Halfway Dead (4 page)

I couldn’t help it, I cried. I mean, hard. Gus comforted me with head butts and a deep rumbling purr, but it was some time before I could get it together enough to look at the picture again. I’ve gotten requests like this before; they’re totally selfless, and usually all I’m being asked to do is short-circuit time. Time heals, it’s true, but the endurance needed during healing can be too much, and that’s why people come to me. I carefully folded the envelope back together, keeping the collar out, and went to the kitchen. I had two hours before the sun rose, and I wasn’t going to waste it.

My cellar is dry, earthy, and dark. It’s perfect for growing mushrooms, casting spells, and breeding spiders of various types; Gus has refused to keep them under control, and I can’t bring chemicals into my workspace. For now, the arachnid population and I have a gentle sort of détente. For now.

The walls are stone, and I have small alcoves in which I place candles for light. There is no electricity down there. I keep as much of the modern world at bay as possible. I like the sense of closeness between me and the earth; it brings my spells into focus in ways that I cannot live without. I’m a better witch because of the silence, and I moved unerringly between the two heavy wooden tables where I keep all of the things I need to perfect my art.

Yes, I said perfect. I don’t practice anything. My Gran taught me that. I strive to be the best witch I can, pure of spirit and intention. In turn, I hope that my spells reflect that freedom from any toxic influences of the dark world. With that in mind, I turned the collar over in my hands, feeling the slight nicks and stretching that had occurred during the years of its use. It hadn’t been Cowboy’s last collar, only his first. In fact, I suspected that it was the only collar Cowboy had ever worn. He was a dog well loved, and his relationship would have surpassed the need of collars. Whoever his family was, they belonged to each other equally. The need for restraint faded with the last vestiges of puppyhood. As a dog, he was a friend. As a friend, I imagined that Cowboy was without peer. I let my hands move over the table, selecting items that mirrored such a spirit, and in an hour, I was ready to begin.

I wrapped the collar carefully around a clay bowl that had so many cracks it could not possibly hold a liquid. That was fine, because the only things going into the bowl were jasmine, hairs from Cowboy that had been stuck in the buckle of the collar, and three colored lumps of beeswax.

“
Te le cheile
,” I commanded, and the wax began to obediently soften before my eyes. My Gaelic sounded robust in the muffled dark of my cellar, and I watched as the orange, blue, and black waxes began to braid together sinuously. I placed three dog hairs into the swirling mass, letting the wax climb toward my fingers as it spun. Twirling about the hairs, the three colors wove together, forming a small, thin candle with a wick that was nearly invisible.

I watched soundlessly as the spell completed, the surface of the heated beeswax cooling visibly. I took an ordinary match, struck it to the bowl, and lit the hairs aflame. They vanished instantly, burning into the new candle with a small sizzle as the tiny spark penetrated downward into the pencil-thin column of wax. In a flash, the candle collapsed, sending small colorful waves against the lip of the bowl before drying into a charmless gray dust. I lifted the collar gently, feeling the spell alive under my fingers. With economical motions, I replaced the collar and picture into the envelope, smeared the dust across the exterior, and closed my eyes in a silent moment of thanks for the generosity granted me during the casting. I felt light, even giddy, knowing that the spell would work. A boy would move on, his grief consumed by the spirit of the very animal who he loved, and who loved him in return no matter how many states of matter might be between them. For difficult loss, the easiest spell to cast invoked a visitation. There’s a difference between the physical world and our dream state; in that same vein, there’s a clear division between a dream and a
visit
. A visitation has all of the hallmarks of a waking moment; you experience the person, event, or in this case, animal, with all five senses. They are for all intent as real as you are, lying in your bed. There is no fear from a visitation, only relief. Joy, too. There is some mild sadness, but that fades as it becomes clear that the departed is in no pain, merely separated by states of being, and that too will seem temporary, because it is.

As I ascended the stairs to put the envelope back on the porch, the sky was pinking in the east. A chickadee called from the roof as the town began to rise, announcing the morning, along with the low purr of warming car engines and the odd enthusiastic bark of a dog. The air was fresh and a bit cool, and, after a deep inhalation, I decided that today was going to be good.

“Look at this,” I said to Glynna, who was busily slicing lemons. She’s one of the servers, and an unrepentant owner of the world’s largest sweet tooth. At fifty-years-old, she was on her fourth or fifth set of teeth, we assumed, because she consumed exactly two food groups. Coffee with sugar, and sugar combined with other ingredients that we call baked goods. Aside from those two items or varieties thereof, I think she draws her sustenance from the air. She’s remarkably calm for someone who can drink two pots of coffee by herself during a shift. That much java would have me twitching like a tuning fork held by nervous weasel. I held out a slice of what we call
bug toast
, known to the rest of the universe as raisin bread. There were at least two dozen raisins crammed into this one humble slice, meaning that Louis had intentionally loaded that particular part of the loaf with extra goodies for Glynna. How he knew exactly when she would be slicing bug toast for early orders was beyond me; it was as if he was the Cassandra of dried fruit encased in bread, the difference being that we all believed he could see the future, since Glynna invariably was awarded the jackpot slices. With a cheery wave, she hailed Louis and began to methodically shove the first slice into her mouth, despite standing at the counter amongst her customers. When someone had the temerity to call for more coffee, she gave them a baleful stare over her own mug before shoving the second slice into her mouth with a defiant flick of the wrist. Her brown eyes settled into something like fevered joy as she washed down the treats with wincing sips of coffee, then turned to her tables while patting her mouth delicately with a pilfered napkin. I smirked and began to walk back into the kitchen when I heard a voice, low but distinct, call my name.

