by Larry Enmon
“Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” A quick grin moved across her lips.
The place had a stale, musty odor. Rob gently raked her black hair to one side and gave her a kiss. “You feel okay, babe?”
“Just tired—no energy.”
Rob looked around the room. “Eaten anything today?”
Her eyes narrowed and the lids fluttered a second. “I think I ate lunch.”
Rob stroked her back. “Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head. “Nuh-uh.”
He made his way into the kitchen. A pile of dirty breakfast dishes lay in the sink. No sign of any lunch dishes. He checked the daily pill box he’d bought her. All four pills of today’s medication were still there. He exhaled and his fist tightened. Didn’t know whether to be angry with him or her. She should have remembered. But he’d been so busy he hadn’t thought to call and remind her. Shit.
He shook out three pills and poured a glass of water. She sat up as he approached. “You forgot, again,” he said, holding out the pills.
She gave her scolded puppy look. “Sorry.” She downed the pills with one gulp of water.
Rob flopped on the couch and she snuggled closer, laying her head on his chest. No one spoke for several minutes, but Rob’s mind ran a hundred miles a second. Would the depression ever stop? Would the doctors ever find the right combination of medications? Would Carmen ever remember to take them?
After a half hour, his stomach rumbling gave him an idea. Going out wasn’t an option, he didn’t want to leave her alone and get takeout, and they both hated delivered pizza for dinner. “Hey, what say I boil a few hot dogs, toast some buns, and dig out the diced onions and relish? I could open a can of chili and it would be just like an evening at the ball park.”
“Umm, sounds delicious.”
Rob shifted to stand, but Carmen held him tight around his waist. “Can we just lie here a few more minutes?”
“Sure, babe.” For her, he would stay there forever.
21
Saturday morning, Frank did his yoga routine in his living room. The early morning sun outlined his lean body in shadow on the floor. Good way to check your form without using a mirror.
After a half hour, he made coffee. Frank took his coffee two ways. At the office and restaurants—black. But at home, when he had time to fuss over it and get it just right—café au lait. Frank loved the simplicity of the French press. He ground the fresh beans and added them to the press, followed by a large cup of almost boiling water. He took another cup of whole milk and set it on the stove—low heat. Five minutes later he pressed the coffee and added the milk with a tablespoon of unprocessed sugar.
He sat on the balcony wearing a robe over his gym shorts and watched a plane on final to DFW. Alma popped back into his mind. Actually, since the gangster picked her out of the lineup yesterday, she’d never really left. If Ricardo’s killing was the instigating event that kicked off the whole gang war, what did that have to do with Alma? If Frank had been wrong about seeing her at Ricardo’s, why did the gangster pick her out of the lineup? Just how many coincidences would he tolerate in this case before throwing the bullshit flag? There had to be a link between a prestigious university professor and a notorious drug gang leader.
Frank ate breakfast, showered, and spent an hour in Central Market. His chef’s eye picked out the freshest produce and the best cuts of meat. And of course, he took advantage of every sample. A lazy guy could make the most of this; if he showed up at a different Central Market for each meal and ate all the samples offered, he’d never have to cook again.
By the time Frank left, he was too full for lunch. He popped everything into his refrigerator except the steak. When he’d called Debbie a few days ago and asked her to dinner, it went without saying she’d want Yucatan pork steak.
Debbie was one of the high-end call girls he dated. Of all the women he knew, she was the most like him. They talked for hours about her studies at the university, where she was pursuing a master’s in Medieval European history. She wanted to be a professor someday, but didn’t have the funds. Figured out that with a face and body like hers, she was literally sitting on a gold mine. When she wasn’t in class, she turned thousand-dollar tricks for out-of-town businessmen. Her moniker was Debbie loves Dallas.
She got plenty of attention, but sometimes, all she wanted was someone to talk to. Treat her like a lady. Cook a delicious meal and give her a full-body massage. She reciprocated with favors. Should have been a contortionist.
