"Oh, no you don't. If it's exciting enough to call me after midnight, I want to hear it."
He paused. "Okay, so I was going through the files again, making notes, trying to find connections. You know that Alastair Koppel used to live in Columbus, right?"
"He went to high school here, but he never came back after college. His parents moved away ten years ago, when they retired. No other family in town."
"You've done your homework then. Did you notice when he left?"
"Before--no, during college. He was going to college in Portland, so he commuted. That must not have worked out too well. In his third year, he moved out of his parents' place. Or second year. People weren't clear on that."
"It was 1983."
"Okay, 1983."
"Anything else happen in 1983?"
"No idea. I wasn't born."
"But someone else was. And it seems someone on this investigation is a CSI fan."
"What?"
"They went a little crazy gathering DNA. They got DNA profiles on Ginny, Brandi, Claire, and just about everyone questioned. Except Cody and his wife, who knew their rights and refused. When I was writing up the file, looking for connections, I saw one, and I faxed the profiles to a buddy to confirm. He just got back to me."
He stopped. I could feel his excitement buzzing down the line.
"DNA ... 1983 ..." I said. "Shit ... 1983. The year both Ginny and Brandi were born. Our cult leader is Brandi's father, isn't he?"
"Not Brandi's."
"Ginny's?"
"Yep. Seems Paula Thompson wasn't exactly being honest when she said there was no connection between her daughter and Koppel. The cops never noticed it because, obviously, they were only holding the DNA profiles to compare to a potential suspect's, not crossreferencing--"
My phone blipped, telling me I had an incoming text. It was from Michael.
Lne bsy. Fnd s/t. Cody. Imp. Anyway u can come? 384 SW 3rd Ave. B careful.
"Michael just texted me," I said to Jesse. "He found something and he'd like me over there. I'm guessing it's that delivery Cody had scheduled for tonight."
"Right. You go, then."
I hung up, called Michael, and got a message that the line was busy-probably as he tried to call me again. When it went to voice mail, I left a message, then I grabbed my jacket and sneakers and hurried out.
twenty-one
Southwest 3rd Avenue. I knew exactly where the street was, because I'd wanted to go there tonight. Cody's office was on that road, in a generic office block, with a medical and dental clinic on the first floor. Built to service the sawmill, I bet. Give workers a convenient place for daytime appointments and give contract and auxiliary companies a convenient place for their offices. Now though, every entry on the communal front sign was taped over, every decal sign on the windows partly scratched away.
Just past that lone office building, there were a couple of abandoned warehouses. The address Michael had sent led to one.
I killed the engine three buildings back and coasted to a stop. Nothing says "company" like the roar of a motorcycle on an empty road. All was quiet, though. I sat there, helmet off, listening. I cast a sensing spell. Nothing.
I rolled the bike alongside the other warehouse and parked it in the shadows. Then I called Michael again. The phone went straight to voice mail. I switched to text and messaged him a simple I'm here.
No answer.
I crept along the building, then stopped. More listening. More looking. More casting. All negative. I double-checked the address.
Had he even meant Columbus? In this part of the country 3rd Avenue was a common street name. Maybe it was Battle Ground or Vancouver.
But we knew Cody was expecting a delivery. Could it be a coincidence that Michael's address led me to abandoned warehouses only doors away from Cody's office? I doubted it. Besides, Michael thought I didn't have my bike back. It would be tough enough for me to get out here, let alone to another town.
Still ... Abandoned warehouse. Deserted road. Urgent late-night text message. Can't contact the sender. Yep, paranoia was warranted.
I cast a blur spell and zipped to the rear of the warehouse. The door was unlocked. With my back to the wall, I eased it open and cast a fast sensing spell. Only the faint pulse of small heartbeats came back. Rats, cats, or other furry squatters.
Had Michael come and gone? If he had, why not text me again?
I cast a blur spell and slid inside. The windows were filthy and when the door closed behind me, the light went out. Damn it, I needed a flashlight. Everyone said I relied too much on my spells. They might have a point. I used the light ball. It was easy enough to extinguish in a hurry, and safer than stumbling in the dark.
