EYE OF THE WITCH (Detective Marcella Witch's Series)

by Dana Donovan

  “I’m talking about co-possession.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “I’ve read theories about it. It’s a leap of paraphysical transmigration.”

  “I still don’t follow.”

  “It’s simple. There are a lot of people that can facilitate OBE at will.”

  “You mean, out-of-body experiences,” I said. I knew that one. “Like bilocation.”

  “Exactly, but now take that one step further. What if the person bilocating could enter another person’s body and co-exist there, or co-possess that body? They might, if only momentarily, overpower the body and make it do something it wouldn’t otherwise do, like kill its host. Then the energy of the OBE individual could return to his own body.”

  “That could explain the fuzzy image we saw in the reflection on the video,” I said. “If whoever showed up appeared only as an apparition, then none of the other cameras in the building would have picked up on anyone coming or going.”

  Carlos, “But who can do that?”

  I looked at him and scowled. “Only one person I know bilocates,” and both he and I said together, “Leona Diaz.”

  Immediately Carlos said, “But that’s impossible. Leona wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s incapable of it.”

  “Which one is Leona again?” asked Spinelli.

  “She’s the young girl the Surgeon Stalker kidnapped last year.”

  “Oh that’s right.”

  Carlos leaned forward on the table, nearly spilling his iced tea. “He was gonna get her pregnant so he could eat her baby’s liver.”

  “Eww!”

  “Carlos, Please!” I elbowed him in the side, but still he wouldn’t shut up.

  “He tied up in the basement of the research center, but she kept coming to Tony as a spirit form.”

  “She wasn’t a spirit,” I said. “Spirits are dead people. Leona came to me while bilocating. She wanted to tell me something.”

  Spinelli’s eyes filled with wonder. “Tell you what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is what do we do now?”

  Carlos eased back in his seat, shaking his head. “We do nothing. Leona didn’t kill those women.”

  “You’re probably right,” I told him, “but we still need to make sure. I’m going to go and see her right after lunch. In the meantime, I want you to check out Piakowski’s story about where he’s been staying. Interview Rivera. See if their stories jive.”

  “Gottcha.”

  “Spinelli, get on your computer and see if you can track down Carol Kessler. We need to talk to her.”

  “No Problem.”

  “Good.”

  Natalie showed up moments later with our orders. Spinelli got the turkey burger: a three-quarter pound slab of charbroiled, cheese dripping meat on a six inch bun with chips and a pickle. I got the turkey club, layered thick with lettuce and tomato and a side of potato salad. Carlos, it turned out, apparently didn’t use the restroom after all. Instead, he had pulled Natalie aside and ordered the damn Super Turkey Sampler.

  “That explains the wink you two shared earlier,” I said.

  He looked at me with all the innocence he could muster. “What wink?”

  I rolled my eyes and gave it up. He was still going at it when I left him and Spinelli to go see Leona Diaz.

  Eight

  Leona Diaz lived in a tiny efficiency on the other side of town. I had visited her only once, shortly after her release from the hospital just days after her rescue. I believed she came through her ordeal remarkably well, considering the horrors surrounding those circumstances and that through bilocation she remained aware, indeed, bared witness to crimes of unspeakable savageries. I never pressed her hard for details, though. The paranormal nature in which she witnessed those crimes would have rendered her testimony inadmissible in a court of law, anyway. My primary concern was then, and remains, her mental and physical well-being.

  I walked up to Leona’s apartment and rang the bell. She seemed confused the first few moments after answering the door, but as soon as she recognized me, she threw her arms around my neck and damn near squeezed the life right out of me.

  “Detective Marcella, Oh, mi Dios! I do not believe it! Please….” She pulled me in by the hand. “Come in. You must not stand out in the cold.”

  “It’s not cold,” I started to say, but by then she had hauled me into her apartment and sat me down on an overstuffed armchair. She took a seat across from me on the sofa, so close that our knees almost met.

