The Patsy's Patsy

by Brooke Shelby

  Furious at the power the drug held over her, Carol took her last money and headed for the gas station to have a hard word with Jaimie Kiernan about his sick business venture. She was done with being a slave to the substance, spending all her money on small bottles of hell.

  When she showed up at the gas station, Jaimie was already tense at the sight of her. He had nothing on him to sell and the window repair people were there.

  “Oh great. I so don’t need this bullshit right now,” he mumbled to himself as he pretended to be packing shelves inside the soda fridge.

  “Well, that’s a dumb move,” Carol sneered as she came in. “What are you stocking shelves for if nobody is buying, huh? You just look stupid.”

  He turned to face her, while he had a bottle of Coca Cola in his hand.

  “What do you want?” he snapped. “I’m busy.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she retorted. “Busy screwing up my life.”

  “Listen, what is your problem? You want GD and I get it for you. You think you’re being all ‘women’s lib’ with your stinking attitude on me?” he scoffed.

  “Women’s lib?” she laughed. “Good God, what are you? Fifty?”

  He lunged at her to scare her, but Carol stood her ground, unperturbed by the rake-thin body of the drug dealer. “Don’t you talk down to me, you little bitch.”

  “Or what?” she challenged him head-on. “This crap you are selling is low grade, Jaimie, so if I were you, I would stop behaving like a Colombian drug lord and start noticing what’s going on, Asshole of the Year.”

  “I wouldn’t talk if I were you. You’re the idiot paying for it,” he growled in defiance, laughing in her face, so close that she could smell his filthy weed breath.

  Without thinking, Carol lashed out and slapped Jaimie across the face for his insolence. It was nothing major, but the act itself was demeaning to him. She tried to turn to walk away, but Jaimie grabbed her arm.

  Young Carol swung around and shouted, “I am telling Sheriff Walden about you, you prick! See how far you get poisoning us while you’re behind bars, genius!”

  This time, Jaimie was the one that reacted without considering his actions. As she jerked her arm out of his grasp, he lunged again, this time bringing the bottle down on the back of her head. It was a full glass bottle and the weight alone was enough to render her unconscious, her scalp split and bleeding profusely before she even hit the floor.

  “Oh my God!” shouted one of the men from where he was fastening the frame of the window. “What have you done?”

  His colleague stood in shock, staring at the crimson rivulets that ensued from the girl’s hair. His lips moved, but he could say nothing. Jaimie took off running out the back, but it was futile. There were witnesses and everyone would know that he did it. The two men ran over to help Carol.

  “My God, Colin, she is still alive!” he shrieked at the disturbing sight of Carol lifting her head. “Don’t, sweetheart! Don’t move your head or your neck, okay? Just lie still. We are calling the EMTs. Just hang in there.”

  Carol looked much worse than she felt, but she obeyed the adult’s advice and lay still on the cold gas station floor, still furious and desperate for another hit of Green Demon, much as she denied it. Her mind shut off and came back on as she looked at the shiny floor, still blurry. In the background of the shiny floor, she could see shadow men behind the doors, hollow shouting of orders, and some pretty colors flashing in red and blue.

  When Carol woke again, she was in the medical center, surrounded by medical staff. They had stabilized her and the doctor was elated that she had woken. Shining an annoying white penlight into her eyes to check her vitals, Dr. Lawton smiled.

  “Welcome back, darlin’,” she told the girl as she stretched her eyelids.

  “You … hurt my eye … ow,” Carol murmured through her daze.

  “Sorry, darlin’, just a quick checkup and then I’ll leave you alone,” the doctor soothed.

  Carol’s hand inadvertently reached for her head, but the nurse gently stopped her.

  “Careful, sweetie, we had to give you some stitches, but you’ll be okay, thank God,” the nurse informed her. It was the new nurse, an old woman with frightful eyes, but skilled hands and a seemingly constant availability in the ward.

  “Did you shave my hair?” Carol moaned through her still-lingering haze. She looked very upset about it, because she loved her hair.

