Satan's Mirror

by Roxanne Smolen

Emily grinned. “Got a date with Dan?”

  “We’re just friends.” Esmeralda blushed, shrugging.

  “Of course I don’t mind. It will give April and me some quality time together.” She stood and rinsed her plate. “I’d better get moving. Call a cab, okay?”

  She rushed upstairs and dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and a wooly cardigan she could knot about her waist later. She put on her favorite hiking boots—squashed-looking but comfortable.

  In the bathroom, she heard April singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat as she washed her hands. The tap was open to full force, and Emily imagined water splashing the mirror and down the sink.

  “Better not be making a mess in there,” Emily called.

  The water stopped, and April paused in her singing. “I’m not.”

  Emily smiled. She stepped into her walk-in closet and drew out a long, thin case from an upper shelf—a recurved bow and arrows. She’d received it on her fifteenth birthday—the only gift Aunt Lucy ever got right.

  “I’m ready,” April said from the doorway.

  “Just in time.” Emily slung the case strap over her shoulder. “Want me to carry your book bag?”

  “No. It’s not heavy.”

  They went out into the bright morning. The September breeze was cool, but the sun was still strong, making the weather perfect. They were practicing hopping down the stone steps as the cab pulled up.

  Emily recognized the driver. “Good morning, Davis.”

  “Morning, Miss Goodman. Where we off to so early?”

  “First stop, Lincoln Elementary.”

  The cab glided forward. Emily settled beside her daughter, who looked mesmerized by their mode of transportation.

  “What do you say we do something fun after school?” Emily asked. “Just the two of us.”

  “I want to go to the nature trail park.”

  “I was thinking more like dinner and a movie. We could go to that video-game pizza parlor you always like. What do you call it?”

  “We can go there any time,” April said. “But pretty soon it will be too cold to go to the park. I want to eat sandwiches on the picnic table like we did before and watch the sun set.”

  Emily hugged her, touched by her daughter’s values. “You have a wise soul, and I love you very much. And you’re right; it will be getting colder. Pretty soon it will be Halloween, and then Thanksgiving—”

  “I don’t want Halloween to come. I hate it.”

  “You do?” she chuckled. “You don’t like candy?”

  April stared out the window.

  Emily nudged her. “You can’t get to Christmas without passing Halloween.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Emily frowned, realizing her daughter was sincere. “Why don’t you like Halloween?”

  In a small voice, April said, “That’s when the monsters come.”

  Emily swallowed a groan of exasperation. This monster fixation had to stop. “But, honey, Halloween monsters aren’t real.”

  “Yes, they are. I know they are—because that’s what you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your job. You find the monsters.”

  Emily felt her jaw drop.

  “Lincoln Elementary,” the driver called.

  She glanced out at an expanse of chain-link fence and bicycle racks—the school playground.

  “My job,” she said slowly, “is to find monsters that people think are real and prove they aren’t monsters at all. They’re pretend.”

  “But what if one of those pretend monsters are real, and they take you away?”

  She held her. “No one’s going to take me away.”

  “Don’t go today when Uncle Ross calls.”

  “Ross won’t call. I just got back. Besides, we have a picnic in the park to attend. Right?”

  April smiled.

  The cab stopped at the student drop-off in front of the school.

  Emily got out, holding the car door open. “You have a nice day. And think of somewhere you want to go after our sunset dinner.”

  “Like roller skating?”

  “We’ll have to talk about that one.” She gave her daughter a quick hug, and then watched until she disappeared through the school’s wide doors.

  “Second stop?” the driver asked.

  “Clive’s Archery Emporium.” Emily sat again in the cab. She stared unseeing at passing traffic as they entered the freeway. Was she to blame for her daughter’s fears? She had no idea her job would affect her like that.

  Twenty minutes later, they pulled before the archery range. From the street, it looked like just another storefront, but Emily knew the real action took place out back. She found the Emporium shortly after she started at the station two years ago.

