by Julie Smith
What do you care about Darryl Boucree? she asked herself.
She slipped on the brown sweater, but took time to fluff up her hair.
I guess I care.
When she had walked downstairs, and actually stood in his presence, the breadth of his chest, the way it moved inside his sweater, the pull of him, almost a smell, she thought, made her oddly happy.
Watch out! Testosterone is the world’s most dangerous drug. Get one molecule on you and you’re helpless.
It was too late. She was covered with it.
Drenched.
She didn’t need this; didn’t want it, didn’t welcome it. So why did she feel so happy?
The rapture of the deep, I guess.
When she spoke, her voice sounded thin. “Hi.” He held her gaze as long as she was willing to let him. She broke away first.
“How you doin’?”
“Remember Cindy Lou? My friend from last night? She talks about being evil. That’s how I’m doing.”
“Need your eight hours, huh?”
“How about you?”
He shrugged. “Half a teacher’s better than none. In fact the kids think it’s better than one.”
She laughed. “Let’s go over to the Big House.”
“Okay.”
“Sheila. Sheila! Look who I’ve got.”
Sheila poked her head out “Darryl.” She came flying down the hall and flung her arms around him, something she never did with Skip or Jimmy Dee. “How you doin’, dude?”
“Gimme five.”
For an eternity or so, they slapped each other’s palms in the complex hand jive that kids and black males are so crazy about.
“Who’s out there?” Jimmy Dee emerged, now in jeans, polo shirt, and determined-dad look. His face split in a grin when he saw who’d arrived. “Auntie Skip and Uncle Darryl. You’re staying for dinner, of course.”
Darryl grinned back. “Best offer I’ve had today.”
Sheila said, “You haven’t had his cooking yet.”
Skip and Jimmy Dee caught each other’s eyes. Sheila had actually cracked a joke. Skip looked back at her to make sure she was kidding.
No question: there was a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Suppose you cook tonight, young lady,” said Jimmy Dee. “How’s your coq au vin?”
“Cocoa what?”
Skip looked at her watch. “I have to be out of here in forty-five minutes. Tell me you’re not making coq au vin.”
“Okay. I’m not. Geneese made some gumbo. All we have to do is heat it up.”
Skip said, “I’ll start the rice.”
Kenny had come in, and was standing shyly against a wall. “Hey, sport,” said Darryl. “What’s your name?”
“Kenny.” He smiled his sweet little smile, the one that made all adults love him and Sheila want to kill him.
“I’m Darryl. Gimme five.”
They played pat-a-cake for nearly as long as it took to cook the rice and by the time they were finished, Darryl had another disciple.
Skip busied herself peeling cucumbers and washing lettuce while Jimmy Dee set the table. It’s like a family, she thought. We’re finally having fun.
Dee-Dee was beside himself, but also nervous as a bride. He knew, as Skip did, that Darryl was the glue holding it together, and who knew who Darryl was? He was still a stranger she’d met in a bar, or maybe a guardian angel who’d come down and tapped her on the shoulder.
Well, what the hell, depending on the kindness of strangers made this city famous.
Sheila tugged at Darryl. “Hey, where’s my present?”
“In my backpack. What’d I do with it?”
Sheila ran to get it.
Kenny was leaning against a wall, looking melancholy.
“Bet you’d like a present too, sport.”
He looked around, as if sure Darryl were talking to some other kid. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. You want a present?”
Kenny smiled his smile. “Sure.”
“Well, I got somethin’ for you.”
Sheila handed Darryl his pack. He fumbled around for what seemed an inordinate amount of time, and when he pulled his hand out a different rubber monster head sat on each finger, now waving fiercely in Kenny’s face.
The boy laughed out loud. So did Skip and Jimmy Dee. And even Sheila.
“You want these?” He caught Kenny’s nose with two of them. “Want ’em? Huh?”
Kenny was so enchanted he could only nod.
