Sam leaned forward. “You’re the talent, I take it.”
“I think you know that.”
“And he’s the money.”
“He does do well,” she said.
“But you both tried to buy the Lexington House. Wasn’t that a conflict of interest?”
She shrugged. “One of us might have gotten it.”
Sam frowned, leaning back. “So why would Councilman Yates loan you money? Were you having an affair with him?”
She smiled. “Well, you see, that’s none of your business.” She rose, walking around the table and leaning against it so that her legs were pressed against him. “I should just tell you to go to hell. I obviously am innocent of the Smith murders, and the police have a kid in custody who was covered in blood. But I do like you. I like your scent, and I like your size, and I even like your face, Mr. Hall. Still, I am getting bored of all this.” She leaned forward, hands on her knees, pressing her cleavage tight. “Next time you call me, it had better be to get laid, or I’m not going to talk to you again.”
She stood. “Now get out.”
Sam smiled and rose. “Madam Samantha, you’re right about one thing.”
“You really do want to get laid by someone who offers real excitement?” she asked.
“I’m a good attorney. I’ll find a way to bring you into the courtroom.”
“Really? But you don’t have a witness anymore, do you? Poor Mr. Sedge was found dead today in a pool of olive oil!”
“I can see your concern.”
“I’ve been here, working. You know that yourself.” Her anger had returned to her face with a vengeance.
“Before I was an attorney, in law school, I went and got my private investigator’s license, and I know a lot about breaking alibis,” he said pleasantly.
“Call me when you want to sleep with me, honey. You don’t even need to buy dinner,” she said, and winked.
“Oh, honestly, I don’t think that will be the case,” he said pleasantly, and he walked back out to the main shop room.
Jackson was leaning over the counter, smiling as he chatted with the clerk. He arched an eyebrow at Sam. Sam thanked the clerk and paid his bill for Madam Samantha’s time.
He and Jackson walked out of the shop.
“The place does have a back door,” Jackson informed him. “But Madam Samantha was fully booked with clients when the murders occurred at Lexington House.”
“And when Earnest Covington was killed?”
“Not quite as packed, but still here.”
As they stood on the street, he noted a couple walking by hand in hand. They were both dressed as vampires—she was beautiful, and he was handsome. They made a cute couple; the costumes were exactly alike, except that his had pants and hers had a long black skirt.
It struck him that many people loved masks and costumes because they were able to be different people by wearing them. And, in fact, people could be each other.
“Jackson, what if…what if there were two people involved?” Sam asked. “Such as two people who were having an affair? That would explain the costume. If the killer was seen in costume, and the plan was to commit several murders, it would be natural to suspect that it was the same person. A costume takes away an identity. That’s what we’ve been going on all along. But what if there were two people involved—maybe two people who were having an affair?”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” John Alden told Jenna. “I mean, I can’t believe it. You’re Sam’s friend, Jamie’s niece…and damned good-looking, but still, I can’t believe I’m doing this!” he said.
Jenna laughed. “You’re doing it because you’re a good officer of the law, John.”
“What do you think you’re going to get from the crime-scene photos? You’ve seen the blood spray, so you know the murders were vicious and horrible.”
Jenna nodded. “I know. I’ve never seen the victims in situ.”
“Tell Sam I don’t think I’m going to answer the phone anymore when he calls,” John said, sliding open a desk drawer.
“I will not, because it’s not true,” Jenna said.
John groaned. “I love Salem. I love my home. I love the Wiccans, the shops, the people who shake their heads at the Wiccans and still appreciate all the tourism they bring in. I love the historians, who also shake their heads at the Wiccans, except for those who are themselves Wiccans. I haven’t had my badge that long, and I’ve explained that the chief wants this investigated and properly so. I want this to be solved, and over.”
Jenna smiled at him. “See? And that’s why you’re helping me,” she assured him.
He laid out a number of folders, pulling the photos from them.
“I told you—they’re a gruesome sight.”
“Yes,” Jenna said. The photos depicted tremendous carnage. She had to study them carefully. And she thought that she found what she was looking for—even though she hadn’t actually known what she was looking for when she started out. But if all their suspects had an alibi for one of the murders, it seemed now that she might have discovered why.
“John, look at the ones of Peter Andres.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not as much overkill.”
“What are you talking about? He’s hacked to pieces.”
“Hacked—just to make sure he’s dead. Now, look at the photos of Earnest Covington.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s— Well, he’s far worse.”
“The killer was escalating. Isn’t that the kind of thing you all preach about at the FBI? Or in your behavioral units?”
“Yes, sometimes. But I don’t think that it’s true in this case.”
“You’re losing me completely.”
“I think we’re looking at two different killers,” Jenna said.
John’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Two killers,” he repeated. He nodded grimly. “People thought they saw old man Smith when Peter Andres was killed, but eyewitness accounts are remarkably unreliable. Everyone knew that Smith hated Peter Andres—Andres wanted Malachi taken away from his parents. Andres believed that living with Abraham Smith was like living with an abusive parent, even if Smith didn’t technically beat the kid.”
