The entry described a secret society of women who spent their childhood and adolescence preparing for the day when they would kill a witch or two. When they “came of age,” they finally got their chance. It reminded me of religions where the young adults spend a few years traveling, spreading the word and making converts. Only these girls hit the road in hopes of killing a few witches before rejoining civilian life, marrying and raising the next generation of assassins.
Like your standard myth, it made a good story, which is why my gut reaction was to treat it as such. And yet...
According to the legend, there were very few of these families remaining, as elusive as snow leopards. When they killed, they did it in a way that wouldn’t raise any alarms, even among witches. Wasn’t that exactly how Claire and Tiffany died? One the apparent victim of a serial killer. The other likely a suicide.
Witch-hunters were said to recognize witches on sight—as sorcerers do—then stalk their victims until they found exactly the right circumstances. What if one had been following Claire Kennedy? That witch-hunter comes to Columbus, and discovers another witch ... then another. She’d think she’d struck the jackpot.
Kill Claire and link her death to the first two crimes. Kill Michael when he got too close. Kill Tiffany in an apparent suicide. And then? Well, there’s one witch left ...
“If this is right, you’re in deep shit,” Adam said, around the time I came to the same conclusion.
“I’m not backing off.”
“I don’t expect you to. Just don’t blast me with an energy bolt if I dog your steps until this investigation is done.”
“I won’t.” I eased back on the bed, pulling my feet up. “My spell casting has fizzled, remember? Damned inconvenient time for the flu.”
Adam went still. Too still. I was about to ask if he was okay, when he grabbed his laptop and began typing furiously. When he looked up, his eyes were dark with worry.
“What have you been eating?” he asked.
“Um, lots of stuff. As usual. Most of it bad for me.”
“No, what have you been eating regularly? In the last few days. Something I might have had, too.” His gaze shot to the door. “The coffee shop. You had three meals from them, and I’ve had one ... No, I was feeling a little off before that. Something else then. What have you been eating a lot of? Especially something given to you by someone else—”
His gaze swung to the table and he let out an oath. I grabbed the box of cult cookies.
“You weren’t eating these, though,” I said. “You finished off Paige’s.”
He shook his head. “No, I swiped a cult one, too. I had to see if they lived up to the advertising. I liked Paige’s better, so I finished hers.”
“Witch-hunters are young women, right?”
“Yep, and there’s a whole house of them on the hill, making cookies. Who gave you the box?”
“Megan, but it was sitting on the counter before that. I’d stepped outside with one of the girls. Anyone could have come in and dosed it.” I thought back to every contact I’d had with the young women at the cult. “It could be Megan, could be Deirdre, could be Vee ...”
I remembered someone else. Someone I’d had far less contact with. “The new girl. She was watching me, and she saw me talking to Tiffany. Remember when we were at the house while Tiffany was being killed? Megan was asking where she was.”
“Looks like we’ve got our—”
“Except for one thing. She was Claire’s replacement. She arrived in town at the same time I did.”
“Doesn’t mean she wasn’t here before. But, yeah, that makes it a little less clear cut. We need to take a closer look at all those girls. I can’t say for sure that it’s the cookies, but that’s my guess. There are a bunch of poisons that can inhibit spellcasting.”
“Poisons?”
“That’s why I’m worried. I know you’re going to hate this, but I want to get you to Portland, pay a visit to Dr. Lee.”
Lee was the physician used by most area supernaturals when they had a health concern that went beyond a cold or flu. In an emergency, we can use a regular hospital, but whenever possible we avoid it—there are things in our systems that can give wonky test results and raise eyebrows.
“So the theory would be that this witch-hunter poisoned me to reduce my spellcasting so she can get the jump on me,” I said as we prepared to leave.
“Could be. Or she might just be protecting herself against you. That Bible was left out for a reason. She knew you’d be involved in the case, and I can’t see why she’d tip her hand like that unless it was a warning.”
“So she’s not targeting me, just telling me to back off? Mmm, not so sure. I see it more as a challenge.”
Adam’s look said he didn’t like that explanation. A challenge said she intended to kill me no matter how hard I fought.
My cell phone rang. It was Bruyn.
“You were looking for me?” he said.
“I was. I wanted to get a look at the crime-scene photos if you have them.”
“Sure do. If you’ve got a minute, swing by now. I’ve got some news you might want to hear.”
thirty-four
Adam called Dr. Lee first, checking to make sure he would be in when we got there. He talked to the doctor, who agreed it sounded like one of the poisons Adam listed.
Dr. Lee said there were about a half-dozen toxins that could affect spellcasting and induce nausea. None would be immediately detectable in a cookie, if the dose was low enough. Most were mild and all I had to do was stop eating the cookies. Two of the poisons, though ... Well, I don’t know exactly what Dr. Lee said to Adam, but when he hung up, he insisted that our visit to Bruyn had to be very short.
Adam started fidgeting within sixty seconds of getting to the police station. I don’t blame him. Bruyn’s big “news” was that the results from the lab were finally in and the bullet that killed Claire hadn’t been fired from the same gun as the one that killed Ginny and Brandi.