“And now for Ms. Sheila. Well, I got you something really special. But I better tell you, it’s something you’re probably not expecting.”
She nodded, radiant in her anticipation.
“It may even be something you think you don’t want.”
“Oh, I’ll want it. I know I’ll want it.”
“Even if it’s a—”
“A what?”
“1 can’t tell you. You’re going to be mad.”
“I won’t be mad, I promise. I promise I won’t be mad.”
“Okay, it’s a book.”
“A what?” She couldn’t conceal her disappointment.
“See, I knew you’d be mad.”
“I’m not mad. I could… read a book.” She wanted desperately to please him.
A truly wonderful sign. She never wants to please either of us.
“Even if it’s about a boy?”
“A boy?” Her voice said, What on Earth are you thinking?
“You gotta trust me, Sheila. Even though it’s a book and even though it’s about a boy, it’s going to change your life. You’re going to read this and think, There’s somebody out there who understands.”
“Catcher in the Rye,” the other adults said together, and instantly realized it was a tactical error. They were the enemy; if they liked it, it couldn’t be good.
But Darryl turned to them: “Now how did you two know that?”
“Saved my ass,” said Jimmy Dee.
“Mine too.”
Kenny said, “I didn’t think grown-ups were supposed to talk like that.”
“Anybody who reads this book,” said Darryl solemnly, “can talk any way they want from now on.”
“Hold it a minute,” said Jimmy Dee. “You don’t have to live with these two.”
“Yeah, but you know it doesn’t matter what I say now. Because you can’t stop anybody after they’ve read it, can you? They come out a whole different person, don’t they?”
“Okay, okay, I’ll read the damn book.”
“Sheila!” said Kenny. “You’re not supposed to cuss.”
“Darryl said I could cuss.”
“Only if you read the book.”
Skip sighed: Back to normal.
But still. It was the most peaceful—in fact, the most downright enjoyable—dinner she and Jimmy Dee had ever had with the kids.
Too bad Darryl’s already got two jobs, she thought. He’d be the nanny of the century.
“Margaret where are you off to tonight?”
“Oh, a little something on the case.”
“Policeman’s work is never done.”
“This lady’s no policeman,” said Darryl. “She might be the heat but I got eyes.”
Eyes like lasers. Get ’em off me before I rip your clothes off in front of the kids.
“Gotta go,” she said. “Darryl, nice to see you. Thanks for coming by.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Skip. Pleasure’s all mine.” He stared unabashedly as he said it, and she felt her sweater go over her head, her zipper go down in his mental movie.
Beads of sweat are going to pop out of my forehead, she thought, saw Jimmy Dee’s amused look, and was pretty sure they already had.
She’d agreed to meet Hodges at headquarters. He was going to drive, since none of the women had seen him; Skip could scrunch down in her seat if she had to.
Driving over, she thought, What’s with this Darryl? What does he want? Surely not me.
And yet she hoped a
gainst hope that he did.
What about Steve?
Damn Steve!
She picked up Hodges and gave him directions to Kit’s house. They followed her as she picked up Suby (who came out carrying a large tote bag), crossed the Causeway, drove to Covington, and then turned onto a small country road. That was bad—there were very few cars, which meant they had a good chance of being seen.
They stayed as far behind as they dared, and when they no longer heard Kit’s motor, they parked, hoping the other car had stopped rather than surged ahead.
Skip started to open her door, but heard another car behind her. Both she and Hodges ducked, and as it passed, she saw Lenore riding shotgun.
Wonder what she does with Caitlin? Skip was reminded suddenly of Marguerite, out every night when Geoff was a small boy.
She and Hodges waited another fifteen minutes, too keyed up even to talk. A few more cars passed, then all was quiet.
They got out and split up. Skip followed the road a little farther, staying close to the side, where the trees were. It was a warmish night without much wind. The moon was rising and, because it was full, she could see very well—but so could she be seen if anyone happened along. She had an odd sense of anticipation, of excitement, a kind of tingling.
