by Kathy Reichs
“But we want change brought about peacefully. Wiccans honor the feminine, but, first and foremost, we view our religion as a personal, positive celebration of life. We revere the creative forces of nature, symbolized by both a god and goddess.”
She took my hands in hers.
“Let me introduce you to the others. Let us show you who we are, what we believe, what we do. You’ll see. No one among us could take the life of another.”
“All right,” I said. “Show me Wicca.”
So I met Sky Bird, Raven, India, and Dreamweaver. I witnessed dancing and drumming and chanting. I ate. I listened. I asked questions.
I learned that Wicca claims an estimated 400,000-plus practitioners, making it the tenth largest religion in the United States, behind Christianity, nonreligious/secular, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, agnostic, atheist, Hinduism, and Unitarian Universalist.
I learned that Wicca has no official book, central governing agency, physical leader, or universally recognized prophet or messenger.
I learned that there are many Wiccan traditions, each with its own distinct teachings and practices, including Alexandrian, Faery, Gardnerian, Odyssean, Reclaiming, Uniterranism, and dozens of others.
I learned of the Law of Threefold Return, the belief that both good and bad deeds reflect back on the doer, and of the Eight Wiccan Virtues: mirth, reverence, honor, humility, strength, beauty, power, and compassion.
Despite the tarot cards, and grimoires, and crystals, and love spells, I sensed an unaffected genuineness in all I met.
I came to understand that Wiccan beliefs and practices remain largely unknown because followers hide out of fear of persecution.
Persecution of the sort sold wholesale by Boyce Lingo.
I left at midnight, still unsure about Asa Finney, but certain we needed to proceed cautiously lest our investigation be tainted by preconceived bias. Convincing Slidell would be a hard sell. But that was for the morrow.
Pulling into my driveway, the headlights swept a rectangular object sitting on the back stoop.
Charlie strikes again. I smiled, got out, and walked toward the door
The object was a cardboard box with the flaps tucked tight. Balancing it on one knee, I unlocked the door and let myself in.
“I’m home, Bird,” I called.
Birdie appeared as I was removing my jacket. After figure-eighting my ankles once or twice, he hopped onto the counter.
And froze in a Halloween cat tableau, back arched, tail poofed to double its size. A primal clicking sound rose from his throat.
The skin crawled on my arms and neck.
I gathered Birdie and displaced him to the floor. He shot back onto the counter.
Blocking the cat with one arm, I disengaged the flaps one-handed and opened the box.
A dead copperhead lay upside down in the bottom, belly slit, innards billowing, glossy and red. Below the jaw, an inverted pentagram had been carved into the pale yellow skin.
27
MY SLEEP WAS VISITED BY THE COPPERHEAD I’D SEALED IN A trash bag and placed in the marigolds flanking my porch. In my dream it was very much alive, pursuing me through dense trees hung with thick Spanish moss, all the while emitting a breathy, sibilant sound. Asa. Asa. Asa.
The faster I ran, the closer the snake came to my heels. I climbed a tree. It slithered past me up the trunk and grinned down from above, Cheshire cat–style. Its tongue flicked my face. I batted at its head.
The tongue came at me again. Above the forked tip I could see three red sixes. Above that, a tiny glowing cross.
A tree branch morphed into a sinuous tentacle and circled toward me holding a microphone. The metal brushed my cheek.
Again I lashed out.
And connected with something solid and furry.
I awoke to find Birdie licking my face.
“Sorry, Bird.” I wiped saliva from my cheek.
The clock said 7:20.
I was making coffee in the kitchen when my cell phone rang. Slidell. Bracing, I clicked on.
“They kicked him this morning.”
It took me a moment. “Finney?”
“No. Jack the Freakin’ Ripper. ’Course I’m talking Finney.”
I held back a comment.
“Bleeding-heart DA agreed with the PD we got insufficient evidence to charge Finney with either Klapec or Rinaldi. And the bones rap ain’t enough to keep him locked up.”
