The Hexed (Krewe of Hunters) (3 page)

She walked to the door and opened it—and thought she saw a woman in white disappearing into the trees.

“Hello?” she called out. “Can I help you?”

There was no answer. The leaves rustled as the breeze picked up, nothing more.

“Please, do you need help?” She stepped out onto the stone path that led from her house to the road.

No answer.

Because no one was out there, she told herself.

She turned and looked back at the bird. Poe was still playing with his seed, unconcerned.

And of course, the idea that there was anyone out there had almost certainly come from the fact that she’d spent half her childhood, her most impressionable years, growing up with Aunt Mina. Not that her aunt had been crazy—unless being delightfully full of fun and life could be called crazy. But Aunt Mina had been forever telling stories—stories about leprechauns and banshees and forest folk, and the arguments that went on between the tooth fairy and Santa’s elves.

Devin walked back in the house, trying to forget the sound of sobbing and give her attention back to
Auntie Pim and the Belligerent Gnome.

It was wonderful that her books had sold out, she thought.

Thanks to her aunt, she not only had a wonderful place to live but she’d found her true vocation. She’d done her duty as a junior reporter, but when Aunt Mina had suggested she try children’s stories, she had sat down and written one. She’d set her sights on reaching ten-year-olds—the age she’d been when Aunt Mina had first enchanted her.

Auntie Mina had been a practicing Wiccan. Her garden—while now in need of a woeful amount of care—was filled with a wide selection of herbs. Long before it had been popular to be Wiccan in Salem, Auntie Mina had been a healer and devotee of the old religion. While some in town mocked her, others came to her for advice, and with their aches and pains.

Devin’s parents were good Anglicans, but they were also a pair of hippies and were all for everyone believing as they felt they should, so they’d respected Aunt Mina’s religion. According to Devin’s father, “There are real Wiccans, and they’re just as decent as everyone else—or not. And then there are commercial Wiccans. You know—those people who come to Salem and open shops and claim to be Wiccans for a living. Hey, who’s to judge? Your aunt helps everyone, whatever their beliefs. In my opinion, like she says, it doesn’t much matter what we call the path or the light at the end of that path as long as we’re good people while we walk it, doing our best to help our fellow travelers.”

Devin loved her parents. When she’d left for school, they’d rented out their old home off Front Street and moved west to enjoy the mountains and sunshine of Boulder, Colorado.

Her own cottage was small but charming. It dated back to the early 1700s. There were just six rooms, all on the ground floor, with the parlor having a grand stone fireplace and old, unfinished woodwork all around. The room was decorated with Aunt Mina’s various treasures: crystal balls, elf-shaped incense holders, gargoyles, raven bookends, a pair of medieval mirrors—the bust of Madame Tussaud, of course—and all sorts of other items suited to a slightly crazy but very sweet Wiccan.

Devin’s first book,
Auntie Pim and the Gregarious Ghost,
sat nicely in the shelf alongside her second book,
Auntie Pim and Marvelous Martian,
contained between the raven bookends.

Looking at the books, she was glad that Aunt Mina had lived to see the first one published. She’d been so proud. Thinking of her aunt made Devin smile. She couldn’t be too sad—Aunt Mina had died at the grand old age of one hundred and one. She’d enjoyed great health until the night she’d said she was tired, sat in the old maple rocker before the fire and simply died. Devin had still been working for the paper at the time, but her mom had come for a visit because Aunt Mina had called her. Aunt Mina hadn’t been alone. Devin was glad about that, too.

Sometimes Devin thought she saw her aunt peeking out at her from around a corner with a mischievous smile.

But then, thanks to Aunt Mina, she’d thought she’d seen the dead before. That was because she really did owe everything to Auntie Mina, who’d been the best storyteller ever. When she had taken Devin to the Howard Street Cemetery where old Giles Corey had been pressed to death and told his story, Devin could have sworn that she saw the old man standing among the tombs, leaning on a cane, his expression thoughtful as the breeze rushed through his thin gray hair.