A reaction to danger? she wondered. But it wasn’t her usual sort, which involved a lot of heart pounding and sweat This was pleasurable, almost a sexual sensation—a marked contrast to her fear the other night. For the life of her, she couldn’t have said why.
She had walked about ten minutes, until she heard the sound of voices. The women were in a cleared space, perhaps a meadow. In the center of it they had placed a table of some sort—the altar, Skip surmised, and noted with relief that it was neither the size nor shape for human sacrifice. And this time there was no skull. But the moon glinted on the dagger, and she could see the pentacle plate.
Small scarves or bits of colored cloth were scattered at equal intervals around the altar—four of them, with a candle in a jar on each one, and a few other things, Skip couldn’t tell what, but they looked like rocks and shells.
The women were still fussing, organizing, arranging, making things pretty. Behaving much like women giving a tea party. Skip thought again of the banality of evil, but tonight she couldn’t make it stick; the beauty of the evening, the woods bedecked in silver light, the purity of the air, the softness of the women’s voices—somehow, it just didn’t add up to degradation and horror.
I’ll feel differently when they put on those spooky black robes and get the bloodcurdling chant going.
But to her amazement, they put on white robes instead—all but Kit, who had disappeared.
Oh my God, they’re playing dress-up. A cult with outfits; just what I need.
* * *
Pearce had seen her arrive after the others, and realized it must be her car he had passed, parked on the side of the road. He had followed Lenore. She must have followed one of the others, probably Kit.
He had seen her colleague too, the old guy.
He had arrived at the opposite strategy from theirs, had driven past the glen where the women were having their little picnic, had parked, and doubled back. He’d already been in position when the cops arrived. It amused him that he was the better stalker.
They were all in white now, in belted robes with little bags like drawstring purses hanging from their belts; little bags and knives—a very medieval look. But Kit was missing.
Ah—now she was coming, just emerging from her car.
Unlike the rest of them, she wore yellow, a gorgeous yellow robe, belted with some sort of cord threaded through the loop of another, shorter cord. From the shorter cord hung a large metal ankh. The effect was of a rosary, or whatever priests dangled from their cassocks. On her head she wore some kind of headband with a sort of disk on it, affixed so that it stood upright, on its edge. It was gold-colored metal, probably brass, and the moonlight glinted eerily on it.
Her hair had been teased out in all directions, forming an unruly mane around her face, a variation on the Bride of Frankenstein look. And she had painted her face. Even with the brightness of the moon, he couldn’t see terribly well, but from his vantage point, it looked as if she’d put horizontal stripes on her cheeks, like cat whiskers.
The women stood in a circle. They took turns lighting the four candles they’d placed around the middle table, each one mouthing some sort of mumbo jumbo about east and west and earth and fire, and who knew what kind of crap. It embarrassed him.
But each one, as she did it, slid a knife from its sheath and drew something in the air with it—what, he couldn’t tell.
When it was nearly over, the pattern of the thing began to ring a bell—something about the four directions and the elements. Wasn’t this a common part of religious rituals? Was it Masonic? He thought it was, perhaps, but he thought he’d read something about its origins; he had the impression it was vaguely Kabalistic.
Something told him he was in for more than he bargained for—this wasn’t a bunch of women doing some little improvised Halloween skit. He didn’t know what it was, but it was starting to spook him.
He rifled his pockets for his tape recorder; he was close enough that it might pick up. And, to make sure, he took notes as well, on his ever-present four-times-folded sheaf of paper, the only proper notepad for reporters, the old-timers had told him, because it fit in the palm of your hand and didn’t make anyone nervous.
Neetsie came forward and with a fanfare drew the dagger on the altar from its sheath, held it out the full length of her arm. Kit also came forward and pointed likewise with her ankh.
