“Did you think Will was going to turn you in?”
“Of course he was. Will was a good cop. I was a shitty cop, a junkie cop looking for an angle. He tried to talk to me, get me in rehab. It was only a matter of time before I was out on my ass. So after the shootout, I took the candles. They were the only magic thing I understood. And, after all, two dealers were gunned down—human sacrifices, right? Big hoodoo. Will, he always kept a candle burning for his folks. So I gave them to him.”
“Did you know?”
“That he’d take a dive off the Custom House Tower? No. I swear, I thought he would be messed up for a while. That way, I could buy myself some time to work something out. I did, in a way. I bought myself two years.”
“How did you work something out? By scamming people out of their pain meds instead of buying them off drug dealers?” Paisley said.
Bob’s face darkened. “So now I’m not only buying drugs from those scumbags, but clean urine, too. What a freakin joy that is.”
“But you were in rehab. Why not just get off the drugs, Bob? I get that you’re in pain, but there are other ways to deal with it. Trust me, I know, I’ve been dealing with the pain of losing a brother for two years. I’m not on drugs.”
“It’s not my fault!”
“It is, too!”
“Paisley, stop,” Grace said as the gun came up.
“Yeah, Paisley, stop,” Bob growled. “And face the wall.”
Paisley scowled at the wall. “Okay, whatev. But how did you know we were onto you?”
“I ran Grace’s prints when she came in. Didn’t you wonder why I didn’t give you the card, Grace?”
Grace didn’t. She wasn’t in there to get printed.
“You’ve been arrested for all kinds of really bizarre crimes, but never charged. It didn’t take much digging to find you on all sorts of occult web sites. I knew the cops would never figure on a cursed candle. But you would. And with Paisley missing, and you sniffing around, I knew she’d been dosed with magic.”
“So what? You can’t get busted for magic candles, Bob.”
“No, but you can get busted for removing evidence from a crime scene when you’re a crime scene technician. I can’t afford one more mark against me. Even if it means...”
Bob didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t need to. Even if it means killing the both of you, Grace finished for him. She looked down at the lighter. Bob turned toward the covered cage. It was now or never.
Chapter 26
Bob pulled the black silk off Patricia’s cage. “What the hell is this?” He looked at the branch running diagonally, the water bowl, the sand and bark at the bottom. Grace took that moment to snag the lighter from the sill.
Patricia sprang out of the cage. Maybe Pedro hadn’t been feeding her after all. The lemon-yellow snake wrapped herself around Bob’s forearm and worked her way toward his body. Bob let out a scream, stumbling back, trying to shake the python off his gun arm.
Grace whipped the candle out of her purse and lit it. As she did, her sardonyx amulet sent a lightning bolt of a shock through her body. She managed to set the candle down without dropping it.
“Oh, my God! Get this thing off me!”
“Drop the gun, Bob!”
“Get it off!”
“Drop the gun or I’ll let her eat you!” Paisley shouted. “She hasn’t been fed for weeks!”
Patricia hissed and snapped at Bob’s face. He grabbed the reptile by the neck to fend her off. But the snake coiled around his arm—and his shoulder. Staggering, he cried out. “My shoulder!”
“Drop it, Bob!” Paisley moved closer, but not too close. The python swung randomly as Bob struggled.
Grace looked at the candle. It sputtered, but remained lit. Sooty green smoke rose from it. Perhaps it was a terrible idea. But she was protected by the amulet, and Paisley had already been under its sway. And Bob Beaumont? To Grace’s surprise, he lifted the snake as high as he could. His voice rose in a ragged chant:
“Santa Meurte, te lo ruego
“Ven y salva mi vida
Vence a mi enimiga
Ven y salva mi vida
Vence a mi enimiga!”
Patricia rapidly uncoiled herself, and Bob tossed the huge yellow snake to the floor. She quickly slipped under the bed. Bob turned, face twisted in fury. And then something more.
Flesh turned translucent, revealing the red meat beneath, and then an ivory white skull. Despite his chubbiness filling the uniform, Bob’s head and hands were those of a skeleton. A skeleton with a pistol. Light dimmed in the pink room. Fire blazed in the skull’s eyes, smoke drifting with its motion as it closed with Paisley.
