Earth Witches Aren't Easy Page 7

  The cold lump in my stomach evaporated when he slipped an arm around my shoulders to turn us both back toward the Beamer. Making up with Jack made the world a better place. The tableau of the crime scene faded behind us, like a slide from a bad vacation.

  “I know, Chance. It does help, but only a little. I still can’t grasp this thing you do though.” He sighed. “I just really can’t.”

  “Well, I’ve lived with that for the last ten years. I think I can live with it now.” I grinned a little and doubled my returns when he offered a small grin in return. “But you never know what’s going to happen that might change your mind.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, pulling his keys out of his jacket and disengaging the locks on the Beamer. “And that’s what worries me, Miss Spooky. That’s what worries me.”

  Eight

  I blew out a thin stream of smoke and decided I was a hopeless addict—the moment stress walked back into my life I fell back into bad habits. I eyed the smoke with an air of disgust. You’d think after all this time I could quit smoking once and for all. I could offer a reasonable argument that it relieved my stress, which was true, but I could get the same relief—healthier relief—from a good cup of herbal tea and an hour of meditation.

  Unfortunately, as I sat in the Beamer waiting for Billy to retrieve Jack and me for his little experiment, I discovered the coffee was some 7-Eleven quick brew and there was nothing remotely herbal or soothing about it. So, I guess I was stuck with smokes.

  “We’re up,” Jack announced, as he opened his car door and stepped out into the sunshine. The day grew humid with each passing hour. I let myself out and crushed the cigarette half-heartedly, my convictions about quitting notwithstanding. My shirt clung damply to my back. I’d abandoned the FBI jacket and cap. We’d followed Billy to a small apartment complex in Fairfax. I didn’t recognize it. It simply looked like most apartment complexes, with doors and windows crammed everywhere, humanity piled upon humanity.

  I followed Jack across the lot toward the apartment Billy gestured from. We crossed the communal greenbelt that separated us.

  “Nice place.” I didn’t care for apartments, especially as crowded as Fairfax could be, but the ambience of the area wasn’t lost on me. The trees blotted out the sound of Highway One-Twenty even though it lay literally over the next hill. The apartments seemed quiet with their smattering of trees. A pleasant place, altogether.

  “I suppose.” Billy grunted and withdrew some plastic gloves from his pocket and passed a pair to Jack and to me. “Go ahead and put these on.”

  “Breaking and entering?” Jack joked as he fitted the latex to his fingers, and I followed suit.

  “Not quite.” Billy winked. “I got a badge to make it legal.”

  We all laughed. It wasn’t a laugh of good humor or a real joke, rather a release of tension. I suppose crime scenes got to professionals as much as to the public, but then, who knew what they saw every day? They got to see humanity at its worst, rarely its best. I wouldn’t care for the profession myself, which is amusing considering my major in college and the fact I spent six months interning at the Bureau.

  Once we gloved up, Billy pulled open the sliding glass door and gestured for me to enter. I looked at him quizzically, but he merely smiled and gestured again for me to go ahead. His display of confidence inspired a bizarre concoction of ease and worry, much like mixing Pepsi and milk.

  “I take it the experiment starts now?” I asked rhetorically as I pushed aside the slatted blinds and stepped into the apartment. The men waited until I entered before following me. I heard the rasp of the blinds snapping open fully and let my eyes acclimate to the dim interior.

  For a moment, I just stood there, examining the layout of the room. The sofa sitting against one wall must have been cream-colored at some point, though it now bore heavy stains in varying shades of brown. Standard carpet, apartment issue, golden tan. Sad walls with very few pictures of people, most likely family or friends, and one or two generic artistic pieces.

  Loose mail—some opened, some closed—and a few flyers littered the coffee table.

  Eclectic tastes in reading material. A bookshelf against the far wall overflowed with paperbacks and hardbacks. They’d been crammed in to fill every inch, and three piles sorted neatly on the floor in front of it.

