War-N-Wit, Inc. - The Coven (War-N-Wit, Inc. - Book 3)

by Roughton, Gail

  “How much of that did you get?”

  “I knew there was an emergency of some sort as soon as the real Sister grabbed you and pulled you in. And I knew you could help, that it was the real reason we were here in the first place. Heard the ambulance coming blocks away, knew right away it was headed to the Mission. But I don’t know what kind of emergency.”

  I filled him in.

  “So what about our ol’ Dapper Dandy Dan?”

  “Can you see if there’s a back door?”

  * * *

  Talk about brass balls. Dandy Dan must have them. Through all that pandemonium with the ambulance, he was still out front manning the donations desk. I glanced back towards the dormitory room, making sure the curtains didn’t show any shadow behind them. All clear. I went out the door to Father Dan.

  “Father, can you please come help with me something? It won’t take a minute.”

  He looked at the donations box.

  “I really shouldn’t leave—”

  “No problem. We’ll just take it inside with us.” Jerk. That box might have twenty bucks in it but he couldn’t leave it for a minute to help a nun? Even if I wasn’t really a nun? This was one skip I really wanted to take in. I picked the box up and he followed the money like a dog following a bone.

  “Okay, let’s get this done. What do you need?”

  I motioned him ahead of me towards the dormitory.

  “I need help getting the cot mattress changed. The one that just had a baby delivered on it isn’t reusable, now is it?”

  He turned around with a pained expression on his face, slightly green around the gills, and started back toward the door, moving fast.

  “Oh, no, not my department, that’s not my—”

  I stuck my foot out and he sprawled on the floor. Chad, moving with his usual cat-like speed in such situations, appeared from behind the curtains and jerked Dan’s left hand up. He slapped a handcuff on it, grabbed his right hand and repeated the process.

  “You mean it’s honest birth blood, not blood money, huh? Well, you’re right about one thing. Your hands really shouldn’t touch it. They’re too dirty.”

  “Not you again?”

  “Oh, yeah, Danny Boy. It’s me.”

  He hauled Dandy Dan up and we started out the door just as two more Sisters started in.

  “What in Heaven’s name is going on here? Why are you manhandling Father Dan?”

  I figured I was the best person to defuse this situation. After all, we shopped at the same clothes store.

  “Sisters, I’m Sister Mary Agrippa. Did Sister Marie by any chance call in for reinforcements?”

  “Why yes, she did, Sister! And she said you were amazing! So why is Father Dan—”

  “Sisters, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but Father Dan’s been using the Mission as his front. He’s not even a priest. He’s just a bail-jumping con man who’s been using you as cover while he stole money intended to help the kids.”

  “Oh, no!” The stricken looks on their faces hurt. But then, their lives truly were based on faith. And it infuriated me all over again that Dandy Dan could do this and not even care.

  “I’m sorry, Sisters.” One look at Chad told me it hit him the same way. “But he won’t be bothering anyone for quite some time. I don’t know how much is in his donations box over there, but whatever it is, at least your work’ll get some of his collection efforts.”

  “No!” Dandy Dan didn’t look slightly green around the gills now. He looked really green.

  “Oh?” Chad’s eyebrow raised. “Maybe you’d better check that box, Sisters.”

  “Oh, but should we? Take tainted money?”

  I moved to the box and grabbed the lid. “Best way under Heaven to untaint it, Sister.” I looked down and my eyes widened. “Oh. My. God.”

  Dandy Dan groaned. Chad shuffled him over and looked down. He laughed.

  “So, Father Dan. You laundering drug money or you running bets?” The box held five big bundles of hundred dollar bills. Not a fortune, but enough for the Mission not to worry over the food bill for a while. Or any other bill.

  “But we can’t take that! It’s not ours! And it’s—it’s—”

  “If not the Mission’s, then whose is it?” I asked.

  “And who would you give it back to?” Chad added.

  “They’ll kill me over that money!” yelled Dan.

