by C. J. Parker
“Meads? Rhonda Meads, right?”
Rhonda dropped her gaze to her feet. “I need your help.”
This was a switch. This girl who had made her childhood a horror wanted help—from her? What the— “You want help from me?” Tabatha gritted her teeth and tried to remain calm. “What could ‘Witch Tabatha’ possibly help you with?” Though she’d fought for calm, her voice dripped with venom.
“Tabatha!” Nyssa opened her mouth to continue, but with Tabatha’s pointed finger, Nyssa snapped her mouth closed.
Tabatha wanted to let the past go, but Rhonda’s presence brought it back in a rush that slammed into her chest. She was an adult now. A doctor, for Pete’s sake. But that little girl who only wanted to belong returned. The hurt feelings, the bruises from thrown stones, it all came rushing back.
Rhonda cleared her throat. “Just hear me out, please.”
“Could this wait for a couple of days? I just got home, and I’m tired.”
“No.” She drew a deep breath as if willing herself to calm. “I need to talk to you now. It’ll only take a few minutes. I promise.”
With a sigh and a roll of her neck, Tabitha moved aside and waved Rhonda in. “What is it you want?”
“Are the stories about you true?” Rhonda kept her gaze downcast, as if afraid to look at Tabatha. “Please, let them be true.”
Tabatha crossed her arms trying to hide the goose bumps rising on her skin. “Which story do you need to be true?”
“Can you raise the dead?”
Stumbling backward, Tabatha’s throat closed off the air she desperately needed. Rhonda’s words brought back an unwelcome memory of terror- stricken mourners and her grandfather’s casket trembling on its stand. “What? Why would you ask me such a thing?”
“Miss Bouchard said…”
Tabatha’s legs gave out, and she landed hard on one of the two chairs left in the room. “Get out.”
“Please...”
“Get out!”
Draping her arm over Tabatha’s shoulders, Nyssa looked her in the eyes. “Child, hear this out. Let her tell you the reason. The magic can be used for good.”
Tabatha glared at her best friend. One again, the old woman was butting into her life. Telling her to accept what she wanted to turn away from. She wasn’t a child anymore. Nyssa had to understand she would live her life the way she wanted. No more guilt about turning away from her grandfather’s inherited powers. “Nyssa, you don’t know what you’re asking of me. I don’t do…”
“Just listen to her. It’s a birthright, not a curse.” Nyssa’s voice had taken on a gruff, irritated tone. Tabatha forced herself to face Rhonda. She would listen but would do and say anything to make Rhonda leave and never return. “Talk. Make it short.”
“I’m adopted.” She held out her arms in a pleading gesture. “I found my birth mother, but she died before I could find out... something. Something I need to know.”
“It’s your birth mother you want raised?”
Rhonda nodded.
Tabatha couldn’t understand how someone would want to interrupt a loved one’s eternal rest. She nearly snorted. Rhonda hadn’t changed much. She was still the selfish twit Tabatha remembered from long ago. “Why?”
“I need to know why she abandoned me. Do you know what it’s like to think your own mother didn’t want you?”
Tabatha struggled to swallow the lump of hostility forming inside her throat. “You tormented me all throughout our childhood. My only escape was being sent away to live with strangers.” She leaned forward placing her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. “Do I know what it’s like not to be wanted? Yes. I do. Go away, Rhonda. Only God can raise the dead.”
“Don’t lie to me. I saw it on that TV show, Hidden Truths Reveled.” Rhonda turned pleading eyes toward Nyssa. “Help me make her understand.”
Tabatha swallowed a sigh of disgust. That damned show had somehow gotten hold of an old film of a necromancer raising a body and splattered it all over the airwaves. The man’s powers were not as strong as hers, and the body rose in a half decayed state, sending the viewers into a frenzy of shock and revulsion. “Nyssa does not control me, Rhonda. I, only I, can make this decision, and I’ve made it. Even if I could, I wouldn’t do this for you. Ever.”
“I’m not asking,” Rhonda’s mouth pursed into a sulking pout. “You are going to help me. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
At the sound of footsteps, Tabatha spun around. Her mother moved toward them dressed in an elegant royal blue kimono with a fire-breathing dragon snaking up her thin body. Her long black hair hung to her waist, swaying with each step.
