Otherworld 11 - Waking the Witch (18 page)

“You might not have pushed the plunger,” he said, getting to his feet. “But I know you had something to do with her death. You’ve been following us for days now. Tiffany said it had something to do with that Wiccan shit she used to be into. You stalked her and you harassed her. You lured her into the newspaper building—”

“I lured
her?
She called me. Check her phone records.”

“She said you threatened her.”

“Yes, I did. I threatened to take action if she didn’t stop harassing
me.
She—”

“You lying bitch!”

He swung. I wheeled out of the way. But before I could launch a knockback, he slammed his fist into my gut. I fell, gasping and blinking. Adam ran toward us. Cody drew back his foot to kick me in the stomach. I hit him with an internal fireball.

He screamed and doubled over. Adam stopped. As Cody stumbled back, he saw Adam and realized he was trapped between us.

Cody grabbed the SUV door handle. Adam and I both jumped at him, but Cody was faster, swinging in and slapping the lock closed. Adam reached for the back door. Cody hit the button and all his door locks engaged.

Adam jangled the handle on the driver’s side. The metal glowed red hot as he glared at Cody, desperately cranking the engine.

Adam glanced over at me. I was still winded and gasping, pain throbbing through my stomach. The whites of Adam’s eyes suffused with red. He pressed his fingers to the door metal. Tendons in his neck popped as he concentrated.

The door shimmered, heat pouring from it. Then it disintegrated in a shower of ash. The safety-glass window dropped, hit the door frame, and shattered.

Cody sat there, gaping at the hole where his door should have been. He looked down at the pile of ash and glass below.

“That’s what you get for buying foreign,” Adam said. “Barely need to touch it and it falls apart.”

Cody lifted his gaze to Adam’s, slowly, as if just realizing that nothing now stood between them. Adam reached in, grabbed him by the shirt front, and hauled him out. Cody’s arms windmilled, as he tried to grab something and hold on.

“Not going to take a swing at me?” Adam said. “It’s different when it’s a guy your own size, isn’t it?”

He threw Cody to the ground. Cody started scrambling backward. Adam walked over and kicked him in the stomach, so hard even I winced. Cody yowled and curled up, gasping for air.

“Doesn’t tickle, does it?” Adam said. “I’ve heard you can kill someone doing that. Try to run and we’ll test that.”

“What do you want?” Cody wheezed.

“First, leave Savannah alone. She had nothing to do with your wife’s death. She’s here investigating a murder—that’s it. You just happen to be the prime suspect. So that’s the second thing I want you to do. Confess. Probably too much to ask for, though, so we’ll settle for you answering some questions.”

I stepped forward. “Let’s start at the top. What were you and Claire talking about behind the hardware store?”

“Go to hell, bitch,” he sneered.

I lit a fireball in his stomach. Just a little one, but after Adam’s kick, it was enough to set him screaming and writhing.

“He kicked you pretty hard, huh?” I said. “I think you need a doctor. The sooner we can get through this, the sooner you can get to an emergency ward. Now, let’s try that again. What were you and Claire—”

“A girl, okay? She wanted to talk to me about a girl who’d been at the commune.”

“Name?”

“Pammy or Tammy. Something like that.” Tamara—Claire’s friend.

“And what did you have to do with this girl?”

“Nothing. We talked a few times. I bought her some stuff. She paid me back.”

“With sex.”

He glared up at me. “No, with seashells. Yes, with sex.”

“And the
stuff
you bought was drugs.”

“No, candy—”

I ignited another internal fireball. He screamed. Writhed. Called me a whole lotta names.

“I’m not doing anything,” I said. “Just standing here trying to talk to you. But obviously you’re hurt, so let’s say you cut the bullshit. If you gave her drugs for sex, say that, and this will go a lot faster.”

He confirmed it. Also confirmed that Tamara had been at the commune trying to get clean. Only she’d ended up whoring herself for a fix.

