Jane nodded, stood. Her hands were trembling. She took off her coat, took off her dress, took off her undergarments. She was crying as she placed her clothing on the chair, sobbing by the time she lay down on the bed. Her legs and feet were pressed tightly together, and standing to the side of the bed, William cleared his throat to get her attention and motioned with his hand that she was to spread her legs open.
She did so, sobbing loudly now, her hands held over her face so she could not see him, as if, by shielding her face she could shield the rest of her body.
He set the candle on her stomach, carefully placed a rag between her legs. Closing his eyes, he concentrated for a moment, gathering the strength he needed. As always, it started with a tingle deep in his midsection, a fluttering of
the heart that grew into a warm vibration and spread outward through his body, through his limbs, into his head, lighting up the world inside his brain.
He opened his eyes, and the room was tinged with extra color.
Everything had a halo about it, auras of different tint that emanated from the walls, from the floor, from the ceiling, from the furniture, and especially, from the girl.
Her head was bathed in yellow, most of her body in blue, but both the candle on her stomach and her abdomen had auras of gray.
William took a deep breath, then slowly passed his hands over her abdomen, muttering the Words that would terminate her pregnancy. From the hairy cleft between her legs came a small trickle of blood that was immediately soaked up by the rag. Jane was still crying, but from shame and humiliation. It was obvious that she felt no pain.
Once more his hands passed over her, and this time a gloppy mess spilled out from between her legs onto the rag, a bloody mass of undistinguishable flesh that he quickly covered and took away. He tossed the entire rag in the fire, said a few Words, then turned back toward the girl. "It is over," he told her. "You may dress."
She took her hands from her face, and the expression he saw, in the second before he turned away to give the girl her privacy, was one of surprise. She had not known it was over because she had not even known it had started.
He heard from behind him the creak of bed and floorboard, the rustle of clothes. It was not over yet, however. His premonition of lurking disaster had not abated one whit, and though the auras were fading before his eyes, though the tingle in his body had subsided into almost nothing, he still had the sense that something was wrong, that what had transpired here tonight would lead to... to... To what? Death.
Yes, death. Whether his own or Jane's he did not know, but he tried to hurry her up, tried to get the girl out the door and back on the path to town before anything occurred. She tried to pay him, offered to work off her debt to him for his kindness and help, but he told her he would accept no payment. He did this because he wanted to help her, not because he wanted anything for himself. She did not right him but allowed herself to be hurried out.
He watched her through the window as she sprinted back toward town, moonlight illuminating her form until she hit a small dip in the trail and faded into the shadows.
William poured himself some tea from the kettle above the fire and sat in the chair, waiting, but his sense of foreboding did not go away. He was debating whether to saddle up and ride off for a few days, maybe spend a week or so in the hills until whatever this was had passed, when he heard noises from outside.
Someone knocked on the door.
This is it. "
He nearly spilled the tea on his lap, getting up, but he managed to avoid burning himself and placed the cup on the mantel above the fireplace.
The knock came again, louder, stronger, not the friendly sound of a neighbor's tapping hand but the hard, demanding rap of wood on wood.
William walked across the room, pulled back the bolt, and opened the door.
Six or seven men stood on the porch, ax handles and shotguns in hand.
Even backlit by the moon, their forms in silhouette, their faces bathed in darkness, William could see defensiveness in their postures, anger in the way they held their weapons. Beneath everything, he could sense their fear. He had been through all of this before.
"Come in," he said, feigning a camaraderie he did not feel. "We didn't come for no visit," the closest man said.
William recognized the low rough voice of Calhoun Stevens, Jane's father. The big man stepped over the threshold. "We know what you did."
"And we know what you is!" came the jittery voice of an old man at the back.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," William lied.
Stevens raised his ax handle threateningly. "I know my daughter was here tonight. I know what you did to her!"
Jane could not have told, William realized. These men could not have been gathered and ridden out here in that short time. It had to have been her friend, the one who'd given her his name.
The men pushed forward. Stevens slammed his ax handle against the cabin wall. "We're here to make sure you can never do anything like that again."
"We know what you is!" the man in back repeated. There was going to be no easy way out of this, William understood. These men had not come to talk, and they were not prepared to listen. They were obviously afraid of him, and they'd obviously had to build themselves up to this.
As they pressed farther into the room, he could smell whiskey breath, ' He could use their fear against them. It was his last chance to avoid violence.
He stood straight and moved next to the fire, aware of the image the flickering orange flames would produce. "You know what I am?" he said. 'Then, you know what I can do."
He concentrated, caused the flames to leap and grow in a roaring whoosh that sped up the chimney.
The men, all of the men except Stevens, stumbled backward.
"She's my daughter! Stevens said, advancing. "
William stood still, gathering his strength, hoping he wouldn't have to use the magic, knowing he would. "I have
not touched your daughter." He glanced quickly around the room, taking inventory, deciding what he would need to take with him, what he could afford to leave. He would miss this place.