“I wasn’t really suggesting that Abraham Smith killed Peter Andres….” Jenna said.
“But it’s possible. He had motive. And he certainly owned an ax!”
“You didn’t find an ax at the murder scene, did you?”
John scowled. “You’d know if we had. Right, right, the bloody ax was at the Smith house. Andres was a scythe. Maybe Abraham Smith killed Peter Andres—and his son knew it and just went crazier and crazier because Peter Andres was his one hope, his one salvation…and his father had killed him.”
“As far as I understand, several witnesses saw Abraham Smith on the day Peter Andres was killed,” Jenna said. “And, as you said, and as I believe, people are basically decent. It’s the odd man out who usually causes death and mayhem. And if Malachi Smith was going crazy with fury against his father, why kill Earnest Covington first?”
“Maybe Earnest saw the kid getting ready to kill his folks,” John suggested.
“No, that didn’t happen,” Jenna said, thinking about her experience in the Covington house.
John wagged a finger at her. “And how do you know that, Jenna? A ghost told you so?”
“John, be rational,” she said, not about to share the workings of her inner mind with him. John Alden certainly had to know something about her official work and their team, but she’d never tried to explain to him that she could see ghosts. “Covington couldn’t have possibly seen Malachi—or anyone—from inside that parlor of his. And if he’d been outside, Malachi would have attacked him there, right? Besides, Earnest Covington’s door was open. He had just gone back in his house and was killed while thinking about his son. The evidence shows that.”
“The evidence in your mind!” John said.
“We know that the costume worn b
y Peter Andres’s killer came from the drama department at the school,” Jenna reminded him.
“Abraham Smith could have gotten a hold of it.”
“I doubt it! He would have been reported at the school—he, as in any member of the Smith family. Malachi Smith was out of school then, and pretty much so despised,” Jenna reminded him.
“I’m not buying your explanation,” John said.
“Well, Abraham and Malachi as both being murderers doesn’t makes sense to me.” Jenna stood. “John, I know I’m pushing it, but could we get copies of these photos?”
“I’ll think about it,” he told her. “Sam has already been shown photos regarding the Smith family. Malachi hasn’t been charged in the other murders yet, and I don’t know if Sam will pursue warrants and subpoenas on the other murders yet—he doesn’t have an eyewitness to support him anymore.”
She leaned on the desk. “There’s the horned god costume, John. He’ll pursue the whole thing. I know he will.”
John groaned. “I’ll think about it—until a warrant comes or I decide! Damn, but you can tell you’re Jamie O’Neill’s relation—cuter, but a damned bulldog. Please, let me have the rest of my Sunday? God’s day of rest, you know?”
15
Angela Hawkins sat among a crowd of about one hundred at the Old Meeting House. Pastor Goodman Wilson was at the pulpit, preaching. She surveyed the congregation. The pastor’s flock looked like ordinary people, but, as a group, they were a bit different than most congregations she’d been a part of before. Here, the dress was conservative, down to the last person. There were no short skirts among the women, and certainly no plunging necklines. The men wore suits beneath their coats, button-down shirts and ties. Church wasn’t exactly formal, but it was conservative and proper.
The service had been going on for some time when she arrived, but an usher at the door, open and friendly, had guided her in.
Goodman Wilson was preaching about tolerance.
So far, nothing that she heard suggested anything ominous or particularly different from what she might hear in a sermon at a more commonplace church.
“My friends,” Goodman Wilson went on, “we are all here because we choose to be here. The world offers so many subversions. Satan does remain at the door. I say this, because Satan stands at the doors to our souls. We all know that he doesn’t really play out there in the woods, trying to seduce the unwary to dance naked with him!”
That brought about a spate of laughter, which, it seemed, the pastor had intended.
“Our community is facing a time of trial again. We are often ostracized because our devotion is so deep, and because we see perpetual invitations to sin in those things others often see as innocent. But, my friends, we stand fast in our faith. We do not consider that we rise above others. We only know in our hearts where we want to go. While we practice tolerance—patience with our fellow man, though our fellow man often has no patience for us—we must also realize that we are part of this community. Jesus Christ suffered the mockery and cruelty of others so that we might learn to live our lives with His help to free us from sin. I am asking all of you to open yourselves up to the mockery of others. A terrible injustice is being done now. Though it will open you up to the mockery of others, I’m asking that any who can help in the matter of the deaths of our brother Abraham Smith and his loved ones, look deep into your hearts, and open your hearts, souls and even your lives to those who are so desperately investigating the truth in this matter. My friends, my brothers, my sisters, I don’t ask that you act in haste—I ask that you search your own souls. I don’t believe that anyone in the Smith family was a murderer. I believe that those investigating the case can use all the help they can get.”
Angela stared at the pastor.
He had just baldly asked his congregation to step forward.
“Go in the peace and goodness of our Almighty God!” Goodman Wilson said. “May God’s blessing follow you as you leave this place of worship, and may you do His work in all things. Peace be with you.”
