“Well, I have no choice. Bastian just works for us a few days a week. He doesn’t live here. Someone has to keep an eye on my dad.”
“I know.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “And, I know you feel obligated.” She could tell he was choosing his words with care. “But you deserve a life too. You didn’t come on any of the camping trips this summer. I wish you had.” She quivered slightly under his touch. “I’m here for you, Maggie. I understand and I care.”
He squeezed her shoulder gently to show that he really meant it. She wondered what in his life had given him an understanding of her situation. Whatever it was, she was intrigued by this new intimacy, and turning, gazed into his bright green eyes. His soft lips, mere inches away, were moist and begging to be kissed. Oh god. It was just too weird. She wished he would stop touching her and wished he would not. Where the edge of his thumb rested against the bare flesh of her neck, the tingling nerves sent shivers spiralling down her belly.
“I know what it’s like to feel obligated to a parent,” he said, shaking her back to reality. Did he know how guilty she felt? Did he know that she was to blame for John’s pathetic life? Had Shannon told him? She thought of the confessional and what secrets he must hold.
They were so close, so intimate. She noticed the trace of a scar along his cheekbone and then another—a tiny cross just below the hairline. Her finger stirred in a reflexive desire to touch it and know its story.
“I was hoping you could join us for a fall drive. The Fraser Valley is beautiful now, and your dad’s just like a little kid on a car trip. We could go out to the old bridge at Yale, and stop for lunch somewhere along the way. Perhaps, one Saturday when the weather’s fair. Would you like that?”
If we went alone, she thought. “Oh, sure, Father. If I don’t have homework. Gotta keep those marks up, you know.” She meant it—was determined to get a scholarship from a solid university. It was her only way out of this prison.
“I look forward to it,” he said. As he rose, he leaned on her shoulder, and when he took his hand away she wished he hadn’t. “How did you make out with Macbeth? Did you find a thesis worthy of an A?”
She stood and leaned against the column, then tilted her head and admired his silhouette. She’d never really noticed his height before, or the curve of his biceps beneath his black shirt. He seemed edged in gold, as angelic and formidable as his namesake, Gabriel.
“I think so. I’m arguing that the witches created the tragedy. Macbeth was just a victim of their charm.”
“You defend him?”
“Well, yes.” She remembered how perfectly the paper had come together in her mind just hours before. “The Weird Sisters were incredibly powerful. The man couldn’t help himself.”
“They cast their spell on you too.”
“Well, you have to admit they turned a loyal soldier into a killer.”
“Soldiers are trained killers.”
“True. Macbeth was from a Celtic warrior culture and killed his enemies, but the witches made him kill his king and his friends.”
“The Celts were barbarous pagans. They didn’t need witches to charm them into killing.”
Dylan is a Celt, she thought, then smiled and glanced at the forest. “Do you think witches really have that kind of power?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps once they had power…gleaned from the devil. Remember that Shakespeare wrote his plays four hundred years ago, before the pagan problem was dealt with.”
“Right,” she said. Pagan problem. “Father, did you study the persecution of witches when you were in the seminary? I mean, I heard that the Catholic Church murdered millions of people. What do they say about that?”
“It was the Protestant Church that spurred that campaign. It’s exaggerated and irrelevant. Ancient history.”
“I don’t mean to be cheeky Father, but isn’t the Bible ancient history?” A tiny nerve in his cheek beat furiously, then his cheeks reddened, and she realized she’d crossed some invisible boundary.
“The Church did what was necessary and it’s not up to you or I to judge. They brought reason and sanity to a world fraught with superstition and evil. Someone had to take control, didn’t they? If not, the whole world would have gone to the devil.” He stroked the emerald cross that hung around his neck and then kissed it. “Though it may seem harsh, it was done in Christ’s name for the good of humanity. For you and me. Never doubt the church, Maggie, and never doubt your faith.”
“I’m sorry Father. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just curious—”
“No harm done,” he said, cutting her off. “I confess I’m defensive. We Catholics are always being accused of something heinous.”
