“Every paranormal knows Eli Boor and Martin Miegle. They’re the two leading researchers into paranormal physics. Eli’s the psychologist and neuroscientist. Martin’s the quantum physicist. I bet most of the Boston witches have met Eli personally.”
Dooley looked exasperated. “That much you told me. But now I am asking you something different. What is your personal relationship with Dr. Boor?”
“He’s a friend.”
“You can give me a little more.”
“What? You think I’m sleeping with him?” I was nearly shouting.
Dooley was unperturbed. “Or maybe you slept with him in the past. It’s obvious you have some kind of prior relationship.”
I looked out the window for a moment. “David suffered from multiple personality disorder when he was a kid.”
“Really? I didn’t read that in the liner notes.”
I nodded. “It’s not publicized. It’s bad enough he was in a mental institution when he was growing up. But MPD has significant media presence. David never wanted anybody to know about it.”
“And Dr. Boor?”
“David was at McLean. Eli was David’s therapist. When David got better and was released, he and Eli stayed friends. More than friends. David’s father was absent a lot—he was a fisherman out of Gloucester. Between being in McLean and his dad being out at sea, David didn’t have much in the way of a father. So he latched onto Eli. Eli latched back. They’ve been close ever since.”
“Why was David committed?”
“David set fires in old houses. Almost killed a retired couple. He was caught, declared mentally incompetent and sent to McLean.”
“Interesting.” Dooley fell silent.
“Why?”
“McLean doesn’t do criminal cases. They handle research into paranormals and boutique mental patients. Criminal cases are sent to Bridgewater.”
“David was a kid.”
“Criminal juvie mental cases go to Roslindale. Usually they get farmed out—and not to McLean.”
“Maybe Eli liked him. He might have known the family. I don’t know all the particulars.”
Dooley shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with this case.”
“Neither does any ‘relationship’ I have with Eli.”
“Which I notice you never clarified.” Dooley grinned at me.
“I told you about David!”
“I didn’t ask about David, did I?” Dooley laughed. “But, as you say, at this point it has nothing to do with the case.”
oOo
Rabbitt was still not in the church. Reluctantly, we returned to the office.
Bored, I booted up Dooley’s laptop and brought up the site Eli gave us. I checked my own scores, of course. Preliminary test gave me a seven-fifty. Plante was a full eight-sixty-five. Dooley was a seven-seventy, which surprised me.
Wallace and Rabbitt were both in the middle eight hundreds. On impulse, I put in David. His score was eight-ninety-five.
“They all showed promising results on the pre-test before the test scores were corrected.”
Dooley thought for a moment. “What does that mean?”
“Not a thing.”
“Let’s throw it in the pot and let it stew. We don’t have enough to hang anything together.”
Hoffman and Rush were working at the table, going over something on a laptop.
“Did you talk to the preacher?” Hoffman said without looking at us.
Dooley didn’t speak up so I answered. “He wasn’t there.”
“Not surprised.” Hoffman planted one fat finger on the laptop and looked at them. “We talked to Plante’s sister.”
“Yeah?”
“Plante’s been going to church here in Boston. Devout, even. Tried to convert her. Guess whose church?”
Dooley answered right up. “Tim Rabbitt’s.”
Hoffman made a gun from his finger and pulled the trigger. “Bang on. We have a connection between the two murders. The DA’s getting us a warrant. Soon as we have it, we’re going to go bust down a door or two. Want to come along?”
Dooley nodded. “Hell yes.”
“Me, too,” I said, surprising myself.
“No doors for you.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You’re going to watch from the air.” Hoffman turned back to the laptop. “If he’s the killer, I want every advantage I can get. Things might get nasty.”
oOo
From the outside of the building there was no evidence that Rabbitt was in the meeting area or the tiny living quarters in the back. But Hoffman took no chances. He stationed uniforms near the windows and in the back alley. He looked up at me and gave a signal.
“On it,” I whispered over the radio. I was high, in the dark and covered in night camo. Rabbitt couldn’t have seen me with night goggles.
I know my abilities. I’m quick and acrobatic. I really am a very good flyer. But one skill I prize above the others: stealth flying.
Witchflying in and of itself is quiet—the bubble dampens most of the turbulence. We have no engines. No propellers.
But we can be seen.
Clouds had rolled in covering what was left of the moon, but the city lights lightened the color of the sky to a light gray. I came in over the church and did a three-sixty wearing infra-reds: two-story, flat-roofed warehouse. One roof door next to the HVAC cooling stack. Various pipes. Narrow, human-sized alley on one side. Loading dock on the side. Open space and fence in the back.
No body signatures on the roof or in the surrounding alleys. I flipped up the infra-reds so I didn’t get disoriented. I eased down along the roof line and circled again so I could see a little into the windows. Nothing obvious. The inside was dark.
I came up to the first window and flipped upside down so I could see inside the corner of the window from the top—people look down out a window more than they look up. Flipped down the infra-reds. Nothing.
Next window. Same result.
I eased around the top floor and didn’t find anything. Bottom floor: same result.