  “You made good time, Davis. Thanks.” She paid him. Tucking her bow case under her arm, she entered the building.

  Clive was a muscular man a few years her senior. He wore his dark hair tied in a ponytail and his bulging arms sleeved in tattoos. He stood at the register with a customer, but when he saw Emily, he flashed a smile and a peace sign with his palm facing inward.

  That was his joke. During the Hundred Years War, the French would cut off the index and middle fingers of any English archer they caught, insuring they could never draw a bow again. So on the battlefield, Englishmen flaunted their intact digits in an infuriating gesture of a V with the palm inward.

  The customer left with his purchase.

  Emily crossed the room. “Morning, Clive.”

  He clucked his tongue. “When are you going to upgrade yourself to a modern bow? I have a nice compound on sale this week.”

  A compound bow had pulleys at either end, allowing the bow to be held fully drawn, giving more time to aim.

  She laughed. “Not my style. I’ve carried a recurved since I learned they’re the only bow allowed in the Olympics.”

  “I didn’t know you were interested in the games. Ever try out?”

  She nodded. “It was exciting, even though I never made the team.”

  “Let me see. That would have been the year archery was reinstated as an event. Nineteen seventy-two, Munich.”

  She slapped his arm, grinning. “I was born in seventy-six, thank you very much.”

  “You should try out again. You’re good enough.”

  “I’ll stick to recreation. Do you have any room for me?”

  “Sure. It’s been quiet this morning.” He checked a chart. “Why don’t you take lucky seven?”

  Emily grabbed a paper target from the counter and stepped out the back door to the range. Clive wasn’t joking when he said it was a quiet morning—she was the only person on the field.

  She pinned her target face to a straw mat at 240 feet. The target rings were gold, red, blue, black, and white, with ten points for gold down to one point for white. She remembered target practice as a kid—Grandfather would think of a number, and it was up to her to score the right amount of points.

  She walked back to the seventh slot and assembled her bow. The ends of a recurved bent away from the archer in a gentle S shape, making it easy to string. The shape also gave extra spring to power the arrows.

  A deep breath helped calm her mind. That was what she loved about archery—you had to concentrate so fully on the target, you couldn’t allow daily worries to intrude.

  She took her stance, drew the bow, and let the arrow fly. It was a good shot, perhaps even a bull’s eye. Emily smiled, thinking that maybe she should try out again for the Olympic team.

  The ring of her cell phone broke her thoughts. Emily cursed and, for a moment, considered not answering. She checked the number—it was Ross Devine. “Hey, boss,” she said into the phone, “you can’t possibly be ready for my voice-over yet.”

  “I’m not. I have another assignment for you.”

  “What? No, no, I just got home.”

  “Sorry. This can’t wait,” Ross said. “There have been disappearances. I want you to follow up while they’re still
fresh.”

  “Recent? That means I won’t have any police support. They’ll think I’m mucking up their turf.”

  “They might not mind so much. Rumor has it there is sorcery involved.”

  “We’ve already done a piece on Wiccans.” She shook her head. “We should leave them alone for a while.”

  “This isn’t Wiccan. It’s haunted houses, devil worship, and something called Satan’s Mirror. You need to get down there.”

  “Where?”

  “Saint Augustine, Florida.”

  She groaned. Florida in September would be stifling. “Set me up for tomorrow morning.”

  “Today.”

  “I’m not going today. I have plans that can’t be broken.”

  “All right, then. In the morning. Good hunting, Em.”

  Emily hung up the phone thinking about what her daughter said in the cab—don’t go when Uncle Ross calls.

  FOUR

  Emily drove the rented van down Avenida Menendez beside the Saint Augustine Municipal Marina. The Intracoastal Waterway shone bright blue in the morning sun, decorated with white sails and masts. She, Dan, and his camera equipment had arrived at Daytona Beach International Airport an hour before. The drive north gave her a chance to acquaint herself with the area.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she said with more of a sigh than she’d intended.

