The Witch of Agnesi (7 page)

Where the hell was everyone?

In answer to her unspoken question, she heard laughter coming from the family room she’d passed through earlier. Wearing an upside-down winged-back wicker chair like a gigantic hat, Winston Bellows stag-gered into the room, narrowly avoiding tripping over the cauldron.

He plopped the chair down in front of her. Red-faced, he smiled and patted the seat. “For you, my lady. Rhee sent everyone else home. It’s now just her, Ali, and myself.” He offered his hand.

“Thank you, sir.” She took his hand and hobbled into the chair.

Ali entered next carrying a plush ottoman. “You need to elevate that ankle.”

Even though Ali lifted the leg gently, Bonnie had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Ali set the leg gingerly onto the ottoman.

“Don’t get too comfortable.” A cigarette dangling from her mouth, Rhiannon brought in a fresh ice-pack. Without a by-your-leave, she lifted the ankle and wrapped the ice-pack around it.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Rhiannon, that hurts.” Bonnie glared at Rhiannon. “If you drop that foot, I’ll have to kill you in front of your daughter.”

“Stop whining, I’m not going to drop your foot. I’m the Earth Mother. Nurturing is in my blood.” She set foot and ice-pack on the ottoman then stepped back, drew heavily on her cigarette, and admired her handi-work. “Leave the ice on there for twenty minutes.”

“I know about injuries, you harpy.” Bonnie leaned forward and adjusted the pack. “Ali, your mother’s a sadist.”

Ali put her arm around Rhiannon. “You’re telling me? I have to live with her.”

The cold made the ankle throb even worse, but Bonnie forced herself to lean back in the chair and relax. The light from the multitude of candles helped.

“Thank you, Rhiannon.”

Rhiannon winked and took another pull on her cig-arette. “Sure thing, couldn’t let Ali’s favorite teacher suffer. Not on Beltane.”

Bonnie nodded to the altar. “This Beltane’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

Ali spread her purple robe and sat at Bonnie’s feet. “One of the major Sabbats. And my favorite. Next year, I’ll be Earth Mother.”

“Does that include the naked bit?”

“Of course.”

Keep your mouth shut, Bonnie.
“That’s nice, dear.”

Winston had left and now returned slurping a lol- lipop.

Although he existed at the opposite end of the mor-phology spectrum from the school counselor, Winston’s lollipop brought that morning’s meeting to mind. “I met with Mister Davenport this morning. I have some good news for you, Ali.”

“Mister Davenport called here.” Ali leaned an elbow on the ottoman. “Isn’t it great about the schol-arship?”

Before Bonnie could answer just how great she thought Ali’s good fortune actually was, Rhiannon said, “She’ll win that scholarship.”

She spoke with such conviction, Bonnie felt com-pelled to speak. “I hope so.”

“I know she will. I did a Tarot spread this afternoon, and the cards confirmed Ali’s ascension.” Rhiannon squared her shoulders and squinted at Bonnie as if dar-ing her to voice disbelief.

Bonnie had seen that true believer look before, al-though from the other side of the religious continuum. She knew she had very little wiggle room. Rhiannon fully expected her to react with skepticism. Bonnie’s Imp of the Perverse prodded her to do just that.

What the hell, silence is just as bad.
“The Tarot, you say?” Regardless of her intention, it came out sounding flip.

“That’s right. You have a problem with the Tarot?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s all over your face as plain as your nose.”

Bonnie sat up to confront Rhiannon. She’d always been sensitive about her nose. “My nose is not all over my face.”

“But your skepticism is.” Rhiannon jammed her fists into her hips as if to say—Hah, come back from that.

“I’ll have you know I’ve had lots of Tarot readings.”

Rhiannon eyed her suspiciously. “Is that so?”

“You bet. I’m a regular.” She could feel the loose earth tumbling beneath her feet with every foolish lie.

“Would you like one more? We have time to kill while waiting for Mister Callahan.”

In for a penny.

“Sure, why not?”

“Ali, bring me my Rider’s deck.”

The girl returned with an oversized pack of cards and a folding card table. She handed the deck to her mother and set up the table.

“Ladies, I’m going to bed.” Winston didn’t wait for a response, just disappeared into kitchen.

“Good night, Uncle Winston,” Ali called.

Uncle Winston?

Bonnie heard his footfalls grow faint. She won-dered what the sleeping arrangements were in this strange household.

Rhiannon handed Bonnie the cards. “Shuffle then cut the deck three times. We need the warmth of your hands and your own personal energy to enter the cards.”

Bonnie awkwardly shuffled the oversized cards.