I took my station, high enough to see most of the back but low enough to see clearly. I keyed my microphone. “I’m in position.”
“Okay, then,” said Hoffman. “Still no movement or light?”
“No movement whatsoever. No infra-red. Unless he’s in an inner room, this is an empty building.”
“I hope not.”
Two uniforms stood on either side of the door, one holding the battering ram. Hoffman pounded on the door and stepped to one side. “Open up!” he cried. “Boston Police Department. We have a warrant to search these premises.”
No answer.
Hoffman nodded to the policemen. They picked up the ram and stood on either side, getting a good swing going. Then, they slammed it into the door. With a shriek and a splintering crash, the door burst inward. Hoffman and Rush entered first, guns drawn, followed by the uniforms.
I drifted in a slow circle so I could watch the three sides of the building other than the front. Lights flashed out the windows as police spread through the church.
Twenty minutes of slow hover strongly resembled twenty minutes of isometrics. I was covered with a light sweat when Hoffman’s voice came over the radio.
“No one here, Loquess. Anything to report?”
“Not a thing.”
“Okay. Come on down.”
I dropped in a low glide, feeling relief at the sudden movement. I collapsed the stick and slung it over my shoulder.
Inside the meeting room, Hoffman was talking to Dooley. Rush was nowhere to be seen.
Dooley waved me over. Hoffman was writing in his notebook. He glanced up as I joined them.
“You spoke with Rabbitt day before yesterday, right?” Hoffman closed his notebook and put it in his coat pocket.
I glanced at Dooley and nodded. “Yes.”
“He didn’t seem agitated or upset?”
“Some. He was unhappy about Wallace.”<
br />
“Right. The homeless guy.”
I looked from one of them to the other: one white, one black, both hugely towered over me. “What did you find?”
“Not much,” said Hoffman. “A computer. Some sermon notes. No evidence of violence. No weapons. You saw Rabbitt about four in the afternoon?”
“Right.”
“Dooley says you went to dinner.”
“Yes. By myself.”
Hoffman nodded. “Plante was killed not long after that.”
“You have an idea?”
Hoffman shook his head. “No. I’m thinking that Rabbitt must have left from here to kill Plante right after you two talked to him. We can account for all calls on both of their phones and they didn’t talk. Which means Rabbitt must have known where Plante was staying and known when Plante was going to be there. You don’t need to ask questions you already know the answer to.” Hoffman grinned at me. “You didn’t know where he was staying, did you, Loquess?”
“No, Detective.”
“Good.” Hoffman rubbed his cheek, thinking for a moment. “So by the time you and Dooley were talking with him he’d already made his plans. Did he talk about anything other than Wallace?”
Dooley spoke up. “He mentioned a longstanding friendship with Sean Gifford.”
“Really?” Hoffman was surprised.
Dooley nodded. “He said Sean had talked about Loquess a great deal with him. Rabbitt and Sean had known each other when they were kids.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Hoffman pulled his notebook back out and wrote that down. “One victim from your home town and the other a paranormal. Our best suspect was a childhood friend of your ex-lover. What do you know, Loquess? The world really does revolve around you.”
“Columbia isn’t exactly my home town.”
“Mere details.”
oOo
Two network vans arrived and had set up by the time Hoffman and Rush were done and forensics started taking apart the scene. Cameras and lights were focused on the entrance to the church.
Dooley and I watched from the window. Dooley eyed the crowd sourly. “My car is over there so I have to go through them.” He looked at me. “You, however, have other options. I can meet you back at the office.”
“Okay.” This was no time for bravery. I worked my way to the back of the church, carefully stepping around forensics, and slipped out the back door. The alleyway was dark. I pulled out and extended the stick, settled onto the saddle and ascended quietly into the night sky.
I gained a few hundred feet of altitude before I banked towards Schroeder Plaza. I kept to a leisurely pace—not much more than a light run.
Hoffman wasn’t far wrong.
The sheer connectedness of the case unnerved me. Wallace from my college town. Living (and dying) down the street from me. Wallace and Plante both attending Rabbitt’s church. Rabbitt old friends with Sean.
I switched the radio over to cell and was about to call Sean but stopped. What was I going to say? Oh, by the way Sean, your old friend Tim Rabbitt is wanted for murder.
Sniezek’s face swam up in my mind. Are you a cop or aren’t you?
I dialed the number. It rang several times before Sean answered.
“What do you want?”
“I need your help.”
Pause. “Okay. What for?”
I thought for a moment, trying to think of some easy way to lead in. Fuck it. “We need to find Tim Rabbitt. He’s wanted as part of an investigation. I understand you’re friends so any help would be appreciated.”
Sean spoke slowly. “Tim’s in trouble?”
“You could say that.”
“What’s going on?”
“Come on, Sean. You know I can’t—”
“We used to be partners,” he said, doggedly. “We used to be... whatever it was we were. I worked for BPD, too. What the hell is going on with my friend?”
I sighed. “He’s a person of interest in the Plante murder.”
“Plante murder?”
“Listen to the news. Oscar Plante was murdered. Rabbitt’s been implicated.”
“You think Tim killed him? Tim’s a minister, for God’s sake.”