That conversation seemed to be the only connection between Claire and Cody. Still, it didn’t rule out murder. If she’d known he was dealing dope to Tamara, that was a life-ruining kind of accusation. Of course, he wasn’t going to admit that.

I tried to get more from Cody. Even used the persuasion spell. It failed, though, and I fell back on the tried-and-true internal fireball until Adam stepped in, motioning for me to cast a privacy spell so we could talk without Cody hearing.

“That’s enough,” he said. “He’s told you all he’s going to—”

“I can get more.”

“Sure you can. Keep torturing him and, eventually, he’ll admit he killed Ginny, Brandi, Claire, Michael, Tamara, Tiffany, and Jimmy Hoffa. You need more evidence, Savannah, or after a certain point, you can’t trust anything he says.”

He was right. And, to be honest, I was enjoying tormenting Cody just a little too much. So we left it there. And we left
him
there, on the ground beside his useless SUV.

WE GOT BACK to the motel to find a half-eaten cold pizza in our room, with a note from Jesse. He’d taken off pursuing a lead and left us the pizza. My stomach wasn’t ready for that. I
was
ready to sit down and let Adam dig in, but he insisted on checking out my injuries and getting them cleaned up, and by the time he finished, I was hungry enough for a couple of slices. We took our time eating it, talking and relaxing, and soon it was ten o’clock. Adam yawned and stretched.

“Bedtime already?” I said. “You really are getting old.”

He pitched a wadded-up napkin at me. “It was a hint for you, the girl who’s been stifling her own yawns for the last hour. A short nap this afternoon doesn’t make up for a missed night of sleep.”

I picked up my laptop. “I just want to check a few—”

He snatched it from me. “That’s my job. You get some rest and I’ll do the research.”

He settled into the armchair and put his feet up on the bed.

“Didn’t you say something about getting a room?” I said.

“It’s late.”

“It’s barely ten, and the place is half empty.”

“I’m good here.” When I started to argue, he said, “I’m pretty sure Cody’s not coming back for revenge tonight, but I’m not counting on it. Besides, someone’s been following you, and it may be the same someone who killed Tiffany Radu.”

“I—”

“You can look after yourself, I know. But someone also might have killed a guy you were working this case with, so something tells me I’m safer here, too.”

“Fine, but you’re not spending the night in a chair. It’s a big bed. Just keep your shorts on and stay on your side this time.”

“Hey, the last time
I
was the one who ended up with a fat lip, smacked by you flailing around.”

“Um, no. You were flailing. That’s why you got a fat lip.”

“Go to sleep, Savannah.”

I walked to his bag and pulled out a T-shirt, then headed for the bathroom.

“Excuse me?” he said.
“That’s my
shirt?”

“I don’t own pajamas.”

“At least take the one you singed earlier.”

“It’s ugly, remember? I don’t do ugly.”

I
dreamed I was back in Tiffany’s bedroom reading that opened Bible. Or trying to. The words kept swimming out of focus. I got so frustrated that it woke me up.

The first thing I heard was Adam’s deep breathing. He was sound asleep, lying on his side facing me. He was a respectable distance away, but his fingers rested on my bent knee.

When I moved, he squeezed my knee. I smiled, closed my eyes, and fell back to sleep.

“EXODUS 22:18!” I blurted, bolting up in bed.

Adam’s eyes snapped open.

“Exodus 2.2.: 18,” I repeated.

He closed his eyes. “If you’re spouting biblical references, I’m definitely dreaming.”

I jumped out of bed and yanked my nightstand drawer so hard it flew out, thumping onto my foot—phone book and all. I swore and limped around to the other nightstand. I found the Bible in that drawer and pulled it out.

“You aren’t actually going to read that, are you?” Adam said, one eye open. “If it bursts into flames, it’s not my fault.”