  “Just a little streak where the wound is, love. The rest of your hair will cover it up no problem,” the doctor assured her. “You can’t even see it. Don’t worry.”

  Oddly enough, the teenager was satisfied with this and sank her head back into the pillow to take some rest. Outside the walls of the hospital, a public uproar ensued following the violent attack on a minor. People were furious that this could happen to a mere child in Hope’s Crossing and the authorities had to scamper to appease all the questions.

  After Carol had rested a little, Sheriff Walden visited her. He looked tense and tired, but his tone was soft and his manner patient. Her worried mother, who had driven all night to get back to town after hearing about the attack, accompanied him.

  “Carol, I hate to bother you while you are supposed to be resting up, but the sooner I get a statement from you, the stronger our case,” he told her in slow increments to make sure that Carol understood.

  “Sheriff, just arrest him! Just get that piece of sh—”

  “Carol,” her mother stopped her for propriety.

  “You have to arrest Jaimie right now, Sheriff,” she wailed, clearly still very upset.

  “I will. He will definitely not get away with attacking you,” Carl Walden consoled her.

  “No, not that. I mean, that too, yes, but you have to get him before he gets away with dealing drugs,” she rambled in a panic. Carol had never wanted to admit that she was an addict, especially in front of her already distraught mother, but this was bigger than her reputation.

  “Excuse me?’ Sheriff Walden said, shifting his weight to lean closer. “What did you just say?”

  “Jaimie Kiernan is the Green Demon dealer, Sheriff. He is the one you have all been looking for, supplying all the kids with that crap!” she sobbed. Her mother held her hand in a gesture of forgiveness and reassurance, prompting the teenage girl to spill all the details. Once she realized that her mother was not angry, she took free rein at divulging everything the police needed to know. “He has been the dealer all along, Sheriff, not her,” Carol said, motioning her head toward the woman in her doorway.

  Maggie Corey smiled at Carol as she absolved her and wasted no time in dragging Carl Walden with her to the other hospital room where Carol’s boyfriend, Billy Mason, was still recuperating from his night of playing in traffic. From Billy, Maggie and Carl heard all they needed to in order to know for certain that Jaimie Kiernan was the slug behind the drugs. Now that the sheriff had sent his officers to arrest Jaimie for assault and suspicion of drug dealing, Billy was willing to talk freely.

  “I am just surprised that he would pull this off all by himself, although I think this idea was all him,” Billy admitted to Maggie. “I mean, the guy is thick as a brick, so this was a bold push.”

  “Just because he couldn’t make it as a drug thug in Boston, I think,” Carol chimed in, sitting on Billy’s bed with Maggie. Carl was there to take formal statements from the boy as well, shaking his head in disbelief that Jaimie had been stupid enough to implicate Maggie.

  “Yeah, but that is why he didn’t think further than to frame Miss Corey,” Billy reasoned. “Still, in my opinion he is too stupid to even hatch that plan, but aw well, his ass is grass now.”

  Both Maggie and Carl were relieved, although for different reasons, that the dragging case was finally closed conclusively, with several witnesses driving nails into Jaimie Kiernan’s coffin. Carl’s badgered status recovered in the eyes of those who doubted his abilities. And once more, Maggie was proven innocent to those who maligned her.

 
; 25

  Maggie was as relieved as a death row inmate receiving a pardon. That was precisely how it felt to her. The level of weight taken off her shoulders after being accused, accosted, and rebuked was monumental. It was only when she saw Sheriff Walden take the formal statements that she realized the extent of stress she had been subjected to. Like a soldier suffering from PTSD, Maggie did not see how distraught she had become on a daily basis. Her mind had pushed it aside in order to enter autopilot, a mild survival mode that allowed her to function while her emotions ran wild.

  Finally home, she double-checked her doors, windows, and wards out of habit and elected to catch up on some much-needed sleep that had eluded her for the past few days.