Heinous. Yes. Murdering witches was heinous, and yet when perpetrated by the church—regardless of what church—it seemed it was necessary for the good of humanity.
She remembered the priestess in white, bent backward over the altar by the stunning man in black. If they had been alive then, would they have been among the innocents who were tortured and burned? And Dylan? And, if she had been alive then, would a man as devout as Father Grace have shaved her head, tortured her, and set her ablaze for the good of humanity?
4: Fair is Foul and Foul is Fair
“IS THE DIVINE SENSARA still giving intuitive readings?” With his hair caught back in a bun, wearing faded blue jeans and a moss green leather jacket that matched his eyes, Michael looked deceptively normal.
“I suppose so,” replied Estrada. It struck him as an odd question. Michael and Sensara were his two best friends, yet they despised each other. After blowing on his cinnamon latté, he took a careful sip and wiped his lip, all without taking his eyes off his friend.
“God, that intense Latin stare is titillating. You’re sexy even when haggard.”
Estrada rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept and was well aware of the black circles that grazed his cheekbones.
When he made no reply, Michael persisted. “I noticed you were a little off your game last night. Couldn’t quite get the rabbit out of the hat. What happened, compadre? Did your woodsy dance get a tad too rough?”
“Something like that. I thought you didn’t believe in psychics.”
“I just wondered if your lady could assist me with something.” Estrada exhaled deeply. His lady. He’d never thought of her like that, but now—
“Was that a sigh?” Although they were best friends, Michael’s teasing could be annoying.
“I’m just tired.”
“If you insist. You know if you’re in trouble you can always talk to me. Sometimes it’s good to have an objective view.”
“If I knew someone objective.” He took another sip. “We were discussing you.”
Michael extracted one of his hand-rolled gold-banded cigarettes from the gunmetal case. After careful examination, he lit it and blew the smoke over his left shoulder. Estrada willingly sat outside at the Creel Café, so that Michael could smoke his imported James Bond cigarettes, even on days like this when Vancouver was shrouded in rampant mist. As Michael continued to smoke in silence, Estrada grew anxious. Had Daphne’s rippling charm somehow touched his friend?
“So, why do you need a psychic?”
Michael crushed out the cigarette and lowered his voice. “There are several people standing beneath the awning of the bookstore across the street.” Naturally, Estrada raised his head. Michael gasped, “Don’t look!”
“Sorry.”
“Now, without seeming to, if that’s possible, check out the man in the brown raincoat and fedora.”
Estrada glanced over Michael’s left shoulder and then quickly back at his friend. “Looks out of place for the casual Kits crowd.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” Michael lit another cigarette. “I’ve seen him frequently the last couple of days—skulking around the club, outside my home, now here.” He exhaled dramatically. “I believe that man is stalking me.”
“Why would he—?”
“I don’t know
. That’s what I thought your lady might assist me with.”
“Cop?”
“Possibly. They were at Pegasus this morning, asking about a young woman that disappeared.”
“A witch?”
He rubbed his chin. “Maybe. She called herself Jade. Is that a witchy name?”
“Could be.”
“She was at the club last Friday night, and no one has seen her since.” His memory suddenly jogged, Estrada remembered the dark-haired woman that had enchanted his friend.
“Wasn’t that—?”
Two cops appeared at that moment, as if on cue, and flanked Michael: one a uniformed officer, the other a greying detective. They flashed their badges. “Michael Stryker?”
“In this incarnation.”
“Would you come with us? We have a few questions, if you don’t mind.” It was astounding how polite the cops were to the Stryker family.
Michael took one last drag of his cigarette and crushed it out. “I’m supposed to meet Nigel at the club around six. Go for me? Be sure to tell him about…” He gestured with his eyes to the far side of the street.
Estrada turned, but the man in the brown fedora had vanished.
