Sweet Dreams, Irene (7 page)

E
VEN PRESS CREDENTIALS
couldn’t get us very close to the center of activity down at the harbor. We caught up to Mark Baker. He told us that Frank and Pete had come down to the waterfront that morning to question someone who was seen in the park about the time the Gillespie girl had disappeared—a man by the name of Jerry Tanner.

A bystander had seen a green van leaving the parking lot shortly before the Gillespies started looking for their daughter; the witness hadn’t been able to give a plate number. There had been a lot of people in the park that day, and tracking down those who had been near the site of the birthday party wasn’t easy. But a neighbor of Tanner’s had seen him there, and she knew he drove a green van. She had read about the van in the paper and called the police that morning. Frank and Pete had learned that he worked in a warehouse for an export company down in the harbor, a few blocks from where the body was discovered. They came down to where he worked to question him.

Apparently, Tanner saw them enter the building, and had taken out a gun. The other workers had fled, but he managed to pin down Frank and Pete in the building with him. Gunshots had been heard, but no one knew more than that.

Behind a barricade, Captain Bredloe was conferring with Lieutenant Carlson and the commander of the SWAT team, whose members were moving into position on surrounding buildings, some moving closer to the warehouse itself. I looked down and realized that my fists were clenched so tight my nails were stabbing into my palms.

As we stood there, more shots rang out, and I felt my knees buckle as a sickening sense of fear ran through me. John grabbed on to me. Not long after, a man ran out of the building, motioning to Bredloe. It was Pete Baird. I saw him gesturing and speaking angrily with Carlson. This was interrupted by a single gunshot. The whole scene froze in place. Long moments later, the front door opened and I heard the click of readied weapons.

“Hold your fire!” Bredloe yelled.

Frank slowly walked out of the building.

Suddenly, there was a rush of people in uniform toward Frank and into the warehouse. Pete threw an arm around him, and I saw Frank give him a bewildered look.

I sagged against John, who held on to me. I wanted to run over to Frank, but there was no way in hell to get over to where he was. The SWAT team was moving back out of position. A public relations officer made his way over to the place where we were penned up with the rest of the press.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “right now it appears that the suspect, Mr. Jerry Tanner, has taken his own life. As soon as we have more, I’ll let you know.”

I looked back over to see Frank slowly but deliberately walking off from an angry Carlson; Pete followed Frank. I couldn’t make out any of what was being said, just Bredloe shouting Frank’s last name. Frank turned, and said something back, then he and Pete drove off.

John talked to Baker for a minute and then guided me back to his car.

“He’s all right, Irene,” he said.

But something in Frank’s manner as he walked out of that building, the arguing with Bredloe, the way he walked to the car, all said John was wrong. Carlson was a jerk, but Frank always got along very well with Bredloe; it wasn’t like him to just ignore the man. That and, well, he just seemed dejected. Like he didn’t care about anything. I remembered the look on his face when Pete had been so happy to see him come out of the building alive—as if he didn’t know what the big deal was.

Something was really wrong.

John was quiet for a while, then he started talking to me about the D.A.’s campaign. I tried to focus on his questions, but I know I answered them woodenly.

As we pulled into the parking lot, he turned to me and said, “Snap out of it. Frank’s okay, it was just a nasty scare. You’ll be laughing about it over dinner tonight.”

There was no way to tell John about the gulf of silence that lay between Frank and me, to say that no dinner or laughter was on the agenda for a while. But I saw John’s efforts to comfort me; in fact, in the last hour or two he had been more gentle with me than I had ever seen him be with anyone. “Thanks,” I said.

He noticed my mood though, and studied me for a moment.

“What are you working on this afternoon?” he asked.

“Following up on the Jacob Henderson story.”

“Hmm. I guess you better stick with that. But unless you’ve got interviews lined up tomorrow morning, why don’t you catch up on your sleep, come in a little later. Hard to keep your perspective when you’re exhausted.”

That really surprised me. “Maybe I will. You’re right, I’m too tired to think straight.”

