City of Fear

by Larry Enmon

  Frank released a long breath. Here it comes. “Still drink Glenlivet 21?”

  “Well, that’s mighty generous of you, nephew.”

  “No problem,” Frank said. “Happy birthday.” There goes two hundred bucks, plus shipping.

  As Frank disconnected, a disturbed calm washed over him. He poured another glass. He’d always considered himself an educated and somewhat refined man. He wasn’t prejudiced or opinionated. But the idea of a witch in Dallas wasn’t just absurd—it was silly. Only ignorant peasants in the Middle Ages and tribesmen in undeveloped countries could take such things seriously. The idea he even entertained such thoughts made Frank question his own ability to think and reason reliably. All these crazy dreams and unexplained happenings had him wondering just who was in control of the case. He was on the verge of dropping the whole witch idea when he helped Mrs. Silverstein with her spilled purse. Then he saw the cover photo on her book. It was of a young woman with long, fiery red hair, and sparkling green eyes. She wore a golden Druid triangle necklace and a low-cut dress. She held a candle and had an inquisitive expression. The book’s title—The Celtic Witch.

  27

  Thursday morning, Frank began his research into Dr. Alma Hawkins as soon as he got to work. A Google search revealed about what he’d expected. Her academic credentials were impressive. Bachelor’s in religious studies from University of South Carolina. Master’s from Columbia and Ph.D. from Cambridge. Moved around a lot. Taught for a dozen years at several universities on the East Coast. Yup, moving every few years. Why? Serious professors all go for tenure. Being able to put down roots in an academic community was what they lived for. But not Alma.

  Frank scanned social media and found nothing. Her background was sketchy at best. Several Alma Hawkins existed around the country. Even with her Texas driver’s license number and date of birth, the search was confusing. And he found something very odd—few photos of her existed. Yearbooks from schools where she’d attended or taught all showed “Photo Not Available” below her name. And as far as Frank could tell, she’d been born an adult. Little about her existed before the age of twenty-five.

  He slouched in his chair and massaged his temple. Rob strolled in, fresh from his workout.

  “Morning,” Rob said.

  Frank kept his stare on the computer monitor. “Morning.”

  “We still have the squad meeting at ten?”

  Frank pulled at the skin on his neck. “Huh?”

  “Meeting at ten still on?”

  “I guess.”

  Rob flopped down and switched on his computer.

  “Hey, I’m checking on someone and not much is coming up,” Frank said. “Any suggestions?”

  “Start with the residence and work back from there.”

  Frank perked up. Why didn’t I think of that? He typed the street address for “Cottage on the Lake” into Google. The search engine filled several pages. Frank scanned each article looking for clues. House constructed in 1910. Photos of construction on the new dam and planting trees along the future lakeside. Grand opening of the lake and proclamation by mayor’s office. He scrolled down the articles and found an obscure mention about the natural stone cottage being the first home constructed around Dallas’s new reservoir and future water supply. The grainy photo didn’t look anything like the current place. Not one plant in sight.

  There was a fuzzy picture of the owner and his wife. Frank zeroed in on the couple. Mr. and Mrs. Ezra Pullings. Frank leaned to within inches of the monitor. The man was tall and refined. He wore a stylish suite and fedora, sporting a thin, well-trimmed beard. Frank sucked in a quick breath and enlarged the photo, making it even more grainy and obscure. The woman in the photo looked like Alma. It didn’t just resemble her, it was her.

  Frank read the article about how the couple had moved from up north to open a clothing store in Dallas. They’d finished construction of their new home only days before the lake’s grand opening. Nothing about Mrs. Pullings in the article. Frank cleaned up the grainy photo as much as he could before hitting the print button. He studied it the rest of the morning. So many bizarre thoughts went through his mind, but being an intelligent pragmatist, he didn’t want to believe them.

  About five to twelve, Edna rushed up to Frank’s desk. “I need a favor.”

  When Edna got excited or anxious, a flush rushed up her neck and cheeks, giving her a glow. Frank always found it attractive.