Frank mixed the grapefruit, orange, and lime juices with four minced scallions and two ground jalapenos. He washed the steaks, poured the marinade over the meat, and covered it with Saran Wrap before setting it into the refrigerator. Settled on his sofa, he opened the laptop browser, intending to check his Gmail. Instead, he typed in the word “witch” into Google.
The screen filled with more references to witches, witchcraft, and Wicca than Frank had expected. Who knew? Witches were big! Sorcery was one of the few things Frank knew little about. Never wanted to know. He’d read books on every topic that he believed might help him someday in police investigations. Witches never made the cut—superstition and fantasy that had no bearing on modern life. After reading for a couple of hours, Frank had to reassess his belief. Much more relevant today than he’d figured. Was that really a pentagram in Alma’s backyard, or just a star?
There were a few things that especially drew Frank’s attention. The first was the description of the “Green Witch.” An herbalist, healer, wise woman. Lover of nature and plants, and has a special relationship with all animals. The second, the description of a witch’s familiar: a demon or spirit that takes the shape of an animal. A servant the witch can command to do her bidding. Frank’s thoughts defaulted back to that night at Ricardo’s—the tabby bolting from his bedroom. Alma’s tabby rubbing its cheek on his pant’s leg when he visited her.
The only common dominator between the various types of witches appeared to be their Grimoire, or Book of Shadows. A Wicca book of religious texts and magical rituals.
He checked the clock. Crap. He’d been reading all afternoon. Debbie would be here in a couple of hours.
An hour and a half hour later, Frank had straightened up the place, decanted a bottle of red, and taken a shower. He shaved extra close for Debbie. Girl wouldn’t tolerate stubble.
Debbie was a down-to-earth person and didn’t like fancy things like most girls in her profession. Born and raised in Weatherford, she attended college in Fort Worth and worked in Dallas. Frank had tried all the fancy foods on her. She didn’t care for French, wasn’t especially taken by Mediterranean, and hated Asian. Her taste ran simple—the stuff she grew up with living on her family ranch.
Frank had just put the new potatoes to boil, turned the yellow squash and onions on low simmer, and poured his first glass of red when the doorbell rang.
Debbie was barely five feet tall, and she wore a short, purple, strapless dress that showed off her ample bosom. Her long amber hair fell loosely around her bare shoulders.
She stood on her toes, wrapped her arms around Frank’s neck, and kissed him long and hard before coming up for air. The naughty grin cracked the corners of her mouth.
“Thanks, I really needed that,” she whispered.
Frank closed the door. “You need a drink.”
Debbie tossed her clutch on the sofa and sniffed. “Umm. Something smells good.”
Frank had his back to her as he poured another glass of red. The warmth of her hands sliding up his un-tucked Polo startled him. She massaged his chest and laid her cheek against his back.
“My week’s been so crazy, Franklin. I couldn’t wait for tonight,” she said.
Frank expected this. Many of his lady friends used him as a sounding board for complaints and ideas. They viewed coming over as a cathartic experience. He never argued, never judged, and always comforted them. She was the only one who insisted on calling him by his Christian name—
Franklin. He wished she’d stop—reminded him of his mom. He turned and handed her the wine. “Just relax, babe. Put yourself in my hands tonight.”
She took a sip. “That’s my plan.”
Frank had preheated the grill and taken the pork steaks out of the refrigerator an hour earlier. He slipped his chef’s apron over his head and carried the meat onto the patio. As he laid each piece on the red-hot grill, a sweet, smoky sizzle rose into the air.
Debbie loved the patio hammock. And, like a few others, it was her favorite place to make love. There was something about doing the wild thing twenty stories above the city, in an ocean of plants with all the lights out, gazing at the stars and planes lining up for a landing, that appealed to her. Frank did his best to dissuade it. Getting too old for that type of behavior. Besides, did insurance even cover an injury from that? He seared the steaks on each side, poured marinade over them, and lowered the temperature.
The aroma caused Debbie’s eyes to glaze over.
“So, how’s school?” He settled himself in a lounger a few feet from the grill.
Debbie stretched in the hammock. “All good. Finishing my master’s this semester.”