“Tiffany’s Bible was open to Exodus 22. I just realized why that’s familiar. It’s the one Bible verse I know. Exodus 22: I8.” I pointed to the verse. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

“Shit.” Adam scrambled up. He read the verse, then swore again. “The Bible was open to that page?”

I nodded. “It can’t be a coincidence. Maybe it was suicide. She was up to something and was worried I was coming after her. That might have been her final message.”

“To who?”

“Me. She knew I was coming over.”

“And she knew no one else would hear the baby crying and get there first? She knew you’d break in if she missed her appointment? She knew you’d notice the Bible and realize which passage she meant?” He shook his head. “No, whoever killed her left that.”

“As a message?”

“Maybe.” He sat upright and pointed to the chair. “Hand me my laptop.”

I passed it over, then sat on the edge of the bed as he opened the database and started typing. When the chapter reference didn’t work, he tried the text itself.

“I’ve heard that verse,” he murmured as he kept looking.

“Yeah, it’s a famous one.”

“No, I mean—” He glanced up at me. “How do you know it? Your mother doesn’t strike me as the Bible study sort. Paige might respect all religious faiths, but that’s one passage she wouldn’t repeat. Was it the Coven? It sounds like something they’d use.”

“As a motto, no doubt. Proof that the world hates us and we have to hide. But I don’t remember hearing it there. I don’t remember where I heard it at all. But it stuck in the back of my mind.”

“Let me call my dad.” He grabbed his cell phone, then stopped. “No, last resort.”

His dad had a stroke a few months ago—Robert was in his seventies—and Adam hated bugging him with anything that wasn’t life or death.

“If it’s about witches, then Paige—” I glanced at the clock. Nearly six ... and three hours earlier in Hawaii.

“Let’s hold on to the call a friend’ card for a minute. Tiffany dies with a Bible opened to averse about killing witches. Yesterday she said someone’s been spying on her. You said someone’s watched you a couple of times. What do you and Tiffany have in common?”

“We’re both young and hot. Well, in her case, less so on both counts, but close enough.” I caught his look. “Oh, you meant the witch part. Okay, so there’s a chance we have someone in town out to kill witches. Big surprise. Not like we haven’t been dealing with that for the last few centuries. Totally unfair, when there are much worse things running around out there. Mass murderers, serial rapists, half-demons ...”

“Thanks.”

“I’m just saying, in general, one would think demon blood would inspire more persecution than being able to make healing potions. But if we do have a killer targeting witches, how does that tie into the other murders? Sure they’re young women, but they aren’t—” I stopped. “Or are they?”

Adam shook his head. “Ginny’s file shows she’s got an uncle in jail, and he’s her mom’s twin brother, which means Paula Thompson is no witch, ergo, neither is Ginny. We already know Claire had a brother, so no witch there either.”

“Michael was her half brother on their dad’s side. And if she was a practicing witch, that might explain why she investigated the commune. Her friend mentions something that sounds supernatural and she gets worried. Turns out to be Santeria, but by then, she’s already been targeted by the killer.”

“Okay, but Ginny ... ?”

“There were two people killed that night—a fact we keep overlooking because Ginny comes with her own obvious suspect.”

“Brandi.” He nodded. “Brandi is a witch. The killer goes after her. Ginny and Brandi are inseparable so he takes Ginny out, too, then laughs as everyone zeroes in on the abusive boyfriend theory.”

“Time to get to know a lot more about Brandi Degas.”

GREAT IDEA. BUT as soon as we started the research, I was reminded why we’d overlooked Brandi from the beginning. Because Mr. Mulligan had been right—she was little more than Ginny Thompson’s shadow. I hadn’t been able to form a single theory where the target was Brandi alone. But now I had one, and my bio check showed no brothers or uncles, which would have ruled out witch-hood.

We needed to chat with Brandi’s mom.

IT WAS STILL way too early for an interview.

“I’ll grab breakfast,” Adam said when I headed for the shower. “I’ll get it at that coffee shop so I can thank the server for running stuff over for me.”