“My daughter told you to remove yourself from my home. Do so.” Tabatha’s mother waved her hands in a shooing motion and looked down her nose at Rhonda. “You are not welcome.
Rhonda backed away. “This isn’t over. I’ll be back. I need your help.”
Tabatha rose, grabbed Rhonda roughly by the arm and led her to the door, opened it and shoved her out, slamming it behind her. Tabatha rested her forehead against the cool wood. Her heart jumped into her throat when Carla pulled her into her arms.
“You understand why I sent you away, now. Don’t you? You’ve shaken the curse.”
Tabatha tried to speak, but a wash of emotions filled her throat. If she told her mother the truth, how long would this embrace last?
Carla leaned back to gaze at Tabatha, ran her hand over her hair, a slight frown creased her brow as she gazed at the silver tresses. “There was so much evil here. I needed you to see that and learn the realities of life. I love you, Tabatha. I didn’t want you to be like them.” Loosening her hold on Tabatha, Carla snapped her head around with a jerk toward Nyssa. “What are you doing here? I may have to put up with you on the grounds, but not in my home.”
Nothing had changed. Her mother still blamed Nyssa for the will’s contents, believing she had turned Tabatha’s grandfather against Carla. “Mother, it’s my home as well, and Nyssa is my friend.”
Carla’s eyes narrowed and she bared her teeth like a furious animal. But the moment was gone so quickly Tabatha wasn’t sure she’d seen it at all. Carla smiled and returned her attention to Tabatha. “My beautician could do so much with that hair. A little color, a perm.” She stared at Tabatha’s ice-blue eyes. “Colored contacts maybe?”
Her mother had never accepted Tabatha. Every time she looked at Tabatha, it reminded her of her failure to produce a “normal” daughter. “No color. No perm. No contacts. You have to accept me the way I am, Mother.”
Carla drew Tabatha into another embrace. The scent of Chanel No. 5 engulfed her. She’d wanted this for so long, but fear and a deep sense of warning chilled her. She had to question, was this her real mother or the monster she remembered as a child?
Chapter Three
Why did Tabatha have to come back? Did she think I wouldn’t recognize her? I’d know her instantly. Oh, the face has matured, but it’s her. Those naive blue eyes she used to charm my man haven’t changed. How many times do I have to kill her? Why doesn’t she stay dead? Could she know? Will she tell?
I have to calm down. This is her home.
No, it’s mine. She stole it from me. Perfect Tabatha. Always so coy, so innocent. She doesn’t fool me. She’s crazy, hears voices in her head.
I should have taken care of that other one. Tabatha only came to see her.
Look at the ungrateful bitch. She spat on the ground. Floating around half naked on the back porch like no one can see her. Tae Kwon Do she calls it. Showing off for anyone who will look. How I long to draw my rotting circle of death on her smooth white belly. I love how she screams when I touch her. She’s learned what it’s like to hurt.
She ran her hands over her body, down to the moist divide between her legs. Oh, Raoul, why didn’t you do what you promised? Did Tabatha talk you out of it? Her head turned toward the sound of an engine.
A car... who is this, now?
Yes. Yes. She n
early clapped her hands in joy. Here comes that girl. She can help me. Everyone will understand why I did it. They’ll thank me. They’ll see how evil Tabatha is.
~
Dropping out of her trained stance, Tabatha grabbed a towel from a nearby lawn chair. Taking several deep breaths, she glanced toward the sound of approaching footsteps. She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the sun’s glare. “Who’s there?” she shouted when she saw nothing but her empty backyard.
Rhonda rounded the corner of the house, stopping a good distance away. A blast of hot air lifted her red hair like strands of coiled flames above her head. Tabatha wondered if her anger had caused the strange wind to rise. “I want to talk to you.”
Tabatha released her breath with a hiss. “What do you want now? I’m not going to raise anyone.”
“I’ve heard of neco... necman...”
Tabatha understood her reluctance to say the word. She wasn’t fond of it either. “You can’t even say the word.” Tabatha wrapped her arms around her waist. “Necromancer, or animator if you prefer.”