“Goddamn right I’m right. Now get upstairs before you besmirch my reputation as an asshole.”

I smiled at this and said, “You overestimate my abilities, John.”

I
STOPPED BY
the lobby desk and thanked Geoff, reassuring him that Frank had survived. He smiled and said, “I’m so happy for you, Miss Kelly.” I went upstairs and made some phone calls, getting reactions to the Montgomery flyer. I had hoped there might be a message from Jacob or Sammy. No luck. I forced myself to think about work, and not what had gone on at the harbor.

I suddenly felt exhausted, and knew it was a combination of delayed shock over the events of the afternoon and my struggle to overcome my reluctance to write up a story on the Montgomery accusations. In the latter case, I just didn’t feel as if I had all the facts. I wondered if there was any other way to get in touch with these local witches.

Starting on the easy route, I pulled out a phone book and then thumbed through the yellow pages. The local phone company advertised them as the “Everything Pages,” and I had to smile to myself at the notion of finding something under “covens,” “hexes,” or “spells.” There wasn’t anything listed under witchcraft, but I did find a heading for “Occult Supplies.” I noticed with some amusement that it fell just below “Nuts—Edible.”

Right here in Las Piernas, there was a shop called Rhiannon, named after a magical woman in Celtic lore, if I remembered my folktales. It offered “books, incense, oils, bulk herbs, athalmes, and crystal balls.” I had to look up “athalmes”—witchcraft’s ritual knives.

From the address in the phone book, I saw that the shop wasn’t too far from the office—a few miles down Broadway, near the college. It was a district full of cafes that stayed open late, small bookshops, and artists’ studios. A little rundown, but cherished by its residents. It was here that those who lived alternative lifestyles of one kind or another could fairly well imagine that the world had grown accustomed to them. I wondered how long it would be before someone started buying it all up and converting it into a fashionable upscale hot spot.

Never, I hoped.

Any day now, I knew.

I had started clearing off my desk, getting ready to drive over to Rhiannon, when my phone rang.

“Kelly,” I answered.

“Hi, it’s Jacob. I was wondering if you know where Sammy is.”

“No, I’m sorry. She left a message for me last night, but I wasn’t home. She sounded scared and she said she was running away from the shelter. I was hoping you might know where she is.”

“No.” Even over the phone, I could feel the weight of the worry in that one word.

“Any ideas on where she might go?”

“I’ve been looking for her, but she’s not in any of her usual hideouts. I left school early today. I looked all over. It scares me—I can usually find her.”

“I guess you know the flyer is out.”

“Yeah. My dad is going to kill me.”

“You haven’t talked to him?”

“Not yet.”

“Jacob, I think your dad will believe you. He’s probably under a lot of pressure right now, so don’t judge him by his first reaction, okay?”

“I took your advice about changing my look. My mom about died. She said she hasn’t seen me wearing this many colors at one time in years. It’s an exaggeration. I’m just wearing blue jeans and a white shirt. At least she was happy with me this morning. By now they probably both hate me.”

“I doubt it. They’re probably angrier with Montgomery. Your dad won’t like having his opponent pick on his family. In the meantime, I’m going to see if I can hunt down some other people from the coven. But I’m getting near deadline, so I’d better run. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I gave him my home number and told him to call me if he needed someone to talk to later. It wasn’t going to be easy for him to face his family. I felt my resentment for this kind of campaign tactic rising.

For a moment or two, I sat there reminding myself that I had to stay more neutral. I left the office.

Something within me made me sit in my car for a while before I went into Rhiannon. Was it some childhood fear of witches? Or did my Catholic upbringing rebel at the thought of an encounter with this other belief system? No, I thought, I didn’t feel that uneasiness about Islam or Judaism or Taoism. This was something different.

If I hadn’t been up against a deadline, I might have driven off. Instead, I forced myself to get out of the car. The exterior of the store was painted black, which was no real surprise. In the display window were books, tarot cards, candles, and various other objects, some of which I didn’t recognize. Crystals—raw quartz and amethyst—were suspended in the window.

“Double, double, boil and trouble,” I said to myself, and pushed the door open.

