“We know how to take care of her kind!”
“She ought to get what she gave!”
“The evil must be cast out, trampled and stoned until it lives no more,” the minister’s voice rang out above the others.
The ugly threats subsided when, instead of the coven’s high priestess, Myra Adams, Sheriff Walt Whitaker strode purposefully through the door. The sheriff was an imposing man who wore his authority well. His brown Stetson hat added several inches to his already impressive six foot four, sturdily built body.
One voice rang out from the rear of the mob. “Give her to us, Whit! We’ll give her all the justice she deserves.” The comment was welcomed by a raucous roar that echoed agreement to the man’s sentiment.
“Now, now, now, there’ll be none of that. You folks know me better’n that,” Walt drawled in his rich West Texas accent.
A low rumble of displeasure spread through the crowd. They wanted vengeance and they wanted it now.
Mac noted a slight narrowing of the sheriff’s gaze and a tightening of his jaw as his eyes rested momentarily upon two men who stood at the rear of the crowd. A quick glance was all it took for the reporter to see that both men wore clerical garb, one the turned collar of a Roman Catholic priest. Another glance at the glowering expression on the sheriff’s face suggested to Mac that the man held nothing but contempt for the men of God. Interesting, Mac thought as the sheriff began to once again address the crowd.
“You folks just go on about your business. There ain’t nothin’ gonna happen ‘round here that’s any concern of yours. Myra Adams is upstairs being questioned at this time. I don’t look for us to be through with her for a good long time. In the meantime, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to order y’all to break up this here unlawful assembly.”
He raised both arms, hands spread, as if he could silence the crowd with them. Surprisingly, the gesture, coupled with his no-nonsense attitude, had the desired effect. Though not particularly happy, the local citizens began to disperse. However, the media was not so ready to quit their posts.
“And all you newsmen, and ladies too, y’all might as well get on about your business too. There ain’t nothin’ gonna happening around here for quite a spell.”
“Just tell us if it was a ritualistic killing, Sheriff.”
“How many of those witches do you figure participated in the murder?”
“Have they been having orgies out there in the woods?”
“Have you seen a rise in animal mutilations since the witches moved here?”
“Hold it, hold it! I didn’t come out here to make a statement. As soon as we’re sure we have our facts straight, I promise to call a press conference and tell you everything I legally can. But until that time, I must ask you to disperse. I won’t have you disrupting my town.”
When he had come to Port Bellmont from the Houston, Texas, police department five years earlier, folks had described Walt Whitaker as a bull dog in uniform. It was an apt description. Whit was not a man to take any guff from anyone. The local citizens had quickly learned that when Walt Whitaker said something he damn well meant it, earning him the respect of everyone in town, whether they be law abiding citizen or not.
After giving the assembled reporters a look that said he meant what he said, the sheriff stepped back into the courthouse, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Yeah, sure, blame all the fuss on us,” a woman reporter next to Mac grumbled. “As if a coven of witches killing and ripping the heart out of a nice old minister wouldn’t cause a little disruption.”
Mac turned a sardonic smile on the woman. After she’d been in the business as long as he had, she’d be used to being dumped on. If she couldn’t take it, she had better get herself another job.
He glanced at his watch as he walked down the steps away from the courthouse. Nine-thirty. A cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes sounded good. He glanced in both directions, figuring that some enterprising soul would have opened a coffee shop within easy walking distance of the police station.
“Hey, there! Haven’t we met before?” The question was directed at Mac by a tall, slender man leaning against a Ford Bronco that was parked directly in front of the courthouse. About forty-five to fifty, the man’s casual, yet obviously expensive, clothes somehow didn’t fit in with the regular citizens of the city, nor did it reflect the general appearance of the members of the third estate who had swarmed into Port Bellmont for the murdering witches story. Attached to the side of the car was a magnetic sign proclaiming it to be the property of The Port Bellmont Sentinel.
Mac put on his professional ‘I’m your new best friend, why don’t you tell me everything you’ve ever known’ smile as he reached out to shake the other man’s hand.
“Could be, buddy. I’ve been around a bit and I suppose you could say the same, right?”
Mac couldn’t believe his luck. Getting in with the local newsman was better than striking gold. These small town reporters were usually more than willing to share all they knew about the locals just to be able to rub shoulders with a pro such as himself.
“Quite a show, heh?” the man made an indication toward the disbursing crowd with his pipe.
“That it is. Say, you wouldn’t know where a guy could find a good cup of coffee in this town, would you? Somewhere close by? Maybe you’d like to join me. Give us a chance to remember where it was we met, talk about old times.”
“Why, sure!” The man’s eagerness was pathetic as he insisted on giving Mac a lift to the café, though it was only three blocks down the street.
Mac was pleased to accept the man’s invitation. He knew reporters well enough to bet that every last one of them would soon be crowding into that little café. By the time the others got there, he figured he’d have already ordered his breakfast and be sipping his second cup of coffee.
“Been living here long?” Mac asked his benefactor as they slid into a narrow booth.