Rhiannon nodded toward the deck. “Tarot suits are different from spades, hearts, clubs, and diamonds, but an old hand like you already knew that. You do remember the Tarot suits?”

“Don’t be such a wicked witch, mother. Missus P is our guest.” Ali offered Bonnie a warm smile. “The suits are wands, cups, pentacles, and swords.”

“I knew that.” Bonnie refused to meet Rhiannon’s stare.

The elder witch cracked her knuckles. “Of course you did. I never doubted it.”

Bonnie set the deck onto the card table and cut it three times as instructed. “Now what?” She regretted the ques-tion, thinking it showed her for the novice she was.

Rhiannon cupped the deck in her hands looking as if she were readying a card trick. “Now we decide what to ask the cards.”

The answer came to Bonnie’s mind as if it had been playing solitaire in some dark corner. “What’s become of Peyton Newlin?”

Rhiannon riffled through the cards. “Interesting choice, both a person and an inquiry. We need a very specific Significator to represent this dual inquiry. Here we go.”

She chose a card showing a young man holding a staff. He seemed to be battling six other animate staffs. “Seven of Wands, a young man under attack.”

Rhiannon set down the remainder of the deck and tapped the top card. “This next card shall be what covers him.”

Bonnie leaned forward. Despite the low wail of her bullshit alarm, she found herself growing interested.

“What’s that mean?”

“The main influence touching the person or inquiry, in your case both.” She flipped over a card showing a red heart pierced by three intersecting swords. She laid it directly atop the first card. “Three of Swords.” She leaned on the table and studied the card.

A heart pierced by swords didn’t seem like it could be any kind of good thing, and Rhiannon’s silence made Bonnie even edgier. “Well?”

Rhiannon waved her quiet. “Hold your water. The card indicates dispersion, absence, or in extreme cases forcible removal. That makes sense in light of what happened at Knowledge Bowl.”

The meaning seemed too much of a coincidence.

“The card actually means that?”

Rhiannon frowned at her. “You think I’m making this stuff up?”

A shiver shot up Bonnie’s spine.
Get a grip, girl.
She told herself the shiver was probably an aftershock of her concussion. “Just go on.”

Rhiannon turned over the next card and laid it per-pendicularly across the pierced heart. “What crosses him. The Knight of Cups reversed.” The card showed a knight on a white steed holding a golden chalice.

“This represents obstacles facing the individual. Reversed, the Knight of Cups isn’t the noble figure he ap-pears to be. He represents fraud, trickery, and deceit.”

“Peyton is being deceived?”

Rhiannon shook her head. “Possibly, but not necessarily. There might be deception inherent in his dis- appearance. In which case, he would be the deceiver.”

Before Bonnie could frame another question, Rhi-annon snapped another card onto the table in the space above the three-card pile. “This crowns him. It repre-sents the aim of the individual.” The card featured a crowned man in flowing red robes seated on a throne. In one hand he held a sword, in the other a balance. The word Justice was written across the bottom of the card.

“In extreme cases ‘what crowns him’ represents the last resort of the individual, the best he can hope for under present circumstances.”

“I don’t understand.” She felt dense and resented Rhiannon for making her feel that way.

Rhiannon traded glances with her daughter.

Ali sat up and stretched. In that pose, she looked like a younger version of her mother. “Think of it this way, Missus P. Seeking justice may have been the reason Peyton took off, or the driving force of his desires at this very moment. Does that make sense?”

“I suppose.”

Rhiannon flipped the next card. It went below the central three cards. “The Fool is beneath him.” The card showed a vacuous young fop and his dog. Both were so absorbed in staring at the clouds and the sky they failed to notice they were about to step off a preci-pice. “This represents the basis of the matter.”

“Basically, Peyton is gone because Peyton is a fool,” Bonnie said.

Rhiannon shrugged. “That seems the most logical explanation.”

She turned the next card and placed it to the right.

“The King of Swords.” A stern man sat on a throne situated in a field. He held a sword in his hand as if he intended to use it.

“That which influenced the subject in the most re-cent past. It either refers to why Peyton may have run away, or what influenced the boy directly in other areas of his life.”

This needed no explanation. The man seated on the throne even looked like Colonel Ralph Newlin, right down to the cruel turn of his lip.

The next card, which Rhiannon placed left, showed a woman sitting up in bed, her face buried in her hands in despair. Nine swords hung on a black wall behind her. “Nine of Swords is before him. This is what will in-fluence him in the near future. With this card, what you see is what you get—failure, despair, and hopelessness.”

“Is it significant the figure is a woman?”

Rhiannon nodded. “The cards reflect and are in-fluenced by one another. Considering the mother was there the night the boy disappeared, I’d say gender is very significant.”