Next to Grace, the vela sin miedo popped and crackled, smoke billowing from the wick as it did from the skull’s sockets. The gruesome vision turned toward the source of the sound.
Bob’s skeletal arms flew up in front of his face, as if warding off a blow. In a moment, his doughy flesh returned.
“What have you done?” His eyes went wet with tears, the bright red draining from his visage. “You’ve killed us all! You idiot!”
Paisley was close enough to grab his gun arm. She thrust it high into the air. The pistol fired. Plaster fell like snow.
“You killed my brother, you douche canoe!” Paisley wrenched the arm. Grace heard a distinct crack!
Bob howled, an animal sound of pain. The Glock hit the floor. Bob hit Paisley, a roundhouse left that landed audibly against her lower back.
“Ow! You turd weasel! You shart-stain!” Paisley sobbed. Still, she worked the injured shoulder, bending her knees for leverage. But Beaumont weighed twice as much as the Goth girl. He grabbed her shoulder and flung her off of him. She hit the four poster bed, spun around, and landed butt-first on the floor.
Bob’s arm remained high in the air. “You crazy bitches!” His voice was high pitched, breath panting. Grace went for the gun. Bob shoved her away. She wheeled, colliding with the wall.
Bob didn’t go for the gun. His face deformed by the pain, arm still stuck in the air, he hobbled for the door. A moment later, they heard stumbling footsteps pound down the stairs. Grace stared at Paisley, the Goth’s wide eyes staring back.
Grace heard the candle pop and crackle again. She looked. No more weird smoke poured from the mouth of the jar. The glass sides were blackened, but the flame was out. Electric shocks from the cameo vanished.
“Paisley, are you okay?”
She looked a little dazed. Patricia slithered out from under the bed. Her forked tongue darted out. Paisley picked up part of her seventy-pound pet. “It’s okay, Patricia. It’s okay. I know. Mommy’s hungry, too.”
An angry voice piped up from below. The Old Lady.
“Jane Paisley Cartwright, why is that police officer screaming out of our house?”
Paisley’s face contorted in a guilty grimace.
“Did I hear gunshots?” her Aunt Vickie shouted.
“Jeeze Louise, what do we tell her?” Paisley hugged the snake.
Grace shrugged. “The truth. That we found out that Will didn’t kill himself.”
“But we’ve got no evidence against Bob Beaumont. He’s still going to get away with it.”
Giving the candle a wary glance, Grace shook her head. “I don’t think Bob’s getting away with anything.”
“You don’t think he’ll come back?”
“No. I think Bob is running off to face his greatest fear.”
“What if he’s afraid of something dumb? Like elevators?” Paisley put on a dumb voice. “‘Oh, I’m so scared, riding up and down in this scary elevator. Ding! Fifth floor! Ahh!’”
Grace didn’t think so. “I’m pretty sure his greatest fear is almost the same as yours. That someone uncovers the fact that Will Cartwright didn’t commit suicide.”
“Miss Longstreet, I know you’re here, too. I saw your car outside.”
Grace walked over to Paisley, offering a hand up. At the same time, she tried to avoid any conta
ct with Patricia. “C’mon, Paize. Time to face the music.”
Paisley got to her feet, struggling with the python. “Face the music, hell. It’s time to order some steak bombs. And get this poor baby some flash-frozen mice. Isn’t that right, Patricia?” Paisley made kissing sounds. Grace's stomach churned.
Epilogue
Grace sat at the bar, the TV sets above flashing a breaking news story. It wasn’t really breaking news. Not to Grace, anyway.
“Boston PD are reopening a case of the suspected suicide of one of their officers two years ago, following the recent suicide of another BPD sworn officer.”
Lt. Henry Riley appeared on the screen, his name below his face. “We found in Officer Beaumont’s possession a note believed to be the suicide note of Detective William Cartwright.”
