Waking the Witch

ten

I was getting on my bike when “People Are Strange” played again.

It was Jesse.

“Looking for an update?” I asked.

“Yeah, I hate to bug you, so if I am, just tell me to go to hell.”

“You’re not.” I gave him the rundown.

“The detective could be a problem. Is he giving you a rough time?”

“He asked me to dinner.”

“Seriously? Did you zap him with an energy bolt?”

“Oh, he’s not really asking me out. He wants to pick my brain and steal my leads. So I accepted. Should be fun.”

“You’ve obviously got it under control. About those lab and coroner’s reports, any chance I can take a look?”

“I’ll fax them over.”

I ended the call with Jesse only to find that I’d gotten a message in the meantime. If only I’d been this popular in high school, I might have shown up more often. Speaking of school, the message was from a retired history teacher, Mr. Mulligan. Lorraine at the diner had told him about me, and he was wondering if I’d gotten all the local information I’d needed. If not, he’d be happy to provide more background. He’d taught Paula, Ginny, Brandi, even coached Kayla with her homeschooling.

My first impulse was to call back and say “thanks but no thanks.” I had plenty of leads to follow up on and no time to waste sitting in some old guy’s parlor, sipping instant coffee and listening to a lecture on town history. If the guy had been a friend of Ginny’s and Brandi’s, sure. But their teacher? Something told me that compared to those two, my attendance record would be exemplary.

And yet ... Maybe I was a little more anxious about my first case than I was admitting. Maybe I couldn’t help thinking, What if this is the guy with information that’ll solve the case, and I blew him off? Or maybe it was just those damned voices in my head, Paige and Lucas telling me never to ignore a potential source. I called back and asked if I could stop by in the next hour.

NEXT, I HAD files to fax to Jesse. Easier said than done. While I didn’t expect a small-town motel to have a business center, I thought they’d at least have a fax machine in the office. They didn’t. Nor did the town have a copy center.

I remembered the library and arrived there to find it had closed at four and wouldn’t reopen for two days. Someone was kind enough to suggest the real estate office—apparently they ran an unofficial copy shop on the side. But it had closed at four, too. In fact, except for the diner, the whole town seemed to have shut down.

When I called Jesse, he said that was fine—he’d pop by tomorrow on his way home from Portland. Next stop, Mr. Mulligan, retired teacher.

THE ADDRESS MR. Mulligan gave led to a place outside town. The sign on the mailbox read J&C Hogs. I checked the address, but it seemed right, so I started up the lane to a sprawling ranch with a massive detached garage. The garage door was open. Through it I could see three gleaming black motorcycles. Harley-Davidsons. Hogs.

I swung off my bike as a man walked out. His grease-stained shortsleeved shirt showed off an impressive set of muscles for a guy who had to be in his midsixties.

“Ms. Levine,” he said, wiping a hand before extending it. “Chuck Mulligan.”

I shook his hand. His gaze had already slid over to my bike, and our fingers hadn’t fully disconnected before he was walking toward it.

“You didn’t really call me out here to wax nostalgic on past students, did you,” I said. “You heard what I was riding.”

He smiled, face creasing. “Guilty.”

“Only you realize I can’t stay and chat,” I said. “Not with a Harley man.”

“Those are clients’ bikes. Mine’s a BMW.”

“Even worse.”

He laughed and crouched beside my bike, checking it out.

“So you must be the C in J&C Hogs. Who’s the J?”

“Janice. My wife. She just put me on the sign so I’d feel special. It’s her business.” He paused. “Was her business, I should say. Still not used to that. She passed away last year. I took over after I retired.”

He pushed to his feet. “Let’s get inside. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there.”

“Actually, I’d be more comfortable there.” I pointed to the garage. “If that’s okay.”

“Certainly.”

We spent the next half-hour looking at bikes and talking about them. His wife’s business had been customizing Harleys—making them faster and fancier.

I’d have been tempted to move on to business a lot faster if I didn’t see how much he was enjoying the opportunity to talk about his wife and her work. I understood that, so I let it keep going until he steered things on track by saying, “Have you met Paula Thompson yet?”

“No, just Kayla. Cool kid.”

His gray eyes sparkled. “Cool. Yes, that’s a good word to describe Kayla. One of those little characters who don’t quite fit in, but you know, when they grow up, they’ll do better in life than all the popular kids. Paula brings her up once a week to go over her lessons, make sure she’s on track. I offer to help more, but Paula won’t even take the supervision work for nothing—insists on cleaning my house while I’m working with Kayla.”

“You taught her, too, didn’t you? Paula Thompson?”

He nodded and led me to a couple of chairs in a makeshift office space. “She started high school the same year I started teaching. I taught her, then Genevieve, and now Kayla. Three generations of Thompson girls. And three more different girls you couldn’t hope to find.”

