Waking the Witch woto-11

by Kelley Armstrong

  “No,” she said, barely over a whisper. “It never did.”

  “But that changed at 12:38 on November 18 last year, didn’t it?”

  Now she glanced over sharply. “What?”

  “November 18. The night Ginny and Brandi died. You got a call at 12:38 from Carol Degas.”

  “Did I?” She shrugged. “I suppose I might have. Carol would sober up at all hours of the night and call me, suddenly concerned about where Brandi was.”

  “Except that night she knew exactly where Brandi was. Going to Ginny’s apartment to take Kayla, already drugged, to an abandoned building where they planned to kill her and make it look like the work of a sexual predator.”

  “N-no. Ginny—Ginny would never ...” Paula shook her head. “Kayla was her daughter.”

  “Which makes it all the more reprehensible. Especially when her motive was to get back her abusive asshole boyfriend. Cody told Ginny he didn’t want her because she had a kid. She decided to remove that obstacle. Carol overheard and called you. She passed out while she was still on the phone, woke up the next day, and convinced herself it was all a dream because Kayla wasn’t dead, and Brandi and Ginny were.”

  “Carol Degas is a drunk,” Paula said. “I don’t care if she’s cleaned up and found religion. She still has a brain like Swiss cheese. Have you talked to her? She can barely remember what day it is. Kayla is alive. So whatever Carol imagined never happened.”

  “Because you stopped it. Carol called. You got hold of that gun and you tracked them to that abandoned building and you shot them—”

  “No! It wasn’t like—” She stopped short and glanced at the phone. “I think I need to call my lawyer.”

  “Sure. You do that and I’ll call the sheriff’s department and they can continue this conversation.”

  Paula looked out the window. She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Glanced toward the phone. Then said, “Why isn’t Chief Bruyn or the sheriff’s department here?”

  “Because I haven’t told them.”

  She peered at me, trying to gauge my motives.

  “It wasn’t like that,” she said finally. “Carol called to tell me what she’d heard. I didn’t believe her. Ginny would never do such a thing. Clearly Carol was dead drunk. I almost went back to bed.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I let the silence drag on for half a minute before saying, “You told yourself Ginny would never do it, but you couldn’t rest until you made ” sure.

  Paula nodded. “I knew the building. When I got there and saw Brandi’s car out back—” She sucked in a deep breath. “I didn’t have the gun. Obviously Ginny was drunk or stoned and not thinking straight and all I had to do was snap her out of it.”

  She stopped again. I waited her out.

  “I found them in the basement. Kayla ...” Her voice cracked, gaze shooting back to the window. “Kayla was on the floor. They’d pulled off her pajama bottoms and her panties and ...”

  She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t go on for another minute, then said, “They were fighting. Brandi thought they needed to make it look as if she’d been violated ...” Another crack in her voice. “That’s when Ginny started having second thoughts. But Brandi had the gun. Ginny’s gun. She turned it on Kayla, and I thought—I thought Ginny would stop her. This was her daughter. Kill her own child? For a man? How could I raise—?”

  She shook her head and took another deep breath. “I thought she’d do something, but when Brandi pointed that gun at Kayla’s head, Ginny stopped arguing and closed her eyes. Just closed her eyes. I screamed. I ran forward and there was a shot. It went past me. I hit Brandi. She fell and I jumped on her to get the gun and we were struggling and I saw Ginny standing there over us.

  “I got hold of the gun, but Brandi wouldn’t let go. It fired. I don’t know who pulled the trigger. I yanked the gun away and I got up, and Brandi was lying there, dead, blood pumping out. I heard this sound and I thought it was Kaylawaking up and I turned and there was Ginny, bent over, hands to her chest, blood running through her fingers. The bullet had gone right through Brandi and into her.

  “Ginny was still alive. I told her I was going to get help, that she’d be okay, but she started crying, saying she was sorry, it was Brandi’s idea, she begged me not to leave her. I tried to calm her down so I could get help, but she kept crying and then ...” Paula looked away and brushed a hand over her eyes. “And then she was gone.”

  “So you called the only person you thought you could count on. Ginny’s father.”

