He was about to leave when he heard his name being called from a booth near the back of the room. Squinting his eyes to see through the murky gloom, Mac spotted Alan Boatright. Holding a glass aloft, Alan gestured for Mac to join him.
A small but insistent voice warned Mac to get the hell out of the bar, but he ignored it. Alan was the man he needed to talk to, he reminded himself. He should be grateful that the guy had been so conveniently dumped in his lap rather than wasting his time worrying about dealing with the nearly overpowering urge to get down and dirty drunk.
Alan was part of the story, right? Mac had more than a few questions for him, the biggest one being, why had he left Myra alone last night when it was so obvious the woman needed someone with her.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Alan called as Mac drew closer. “You’re just the guy I wanted to talk to.”
Mac couldn’t help but notice the slur in the guy’s speech. He wondered how long Alan had been here, suspecting it to be ever since he had gotten the news of Myra’s arrest.
Alan signaled to the waitress as Mac slid into the booth on the bench facing him. “Bring me another one of these.” He lifted an empty glass that had apparently contained a double martini. “And make it a boiler maker for my buddy here.”
Mac counted six plastic toothpicks lined up neatly in front of Alan. If each one represented a double martini, and Mac felt fairly certain that they did, it was amazing that the man wasn’t comatose.
He was still contemplating Alan’s remarkable accomplishment when the waitress returned with their order. And then he was all alone. Everyone else - Alan, the waitress, the blaring ballgame on the TV - everyone and everything ceased to exist.
It had been so long, nearly a year, but as he gazed into the amber liquid he realized he hadn’t left those times behind.
Nothing had changed.
His eyes never leaving the shot glass, he reached out to touch it. Next to it stood the tall frosty glass of beer waiting to quench the fire the warm whiskey would set off deep in his gut. His fingers encircled the smaller glass, remembering so well the feel of it in his hand. He licked his lips and swallowed.
A boilermaker. His signature drink. How had Alan known, he wondered.
For some reason the thought of the man sitting across from him snapped Mac out of his hypnotic state. With a slightly sardonic smile, he sat back and watched as Alan removed the plastic pick from his drink and nibbled at the two green olives and one small pickled onion. With the infinite care that only a drunk can achieve, he lined up the empty pick with the others, precisely one-eighth of an inch from the last one in line.
“Two olives and an onion. The only truly civilized way to drink a martini.” Alan took a very gentlemanly sip of his drink. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.” He leaned towards Mac and dropped his voice until he could just barely be heard over the din of the TV and the bar’s patrons. “I’m the expert, you know.”
Mac laughed and nodded his agreement. Who was he to argue?
“You don’t like your drink? I had you figured for a boilermaker man. I hope I haven’t insulted you by ordering the wrong drink.”
“No, it’s the right drink, just the wrong time. I think I’d rather have some coffee.” Mac signaled to the waitress to remove the beverages before him and asked for coffee, black with no sugar.
“Ah, come on! You aren’t going to make me drink alone, are you? What kind of a buddy would do that?”
Mac reminded himself that Alan’s whiny tone came from the booze. Tomorrow, when he had sobered up, Alan would return to his usual charming self. But until that happened, Mac would just have to put up with it if he was going to take advantage of the situation.
“Sorry, old buddy, but I can’t help you out on this one. But, hey, don’t let my not drinking spoil your party. Here, let me buy you another one of those.” Mac caught the waitress’ eye and signaled for yet another martini. “Looks to me like you might set a record.”
“That’d be somethin’, wouldn’t it?” Alan replied, gazing at the row of colored plastic sticks. “I’d be the champ. A winner. Instead of the miserable excuse for a human being I really am.”
Mac settled against the hard back of the bench. If he knew drunks as well as he thought he did, Alan was about to go on a talking jag. And Mac, good buddy that he was, had every intention of letting him talk his head off.
“S’all my fault.”
Mac lifted one eyebrow, his expression inquiring.
“Should’ve stayed with her. Shouldn’t ‘ve let her talk me into going home.”
“Do you mean Myra?”
“Who else would I be talking about? Who else is this whole cursed town talking about?”
Mac’s only answer was a sage nod of agreement.
“Shouldn’t have listened to her. No matter how much she insisted, I should’ve stayed right there with her.” His fingers twisted the stem of his martini glass as he gazed at the swirling liquid.
“I let her down, damn it! If I’d stayed, she never would have ... well, you know.” Alan slumped back against the bench, his chin resting on his chest.
“Wait a minute. Are you saying you believe she actually did what they say she did?”
“Of course she did it. How else do you explain the blood, or haven’t you heard about that yet?” In an instant Alan pulled himself upright. Thrusting his face close to Mac’s, he whispered gruffly, “It was on her lips, for God’s sake! She had a bowl of it right there beside her bed!”
Mac managed to maintain his cool, indifferent attitude, refusing to respond to Alan’s histrionics.
“So you’re ready to convict her. So much for standing by the woman you love.” Mac took a sip of his coffee, his eyes level over the top of the mug, never leaving Alan’s face.