  Not a large room, although every space seemed to possess a stack of something. A cell phone base perched on the far side of the sofa. Darker stains discolored the base of the sofa and no phone in evidence. The stain extended along the wall beside the sofa, and I circled around, still not touching anything, to follow the pattern.

  “What do you see?” Billy’s quiet question interrupted my observation.

  “Well, whoever was attacked here probably took the first blow on the sofa, and, maybe another one or two going over the side here while trying to reach the front door.” I squatted down and cocked my head sideways. The cell phone wedged in the corner between the bookshelf and the wall. “She probably dropped or threw the phone in her haste to get away.”

  “Your witch thing tell you that?” Jack asked from where he and Billy remained by the sliding glass door.

  “No,” I retorted, giving him a withering look. “The splatter pattern did.” I gestured to the dirty brown markings of dried blood staining the wall and sofa. I tried not to think too much about the blood. I could handle this as an intellectual exercise. “She didn’t make it out of here, either.” I pointed to the dark stain soaked into the carpet in front of the door and one bloody handprint on the door itself. “So close, yet so far.”

  I took a deep breath. “An intimate killing, she probably sat on the sofa talking to the perp before it went south. I doubt she expected to continue, but she was aware enough to make a run for it. A knife was the most likely weapon.” I stepped over the stain and into the kitchen, tossing a glance at the dishes in the sink, and the pots and pans on the stove. “There are remnants of meal preparation here. Probably dinner.” My gaze flicked to the block of knives on the far side of the counter. A large one from the center was missing.

  “The attacker probably brought the dishes in here, set them in the sink, picked up the knife and walked back into the front room.” I shook my head. The attack seemed almost methodical in its madness. But at first glance, it appeared to be a sudden snapping of sanity and violent outburst.

  “Not bad,” Billy grunted as I returned to the front room. “How far from graduation were you?”

  “Twelve credits.” I looked around the room. “Then I would have continued graduate studies toward my Masters.”

  “Might want to pick your education back up again.” Billy’s serious expression erased any notes of teasing in his tone. “Can you tell me anything else?”

  Is there a point to this exercise? Am I being tested? I looked at Billy, then at Jack. I couldn’t read Billy’s expression, but Jack’s eyes gleamed. No matter his misgivings earlier, the quirk of his lips and the small wink he gave me warmed me a lot more than it should have. Taking a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh, I looked over the scene again.

  A collection of potted plants in the corner near the sliding glass door, the pots ranging in size from small to tall and squat to fat and round, created a veritable indoor garden. I cocked my head to look at them. They appeared tended—lushly green, touched by only a small hint of yellow. I doubted they got enough sunlight since the investigators closed the scene.

  “How long since they sealed the scene?”

  “A while.”

  Care to vague that up, Billy?

  I spun on a heel and made my way back into the kitchen. I found a clean pitcher and filled it with water, careful not to disturb the dishes piled in the dual-sided sink.

  Billy and Jack said nothing as I walked back into the living room, balancing the pitcher. I made my way over to the plants and carefully added water to the dry soil, enough to give each a drink without overflowing their pots. I studied the plants for a long moment then let a g
loved hand touch the moist soil. My inner vision descended and I probed the life within the pots.

  The soil responded with a weak, sluggish welcome. It felt tired and appeared to be heading toward dormancy in order to replenish the energy it expended. Water had been in short supply, and it gulped thirstily at the amount I’d added. Gratitude unfurled some of the smaller leaves, desperate for the rain returning after a drought.

  The plant started to return to its sluggish state as I prodded at the soil, questioning about the death that occurred. I braced myself for whatever emerged from its consciousness, but that hardly prepared me for the wash of horror as the room transformed itself around me. An argument, heated and angry, with one well-recognized voice, most likely the victim’s, because she spoke often to the plants.

  I swallowed back the bile that rose in my throat, trying to keep myself as distant from the memory as I could. The angry tones became frightened and then pained. A violent explosion impacted the side of my temple, as if someone landed a blow there, and I rocked on my heels, breaking the connection with the plant and urging it to rest.