Rhonda nodded and looked around the yard as if checking to make sure they were alone. She figured if she could frighten or gross Rhonda out enough, she’d forget this foolishness and leave her alone. “Even if I could do this, do you realize what it would involve? You’d need a sacrifice to raise a body.”
Rhonda’s head snapped around, and her eyes filled with terror. “Not a human!”
Lowering her face into the towel, Tabatha breathed in the scent of laundry soap and fabric softener. She could lie and say they’d have to murder someone to raise Rhonda’s mother, but Tabatha couldn’t make herself do it. “No. An animal. A goat or chicken, unless the corpse has been dead a long time.” She raised her eyes and watched for a reaction. Rhonda’s body went limp with what Tabatha assumed was relief. She hoped for a few brief moments she’d talked Rhonda out of this. She needed only to push the right buttons. “You know it’s considered evil. Ungodly. If the Church found out, you could be excommunicated.”
Rhonda nodded.
“And you still want to go ahead with it?” Tabatha tossed the towel aside.
“Yes.” Jutting out her chin, Rhonda stared Tabatha straight in the eyes for the first time. “I’m scared, but not enough to walk away. I have to know why she didn’t want me.”
Tabatha saw Nyssa crossing the yard and turned to her. “Are you in on this?”
“She came looking for you two days ago. I told her when you’d be home.” Nyssa glanced at Rhonda. “I did think she’d wait a while to let you get settled.” She looked down her nose at Rhonda and sniffed the air. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She turned and made her way to the garage and shut the door behind her.
Rhonda cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just—”
“Didn’t mean what?” The sudden comment threw Tabatha off balance. She’d had her mind on Nyssa’s strange behavior and had lost track of the conversation.
She paced in front of Tabatha. “The things I did back then. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Tabatha swallowed the anger-induced bile nearly choking her. Sorry for calling me Death Mongrel? Or maybe you’re sorry for stealing those dead dogs from the animal hospital and putting them on my porch after my grandfather’s funeral? She shook the unspoken questions from her mind. “I can’t do it.” She tried to pass, but Rhonda blocked her way.
“I’m sorry for the way we treated you, Tabatha. Really sorry.” Rhonda’s fingers toyed with the frayed waistband of her sweatshirt. Her expression filled with regret—real or not, Tabatha wasn’t sure. “We were wrong. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
Tabatha’s gut tightened, and tears sprang forward. “I don’t believe your apology is sincere. You want something from me and you think I’ll be so grateful for your attention I’ll fall to my knees and do anything you ask. I’m not a kid anymore, Rhonda.” Tabatha looked at the girl standing before her—really looked at her. “Did you think coming here dressed in Goodwill Chic would make me feel sorry for you? Poor little Rhonda, her mommy left her all alone and now she can’t even afford Wal-Mart.” She cringed at the cruel words that spouted from her mouth.
Rhonda’s face flushed crimson and twisted in anger. “How dare you! Not everyone has a rich family to pay their way through life.”
Tabatha’s momentary guilt faded. She narrowed her eyes. Blood roared in her ears. Her temples throbbed. “No one paid my way.”
“Please.” Rhonda pressed her hand to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. “I’ll do anything. You have to help me.” When she opened her eyes, tears ran down her cheeks and her lower lip quivered.
“Can you give me any acceptable reasons why I should help you? Go home and think about it. Answer a question and I’ll do what you ask.”
Rhonda inhaled deeply then released her breath in a whoosh. “What question?”
“Why?” Tabatha had no doubt there was more to this than Rhonda had disclosed. She was scared—desperate. “Why should I help you?” Tabatha shoved past Rhonda and stalked into the house.
Pulling a chair from the small dinette, Tabatha sat and tried to calm herself. But there was little calm here. She glanced around the kitchen. Institutional white from ceiling to floor, the room felt sterile and cold. She remembered her grandfather’s cook, Bertha, rushing around, singing old spirituals as she prepared their meals. The memory of her soulful smile, ebony skin and blue uniform brought life to Tabatha’s otherwise empty surroundings.
She closed her eyes to ward away tears that threatened to escape and wished Bertha was here now. She’d know what to do and say. She always did.