She tapped the next card she intended to upturn. “This card will speak to the individual’s actual attitude in the present circumstances.” She placed the card face-up to the far right. “Two of Pentacles reversed.”

A young man danced on a beach while he held a sidewise eight, the symbol for infinity, in his out-stretched arms. In the background two ships sailed on a rolling sea. “Normally this card represents gaiety, but reversed it speaks of agitation, as if the youth is being forced to dance.”

Being forced to dance with infinity. What the hell
is that supposed to mean?

Bonnie fell back into the wingback chair. Her head throbbed. A part of her wanted this whole Tarot thing done with. “How many more cards?”

Rhiannon stroked the top card of the deck with a di-amond encrusted nail. “Three. Do you want to quit?”

Might as well see it to the end.
“Go on.”

“This is his house.” The card showed a blindfolded woman holding two crossed swords. She sat on a stool. Behind her a sea full of rocks and shoals crashed onto the shore. “The two of Swords represents his environ-ment, the influence of the important people in his life.”

When Rhiannon hesitated, Bonnie asked, “So what does the card say about Peyton’s house?”

Rhiannon shook her head and smiled mischievously. “Impatient little bugger, aren’t you? I thought you were tired of this game.”

Bonnie stuck out her tongue. “Mainly, I’m tired of you. Would it help it I said please?”

“I wouldn’t have you denigrate yourself so on Belt-ane. The card is a hoodwinked woman, conforming even when conforming is painful. Once again gender is important. Someone in Peyton’s house is living a lie.” She tapped the card. “An alternative interpretation is friendship. Someone in Peyton’s house is reaching out in friendship even though it’s against their nature.”

Bonnie thought how she left things with Wendy Newlin. “Come back and see me. I think I’m going to need a friend over the next couple of months.”

Two cards to go.

Rhiannon flipped the next and placed it with the last two. “The Wheel of Fortune represents his hopes and fears.” A sphinx sat on an amber circle which con-tained runic symbols.

Bonnie stifled a giggle. Every fiber of her being wanted to shout, “Pat, I’d like to buy a vowel.”

Her struggle must have shown on her face. Rhi-annon shot her a frown. “The card indicates Peyton worries about his destiny.”

Or at least if he should give that big old wheel an-other
spin.
“Last Card?”

“Yes, and not a moment too soon.” She sighed.

“This card represents Peyton’s destiny, or at least the end result of his disappearance. You and I need to con-centrate and bring to bear all our intuition.” She shut her eyes.

Bonnie felt awkward sitting there like she had as a child in church when the praying congregation bowed their heads. She looked at Ali, but the girl had her eyes closed as well.

When Rhiannon opened hers, she said, “Ready?”

“Ready.”

The card showed a skeleton in armor riding a red-eyed, white war horse. A bishop in full liturgical garb, including miter, stood before the horse. The bishop clasped his hands in abject supplication. On the ground around the horse’s hooves people either swooned or lay prostrate. At the bottom of the card, a single word was printed.

Death.

CHAPTER 6

A
LL THOUGHTS OF PEYTON NEWLIN AND the Tarot flew out of Bonnie’s mind. The room felt heavy with the dead presence of Stephanie Templeton.

A knock sounded on the front door, and Bonnie just about jumped out of her skin. “Jeeze, Louise.” Her heart pounded.

At Rhiannon’s nod, Ali got up to answer. She dis-appeared into the dark family room.

Rhiannon slid the card bearing the skeleton on horseback closer to Bonnie. “The ‘Death’ card isn’t to be taken necessarily at face value. Certainly, death can mean just that, death, but the card can also indicate a major life change.”

Having someone take a baseball bat to the back of
your head certainly constitutes a major life change.

Had Rhiannon, or even more significantly, Ali heard the news about the murdered girl?

While Bonnie was deciding whether to test the waters on this tragic subject, Ali returned followed by Armen Callahan. Unlike at school, where he wore only sweater vests and ties, tonight he wore blue jeans and a tight navy blue muscle shirt. The shirt bore the mes-sage, “I toss peanuts at old ladies.”

The ludicrous message deflated Bonnie’s tension. She felt tired and light-headed. Of course, that could be the concussion.

In that moment, Bonnie decided she would not be the one to tell Ali of her friend’s death.

The strain must have showed on her face because Ali asked, “Are you feeling all right, Missus P?”

Bonnie cast about for something to distract the girl from further questions. “Just admiring this good look-ing gentleman.”

The Science teacher grinned. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”

She had to admit Armen did look good. His belly was flat, his arms and shoulders well muscled. From the corner of her eye she caught a smiling Rhiannon Griffith staring at her. She turned her head to stare back. “What?”

