Sam Harlan (Book 3): Damned Cold (9 page)

“The one who set the stick man upon you,” Jodie said, her face turning red. “
He’s
the one who took Dorothy.”

“Let’s start from the beginning,” I suggested, holstering the Kimber.

Jodie visibly relaxed and the cloud of magic dissipated, like a passing storm cloud on a spring day. “He lives in Monticello,” she said. “His family is Chicago old money. They used to vacation downstate during the summer along with the other wealthy families. He lives on the north side of town.”

“Okay,” I said, my frustration rising, “now
really
tell me about him.”

“He’s powerful,” Gene said, raising his hand to shush Jodie. “He’s the most powerful witch we’ve ever met, and we’ve met a few. Being near him is like standing next to a waterfall. It’s … hypnotizing. Carlton is no good. He delights in pain like it’s a drug.” Gene shook his head and I could almost smell the fear rising from him. “Meriwether is … there’s something
wrong
with him.”

“Why did he take your sister?” Callie asked.

“I don’t know,” Jodie said. “It doesn’t make sense. We’ve known each other our entire lives. It comes with being a practitioner in such a small community.”

A lightbulb went off in my head. “Dorothy is a witch, too.”

Jodie nodded. “Our family is gifted. Even Dawn, although we’ve kept it from her. Dorothy is strong, almost as strong as me. I don’t know why Carlton took her or what he plans to do with her, but it can’t be good.” She took a choking breath and her eyes grew watery. “I’m scared, Mr. Harlan. I’m afraid of what he might do to her.”

“What does he stand to gain?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Jodie said. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

Jodie shuddered. “Unless he means to feed on her.”

I cast a sidelong glance to Callie, who looked as confused as I felt. “Can he do that?”

“Emotions have power,” Jodie said. “If he evoked enough terror, he could feed on it, especially given how strong Dorothy is. But it doesn’t make any sense. Carlton is already wildly powerful.”

“Why attack us?” I asked.

“He must be watching you,” Jodie said. “He must think we contacted you. You’re a threat to him.”

“I wonder what makes him think that,” Callie said.

Jodie leaned forward and said to me, “You reek of death, Mr. Harlan. I sensed it last night, but once I looked upon you with my sight, I saw how dangerous you are. I don’t know what bargains you’ve made, but it has
marked
you.”

She turned to Callie, and the tone of her voice was full of something bordering on awe. “You are … something else. I’ve never seen anything like it. You are bathed in a power that makes me feel small. You are pure, like a newborn baby.”

Callie said, “Mrs. Rexford—”

“Whatever you are doing with him,” Jodie said, nodding at me, “I strongly urge you to reconsider.”

“She’ll keep that in mind,” I said dryly. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know if I can trust you. I believe Dorothy is missing, and I believe you think this Meriwether fellow is behind it.” Jodie and Gene turned to look at each other, and they both started to speak. I raised my hand and silenced them. “Save it. I’m not a charity worker, and frankly, I don’t do missing women, but Meriwether attacked us, and that I won’t abide.”

* * *

The houses in Monticello were variations of clapboard-style bungalows, farmhouses, and one-story ranches common to the Midwest, but the homes along State Street were elegant Victorians and colonials that spoke to an earlier time of wealth and influence.

Carlton Meriwether’s home was all that but turned up to eleven. I wasn’t an expert, but it was probably at least ten thousand square feet—perhaps even more—a two-story brick monstrosity that sprawled across the better part of two acres of tastefully maintained lawn. Even though the grass had gone dormant for the winter and was faded shades of green and brown, it was obvious that Meriwether spent a significant amount of money maintaining it.

I turned into his driveway, between a pair of thick brick pillars, and followed it to the circle drive in front of the house. “The guy sure likes his brick,” I said as I turned off the engine. “Doesn’t come cheap, either, I’m guessing.”

Callie snorted. “I don’t know much about housing costs, but this seems … extravagant.”

“Kinda screams pretentious,” I said.

Callie sighed. “I’ve never understood people’s fascination with material belongings. Even before I took my vows, I never wanted physical things.”

“Some people are just assholes.”

Callie gave me a disapproving look. “Please, will you stop using such language?”

“I sure as he—heck will,” I said.