Slidell’s reference to Charlie Hunt caused another mental cringe. OK. No more avoidance. I’d call Charlie this morning.
“—dirty and I ain’t giving up on the little prick.” Slidell’s voice brought me back. “Anything on your end?”
I told him about the snake.
“Sonovabitch. Who you thinking?”
I’d given the question considerable thought.
“I criticized Boyce Lingo publicly last Friday.”
“Man’s got a lot of fans, but they don’t seem the type to be carving up reptiles.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“It made the papers you and me tossed Cuervo’s operation on Greenleaf.” Slidell paused, considering other possibilities. “Or maybe it was one of Finney’s voodoo-ass buddies.”
I told him about Jennifer Roberts and my trip to Full Moon, then waited for the tirade. Slidell surprised me.
“Gimme your take.”
“A lot of ecofeminism and bad poetry.”
“Meaning?”
“Though unconventional, the people I met seemed benign.”
“So did John Wayne Gacy.”
“Do you think the copperhead was meant as a threat?”
“That or someone’s unhappy Finney was busted, decided to try a little mojo to spring him.” Slidell snorted loudly. “Wouldn’t that be ironical. They juju some snake, next morning their boy walks. Whatever, what ain’t funny is some nutjob knows where you live. You need to watch your back.”
I’d thought of that, too.
“How about I step up surveillance on your place?”
I was about to decline, thought of Rinaldi. Why take a chance?
“Sure. Thanks.”
“I’ll have a unit swing by every hour or so, make sure everything’s kosher. Maybe we should agree on some sort of distress signal.”
“A lantern in the tower of the Old North Church?”
“Huh?”
“One if by land?”
Nothing.
“If there’s trouble I’ll leave the porch light on.”
“That works.”
“You want the snake?”
“What the hell am I gonna do with a gutted copperhead?”
I told Slidell about the slides I’d left with Marion Ireland at UNCC.
“Why’s it important?”
“It may not be. I’ll know when I get the blowups.”
I listened to a moment of nasal wheezing. Then, “Found a guy name of Vince Gunther was booked for solicitation on twenty-eight September. Spent the night in the bag until someone ponied up bail the next afternoon. I’m thinking Gunther could be Eddie’s chicken hawk, Vince. I’m gonna try tracking him through the bondsman.” Slidell paused. “I guess they’re finding Eddie was having money problems.”
“Oh?”
“Over fifty thousand in credit card debt.”
“And?”
“And nothing. They’re checking it out.”
“He never mentioned financial difficulties to you?”
“No.” Tight.
“Do they think he got involved in something that got him killed?”
“They’re checking it out.” There was a long pause. “I don’t see it. After his wife died all Eddie wanted to do was go home, play his egghead music, and work crossword puzzles. And that other thing. That thing with numbers.”
“Sudoku?” I guessed.
“Yeah. That’s it. And he’d cook, just for himself. Real meals, with fresh pasta and herbs and stuff.” Slidell pronounced the h.
Sudden stab of
pain. Though I’d known Rinaldi for almost twenty years, other than the fact that he originally came from West Virginia, had been widowed and lived alone, was compulsively neat, liked classical music, good food, and expensive clothing, I’d learned very little about the man. Now I never would.
“Did Eddie have family?”
“A married son. Tony. Lives somewhere up near Boston. Has since he was a toddler.”
“Did they keep in touch?”
“Yeah. But it was something Eddie never wanted to discuss.”
I didn’t ask why Rinaldi’s son had been raised by others. “What’s Tony saying?”
“Find the bastards that killed his father.”
Recognizing Slidell’s surliness as grieving, I let the remark go.
“Look. They got a homicide detail directing the investigation. Robbery and rape are pitching in on neighborhood canvasses, chasing witness leads, doing records checks, that kind of thing. Since the weather was crap, no one was on the street Saturday night. No one saw nothing. At least that’s the story I’m getting. Members of the team don’t exactly keep me on their speed dials.”
I could understand that. Slidell was hard to control under normal circumstances. Given his level of emotional involvement, there was no telling what he would do if privy to even the most tenuous lead in Rinaldi’s death.
