by Nic Saint
“Hey! What are you doing?!” Strel demanded as we stepped into the room.
The old lady smiled an infectious smile. “Oh, hello, dear. So nice of you to join me. And your sisters, of course,” she added with a kindly nod in my direction. “Could you help me out here? I’m looking for a big book of spells. I think you refer to it as the Book of Secrets?”
And as she spoke the words, she suddenly produced the large volume we knew as Fallon Safflower’s principal legacy.
“Put that down!” I yelled. “You put that down right now!”
The old lady raised an eyebrow. “Oh, dear. It would appear I found what I was looking for after all. So silly of me. Now if there’s nothing else—I think I must be going now.”
We rushed her, the three of us trying to grab the book from the woman’s hands.
But before we reached her, she vanished in a puff of smoke—just like that!
“Hey! Where did she go?!” Strel asked, looking this way and that.
“She—she took the book!” Stien cried. “She actually took the Book of Secrets!”
I uttered a stream of expletives Samuel L. Jackson would have heartily approved of, but that didn’t help us one bit. Without the book, I was even less of a witch than I was before. We all were. In fact, without the book we were helpless—and Lashanda all-powerful!
“We have to do something!” Strel yelled. “We have to stop her!”
“I think it’s too late, Strel,” said Stien. “I don’t think she can be stopped.”
There was a loud commotion outside. We raced into the hallway, hoping to find Lashanda, clutching the book, ready to put up a fight. And we were definitely ready to give her one! I wasn’t in favor of hitting old ladies but I was prepared to make an exception now!
But instead of the Helen Hayes lookalike, we saw a bunch of cops dressed in black stormtrooper gear stomping up the stairs. They didn’t look happy to see us, which they demonstrated by pointing their guns at us and yelling, “HANDS! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!”
I showed them my hands, and so did my sisters, though I wondered what good that would do. I soon found out, for they promptly slapped handcuffs on our hands and informed us we were under arrest and had the right to remain silent! As one man, they entered rooms and started what looked like a very thorough search. And as they took us along the hallway, en route to the staircase, I saw that they were making a righteous mess of our rooms.
“What’s going on?” I asked, deciding to ignore the ‘remain silent’ thing.
“You can’t do this,” Stien interjected. “You can’t simply barge in here and take stuff!”
“Yeah, and you should listen to her,” Strel added. “She’s a legal genius.”
The cop in charge—a burly specimen dressed in full combat gear who looked vaguely familiar—produced a document and shoved it in Stien’s face. “Search warrant. Happy now?”
“No, I’m not happy now,” said Stien. “What’s this all about?”
“You’re under arrest for murder. We have reason to believe that you’re the Slasher.”
“I’m the Slasher?” Stien gasped.
“The three of you are. Now hop it. We’re taking you downtown for a little chat.”
“We found it!” suddenly a voice rang out. Out of my room stepped another burly cop—this one not dressed in tactical gear but in street clothes. He did wear one of those snazzy blue-and-white NYPD windbreakers, though, like the ones you see on cop shows.
He was holding a knife between gloved fingers, an expression of triumph on his face.
I gawked at the knife. It was large and bloodied, and I’d never seen it before.
“Found it under the busty redhead’s bed,” the cop explained, gesturing at me.
“Hey! Show some respect!” Stien suddenly yelled, surprising us all.
The cops all moved back a little. Holy cow. They really thought we were the Slasher!
Chapter 39
I was just lamenting the fate that had befallen me and wondering what was going on when there was a rattling sound at the door of my cell, it squeaked open, and Sam walked in.
I rushed up from the hard metal bench I’d been sitting on and cried, “Sam!”
“Edie,” he said curtly, not exactly mirroring the fervor I was feeling.
I clasped my arms around him, but he quickly disentangled them, and darted a pointed look at the ceiling, where I noticed a small camera had been installed.
“We have to talk,” he said, and sat me down on that bench again.
