Hard Spell (23 page)

  "And all this has something to so with the message you got from Rachel." I was in no mood to listen to lengthy explanations about stuff I already knew.

  "It has everything to do with it, Detective. Look, when we were kids, Rachel and I used to play around with our ability. Nothing serious, just for our own amusement. One of the things we could do, anytime we wanted, was what they call automatic writing. We didn't even know it had a name."

  "One person writes what the other one is writing, even though they can't see each other."

  "Exactly. I gather it's a form of clairvoyance."

  "So, this is how you got Rachel's message, through automatic writing?"

  "I was sound asleep. What is it now, almost three? This was like twenty minutes ago. Rachel showed up in my dream, which isn't all that unusual. But all I could see was her face, and she was looking right at me.
Wake up, Jo-Jo
, she said, very seriously.
Wake up and get a pen and paper.
She kept saying it over and over, and finally I did wake up."

  "I guess 'Jo-Jo' is some kind of pet name?" I asked.

  "It's what our family called me when we were kids. So, I got out of bed, put my glasses on, and stumbled downstairs. There were some pens in the kitchen, and a pad of notepaper. I got them, and sat down at the kitchen table. As soon as the tip of the pen touched the paper, my hand started moving –
writing
– of its own accord."

  "Do you and Rachel communicate this way often?"

  "Not since I was twelve, or thereabouts."

  "So, what did you write down?"

  "I'll read it word-for-word." I could hear paper rustling, then she said: "
Urgent you call Det. Stan Markowski, Scranton P D 717-655-0913. Tell him: Stan, I didn't hurt those poor cops. Kulick did. I was his instrument. He's very strong. I can only regain control like this for brief periods. You must stop him. We're hiding...

  "And that's all of it," Joanne Gilbert told me. "As soon as I wrote
hiding,
the ink line was yanked away, right off the edge of the paper. I waited a little while, to see if she was going to come back, but she didn't. So I figured I'd better get moving and do what she asked me to. Rachel doesn't use words like
urgent
very often."

  "Mrs. Gilbert–"

  "I guess you might ahis was lill call me Joanne."

  "Okay, fine. Joanne, would you please repeat the message again, slowly?"

  "Sure." She read it again. It didn't sound any better the second time around.

  In the pale green light from the dashboard, Karl and I looked at each other.

  "Joanne, if you hear from Rachel again, anything at all, I want you to call me at my private number. It's very, very important." I gave her my cell phone number. "If I don't answer, please leave a message in the voicemail box, and I'll call you back as soon as I possibly can."

  "All right, I'll do that," she said. Then, after a moment, "Detective?"

  "May as well call me Stan."

  "Stan, she's in trouble, isn't she? Bad trouble?"

  I tried to keep the sigh out of my voice, but I don't think I succeeded, completely. "Yes she is, I'm sorry to say. It's pretty bad."

  "Can you get her out of it?"

  "I have to," I said. "I'm the one who got her into it."

• • • •

After four hours of restless sleep, I went back to work. Telling McGuire about my phone call from Rachel's sister was at the top of my to-do list, but when I walked into the squad room I could see that he had visitors.

  Two men in gray suits stood in front of McGuire's desk, talking to him. One was middle-aged, and average size; the other one was younger, and bigger. I could tell their suits were expensive – better quality than most cops wear, even the
federales
.

  Minding my own business is usually something that I'm pretty good at, but the hairs on the back of my neck were bristling, for a reason I couldn't pinpoint. It could have been the expression on McGuire's face, which made him look like a man who's just had to swallow a medium-sized turd. Or maybe it was the way the two strangers held themselves – still and yet tense, like piano wire stretched tight. And piano wire is what they use in a garrote.

  I wandered over to the back of the big room, thinking I'd stick my head into the reception area and ask Louise the Tease if she knew what was up. But before I could reach her desk, McGuire looked up, saw me, and motioned me over.

