Black Magic Woman

by Justin Gustainis

  Fenton drew breath to speak, but Van Dreenan went on in the same icy, quiet voice.

  "Sometimes the village chief levies a fine, paid to the victim. But if the matter is more serious, the accused witch may be 'necklaced.' Do you know what that means, Mister Fenton, necklacing? It has nothing to do with jewelry, I assure you."

  Again, Fenton was given no chance to answer.

  "You tie someone up, good and tight, ja? Maybe to a tree, maybe not. Then you take an old tire, pour some petrol on it, soak it pretty good. You place that tire around the neck of the person you have tied up. Like putting a necklace on a woman, see? And then you set fire to it. It is one fokken ugly way to die, Mister Fenton."

  "I've heard of it," Fen ton said, when Van Dreenan finally paused.

  "Ach, you do know something of my country. That is good. But do you know why such a method is used?"

  Fenton shrugged. "As an example, to scare others? It's slow, agonizing, and the final result looks horrible."

  "It does have such an effect, of course. But that is not the principal reason."

  "What is, then?"

  "Tribal beliefs hold that the only way to kill a witch for certain is through fire. Otherwise, it is said, they may come back, seeking revenge."

  Fenton made a face. "Pretty goddamn barbaric."

  "No doubt," Van Dreenan said. "But such barbarism, if it must be called that, has not always been confined to the continent of Africa, Mister Fenton. They did the same in Europe, beginning in the Fifteenth Century, you know. And always, they used fire. The Malleus Maleficarum was very clear—"

  "The what?"

  "The Hammer of Witches, is the English translation. It was a book that was, in effect, the Bible for witch hunters. It is flawed in many ways, but says very clearly that a witch must be put to death by fire. It caused much suffering for many innocent people, over the course of some two hundred years."

  "Look, Van Dreenan, we're burning daylight, ourselves. Is there a point to this history lesson?"

  "Indeed there is, Mister Fenton. You have said that you do not take my work seriously—"

  "Hey, wait, I never said—"

  "—and I simply wanted to give you some perspective on what I do. Of course, investigating such crimes as I have just described is only part of the work my unit does. The rest involves the activities of the witches themselves."

  "I was wondering when we were going to get to that."

  "The reason why I came here, ja. Understand, when I speak of witches, I do not refer to the sangomas, the traditional healers. They practice what you would call folk medicine. Much of what they do is quite sensible, and the rest of it does no real harm, most of the time. But witchcraft…" Van Dreenan shook his head a couple of times, "that is something very different. It refers to the practice of black magic—you use the same term in this country, I think? Black magic?"

  Fenton shrugged. "Sure. In stories."

  "Well, what we deal with in my unit are not stories, Mister Fenton. Witches are people who use black magic, and black magic has only one purpose—to hurt people."

  "You mean they think it hurts people, right?"

  Van Dreenan just looked at him.

  "These witches you're talking about," Fenton said, "they commit crimes in the mistaken belief that doing so will give them this supernatural power, right?"

  Van Dreenan remained silent.

  "Or, are you talking about some kind of psychosomatic effect? Like in voodoo? I've read up on that, too. Guy finds out he's been cursed by a houngan, and because he and the houngan are part of the same belief system, the guy's mind causes him to develop symptoms consistent with the curse. That the kind of thing you're talking about?"

  Van Dreenan produced a tiny smile. "Of course, Agent Fenton. What else could I be referring to? Some sort of genuine supernatural power? The ability to harness and direct the so-called 'forces of darkness?' If I said that, you would regard me as either a lunatic or a fool, I think, ja? Certainly not an experienced, professional police officer, which is what I am."

  Fenton nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, studying Van Dreenan's face. "Yeah, I guess I would, at that."

  Secundus Investigation

  Chapter 7

  Walter LaRue had slept until almost 9:30, an indication of how exhausted he'd really been. At a few minutes after 10:00, freshly shaved and showered, he was just picking up the room phone to call Morris when he heard a knock at the door. After a quick look through the peephole, he opened up to admit Morris and the woman who was with him.

