Omens (33 page)

He leaned back in his chair. Studied me, then said, “So you’re giving up on Pamela Larsen’s case?”

“No, and you know that. I’ve got your files.”

“So you plan to continue alone?”

“I do.”

He smiled. A week of working together and I’ve never seen the bastard do more than twitch his lips. This made him smile. If my coffee wasn’t so hot, I’d have thrown it at him. I was still tempted.

“How far do you think you’ll get with that, Olivia?” he said. “You’re a liberal arts grad who’s never held any job other than”—he looked around pointedly—“here. You are in no position to investigate a string of twenty-two-year-old murders. Really, I didn’t think you were that naive.”

“Good-bye, Gabriel.”

He got to his feet. “You have twenty-four hours to reconsider. If you attempt to retain my services after that, you will find my fee has risen. Significantly.”

I wanted to tell him to go to hell. Instead I looked him in the eye and said, “Good-bye, Mr. Walsh.”

He hesitated a split second, then buttoned his jacket, pulled his shades from his pocket, and strode out.

After my shift, I went home—yes, the apartment was finally becoming home—and read the ritual research files, making notes and looking things up on the Internet until my eyes hurt. Would firing Gabriel mean I’d lose my free Internet access? Would he send a repo man to take back the laptop? Fifty-fifty on both, I figured. Rose seemed to like me, so she might not listen if Gabriel asked her to change her Internet password. Would he be petty enough to ask? Hard to say. Better to do what I could quickly.

I
was up early the next morning. Stressed about firing Gabriel, if I was being honest with myself. I worked it off with a 6 a.m. jog. I was rounding the corner by the community center when I saw a new gargoyle. It was on an ivy-covered stone post, and I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if the breaking light hadn’t hit the post at just the right angle, making the gargoyle’s green stone eyes glitter.

“Clever,” I murmured as I cleared away the ivy for a better look. “Another one for my list.”

I started to smile, then stopped myself. Thinking of gargoyle lists only brought my mind back to a place I’d been trying to leave—Gabriel. I shook it off and started to run again, but I kept thinking about the gargoyles, and when I passed the bank, my gaze instinctively went to the place where I’d seen one the other night, with Veronica.

It wasn’t there.

I walked over to the stonework. The door was framed with rosettes. The other night, though, one of those carvings had been a gargoyle face. And now? All I saw were rosettes.

I looked from several angles. Even ran my fingers across the one that I was sure had been the gargoyle. Nothing.

“A night gargoyle,” I murmured.

I looked back down the road at the post by the community center. That “hidden” one made sense—you just didn’t notice it if the sun didn’t hit it right. But this…?

I ran my fingers over the rosette again, then gave my head a sharp shake and continued on.

I spent my shift thinking about ritual murder. It wasn’t as common as Hollywood and the tabloids might lead one to believe. There’s no human sacrificial tradition in Wicca, satanism, voodoo, or any of the faiths we associate with modern American occultism. According to the experts Gabriel had hired, if you find corpses with evidence of ritual sacrifice, you’re probably dealing with fringe nut jobs.

There were no indications that Pamela and Todd Larsen were fringe nut jobs. She’d admitted to being a practicing Wiccan, but everything the police found in that chest was evidence of the benign, Earth-mother-worshipping form embraced by college students everywhere.

The experts Gabriel hired hadn’t been able to identify most of the ritualistic elements in the murders. There were no pentacles drawn in blood. No black candles. No dead animals. In the end, both experts decided the Larsens had made up their own ceremony. One was convinced they were secret occultists who believed their self-made ritual would grant them some boon. The other thought they’d simply invented it to throw the police off the trail.

I liked theory two. Two sociopaths want to kill people and get away with it. One has some minor experience with occultism. They decide to add fake ritual aspects to their murders to mislead the authorities.

And yet I couldn’t help thinking there was more to it. Maybe I was looking for patterns where none existed. I’ve often thought that’s where my obsession with omens and superstitions comes from—trying to find order and meaning in a chaotic world. In trying to make sense of these ritual elements, maybe I was just falling into the same trap as the other investigators.

When my shift ended at three, I offered to come back to help Trudy again. Since the dinner rush in Cainsville starts at five, I’d eat an early meal there and work quietly at a corner table.

