Witches' Bane (11 page)

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bring salsa.” It was only fair.

McQuaid lives about six blocks from the university, in a three-bedroom fifties’ bungalow he rents from Mr. McCreary, who lives across the street. When I locked my bike to the gate, I saw that the front yard needed mowing and that Howard Cosell, Brian’s ancient basset hound, had dug another hole under the forsythia, next to the hole he’d dug last week. He was lying in it, asleep. There was a basketball in me gutter, a scarred skateboard in the middle of the walk, and two bikes chained to me porch rail. When I opened the door and went in, the family Mac sat on the coffee table, where Brian had been playing Dungeons and Dragons. Little blue blips were chasing little red blips across the screen.

“Anybody home?” I called. I could hear the tinny, twangy sounds of Bob Wills. McQuaid listens exclusively to cowboy music. According to him, everything else is for weenies.

“I’m back here,” McQuaid replied, from the distant reaches. “In the armory.”

McQuaid’s armory is in what used to be the third bedroom, at the end of a hall. There’s a long homemade pine worktable across one wall, with tools neatly hung above it on pegboard and stashed on shelves. Bolted to one corner is a heavy reloading press with a hand-operated lever. Reloading ammunition is something serious gun nuts do to save money and produce special loads—combinations of different types and weights of bullets and powder that aren’t commonly available. Under the worktable are stacks of olive-drab Army ammunition cans filled with bullets. He keeps the powder separate, in a larger can filled with silica gel to eliminate moisture. A six-foot high, glass-fronted gun cabinet stands in one corner, filled with a half-dozen rifles and shotguns and several pistols in their holsters. The room is an arsenal, pure and simple.

McQuaid and I have opposite views on guns. To me, they’re deadly weapons. To him, they’re precision instruments whose performance is infinitely perfectible. We don’t discuss this topic very often, because it might lead to open warfare. Also, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of an arsenal in the same house with a curious young boy. But McQuaid’s security procedures are highly professional, and his standards of training and discipline are exactly what you’d expect from an Eagle Scout. Brian has his own rifle, which is locked up with his father’s. As for my concern about the hazards of storing powder indoors, McQuaid maintains that it’s less flammable than the lawnmower gas stored in the garage or some of the cleaning solvents under the kitchen sink.

Right now, he was pouring powder into a reservoir on top of the press. A disassembled .44 Magnum lay on the worktable.

“What are you doing?” I asked, and was immediately sorry. If you ask McQuaid a question about guns, you get an answer. A detailed answer, complete with footnotes and bibliography.

McQuaid looked up and grinned. “I’m reloading a batch of forty-fours.” He handed me a shiny cartridge an inch and a half long. It filled the palm of my hand and felt like it weighed a half pound.

“What are you shooting with this? Rhinos?”

“Nope, can’t. They’re endangered. Actually, I have to lighten up a bit,” he added, not seeing my grin. “The last batch, I had some failures.” He held up an empty brass casing, a hairline fracture running a third of its length. “I’ve been experimenting with these two-hundred-forty-grain jacketed hollow-points. The loading table calls for eight point nine grains of powder. I’ve been using Hi-Score 700-X, which should give me twelve hundred twenty feet per second and a chamber pressure of thirty-nine thousand pounds. Of course, the tables are conservative, so I upped the charge a bit.” He nonchalantly tossed the casing to me. “Maybe a bit too much. The chamber pressure might have gotten as high as forty-two thousand p.s.i.”

“In other words, the gun almost blew up in your face.”

“Nah. A forty-four will take a lot more than that, unless it’s an antique. I’ve got one in the cabinet, an old Smith and Wesson that goes back to the turn of the century. If you put more than fifteen thousand p.s.i. on the chamber you’re headed for Boot Hill. Back in those days, they relied on bullet weight for knockdowns, not velocity. You could almost see the bullet coming. You’re talking seven hundred fifty feet per second, versus twice that for the Magnum. Gives you a real kick in the ribs. That’s something you need to think about with that little nine millimeter of yours. You’ve got eleven hundred feet per second but you’re only looking at a hundred-twenty-grain bullet, so you’d better hit something vital or—”

If I didn’t stop him now, we’d never eat. “Speaking of ribs, how’re they doing?”

McQuaid looked at me blankly. “How’re they doing what?”

“You know, as in cooking. You did say we were having—”

“Omigod,” McQuaid said, and dashed out the door and down the hall. I followed in a more leisurely fashion.