  "This is Elizabeth Chastain, who I mentioned to you last night," Morris said. "Libby, meet Walter LaRue."

  The hand the woman extended was free of jewelry and nail polish, and her grip was surprisingly strong. "Hello, Mister LaRue," she said, her voice a pleasant contralto. "I'm glad to meet you, although I deplore the circumstances that make it necessary." She was tall, slim, her dark brown hair worn shoulder-length. Intelligent gray eyes gazed out from a face that would never see thirty again. The woman was not what most men would call classically beautiful, but LaRue thought she had the kindest face he had ever seen.

  "Thanks, I appreciate that, Ms. Chastain—or do you prefer 'Miss,' or 'Mrs.,' or…."

  "Perhaps you should just call me Libby," she said.

  "All right, I will, thank you. Please—come in and sit down."

  After they were all seated, LaRue said, "I hope you'll pardon me for staring, Libby, it's just that you don't look much like my idea of a witch."

  Libby Chastain laughed softly. "That's all right, Mr. LaRue," she said. "As Sigourney Weaver says in one of those Alien movies, 'I get that a lot.'"

  "I mean no offense."

  "None taken," she said. "I'm familiar with the image, believe me: conical hat, flying broom, warts, maniacal cackle, and all the rest." She looked at Morris and said, deadpan, "I've been working on my cackle, by the way, Quincey. It sounds quite fiendish now. Remind me to do it for you before I go back home."

  LaRue gave that a small smile before saying to Morris, "You said last night that you would explain why we need the services of a, uh—"

  "Witch," Libby said solemnly.

  "Yes, right, a witch. I'm not arguing with you, understand, I'm not questioning your judgment." He looked from Morris to Libby Chastain, then back again. "I just want to know what the hell is going on."

  "Don't blame you for that, podner," Morris said. He spent a few seconds gathering his thoughts, then said, "The first thing you need to understand is this: when I bring Libby over to your place later today, she will not be the first witch ever to cross the threshold."

  "Are you talking about whoever's been doing this stuff to us? You mean, somebody snuck into the house—"

  "No, Mister LaRue," Morris said. "I'm talking about your late mother-in-law."

  LaRue's eyes narrowed. After looking at each of them for a second or two, he said, coldly, "I'm assuming that remark wasn't intended as humor, because I sure don't find it funny. I was pretty fond of Greta, and the kids loved her—not to mention my wife, who probably wouldn't care to hear you refer to her mother as a witch."

  "No insult to her memory was intended," Morris said, shaking his head for emphasis.

  "I think we have some explaining to do," Libby said patiently. "He wasn't using the term 'witch' in the popular sense, which, as you said yourself, has negative connotations. The word has a specific meaning, and it has nothing to do with the stereotype. When Quincey introduced me as a witch, he wasn't being either funny or cute. He was being accurate—just as he was in using the term to describe your late mother-in-law, rest her soul."

  "See, there are two basic kinds of witchcraft," Morris said. "They each have several names, depending on who you talk to, but the basic distinction is one you've probably heard of: white and black."

  "White magic and black magic," LaRue said. He didn't look pissed off any more, just interested. "So, what is the difference?"

  "White magic derives its power from natur
e," Libby told him. "From the four essential elements of earth, air, fire, and water, as well as from the sun and moon."

  "Is all that a fancy way of saying 'from God?'" LaRue asked.

  Libby thought for a moment. "Well, it can be—although some of us might use other terms, including 'Goddess.'"

  "And if you want to posit God as the source of white magic," Morris said, "it shouldn't be too hard to figure out where the other side comes from."

  "No, I suppose not," LaRue said. He looked at Libby Chastain and asked, "Which is the stronger?"

  "That's not an answerable question," she told him. "But there are some clear differences in practice. For instance, you can't use white magic to do harm to somebody."

