A Flame in the Wind of Death

by Ann Vanderlaan

  Elanthia sighed. “You know we of the Craft believe in ‘live and let live.’ But I confess to being human and somewhat annoyed at Moira’s motives.”

  “Motives? In what way?”

  “Moira approached me last year, just before Yule. She wanted to explore the Craft and asked to join our coven as an initiate.”

  “Most covens maintain their maximum membership. You had room in yours at the time?”

  “Normally we have thirteen members, one for each moon of the year, but we’d lost a few. One from a battle with cancer, one moved out of state with her job. Moira said all the right things and seemed very sincere, so we welcomed her in for a year and a day.”

  “The initiation period before a member formally joins.”

  “Yes. But we knew long before that that Moira wasn’t going to work out. My first clue should have been orders like this.” She tapped an index finger on the sales book.

  “Orders?”

  “This isn’t the only piece this metalsmith made for her. There’s a matching boline, made with the same materials. And she commissioned her wand from him as well. It was a lovely design, made out of twisted threads of metal, in silver, to match her athame and boline. She also commissioned ceremonial robes; hired someone in Boston for that work.” Her lips pursed, then released. “Only the best would do for Moira.”

  “She must have been well-off to afford items like that.”

  “Her husband Stephen was killed in an industrial accident a few months before their only son was born. Moira sued and was awarded a huge settlement. She’s never had to work a day since. And now that her son is grown and has moved out on his own, Moira has time to spare for whatever activity catches her eye. Until a few weeks ago, that was us.”

  “She’s not with the coven anymore?”

  “No. It became clear almost immediately that Moira was all about the symbols, rather than the substance of our Craft. You know we keep our covens small, and she saw a small group as an easy way to move up the ranks, so to speak.”

  “But there are no ranks in a coven. Unless things have changed, duties within a coven are all divided up equally. There is no designated leader and all responsibilities are shared.”

  “That’s exactly how things still are. Because of that division of labor, it takes energy and commitment to be a member of a coven. In the end, Moira wasn’t willing to do what needed to be done.”

  Leigh pulled out her notepad and started to make notes. “And your coven is . . .”

  “The Circle of the Triple Goddess. It’s an all-female coven. I’d be happy to provide the names of current members.”

  “That would be very helpful. What happened several weeks ago?”

  “Moira got into an argument with one of our members about our activities within the community. We believe in giving back in any way that we can, but she was highly disapproving of some of the community groups we aided. She was all for assisting abused women and orphans, but when it came to AIDS patients or those trying to reintegrate into society after serving time in prison, she thought it looked bad. We believe that anyone who needs help or is genuinely trying to start over and atone for previous wrongdoings is worthy of assistance. When we were unwilling to bend to her ‘rules,’ she quit the group.”

  “Saving you the trouble of asking her to leave,” Leigh said.

  “At that point, I have to admit that I was considering casting a spell for the good of all to change the situation. But in the end, she left us first.”

  “Have you heard from her since?”

  Elanthia closed the sales book with an aggressive snap. “Only by way of others.”

  “Meaning?” Leigh asked.

  “I’ve heard through the grapevine that she’s talking badly about the Circle as well as its members to anyone who will listen.”

  “Angering members of the Circle?”

  Elanthia looked at her sharply. “Enough to commit murder? Assuming that’s who your victim is, that’s simply not our way. Harm to none and good to all. Let me assure you that no one in the Craft would resort to murder. We would have other . . . ways.”

  “You’d be surprised what people can be pushed to. Could you give me a description of her?”

  “I’d place Moira in her early to mid forties. She spent a fortune on spa treatments and expensive makeup, but a woman knows. About five foot four or five and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds? Salon-streaked shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes. Wears designer clothes and carries a handbag with a price tag that would feed a family of four for several months.” She frowned. “I’m sorry, that was unkind.”

  “But honest. Did she own a dog?”