  “Sure—name it,” he said.

  “Dr. Plebe, from SMU, will be here in a few minutes. We have a lunch date planned. He’s going to advise me on some spring classes.”

  Frank sat a little straighter. “Okay?”

  Edna’s gaze darted back to her office. “So, Higgins just rang and wants to start a conference call.” She glanced at her watch. “In two minutes. I need someone to meet Plebe in the lobby and babysit him until I can get off this damn call.”

  From the corner of his eye Frank caught a smirk from Rob.

  “Sure, Edna, no problem.” Frank stood and slipped on his jacket.

  “I really appreciate it. He knows you. Just stall him.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll wait,” Rob said.

  “Go ahead and eat. I’ll grab something later,” Frank mumbled before heading for the door.

  Frank took the stairs down. Just as he got to the ground floor, the professor walked through the glass doors into the lobby. Frank called his name. The professor turned with a surprised expression.

  Frank extended his hand. “Good morning, Dr. Plebe.”

  “Detective Pierce, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Edna … that is Lieutenant Crawford sends her regards, but she’s been unavoidable detained. She wondered if you could wait a few minutes.”

  The old professor nodded. “I suppose so. Will she be long?” He eyed his watch.

  “No, sir.”

  Actually, Frank was happy to be alone with the guy. Might get a few more insights into Alma Hawkins.

  “Dr. Plebe, let’s have a seat.” Frank directed him to a couple of chairs away from the others.

  “Was Dr. Hawkins able to answer your questions regarding Voodoo?”

  “Oh, yes. Very helpful,” Frank said. He needed to be careful how he handled this. One slip and he’d give it all away. “How long has she been at the university?”

  Plebe said, “A little over five years.”

  “Well, she certainly is well versed.”

  Frank’s cell rang, Edna calling.

  “Frank, did you find him?”

  “Yeah, having a nice chat.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right down.”

  “Will do.”

  Frank dropped his cell in his pocket. “The lieutenant will be down directly.” He leaned a little closer. Time to move in for the kill. “Just curious,” Frank said, “is Dr. Hawkins a Wiccan?”

  A curious smile crossed Plebe’s lips. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t until now.”

  “Oh, goodness,” Plebe said. His brow pinched and he leaned back before placing his hand over his heart. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll not mention my indiscretion to her I hope. I’m not certain how it would be perceived. A Wiccan teaching religious studies at a Christian university.”

  “Of course not—our secret.”

  Plebe looked down. “She entrusted that bit of information to me after her daughter’s death. Poor thing went through a bad period.” His voice cracked and he looked Frank in the eyes. “That’s when we became friends.” He shrugged. “A shoulder to cry on.”

  “She had a daughter?”

  “Yes, a beautiful thirteen-year-old girl. Died in January.”

  The elevator door opened to his left and Edna came strutting out, all smiles, making a beeline for them.

  Frank had time for one last question. “How did she die?”

  Plebe also noticed Edna approaching. He stood and waved. “I’m sorry what d
id you say?”

  Frank stepped closer, whispering. “How did she die?”

  Plebe frowned and shook his head. “A drug reaction from the food at a friend’s party.”

  Edna walked up and shook hands with Plebe. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. Last-minute call. I hope Frank kept you amused?”

  The professor grinned. “Yes, we had a lovely chat.”

  “Let’s get going,” Edna said. “I want to pick your brain on a couple of things.” As she turned, she whispered, “Thanks, Frank. I owe you.”

  “My pleasure.” It was his pleasure. Plebe’s revelation about Alma’s daughter revived an old memory.

  Frank raced back to his desk and pulled up the report. It was as he recalled. January 28 in North Dallas, several kids became ill at a birthday party—one died. Food poisoning was first suspected, but the Dallas Health Department soon narrowed down the source of the trouble. An unknown drug having hallucinogenic qualities had been introduced to the punch. Frank quickly scanned the reports. The police had received a tip about Ricardo Salazar, and he was questioned. He denied selling the drug and lawyered up. Attorney got him off using a loophole. Frank sped through report after report until he discovered what he wanted.

