by Jessica King
You know the consequences of your actions.
What was that supposed to mean?
She balanced on her tiptoes—was this the same person who was fanning the flames of the recent pushback she’d received? There’d been an anonymously published paper citing her work as “luck or witchcraft or something in between” and saying that she was faking her most miraculous recoveries—actors for hire exclaiming about her talents. It’d been hurtful, and she’d considered turning down the invitation she received to present at the conference.
But she knew her work was legitimate. That she’d found ways to heal each of those patients according to what they needed. She was the breakthrough several of her colleagues claimed she was. And even though she had nightmares about coming on stage and having food thrown at her while she tried to explain her most recent work, she’d decided to come.
“She’s considered a leader in her field and has been called an angel by many of her patients because she truly has the healing touch. Her most recent publications include 432 Hertz—Healing Your Body with the Power of Noninvasive Sound, Ancient Healing in a Modern World, and The Power of Focus Words in Healing and Therapy.” Erin looked up. Waiting in the other wing of the stage—standing—was Martin, who gave her a thumbs-up.
Before she could decipher the strange note, the crowd was cheering for her. Not wanting to feel such a negative feeling onstage, she crumpled the sticky note in a fist and threw it to the side. She smiled and waved as she walked to the podium in the center of the stage. The stage was gray and a little sticky, and there were different colors of tape in different places all across the floor, making Erin wonder what type of performances usually took place in the theater.
Erin gripped the podium and pushed back down the feeling that her stomach was slowly rising as best as she could. She smiled and tried to recall the cadence of TED Talk speakers. She’d been watching them nonstop since she’d accepted her nomination. “I’ve learned way too much,” her husband had said this week before she’d left for her conference. He pointed to the television screen where a man examined the designs of city flags. “I think we should start watching football again.”
“Thank you for allowing me to speak to you tonight,” she said. “Of course, as you might have guessed, the main reason I wanted to come here tonight was for all the wine that the speakers here are given.” She got a huge laugh from the audience, which made her stomach feel warm. “I didn’t know physical therapists were such partiers until I came and watched my good friend, Marlene Carson, present, and we had our choice of ten different wines!” Erin grinned and gestured to Marlene, who covered her face with her hands, laughing. “Of course, physical therapists are great at a lot of things, but knowing the difference between ten-dollar wine and fifty-dollar wine is not one of them.” Another laugh from the crowd and Erin’s shoulders loosened.
She blinked against the bright lights in front of her, trying to get her eyes to adjust so she could see beyond the first two rows of people. Little purple splotches burned behind her eyelids when she blinked, but the audience slowly became more visible.
“My name is Erin Preston, and I am a physical therapist in Pasadena.” She paused, pretending to step onto the red circle that TED Talk speakers used as a mini stage during their presentations. “On the cutting edge of science and in the practices of ancient civilizations is where our field belongs. It’s one of the beautiful things about our profession. Each body is so different, each injury so unique, that we need to think of all the different ways of healing we’ve had over time. And I think that includes—” she motioned to the screen behind her, which now flashed up pictures of her working on different patients “—using an ancient Chinese healing salve while having your patient meditate on a word like “strength,” can be as effective as tape and exercises. And it sounds crazy, but it’s our minds and our belief in both healing and in the power the body contains already are crucial to full recovery.”
No one started booing. No one threw food. In fact, most of the people in the audience were scribbling into notebooks or taking pictures on their phones of the slides behind her. She took in a deep breath and barreled forward, every moment becoming easier than the last. She forgot about the article labeling her as a fraud as people nodded along with her theories. Validation. That’s what she felt, and it felt amazing.
+++
Monday, February 13, 2017, 10:12 p.m.
There were so many witches, apparently. Ivy never slept well when she was on a case, and this one was no different. She was notorious for her victorious day of sleep after solving a case, but while she was working, she usually woke up early enough for most to consider it to still be nighttime. She pulled the chain on the lamp on her bedside table, grabbing the laptop from the bookbag she’d left by leaning against the bed before falling onto the mattress the evening before.
Ivy balanced her laptop on her stomach, kicking her covers to the end of her bed. The picture of professionalism, Ivy thought as she looked down at her Tweety Bird pajama pants. She pulled up the Kingsmen website.
Between all of the lists, there had to be over a thousand women on the site. Their names and faces blurred as Ivy clicked through the nearly two hundred lines of witches. Whoever was keeping these records had not skimped on their research. Many of the women’s stories were listed. Who they were, where they’d lived, what they’d done for a living, if they were married, any outward signs of witchcraft. Even the ones who were still alive, their names, occupations, hometowns, and pictures were listed if it was known. There were few whose were not.
Her own mother’s biography was short.
Bethany Moore Hart was born in Baltimore, Maryland, on February 24, 1967. She moved to California to attend California State University, Los Angeles and graduated with a degree in non-profits in 1988. It was there that she met Andrew “Andy” Hart. They were married July 22, 1989. They remained in Los Angeles, and she took on a position with North Central Marketing. The Harts had one daughter, Ivy Leigh (association unknown).