As I stepped past the entrance, I caught a whiff of smoke. There was the acrid scent of burned paper, but something sweeter, too. My shoe sent a white tube rolling silently across the floor. Cigarette? I bent. No, a joint. Was that what I smelled? Yes, I know what pot smells like--never tried it, knowing drugs could do funky things with my powers. But the scent seemed sweeter. Spicier. Cloves?
I walked a few more steps and picked up another burning scent. Candles. I found one on the floor, as if it had been dropped. I picked it up. Still warm. The sides were rough. I brought the light ball down lower and saw faint scratches. Symbols.
The hair on my neck prickled. A ritual? Was this what Michael found? Or, worse, stumbled on?
I walked slower as I scanned the floor for chalk marks. I found disturbances in a thick layer of dust that seemed to serve the same purpose. Ritual markings. Like the chalk mark in the crime-scene photos, they were faint. Easily overlooked.
Someone had definitely conducted a ritual here tonight.
I cast the sensing spell again. Still negative for people. I had my cell on vibrate, but I checked it anyway. No calls. No texts.
As I made my way deeper into the building, the dust on the floor thickened and I could make out footprints; lots of scuff marks at first, then clear impressions in spots where no one had ventured in a while. Men's loafers. Like Michael's.
The tracks led to a set of wooden stairs going up to an observation deck. I could see a couple of desks up there, and more boxes. Extra storage and a place for a security guard to work, looking out over the floor below. The perfect place to get a good view of the whole warehouse.
Michael's were the only prints leading up. As I started to climb, I noticed something dart between boxes below. Glowing green eyes flashed. A hiss. Then a waving tail as a cat tore off.
I seemed to be attracting cats these days. I shook my head, glanced back up the stairs, and cast my sensing spell. Nothing. I cast again, to be sure. Nothing. Michael must have gone down a set of stairs I couldn't see. I'd find those, then maybe climb up and get a look from above.
The cat moved alongside me, hopping over the boxes, turning every few seconds to spit at me, pissed off, it seemed, because I insisted on traveling in the same direction.
I sent a few sparks flying its way and it gave me one last hiss, then tore off ahead, still keeping to the same path. Determined to head in this direction, however nervous I made it. I followed.
It had slid between two rows of boxes. A tight squeeze, but I made it. When I shone the light ball ahead, another cat turned, hissing, orange fur puffing. I stopped and it lowered its head to the floor again. A rasping sound. It was licking the floor. I tossed the light ball over it. Tendrils of blood snaked across the concrete.
I raced forward, elbows knocking the boxes on either side. Ahead, I saw a leg stretched out. Light chinos. Brown loafers. I pictured Michael from earlier, his tan pants and darker shoes.
I shoved my way through, sending boxes crashing. Michael was draped over the remains of a smashed wooden crate. On his back, face turned the other way, head at an angle that was wrong, just wrong. Blood dripped from his fingertips, slow and steady, a pool growing on the concrete floor beneath him.
I stood there, brain stuttering, telling myself it was so
meone else wearing clothing like Michael's. It wasn't him. Couldn't be him.
Then I thought I saw him breathe and I dropped beside him, slipping in the blood and not caring. My fingers went to his neck. No pulse. His skin was chilled, clammy.
I turned his face toward me. His head moved easily. Too easily. His neck was broken.
His eyes were open. Open and empty.
No, I'd seen him move. Goddamn it, I'd seen him move. How could he break his neck? What could--?
I looked up. The ledge of the observation deck was twenty feet above me.
He stepped back too far. Went over the edge. Hit the crates. Hit the cement. Broke his neck.
No! Goddamn it, no! Not Michael. He'd never be that careless.
My phone vibrated. It was like an electric shock and I jumped. I fumbled and pulled it out. Jesse. I answered.
"Hey, just wanted to make sure everything's--"
"Michael. He's--I found Michael. He fell. He's--" I squeezed my eyes shut. "He's dead."
When Jesse didn't answer, I said, "He's dead. Michael's dead."
"Shit ..." He floundered, then came back, firm. "Are you still at the scene? Have you called 911?"