  The dead girl was Clara Hawkins. Only child of Dr. Alma Hawkins, professor of Religious Studies at SMU.

  Frank sat back in his chair and eyed the last line of the report for a long time. An old, disturbing memory surfaced. A memory that took him back seventeen years ago when he lived in New York. A memory he’d tried to purge from his conscience.

  28

  Jesse walked into her bedroom while slipping on her blouse. She was tired. In the last few days she’d taken down another three gang leaders in Levern’s circle.

  The TV showed a stock photo of Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan, reporting on the deaths of two Afghan Security Troops from a rocket attack near a gate. Jesse stopped and stared at the TV. I know that gate. How many hours in freezing cold or stifling summer heat had she manned the sniper tower beside it? How many hours had the harsh winds dried her lips and skin? She lay on the bed and gazed at the TV.

  The place of my greatest accomplishment and greatest failure.

  * * *

  July 2012

  Jesse took the last few steps at a trot before stepping into the shade of the fifty-foot sniper tower. Mark was already there, bullshitting with the guys. Their laughter drifted down as she climbed the stairs. She stepped inside and dropped her pack. The day guys had already gathered their equipment for the shift change. Sweat rings outlined their under arms, back, and chest. As always, the floor and everything in the tower had a fine layer of dust, but the view was spectacular. The old town of Bagram lay straight ahead, and the mountains rose up in the distance.

  “Hey, Jess,” Mark said.

  She had been paired with Mark for the last two months. Arriving at Bagram in February, she’d first worked with a veteran base sniper. She and Mark had attended sniper school together, almost a year ago.

  “Hey, Mark.” She tossed her pack in the corner. Each two-person sniper team consisted of a shooter and spotter. They spent eight hours in “the box,” as they referred to the towers near each base entrance. It was the most miserable assignment on post. Constructed of wood and fortified steel plates, it was the coldest place in the winter and hottest in the summer. A two-foot opening on all sides allowed super-heated or super-freezing air to blow through, and the driving rain soaked them.

  Jesse removed her helmet and took a peek through the high-powered binoculars mounted on a tripod. She scanned Disney Road, leading from the base to the old town. Today she was the shooter and Mark was the spotter. They switched off each day.

  “Sit rep?” she asked.

  The shooter from the day shift grunted. “Nothing of any significance. Reaper 5 depart at 0500. Afghan outer perimeter security stops by every few hours. Nothing on the ops sheet.”

  The other team slung their packs and rifles over their shoulders and departed down the stairs. Mark keyed the radio.

  “Ops, this is Disney Gate, radio check.”

  “Disney, you’re five by five, how me?”

  “You’re five by, out.”

  Mark had already ditched his helmet and camo shirt for a soft cap and tee shirt. Jesse did the same, checking the thermometer—104 degrees.

  “Going to be a hot afternoon.” She eased into the chair and readied her M-24 sniper rifle. She worked the bolt several times and snapped the trigger on an empty chamber. Jesse loaded the magazine with five 7.62 × 51 mm rounds and inserted it into the rifle. She rested it on the sandbag with the muzzle pointing down the road. Checking the scope, she insured it was still property aligned.

  Mark fished a cold bottle of water from his cooler and eyed her. After taking a long swallow, he said, “I’m getting married.”

  Jesse cocked her head. “Oh, really? When did all this happen?”

  Mark leaned against the far wall, propping his feet on his pack. “Proposed before coming to work today—she accepted.”

  Jesse had long suspected Mark of being an incurable romantic. He read books, listened to classic music, and seldom joined in the camp goings-on. He’d always been the perfect gentleman around her, never making lewd comments or asking suggestive questions. That was more than she could say for most of the rest. His girl back home, Tara, seemed to be the only thing on his mind lately. He spoke of her often.

  Jesse sat the rifle down and looked his way. “I’m happy for you. Congratulations.”

  “You got anyone back home, Jess?”