“Carlie, right?”

I fixed on the origin of the question, and found myself looking at a man comfortably placed at the end of the counter. How I missed him, I still don’t know. He was in his late twenties, blonde, ropy like a runner, and dressed in the functional manner of all outdoorsmen who are more interested in actually being outside than talking about it. His eyes were dark brown, he had a mild tan, and his hair was cut short in what seemed to be a practical and damn-the-consequences sort of manner. He smiled at me half-heartedly, until I raised a brow and acknowledged him. His big hands were curled around a coffee cup with a light touch, and he seemed to be taking my measure, but I wasn’t offended. The candor in his eyes was refreshing. I get stared at occasionally. This was being recognized. Big difference.

“Yes?” I let it hang. I wasn’t going to help him, plus, I was genuinely busy. It was 8:40 in the morning, and the diner was jumping.

“Sorry. I put the cart before the introduction. Major Pickford. I’m told that we’re neighbors,” he said while holding out a hand.

I shook it, then realized what he’d said. “You’re a major, or your name is Major?” I asked. He didn’t have that military vibe. He was squared away, but sort of loose, too. I liked it.

“No, not really. But yes, my name is Major. My mom was a music teacher.” He grinned, clearly having told the story before.

“You got off easy. She could have named you Bassoon or Clef.” I laughed, then snapped my fingers. “Tammy, right?” I asked, wondering how he’d survived the onslaught of the patented Cincotti charm. Looking him over, apparently fairly well. He didn’t seem bruised, and his smile revealed even, white teeth, all of which seemed to be in place.

“The very same.” He grimaced slightly, adding, “She’s rather a lot to take during one delivery.” If I’d been drinking, I would have done a spit take for the ages. As it was, I snorted in the least ladylike way possible. He knew Tammy, all right.

“Glad to see you weathered the storm. Carlie McEwan. I live two houses down, nice to have you on the street, but . . . I’ve got to get in the kitchen. Stop by sometime and I’ll walk you across the village to show you the rough parts. A new guy doesn’t want to end up on the wrong side of the tracks,” I said ominously.

“Accepted. I would hate to see a ‘hood in the Adirondacks. Bears going strapped? Perish the thought.” He toasted me with his cup, and I walked back to my lair, thinking that Tammy had excellent taste in men. At least this time.

***

Major was good as his word, without coming off like a stalker. He achieved this state of approachability by lingering outside the diner for the end of my shift. He wore a charming smile, held flowers in one hand, and was busily eating a peanut butter sandwich. I know this because the odor clung to him like a memory-go-round, and I found myself smiling back at him warmly.

“Hello, Carlie McEwan. Hope this doesn’t come off as desperate. It’s why I decided to eat while I waited, that way you don’t think I’m chatting you up just to get closer to the diner’s bakery case,” he said, extending the flowers.

I took them and realized that they were actually newly-sprouted trees with tiny leaves. His grin was between impudent and charming.

I regarded him with theatrical curiosity, then nodded as if he passed muster. “I accept your reason for eating a peanut butter sandwich. It’s certainly the most original approach I’ve seen.” I smiled then adopted a grave tone, adding, “I also accept these tiny sprouts, but with a caveat that I don’t really understand where you’re going with this.”

He wiped his mouth thoughtfully. “That’s a bit more complicated than just wanting to meet a beautiful woman. Can we sit?”

I waved at a strip of grass between two buildings. It looked out over the lake and was more park than property divider. When we’d assumed matching positions of comfort, legs extended toward the water, he pointed toward the northwest.

“You know the name Tyler Venture?”

Did I ever. “Of course,” I said with some disgust. “It took us a year to get rid of his so-called groupies and fans, if that’s what you want to call them.”

Tyler Venture was an internet sensation who parlayed his fame into the single most damaging event in our county’s history. Born Todd Smulowitz to an upper-class family in Long Island, he created an online persona who went on so-called “urban safaris,” inexplicably gaining him about a billion hits on YouTube. Todd was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. While the iron was hot, he convinced a cable network to sponsor
actual
safaris to places of wild danger, none of which he was qualified for. He had a minimal understanding of the land, little or no common sense, and the finest gear that money could buy. Fortunately, someone at his network thought a dry run for the show was a good idea; they arranged for him to “discover” an old cabin in the heart of the Adirondacks. I could feel my blood beginning to heat at the arrogance of that decision. The Adirondacks are 5.5
million
acres, much of it in the state it was in when Europeans first arrived here three centuries ago. You can take a wrong turn and walk for two weeks without hitting a major road; that assumes you don’t die from exposure first. Todd, excuse me,
Tyler,
had a hand-held camera, two days’ worth of food, and a vague idea of which way the sun rose. His entry point, to my disgust, was less than half a mile from my home, on a trail that was well-used and presumed safe. Or at least relatively safe.

