by Melanie Rawn
“The passage?”
“No, that’s old, probably as old as the first house. I’m talking about the carpet on the stairs in there—it’s Berber wool, and it’s brand-fucking-new!” He stood back, palms pressed together. “And so is the magic.”
“Okay,” Evan said. After a glance at his watch, he nodded to himself. “It’s ten o’clock, this place should be cleared out downstairs in about an hour. Take your suitcase back up to the room and leave it there. I’m gonna go talk to Holly and phone Lulah—” He stopped, cussed under his breath, and snagged his cell phone from his jacket pocket. A few tries yielded nothing. Cam brought out his own, handed it over. More nothing. Evan looked grim. “Somebody was telling me that he couldn’t get his phone to work tonight. The sign at the entrance is just to throw everybody off.”
“Isn’t that assuming kind of a lot? I mean, I’m pretty sure I saw somebody on the phone this afternoon when I came in.”
“One of the staff, or one of the guests?”
Cam thought for a moment. “Guy in a pale blue windbreaker—” He wanted to smack himself upside the head for sheer stupidity. “—with Westmoreland Inn and Spa in purple letters on the breast pocket.” When Evan nodded, Cam added stubbornly, “But I still think that’s a pretty big leap you’re making.”
“The sign asks people to turn off their cells. Anybody expecting a call is asked to leave the phone at the front desk, and they’ll come get you if the call comes through—and how much do you want to bet no calls ever come through?”
“Suppose somebody keeps his phone and keeps it on—”
“Malfunction, dead battery, interference in the signal to a tower—how many ways are there to explain it? Mine doesn’t work. I’m the sheriff—I make damned sure all my phones are working at all times. How about you?”
“New battery yesterday,” he admitted.
“Phones don’t work. Lulah felt blind here. You felt something weird with the bedspread. There’s a staircase hidden inside the walls—with new magic. There may be something that blocks magic getting in or out, but obviously inside whatever barrier it is, magic can happen. How does that add up to you?” Evan paused, frowning, and for the first time Cam felt the power behind those hazel eyes as they searched his own. Not magic, but power all the same. “Okay, what else?”
“When Holly and I were outside earlier, I thought I saw something when I looked at the house. I don’t know what, so don’t ask. Just . . . something about the windows that’s not quite right. But why was somebody talking on a phone—”
“I think you got played. ‘Griffen’ isn’t a common name in this county, but anyone who’s magically connected would check out the locals pretty thoroughly. No Witch in this county knows anything about this place, which means that whoever’s using magic wants it kept secret.” He ran a hand distractedly through his hair. “Shit, I knew Weiss was hiding something! The guy you saw talking on the phone was doing so for your benefit, Cam. Just in case you might think you sensed something—which you did—when you lay down for a nap. When did you make your reservation?”
“A week ago. That’s plenty of time to have me checked out, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Look, why don’t you take your stuff back up to your room and meet me downstairs in ten?”
“You have a plan?”
“Since I can’t phone Lulah, I’m sending Holly back to Woodhush to get her.”
“I like this part of the plan.” He brushed his fingertips across the wall one last time. “It may take me a bit to figure out how to get into this thing.”
“That’s your part of the plan.”
IT WAS FAST becoming Holly’s plan to find her husband and her cousin and get out of here. There had been a brief renewal of her discussion with Reverend Wilkens, which ended rather precipitously when Louvena Cox, bless her, sauntered over and said, “Reverend, y’all got a uterus? No? Then hush up. Holly honey, we have things to discuss. ’Scuse us please.”
After Louvena gave her a quick summary of her conclusions regarding magic and the church fires—mentioning that she’d told Evan the same things earlier—Holly promised to tell Lulah at the first opportunity. Louvena nodded satisfaction and went back outside to sit on the verandah with her second bottle of California champagne while Holly went in search of Tim and the vodka tray. But the Pledge of Allegiance’s “Under God” coterie tried to draw her into their discussion—on their side. Telling herself she really shouldn’t, she asked whose God they had it in mind to be under—Jewish, Catholic, Baptist, Mormon, Muslim? While they (variously) gasped, spluttered, marshaled their arguments, or simply stared at her rudeness, she resumed her quest for the Stoly. Tim was nowhere in sight. Damn the boy—
“Hi again,” said Gib Ayala, and she turned to find him holding a plate of munchies and a full glass of white wine. He offered both; she regretfully declined the latter—not a good idea on top of two vodkas—but selected a slice of quiche from the former. “Interesting party.”
“You could say that.” Now that she was back in the crowded ballroom, the ceiling fans creating only a remote and ineffective breeze, she could feel the sweat of earlier activities. She wondered if Evan and Cam had retrieved the suitcase yet and how soon she could get home to a cool shower—or, failing that, if she could sneak into Cam’s room and wash. Evan did get enthusiastic. . . .
“I forgot to ask, before,” Gib said, “any progress on the book?”
“I need to figure out what book I want to write.”
“You mean you don’t put up index cards with ideas on them and throw darts?”
She snickered. “It’s occasionally a little more complicated, but that’s actually not a bad idea.”
“Commitment problems? Or writer’s block?”