  Elanthia paused for a few beats too long before answering. “She owned a Pomeranian named Maxie. She doted on that dog like it was her child.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “I try not to dislike anything or anyone, but that dog was . . . aggressive. Little and yippy and it would take your finger off if you dared touch it.”

  “Sounds charming.”

  “Not particularly. But speaking of her actual child, if you really suspect that Moira is your victim, you’ll want to talk to her son, Flynn.” She slipped a black address book from beneath the counter. “I’ll make you that list now.” Head down, she started a column of names and telephone numbers.

  “Let me start with you, then. Where were you between midnight and four thirty on Sunday morning?”

  Elanthia looked up sharply, realization dawning in her eyes. “We’re all suspects.”

  “If the victim is confirmed to be Moira Simpson, then she was killed with a tool of the Craft after breaking from the coven and expressing her negative feelings about it. I have to consider the possibility.”

  The Witch remained motionless, except for the steady tap tap tap of her pen tip against the paper. “Of course you do. I have no alibi. I was in bed, alone.” She frowned. “But I can assure you that I didn’t kill her. That would go against everything we stand for.”

  Leigh said nothing and simply nodded.

  Elanthia finished the list of twelve names and handed it to Leigh.

  “Thank you,” Leigh said, offering a business card to Elanthia. “If anything else occurs to you, anything at all, no matter how small, please feel free to give me a call. Thank you again.” She started down the long aisle, but turned at the sound of her name.

  Elanthia stood before a tiered display holding wooden bowls of tumbled gemstones. She ran her hand over the edges of several carved wooden bowls before selecting a flat moss-green stone, banded with patches of gray and gold. “This stone reminds me of your eyes. I’d like you to have it.” Coming closer, she held out the stone to Leigh.

  Leigh took the flat oval stone, running her thumb over the smooth, polished surface. “It’s lovely. What is it?”

  “Jasper. It’s carried for protection and courage. I suspect your vocation takes you into some dangerous situations.”

  “It can. I’m sorry, I can’t accept gifts. What do I owe—”

  “You owe nothing. Think of it as a token from one member of the Craft to another, to ensure your safety.” She stepped back and tipped her head gracefully. “Blessed be, Trooper.”

  The words Leigh hadn’t spoken for over ten years rose to her lips as if it had been only yesterday. “Merry meet again.” She stepped from the shop and out into the weakening late-afternoon sun. She stopped on the front step, her eyes fixed on the stone in her hand as she continued to stroke it with her thumb. Then she slid the jasper into her pocket for safekeeping and headed for her car.

  CHAPTER SIX: FLASH BACK

  * * *

  Flash Back: the tendency of fires fueled by flammable liquids to reignite after being extinguished. Vapors boiling off from flammable liquids can conduct flame from a distant ignition source back to the originating container. Also called backflash.

  Monday, 4:32 p.m.

  Essex Detective Unit

  Salem, Massachusetts

  “
Hey, Abbott. I hear you caught a new one.”

  Leigh paused in the aisle that bisected the double row of cubicles in the bullpen. “I did.”

  Brad Riley, the squad rookie, sat in his cubicle, a disorganized jigsaw puzzle of paperwork spread out before him, a pen clutched in his shaking hand. His neatly trimmed strawberry-blond hair was unusually disheveled and his sport coat hung drunkenly off his chair, one arm dragging on the worn carpet.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Sure.” The single word was jagged as broken glass. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and then his pen dropped to his desk to roll unnoticed to the floor as his hands fell limply into his lap. He slumped forward, his elbows on his thighs. “No, I’m not.”

  Leigh glanced around the bullpen; it was deserted. After setting her messenger bag against the half wall, she rolled a chair from the opposite cubicle into Riley’s doorway. “What’s going on?” He raised his head and Leigh instantly recognized the haunted look in his eyes and her stomach sank.

