Heat of the Moment (17 page)

“I thought we'd determined I wasn't the one who tried to kill her.”

Owen crossed his arms. “I'm unconvinced.”

His biceps bulged against the sleeves of his khaki T-shirt. Jeremy seemed almost as entranced by them as I was. I suppose he was the one being threatened by them.

“We'll take Owen's truck.” At Jeremy's flash of annoyance, I lifted a hand. “The sooner we arrive at the crime scene, the sooner we can all go back to our lives. I'm sure you need to get on the road, Jeremy.”

“I made a reservation at a hotel for the night. I hated to drive all this way and not spend some time with you.”

“Fabulous,” Owen muttered.

I cast him a glance. What did he care?

“Let's get this over with,” Owen continued. “I'll drive. Don't worry about Reggie. He won't hurt you.”

“He won't, because I'm not going with you.” Jeremy started for the trees.

While I didn't think Jeremy had tried to smother me, I also wasn't keen on walking into the forest where whoever had done so had run. Just because George hadn't found the culprit, didn't mean he wasn't still in there. And Jeremy wouldn't be much protection at all.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You coming, Becca?”

Owen took my arm. “No.”

“Honestly.” I took my arm back. “Put Reggie in the truck bed. I'll sit between you two so I don't have to listen to a litany of ‘he's touching me'!”

Owen's lips twitched. “You sound like a kindergarten teacher.”

“I had little brothers and a little sister.” Who'd burned me out on little kids long before puberty. Too bad. If I'd gone into teaching I could have saved myself a shit ton of time and money on college.

While it would have taken ten minutes to walk through the woods, it took less than three to drive to Jeremy's car. Owen didn't even argue when I got out too, though he did roll his eyes at the bright yellow Jaguar.

“You know a car like that just shouts small penis?”

I slammed the door and walked away.

*   *   *

Owen knew he was behaving like the child she'd accused him of being. He couldn't help it. The guy was annoying.

He became even more so once they got to the house. Owen hadn't expected anything less. Stupid might be as stupid does, but annoying was the same damn way.

Reitman took one step onto the porch and at the resulting creak stepped off. He eyed the roof, the cracked windows, the rickety railing Deb had kicked into what had once been a flower bed. “This place appears ready to come down on my head.”

“If only,” Owen said.

“How can you live here?” Reitman wrinkled his nose. “I suppose it's all in what you're used to.”

“Owen doesn't live here any more.” Becca took the steps, ignoring the creak and the sway. “If he did, I doubt there'd be animal sacrifices in his living room.” She opened the door and went inside.

“I don't.” Reitman followed.

Owen glanced at Reggie, who still sat in the bed of the pickup as ordered. “I see why you don't like him.”

Reggie tilted his head.

“Well, I see why I don't like him.” Owen scrubbed a hand through his hair. “But you not liking him…” Owen walked toward the house. “That's a mystery.”

A mystery he wanted to solve. Reggie didn't take a dislike to people unless he had a good reason. For instance, they smelled like C-4. Owen doubted Reitman did, but he smelled like something that bothered the dog. And that a veterinarian—forensic or not—was so uncomfortable around an animal was troublesome.

Owen caught sight of a police cruiser parked near the collapsed barn on the far side of the house, but no George. He was probably in the house, though why he'd parked way over there was anyone's guess. Maybe he was taking a leak. There wasn't a working bathroom for close to a mile.

Owen told Reggie to stay. He could imagine what the dog would do if a stranger came out of the woods and approached the house. Though Reggie had been trained not to bite those in uniform, he'd also been trained not to “fetch” unless he was told to, and he'd fetched the hell out of Reitman.

The smell of death hit Owen just over the threshold. Why hadn't he smelled it that first night? Then again, he'd smelled death so much in the past ten years he should be more surprised that he
had
noticed now than that he
hadn't
then.

The forensic veterinarian bent over the mess in the living room, poking with a plastic gloved hand at what had been left behind.