She ignored the first suggestion, and especially the tone it was said in. “The psychoanalyst who coined the term ‘writer’s block’—and claimed he could cure it, which as every writer knows is absolute bullshit—was also the guy who claimed he could cure homosexuality.”
Some emotion crossed his dark face, but before she could analyze it he smiled again. “Did I tell you I was trolling websites the other day?”
“Oh, God. Again? What are they complaining about now?”
“All your characters fall in love at first sight. Nobody is ever just friends and then falls in love. They take one look at each other, and—” He shrugged.
“Thirty seconds, Holly—I bet it’s not more than thirty seconds before you want to rip his clothes off!” Gib had no way of knowing that her smile was for Susannah’s remembered words, not for him. With Evan, it hadn’t even taken thirty seconds.
“I suppose it’s true,” she said at last. “But I never really thought about it. If the chemistry’s not there, it can’t be faked.”
“Isn’t that just sexual attraction? You don’t even have to talk to somebody before you know you have that. It’s how people end up in bed the next morning, not knowing each other’s names.”
“Well, granted. But I think there are clues, you know? Whether you’re consciously aware of them or not. Everybody’s always reading everybody else—it’s a survival skill. That guy across the river isn’t holding a sharpened spear, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to rip your throat out with his bare hands if he gets the chance. You’d better be able to figure out fast what his intentions really are—”
“Do you really think it’s that instinctive?” Gib asked.
“Absolutely.” Love at first sight—she was of the opinion that people who thought their best and most lasting relationships hadn’t been love at first sight simply hadn’t been paying attention.
“Does it go away?”
“It changes. That’s the getting-to-know-you part. The talking, sharing things like a movie or a concert—you find out what you have in common, what you don’t, what you can learn from each other—”
“So how many times have you fallen in love at first sight?” he asked playfully.
“Oh, hundreds,
” Holly replied, hiding annoyance. “For instance, there was a tour guide in Morocco, name of Abdel—I’d still be in love with him if he hadn’t already had three wives.”
“But the chemistry—that never goes away, does it?”
Holly finished off the quiche and swallowed before saying carefully, “If you’re trying to take this where I think you’re trying to take this, please let’s not go there.”
“I’m not trying to take it anywhere. I just wanted to know your point of view.”
And now, she thought, I look like a conceited bitch who’d fuck anything that moved. “So you can post it on one of the websites?” she asked with a smile.
“I’d never do that. Really, Holly. I just wanted to know.”
Jamey came unknowingly to her rescue by tapping her on the elbow and saying, “Sorry, Gib, I need her for a second.”
“Take me, I’m yours,” Holly muttered as he guided her toward a window.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. What’s up?”
“I’m supposed to give a speech about why we’re all here, and I can’t find Evan to give me the latest.”
“There isn’t any ‘latest’ that I know of.” Giving him a long look, she went on, “What you really want to talk to me about is Cam.”
“Well, yes. But I do have to give a speech.” He glanced around. “Spec-tatum veniunt; veniunt spectentur.”
She sighed, privately bemoaning the day he learned his first Latin declension. “Caesar? Suetonius?”
“Ovid. ‘Some come to see; some come to be seen.’ ”
“What’s the Latin for ‘You are being a smart-ass; do so no more’?”
He laughed. “I’d have to look that one up. Could you do me a favor and check my facts on the church fires against your famous memory?”
She listened as he summarized. Old Believers Baptist, September ninth, 2005. October ninth, Calvary Baptist. Third was on November eighth, First Baptist. December tenth, the Lutheran church. Then a break until February twenty-first, when the Methodists had been hit. Sixth had been the Episcopal church on April eighth. Finally, on August second, Gospel Baptist.
“So it’s a month since the last one,” Jamey concluded. “And God grant that it was the last one. Has Evan got anything I can use tonight to reassure people? Are we anywhere with the investigation?”
“I’m assuming you won’t be discussing the similarities and anomalies—none of which make any sense.”
“If any of this made any sense, we’d have somebody in custody right now.” Jamey started to chew a thumbnail, caught himself at it, scowled, and stuck his hand in the pocket of his black leather jacket. “None of it makes sense,” he reiterated.
“Some of it does,” she said without thinking, cursing herself when his eyes lit with speculation. She’d almost told him that Louvena had figured out there was magic at all but the Methodist fire. Sometimes she came close to forgetting that he wasn’t one of them, that he didn’t know anything about Witchcraft in Pocahontas County. “They almost all started at night—is that significant?” A lame save, but a save nonetheless.
“I thought maybe you or Evan had thought of something,” he said, disappointed.
“He’s the cop, not me. I keep telling you guys, I’m no good at mysteries and clues and things. If you were thinking of reiterating the facts about the fires, my advice would be don’t. We all know why we’re here.”
“Yes, and I’d only be emphasizing that Evan and I are stumped.” He shifted restlessly, then glanced at her. “So here’s a mystery I’m trying to solve. When I interrupted just now, you were looking rather puckish. Who were you planning to eviscerate?”
“Take your pick. You know the one about the Lord High Executioner?”
Jamey laughed. “He has a little list—and they never will be missed.”
