In the Air Tonight

by Lori Handeland

  I glanced at Bobby. He lifted a brow. He’d seen it. He’d have to be blind not to.

  While I had left my computer out, I hadn’t left it open. Though considering that I’d shared my body, why wouldn’t he think I’d be happy to share my search engine?

  I waited for the questions, the accusations. Instead, he sipped more coffee, which looked like a good idea. At the least I’d have something to do with my hands. At best maybe my head would clear enough to figure out how to explain myself.

  I drank half of a cup before I faced him and tried another smile. He wasn’t buying this one any easier than he’d bought the last.

  We continued to drink coffee as the silence stretched. I’d watched enough Law and Order to know what he was doing. Silence begged to be filled. If he waited long enough maybe I’d confess.

  Not a chance. He wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  My landline rang, so shrill I gasped. No one ever called me on it anymore. I wasn’t even sure why I kept it.

  “Raye?” My father’s voice sounded rushed and breathless. “Thank God you didn’t come home.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Gee, thanks?

  “I should have called.” Would have if Bobby hadn’t arrived, and then— “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Your phone’s dead.”

  “Oh.” I guess calling my father wasn’t the only thing I’d forgotten to do last night. “You could have called this phone if you needed me.”

  “I would have. Then Chief Johnson told me.”

  I stilled. “Told you what?”

  “That Detective Doucet was keeping an eye on you.”

  “An eye on me?” I echoed as my gaze lifted to Bobby’s. Was that what they called it now? “Why?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  My gaze narrowed. Bobby’s eyebrows lifted as he sipped more coffee. “Tell me what?”

  “A woman broke in here last night. Stabbed your mattress and pillow.”

  “What would anyone have against my mattress and pillow?”

  “I think she meant to stab you, Raye.”

  I’d figured that out for myself. Hence the attempt at tension-diffusing humor.

  “She didn’t hurt you, did she?” I asked.

  “She was already running out the door when I saw her.”

  “Lock up from now on.”

  “As I told the detective when he suggested it, I don’t have a key.”

  “You don’t need a key to lock the place from the inside.”

  He gave a short sharp laugh. “It’s been so long since I locked anything, I forgot.”

  “Don’t forget any more.” I rubbed my forehead.

  “I hope they catch this woman quickly, then everything can go back to the way that it was.”

  I had my doubts that everything was ever going back to the way that it was, but I kept them to myself. Who knew? Miracles happened. Though usually not to me and mine.

  “Why would anyone want to hurt you?” my father asked.

  “I don’t know,” I lied. “Why does anyone want to hurt anyone?”

  “The world is full of crazy people,” he said. “I never thought any of them would come here.”

  The curse of a small town—no one ever did. Which made them woefully unprepared when crazy arrived.

  I offered the most comfort I had at the moment. “I’ll charge my cell. We’ll keep in touch.”

  “You’ll be back at school tomorrow. It’s safe there.”

  “It is.” Another lie, but why stop now?

  Maybe I shouldn’t go to school. I hadn’t wanted danger spilling onto my father, and it had anyway. I certainly didn’t need to bring more of the same to my kids and the school.

  I said good-bye and glanced at Bobby. “When were you going to tell me about the break-in?”

  “Right after you told me why you were researching Venatores Mali.”

  He had me there. What should I say?

  “Mrs. Noita was a witch.”

  Huh, hadn’t planned to lead with that.

  “She was not.”

  “You didn’t even know her.” Neither had I but that was beside the point. “Jenn lived next door as a kid. She and her brothers called Mrs. Noita a witch. To be fair, that was because they weren’t allowed to call her a bitch.”

  Bobby’s lips twitched. “I still don’t see how you knew about the Venatores Mali.”

  “What do you mean by know?”

  “It’s a stretch to jump from mean old lady to secret witch-hunting society unless you knew.”

  I spread my hands, refusing to be drawn into admitting I’d known anything.

  “Tell me how you made that jump.”

  I didn’t like his tone, but I figured I could answer him here or in front of the chief.

  “When we heard the fire was at Mrs. Noita’s, Jenn said that they called her a witch. She even got a potion from the woman once.”

  “Seriously?”

  I shrugged. “The whole thing made me curious. I looked up witch, which led to witch hunters and”—I waved my hand at the computer—“that’s what I got.”

  “Did you find anything on that ring?”

  “The leader of the hunters branded those he burned with his ring. But I couldn’t find any pictures or descriptions of it.”

  “Me either.”

  Which was just plain strange. How had that been kept a secret? And why?

  “What else do you know about Mrs. Noita?”

  “Nothing but what Jenn told me. The woman kept to herself. There’s one in every town. She probably didn’t like people.” After parent-teacher conferences, I didn’t like people much myself, so I could relate. “I didn’t live near her, so I didn’t think much about her.”

  Until she spoke to me from the great beyond.

  “You and everyone else,” he muttered. “You’d think the chief had never met the woman either for all that he could tell me.”

  That was bizarre. Though if Mrs. Noita stayed out of trouble, why would the police know anything? Still …

  “Did you Google her?” I asked. When Bobby shook his head, I tapped the keyboard, typed in the name. “You should probably see this.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Noita means witch.”

