By the time he left, it was after seven, which I figured was late enough to call a few of my shadier supernatural contacts out east. None had heard of either Cody or Tiffany. Never heard of Columbus, Washington. Never heard of Alastair Koppel and his commune. The only one who was any help was the last call I made, to a local witch, Molly Crane, who was up early getting her girls off to school.
Four years ago Molly had tried to kill Jaime Vegas. I’d intervened and left Molly tied up in a swamp. In the underbelly of the supernatural world, that marked the beginning of a working relationship based on mutual respect. A temporary gift of zombies a couple of years ago hadn’t hurt matters. Molly liked me. Can’t say I felt the same about her, but she was useful.
“If there’s a witch living so close to me, then I should know about her,” Molly said. “If I don’t, she’s not just flying under the radar, she’s crawling under it. You said her magic looks old?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. I was going to run it past Paige but ...”
Molly snorted. “Like Paige would recognize magic that wasn’t pure as the driven snow.”
Not true, but part of cozying up to Molly meant letting her disparage Paige and Lucas.
“That’s kind of what I thought,” I said. “And Paige hates me getting involved in anything dark ...”
Another snort. “E-mail me those pictures. I’ll find your ritual.”
THE MOTEL ROOM got too quiet again after that. I paced, struggling to focus on the case. I couldn’t. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I headed out for breakfast.
I walked to the diner. It was a good hike, but I needed the air. As I approached the door, though, I slowed, and my stomach twisted. Word of Michael’s death would have spread. There would be questions, probing questions, small-town curiosity spreading its tentacles. I couldn’t handle that.
So I walked past. Got ten steps before the door whooshed open and Lorraine called out after me.
“Savannah? Hon? Nothing open down that way. Come on back and get yourself some breakfast.”
When I turned to face her, she gave a sympathetic smile.
“Heard you had a rough night. Come and eat. On the house.”
I struggled for an excuse. None came.
When I walked through the doors, every eye turned my way. The place was busier than I expected. With the local paper shut down, this was news central. And after finding Michael’s body, I was the lead story.
No one said a word, though. After weak smiles and kind nods they all returned to their meals.
I sat at the counter and ordered breakfast. The questions came tentatively. Not “So what happened last night?” but “Are you okay?” and “I’m sorry about Detective Kennedy.” They wanted to know what happened and knew it wasn’t right to ask, so I told them.
When my meal arrived, they switched to other topics—local and area news, funny personal stories, whatever might take my mind off Michael’s death. And over that meal, I mentally took back every nasty thing I’d ever said about small-town folks.
I’d ordered steak and eggs, and was complimenting Lorraine on her hash browns when her gaze moved to the front window. I looked out to see a young woman locking up a bike at the rack. She took an insulated bag from the carrier.
“One of the commune girls,” Lorraine said. “We get our eggs and milk from them. This girl has come the last couple of days. She asked about you yesterday, whether you ate breakfast here.”
It was the girl who’d seemed like she wanted to talk to me yesterday. Blue-streaked hair cut short and spiky. Studs in her nose and brow. A look that screamed attitude. Her face didn’t, though. Soft features and anxious eyes said the tough-girl look was a desperate attempt to find something she lacked.
The girl ignored me as she unloaded the bag for Lorraine and took the money.
“Do you have a minute?” I said. “I’d love to buy you a coffee. Megan said it was okay to talk to me, but I still don’t want to get you in trouble.”
It was the right thing to say. The tough girl inside her squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“I’m not afraid of Megan. Alastair said we can talk to you or that detective.”
I could tell by the way she said “that detective” that she didn’t know Michael was dead. News didn’t travel as fast when you lived up on Commune Hill. I didn’t see any reason to tell her, so I nodded and sipped my coffee. She did the same, her courage melting again.
“So Alastair said it was okay?” I prodded.
She nodded. “He said if someone’s preying on the girls of this town, he wants the guy caught.”
“He thinks it’s a guy?”
She frowned. “It always is, isn’t it?” Her gaze and voice dropped in a way that told me everything I needed to know about this girl’s damage.
I asked her name.
“Sylvia,” she said. “But I go by Vee.”
“Okay, Vee. How long have you been with the group?”
“Just over a year.”
Meaning she’d known Tamara, the friend of Claire’s who’d left in a hurry. Good.
“Did you know Ginny or Brandi?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“They never came up to the house?” I said. “Talked to Alastair, maybe?”
Her shoulders tightened. “Alastair’s a good guy. He’s helped me a lot. And, no, I’m not sleeping with him. He wouldn’t let me even if I asked. I’ve—I’ve had problems. With that ... kind of thing.” She cleared her throat. “His place, it’s not what people think. Not what my parents think, that’s for sure. Every couple of months they have this cult deprogrammer chick sneak into town to try to talk me out. It’s bullshit. No one’s holding me against my will. My folks blame Alastair because, otherwise, they’d have to admit that I’ve got a problem they can’t shove under the carpet like they’ve done all my—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“No reason to be. It’s good to know what the members think of the group and Alastair.”
