by Ally Shields
Specific information—like names—was sparse. The ball was just another New Orleans party to reporters and often merited no more than a paragraph or two. Still, she’d collected a few names of contest winners. The more people she interviewed, the higher the chances of something clicking into place.
During breaks from research, she harassed the lab for results on the ballistics test…and determinedly refused to think about Boston.
When her phone rang and Josh’s face came up on her screen, Maggie hesitated only an instant and kept it light. “Hey, partner. Playing hooky on me?”
“I hope Captain Jenson explained…”
“Bright and early. Getting called to his office before eight o’clock had me racking my brain to figure out what I’d done wrong. Call me paranoid, but it was a more effective wakeup call than a caffeine jolt.” Maggie stopped, realizing she was forcing the small talk.
“Sorry I left without getting in touch. It came up so fast. With any luck, I’ll take care of things today and be back late tomorrow. Anything I should know?”
Nothing, except I miss you. “Everything’s quiet. I’m still waiting for the ballistics report.”
“OK, then. I’ve got to run. Maggie…” He paused, and she waited. “Take care of yourself. I’ll see you soon.”
She disconnected but absently ran her fingers over the phone. At least he’d called, and he sounded fine, if a bit distracted. But there at the end…he’d started to say something else and changed his mind. Was it good or bad? She really couldn’t tell.
Maggie let out a pent-up breath. She could either waste the rest of the day analyzing Josh, or she could get back to work. Selecting the alternative that had the best chance for success, she tracked down the new names she’d gathered from the newspaper files. The first person she reached denied knowing the victims or having ongoing contact with the Witching Hour Society but gave her another name. Encouraged, she spent the rest of the morning doing much the same, one name leading to another…but ultimately going nowhere. In truth, Maggie wasn’t sure what she hoped to find. With luck, she’d know it if it popped up.
Bored with desk work, she left the precinct, stopped at Hex, the best-known witchcraft shop in town, and checked out smaller establishments of occult and pagan practices, looking for someone who’d admit being a member of the Witching Hour Society. Some of the shops were closed on Sunday, especially those outside the tourist area, and others were reluctant to give out names of anyone associated with witchcraft. She picked up one name from two different sources—Isabella LeMontaire, the alleged priestess of the Society—but no one knew how to reach her. Maggie suspected, like many denials she’d heard that day, it was a case of selective memory.
At lunch, she picked up a sandwich to eat down by the river and allowed herself to speculate about Josh’s activities for the better part of an hour. When she returned to District 13, the ballistics report was on her desk.
Holy crap. Maggie stared at the report and read it again. She’d hoped but hadn’t dared to believe they’d make a positive match between the bullet from the swamp hunter’s boat and the bullet that killed Judy Gundermann. It was the first real evidence in a chain of death linking Gundermann to Preston. She didn’t have a motive—or know how Shayre fit in—but the first critical piece had fallen into place.
CHAPTER NINE
At the end of the afternoon, following numerous discussions between detectives, their captains and chiefs, and the sheriff’s department, the four cases were centered at District 13, with a loosely formed task force of the involved officers. Mostly it was an agreement for complete sharing of information, back and forth. Josh and Maggie were designated primary, assuming he was back within the next twenty-four hours. In the meantime, Maggie brought everyone up to date, and the various tasks on each case were divided for follow-up.
It was growing dark when she left the precinct and drove toward her apartment. Vehicle traffic was light in the French Quarter, but it was late enough that the bar crowd was out in force and the main streets were clogged with partiers. She turned off her regular route into the nearly deserted side streets and was two blocks from home when a bright glow settled directly in front of her car.
Maggie slammed on her brakes. The ghost witches were back. She checked the rearview mirror, grateful no one was behind her, and returned her attention to the street in front. Valerie Preston’s figure was still distinguishable in the ghostly huddle. The spirits acted agitated and darted off one by one only to circle back. Maggie had seen that behavior before, when her first ghost wanted her to follow him. Since his discoveries had always been important, she slowly drove forward, keeping pace with them. The ghosts’ activity increased, flowing down the street but swirling to wait for her to catch them before turning the corner. Maggie continued to follow into an area of older commercial buildings, some unused since the hurricane flood damage.