  As she fitted the radio earpiece into her left ear, she smiled to herself. It was well known that young, single, and attractive females had their pick of male companionship on base. She’d never spoke of a romantic relationship back home and had spurned all attempts since arriving in the country. A few whispered that maybe girls were her preference. What no one realized was she had a sizzling liaison going on with the sexiest guy she’d ever met. They kept their romance secret, because that sort of thing was frowned on. They both wanted a career in the Air Force, and being obvious wasn’t anything but trouble for career airmen.

  Jesse stood and grabbed the ops clipboard before answering. “No, don’t have anyone back home.” She didn’t meet eyes with him, but kept her concentration on the clipboard, flipping through the old ops orders.

  He dropped the subject and took up position behind the spotter’s binoculars, checking off the fire points. She slid back into her chair and stared down the miles of perimeter wall wrapped at the top with razor wire. She lived on the six-square-mile base with forty thousand other people, the largest town she’d ever resided in. All wanted to go home—back to their loved ones. Not her. She had nothing to return to. In the distance the sound of a C-17 Globemaster accelerating for takeoff filled the air.

  After basic training, they’d approached her about applying for counter-sniper school. She’d been accepted to one of the last few slots. The only female in the class, it took all the physical and mental endurance she had to finish the course. She’d graduated as the class “top shot.” A short vacation home followed before being deployed to Afghanistan as the new fire team member of the 822nd Security Forces Squadron. Her mom and dad had been so proud. And she was proud of herself. Nineteen years old and starting a new career with a bright future. But she felt so hollow inside. Like some part of her heart was still dead from Glen’s loss.

  Meeting Clive had helped. She’d never met a more handsome man. Dark wavy hair, tall, and all muscles. Saying he’d swept her off her feet sounded like such a cliché, but it was true. She’d never had sex half that good with Glen. Clive stirred some primitive, uninhabited emotions she didn’t realize she had. He was reckless, daring, and the devil-be-dammed attitude made him perfect for Reaper.

  Reaper was part of the 755th Expeditionary Security Forces Squadron. The security of Bagram Air Base was their responsibility. They worked twelve-hour shifts patrolling the 180-square-mile sec
urity zone outside the wire. If there was trouble brewing, the twenty airmen of Reaper usually encountered it before it could affect the base.

  Clive’s voice came over the radio. “Ops, this is Reaper 5. We’re trailing what appears to be an Afghan Security Forces truck driving slowly through the old market. It’s on the main street that intersects Disney. Thing is riddled with bullet holes. Could we get an aerostat on it?”

  “Reaper 5, this is Ops. We’ll make it happen.”

  Mark leaned in closer to the binoculars, staring in the direction of the old market. “Can’t see it yet. Still in town behind buildings.”

  Jesse scoped her rifle in that direction. The aerostat surveillance balloon might give them a better idea of what was going on.

  Mark switched on the TV as Jesse glanced in his direction. The thing flickered and an overhead view of the downtown area flashed on the screen. People strolled through the old market with its dozens of booths, selling everything from raw lamb to rugs. The vehicle hadn’t shown itself yet, still probably weaving through the narrow streets. A moment later, the aerostat operator zoomed in and put the camera on the truck. Clive’s Bradley Fighting Vehicle followed about 100 meters to the rear.

  “That thing’s been shot to hell,” Mark said. “The Afghan’s would never use it. They’d get a replacement.”

  Jesse kept her eye to the rifle scope, waiting for the truck to break out into the open. She gnawed her lower lip. Mark was right. The Afghans would turn a vehicle in for replacement if it had a flat tire. They’d never drive that piece of crap.

  “Reaper 5, this is Ops. We’re putting up a Kiowa to check it out. Maintain a safe distance.”

  Jesse’s stomach twisted. Maintain a safe distance was right. The last time something like this happened, the truck had over eight hundred pounds of explosives. When it detonated, it left a crater the size of an Olympic swimming pool.

  “Ops, this is Reaper 5. No time. We just made the turn onto Disney Road. Permission to interdict?”

  “Reaper 5, this is Ops. Stand by.”