  “Oh dear, we can’t put anyone in danger—”

  “He exaggerates, Sister. He’ll be in a nice, safe jail. Who’ll hurt him?” asked Chad.

  “Well, the roof is in very bad shape, but—”

  “Fix the roof, Sister. And feed the kids well.”

  * * *

  “I dread telling Sister Marie I was a fake,” I said, walking down the hall of the maternity ward of the South Central Medical Center.

  “You’re lots of things, baby girl, but fake ain’t one of ‘em. Here it is.” He stopped in front of Room 577. We knocked on the semi-open door and were hailed in.

  “Yes?” Sister Marie came toward us. “I’m sorry, do I know—” She broke off and looked at my eyes. “Sister Mary Agrippa.”

  “Not exactly. I mean, not only. I mean—”

  “Child. Hush. Today you were Sister Mary Agrippa. And you did a great thing. Sister Grace and Sister Therese called and filled me in this afternoon about Father Dan. We do carry cell phones, you know.” She pulled hers out of the pocket of her habit. “Impossible to stay in touch and coordinate all our work in today’s world without them. It crossed my mind that as you left with the gentleman escorting Father Dan to the authorities, you might be with him.”

  “Yes. I’m Ariel Garrett, Sister. This is my husband, Chad.”

  She smiled and stuck out her beautiful, work-worn hand. “Very pleased to meet you, young man. You do this sort of thing often?”

  “Fairly often, yes ma’am.”

  “Did you get a chance to kick him in the balls on the way to turn him in?”

  I didn’t choke but it was a near thing.

  “No ma’am, I didn’t.”

  “Pity. I’d have done it for you had I been there. Oh, well. Come in, dear. Sandra, here’s the wonderful lady who helped us have that beautiful baby this afternoon. And Ariel, these are Sandra’s parents, Ed and Beverly Jamison. Sandra gave me their names and permission to call them while the doctors finished all the childbirth repairs.”

  “You came!” Sandra exclaimed. “You promised you would, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Of course she did!” Sister Marie frowned at her. “She promised and she’s a woman of her word. It’s in her eyes.”

  I smiled. “I’m so glad you called your parents, Sandra.” I turned to the Jamisons.

  “And so happy to meet you.”

  Both the Jamisons stood and shook my hand. “Thank you. For sending our daughter back.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I protested. “I’m sure she’d have called you this afternoon.”

  “Maybe.”

  We admired the baby for a few minutes and took our leave. Sister Marie took hers a few seconds later and called out behind us as we hit the elevator button.

  “Garretts!”

  We turned.

  “I don’t know exactly what you did but that baby would have been in trouble if you hadn’t calmed Sandra down. And I don’t believe for a minute she’d have called her parents without that parting salvo from you, I’ve been trying to get their names out of her for three months. And you, young man—” She turned to Chad. “You’ve done us a great service, getting that slime wad off the streets. Even if you didn’t kick him in the balls. You have great gifts, both of you. Gifts from God. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Chad said. “We do.”

  And we did. Because in the final analysis, all persons of power, every witch and warlock, knew there was an underlying power, a Grand Conductor, of the magic and music of the universe.

  “And you’ll never abuse those gifts.�
�

  “No ma’am.”

  “You’ll be in our prayers.”

  “Thank you, Sister. We take any help we get.”

  The elevator door opened and we stepped on. As the door closed, Sister Marie smiled and waved.

  “Blessed be, Garretts!”

  My eyes widened and the elevator slid downwards.

  “Do you think Sister Marie’s—”

  “One of us? Not necessarily. But I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I think I hear the Eagle calling. I’m ready for Daytona.”

  “Me too, baby girl. Me, too.”

  Chapter Three

  Spike pulled in just before dark Thursday afternoon behind the wheel of a shiny black F-350 pickup towing a shiny black and stainless steel motorcycle trailer. I glanced over at Chad, lost in cyberspace as he gazed into his computer screen. The Great Room of our island house wasn’t big but economically designed to serve as both general living and office space. Right now he didn’t even know where he was. I knew that look. He was tracing a skip and for Chad Garrett, that didn’t mean just finding the cyberspace trail of past addresses. He was out there himself, in cyberspace, mental eyes following the path of the person he was looking for. Watching him. Seeing him. Becoming him. Just as profilers followed the criminals they looked for.