“Tell me about Ginny and Brandi.”

He settled in his chair and took a moment, as if trying to decide how to start. “When I first started teaching, I was convinced every student could be helped. It’s a spark of idealism that fades fast. Some can, and you learn to concentrate on them. The others ... The others you can’t help because they just aren’t interested.”

Sounded familiar. I’d never had much use for school myself.

“I had Ginny and Brandi in my class,” he said, “when they came to class, which wasn’t often. They spent most of the day in the woods behind the school, smoking with their boyfriends. Then Ginny got pregnant with Kayla.”

“Did that help?”

He rubbed his chin and I could tell he wanted to say yes, but after a moment, gave a slow shake of his head. “Ginny was thrilled about Kayla, but only because it meant she could quit school. Otherwise, she was perfectly happy to dump the baby on Paula and go off getting drunk and high with Brandi.”

“No father in the picture I take it?”

“Daddy was some loser Ginny hooked up with on a weekend in Portland. I’d be surprised if she even got a name. Paula has Kayla now, thank God. Should have had her from the start but ...” He shrugged. “Paula had Ginny when she was a kid herself and it turned her life around, so she kept hoping having Kayla would do the same for Ginny. Paula would baby-sit Kayla, make sure she was fed, had clothing, play dates, all that, but she insisted Ginny step up and be a mother, get a job, get an apartment ...”

“Did she?”

“The job? On and off, mostly off. She had a place, though, over one of the shops on Main Street. Kayla wasn’t neglected—Paula made sure of that. But like I said, those Thompson girls were very different. Having Ginny might have been a life-changing experience for Paula, but her life didn’t need as much changing as Ginny’s. Even if Paula wasn’t much of a student, she still showed up in class and did the work. Hung out with a rough crowd, but she was the best of the bunch. Polite and respectful even when she came to class stoned.”

“And Ginny’s dad? Was he part of that rough crowd?”

“I don’t think so. Paula had a string of boyfriends in ninth and tenth grade. Then she seemed to stop dating. Next thing you know, she’s pregnant.”

“Meaning she was dating. Just not anyone she could be seen with in public. There were rumors, though, I bet.”

“Plenty. Most of them involving married men, not surprisingly. A couple of names floated around. I don’t like spreading rumors, so I won’t give them to you, but I will say that neither of them killed Ginny. One left for the East Coast years back, and the other’s dead.”

We talked about Ginny for a few more minutes, but he couldn’t add any dimension to the picture I’d drawn of her. It was even worse when we got talking about Brandi.

“I barely remember the girl,” Mulligan said. “I felt bad about that, but when I went to the funeral, I remembered why. There wasn’t much to Brandi Degas. Nothing memorable. She was Ginny Thompson’s shadow. I don’t mean in regards to their friendship—Brandi was clearly the leader there. But Ginny was the one you noticed. The prettier one. The louder one.”

“They’d been friends a long time, I heard.”

“Since they were babies. Both had single moms and I think Paula and Carol went to the same support group.”

“Were they friends? Paula and Carol?”

“Close acquaintances more like. Carol was an alcoholic even back then, and Paula didn’t take with that. She helped out, though, looking after Brandi when she could.”

“Is Carol Degas still in town?”

“She is. And you can try talking to her, but don’t expect much. A lifetime of boozing has taken its toll. When Brandi died, Carol couldn’t even sober up for the funeral. She’s doing better, but her memory’s shot.”

“And Brandi’s father?”

“A kid who died in a drunk-driving accident a year after Brandi was born.”

“No dad in the picture for either. Those girls did have a lot in common.”

“Pretty much everything. Never finished school. Were into drugs and booze. Couldn’t hold a job. No kids for Brandi, though.”

“What about boyfriends? Did she have anyone like Cody Radu?”

He shook his head. “Brandi didn’t date. She hooked up with men at parties. Or so I hear. She ... wasn’t an attractive girl. She had a certain kind of smarts, though. Feral cunning, I’d call it. She kept a tight hold on Ginny, wouldn’t let her make other friends.”

“Was she jealous of Cody? Maybe tried to break them up?”

“No. Like I said, she had a certain kind of smarts, and she knew a good thing when she saw it. To her, Cody was a good thing. He had money and, from what I hear, kept Ginny well supplied with alcohol and drugs, which she shared with Brandi.”

“So Brandi relied on Ginny.”

“And vice versa. You never saw the two of them apart.”

Not even in death.

I FINISHED UP with Mulligan and left with a business card, as he jokingly promised to set me up with a “real bike” if I ever got tired of the Triumph. I had about an hour before my dinner with Michael Kennedy, so I retreated to the motel to do some research. I started with a call to Jaime, my necromancer contact, to see whether this ritual sounded like anything she knew.

