Shadow Witch (44 page)

It had taken Duane Gundy until almost midnight to locate the right place to buy the little black pills that he so desperately needed, and when he saw the dozen or so chopped and chromed Harleys lined up outside of a bar called Wild Riders, he knew he’d found it.

The muffled music of David Allen Coe could be heard from a jukebox inside the rectangular concrete-block building. A handful of small round holes,
bullet holes
, Gundy figured, pocked the metal front door, and broken glass littered the ground near the street.

Gundy stood in the parking lot with two men he’d met inside, one tall and burly, the other about Gundy’s size. Both of them had on jeans and black T-shirts, but the burly one wore heavy motorcycle boots, and the other sported expensive cowboy boots, with finely tooled designs in the leather and silver caps on the toes.

They faced each other warily, sizing each other up, until Gundy finally said, “You got it?”

The shorter man pulled a clear plastic bag from his pocket and offered it to Gundy while the big man looked on silently. The bag was full of little black pills. “Fifty for fifty,” said the shorter man with the expensive boots.

“Fifty bucks?” Gundy scowled. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“Nope. That’s the deal.” Then he shrugged. “We don’t know you from Adam. Could be a cop, for all we know.”

“Do I look like a damn cop to you?”

“Look more like a fairy. What’s with the hair?”

“Never mind.” Gundy clenched his jaw and eyed the pills in the bag.
I gotta have ’em. I’m so tired right now I could sleep standin’ up
. “Um...all right, what the hell. I’ll take ’em.” He slipped his wallet from his back pocket and withdrew two twenties and a ten from it. “They better be good.”

“They are.” The shorter man gave a half-smile. He took the cash from Gundy, eyed it for a second and folded it into his money clip, then he and his companion turned and walked back toward the front door.

Gundy took a black capsule from the bag, broke it open, and poured the contents into his palm, examining it closely by the glow of his Bic lighter. The grains of the white powder seemed too large.
This don’t look normal
. He put his fingertip to the little pile and then touched it to his tongue.
This tastes like laundry detergent
. “Hey!” he shouted. “This ain’t right. You’re tryin’ to rip me off.”

He started after the two men, who had not yet reached the door. They spun to face him and the big man reached into the waist band of his pants and pulled out a pistol. He aimed it at Gundy’s chest and shook his head. “Wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Gundy raised his hands and took a step back. “That’s laundry detergent in them capsules, and you know it. I want my money back.”

“Sorry, you’re too slow,” the shorter man said with a smirk. “A deal’s a deal. You bought ’em, they’re yours.” Then he grunted a laugh and the two of them turned away and went inside.

Gundy stared at the bullet-riddled door after it closed behind them and ground his teeth.
I’ll get my money back. You wait and see
.

He returned to his car and rummaged around in the trunk until he found what he needed among his selection of disguises: a wide-brimmed, Indiana Jones-style hat, and a blue Atlanta Braves jacket. It was too hot for a coat, but since it was baseball season, he wouldn’t attract attention by wearing it, and he needed to quickly change his appearance.

He put on the jacket and pulled the hat low on his head, went back into the loud, smoky bar and headed straight for the bathroom. Once inside it, he locked himself in the only stall, removed the heavy ceramic lid from the toilet tank and held it in both hands while he waited, sitting on the edge of the commode.

A few minutes later, someone came in and jiggled the stall door until Gundy said, “Somebody’s in here.”

They left, and soon Gundy heard the click of heavy heels. He took a quick look under the stall and saw the expensive cowboy boots with the silver toe caps, but no other feet nearby.
He’s alone
.
Perfect
. Gundy eased the latch open and waited until the footsteps stopped in front of the urinal. He crept out and found the short man who had ripped him off, relieving himself, facing the wall with his back to Gundy.

Gundy stepped toward him, both hands gripping the ceramic tank lid, and he swung it as hard as he could at the back of the man’s head. It smashed into his skull and he collapsed in a heap on the floor, while pieces of the lid fell around him. Gundy kicked him hard in the temple for good measure, then quickly locked the bathroom door.

He stood over the inert body and sneered. “Who’s too slow now, Mr. Fancy Boots?” Gundy knelt and rummaged through the man’s pockets until he found his money clip. Gundy pulled it out and held it aloft as a prize. “Yeah, that’s right. You are.”