  “Chad! Spike’s here!”

  Thor chimed in, too.

  Chad shook his head slightly and returned.

  “Damn good time, he only left yesterday morning.”

  We piled out to greet him, Thor in the lead. Raised a gentleman, he didn’t jump the guest’s bones but he sure wanted to. Spike laughed and patted his chest and Thor gave him a doggy hug, jumping off the ground a bit to include a face-wash.

  “Boy! I promise I washed my face this morning, you don’t need to worry about it!”

  Chad and Spike did the male thing good buddies do that starts with a handshake and ends up in a half-hug with lots of back pounding. Spike hugged me, grabbed a small bag and we headed in.

  “Is that all you brought?” I asked.

  “The Dark Angel’s already all packed up, honey.”

  Silly me. Of course it was. Our things were already packed in the Intimidator, too. One thing I’d learned about these bikers. Their bikes had names. Though I hadn’t known Spike’s Road King was the Dark Angel when I’d made its acquaintance back in Vegas. It was a monster, the epitome of biker luxury. The Intimidator wasn’t as big but it was sleeker, meaner-looking somehow. And it was a Honda, not a Harley-Davidson. Chad thought Hondas attracted less attention than Harleys. We frequently found ourselves in situations wherein the less attention attracted the better.

  Spike didn’t have to worry about that and couldn’t not attract attention if he tried. On first impression, at least in biker gear, Spike was a black-haired six foot six gorilla. He’d grown a beard for Bike Week, as had Chad. Gotta have a beard for Bike Week. I liked Chad’s so much I planned to campaign for permanent retention. On Spike, it was the crowning touch of gorilladom. Until you heard him talk, that is. His voice could melt butter.

  I glanced up at the porch as we climbed the steps, checking for Micah, the puzzle wrapped in an enigma. No way was he an ordinary barn cat, though I couldn’t call him my black cat. Micah wasn’t anybody’s cat. Exactly. And after his participation in our recent escapade with the Resurrection Society, sometimes I didn’t think he was even a cat. He liked to inspect all visitors as they passed, including prospective clients. Most were approved with a purr when they passed by. Occasionally, they’d rate a hiss. I didn’t doubt he’d approve of Spike and sure enough, he purred like the Dark Angel’s motor in high gear.

  “Hey, guy!” Spike paused and put his hand out to stroke Micah’s fur. True to form, Micah leapt nimbly off the porch railing into the tree branches.

  “Shy?” Spike asked.

  “Unique,” I said. “Long story.”

  “Your sister’s not here yet?”

  “She’s coming in tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s she do?”

  “She’s a paralegal. Like me.”

  “No, I mean is she—well, like you. Does she do anything—special?”

  “Sure, she’s special, she’s my little sister!”

  “You know what I meant.”

  Magic made Spike uncomfortable. He simultaneously believed and didn’t. He believed Chad and I had power but he didn’t understand how or why. Chad said he was in denial. He firmly believed Spike was a magical cauldron waiting to explode. I didn’t want to create any tension by telling him exactly where Stacy’s primary power lay.

  “Yes, honey, I’m sorry, but she’s special. We’re just a growing little private Coven here, sorry.”

  “Makes life exciting. Makes me feel needed, too. This group needs somebody to balance it out as the poor, ordinary human.”

  We’d just settled at the table with nachos and tall beers when Chad’s phone sounded. A ring-tone I’d never heard before. A ring-tone I didn’t like a bit. Because Chad tailored his ring-tones. Business calls arrived to the beat of “This Gun’s For Hire”. Informants were announced by “Down in the Boondocks”. Calls from the Guardians, a little-known group of folks who kept their fingers on the pulse of the Magic Kingdom, came in with the theme from “The Twilight Zone”. So it was a no-brainer to surmise a call coming in to the strains of “Secret Agent Man” couldn’t be good. Especially since I’d never heard it before. And especially when coupled with the look on Chad’s face when he looked at me, which didn’t even take into account the blank poker face Spike sported as he concentrated fiercely on the tortilla chips.