Jaime Vegas was a celebrity spiritualist. She mainly did live shows these days, where she contacted the dead to reassure the living. Great gig for a necromancer ... except most times, Jaime faked it. She had to. The messages that the living need aren’t necessarily the ones the dead want to impart.

There’s one ghost whose messages Jaime does occasionally pass on. My mother’s. Some necromancers have spirit guides, and my mother is Jaime’s. She’s not supposed to convey messages to Mom’s loved ones—it’s considered disruptive to both the living and the dead—but we bend the rules ... just not often enough to get Mom reassigned.

I consider Jaime a friend, even if she’s over twice my age and I’ve known her since I was a kid. That’s how it is with most of my really good friends. I grew up with these people. I sat backstage at Jaime’s shows. I went to art galleries with Cassandra DuCharme, a four-hundred-year-old vampire. I spent summers with the werewolf Pack—Elena and Clay and Jeremy. It’s a strange way to grow up, but I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Jaime answered on the fourth ring. She sounded out of breath. I waited, not too worried that she was fleeing mortal danger or anything. If Jaime’s out of breath, it’s from overdoing it on the treadmill.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with Paige,” she said. “Has she already left for Hawaii?”

“Yep. Anything I can help with?”

“No, just council business. Hold on.” I heard her muffled voice talking to someone. She came back with, “Sorry about that. So are you holding down the fort alone?”

“Actually not holding it down at all. I’m off on a case.”

“Really? That’s great. Where?”

“About an hour from Portland.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed, like she’d been hoping I was close enough to visit. “So you’re going home at night, then?”

“No, staying in a motel. Getting some experience living on the road.”

“That’s a good idea. A great idea,” she said, with more enthusiasm than it warranted. “With everyone else gone, you might as well have some fun. Take your time, too. You deserve a break.”

“Uh, okay. Speaking of breaks, we’re still on for New York later this month, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great, now if you have a second, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Sure.”

I described the chalk marks and the silver object, and she said there were a few rituals that came to mind and asked me to send the pictures for a better look.

Then we talked about our trip for a few minutes. Summer was almost here, and I needed a new wardrobe, which meant a trip to New York with my favorite shopping buddy.

Going to New York to buy clothes is my one real indulgence. I’m independently wealthy—a phrase I’ve come to love, to Adam’s unending annoyance.

My dad, being the scion of the Nast Cabal, left a fortune to his kids. Or to his sons, at least. My half brother Sean is sure our father had rewritten his will to add me when he discovered he had a daughter. Kristof Nast might have been a cold-blooded bastard, but he’d loved my mother and he loved his children. After his death, though, only the original will was found—the one dividing his estate between his two sons. My grandfather refuses to acknowledge me, so if there was a new will, I’m sure he got rid of it.

If Sean thought I should have been included, though, he was going to make sure I got my share. So he’d set up a trust fund for me with part of his own inheritance. Until I was twenty-five, it only paid an allowance-five thousand a month—but I reinvested most of that. My salary covered my daily expenses, and it didn’t feel right, blowing my inheritance when it had come out of Sean’s money.

I supposed when I got access to the funds, I’d buy a condo or something. I didn’t have any firm plans. That applied to most of my life right now. I liked where I was. Occasionally, I got the feeling I should be leaving home and setting out on my own, but it never happened. I’d go when I was ready, I guess.

AFTER SAYING GOOD-BYE to Jaime, I read the reports, which could be summed up as “three young women were murdered.”

The coroner’s report did mention the object in Claire’s hand. A pewter bead. A note on the file speculated it came from something she’d been wearing, but no one had found a necklace or bracelet. Had it been yanked off her killer? That was a possibility. A plain piece of pewter, though, was more likely symbolic.

I searched the reports for Ginny and Brandi. No mention of anything found in their hands or of any pewter in the vicinity. I could ask Bruyn, but if it was supernatural in origin, I didn’t want him to know it might be significant.

I moved on to Internet searches. As I expected by now, the motel didn’t offer Internet service. Luckily, Paige showed me how to tether my laptop to my iPhone, which was a relief, because as cool as that little browser app is, it’s a bitch for doing serious Web work.

The first person I looked up was Michael Kennedy. With a name like that, can you imagine how many hits I got? Even knowing he was from Texas didn’t help.

Eventually, I found a newspaper article about a case he’d worked. Being a photogenic guy, his picture was included—one of him turning away, unimpressed with the prospect of being captured on film. It was clearly him, though, so his story was legit.

Next on my list: Cody Radu, a name that was much easier to search. The first hit I got was Facebook. One look at the picture and I had my guy, and a read through his profile gave me more information on him than I cared to know. That alone suggested the diner folks were right about Cody. He was one of those people who pretends to be an open book, putting every bit of minutiae about himself into the public domain, as if to say “See, I’m not holding anything back,” which tells you that he is.

