Mind Games

by Christine Amsden

  “Don’t tell me,” Cormack said before I even greeted him. “No new leads.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It’s been a month,”

  “I know how long it’s been.” I also knew that without any new information, we would never learn anything about David’s death.

  He had been found in the woods past town where werewolves were known to run during the full moon. He probably had not been killed there, but rather dumped there by someone who knew about the wolves and had counted on them to help hide any physical evidence. It had worked, since we hadn’t been able to establish a cause of death or produce any useful DNA evidence.

  “Maybe if you and your father would give me some more information about David’s enemies?” I suggested. We’d had this discussion before and I had little hope that it would go any further this time than it had before. Cormack knew things that might help lead me to the killer, but he refused to talk about them.

  “You know we don’t reveal family secrets,” Cormack said.

  “Then what, precisely, do you expect me to do?” I tried to keep my voice flat and emotionless, but I’m sure my irritation showed.

  Cormack flung something onto the reception counter. It only took me a moment to recognize one of the pamphlets from Gateway Christian Church. On the cover, in big bold letters, were the words: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Exodus 22:18”

  “I’ve seen these before.” The church had been giving out similar literature for as long as I could remember.

  “Open it,” Cormack said.

  Slowly, I opened the shiny red pamphlet, framed in fire, to the familiar text within. It warned against sorcery and encouraged people to fight the evil within our community. Since I’d read it before, none of that caught my attention. But thick, black, handwritten words immediately drew my gaze: “Repent by the next full moon or die.”

  “Where did you get this?” I asked.

  “I found it in the store when I was cleaning out some personal papers.” Cormack pointed at the pamphlet. “David was killed at the full moon, just like it said.”

  Closing my eyes for a moment, I tried to look at the new evidence in a logical, measured way. We didn’t know anything about the pamphlet except that Cormack had found it with David’s personal papers. For all I knew it had been there for years, in which case the timing of the attack at the full moon might have been a coincidence. A lot of magic culminated around the full moon – blood rites, werewolf transformations, and any number of spells.

  But it was a lead, and if there was even the slightest possibility that it might mean something then I had an obligation to follow it. The church changed the format of the hated pamphlets from time to time, which might help me narrow down the timing of the threat.

  “I need an evidence bag,” I called over my shoulder. A minute later someone thrust one into my hand and I carefully placed the pamphlet inside. After so many people had handled it there wasn’t much chance of finding fingerprint evidence, but a handwriting match wasn’t out of the question. Either way, I had every intention of doing this by the book to make sure the only lead in this case remained intact.

  “I’ll follow up on this.”

  “Good.” Cormack relaxed, slightly. “The pastor of that church has had it out for us for a long time.”

  I frowned, remembering something from my initial investigation of the case. “Isn’t he your cousin?”

  Cormack scowled. “He’s no relation of mine. If he killed my brother…” He let the implications hang.

  “In the unlikely event that he did kill your brother, he’ll go to jail.”

  “What if someone else in his church did it? Would he go free then?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s the difference if it was him or one of the parishioners he goaded into it?” He walked away before I had a chance to respond.

  4

  WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN, I VISITED the Gateway Christian Church of Eagle Rock with Angie. I had always suspected that her friendship with me had been something of a teenage rebellion, but I accepted it. Sheer, morbid curiosity also made me accept her invitation to attend the Wednesday night youth service, led by her father.

  I enjoyed the service. They played music for an hour, during which time the young people clapped and danced or, for the slower songs, held their hands in the air as if reaching out to God. The preacher then talked about resisting peer pressure and how to discover our own unique role within God’s greater plan. He made the message interesting and relevant, but then the preacher did something that made me distinctly uncomfortable. He asked that anyone who wanted to give their life to Jesus come forward to receive God’s healing grace. The invitation itself didn’t trouble me nearly as much as the people giving me meaningful looks after he issued it. One even nodded her head at the altar, telling me without words that she thought my soul was in danger and I needed to pray for salvation.

  Even the most confident of people might have felt doubt under those circumstances, and I had never felt all that confident. I had an ill-defined role within my family and the greater magical community. I questioned my value and my ability to affect change in the world, but for all that, I had never considered myself a bad person. Besides, I’d always thought of religion as an inherently personal thing, something to affirm in the privacy of one’s own heart rather than in front of a hundred witnesses.

  I didn’t go to the altar. But I felt the stares.

  Afterward, a group of girls, most of whom I knew from school but with whom I had rarely spoken, closed in around me. They practically cut off my supply of oxygen.

  “Are you saved?” one of them asked.

  “Um…” I honestly had no idea what she meant at the time. “I don’t think I’m in danger.”

  She gave me a half-exasperated smile. “I mean have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior?”

  “Oh.” This conversation was getting a little too personal and I desperately wanted to find an escape. My family had never been to church, largely because they blatantly practiced sorcery, but we believed in God. It wasn’t a traditional belief and as far as I know, we’ve never followed any particular religious tradition; we just borrowed a bit from everyone and made it our own. We tended toward the natural, earth-centric beliefs. Pagan, some called it, though I never found the term to be at all descriptive. My parents had always encouraged me to discover my own personal truths, which was one of the reasons I had agreed to go with Angie. I was curious.