Rhiannon shrugged and adopted a wide-eyed in-nocent look. “Nothing.”

“Have I missed something?” Armen asked.

Bonnie reddened. “We should get going.”

Armen helped her stand.

She wrapped an arm about his shoulder, and he scooped her into his arms. The move was so sudden and unexpected, she whooped then laughed. “Can you handle this?”

“No problem.” Even though the veins in his neck stood out, he put on the patented male expression that asked, “You want to feel my biceps?”

In the sixteen months since Ben’s death she’d for-gotten the inanity of the male ego. Even when their goatees were gray, little boy hearts beat in their inflated chests. She had to admit, however, it did feel nice to have him hold her so close.

Get a grip, girl.

As Rhiannon and Ali gathered around to make their farewells, the older woman laid a hand on Bonnie.

“Wait.”

She ran back to the kitchen. When she returned a moment later she was carrying a small purple-velvet bag by its golden drawstring. She took Bonnie’s hand and closed it around the bag. “Open it before you go to bed.”

Bonnie eyed her suspiciously. She could feel some-thing hard and cylindrical within the bag. “What is it?”

“Open it before you go to bed,” Rhiannon repeated. She folded her arms across her chest.

The motion reminded Bonnie of the fiery Phoenix the woman had stenciled across that same bosom.
Time
to leave Never-Never Land, boys and girls.
“Thank you both for everything.”

When they got out to Armen’s car he set her on the hood. His face red and arms trembling, he dug car keys from his jeans.

So much for Superman. More like Clark Kent in a gray goatee. Still, he’d carried her to the car, and was taking her to the hospital. That counted for something.

“This is very nice of you, Armen.”

“You just remember your promise. I think I’m going to need that coffee.” He opened the passenger door and lifted her off the hood.

She intended to tell him to put her down, let her hobble the few steps into the car, but she couldn’t deny him this act of chivalry—even if it killed him. On im-pulse, she planted a kiss on the side of his cheek.

He cocked his head and grinned then set her on the car seat. “How bold you are, Missus Pinkwater.”

“Call me Bonnie.”

BONNIE AND ARMEN HAD HIGHWAY EIGHTY-FOUR TO themselves, as far as the eye could see, east and west, not a headlight in sight. Now that the moon had dipped below the horizon, the high plains lay in a blackness which was almost complete, except for the sky. Ten thousand stars peeked out of that dark.

Bonnie had driven this road countless times and knew beyond the shoulder, beyond a wide skirt of sand and scrub grass, rose a spine of low hills that followed Highway Eighty-Four almost into Colorado Springs. However, the dark robbed all depth and definition from the landscape. She may as well have been riding on an unchanging blanket of ebony satin.

They’d fallen into a companionable silence. She couldn’t remember any time in the last year and a half she’d felt so comfortable with another human being, male or female. She broke the silence with a question. “You know much about the Tarot?”

He shot her a sidelong glance and returned his attention to the dark road. “You mean the deck of sev-enty- eight cards consisting of twenty-two major and fifty-six minor Arcana popularized in nineteen-ten by A. J. Waite into the well-known Rider deck?”

At the end of this lengthy reciprocal question he drew an exaggerated breath. “Never heard of it.”

She slapped his arm. “Showoff.”

He shrugged, looking pleased with himself. “My mother told fortunes, first in the old country then on the boardwalk in Wildwood, New Jersey. That’s where she met my father.”

She studied Armen in the pale glow of the dash lights, trying to discern exactly where this Old Coun-try might be. His face did carry a tan, but nothing too pronounced. His voice gave nothing away. For all Bonnie could tell from his accent he might be from anywhere east of the Mississippi. He certainly didn’t sound foreign.

He caught her staring and gave her a wink. “I have this effect on women all the time. First, they’re drawn to my striking good looks, but what actually hooks them are my mysterious origins. It’s a curse really.”

She swiveled in her seat to face him and was pleas-antly surprised her ankle didn’t protest, at least not too much. “You’re a regular tragic figure.”

He nodded solemnly. “It takes a woman of rare insight to recognize the inner workings of a man. For that, I’ll give you a hint.”

“Why not just tell me?”

“Because we both know you’d rather figure me out on your own. Besides, once I tell you, we have to move on and talk of something else besides me.”

She chuckled. “Is this going to be worth the trouble?”

It was his turn to laugh. “Definitely not! If I were you I’d refuse to play.”

They crested the last remaining hill separating East Plains from Colorado Springs. The lights of the city spread out before them like stars fallen from the heav-ens. It wouldn’t be long before they reached Memorial Hospital. Urgency grabbed Bonnie. She wanted to dope out Armen’s ancestry before she crossed the hos-pital’s threshold.

