"Yes, yes it is, Reverend! Oh, my Lord, yes!"
"I am in the way of knowing, Beatrice, that your mother will be healed, if only you have enough faith. Do you have faith, Beatrice? Do you love the Lord Jesus?"
"Oh, yes, Reverend Tommy! Praise His name!"
"Then if your faith is strong, if you truly believe, your dear mother will be delivered from her plight."
Reverend Tommy drew another noisy breath. "Is there a man here named Jimmy, no Jerry, from the Midwest, from, Iowa?"
It went on that way for another ten or so minutes, and then Reverend Tommy said, "Is there a woman named Madge, from New Jersey, I think it might be Patterson?"
The woman who had been speaking to Winona Timberlake jumped to her feet and began waving her hand frantically. "It's me, Reverend, over here!"
"Madge, the Lord is revealing to me that you have an illness, a cancer. That's right, isn't it?"
"Yes, Reverend, yes! Praise His name!"
"Do you believe the Lord has the power to cure your cancer, Madge?"
"Yes, I do, Reverend Tommy!"
"Can you feel his healing touch upon you even now?"
"Oh, my Lord, yes I do, I feel it now!"
"Can you sense those cancer cells shrinking, dying, disappearing from your body through the holy power of the Lord Jesus? I say, can you FEEL it?"
"Oh yes, yes, I do Reverend, YES!" Her voice was a scream now.
The Reverend Tommy looked up to heaven with puppy dog eyes of pious gratitude. "Thank you, Jesus, for healing this poor woman, thank you, Lord, thank you." Another loud intake of breath. "Is there someone with us whose son is in jail, a woman named… Nancy?"
* * * *
"And did you notice," Susan said, "the collection plate, or whatever they call it, was passed at the end, even though we had already been hit up for a donation coming in?"
Libby Chastain nodded absently. They were sitting in a coffee shop a couple of blocks away from Reverend Tommy's tabernacle.
"And you can bet your bottom drachma that the take wouldn't be nearly so much if it weren't for that spiritual dog and pony show that Reverend Tommy puts on every time," Susan went on. "I don't know why he doesn't just call himself 'The Amazing Crisco' and start working Las Vegas, except there's probably a lot more money to be made by claiming that your feats of clairvoyance are courtesy of the Lord Almighty—and, by the way, have you heard a single word I said since we got here?"
Libby looked up from her coffee cup and with a tight little smile said, "I know how he's doing it."
* * * *
A week later, the two women were back inside the converted theater, watching Winona Timberlake make her rounds among the crowd before the start of the worship service.
"Winona's the key, of course," Libby said softly. "She's the source of the information that Reverend Tommy uses for his little 'divine inspiration' act."
"But the two of them have no contact in between her chatting up the audience and the start of the service," Susan whispered. "I mean, she doesn't even leave the stage until Tommy comes out to do his thing."
"Yes, and I'm sure that's deliberate. Otherwise, even these people, who want so desperately to believe, would start to smell a rat. But there are lots of ways to communicate these days, kiddo, and not all of them involve messages from the Almighty." She reached into her purse and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth and bound with two slim ribbons— one green, the other blue.
"What on earth is that?" Susan asked.
"Something I prepared earlier this evening. It's been imbued with a spell for causing the hidden to be revealed. The spell is usually employed for treasure finding, that sort of thing, but I think it'll work very well for what I have in mind."
"I was kind of hoping you'd just wave your wand and change the Reverend Tommy into a toad, or something."
"If I did that, always assuming I could, all it would do is create sympathy for him. Winona would probably have these poor people bringing in flies every week to feed him." She gently patted the bundle in her lap. "This is better, trust me."
"If you say so. You're the expert."
"Were you able to get some media people to show up?"
Susan nodded. "The religion editor for the New York Times is here somewhere, and I also managed to interest a guy from the Post. He's sitting about six rows behind us. A woman I know at WPIX-TV wasn't sure she could make it, but promised to try."
"All right, good. Combined with the people who are actually in the audience, that should be—oh, look, Winona's getting ready to start."
