War-N-Wit, Inc. – Resurrection (5 page)

I didn’t laugh but
it was a near thing. We were on what was about as back a country road as I’d
ever seen. But apparently there were back country roads and then there were
“real” back country roads.

“Is there any way
you might consider giving me Grandpa’s phone number? Or getting him on the
phone for me so I could just talk to him?”

“Don’t mind a bit
giving you his phone number. Or callin’ him for you. But honey, he ain’t gonna
answer it. Won’t even know it’s ringin’. Don’t have a land phone at the lake
place, they both got cells, but neither one of ‘em ever answer it. Leave ‘em
turned off unless they want to use ’em. They don’t even know how to work voice
mail, wouldn’t call you back if they could. Worries us all to death, but what
can you do? Can’t hogtie ‘em.”

“Ok. Next request.
Can you give us directions?”

“Honey, I’ll do
better’n that. I’ll draw you a map. ‘Cause you’ll need it. When you get there,
tell him Betsy sent you.”

Chapter Eight

We needed it. I’d
never realized there were so many unmarked and unnamed roads in the state. The
last three roads had been dirt.

“You know, the
pisser is we’re probably gonna end up twenty miles from where we started,” I
said.

“Or not. She said
Arlene didn’t live real near, family was scattered over four or five counties.
In Georgia,
that could mean a hundred miles, you know how big these rural counties are.”

“True.” I squinted
at the hand-drawn map. “Okay! Last turn should be coming up on your right.”

Sure enough, the
last one on the right turned out to be the actual driveway. I could see lake
water sparkling under the moon.

“This time you get
out with me. It’s two old people in an isolated cabin. Don’t wanta give ‘em
heart failure. Couples don’t look as threatening as a man alone.”

“No problem. Other
than walkin’. My legs are numb.”

We parked and walked
up to the door. Grandpa, in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt, flung it open
before we could knock.

“Who the hell are
you and what you doin’ up here at this hour?”

“Betsy gave us
directions, sir. Said you’d be the best man to talk to.”

“Betsy? Well, hell!
Best granddaughter of the bunch, by blood or marriage! Get on in here, get that
little lady out of the cold!”

It was, in fact,
pretty damn cold, but I knew Chad
made it a point never to enter a house if he didn’t have to.

“I’m fine, sir,
thank you, we don’t want to intrude.”

“Roy?” That must be Grandma. Baby blue fleece
robe, tight silver blue curls, the kind that came from a once a week beauty
shop wash and set and frequent perms. “Roy,
it’s twenty-eight degrees out there! You get that child into this house right
now! Betsy sent ‘em?”

“That’s what they
say,” he yelled back to Grandma, then shook his head at Magic Man. Don’t argue
with Mae when she’s on a roll—you’ll just make the rest of my night miserable!
Get on in here!”

A roaring fire
crackled from the interior. Chad pulled me gently. “Come on, honey, they’re
worried about you. They’re good folks.”

Yes, they were. I could
feel it.

“So why’d Betsy send
you way up here?” Grandpa asked, waving his arms to shoo us inside. “Go on, go
on, sit down!”

“How you take your
coffee, folks?” Grandma called over the kitchen bar.

“Black, please!”
This was my third “field-trip” with Chad, but my first serve. I wasn’t sure if
it was proper protocol to take that coffee, but I didn’t care. The opportunity
hadn’t come up during my bounty-hunting training in Vegas when I tackled the
runaway ho. It hadn’t come up during the stake-out for the serial killer in
Marietta, either. But I was taking it anyway. We hadn’t seen a convenience
store in the last hour. I needed that coffee.

Chad
explained our mission. Grandpa wasn’t upset
at us, but he was pretty steamed at grandson Darrell. And not too happy with
daughter Arlene.

“That little
asshole! Arlene’s spoiled that boy all his life, she’s flat-out
ruint
him! Whole problem with America,
spoiled brats never made to act like men! Hell, she didn’t do a lot better with
Donnie, Betsy’s twice the man that boy is!”