That was the plan, anyway. The reading and note-taking wasn’t so easy when Ida and Walter stopped by for tea and wanted to talk about whatever I was working on so hard. I shut my folders quickly and said, “Just some research.”

In my haste to scoop up the pages, one fell and Walter got to it before I could.

“That’s just—” I began.

“About your parents,” he said, glancing at the page before he handed it back. “The Larsens. You’re investigating their crimes.”

Ida nodded, looking as concerned as if I was researching new appliances for my apartment. At the next table, Veronica perked up and inched her chair closer.

“I, uh…”

“You’re curious,” Ida said as she sat across from me. Walter took the extra chair at Veronica’s table and swung it over. “That’s natural. It must have been a huge shock for you. You need to understand it.”

When Lores’s interview came out and no one in Cainsville mentioned it, I’d told myself no one had noticed. That had seemed odd, but they’d said many times that they weren’t interested in city news. Now I realized they’d known who I was for a while. Maybe even before the article came out. They just hadn’t brought it up.

“I’m just checking a few things,” I said. “Are you staying for dinner? The special is roast ham—it wasn’t ready for me to snatch some early, but it smells amazing.”

“Is that what you were doing with Gabriel?” Walter said. “Investigating the murders?”

“He’s not working for me anymore. Did I mention there’s strawberry and rhubarb pie? Trudy brought fruit in from her garden, and Larry made it this morning.”

Ida reached out and patted my hand. “You don’t need to hide things from us, dear. We know you’re investigating the crimes and we think it’s a lovely idea.”

Lovely?

“What are you working on now?” Veronica asked. She’d moved her chair up beside Walter and was peering at the folder.

“Um, just, uh…” Oh, hell. They weren’t about to be brushed off. Might as well get it over with. “There were ritualistic aspects to the murders. I’m trying to understand them.”

“Witchcraft, wasn’t it?” Ida said.

Walter shook his head. “They’re called Wiccan now, dear.”

“No, Wicca is a different thing altogether. Mavis’s granddaughter became a Wiccan when she went away to college, and she certainly never killed anyone. That’s witchcraft. Or a satanic cult.” She looked at me. “What did they think it was with the Larsens?”

“They didn’t know. That’s what I’m looking into. What they did to…” I cleared my throat. “The ritualistic aspects don’t fit any known occult branch. I’m trying to make sense of it myself.”

“Oh, that sounds interesting.” Ida reached out for the folder. “May I take a look?”

Hell, no.
I lowered the folder onto my lap. “I can’t. Sorry. They’re official files.”

“Perhaps you can give us an overview,” Ida said. “I do love mysteries.”

“I really don’t think—”

“She’s trying, very politely, to say, ‘not a chance in hell,’” said a voice behind me.

Patrick strolled over. As he met my eyes, he rolled his.

“Those weren’t polite little Agatha Christie murders,” he said to the others. “Liv’s not going to share it with folks whose idea of horror is Bela Lugosi in face paint.”

“I didn’t say—” I began.

“Why give the old folks nightmares when they sure as hell aren’t going to know anything useful about the occult.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard Patrick talk to the town elders like that. They might rebuke Gabriel, but they only glowered and muttered at Patrick. Odd, considering how young he was.

“Shoo,” he said, waving his fingers at them. “You can’t help here. I, on the other hand, am well versed in the black arts.”

I don’t know what kind of look I gave him, but he burst out laughing.

“No, I don’t mutilate cats in my basement. I’m a writer, remember? This is my specialty.”

“Horror?”

He shrugged. “Something like that.”

“He’s playing with you, my dear,” Ida said. “He can’t help you.”

“Oh, yes, I can,” Patrick said. “Not in here, though. Too many nosy senior citizens. How about we take a walk to the park, and you can test my knowledge of arcane occult trivia. See how helpful I can be.”

“I need to be back by five,” I said as I rose. I could feel Ida’s and Walter’s chilly displeasure, but with Gabriel gone, I couldn’t afford to turn down help.

I murmured a good-bye to the others, and let Patrick lead me from the diner.

P
atrick glanced back at the old folks as he shuttled Olivia out the door. Their scowls deepened, just in case he was unaware of how much they disapproved. He knew, of course—he lived under a perpetual cloud of their disapproval.

