That still left a lot of ground to cover, but not an infinite amount. Cormac knew what her car looked like, what she looked like. She would be on the defensive after their encounter. That was fine. He found a pencil and started circling spots on Gregory’s map. Old-fashioned footwork might just do the trick, no magic needed. That was the trouble with magic. Once you had it, you stopped using other tools.
“There,” Cormac said, tapping the page. “I bet she’s in one of those spots. I can probably check most of them before dark.”
Gregory studied the map as if checking his work, then rocked back, nodded sagely. “I guess you don’t need me.”
“Wouldn’t say that. I don’t drink tea, but Amelia does.”
“Well then. Let me know when I can brew a pot for her.”
Cormac slipped on his sunglasses, took the map, and walked out.
He thought of renting a different car so that Isabelle Durant wouldn’t see the Jeep coming and know it was him. Then he thought, fuck it. He knew his Jeep, relied on it, and this hunt was going to take him on some pretty sketchy roads. Let her see him coming.
The Black Hills were familiar territory, reminding him of the Rockies. Curving mountain roads cut through vast pine forests, tourist spots mixed with out-of-the-way farms, weathered ancient houses and more modern but no less weathered mobile homes. Cormac looked for public parks and abandoned lots, three or four turns off the main highway but not so out of the way that a parked car would draw attention. Every tan SUV he saw, he looked at twice.
Then he turned east, through Rapid City and to the prairie beyond. County roads stretched for miles. Along these he found a patchwork of farms and homesteads. He looked for the kinds of charms and runes and talismans a desperate magician might put up to keep someone like him out.
At one point he found himself on a rise, a hill that overlooked miles of sweeping prairie and winding gulches. He got out his binoculars and searched, as if he could spot a flare of magic boiling up like a wildfire. He could not.
He got out a thread and nail, Amelia’s magical pendulum that would point directly to powerful magic. Dozens of times, he’d held the thread, let the nail dangle and point, and Amelia had interpreted its movements. Now. . .the nail just hung there. He couldn’t tell anything.
Coming on sunset, he still hadn’t found signs of Durant and her car, but he still had a few more roads to drive down. Patience, always patience. He’d hunted tougher prey than this in his time.
Twenty miles north of Rapid City, flashing red and blue lights lit up his rearview mirror. They seemed particularly glaring in the half-light of dusk. And yes, they were targeting him, because no one else was driving on this stretch of road. He did not have time for this. . . He hadn’t been doing anything wrong, he was sure of it. He usually even kept to the speed limit, just so he’d never have to talk to cops again. That might have been his biggest goal in life, never talk to cops again as long as he lived. He considered punching the gas, running, but only for half a second. He was on a long, straight country road with no turns ahead and a line of sight that went for miles. No place to hide. Running would just hand them an excuse. Dutifully, lawfully, he pulled over, turned off the engine, kept his hands on the steering wheel. The window was already rolled down.
Two officers stepped out of the patrol car. Both male, white, on the young side. If they’d run his plates they’d already know about his record. At least they didn’t have their weapons drawn. Then again, Cormac was white, too, even if he was a felon.
The taller one had light hair, a bit of paunch. His buddy had dark hair and a sour expression. Cormac didn’t even try to smile. He waited for them to ask for his license and registration before moving to get them.
“Sir, please step out of the car,” the tall cop said.
His breath caught, and his hands tightened on the wheel. Cormac wasn’t prone to panic. He was used to being in control. This, the instant racing heart and sweat on his palms—this was trauma. Everything he’d been through, and what got him were a couple of regular cops standing outside his car.
Taking several slow breaths, he steadied himself. Kept his hands in view and moved slowly.
“Is something wrong?” he asked stupidly. Of course something was wrong.
“I just need you to step out of the car please, sir.” The voice was calm, professional. Arguing would do no good here. Cormac opened the door, climbed out. Steady. . .
“ID please?”
Slowly, always slowly, Cormac reached into his back pocket for his wallet and handed over his driver’s license. The taller cop perused it, handed it back. The second cop walked around the Jeep, studying the tires and wheel wells. Cormac tried not to watch him.
“Can you tell me where you were between three and six this afternoon?”
“Driving. Seeing the sights,” he said.
“Can anyone confirm that?”
They were trying to establish an alibi. What was going on? “I think I stopped for fast food in Rapid City. You can ask them.”
“But no confirmation for the rest of the time?”
Calmly, carefully, he asked, “What’s the matter, officer? What’s happened?”
“We’d like you to come to the station with us, to answer some more questions, if you don’t mind.”
Not enough calm in the world for this. “Am I under arrest?”
The cop regarded him a moment. He exchanged a glance with his partner, now standing near the Jeep’s left front wheel. The second cop shook his head ever so slightly.
“No, sir,” the taller cop said. Frewer, the name badge on his uniform read. “We just need you to answer some questions for us. You can follow us to the station in your Jeep.”