“Good idea. Oh, wait. When you talk to her, you’re my boyfriend.”

“Huh?”

“She jumped to that conclusion and I figured she might not bring the food if she wasn’t aiding the cause of true love, so ...”

“You lied to get room service. Well, considering I’m walking out of your room at seven in the morning, we’d better not straighten
anyone
out. If I grab your ass in public, then, I’m just playing my part.”

“And if you get your fingers broken for it, I’m just playing mine.”

He laughed and left.

THE JEEP WASN’T running well, but it
was
running. Good enough. Jesse was gone when we set out, so I texted him to say we’d catch up later. When we arrived at Carol Degas’s house, I double-checked the address. It was on the outskirts of town, and I expected to see a dump. The house was tiny, yes, and it showed its age, but it was as well kept and tidy as Paula’s mobile home, with fresh yellow paint, flowers in the tended garden, and a multicolored wooden Welcome! sign on the door.

“Carol must have moved out after Brandi died. Probably couldn’t afford the upkeep without her daughter’s rent money. Shit.”

“She might have left a forwarding address with these folks.” Adam rapped the door. “Wouldn’t want those welfare checks to get lost.”

I could hear gospel music playing inside. At least we weren’t waking up the new owners. Adam knocked again, and finally the door opened. There stood a tiny old woman, with a deeply lined face and hands that trembled as she clutched the door.

“We’re looking for Carol Degas,” I said. “She used to live here.”

“Still does,” the woman said in a reedy voice. “I’m her.”

According to the file, Carol was fifty-two. No matter how hard I looked at this woman, she didn’t appear a day under seventy.

“We’re in town investigating—”

“Brandi’s murder. I figured that was who you were. I’ve been wondering when you’d come see me.” She held open the screen and ushered us in.

We followed her into a hall lined with cheap religious prints. Gospel music boomed from deep in the house. I squinted at a needlepoint hanging on the wall. A Bible verse of some kind, but damned if I could read it—half the stitches were out of place.

“I’ve found Jesus,” Carol said, beaming.

“Huh,” I murmured under my breath. “I didn’t know he was lost.”

Adam gave me a look, his eyes telling me to watch it, his lips holding back a smile.

She waved us into what must have been the living room, but looked more like a Vegas chapel, every inch of space crammed with cheap china Madonnas and butt-ugly cherubs.

“Do you know Christ our Savior, child?” Carol said as we sat.

“Not personally.”

I got another look from Adam, who prodded me onto the loveseat, then sat beside me, close enough to elbow me if I got out of line.

I have nothing against organized religion. Well, not much. But if you’re going to have a religious conversion and clean up your life, then do it when your child is born, not after she dies.

“How about you, young man?” Carol said, turning to Adam. “Have you accepted Christ into your life?”

“I’m still ...” Adam gave a sheepish shrug. “Looking, you know? Trying to find the right church. Which one do you belong to?”

“Our Holy Savior in Battle Ground. It’s a very old church. Small, but old.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of it. Maybe I’ll check it out. How does it feel about ... ?” He squirmed. “I’ve got this problem. More of a question, really, and I’m having a hard time finding the right answer from the churches I’ve tried.” He glanced sharply at me. “Don’t give me that look.”

I wasn’t giving him any look, but I rolled my eyes on cue, murmuring, “Not this again.”

“It’s bugging me, okay?” He turned back to Carol. “I’ve got this good friend who’s been dating this girl and she’s into ... stuff. Occult stuff.”

“Occult?” Carol’s eyes widened.

“It’s not occult,” I said. “I keep telling you it’s—”

“Witchcraft, I know. She says she’s a witch.”

Carol frowned. “Wiccan?”

“No, this one says she’s a real witch.”

Carol looked genuinely confused. “You don’t mean devil worship, do you?”

“It is Wiccan,” I said. “A branch of it anyway. And I keep telling him it’s not occult; it’s an earth-based religion.”