  I leaned on the side of the pot, holding it for balance as much as to relieve the pressure of the connection. Awareness of the apartment resurfaced and I rushed back into my own body and away from those memories.

  “They were probably lovers...” I paused, resisting the urge to put a hand up to what felt like a pounding woodpecker determined to burst through my temple. “He didn’t live here. They argued and it escalated throughout the meal. He did it.”

  “You okay, Chance?” Jack asked.

  “I will be in a minute.” I swayed a little on my feet, relieved neither one of them leapt forward to help me up. Some things I liked to be able to rely on for myself. A warm drip tickled my lip and reached up to touch it as I turned. What the hell?

  “You’re bleeding.” Jack dug a hand into his pocket and fished out a napkin from our earlier coffee foray. My right nostril bled, coinciding with the sensation of bursting pain in my head. That was new. I took the proffered napkin and pressed it against the nostril to slow the bleeding.

  “Maybe I asked for a little too much.” Billy’s apologized. “I didn’t mean to cause you distress, Chance.”

  “But you wanted to verify that I possessed a clue as to what I was talking about back at the campus.” I understood. I didn’t even fault him a little for his skepticism. The science of law required verifiable facts and corroborating evidence. I stepped past them and back into the sunshine. The abrupt change of light sources left my eyes dazzled. The humid air felt good against my skin, and I took in one or two deep gulps, ordering my insides to calm down so maybe my head would as well.

  “Yeah, I needed to verify it.” Billy’s matter-of-fact tone held no apology. “I wanted to see how you did at a cold scene, one you couldn’t have a personal connection with. You did good. We were sure we had the right perp, but he swears he didn’t know what he was doing when he went after her…just something snapped inside. He’s being held at a psychiatric facility pending evaluation.”

  “Why the hell is the FBI involved in a domestic violence case?” Vindication or not, that struck me as odd.

  “She was one of ours, a secretary in our Rosslyn office. Local LEOs did us a favor.”

  Wary admiration replaced Jack’s skepticism, while Billy looked equal parts triumphant and regretful.

  “I’m sorry.” I ignored the twitch in my right eye and the bloody nose. “You believe me, then.” It was a statement, not a question, but I still wanted his answer. I wanted the verbal acknowledgement and the thrill of being right. Yes, I am not above being just a little petty.

  “I believe you. Go ahead and go home now. Jack will drive you.” Yes! He believed me. “I’ve got work to do back at the campus.” Billy already started locking up the apartment. “I’ll talk to you both tomorrow.”

  I nodded absently and followed Jack back toward the Beamer. He unlocked the doors, climbing inside and starting the engine while I hesitated. My gaze went back to the apartment.

  “What is it?” Jack asked from inside the car.

  “What’s going to happen to the plants?”

  “No clue.”

  “Can you find out for me?” I slid into the car and the cool blasts of air conditioning dried up the sweat already beading on my flesh. I didn’t want the plants forgotten during the crime scene clean up or worse, left to rot. They’d been well cared for before by…I didn’t know her name. I should probably ask about her name. I didn’t want to think of her as the victim. She was a person, too.

  Ugh, I’m tired. Mind is wandering all over the place.

  “Sure, if you want.” Jack frowned briefly before he backed the car out of the parking spot. “Chance, I still don’t get this witch thing.”

  “It’s okay.” I smiled and let my head lean back against the seat. I kept the napkin firmly in place, it would stop the sluggish bleeding soon enough. “It goes with the territory.”

  “And I don’t really get why Billy thinks you’ve vindicated yourself.” Jack flipped open his pack of cigarettes and extracted one. I waved my hand when he offered one to me. “No offense, but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders and a decent grasp of forensic psychology. You didn’t need any mumbo jumbo to read that room.”