“Love! We’re talking about cold-blooded murder here. We’re talking about mutilation and desecration!”
“Right!” Mac suddenly dropped his nonchalant pose. Bracing himself with both hands on the table, he leaned towards Alan until their faces were just inches apart. “And neither you nor anybody else is going to convince me that Myra Adams or any one of her little band of followers is capable of committing the atrocities they’ve been accused of.”
Mac refused to acknowledge how badly Alan’s revelation had shaken him. If he allowed himself to believe for one moment that Myra had actually drunk the blood of her victim, he must also accept the fact that Cassie could also be guilty of such an offense. It simply wasn’t possible.
“But they’re witches. What do you think they do out there in the woods - chant at the moon?”
“What do you know of witchcraft, Alan? Their kind of witchcraft? Have you ever asked Myra about it? Have you made even the slightest effort to learn about Myra’s religion? Come on! You say you’re in love with the woman. Haven’t you been even a little bit curious?”
Alan slumped back in his seat. He reached for his martini glass and let his hand drop to the table.
“I just never took it seriously. I figured it was just a harmless distraction, that when we got married she’d forget all about it.”
Bracing his elbows on the table, he dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders shook as sobs racked his body. Mac had seldom seen a more pitiful drunk. A decent person would let up on the guy, give him a break, but Mac didn’t feel particularly decent at the moment.
“So you’re just going to sit back and let them crucify her? You figure that’s what she deserves?”
“No! Oh, God, I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, buddy, if it makes you feel any better, neither do I,” Mac replied, his voice filled with regret.
Hands sunk deep in his pockets, Mac walked the quiet street alone. He’d spent the last hour getting Alan safely back to his place and listening to more alcoholic ramblings. The whole scene brought back so many memories - not particularly good ones.
Time to find a meeting, Mac reminded himself. He’d been planning on looking up a local AA
meeting ever since hitting town but had kept putting it off. Today’s close call had hit too close to home to ignore, he realized as he vowed to check into it first thing the next morning.
Seeing Alan like that had hit him like a rock. There had been too many times when Mac had sought refuge from his pain in just the same manner. He was grateful that that was no longer true.
But Alan wasn’t like him. Except for a world-class headache, he would be okay in the morning. Oh, he would still be in as much turmoil about Myra and her problems, but Mac doubted that Alan’s first instinct would be to repeat today’s excesses as his would have been.
Aside from this crazy witch business, Mac sort of envied Alan. The guy really had it made. Up until lately Mac would have scoffed at the idea of living so far from the excitement of big city life, but lately the thought of settling down in a peaceful, homey community such as Port Bellmont, maybe running his own weekly, sounded rather appealing.
The thought suddenly struck Mac that he had never even considered staying in one place longer than it took to get the story. Now, for the first time in his life, he was beginning to see his nomadic life for what it was - a hollow, lonely existence.
What a day! He couldn’t remember experiencing a more miserable eighteen hours. And now, looking up at the dark windows of the Sea View Manor Inn, he dreaded entering the deserted bed-and-breakfast.
Not entirely deserted, he reminded himself as he fumbled for the key Mary Beth had asked the sheriff’s deputy to give him. As he turned the key in the lock, the excited yips coming from the backyard reminded him that there was still one creature in the world who welcomed him with completely unconditional love.
Well, it was a start.
He didn’t know which it was, Sarge’s snoring or the bright moon that glimmered through the window, but whatever, Mac had spent a full hour lying in bed and sleep still eluded him. Somehow, just knowing he was the only human being in the big old house made it seem lonelier. He had never minded solitude before, in fact had often sought it, but tonight the empty house was really getting on his nerves.
He rolled over and looked at the luminous dial on his alarm clock. Eleven-forty. Geez, he usually didn’t hit the sack until after midnight. This small town life must be getting to him. Everything in town had shut down hours ago. All the good citizens of Port Bellmont had long since locked themselves away for the night.
Too depressed to read or watch TV, Mac had gone to bed hoping for the sweet oblivion of sleep. But that had been a mistake. He realized now that he had enough adrenaline pumping through his body to keep a grown man awake for at least a week.
He got out of bed. It was no use. He could lay there all night and not get a minute’s sleep with all that was on his mind. He paced restlessly about the room, settling at last in an overstuffed chair.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget that last moment with Cassie at the pet shop. The accusing expression in her eyes pained him as much now as it had then. He could understand how she felt, but couldn’t she had have trusted him at least enough to let him explain?
Not that he had an explanation. He knew he hadn’t written that article but how could he prove it to her? He worked for the rag, didn’t he? And it was his by-line. No denying that either. But he sure as hell hadn’t filed that muckraking story, and apparently, no one knew who had. When he’d called Noah Peters, his editor, he had expected an explanation along with a good dressing down for not filing a story yet. But instead of telling him who had called in the story, Noah had congratulated him on the good work and asked when he should expect the next segment.
“What do you mean the next segment? I never filed that first one!” Mac nearly yelled into the phone.
“What are you talking about? Hey, you aren’t drinking again, are you? Did you have a blackout or something? Of course you filed the story. The fax was waiting on my desk when I got in to work Thursday morning.”