In less than four hours, he was lost. We know this because the fool documented his stupidity for all the world to see, and it uploaded upon his discovery by some of the 2000 volunteers who pummeled the woods looking for him. You’d have thought that Amelia Earhart was in Halfway with the crush of press and young women swelling our population. I cooked more egg-white omelets in that week than I ever have in my entire life; to this day, I hear the words “gluten free” and want to punch the nearest city girl taking a selfie in front of my grill. Todd was located, feted, and then ridiculed. He eventually vanished from the media conscience, down the memory hole where every stupid mistake goes to die.

“I do. What does that clown have to do with your presence here?” I asked archly. Major’s status just dropped to that of a buck private by simple association.

He held up both hands in a defensive posture. “I think he’s a tool, don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Hmph. Alright. No guns, for now,” I allowed. I said nothing of spells.

Major scrolled through his phone and found a picture. It was one of the seemingly limitless selfies that Tyler the Wonderdork had uploaded to his website during the week following what he described as his heroic victory over nature. Never mind that it was a glorified walk in the woods with some minor discomfort, he milked the entire event for all it was worth. Until people turned on him, then he vanished again into a sea of nobodies, his status as a permanent joke cemented by his own vanity.

I looked at the picture. There was Tyler’s goofy face with some serious scruff going on. He couldn’t even really grow a proper beard. Tyler, a sort-of handsome guy, looked like he had a mild case of mange, and there were deep circles under his eyes that bespoke some hard nights. I felt a twinge of regret at my disdain for him, then pushed that back down. He deserved it, the dumbass, and after all, he
had
survived. The picture seemed unremarkable. He stood in the shadow of a modest stone hillside that opened to one of thousands of ravines that carved the park. It was lush and green. Overhead, giant trees towered upward and cast dappled shadows across his face. It must have been late afternoon when he took the snap. The undergrowth covered something that might have been a collapsed rock pile; the boulders receded into the brush until they were lost.

“I give up. It looks like Tyler in the woods. I’ve seen hundreds of these, he’s in love with his own face.” My disgust was apparent, because Major adjusted the screen to focus on the trees behind Tyler, leaving the top of his head visible in the lower left corner.

“Take a look at these trees here,” he instructed, pointing at a row of massive, straight trunks that rose up out of the camera’s field of vision. There were several of them growing together, but distinctly apart. They were different than everything else in the picture, and their bark seemed like it was incredibly old. Even from the limits of Tyler’s cell phone camera, I got the impression of majesty.

Something tickled at the limits of my imagination, and I turned to regard Major with a critical eye, realizing I didn’t know anything about this man who was asking me some rather unusual questions. I stared hard for a second, then asked, “What do you do for a living?” I folded my hands and sat back to wait. Being quiet is often far better than asking questions. As a witch, I know that the silence is filled with secrets.

He ran one hand over his short blonde hair, but it was nerves rather than a decision to lie. “I’m an investigator, of sorts.”

That
got my attention. There was no crime associated with Tyler’s stupidity in the woods, so that meant something different. Despite living in the open, I like my privacy. I watched him warily, and wondered if he knew about my talents. I raised my shoulders in a small shrug, indicating that he should continue. So far, I didn’t trust Major, even if the sun made his eyes seem like friendly little jewels made just for me. I looked over his expensive, unworn boots, and his general tidiness. I like a well-groomed man, but he seemed a little too much of a city boy for my tastes. During my ruminations, he watched me for a moment.

He took the hint. “How about if I start by telling you what I’m looking for?”

I thought it over, then shook my head. I already knew it had something to do with that picture; a simple divination could tell me much more than he realized. “Nope. What
exactly
is your job?”

He looked at the set of my lips and gave up. “Okay, I actually am an investigator, just not someone who looks for criminals. I look for lost things. Things that haven’t been found, when they
need
to be found.”

So, he was a diviner, too. He just used non-magical means. “Okay, so far, I’m not freaked out. Now, tell me who you work for.”

“Ahh. That’s the least interesting part of my story. I work for a soul-sucking gigantic corporation who makes lots of different things, but they have a particular interest in food technology, among other things,” he said.

I broke in, holding one chipped nail—I really needed a fresh coat of polish—up dramatically, or at least with as much drama as I could muster while sitting down. To really create a scene, you need to be standing, so you can point skyward and shout
eureka
or something. I was too comfortable to do that, so I went with a modest display and a mild, “Hah! Stop right there. What
other things
does this mysterious corporation have interests in?” To me, the devil is always in the details. What’s unsaid would no doubt be more interesting than what Major told me upfront, and I didn’t want this going any farther without the whole story.