“Let’s have your hint.” She tried to sound disinter-ested, but from the look on Armen’s face she knew she hadn’t fooled him.

“Two hints, actually. First, my mother loved the country of her birth.” He stopped as if he needed to give her time to assimilate this all-important piece of information.

When he didn’t speak again for almost a minute she wanted to reach across the seat and strangle him. High-way Eighty-Four had turned into Platte Avenue. They were in Colorado Springs already. “Stop stalling.”

They came to a red light. When they stopped, he turned to her. “Okay, here it is. My mother gave me something which would remind me every day who I was and where my ancestors lived.”

He beat out “Shave and a Haircut” on the steering wheel then extended an open palm to her. “Take it away.”

She tried to think of the thousand things a mother could give her child that would remind him every day of his mother’s nationality. A flag came to mind, but if he left the flag at home, which he would eventually do, then his reminder would be gone. The same was true for a national anthem or a photograph. “This is hard, since I don’t know what your mother gave you.”

He grinned mischievously. “But you do.”

In the distance she could see the lights of the Olympic Training Center and knew Memorial Hospital was bathed in those same lights. “I know what she gave you?”

“Yep.”

She studied him again. This time she looked for anything on his person which might be a mother’s gift. In a low-neck, sleeveless muscle shirt, he couldn’t hide a chain around his neck. He wore no rings or jewelry of any kind. None of that mattered anyway. Even if he wore a ring, she wouldn’t know it came from his mother. And yet, Armen said she knew what the gift was.

What did she know about Armen? Apparently, not much beyond his unusual name.

Oh, my God.

She smacked her hand on the seat cushion. “Your name! Your mother gave you your name.”

He nodded. “For that matter, so did my father. He gave me the name of Callahan.”

“And your mother gave you the name of Armen, to remind you every day of Armenia.”

Almost in slow motion, he slid his hand across the seat and squeezed hers. “Armenian mother, second generation Irish father, both Carny people. Nice going, lady. You’re as clever as they say.” He favored her with a smile.

Embarrassed, Bonnie shifted in her seat. A sharp pain shot through her ankle. “Ow, ow, ow, Goddamn that smarts.” She tried to settle her leg into a position where it wouldn’t hurt. As they slowed for the driveway into Memorial Hospital’s emergency lane she found a position where the leg merely ached. Then the rise and fall of a speed bump gifted her with new agony.

Breathing through the pain, she asked, “Who are these people who say I’m clever?”

EXCEPT FOR THE X-RAYS, ARMEN HELD HER HAND through the examination. She wasn’t certain when he first took hold, but it felt all right, more than all right. As they poked at her foot, she squeezed his hand. He never complained. They shined light into each of her eyes, and the feel of him made her relax. Her hand settled into his like it belonged there.

The prognoses proved Marcie-in-the-moon correct— Bonnie had a not too serious concussion. On top of that, the second, third, and fourth metatarsals of her right foot were fractured. They fitted her with a black plastic boot—a walking cast they called it—that looked like a cheap ski boot made by a child. Once again, she squeezed Armen’s hand through the pain as an intern closed the snaps to secure the boot in place. The same intern presented her with a shiny new pair of crutches.

“I hate crutches,” she complained. She didn’t need to be Armen’s fortune-telling mother to know that before she’d tottered a dozen steps in these torture devices her hands and armpits would ache.
As if I don’t have
enough aches and pains already.

“You’re supposed to hate them,” Armen dead-panned. “It’s your God-given right as an American.”

She stepped down off the examination table and onto her aluminum props. For a fleeting moment she considered bopping Armen in the shins, but the moment passed. “I didn’t know that.”

He nodded, keeping his face solemn. “It’s in the Constitution. As Knowledge Bowl coach, I’m surprised at your ignorance.”

“I only know useful facts, like the average rainfall of the Amazon Basin.” She maneuvered a few steps in the crutches, already feeling the ache. She peeked back over her shoulder and caught him watching her with concern. “You coming?”

He quickly wiped the worried look from his face and adopted an expression of studied nonchalance. “I can see you’re going to need my help with the sheer ton nage of minutia that makes life worth living. And yes, Missus Smarty Pants, I’m coming. And another thing, I never did get my coffee.” He ran to catch up.

Her heart sank. She didn’t want to spend another minute at the hospital. It had to be two in the morning, at least. Her entire ambition lay in getting home and putting head to pillow. “Could I give you a rain check?”

He rubbed a tender spot between her shoulder blades. “Don’t sweat it. Coffee would just keep me up the rest of the night anyway.”