Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1)

by Stephen Penner

  Even still, it proved to be an effort to force out the thoughts about the evil that was happening all around her. And how she could possibly help put a stop to it. Whenever she entertained the idea of just forgetting about it, she could hear that stupid Iain saying, 'Some poor girl's going to be next if they don't catch this lunatic soon. I think maybe you'd have that girl's death on your head a bit if you could've helped, but didn't.' A very real part of her wanted to just forget the whole thing. After all, she wasn't a policeman. It was their job, not hers.

  She didn't know what to do.

  She approached an intersection with what appeared to be a major road. More major anyway than the side-street she was on. She was uncertain how far she'd walked from her aunt and uncle's home as she'd mused over her plight, but she was certain she'd entered newly discovered territory—for her at least. The college should have been nearby, but she couldn't see the King's Tower over the rows of townhomes. Instead, Maggie found herself staring across the intersection at a rather impressive-looking church she'd never seen before. It was quite large, with an even larger cemetery extending behind it toward the next street over. It might have seemed out of place in the residential neighborhood had it not been for the fact that in its enormity it still held the same quiet dignity as its neighbors. This was a neighborhood of affluent, if not exactly wealthy Aberdeenians. Doctors, lawyers, professors—and small business owners like her aunt and uncle. Every neighborhood needed a place of worship, Maggie supposed. This was this neighborhood's.

  She crossed the street and approached the path to the church's entryway. 'St. Catherine's.' Catholic. Maggie could again hear Iain's voice, 'Oh, are you Catholic?' No. But somehow the sanctity of a church, whatever denomination, appealed to her just then. Maybe it was skipping breakfast, maybe it was the depressing drizzle, maybe it was the restless nights and tortured dreams. Whatever it was, she wanted someone to just wrap their arms around her and tell her it would all be all right. Somehow, this church seemed to offer that.

  She turned up the path to the door.

  The inside of the church was breathtaking. All stone and stained glass. Gilded statues filled a dozen alcoves circling the sanctuary. The pulpit was adorned in cloths of white and purple and gold, and a large gilded crucifix hung over the altar. And to the right was a table filled with small white candles twinkling at the feet of a statue of the Virgin Mary, her hands extended to her sides in invitation. Looking around at the beautiful interior of the church, Maggie's couldn't help but reflect that even her beautiful Episcopal church back home had not been so ornate. She suddenly became excruciatingly conscious of the fact that she was a non-Catholic seeking comfort in a Catholic church. Thus feeling the slightest bit ill at ease, she quickly grabbed a seat in the last pew and lowered her head.

  Denominations aside, she had come in seeking comfort, and time to reflect on what she should do next. It was true that she was not the police, and that it was their job to catch the killer, not hers. But it was equally true that she had information which they did not. And despite her earlier rebuff by the police, she still felt she had some moral obligation to act on the knowledge she possessed.

  'I think maybe you'd have that girl's death on your head a bit if you could've helped, but didn't.'

  The safest thing to do was to just tell the police what more she had learned. But she had tried that yesterday and Sgt. Warwick had not been in. And there was no guarantee they would believe her anyway. They hadn't the first time. What had changed? She'd gotten better at the magic, but that hardly seemed likely to persuade them. No, they had their methods, and they weren't interested in some crack-pot from the States who claimed she could read the killer's identity at the bottom of a tea cup.

  So what then? What was she to do? And who was this fourth victim? Had she been wrong about the fourth (and fifth, if Glenninver was the blueprint) murders happening on the new moon? That was still two days away. The news had said the girl's body had been found behind a nightclub down by the docks, not at the college. But where at the docks? And was she really the fourth victim or not? If so, had the demon already been summoned? Was it too late?