“Alastair’s great. Really great.”
But I noticed she hadn’t answered my original question. Had Ginny gone up to visit him at the house? I broached the subject again with Vee, but she was quick with her denials. Too quick. I filed it and let it go.
“Is there anything about the group that does worry you?” I asked.
She chewed her lip enough to flake the skin, then said, “Kind of. It’s Megan. She—” She took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t like Megan, okay? No one does. She’s a bitch. The only reason she’s still around is because she runs the business. And because Alastair ... well, he’s kind of attached to her, you know. But I don’t like her and I’d be happy to see her tossed out on her skinny ass. I’m telling you that now, because if you find out later that I don’t like her, it’ll sound like I was making this up.”
“Okay.”
She didn’t go on right away. Drank half her coffee first, and I struggled not to fidget. Sitting for so long reminded me that I’d been up all night, and I found myself swallowing a yawn with every third breath until she finally blurted it out.
“Megan’s a voodoo priestess.”
I tried to look shocked. Probably did a decent job of it too, because while I knew someone up there was practicing Santeria, Megan was at the bottom of my list. If there’s a type of person who picks up a religion like that, Megan definitely didn’t fit it. Alastair did, though—he might seem distinguished, but he was nothing more than an old hippie, the kind of person who’d be attracted to a mystical religion.
“Voodoo?”
“Kind of. Claire said it wasn’t voodoo but something else.”
“Santeria?”
“That’s it.”
“So Claire knew.”
“Yeah, but ... It was weird. She wasn’t too fussed about it. She said she’d talked to a friend, who explained that it was just a kind of religion. It freaks me out, though.”
“Do all the girls know about it?”
Vee shook her head. “I just told Claire because she was my roommate, and she seemed smart, so I wanted to hear what she thought. I’m the only one who knows. Except Alastair. He ... he helps Megan sometimes. With the rituals and stuff. They do them in a room behind the shed, late at night, when everyone’s sleeping. I saw them once. I think that’s why Alastair likes Megan so much. She’s cast a spell on him.”
I struggled to keep a straight face and nodded. Why are humans so enamored with the myth of love spells? Even at my most desperate, I wouldn’t have been tempted by a spell to make Adam fall in love with me. My ego is way too healthy for that.
I asked Vee what she’d seen. There was nothing, though, to suggest Megan and Alastair were more than typical adherents doing typical protection rituals, like the one in the shed.
“They do sacrifices,” she said, when I didn’t seem impressed enough. “That’s what Claire told me.”
“Animal sacrifices.”
“So she said.”
“You think Megan had something to do with the murders?”
She shifted in her seat.
“Did you hear anything that might suggest a ritualistic link?”
“No, but ...”
I waited. Nothing.
“But ...” I prompted.
“Alastair was gone the night those town girls died.” She blurted it as fast as she’d told me about the Santeria. “I got up for a glass of milk. I don’t sleep too well. When I was in the kitchen, I heard the door open. It was Alastair. He looked ... sick. He looked sick.”
“Was Megan with him?”
“No, but do you really think she’d take care of the bodies? She had him do it. She killed those girls in a voodoo ritual, then she made him take the bodies into town. It wasn’t his fault. He had to protect her.”
There were a lot of holes in this theory. Still, it bore investigating.
“Did you tell anyone else?” I asked.
“Just my roommate. She left after that. I think it freaked her out.”
Claire’s friend, Tamara. I doubted it was a coincidence that Claire had ended up rooming with Vee. If the cult was as popular as they claimed, Tamara’s spot would have been filled before Claire decided to investigate. She must have maneuvered to get the same roommate as her friend.
“What about Claire?” I asked. “Did you tell her what you saw?”
“No.” The denial came fast. In other words, yes, she had and she feared that’s what got Claire killed.
“Did you know Claire was investigating the group?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“Claire was Tamara’s friend from college. Tamara disappeared after she left you, and Claire joined the group trying to find out what happened. She thought it had something to do with Ginny and Brandi’s murders.”
Vee’s eyes shuttered. “I didn’t know that.”
And she didn’t like finding out now. It meant that Claire had been nice to her for a reason.
“Did you ever see Claire with Cody Radu?” I asked. “I heard something about the two of them arguing. If that’s true and Claire was investigating, it could mean Alastair had nothing to do with the deaths.”
“They did. The day before she died. At the hardware store. Claire went in, saying she needed something. I was with Megan. She looked in the window and saw them go out back together. Later Megan came to our room and told Claire to stay away from Cody. Said he was trouble.” She hesitated, then looked at me. “What if Megan did kill those girls and she figured out that Claire was snooping around, looking for the killer? That’d be bad for Claire.”
Way too many holes in that theory, too, but it confirmed that Claire had been with Cody. And if Megan knew it, maybe there was something there.
twenty-four
Next stop: Paula Thompson, for a little chat about her dead daughter’s paternity. I’d barely gone a block when my cell phone rang.
“Ms. Levine?”
