?”

He laughed lightly. “If you want anyone to take you
seriously you do.”

“I like Boxcar Willie,” said Carlos. “It sounds
railroad-ish.”

Spinelli scoffed. “It sounds like a made-up name from
some kid’s TV show. You’re better off with Dickweed.”

I could see Carlos thinking. “Dickweed, huh?”

“He’s joking,” I said. “Dominic, come up with
something else.”

He gave it just a little thought before coming back
with a couple of winners. “How `bout Bulldog and Havana Joe?”

I looked at Carlos. He seemed every bit as satisfied
as I with the choices. “Sure. What do you think, Carlos?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I get to be Havana Joe, right?”

Somehow, I expected that. “Yes, Carlos. If you
must.”

Ten minutes later, we were standing at the drop off
corner near Minor’s Point, waving Spinelli goodbye. I gave Carlos a
final once over to see how he looked, and I have to say, he did
well. After getting him to pull his shirttail out and messing up
his hair some, he looked like quite the respectable bum. We turned
our collars up to the evening chill and then stepped off into the
woods on a thin trail matted out by countless footsteps before
us.

The first hundred yards or so differed from the rest
of the path. That is where clues of adolescent drinking and
promiscuous teenage relations appeared more evident. Empty beer
bottles with labels too trendy for a hobo’s liking lay strewn in
the grass among used condoms and discarded women’s panties. Further
along, as the woods thickened and the grasses shortened, hints of
such pedestrian activities diminished. From there, things got a bit
scarier. My sense of direction became slightly disoriented, as the
path twisted and wound like a serpent towards the sounds of raspy
voices with occasional spikes of laughter. Before long, we spotted
a distant campfire flickering through a stand of trees like a
firefly in a cornfield. Beyond that, the faint glow of another fire
loomed even brighter. I tapped Carlos on the shoulder and asked him
if he felt ready. He nodded confidently and told me he was.

“Great,” I said, and I held out my hand. “Now let me
see the tequila.” He gave me the bottle without asking why. I
opened it, took a swig, swished it around in my mouth and then spat
it out onto the ground. I handed the bottle back, wiping my mouth
on my coat sleeve. “Thanks.” I pointed to the bottle. “Now, you do
it.”

Carlos looked at me as though I were a genius.
“Right,” he said, nodding to let me know that he got it. He
followed my lead by taking a swig and spitting it out as I had
done. But then he took it a step further, splashing tequila down
the front of his coat and on his pants. He even went so far as to
dab a little behind each ear. I am sure he thought it was a good
idea. I could tell that from the way he capped the bottle and
awaited my reaction with a proud smile. I smiled back, not wanting
to burst his bubble.

“Nice touch,” I said. “Now let’s go.”

We continued down the path, which emptied out into a
natural clearing some twenty yards in diameter. In the center,
burned a robust campfire with flames crackling three to four feet
above a mound of roughly harvested tree limbs and kindling. Around
the fire sat seven men and a teenage boy that looked as though he
had not showered in weeks. An old man sitting on a pine log spotted
us first. He nudged the guy beside him to get his attention and
pointed at us as we emerged from the shadows. That got the rest of
the heads in the group looking our way. I did not know what to
expect, but I didn’t want to startle anyone either. So, I waved my
hand and called out to make my intentions known.

“Evenin`, gents,” I said, wishing I had checked with
Spinelli for some secret hobo greeting. “Might we join you?”

“Don’t worry. We’re not cops,” Carlos shouted. Oh,
how I could have killed him.

The younger men and the boy looked to the old man. I
saw him give a nod to the group before calling us into their
circle. We thanked him for the invite and then picked a spot on an
empty log to sit down, and the first thing Carlos did was to pull
the tequila bottle out from under his coat and offered it around.
One particularly skinny fella sitting beside him took the bottle,
but not before commenting on the way Carlos smelled.

“Whatcha do, bathe in it?” he said, and he laughed
sickly. Carlos thinned his lips but never smiled.

“They call me, Bulldog,” I said, addressing the group
in general. “And this here,” I pointed at Carlos, “is Havana Joe.
It’s sure nice of you all to let us join you.”

The group eyed me suspiciously. I didn’t suspect for
a minute that they bought my line. Although none of them fit the
stereotype of what I imagined a typical hobo might look like, it
seemed obvious that Carlos and I didn’t fit in at all. It’s not
that our dress wasn’t convincing enough, it was. And in a line-up,
I doubt if any working stiff could have picked us out as imposters.
But something else, something less tangible stood out, even to me.
I could see in their faces, a certain leer of wariness. Even the
boy had it: that hardened look that separates a street dog from a
housedog. Carlos and I may have nailed the dress, and in Carlos’
case, even the smell, but we could not fake the look of the
experienced rail traveler. My only hope was that they might accept
us as newbies and open the door for us just a little. My relief
came when the old man opened that door.

“They call me, Thatch,” he said, and then he went
around the circle. “That there is, Skeet, he’s from the bayou
country. Milwaukee Mike, Dogfish Denny, Tumbleweed, we just call
him Weeds though. Buffalo Bobby. He ain’t from Buffalo, he just
looks like one. Rags is the fella sitting next to your friend, and
the boy yonder is Oliver.”

“Oliver?”

“Yeah, on account of he looks like that kid in the
Dickens story.”

“Oliver Twist?”

“That’s him.”

“I see. Well, nice to meet you all.” I pointed to
Carlos. “I hope you don’t mind us intruding like this, but you see,
we’re kind of new to the whole rail-riding business.”

That spawned an outburst of spontaneous laughter
around the circle. The skinny guy, the one Thatch called Rags, even
blew a stream of tequila out his nose, having been caught off guard
by my comment while taking a swig. Carlos and I exchanged
uncomfortable glances, but neither of us felt particularly
threatened. The old man pulled himself together first, and after
taking the bottle from Rags and belting back one, he said, “You’re
kinda new, huh? Well, don’t that beat all?”

I looked at him, confused a little. “What do you
mean?”

“Means we knew you were a couple of Aunties the
minute you walked in.”

“Aunties?” said Carlos.

“Sure, old angellinas. Whatcha do, hear `bout the
jamboree and figure you’d try to get in on the fun?”

I immediately saw that the door old Thatch opened was
not only a way in, but also a way out. I slapped my knee and shook
my head in defeat. “Yeah, you got us.” I poked Carlos with my
elbow. “Ain’t he got us, Joe?”

Carlos followed suit right away. “Damn if he don’t. I
told you we wouldn’t get away with it.”