  She looked up sharply.

  “Phone records,” I said. “One of the girls at the house saw him coming in late that night. He’d gotten a call on his cell from you.”

  “Alastair’s a smart man,” she said. “I thought he’d know what to do. He knew Ginny was his daughter—he’d already figured it out and we’d agreed to keep it a secret. But for this ...”

  “He owed you.”

  She nodded. “I wanted to turn myself in. It was an accident. But Alastair said I’d lose custody of Kayla. I couldn’t bear that. So we left Ginny and Brandi there and he helped me take Kayla home. I hated doing that—leaving her in that apartment alone—but Alastair said I had to. We put her to bed and locked the doors. Alastair took the gun and my clothes. He said he’d burn the clothing and get rid of the gun. Then I sat up all night and waited for Kayla to call me when she woke up and her mom wasn’t there.”

  “And then you sat back and watched as Bruyn zeroed in on an innocent man.”

  She gave a harsh laugh. “Innocent? That’s one word I wouldn’t use to describe Cody. Do you want me to say I felt bad about that?”

  “You decided he deserved it. He gave Ginny the ultimatum that started everything.”

  “No. Cody didn’t expect her to do that. He wanted to get rid of her, so he said the problem was the one thing she couldn’t change. Or so he thought. But would I feel guilty if he went to jail? Not for a minute. Did I push Chief Bruyn in his direction?” She met my gaze. “I did not. You know that as well as anyone. I told you the truth about Cody and how he treated my daughter. That’s it.”

  “But then Claire found out the truth. You had to kill her, and when her brother got too close—”

  “No. Absolutely not.” Paula’s eyes blazed. “I had nothing to do with that young woman’s death or her brother’s. The night Claire Kennedy died, I was at a friend’s in Portland. I had a job interview the next morning. Kayla was with me. And the night Detective Kennedy died, I was right here, playing bridge with my sister, Dorothy, and Lorraine from the diner. We heard the sirens when the police went by.”

  I pressed her, but I knew she was telling the truth. It would be too easy to check her alibis. Besides, I’d never seriously thought she was responsible for Claire’s and Michael’s deaths. Even intentionally killing Ginny and Brandi to save Kayla had been a stretch.

  “Alastair says whoever killed Claire Kennedy staged it to look like Ginny and Brandi’s deaths,” she said. “They wanted it to seem like we had a serial killer. Probably hoped Cody would be charged with Ginny and Brandi so they could pin her death on him, too.”

  “Then it has to be someone who knew that Alastair planted that occult stuff at the original site. That was never released to the media.”

  “Occult?” Paula looked genuinely confused.

  I took the photos from my bag and pointed out the ritual circle and other signs. “Alastair must have done that after you left.”

  “No, those things weren’t there.”

  “You must not have noticed them. They’re too subtle—”

  “No, I would have seen them. When I went to confront Chief Bruyn about his grandson showing those photos to Kayla, he tried to say they’d been in his desk all along. He shoved them in my face, the bastard. Made me take a good look at them, too. Those things weren’t there.”

  thirty-three

  As I stood, Paula eyed me warily. “Now what? Do I nee
d to call lawyer?”

  “Not unless you killed Claire or Michael Kennedy. Claire’s mother is my client, so her death is my professional concern. Her brother’s death is my personal concern. As far as I can see, you had nothing to do with either, so ...” I shrugged and put my notebook into my bag. “Not my concern.”

  “What about the gun? If Chief Bruyn suspects I stole it—”

  “He doesn’t. I lied. You’re in the clear.”

  She let me get to the hall, then she called, “Savannah.”

  I glanced back.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “If it’d been me,” I said, “I’d have shot Brandi, and it wouldn’t have been an accident.”

  I went outside and said good-bye to Kayla, then watched as Paula threw open the door and bent to hug her.

  AS ADAM DROVE, I relayed Paula’s story.

  “I can see how it happened,” Adam said when I was done. “It’s Alastair who’s full of shit. They wouldn’t take Kayla away for a clear self-defense case.”