“Sam—they found a knife under my bed. But I didn’t put it there! I have no idea how it got there but it wasn’t me.”
He nodded, studying me closely, as if wondering how much of what I was saying was true. “The thing is—it’s not just the knife, Edie. They found similar knives in your sisters’ rooms. And the DNA found on those knives matches the DNA of the Slasher’s victims. They now think the Slasher isn’t one person but three—you and your sisters.”
“’They’ think? I thought you were in charge of the investigation?”
“Not anymore. When suspicion started to fall your way, Knox took me off the case—Pierre, too. Heck, he was right. I would never go after you. How could I? You’re my girl.”
His words were like music to my ears. I was still his girl. “So you believe I’m innocent.”
He swallowed at this. “I, um—” He took my hands in his even as my heart sank. “The thing is, honey, I get why you did it. There’s a lot of bad men out there—and we simply can’t catch all of them. Some of them slip through the cracks. That must have frustrated the hell out of you—especially once you got involved with the watch. No, I really get it,” he insisted when I opened my mouth to protest. “And I think with a good lawyer you’re not going to be looking at too much time. The public is on your side—the Slasher has suddenly become the most popular vigilante this city has ever seen—and the papers are already celebrating you as the best thing since sliced bread.” He winced. “Yeah, they’re not exactly subtle about it.”
“But, Sam—I didn’t do it! Someone planted those knives. I’m not the Slasher!”
He frowned. “It’s me, honey. You don’t have to pretend.” Then he glanced up at the camera again and his face cleared. “Oh, I see. Look, they can’t hear us. The camera is just to make sure you don’t harm yourself. There’s no bugs in here, so you can speak freely.”
“I am speaking freely! I’m not the killer! How can you even think that about me?!”
His frown returned. “I thought you would feel comfortable confiding in me, Edie. I thought our relationship was one based on truth and honesty. So why you would lie to me…”
I heaved a groan of exasperation. “I’m not lying! I’m not a killer, Sam, and neither are Strel or Stien. Someone is setting us up—and I know exactly who. Her name is Lashanda Kerrighen and we showed you a picture of her this morning.”
“The old lady? Queen Elizabeth’s twin? You’re saying she’s the Slasher now?”
“It’s the only explanation. She was in our house when we arrived just before the goon squad showed up. She—” I was about to reveal she’d stolen the Book of Secrets, but since the Book of Secrets was exactly that: a book full of my family’s greatest secrets and a secret itself as well, I said instead, “She stole something from Gran’s room. Something valuable.”
“The old lady stole something from Cassie’s room,” he said, his voice dripping with skepticism.
“We caught her!”
“And then what? She escaped? Without Terry Hodge or his squad noticing? They were watching the house before you arrived, Edie. And they never saw any old ladies enter.”
“She must have materialized, just like she dematerialized,” I said thoughtfully before I caught myself. “I mean—she must have found another way in and out. She’s very tricky.”
“The house was surrounded. Terry and his team leave nothing to chance, honey. They’re real thorough. You were the only ones there. No old
ladies. No guests. No nothing.”
“But, Sam…” I could sense how he was closing himself off from me.
He sighed, and dragged his hands through his hair. “Look, I’m going to get you the best lawyer. And I’m going to do my level best to make this as painless as possible. But you can’t keep denying, Edie. If you confess now, and tell us why you did it, I’m sure there’s some kind of deal to be made with the DA. Right now, things are not looking very good for you.”
“Oh, Sam,” I said. “I can see how this must look from your point of view, but I’m innocent—Stien and Strel and me—we’re all innocent. We’re being framed—”
“—by the Queen of England. Yeah, I get it.” He got up abruptly and spread his arms. “Look, this is out of my hands now, Edie. And I really hope you change your mind. Soon.”
He turned to the door and I glanced up at him, feeling as if I was sinking deeper and deeper into a quagmire. “Sam—don’t do this,” I said softly, tears stinging behind my eyes.