  “Where do you go to church?” another girl asked. I didn’t know her, but later discovered her name was Riley, and she was home-schooled.

  “I don’t.”

  There was an exchange of meaningful glances, then another girl jumped in. “Her father is Edward Scot.”

  Riley gasped. “Are you a witch?”

  “Um…” I didn’t know how to answer since at the time, I liked to give the impression that I practiced witchcraft the same as the rest of my family. On days when I was being honest with myself, I knew I did this to keep people from knowing my shame and to cover up personal insecurities. To date I had never lied about it, though; I honestly couldn’t remember anyone asking so bluntly. Usually, my name inspired enough fear that people remained circumspect.

  “She gave Jeff Conway painful boils,” another one said.

  I could work with that. “He deserved it.”

  There was a collective gasp, but it didn’t make me feel at all powerful. Somehow, this group managed to make me feel bad about my heart’s desire – to be able to practice real magic.

  “The Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” Riley said.

  I’d seen it on the pamphlets before. It chilled me, though I never seriously thought anyone meant to kill me or my family. The murmur of agreement Riley received made me rethink that idea.

  Angie pushed through the crowd, her father on her heels, sparing me for the moment.

  “Girls, will you give me a mi
nute with our new young friend?” Mr. Mueller asked.

  They scattered to the other side of the converted gymnasium, though they continued to shoot glances our way.

  “Did you enjoy the service?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” I latched onto the polite conversation, hoping the evening wouldn’t be a wash after all. “The band is very good.”

  “They may get a recording deal,” Mr. Mueller said with evident pride.

  “Cool.”

  “I just want you to know that you are welcome here anytime you want to come.”

  “Thank you.” I frowned and stared openly at the girls, who tried to look as if they hadn’t been watching. “I don’t think they want me here, though.”

  “They’re nervous about the rumors surrounding your family,” Mr Mueller said. “But here you can be your own person. You’ve come here tonight, which tells me you have some doubts about following their evil ways.”

  I opened my mouth, but closed it again without saying anything. Nothing I said could possibly help.

  “You’re hurting inside,” Mr. Mueller said. “You’re craving acceptance.”

  Looking away from the girls, I arched an inquiring eyebrow at him. “Are you an empath?”

  He blinked and shook his head, the friendly expression dropping from his face. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”

  “Sorry. I’m sure I was wrong.” I’d take the gift of empathy in a minute, even the mild form I suspected the preacher possessed. Or maybe he really didn’t have the gift. A lot of teenagers hurt inside and crave acceptance.

  “Yes.” Mr. Mueller regained his composure. “You could find acceptance here. All you have to do is denounce your family and embrace Jesus.”

  “Is that all? Just become someone completely different and conform?”

  He didn’t miss the sarcasm. “If you ever change your mind, you know how to find me.”

  I never went back to that church, though Angie asked me several more times. When I did attend mainstream religious services, I preferred Kaitlin’s Methodist Church or Madison’s Catholic Church. They weren’t perfect, but no one there ever suggested my family should die.

  * * *

  I didn’t relish the thought of having a chat with the pastor of the Gateway Christian Church of Eagle Rock, especially with a brand new deputy, one who didn’t believe in magic, by my side. I would have to be careful about what I said, lest I scare off yet another partner. Although if he could scare so easily, best to know sooner rather than later.

  The church looked just as I remembered it from five years earlier – a nondescript square building with a single, unadorned cross as the only sign of its religious affiliation. I gave Wesley a brief rundown of the case on the way. To my surprise, he didn’t ask any questions.

  “You’re not curious about anything?” I asked as we pulled into the nearly empty church parking lot.

  “Lots of things, but I figure for today I’d be better off to sit back and watch.”

  His sensible approach helped him rise a notch in my estimation. So far, while he had claimed not to believe in magic, he had made no snap judgments. That was a good start. We could work on the rest.

  Once outside our squad car, I took the lead. I pushed through the glass doors heading into the church lobby, then took a sharp right into the office.

  A middle-aged woman looked up at me when we entered. She took in my appearance and the brass tag on my shirt proclaiming my identity, frowning slightly. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to have a word with Pastor Roberts.” When she raised her eyebrow I added. “Just a few routine questions.”

  “Mark is in a counseling session right now, but he should be done in a few minutes, if you’d like to wait.”

  Wesley and I sat in a pair of uncomfortable plastic chairs, but we didn’t have long to wait. A young couple, probably getting premarital counseling, shook hands with Pastor Roberts before leaving the office, hand in hand. They didn’t even look our way.

  Mark Roberts, a short, balding man who had founded the church almost twenty years earlier, noticed us right away. His deeply lined face fell into a frown. “Deputy Scot? What can I do for you?”

  “May we have a private word?”