  "Why not?"

  Libby shrugged. "It just isn't possible. There aren't any rituals in white magic that can be used to harm others. White witches, for example, don't do curses."

  "That being the case, I'm kind of surprised that the bad guys haven't wiped you folks out a long time ago. I assume that black magic does allow curses."

  "Oh, yes, hundreds of them," Libby said. "But don't assume that white magic is powerless. Self-defense is allowed, as is defense of others. And there are lots of ways that can be accomplished."

  "You've already seen one of them," Morris told LaRue.

  Although he was out of his depth, Walter LaRue wasn't stupid. "Those charms, you mean. The ones Greta made."

  "That's right," Libby said. "They're warding charms, so called because they can ward off spells cast by others, including curses."

  "That's what I meant when I referred to your late mother-in-law as a witch," Morris said. "I meant no aspersion, although I should have explained myself better. It's obvious from what Greta left behind that she was a white witch, and that term is not an insult."

  "She was also your protector," Libby added. "Clearly, those warding charms were used to guard your family from attack by black magic. The problem is, many kinds of spells only retain their power while the witch who cast them is alive."

  LaRue looked at her for several seconds, then nodded. "So when Greta was killed, the charms stopped doing their job. And then, somebody who practices black magic zapped us."

  "Either that, or there was a spell already in place," Morris said. "You know, kind of like a plane in a holding pattern. And when your mother-in-law died—"

  "The plane fell out of the sky," LaRue said. "Right on top of us."

  "Yeah, something like that," Morris said. "Which leads us to the question of who's behind this. You've got an enemy, Mister LaRue. Or someone in your family has. Any idea of who it might be?

  "An enemy who knows black magic? Can't help you there," LaRue said. "I didn't even realize there was such a thing, until now."

  "Your enemy doesn't have to be a witch," Libby said. "Just somebody who knows how to find one. Quite a few witches, white and black both, are available for hire, if you know where to look."

  "Any business rivals?" Morris asked. "Someone you beat out of a fat software contract, maybe? Or how about a former employee who didn't react too well to being let go?"

  LaRue sat staring silently at the floor for the better part of a minute. "No, I'm sorry, but I can't come up with a single reasonable possibility. I have competitors in business, sure, but it's not a cut-throat kind of thing. And I haven't fired anybody in years. People leave, of course, for various reasons. But there's no bad blood that I can think of."

  Later, as the two of them walked to the parking lot, Morris asked Libby, "Think he's telling the truth?"

  "Yes, I do," Libby said. "He wasn't giving off any of the vibes that usually accompany deception."

  "Damn. That's going to make it harder."

  "Maybe so. But let's not neglect the obvious."

  "Which would be…?"

  "The protector was the wife's mother, right?"

  "Right. So?"

  "So, after we finish up at the house, I think we ought to talk to the wife."

  * * * *

  Quincey Morris used his borrowed key to unlock the house's front door. "Come on in," he said to Libby Chastain. "Welcome to Chez LaRue."

  Closing the door behind them, Libby leaned her back against it. She and Morris stood silently in the hallway for almost a full minute. They appeared to be listening for something, but they could not have said what it was.

  "Nobody home," Morris said finally, "but then we knew that. Come on."

  "Wait," she said, grasping his forearm for a moment. "It occurs to me that we'd best keep our wits about us while we're in here—at least until the warding charms are back in place."

  "Why? What's bothering you?"

  She sighed once, softly. "Quincey, you've got the LaRues stashed over at the Holiday Inn. For their safety, you said, right?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "And you did that for what reason?"

  "Because it looks like the magical attacks are aimed at places the LaRues are known to—oh."

  "Known to spend a lot of their time," she finished. "Exactly. So the spell that's causing all this trouble is directed toward places, not people. Which means the damned thing—and I mean that literally—may not be able to distinguish between the folks who live here and a couple of visitors."

  "Like you and me, you mean."