“My object all sublime,” she agreed. “So what were you and Cam up to in the garden?” As his eyes widened, she grinned. “Gotcha.”
“Dear lady,” he said pleasantly, “I refuse to become a source of innocent merriment, even for you. Oh, God—there’s Mr. Weiss and the microphone. Wish me luck.”
Finally catching sight of Tim, she pointed an imperious finger. He looked around with exaggerated innocence as if wondering who she could possibly be indicating.
“Mr. Weiss deserves our deepest gratitude for opening up the Westmoreland Inn tonight for the fund-raiser,” Jamey was saying. The crowd duly applauded; Weiss nodded in several directions, a modest smile touching his lips.
Holly fixed Tim with what she liked to consider her most evil glare. He only grinned. Vile, loathsome child—
“I was hoping to bring you some encouraging words tonight about the progress of the investigation,” Jamey went on. “There are things we know, and things we’re going to learn, and that’s really all I can say at present. But this terrible series of fires has taught me something about the place I’ve made my home, and I’d like to share those thoughts with you.”
Holly held up her hands just high enough for Tim to see them, and pantomimed closing her fingers around his throat.
“We have our differences here, just as every community in this country has its differences. The conversations I’ve heard tonight have been about pretty much every issue and idea current in the national debate. Opinions come from all sides of each question. Tom Brokaw has said, quite rightly, that patriotism is not a loyalty oath. I think the most patriotic thing a citizen of this country can do is question the government. This is the remarkable thing about the United States—and it’s exactly what our Founders wanted and indeed demanded of us. The free exchange of questions and ideas. When that freedom is threatened—by the destruction of places in which so many of us meet in order to express our beliefs in company with each other—we come together as we have tonight in order to rebuild those places. Because that’s what a community does.”
Holly forgot about her drink.
“Now, I’m very new to Pocahontas County. I like to think I’ve been useful thus far; I guess I’ll find out in November, because even though I’m running unopposed—which is a very great honor—I still have to win a majority of your votes. But these church burnings have made me feel pretty damned useless. And that makes me angry. Sheriff Lachlan is just as angry as I am. So you’ve got two incredibly angry officers of the court working this thing, and that’s what we’re here for. That’s our function. I think, though, that what you’re here for—contributing to the repair and renewal fund—is even more important in many ways than what a sheriff and a district attorney can do. We’re supposed to find these criminals and stop them. You’re contributing to the future, making sure it will be built—you’re saying that the future is going to happen. And that’s the most basic faith a citizen of this country can have.”
She was aware of someone standing behind her now, but was so riveted on Jamey Stirling that it took her a moment to recognize Cam’s touch on her shoulder.
“America is a work in progress. Yes, I know, it’s a cliché—but think about what it means. America, it seems to me, was never meant to be completed. We were never meant to be a finished product, a thing that at some point would get a final polish and we could all say, ‘Okay, all done!’ and hold a champagne brunch to celebrate—and then not bother to think about it anymore.
“We have to think about it. We’re not a finished thing. When somebody calls the Constitution a ‘living document,’ don’t they mean it’s supposed to do what all living things do—grow and change? So America is pretty much meant to be unfinished. It’s challenging work that puts us through a spiritual wringer, that demands our best—because America is the most important work in history.
“Now, anybody who’s ever heard me speechify on the subject—which now includes all of you!—knows that I pretty much go off the deep end when I talk about the Constitution. A lot of people wonder why. After all, it allowed slavery, repression, injustice. It forgot to give women the right to vote until nineteen amendments later.
One of the amendments turned out to be such a lousy idea that another amendment was needed to repeal it—and then we could all legally enjoy our bourbon again. But the deficiencies aren’t in the document. Mistakes were made by those who interpreted the document, who wrestled with moral, intellectual, and spiritual questions—and sometimes got it wrong.
“The reason I get long-winded about it—I prefer to think of it as ‘lyrical,’ by the way—is that in the document are found the means for change. For correcting mistakes. For righting wrongs. For doing the work that brings progress. Where do we want to go, and how will we get there? What kind of society do we want to live in—and what are we willing to do in order to establish it? And, yes, to protect it. To form a more perfect Union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare—and secure the blessings of liberty. Not the perfect Union, but a more perfect Union. The Founders knew we’d never get there—but they provided the means to keep working on it.
“And that’s what we’re all here doing tonight. Discussing our different views of what this country should be, where it should be going, what it should be doing. How to establish, ensure, provide, promote, and secure. Making certain that those places that were damaged will be repaired and restored, because that’s what communities do.”
He paused, and all at once seemed to shake himself slightly. A tiny smile curved his lips. “I’m a lawyer and a politician—give me a microphone and I’ll talk all night. But there are Labor Day picnics tomorrow all over the county, so I’m guessing you’d all like me to shut up now so you can go home. Thanks for being here tonight.”
“Damn,” Holly muttered as she joined the applause. “I could just kiss that kid right now.”
“Me, too,” Cam agreed softly. When Holly looked over her shoulder at him, he shrugged and showed both dimples. “What can I tell you? He’s always been like that. You should’ve heard him practicing opening arguments and summations—even during first year.”