Spells for the Dead

by Faith Hunter

  “I didn’t kill her,” she sobbed, the sound muffled in her tissue.

  “We know,” Hooper said. “PsyLED employs witches, and Special Agent Kent has determined that the magical energies that killed Stella Mae and the others were put in place approximately four days ago before the band came home.”

  I looked up at that. No one had told me and I hadn’t read that report.

  “You were on the road with the band at the time,” he continued, “and, per the coven out of Nashville, you are not a death witch. The agents are going to record this conversation,” he said, “and you will answer fully each question that I approve. Anytime I say so, you stop. After the agents are done with their questions, you and I will have some time alone to discuss the next steps and to make sure that I have a full and complete list of all the ways in which your civil rights were abused. Understood?”

  Catriona nodded and blew her nose. “Thank God. I havena prayed since I was a wee lass, but I been praying so hard.” She blew her nose again. “I’m such a mess.”

  She was, too. Makeup streaked, face chapped, hair a wild tangle. Fear and sweat had made a stink even a human could smell.

  I said, “As soon as we’re finished here we’ll see about you getting a shower and clean clothes.”

  FireWind glanced at me and turned on a tiny recorder. He gave the date, the location, and the names of everyone present. “Can you tell us what you know of the deaths at Melody Horse Farm?”

  “You may answer the question, Ms. Doyle,” Patrick Hooper said.

  “I got to the house. They told me Stella was dead. I ran downstairs and saw the . . . the bodies,” she whispered. “They were horrible and not natural. Couldna be. So I started a seeing working and saw these . . . these energies. I’ve never seen such in ma life, like black glass, broken, and on fire.”

  I held in my surprise. She saw the death and decay just like I had.

  “I thought it was a death working, though I had never seen one before. Then the police came and the FBI agent put me in handcuffs and hauled me away.” Her wrists were bruised, the skin red and irritated. Smythe hadn’t been gentle with her.

  “Tell me about Stella,” FireWind said. “I understand she was a very special person.”

  “You may answer, Ms. Doyle,” Patrick Hooper said.

  Catriona cried through several more tissues. Drank most of my water, and then cried some more. As she cried, Catriona talked. And talked. About how wonderful Stella was, how kind, how giving. What a wonderful musician and human being.

  On my tablet, I took notes of the names she mentioned and cross-referenced them with my lists, while creating a Catriona timeline. But about fifteen minutes into her monologue, I realized that Catriona was speaking to me as much as to FireWind and her lawyer, and my boss glanced a command to me, one I understood instantly. I realized that I was supposed to be asking questions and clarifying the things Catriona said. I was the token woman to keep Catriona from feeling afraid with male investigators? Oh. To FireWind, token woman was an important designation. There were times when I was an idiot.

  I said, “Stella sounds wonderful. A true friend. We’re trying to create a timeline. Can you tell us where you spent the nights prior to the bodies being found? And is there anyone who can corroborate where you were?”

  Patrick Hooper nodded that Catriona should answer.

  “Both nights after we got back, I slept on Etain’s pull-out sofa with ma Miren. I don’t have an apartment because it seemed stupid to pay rent when we’ll be—we would have been—on the road two hundred days a the year.” Her face crumpled. “I was finally a full-time member of the band. I was going to homeschool Miren on the road instead of leaving her with Etain. Now, I don’t have a place to live. Or a job. And I’m in jail. And—” She stopped and sobbed. “And ma Miren is God knows where.”

  FireWind gave me another encouraging nod.

  I said, “Your lawyer is working to get her back. For now, do you feel we can talk about when you first got to the farm yesterday?” Catriona nodded, wiped her chapped face again, and sipped the last of the water. “Who was there?” I asked.

  A little over an hour later, the door opened and Smythe walked in. If his coloration was an indication, he was livid.

  “Where are her restraints?” he spat at us. Over his shoulder he shouted, “Get her restrained and into her cell. And get them out of here.”

  The guard darted in.