  "You got it, Sherlock. So we stay together, we watch each other's back, and we keep alert. All right?"

  "No argument from me."

  A smile lit her face briefly. "That will be a first. Oh—one more thing."

  "Yes, mother."

  "If, at any time we're in here, you hear me say 'out"—and if I say it at all, I'll probably say it loudly—you get outside just as fast as you can. Door, window—whatever's closest, that's what you use. You don't ask questions, you don't hesitate, you don't worry about me. You're in a track meet, and that word's the starting gun. You hear it, you go. Understand?"

  Morris looked into the gentle gray eyes, only a few inches lower than his own. "Libby, we've worked together, what, five, six times now?"

  "Six, if you count this one," she said.

  "I've never seen you like this before. We've always been careful, that's only good sense. But this little speech of yours—what the hell is that about?"

  She held his gaze and shrugged. "Just a feeling. I get them, sometimes." A crooked smile. "Sort of witches' intuition."

  Morris did not laugh. He had more respect for intuition than most. "And your feeling is—what?"

  "There's a lot of power being used here, I can sense it." She extended her right hand, palm down. It trembled slightly. Morris realized that this was the first time he had ever seen Libby's hands anything but rock steady. "This is a bad one, Quincey."

  "Scared?"

  A nod. "Uh-huh."

  "Want to go home?"

  "You bet I do," she said.

  "Yeah, me, too."

  "So, what are we waiting for?"

  They turned and slowly walked, side by side, into the LaRues' living room.

  Chapter 8

  Everything went well, at first—so well that it lulled them.

  At nine different locations around the house—nine is three cubed, and hence a very powerful number in white magic— Libby Chastain was placing small objects made of straw, wood, and silver wire. They looked very similar to the one that Quincey Morris had found in the house the day before. Over each of the charms, Libby recited a brief incantation in a language that Morris didn't recognize. After the second time, he asked her about it.

  "It's ancient Aramaic," she said.

  "When did you start using that? Used to be, when you needed an ancient language for casting, you'd go with either Latin or Greek, right?" Morris had studied both, reluctantly, at Princeton.

  She nodded. "I've been working on Aramaic for the last couple of years. Tough going sometimes, but worth the effort. It's got a lot of power associated with it, more than most of the other dead languages."

  "Why's that?"

  "Mainly because it was the
language spoken by a famous Jewish preacher a long time ago. A guy called Joshua bar-Joseph."

  Frown lines appeared on Morris's forehead. "Is this somebody I've heard of?"

  Libby Chastain produced a small smile. "I expect you have. He's pretty well known, but mostly by his Greek name, for some reason."

  "Which is—"

  "Jesus. Jesus of Nazareth."

  "Oh. Him."

  * * * *

  Libby placed the eighth warding charm on the top shelf of a linen closet, as far toward the back as she could reach. Closing the door, she said to Quincey Morris, "One more to go."

  "Whereabouts, do you think?"

  She considered briefly. "The kitchen. We haven't put any in there yet, and it will give us a nice balance of forces with the other charms."

  As they walked down the hallway toward the stairs, things were already happening in the LaRues' kitchen. Drawers were slowly opening, seemingly of their own volition. Faced with an empty house, the spell cast by black witchcraft had lain dormant for a whole day, and it had gathered strength in that time.

  It was strong enough to open drawers, certainly. But not all of the kitchen drawers, no indeed.

  Just those containing the knives.

  * * * *

  They were two or three paces away from the door of the LaRue's kitchen when Libby suddenly stopped.

  Morris continued on for an additional step before his awareness of Libby's action brought him to a halt. He studied her for a moment before asking, softly, "What?"

  Her eyes narrowed in concentration, she shook her head slowly from side to side. "I don't know," she said, and Morris could hear the tension in her voice. "Something—there's something stirring that wasn't here before, or maybe it just wasn't active earlier."

  "Somebody else is in here?"

  "No, it isn't human. It isn't even alive, not really."