  He stepped aside and with a sweeping gesture, invited us into his office. He worked in a modest room, sparsely furnished with an oak desk, several padded chairs, and a bookshelf containing various Christian and inspirational books.

  I didn’t waste time. Pulling out the evidence bag, I showed him the pamphlet cover. “Is this one of yours?”

  His eyes lowered, then lifted again. “Yes.”

  “Do you know when it was printed?” I asked.

  “We modified the cover in June, so it was probably from either the June or July run. Can you tell me what this is about?”

  I flipped the bag over to show him the writing on the other side. Roberts read the words, his lips moving slightly as he did. For a second I thought I saw a flicker of alarm, but it fled his face just as quickly. “Ms. Scot, I don’t know what this is about, but I do not advocate hate or violence. This literature is a plea for those who have rejected Christ to abandon their ways and find salvation.” He paused and arched a meaningful eyebrow at me. “Have you read the pamphlet?”

  “Oh yes.” Many times, in fact, and I didn’t have any illusions about what he hoped to accomplish. What he saw as a charity case I saw as an attack, and I didn’t see a middle ground.

  “So what is this about?” Pastor Roberts asked.

  “Your cousin, David McClellan, was murdered last month.”

  The pastor’s eyes went frosty and his lips thinned. “I heard. Do you think one of my parishioners did this?”

  “This was found with the victim’s personal possessions.”

  “I certainly didn’t advocate this kind of threat.”

  I rolled my eyes, an almost involuntary reaction. “You quote Exodus and don’t think you advocated this kind of threat?”

  Roberts pursed his lips. “If I recall correctly, the papers said McClellan died rather violently. The Eagle Rock Tribune openly questioned whether a human could have caused the damage that killed him.”

  Good old Roy, I thought, giving those kinds of gory details to the public. Our local paranormal reporter had seen the body and suspected what we all had at first – a werewolf attack. The fact that David had been dead before he was tossed into those woods and eaten by wolves was not public knowledge.

  “It seems to me that his own evil deeds killed him, in the end,” Pastor Roberts continued. “Perhaps you should take it as a lesson.”

  My face went red and I balled my hands into fists. “I’m not a witch.”

  “Really?” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I pray so. Is there anything else you need?”

  Before I could think up a fresh retort, Wesley put a steadying hand on my arm. I’d almost forgotten his presence, though I now found it oddly reassuring.

  “Thank you for your time,” Wesley said. “I trust you’ll call if you think of anything that might help us?”

  “Of course.”

  Wesley and I walked in silence until we reached my squad car. Once we were inside, seat belts buckled and engine running, I turned to him and sighed. “Sorry about that. It’s hard not to lose your temper with a man who thinks your whole family should be burned at the stake.” I grinned. “Things too weird for you yet?”

  He didn’t answer. “If we’re suspecting someone in the congregation, we’re going to need to get inside the church and mingle.”

  I remembered my last experience with the church group and shuddered. “Somehow, I don’t think they’ll let their guard down around me.”

  “I’m new in town,” Wesley said. “Maybe I need to find a new church home.”

  My surprise must have registered on my face because he quickly added, “It doesn’t mean I believe in magic, but it doesn’t matter what I believe. That man does, and he wears his hatred on his sleeve. That make
s him and anyone who believes in him a suspect.”

  Maybe Sheriff Adams had finally found his Scully after all. It bothered me that Wesley’s plan left no room for me, but I couldn’t think of a way to join him at the church without ruining his efforts. Finally, I gave him a decisive nod. “Services are Sunday morning at nine and Wednesday evening at seven. We can spend the next couple of days brainstorming. Maybe Cormack will even get off my back for a week or so.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Wesley said.

  Neither would I.

  5

  I HAD A STANDING INVITATION TO EAT dinner with my family any night of the week, but despite the fact that Kaitlin spent most evenings there, learning to tame her unborn baby’s wild magic, I rarely took them up on the offer. I did stop by after work sometimes to visit my brothers and sisters, offering them the assurance they needed that I had neither left nor forgotten them. Of course, Juliana and Isaac were too old to need that sort of thing, or claimed they were. Christina, Adam, and Elana, at least, were openly appreciative.

  I even chatted with my mom, who I understood much better since living in her head for an hour or so. She didn’t have active magic any longer either, which meant we were far more similar than she would have had me believe. For nearly two decades, she had channeled magic through her children while pregnant or breastfeeding. But it was all borrowed magic, and she knew time was nearly up. The twins she now carried would be her last, and when they weaned, she would have to learn to live without. If she weren’t living in such staunch denial of that fact, we might have made more progress toward patching our relationship.

  Declining dinner invitations wasn’t about her, though. It was about avoiding my father. I told him that living on my own meant cooking my own meals, and that was true enough, but Dad couldn’t string two sentences together without trying to get me to accept his hatred of the Blackwoods. He dredged up old battles and old wounds, none of which had anything to do with Evan, though the look in his eyes implored me to take some kind of hint.