  “It does not.”

  I was getting tired of him arguing with everything I said. I turned the computer in his direction. “See for yourself.” I went into the bathroom and closed the door then stared into the mirror and considered what I’d read.

  Noita was the Finnish word for witch. Originally applied to those who fell into a trance, it was believed that while in such a trance their spirit traveled through a hole between heaven and the underworld. There they met the souls of the dead, who offered knowledge that was otherwise lost.

  Maybe I was Finnish, because the similarities between a noita and myself were pretty damning.

  I showered, giving Bobby time to dress and leave. But when I opened the door, he was still there.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I jumped to conclusions.”

  “What kind of conclusions?” I’d be interested to know what he’d thought when he’d opened my computer. He certainly couldn’t suspect that I saw dead people.

  “I have no idea,” he admitted. “I was surprised to find the words Venatores Mali since I was alone when Mrs. Noita told me…” He paused. “Do you think Noita was her real name?”

  “That’s more your department than mine.”

  “I’ll check. Anyway…” He rubbed a hand through his hair, which was already messy from my hands doing the same. Just the sight of it made me want to do it again. “She said the Venatores Mali killed her.”

  I blinked, and gave a short bark of laughter.

  “I know. How could a seventeenth-century Scottish witch-hunting society kill someone in America in the twenty-first century?”

  “There are still Nazis,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t kno
w. Who’d want to be a Nazi?”

  “I meant, why would you bring up Nazis?”

  “Any society can be revived. For that matter, anyone can start a society and slap any name on it that they want. It’s America.”

  Land of the free, home of anyone—including Nazis and witches.

  “But a witch-hunting society?” Bobby persisted. “That’s crazy.”

  “They’re definitely crazy.”

  “There’s no such thing as witches.”

  “There are, Bobby.”

  His expression went mulish.

  “Just because they don’t fly on broomsticks doesn’t mean they aren’t witches. Or at least that they believe they are or say they are. All it would take is for someone who hates them…”

  I paused as a thought trickled through my head but thankfully not out of my mouth: Someone like you.

  I pushed it away and continued. “For someone who hates them to get it into their head to eliminate witches. Add a few more crazies, and you’ve got yourself a tribe. There isn’t anything much stronger than insane people with a cause.”

  “Just look at the Nazis,” Bobby murmured. “You think Mrs. Noita’s niece was a witch too?”

  “Only one way to find out. Bowl of blood, call forth a demon; he should be able tell us.”

  Bobby’s mouth opened and shut, like a goldfish that had done a triple reverse Moses and landed on the floor.

  “Kidding.” I really needed to stop messing with people when I was uncomfortable. It didn’t make me feel any less so and usually made the recipient more so. Lose-lose.

  “You could go to her house, her work, ask questions.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial level. “Like a detective.”

  What had I just thought about messing with people? It was pretty hard not to.

  “Good idea,” he said.

  “Let me know how it goes.”

  “Won’t have to. You’re coming with me.”

  Although I would like nothing better than to spend a day with Bobby Doucet, witch hunting wasn’t what I had in mind. Pretty soon it was going to occur to him to ask why the witch hunters were after me.

  “I have papers to correct. Lessons to plan.” At least there wasn’t a Packer game—bye, week—or my day would really be rushed.

  “Bring it along. I promised Chief Johnson I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

  “But—”

  “Get dressed, Raye. We’re going to Madison.”

  *

  Bobby had flown into the Dane County Regional Airport. He’d been told it was five miles northeast of the business district. He hadn’t cared since he wasn’t staying.

  “Anne McKenna lives on State Street,” he said. They were headed southeast on Interstate 94. Late Sunday morning traffic was moderate. “Is that the business district?”

  “Depends what kind of business you’re talking. The university is huge—over forty thousand students, add professors and support staff, that’s a lotta business. The capitol is right smack in the center of town—even more business.”

  “Are the university and the capitol far apart?”

  “They’re connected by State Street.”

  That hadn’t really answered his question. State Street could be ten miles long.

  “I’ll direct you,” she said. “We’ll have to park a few blocks away, if we’re lucky. State Street is pedestrian traffic only.” She laughed at his expression. “Don’t look so sad. It’s nice not to have to look for cars while you stroll.”

  It sounded like she knew the area well. “Did you go to college there?”

  “I went to Eau Claire. Closer. Cheaper. Easier to get into. But I knew people who went to Madison. I visited. It’s the place to be for college students all over the state.”

  “They don’t like their own colleges?”

  “Sure. But Halloween in Madison is a two-day party. There’s also a spring street festival called Mifflin.”

  “What’s a Mifflin?”

  “The name of the street.”

  “Clever.” He passed a slow-moving semi.

  “Mifflin’s pretty wild; the city has clamped down on it. But they couldn’t do much about Halloween on State Street. People dress up. They go from bar to bar. Sometimes they climb the sidewalk like it’s a mountain.” She held up a hand. “Don’t ask. They did start charging admission, figuring that would cut down on the attendees. It didn’t.”

  “I take it you’ve been there for the Halloween party?”