  “It is so good to see you again, Detective. I am in static!”

  I laughed a little. “Leona, you’re English is getting better, but I think you mean, ecstatic.”

  She cupped her hands to her mouth and giggled. “Did I say something much silly?”

  I shook my head and dismissed it with a wave. “No, sólo un poquito. Está bién.”

  “Gracias, Detective. You are too kind.” We smiled at each other, she like a child, excited, her feet tapping on the floor wildly, and me like a proud father, disbelieving that this young flower had grown more beautiful than ever. Nineteen-years-old and she maintained the remarkably delicate features of a child, baby smooth skin like caramel mocha, a smile bright and innocent and long dark hair with eyes like big brown moons.

  “You look well,” I told her. “Are you doing fine? You working?”

  “Sí. I am the optometrist’s assistant at Optic-wise Visions Center.”

  “Are you? How good for you. And you’ve learned to pronounce optometrist so well.”

  She drew her hands to her mouth and giggled again. I watched her eyes peek through tiny slits, but never lose their twinkle. “I know, thank you,” she said. “I have practiced so hard.” She straightened her face and dissolved her smile. “The op·tom·e·trist will see you now, Detective Marcella. Do you like for the op·tom·e·trist to call you tomorrow? The op·tom·e·trist will return in one hour—”

  I laughed, which broke her up. Then we both laughed until our cheeks turned red and sore. I would rather have gotten up and left then, remembering Leona that way forever. But the child’s eyes had seen adult atrocities before, and if ever I were to break open this case, I had to know if she had seen them yet again. I scooted my chair forward slightly until our knees touched. I felt the tremble in her legs subside. She folded her hands and placed them neatly on her lap. Her eyes grew wide and round. I watched her take a deep breath, and before letting it out, she stiffened her back and broadened her shoulders. It pained me to start, but I had no choice.

  “Leona.” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and swallowed. “Do you know why I’m here?”

  She nodded, and a thin strand of bangs fell into her eyes. I reached up and gently brushed the hairs aside. She blinked and smiled, and when she blinked again a small tear rolled from the corner of her eye.

  “Leona, last year you told the group in your workshop about the things you used to see when you had out-of-body experiences. You said you were drawn to scenes of murder. Do you remember?”

  “Sí, I remember,” she said, her monotone voice nearly void of emotion now. “When I was a little girl in Honduras, I saw such things and I remembered every detail. I remembered the faces and the uniforms of the men who came.” She unclasped her hands and clutched the rosary around her neck. “They came to kill. They always kill.” Her hands slid down the front of her dress and gathered again on her lap. “They came and took people away into the jungle. I saw the color of their eyes from above the bandanas they wore. I saw them clearly, but they could not see me. The innocent could, but not the evil ones.

  “Many of the women with their pretty dresses—the men shoot them dead. Blood ran down their dresses in red like crimson wine. I learned to despise that color. Still, I do not wear red. To me, it is the color of death.”

  She bowed her head, as the memories came flooding back. Her voice already barely loud enough to hear came back softer as she continued.

  “When I became older�
�” She reached up for the beads around her neck and clutched them once more. “I slept with the holy rosary so that I would have it with me when I traveled out-of-body. I could do nothing to help the innocent whose murders I witnessed, but when they saw me holding the beads, they would think the Holy Mother sent me. They looked at me and made the sign of the crucifix. I think it gave them peace before…” She trailed off to catch a stifled breath and began anew.

  “One night, three years ago, I went away to Puerto Castilla on holiday with my Uncle and his family. I went to sleep, but suddenly found myself in the jungles of nearby Nicaragua. It had been many months since I traveled out-of-body, so I did not sleep with my rosary. I knew right away what I would see there. But I did not expect to see my own papa. They beat him severely and dragged him into the jungle to shoot him. Papa begged for his life. I saw him look at me. I knew he saw me, but his assassins could not.