Ivy felt cold at the mention of her name, and she pushed her bare toes back under the blankets. Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. If the unknown “association” was whether she was associated with witchcraft… She tapped her fingernails on the keyboard. It was ridiculous.
Aline’s confession echoed in her mind.
That was different. Hollywood movie stars got to do things like believing they were witches capable of supernatural occurrences. Half of them were in the Illuminati, right? Why couldn’t there be witches?
Bethany Hart, the fifth-known reincarnation of Mary Caste, was believed to be practicing witchcraft as early as her high school days in Maryland. It is believed that in the days leading up to her death, she was selling protection charms as a secondary source of revenue. Eliminated September 1, 2002.
It was all speculation. It is believed meant nothing in a real investigation. Somehow, knowing her mother was murdered over superstitions and lies was worse than believing she’d been picked out of the crowd by some psychotic killer with no reason.
The biography had barely covered it. Where was the information about the constant stream of animals she’d kept in their home? Where was the mention of the hours she’d spent on hard metal bleachers while her daughter had played soccer? Where were the stats showing how great she’d been at her job?
Ivy turned on the television for a source of distraction from the flood of memories. She clicked through the pages, a series of similar faces flooding the screen. There had to be something here. She had a database of evidence sitting in her lap. What kind of detective couldn’t solve her mother’s murder with the information lying right in front of her? Ivy looked up at the commercial playing. It was some sort of ad for the best women’s razor, a line of women in colorful shower caps and robes smiling and holding their chosen razor. Soon, all the women fell through trap doors, except for one, who quickly went on a spiel about why her chosen razor was the best choice.
Wat
ching all of the women fall, Ivy had a horrible feeling as she typed three letters into the search bar.
“WIP”
Two results. She breathed out. There was only one other person in grave danger—that was better than she’d expected. Aline Rousseau and a woman named Erin Preston. One click and she found that Erin was a physical therapist living in Pasadena.
Considered to be an immensely talented therapist, sources have confirmed her non-traditional use of ingredients, techniques, and chanting often found in the practices of witches dating back to medieval times.
Ivy dialed the office, suddenly too hot in her fuzzy pajamas.
“Hullo?” It was a gruff, familiar voice, a voice trying to sound like the owner had not been dozing at his post during the early hours of the morning.
“Barnes,” Ivy said. “I need you to get in contact with Pasadena. Can you find who is closest to—” Ivy’s phone lit up against her cheek.
“Hart?” the voice on the other side said.
Ivy shook her head. “N-never mind. Thanks, Barnes,” Ivy said, hanging up before she could hear if the man said anything as a means of goodbye.
The chief had sent a picture and a short message.
“Do you think this is one of yours. The family says no one would have wished her ill.”
The blank, cold face belonged to Erin Preston. Ivy scrambled out of bed, crashing to the ground as she tried to change from the Tweety pajamas to work clothes too quickly.
“This happens too often,” Ivy muttered to herself, making a mental note to buy a rug for this spot as she’d meant to for months. She rubbed at her elbow, which was an angry red from the fall.
A follow-up message lit her phone. “Driver’s license says Pasadena.” Ivy ground her teeth and refreshed the page listing Erin Preston as a “WIP.”
Now, where the date had previously said “WIP,” it now read “2017.”
Ivy’s hands shook as she dialed Vince’s number. Before he could say that he was Vince, she was saying, “Call Ivan. Call Ivan now! The site changed, and maybe he can track it or—”
“I’ll call him,” Vince said. “Chief sent me the address.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday, February 13, 2017, 10:20 p.m.
He thought it might be tonight. Erin hadn’t been his kill, but he had been keeping an eye on the witch and her black magic. She’d moved beyond personal witchcraft and was using her power to afflict or heal others.
He’d watched the live stream from the Mind + Body conference. She had presented her findings on an incredible new therapy. She’d claimed that a combination of salves, meditation, and music that she claimed changed the liquid in non-auditory cells had been the secret to her patient’s full recovery. The presentation was complete with a veteran in uniform walking onstage and telling the crowd how important the non-traditional pieces of his treatment had been for him.
“She’s a miracle worker,” he had said to the audience, some of whom were crying from his rousing words.
It was ones like this, who people would begin to actively seek out, who were the scariest because now her power would be entirely unchecked because people thought she’d made some sort of brilliant breakthrough. That even her most unconventional methods should go unquestioned.
She could hide behind the title of a doctor or healer or therapist, but he knew.
What Erin Preston had not told the audience was that one of her patients was in such turmoil from the lack of movement achieved through his therapy with her that he’d killed himself only a few months before. Why didn’t you give him your magic? He wanted to ask her. He wished he’d been in the audience so everyone would hear the truth, would watch her stutter as she was called out as a fraud.
What about the results she’d published nearly five years ago, where she had condemned a young girl to never be able to walk again, even though she’d exhibited very similar injuries as the veteran onstage?