“See you at the church?” I asked.
“I’ll be in back.”
After disconnecting, I logged onto my computer and checked my e-mail.
Katy had written to apologize for our spat. Easier than phoning, I guess.
A man in Nigeria wanted my partnership in a scheme to liberate two million pounds. All I had to do was send bank account information.
A colleague at UNCC had sent an e-invite to a Halloween party. Remembering the previous year’s event, I declined.
[email protected]. Subject line blank.
Oh, no.
Oh, yes. Allison Stallings wanted to meet for a drink. She had some follow-up questions.
Bloody hell. Larke Tyrell was correct in his anger. I had talked to Stallings during my bender on Monday. But had I called her? No way.
If she’d contacted me, how had she gotten my home or cell number? Mrs. Flowers would never give out personal information. Nor would anyone at UNCC.
Anyone who knew. What was the name of the new secretary? Natasha? Naomi?
I looked at the clock: 8:05. I dialed.
Naomi swore she’d shared my number with no one.
Had I? I thought back over the past few weeks. Of course. Takeela Freeman. Stallings could have gotten the number from her.
Then why was she now e-mailing instead of dialing?
Because I went twenty-four hours without answering either line? Because those who tried my home got a message that service was disconnected?
I made a mental note to speak with Takeela.
Two messages had arrived from the entomologist to whom I’d sent the Greenleaf and Klapec bugs. Each contained an attachment. I opened and read the first.
No surprise. The insects from the subcellar suggested the chicken had died approximately eight weeks before I’d collected the specimens. That put the last known activity at Cuervo’s altar sometime in mid-August.
That fit. Cuervo had his head-on with the train on August twenty-sixth.
I opened the Klapec report. In addition to species names and numbers, it provided two opinions, one concerning postmortem environment, one concerning time since death.
The first opinion was not unexpected.
The samples contain no evidence of immersion in an aquatic environment.
OK. Klapec was dumped and didn’t wash ashore. Larabee and I had arrived at the same conclusion at autopsy.
The second opinion was more troubling.
The decedent was spotted in situ on October ninth, reported and recovered two days later. Temperatures reached daytime highs in the eighties for the period in question. The body was loosely wrapped in plastic. Trauma was severe. Given these factors, insect activity is unusually light, but not inconsistent with the lower end of a PMI range beginning with a minimum of forty-eight hours.
I sat back, puzzled.
Rinaldi noted that his informant, Vince, had last seen Jimmy Klapec with the violent john, Rick Nelson, on September 29. If that was true, where was Klapec from September 29 until his body turned up on October 11?
JK. 9/29. LSA with RN acc. to VG.
Were we wrong in our interpretation of Rinaldi’s entry? If so, what had he meant?
I pictured Klapec lying on the Lake Wylie shoreline. The carved chest and belly. The truncated neck. That corpse should have been alive with maggots and eggs. Why so little oviposition and hatching? And why no interest from animals?
I pictured Susan Redmon’s skull in the dark of Cuervo’s cellar.
The two scenes were so different, and yet so alike, involving the macabre use of human remains. Why these two discoveries so proximate in time?
I had to agree with Slidell. In my gut, I knew the situations were linked. But how far did the web extend? And who was spinning it?
Finney? He’d denied knowing Cuervo, but tensed at the mention of the santero’s name. He drove a Ford Focus. And had books on Satanism.
I don’t believe in coincidence. Coincidence is merely lack of full knowledge of the facts.
OK. Time for facts.
Googling the name Asa Finney got me two hits, one for an early settler of the town of Hamilton, New York, and one for the Web page of a witch called Ursa.
Asa. Ursa. Bingo. I tried the bear.
On the upper left side of Ursa’s opening page a silver pentagram emitted sparks as it slowly revolved. On the right was a photo of Asa Finney in a long white robe embroidered with the constellation Ursa Major. The Big Bear. Or the Big Dipper, take your pick.
