Snowbirds of Prey

by Ward Parker

  Then, one day, Luisa noticed something about her for the first time at the botánica while they were unpacking boxes filled with potions in tiny glass bottles. When the shelves were jostled, a bottle on the top shelf tottered and then fell.

  With her mind alone, Missy slowed its plunge and set it gently upon the floor.

  “Wow, you’ve got some power in you, chica.”

  “What are you talking about? What I did with the love potion or whatever it is?”

  “The Better Business Oil. I meant more than telekinesis. You know, I’ve always liked your positive energy. And just now I felt something more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s hard to say. More than just energy. More like power. Yes, power. A true sorceress or priestess needs power to control the spirits,” Luisa said, tapping the ceramic head of some saint Missy didn’t recognize. “And you got it, chica. I don’t know what you can do with it, or if there’s enough to do anything with. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “No. I think you’ve been sniffing too much incense. What makes you believe this?”

  “I can just feel it, entiendes? Do you understand?”

  “I’ve always had an affinity with the spiritual world and the paranormal. That’s why I got into Wicca.”

  Luisa snorted. “Wicca’s fine, but you got the power to do a lot more. I’m a businesswoman, not a bruja, but I have a strong connection to the spiritual world. And I’ve got a feeling about you.”

  “What do you mean by ‘do a lot more’? You mean other kinds of witchcraft?”

  “Call it what you want. We just need to figure out how to tap into what you got. I know a gentleman who might be able to help.”

  “I’m sorry, Luisa, Santeria is very interesting, but I don’t know if it’s my thing. Neither is Voodoo or Obeah.”

  “Of course not, chica. You got to stay true to your heritage, your traditions. It’s in your blood, your memories, and dreams. It’s what you know deep down whether you realize it or not.”

  “My parents were into spiritualism, but they didn’t follow any traditions regarding magick.”

  “I didn’t mean it literally. I’m just saying your best path is to follow the traditions from the part of the world your ancestors came from. I assume yours are not from Africa and the Caribbean like mine.”

  “My family has been in Florida for generations, true Florida crackers,” Missy said. “I’ve been reading lately about cracker folk-healing potions and practices. It’s pretty interesting, a combination of pioneer remedies from the 1800s and Seminole herbal medicine. I figure I can combine those traditions with witchcraft spells and such.”

  “Bo-ring,” Luisa said. “All that stuff is fine and has its uses, but I’m talking about power.”

  “To be clear, I do know a few good spells. I have a truth-telling spell which works every time I’ve tried it. It’s pretty powerful.”

  “That’s nothing compared to the kinds of things you could do with the power you have inside of you. You got to talk to this guy I know. I’ll set you up soon.”

  Missy didn’t say no. Because, although she was afraid to admit it, she had recently sensed something long dormant inside of her was waking. Some kind of mighty force she didn’t understand.

  13

  A Priest Walks into a Botánica

  Father Marco Rivera Hernandez insisted on being called Father Marco, even though he admitted he was a defrocked priest.

  “I was the only priest in the diocese who could do an exorcism,” he told Missy in the back room of the botánica where readings and ceremonies were performed. “Most of the time the afflicted had mental illness. But every so often, I’d come across a real possession. They’re pretty damn scary, I tell you.”

  Father Marco had an aristocratic face with a well-trimmed beard. He looked like a Spanish nobleman from the conquistador times. He might have been in his forties or fifties with brown hair untouched by age, but his beard was fully white. They sat across from each other at the fortune-telling table in the dimly lit room.

  “I was assigned to this one case,” he continued. “It was approved by the diocese and the arch-diocese. And the moment I saw the subject, a thirteen-year-old girl, I could tell it was bad. There was something seriously evil and powerful in her.”

  “How could you tell?” Missy asked.

  “Well, aside from her talking to me in a voice that sounded like James Earl Jones, and already knowing my name, and telling me she was going to mess me up big time if I didn’t leave right way—aside from that, you could say it was a gut feeling. I could sense the power.”

  “But how?”

  “Maybe it’s a gift I have. It’s not a thing you can learn. I just feel it, maybe because I have a little myself. Can you sense it in me?”

  She cleared her head and stared at his intense brown eyes. Then his aura appeared, in a pulsing reddish-black. A troubling color. She rarely saw auras except those of people with exceptionally strong personalities. The kind of people she tended to avoid. She also picked up the feeling of energy humming within him, radiating outwards.

  “Yes, I can,” she said.

  “Good. I can sense power in you as well. A great deal of it. I felt it the minute I first saw you. You need to be careful, because your power could attract unsavory characters who want to tap into it or who see you as a threat. Like other witches or wizards.” He sipped from a glass of wine Missy hadn’t noticed before.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Missy said.

  “I should explain what we mean when we speak of power. Power can be generated from the natural energy of the earth, from electromagnetic power, ley lines, fault lines, and power points. Non-dark forms of magick work in this way, and many people have the ability to harvest it directly and keep it within themselves, holding it like an electrical charge.