  I shrugged. “It might not have looked all that clear to him. But she’s wrong about the photos. She just didn’t see the signs—the cops didn’t, remember? If Alastair is into Santeria, he knows enough about rituals to fake one and give the murders a satanic cult angle.”

  Adam’s fingers tapped the steering wheel, his gaze distant.

  “What?” I said.

  “He could, but would he? Wouldn’t anything cultlike have them looking in his direction? Then, if they found the Santeria—which he wasn’t hiding very well—he’d be the new prime suspect. Maybe the cops never noticed those ritual signs because they weren’t there. Where did Jesse get his set?”

  “From a contact. A friend—” I swore. “They were doctored before Jesse got them.”

  WE COULD VERIFY that theory easily enough—just look at the real photos. But when I called the station, Bruyn was out. I wanted to stop by anyway, but Adam eased me off, not wanting us to jump to conclusions so fast.

  “Remember Claire did have that pewter bead in her hand,” he said as he drove. “Sure, I think it would be dumb for Alastair to stage it, but maybe he didn’t see that.”

  “He was panicked and did the first thing he could think of. But if that’s true, then it seriously cuts down on the suspects for Claire’s murder.”

  “Let’s say Claire found evidence that Paula killed Ginny and Brandi. She goes to Alastair to get his advice. He kills her.”

  “Then Michael starts getting close. Alastair lures him to a warehouse staged for a ritual—”

  The Jeep thumped into a pothole. My stomach heaved and I grabbed the dashboard. Adam hit the brakes and my breakfast almost hit the windshield.

  “Shit! I’m sorry.” He eased the Jeep to the side as I bent forward, eyes closed.

  “Kleenex,” I mumbled, trying not to open my mouth too far.

  “Right. Okay. I’ve got napkins.”

  He passed them to me and I spat out the stuff in my mouth. As I wadded up the tissues, an opened pack of gum appeared in front of me. I took a piece, and chewed before saying, “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  “You haven’t been feeling well?”

  “A bit nauseated.” I glanced over. “And no, it isn’t morning sickness. Somehow I doubt I’m a suitable candidate for the next immaculate conception.”

  “I was feeling a little off myself first thing, and it’s definitely not morning sickness for me. Could be the flu. Any other symptoms?”

  I told him about the headaches and the spellcasting.

  “You’re having trouble casting spells?”

  “Just a few misfires. It’s nothing.”

  “You should have told me. If I’m watching your back, I need to know that your spells are on the fritz.”

  “Let’s just get to the motel and talk to Jesse about the photos. Avoid the potholes if you can.”

  He pulled back onto the road.

  “Maybe whoever gave Jesse those photos did the doctoring himself,” I said. “He wanted Jesse to investigate Claire’s death, so he Photoshopped the others. I keep going back to that witch theory. If Ginny and Brandi’s deaths weren’t connected to Claire’s, then that makes even more sense. Claire could be a witch. She’s killed. Two weeks later, I’m being stalked and Tiffany—who we know is a witch—is killed.”

  Adam didn’t say anything. When I looked over, he was staring straight ahead.

  “What?” I said.

  “I just keep ...” An angry shake of his head. “About the witch thing. It’s tweaking a memory, and it’s driving me crazy because I can’t figure it out. I’m going to check a few more things in the database, then I may have to break down and call Dad.”

  THE FIRST ORDER of business at the motel was to talk to Jesse and get specifics on where he got the crime-scene photos. When we pulled in, though, the parking spot in front of his room was still empty.

  “Shit,” I said. “I gave him the file.” I walked to Jesse’s door. “Time for a little B&E. Not like he hasn’t done the same to me ...” I murmured an unlock spell under my breath, then grabbed the handle and—

  The knob didn’t turn. I tried again. Then tried harder.

  Adam shouldered me aside and used the lock-pick gun. The door opened.

  We went in. As Adam retrieved the folder, I closed and relocked the door, then started to cast.

  “Savannah,” Adam sighed.

  “It’s bugging me, okay?”

  I cast the spell. The door stayed locked. I focused harder and cast a fourth time and felt a whisper of relief as I heard that familiar click. The door opened.