I hoped Betsy never
heard that compliment. She’d been really helpful to us.

“Yeah, he’s been
laying out at Arlene’s past few months off and on. Right now, though, he’s
workin’ at the Burger
Palace over in Arnett,
Arlene said he had an apartment over there, means he’s at some flophouse, mor’n
likely. Don’t got the flophouse address, but ain’t but one Burger Palace
in Arnett, it’s on the main drag when you run through town. What there is of
it.”

“So I go back to the
main highway and—”

“Oh, hell no, son!
Go back out my driveway, turn right, not left headin’ back the way you come,
just turn right and keep on going. Five miles down the dirt, runs right into

I stood and we made
to leave. Chad
turned back to the old couple.

“We really
appreciate this,” he said. “And we appreciate the hospitality. But sir, I got
to tell you—I wish you wouldn’t invite strangers into your home like this. It’s
really not safe, we could have been serial killers for all you knew.”

Grandpa snorted.
“Boy. This old man didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday and I ain’t lived
this long without knowin’ who to trust. . Ain’t just any strangers gettin’
invited in. But even without tellin’ me Betsy sent you, I’da known. Known you
two were righteous folks.”

Chad
smiled. Grandpa had a spark of magic. It
wasn’t terribly strong, but it was strengthened by the common sense gleaned in
what had to be almost eighty years of living. Grandpa and Grandma were all
right. On impulse, I leaned over and gave Grandma a hug.

“Miss Mae, I do
believe that coffee saved my life tonight. Thank you so much.”

She hugged back.
“Wait, child. Let me get you a Dixie cup. Some
to go, don’t you know?”

* * *

We pulled out of the
driveway and turned right, armed with coffee to go in Dixie
cups. Grandpa’s directions got us into Arnett in forty-five minutes. Damn good
thing, too. Arnett looked to be rolling up its sidewalks.

The Burger Palace
was on the left, about half-way down the State Highway. The parking lot was empty,
but the lights were on inside. Two broom-wielding teenagers were silhouetted
through the windows.

“It’s probably
locked,” I said.

“That’s what
drive-thru windows are for, baby girl.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a
real affinity for drive-thru windows, all right.”

He grinned. “Well,
this time we’re already married and we’re not in Vegas, so what say we just get
us a deadbeat. Or a hamburger. Or both. I’m kinda hungry.”

“Business before
pleasure.”

“Absolute.”

He pulled around the
building and up to the window. Already closed, of course. He let the window all
the way down and honked the horn. Nobody paid any attention. He honked again.
Nobody paid any attention. He slammed his hand down on the horn and kept it
there.

Finally, a heavy-lidded
kid with scraggly blonde hair falling out of its tied back ponytail came to the
window and hit the intercom button.

“We’re closed!” He
started to turn away and Chad
laid on the horn again.

“What’s your
problem, mister?” His eyes were open now, but his voice squeaked.
 

Magic Man let the
window down and asked, “Is Darrell Killman working tonight?”
 

“Yeah. He’s the
manager.”

Gee. I wouldn’t have thought from Betsy and
Grandpa’s descriptions little ole’ Darrell’d be capable of managing the Burger
Palace
.

“I need to talk to
him. Get him out here, please.”

“He’s counting the
registers, he ain’t gonna come.” The kid started to turn away again.

“Hold it!” Chad produced
a small bright pink piece of paper that he held up to the window for the kid to
read. With his other hand he held up his PI badge.

“Son, you need to open
that window, take this piece of paper, and read it and then you need to get
Darrell over here to talk to me.”

“Done
tole
you! We’re counting money, we ain’t
opening that window! You want me to call the cops?”

“If you don’t listen
to what I’m saying, I’ll be the one calling the cops. Let me give you the gist
of what this paper says. It says you’re about to commit a third degree felony.
Federal law prohibits interference with service of process pursuant to Title 18
U.S.C. 1501. And that anybody—in this case, you—who knowingly and willingly
obstructs, resists, or opposes any officer of the United States or other
person—that would be me—duly authorized in serving or attempting to serve or
execute any legal or judicial writ of process of any court of the United States
is subject to fine or imprisonment or both.” He dropped the pink sheet and held
up his phone so the kid could see it. “So one more time. I need Darrell Killman
at this window. Now. And my finger’s on the 9 of the 911 call. They respond
real fast to fellow officers of the Court.”