I tried pairing up Cody with search terms like drugs, sex, gambling, everything I could think of that might link to illegal activity. Nothing. If it were that easy, though, Bruyn would have nabbed him by now.

So I switched to Alastair Koppel. Plenty of hits for him. There was a Facebook group and a Web site run by the parents of girls who’d joined his commune. Neither were exactly flattering to the old guy.

He wasn’t that old, though. Midforties. Decent enough looking. Dignified. The kind of guy whom lost little girls would flock to.

Flock they did. Megan hadn’t been lying about that. I found a dozen message boards with young women asking how to get into the commune, and more from young women agonizing over why they hadn’t been accepted.

Megan hadn’t been lying about the cookies either. The small business had been written up in a handful of magazines as a model of entrepreneurship. Of course, they glossed over the commune part, preferring to praise the company’s “unique and philanthropic” model, which combined rehabilitation with enterprise.

As Megan had said, Alastair was a therapist, though the sites run by the girls’ parents were quick to point out he had a bachelor’s degree, not a doctorate. They also noted his work history, which showed that the guy liked to move around. And he changed wives as fast as he did jobs. Four ex-wives, the dates of the weddings running close enough to the divorce decrees that you knew he hadn’t finished with one before starting on the next. Each divorce petition charged infidelity. Alastair liked variety. Surprise, surprise.

That was all very interesting, but nothing more than I’d have expected. A guy who had made a very nice life for himself, surrounded by girls half his age, who when they weren’t fighting to share his bed, were raking in some serious cookie dough for his coffers.

What interested me was that talisman painted on the gate. It looked like a simple protective symbol, though I couldn’t identify it. Maybe one of the girls was a practicing Wiccan. Nothing wrong with that, but considering I was investigating possible occult-linked killings, it was a lot more interesting than Alastair’s ex-wives.

I ran a bunch of searches on his name and the company name, combining them with everything from “satanic” to “occult” to “ritual.” The closest thing to a hit I got was a deeply buried post on a message board where someone joked that Taste of Heaven cookies had more than just organic flour in them, explaining their popularity.

I was pretty sure you couldn’t get drug-laced cookies past the FDA, but was it possible to enchant them? I always said that Paige did something with her cookies—they never turned out the same for me—but she just rolled her eyes and said that the only “magic” was that she actually followed the recipe and measured the ingredients.

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of “lost” spells and rituals floating around. Most likely, though, they were simply good cookies.

My alarm rang then, reminding me of my non-date with Michael. I showered and dressed, grateful that Paige always insisted we pack an outfit for every undercover eventuality, including cocktail parties.

As I got ready, I racked my brain for more things to research. I was doing my makeup when an idea hit. I returned to my laptop and combined the occult keywords with Cody’s name. Bingo. On Facebook no less, in a frat buddy’s photo album. A picture of Cody Radu conducting an occult ritual.

It was tucked into a section from rush week—old photos of guys making jackasses of themselves and, ten years later, thinking it was cool to post evidence of their youthful stupidity online for the world to see.

There were two pictures conveniently labeled “Awesome Occult Ritual.” The first showed a bunch of guys standing around a young Cody, who was kneeling, drawing with chalk on the floor. The caption read “Cody shows us how it’s done.” The second was too dark to make out, but was obviously the ritual in progress, captioned “Cody leads the way.”

While I couldn’t make out details, there was enough to suggest Cody knew what he was doing. Had he seen it in a movie? Researched it for rush week? Or was it something more sinister?

A honk outside my motel room made me jump. I bookmarked the site, disconnected, and hurried to the door. I waved at Michael, motioning that I’d be just a couple of minutes. I was putting on lipstick when he rapped at the door.

“Come in.”

The door clicked. “No rush. I’m early—”

He stopped. I turned. He gawked, then blushed, clearing his throat and saying, “That’s a good color for you,” before looking away so fast you’d think I was naked.

It wasn’t even a very revealing dress. I don’t have a lot to reveal. My legs are my best feature so, yes, the skirt was short. Damned short, actually. Other than that, it was just your basic little black cocktail dress, only it wasn’t black—it was peacock blue, like my eyes. I know, bringing out your eye color is such a cliché, but if I have a second best feature, my eyes are it, and I always play to my strengths.

Obviously it worked for Michael, who continued to gaze around the room as if committing the wallpaper to memory.

“Research?” he said, pointing at my laptop. “Have you found—?” He cut himself short with a wry smile. “Sorry. Occupational hazard. Tonight isn’t about the case, and I won’t say another word about it.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Er, more of an intention. But a strong intention.”

I laughed, closed up my laptop, and tucked it under the mattress. Then we left.