  I stepped inside McGuire's office and closed the door behind me. The two guys in gray had turned to look at me, and that's when I saw that each of them wore a clerical collar.

  Priests wear black suits, which meant these guys were Protestants. But my work brings me into regular contact with the local clergy, and I knew every one in the area by sight, no matter what denomination.

  What did a couple of out-of-town ministers want with McGuire – or, for that matter, with me?

  It didn't take long to find out.

  "This is Detective Sergeant Markowski," McGuire said. His voice was flat, as if he had squeezed all feeling out of it. "He's the lead detective on the case."

  To me he said, in the same detached tone, "This is Reverend Ferris," with a head gesture toward the older guy, "and his associate, Reverend Crane."

  I figured I ought to shake hands – what else was I going to do? I was extending my hand toward the younger guy, Crane, as McGuire continued, "The reverends, here, are witchfinders."

I froze for a second.
Witchfinders.
Fortunately, Crane's hand was already on its way to mine, and I clasped and pumped it a couple of times by reflex. Then came the older guy. I was moving okay by then, but Ferris held the handshake longer than you'd expect, staring at me intently.

  After he let go, the st continued for a moment longer before he said, "You have the odor of witchcraft about you, Sergeant."

  Before I could say anything, Ferris gave me a little smile and went on, "But that is to be expected of any guardian of the public order who must deal with these abominations on a regular basis. Certainly it is nowhere near as strong as we find in a true practitioner of the black arts."

  "Well, that's good," I said. "For a second there, I thought I needed another shower."

  "Witchcraft is no subject for humor, Detective," Crane said. His voice was thin and nasally, like the whine of a mosquito just before it bites you. "Consorting with the devil is a matter of utmost seriousness."

  "Peace, Richard," Ferris said, laying a light hand on the younger guy's arm. "I'm sure the sergeant meant no harm." He gave me a wider version of the smile this time, but his gray eyes were as cold as January slush.

  "The reverends here were sent for by the chief, on orders from the mayor," McGuire said. "Who is very concerned that a witch cop-killer is still at large." McGuire seemed about as overjoyed to see them as I was, although maybe for different reasons.

  He probably didn't like the implication that he wasn't doing his job as head of the Supe Squad. But it was the prospect of these two self-righteous pricks going after Rachel, and what they'd do if they found her, that scared the shit out of me.

  "Yeah, about that," I said. "I got an interesting phone call while Karl and I were on our way back from Pittston last night – or, rather, this morning." I ran down for them what Rachel's sister in Rhode Island had told me.

  "That supports what you've been saying ever since Rachel disappeared from the hospital," McGuire said thoughtfully, once I'd finished.

  The Reverends Ferris and Crane, however, looked as if I'd just told a filthy joke about one of their mothers.

  "I hope you're not inclined to treat this... account seriously, Lieutenant," Ferris said.

  McGuire looked at him. "Are you saying you think Detective Markowski made this all up?" he said slowly. There was nothing threatening in his voice, but I still saw the older witchfinder swallow a couple of times. Say this for McGuire, he stands up for his people.

  "No, of course not," Ferris said, his voice sounding like he hadn't completely ruled it out. "But even if the sister's account of this automatic writing business is true – which it may not be – we can hardly expect anything but deceit from those who have given their allegiance to the Father of Lies himself."

  "'Their delight is in lies; they give good words with their mouth, but curse with their heart'," Crane intoned.

  "The Book of Common Prayer, 62:4," Ferris said, nodding. "Exactly."

  "Wait a minute," I said. "You're saying we shouldn't believe anything Rachel says about not practicing black magic, because everybody knows that people who do black magic lie? I'm pretty sure that's what my Jesuit teachers would call circular reasoning."

  "
Jesuits
," Crane said, with a smirk. "We know all about
them
."

  Before I was able to get in his face about that, Ferris said, "Regardless of how you twist our words, Detective, the fact remains that the woman is already on record as practicing witchcraft. As I understand it, that's even in her
job description
."