“Fax? Since when have I ever faxed you a story, Noah? You know as well as I do that I always call my stories in. I got in the habit on my first job and never saw any reason to change. I still don’t. And this is a good example of why I feel that way. Anybody could have sent that fax to you under my by-line.”
“But the style was yours. And hell, the story was just what we’d been waiting for. And it came in just in time to make the deadline. So we decided to run with it. We didn’t bother to change a single word. Hey, man, you ought to be proud. That story is guaranteed to hang the whole lot of ‘em!”
Mac hung up the phone after warning his editor not to run anything more from him unless he called it in himself. Instead of answering his questions, the phone call had only confused him more. Someone had filed the story under his name.
But who would do such a thing, and why?
Cassie’s reaction to the story had hit Mac hard. Although he should have expected it, he had hoped she would be more understanding. She said she could see into his heart. Why hadn’t she at least tried?
He stood, far too agitated to remain still another moment.
Okay, so it looked bad. There was no denying the story, nor the fact that it had been filled with facts that she had supplied him. Given the circumstances, just about anyone would have believed the worst about him.
But Cassie wasn’t just any woman. Cassie had that crazy special gift of hers. Cassie knew things - things that no one else knew. Why hadn’t she been able to read into his heart this time when she had done it so easily before?
Bitterness began to eat at him, gnawing away at him until he felt raw inside. She could have at least given him a chance to explain instead of being so damned willing to believe he had used her. She should have known he would never betray her.
Bitterness turned into anger, anger into indignation. There was a lot that needed to be straightened out between Cassie and him, damn it, and he wasn’t in much of a mood to wait around until tomorrow to do it.
In less than five minutes he was dressed and out of the house. He started to take his car, then decided against it. His instincts told him that the time it took to walk to her house would help him to harness his anger. Even though he was furious with her, what he really wanted was to win her back. Given his present mood, if he wasn’t careful he stood a good chance of losing her forever.
That thought was one he simply could not live with.
It was nearly midnight and the moon was at its fullest. Under normal circumstances, the coven would be gathering in their favorite meadow, preparing for a ceremony of worship to the Goddess. Cassie stood on her front porch gazing at the brilliant moon, wondering if she and her Wiccan sisters would ever gather together like that again.
She lamented that their beautiful, secluded meadow had been ruined forever. The horrible manner in which it had been desecrated sickened her. How could they ever return to it now?
Her spirit grew restless. She missed her spiritual sisters. She missed the ceremony of worship that should be happening at this very moment. And yes, more than anything else she missed Mac.
She had been wrong to accuse him so rashly, without giving him a chance to defend himself. In her shock she had allowed herself to see him as others did, as a cold, calculating journalist, so ruthless in his drive to get the story that he would do anything to break down her resistance. Some would say he would even go so far as to make her fall in love with him.
But she knew him better than that. She knew him like no one had ever known him. She had seen into his soul, and what she had seen convinced her he would not have written that article. She had let her faith in him falter and for that she must make amends.
Just how she was to do this was a mystery. She needed guidance. Her mind was in such turmoil. Oh, how she longed for the support of her Wiccan sisters. More than anything, she needed the peace and understanding that came with their worship.
Well, that was something she could do something about, she realized. She turned back to her house to retrieve everything she would need to cast a cir
cle.
She could worship right here in the clearing that surrounded her home. Tall redwoods formed a protective crescent. At the base of the cliff the vast Pacific Ocean glittered with dancing lights from the full moon, creating an ever-moving panorama.
She stood still for a moment, gazing at the sight before her, consciously letting go of the negativity that threatened to crush her. Sighing softly, she felt herself begin to embrace the Goddess’ gifts as she invited nature’s pure energy to enter her, to cleanse her.
Re-entering the house, she prepared the pre-ritual bath. As she cleansed herself in the salted water, she reached out for the tranquil state she wished to bring to the ceremony. Sponging herself with the purifying water, she concentrated on the ritual she was about to perform.
Stepping from the tub, she dried herself. She ignored the chill of the night air as she once again stepped outside. She did not cover her body. She needed to feel the comforting rays of the moon on her skin. She needed to bare herself entirely to the Goddess.
Placing candles at the four compass points, she stepped gracefully in a clockwise pattern, lighting them as she uttered a petition to the Goddess to witness and protect her ritual. Using her athame, a silver ceremonial dagger, she traced a pentagram in the air, invoking the guidance and assistance of the Goddess.
As she proceeded, uttering the lilting words of her ritual, she felt a special peace enter her. She became one with the ritual until all else slipped from her consciousness. All that was left was herself and the Goddess. She felt the blessing flow over her, purifying her. She opened herself, glorifying in the pure love and goodness of the Goddess. Nothing else existed but this moment.
Mac stood at the edge of the woods, shadowed by the huge trees. He knew he should leave. Watching Cassie moving gracefully within the confines of the circle that only she could see, dressed in only the shimmering rays of moon glow, made him feel like a voyeur. It was wrong of him to invade the most private aspect of her life like this.
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