  “Then there’s power that comes from forces beyond this earth. At the risk of sounding trite and simplistic, this power can come from good or evil supernatural entities. Some people with no power inside themselves can leverage this supernatural power, like the tales of sorcerers summoning demons to perform actions.

  “And there are people like you, who naturally have power inside you. You were born with it. Whether you know it or not. Whether you use it or not. You can also tap into the energy of the earth as a temporary force multiplier or do the same with supernatural power. People born with power inside them and who are able to combine it with these external kinds of power are the mightiest people of all.”

  “How does this relate to me?” Missy asked.

  “You need to understand the strength and nature of the power within you. Learn how to access and control it. Find ways to enhance it using the power in the earth. Then, someday, you can learn how to use the power of the supernatural world as well. My advice, though, is to stay away from dark power.” He gave a mordant laugh.

  “You know from personal experience?”

  “It’s why I was de-frocked. The exorcism I attempted of the thirteen-year-old girl? I never finished the story.”

  “Please do.”

  “The demon claimed he was Asmodeus, but I don’t know if it was true. Demons lie more often than politicians. Anyway, it was the most difficult, dangerous exorcism I had ever attempted.”

  “That’s the second time you said ‘attempted.’ Do you mean you didn’t succeed?”

  He sighed. “Yes and no. I won’t go into a blow-by-blow account of what happened, but there were times when I feared for the girl’s life and my own. You could say I was in over my head, but it’s not as if there are lots of more experienced exorcists out there nowadays. Anyway, it got to the point that the demon and I were bargaining with each other. I agreed to host the demon if he would leave the girl. He did. So, in one sense, you could say it was a success.”

  “Oh my, you mean you were then possessed?”

  “Yeah. But I was probably a disappointment for the demon. Adolescents have tons of crazy hormonal energ
y, which is why poltergeists often manifest themselves in homes with kids going through puberty. So, this demon enjoyed possessing her. I, on the other hand, was pretty boring. I mean, I was a priest. What would a demon find exciting in my life of writing sermons, hosting bingo, and having tea with old ladies? He didn’t even do anything to me for weeks, so I almost forgot about him. Of course, he finally decided to show up one Sunday when I was celebrating mass. I have no memory of it, of course. But apparently my performance emptied the church of parishioners, half of whom vowed never to come back. I even defiled the altar. It was pretty bad.”

  “Yeah, I’d say.”

  “I was put on sick leave and given every drug test and psychological evaluation in the world. I explained about the deal I made with the demon to save the girl, and the monsignor of the parish said I had no right to do it without prior authorization. As if I was going to be able to stop the exorcism and ask the demon to wait while I routed paperwork through the bureaucracy. I appealed to the bishop, and it turns out he didn’t even believe in demonic possessions. He authorized exorcisms solely for public relations reasons. I was pissed off, so I used the demon for dark purposes.”

  “What did you do?” Missy asked in a low voice.

  “I discovered and exposed the embezzlement scheme the bishop was involved in.”

  “What you did doesn’t sound evil to me.”

  “Well, it sure did to the archdiocese. I was defrocked, kicked out of the church, and here I am today.”

  “How did you finally get rid of the demon?”

  “I didn’t. He’s still in me.”

  “Oh,” Missy said.

  “Yes, ‘oh.’ It’s kind of awkward when I reveal it to people. Now that I’m no longer a priest, I can date women, but who wants to date a guy possessed by a demon? Men can be bad enough without being possessed by demons. And my old friends from before the seminary don’t want to hang out with me because I can really ruin a party when the demon takes over. He always chooses the most inappropriate times. He won’t even let me play golf.”

  Missy would never admit it, out of politeness, but she suddenly felt very uncomfortable being alone in the room with ex-Father Marco Rivera Hernandez. She tried to change the subject.

  “How do I learn more about my power?” she asked.

  “I will gladly train you.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’d like to try some exercises on my own at first. You know, get warmed up before I have any training, so I don’t pull any mental muscles. I’m already able to do a little telekinesis here and there.”

  “Ah, yes, the ability to move objects through mental power. Also called psychokinesis. I’m very impressed,” he said. “Why don’t you begin by exercising your brain and seeing if you have any other gifts? Then we can explore methods of amplifying your power.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll start with the exercising and get back to you.”

  “Start with exorcising instead, you stupid wench,” the ex-priest said in a voice identical to James Earl Jones’.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry,” he said with an embarrassed smile in his normal voice. “Asmodeus is sticking his evil nose in my businesses again.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have Tourette Syndrome?”

  “Quite sure. Just ask the people at the church picnic that was rained upon with pig excrement last weekend. Only a demon could have done such a thing. A demon with a wicked sense of humor.”

  Missy thanked ex-Father Rivera Hernandez profusely for his help and left the shop as quickly as she could, thankful to put distance between her and the demon-possessed dude.