  “When they executed him…” She broke again to catch her breath. “I looked at the men who did it so that I could remember their faces. But for some reason, I could not see them. They were not wearing masks or covering their faces anymore. I simply could not see them. My brain would not allow me to. That was the last time I experienced bilocation in my sleep. That was before I came to study with Doctor Lieberman and his workshop.”

  Leona turned her face away from me. Another tear skipped down her cheek. I reached for her hand and held it in mine. “Since all that happened last year, Leona, have you again experienced bilocation?”

  “Yes,” she uttered, still looking away.

  “Recently? Within the last several weeks?”

  She turned her head and our eyes met. “I saw Bridget and Karen.”

  “Did you see Anna Davalos, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see who did it?” I knew she knew what I meant. I had no doubt then that Karen and the other two women committed suicide, at least in the traditional sense based on the coroner’s conclusions supported by the physical evidence. But in the non-traditional sense, as surely as if someone stuck a gun to their heads and told them to do it, I believed they were murdered. Leona understood this, too. Her answer appeared to both sadden and discourage her.

  “Detective, I am afraid I cannot tell you who influenced their actions. I only know that mortal contact by another did not occur.”

  I reached for her other hand and cupped them both tightly. “Leona. This next question is very hard for me, but I have to ask. When someone has one of these out-of-body experiences, is it ever possible for he or she to enter a consistence with another and coexist with it?”

  She hesitated, but then agreed, saying, “I believe that is possible.”

  “Have you ever entered a consistence with another during OBE?”

  “I do not know. Often my experience is a reflection of another’s. I see what they see, but from another dimension.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Like looking into a mirror,” she said, and as she did, she peered deeply into my eyes as though the mirror were before her now. “All that goes on appears to happen in a world I can see, but not touch–sense, but not feel. I do not believe I have influence there, yet by observing I have influenced it.”

  “Leona, when you saw Karen, Bridget and Anna commit suicide, were you coexisting with them?”

  “I do not know.”

  “At any time did you possess and control their minds or bodies?”

  “I do not….”

  “Did you consciously or subconsciously cause or direct those women to commit suicide.”

  “I…no! I do not know!”

  Leona pulled her hands free from mine and buried her face in her palms. She slumped forward and began sobbing. I leaned in and cradled her head on my shoulder, stilling her tears and softly stroking her hair. “I’m sorry,” I told her in a hush, as we rocked back and forth. “I had to…. I had to ask.”

  I never believed for a moment that Leona could purposely induce or inflict upon the will of those women the desire to commit suicide. However, neither could I rule out the possibility that she could have affected the results on a subconscious level. I had seen in past cases, latent anxieties caused by repressed emotions manifest disorders not readily diagnosed. That the three victims were all former participants of Doctor Lowell’s initial studies indicated to me the obvious link to their killer. It seemed conceivable that since Leona had been kidnapped and held by Doctor Lowell, she might subconsciously wish to eliminate all vestiges of his legacy, no matter how relevant to her predicament. If the forces that historically beckoned her to events resulting in the deaths of innocents again called for her participation, I considered it probable that those forces contributed to the perverse twisting of her subconscious and insisted upon her influence in the women’s deaths. I waited for Leona to collect herself, and when I felt the time right, I asked her to come with me.

  “For a while,” I said. “I’ll have you back home in no time.”

  “Where shall we go?”

  “I want to take you to see Lilith. Her capacities as a sensitive have developed sharply since just last year. If you’ve suppressed memories of co-possessing an individual during OBE, then perhaps she may free those memories.”

  “But I have plans this evening. I have a dinner date in just a short while.”

  “Where? Here?”

  “No. I am to meet him where he works, downtown at the Hartman, Pierce and Petruzelli building.”

  “The Hart…. Leona, I suppose it’s none of my business, I know, but is your date with Benjamin Rivera?”

  She smiled bashfully. “Yes.”

