In the Air Tonight (31 page)

“You didn’t,” Raye agreed.

“Then how—” He pursed his lips before the stupid question could escape. If she could look up his cases, she could certainly discover the name of his dead child.

“Why?” he whispered, horrified when his voice broke. He swallowed the tears—once, twice, again.

“She’s—”

“No!” He leaped to his feet. Several of the bystanders frowned in his direction. He lowered his voice. “You will not tell me she’s here.”

A memory of himself at her father’s place surfaced. He’d caught the scent of his daughter—sunshine, cinnamon, and rain. Had she been there too?

He shook his head—hard. What was wrong with him? His daughter wasn’t here. She hadn’t been there. She was gone. Forever.

Because of him.

He didn’t remember moving, but the next thing he knew he was climbing into his rental car and driving off very fast. He didn’t plan to stop until he reached the airport. Except …

Someone was trying to kill Raye. Was it because she’d done the same thing to them that she’d done to him? Had she said she could see departed loved ones, talk with them, impart a message from beyond? He supposed it wasn’t easy to live on a teacher’s salary, even here. Though …

If she’d been taking money for ghost whispering, wouldn’t he have heard about it by now? That was the kind of thing small towns talked about.

Bobby smacked himself in the forehead. It didn’t help. He still wanted to believe anything but what he’d heard.

However, Raye’s claim might explain the question he hadn’t before been able to figure out an answer to. Why did the
Venatores Mali
want Raye dead? Perhaps someone thought that seeing ghosts was a little witchy. He certainly did.

Just that morning Bobby had decided he loved her. He’d been thinking about staying here—with her, for her—just so he wouldn’t have to leave and never see her again.

Now all he wanted was to leave and never see her again.

Bobby pulled to the side of the road. He couldn’t go. Raye might be bad, sad, evil, crazy—even all four—but he’d promised to protect her, and if he didn’t what did that make him?

At least three out of that same four.

He had to make sure someone was watching over her if he wasn’t. No matter what she’d said, done, he didn’t want her dead. He dialed Chief Johnson.

“I have to leave,” he said in lieu of hello.

“Doucet?” Johnson asked. Bobby heard him shifting, moving, probably looking around. “Where are you?”

“On my way to the airport.”

“What happened?”

He wasn’t touching that question. “Make sure Raye is protected. I’ll call you.” He hung up before the chief could ask anything else.

He made it another mile or two before he stopped again. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and tried to calm his heart, his breathing, his mind. It wasn’t easy.

No one spoke to him about Genevieve. No one. As a result he hadn’t heard her name in so long the first mention of it nearly broke him.

Her death had driven him insane with grief. To be fair, it had had the same effect on Audrey. He didn’t know if her overdose was accidental—the result of her overmedicating her pain—or on purpose for the same reason. When her supposedly psychic pal Marlene had offered to use her “gift” to contact his child—for a price—he’d agreed. Certainly he’d been self-medicated at the time—whiskey not coke—but that didn’t excuse the second or third time. And definitely not the fourth.

When Marlene had disappeared with most of his savings, he had no one to blame but himself. But he didn’t have to like it. And he didn’t have to let anyone ever make a fool of him again.

Nevertheless, he’d traveled to New Bergin because what he’d thought was a serial killer had come to the small Wisconsin town. Now he knew that the killer was, in fact, killers, and they weren’t going to stop. No matter how much he might want to leave, he couldn’t. He wasn’t that guy.

His phone vibrated. As it was most likely Johnson calling him back, and Bobby would rather speak to the man in person, he nearly ignored it. Could be Raye, though he doubted it. His reaction had shocked her. Though what she’d expected, he wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, old habits died hard, and he couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the caller ID.

Franklin.

“Where are you?” the FBI agent asked.

“Where are you?”

“I was at the crime scene.”

“Which crime scene?”

“J.J. Stafford’s. Why’d you leave?”

Bobby resisted the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’m not there anymore. I need you to meet me in the woods, about half a mile off Route Seventy-three. Walk in from the mile eight marker sign.”

“It’s getting dark.”

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not a trained observer,” Franklin said. “Just get here. Cassandra heard of a place that’s perfect for the kind of things that have been going on.”