He looked down at me, his hand on the door handle. “I didn’t do this. You did this to yourself, Edie.” And then he walked out and closed the door with a heavy metallic clang.
Chapter 40
Stien looked up when the door to her cell opened and a visitor walked in. To her surprise, it was Jerome Cursons.
“Hey, Stien,” he said deferentially, his gaze bouncing around the room. The door had closed behind him, and he was clearly uncomfortable being locked inside an actual prison cell. “Look, they only gave me a couple of minutes, so I’m going to have to make this quick.”
He sat down on the bench next to her and pulled at his collar. He was sweating profusely, his large brow wet, his combover plastered to his skull, his glasses slipping down.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, licking his lips.
“It’s an interesting experience,” she admitted. She’d been in this situation once before, when she and her sisters made Falcone Tower, one of downtown Manhattan’s tallest skyscrapers, disappear and then reappear in the White House Rose Garden, practically smushing the President in the process. That time Edie had busted them out, an astonishing feat she didn’t expect her to repeat this time around. “I’m worried about Gran, though. She’s not in great shape, and if we don’t do something to help her, she might even…” She swallowed away a lump. “She might not even make it,” she finished, a catch in her voice.
“The thing is, Stien—I want to represent you if you’ll let me,” said Jerome. He held up a hand. “I mean—I know I’m not a lawyer or anything like that. But I’ve been fighting these pharmaceutical giants for so long that I know a thing or two about the law by now.” He smiled nervously. “Though obviously you know a thing or two about the law as well.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Jerome,” she said, genuinely appreciative.
“Hey, look—it’s the least I can do. You and your family have done so much for me. You’ve actually helped me turn over a new leaf. I’m a better man—free to be with whoever I want. To live my life the way I choose—without having to ignore my true desires. I mean…” He took off his glasses and polished them with an overly large white handkerchief. “I want to help you, Stien. Even though you killed all of those men—I want to be there for you.”
“The thing is, we didn’t kill anyone. We’re not the Slasher. Someone is setting us up.”
His eyes went wide, and she now saw they were a flecked green. “Setting you up? But they found the knives. They found the knives and they had the victims’ blood all over them. Yours was hidden behind a stack of books, Strel’s tucked into her beauty case, and Edie’s dumped under the bed. Denial is not your best defense here, Stien—if you don’t mind my saying so. You’re going to have to come clean, and enter a plea deal of some kind.”
She smiled at Jerome. It was obvious the guy had his heart in the right place. He wasn’t going to be able to help her, though. In spite of his best intentions.
“Thanks,” she said therefore. “But I think I’ll have to mount my own defense.”
“Of course,” he said, nodding. “In the meantime, is there anything I can do? Like… I don’t know—deliver your message to the world? The press has been camping out on your doorstep ever since the arrest. If you want we could use them to get the message out.”
She stared at him, not comprehending. “Message? What message?”
“The Slasher’s message, of course. Why you did what you did? You and your sisters have become awfully popular, Stien. You’re heroes now. The people are ready to listen to what you have to say. About—well, about the evil that men do and all of that stuff.”
Stien patted him on the back. “I appreciate it, Jerome, but no message, I’m afraid.”
The door opened, and a cop appeared. His cop mustache was drooping, and he said in a tired voice, “Time’s up, buddy,” and then waited until Jerome had cleared the cell.
“Whatever you need, I’m there for you, Stien,” Jerome said fervently, then held up his hand in the Vulcan salute, fingers extended. “We’re all the Slasher. Live long and prosper.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said the cop, and ushered Jerome out then slammed the door, only to open it again two seconds later. “You’ve got another visitor,” he announced stoically, his mustache drooping even more. He stepped aside to allow a handsome man with movie star good looks to pass into the cell. The man wore his curly brown hair over his ears, his mocha eyes were sparkling intelligently, and his full lips had curled up into a smile.