That earned me a rare smile. “The Lord understands the occasional slip.”

“Then he must understand the heck out of me,” I muttered under my breath. I ran my hand under my trench coat and checked for the reassuring weight of the Kimber. Satisfied that it was still firmly in its holster, I opened the door, got out, and made my way up the steps to the front door.

Callie followed me up the steps. “What will you say to him?”

“Relax. I’m not going to shoot him or anything.” I raised an eyebrow and muttered under my breath, “Unless he deserves it.”

“Sam—”

“I’m just going to ask some questions,” I said, ringing the doorbell. “I won’t have to drop a body. Probably.”

The door was made from a dark wood, heavy and massive, with stained glass on each side. There was a rustling from within, and the door opened to reveal a man in his early forties dressed in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt that was a size too small, green sweatpants, and plastic flip-flops. His wide face was plastered with a delighted grin.

“Hey,” the man said, his mouth drooping at the corner. “Are you here to play?”

“Carlton Meriwether?” I asked.

The man’s face lit up. “Hah, you thought I was Daddy! That’s funny.” His grin faded and he wiped at his messy black hair. “You want to see Daddy?”

The man spoke with a lisp, and the innocent twinkle in his light blue eyes made me glance at Callie. There was clearly something wrong with the man.

Callie came to my rescue. “What’s your name?” she asked slowly as if speaking to a child.

“Nicky,” the man said. He showed a mouthful of teeth. “Will you play Ninja Turtles with me? I
love
playing Ninja Turtles.”

I hesitated, unsure of what to do.

Callie said, “We need to speak to your father, Nicky. Maybe after that we can play Ninja Turtles.”

“Nobody
ever
comes to see me,” Nicky groused, his face falling. “Nobody ever wants to play Ninja Turtles.”

He turned and took off down the hallway, leaving the front door standing wide open. “Daddy! Somebody wants to see you and they won’t play Ninja Turtles with me until you talk to them.”

We stood awkwardly on the front steps. From inside, we heard an older man’s voice say, “Nicholas? Did you leave the door open again?”

“I don’t ‘member,” Nicky hollered, shrugging his shoulders.

There was a sigh and the older man said patiently, “Please don’t leave the front door standing open. It’s cold outside. If you leave the door open, it makes it cold
inside
.”

“You
told me that
already,” Nicky said.

“I’m sorry,” the older man said. “I’m just trying to help you remember. Now go play.”

Nicky stomped off, then the older man stepped into the hallway. He looked like Nicky, except twenty years older. His hair was a close-cropped black threaded with silver, but where Nicky’s eyes were innocent, the man’s blue eyes brimmed with intelligence. He wore a tasteful pair of brown slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt, in sharp contrast to Nicky’s sloppy clothes, and a pair of burgundy leather slippers. He stopped in front of the open door and smiled neutrally. “May I help you?”

“Are you Carlton Meriwether?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m Carlton Meriwether.”

There was a long pause. I didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t think the man who’d attacked us would stand there without a hint of recognition. I glanced to Callie, who shrugged, then I said, “Jodie and Gene Rexford sent us.”

I half expected the man to blast us with magic, but he just shook his head and frowned. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this, Mr.…?”

“Harlan,” I said. “Sam Harlan.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Harlan. I’m afraid they are quite mistaken. I have no idea what happened to Dorothy, and I can’t fathom why they would accuse me.”

“You admit knowing about her disappearance?” Callie asked.

“Of course,” Meriwether said. “Please, come in. We can talk about it inside, where it’s not so chilly.” He ushered us into the house and led us down the wood-paneled hallway and into a living room the size of a basketball court. The ceiling was at least twenty feet above us, and the walls were covered in paintings of wooden bridges and rural farms. A massive fireplace big enough for a grown man to lie down in occupied the north wall. A cheery fire roared away, and the fireplace mantel was covered in scented candles.

All in all, it didn’t seem like the lair of a man who would send a golem to attack us.

I could sense that Callie was confused as well, but we took seats on the fancy white couch in front of the fireplace, and Meriwether took the seat on the couch across from us.

“What did Jodie accuse me of this time?” Meriwether said.

I ignored his request. “How do you know her?”