“Who’s Cassandra?”

“Voodoo priestess.”

Bobby was tempted to laugh, but he had a feeling the FBI agent wasn’t joking. Did they ever?

Franklin let out an exasperated huff. “I said I was bringing a witch expert, who better than a voodoo priestess?”

What was Bobby supposed to say to that? Luckily Franklin didn’t wait for an answer.

“I’m surprised you don’t know her. She runs a voodoo shop in New Orleans.”

“I don’t go to voodoo shops.” Ever. Despite his many greats-removed grandmother—or maybe because of her—voodoo gave him the heebie-jeebies.

“She knows your partner.”

“Sullivan?”

“You got more than one?”

“No.” Bobby found it odd that Franklin’s witch expert was from his own hometown. Then again, voodoo capital of the world. But was a priestess a witch? Did one have to be a witch to be an expert on them?

Bobby groaned. His mind hurt.

“You okay?” Franklin asked.

“Not really.”

“Finding a kid is always tough. I’m sorry about that.”

“Me too.” Bobby pulled onto the road and headed for mile marker 8. He was already on Route 73. There weren’t exactly a lot of roads into or out of New Bergin. “What’s so special about this place anyway?”

“According to what Cassandra heard through the spooky grapevine, there’s a natural sacrificial altar.”

Bobby leaned forward, his eyes straining to distinguish the numbers on the markers. The sun had fallen beyond the tree line, casting wavering shadows everywhere. He hated it.

“What in hell is a natural sacrificial altar?”

“A rock, a burial mound, something raised in a clearing that’s used for sacrifices.”

“You think it’s where the coven meets?”

Silence settled over the line for a minute. “There’s a coven?”

“Apparently, though I’ve never met any witches here that aren’t dead. Why do you want to look at this altar?”

“You said your first victim wasn’t killed where you found her.”

“You think she was killed there?”

“Considering we’ve got witches and witch hunters, as well as an increasing number of dead people, I think we should look.”

Unfortunately … so did Bobby.

A woman spoke, her voice muffled, then Franklin cursed and his voice lowered. “Someone’s coming. A lot of someones. Get here, but quietly.” The line went dead.

Bobby reached the marker. A black sedan sat right next to it. The FBI had never been very invisible. He didn’t think they tried to be. Although if they did they were really bad at it.

Dusk was nearly gone and true night was falling. The trees whispered. Bobby wanted to bring his flashlight—and several very large friends—but he’d been told to come quietly. He didn’t want to come at all.

Before he’d traveled the prescribed half mile, Bobby heard voices, saw the flicker of flames. He walked more slowly, more carefully, afraid he’d step on a stick and alert everyone to his approach.

As if his mind had conjured it—nice choice of words—a stick cracked. He froze, waiting for figures to fly from the darkness like the monkeys from the witch’s castle.

He shuddered. Oz had always freaked him out.

Someone clapped a hand over his mouth, and his hand went to his gun. It was gone.

“Calm down.” Even at a whisper, he recognized the voice as Franklin’s.

The man released him, and Bobby spun. There was just enough light left for him to see that the agent was older than Bobby had imagined. Or maybe it was just the sheen of silver that glinted in his dark hair, or the lines around his eyes, which could be the result of too much sun, or too much death. Either one aged a man.

Franklin handed Bobby his gun. “I counted about ten or so.”

“You want me to help you arrest them?”

“They haven’t done anything yet.”

“They will.” A woman swam out of the gloom.

“Cassandra?” he asked.

Despite talking just above a whisper, his voice must have revealed his skepticism. She smiled. “I know. I’m the least likely candidate for a voodoo priestess in the world.”

She was tiny, with a pixie haircut and big blue eyes. If it hadn’t been for the white streak at her temple, she wouldn’t have appeared a day over twenty.

“She consults with the FBI on certain paranormal occurrences,” Franklin said.

“Like when people think they’re witches?”

Cassandra cast Franklin a glance. He shrugged. “Skeptic.”

“Don’t tell me you believe this crap?” Bobby asked.

“Once you’ve seen enough crap, you start to believe.” Bobby opened his mouth, but Franklin shook his head. “Later.” He beckoned Bobby to follow as Cassandra led them closer to the leaping flames.