That would have been far more useful to know a day ago. Now it only confirmed Paula’s story, though I guess it also meant Alastair hadn’t killed Claire using the same gun. Right now, though, the case wasn’t at the top of my priority list.
I did, however, want those crime-scene photos. Bruyn wanted an update first. I gave him some tidbits that would in no way implicate Paula. He seemed satisfied with that, and we were about to leave when his mother came in.
“I just got a call, sir. Bob Thorne is reporting a truck parked over by the sawmill since last night and he—”
“I’ll look into it as soon as I’m done this meeting,” Bruyn said, waving at us.
“There’s a reason I interrupted your meeting, dear.” She turned to us. “The vehicle Bob is reporting is a 1992 Dodge pickup, registered to Jesse Aanes from Seattle. Isn’t that the other young detective you’ve been workingwith?”
ADAM WAITED UNTIL the Jeep doors were shut before he blasted me. “Why the hell did you say we’d look into it? They were perfectly willing to send a cop to check it out—”
“When those cops returned from a call. In other words, it’s not a priority. And if we suspect anything supernatural, then we can’t let them go out there, can we?”
“You need to get—”
“First, we don’t know for sure that I’ve been poisoned. Second, there’s only a one in three chance that it’s fatal.”
“Only one in three. Well, that’s okay then.”
“I never said—”
“I don’t care if it’s one in three thousand, Savannah. I’m taking you, to the doctor.”
“Yes, right after we stop at the sawmill, which is on the way out of town, Adam. I’m not being reckless. If Dr. Lee said I was in serious danger, we’d be halfway to Portland by now. If you want, you can drop me off at the motel and I’ll ride to the clinic while you check up on Jesse.”
“I’m not sending you off on your motorcycle if you’re sick.”
“Then we’re stopp
ing at the sawmill unless you can give me one valid reason why Jesse would be parked in that neighborhood all night.” I met his gaze. “Michael Kennedy almost certainly got killed because of a lead I sent him on. Are you honestly asking me to leave, knowingJesse could be in trouble?”
The anger fell from his voice. “No. I’m just ...” He looked at me. “I’m worried about you, Savannah. First a killer targeting investigators. Then a killer targeting witches. Now you’re almost certainly poisoned, and I’m worried.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.”
He blinked then, like he’d expected me to come back with a smart-ass rejoinder. When I didn’t, he didn’t seem to know how to answer, just took out his keys, jiggled them for a second, then said, gruffly, “A quick check. Very quick,” and started the Jeep.
WE FOUND JESSE’S truck a quarter-mile from the sawmill gates. We parked behind it. I tried his cell one last time—I’d been calling it since before we said good-bye to Bruyn—and got his voice mail again.
As Adam got out of the Jeep, I tested a light-ball spell. It took two tries, but if I concentrated it would work. When I tried moving on to a fireball, Adam opened the passenger door.
“I’m just—” I began.
“Fretting about your spells.”
“I’m not fretting. I’m heading into a potentially dangerous situation. Just give me a minute—”
He hauled me out. “You’re quite capable of taking care of yourself, spells or no spells, Savannah.”
I wish I could agree. With my spells failing, I felt like a knight walking around in his long underwear. I reminded myself that I wasn’t completely naked. I just needed to conserve spell power, which meant letting Adam bring a flashlight and lock picks.
The sawmill was surrounded by an eight-foot-tall barbwire-topped fence, plastered with Keep Out signs and security company warnings. That would have been a lot more impressive if those signs didn’t appear to have been printed on a home computer. They were barely leg ible, the laminate weather-beaten and cracked.
All I could make out was the company: R. G. Ballard out of Columbus. There was certainly no sign of a patrolling guard. The entrance into the parking lot was locked, but the gates didn’t close properly and we easily slipped through the gap.
The sawmill was short and sprawling, with a few small outbuildings. A lot of square footage to cover. Adam looked from building to building, scowl deepening.
“We’ll start at the midpoint, behind the sawmill,” I said. “I’ll cast my sensing spell.” I stopped. “Shit.”
“It might not have done much good anyway,” he said, and I didn’t know if he meant there was just too much space here ... or that my spell only applied to the living.
As we rounded the corner, we saw an old sedan pulled up near a back door to the sawmill. Someone had slapped a magnetic sign on the door. R. G. Ballard Security.
“Seems we have security after all,” Adam said. “No need to worry, then. We can get back in the Jeep ...” He caught my look and sighed.
“Cut it out, okay?” I said. “A security car doesn’t mean a security guard. The owner probably stuck that magnet on a clunker, and parked it here to make it look like the place was guarded.”
“Easy enough to check.” Adam took out his cell. He dialed the number on the magnet, frowned, then swore. “No signal.”
“Seriously?” I tried mine. Same thing. “It worked out by the road. I’ll run back and—”
He caught my arm. “Let’s just get this over with.”
THE RECEIVING DOORS were open. We stepped into a big room with an old metal desk and a whiteboard covered with the ghosts of words and numbers. A pair of work boots sat forlornly in one corner, one tipped over and filled with shredded paper and baby mice.