  For a moment she considered how silly it was to believe that a demon could actually be summoned. Then she remembered the candle floating in front of her face, and thought again. And if a demon had already been summoned, already been grafted to its host, what would that mean? She tried to imagine what a demon would do in modern-day Aberdeen. She wasn't sure, but she knew it couldn't be good. But what if she was right and the murder was supposed to happen on the new moon? Was this latest murder unrelated or not? Was there still going to be a murder on Sunday? One that would complete the spell? One that would summon a demon to this plane to possess a human host and do God knows what unspeakable acts?

  If she could prevent that, and didn't, she'd have a lot more than just one girls' death on her head.

  Maggie looked up, a decision reflected in her eyes. She needed to find out whether that fourth victim was related to the other killings or not. And if not, then she had to find Sgt. Warwick and plead with her to let her help.

  Just then, another parishioner entered the church from a side entrance toward the front of the sanctuary. Maggie noticed only because the church was so empty otherwise. The front pew was occupied by a very old woman praying the rosary, but she had been otherwise alone in the sanctuary. The man who had just entered walked directly over to the candles by the statue of Mary, and selected three unlit ones from below. Slowly lighting each in turn, he muttered a prayer, then crossed himself. When he turned to take a seat in a nearby pew, Maggie could finally see his face. And his scar.

  Devan Sinclair. The man whose sister had been murdered eighteen years earlier in Glenninver—just like the girls in Aberdeen. The man whose parents died in a fire a year later. The man who spoke Gaelic as a native. The man who owned a bookstore on the occult. The man who refused to sell her the one book which could have helped her peg down the spell the murderer was using. She didn't think to question what he might be doing in this neighborhood. Instead her mind raced to more pressing questions.

  Is he summoning the demon? she couldn't help but ask herself. But if so, why would he be at a church?

  Maggie decided not to stick around for the answers. She got up as quietly as she could and made a bee-line for the door, hoping desperately that Sinclair had not seen her.

  45. Frustration

  Warwick waited in her car up the road from the tree. It was just after sundown and probably a bit too early for the killer to show up, but better to be early than late. She didn't dare go up to the tree to check if the key was still there. That would alert the killer that she had discovered his scheme; then she'd never catch him. No, the better way was to watch silently from up the road and wait. It was Friday night. He would come.

  She had decided to do this stake-out alone. Cameron would likely not have believed her. She could always call for back-up once the killer came and fetched the key to unlock his garroting wire and dissecting knife. But if she was going to base her actions on the word of a twenty-something American college student, she didn't need to broadcast that to the entire department.

  The minutes passed, but no one came. The minutes turned to hours, and still no one came. She was cold and hungry in her small car up the road from the bus station and she started to question her own judgment. A stake-out by one's self was starting to seem less of a good idea. She also remembered that Kelly Anderson's body had been found on a Saturday night. Perhaps she was a day early.

  Well, there was no leaving now. She daren't risk the killer arriving just minutes after she'd left. She would stay the night, until dawn if necessary. But if no one came, then she would tell Cameron after all. She would just have to convince him. And they could have a whole undercover team out there the next night. Catch him red-handed. Or even better, not-yet-red handed, the fourth victim, whoever she might have been, safely making her way home unmolested by the killer Warwick had finally caught.


  The night dragged on, and Warwick started trying to figure out the best way to convince the inspector.

  * * *

  Maggie had spent the rest of Friday trying to track down details as to where the latest murder had taken place. 'The docks' was both a rather large area and hardly the sort of place one would want to just go to and start asking questions. She had finally found some details in the afternoon papers—for example, the victim's name was 'Annie Gwyer'—but by the time she had done so, the sun had already begun setting. The solstice was two days away and a three o'clock sunset was one indication of that. Having discovered that the girl's body had been found behind a bar called 'The Rusty Spike' also did not encourage her to rush down there after dark. She could go again in the morning, discretely collect a few samples from the alleyway, and return home. Besides, the police were that much more likely to have left by tomorrow morning. There would still be plenty of time to contact Sgt. Warwick before the next murder Sunday night. Well, maybe not plenty of time, but enough time anyway.

