Bewitched and Betrothed

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Stop,” said Patience. She came over and took Carlos by the hand. “You’re the cousin of the missing woman.”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t go out there, to Alcatraz,” Patience said. She turned to me. “Seriously, Lily. I have a very bad feeling about this.”

  Carlos patted the gun in his chest holster. “I appreciate the thought, Ms. Blix, but I’m prepared.”

  “I appreciate the confidence, Inspector Romero,” she replied tartly. “But not for this, you aren’t.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “You should listen to Patience,” I said as Carlos marched me to his car. “She knows what she’s doing and she doesn’t kid around with stuff like this.”

  Heeding Patience’s warning, I had packed supplies in my backpack and bag: my Hand of Glory, which is a rather macabre sort of candlestick capable of lighting up the darkest room; several protective amulets; a mason jar of all-purpose protective brew; various salts and crystals to be used in casting. Given Patience’s warning, the dream I’d had, Elena’s kidnapping, and now a ritualized murder, I thought it was wise to be prepared. Also, I had tucked my engagement ring away in my jewelry box for safekeeping; I couldn’t bear to think of losing it at a crime scene, ritualistic murder or not.

  “Are you suggesting I not do my job—which also may well have something to do with my cousin’s disappearance—because a woman dressed up like a raven-haired Mae West tells me she has a ‘bad feeling’?”

  Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.

  “I’m saying you need to take her advice into consideration because she’s a talented psychic, and you’re too good a detective not to take advantage of all available resources. Patience might be reacting to the same sort of ‘curse’ that I felt was related to the prison shirt. Or it could be something else.”

  “She’s that good, huh?”

  “She’s better than good.”

  “Hope she doesn’t read minds,” he said softly as we climbed into his car.

  “She’s a knockout, right?” I smiled. “Don’t worry—you’re pretty well guarded. It’s common to cops and veterans, people who’ve seen a lot of trauma.”

  “Are you a mind reader?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. But I can sense auras. I get a feeling for . . . people. Sometimes. I try not to, actually, since I’ve been fooled more than once. And just so you know, according to Sailor most psychics don’t go around reading people’s minds without their permission.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s something. . . .”

  “So you managed to get us permission to go to Alcatraz, eh?” I said as Carlos drove us to a dock near Pier 33, Alcatraz Landing. “I guess being a homicide inspector has its perks.”

  “An officer’s going to pilot us over,” he said, his usually inscrutable dark eyes shadowed with worry.

  “Are the ferries still running?”

  “Yes, the island is still open to tourists. The scene of the crime is off-limits, of course, but it’s not on the tourist track, anyway. The dungeon is considered too architecturally unstable to be open to the general public.”

  The small police craft was piloted by a big, mostly silent man named Riggs, who nodded politely as I clumsily stepped off the dock and into the boat, but otherwise kept his pale eyes on the water.

  It was a beautiful, breezy day. The water was almost turquoise, a rarity for the bay, which was more typically a grayish-green. Sailboats glided past us, tilting rakishly in the wind. The views were breathtaking: the soaring Golden Gate Bridge, radiant in the sunshine; the charming fishing village turned artsy town of Sausalito north of the bridge; the skyscrapers and picturesque hills of the city. I couldn’t help but wonder what it must have felt like for prisoners making this same journey, knowing it would be a very long time—if ever—before such sights would be within reach for them. Knowing they were relegated to the Rock while one of the most vibrant, beautiful cities in the world beckoned from just over a mile away.

  Glancing back at the San Francisco piers, it really didn’t seem all that far a distance to swim. But the escapees had set out at night, in thick fog, and the bay waters were cold, rarely getting above the midfifties Fahrenheit. And as Maya had mentioned, the prisoners weren’t top-notch athletes, trained to swim against strong currents.

  Still. Ray Perry was a young man and apparently resourceful. And his body had never been found. Is it possible he had succeeded where others had failed?