  I stood and held out my hand. “Fine, then. I’ll ask Lilith to meet us there. I’m sure she won’t mind. Will you come with me and help me iron all this out? I really want to set things right for Karen, Bridget and Anna.”

  She looked up at me, unsure, vulnerable and a little scared. I smiled and gave her a wink that promised everything would be all right. Her eyes thinned to tiny slits again. Then she took my hand and smiled back. “Lilith will go gentle with me?” she said.

  “Of course,” I answered. “Didn’t I give you my word last year that I would never let anyone hurt you again?”

  “You did.”

  “Then, come, my Dear. Your chariot waits.”

  Nine

  Lilith’s reluctance to meet with Leona and me softened only after I told her I had something she wanted. She arrived at the coffee shop in the Hartman, Pierce and Petruzelli building around four o’clock and found the two of us at a table overlooking the duck pond. I spotted her first and rose to pull out her chair.

  “My, what a gentleman…” she said, her brassy smile only garnish for the moment. She took a seat across from Leona, granting a similar gesture. “Leona. You look well. How’ve you been?”

  “I have been well, thank you. I like your hair. You cut it, yes?”

  “Not since we last talked, but thanks.” She turned to me. “You have my ladder?”

  “That’s not why we’re here, Lilith.”

  “That’s why I’m here. You said—”

  “I said I have something you want. I have a possible answer to what happened to Karen, Bridget and Anna.”

  Lilith pushed her chair out from the table and snapped to her feet. “Are you serious? You don’t get it, do you, Detective? I don’t give a rat’s ass about what happened to those women. I’m not here to appease you or them. I have an agenda of my own, and my time is running short.” She came around the back of her chair and pushed it in under the table. “So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going—”

  “Wait! Maybe we can work something out. Please sit down.” She eyed me with mistrust, though I supposed I earned it. I worked my smiled on her until I saw her soften some. “Come.” I pulled her chair out and patted the seat. “Sit. Please.” I watched her eyes bounce from the chair to me and back again. Reluctance and mistrust notwithstanding, she eventually came around and sat back down.

  “What’s t
o work out?”

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. I need you to see if you can look into Leona’s subconscious and glean any details from what she might have seen while bilocating.”

  “Really?” She looked to Leona and smiled at her, teasingly. “Ooh, you wicked little nanny. Where have you been romping about now, love? Has your morbid alter ego been drumming up corpses in your sleep again?”

  “Lilith!”

  “Come on, Detective. She’s used to it. The girl’s seen more dead bodies than Mussolini and Hitler combined.”

  “Yes, and you’re about as sensitive as both. The poor thing is trying to live a normal life.”

  “Then why torment her? You’re the one who wants to dredge up all her repressed memories. If you’re so concerned, then why don’t you—”

  “Stop!” Leona reached across the table and pressed her hand to Lilith’s. “Please, Lilith. Detective Marcella is only trying to do his job. I do not ask for God to show me the things he does. Maybe it is His way of offering hope for the souls of those who have met misfortunes in life. And perhaps it is the devil that makes me forget what I see, but if God has given you the ability to see it for me, then you must try.”

  I sat back in my chair, speechless, wondering if ever I might understand the selfless giving that one person could offer humanity. Others in Leona’s position, plagued by endless visions of real horrors, might seek to end their exposure to them by ending their very lives. But not Leona. In a way, I felt that Leona’s experiences only served to make her stronger. Lilith, whom I thought might see things in a similar light, offered no solidarity. Instead, she patted the hand that Leona extended and offered back only causticity.

  “Leona,” she began. “Please spare your apologetics theologies. You may feel your path in life is sound and righteous, and if your Christian doctrine helps you cope with your burdens, then more power to you. However, I am not a product of your God. Any supernatural being that you believe controls your world, or some aspect of your life, or who you believe is the personification of a force undeniably almighty, is not necessarily my God, too. I don’t prescribe to the belief in one holy deity whose fallen angel is now the Antichrist and sole reservoir of evil and anarchy.