  She woke up early Saturday morning. She had deliberately avoided the magic and had enjoyed a peaceful night's rest. In short order, she was showered, dressed and ready for breakfast. Looking in the mirror, she fixed the clasp to her necklace behind her head and tucked her silver clan crest pendant into her sweater. 'BE..AIST,' she read. 'Be Traist,' she thought.

  * * *

  The docks weren't as scary as she had imagined, but then it was early. Not that anyone was directly threatening her, but it was a little dirtier than she was used to, a little more industrial than she was used to, and a little more run-down than she was used to. Even in the early morning sunshine she felt out-of-place and vulnerable. So she lowered her head, kept her stride purposeful, and tried not to look anyone in the eye. Of course, there weren't really any eyes to look into, even if she'd wanted to. The few longshoreman she saw were busy loading freight onto ships, entirely oblivious to her presence. And the man she saw passed out in a doorway was, well, passed out in a doorway, and therefore appeared to be of minimal threat. She picked up her pace. She just had a short ways to go from the bus stop and she would be at where the paper had said the bar was.

  Sure enough, she found the bar. And sure enough, she found the alley behind the bar. And sure enough, some worker in a greasy apron was washing the entire alleyway down with a hose.

  "Stop!" Maggie yelled without thinking.

  The worker turned and looked at her, but did not in fact stop.

  "'Ow's that, love?" he asked, still spraying any hope of a divining sample down a nearby grating.

  "What—" Maggie had to follow up now. "What are you doing?"

  The man looked down at the hose for a second, wondering perhaps if it looked different somehow than he would have expected. Satisfied that it looked precisely as it ought to, he looked up again at Maggie. "I'm 'osing down the alley's what. What's it to you?"

  A fair question, Maggie thought. "Isn't this were that girl was murdered?"

  "Aye," he answered. "The police just okayed 'osing down the alley. Was starting to smell rather bad, it was. And Jamie—Mr. Lancaster—wanted it cleaned up as soon as possible. 'Bad fer business,' 'e said."

  "I'd imagine so," Maggie replied, still watching the dirty water run down the grating. The man returned to the side to side sweeping motion she had first observed. Very effective is cleaning the street, she noticed.

  "So who the 'ell are you, anyway?" he demanded.

  "Er—" That was an even better question; one she had not anticipated. But she was getting pretty quick on her feet. "I'm Caroline. I'm a distant cousin of Annie's. From America."

  The man narrowed his eyes and looked Maggie over with a scrutinizing glance. "Annie never mentioned no relatives in the States," he stated flatly.

  "Well, like I said. We're distant cousins, me and Annie Gwyer," she felt the need to say the girl's full name to bolster her credibility. She wasn't sure it worked. "The, uh, police contacted me. About the body. Funeral arrangements and all that, you know."

  Apparently he didn't. He just stared at her, the water from the hose falling to the pavement in a shimmering arc.

  "Do you know where they took her body?" She asked. Maybe she could still get a sample...

  He stared at her for a few more seconds. "No," he said finally.

  Maggie frowned, half at the answer, half in thought. "Do you know anyone who would?"

  The man joined her frown. "Maybe some of 'er friends from the club. They should be in tonight, if you want to come back. Club opens at seven."

  "Seven, huh?" Maggie was ready to get out of there. "Thanks. Maybe I'll be back tonight. Thanks."

  "Uh-huh," the man replied and watched her walk the few steps back to the street and around the corner out of sight.

  Seven o'clock, eh? Maggie walked quickly back toward the bus stop. Seven o'clock would be well after sunset. She wondered whether Sgt. Warwick would just take her word for it that this murder wasn't related to the others.

  Probably not.

  She had some thinking to do.