The barbecue was blazing merrily. While McQuaid doused the flames, I went over to watch Brian pitch horseshoes. At nine, coached by Mr. McCreary, he became the junior champion horseshoe pitcher of the Pecan Springs Parks Department, a title he has successfully defended against all comers for the past two summers. Brian looks a lot like his dad—dark hair, pale blue eyes, quirky grin. Today he was wearing Mr. Spock ears, a “Beam Me Up, Scotty, This Place Sucks” shirt, baggy black pants two sizes too large, and unlaced Reeboks that would fit Magic Johnson. He dropped a horseshoe neatly around the pin.

“Not bad,” I said approvingly.

Brian looked up and gave me the Vulcan blessing. “Dad says you discovered a dead body.”

I returned the Vulcan blessing and followed it with a two- second hug, which is about as much as either Brian or I are good for. He is in an outspoken ant girls phase, but I don’t qualify as a girl. I am not partial to children, having had what Ruby calls a toxic childhood, but I make an exception with Brian.

“I didn’t discover it,” I said. Over his head, to McQuaid, I mouthed,
What did you tell him!

“I told him who got killed and how.” McQuaid was wreathed in a cloud of pungent, mesquite-flavored smoke.

Brian headed for the patio door. “He told me she was a witch. Is there any lemonade?”

“Don’t spill it,” McQuaid told him. “I just mopped the kitchen floor. It reminded me of the La Brea Tar Pits.”

“She wasn’t a witch,” I said firmly. “That’s a lie.” I turned to McQuaid. “What else did you tell him?”

“I didn’t say she was a witch.” McQuaid brushed the ribs with a paintbrush dipped in his secret sauce. He gave me the recipe for my birthday, which was also the second anniversary of our first date. That’s how secret it is. “I said that people might
think
she was a witch.”

Inside the house the phone rang and Brian yelled, “It’s for me!” It almost always was, and I was glad. I didn’t want to talk about Sybil’s murder in front of an eleven-year-old. There are other things I don’t like to do when Brian is around, such as make love with his father. McQuaid doesn’t seem to mind that his son is asleep, or supposed to be asleep, on the other side of a thin wall, but I find the knowledge inhibiting. Brian is one of the reasons I can’t make a commitment. Agreeing to move in together would mean a major reorganization. If I tried to fit McQuaid into my life, plus a noisy, untidy (albeit very likable) Vulcan child and a grouchy basset, accommodations would have to be made, most of them major. I dislike dogs, especially bassets that dig holes in herb beds. Howard Cosell hates cats. Khat hates dogs and children in that order.

“Blackie doesn’t think she was a witch, does he?” I asked.

McQuaid turned the ribs. “I stashed a pitcher of margaritas and a couple of glasses in the refrigerator. Mind getting one for me when you get yours?”

I found the pitcher, salted the rims of the two cold glasses, and poured the glasses full. While I was at it, I filled a bowl with tortilla chips and opened the jar. of salsa verde I’d brought. It’s made with green chiles.

“Cheers,” I said, presenting McQuaid with his margarita. “Does he?”

McQuaid put down the barbecue fork, took his glass, and tipped it against mine. “That’s the theory he’s going on now,” he said. “Well, maybe not a
witch
witch. Maybe more like somebody who got interested in it intellectually, started playing around, and made the mistake of falling in with people who take their magic seriously. Like the Palo Mayomberos who murdered that tourist in Mexico a few years back.”

“So he’s pursuing the cult angle?”

He licked his finger and rubbed at a spot of barbecue sauce on his yellow Father’s Day polo shirt. I took Brian to Wal-Mart to shop for it and ended up buying not only the shirt but a basketball. “Yeah,” he said, “in the absence of anything else. The door between the den and the patio was unlocked, but there wasn’t any sign of breaking and entering. No sign of a burglary, either. And no indication that she actually entertained the visitor she mentioned to you. There are prints. He’s going through the elimination process now. He’ll probably get yours and Ruby’s tomorrow.” He squinted at the spot. “Think I ought to bleach this?”

“Definitely not. Got any sorrel leaves? They’ll take it out.” At the look on his face I sighed. ‘Try soda water. What about the husband?—C.W., isn’t that his name?”

“Kind of hard to make him out the throat-slitter, if that’s what you’re asking,” McQuaid said reflectively. “First thing he knew about it was when he got home from Atlanta this afternoon and found a strip of yellow crime-scene tape across his front yard.” He unfolded two lawn chairs and put them on the upwind side of the grill.