  “I got called out to Haverhill this morning. A neighbor reported hearing a knock-down-drag-out going on in the apartment next door, followed by gunfire. The Haverhill boys took one look and called us.” He hung his head. “Jesus, Abbott. A guy took out his family. Shot his wife in the head multiple times—there was so much damage, I actually couldn’t tell how many times—and then he went through the house hunting down his five-year-old son and two-year-old daughter.” A shudder rippled through him. “Then he turned the gun on himself. It was a massacre. Blood and brain matter everywhere. The wife will have to be identified by DNA or fingerprints because there’s nothing left of her face. But . . . that wasn’t the worst part.”

  Leigh didn’t make him say it out loud. She’d been there herself, and knew the gut-wrenching horror of those tiny corpses. She rubbed a comforting hand on Riley’s shoulder. “Child victims are the worst.”

  “I haven’t had that many cases and they’ve all been adults, most of them junkies. You know a violent end was always in their future. But kids . . .”

  “They never had a chance to live.”

  Riley sat back slowly, letting his head tip against the back of his chair. “Yeah. And one of the people they trusted the most betrayed them in the worst possible way.” He paused for several seconds, his fingers clenching around the padded armrests of the chair. “The neighbor said the parents had been having trouble for months and the wife wanted to leave. I guess he felt if he couldn’t have her, no one could. The kids either.” His eyelids clenched shut. “And now they’re all gone.”

  “This is the kind of case that really hits you hard,” Leigh said. “Don’t forget that you can talk to the department counselor, if you need to.”

  A harsh laugh broke from Riley with an explosive crack as his eyes shot open. “The counselor? Do you know the hell I’d catch from the guys if I went to the counselor? Real cops don’t need a fucking counselor.”

  Leigh’s temper flared. “That’s bullshit,” she snapped. “Worse than that, it’s Morrison talking.” Riley sat up, flushing, but Leigh cut him off before he could speak. “If you’re going to survive working this job, you need to learn when it’s time to think for yourself. I know they consider me the token department female, but use your head. There’s no shame in admitting that you need a little help with a nightmare situation. You don’t have to tell them you’re going. Just go. You think today was bad, wait until you have to stand in on those autopsies. That’ll be worse. If you need help, get it.”

  Silence hung heavy for several seconds as Riley stared at her, taken aback by her unusual burst of temper. “You’re right,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. You’re new on the force, Riley, but you have a good head on your shoulders. Don’t let them push you around. It’s not worth it just to be one of the guys.”

  Riley sat back in his chair, looking drained and spent. “I hear you and the scientist are back in the saddle.”

  Leigh’s jaw sagged in shock. “Back in the . . . what?” They can’t know.

  “You’re on a case together.” Riley fixed her with a cockeyed stare. “What did you think I meant?”

  “Uh . . . that. Yes, there was a burn victim down at the wharf. Matt and his team are good; they’ve already given me age and sex just from a virtual bone analysis. And we have some other leads. We may already have a connection to either the killer or the victim.”

  “Sounds good. I just wanted to let you know that I was serious about my offer. If there’s anything you need, just ask.” He looked down at the blizzard of paperwork on his desk. “It’s not like this one’s going to court.”

  Leigh patted his knee. “Why don’t you take a break, get some coffee and some air, and then come back and finish up.”

  “Good idea.” When he pushed back from his desk, Leigh stood and rolled the spare chair back into its cubicle. “You want anything?”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

  Leigh picked up her bag and quickly walked to the back of the bullpen. She sat down at her own neat desk, setting the messenger bag on the floor. Her gaze flicked over the silver frame in the corner, a smile touching her lips at the man in his dress blues who gazed back at her. Hi, Dad. Miss you.

  She turned her attention to the stack of mail by her keyboard. She flipped through it, recognizing results from the state lab and court documents. She hesitated at an unmarked manila envelope with no return address. Her name and the department address were neatly printed on the front in black magic marker. Opening the envelope, she pulled out a color photo.