The ghostly trio finally stopped and hovered in the middle of a block, directly in front of a decaying, one-story storage building. Implying years of disuse, its windows had been boarded over. In spite of that, faint lights flickered between cracks in the weathered slats along the side she could see. Someone was in the rear portion of the building.
Maggie parked and got out, carrying her SIG at her side. It could be kids, but given the spirits’ behavior, she wasn’t taking any chances.
The front lock had been broken long ago and the rusted remains dangled ineffectively. Maggie pushed the door open and stepped inside, using her pen light in short bursts to show the way. The front area held the busted frame of a counter, part of an old salesroom. Double doors standing open on the far left led to the back and the area of lights she’d seen. She picked her way across the room, stopping when she heard an odd sound. She cocked her head to listen. Was that the hum of voices? Singing? Unease crawled across the base of her neck. Should she call for backup? And…say what?
She compromised by contacting dispatch and giving them her location. “I’m checking out a possible trespass and will notify you when I leave.” The dispatcher acknowledged without questioning why a homicide cop was doing a property check.
Stashing her phone in her pocket, she hurried through the double doors. The sounds grew louder, morphing into a singsong chant. She found herself in a cavernous room filled with partially dismantled shelving and old crates, and she scurried down a narrow aisle until she spotted small lights ahead. The SIG in both hands now, she crept to the end of the row and peeked around the corner.
Maggie sucked in her breath at a sight out of some horror film. A coven of witches—or warlocks—covered from head to foot in black robes with deep hoods slowly swayed in a counter-clockwise circle around a bound victim…in what appeared to be a Satanic sacrificial rite.
An inverted pentagram was painted on the floor in a vivid, bloodred. The twelve figures chanted as they circled. The hooded, female victim in a rumpled skirt and business jacket was tied with rope and kneeling in the center with half a dozen bales of hay pushed against her. From the faint acrid smell, Maggie realized the hay had been sprinkled with gasoline. Every coven member carried a burning candle.
My God, did they intend to set her on fire?
The chant increased in volume, some of it in Latin with a repeated chorus in English of “Repent, repent, repent.” The witches tightened the circle, moving closer to their victim. Fearing the ceremony was reaching its conclusion, Maggie punched in the number for dispatch, set her phone on a nearby shelf leaving the line open so they could hear what was happening, and stepped forward with her SIG Sauer gripped in both hands. “Police! Move away from her.”
Instant pandemonium. Maggie fired two warning shots at the ceiling, as much to signal dispatch as to stop the fleeing witches. She ran forward, determined to catch at least one of the hooded figures.
The last one ushering the others out whirled and unexpectedly fired a pistol at Maggie. She returned fire, but her attacker’s bullet grazed her upper arm and ruined her shot. Maggie s
tumbled, regained her balance, and leaped forward again. “No!” she yelled as the same witch tossed her lit candle onto the bales of hay. Flames burst into a four-foot wall.
Abandoning pursuit of the witches, Maggie tucked the SIG in her waistband, grabbed a discarded metal shelf, and used it to shove at the burning bales, attempting to open a path to the victim. Moments later, she was joined by other hands as two patrol officers threw themselves into the rescue. Between them, they reached the woman, beat out the flames on her jacket, and dragged her outside the building. When they got the hood off, she was limp, breathing shallowly, but semi-conscious and moaning. Although her arms had been burned, smoke inhalation and shock raised the most immediate concern.
An officer threw a sterile blanket from his cruiser over the woman’s shaking legs. Maggie crouched next to her head in case CPR was required and smoothed back the dark, tangled hair from her face and neck. Shrieking sirens indicated medical help and the fire department were nearly there.
“How’d you get here so quickly?” she asked the officer squatting beside her.