Meriwether smiled. “You want me to admit to being a witch. I will readily admit it. I am, indeed, a witch.”

Out of the corner of my eye. I saw Callie’s jaw drop. The encounter was completely different than I expected. “You’re a witch?”

“Of course,” Meriwether said. “I would never speak of such a thing to the public, but you are a practitioner yourself, aren’t you?”

“Uhm,” I said. “Not exactly.”

“Really?” Meriwether asked. “I assumed based upon the feeling I got when you crossed my threshold—”

“It’s complicated,” I said. “You can sense what we are?”

Meriwether frowned. “Gazing upon someone with the sight without their permission is gauche.”

“How do you know the Rexfords?” Callie asked.

“It’s a small community,” Meriwether said. “Practitioners tend to congregate together.”

“Socially?” I asked.

Meriwether threw his head back and laughed. “Monticello was quite a haven for the well-to-do in the early part of last century. The wealthy and powerful families who summered here were quite a motley collection. Some of them, like my own family, were gifted. They used to throw elaborate parties … that would have been quite scandalous if word ever got out.”

In a moment of clarity, I said, “You mean sex parties.”

“I believe they called them orgies,” Meriwether said with an embarrassed smile. “Sexual energy is one of the oldest known ways to focus power. Witches have cavorted with each other since mankind discovered magic.”

“That’s how you know the Rexfords?” Callie asked.

Meriwether cleared his throat. “As the century wore on, the families ostracized certain members for their … proclivities. They were sent to live here. Permanently.”

I was curious, in spite of myself. “Proclivities?”

Meriwether leaned back against the couch. “Those who didn’t fit neatly into that era’s social conventions. Some were socially awkward, but some were gay. Or bisexual. Or enjoyed multiple partners. My father found himself banished here because he enjoyed the company of both men and women. He had a minor talent. When he found there were other witches living here, he gathered them together and they … well, let us say they threw some
remarkable
parties.”

He rubbed at his eyes. “The Hamm family were gifted. They were farmers, mostly. Hedge witches. There were a few here, and in other small towns like Cerro Gordo and Bement.”

“
That’s
how you know them,” I said.

“Yes,” Meriwether admitted. “Our families were aware of each other. As a young man, I sowed my wild oats when I was home for the summer after my freshman year in college. Dorothy and I dated that summer, but I ended things before I went back for the fall semester. I met my wife shortly after and haven’t really spoken to Dorothy since.”

I said, “But—”

Meriwether held up his hand and said, “We’ve spoken in passing. The witches occasionally meet to discuss the art, perhaps a few hours every year…”

“They think you kidnapped Dorothy because of a fling you had forty years ago?” I asked.

“You make me sound ancient,” Meriwether said with a smile, “but I have no idea why they accuse me. We do disagree about the art—”

“Disagree?” Callie asked.

Meriwether shrugged. “They worship magic. They view it with a mythic amount of awe and wonder. I tend to take a more prosaic approach.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked.

“Magic is a manipulation of primordial energies,” Meriwether said. “The Hamms worship it. For me, it was more like learning to construct a brick wall. Some brick, some mortar … I realize that sounds inelegant, but magic isn’t the answer to every problem. My father used magic to seduce men and woman, sometimes sexually, and sometimes for financial purposes. When I inherited the family business, I found I could charm people.”

“What’s your business?” Callie asked.

“I own the Meriwether Insurance Agency. Well, that’s one of my concerns. I also own the Best Western hotel and a winery a few miles north of here.”

“The Best Western?” I asked.

“Yes,” Meriwether said. “I believe you were there last night.”

A knot formed in my gut. “How do you know that?”

Meriwether laughed, a rich and musical sound that echoed against the wood paneling. “You checked out in the middle of the night. Sarah, the desk clerk, called the general manager, who called me. They gave me your name. It’s a small town, Mr. Harlan. Very little goes on without everyone knowing. Why did you leave, if I might ask? I take great pride in my hotel.”

“We were attacked.”

His smile evaporated and he leaned forward with sudden interest. “What?”

“By a stick man,” I said. “A golem, I think it’s called.”

“A full-sized golem?” he asked. “That’s not possible. Do you know how much magical energy that would take?”