Stevens swung at him.
William ducked, expecting it. The ax handle knocked down the mantel above the fireplace, the objects atop it clattering and breaking on the wooden floor. Before the big man could attack again, William waved his hand and caused the ax handle to fly from Stevens' hand.
"Stop right now," he warned. "Leave my house or I will not be responsible." From the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of the men nearest the door edge their way back outside. No one was rushing forward to help Stevens.
His muscles were shaking. Anger and power coursed through him. When he saw that Stevens had no intention of leaving or backing off, when he saw that the father's rage and pride were running too high, William steeled himself. Stevens rushed him. "Die, witch!"
He'd clearly expected his friends to help, but as William began chanting some of the Words, as the fireplace roared again and a green flame leapt out and struck Stevens full in the face, the other men fled, scrambling to get out the door.
William continued chanting and the green flame grew, spreading down the big man's body, engulfing him, freezing him in place. Beneath the sickly illumination of the unnatural fire, Stevens' body blackened, crumpled, started to melt.
William looked out the open door at the men and horses running away, their forms little more than scrambling shadows in the moonlight.
They'd scurry back to town, and soon they'd be back, with more men, more weapons. The righteous townspeople marching forth to put an end to the evil witch and his black arts
All because a girl had fallen in love with someone other than the boy her father wanted her to marry. And he had helped her. William sighed.
He'd thought this kind of persecution was over, that the haled and horror of the old days had faded.
But it wasn't, it hadn't, it never would.
The green flames were gone, and he stared down at t
he twisted black lump that had once been a body, thinking of his mother. He remembered the way she had looked at the stake, remembered the panicked expression on her doomed face, remembered the way her eyes had scanned over him without recognition, mistaking him for merely another face in the hostile crowd that was putting her to death. "Run!" the man with the torch had ordered her, and she had run in place as the fire caught, as first the kindling and then the bigger branches had begun to burn. She had continued to run as the sack dress she was wearing ripped open, had continued to run naked as around her the blaze grew.
He touched the twisted form with his foot. In his mind, as clear as if it had been yesterday, he heard the sound of his mother screaming as the flames scorched her skin, as her legs blackened and she started to burn. He'd wanted her to save herself, to use whatever magic she had left and kill however many men she could, and he had not understood at the time why she'd gone down passively, why she hadn't struck back.
But he knew now that she'd done it for him. Any indication that the judge was right, that she really was a witch, would have ensured that he, too, would be put to the stake. But dying this way had kept alive a flicker of doubt in the townspeople's minds, had guaranteed him life.
Men like Stevens and his friends had killed his mother, and though he understood that they feared what they did not understand, it did not excuse their actions. He felt no qualms
about putting an end to Stevens' life. It had been kill or be killed--as it was so often out here in the territories--and he would do the same thing over again if given the chance.
But he had no time to dally. They would be back. He gathered his bag of writings and powders, took whatever food and clothing he could fit onto the horse, and headed out. He considered torching the house, leaving behind no evidence, but then they'd know for sure he'd fled.
This way they'd search the house and the property before giving chase.
It would buy him some time.
He ran the horse at first, but then slowed it to a trot. If the gathering posse really wanted, he knew, they would be able to overtake him. Maybe not the first day. But the second. Or the third. And he thought it better to appear less desperate. Let them know he was leaving, but also let them think that he was not afraid, that he was confident enough of his powers that he did not need to run.
From behind him, he heard the sound of a shotgun, its thunderous blast amplified and echoing in the cold winter night. He told the horse it was nothing and made the animal continue forward at its leisurely pace.
Even if one of the men was shooting at him--which he doubted--none of the bullets would find their mark. The first thing he had done was cloak himself in a protective spell that was strong enough to shield him from all but a direct blow with a handheld weapon. "
Ahead of him was blackness..
Behind him echoed the sound of another shotgun blast. He looked up at the position of the moon. It was after midnight, he realized. It was Christmas. When the sun rose, the men behind him would be opening presents, giving thanks to God, going to church. =
He sighed. It didn't matter.
He continued slowly forward into the darkness.
It wasn't a day he recognized anyway.
The body was torn in half lengthwise. Literally torn. Like a piece of paper. With the entire right side of the connected head, torso and abdomen pulled down so that the man's left half and right halves were touching only at the feet.
He had never seen or heard of anything like this happening before, and Miles stared with revulsion and horror at the spilled guts and broken bits of bone that littered the bloody hardwood floor. He felt like throwing up, and it was only through an effort of sheer will that he managed to keep down his breakfast.
It was the smell that was the worst, the disgusting stench of bile and excrement and bodily fluids. He was forced to hold his hand over his nose, and he wished that the policemen and forensic experts would offer him a surgical mask like the ones they were wearing.
Graham Donaldson had called him find Graham Stood next to him now, watching as the police dusted for fingerprints, collected trace evidence, and photographed the crime scene. Miles didn't know why the lawyer wanted him here-as a witness perhaps, as a nonofficial observermbut Graham was a friend, and he had come automatically.