Gundy shoved the cash into his coat and left quickly, keeping his chin tucked low until he was safely in his car, driving back to his hotel.

Chapter 23

Sammi sat on the couch the next morning, sandwiched between Mrs. Wallace and Mrs. Sikes, her little knees bouncing up and down and a thumbnail between her teeth. Jamie stood at the front window, watching the street.

“Okay,” he said. “John Paul’s patrol car is pulling in the driveway now. Are you ready to go, Sammi?”

She nodded but didn’t stand up. “Are you
sure
Mr. Gundy isn’t out there? I mean, really, really sure? What if he’s spying on the house from a secret spot?”

“John Paul drove up and down the street twice. Gundy would’ve high-tailed it out of here if he were watching. He probably knows he’s wanted for murder by now, so he wouldn’t want to be anywhere near a cop.” Sammi poked her bottom lip out and lowered her eyebrows so far that she could barely see. Jamie sighed and said, “Do you want me to hide you behind my invisibility shield while we walk to the car?”

“Yes, please.”

John Paul came in, wearing his dark blue uniform, and had a steely look in his eyes. “I don’t think anybody is watching the house. It’s time to go, Sammi.”

Sammi stood with Mrs. Sikes and Mrs. Wallace, and her legs suddenly felt week and her stomach squirmed like it was full of eels.

Mrs. Wallace handed Sammi her backpack and said, “It’s got your colored markers and some books, and I put some cookies in it in case you get hungry.”

Sammi could only manage another nod.

“Good luck, Sammi,” Mrs. Sikes said, and she and Mrs. Wallace hugged her together. “We’ll be thinking about you while we’re at the school.”

Sammi squeezed them back, unwilling to let go, until John Paul finally opened the door and said, “We really should be going.”

Sammi pulled away and tucked her lips firmly into her mouth to keep them from quivering. She felt jittery all over, like she might vibrate apart, with bits and pieces of her frightened self falling to the floor.

“Sammi, walk right next to me so my shield will cover both of us,” Jamie said. She stood beside him and he held out his hands.

The air shimmered briefly and Sammi said, “Is it working? I can still see everybody.”

“It’s working perfectly,” Mrs. Sikes said and walked with Sammi to the door. “You’re completely invisible.”

John Paul went outside with Sammi and Jamie to the patrol car while the two women waited on the stoop. John Paul held the back door open and Sammi slid inside and slumped low in the seat while Jamie stayed on the driveway, still hidden behind his shield. Jamie said in a low voice, “Remember, Sammi, if Mr. Gundy or any stranger tries to snatch you, use your stupefyin’ charm and run to a phone and call me. I’ll be at work. Do you remember my cell number?”

She said yes and John Paul backed the car out onto the street. Sammi’s guts twisted into a terrible knot as they drove away.
What if Mr. Gundy saw me?What if he’s following us right now, waiting to grab me as soon as he can?
“Mr. John Paul? Do you see a silver car anywhere?”

“You mean Mr. Gundy’s Camry? No, I don’t see anybody. Nobody’s following us.”

“Are you sure? How can you tell?”

“I’m a cop, Sammi.” He gave her a confident smile in the rearview mirror. “I would know.”

Sammi didn’t really believe him, but she didn’t have any choice but to go along. She was thoroughly committed to this course of action, for better or worse. She felt like she had fallen into the river again, and she was being pushed along by strong currents she couldn’t control, a helpless piece of driftwood.

She stared at the back of John Paul’s seat, too frightened to look out of the window at the passing scenery.
Mr. Gundy could be anywhere
. She squeezed her fists into tight balls and tried to summon all of the courage she could, but all she found was more fear.

By the time they pulled into the parking lot of the social services building, Sammi was trembling. John Paul let her out of the car and held her hand as he walked her toward the front door. “Everything is going to be just fine,” he said. “I already called them and they’re expecting you. These people here are all very nice.”

Sammi eyed the two-story building in front of her, and she realized that this was where the raging current had been carrying her all along, this fateful meeting with a social services’ official. Her journey had started when she ran away, maybe even earlier, back when her parents died. And now she was about to come to a fork in the river, and someone inside that building would decide which direction she would take: She would either go home with the Callahans, or with total strangers.

