Charmed to death: an Ophelia and Abby mystery (19 page)

"Nonsense, I'm sure Mother has taught you well. You have gifts, Ophelia. Gifts most people don't." She shook her head sadly. "You know I've envied you those gifts. And regretted I wasn't one of the chosen, like you and Mother. I've always felt left out. Great confession for a mother to make, isn't it?"

I patted her arm. "The gift isn't much of a blessing at times, Mom."

"I suppose so, but still…" she said, smoothing her needlepoint and thinking. "Oh well, what is, is. Everyone has their own path to follow. Now you must follow yours and without Mother leading you. This is your time, Ophelia."

I slunk down in my chair. "But I don't know how."

"Sure you do. But I think you're afraid."

"I am not."

"Oh, yes, you are, dear." She put her needlepoint down and stared at me. "You're afraid of your gift, afraid to use it, afraid of what people might think if you do. But you can't afford to surrender to the fear, Ophelia. You can't sit back, wringing your hands, questioning your gift. Use what's been given you."

At her words I felt a spark of energy glow inside me. Like a twig suddenly catching fire. Was Mother right? Had fear been blocking my talent? The fire inside burned hotter. A killer had taken Brian's life and almost ruined mine. It was the killer and what he did, not Comacho that had sent me over the edge five years ago. And he was out there somewhere, watching me, playing with me. I sat up straight in my chair while the fire spread through me.

Standing, I crossed the room to where Abby lay in her bed. She looked fragile and helpless and, for the first time, looked all of her seventy-four years. She was the kindest, gentlest person I knew and never in her life had she hurt anyone. She didn't deserve to be treated so cruelly. My anger fueled the fire while I stood staring down at her.

The fire throbbed deep in my soul. It kindled each cell, each nerve, till I felt as if I'd burst into flames.

Use my gift? Oh, I'd use my gift, all right! With one last look at Abby, I whirled around and ran from the room.

Chapter Twenty-Two

On the hilltop behind Abby's house I created my circle of salt as she had taught me. The air around me felt thick with ozone. Another storm approached, but I didn't care. My anger, my rage put me past caring. The fire kindled at the hospital burned hot, hotter than before. It consumed me from the inside out.

My cowled robe clung to my legs in the still-quiet world while I prepared myself for what I was about to do. Uttering a silent prayer that my magick be guided, I stepped to the north. I paused and it seemed the world waited for me to act.

Bending down, I scooped a handful of dirt and called to the element of Earth. Still holding it tightly in my hand, I closed my eyes and felt as if I'd been transported deep into the rich black soil. My skin tingled with the soil's energy of rebirth and my hand throbbed. I opened my eyes and my hand and with one quick move cast the soil in the air. Falling back on me, it showered me with tiny pinpricks of energy as the earth undulated beneath my feet.

Walking to the east, I called the element of Air. Lifting my arms, I tilted my head back and watched the clouds begin to swirl above me. They formed a rotating whirlpool of energy reaching down to surround me. The wind, created by the energy, tugged at my hair and plastered my robe against my body.

I walked against the wind to the south and called the element of Fire. Stretching out my arm, I pointed to the sky and traced a jagged line with my finger. Lightning flashed across the sky and the air around me felt scorched.

Stopping first to pull fresh air into my lungs, I walked around the circle to the west. Lifting my arms again, I called the element of Water. The clouds wrenched apart and torrents of rain poured down on me. Each raindrop sparkled and gleamed with power, drenching me in it.

Walking slowly to the center of the circle, I felt the power of the four elements rage around me—Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Each different, with a different energy, but all joined, joined with me in my purpose. Opening both arms, I gathered the energy inside me. I felt the seductive power run through my blood, increasing in force, making my fire burn brighter.

In my mind I saw Abby lying still and lifeless. Put there by some unknown hand. I saw Brian ripped apart by a killer who thrived on pain and terror. The power inside me grew and grew till I thought I'd burst—fueled by my hate of those who sought to harm and my need for revenge. I struggled to keep it chained until I was ready.

Opening my arms farther still, I kept the vision of Abby and Brian in my mind. I would slip the chains and set my power free, free to seek out those who would hurt the innocent.

Suddenly a voice soft as a breeze whispered in my ear.

The power doesn't belong to you.

I lowered my arms. "Abby?"

You can't bend the world to suit your will
, the voice whispered again.

I wiped away the tears that ran down my face, mingling with the rain. "Abby."

Your gift. Use it wisely. Follow the pattern.

"Oh, Abby," I said, sinking to my knees.

On the hilltop in my circle of salt, the energy I had called forth slowly faded. The earth no longer vibrated beneath me, clouds no longer swirled overhead, and lightning no longer flashed across the sky. And the rain fell in a cool, soothing shower on my bent head while I wept.

Wiping my face, I sat in the wet grass and stared out through the rain.
Follow the pattern
, Abby's voice had said. But what pattern? The murderer killed Brian with a knife and would've killed Gus the same way, but Gus beat him to it by dying of a heart attack. He'd marked both bodies after death—did Gus have a star on his forehead too? The bodies had been dumped differently: Brian's had been placed in a Dumpster and Gus's had been buried in the ditch. Gus had been set on fire, Brian hadn't. No pattern there.

Abby put a lot of stock in auras. I thought about the dreams I'd had, chasing the killer through the park, Gus's death and the dream I'd had last night. I shook my head, throwing droplets of water from my wet hair. No aura around the killer when I'd chased him. At Gus's place, the killer's aura had been a dark red. In the dream last night it had been black.

