Heat of the Moment (19 page)

“Where do you think I got the ‘Beam me up, Scotty' explanation?”

“Fair enough.”

There was still the issue of his mom trying to kill Reitman. That she'd called him a witch could not be an accident considering what was going on here, there, everywhere, not to mention that he was one, or thought he was. How had Mary McAllister known that? He doubted asking her would lead to a worthwhile answer.

“Anyone gibbering about witches?”

Silence fell. He could almost see Peggy gaping.

“Have you had someone check up on us?”

“Should I?”

“Feel free,” she said, unconcerned. Which went a long way toward his being the same. “Your mom made a new friend.”

“She has friends?”

“One. They share a common interest.”

“My mom was never interested in witches before.”

Except those few times she'd thought she was one. But she'd also thought she was a bird and a dragon and a jet plane. Which meant her obsession was flying. Or at least it had been. Why had that changed? Because her “friend” had been whispering sweet nothings, or maybe bad somethings?

“If this person upsets my mom maybe they shouldn't be together.”

Kindergarten basic—separate the troublemakers. Probably worked pretty well in mental health facilities too. And prisons. And life. Like the book said:
Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.

“Your mom gets even more upset when they're separated.”

“Who is it?” Owen asked. His mom had hooked up with some real losers in the past. Why should now be any different?

“A young woman with problems.”

“That narrows it down.”

“I can't tell you more than that. If your mother does, that's her prerogative.”

“My mom's a little ‘blah-blah, die, witch' right now.”

Shocked silence descended. Owen couldn't blame her.

“That doesn't sound like your mother.”

From what Owen could recall, the words might be different but the sentiment was the same.

“She was interested in witches,” Peggy continued. “As it's a peaceful religion, and we're a peaceful people, I didn't see the harm in teaching her.”

“Teaching her? You?”

“I follow the tenets of Wicca.”

Now the stunned silence came from Owen.

“You're sure she said ‘die, witch'?” Peggy asked.

“That was the gist,” Owen said. “The real kicker was when she tried to kill one.”

This time the silence pulsed for three ticks of the clock.

“I'll be right there.”

*   *   *

Owen's voice lifted several times—anger? fear? both?—but I couldn't hear what he was saying.

Mary seemed content with Reggie. Reggie was content with her. You'd think animals would sense crazy, and an animal like Reggie better than most. Maybe he did, but Mary's kind of crazy wasn't the kind that bothered him. She didn't smell like explosives and … whatever else a terrorist smelled like.

“Hush,” Mary said, and stroked his head.

Hush
.

Reggie pressed closer, either cuddling, or making sure she couldn't get away without stepping over or around him. Who knew?

“You changed your hair.”

For a minute I thought Mary was still talking to the dog. Then I lifted my gaze and her eyes were on me. She seemed to recognize me, so I smiled, shook my head. “Not really.”

I either braided it or I didn't. That was the extent of any changes in my hair.

“You colored it,” Mary insisted.

Ouch!

Mary's fingers no longer stroked Reggie's fur, but clenched it. She was getting agitated. I decided not to argue with her about the color of my hair.

“Huh,” Jeremy said.

Mary's eyes flicked toward him, and her nostrils flared as if she'd smelled something bad. Reggie growled.

“George,” I said. “Maybe you should take Mary to the squad car.”

“Why?”

“Because she tried to kill Dr. Reitman once already. I don't want to give her another chance.”

“She's handcuffed.”

Mary bolted in Jeremy's direction. If Reggie hadn't been lying on her feet, she would have gotten him too. Jeremy scrambled back. Reggie started barking—at him, not her.

As George hauled Mary outside, she mumbled a lot of words, very few of which sounded like English. That was new.

“Nein!”
I ordered Reggie. He cast me a surprised glance.

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

I ignored that. I had to. I certainly couldn't answer him. Especially in
Deutsch
.