  “Hot.” Dan scowled, adjusting the air conditioning vents. His hair blew with the force of the fan.

  She smirked, shaking her head. “I think I’ll stop here for gas.”

  “We have plenty.”

  “I know.”

  She pulled onto a cracked driveway and parked the van beside a pump with a Pay Inside First sign. Moist air and birdsong flooded the van as she opened the door. With a groan, Dan followed her out.

  Lotto posters dotted the windows of the small building. On either corner, wilted impatiens in barrels begged for water. Bells clanged as she pushed open the heavy door and entered a cramped room. A paunchy man in stained overalls looked up from his crossword puzzle.

  Emily smiled. “I’d like five dollars on pump number three, please.”

  His eyes darted from her to Dan, who stood at a display of brochures. “Regular or premium?”

  “Regular.”

  “Five dollars won’t get you far, nowadays.”

  She leaned forward. “What we’d really like is information. The secrets of Saint Augustine.”

  “Oh.” He brightened. “You want the St. John’s County Visitor Center, sure as can be. Head east on State Road Sixteen to Ponce De Leon Boulevard then turn right and go to Castillo Drive, the second traffic light—”

  “Thank you, but we’re not tourists. We’re investigators. We’re here about the recent disappearances.”

  “That senator’s kid and his girlfriend.” He sniffed, taking the five-dollar bill from the counter and putting it in an old-fashioned cash register. “Probably took his party down to Key West is all, lapping up them margaritas. People disappear around here all the time, only to show themselves elsewhere. It’s a tourist town, after all.” He stared at her as if to say the subject was closed. “Pump three is ready.”

  “One last question. I heard Saint Augustine has a haunted house.”

  “Ghosts. You can’t spit but hit one. Half the residents hereabouts will swear to one sighting or another.”

  “You ever see anything?”

  He shrugged. “Never tried to.”

  “Thanks.” Emily stepped outside into the stagnant humidity. She could almost feel her hair curl and frizz. “Strange he didn’t recognize me,” she said when they were away from the building.

  Dan laughed. “Do you expect everyone to know who you are?”

  “I just mean—”

  “When you think about it, our show might not be popular around here. A lot of these people make their living exploiting the paranormal. They wouldn’t be quick to support a program that debunks their bread and butter.” Dan circled to the back of the van.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “You paid for gas.” He took the hose from the pump.

  Emily climbed behind the wheel. If he was right, the locals might make their job that much more difficult. She gazed out the windshield and noticed the gas station attendant watching them from the window. He dialed the phone and spoke, still watching. Emily was no longer certain she hadn’t been recognized.

  “Where to now?” Dan slid into his seat.

  Emily started the van. “We have a couple of suites at the Please and Plenty Inn. It’s the bed and breakfast where Mickey Raynes and his girlfriend were staying. Might as well check in.”

  “Please and Plenty. I have something on that.” He pulled a packet of brochures from his pocket. “It’s on Cedar Street. Supposed to be one-hundred and ten years old.”

  She laughed. “What are you doing with all those? I don’t think we’ll find what we need in tourist propaganda.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” He slapped pamphlets on the dashboard. “We’ve got sightseeing trains, trolley tours, and horse drawn carriage walkabouts.” He raised his voice over Emily’s scoffs. “We’ve also got Ghost Tours of Saint Augustine, voted the number one tour in Florida, horse drawn Ghost Rides, the Trolley of the Doomed—”

  “I see what you mean about people making a living out of this sort of thing. Any haunted houses?”

  “Everywhere. There’s a haunted bed and breakfast, a haunted lighthouse, the Old Drug Store, and the Old Jail complete with gallows. And look at this, the Spanish Military Hospital was certified as actively haunted by the Northeast Paranormal Association.”

  “Sounds like we’re not the first myth busters in town.”