  “Except the attack happened over a month ago.” My lips twitched. “And those plants have been watered recently. One of your crime scene techs is a softy. I think that was the real test.” It should probably irritate me, but I couldn’t fault Billy. Empirical evidence is the best form of proof sometimes.

  “Maybe.” He grunted. Stubborn man. “Several weeks ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did…” He broke off mid-statement, and I suppressed another smile. Jack worked with logic, physical evidence and facts. No verifiable facts were in evidence. “Never mind. I’m not even going to ask.” He let out a deep exhale of smoke, and turned sideways to stare at me. “I’ll give it a shot with this, give you the benefit of the doubt, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “That’s fine, Jack.” I smiled a little again. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. We have more important things to worry about.”

  “Yeah.” He grunted again. Jack turned up the Enya CD and adjusted the air conditioning to an even cooler setting. I appreciated the effort. I was tired, aching and a nap sounded perfect. It didn’t take long for me to drift off to the music and the soothing hum of the car.

  Dark thoughts of Randall Oakes and copycats twisted through my sleep-starved brain… Thoughts I didn't want to have awake much less asleep following me into my dreams, but I couldn't stop the inexorable tied. Are the new murders copycats? Or did Oakes just change his M.O.? It's not a copycat. What does it all mean? And why do I already know he's coming for me?

  Nine

  Despite Jack’s protestations, we stood at the edge of Mrs. Humphrey’s garden a couple of hours later. I needed to finish what I’d started here. I needed my routines. Fixing Mrs. Humphrey's fairy mound may not rank high on the list for some, but the very pregnant woman needed me.

  I’d rather have left Jack on the porch discussing the weather with Mrs. Humphrey, but he appeared firmly attached to the idea of keeping an eye on me.

  As we stood under the old oak tree, I scooped dirt, handful by handful, from the plastic pail and layered it onto the fairy mound. I hummed under my breath as I worked, coaxing the fairies to join me in this project. The energy present within the Earth tingled along my hands.

  “Chance, if you want to move that hill of dirt, why don’t I just get a shovel and a wheelbarrow?”

  “Jack,” I replied quietly, trying not to let go of the thread of my work. “I told you, I have to do this by hand, and the metal from the shovel or the wheelbarrow could damage the mound. Why don’t you go have some tea with Mrs. Humphrey? She makes a lovely herbal iced tea.” My voice radiated patience and I carefully scooped up another handful and layered it onto the rest.

  “I ca
n’t watch over you from there, and I understand why you want to help her. She obviously shouldn’t be doing anything like this as pregnant as she is. But you’re going to be here half the night if you do it this way.”

  I paused, not altogether losing my connection, but close. “I know you mean well, but I really need you to shut up right now. I have to do my work, and I can’t do it with you chattering in my ear. Please?”

  “Oh.” Guilt stung me at the contrition in his voice. “Sorry. I’ll… I’ll wait till you’re done.”

  “Thank you.” I took a deep breath and submerged myself back into the world where the fairies flittered all about. Together we added to their mound. It took several trips and several pails, but the cheerful lot quickly dove into the task alongside me. They built their new home so much quicker than I.

  The game, as some might put it, was afoot.

  Hours passed, and the setting sun barely disturbed my work. The chatter of the crickets coming out to sing their songs merely added to the melody I hummed as the fairies and I worked. After the fifteenth or sixteenth pail, by which point I’d lost count, the mound was well on its way toward being half completed.

  Withdrawing from the melodious work song, I left the fairies to it and sat back on my heels. A gentle breeze blew in from the west and rustled the musical chimes overhead. The sound lifted my heart. The century-old oak nestled in a grove of well-spaced trees provided excellent shade and room for the roots to expand.

  I wiped a hand across the sweat on my face, leaving a trail of musky dirt in a swath across my cheek. Oh, well. It wasn’t like I didn’t need a shower anyway. A throat cleared lightly behind me, a subtle, very non-intrusive sound. I glanced over my shoulder. Jack sat, just a few feet away, on an old stump that someone carefully polished and cleaned to make a bench. He looked good.