The pattern of the service was the same. Winona Timberlake made a few pious-sounding remarks, introduced the Reverend Tommy, and then unobtrusively disappeared from the stage. The Reverend dispensed platitudes for a while, then once again begin noisily receiving divine inspiration concerning members of the audience and their various problems.
He had been going on for about five minutes when Libby leaned over toward Susan and said softly, "I guess this is as good a time as any." She carefully undid the two ribbons around the object in her lap, muttering in a language that Susan didn't recognize. The cloth wrapping parted to reveal a small collection of twigs. They were about six inches long and appeared to be coated with some kind of light blue powder.
Libby grasped the bunch of twigs in both hands, said something else in that foreign tongue, and repeated it twice more. Then, with a sharp motion of her wrists, she suddenly broke the twigs in two.
The microphone around Reverend Tommy's neck instantly lost power, but the theater speakers did not fall silent. Instead, they began to broadcast a different voice, one that sounded very much like Winona Timberlake's.
"Move stage right a little bit," the woman's voice said. "There's an old geezer from New Hampshire whose daughter's been diagnosed with AIDS, the little tramp. His first name's Martin, by the way…"
For a couple of seconds, the Reverend Tommy seemed unaware that the audience had stopped hearing his voice and begun to listen to another's. But then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Instead of looking like a man in the middle of a migraine, he quickly came to resemble someone having a massive coronary. He frantically began to tap his microphone, then looked off-stage and snarled to someone, "Turn this goddamn thing back on!" But the mike remained silent, and the Reverend Tommy's unamplified voice was soon drowned out by the angry murmuring from the audience that soon grew into shouts, catcalls, and boos.
Meanwhile, Winona Timberlake went on and on: "Now you want a woman named Catherine, some fat cow from Wisconsin, who's been having a lot of trouble with high blood pressure, surprise, surprise. See if you can pray about fifty pounds off her…"
* * * *
In the back seat of the taxi, Susan Mackey was still grinning. "You know, you were right," she said to Libby. "That actually was better than turning him into a toad. I don't think the Reverend Tommy is going to be ministering to many of the faithful next week, or in the weeks following."
"No, I expect he'll be lucky to draw enough of a crowd to fill a broom closet. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy, either."
"But how did you figure out how he and Winona were using a radio transmitter? Some sort of mystical divination?"
Libby snorted. "More like common sense, honey," she said. "He had to be getting the information from Winona—who must have a remarkable memory, to go along with that nasty mouth of hers. And since she clearly didn't talk to him before he came on stage, she had to be feeding him the stuff while he was actually up there. They make radio receivers the size of a shirt button these days, and he certainly had one in his ear. I couldn't see it, but then I didn't need to—uh, driver, this is my building coming up, on the corner."
Five minutes later, Libby Chastain, was unlocking the door to her condominium. As she went around turning on the lights, she was humming softly—a tune that the Reverend Tommy Timberlake would have recognized as "Rock of Ages".
Then the phone started ringing.
* * * *<
br />
Quincey Morris sat on the edge of his bed at the Holiday Inn and squinted at the plastic display card that bore the directions for making outside calls. After a moment, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a slim address book. He looked up a number and began to punch buttons.
The phone at the other end was answered on the fourth ring. "I knew you were going to call." It was a woman's voice, alto and a little husky.
"I bet you say that to all the boys, Libby."
The woman chuckled. "Yes, I do, Quincey, and to the girls, too. Helps create that aura of mystery, you know."
"I've always found you eminently mysterious," Morris said. "So, how's business?"
"Well, I just got home from an interesting gig that a certain preacher and his wife aren't likely to forget soon. But, other than that, things have been pretty slow."
"Maybe you need to get your own 900 number."
"Sure, that's it. 1-900-ME-WITCH, maybe? I could have my own infomercial."
"It's got potential," he said. Then his voice became serious. "Listen, I'm on a case in Madison, Wisconsin, and I need you."
"All right. When?" Her voice had also lost its levity.
"Quick as you can get here."