  I held out my hand and cast a light ball. When nothing happened, a weird sensation like panic settled into the pit of my stomach. As I started to cast again, my fingers trembled. I stopped and made a fist.

  “Savannah ...” Adam said. “You aren’t feeling well. We’ll deal with it.”

  “Just give me a sec, okay?”

  I concentrated and cast. The light ball shimmered, then went out. Another cast. It returned and stayed. Weak, but steady. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

  Adam reached out, as if he was going to put his arms around me, but stopped short.

  “No need to keep your distance,” I muttered. “Apparently, I’m not that dangerous today.”

  “Apparently you’re sick today.”

  “I need my spells.”

  “They help, but you don’t need them. Not as much as you think you do.”

  “Let’s get back and check out that file.”

  “Changing the subject and completely ignoring the point I’m making.”

  I shook my head and grabbed the file.

  I LEAFED THROUGH the file. The crime-scene photos—and other pages—weren’t there. I read the rest, looking for anything that disagreed with Paula’s story. Nothing did. Good. As I read, Adam searched his database.

  “Fuck,” he said. I jumped, papers sliding to the floor. By the time I’d gathered them back up, he was on his feet, still holding his laptop, reading it as he paced, mouth set, forehead furrowed.

  “Found something, I take it.”

  “Witch-hunters,” he said.

  “Ah, an old and noble profession, a mere step down from that most esteemed position: Grand Inquisitor. Hate to break it to you, but the witch-hunts ended a few hundred years ago.”

  “Not for some people.” He turned his laptop around to show me. “These ones date back even further than the Inquisition. Very rare. Very elusive. Young women who are trained from birth.”

  “To hunt witches?” I shook my head. “If such a thing existed, I think I’d know about it.”

  “Did I mention the rare and elusive part? They usually kill in a way that looks like suicide or natural death, which is what was tweaking my memory. I was searching on the Bible verse, though, and they don’t usually leave such an obvious sign.”

  I bent to read the screen, then tapped the database title. “It’s filed under myths and legends. Mea
ning it’s bullshit. Mysterious trained assassins secretly killing witches?” I shook my head. “Just the kind of bogeyman a Coven—or sorcerers—would create to turn us into the cowering mice they want us to be.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. First, the Inquisition. Then the witch-hunts. Then centuries of quaking in the dark, too damn scared to cast a light ball, terrorized by our own kind. Nobody does this to werewolves or vampires or half-demons. Why witches?”

  “Um, because no one believes in werewolves or vampires or half-demons.” Adam put the laptop aside. “You’re preaching to the guy who’s heard the same sermon from Paige for the last twenty years. Witches get a bum deal. Always have. Personally, I’d blame sorcerers, but considering you’re a sorcerer, too ...”

  “Blame male sorcerers. Or maybe just males in general. Inquisitors, judges, hangmen ... they were all male.”

  “Are your spells still on the fritz? Or should I slink from the room while I still can?”

  “I’m kidding. You know that. There are just as many bitches out there as bastards. Equal opportunity asshole-ism.”

  I plunked onto the bed, picked up his laptop, and read the entry.

  According to the myth, witch-hunters had begun as an actual supernatural race. The Benandanti. I’d heard of them. A small race of Italian demon-hunters, not witch-hunters, although they’d been known to go after any supernaturals who used their power for evil. They were extinct now. No one seemed to know why. According to this legend, though, they’d been wiped out and replaced by witch-hunters.

  Witch-hunters had been priestesses who’d held absolute power over their people with garden-variety magic—the kind every street magician knows. Then their people started trading with a nomadic tribe, which included families of Benandanti.

  The Benandanti, true to their nature, didn’t much like the priestesses. When the priestesses realized the Benandanti had real supernatural powers, they cried foul ... and accused them of being exactly the kind of evil the Benandanti fought. When people wouldn’t listen, the priestesses decided to eradicate the Benandanti. That took a few generations, and by the time they succeeded, they’d ironically slid into the role of the Benandanti, convincing themselves that they were the righteous ones ridding the world of evil spellcasters. So, when the Benandanti were gone, they moved on to a more ambitious target: witches.