T
HE FIRST THING
I noticed was an overpowering sweet fragrance; some kind of spice or incense. It made me think of high school, when many of my classmates and I burned patchouli or sandalwood incense in our bedrooms, driving our parents crazy. After some time away from the smell of incense, I could see why it took a little getting used to.

Some sort of underwater bell-and-flute soundtrack was playing in the background. I had to admit it was soothing, but smiled remembering a musician friend of mine who once pooh-poohed all “new-age” music as “hippie noodling.”

Apparently a new shipment of herbs had just arrived. Boxes were piled in stacks here and there in the aisles. The walls were filled with shelves, the shelves filled with jars, the jars filled with all manner of things. I didn’t look around for any fillet of fenny snake; it was clear that all the potions and remedies were from the plant kingdom or the earth itself. Through the middle of the store there was a sort of self-service set of small bins, each holding stones or crystals that were carefully labeled for effect: this one for inner peace, this one for easing menstrual cramps, this for sleeping better at night. A large black cat with bright yellow eyes stared at me from the counter where the cash register was, as if guarding against shoplifting. For an amused moment, I wondered if it was going to transform itself into human form.

“Hecate, it’s not polite to stare.” The voice came from a back room, and I realized that someone had watched me enter from behind a thin curtain. Soon a large woman dressed in a flamboyant purple gown came out to greet me with a warm smile. If this was a witch, I had been needlessly frightened as a child. “Hello,” she said. “Your first time here, isn’t it? Don’t tell me, don’t tell me …”

I had no idea what it was I wasn’t supposed to tell, so I obeyed.

“Capricorn!”

“Ah, no. I’m a—”

“Don’t tell me, don’t tell me!” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Aries!”

She was wrong again, but rather than standing there watching my deadline time get whittled down by the zodiac, I said, “Incredible! How could you know?”

She smiled a little smile of success and shrugged modestly.

“Your ad said you have books,” I said, knowing I couldn’t just ask for a directory of local covens.

“Yes, this way, this way. Anything in particular?”

“Well, a friend of mine is getting involved in learning more about the ancient ways,” I said, getting this last phrase off the spine of a book in the “A” section. “She tells me there is a big difference between witchcraft and Satanism. Is that true?”

“Oh, yes! There most certainly is. Witchcraft is known by many different names in many countries, and has its own varied forms, but it is essentially a spirituality that respects the earth and her creatures. It is not destructive; it is in harmony with the natural world. Satanism is quite different. First of all, to worship a devil, you have to believe in devils. Satanism is a perversion of Christianity, not the paganism of your early ancestors.”

“Yes, but aren’t there people who combine the two?”

She sighed. “You can find people who will do anything, I suppose. There are always going to be people who use whatever power they have of whatever kind it may be to do evil. But there is no evil incarnate or devil in witchcraft. I would think of people who tried to combine them as Satanists trying to abuse witchcraft in the same way they abuse Christianity. I would not call such a person a witch.”

I considered what she had told me, and decided to be straightforward with her. She was watching me, and maybe because of the atmosphere or my own uneasiness, I felt like I wouldn’t get away with a lie. The zodiac business was bad enough.

“Have you seen this?” I handed her the Montgomery flyer.

She groaned. “Sweet Goddess, I’m going to have the Nazarenes picketing me again.”

“My name is Irene Kelly. I’m a reporter for the
Express,
“I said, and had her full attention. I pulled out a business card.

“Zoe Freespirit,” she said.

“I’m trying to manage some balanced coverage over all of this—and believe me, it’s hard. Do you recognize any of the people in this coven? I think most are kids. I need to talk to them, if at all possible.”

She glanced at the photo. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable just giving out names even if I knew them. If any of these people come in here, maybe I could have one get in touch with you—if he or she wants to.”

I must have looked defeated, because she said, “I’m sorry.”

“Could you at least tell me if you’ve seen the young man whose name is already printed on the flyer? Has he come in here?”

She studied the photo now, and then began laughing. It was a rich, rolling laugh. “I don’t believe it! Yes, he’s been in here. Trying to discourage business.”