She thought for a moment. "If there's a flight out tonight, I'll be on it. If not, I'll get the first one tomorrow."
"Okay, that'll be fine."
"So, what's the job? I need to know what kind of gear to pack."
"I want you to do a couple of things. First is to revive, and maybe strengthen, a network of warding charms in a house."
"How powerful do you need them to be?"
"The strongest you've got. The family's been under escalating magical attack over the last three months. With lethal intent, looks like."
"All right, that seems fairly straightforward. What's the rest of it?"
"Find whoever's responsible for this assault and stop it."
"Stop the assault—or stop the person?"
Morris thought about the LaRues, saw again the fear and exhaustion and despair etched into their faces, like copper engravings inscribed by acid.
"Whatever it takes, Libby," he said quietly. "Whatever it takes."
* * * *
Morris dialed another number, this one a room-to-room call. When Walter LaRue answered, Morris asked, "Are you folks all settled in?"
"Pretty much. We decided to keep the connecting door open. Marcie's next door with Sarah, and Timmy, and I'll bunk in here. But I still don't get why you think we'll be any safer here than at home. I mean, if we're talking about something, uh, you know…"
"Supernatural?"
"Yes, right. I mean, what prevents it from following us here, whatever it is?"
"Because the attacks are all aimed at your living space," Morris explained. "Has your daughter reported any incidents occurring while she was at school?"
"No, she hasn't, you're right. Wait—what about the time in my car, when I damn near had a head-on with that truck?"
"Your car's part of your living space. You're in it every day, I'd guess, and at predictable times. Commuting, and so on."
"And you think that makes a difference?"
"I'm sure it does. We'll talk about that some more tomorrow. You and your family get yourselves a decent night's sleep, okay? Tomorrow we'll get to work making your home safe again."
"Who's 'we?'"
"Me, along with a consultant I've called in, who'll be here late tonight or early tomorrow."
"Consultant? What's this one's name—Van Helsing?"
"Her name's Elizabeth Chastain, and she's one of the best in the country at what she does."
"You mean she's some kind of… ghostbuster?"
"No, I mean she's some kind of witch."
Chapter 6
The hunter arrived in New York on a British Airways flight from London, although his journey had begun the day before, in the heat and dust of Johannesburg, South Africa. His lean body was aching after all those hours of cramming his six feet four inches into an airline seat in Coach that had clearly been designed with someone smaller in mind.
As he entered the main terminal building, he quickly scanned the ragged semicircle of people, each one waiting to meet a passenger, a few holding small signs with names on them. He didn't see his own name, but wasn't concerned. They knew he was here. They would find him.
The man's thin face had the weathered look of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors without the luxury of sunscreen. His eyes were the pale blue you sometimes see in fine Dresden china. They moved constantly, blinked rarely, and missed nothing. His tropical-weight gray suit, not cheap and not expensive, had already been rumpled when he'd boarded the plane in Jo'burg. By now, even its wrinkles had wrinkles.
He retrieved his big, battered suitcase from the baggage carousel and made his way over to Customs. He had been standing in line for less than a minute when he was approached by a well-dressed, thirtyish black man carrying a briefcase.
"Mister Van Dreenan?" The black man didn't sound the least bit tentative.
"Detective Sergeant Van Dreenan, ja."
The other man's eyes might have narrowed a little at Van Dreenan's use of the title, but if so, the expression was gone in an instant. He held up a small leather case containing a badge and a laminated ID card. "Special Agent Dale Fenton, FBI."
Fenton slipped the leather case into a pocket and extended his hand. "Welcome to America." His handshake was brisk, businesslike.
After shaking hands, Fenton stepped back and said, "Would you come with me, please?"
He led Van Dreenan to a nearby office marked "Authorized Personnel Only." Inside, a pretty Chinese woman who'd been working at a computer looked up.
"Oh, hi, Agent Fenton," she said pleasantly. "Is this the gentleman we spoke about?"
Fenton nodded. Van Dreenan put down his suitcase and stepped forward. "Garth Van Dreenan," he said. He shook the woman's hand carefully, as if well aware how easy it would be to break the bones.