Please let it be the Callahans
.

They went inside and John Paul spoke with the lady at the reception desk, then led Sammi down a long hallway to another door and let her in. It looked like a small waiting room for a doctor’s office. There were about a dozen matching chairs and a low table covered with old magazines. One wall had a wide opening over a counter, with another, smaller room on the other side, where a young woman was typing on a computer keyboard. John Paul had a quick word with her and then he and Sammi had a seat.

“I don’t know how long I can stay with you,” he said. “Depends on if I get a call from my dispatcher. But don’t worry. This lady will look after you.

How can she look after me if she’s staring at a computer screen?
“Please don’t leave,” Sammi said.

“I’m on duty, so if I get a call, I gotta go.”

He tried to make small talk with her, but she didn’t feel like chatting. Instead, she held his hand and kicked her feet rhythmically against the chair legs,
bump, bump, bump
, every strike of her heels adding to the drumbeat of her rising anxiety.

After about twenty minutes, the radio on John Paul’s shoulder crackled, and he answered it. Then he stood and said, “That was my dispatcher. I gotta go, Sammi.”

“No!” She stood, too, and threw her arms around his waist.

“You’ll be fine.” He patted her on the back before he pried her loose and nodded toward the lady behind the counter. “Miss Beverly over there said she’d look after you, so you’re in good hands.” Then he abruptly left without looking back.

Sammi felt tears welling in her eyes as she watched the door close behind him, and she sniffed loudly.
I’m alone!

Miss Beverly got up and leaned over the counter and faced Sammi. “Honey, I’m right here, so don’t worry. One of the social workers will take care of you real soon, so just have a seat and relax. If you need anything, just ask me. Okay?”

Sammi stood in the middle of the room for a minute, taking short, rapid breaths while her heart raced, until she finally climbed back into her seat and put the fingernails of one hand between her teeth. The only sound was the pounding of blood in her ears and the clacking of computer keys from behind the counter.

Sammi squeezed her eyes shut and began a new prayer:
Hurry, Miss Francesco, hurry!
She repeated it over and over until she thought it was enough, and peeked out of one eye to find that she was still alone, hopelessly alone.

Maybe Miss Francesco forgot
.

She went to the counter and said, “Excuse me, Miss Beverly. Is Miss Francesco coming soon?”

Miss Beverly looked up from her desk and shrugged. “I’m not sure which social worker will come for you. How do you know Miss Francesco?”

“Uh....”
I probably shouldn’t have said that
. “The policeman told me about her. He said she’s nice.”

“They all are, so don’t fret, honey, just sit down and look at a magazine or something.”

Sammi returned to her chair, but couldn’t seem to do anything but worry.
Maybe if I draw something...a flower for Mrs. Callahan
. She opened her backpack, which was on the seat beside her, and pulled out her colored markers and a drawing pad.

After several minutes and a few wasted sheets of paper, she gave up. Her hands were so shaky that everything she attempted looked more like the scribbling of a toddler than art.

Maybe I should try to read instead
. She put the markers and pad back into her pack and pulled out a book, one of
The Boxcar Children
stories, and opened it to the spot where Mr. Callahan had left off the last time he’d read to her. She didn’t get far, though, because she couldn’t focus on the words. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything, except her silent prayer for Miss Francesco to hurry.

What’s taking so long?

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the pudgy social worker came through the door and Sammi’s heart leaped. Miss Francesco sat beside her, put one arm around Sammi’s shoulders and gave her a hug.

“Sorry I’m late,” Miss Francesco said. “My first appointment went way over time.”

“Can I go home now?” Sammi asked.

“Oh, no, we’ve only just started. I’m going to see my supervisor and get him to sign the paperwork, and then we’ll be done.”

“How long will it take? I’m scared.”

“I’m sorry, but it shouldn’t be long.” She stood and said, “Hold tight. I’ll be right back.”

Miss Francesco left, and Sammi felt excited for a short while. But Miss Francesco didn’t come right back. Sammi watched the door for an eternity, but it remained closed. She felt her hopes fading and her anxiety returning.