≈
On Saturday afternoon, Maggie Taylor borrowed Malleus Maleficarum from the local library and studied the church’s judicial rules and procedures regarding the extraction of a witch’s confession by means of torture. Brutal and dehumanizing, a captive woman would say whatever was necessary to end it. A multitude of horrific devices were invented for just this purpose.
Preferred method of execution: burning. Sometimes she was hung or garrotted first. Sometimes she was burned alive.
The Hammer of the Witches, written in 1486, by two Catholic judges from Germany, made murder salvation and magic the work of the devil. Women had been blamed for everything bad that had ever befallen men including impotence. This, they termed “removal of the male member.” Maggie smiled at the obvious euphemism. Along with bat wings and lizard tongues; witches, it seemed, had a penchant for the penis.
≈
Disappearing witches and stalkers in brown fedoras. This was not a conversation Estrada was looking forward to, especially not with Nigel Stryker. An entrepreneur, who fashioned dreams and despised bullshit, he was the only man in Estrada’s world that he truly admired. Nigel Stryker had learned to use the power of manifestation long before New Age prosperity gurus like Bertram Bellows laid claim to it.
A well-preserved Brit in his mid-sixties, Nigel worked with a personal trainer and had the strength and stamina to prove it. He was rich in every possible way, and not because he hoarded, but because he believed in generosity and flow. To illustrate this, when Michael turned twenty-one, Nigel financed Pegasus. It was the gothic nightclub his grandson always dreamed of. While still retaining legal ownership, he allowed Michael to manage the nightclub as he desired. Within reason. Nigel ensured that his police contacts turned a blind eye to the drugs and everything else that went on there, as long as Michael kept it subtle. Of course, subtlety was an ongoing challenge for Michael, whose alter ego, Mandragora, was anything but, especially when it came to sex and drugs.
When Estrada entered the club at 5:50 that evening, Nigel was sitting at a table dressed in an expensive grey tweed suit. And sitting next to him, with a rather smug look on his face, was the man in the brown fedora.
“Mr. Stryker, sir, it’s good to see you.”
“Always a pleasure Sandolino, and please, call me Nigel.” Estrada shook the extended hand. “But where’s Michael? I have someone here he must meet.” The man in the brown fedora took it off and ran a hand through his short spiky brown hair. A younger healthier version of Michael with the same high cheekbones, sharp angular features and dimpled chin, the man was clearly related.
“I can see that you’re as shocked as I was. Sandolino Estrada, may I introduce my other grandson. Clive is Michael’s younger brother.”
Estrada nodded and shook the extended hand. “Hey man.”
“Clive Stryker.” The slight snarl of his upper lip—an action Michael played with on occasion—evoked a prickling of Estrada’s flesh. A hungry young lion sprang from those malevolent hazel eyes. Estrada couldn’t help but compare the two brothers. As nefarious as Michael attempted to be, his angelic heart revealed his goodness; whereas this man exuded something of a Machiavellian charm, and rather crudely at that.
“I didn’t know that Michael had a brother. You sound so—”
“British?” Clive fondled a hefty signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. Was it nerves or some ring of power that amplified his arrogance? Smirking, Estrada tried to read the silver letters, but his view was obscured.
“Clive grew up in London. My grandsons haven’t seen or heard from each other since they were infants. Remarkable, isn’t it? But tell me, where is Michael?”
“I need to talk to you alone, Mr. Stryker.”
“Nigel, please. You know that you are family, Sandolino.”
Clive’s flash of haughty disdain did not go unnoticed by his ever-astute grandfather. “Get yourself a drink and explore the club,” he instructed.
Clive pushed back his chair and sauntered off.
Nigel turned to Estrada and lowered his voice. “Now, tell me. What’s going on?”
“The cops picked him up for questioning this afternoon. It may have something to do with a girl that came here last Friday night and disappeared.”
“Sarah Jamieson. I’m aware of that situation. How is Michael involved?”
“Well, he…” Estrada paused, wondering how much to reveal. “He met her that night. She told him her name was Jade. He spent some time with her.”