"N-no. I should. I will."
"Do that. I'm on my way." A pause. "Where are you?"
I gave him the address.
"Call 911 and hang tight. I'll be there as fast as I can. Don't move anything. Don't touch anything. Got it?"
I said I did. Then I hung up. I pressed 9, and crouched there, finger poised over the 1.
This was no accident. I was sure of that. Sure. He'd been murdered.
Dead.
Oh, God.
Dial the numbers, damn it.
A squeak behind me. I turned to a flashlight shining in my eyes. Beside it, the barrel of a gun. The phone fell. My hands shot up. Sparks sizzled from my fingertips.
"Drop it!" a voice barked.
The flashlight swung out of my face and I saw Chief Bruyn. The younger officer stood behind him.
"Hands up," Bruyn said.
They already were, but I hoisted them higher, palms out. My fingers had stopped sparking.
"She had something," Bruyn said to his officer. "Find it, then take her out to the car."
"I had my phone," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I dropped it when you startled me. I was dialing 911. It's Michael Kennedy. He ... he fell. From up there." I pointed. "He's dead."
The officer patted me down as I spoke. Bruyn checked Michael, then called the sheriff's department and doctor, then phoned the other officer, telling him to get over there. When he hung up, he walked back to Michael.
"He called me here," I said. "I found him."
"Sit her down over there," Bruyn said, pointing. "And stand guard."
"Stand guard? You think I killed--?"
I didn't finish. Stupid question. I'd been found over a dead body.
"Michael sent me a text. It's still on my phone." I pointed to it on the ground. "Just check--"
"Get her away from here," Bruyn said.
"You want her in the cruiser?"
"No, just over there." He pointed. "In case the doc has questions."
The other officer arrived, then the doctor. He didn't ask me anything. I don't think he even knew I was there. Having me sitting twenty feet away as they discussed the case wasn't exactly smart policing. After the doctor left, Bruyn seemed to figure that out, and had the young officer take me to the cruiser as the sheriff's department arrived.
"Someone called 911 before me, didn't they?" I said to Bruyn as I left. "Reported a disturbance? Just in time for you to find me with the body."
He said nothing, but I could tell by his expression that I was right.
"That would be your killer," I said. "He saw me arrive and is probably out there, right now, watching us."
"There's no one else for a mile."
"We're on a street with a bunch of empty buildings. Any one of those would be the perfect place--"
"We didn't see anything."
"Do you think the killer parked his car out front and left the lights on?"
He glared and swung open the back door of a king cab pickup marked "Columbus Police Dept."
With a roar of tires and cloud of dust, another pickup swung into the lot. Jesse jammed it into park so fast the brakes hiccupped.
"Is she okay?" he called, running over as the officer prodded me into the back.
"I'm fine," I said. "The prime suspect, it seems, but otherwise fine."
"Suspect?" He wheeled on the cop. "Are you serious? She called it in."
"No, someone else beat me to it," I said.
"This is stupid. She got a text--"
I held up my hand as I climbed in. "It's okay. I'll answer their questions and we'll get this straightened out."
The officer tried to shut the door, but it wouldn't budge. He glared down at my feet--which were well within the cab confines--then at Jesse, who stood three feet away. He tried again. The door wouldn't shut, held by Jesse's telekinetic powers.
"Do you want me to call anyone?" Jesse asked.
"Not yet. I should be able to sort this out on my own."
He nodded. "That's what I thought you'd say. I'm here now, I can help, and if we need Lucas, he's only a call away."
"That's enough," the officer said.
He gave the door a sharp wrench and Jesse's telekinetic control over it snapped as it slammed shut. Jesse stood there, watching me, looking anxious.
"I'm okay," I mouthed.
He headed into the warehouse. The officer shouted at him to stay out of there. Jesse ignored him. The cop glanced from me to Jesse, and decided to remain at his post. A few minutes later, Jesse came out, escorted by the older cop.
"Look, just talk to her," I heard Jesse saying. "She was here because she was lured here. Set up."