In the center of a clearing a bonfire blazed in front of a tall, flat stone. Nearly a dozen people—men, women, young, old—milled about chatting as if it were a social gathering. If they weren’t all naked, it might have been.

“Skyclad,” Cassandra whispered. “Some covens prefer it when they do rituals.”

Bobby wondered where they’d left their clothes, then caught a glimpse of a decrepit cabin at the edge of the trees, which answered that question as well as where the maniac, and any other strangers in town, had most likely been staying.

“Not a coven.” Franklin lowered the smallest set of binoculars that Bobby had ever seen and handed them over. “Check out their fingers.”

Bobby wasn’t sure what fingers had to do with anything until he peered through the spyglass. Every person in the clearing wore the snarling-wolf ring of the
Venatores Mali.

“They aren’t witches,” Franklin said. “They hate witches.”

“Doesn’t mean they aren’t about to perform a ritual,” Cassandra observed.

“Hypocritical much?”

“When dealing with dark magic and crazy people, you’d be surprised.”

“I doubt it.”

Bobby used the binoculars—which had the best night vision adjustment he’d ever seen—to get a better look at the rock altar. Streaks of brownish-red marred the top and the sides. If it hadn’t been stained by blood, it was doing a pretty good imitation.

“I think you found your crime scene,” Franklin said.

“Or
a
crime scene.” If that wasn’t Anne McKenna’s blood it belonged to someone else.

Everyone in the clearing turned to face the path on the far side. Bobby lifted the binoculars again, making sure to keep the eyepieces high enough to avoid another unappealing view of several backsides that should not be skyclad. A new arrival appeared at the edge of the clearing, and Bobby nearly dropped the spyglass.

What was Pretty Boy Brad doing here?

The kid had seemed so innocent—he’d thrown up at the sight of Mrs. Noita—that Bobby hadn’t suspected him of much beyond overeagerness and stupidity. But his appearance wherever the action was, as well as his sudden reconnection with Raye’s best friend, had become worrisome.

Bobby must have made a forward movement because Franklin set a hand on his arm just as a woman appeared. She wore a brilliant scarlet robe that she dropped from her shoulders and became skyclad too. Tall as Brad—maybe six feet—her dark hair brushed the tops of her thighs. Bobby doubted there were two women of that height, with hair that long, running around a town of this size. She had to be the same culprit who’d broken into Larsen’s Bed-and-Breakfast, and most likely the one who had killed Mrs. Noita.

Everyone went to their knees and bowed their heads. “Mistress.” The word swirled around the clearing in a dozen different voices.

The woman walked to the altar. “Those of you here tonight have done what was necessary. You have killed the witches. Spilling their blood, marking them as evil.”

She lifted her hands toward the sky. One sported the snarling-wolf ring; the other clasped a squiggly knife. Even before he caught sight of the pentacle around her neck, he knew it was the knife they’d been looking for. If the woman hadn’t killed Mrs. Noita, as well as her niece, then taken their ritual instruments, someone here had.

“You have burned them as they should be burned,” she continued. “Each death is an offering to the one we adore. The more you burn, the higher you rise.”

The others came to their feet, faces upturned to the night. Bobby got a Nazi Germany vibe. Switch out the wolf for a swastika, a tall woman for a psycho little man, and it could be 1939. He wiped a shaking hand over his sweaty face.

“If one day you kill more than I have, you could take my place as our leader. Remember that. Strive for it.”

“Freaks,” Cassandra muttered.

“Tonight we will meet our maker.”

“Works for me.” Bobby set his hand on his gun.

“We will raise Roland McHugh to life everlasting, and he will show us the way.”

His fingers stilled. “They think they’re raising a dead guy?”

Cassandra and Franklin exchanged glances.

“Wait,” Bobby murmured. “Do
you
think they’re raising a dead guy?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Cassandra said.

“Where?”

“Never mind that,” Franklin whispered. “Our orders are to find out what they’re up to and how. So, for right now, let’s just watch and learn.”

“The FBI wants to know how a group of serial killers are planning to raise a dead serial killer?”

Franklin shrugged. “I do what I’m told.”