I recognized the woman’s voice, but definitely not the meek tone.
“It’s Tiffany Radu,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I—” A deep breath sighed through the line. “I need to speak to you. Can—can we meet?”
“Sure, how about the diner—”
“No. I mean in private. I heard about Detective Kennedy and ... oh, God.” A broken sob. “Please, can we meet in private, before I change my mind?”
“Okay. My motel—”
A shaky laugh. “The last thing I need is to be seen sneaking into a seedy motel room. There’s an empty building downtown that my husband’s company owns. Can I meet you there?”
“Sure. My partner should be back any minute. I’ll get him to drive me—
“It’s within walking distance, if you’re near the diner. And I’d really, really rather you didn’t tell anyone you’re meeting with me. I don’t want Cody to find out.”
“Understandable. What’s the address?”
DAMN, TIFFANY WAS quite the little actress. A bit high school, with all the sighs and sobs, but still pretty damn good.
Yes, I knew it was an act. Come on. The bitch goes from clawing me to begging for help? Sure, something traumatic might have happened. But wanting to meet in an empty building? And not tell anyone? That was a tip-off only a moron would miss.
I picked up my pace.
AS I WALKED, I got another call. “Ship of Fools,” meaning it was someone in my secondary address book—the hidden one for contacts Paige and Lucas wouldn’t want to know about.
“Druid,” Molly announced when I answered.
“What?”
She sighed, and said, more slowly. “Druid. That ritual you sent. A pewter ingot in the hand is part of very ancient druidic sacrificial rituals. My source tells me they fell out of use centuries ago.”
“You said rituals. Multiple ones then?”
“Right. My source can’t narrow it down. You’re looking for a druid, though, one who still practices human sacrifice.”
“Nasty habit.”
She made a noise that could be taken as agreement, but almost certainly wasn’t. Molly had likely sacrificed people in protection rituals for her daughters.
I thanked her, hung up, and started hitting speed dial to call Adam and ask him to renew the search, narrowing it down to druidic rituals—
I stopped. I stood there, finger poised over the screen for at least a minute. Then I pocketed the phone and kept walking.
THE ADDRESS TIFFANY had given me led to the town’s abandoned newspaper building, three blocks from Main Street. It was ugly—shit brown and squat with tiny windows, as if the reporters knew nothing newsworthy would be happening outside and didn’t want to depress themselves by looking.
I tried the front door. Locked. I hit the buzzer, but didn’t hear anything. Disconnected, I guessed. I knocked. No answer.
I walked around the side. A door opened and a slender hand gestured frantically.
“I said to be careful,” Tiffany hissed as she pulled me inside. “That means not using the front door.”
“There’s no one around,” I said. “And even if there was, they just saw me trying to get into an empty building. Typical PI work.”
“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The electricity must have been completely disconnected, because the only light filtered in through tiny windows.
“Go left,” she said. “Then we’ll head downstairs to the presses.”
“Who’s going to hear us up here?”
“There’s something down there I want to show you.”
Yeah, right. I only nodded, though, and played along. At the top of the stairs, I paused.
“It’s awfully dark down there,” I said. “Did you bring a flashlight?”
“There’s a lantern down there.”
“Huh.” I peered into the darkness as I teetered on the top of the steps. Behind me, she cast a binding spell under her breath. Exactly what I expec
ted.
“I can barely see—” I began, then wheeled and hit her with a knockback spell. Or I tried. It failed and as I launched another, she finished hers and I froze in place. I mentally struggled to get free, but the spell held and all I could do was stand there as she ran at me, hands out, and gave me a tremendous shove.
I toppled like a statue, hitting the stairs hard. Pain screamed through me, jolting me out of the spell, and my arms flew out to brace myself before I hit the concrete floor headfirst. I staggered up and wheeled. Tiffany stood at the top of the stairs, casting aloud now, trying to lock me in another binding spell.
I leaped aside and cast an energy bolt. It went off course and hit the wall beside her head with barely a pop.
I raced into the dark basement. I’m sure my battered body complained, but I didn’t feel it. All I could think was: Two failed spells in a row? No way. No fucking way.
I squelched a bubble of panic. The second had screwed up, not failed. My fault for jumping aside when I should have been concentrating.
I raced into a dark corner, cast a cover spell, and felt the mental click of a successful cast. As for whether I was hidden, that remained to be seen. Hence the really dark corner.
Tiffany’s cautious steps sounded on the stairs. I forced myself to relax and focus. Stick to simple spells for now. Defensive magic.
At the bottom of the steps, Tiffany created a light ball, sending it into every corner, including the one I was in. The cover spell worked fine.
When she turned her back on me, I hit her with a knockback that slammed her into the wall. That was more like it.
As I advanced on her, she flipped over and started her binding spell again. I smacked her down with another knockback.
“Your choice of spells leaves a lot to be desired,” I said. “In a pinch, skip the binding and go for the knockback. Efficient, effective, fast launching ... But I’m going to guess you don’t know sorcerer magic.”
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