Auntie Mina had often told her with a wink that it was possible to speak with the dead—but only when the dead wished to speak. And of course, she’d added, with another wink, only special people received the talent to see through time and space, and hear the dead when they spoke.

“The books are doing so well, Auntie Mina,” she said aloud. “They’re really your books, you know.”

It helped, of course, that she worked with a wonderful artist, Drew Wicker, who lived in nearby Marblehead.

She sat back down at her computer, but just as she got comfortable, the sound came again. It was a woman crying. Definitely.

“Poe, is that you?” she demanded aloud, even though she knew the crying was coming from somewhere farther away.

The bird, as if indignant, looked up, cocked his head and squawked in protest.

“Okay, that’s it—no way I can concentrate now,” she murmured to herself.

She started out of the house again and then remembered that while she considered her neighborhood safe, bad things did happen. They’d found a murdered woman just two weeks ago in Swampscott.

Most of the details had been kept out of the paper, but she knew the woman had been young. Maybe in her early twenties.

Something itched at her memory. And then she recalled the incident that had been nagging at her.

It had taken place a little more than a decade ago. And it hadn’t been in Salem; it had been in Peabody or Marblehead or somewhere. A high school girl had been found murdered in the woods.

The details had been kept out of the paper then just as they had been now—the newest victim’s name hadn’t been revealed yet—but she knew one factor both women had in common.

Both women’s throats had been slit.

Surely, it was impossible that the two incidents could be related, not with so many years in between.

“Okay, Poe, freaking myself out here, huh?” she said aloud.

It was only about nine at night, and since they were on daylight savings time, there was still a little glow of light in the sky.

“It’s still light out, for heaven’s sake,” she said.

Poe squawked.

“Maybe I
do
need a dog. A large one,” she murmured.

Poe protested again.

“Okay...”

She looked around and then headed into the bedroom and grabbed one of her old hockey sticks out of the closet and started out. “No sense in being stupid. I can wield a wicked hockey stick.”

She heard the sobbing again. It was coming from the trees to the west of her house, from the little stand of trees that separated her from her neighbor.

“Please, I’m trying to help you,” she said softly. “Hello? Are you lost? Are you hurt? If you’ll just let me help you...”

She walked into the trees, then began to question her own wisdom.

The sky was darkening. Beneath the trees the light was all but gone.

She tightened her grip on her hockey stick.

And then she saw her.

She was young, a slight blond woman, wearing a black dress and a shawl that looked to be of the Puritan period. She was peeking out from between two trees.

There was nothing unusual about her outfit. This was, after all, Salem.

“Hey, there you are. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you can come in and we can call someone—someone to come get you. Someone who can help,” Devin said.

The young woman looked at her with enormous brown eyes. She shook her head and began to sob again.

And then she disappeared into the trees.

The woman might have been twenty or twenty-one—or she might have been a teenager—but she certainly didn’t look dangerous. Determined to help her, Devin headed back to her cottage and swept the electric lantern off the mantel. She hurried back out, turning the light on as she went.

“I’m not leaving you out here!” she called. “Come on, speak to me, please.”

She headed toward the spot where she had first seen the woman. She didn’t hear sobbing anymore, but the woman couldn’t have gone far.

Maybe she was a foreign tourist who didn’t speak any English and had gotten lost.

Maybe she’d been on a date or gone out with friends who had decided it would be fun to explore the old cemetery down the road from Devin’s cottage, and she had gotten lost and ended up terrified.

Maybe some jerk had just driven her out here and dumped her.

Or maybe...

Devin let out a shocked, ear-piercing scream.

The woman lay in a tiny open area between several large trees with gnarled branches. She was faceup, arms and legs outstretched, so her body resembled the design of a pentagram.

Her sightless eyes stared up into the darkness of the night. On her chest was a silver chain with a medallion.

Much like the silver pentagram she herself had just purchased.

But that seemed like nothing.

Because...

Around her throat...

There was a ribbon of blood.