  Not without help, I remembered Elena saying.

  I stroked my medicine bag and reminded myself to stay grounded, trying not to dwell on my nightmare, on the sensation of floating, of nearly drowning, in the icy bay waters.

  “Did you find out anything about Albright?” I asked, to distract myself.

  “Only what you probably already know: He and his brother were convicted of bank robbery and spent time in Leavenworth and Atlanta penitentiaries, but after repeated escape attempts were shipped out to Alcatraz. After the escape there were some alleged sightings in their home state, and in South America. Some diehards claim they’ve been living in Brazil this whole time under an assumed name. The FBI received a letter a few years ago, allegedly written by Albright, requesting medical care in exchange for turning himself in, but they didn’t deem it credible.”

  “That’s it? No other rumors?”

  “I actually called down to the province where the Albrights were alleged to have been living in Brazil. The FBI had been in touch before me, of course, so the local police department was familiar with the case. The man I spoke to claimed that the Americans there couldn’t have been the Albrights, because they seemed too young. At least, I think that’s what he said; Portuguese and Spanish aren’t totally mutually intelligible. I may have missed something.”

  The trip to the island took only ten minutes, though Riggs had to approach the island slowly and carefully from a northern angle due to the strong currents.

  As the boat edged up to the dock, I studied the cream-colored buildings streaked in black and gray, the ruins of old employee housing, the guard tower. I could feel malevolence and dread reaching out from the island: Something was stirring, dark and twisted.

  As though the island itself were pulsating. Alive. Powerful.

  This was the island the woods folk wanted me to make disappear. I got it now.

  “I can’t believe people pay for the privilege to come here,” I said in a low voice, to no one in particular.

  “Believe it. And they pay a lot,” said Riggs. The boat banged against the moorings, jostling us as he tied on to the deck. “The behind-the-scenes tour costs around a hundred bucks.”

  “And here you get to go for free,” said Carlos, handing me my bag and backpack. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  “Yeah, thanks a lot,” I said, then chanted a quick protective charm under my breath.

  Upon setting one foot on the Rock I felt the vibrations through the soles of my feet: a deep, malevolent hum, like an evil bass. This should be interesting.

  Forrest Caruthers met us at the dock.

  “Good to see you, Forrest,” I said, trying to ignore the island’s humming. The wind buffeted us, seagulls cawing loudly overhead.

  “Carlos said you might be able to pick up on something, somehow?” His cowboy face was sketched with worry. “Gotta say, it sounds a little crazy to me, but at this point we’re willing to try anything. If this murder is connected to Elena’s kidnapping . . .”

  “Do we know they’re connected?” I asked, glancing at Carlos. It seemed likely, but Carlos wasn’t the type to make assumptions without proof.

  Carlos shook his head. “Nothing solid. Yet. Like I said, this is a federal case. They’re allowing us to help, but we might not be privy to everything they’ve got.”

 
Three men approached, one of whom was Charles Gosnold.

  “Hello, Lily,” said Charles. “Just getting prepared for our upcoming event!”

  “Allow me to introduce you,” Forrest said to Carlos and me. “We were just finishing up a meeting. Inspector Romero and Lily Ivory, this is Kyle Cheney and his assistant, Seth. Or have you all met?”

  “I’m Kyle, Kyle Cheney,” said a pasty man with bright blue–rimmed glasses that appeared far too trendy for him, as though someone else had picked them out. He reached out clumsily and shook our hands with an overeager enthusiasm. Cheney was clearly one of those supersmart guys lacking in social graces; I could relate. Maya had told me that he had invented some sort of highly lucrative bit of technology as a high school student and went on to found a hugely profitable computer company. I didn’t keep up with technology, but even I knew that Kyle Cheney was the Bay Area’s version of Bill Gates.

  “And this is my assistant, Seth Barbagelata.”