“Not long by local standards, which is all your life and a couple generations of ancestors to boot. I settled down here about five years ago. You know how it is with us newspaper junkies. I had always dreamed of owning my own weekly. Saw that The Sentinel was up for grabs, so I figured, why not?”
Kind of a funny guy, Mac thought, quickly assessing the man who sat opposite him. He had a classy air, with his tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and perfectly creased woolen slacks. He looked like the kind of guy who would never trust his thick, perfectly-styled prematurely-gray hair to a mere barber.
“How rude of me”, the man exclaimed after the waitress had brought them both steaming mugs of coffee and taken their order. “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Alan Boatwright, the editor and owner of the local rag.”
Mac reached across the table to shake the man’s hand again. “Glad to meet you, Alan. Mac McCormick. I’m with a, uh, national tabloid.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me who you are, Mac. I remember you from your days on the Washington Post. I’ll never forget when you uncovered that story about the Senator and the Mafia. Man, that’s what I call a story!”
Mac took a sip of his coffee. The man’s obvious hero worshipping was beginning to get on his nerves. Next thing you knew the guy would be wanting to know why Mac was working on a cheesy tabloid like The Inquisitor, and that was a story he would just as soon keep to himself.
“What do you know about these so-called witches?” Mac asked, hoping to lead the guy back towards the story and away from himself. He brushed aside the thought that he had any special interest in the intriguing young witch, Cassie Adams. “They aren’t for real, are they?”
“Oh, they’re for real, all right. Those little ladies take their religion very seriously.”
“Religion? I’d hardly call witchcraft a religion,” Mac commented. “Since when did casting spells and whacking old guys become a religion?”
“Religion is an elusive concept, don’t you agree?”
When Mac responded to the
question with only a slight shrug, Alan continued. “As I understand it, there’s a great deal more to Wiccan, as they call it, than casting spells. And as far as ‘whacking’ Reverend Elkins, well, that hasn’t been proved yet, has it?”
“Am I to understand that you don’t agree with that mob, and that those ladies might actually be innocent?”
“I try to maintain an unbiased opinion, that’s all. After all, though my paper is small by comparison to the ones you’ve worked for, I am still a journalist, and as such I owe it to my readership to remain neutral.”
“Well said, Alan, well said,” Mac toasted the older man with his coffee mug. “It’s a shame more journalists don’t adhere to your principles. But I’m interested in these women.” Mac tried to push his special interest in one gorgeous young witch in particular to the back of his mind. “Do you know any of them personally?”
“Oh my, yes. Why, I’ve known Myra Adams from the day she moved into town two years ago. And a finer woman you’ll never find, I might add. She’s beautiful, witty, charming and utterly fascinating. And, of course, I’ve known her daughter, Cassie, for just as long. A lovely girl.”
“But Myra Adams is a practicing witch, right? In fact, isn’t it true that she’s the leader of this so-called coven, what they call the high priestess?” Mac’s left brow lifted sardonically.
“Oh, you know how things are. These women get their notions. Believe me when I tell you, it’s entirely self-delusional. Witchcraft! Come on, this is the twentieth century - nearly the twenty-first. We’re talking about a bunch of women who sit inside a circle of lit candles chanting rhymes. Now what harm can there be in that, I ask you?”
A wry smile tugged at one corner of Mac’s mouth as he answered, “None that I can think of.” He had not missed the fact that Alan Boatwright had made a complete turnaround regarding his thoughts on the Wiccan religion, but decided to keep his observation to himself. More was learned by listening than by talking, he reminded himself as he continued the conversation. “That is, I see no harm until someone comes up murdered, spread out dead center in a circle of candles, with a pentagram carved in his chest and an empty hole where his heart ought to be. Given those circumstances, if a coven of witches should happen to live in the neighborhood, well then, I just might start taking their customs a bit more seriously.”
“Hog wash! Not one of those little ladies would hurt a flea. I don’t believe a word of it.”
Mac leaned back in his seat, appraising the older man with a studied eye. He found it fascinating that the editor of the local newspaper would come out so strongly in defense of the accused women. He couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t another twist to the story he hadn’t discovered yet.
“I try to keep an open mind,” Mac said slowly, letting the words settle between them. “I’d really like to get an interview with Myra, but as long as the sheriff keeps her out of reach that’s not likely to happen. You wouldn’t happen to have an in with the guy, would you?”
“Not enough to get myself in there at the moment. But why don’t you drop in on little Cassie? She works just down the street in that little pet shop we passed by. A pro like you shouldn’t have any trouble getting her to talk. You ought to go down there and give it a try.”
Chapter 2
For the first time in Mac’s professional career he felt the unpleasant sensation of self-doubt. Reticence had never been one of his character traits. And yet when he reached the pet shop he held back. She was sure to remember him from that howling mob and would want nothing to do with him. Yet she was his best hope for an inside track to the most sensational story he had come across in a very long time.
On his way to the shop he had toyed with the idea of using some sort of disguise but decided against it. Not only was it not likely to work, it would probably offend her. I’ll just have to rely on my charm and natural wit, he thought, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The pet shop hadn’t been difficult to find. Located a few blocks down the street from the restaurant, its boldly striped awnings and flower-filled window boxes beckoned to the passer-by. ‘Pets-n-Stuff’ was artistically blazoned across the large bay window in the same shade of purple as the words on the sweat shirt Cassie had worn as she had exited the police station earlier that day.