  14

  Reboot

  It was time for Matt to focus his investigation on what happened to Taylor Donovan. He would do the most delicate part first: speaking with the victim’s parents.

  Mayor Janet Donovan consented to the interview as long as it would be brief. And she insisted it be at her home rather than her office in City Hall since, her assistant told Matt, it was a personal topic. No questions about city business, the assistant warned.

  The mayor’s home was more mansion than house and was right on the Intracoastal Waterway. She did not buy the home on a mayor’s salary. She and her husband were developers and obviously did quite well. So did their developer friends who needed the city to approve their projects. He was surprised when the mayor herself, instead of a servant, answered the door.

  “Come on in. We’ll be in here,” she said, directing him into her study on the first floor. “My husband is away on business, so he won’t be able to join us.

  The room was white with sophisticated, classical furnishings. Half the walls were lined with built-in bookshelves and the others had Eighteenth-Century oil paintings of horses and riding scenes. There was one window with blinds closed. Matt was disappointed there wasn’t a view of the water from this room. He figured there was probably a huge boat moored alongside the house.

  Mayor Donovan sat behind a delicate writing desk set diagonally in a corner where she faced the room and two guest chairs in front of the desk. He sat in the left chair. She offered him a bottled water which he accepted but didn’t open, perching it awkwardly between his knees as he hit play on his phone’s voice-recorder app, placing it on the other chair. He opened his narrow reporter notepad to take notes.

  “Again, I’m so sorry about your daughter,” he said.

  The mayor put her hands on the desk, fingers touching, and swallowed as if girding herself.

  “Taylor was a brilliant young woman,” she said. “She was doing well in college—she was attending Gulf Stream College locally, studying business. But it’s no secret she had gone through a long battle with substance abuse. She spent years in therapy. It wasn’t easy, but she was a real trooper. She was clean and sober for over a year now. I’m so proud of her.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue. The mayor had a wide, pleasant face, framed by well-coiffed dark hair, but she also had a sharpness signifying she didn’t suffer fools.

  “You should be proud,” he said.

  It would be weeks before an autopsy report came back, but Matt would not be surprised if it revealed drugs in her system. The search for drugs often brought good people into contact with bad ones, which rarely ended well.

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “Of course, the police asked about that,” the mayor said. “It was their first question, actually. She was serious with a boy named David, but they broke up a while ago. Since then, she’s been on dates, but no one serious.”

  “What kind of social group did she hang around with?” Matt asked, writing notes about his next questions.

  “A group of fine young women from some of the best families in the county.”

  “I see. And what did they do for fun?”

  “Taylor loved serving the community. Taylor and her friends did a lot of volunteering and liked to go to charity events.”

  “But what did they do for fun?”

  Mayor Donovan gave him an icy stare. “I want this article to be a tribute to Taylor. Not salacious trash trying to blame her for her murder.”

  “I would never write that.”

  “But the kind of questions you’re asking sound like you’re trying to solve the crime. That’s what the police are for. I’ve already answered dozens of questions like these. I truly believe Taylor wasn’t in the wrong place with the wrong people. She wasn’t doing anything improper. I believe my sweet girl was attacked by some pervert or psycho who’d probably been stalking her for a long time.”

  “Do you suspect an ex-boyfriend, like David?”

  “There you go again asking police questions.”

  He wanted to remark that the police hadn’t had much luck in solving the murders of the other young people who weren’t children of the rich and powerful, but he managed to edit himself.

  “Sorry for offending you,” he said. “I’m a news reporter, not a feature story writer. It’s my instinct to ask questions like those
. We’ll switch back to more legacy-building topics, I promise, if you’ll just tell me what she was up to before . . . on the night in question.”

  “She was at an event for the Junior League.”

  “Thank you,” Matt said, defeated. “Now tell me more about what Taylor was studying in college and what she hoped to do when she graduated.”

  The mayor went on in great detail about Taylor’s good grades, her athletic prowess, and other achievements. The main gist of it all was that Taylor’s passion was to make the world a better place. Of course.

  He walked out of the house with little useful information, but at least he knew she had been at a Junior League event on the night she was killed.

  The lifestyle section of the Jellyfish Beach Journal wouldn’t be printed until later in the week, but on the newspaper’s internal network he found the layout. The front page had photos from the Junior League’s recent Casino Night. The event’s purpose was to raise money for a local gambling addiction organization.

  The photos were all of pretty young women in cocktail dresses smiling at the camera like celebrities. Taylor Donovan had a wide, warm face like her mother’s with long, dark-blond hair. She looked earnest as well as fun-loving. There were no traces of psychological scars from substance abuse in her eyes. She posed with her arm around a petite young woman the caption identified as Cindi Stockton.

  As Matt expected, Cindi had a robust presence on social media. He sent her messages with his phone number through several sites asking if he could speak to her about Taylor. He was pleasantly surprised when she called him the next day.