“Was it in connection with the young girl next to him—Sammy? I’ve met both of them.”

“Yes, yes. She was in here one day a week or two ago, with some other young people. Jacob came in and threw a fit. Tried to get her to leave with him. She wouldn’t, and he started telling her off. Finally, I had to ask
him
to leave. Little snot waited right outside the door. Sammy saw him out there and I think she took pity on him—left her friends and went outside with him.”

“You’re certain he’s the one?”

“Believe me, not a doubt in my mind. This kid is no witch. And the kids in this photo are not Satanists. Whoever made up this flyer just doesn’t know what he or she is talking about.”

I looked at my watch. “Look, I’ve got to run if I’m going to make my deadline. But I appreciate your help. Maybe I’ll come back some time and really do some shopping.”

“You’re welcome any time—but you’re not an Aries, are you? You’re a Leo.”

I blushed and nodded. I left wondering if she had just made a lucky guess. I no more believed in astrology than the man in the moon. But there was still something unnerving about it all.

M
Y SPEED
on the computer keyboard that day nearly matched Mark Baker’s. I put together as fair a piece as I could, still raising as many questions about the allegations as possible, and quoting Jacob, Sammy, and Zoe. I wondered to myself if the readers would have any faith in an assertion made by someone named Zoe Freespirit, owner of an occult supply shop.

With the story finished and at the mercy of the editors, I cleared off my desk, then found Stacee and went over a couple of things with her. I was going to let her try to cover some of the political events I knew I wouldn’t make it to—there was just too much to follow up on at this stage.

I said good-bye to Lydia, who was on her way to dinner with Guy St. Germain, a former hockey player who had settled in Las Piernas. They had kept steady company since the summer. I bit back a moment’s envy of them. I walked down to my car. The sense of depression I had fought against all day started to press in on me again. By the time I got home, I felt tired and ill at ease. I hadn’t spent very many nights alone in my house since Frank and I got together. He knew my fears and helped me cope with them, while still letting me work out for myself how I was going to overcome them.

Cody’s warm greeting helped lighten my spirits a little, and I decided that while sleep was needed, a short run would help my mood. It would be dark soon, so I hurried and changed into my running clothes.

I did some stretching and headed out for a tour of the winding streets of my neighborhood. The air was cool and autumn leaves crackled under my feet. With each step, I felt better. By the time I got back home, dusk was turning to darkness. I was on a much more even keel. I opened a can of cat food for Cody and went in and took a shower. I went back to the kitchen and made a bowl of soup from a can. I like making my own soup from scratch, but soup from a can is sometimes just what the doctor ordered. This was one of those times. I indulged myself with lots of crackers, some of which I floated in the bowl, thinking that I was glad Frank wasn’t there to see me eating like a kid.

The phone rang, and when I went to answer it, I noticed the answering machine light flashing, indicating a message. I’d listen to it after the call.

It was Jacob.

“I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. My dad is mad, but I think he believes me. I couldn’t stand it if he thought I was hanging out with a bunch of Satanists or something. He’s worried about the election—oh, I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”

“That much I would have guessed, Jacob. By the way, I talked to the woman who runs Rhiannon today.”

“Oh.”

“Cheer up—she supports your story, even said that you’re not in the coven and that she remembers tossing you out of the store when you tried to pull Sammy out of there. It should help.”

“If people believe her.”

I decided a change of subject was in order. “How’s the journalism class?”

“Oh man, I love it! I mean, we don’t do really exciting things like you—you know, it’s just school stuff—but it’s fun. I’ll get my first story in Monday’s school paper! I saw the proof copy. I wrote about this school play; not a review or anything, kind of an announcement—you know, where to buy tickets, that kind of stuff. But it was so cool to see my name on the byline and all.”

I smiled, remembering my first byline—on a story about a game our high school girl’s volleyball team had won. “It’s quite a thrill, isn’t it? When the paper comes out, save a copy for me. And don’t forget to start a string book.”

“A what?”