“Hold it! Just a
damn minute! I’ll get him!”

“Better be to this
window son.”

The kid disappeared,
and Chad
eased the SUV back down the side of the building, into the darkness of the back
parking lot and cut the engine and the lights. He opened his door and swung his
legs out.

“What’re you doin’?”
I asked.

“Baby girl. He’s
gonna come flying out the back door.”

Two seconds later a
spill of light hit the blackness. There was a soft click as a door closed.

“Bingo!” Chad said
softly, and then he was gone. It always amazed me, how fast he could move. I doubted
I’d ever get used to it.

Killman, who was short
for a man and pudgy by anybody’s standards, didn’t stand a chance. Chad ran
right past him and blocked his path.

“It’s not polite to
leave without saying goodby.” Chad grinned.

“Okay, mister, what
the hell you want?”

“I want you to sign
this,” Chad handed him a pen and the service copy of the complaint.

“What is it?”

“It’s a return of
service on an official lawsuit, now properly served by a duly authorized
individual. Me. You need to get a lawyer for any more information than that.
Sometimes I’ll explain better to folks but not when they try to skip out on
me.”

“I ain’t gotta take
this!” The service copy hit the ground.

“You don’t have to
take it, buddy, I just have to leave it. And when you don’t take it—and sign
for it, ‘cause I like for there to be no doubt I’ve done my job and the right
person’s served—I just add in to my report to the Court that the subject was
uncooperative, belligerent and tried to avoid service. Judges don’t like that
much when they get a case in front of ‘em and start looking at it.”

Killman glared.
“Okay, I’ll sign for it.”

Chad
shrugged. “Up to you. But you’re the one
threw it down on the ground, I’m not picking it up.”

Killman glared
harder. He bent and picked up the papers and the pen. “Where do I sign?”

“Right here.” Chad pointed.
Killman scribbled. Chad took his part of the paperwork and left Killman his. “You
have a good night now,” he said, and walked back up to the Equinox.

“You never asked
them if they had any burgers left,” I said while he buckled his seat belt.
“We’re both hungry.”

“Yeah, but if they
had any left, they’d spit in them before they handed them over. We’re only
about 15 miles from I-75. Something’ll be open on the way home.”

Chapter Nine

It was nearing dark
when we hit the outskirts of Savannah
for our Friday night appointment with Resurrection and Oliver Hedgepath. I was
sorry to be away from my new home this early, even for a few days. I loved Pine
Whisper Plantation. Everything about it. Thor, the farm animals, the cats. That
black cat, especially. There was something about that cat, though I couldn’t
exactly peg it. Buddy said he wasn’t social, but over the last few days, I’d
seen him constantly out of the corner of my eye. Like he was checking me out.
Watching me. Weighing me. Oh, well. Buddy was in charge of the animals when we
were gone and he’d promised to keep a special eye on him. It went without
saying Thor’d be sleeping on his bed with him.

Chad
navigated smoothly through the Savannah
streets. The huge live oaks sporting their beards of Spanish Moss curtained the
sidewalks, shadowy tendrils elongated in the winter dusk.

“How well do you
know Savannah?”
I asked.

“Pretty well.”

“You knew Vegas
pretty well, too.”

“Yeah.”

“And Atlanta. You know every
major city in the country pretty well?”

“Nope. But I know a
lot of ‘em.” He stared out into the dark. “Be glad to get this over with. Then
we can do Savannah
tomorrow and tomorrow night. How well do you know Savannah, baby girl?”

“Not at all. Been
through it, read a lot about it, but I’ve never actually been
in
it.”

“You’re kidding,
right? Not even for St. Patrick’s Day?”

I knew Savannah was
famous for its St. Patrick Day celebrations, just as I knew that

“Nope.”