  46. Decision

  The police wouldn't believe her without proof of some sort, Maggie decided. So rather than marching into the police station and demanding to speak with Sgt. Warwick, she instead wandered around the college most of the rest of the morning, trying to figure out what to do. She was in a catch-22. She didn't feel she could approach the police without more information, but she didn't know how to get more information without approaching the police. The only solution seemed to be to get some access to the girl's body, or at least her belongings, and confirm whether or not this murder completed the spell. If it did, going to the police was probably moot. If it didn't, going to the police would be imperative. Tomorrow was Sunday.

  The problem of course lay in returning to the docks after dark. She hadn't been comfortable there even in the day time. And so she spent the rest of the morning searching her imagination for alternatives. She could approach Warwick directly and ask for access to the body. That request seemed unlikely to be granted, however, since she had already been turned down once, and that had simply been an offer to help, not a request to be alone with a murder victim's corpse. She could ask Iain or Ellen to help, but they would think she was crazy. If only that worker hadn't washed everything down the drain.

  After a sparse lunch at a café, Maggie went to the library and found a secluded study carrel in one of the lower levels. There she poured over the spellbook trying to find a spell she might have overlooked. One that would confirm whether the summoning spell could be completed early. Or one that would enable her to learn more about the murder without physical samples from the crime scene. But her efforts proved fruitless, and after several hours of frustrating search, she emerged, even less sure of what to do than before.

  She found herself winding her way slowly toward the police station without even realizing it, becoming aware of her position only once the precinct came into view. She even paused for a moment at the front steps of the station, only to turn away again and continue walking down the street. She had nothing to offer but speculation, and she had not forgotten Sgt. Warwick's threat, however empty, to arrest her for interfering with a murder investigation. She walked away from the station and tried to remind herself that she still had one more day.

  She looked at her watch. It was nearly 2:45 and the sky was already beginning to dim. She had two choices. Go home, knowing that she would likely not go out again that night. Or stay out, find someplace to sit for a few hours, and at least keep open the possibility of returning to the docks that evening after seven.

  She looked up the street toward the bus stop for the ride back to the MacTary's. Then she looked down the street at the direction from whence she came, the direction back to the college. She thought for several moments, then sighed heavily, and decided.

  Maggie turned back toward the college.

  * * *

  The Boar and Thistle was hopping. Maggie had found a table
prior to the rush and had finally supplemented her rootbeer orders with fish and chips once it had become clear that she was wasting the establishment's money by just sitting there while perfectly good dinner patrons were waiting to be seated. By the time she had finished her dinner, it was after eight o'clock.

  The Rusty Spike had been open for over an hour. And yet there she sat.

  She was still waiting for some other alternative to present itself. The one that would enable her to convince the police that there would be another murder tomorrow night without requiring her to head into one of Aberdeen's seediest neighborhoods after dark. Not surprisingly, this option did not walk into the pub and pull up a chair next to her.

  Iain, however, did.

  "Hello, Maggie!" he beamed as he sat down at her table. "How are you then?"

  "Oh, hi, Iain," Maggie replied lethargically. Her mind was definitely elsewhere. Ordinarily she would have loved to see Iain. Now he was just a distraction. "Fine thanks. And you?"

  "Well enough," he replied with a smile. "What happened Thursday?"

  Maggie turned to look at him. She wasn't exactly sure what he'd said. "Thursday?"

  "Aye, Thursday," Iain smiled good-naturedly. "We had plans, I believe?"

  Oh, that's right. She had completely forgotten.

  "Oh, Iain, you're right," she touched his hand. "I'm sorry. I forgot. I—I've had a lot on my mind the last couple of days."

  Weeks, Iain wanted to correct, but thought better of it.

  "No harm done," he shook it off. "And let me know if I can help out any. I haven't had much on my mind at all lately. Except you, of course."

  Maggie smiled. It was a smile mixed with irritation at the sickly sweet clinginess of that comment, appreciation that he was trying to be nice, pleasure at the thought of him thinking of her, and exasperation at him interrupting her at this precise moment.