  FireWind stood. He seemed to move slowly, a gliding step, but he somehow ended up across the table and between the guard and Catriona. FireWind’s black hair was down and long and flowing, an easy handle if the guard grabbed him, but FireWind’s shoulders were relaxed. His hands were loose and ready. And he was smiling.

  It was a chilling smile, all teeth and bright yellow eyes, a skinwalker leaking power. It was like Occam but bigger, older, and much, much more dangerous. Patrick Hooper stood to one side of Catriona. I took a spot on her other side. I smiled too. I wasn’t a skinwalker with magical powers, but I had learned early on that an unafraid woman was a terrifying thing to some men. Smythe looked like one of those men. I stared at him, but kept an eye on the guard too.

  FireWind stared at Smythe. Softly, his lips barely moving, he said, “Catriona Doyle is a foreign national, held and questioned in regards to a capital crime for which there is insufficient evidence. She asked for an attorney when she was brought in for questioning. No lawyer was provided. Yet she was questioned extensively over the last twenty-four hours, with no water, no sleep, and no food. A representative from the Irish embassy is on the way here. The assistant director of PsyLED is making extensive phone calls. The director of the FBI is being notified of your breach of conduct. The chief of police is being notified through official channels.”

  “I said to restrain her,” Smythe snarled to the guard.

  FireWind spoke directly to the guard. “I am informing you of a severe breach of this prisoner’s constitutionally guaranteed civil rights. If you stay, you will take part in whatever penalties Smythe incurs. Or, you may leave this room right now.”

  The guard turned and left. FireWind, his power like an icy draft in the room, swiveled to Smythe. All nonhuman grace.

  “You ain’t human,” Smythe accused.

  “Turn off the recorder,” FireWind said, his words soft and slow. He shifted his body a fraction of an inch. His head moved forward. One hand formed a fist. “I don’t want this on record.”

  It sounded so much like a threat that Smythe turned and left. If he’d been a were-creature his tail woulda been stuck firmly between his legs. Under most circumstances, I didn’t particularly like Ayatas FireWind, but if I was a prisoner in need of protecting, I’d surely want him in my corner, fighting for me. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that maybe FireWind was hard on his units because he saw us as the ones who were protecting others. Maybe he wanted us to be the best. Didn’t make me like him any better, but I was coming to understand him.

  The chief of police caught the door before it closed and stepped in. He was a big man, florid faced, clearly experienced, as he took in the room. He nodded to me, to Hooper, and to FireWind. He totally ignored the prisoner. “I understand that the FBI may have abused a prisoner in my lockup. Is that so?”

  “It is,” FireWind said.

  “I’ve heard rumors about Smythe’s methods. Never seen proof of it. But I made a point of sticking around today, even though it’s my day off. I don’t like what I just saw through the observation window.” He tilted his head at the mirror behind us. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Would you have a problem with Gerry Stapp taking over the FBI office?” FireWind asked, his body relaxing from the threat of violence to something less menacing.

  The chief stuck his thumbs into his belt. “You mean because he’s black and gayer than a rainbow? No. I don’t care about the color of Stapp’s sk
in. My paternal grandpappy was purported to be half black and I was bullied about it all through elementary school. Pissed me off. I loved that old man. Best man I ever met.

  “And my baby brother died of AIDS in San Fran back in the nineties. He was gayer than a chorus line dancer. I still miss him. I employ two lesbians and if a male deputy is gay I don’t care. I don’t care what any of my officers or employees do behind closed doors or how they live their private lives as long as they keep their noses clean and do their jobs.”

  I said softly, “And yet you had heard there were problems. That means you allowed Smythe to abuse prisoners in your interrogation rooms. More importantly, you let your guards assist. Under your watch.”

  The chief flushed. “Smythe’s FBI. Fighting him would have accomplished nothing without proof. I got proof now. It won’t happen again.”