“I don’t think I’d call it a religion myself,” Carol said slowly. “But if they do, then maybe ...”

“What does your church say about stuff like that?” Adam asked.

“I don’t know. I’d have to ask. Personally, I don’t agree with it.”

“See?” Adam said to me.

“She said she doesn’t agree with it. She didn’t say she thinks ‘something should be done about those people.’”

“I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I’d had a few beers.”

“So which was it? You were drunk or you were kidding?”

As we faced off, Carol said timidly, “I might not agree with it, but the Bible teaches us to respect the customs of others.”

“No, the Bible says ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” Adam said. “It’s right there in black and white.”

“I can’t believe the Bible would say ...” She stopped herself and nodded. “No, our pastor does teach us that the Bible includes passages that have been misinterpreted. The teachings of Christ are clear. We must respect others, even if we disagree with them. That’s what my pastor said about homosexuals. I might not agree with their choices, but Christ would want me to treat them the way I want to be treated. I think he’d say the same about witches.”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Brandi,” I said.

If there was one word to describe Carol Degas, it was vague. Not evasive, just, well, not entirely present. It was as if all those bottles of whiskey had washed away both her personality and her memory, and she was just struggling to hold on, clinging to her new religion with a death grip.

She could talk about Christ, and that’s really all she could talk about. Seemed to know him better than the daughter she’d lived with for twenty-five years.

“I wasn’t a good mother,” she said, finally. “I know that and I accept my share of the blame, but it’s like Pastor Williams says—no one is entirely responsible for another person, even a child. They grow as they will. Look at Ginny Thompson. Paula is a fine woman. She might not be a churchgoing Christian, but she’s a Christian at heart. Look at how her daughter turned out, in spite of that. I do feel guilty about Brandi, though. The dreams prove that, Pastor Williams says.”

“Okay, so about that night—”

“The dreams prove that,” she continued, as if I hadn’t spoken.

Personally, I had no interest in Carol Degas’s dream life, but obviously she wanted to tell me.

“I dreamed that the little girl died,” she said.

“Little girl?”

“Ginny’s daughter. I dreamed that I heard Ginny and Brandi planning to kill Kayla, so Cody would take Ginny back. They were right in this house, in the basement, gathering up supplies. I heard them, and they then left and I knew I had to do something. So I tried calling Paula. She always knows what to do. Only I couldn’t finish dialing the number. I kept trying and trying, but I couldn’t do it, and then I passed out and when I came to the little girl was dead and I cried and cried, because it was all my fault.”

She looked at me expectantly.

“Okay...” I said.

“The little girl was Brandi,” Adam said.

I turned to him. “What?”

“Subconsciously, it was Brandi.
Her
little girl.”

Carol nodded emphatically. “That’s exactly what Pastor Williams said. When we dream, things aren’t always as they seem. Kayla was Brandi. Brandi and Ginny represented evil in the world. They conspired to kill my little girl and I didn’t do anything to stop them. I wanted to, but I was too drunk, too ...” She searched for aword. “Ineffectual. That’s what the pastor says. It proves that I felt guilty.”

“Okay ...” I said.

“I even dreamed they were going to kill her in the same place where they died,” Carol leaned forward. “They were going to drug her and take her there and make it look like a pervert did it. And that’s exactly what happened to
my
baby, isn’t it?”

“Except for the pervert part,” I said. “There was no sign of—”

Adam nudged me to shut up, then said to Carol, “Your pastor is right. It’s your subconscious speaking. You feel guilty, but you’ve used it to turn your life around, and that’s the important thing.”

She nodded, satisfied.

I wasn’t.

Maybe that was the humane thing to do—give the old woman some peace. But I couldn’t cut her any slack. If she’d cared, she should have done something
before
her daughter died. If she felt guilty now, she should be out volunteering at a day care or soup kitchen, not sitting around listening to gospel music and moaning about how guilty she felt.