“Saves you having to tow it later, I guess,” Cormac said with a sour grin. Frewer matched it.
They were looking for something. Cop two, checking out the car—maybe a hit and run? No, they’d get his contact info and let him go for that. This was something else. Something worse. They drove off, and he followed in the Jeep just like they asked, nice and steady, with exactly enough space between them.
On the way, he called Ben, his cousin and sometime lawyer. Ben picked up on the first ring.
“Cormac. What’s wrong?”
Yeah, he guessed maybe he should call on birthdays or holidays or some time when he wasn’t in trouble. “I’ve just been pulled over by cops and I’m on the way to the police station in Rapid City, South Dakota.”
In the pause that followed, Cormac listened for background noise, but couldn’t make out anything that would tell him where Ben was, and what Cormac was interrupting.
“Okay,” Ben finally said. “How bad is it?”
“Don’t know yet. They say they want to ask questions, which probably means something’s happened.”
“And you’re the guy standing in the wrong place with a criminal record.”
“That’s what I figure. Just thought I should give you a heads-up.”
“Thanks,” he said wryly, almost but not quite chuckling. They’d had plenty of conversations like this before. Well, not just like this. More often than not, Cormac actually had done something that the police would be interested in. “And why are you in Rapid City, South Dakota?”
“It was supposed to be a job. Things aren’t going well.” Cormac blew out a sigh.
“Okay, if you want me to worry, I’m worried.”
“Let me see what these guys want. I’ll call you back and try to explain.”
“What’s Amelia say?” Ben asked.
He definitely didn’t want to talk about her just now. “Look, I can’t really talk. I just wanted to let you know where I am.”
“Do I need to drive out there?”
“No. Well, not yet.”
“Cormac. . .”
“Fine. It’ll be fine.” He clicked off before Ben could be any more admonishing.
At the station, Officer Frewer placed him in his very own conference room and offered a cup of coffee, which
Cormac accepted. Was desperate to accept. He didn’t feel sharp, wanting only to wrap his hands over his head and shut out the world. Amelia, what would she say, where was she, what was happening to her. . .
He waited another twenty minutes before the door opened and a woman in a pantsuit entered, a couple of manila folders in hand. A detective with a case, looked like. This definitely didn’t look good. Cormac straightened and was determined to be as polite and straightforward as he possibly could. He needed to get out of here.
“Mr. Bennett?” the woman said in a business-like manner. She was average height and build, maybe forty. Her brown hair was pulled back in a bun, and she wore dark-rimmed glasses. “I’m Detective Nielson. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Yeah, so I was told. What’s happened?”
Frowning, she looked him over. Sat across from him and set down the folders. “Where were you between three and six today?”
“I told Officer Frewer, I was driving. I don’t have any corroborating witnesses.”
“You sound like you’ve been questioned about this sort of thing before.”
She might have been making a joke. Then again, maybe not. He couldn’t win.
Opening one of the folders, she studied a page there. It was a show; she wouldn’t have come in without her questions already lined up. “You did time for manslaughter in Colorado?”
“I did,” he said, looking off to a corner of the room, wondering what he’d have to say to make this finish sooner. “Time off for good behavior even.”
“Hmm,” she murmured. “What brings you to Rapid City?”
“Work,” he said truthfully.
“What kind of work?”
“I’m a freelance investigator.” Also not a lie.
“Investigating what?”
He winced. Yeah, that was going to be the hard part to explain. “Usually stuff that no one else wants to investigate. Haunted houses, old cursed burial grounds.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t mean anything.
The way she stared, he couldn’t tell if she was a believer or a skeptic. “There a lot of that going around? Cursed burial grounds?”
“Google Cheesman Park in Denver. You’d be surprised.”
“Aubrey Walker hired you?” Nielson asked.
That made Cormac sit up a little straighter, and the skin on the back of his neck crawled. “That’s. . .a little complicated. Someone pretending to be Aubrey Walker hired me. Used Professor Walker’s credentials to get me to take a job. There was a mix-up.” How much of this was he going to have to explain? Because he wasn’t sure he could, not in a way that would make sense to a hard-assed police detective.
“But you met with Professor Walker yesterday?”
“I did, yes. She helped me figure out that someone was pretending to be her. A woman named Isabelle Durant. We tracked her down on the security cameras over at the dig headquarters.”
Nielson betrayed nothing, not so much as a flicker of understanding. “Have you seen Professor Walker since your meeting yesterday?”
“No, I’ve been trying to track down this Durant person, find out what she really wants.” Cormac was just about done being polite. “Detective Nielson, what happened?”
She pressed her lips together and drew a couple of eight-by-ten photos from the second folder. Crime scene photos showing Aubrey Walker’s dead body. She looked like she was on a gravel road, sprawled at awkward angles, legs bent, arms flung out, head to the side, eyes staring. Blood covered half her face, pouring from a combination of abrasions and a gash across her forehead. Her shirt was spattered with blood, her hair disheveled. Like she’d been hit by a car or something.