“You mean he took her to bed. I’m sure she was consenting. Nothing illegal in that.”
Estrada shrugged. Bedding young women was one pleasure both grandfather and grandson shared, though thankfully not together.
“It makes him the last person to see her in their books.”
“I’m sure nothing will come of it. Michael’s a good boy. He’d do nothing to jeopardize our family or the club.”
Estrada’s cell phone rang and he excused himself to glance at the screen. “It’s him, sir.”
“May I?”
He handed the phone to Nigel. Out of the corner of his eye, Estrada saw Clive studying them from the bar. Michael’s words echoed in his mind. I believe that man is stalking me. What was little brother’s game?
Nigel ended the call and handed the phone back to Estrada. “Michael is being detained. Apparently, the police have a witness who saw him carry Miss Jamieson out of his flat early Saturday morning. I’m sending our lawyer.”
≈
On Sunday morning, Maggie Taylor stuck her finger down her throat and vomited up her cereal. She did not want to go to church.
The next morning, she skipped math class and went down to the creek with Damien Morrison. Flooded with fall rain, the water gushed over the rocks and sang in her head. Yellow leaves twirled in the wind and fell by Damien’s curly black hair, as he sprawled in the grass, his head resting on the root of a giant cedar. He had smooth brown skin and eyes like an Egyptian.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he said, his voice low and husky. She knew he’d been attracted to her for months but had never approached her because she was one of the good girls.
“Do you want me to stop?” Glancing up, she ran her fingers across his taut brown belly. “From this angle, you don’t look like you want me to stop.”
“No. Please, don’t stop. I’m so close.”
The warning bell rang as Maggie stood and fluffed her hair. It was not quite what she’d imagined; still, she felt a rush of power knowing that she could control the length and intensity of a boy’s bliss. Perhaps she would begin her own collection.
Damien lit a cigarette. “You’ve changed, Maggie Taylor.”
She smiled coyly. “Give me a drag of that.” The tobacco sent a dizzying rush to her brain. Settling
down in the leaves, she continued to inhale this intoxicating new drug, while he lit another. “Listen Damien. If you tell anybody, this will never happen again.”
He leaned over and kissed her. “Hey baby, my lips are sealed. I’m glad yours aren’t.”
≈
“You have beautiful hands.”
The man swallowed his disdain, had never been to any place so blatantly gay before. Yet here he was, sitting with crossed legs at a fireside table in one of the trendiest pubs on Rainbow Row. It stank of chic cologne and trepidation; most of which wafted from the sweaty flesh of Jeremy Jones, the red-haired punk across the table. They’d been flirting viciously on a Wiccan website for several days—since Jones mentioned that he knew Estrada. This was their first, and hopefully last, date.
“Thank you. In my line of work, you can’t survive without looking after your hands.” As he inspected his manicure, he noticed a flaw. Where he’d removed his ring the skin was pale. He hoped that Jem—as he called himself—wouldn’t notice.
“I’m intrigued. What do you do?”
“I’d rather not say. My dates usually bolt when they discover my profession.” Already on their third round of cocktails, Jones was slurring his words; while he, having tipped the waiter to make his discretely virgin, was sober. He’d never acquired a taste for alcohol.
“Oh, come on. I promise I won’t leave. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” He enjoyed the squirming. “Fine, but if you run out on me it’s your loss.” Leaning back, he uncrossed his legs and gazed down at the bulge beneath his belt. “I’ve been told I have much to offer.”
“Oh my god.” Jones sighed dramatically. “I don’t care who you are or what you do.”
“You’re a little crazy, Jem. I like that.”
“And you’re hot.” Jones downed his martini. Then he reached across the table and grasped the man’s hand. “Your fingers are perfect, so long and elegant. I can just imagine—” His eyes were glazing over. Perhaps he’d been drinking before their date to bolster his courage. “Oh, but you’ve hurt yourself.”
To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1) Page 5