“What's that?” Becca pointed.

Reitman peered closer. “Hard to say.”

“There's another one here.” Becca moved to the opposite side of the table, leaned in, frowned. “Is that a brand?”

“What kind of brand?” Owen asked.

“Isn't a brand a brand?” Reitman kept poking and peering.

Ghoul.

“Hot metal pressed against flesh with the purpose of leaving a mark,” Reitman continued.

“For identification,” Owen agreed. “Which means all brands are different, and whatever those are might be important. Might be a clue, a lead, a smoking gun, a neon sign.”

Reitman cast him an annoyed glance. Owen found it interesting that Becca had seen the marks and not the “specialist,” though this was her second view of the crime scene.

“The evidence is too badly burned and decayed to identify much without a microscope. I'll need to take everything to my lab.” Reitman looked around. “Did the officer show up yet?”

“His car's here. I'm sure he will be soon.”

“You think if you find out what the brand is, it could point to whoever did this?” Becca asked.

“Could.” The professor had gone back to poking.

Becca lifted her gaze to the five-pointed star on the wall. “Why would someone draw a symbol for a group that harms none directly above so much harm?”

“That isn't a Wiccan symbol.” Reitman straightened.

“Isn't it a pentagram?”

“Yes. The Wiccan pentagram is usually drawn with a circle connecting the points. Some call it a pentacle. The Wiccan symbol has an ascendant point.” He jerked his thumb upward. “To represent spirit and the Wiccan belief that spirit is more important than earthly concerns. The four other points on either side and to the bottom represent the four elements—fire, air, water and earth.”

Owen contemplated the five-pointed star on the wall. The single point faced downward not upward. “What is that?”

“Point descendant favors earthly over spirit concerns.” Reitman chewed the inside of his lip. “Satanism.”

Considering what the thing had been drawn over, Owen wasn't surprised.

“I asked around to see if there've been any whispers of kids messing with that.” At Owen's incredulous glance, she continued. “Black animals. Halloween. Sacrifices. Weird star.” Becca pointed at the wall. “It added up.”

“Then what did you need him for?” Owen wondered. They both ignored him.

“What did you find out?” Reitman asked.

“Nothing.”

“Even if kids were screwing around,” Owen said, “they wouldn't admit it.”

“No.” Reitman's gaze returned to the table. “But I don't think this is kids.”

“Why not?”

“I've investigated this kind of thing before.”

“Hence our need for him.” Becca didn't stick out her tongue, but Owen could tell she wanted to.

“Kids go about things half-assed,” Reitman continued. “Dead animals are one thing. The pentagram, the fire, the brands.” He chewed his lip some more. “This is serious stuff.”

“Someone was trying to raise Satan?” Owen felt like laughing, and then again he didn't.

“You aren't going to get Satan with the souls of animals. Most people don't believe animals have souls.”

“Bullshit,” Owen said.

“I concur.”

Becca's lips twitched. Owen's wanted to. The guy had a stick up his butt that he couldn't quite seem to yank out.

“If you aren't going to get Satan with this”—Owen waved at the table—“what are you going to get?”

“Practice.”

Becca and Owen exchanged a glance before Becca asked, “Practice for what?”

“People.”

Owen blinked. “Say what?”

“Raising Satan would require people.” At their continued blank expressions, he elaborated. “Human sacrifice.”

“Deb did think someone was gearing up to be a serial killer,” Becca said. “I just thought she'd read too much Tami Hoag.”

“I'm not following.”

“Serial killers usually start with animals. I never considered someone was practicing. I didn't like to consider what was going on here at all.”

“Witches. Serial killers. Satanists. Sacrifice.” Owen threw up his hands. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“It's my job.” Reitman straightened as if the stick had suddenly been jabbed in farther. “Also a hobby and a calling and a birthright.”

“How is being a forensic veterinarian a birthright?”

“It isn't. Being a witch is.”

Owen laughed. Reitman didn't. Owen glanced at Becca. “Did you know that he thinks he's a witch?”