  “Once. When Jenn insisted. It was insane. So many people. So close. There was one point where I got picked up by the crowd and carried along. My feet didn’t touch the sidewalk. Freaked me out.”

  “I’ve seen that happen at Mardi Gras. It can be scary.”

  “I pushed my way to a store stoop. Everyone was drunk and not very accommodating.” She rubbed her arms as if she were cold. He wanted to hold her, to warm her. “I haven’t been back since.”

  She stared out the window, her fingers curled so tightly around her own arms they’d gone white.

  “What did you wear?” he asked.

  Her breath rushed out. She’d been holding it. He didn’t like the idea of her in a crowd, panicked, alone. He should probably have changed the subject completely, but he’d also been intrigued by the idea of her in costume. What would Raye Larsen wear to the Halloween party of the year?

  “I was a witch,” she said, as if it were a new and interesting revelation.

  He made a soft sound of amusement, and she smiled, letting her arms fall back to her sides. Mission accomplished.

  “I had the choice of being a black cat or a witch. As the cat costume consisted of a black bodysuit with a studded collar and leash, very Jenn, I picked the witch outfit.”

  “Pointy hat?”

  “Check.”

  “What else?”

  She slid a glance in his direction. At least she’d stopped holding her breath and rubbing herself as if she’d been dumped out of the car in the middle of a snowstorm.

  “The last time someone asked ‘what are you wearing?’ I hung up on them.”

  “I promise not to breathe too heavily.”

  “You won’t want to. My costume consisted of a puffy black dress that reached to my knees, purple and white striped wool socks, ruby slippers, a broom, and green makeup.”

  “Wart?”

  She touched the tip of her nose. “Yep.”

  “Very ‘I’ll get you, my pretty.’ With that getup, Jenn should have dressed like Toto and not a cat.”

  “Jenn would never consent to being a dog.”

  “Good point.”

  They continued in silence for several miles. The sign for the next exit proclaimed a variety of fast food choices. “You want something to eat?”

  They’d dressed and left without bothering to down anything more than coffee. He was fine; he’d done the same a thousand times before, but she looked pale.

  “McDonald’s,” she read. “Taco Bell. Dunkin Donuts is tempting. But if I’m going to blow the diet I’d rather go to State Street Brats.”

  He eyed her. “Diet?”

  “Not so much for weight loss as for health.”

  “You’re twenty-seven. Don’t you have a few years before you need to watch your food choices?”

  “I have no idea of my health history. For all I know my parents had diabetes, high cholesterol, and the fat gene.”

  He’d never considered all the issues that an adopted child would have to face. In this day and age, most knew their parents, or they could if they wanted to. They definitely had access to their medical records. What would it be like not to know anything about where you came from?

  “I watch the salt, the fat, the junk,” she continued. “But I’m a sucker for State Street Brats. That’s my splurge.”

  Bobby had heard of bratwurst, never had one, wasn’t sure he wanted to. His thoughts must have shown on his face because Raye patted his knee. “The place is legend. Brats in nearly every menu i
tem. They even have a red bratwurst.”

  “Why?”

  “Badger spirit. Red brat, white bun. Go Big Red.” She pumped her fist into the air.

  People were crazy. But he’d known that as soon as he understood the meaning of the word. If people weren’t, he’d be out of a job. Some days he didn’t think that would be such a bad thing.

  Raye indicated the next exit. “This one.”

  He followed her directions. The big white capitol dome loomed above streets that were a maze. He could have plugged the address into his GPS but why bother when he had her?

  Memories of last night surfaced—the way that she’d tasted, the sound of her cries, the brush of her breath, the clasp of her thighs.

  “Take the next parking place you see.”

  He snapped out of the past. He was on a case. Now was not the time for pornographic daydreams and bad poetry.

  Bobby saw a space half a block up. He had to parallel park, but he was good at it, even with a car that wasn’t his.

  “Nice,” she said as they climbed out. “You didn’t even tap the curb.”

  “As if.”

  She smiled, and for an instant he thought she’d take his hand. For an instant he almost took hers, until he remembered.

  Case. Victim. Murderer. He swooped out his arm in a “be my guest” gesture, and she led the way.

  They took one turn and State Street spread out before them like a Midwestern French Quarter. Shops, taverns, restaurants. People milled about, walking dogs, sipping coffee.

  “Is this it?” Raye peered at the numbers above the nearest doorway—a used bookstore.

  “That one.” He lifted his chin to indicate another farther down.

  Raye stopped in front of it and frowned.

  “Is it closed?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, just pointed to the sign above the doorway, which read: PRACTICAL MAGIC.

  Chapter 17

  “Just because she lives above a magic shop doesn’t make her a witch,” Bobby said.

  “It’s not a magic shop.” Raye tapped the star surrounded by a circle. “A pentagram is a Wiccan symbol.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  “Don’t you? You live in New Orleans.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “I try to avoid the weird shit.”

  Or at least he had after he’d met Audrey. She’d brought enough weird shit into his life to last the rest of it. He’d never been sure if she believed in all the kooky crap she and her friends spouted, or if she’d only pretended she had in order to dupe the pathetic, unsuspecting, and desperate.