"Veronica Chen," she said. "Welcome to the United States. May I have your passport and visa, please?"
She slowly slid his passport over a scanner that looked similar to the kind used in supermarket checkout lanes, and was rewarded by several electronic beeps and the illumination of a small green light. Then, consulting his visa, she typed something into the computer, waited, then typed some more. She clicked the mouse, and on a shelf behind her a printer came to life and began slowly disgorging a document.
Veronica Chen opened a drawer and produced a couple of pre-inked rubber stamps. She applied each one to both the passport and visa, then returned them to Van Dreenan. Pulling the sheet of paper from the printer, she placed it in front of Fenton. "Signature and badge number, please," she said to the FBI man. "And today's date."
Fenton filled in the information quickly and returned the document. "Thanks, Veronica, appreciate your help." Then he turned to Van Dreenan and said, "You've just cleared Customs. Let's go."
As they proceeded down a long hallway, Van Dreenan asked, "What was that form that you signed in there?"
"That was me sparing a visiting fellow officer the indignity of having his baggage searched, by attesting that he hasn't brought anything illegal into the country," Fenton said. He eyed Van Dreenan's suitcase. "I hope you're not going to make a liar out of me by having a machine gun in there." He did not sound like he was joking.
Van Dreenan smiled crookedly. "No," he said. "No… machine guns." The pause was similar to the one Bela Lugosi used to use in the movies when saying, "I never drink… wine."
* * * *
The FBI's New York City field office occupies two floors of Federal Plaza on Ninth Avenue and West Thirty-fourth. Although space is at a premium, a couple of small offices are kept vacant for use by agents on temporary duty, and other federal law enforcement types passing through town on business.
In the room that had been assigned to him, Fenton sat down behind the scratched and battered metal desk, waved Van Dre
enan to an equally cheap chair opposite, then took three thick files out of his briefcase and dropped them on the desk. "Three victims," he said. "All children."
"Ja, I know, three," Van Dreenan said. "So far."
Fenton shot him a look before continuing. "Two in Pennsylvania, the other one in West Virginia, all within a space of two weeks. Identical m.o. in each case. Uh, that's short for—"
"I am familiar with the term modus operandi, Agent Fenton," Van Dreenan said mildly. "Go on, please."
"The Bureau wasn't called in until after the third one. Murder isn't itself a federal crime in this country, but when it appeared that the killer or killers had crossed a state line, that made it our case."
"By 'our,' you mean the Behavioral Science Unit."
Fenton nodded. "The field offices handle most of the investigations the Bureau takes on. But serial murder often crosses jurisdictions. And so do we."
"Your department is quite well known within law enforcement circles, even in backwaters like South Africa." Van Dreenan's voice gave the last words a light coat of irony. "Justifiably famous."
"Just don't go thinking it's like in the movies or TV. That stuff is mostly crap."
"I don't go to movies," Van Dreenan said. "And I rarely watch television."
Fenton fussed around with the files for a few seconds. "I understand you were invited over here as a 'consultant' because your own outfit has got something of a reputation. I'd never heard of it, myself."
Van Dreenan's big shoulders twitched in something like a shrug. "Not surprising, really. We try to avoid undue publicity."
"The Occult Crimes Unit." Fenton shook his head. "I thought it sounded like The X-Files, or something."
"The what files? I don't know about them."
"Sorry, forgot you don't watch TV. Never mind. I read up on your unit, though, once I was assigned to be your liaison while you're here. You guys are into some pretty weird shit. Some folks over here might not take it real seriously."
Van Dreenan stared at him in silence for several seconds before he leaned forward. He blue eyes bore into Fenton's as he spoke, but he never raised his voice.
"There were a hundred and fifty-eight witchcraft-related crimes reported in South Africa last year, Mister Fenton. Many more surely went unreported. Of those, seventy-eight percent involved crimes against people believed guilty of witchcraft. In the outlying villages, the townships, sometimes even in the cities, a man or woman is accused of witchcraft, it is a serious thing. There are consequences."
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