  "Rachel Proctor's job title is 'consulting witch', it's true," McGuire said. "But the job position specifies the practice of white witchcraft exclusively."

  The two witchfinders looked at each other, their expressions saying as clearly as words,
What are we to do with such idiots?

  "Black witchcraft, white witchcraft," Crane said. "The important word in each phrase is the noun, not the modifier:
witchcraft
."

  McGuire leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk blotter. "Let me see if I've got this straight," he said. "You fellas don't see any difference between black witchcraft and white? None at all?"

  Ferris shrugged his narrow shoulders. "We are aware that various apologists have argued the distinction, claiming that so-called white witchcraft is somehow less pernicious than the other variety. In practice, Reverend Crane and I have found little difference between them."

  This conversation was becoming so ridiculous that I didn't even know what to say. It's true that black witchcraft is exactly what these two clowns had been talking about: you mortgage your soul to Satan, in return for supernatural power to do evil: curses, deadly spells, stuff like that. But white witchcraft, an outgrowth of Wicca, derives its power from nature and can't be used to hurt people, except sometimes in self-defense. The difference is as obvious as, well, black and white.

  Fortunately, McGuire wasn't stuck mute by this bullshit. "Well, here's one difference the two of you had best keep in mind," he said. "The practice of black witchcraft is a felony, subject in some cases to capital punishment. But white witchcraft is legal, and protected by the law, just like any other kind of free expression."

  Crane drew breath to speak, but again Ferris quieted him with a touch on the arm. The older witchfinder drew himself up and his voice was frosty when he said, "We are well aware of the law, Lieutenant, and it will be followed to the letter. We shall
lawfully
apprehend this witch Rachel Proctor, and we shall then put her to the question as to the nature of her recent activities, just as the
law
allows. And when – excuse me,
if
– she confesses to the practice of black witchcraft, which is both a crime against the state and an offense before Almighty God..."

  Ferris turned his head to look at me for a second before returning his gaze to McGuire. "... then we shall
lawfully
show unto her, God's judgment, exactly as Scripture has specified."

  He turned away and walked stiffly toward the office door. Crane stood looking at us, however. Maybe he felt the need to add to his boss's little oration, or maybe it was his job to have the last word. Before following Ferris out of the office, Crane looked at us and declared, with the certainly that only the truly self-righteous ever achieve, "Exodus 22:18.
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live
."

In the silence that followed, Crane's words seemed to hang in the air like a storm cloud. Before either of us could speak, there was a tap on McGuire's open office door, and Karl walked in.

  "I was watching from the squad room," he said. "What the hell was
that
about?"

  I quickly ran down for him who the visitors were, and what they intended. When I finished, Karl just shook his head.

  McGuire leaned back in his chair. "You know, I've been thinking about Rachel quite a bit lately. Trying to figure how she could do evil shit like that to anybody, let alone a couple of cops. It didn't seem like her, to put it mildly."

  "And now we know it wasn't her – well, not really her," I said.

  "So you believe the sister?" McGuire asked me.

  "Yeah," I said. "I do."

  McGuire nodded slowly. "I think maybe I do, too." He moved some stuff around on his desk that didn't need moving. "Well, possession has been used successy as a legal defense before. Kulick's not a demon, exactly, but the principle's probably the same, under the law."

  "She's not gonna get the chance to make her case in court – not if those two sanctimonious bastards get hold of her," I said.

  "I didn't know there even were such things as witchfinders anymore," Karl said. "They didn't tell us about it at the academy, and nobody's mentioned it since I joined the squad, either."

  "Nobody in law enforcement talks about them much," I said. "They're kind of a dirty little secret."

  "Why should they have any better chance of finding Rachel then you and me?" he asked. "Or even as good a chance, since we know the town and they don't?"

  "Because they've got a Talent," McGuire said. "Some people, like Rachel and her sister, are born with the Talent for magic, and others are born with a Talent for sniffing it out. It's kind of like the polar opposite of the witchcraft Talent. Most people who have it don't even know they do."