“She must have seen the same woman I did.” At my blank expression, Jeremy waved at my hair. “Looks like you but different color.”

“Must have,” I echoed. How could I have forgotten about the woman who looked like me but not quite?

Apparently Mary had seen her too.

 

Chapter 15

Owen returned to the first floor to discover his mother in the back of the squad car banging her head against the window and screaming in tongues.

Just another day at the McAllisters'.

“What happened?”

Reitman glanced up from bagging the evidence. He must have received permission to take it. Fine with Owen. He wanted every last bit of it out of here.

“She lunged at me.”

“She's handcuffed.”

“Legs still work.” He let his gaze lower to Owen's. The comment “unlike yours” was left unsaid. Owen heard it anyway and his hands clenched. Reitman quickly went back to work.

George came in. “I'm taking your mom to the station.”

“Her caseworker is on the way to get her.”

“She can get her at the station.” George held up his hand. “There's gonna be paperwork.”

“I'll call her back,” Owen said, though the idea of climbing the stairs to make another call made his leg ache worse.

George frowned at Reitman. “I didn't say you could take that.”

The doctor didn't pause in what he was doing. “You said you'd call.”

“Calling isn't okaying.”

“I don't have the okay?”

“You do,” George said. “But what if the chief had said no? It's not like you could put it back the way it was.”

“I could. I took a photo and I'm sure someone here did too.” Reitman set the final bag on the ground next to the others. “But the FBI uses me, why wouldn't you? I work at the UW, which has ridiculously well-funded lab facilities. If it didn't, I wouldn't still be there. I'm the best forensic veterinarian in the state. Probably in the Midwest. Ask Becca.”

George glanced at Becca, who nodded.

“I was trying to be polite by asking, but the okay for me to take the evidence was a given. Why waste time?”

George blew air out his nose, sounding like the Carstairses' prize bull on his way to a pawing, charging tantrum. Owen knew the feeling. Reitman was beyond annoying.

“You'd better be as good as you think you are,” Owen said.

“I am.” Reitman turned his gaze to Becca. “I'm not going to be able to stay like I planned.” He motioned to the plastic bags. “This shouldn't sit in my trunk overnight. I'll head back now and get right on it.”

“I understand.” Becca moved forward as Reitman drew off his plastic gloves and tossed them onto the now empty table like a surgeon who knew the peons would be cleaning up after him later.

Owen turned away. He wasn't going to watch them say good-bye. There'd be hugging and kissing. He just knew it.

He found it odd that Reitman had planned to stay in the first place. The man had known he was coming here to examine animal sacrifices. Had he thought the scene would be so cut-and-dry that no further forensics would be needed? Or maybe so messed up further forensics would be inconclusive? Owen should be happy that Reitman believed there was evidence still to be had.

He was, but he was even gladder the guy was going. Not just because he was a pain in the ass, but he obviously knew Becca a lot better than she'd let on. They didn't seem to be romantically involved, but that didn't mean they couldn't be. Wouldn't be. Hell, shouldn't be. They were an ideal couple. They'd have perfect, pretty children, with brilliant brains. In the evenings they could sit around drinking fancy wine and discussing their common interests. Her dad would be in heaven if she married that dick.

“I'll let you know if I find anything,” Reitman said.

Owen turned, relieved that the two weren't locked in each other's arms. If they had been, it hadn't been for long.

“No you won't.” George jabbed a finger at the bags clutched in Reitman's hands. “That's evidence. This is a case. You'll let the chief know, then she'll decide who else gets to hear it afterward, if anyone.” He shuffled his feet. “Sorry, Becca. Owen. But that's just the way it is.”

Reitman looked as if he'd sucked on a lime, lips disappearing into his prissy facial hair before he left without another word. Owen's mom's shouts increased in volume at the sight of him, though Owen couldn't understand a word she was saying. George headed for the door.

“I can clean this up, right?” Owen asked.