I sat down gingerly. My chair was the one with the webbing coming loose. “C.W. really
was
in Atlanta, then.”

“Apparently so. He had an Atlanta boarding pass and a ticket stub. I was there when he showed them to Blackie.”

“What’s he like?”

McQuaid licked the salted rim of the glass. “Affable, styled hair, Cozumel tan. Good-looking, big, bit on the heavy side. Four-hundred-dollar Tony Llama eel skin boots, three-hundred-dollar Hi-roller hat. first-class tailor. Drives a brand-new Le Baron. He seemed pretty upset when he found out what happened. I’m sure Blackie’ll check him out, see if he’s for real.”

“What kind of guy is Blackie?” I had my own ideas, but I wanted to hear McQuaid’s.

“One of the smart ones,” McQuaid said without hesitation. “Grew up here in the county, where his old man was sheriff for a long stretch. Went to Sam Houston same time I did, spent a couple of years on the streets in Dallas, then went to the sheriff’s office up in Taylor County, around Abilene. He moved back here when his dad died. It was easy for him to get elected—folks remembered his dad. He’s well-trained and systematic, and he’s not in bed with any of the county politicos. He’s straight.”

“Sounds too good to be true.” I sipped my margarita. McQuaid may be an ex, but when it comes to his cop friends, it’s still one big love fest. It reminds me of MacArthur’s final speech at West Point. The Corps, the Corps, and always the Corps.

McQuaid sniffed the air. “Better stir those beans or we’ll be scraping them off the bottom of the pot.” He hoisted himself out of the chair and went inside.

I sat looking into my glass, eating tortillas and salsa verde, and remembering the Boy Scout laws I had helped Brian memorize. They had reminded me of his father. A good scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, and reverent. I wasn’t sure about obedient and reverent—McQuaid is mostly irreverent and the more stupid the rule, the more he enjoys breaking it. But everything else pretty much fits. Plus sexy and good-looking, attributes which don’t have anything to do with scouting but which are nice to have in a lover. And he cares, perversely, about me. Good lord, what more do I want?

At that moment, Howard Cosell dragged himself around the corner of the house, went to the barbecue grill to inquire briefly about the progress of dinner, and then settled under McQuaid’s chair with an exhausted sigh, as if the inquiry had been too much for him and he could only be restored by a nap. I doubted that, since this nap was the continuation of the one he’d been having in his hole under the forsythia. A moment later, Brian and his friend Creep wheeled around the corner. Creep was carrying his pet iguana, Einstein.

“Dad, can I—” Brian began. He saw the empty lawn chair and raised his voice. “Dad, where are you?”

“He’s stirring the beans,” I said.

Without moving, Brian raised his voice another notch. “Dad, can I go to Creep’s house?” Howard Cosell wearily opened one eye and rolled it. I wondered if he’d come around the back to get away from Brian.

“We’re eating at six,” McQuaid yelled back from inside the kitchen.

“Okay. Can Creep and Einstein eat with us?”

“Not tonight, okay? China’s here.”

Brian screwed up his face. “Aw, Dad.”

Creep came over to my chair. He is thin, with wire-rimmed glasses and rabbity front teeth. His tee shirt said “Thank You for Not Barfing,” and he wore a red cap turned backward, the bill hanging down in back. He dropped Einstein on the table beside the tortilla chips. “D’ja really find a dead witch?”

“No,” I said. Einstein flicked his tongue in the direction of the salsa verde.

“You putrid liar,” Creep said to Brian.

Brian opened his mouth to yell again, but I stopped him. “If you want to talk to your dad, why don’t you go in the house? That way you won’t have to yell.”

“That’s okay,” Brian said, “I don’t mind yelling.” He cranked it up a couple of glass-shattering decibels. “Hey, Dad, can I eat at Creep’s house?”

Howard Cosell opened the other eye. Einstein began to crawl in the direction of the salsa, his tongue flicking.

“Yeah,” McQuaid said.

Brian, Creep, and Einstein raced back around the house. I breathed a relieved sigh. Howard Cosell closed both eyes and began to work seriously on his nap. McQuaid came out of the house and stepped up behind me. He leaned over, put his arms around my shoulders, and kissed my ear.

“The kid’s gone,” he said, nuzzling my throat. “How about a roll in the hay?”

“In the middle of the afternoon?”