“A collection of all your published stories. Later on, you use it to show someone samples of your writing—an editor, or someone hiring you for another publication.”

“Okay, I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll be showing it to you someday.”

I laughed. “For my interest—don’t ever look for me to be an editor. I wouldn’t want the headache. I like what I’m doing now.”

We talked for a few minutes more, and when I hung up, I felt good. There was something contagious in his enthusiasm. Given the way the rest of the day had gone, it’s a wonder I didn’t see the rollercoaster heading down.

I pressed the button on the answering machine to hear the message. It was Sammy, her voice sounding small and scared in the warmth of my kitchen. She had called while I was in the shower.

“Miss Kelly? Are you there? It’s Sammy. I’m leaving Las Piernas. Tell Jacob for me, okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t help him. I can’t stay here. I’ve got to go. Bye.”

Frustrated that I had missed a second call from her, I pushed the play button and listened to the message again. I couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Something in her voice said the words not spoken: Help me. I’m in danger.

I paced around, unable to think of what I could do to help her. I would just have to pray that I was near a phone the next time she tried to call. It was useless to try to find her.

Her parents didn’t seem to care what became of her, and I thought of how she must be aware of that. The people most children would turn to first had rejected her, thrown her out of the house. Sammy might have been a very difficult child to deal with, but could she have been that hard to live with? I thought of her out on the streets somewhere, possibly turning to the wrong people for comfort and aid.

It was only seven o’clock, but I was beat. John’s suggestion about catching up on my sleep was looking better and better. I crawled into my bed, which seemed far too empty, even with Cody beside me. I both missed Frank and worried about him, but didn’t know what I could do to remedy either feeling. When I wasn’t thinking about him, I was feeling uneasy about being in the house alone or anxious about Sammy. I fell asleep despite my apprehensions.

I dreamt that Sammy was standing on the edge of a ravine. I was on the opposite side, telling her to stay there, that someone would be there soon to rescue her. It wasn’t clear in the dream what she needed rescuing from. But instead of waiting, she reached out to me, and fell. The ravine turned into a bottomless version of the Grand Canyon, and suddenly I was falling down with her, a few feet away from her. As could only happen in a dream, she was talking to me as we fell. “You didn’t catch me,” she said.

I woke up, scared half out of my wits. It took me a moment to realize the phone was ringing. I reached for it clumsily and answered, hoping it was Sammy.

“I woke you up.” It was Frank.

“Thank God you did. I was having a nightmare.”

Silence. I felt a little irritation. Nothing like calling someone up at—I looked at the clock—eleven o’clock at night and then not saying a word. This passed quickly, though. I was remembering what it felt like to hear those gunshots down at the harbor.

“Do you want me to come over?” he finally asked.

“Yes, but only if you want to.”

“I’ll be there in a little while.”

I know, I know, a stronger person would have told him where to get off. Somehow, when it came to Frank, I wasn’t sure I was above begging.

T
RUE TO HIS WORD
, he arrived on my doorstep not long after. I opened the door to his soft knocking. He looked miserable. He stepped inside, and we held one another in a long hug. I didn’t mind that his hands and clothes were cold with the chill of the night air, that his shoulder holster was jabbing me from under his suit, that he was silent. I was too damn glad he had decided to be with me, too worried over what I had seen in his eyes.

He kissed me.

Cody made his presence felt: he greeted Frank by biting him on the ankle. I wanted to reach down and rid him of his pelt, but Frank picked the rascal up and held him in his arms. “Hello, Cody.”

Cody purred loudly. My sentiments exactly.

“Hungry?” I asked.

Frank shook his head. “Tired.”

He put Cody back down in ankle range and took my hand. I led him back to the bedroom, turning out lights on the way. I took off my robe and got back under the covers. I watched him undress. An incredible sight. If he had known what I was thinking, it might have made him blush.

He stood looking at me for a moment, then crawled in next to me. I could tell he was still feeling—what was it? Hurt? Sad? I didn’t know. But he seemed a little less miserable than he had earlier. He kissed me again. I pulled him close, savoring his touch.