“That’s great,” he said. He paused a few seconds, deciding on whether to ask the next question. “I was wondering … in your medieval history classes, have you studied witches?”
She laughed. “What an unusual question.” Her brow pinched. “How much wine did you have before I arrived?”
Frank held up his glass. “This is the first. Scout’s honor.” He crossed all the fingers on his left hand, making sure she saw.
She giggled. “You’re a hoot.”
Frank eyed her. “No, seriously. I’m curious.”
Debbie took a sip of red. “So I assume you’re asking about supposedly real witches as opposed to the legendary Hansel and Gretel type.”
“Yup.” Frank relaxed back into the chair.
She flashed him a skeptical look. “Medieval history is filled with witches. The Malleus Maileficarum written in 1486 by two monks was basically a witch hunter’s guide. England, Germany, France, Scotland, all cited it for murdering hundreds of people—mostly women. Joan of Arc was probably the most famous.”
She paused to take another long sip, wiping off what dribbled down her chin. Frank always dribbled when he tried drinking in that wretched hammock. This, to his way of thinking, was another excellent reason to toss the thing in the trash.
Debbie’s information pretty much lined up with what he’d been reading all afternoon.
“But the biggest blow to witches happened long before that,” she said. “The Malleus Maileficarum just legalized it. The death knell was the rise of Christianity.”
Frank’s mind had drifted. He sat a little straighter and said, “Huh?”
Debbie looked over the rim of the glass and took another long swallow. The wine had relaxed her. All the tension in her face and body had faded away as the sweet warmth of the grape took hold.
“The Druids were the religious leaders of the Celts.” Debbie raked a loose hair from her eyes. “The first members of the Druid priesthood were all women. When Christianity was introduced into the British Isles, the Celts moved out of sight—into the caves and woods. They were a very spiritual people, and not as sexually repressed as their Christian neighbors.”
Frank kept listening as he turned the steaks and added the last of marinade. “You sure know a lot about witches.”
Debbie kicked her legs over each side of the hammock, resting her toes on the concrete. A sliver of white thong showed under the short dress.
Yeah, she’s relaxed.
She released a sensual groan and focused on him. “Do we have to keep talking about this?”
“Just finish your thought. The pork still needs a few minutes.”
She finished her glass before her thought and held it out to him. He refilled it and took his seat.
“Anyway, I edited a dissertation for a friend of mine. The Demise of Sorcery in the Christian Age. Used to edit lots of dissertations and term papers for extra money,” she said, slurring her last few words. She got this way faster than anyone Frank knew. One or two glasses and she’d hit her limit.
“I believe you ended on sexual repression,” Frank said.
She nodded and a goofy grin spread across her lips. She took another long swallow. “Yeah.” She spoke slowly, concentrating on each word. “Sexuality was encouraged in their religion. Fertility was prized. A gal with two or three youngins was paid a higher dowry than virgins.”
Frank grimaced. Oh, no. Debbie had slipped from her cosmopolitan ways back into the full Texas twang and Southern slang. He’d better get some food in her fast.
“So,” she continued, “as Christianity grew, Celtic paganism retreated. The Christians managed to reduce the Druid priesthood to an instrument of the devil—witches and sorceries.” She slurred her words again, giggled and wiggled a finger in his direction. “And that’s how you took down a competitive religion in the old days.” Debbie hiccupped, put a hand to her mouth, and sat up. “Can we eat now?”
Frank drained the squash, poured the sautéed onions and butter over the potatoes, and popped the buttered French bread in the oven while he let the steaks rest. Debbie helped herself to another glass of red. If she kept this up, her slurring would become so pronounced that she may as well be speaking in tongues. When her back was turned, Frank hid the wine. They dined on the small patio table listening to Van Morrison sing “Moondance” as the sun set. Debbie sobered up a little more with each bite. Frank took the dishes to the kitchen and filled the dishwasher while she excused herself to the bathroom. He’d had made a pecan pie and bought a pint of Blue Bell ice cream for the occasion. He slid the pie into the oven to warm it up.