  She merged into traffic and continued driving along the Intracoastal. Ahead, she recognized the Bridge of Lions. Emily had studied a map on the plane. When they reached the bridge, she knew to turn the opposite way.

  Dan tossed the pamphlets into the glove compartment. “What I don’t understand is, with all the ghostly sightings, why weren’t we sent here before now?”

  “I never knew Saint Augustine was haunted. But I did a piece on Cassadaga once. That’s a spiritualists’ camp not far from here. I think that’s what landed me this job.” She turned onto Cathedral Place. “What a pretty park. Oh, it has a gazebo. Maybe we can have lunch there.”

  Dan chuckled. “I thought we weren’t tourists.”

  A flashing light behind them quelled Emily’s reply. She pulled the van to the side, watching the squad car in her rearview mirror. After several moments, a policeman stepped out and approached the driver’s side.

  She rolled down the window. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

  “Driver’s license and registration, please. I notice you have a brake light out.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. This is a rental, and—”

  “That’s not an excuse.” He glanced at the camera equipment on the floor of the back seat. His eyes were dark and his skin tanned. Curly, black hair showed around his hat. “Emily Goodman? I thought I recognized you. I’ve never seen your show myself, of course, but my kids watch from time to time. They’re five and seven.”

  “Oh.” Emily recognized the veiled insult. “I’m glad they enjoy it.”

  “You aren’t here about our missing Virginia College students, are you?”

  “Mickey Raynes and Renee Lambert. Yes, sir. Would you care to comment?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation. One that doesn’t involve you.”

  “And yet, aren’t there rumors that devil worship and haunted houses are involved?”

  “Sensationalism. Tabloid reporting.” He handed back her license and registration. “Have that brake light repaired. This is a warning.”

  Emily watched him walk away in the mirror.

  “I’ll bet it’s a warning,” Dan said. “We’ll have to be discreet.”

  “I have a bad feeling,” Emily said, pulling from the curb. “This assignment is going to be t
rouble.”

  She drove slowly along Cathedral Place. Such a beautiful city, she thought. Who would expect ghost lore to be a mainstay of this community? And Dan was right—why hadn’t she heard of it before now?

  Dan let out a low whistle, motioning ahead at an ornate, domed building. “Look at that.”

  “Cathedral-Basilica.” She ducked to read the sign. “Established in fifteen sixty-five.”

  “There must be a heavy Catholic presence here. So why Satan worshippers?”

  “One doesn’t necessarily preclude the other.”

  “Just seems strange.”

  “These streets are strange. Half of them are one way. Check the map, please, navigator.”

  “Cardova takes us away from Cedar,” he told her, “but we can use it to swing around Flagler College and come back via Grenada Street.”

  Emily grinned. “The old slingshot maneuver, eh?”

  She wound around Victorian houses on narrow, brick-lined streets. Many yards were overgrown and bound by wrought iron fences and arched gates.

  “This architecture is breathtaking.” She looked at a home with a wicker veranda. “What era do you think that’s from?”

  “I read that Spanish colonists settled the city over four-hundred years ago, before the pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock.”

  “I wonder how many of these buildings are original and how many are made to look old.”

  “Thirty-six,” Dan said, “and forty reconstructed.” He looked at her and grinned. “You can learn a lot from a brochure.”

  “Let’s hope we can put your trivia to good use.”

  “There.” He pointed at a large, whitewashed home with overshadowing trees and a white fence. “I think that’s our Inn.”

  Emily pulled into the drive and parked in a small lot. “This is lovely. How could a kid like Mickey Raynes afford a room in a place like this?”

  “His father was a senator, remember?”

  “Right.” She hopped down from the van. “Let’s get our stuff.”

  She slid open the back door, and then grabbed her old denim duffle bag and her computer. She chuckled as she hefted them onto her shoulders—she’d gone through the trouble of finding the lightest laptop she could, and then packed it in a case that weighed twice as much.