It had been like this since they’d settled Cainsville. He’d been the sole dissenting voice when they’d devised their silly rules for coexisting with the
boinne-fala
. They had presumed he would come around, and eventually do things their way. He had not. He never would. Which annoyed them to no end. They could simply have asked him to leave. That, however, would be … unwise.

Yet it was his very flouting of the rules that allowed him to waltz off with their prize today. He had to laugh at their clumsy attempts to discover Olivia’s progress. She looked at them and saw old people, beyond the ability to help, particularly with something so disturbing. It might stop their aged hearts.

They were curious, of course. Concerned, too. Would Olivia find anything? Was there anything to find? The problem was that none of them knew. When Pamela Bowen and Todd Larsen were arrested for killing those four couples, the elders of Cainsville heard only rumors of what had happened, from those who lived outside the town. They helped when they could, like the
brùnaidh
who gave Grace’s address to Olivia or the
spriggan
who scared her out of Chicago. Both had been quick to contact the elders, like eager puppies expecting a scratch behind the ears. They might not live here, but they knew it was wise to ingratiate themselves with the residents of Cainsville.

Now Olivia was investigating her parents’ crimes. Gabriel was helping … Or he had been. Their apparent estrangement concerned Patrick, which was terribly annoying. He hated to be concerned. It wasn’t in his nature. He had a soft spot for Gabriel, though, more than he usually did for his
epil
. If Olivia was to discover anything of interest, it would behoove Gabriel to be there, at her side, to reap the benefits.

Patrick hoped the situation between them would resolve itself. He was sure it would. But if it didn’t, he might give it a little push.

“S
o you write horror?” I said as we walked to the park.

“No. Paranormal romance.”

I glanced over.

A mock-offended look. “You think I’m kidding?”

“I’m not sure, because I have no idea what that is.”

“Exactly what it sounds like. Vampires, demons, witches, and the like. With romance. It’s a hot market.”

“So you’re trying to break in by writing it?”

“Break in? I have six books out already. How do you think I can afford to sit in a diner typing all day?”

“Sorry. You just seem young to be published.”

“I’m older than I look.”

We turned onto the path to the park.

“Do you publish under a pseudonym?” I asked.

“Have to, being a guy writing romance. Shall I tell you my pen name, so you can pretend you’ll get one from the library? Let things become horribly awkward when you don’t and I ask how you liked it?”

“So you won’t tell me your pseudonym?”

“I’ll do one better. I’ll bring a copy of my latest to the diner. Just to make it even more awkward, because you won’t have any excuse for not reading it.”

He opened the gate on the empty park and ushered me to the bench inside. “In paranormal romance, you need three elements to stand out in a crowded market. One? Sex. I’m very good at it.” He sat down. “I’m not bad at writing it, either.”

I rolled my eyes. He only smiled.

“And the other two?” I asked.

“Originality and attention to detail, both of which require extensive research. While most writers focus on the Hollywood tropes—vampires, werewolves, and such—I dig deeper. Which means I know a lot about the occult and everything currently labeled as the occult by Western Christian society, more correctly known as folklore and pagan religions.”

He leaned over and lowered his voice, fake-conspiratorial. “So, do I qualify to hear the juicy heretofore unrevealed details?”

I mentally ran through the various elements and picked the least sensational. “Mistletoe.”

His brows lifted in an expression that for a split-second reminded me of Gabriel. Proving that my former lawyer was playing on my thoughts a little more than I liked.

“Mistletoe?”

“There was a sprig of it left near the bodies.”

“Ah, that is indeed a tricky one. Very arcane lore. You see, there’s an obscure cult in Malta that worships Saint Nicolas, and every December twenty-fifth, they hang mistletoe from trees and engage in debauched kissing orgies.”

I gave him a look.

He laughed. “Well, at least you don’t believe me. Some people might. As for the real answer, either you’re just testing me or the prosecution hired some very dim-witted investigators. Mistletoe is traditionally associated with the Druids. The first known reference was by Pliny the Elder. While it’s not nearly as common as bloody pentacles, it wouldn’t be completely unexpected if one considers these potential sacrificial murders.”