With that, the service was over and Angela stood. A number of people eyed her, but most of them shook her hand and welcomed her to the church and asked her to return.
She was surprised when Goodman Wilson approached her after the service, but she thought that the pastor would probably welcome any newcomer.
“Ah, welcome—Miss Hawkins,” Goodman Wilson said.
She smiled. “You know who I am. Was that sermon for my benefit?”
“No, Miss Hawkins, it was not. It was written last night as I sat at my desk and pondered all that was going on.”
“Do you think that any members of your congregation truly know something?”
He hesitated. Angela saw that he was looking toward the door. She turned, and saw a woman hurrying out with a young teen and a little girl with blond hair.
“Can I tell you that for a fact? No. But I do have members who have seen their children tormented by other children for their religious affiliations. If any of them does have information, I hope that my words will help them see what is right,” Wilson said.
“That’s kind of you,” she said.
“No. That’s what my God dictates I do, Miss Hawkins.” He bowed to her slightly. “Good day, Miss Hawkins. I wish you Godspeed in your quest.”
He walked away from her. Angela hurried out. She saw that the woman with the teen boy and small girl were getting into a car.
She made a mental note of the plate number, hurried to her car and wrote down the number. Then she put a call through to Jake Mallory.
Sam and Jackson had just stepped from the shop when Jackson paused to answer his phone. “It’s Will,” he said briefly to Sam.
From where they stood, Sam could actually look over the heads of the crowds to see Will’s “magic” tent and the area before it where a number of people, young and old, in costume and not, were already gathering for the next performance. Will, inside the tent area, had his back to them as they talked.
“Thanks,” Jackson said briefly.
“What?” Sam asked.
“The two boys—Joshua Abbott and David Yates—are there. Seated toward the back in a group that’s getting ready to watch the next show.”
“Then we’ll watch, too,” Sam said.
The boys were in football uniforms. They might have just left a practice, since their white-and-blue uniforms were grass stained.
Sam and Jackson walked over to stand at the back of the crowd while Will turned around and welcomed his audience, challenging them to determine what was magic and what was science, and what lay in the magic of the mind.
Quite a showman, Sam thought.
Will’s act that day was all about light and music. He knew that the beat of the music caused some of the jumping of the light, but he was still amazed at Will’s ability at sleight of hand, because he was definitely maneuvering some of his performance so that he could keep an eye on the crowd’s reaction, but he was doing it with an amazing ability.
He made the image of a brilliant fairy that seemed to be composed of colored light appear before one little girl, and when he closed his hand around it, he thrilled her by turning the image into a plastic toy and giving it to her.
He repeated the performance, creating a small football and handing it to David Yates, and then creating a toy horned god—and presenting it to Joshua Abbott.
Before Abbott could respond, Will hurried on, creating his finale—a large snow globe with a beautiful dancing fairy and presenting it to one of the young women sitting in the first row. He was greeted with thunderous applause, and those who had been sitting rose to move on, though some stayed, eager for the next show.
Sam watched as the two boys in their football uniforms stood and walked toward Will. David Yates was angry. Joshua followed behind him. “Hey, hey you—what the hell was that all about?” David demanded of Will. Both boys moved in on him.
Sam had the feeling that Will knew how to take care of himself, but he and
Jackson seemed to decide simultaneously that it was time to step in.
“What’s going on here?” Sam asked.
David Yates swung around. Joshua Abbott backed away about half a foot—a telling gesture. On his own, Abbott would crack.
David stared at Sam, knowing who he was. The boys were big, but Sam and Jackson were bigger by a few inches. He could see in the boy’s eyes the recognition that he wouldn’t intimidate either of these men.
“This freak is playing with our minds. And you—you’re just ripping apart the community. You know who did it all!” David Yates told him. “You know who did it all, and you want to prove that you’re such a hotshot attorney, you can make someone innocent look guilty. He—this freak!” David paused to point at Will, who just grinned. “I’ll bet he’s one of you! He tried to pick on Josh last night just because he was wearing the horned god costume. Tons of people wear that costume and you know it! And now he’s handing him horned god toys, and if you don’t lay off of us, my father is going to come at you!”
“Is he?” Sam asked. “Your father seems like a true law-abiding citizen. I think he’ll be more measured in his response than you’re being.” He looked at Joshua Abbott. “So why did you wear that costume last night? You had to know that we picked up Marty Keller trying to scare my colleague in the horned god costume from the school—and that it had Peter Andres’s blood on it.”
Joshua Abbott looked at David and didn’t speak.
“It’s just a costume that everybody wears around here!” David said.
“You know what I think?” Sam said pleasantly. “Joshua, I think you wore that costume because David goaded you into it.”
Joshua Abbott turned red. “No, uh, no! It was my choice. I wore it because I wanted to. Hey, the freak is in custody.”
“Yes, and, of course, you know Milton Sedge is dead,” Jackson said quietly.
Sam thought that the confusion that briefly touched David Yates’s face was real.
The Evil Inside (Krewe of Hunters) Page 25