  I could hear the gears in Chad’s brain clicking. If he answered it, I’d hear the conversation. If he got up and went outside to answer it, I’d know he didn’t want me to hear the conversation. A lose-lose situation.

  He yanked the phone up to his ear, thumb hitting the button.

  “Yeah?” I could hear the voice on the other end but not well enough to make out any words. “When and where?” More indistinguishable noise. “I’ll look into it.” He ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket.

  “So,” I said lightly, scooping up the cheesy, meaty nacho sauce on a chip. I held it in front of my mouth for a minute. “Is your phone goin’ to self-destruct in sixty seconds or what?”

  I popped the chip into my mouth and chewed.

  He laughed. “Don’t suppose it’d help any to claim it was a wrong number?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Spike decided it was safe to relax his facial muscles. “Thought you didn’t, um, I mean, hadn’t, um—”

  “I don’t and I haven’t. Meant to change that damn ringtone, too.”

  “But not delete the number?” I raised my eyebrow slightly.

  “It’s not a number you can ever delete.”

  “Slavery’s been abolished in this country since 1863. No indentured servitude anymore, either.”

  “Sometimes you might need to know something only the caller from that number can tell you.”

  “Like somebody’s gotten out of the pen and is comin’ for you?”

  Spike laughed. “Damn, she’s good. You know she knows, Magic Man, why don’t you just spill it?”

  “Okay, it’s like this. All my work experience doesn’t show up on my resume.”

  I didn’t just laugh. In southern parlance, I hollered. I laughed so hard my sides hurt.

  “Oh!” I gasped for breath and tried to stop laughing. “Oh, that’s hysterical! So can you tell me something I don’t already know?”

  “Like I said, Magic Man, she’s damn good. Even if she couldn’t read your mind in the first place.”

  “I don’t read his mind, exactly, I just—”

  “Whatever the two of you do, you both do it damn good, darling. Close enough description for me.”

  “Okay, okay,” Chad said. “I did some
work a few years back for an agency that doesn’t advertise for employees. To mingle in groups where most people don’t fit in real well. That agency’s misplaced one of their guys and they want me to keep an eye open for him, that’s all.”

  “You rode undercover with an outlaw biker gang,” I said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did. The timing did. We’re leaving for Bike Week. If they know you, they know that. So that’s where they want you to look for the operative they’ve misplaced. So he’s a biker. I know most bikers and most motorcycle clubs are like you and Spike. They love motorcycles, riding, and the road. I also know there’re such things as outlaw gangs. And I don’t think there’d be any reason to have an operative go undercover in a regular bike club. Either you or the guy who’s gone MIA. Which operative would, by necessity, have to be a hell of a biker to begin with. How’m I doin’ so far?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Spike, that number ever ring on your phone?”

  “Oh, hell no!”

  “But you know about it.”

  “My connection’s through Chad. I just helped him out once, I never actually worked for ‘em.”

  “You don’t think it’s risky, runnin’ around Daytona during Bike Week? Like maybe somebody might recognize you?”

  “Baby girl, nobody’s going to recognize me.”

  “Because you had spiral curls down to your shoulders?”

  Spike laughed.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Half-way down my back, matter of fact. Red ones.”

  “Still the voice thing.”

  “Ain’t nobody goan connect Chad Garrett’s voice wid’a Alabama Sno’man, darlin’, ya know whut I mean, c’mon back?”

  My mouth dropped open. Chad’s voice was usually accentless, especially for Georgia where the southern lilt varied region to region, sometimes county to county. A stranger’d just spoken at my table, in a deep, backwoods country drawl that bore almost as little resemblance to Chad’s normal voice as it did to mine.