Neetsie began speaking a language Pearce couldn’t understand. He couldn’t get it at first, couldn’t make any sense at all of it, but she kept repeating it, chanting it, and finally he just started writing down what it sounded like:
Eko, Eko, Azarak,
Eko, Eko, Zomelak,
Eko, Eko, Shining One,
Eko, Eko, Terrible One!
As she chanted, she walked around the circle, Kit following, the two still pointing with their weapons.
Darksome night, and shining moon,
East, then South, then West, then North;
Hearken to the witches’ [room? tune? he wasn’t sure]
Here we come to call ye forth!
Earth and Water, Air and Fire
Wand and pentacle and sword,
Work ye unto our desire,
Hearken ye unto our word!
Cords and censer, cup and knife,
Powers of the witch’s blade,
Waken all ye into life,
come ye as the charm is made!
Queen of heaven, Queen of hell,
Horned hunter of the night,
Lend your power unto the spell,
And work our will by magic rite!
By all the power of land and sea,
By all the might of moon and sun—
As we do will, so mote it be; Chant the spell and be it done!
Eko, Eko, Azarak,
Eko, Eko, Zomelak,
Eko, Eko, Shining One,
Eko, Eko, Terrible One!
They walked the circle three times in the course of the chant, and when it was over, Neetsie said, “The circle is cast; we are between the worlds.”
The other women answered in chorus: “So mote it be!”
A woman Pearce didn’t know came out of the circle, picked up a bowl of water from the altar, drew her knife, put it in the bowl, and said, “I exorcise thee, o creature of water, that thou cast out from thee all the impurities and uncleanliness of the world of phantasm; in the names of the Lady and the Lord of light and darkness.”
She held up the bowl for all to see.
Another woman, also a stranger, came forward, picked up another bowl, put her knife in it, and said, “Blessings be upon this creature of salt; let all malignity and hindrance be cast forth here from, and let all good enter herein; wherefore do I bless thee, th
at thou mayest aid me, in the names of the Lady and the Lord of light and darkness.”
She then poured the salt into the water; both women put their bowls back and rejoined the circle.
Neetsie again took center stage and admonished the group: “Listen to the words of the Great Mother; she who of old was also called Artemis, Astarte, Athena, Dione, Melusine, Aphrodite, Cerridwen, Dana, Arianrhod, Isis, Bride, and by many other names. At her altars the youth of Lacedaemon in Sparta made due sacrifice.”
He had thought she would continue, but Kit directed her ankh toward the heavens (toward the moon, he realized later), and all the women spoke in unison:
“Whenever you have need of any thing, once in the month and better it be when the moon is full, then shall ye assemble in some secret place and adore the spirit of me, who am queen of all the witches. There shall ye assemble, ye who are fain to learn all sorcery, yet have not won its deepest secrets; to these will I teach things that are yet unknown, and ye shall be free from slavery—”
Here Pearce’s tape recorder jammed, and he fiddled with it during the rest of the speech. There was something about the “secret door,” though, “which opens upon the Land of Youth, and mine is the cup of the wine of life and the Cauldron of Cerridwen, which is the holy grail of immortality.”
Sign me up, he thought. So what if we have to sacrifice a few virgins?
“Nor do I demand sacrifice,” they said.
Ha! What about the youth of Lacedaemon?
There was another phrase he liked: “All acts of love and pleasure are my rituals.”
Again he thought, Sign me up, but given the spooky tone of the ritual, he couldn’t help wondering what on Earth the phrase was supposed to mean. Were these women some sort of modern maenads, as likely to tear strong men apart as light a candle or two in the moonlight? Kit looked the part.
A little scenario came to him: What if Geoff’s death wasn’t quite as cut-and-dry as it looked? What if he’d been killed somewhere else and taken to his patio, the ladder placed just so…
Or maybe the ritual had been there in the first place.
Exactly how it might escalate to death he’d worry about later, but a less pleasant thought hit him now—maybe these women really were dangerous when full of religious fervor or whatever you called this.