  “So glad this mess is over with,” Bramble purred as she picked him up. “Did you know that your culinary skills decline proportionately to your emotional distress?”

  Maggie had to laugh at his silly insinuation.

  “That is cruel,” she said, “but not altogether speculative. I can totally see that my mood would influence my cooking. I remember when I first found out that my best friend was meeting my husband in secret back in Boston, I could not even make a decent soufflé on the best of days.”

  “Jokes aside, my dear Maggie,” he conceded, “I must admit that I am delighted that you have reason to relax again, to be yourself to the full again. Not all my remarks are essentially selfish.” He winked and nuzzled her neck.

  “Thank you, Bramble,” she smiled. “I feel like I could sleep for a year. Have we secured all the wards? I checked the locks and windows, because I have a feeling I will be sleeping like a corpse.”

  “Yep, I think we covered everything,” he reassured her. “Could I just request that you finish that shepherd’s pie you put in the fridge before you go to sleep?”

  Maggie laughed. “I’m not going into cryo-sleep, you know!”

  “I know, but just in case you take too long and I get hungry,” he purred happily.

  Dutifully, she took an extra hour to complete the task of preparing the delicious pie for her familiar. There was not much more to it than chucking it into the oven anyway, but Maggie did everything with great ceremony to make Bramble feel loved. As soon as she set the pie out to cool, she headed upstairs for bed, even declining the idea of a hot bath before. Maggie was so tired that she feared a hot bath would soothe her into slumber and see her drowned and so she opted for having greasy hair and unbathed skin for the next few hours.

  Lying down on her cozy bed, Maggie curled up with Aunt Clara’s fleece blanket. Her heavy eyes examined the ornate patterns and curls etched in the ceiling, part of the style of eras gone by when men still took time and pride in their work. Maggie’s mind was racing with a million thoughts, memories, and unspoken curses as she waited for oblivion to bless her.

  Outside the massive old Corey manor, the night had come, and Maggie relaxed for the first time since the awful business with Green Demon began. Bramble was content and she had had nothing to worry about for the next few hours. It was bliss. The house smelled of pie, mixed with the heightened scent of jasmine by the windows that grew stronger from the warmth of the atmosphere. Maggie’s delirious senses blended with the smells and sound of the old house, perceiving whispers from times gone by. Musty wallpaper and weathered carpeting gave her room an oddly lovely odor that filled the air with a stately sense of peace.

  Her bedroom curtains, heavy green velvet drapes with paisley patterns in gold, were like the designs on a Persian carpet. In the folds, moths and butterflies hid from the world, content to remain unseen in their sanctuaries. Maggie had loved the bedroom from the first moment she saw it, even though she was a city girl with modern taste. Something about the chamber reminded her of a throne room and after reading up on her bloodline, she felt like a long-lost heir to a beautiful and powerful empire.

  Maggie finally fell asleep, unaware of the world around her for once. More of a blessing was the fact that she did not suffer any deceitful dreams or furious nightmares, just deep, dreamless sleep. At one point, Bramble could hear his witch snoring in an adorable cadence of mild grunts. Hearing how soundly she slept made him lazier than ever and he decided to nap on her bed with her while the night grew old.

  And older.

  Very much older.

  Through the peacefully slumbering house, a late-night phone call ripped poor Maggie from her sleep. For a moment, she had no idea where she was.

  “Wish I remembered to switch the damn phone off!” she complained as she grappled for the thing on her bedside table. “Carl. Why?” she whined when she answered.

  “I’m so sorry, Maggie,” he replied. “Were you sleeping?”

  “Can you tell?” she frowned, still groggy.

  “My apologies, but I had to contact you urgently. Good thing you left your phone on,” he said, and Maggie quietly pulled a face for the uncanny remark.

  “What is the matter?” she asked.

  Carl paused briefly, followed by an audible exhalation that woke her suspicion and worry in an instant.

  “No,” was all she said.

  “Listen, Maggie, Jaimie Kiernan is out,” he started.

  “Um, what do you mean?” she pushed, already knowing what he meant, but too reluctant to acknowledge it and make it real.