The next door opened into a hall dotted with security lights and papered with yellowed motivational posters. Beside one someone had written in black marker: “You know what really motivates workers? A fucking job.”
Most of the posters had been defaced. Parting words from the employees. If I had to face rainbow posters exhorting me to have a positive attitude, I’d add my own commentary, too. And I wouldn’t wait until after I was laid off.
Most of the office doors were closed, empty nameplates on each. The last one, though, stood partly open, light seeping into the hall. When I headed toward it, Adam passed me. I grabbed his arm. We faced off, but only for a moment. He wasn’t happy to be here, meaning he was spoiling for a fight. Best not to give him one. I let him go.
He cleared his throat loudly as he approached the door. The sound echoed through the empty hall. He slowed, listening for any sounds of movement. Nothing. He pushed open the door and looked inside. I trailed him.
It was a big wood-paneled office. Clearly executive level, the dented metal desk looking as out of place as the old lunch box and dog-eared magazines scattered across it. The security guard had taken the best office the sawmill had to offer, dragging in abandoned furniture from other offices.
A half-smoked cigarette rested on the edge of an old company mug, the smell of it still permeating the room. The magazines were car ones. None I read. I prefer mine without half-naked women. A partially eaten sandwich lay on an open magazine.
The cigarette was out. Adam touched the end of it.
“Cold,” he said.
I picked up another mug and stuck my finger into the contents. “Coffee is, too.” I pulled my finger out and sniffed it. “Coffee with a kick. Whiskey, I think. Definitely cold, though.”
As I went to put it down, I realized the mug was new, unlike everything else in the office. A matching extra one sat on a shelf. Both bore the same logo. Radu Developments.
“Cody’s family company,” I said, showing Adam. “Two brand-new mugs.”
“Jacket, too,” Adam said.
He nodded to the coat hanging off the back of the chair. I picked it up. A new, fleece-lined windbreaker with the Radu company logo on the breast pocket.
“Coincidence?” I said. “Or does Mr. R. G. Ballard rate corporate gifts for a reason?”
“One thing’s for sure. The security guard was here earlier.”
“And now he’s not.”
thirty-five
We backed up and checked all the offices, just to be sure. They were empty.
The door at the end of the hall opened into a big room with tables and folding chairs. It had whiteboards, all wiped clean. Meeting room or quality control, I guessed.
A set of steel double doors probably led to the sawmill floor. Adam started heading that way, but I wanted to search systematically.
A glance inside the other two doors identified both rooms as storage. One was mostly empty. The other was jam-packed with crap.
Adam walked into the nearly empty one and shone his light around.
“Boxes,” he murmured. “Doesn’t look like they’ve been touched in months so—”
I stopped him and tilted his flashlight until it illuminated the dusty floor. It was covered in footprints.
I walked over to the nearest box. While it was battered and dirty, little of that dirt was actual dust. If the sawmill had been closed more than a year, there should be dust. According to the label, it was filled with office supplies.
“Explains the footprints,” Adam said. “Someone’s been swiping paper and pens. The security guard probably has a deal going with that real estate agent who runs the copy shop. Maybe she gives him the Radu company swag. They’re developers, so she probably gets tons of it.”
“Maybe. But why leave office supplies behind in the first place? I doubt the workers would have had any compunctions about stripping the place clean after they got their pink slips.”
The box was taped shut with shiny new packing tape, but the cardboard showed signs that tape had been applied and ripped off many times. I opened it. Inside I found another box, newer, with a logo for a company called Pharma-Link at a Canadian address. I tore it open. Inside were drugs. Prescription drugs.
“You’re shitting me,” I murmured.
I walked to the next box and opened it. More drugs. Adam ripped open another. Same thing. We went into the other storage one. It was packed with boxes.
“Guess we know what broughtJesse here,” Adam said. “He tracked down the destination for those deliveries Cody was getting.”
“His big illegal enterprise is importing prescription drugs from Canada? No wonder he was so worried about anyone finding out. After the white slavery rumors, this would have been such a disappointment.” I shook my head. “So the security guard is in on the scheme, letting Cody and his buddies store their stock here. Considering that the place is up for sale, no one would think it odd if they saw Cody driving into the sawmill. He probably has more stashed in the warehouses down the road, which is why Michael was checking them out. Only Jesse came straight to the source.”
So where was the security guard? And, more important, where was Jesse?
WE SPLIT UP to pick paths through the crap, just doing a quick check to make sure the room was vacant. I was moving aside a chair when I saw a boot sticking out from between two crates.
“Got something,” I whispered. I leaned over the crate to see a leg protruding from the boot. “Or someone.”
I could tell by the boot that it wasn’t Jesse—not his style. Nor were the ugly work pants.
A tarp lay across the body. I peeled it back as Adam came over. Underneath was a guy in his fifties with greasy gray hair. Adam checked for a pulse and shook his head.
I leaned over and saw the pool of blood under the body. He’d been shot in the back.
When I glanced up, Adam had his phone out. He glowered at it.
“Still no service?” I said.
He nodded.
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