“I know. We need to find him.”
Sean didn’t say anything for a long time. I watched the houses I drifted over. It was dark. Lights shone through the windows. In an apartment, I saw a man and woman setting the table. In another, a man was reading a book, sipping a glass of wine. Several windows had the definitive blue glow of televisions. No one looked up. No one saw me. People went about their business with no idea I was watching them.
“I don’t know where he is,” Sean said at last. “The last time I talked to him was a week before I left. And then it was me talking to him. About leaving.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m coming up on Black Bear Pass. I don’t know why they call it a pass; it’s over twelve thousand feet. I’m camping at Ouray tonight. I plan on an ascent tomorrow.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Hoffman will want to talk to you.”
“He’s the detective in charge?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll lie over in Telluride. He can call me in the morning. I don’t want to do a full interview in flight.”
“Okay. I’ll tell him.”
“All right, then.”
“Sean?” I stopped for a moment. “Are you coming back for Conclave?”
“I said I would. I have to close on the condo.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
Sean didn’t say anything for a moment. “Good,” he said, and hung up.
I had no idea how to interpret that. Regret? Revenge? Sentimentality?
Even so, the conversation had been mostly cordial. Impersonal. And completely full of crap.
The clouds parted and the cold and flaccid moon shone on us all.
Chapter 2.3: Thursday, October 21
“Witch murder” fit the Herald like a glove—after all, it just wouldn’t do to be too much like the Boston Globe. Better to trumpet unsolved murder cases and take an opportunity to dump on city government. The Herald headlines screamed, “Witch Murderer Still Uncaught!” The Globe said sagely, “No Leads in Plante Murder.” The Metro had a Plante obituary in time for the Wednesday commuters. Nobody was interested in Wallace’s murder; he wasn’t important enough. So far we’d kept that connection secret—both papers would have loved to report that.
Then, by Thursday, Conclave pushed it all onto page three.
Boston has three major holidays. First, there’s Christmas. Everybody celebrates Christmas, of course. There’s nothing particularly Bostonian about it. Doesn’t bring in the tourists from out of state. If you want a big Christmas celebration, you go to New York.
At either pole of the year are First Night—New Year’s Eve—and the Fourth of July. Come celebrate Independence Day in the cradle of America’s independence. I suppose Philadelphia is the same. Christmas, First Night and the Fourth are the big three.
But fall is also big in New England. Every year the peak foliage report describes the rolling maple flames as they start up in Canada, burn over north New Hampshire and Vermont, then pop and curl down towards Massachusetts. Foliage train and bus tours are available starting in early September up through Columbus Day, by which time it’s pretty much in Boston’s back yard if it hasn’t burnt out already. The news stations broadcast predictions comparing this year to previous years, weather watching and recommended weekends—if the media ever figures out a play by play, they’ll put it on the sports news at six p.m. every night.
Conclave, happening around Halloween, puts a period at the end of that sentence.
When they founded Conclave, back in the seventies, it was a little thing with maybe three or four events and a dozen participants—barely worth a note in the “What to Do Around Town” column in the Globe and no mention at all in the tourist books.
That was then. This was
now.
Over its seven days, Conclave attracts perhaps as many as a hundred thousand visitors into Salem with a bleed-off into Boston. It’s not as big as the Big Three but it’s the largest thing Salem and Gloucester have to offer. No merchant in New England turns up his nose at a week-long celebration a month before Thanksgiving.
It starts the week before Halloween and ends on Halloween night. The contests are heavily weighted towards telekinetic events: lithe flyers in z-sprints, relays and endurance runs, hulking foreign women in the heavy lifting competitions, curiously tall men in the no-motion skating courses, the fling, the toss and the hover.
The most televised events are, of course, the pyrogens. Everybody likes a fire.
To us, Conclave is seven days where any witch capable of lifting, igniting or suppressing a burning toothpick while drunk could show up, qualify, and take home a medal and a moment of glorious television.
While I would be working in Boston.
Was I bitter? Of course not. It was even raining, which made the day complete.
Horn broke the news to the assembled detectives in the conference room: leaves were canceled. Holidays rescinded. We were going to continue working until Plante’s murderer was caught. Conclave started on the twenty-fifth and this was the twenty-first. If I wanted to go to Conclave, we needed to find Rabbitt in four days.
Dooley and I dutifully hunkered down and tried to cover ground. We had the names and addresses of everybody who lived in or worked in the building where Plante’s loft was located. We had the landlord who rented the loft to Plante. We had Roche, Plante’s assistant. We asked (ever so politely) that Wilcox, his agent, come up for an interview. We found nothing.
We did find Tim Rabbitt’s only surviving relative, Bonnie Rabbitt.
Dooley said they should not have been so coy and just called her Bunny. I said they were cruel and unusual people.
But Bonnie was a dead end: she hadn’t spoken to Tim for over a year. Phone records confirmed this. And she had been in Ontario for vacation while this was going on.
I complained to Dooley: what the hell kind of suspect has a sister that goes to godforsaken Ontario for a vacation in October? Even so, an alibi is an alibi.
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