“You need to wait for an all clear from Chief Deb.” The officer paused. “You should probably leave now too.”

“Swell,” Owen muttered, gaze on the ick.

“We won't touch anything,” Becca said. “You go ahead. We're right behind you.” She lifted her hand, palm up. “Promise.”

As the bangs and shouts from his squad car continued unabated, George fled. A door slammed, an engine growled, tires crunched, then blessed silence.

“I'm not going to be able to clean this place up, put it on the market, and boogie, am I?”

“Do you really want to leave now?”

“I want to leave yesterday.” Before he'd kissed her and remembered how much he missed it. Before she'd told him she didn't want to see him any more while he was here. He'd deserved that, but still, it had hurt.

“Your mother needs you.”

“Did my mother even say my name? Ask how I was? Wonder why I was here? She doesn't remember me, which means she doesn't need
me
.” She never had. All she'd ever needed was a bottle, a needle, a snort, or a pill.

“I doubt she's forgotten she has a son.”

“I don't.”

“You're just going to leave without finding out why she escaped, what that whole ‘die, witch' thing was about?”

“No.” He might want to, but he couldn't. “According to her caseworker, Mom's escaped three times, and they have no idea how.”

“That's crazy.”

“What isn't?” Owen waved at the pentagram. “It's a damn horror show.”

Reggie kept looking back and forth between the two of them, as if following the conversation. Owen rubbed the dog's head and received a lick on his wrist in return.

“I can't believe she had anything to do with this,” Becca said. “Animals love her. She loves them. She wouldn't—”

“I have no idea what she'd do.” He never had. “Except she didn't escape until
after
I found this mess. But she came here this time, and she never did before. Why?”

“Why not? It's home. Or at least the last home she had.” Becca cast a glance toward the front door. “Let's go back to town.” When Owen hesitated, she took his hand and tugged. “I told George we wouldn't stay.”

Owen didn't want to hang around. Even though the sacrifices were gone, their memory remained. So he whistled to Reggie and they followed Becca onto the porch. He was surprised to see the sun was straight up noon. With all that had happened so far today, it should be tumbling down by now.

“I'll drop you at your parents'.”

“Again?”

“Deb said you couldn't stay at your place.” Any more than he could stay here. “Both yours and mine are crime scenes.”

“For completely different reasons.”

“I doubt that.”

Reggie cast puppy-dog eyes in Owen's direction.

“Geth voraus,”
Owen said.
Go ahead.

The dog trotted into the underbrush—to do his business, chase squirrels, or maybe, right now, his business was chasing squirrels.

“You think Satanism has something to do with the pillow over my face?”

“I think a budding serial killer and an attempted murder are too similar to ignore. Especially in a town that previously had only my mother for entertainment.”

“Nothing connects these two crimes,” she insisted.

“Nothing,” he agreed, and started down the steps. “Except you.”

*   *   *

Owen's words surprised me so much I stood dumbfounded on the porch as he headed for the pickup. Then I became distracted by the obvious glitch in his gait. How had he hid that from me for so long? That he'd hidden it from me at all made me nearly as sad as his having it in the first place.

Once, we'd shared everything. Those days were as gone as he'd been.

I watched Owen move, observing him like a doctor, not a lover. He wasn't my lover, hadn't been for a very long time. So why did I remember every dip of muscle, every swirl of his hair, the very taste of his skin?

I didn't. Not really.

His muscles were huge where once they'd been … quite adequate. His hair was buzzed—not enough there to swirl—with flecks of gray that had not been there before. His skin was wind worn, sun touched—older, like him, like me. Would it taste differently?

I should lick him and find out.

He turned; I yanked my eyes from their perusal of points south and up to his face. Had he noticed? I hoped not.

What was wrong with me? Nothing a good roll in the hay wouldn't cure.

I cleared my throat. “How long is your leave?”

His gaze flicked to the trees where the dog had disappeared. “It's open-ended.”