And the music—I'd never heard that before. Off-tune, false. The song hadn't rung true.

I smacked myself on the forehead. Jumping to my feet, I took off down the hill, slipping and sliding in the wet grass. I knew what to do. Like the runes had foretold, it would require I sacrifice, sacrifice my pride, something dear to me, as Abby had pointed out. I'd have to ask for help from someone I disliked. And if I couldn't convince him I was right, I might wind up in jail.

A killer was here in Summerset, stalking me, for whatever reason, and he
was
the one responsible for the deaths of both Brian and Gus.

Comacho thought so too. He thought he was on the trail of the Harvester, who'd plagued the Midwest. His questions about PP International, Abby, and Darci were a smoke screen, a way to badger information out of me, to figure out what connection I might have with the Harvester.

The killer I'd dreamed of last night.

But last night the song I'd heard didn't ring true and the killer didn't ring true. Different aura, different killer. Comacho was looking for the wrong man—not the Harvester, but someone who killed for a personal reason.

A reason tied to me.

After calling the hospital and checking on Abby, I called Bill's office and asked the dispatcher to contact Henry Comacho and requested Henry call me on my cell phone. It didn't take long to get a response. I'd told him to meet me at Abby's. After changing into jeans and a sweatshirt—didn't want Comacho to see me in my cowled robe—I waited by the greenhouse. He showed up about twenty minutes later.

"You must've read my mind—"

"What?" I asked, surprised.

"Hey, it's just an expression," he said, looking puzzled. "I'd planned on calling you. Seems the body you found in the ditch was another one of your friends, Gus Pike. Care to explain here or do you want to accompany me to Bill's office?"

I scanned his face before I answered and felt nervous perspiration soak my shirt.
Well, at least he doesn't have his mirrored sunglasses on. Good. I need to see his eyes
.

"Here. I'll explain here. Let's go inside," I said, moving toward the greenhouse.

Comacho followed me into the greenhouse. Shoving my hands in my back pockets to keep from fidgeting, my eyes traveled over Abby's dead plants while I tried to think of a way to begin.

He scuffed the floor with his toe. "Bill told me about the break-in and gave me an update on her condition. I'm sorry. She's a nice lady."

"Yes, she is. It's for her sake I've decided to confide in you. Things are spinning out of control and it has to stop. It's too late to save Gus. But before someone else gets hurt…" I trailed off, letting my gaze travel over Comacho's face. Taking my hands out of my pockets, I continued. "I'm going to ask you not to say anything till I'm finished, okay?"

"Okay," he answered, perplexed.

God, this is going to be hard
. Taking a deep breath, I stared directly into Comacho's eyes. "I'm a psychic."

"What?" His eyes widened in surprise.

I glared at him. "I asked you not to say anything. Talking about my talent isn't the easiest thing in the world for me. And I need you to listen."

"Sorry."

Breathing deeply, I started again. "Five years ago, when I came to the police station to report Brian missing, I knew he was already dead. I'd seen the murder. I'd hoped I was wrong, but…" I felt the tears start to gather in the corner of my eyes and I squeezed the bridge of my nose. "Anyway, I felt so guilty that I hadn't been able to save him, hadn't had the vision in time to help. The guilt sent me over the edge and I had my breakdown." The words came out in a rush. "I rejected my gift until last fall when Rick Delaney came to Summerset, investigating the drug ring. I was pulled into the situation, kicking and screaming all the way. It was my gift that led me to make the connection between Adam Hoffman and the drug lab. And I used my gift to give Rick and me time to escape."

"I won't ask you how right now. You can explain later. What does your 'gift' have to do with this situation?"

"It wasn't the smell that drew me to the ditch. I felt death. I did trip when I found the bloated pig. While I was lying there, I saw what happened to Gus."

"Really?"

"You don't believe me, do you?"

He shook his head. "It's hard to swallow. I deal in facts, not 'visions.'"

"You want facts? The killer dresses all in black, he's dark, dark hair, dark eyes. He carved a five-pointed star on Brian's forehead—and Gus's. Did they find the star on Gus's forehead or was the body too badly burned?"

He looked surprised. "How did you… Never mind, go on."

"He uses an unusual weapon. It's a dagger. I could draw it for you," I said, folding my arms.

Comacho stared at me, not answering.

This isn't going well
. I searched my mind to come up with something to convince him I was telling the truth.

"Okay, still don't believe me." I took a deep breath. "The Harvester captures his victim and takes him to a special place, a barn."

"Did you 'see' where this barn is?"

"No, but the walls and floor are lined with plastic. Makes the cleanup easier. He keeps his victim chained to a cot with manacles. Did any of the bodies found in other states have bruising around the wrists?"

"How about residue from duct tape around the wrists and ankles? It prevents them from struggling."

He tossed his head. "You could be guessing."

"Okay. He subdues the victims by using a rag with some chemical sprayed on it."

"How did you know about the rag?"

I had his attention now.

"I told you, I'm a psychic."

"Oh yeah? How do you do at Lotto numbers?"

His sarcasm made me angry. "You don't get it, do you, Comacho? I'm trying to help you."

"Even if you are a psychic, nothing you've told me so far is much help."

Time to drop the bomb.

"Brian wasn't killed by the Harvester, the killer operating in the Midwest."