  “We’ll be finished here shortly,” FireWind said. “I’ll be sending reports to my superior and to the FBI regional SAC within the hour. It is my firm belief that Catriona Doyle will be released soon. There will be a second press conference at six thirty p.m. to announce the direction of the investigation into Stella Mae Ragel’s death by magical means. All official apologies will be made to Ms. Doyle, whether she has been released by then or not. Appreciation will be offered for her cooperation. At that time, I will personally do my best to clear her good name. If you wish to join the lead investigator and the sheriff for that press conference, you are welcome, provided that Ms. Doyle has been fed, allowed to clean up, and given fresh clothes.” When the other man started to speak, FireWind spoke over his words. “Also provided that her daughter has been allowed to speak to her on the phone, and that compelling measures have been taken to place Miren with Etain Doyle.” He gave a smile that would have done a wildcat proud.

  “Might take you up on that next press conference.” The chief glanced at Catriona and back. “She’ll be offered all proper and legally available means to make her comfortable. I’ll contact social services and request a callback from the social worker on call this weekend. Make sure your paperwork is all in order.” The chief left the room, moving fast for a big man.

  EIGHT

  I took Highway 62 and was back in Knoxville HQ by four thirty p.m. It had already been a long day. I updated JoJo on the interrogation in Cookeville PD, wrote up my reports, organized my files, and watered my office plants. I also went upstairs to the vacant third floor and looked around. Construction had begun in the last few days in the huge, empty, wall-less space. The studs in the outer walls were metal, not wood, with foam insulation everywhere. The floor was neatly swept concrete. Wiring extended from pipes in the walls, and plumbing pipes were roughed in. There were orange lines spray-painted all over the floor where walls might go. On the back of the building there was a shaft for a future elevator, in a space that roughly correlated with the emergency stairs.

  A makeshift table stood in the middle of the room. I walked across to it and saw two sets of floor plans. One was yellowed and dusty, and showed a lab. The other was newer, and it was a plan for offices.

  It was interesting. And different. If the offices went through, it meant having PsyLED brass on hand all the time. FireWind, Soul. And half of our team split up and working up here. I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t ready for change.

  Which was why I hadn’t gone home yet. Not being ready for change and not wanting to deal with the monsters Strife and Discord. “Time to face the monsters,” I whispered. Downstairs, I gathered my gear and said good-bye to JoJo. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “Watch the press conference on YouTube,” she said.

  “Yeah. Okay,” I said, not knowing if I would be able to. I might have to catch the high points later. It was a sunny Saturday with fluffy clouds in the sky, but I was too tired to enjoy it. Pellissippi Parkway and Oak Ridge Highway were bumper-to-bumper and I sighed with relief when I skirted Oliver Springs and turned into the hills. There were a few yellow poplars and rare orangey maples standing out against the wash of green. I rolled down the window and breathed deeply, smelling the life and the wonder of the green. Soulwood was waiting for me, and I knew the moment it felt me drive onto its lands. A rush of happiness and warmth rolled through me like the first day of spring. I was home.

  * * *

  * * *

  Mud was in the backyard, training Cherry in the homemade obstacle course between the new greenhouse and the house. My youngest sister was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt—not clothing she would ever have been allowed to wear were she still in the church. Mud’s short hair bounced with every stride.

  In a burst of defiance following her second day of public school, Mud had come in the door, gone to the kitchen, and whacked off her hair with a kitchen knife. A boy had pulled her ponytail and teased her about being a member of the “sex church.” I had a feeling there had been more than that said, enough to leave Mud in tears. The ragged hair had resulted in a trip into town to the hair salon where I got my first short cut. It had also resulted in the purchase of training bras, Mud’s first tube of pale lipstick, first powder compact, and first deodorant. Things I hadn’t thought about for my baby sister.

  Mama had nearly had kittens when she saw the short hair and the lipstick, and started a ruckus about me not getting custody. I’d been forced to pull her and the other mamas aside and tell them that the church was known by the younger townie boys as the “sex church.” The mamas and I had a long, plainspoken discussion about that, and about what it meant to the church’s young women in the eyes of the world. It had been a come-to-Jesus meeting for real and sure, and, while they were still speaking to me, the mamas weren’t happy.

