The Witch’s Grave (11 page)

“What do you think?” I asked Abby as we drove to the hospital.

“Muggings happen all the time in the city.”

I inhaled sharply. “Her boss is shot less than a week ago, and now she’s mugged.” Watching Abby smoothly maneuver into the heavy traffic, I pursed my lips before I spoke again. “Too much of a coincidence, if you ask me. Wonder if Bill knows.”

“The mugging occurred last night, so he might not have been contacted yet.” She honked her horn as a car whipped over in front of her. “And who knows…law enforcement agencies don’t always communicate with each other.”

“Yeah, but as Ethan said, Bill’s a good cop, I bet he contacted the St. Louis police after the shooting. You’d think they’d return the favor.”

“It’s a big city. Maybe the information concerning the mugging hasn’t reached the right ears yet.” Abby glanced my way. “You sound as if you want Bill to know.”

I picked at the armrest. “I do—if it helps him solve the case—but I’m a little worried he’ll come charging down here once he hears about it. And—”

“Find out you’re here instead of in Summerset,” she said, finishing my sentence for me. “Hmm,” she went on, her tone
teasing, “I’ve heard the jail’s serving the prisoners meals from one of the restaurants now, so at least you’ll eat well.”

“Not funny.” I shot her a dirty look. “Bill’s always threatening to put me in the slammer, and one of these days he’s going to carry through with the threat.”

She reached out and patted my knee. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll post bail.”

We left the car in the parking garage and rode the elevator down to the first floor. Praying it wouldn’t be a repeat of my experience at the Regional Medical Center, I marched up to the information desk.

“Karen Burns, please.”

Without a glance, the receptionist ran her finger down the patient list. “She’s in Room 224.”

Walking away from the desk, I gave Abby a big smile. “That was easy.”

“Don’t count your chickens—we haven’t talked to Karen Burns yet.”

Peeking in the half-open door to Room 224, we saw a dark-haired woman in the bed in a half sitting position, facing the overhead TV. An IV pole with a large bag full of clear liquid sat next to the bed—its tubes running from the bag to her arm.

From where I stood in the doorway, she didn’t look that injured. No bandages, no medical equipment other than the IV. To me, she just looked bored. Then her head rolled on the pillow to face me and our eyes met across the small room.

The entire right side of her face was one massive bruise. Her right eye was swollen shut and the corner of her mouth appeared to be cut.

Shocked at her injuries, I took one step back, bumping into Abby.

Moving me out of her way, Abby took control, crossing the room to the bed. “Hello, Karen. I’m Abigail McDonald, and this,” she said with a wave toward me, “is my granddaughter, Ophelia Jensen.”

Karen’s good eye widened. “You’re the one who’s been leaving all the messages,” she mumbled through puffy lips. “I don’t want to talk to you.” She turned her head away.

“Karen,” I said gently, “do you know about Stephen?”

A tear trickled down her left cheek. “Yes,” she whispered.

“The sheriff investigating the shooting thinks I might have been the target,” I said, joining Abby. “But I wasn’t, was I?”

“Don’t know anything,” she muttered.

The conversation was getting me nowhere.

“Karen,” I said trying again. “Someone tried to kill me Monday night.”

With a soft moan, she shifted her head on the pillow and said nothing.

What had Abby said? Drastic times, drastic measures? My eyes flew to Abby’s face. She blinked once and gave me a slight nod.

“Karen.” I kept my voice mild as I laid my hand on her arm and opened my mind.

Immediately I saw, felt, and heard what she had the night before. The smell of the river; pools of light from the street lamps; the sound of footsteps behind her; the sudden grasp of hands on her shoulders; the feeling of being spun around; a man, his face hidden in the shadows; the fist to her face again and again; the taste of blood sour on her tongue.

But most of all I felt the terror—black, all-consuming terror.
I’m going to die
, was her last thought before she mercifully lost consciousness.

With sweaty palms, and shaken to my core, I broke the connection.

Disoriented, Karen looked first at Abby, then me. “Who
are
you, really?”

“I told you, Ophelia Jensen. I’m so sorry that man hurt you,” I said with compassion, “and I want to help you and Stephen.”

The uninjured side of her mouth twisted down. “You can’t. Stephen always told me if anything ever happened to him, to run. I didn’t run fast enough, and next time they’ll kill me—” Her voice faltered. “I’m going away where they can’t find me.”