“I
am
a witch. My mother was one too.”

People had called Owen's mother a witch. Sometimes, when she was really, really high, or off her meds, or both, she believed it. Once she'd used their broom to try and fly off the roof.

Becca set her hand on his arm. She remembered too. They'd been eight, playing at the creek, building a mud castle. The screaming had brought them back to the house. Becca had run to her parents and gotten help. Owen had stayed here and tried to keep his mother from walking on a compound fracture.

That wasn't the first time Owen had spent a few weeks in foster care. But it was the last. After that, when his mom went away, Owen stayed at the Carstairs' place.

“Are there a lot of witches in Wisconsin?” Owen asked.

Becca coughed, then cleared her throat, which meant she was smothering a laugh. Witches in Wisconsin
was
kind of funny.

“What's a lot?” Reitman asked.

“Two,” Owen muttered.

“Then, yes. I belong to a coven in Madison. There's one in Eau Claire. There might be another hereabouts. I'm not sure.”

“How can you not be sure?”

“We don't advertise in the Yellow Pages or have a Web site. That's just asking for trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You think there's discrimination against minorities? Try being a witch.”

“No, thank you,” Owen murmured. “If there isn't a way to find a coven, how do covens get found?”

“Wiccan shops. Word of mouth. I'd ask my high priestess if there was a coven this far north, but…” Reitman's gaze went back to the animals. “She was murdered last week.”

“How?” Owen blurted.

“Arm hacked off. She was—”

Something creaked upstairs, and they lifted their eyes to the ceiling. The creak continued down the staircase with the measured beat of steps.

“George?” Owen called.

The creaking stopped.

“What the heck was he doing up there?” Owen asked no one in particular.

“What was who doing up where?” George walked through the front door.

“If you're here then who—”

A figure flew out of the shadows. Long, tangled hair obscured the face. A sacklike, tan jumpsuit shrouded the body. The sunlight through the open front door glinted off a knife.

“Bringen,”
Owen said, but Reggie wasn't there.

“Die,” the apparition shouted, and rushed into the living room.

Owen dived for Becca.

“You witch, huh—”

George plowed into the intruder, cutting off the rest, managing to grasp the descending forearm before the knife plunged into Reitman's chest.

Becca and Owen crashed to the ground. The knife clattered to the floor. The subsequent thuds and grunts, followed by the jingle then snap of handcuffs, told Owen that George had subdued the attacker.

Beneath Owen, Becca caught her breath. Was there more than one psycho with a knife? Considering what had been going on here lately, why wouldn't there be?

Owen turned his head. Nope, only one psycho with a knife.

“Hi, Mom,” he said.

 

Chapter 14

Owen hadn't seen his mother since he'd left on his previous tour. He probably should have felt worse about that. Except the last time he'd seen her, she hadn't remembered who he was.

He'd told himself it didn't matter. As long as he was paying for her care, reading whatever they sent him to read, and returning any phone calls made to him about her, then he was doing his duty.

It wasn't true, but out of sight was out of mind. And Afghanistan was just about far away enough for him to forget for maybe a day at a time that his mother was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

“You told me they weren't ever going to let her out.” Becca pushed at his chest, making Owen realize he still shielded her from the rest of the room.

“Considering her outfit”—Owen rolled free and stood, then offered Becca a hand—“they didn't.”

She placed her palm against his and static leaped, the spark making both of them jerk back. It was kind of early in the season for that much of a static shock, wasn't it? It had been so long since Owen had been in Wisconsin, he wasn't sure, but the way Becca frowned at her hand, then rubbed it on her pants and got to her feet on her own, made him think she'd been as shocked—ha-ha—by the spark as he'd been. That his hand continued to feel oddly warm and tingly had to be his imagination. There was no other explanation for it. Unless it was witchcraft.

Owen used his nontingly hand to rub his eyes. Talk about cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

“You think she escaped?” Becca asked.