“Dispatch notified us you were in the area, and we were doing a cruise-by to see what was going on. That’s when we heard the shots.”
“Thanks. I’d never have gotten her out without you.”
“All in a day’s work,” he said grimly. He gave a curt nod behind them. “Was that what I thought it was?”
“If you mean a satanic ritual, it sure looked like it.”
The cop’s expletive was graphic. “How’d you get wind of it?”
“I didn’t. I just saw the lights and stopped to check it out. I thought I was running off a bunch of kids.”
The paramedics ran up and took charge, verified the victim was stable, and transported her to the hospital. Fed by the gasoline, the flames quickly spread to the building’s roof. The best the fire department could do was protect the surrounding properties. Within minutes, the dry wood in the shuttered storage building was reduced to smoldering remains and a smoke-filled haze.
Maggie grimaced at the sodden mess still releasing pungent smoke into the night sky. Crime scene techs were on their way, but evidence would be sketchy at best. No hope for fingerprints or DNA. The bullet fired at her should be somewhere in the ashes, if they could find it.
The coven had to be scattered and miles away by now. An immediate BOLO had been issued, but the only identifiers were the black robes. Easy to ditch those, and anyone with sense would have stripped them off within the first minute or two. Unless someone found a discarded robe with evidence the lab could use or the victim had seen her attackers, they’d be nearly impossible to find.
One of the firefighters stopped beside Maggie. “Hey, what happened to your arm? Is that your blood?”
She tugged at her sleeve. “A bullet nicked me. Nothing serious.” Although it was beginning to sting.
The firefighter called over the EMT who rode with them.
“You should have this tended at the hospital,” the medic advised after he’d inspected and cleaned the wound. He finished wrapping it in gauze. “It could use a few stitches.”
“You’ve already done a good job.”
“Don’t you listen to anyone, York?” a gruff voice asked. Maggie turned to find Captain Jenson scowling at her. “I thought you were staying out of the field until Brandt returned. Now you’re not listening to medical advice either.”
“Evening, Captain. Pure chance I happened to be here.” The lie tripped off her tongue without the slightest hesitation. She gave him a brief overview. “If there hadn’t been so many people on the streets, I wouldn’t have gone this way or been anywhere near here to notice the lights.”
“Uh-huh. Lucky break for the victim. Get your arm stitched up, take the morning off, and we’ll talk tomorrow afternoon.” He held out his hand, palm up. “I’ll need your weapon since shots were fired.”
“I didn’t hit anybody,” she protested.
“You know the rules. Besides, taking your weapon might keep you out of trouble for a few hours.”
Maggie gave in to Jenson’s demands without further protest. It was no big deal. She still had her backup gun in her ankle holster, and she wanted to stop by the hospital anyway and find out how soon she could interview the victim.
ER wasn’t particularly busy, and Maggie’s nine stitches took only a few minutes. The number seemed excessive, but in this southern climate of minimal clothing, a girl didn’t need ugly scars on her arms. As soon as the doc was finished with her, Maggie found the victim under sedation in ICU and stopped to talk with the middle-aged nurse. “Do you have her name yet?”
“Yes. Stephanie Michaels. It was one of the few things we got out of her when she came around. Her husband’s on the way.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. The Stephanie Michaels who was spokesperson for the Witching Hour Society? There could be another, but she’d bet good money on this one.
“How soon can I talk with her?”
“Not until morning at the earliest. She has first and patches of second degree burns on her arms. Not life-threatening but painful, and she was so agitated the doctor sedated her. She’s also on oxygen to clear the lungs of smoke and on IV fluids.”
Maggie gave the nurse her card. “Please call me if anything changes. Keep her name non-pub, no visitors, except immediate family, and keep an eye on them until they’re cleared. She’s probably safe in the hospital for tonight, but I’ll check on getting further protection in the morning. For now, I’d alert security in case you need a quick response. If you see anything suspicious…anything at all, call 911.”