“If whoever’s behind these attacks isn’t brought to justice, you’ll spend your life looking over your shoulder.”

“No, I won’t. Once Stephen is out of the hospital, he’ll take care of it.”

“Stephen’s in a coma and can’t help anyone,” I said brusquely.

Abby gave me a little nudge to the side and stepped closer to the bed. “Here, child, have a sip of water,” she said, picking up a glass near the bed and holding the straw to Karen’s lips. “Poor thing.” She gently stroked Karen’s hair.

Karen seemed to relax under Abby’s soothing touch and took a long drink through the straw. “Thanks.” Her tongue licked at her bottom lip, and she winced when it touched the cut.

Grabbing the railing on the bed, I gazed at her. “Karen, do you know why someone wanted to hurt you and Stephen?”

With a sigh, she closed her left eye. “The book.”

“Which book?”

“The one he’s working on now. He came back from the East Coast obsessed with this new project.” She opened her eye and watched me. “Said he got the idea while in Boston.”

What idea would lead him from Massachusetts to Iowa to Texas?

“Why would they attack you last night?” I asked.

“The disks.”

“What disks?” My hands tightened on the railing with excitement.

“Stephen is paranoid when he’s working on a book. Everyone knows about his quirk—he jokes about it on his website.” Her fingers fidgeted with the blanket. “He puts everything—
notes, manuscript—on disks. He doesn’t leave anything on his hard drive. I know they were after the disks.”

“Have you looked at them?”

“No, I never read the ones that deal with his nonfiction until he’s finished. I go through the notes at the same time as the manuscript and check for accuracy.”

“Did you have any disks last night when you were mugged?” I asked.

“Yes. When he’s out of town, he sends them to me at a post office box—registered mail. I sign for the package, then put the disks in his fireproof box.” She swallowed with effort. “I was taking the latest disks to his condo.”

Abby held the straw to Karen’s lips again, and she took another long drink.

“Did they take them?” I asked.

“Yes. The police said my purse was stolen. They were in it.”

I felt my excitement come crashing down.
So close
. “Everything’s lost?”

“No, just the ones he mailed from Iowa. The rest are in the box.”

“Karen…” I tried to keep the anticipation out of my voice. “May we borrow them?”

Her eyes traveled to the window, and the war going on inside her was apparent in her features. Loyalty to Stephen, fear, hesitation, all flitted across her damaged face. The last expression was resignation.

She lifted a hand as if it took great effort and pointed toward the closet. “The keys to Stephen’s condo and the box are on a small key ring in the pocket of my slacks.” She paused. “At least they were.”

Almost holding my breath, I rushed to the closet and grabbed the pants. I fished around in the pocket until my fingers found a metal ring. With a sigh of relief, I held them up to her. “These?”

“Yes,” she replied in a weak voice.

Crossing to the bed, I took her hand gently in mine. “Thank you, Karen. I know this is going to help catch the man who hurt you.”

Another tear leaked from the corner of her eye. “I hope so.”

Abby leaned close to her. “Do you have anyone to care for you after you’re released?”

She nodded slightly. “A friend. The doctor said I can leave as soon as she gets here.” Karen twisted her hands. “She’s taking me away from the city.”

Ripping a corner off the menu on the stand, I picked up a pen and scribbled on it. “Here’s my cell phone number,” I said, tucking it in her hand. “Stay in touch, okay?”

She glanced down at the paper. “Thanks, but like I said, I’m going away…far, far away.”

Abby and I grabbed a quick sandwich and ate in the car on the way to Stephen’s condo. It was located a short distance from Karen’s apartment, in an old industrial building that had been converted to housing. It sat squarely on a corner, and across the cobblestone street, bars, bookstores, and antique shops lined the block. An outdoor café was within easy walking distance. Brightly striped awnings covered the doorway, and tables with tall umbrellas littered the brick sidewalk. Next to the café, at the end of the street, the Gateway Arch rose in the bright sunshine, towering above the brick buildings.