“You’ve sure led a
sheltered life, darlin’. But that’s kinda nice, actually, that you’re seeing it
for the first time with me. We’ll play tourist tomorrow on the trolley car bus
tours and then hit

He turned smoothly
onto

“Mercer House!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I’d seen it in
pictures. Hell, I’d seen it on the movie screen, this house originally built
for Savannah’s own song writer Johnny Mercer but
thrown into national prominence by
Midnight
in the Garden of Good and Evil.
The movie screen
didn’t do it justice. Even in twilight—maybe especially in twilight—the house
dominated the corner. Alive, almost. I actually heard
Moon River
wafting out onto the street. Chad drove on past and
parked in front of a house near the end of the next block.

The house sat on the
front of the lot. All the town houses did. City lots were narrow in any city. Savannah’s houses stood
proud, testaments to the hospitality of a more gracious time. The amount of
iron work visible on each announced to the world the wealth of the the original
builders. The more ironwork, the richer the family. Historical fact. This house
was different. It seemed to be folding in on itself, hugging darkness, holding
it close.

As if to emphasize
its affinity for the dark, the last vestiges of day left the sky as we walked
up the steps.

“We’re early,” I
said.

“By almost an hour.”

“On purpose?”

“Absolute.”

Out of the corner of
my eye, a black cat streaked under the bushes. I started.

“What?” he asked.

I pointed. “A black
cat. Just like ours. It went under the bushes.”

“World’s full of
black cats, baby girl. Ours is two hours away, back at Pine Whisper. And
anyway, cats aren’t anybody’s. They just are.” He rang the bell. We stood,
waiting, for at least three or four minutes. He rang it again. “And this is why
we’re early. Always good to keep somebody you’re not real sure of off his
guard.”

“He could not even
be here.”

“He’s here. He’s
just not staged as well as he’d like to be yet.”

Chad
was right. Hedgepath answered the door in
another few minutes, but not like he was happy about it. His prissy preciseness
was—off—somehow. Flustered.

“I believe I
specified seven o’clock as our appointment time.”

“Don’t believe I
specified that’s when we’d be here.”

“Common courtesy
would dictate—”

“We can leave.”

Hedgepath swallowed.
Hard. He held the door wide. “Come in.”

We entered the
foyer. It was much as I’d expected in this style and era of house. Very
spacious, squared, with arched openings into the rooms leading off its three
walls. Black and white square marble tiling gleamed on the floor like an
illuminated chessboard. A crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling. Twin
tables with graceful curving legs in the Regency style flanked the largest arch
in the longest wall, straight across from the front door. They were topped with
matching Oriental urns filled with fresh flowers. It opened into what I
supposed would be called the drawing room. Matching larger, heavier Oriental
urns stood under both the tables. I supposed the smaller rooms opening from the
shorter walls would be called the sitting room, or the parlor. Or maybe the
receiving room or the study. My ancestors hadn’t moved in the social circles
that made use of those rooms and I for damn sure didn’t move in the society
that still did.

Hedgepath gestured
us towards the larger room. “I keep the Tear in its own special cabinet. In the
drawing room.”

Damn. I was right.
It was the drawing room.

He walked up to a
glass display case, museum quality, clear glass walls. The Tear of Isis lay
against a bed of blood-red velvet, carefully presented like a shining diamond
pendant in a jewelry store. It was absolutely stunning. I’d never seen anything
like it. Fully an inch and a half long, it was a perfect crystal tear,
elongated and shimmering with undercurrents of color that never quite
materialized. Hedgepath opened the case and lifted it by its silver chain.

“So. Let’s see what
the Magic Man sees,” he said, handing the chain over to Chad. “First
you, by yourself. What do you see?”

Chad
took it and held it in up so that it hung
suspended in front of his eyes. His pupils narrowed and then expanded. I felt
surprise ripple out. So. The Tear was real. And its power was real. I knew he
hadn’t been too sure of either. As to what he saw—now, that I didn’t have a
guess at. He lowered the Tear’s chain.