“Are you saying she’s in danger?”
“The fire was deliberate. They tried to kill her.”
“Good Lord.” The nurse’s jaw tightened. “She’ll be fine while I’m here. Visiting hours are over, so no one except staff will be on the floor until morning. But you can count on me to keep my eyes on her.”
The nurse made a call, and before Maggie reached the elevator, a security guard was hurrying toward the nurses’ station. She hesitated before pushing the button. She’d like to talk with the guard, and the husband should be there any moment. She’d prefer to interview him tonight, too, but fatigue had suddenly hit her. She rubbed a weary hand across her face. It would just have to wait till morning.
* * *
A loud pounding on her door ripped Maggie from the latest nightmare of hooded figures dancing in and out of roaring flames. It had been after three o’clock when she’d crawled into bed, and she’d taken the captain’s advice to sleep in. But the recurring dreams had left her exhausted. She sat up and was groping for her robe when she heard firm footsteps coming toward her bedroom. Tossing the covers, she reached for her spare SIG in the nightstand. As her hand closed on the grip, the door flew open. In two strides, Josh wrapped her in his arms and pulled her onto the edge of the bed.
“Are you OK? Dammit, Red.” He buried his face in her hair, tightening his hold possessively. Maggie melted against him and listened to the thudding of his heart. Tears threatened. She swallowed hard, unable to speak, even to complain that he’d called her Red.
He drew back long enough to touch her bandaged arm. “How bad is it?”
“A few stitches,” she said, finding her voice. “How did you know?”
“Captain Jenson called me. I was coming home today anyway but went straight to the airport and caught the earliest standby flight I could get.” He drew her close again, murmuring into her hair. “Dammit, Maggie. I should never have left you alone.”
She savored the strong warmth of his arms, how right her world suddenly was. But wasn’t that the problem…that it didn’t feel right without him? She wanted Josh, but shouldn’t there be balance? She pushed against his chest and pulled her head free. She gave a rueful smile. “I’m glad to see you too, but honestly, Josh, I’m fine. This wasn’t your fault. It just happened.”
“You wouldn’t have gone in that building alone if I’d been in town,” he countered.
“I’m not so sure about that. The situation sprang up without warning.”
“Tell me.” He leaned back, his eyes dropped to look her over, and a hint of humor crossed his face.
Suddenly aware of her scanty attire—oversize tank T-shirt and panties—her tousled hair, and a mouth like cotton, she gave him a determined shove. “Go put the coffee on. I’ll be out in a minute and explain everything.”
He hesitated as if he might refuse, then reluctantly stood. “If you think I care what you look like, you’re wrong. You always look great to me.”
“Thank you, but I’ll feel better after a shower,” she said firmly.
His eyes softened. “OK, but don’t take too long. I’ve missed you.”
She couldn’t resist asking, “What about Ellie? Won’t she mind your being here?”
Josh stilled and looked down at her, his eyes narrowing. “Are you serious?”
“Shouldn’t I be?” She had no right to ask, considering she was the one holding back, but she waited for his answer.
His tone was emphatic. “Ellie has nothing to do with us.” He turned away. “I’m going to put the coffee on before I give in to temptation and settle this in a very different way.”
When Maggie joined Josh in the kitchen, he set down the coffee pot and turned to capture her face with both hands in a deep kiss. Surprised, she clutched his arms and met his lips with her own. When they came up slightly breathless, Josh studied her flushed face. “I’m sorry if that goes against the current rules, but I had a bad few hours imagining the worst.”
“I wasn’t objecting.” She dropped her hands and turned toward the counter. “There’s a lot that needs to be said when I’m not exhausted and we’re not sniping at each other about something. I’m dying to hear why you rushed off to Boston…” She paused to see if he’d offer a quick explanation. When he looked uncomfortable but didn’t say anything, she went on. “But I should already be at the hospital interviewing the victim. This case is moving quickly. We don’t have the luxury of being distracted by personal issues.”