An anchor appeared. “Police believed that a note left by William Cartwright was actually part of a letter condemning Officer Robert Beaumont as a drug addict who was selling information to drug dealers. What police found on the late Detective Cartwright’s computer read only ‘I can no longer live with the fear of knowing what.’ But the complete sentence, found on a report in Beaumont’s apartment, read, quote, ‘Given the instability of a drug addict’s actions, I can no longer live with the fear of knowing what I know about Officer Robert Beaumont. An officer of the law reaching out to drug dealers puts the entire force at risk. I am asking that Officer Beaumont be questioned regarding recent actions, and that he be recommended to a rehabilitation facility as soon as possible.’ End quote.”
Grace turned from the TV screen at the rumble of a motorcycle engine outside on Boylston Street. A big man got off the bike, stowing the helmet. He wore a dark blazer over a light blue dress shirt and snug black jeans. He wandered inside and smiled when he spied her at the bar.
Justice Walsh sat on the stool next to her. His former hipster beard was trimmed to stubble, darker in the creases of his dimples. He wore his hair loose, the light brown falling in waves past his shoulders.
“You were right. You do clean up nice,” Grace said.
He gave her the up and down. “I was hoping you’d wear slacks, but the skirt is just as good. You got nice stems, Grace.”
“Well, let me just blush and stammer for a moment before coming up with a compliment for you.”
“No need. You stuck with the deal. There must be something about me you like.” He glanced around. “Quite a place you picked for a first date.”
“I’ve been wanting to try Bistro du Midi for a while now. I figured if you were down for something pricey, trendy and French, you might be all right after all.” She shrugged. “Instead of interested in a local occult figure, that is.”
“Occult figure is just icing on the cake. What I’m interested in is a semi-crazy brunette who is loyal to a fault, can actually look good in slacks, and is brave enough to accept a dinner invitation from a brooding biker-slash-mechanic from Chelsea.” He shrugged. “Not many of that type around.”
“Yeah, probably not,” Grace agreed. She frowned at the thought. “Not to obsess over it or anything, but how am I a local occult figure anyway?”
Justice ordered a beer before answering. “You’re a Longstreet. The name is legendary, if you have an interest in that kind of thing. I’ve seen your picture on a few websites. Meeting you in person is much better, by the way. A lot of people are into the occult, I guess. It’s not my only interest, just one of many. And, since I don’t want to look too loopy, I try to keep that on the down-low.”
Grace sipped her wine. “Me, too. Except I end up on occult websites.”
“You’re far more photogenic than me, so.” He shrugged.
Justice was funny, flattering. For the first time in a while, Grace felt the satisfaction of doing something normal. Like a first date with a charming rogue. “Any other secrets you want to share?”
“Yes. My first name is not really Justice.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s Igor.”
Grace laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh. She didn’t do it often enough.
“So what happened with your friend, the one on the bridge? Is she all right?”
“No. But she wasn’t all right to start with. She’s got her pet snake, a room in her menacing Aunt Vickie’s house, a creepy taxidermy raccoon lamp. Paisley’s happy enough.”
Justice’s brows rose. “Wow. Sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”
“She’d probably like meeting you, too. Especially if your first name is really Igor.”
“I think our table is ready.” Justice, or maybe Igor, stood with his beer. “Let’s eat some expensive French food. Maybe if we display our odd interests, we can get a better snobbing by the wait staff.”
Grace offered her arm, and Justice linked his through hers. Before they left the bar area, she glanced up at the TV. A photo of Bob Beaumont, in uniform as a fresh-faced recruit, lit the screen. Magic. Grace had a new perspective on it. It wasn’t necessarily something that charged ancient artifacts. No, it was alive and real, ready to be manipulated. Even by a chubby, sandy-haired cop strung out on pain medication. A gloomy thought filled her head. In the future, she would have to step with extra caution.
They reached their table, with a view of the Public Gardens below. Justice took a menu from the waitress and grinned at Grace. Maybe she needed to be more careful in the future. For the moment, she just wanted to take a few hours to enjoy herself.
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The Witch Sisters of Stillwater
Hoodoo and Just Desserts
A Shade of Murder
That Ol’ Black Magic
A Whole Lotta Witchin Goin On
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A FROZEN SCOOP OF MURDER
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The Sinister Secrets of the Enchanting Blaze Page 11