I didn't catch the officer's answer, but Jesse's face darkened. He said something back, too low to hear. The cop stiffened, then pointed to Jesse's truck.
"Fucking rednecks," Jesse called back as he stormed off.
The cop's flashlight went flying. A parting shot from Jesse. As the Deputy chased after it, Jesse mouthed "I'll fix this" to me. Then he climbed in his truck and peeled out.
It got very, very quiet then, left alone with a silent cop standing guard.
Michael was dead.
The guy I'd just gone out to dinner with. Just laughed with. Talked with. Kissed and thought "this could be something."
I kept seeing him. Hearing his voice. Smelling the faint scent of his cologne. Then smelling blood, jerking out of the daydream, shivering, eyes prickling. I didn't cry. I don't cry. I wished I could. But all I could do was keep playing those memory loops. Michael alive. Michael dead.
The chief finally came out. He didn't say a word to me, just motioned for the officer guarding me to follow. Leaving the other cop guarding the scene, he got into his car. We followed him back to the station.
twenty-two
The officer took me through a narrow door beside the front desk that led into a makeshift cell. I dug in my heels, about to say I wasn't going in there without being charged. Then I saw Bruyn was already inside, seated at a table. An interrogation room, apparently.
Still, I hesitated at the door. "I'll come in here to talk to you, but you're not locking that door without laying a charge."
"Oh, I expect to lay a charge, Ms. Levine."
Bullshit. The only way he was doing that is if I confessed. I sat. No one Miranda-ized me, which could mean Bruyn considered this just an interview. Otherwise, I'd be at the sheriff's office, not here.
Still, if there's one bit of legal advice Lucas drilled into my head growing up, it's this: If held by the police, for any reason, lawyer up. Don't say a word without him there.
I'd always rolled my eyes, wondering how stupid Lucas thought I was. I sure as hell wasn't going to be one of those morons you see on crime shows who waives her rights straight into self-incrimination. You have the right to a lawyer
, so get one, especially if he is also one of your best friends.
But I didn't ask for my phone call. Didn't mention my lawyer. Lucas was a thousand miles away. All my phone call would do was get him on the next plane home, and I'd be free before he got here.
If I was transferred to the sheriff's department, I'd call. Otherwise, I'd deal with it ... and deal with the lectures when Lucas found out.
Bruyn asked for my side of the story. I gave it and when I was done, he just sat there.
"That's it," I said. "I found Michael. You found me. End of story."
"You really expect me to believe that, Ms. Levine?"
"Considering it's the truth, yes. And considering there's nothing even remotely far-fetched about it, yes. You can call the restaurant where we had dinner. We overstayed our welcome, so they're bound to remember us, and remember that we were obviously on a date and having a good time."
"What does that have to do with anything? If you think that means you wouldn't kill--"
"No, I think it means my story is perfectly plausible. We were getting along and trying to work together. He was following a lead I gave him on Cody. He found something. He texted me. I'm sure you've confirmed the message on my phone."
"We will. One of my officers saw you arguing with Detective Kennedy in the street this afternoon."
"We disagreed about a risk I was taking. We parted amicably, with plans for dinner. You can ask Kayla Thompson. She was there."
"My officer caught you sneaking around Renny's Garage, just hours before we found you with Detective Kennedy's body."
"No, he didn't catch me sneaking around. He caught me repairing my bike. You can check with the garage and with the bike shop in Vancouver, where I picked up the tire this evening. With Michael."
"You didn't like him horning in on your job."
"No, I believe he was the one complaining. And he got over it. Otherwise why would we be out on a dinner date?"
"It was a setup."
"For what? Is that the motivation you're seriously going with? I killed him because he was interfering with a job?"
"I have no idea what your motivation is. I don't care."
It was at that point that I shut up, because I realized he was just fishing for answers, hoping to get a confession he could hand over to the sheriff's department.
When I stopped talking, he was stuck. So he backed up and took another run down the same path, making me repeat my story. When I was done, he hit the wall again. So he had me tell my story again. Killing time until he heard from the doctor or the sheriff's department? Or praying I'd slip up and give him something?
Waking the Witch Page 14