As he stood before the puppy-filled window, putting off the moment he both dreaded and anticipated, Mac absent-mindedly patted the pocket where he kept his notebook. Although he had no intention of dragging it out in the shop (that would be a sure way of getting him shown the exit), its presence reassured him. Like most reporters, that little black book meant more to him than a few sheets of paper held together by a twist of wire. It was his bible, a bible of his own writing. It held facts that, in his own style, he would turn into a story, and the story was what he lived for.
Right! There’s only the story, he reminded himself. Forget the girl. You’ve never let a woman come between you and a story before, and you’re not about to now. Not even a drop dead gorgeous young witch like Cassie Adams, damn it!
Squaring his shoulders as if he were preparing for battle, he found it only marginally more difficult than usual to slip into his comfortable, well-worn reporter persona as he turned towards the shop’s entrance.
“Hi! How are you?” a raucous voice greeted Mac as he entered the shop.
Mac glanced around but saw no one.
“Hi! How are you?” a large green macaw repeated its greeting.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Mac replied.
“Can I help you?” the bird asked.
“No, thanks, I’m just looking.”
Mac grinned sheepishly, realizing he had actually been having a conversation with a bird.
“You can look all you like,” a woman’s voice came from behind a bunch of cages. “Looking’s free.”
When she stood up, Mac recognized her as one of the two women who had left the police station before Cassie. Her expression was guarded but not hostile, giving him hope that she didn’t recognize him from that chaotic scene. Good, one point in his favor, he sighed with relief. Maybe his face wasn’t all that memorable after all.
He was saved from having to respond further as the door was opened behind him by a customer, triggering another ‘conversation’ with the cocky bird. Clearly the parrot had picked up the phrases from the many times he had heard the store owners greet their customers.
“Smart bird you have there,” he commented as the newly arrived customer drifted to the back of the store where huge aquariums held a colorful assortment of tropical fish. “I bet you’re asking a mint for him.”
“Sure would. That is, if he were for sale. But he’s not. Old General there, he’s family. Why, selling him would be like selling my own kid.”
The conversation was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a very wet English bulldog puppy who came slipping and sliding down the aisle from the back of the shop. Hot on his heels, terry cloth towel in hand, came Cassie Adams.
“Grab him, Shelly! Oh, darn!” she cried as she lunged for the pup, missing him by a hairsbreadth.
“Here, let me,” Mac offered as he made a lunge for the pup. His large hands surrounded the dog’s middle, but because it was still slippery with shampoo, he was unable to hold onto it. Cursing under his breath, Mac joined in the chase as the puppy dashed about the small shop.
Finally, cornered at the front door, the pup let Mac trap him long enough for Cassie to wrap him in the towel. Mac was sure from the dog’s expressive face that he was laughing at all of them as he squirmed in Cassie’s firm grasp.
“Thanks for the help,” she said, chuckling at the squirming bundle of energy in her arms.
“My pleasure,” Mac replied in a soft, restrained voice.
Something in its intimate tone brought her eyes up to his. She started to say something but the words were forgotten as she found herself gazing hypnotically into his narrowed eyes.
“You?” the word was spoken on a soft
breath.
“Cassie?” Shelly’s worried voice broke through the silence, which had suddenly become electrified.
“Uh-huh,” she answered, her eyes never leaving Mac’s.
“Is this man bothering you?”
“What? Oh, no, I don’t think so.” A questioning expression filled her eyes.
She wanted to ask him who he was, why he was here, but somehow she knew. And the funny thing was, even though he might think he could answer those questions, she was fairly certain he didn’t have a clue. Her special gift told her that this man was meant to play a very important role in her life, one that he was totally unaware of. What that role was to be she wasn’t certain of herself, but she knew instinctively that neither of their lives would ever be the same from this moment on.
“Hey, mister, if you’re one of those vultures that call themselves reporters you can just take your tail on out of here.” Shelly’s voice had taken on a sharp edge. “See?” she turned to Cassie, “I told you it was a mistake to open the shop today. We should never have given any of those blood suckers a chance to get to us like this.”
“It’s all right, Shelly,” Cassie reassured her friend. “This man would never hurt me.” She knew in her heart that he could never do her harm, but what of the rest of the coven, were they safe with him as well?
“Right. That is, I just came in to check out your dogs. Been thinking about buying one.”
Why couldn’t he drag his eyes from hers? And why did it feel as if all the air had been siphoned from his lungs?
“You came to the right place, then,” her soft voice floated on the air like feathers.
“Yes,” he answered, suddenly filled with an emotion very much akin to awe. He felt as if she were looking into his very soul and, wonder of all wonders, she didn’t recoil from what she saw there.
“What breed were you interested in?” The corners of her lips curled slightly upward, as if she knew that he had no more intention of buying a dog than of buying the moon. Glints of amusement sparkled in her mesmerizing eyes.
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