  Shock sluiced over her in an icy wave as all the blood drained from her head. A dull buzz hummed in her ears as tiny green and black spots bloomed in front of her eyes. The photo slid from her numb fingers and drifted to the floor. She pressed her palms against the edge of her desk, her eyes fixed unseeingly on her blank computer monitor as she simply concentrated on sucking air into her lungs.

  She closed her eyes as she fought for control. She was seeing things. This wasn’t real.

  She dragged in a ragged breath, steeling herself to look at the photo again.

  Look, damn it. Don’t be a coward.

  She picked up the photo with clumsy fingers. She felt the force of the blow once again, but held on tightly this time, crumpling the edges of the snapshot with the force of her grip.

  The man in the photo lay sprawled face down in a snowy alley, his arms thrown wide over his head, a handgun flung a foot away from his right hand. His heavy winter coat was covered with a light dusting of snow as if he’d lain there for a while. But the most striking feature was the puddle of blood that spread out in a gruesome halo around his ruined head—thick dark blood against snow sparkling brilliantly white under stark police lights.

  Her gaze darted desperately back to the photo tucked into the corner of her desk.

  She’d been there in the flesh four years ago, thirty feet away, kept at bay by crime scene tape, several officers, and Kepler’s direct order to keep her out of his scene. She’d ranted and struggled desperately, but they’d been relentless.

  One of their own had gone down and they’d do anything to see justice served. Even if it meant holding back a fellow officer, the daughter of the fallen man. They all knew she’d show up. The call of officer down was broadcast while she’d been out on patrol. Against Kepler’s wishes, word had filtered quickly through back channels and as soon as Leigh heard, she’d roared down the highway toward Salem, lights and sirens flashing, holding out hope to the last moment there’d been a mistake.

  There was no mistake.

  Instead, Leigh watched helplessly as her greatest nightmare became reality and the man she loved more than anyone, her only remaining parent, was pronounced dead. As crime scene pictures, just like the one she held in her hand, were taken. As evidence was gathered and pictures were taken of a second body, a drug addict well known to Vice. As both lifeless bodies were l
oaded into a van and driven to the morgue.

  A shiver ran through Leigh as she remembered those moments from four years ago. She looked down at the photo, feeling chilled to the bone, as if she stood once again in that snowy dark, staring down at her father’s body.

  Pull yourself together. You’re a cop. Think like one. She took a deep breath and forced herself to step back and consider what she held. Someone had sent her a photo of her slain father. Who would do such a thing? And why? She flipped over the envelope on her desk. There was no return address, but it was postmarked Boston. The handwriting was unfamiliar.

  Leigh tried to turn off all emotion and consider the photo as just a piece of evidence. This was a crime scene photo, she was sure of it. No other photos could have been taken this close up except by people involved in the investigation. So the question was not only who mailed the photo, but also how did they get access to it? The case never went to trial and the pictures were never made public. Did someone inside her own department send the package?

  Leigh turned the photo over, looking for any other information pointing to its origin, only to be hit by a new shock wave.

  Several sentences were scrawled in black magic marker on the back on the photo: Your father wasn’t the hero you think he was. He was a dirty cop. Soon the world will know it. And you’ll be the one to pay for his crimes.

  She jumped when her cell phone rang, her heart hammering sharply against her ribs as she nearly dropped the photo again. She fumbled for the phone, not taking the time to check the caller ID. “Abbott.” Her voice came out as a rough croak, her tongue leaden in her mouth.

  “Hey, it’s me.” Matt’s voice sounded foreign in her ear, as if from another life. “How did it go this afternoon?”

  She struggled to force her brain to connect with what she was hearing. “Go?”

  “You know, at the Witch shop.”

  The Witch shop? How could he expect her to concentrate on work at a time like this? “Fine.”

  Silence.

  “Can you be a little more specific than that?” Matt finally asked. “Did you find out who owned that knife? Or who—”