Tabatha gritted her teeth and turned at the sound of the door opening with a crash against the wall. “Damn.”
Rhonda slammed her open wallet onto the table and pointed to a snapshot of a young boy. “That’s my son, Shane.”
Tabatha looked away. The last thing she needed was an emotional pull into Rhonda’s life.
“Look at him,” Rhonda screeched. “His birthday was last week. He turned five.”
“You’re not telling me everything, Rhonda. I can smell the fear on you like a three-day-old cadaver. I’m going to add one more stipulation. The truth.”
Rhonda’s glare faltered, and she slid to her knees sobbing into her hands.
Tabatha wanted to feel resentment, but Rhonda’s weeping, and the sight of her rail-thin body ripped away any barrier Tabatha had built against the world. She picked up Rhonda’s wallet and looked into Shane’s green eyes. The little redheaded boy smiling into the camera was the epitome of innocence. “What does Shane have to do with this?”
Chapter Four
Derek leaned back in his chair and surveyed his surroundings.
At times he saw the stain-streaked walls and grimy, caged windows of the station house a fitting stage for his growing discontent. The place smelled of smoke and stale coffee. The sounds of phones ringing, men talking, suspects yelling and keyboards clicking filled the air with a hodgepodge of static-like noise.
In the holding cell, a street punk stood in a pool of his own urine, eyes wide with fear. Derek never understood how street-hardened punks could be scared of a few cops to the point of pissing themselves. Bleeding-heart liberals had outlawed friendly persuasion techniques a long time ago. He glanced at the other detectives as they scuttled around the squad room, each with their own cases, their own problems to solve. This week alone there had been three fatal beatings, fifteen shootings, two stabbings—and it was only Wednesday.
He turned his gaze to photographs of six little girls lined up on a corkboard. Their innocent, smiling faces stared back at him, beseeching him to find the monster responsible. Mandy Green, the youngest victim, had disappeared one day before her fifth birthday. Sister to two older brothers. Father dead. Adrianna Ronan turned six three months ago—an only child to Misty and John. Torri Casale, also six, adopted but no less adored. Deanna Ward, nine-years-old, a bit of a handfu
l, according to her mother, Candy.
Ursola Babin, seven, a shy girl who never talked to strangers. The victims attended different schools and lived in different sections of town. The killer had no preference for rich or poor. Their blue eyes and blond hair, and the fact they were all girls were the only common denominators between the children. Their nude bodies always showed up in one of the local cemeteries three days after their disappearance.
He added a snapshot of ten-year-old Selma Fortier to the board. Brilliant but too trusting, she’d skipped second and fourth grades and played classical violin. In Selma’s mother’s daily visits to the precinct, she reminded Derek of all Selma had going for her. “What are you doing to find my daughter, detective?” she would ask and hand him another picture of her daughter.
Those quiet, terror-filled words would haunt Derek until his dying day, reminding him he’d failed. Again.
He wanted to tell her the truth. But the truth wasn’t enough. It was never enough when a kid turned up dead. Instead, he tried to comfort and reassure her they were doing everything in their power to find Selma.
Today she hadn’t asked any questions.
Today Mrs. Fortier had identified her daughter.
Today she cried.
Derek swallowed hard. The lump of emotion still lay thick and unmovable in his throat. If there was any part of his job he hated more than the rest, it was facing the mothers of murdered children.
Derek opened the Voodoo primer sitting on his desk. He hadn’t been able to find a link to the rituals performed on the bodies. The Medical Examiner’s report concluded a skilled hand had removed the victims’ eyes. But their scalps, however, appeared to have been jabbed and cut while the killer was in the throes of rage. Death had been by suffocation.
“Who killed you? What am I missing?”
“Talking to yourself, partner?” Frank placed a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of Derek.
Derek shook his head and brought himself back to the here and now.
“Just thinking out loud. Trying to make something click into place. It’s not like you haven’t tried to talk things out with dead victims.” He moved his attention back to photographs of the crime scenes. Each child had been posed in the same seated position, grotesque empty sockets where their eyes had once been, their bodies, always bathed, smelling of deodorant soap. Signs of freezer burns were evident on the buttocks as though they’d sat in a deep- freezer waiting to be delivered.