He closed his eyes. This wasn’t fair. This was wrong, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He hadn’t done the deed but he was pretty sure Aubrey was dead because of him.
“Aubrey Walker was alive the last time you saw her?” Nielson asked. “You’re sure?”
“What happened?” Cormac asked again, his voice rough. “She was hit by a car, wasn’t she?”
Nielson nodded. “Probably at high speed. She probably went over the top. Death would have been almost instantaneous.”
“People always say that like it’s a good thing.”
“Some of us don’t like to think about innocent people suffering. I very much want to know who did this.”
He flipped through the pictures, not spending much time on them. Aubrey had suffered, even if only for a few seconds. Nielson had to know that. One of the pictures set the scene, a country road, probably near the dig headquarters. Durant had known where the dig headquarters were. So did Cormac.
“Your patrol officers searched the outside of my car,” he said. “They didn’t find anything.”
“You could have washed it.”
“Go out and take a look at it yourself, I haven’t washed it in months.”
“I already did, Mr. Bennett. And you’re right. You really should give that thing a wash.”
That was why they let him drive here himself. He ran a hand through his hair, wondered what else Nielson was looking for. She was looking for a confession. For a missing piece that would give Cormac a reason to kill the archeologist.
Cormac couldn’t get arrested. He couldn’t go back to prison. He wouldn’t. He had to get out of this room, he had to—
“Mr. Bennett? Tell me about your contact with Aubrey Walker. From the beginning.”
“I’m not sure I can explain it. It’s. . .strange.”
“Even more reason for you to explain it.”
“You ever met a werewolf or a vampire, Detective? Or a witch?”
“Like. . .on that crazy radio show?”
The Midnight Hour. Kitty’s show. Cormac knew the talk-radio advice show well and had accidentally appeared on it a couple of times. “Yeah,” he said, chuckling. “Exactly like that.”
“There’s some weird stuff in the world, is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
He told the story as simply as he could, leaving Amelia out of it because that really would complicate things. He produced the printout of Durant’s picture from his pocket and smoothed it flat. Nielson studied it.
Cormac tapped the photo. “I think I’m being framed. Durant’s first hit against me failed. So now she’s trying something a little more dramatic.”
“And where is Isabelle Durant now?”
“I’d sure like to know.”
The photos of Aubrey’s body remained on the table. Cormac couldn’t not look at them. This woman was dead because of him. He’d come into her life and this was what happened.
Finally, Nielson collected the photos and other papers and slipped them back in their folder. “Mr. Bennett, I’d like you to give me a full accounting of your whereabouts, where you’ve been and anyone else you’ve talked to, since you arrived in the area.”
Which included hours and hours of sitting in the Jeep with no one to verify. “Am I being charged with anything?”
“Not yet. Finish that accounting and you can go.”
“Can I talk to my lawyer first? I have him on speed dial.”
She frowned; he was making her job difficult. “How about this. Just don’t leave town. You think you can do that?”
“You know I didn’t do it. But it would sure look good on paper to charge me with it. Durant’s counting on that.”
Scowling, Nielson drew a card out of her pocket and slid it across the table. “You think of anything you forgot to tell me, or if you get a lead you think I’d like to know about, you call me.”
“I can go?”
“For now.”
She was going to have a patrol car on him until he left the state, he was pretty sure. But at least she let him go.
Outside, away from prying ears, he called Ben back.
“They let me go,” he said in greeting.
“Are you going to tell me the whole story now?” Ben demanded.
Cormac started to. He int
ended to. But Ben would have too many questions. “It’s complicated,” he said, and Ben’s sigh of frustration on the other end of the line was obvious. “I’ve been told not to leave town.”
“That’s just in case they need to talk to you again. It doesn’t mean anything.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“There’s a body, Ben. Someone I had contact with a couple days ago. I didn’t do it.” What did it mean, that he had to say that out loud, even to Ben? “They don’t have any physical evidence. But my record’s raising eyebrows.”
“What’s the detective’s name? I’ll see if I can hit up my contacts, call Detective Hardin here, find out if we can pull any strings.”
“Put in a good word for me?”
“Something like that. Meanwhile don’t do anything that’ll get you in trouble. In any more trouble.”
He chuckled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Call me if you need me out there. I’ll drop everything.”
A baby started crying in the background, which meant Ben was home, and Kitty and their son Jon were there, a nice domestic scene, and that was where Ben ought to be putting his attention. He shouldn’t be worrying about Cormac.
“You don’t need to do that,” Cormac said. “It’ll be fine.”
The baby cried harder. Cormac couldn’t imagine what must have been going on there. He still wasn’t used to the way babies could just wail.
“Cormac—I gotta go. Call me.” It was a command.
“Yeah.” The line clicked off.
Badlands Witch: A Cormac and Amelia Story Page 6