  With glistening, dark gold hair, light blue eyes, and the beautiful, androgynous face of one of Michelangelo’s angels, Seth would give Aidan a run for his money in the ethereal-good-looks department, I thought.

  “Nice to meet you,” Seth said in a warm tone, holding eye contact. Clearly, he was the public face of Cheney’s company, the charming one, good with people.

  “Believe it or not, Seth’s—great-uncle, was it?” Kyle asked, and Seth nodded. “Seth’s great-uncle was a guard out here on Alcatraz.”

  “Is that right?” I asked. “He must have some fascinating stories.”

  “He was here in the ’30s, when the federal penitentiary first opened, and lived with his family in one of the guard houses. I never met him, but my father’s elderly cousin remembers playing here, as a little girl. The kids loved it; they took a boat into the city every day to go to school, and during the holidays went Christmas caroling around the island. They called it ‘a small town with a big jail.’”

  “Seth came up with the idea of the Festival of Felons, and he’s the point person for putting together this shindig,” said Kyle, pushing his glasses farther up his nose. “Although now it seems sort of . . . I don’t know, maybe in bad taste, considering what just happened. A man murdered.” He shook his head. “I keep thinking maybe we should call the whole thing off, or at least postpone it.”

  “There’s no need to cancel—,” Gosnold began.

  “I hope you won’t,” Forrest interrupted, an anxious note in his voice. “I know it’s an unfortunate situation but the festival is for a very good cause, after all. The event will raise needed funds for the upkeep of historical buildings. We’ve gotten a lot of great publicity, and I’m afraid if we reschedule we’ll lose that momentum. Also, it’s only a few days away now.”

  “You see?” Seth nudged his boss. “That’s what I said. You’re just gun-shy.”

  “I worry about how we’re perceived. Can’t be too careful these days.” Kyle Cheney met my eyes, as if eager for me to concur.

  “Even before this recent event, well,” Forrest said, with a duck of his head, “Alcatraz is no stranger to tragedy. In a strange way, it’s sort of fitting.”

  “It seems almost hard to believe, doesn’t it?” Kyle said. “With all these birds, and the spectacular view, it’s easy to convince yourself you’re on some pretty isle, not a former prison colony. . . . But I’m sorry. Here I am, chatting away, and I haven’t let you get a word in edgewise. Seth and I were just leaving, in any case.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “I own a vintage clothing store on Haight Street, and we’d love to offer a donation for the fund-raiser. Maybe raffle off a dress, or something?”

  “That would be wonderful! Our target audience would love the opportunity to win a vintage dress from your store,” Seth said, handing me his card. “It’s too late to include your sponsorship on the poster, I’m afraid, but I’d be happy to put you on the festival’s website. It’ll be great publicity for your business, and all donations are tax deductible. Win-win! Please contact me by phone or e-mail anytime, and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

  “Thank you, I will. And Seth, I wonder: Would any of your relatives who lived on Alcatraz be willing to speak with me?”

  “Oh, you mean my dad’s cousin? She died a few years ago, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Did she happen to pass on any stories, mementos, photos, anything like that?”

  The ferry tooted its horn, indicating a five-minute warning.

  “We’d better catch the ferry. Call me, and we’ll get together,” Seth said. “I don’t know what I can tell you, but I’d be happy to chat.”

  Seth, Kyle, and Charles bid us good-bye and walked down the dock to board the tourist ferry returning to Pier 33. I watched them leave, fighting the compulsion to run after them and jump on the craft as well. I didn’t have to see any more of the island to know that I’d seen enough.

  “This way, folks,” Forrest said as he led the way up a steep road from the dock. “I’m glad you’re wearing sensible footwear.”

  Today’s Keds were turquoise, matching my vintage A-line floral print sundress, with wide pockets and a square collar. Lately I needed bright colors to brighten my mood. Over this I wore a rose-colored cardigan and my cocoa brown wool car coat, because I was by now no stranger to San Francisco’s cool weather, especially near the water.