A stratified pyramid filled the center of the screen, offering links to pages within the site. Choices included: Announcements, Book Reviews, Celebrations, Lessonbook, Magick, Moon Phases, Poetry, Rituals, and Samhain.
I chose Poetry.
Finney favored verse about crying lilies, hearts like lighthouses, and bringing about reality through love.
I went to Samhain.
There was a quote from Ray Bradbury’s The Halloween Tree, an ad for a book titled Pagan Mysteries of Halloween, and a lengthy explanation of the festival. Finney’s account of the origin of All Hallows’ Eve coincided with that provided by Jennifer Roberts. I learned, among other things, that in Scotland the practice of donning costumes involved cross-dressing, with men tarting up as women and vice versa.
I was distracted for a moment, unable to form a picture. If men wore kilts, how did that work?
The only thing of relevance was a statement that Samhain often involved two distinct celebrations, one preceding the actual feast. OK. That supported Roberts’s account of an off-schedule gathering at the camp.
Returning to the main page, I clicked on Lessonbook.
There was Finney again, this time in closeup. The guy really did look like an acne-scarred version of Rick Nelson.
Below Finney were more tabs: Medicine and Magick; Every Breath Is a Prayer; Rocks Are Individuals Like Us; Aphrodisiacs: Gifts from the Goddess. I assumed each linked to a Wiccan lesson in living.
Somewhat bored at this point, I chose Aphrodisiacs.
The use of an aphrodisiac affects more than one person. Now there was a revelation. Aphrodisiacs exist as herbs or as food. Herbs include ginseng, garlic, and guarana. OK. I didn’t know that.
Erotic foods can be anything salty, sticky, sweet, chewy, moist, warm, or cool. So what’s left?
At the bottom of the page Finney had included a disclaimer, stating that his advice was for informational purposes only, and warning readers to consult health care professionals before employing aphrodisiacs as sexual aids.
Right. Hello, Doctor. I may eat a caramel. What do you think?
I was about to log out when my eye fell on a box at
the lower left-hand side of the page. Finney had provided links to what I assumed were sources for his libidinous fare.
Botánica Exótica
Divine Sisters Botanicals
Earth Elements
La Botánica Buena Salud
Mystical Moods
Pagan Potions
I felt a tingle at the base of my throat. La Botánica Buena Salud. Cuervo’s shop?
Barely breathing, I clicked on the listing. And got a message that the link was invalid.
Was it the same shop? An unrelated online store with an identical name?
Had I found proof tying Finney and Cuervo? If so, why had Finney lied about knowing the santero?
Had Finney included Cuervo’s shop simply because it was in Charlotte?
Cuervo and Finney. A santero and a witch. What was the connection? Was Slidell’s instinct about Finney correct? Was Ursa involved in more than just poetry and potted herbs? In Jimmy Klapec’s murder? In Rinaldi’s?
In Cuervo’s? Was it possible the man’s death hadn’t been accidental?
Jennifer Roberts was adamant about Finney’s innocence. Nevertheless, she’d been unable to contact him the night Klapec was killed.
Roberts was right about one thing. Finney’s Web site seemed the handiwork of an eccentric but nonviolent personality.
Absently, I logged off.
And found myself staring at a headless body pierced by dozens of swords. Slowly, the body dissolved to black. A dot appeared and grew into an alien creature with way too many teeth.
I watched the pop-up, mesmerized, as a red circle appeared on the creature’s chest. In a flash, its body exploded and flew off in fragments. Words floated across the screen. Evil guilds. Mythic worlds. Alien universes. Prey stalking. Play. Learn cutting edge programming techniques. The title Dr.Games.com. flashed orange and red, urging the viewer to click on the icon.
The pop-up had no “close” option. I moved my cursor to the X in the top right-hand corner of the screen. The thing would not go away.
Sudden thought. Finney was into gaming. Could the pop-up be his handiwork, meant to lure Ursa’s visitors to another site?
OK, Dr. Games. I’m game.
Dr. Games’s opening screen contained no photos or graphics. A single statement welcomed players, hobbyists, and professionals.