That was the most infuriating thing about witches, he thought. He knew that some of the Kingsmen feared the power of the witches because there was a necessary darkness in a person who could so easily yield life or death, healing, or pain. But he had decided that he was not angry about that. It was hypocritical to think that he could take it upon himself to eliminate a witch without at least a grain of darkness within himself because the witch was still human, to an extent.
But it was the fact that they had managed to receive this power, to wrangle it, and had made the decision to dole it out in whatever way they chose. There was no way to make a witch heal every person who needed their assistance. No way to make sure that they didn’t drive a patient to madness because he had such hope in her ability. That was what made him angry. If a witch had the power to heal, why wouldn’t they walk through hospitals, giving life freely to those around them?
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” he said to the lionfish that swam past him. He considered the fish for a long moment, and the fish considered him back, unblinking in the water, its mouth opening and closing just a bit as if he were chewing gum.
“Perhaps it’s just because I’m a good person and witches have too much darkness.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if they get their powers from the devil below, Tiger Lily, but they certainly don’t get them from some sort of higher power, that’s for sure.”
Tiger Lily blew out bubbles in agreement.
“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he said.
+++
Monday, February 13, 2017, 11:46 p.m.
By the time Ivy arrived on the scene, there was a large crowd gathered outside the hotel. A cluster that must have been the family was gathered in a tight circle near a car with the doors still open, the lights still on. Ivy cast them a sympathetic look but decided not to say anything. She never knew what to tell people. She certainly didn’t know how to tell them the reason for which Erin had been killed.
A man who appeared to be the manager was pacing across the lobby, yanking at his cufflinks, and the staff was huddled in small groups, gossiping.
She found Chief Marks at the front desk, asking the receptionist if she’d seen anyone strange enter, and when she simply started crying, he patted her hand in the way that only experienced grandfathers could. The department often joked with him about being an old man; his cheeks drooped, and his eyebrows hung low over his eyes. He’d apparently had a bit of a beer belly since his days as a deputy, though most of his colleagues from that time had long since retired. But now, he looked older in a way that made her feel old herself, and he had a dull look to his skin of someone who had pulled a graveyard shift two nights in a row. She handed him her coffee.
“Think you might need this more than I do,” she said.
His face softened, and he took the cup. “Thank you.”
“Hazelnut,” she said, pointing to the steam rising from the drink, and he nodded, ushering her into the elevator. Chief Marks pressed 5 on the panel of buttons, and Ivy reflexively looked for the elevator’s certification, which was always signed by someone who belonged to the Office of Elevators and Amusement Rides. It sounded like a department belonging in the Ministry of Magic in Harry Potter, and she always got a bit of a kick out of it.
The elevator was warm and smelled of plastic and late-night takeout. She leaned against the handrail as they rode upward. “Another guest smelled the wine and called the front desk because they thought the carpets needed cleaning,” Chief Marks said.
“Good nose,” Ivy said.
Chief Marks yawned.
“Not to be out of line here, chief,” Ivy said. “But why don’t you let Sergeant Schumacher take over early today? You look a little tired.”
The chief shook his head. “I, like you, don’t sleep well when there’s a serial killer on the loose in my city.” He patted his face. “I just don’t hide it as well as you.”
“You can use some of my concealer,” Ivy said. She’d applied a fairly heavy dose under her eyes before she left her apartment.
&nbs
p; He cracked a smile, and the elevator doors opened. “510,” he said.
Ivy walked down the hall, the pattern of the carpeting giving her a headache. She made her way around the caution tape set outside the room, slipping gloves onto her hands as she did. It did smell like wine, a lot of wine. There were broken bottles all around the room, some of them still tangled in gift ribbons. She’d tried to defend herself, then. Her eyes drifted to the side table first.
Three plaques were stacked, one of which listed some sort of breakthrough in medicine, which would explain the wine several of her colleagues must have gifted to her. A fine physical therapist, indeed, then. She must have performed a near miracle for a patient’s healing to be considered a breakthrough. Ivy remembered what the website had said about Erin’s work: Considered to be an immensely talented therapist, sources have confirmed her non-traditional use of ingredients, techniques, and chanting often found in the practices of witches dating back to medieval times.
A cellphone was face-up on the floor, a bullet hole right in the center of the screen. Something like that would be an indicator of an expert marksman, which made no sense considering the sloppy job at the Woodward scene.
“Could have just been a lucky shot,” said an unkempt looking Vince, walking up behind her.
“You read my mind,” Ivy said. “But lucky shots are few and far between.”
He pressed the home button of the phone, but the screen didn’t flicker at all. “Think she was recording before her death?” he asked.
Ivy shrugged sadly. “If she was, I doubt it matters now.” She considered the phone for a moment. “Maybe tech can try, though? If she was recording and we had a face—”
“At least worth trying it out,” Vince said, placing the phone and muttering something about where are those bags.
Ivy finally moved to the body. Erin Preston was a tall woman with dark skin and black hair tucked neatly into a bun. The bullet was perfectly placed right where a certain type of spiritual person might consider was the location of their Third Eye.