  Mud hadn’t noticed me drive up. She looked free and happy and adorable and gangly, just like all the other girls at middle school. I sat in the car and watched my sister run, long bare legs in the early fall sunshine. The springer spaniel, Cherry, was totally focused on her, desperate to please her master. In that moment, I knew that no matter how bad things got with Esther and no matter how badly my sisters fought, and no matter how hard and expensive it was to get full custody of Mud, it was all worth it. Having Mud here and safe and no longer in the sights of the churchmen was worth anything and everything. I was close to getting full and permanent custody. Just one more hearing. Just a few more thousand dollars in legal fees. And Mud would be free.

  I got out of the car and carried my gear, the potted tree, and the bud vase up the steps to the porch and inside. The new air conditioner was purring, keeping the house at a steady seventy-six degrees. The air smelled of cleaning supplies and fresh paint from the remodeling that had only recently been completed. There was a fresh loaf of pumpkin bread on the kitchen table. I put my gear beside it. The house was spotless. No dust on the tables or my desk. No cat hair under the edge of the sofa. No dirt where an animal rubbed against a doorjamb. No dog hair on the sofa. No dirty dishes. Not a single thing out of place. It looked like . . . like Esther’s place. Too clean. Too perfect.

  Also, no mouser cats were in sight. And no Esther. Except for the faint squeals from outside and the AC unit, the house was silent.

  Quietly, I put my things away and used the downstairs bath. It had been remodeled, with white tile everywhere, a new sink and cabinet, new flooring, and even an exhaust fan to suck the moisture out. The bath smelled of Clorox and it sparkled. My toothbrush, comb, brush, and hair dryer were lined up perfectly. There was pine cleanser in the toilet. No hair or leaves were on the floor. I sighed. Esther had clearly been in a cleaning frenzy. A common reaction to trauma.

  I carried the death and decay–stinking clothes to the back porch to put on a load of wash. Someone had started a stew in the slow cooker that was sitting on the gardening table and it smelled fabulous.

  Out back Mud and her dog were running and jumping. My twelfth year had been so very different. With a rush, I remembered the utter relief of moving here, away from the Colonel, awa
y from danger, but also away from everyone and everything I knew. The loneliness. The homesickness. There had been no carefree moments like Mud was having. It was all different for her. Cherry raced through a succession of hoops and Mud squealed with delight.

  I started the wash, lowered the machine’s lid, and stepped into the day’s last warmth. Mud squealed even higher in pitch and raced to me, grabbing me into a bone-crushing hug. She had gotten so tall. Gingerly, I hugged her back, not quite understanding why there were tears in my eyes.

  “Come see the greenhouse!” She dragged me by one arm to the side and back of the house, as if I might try to get away. “I got all sorts of stuff growing.”

  We left Cherry sitting woefully outside and entered the greenhouse, which was heated from the sun and muggy from the watering system. It was all built to church standards by Daddy, our true brother Sam, and the Nicholson faction in the church. Mud and I had planted lettuce and spinach and basil and green onions in its raised beds, along with a dozen aromatic and flowering herbs she had picked out herself. All were growing faster and taller and greener than they should have. “I been telling them to grow,” she said. “And they are. Look! This’un’s called Thai basil. Smell,” she said, breaking off a young leaf and holding it to my nose.

  I sniffed. “Nice. Spicy. They’re beautiful,” I said, pulling her against me, my arm round her shoulders. I had told basils to grow when I was a child. Mud was a plant person like me, like Esther. I knew it. I felt it in my bones, though I had no real proof yet. I checked Mud carefully every night before she went to bed, and so far no leaves.

  Mud started chattering about chickens and chicken runs in the greenhouse. Nattering about herbal vinegars and the teas she wanted to grow and sell to the townies. Happy. We walked together and talked, and then I said I had to get back inside. She hugged me once hard and raced back to Cherry and her agility training.