A noise from behind drew his attention to the hall. Debbie had shucked the dress and wore nothing but the white thong. Frank turned off the oven and meandered to her. She was more sober now, and when she kissed him, the mint taste of his bathroom mouthwash tingled his lips. She stepped back and ran her palm over his cheeks and chin.
“Did you shave extra close?” she whispered. Her hand dropped down to the front of the thong.
“Sure did.”
She smirked. “Devil,” and led him to the hammock.
* * *
Rob relaxed in his favorite recliner in the living room. He had a mini-cooler packed with ice and beer on one side of the chair and a small trash can on the other. He dropped the empty beer can into the trash and retrieved a new one from the icy water in the cooler. Popping the top, he took an extra long swallow.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair what happened to him and Carmen. They’d been married over twenty years. Their kids had left for college and now they were officially empty-nesters. This should have been their best years since falling in love back in high school. They had the time and money to travel, see the world, and act like irresponsible teenagers again. They could make love every night and walk around the house naked if they wanted—except for one thing.
Carmen’s clinical depression.
Every time the doctors believed they had a good handle on the problem, Carmen would slip back into a full-blown episode. The drugs were the sticking point. They assured him when they found the right pharmaceutical combination, all would be well. They’d been saying that for the last two years. Some days, Carmen walked around like a zombie, so medicated she didn’t know whether to fix breakfast or dinner.
Rob turned up the volume on the movie a little. Really didn’t need to. He’d seen Lonesome Dove so many times he could read the actors’ lips. He and Carmen had lain on the sofa until she went to bed an hour ago. He held her and they watched the movie in her favorite spoon position. He loved her so much. Why … why couldn’t they have a normal life? She hardly spoke when she went into a tailspin like this. Her silence hurt him more that her crying. And there was plenty of that. No matter what, he intended to see this through. He just needed to hold on a little longer.<
br />
Rob torqued the volume another notch and took a sip of beer. His favorite part of the movie was coming up, that part where Captain Woodrow Call says, “I hate rude behavior in a man. Won’t tolerate it.” Yeah, I should have been a Texas Ranger. Those were the good old days.
Rob couldn’t help from feeling guilty. Carmen was the one hurting, and all he could do was cry in his beer because he wanted their life to be more normal. At work he kept up a good front. Frank knew Carmen had problems, but Rob hadn’t said a word about the latest round. No use putting any more stress on his partner than necessary. Rob would show up for work Monday morning and wouldn’t say a word about Carmen. Then he and Frank would solve this sniper case. He believed that. He had to believe that. Man has to believe in something.
* * *
Sunday morning Frank cracked his eyes open and gazed at a foot. That was one of the trade-offs of having Debbie over—restless sleeper. She’d pull covers, change positions, and stretch herself across the entire bed. Not bad if you’re used to sleeping with a spider monkey. Frank didn’t mind being awoken a half dozen times. A night with Debbie was worth no sleep.
He unwound himself from the tangled, twisted sheets and got up. After slipping on a pair of gym shorts, he headed to the living room. Halfway through his yoga routine Debbie tiptoed into the kitchen and started the coffee. By the time he finished, she handed him a cup.
“Didn’t really understand our conversation last night,” she said, taking a sip. “Witches? Really?”
Frank kept his answer short. “Just curious, that’s all.”
They dropped the subject and enjoyed the rest of the morning on the balcony. After lunch, she headed back to Fort Worth, and Frank spent the afternoon and evening reading his suspense/thriller novel. Anything to keep his mind off the case, Alma, and witches. After the harrowing night, Frank hit the sack early. He’d fallen into a deep sleep by ten o’clock.
22
Monday morning, Frank got up and did his yoga with the first rays of the sun illuminating his living room. He needed to dig into Alma’s business a little deeper, and her home was the best place to start. Had to wait for her to go to work, so he piddled around his house for a couple of hours until traffic settled. The thought occurred to him that he may have compromised himself by his intimate affair with her. But was she really a suspect? Probably not. Perhaps he should have been more bothered by the prospect, but it really didn’t trouble him at all.