Pausing at the entrance of the condo, I could see what Stephen had meant when he talked about the energy of this place. People jammed the sidewalks—tourists, with cameras hanging around their necks, loaded with shopping bags; businessmen sitting at wrought-iron tables at the outdoor café, enjoying their lunch; couples strolling hand in hand, stopping now and again to browse the window displays. The air sizzled with an excitement that seemed to say,
Life’s good, let’s party
.

We walked into the building and headed straight for the elevator.

“Wait,” the concierge called out, rushing out from behind his desk. “May I help you?”

Pivoting, we both stared at him. “Ah…ah…” I stumbled. I hadn’t expected the gates to be guarded.

Abby stepped forward and extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Abigail McDonald, and this is my granddaughter, Ophelia Jensen. We’re friends of Miss Burns.” She gave him a gracious smile. “You know Miss Burns, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he replied with hesitation.

Abby’s smile slipped away. “Did you hear of her misfortune?”

His eyes popped wide. “No, what happened?”

“She was mugged last night.”

“No.” His brows knitted together. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes, they’re releasing her from the hospital today. In fact, we’ve just come from there.” She smiled again. “Karen asked us to stop by Mr. Larsen’s and pick up some important papers for her.” She motioned to me. “We have her keys.”

On cue, I removed the small key ring from my pocket and dangled them in the air.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked first at me, then Abby.

Abby met his gaze with an innocent one of her own.

Sizing us up, his face relaxed. “All right…you can’t be too careful, you know. Our tenants don’t like strangers wandering around the halls.”

Abby gave him a small nod. “I’m sure they appreciate your diligence.”

The concierge preened at her praise. “I do my best,” he replied as he smoothed his tie.

“We’ll just be a minute,” she said, holding up one finger.

“Oh, take your time, ma’am.”

In the elevator, I kept my eyes on the numbers as I rocked back and forth on my heels. “For someone who doesn’t like lies, you sure spin a good one.”

I caught her smirk from the corner of my eye.

“It wasn’t a lie—I simply took the truth and bent it a bit.”

“Uh-huh,” I answered with a nod. “I’ll remember that one.”

As I stepped from the elevator, I heard Abby’s chuckle.

Crossing to Stephen’s door, I inserted the key, unlocking it, and carefully pushed it open. I stepped inside. A musty, not-lived-in smell greeted me. With a soft click, Abby closed the door.

Curtains covered a bank of windows along the far wall of the large room. Brick walls rose to a vaulted ceiling. A fireplace, flanked by rich burgundy leather couches, took up space on the wall to my left. A long table with a glass top, ringed by eight padded, wrought-iron chairs, sat adjacent to the kitchen. From where I stood, I could see a fine layer of dust covering the table’s surface.

“This is kind of a lonely place, isn’t it?” Abby said in a quiet voice. “It’s beautiful, but it somehow lacks spirit.”

I understood what she meant as my eyes roamed the carefully decorated room. Lovely, but it said nothing of the man who lived here. Is that why Stephen spent so much time on the road, so much time writing? Was he trying to escape the loneliness by creating a different world in his mind?

My gaze landed on a hallway jutting back from the kitchen.

“Come on,” I said, striding across the room. “Stephen’s office must be down the hall.”

Abby followed me as I passed a bathroom and two bedrooms. Double doors marked the end of the hallway. Opening them, I stepped inside Stephen’s office.

The atmosphere in this room was definitely different. This was where Stephen spent his life.

Framed covers of his books hung on the walls, along with photographs of Stephen at various book signings. A large desk faced a window with a magnificent view of the river. His computer screen sat on top of the desk along with his keyboard. A Nerf football was placed next to it, and I imagined Stephen playing with it as he studied his notes. Louvered doors covered the wall to my right.

The closet—I would have bet the fire box was in there.

Turning sharply, I pulled the doors wide, and there it was, on the closet floor. I squatted down and, using the key, opened the lid. It was crammed with rows and rows of disks.

Great, I hope Karen had labeled them.

I picked up a handful and shuffled through them. There was one marked terror on the seine. Another set had just the word mob written on the top case—notes for the book Darci had mentioned.
Boy, I bet they contained some juicy information.

I felt the sudden sensation of someone standing close. Whipping my head around, I noticed Abby wandering around the room, a distance away. I shook the feeling off, but rifled the disks faster. Finally, I saw a set of disks labeled
BOSTON
. Karen had said the inspiration for his new book had come to him there. These had to be the right ones.