  “He … he was released … s-somehow,” Carl revealed, sounding perplexed and disappointed, “from the county jail two hours ago, apparently.”

  “What?” she shrieked. “How the hell did that happen, Sheriff?”

  “I don’t … I have no idea, Maggie, but I feel you should be aware of it,” he replied earnestly. “They released him by mistake.”

  “You don’t say!” she barked sarcastically, her rant evident of her sudden fear.

  Carl understood this and he did not take her outburst personally, although he did blame himself for the inexplicable manner in which Jaimie Kiernan had been allowed to walk free. He was not on duty and his officers had no idea how the young man had been sprung. Once again, Carl would have to explain the worst of injustices to the people of Hope’s Crossing.

  “Look, Maggie, I will admit this straight up. I have no freakin’ idea how this could happen, but I am on it with Boston PD to figure out what the hell is going on. I have to see the paperwork to see how this happened, because there is no way that this is possible,” he explained. “Just … please, just take care while I try to sort out this cock-up, all right?”

  Maggie calmed down somewhat, after considering that Carl had as much reason to worry as she did. She took a moment to consider his side of the problem and realized that for him it was as detrimental as it was for her.

  “Okay, Carl,” she said amicably. “You be careful too, you hear? And bring that scumbag in.”

  “You got it,” he replied, sounding resolute in his task, and hung up.

  At the foot of her bed, her big black cat sat upright. In the illumination of the streetlight, his pelt looked abnormally thick, and the pristine emerald green in his ancient stare was all the more punching. He seemed to be smelling at something, perhaps hearing something or being aware of some sort of disturbance she could not hear. She waved her phone at him.

  “Bramble?” she said softly. “Did you hear what Carl said?”

  “Aye, and it sounds very suspicious to me,” he answered firmly. “Too suspicious to be chalked up to mistakes and bad communication, if you catch my drift.”

  “I agree,” she replied. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Together, as one, they said, “Witchcraft.”

  “But who?” she asked. “Never before did we have to worry about another witch until now, so it has to be someone new in town, right?”

  “Not that new, I’m afraid,” he guessed. “My senses are repeating a previous experience, my dear, an experience that felt precisely like this.”

  “But this happened two hours ago,” she argued, “so how did you not feel anything?”

  Bramble scoffed and looked at his witch
in disbelief. “Um, I was asleep. We familiars don’t need sleep, but on occasion, we like to switch off a little, you know, relax and such.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” she shrugged. “Just asking.”

  She rubbed her cold upper arms and looked out the window into the still-placid night. To Bramble, the feeling was similar to falling, to feeling one’s insides battered by a centrifugal force. His ears hissed as he felt the air in the house expand.

  “So what do you feel, then?” she asked curiously.

  “I don’t want to alarm you,” he began, achieving the exact opposite of the sentiment, “but I am sensing the exact same thing I felt the night Clara was murdered.”

  “Oh wonderful!” she moaned in fear. “That’s just great!”

  “Someone is unweaving the wards we have cast on the house, like a reverse spell to undo the protection,” he admitted.

  “Another witch?” she asked reluctantly.

  “Aye. I don’t like this, Maggie,” he admitted. “By the gods, I don’t like this one bit.”

  26

  As if nature herself knew that Hope’s Crossing was in peril, dark clouds gathered rapidly. The hot humidity was so strong that people could smell the electricity in the clouds and the scent of summer turned into a muddy warning. So unusual was the weather that a lot of townspeople felt genuine fear about what was happening. Many thought that the town was about to be ravaged by some freakish natural disaster, and they were almost correct in their assumption.

  In fact, if they only knew the truth, they would probably have run for their saints and icons, praying and beckoning. Two witches were at war in Hope’s Crossing—one good-natured and the other the blackest of practitioners. Unfortunately for Maggie, the other witch appeared to be more seasoned, already proven by the way in which ‘coincidences’ had arisen to establish Maggie’s fate.