“Nothing I didn’t
already know, actually,” he said. “But yes, now I believe this is really a Tear
of Isis. And that the legend is real. Which is more than I was sure of before.”

Hedgepath laughed
shortly. “Oh, ye of little faith! So. Now let’s test the rest of it. We’ll look
together.”

“Okay, let’s get
this over with. Though I don’t really care to know what your past lives hold.
I’ll look with my wife.”

“No! The two of you
are so entwined that’s no test at all! You’re much more powerful than she is,
you’ve probably tapped all her memories without even having to use the tear!”

“Well, damn,” I
said. “Insulting much?”

“Not to mention
inaccurate,” said my husband. “But just to satisfy you, Ollie, let’s go ahead
and do this.”

“My name is Oliver.”

“I can think of
names much more appropriate. You want to test this or not?”

Ollie knew not to
push any buttons. He moved over to stand beside Chad
and Chad
handed him the Tear. Hedgepath raised the chain of the Tear again, so that both
of them gazed into it. This time, no surprises rippled out of Chad’s mind and
into mine. He didn’t see anything. And he hadn’t expected to. He’d never
thought he was the Seer.

“Well?” Hedgepath
asked impatiently.

“Well, I think it’s
pretty obvious,” Chad
said. “Don’t see anything at all when I’m not holding it. Don’t see a bit about
any of your lives, Ollie. And I’m actually pretty pleased about that.”

“That’s impossible!
I was a Knight! I rode under the banner of the Black Prince! I was with him at Crecy and Poitiers!
I was one of the first Knights of the Garter!” In his agitation, he swung the
Tear in an arc and it caught the light. And all at once I was floating in
ether, looking down on a scene I didn’t want to see. A fat, balding man in a
red dressing gown, moving on top of a young girl half-dressed in the classic
maid’s uniform of England
in the 1800’s. He slobbered on her breasts while tears ran down her cheeks.

“Why, you liar!” I
exclaimed. “You were a miserable fat slug of a man who raped the maid whenever
your wife wasn’t looking!”

Hedgepath stared at
me in horror. Chad just grinned.

“I wondered about
that,” Magic Man chuckled. “When old Ollie told us his power
 
had started fading in October. When did we
first make contact, baby girl? October 5, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’d be it,” I
confirmed.

“See, Ollie, Ariel finding
me—or me finding her—sort of triggered her powers. She was pretty powerful,
even then, but she had no idea she was a witch. She didn’t really believe it until
December. That’s when you lost the power completely, I believe you said.”

“Impossible! No Seer
has
ever
been a witch! The Seer is
always
a warlock! No witch has that kind
of power!”

“Guess there’s a new
breed of witch in town,” I said over Chad’s laughter. “Better get used to it,
Ollie. Anyway,” I continued, while Hedgepath half-choked on his own ire, “Isis
herself was female, what the hell makes you think she wouldn’t pick a witch
over a warlock any day of the week and twice on Sunday, you miserable little
turdsniffer
!”

I hadn’t even
thought of that particular epithet since fourth grade, but somehow, still
furious at my vision of the fat, bald pig and the weeping girl, it seemed
utterly perfect.

Chad
laughed harder.

“This is a mistake!
Whoever you saw was not me!”

“Like hell it
wasn’t! And we’re leaving!”

“Works for me.” Chad
took my arm and we headed towards the door.

“No! Wait! We have
to come to an understanding! Resurrection needs the services of the Seer!
Whoever the Seer is! Please! I’ve readied a room for you—”

“When hell freezes
over will we stay in a room in this house.” I held tight to Chad’s arm and spat
back at Hedgepath. “We’re leaving!”

“You’re a
witch
, you don’t give orders to
warlocks
!”

Chad held the door
open for me, while I turned back for one last volley.
 
I didn’t spit in his face, but it was a near
thing. “Like I said,
Ollie
. Oh, wait!
Neville
, wasn’t it? Neville
Thornsbury. Pig par excellence.
There’s a
new breed of witch in town! Get used to it!”