He had not been prepared for what he'd found.
A criminalist crouched near the shattered left half of the head and gathered a sample of blood from the brain cavity. Miles turned away.
His no irish fantasies had sometimes involved murder cases, but those dreams had crashed to earth
in the first second he'd seen the body---or what was left of it. He realized how lucky he was to be working in a downtown office suite with computers and ergonomic office furniture and nice clean paperwork.
He'd never complain about being a glorified clerk again. Miles turned to Graham. "So why, exactly, am I here?" The lawyer shrugged. "I thought you might be able to help me find out who did this. I figured it'd be better if you were at the scene and could oversee what the cops were doing rather than simply read about it afterward and look at pictures."
At this, two of the nearest policemen turned toward them.
Graham ignored the hostile stares. "I need to know if it was someone from or someone hired by Thompson."
Miles turned back toward the body. Montgomery Jones was supposed to have met Graham at Jerry's Famous Deli in the Valley to go over their strategy before heading over to a deposition session with Thompson's lawyers. Miles had managed to dig up some pretty good statistical dirt on the company's minority hiring practices, as well as a rather incriminating quote from Thompson's CEO, and Graham had been excited about his client's chances for a settlement and was anxious to discuss it with him.. Only Montgomery had never shown.
His body had been found, two hours later, here, in the old carriage house near the Whittier Narrows dam.
"I have no legal status here," Miles pointed out. ]hey told me to stay behind the tape, and I have to---"
"I know that," Graham snapped. "Don't talk to me about 'legal status."
"'
Miles raised an eyebrow.
"I'm sorry," the lawyer apologized. "It's just ... It's a stressful situation. I know you can't go conducting a private investigation of your own. You weren't even hired by him or technically working for him. You're working for me. But
I was hired by him, and I mean to see that his killer is brought to justice."
'he cops seem to be doing a thorough job."
"I just wanted you as a witness in case they weren't. I don't know what I'm going to do or how I'm going to handle this, and I want to make sure all my bases are covered from the begining
It was what he'd figured, d Miles nodded, satisfied. He glanced around the carriage house, at the antique horse carts and livery, at the huge ham like doors. Were the doors open all the time? There didn't seem to be any padlocks or locks of any sort, and the chain-link fence around the Whittier Narrows recreation area had been breached in several places. Anyone could have come in here.
Thompson Industries could be playing hardball, but somehow Miles didn't think so. Ruthless businessmen they might be, but he didn't think they could afford the public relations nightmare of being associated with a criminal act. Particulary not one this heinous.
Besides, even if they were into this stuff, they would've been more discreet. Montgomery would not have been so publicly dispatched. He would have just disappeared.
This wasn't the work of a corporation trying to avoid a lawsuit, this was the work of... of what?
A monster, was his first thought, but that didn't make any sense. There were no such things as monsters. Still, he could not imagine how this could have been done, how a person or even a gang of people could have physically accomplished this act, and the only image that would come to mind when he looked at Montgomery's torn form was that of an overgrown Frankenstein, a huge, grotesque creature angrily grabbing the man and tearing him in two.<
br />
Goose bumps cascaded down the skin of his arms.
The two of them stood there for a moment, watching the police at work.
"You don't think it's connected to Thompson," Graham asked, "do you?"
Miles looked at him. "Do you?"
The lawyer shook his head. "I don't know what did this."
Miles parked his car on the street instead of in the lot, pulling into an empty space in a green twenty-minute zone. He just needed to grab some files and addresses, to rush in and rush out, and he didn't want to waste any more time. The trip out to Whittier had cost half the day, and he had to tie up several loose ends on old cases before getting to the stalking of Marina Lewis' father.
He got out of the car, walked into the building. He felt tired, and he understood for the first time how cops and lawyers, psychiatrists and doctors became burned out. Death was draining. Between his father and Montgomery Jones, he'd seen enough of sickness, death, and dying to last a lifetime.
He punched the button for the elevator. The doors slid open immediately, and he rode up to the agency's office. He closed his eyes. He could not get the image of Montgomery's body out of his mind, and he realized that he knew some thing about himself he hadn't known this morning when he woke up: he was not cut out to have a high-stress job. He was not one of those people who rose to a challenge, who thrived under pressure. It was a sobering thought, and as the elevator doors opened, he understood that despite his petty complaints, he was generally content with his lot in life. He didn't want to be a real detective, he didn't want to solve real crimes. He wanted work that was mildly interesting, mildly stimulating.
He nodded to Naomi, Hal, Tran, and Vince, walked straight over to his cubicle, grabbed the folders he needed, and headed back down the elevator and outside.
He'd called Marina Lewis last night and apologized for
the delay, asking if she'd rather have the case transferred to Hal or one of the other investigators, but she'd been understanding and assured him that she'd rather the case remain with him.
The Walking Page 4