“Spear!” Stien cried, getting up from the bench. “What are you doing here?!”
“Hey—couldn’t let my favorite legal secretary languish in prison now could I?” He placed his briefcase on the bench and gave her a hug. “I’m here to bail you out, babe.”
Chapter 41
Thanks to Stien’s old boss’s machinations, we were home again, with the stipulation that we do not leave the city. As if we had any intention of skipping town. With Gran in the hospital, the Book of Secrets missing, and our house and lives in absolute disarray, this was not the time to head down south and try to escape to Mexico or Belize.
Our guests were still at the house, and formed a welcome committee that was very welcome. Especially after we’d had to muscle our way through a small army of reporters.
Stien had told us on the ride over that Jerome had offered his legal expertise, but that Spear Boodle was the one who managed to spring us from jail. I felt grateful to both.
Fonzie was the first to greet us. A Twinkie in one hand and a Butterfinger in the other, he came walking up to us with a big smile on his face. “Free at last! Only in America, right?”
“Yeah, if this was Khameit we’d probably be facing the firing squad,” said Strel.
“And don’t you know it,” he said with a grin. “Only in this case I don’t know if the firing squad is the right answer. The Slasher has performed a great service to humanity and it would be a terrible waste to end your reign of terror. Abusive men everywhere are probably quaking in their sneakers right now, wondering if you guys are coming for them next.”
I placed my hands on Fonzie’s shoulders, and said emphatically, “We are not the Slasher, Fonzie. We didn’t kill anyone. We’re being set up.”
“Of course you are,” he said cheerfully, then gave me a wink. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just so you know, I’m a fan. I think you guys did a great job.”
I raised my hands to the sky—or in this case the paint-chipped ceiling—and heaved a loud groan. “This isn’t happening!”
“Oh, but it is,” Helmut assured me as he joined us. “You know, Strel—I told you before I wasn’t a big fan of vigilante justice, but I’ve since altered my views. Seeing things through your eyes has made me see the light. Someone needs to do something about the terrible men in this world, and you deserve all the praise you get.”
“We’re getting praise?” asked Strel, snapping to attention. Any singer struggling to make a name
for themselves will tell you praise is a big part of why they do what they do.
“Sure.” He led us into the living room, where the big flatscreen was blaring away, Jerome stretched out on the sofa, a big bag of Fritos next to him. “Oh, hey, you guys. Welcome home!”
The TV was switched to WNBC, where three young women were being interviewed live on the air. All three were dressed in black and holding masks, exactly like the Slasher.
“We love the Slasher!” one of the girls was saying, then tittered. “The Flummox sisters are doing what we all should have done a long time ago: getting rid of the scum!”
“Yeah—there’s so many creeps out there,” her friend chimed in. “I hope the Slasher won’t stop now that they’re going so well. We need the Slasher—we need them bad.”
The third girl was brandishing what looked like one of the Slasher’s knives. The reporter eyed it with trepidation. “It’s plastic,” the girl said with a giggle, then deadpanned, “Or is it?” Looking straight into the camera, she added, “Hey, Jeremy Barnes—if you’re watching, I hope you’re the Slasher’s next victim! And Flummoxes, if you are watching, the creep’s name is Jeremy Barnes, he lives at 23 Blackberry Street and he’s a horrible pig!”
The reporter quickly snatched away the microphone and said, “As you can see, Jeff, the Slasher has created quite a furor on the streets of this otherwise peaceful Brooklyn neighborhood. The only question on everyone’s lips is this: will the Flummox triplets start killing again—with so many deserving victims out there? Or will they hang up their black masks and their sharp knives and call it a day? Live from Haymill, this is Vicky Kimmel.”
“Jiminy Christmas,” said Strel, and dropped down on the couch next to Jerome. She darted a wide-eyed look in our direction. “You guys—we’re stars! We’re famous!”