  “The birds have taken over much of the island, as you can see. All sorts of gulls, cormorants, and egrets make the Rock their home.” Forrest pointed down the hill behind us, seemingly unable to refrain from being a tour guide. “The Agave Trail goes around the southern tip of the island, passing through a protected bird sanctuary. It’s a nice walk; there are some pretty native plantings and incredible views of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  We passed through a large gate, to my mind reminiscent of a castle drawbridge. It led to the administrative buildings and the cellblocks.

  “And the graffiti?” I asked, gesturing to large red letters on a UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY sign that warned boats to remain at least two hundred yards offshore. The letters read: INDIANS WELCOME, and INDIAN LAND. Another set of letters changed the UNITED STATES PROPERTY to UNITED INDIAN PROPERTY. A gray water tower held more red letters, these spelling out PEACE AND FREEDOM/WELCOME/HOME OF THE FREE/INDIAN LAND.

  “There was a takeover in 1969, after the penitentiary had closed and Alcatraz was basically abandoned,” said Forrest. “A group of Native Americans arrived and claimed the island as part of their ‘Indian land.’”

  “I heard some local tribes consider the island cursed,” I said.

  He nodded. “The Ohlone used to collect eggs here occasionally, but they never lived on the island. I heard they marooned people out here if they were guilty of misdeeds.”

  “They left them here to die?”

  “Oh, no, of course not. There was food—plenty of birds’ eggs—and fish, they could capture rainwater, dew in the morning, that sort of thing. Or maybe they were left with water, not sure, actually. The point is, the people who lived in this area didn’t deem the island worth inhabiting, and many said there were bad spirits here, or something along those lines.”

  “So then why return in the ’60s?”

  “The people who came then weren’t Ohlone. The leaders were drawn from lots of different tribes. It was an effort to bring attention to the needs, and the past treatment, of Native Americans. It worked pretty well for a while, and the cause attracted some celebrity attention. But eventually . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “A little girl died in an accident, and fires broke out. Things fell apart, as ideals sometimes do.”

  “It’s interesting that you left up the graffiti,” I mentioned.

  He nodded. “The National Park Service believes that the takeover was a significant part of the island’s history. People should know about it, just like
they should know about the penitentiary, and the native birds, and the original fortress, the Hopi and the Civil War prisoners, the arming of the island to guard the bay. The NPS consider ourselves to be stewards of history, we’re not here to pass judgment.”

  “That’s admirable.”

  “And as chaotic and ‘unlawful’ as the takeover was, it brought attention to sorely needed reforms with regard to US policy toward indigenous peoples, and spurred on some policy improvements under President Nixon. Sometimes it takes a little lawbreaking to bring about change.”

  “Just not murder,” said Carlos.

  “That’s true enough,” said Forrest.

  He pointed out the charred ruins of the warden’s house and the officers’ club, and then led us into the main cellblock. Inside, huge windows let in lots of natural light but the peeling mint green walls were marred by sections of failing stucco and mold. Everything felt cold, unnaturally so, and I remembered Maya citing Mark Twain’s quote about how cold Alcatraz always seemed, even in summer. I buttoned up my coat for warmth, and safety.

  Forrest led us through the dining hall, the library, and pointed out the parade grounds, the laundry area, and the isolation rooms in Cellblock D, also known as “the hole.” The prisoners’ cells themselves were small rooms containing a toilet, a sink, a small ventilation grate, a desk attached to the wall, and a cot. That was it.

  Everywhere we turned, dozens of tourists milled about. There were families and couples, groups of teenagers. A few scruffy-looking young people reminded me of Conrad’s gutter punk friends, making me think back to that terrible moment on Haight Street, when I first learned Elena had been taken. Most were sporting headphones and listening intently to recordings describing the history of what they were seeing, spinning tales of Alcatraz’s most famous inhabitants: Al Capone, Machine Gun Kelly, and the Birdman.