2

T
he road was dark. The day had been long, but when it had finally ended the night had gone almost stygian. There was a moon, but it was hidden behind billowing clouds that promised summer rain for the northeast.

Rocky nearly hit the woman who ran out into the middle of the road.

His lights caught her, and for a moment he thought he’d entered some kind of nightmare region in his mind. She stood like an ancient icon in the glare, but was she goddess or demon? No matter what, she was beautiful, like an elemental force emerging from the darkness. She wielded something in her hands as she forced him to stop. A scepter?

No. A hockey stick.

Rocky quickly turned the car off, leaving the lights on, and stepped out. He was never unarmed, but he didn’t pull his Glock from the holster at his side. He lifted his hands to show her he meant no harm.

She was tall, and the dress swirling around her in the rain-scented breeze made her appear especially regal and elegant. She had long black hair that whipped around her face. It was almost like seeing the perfectly fashioned heroine of a video game come to life. There was no way any healthy male could ignore her presence. She aroused every fantasy his mind had ever come up with, and she drew on every ounce of lust that coursed through his body.

He quashed the wanderings of his mind, reminding himself that she was clearly in trouble. This was no fantasy. They were standing in the middle of the road in the dark, with a storm on the way.

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

“I’m fine, but...phone. Do you have a phone? Call 9-1-1, please!”

“What’s your emergency? I can help you if you’ll just tell—”

“Dammit, are you stupid?
I
don’t need help! Dial 9-1-1—there’s a dead woman in the woods!”

He dialed. Then, slowly and precisely, he identified himself and their location—and the situation.

“Did you discover the body, sir?” the operator asked.

“No—I was stopped on the road by the woman who did.” He looked at Devin. “Who are you?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your name. They need to know who discovered the body.”

“Devin. Devin Lyle.”

“Devin Lyle found her,” he said into the phone. “Please send someone.” He knew the operator would keep him talking while the police were dispatched and he needed to find out what was going on, so he hung up.

“Where?” he asked Devin Lyle.

She pointed toward the woods. “But...but don’t go in there. The cops...they’ll want the crime scene intact, right?”

“Ma’am, I’m an FBI agent. Are you sure she’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“Did you try CPR or just take her pulse?”

“Sir, she’s dead.”

“Agent,” Rocky said by rote. “Agent Rockwell. Do you have any kind of medical training? Are you certain that she’s dead?”

“No,” she said. “And yes, I’m sure.”

“Where is she?”

Devin Lyle’s finger rose, and she pointed.

Rocky hurried through the trees.

And found the victim.

She wasn’t far from the road; there was a break in the trees, and there she was.

For a moment he forgot his years of training and fieldwork. He simply froze. Body...and soul.

It was déjà vu.

She was lying just like Melissa had lain, limbs and head creating the five points of a star.

And on her breast lay...

A silver medallion. A pentagram.

Around her throat...

A red ribbon of blood.

He didn’t move to her side, only stood rigidly and stared.

Devin Lyle came up behind him. He suspected she thought he was being respectful of the dead woman.

That wasn’t it, though. He was simply frozen by his memories.

“Are you going to try to revive her?” she asked quietly, only a small note of irony in her tone.

He could hear sirens; the police were on the way.

He turned to face the dark-haired woman who had stopped him. “When did you find her?”

“Seconds before I stopped you.”

“How did you find her?”

She pointed. “My home is just there—on the other side of the trees.”

“How did you know to look for her here in the dark? Did you hear something? Did she cry out?”

“Yes, I—I don’t know what exactly. I heard something. Sobbing—a cry. Something.”

He broke his paralysis and moved forward carefully, hunkering down to set two fingers on the flesh of the woman’s wrist. She was cold. She’d been here awhile.

No attempt at resuscitation would have helped.

Her eyes had been green, her hair a soft brunette. She was clad in a simple halter dress and light sweater. At least the dress was pulled down decently, almost tucked between her outstretched legs.

He heard car doors slamming. The cops had arrived.

“Hey!” he said loudly, so he could be heard. “In here!”

A moment later two uniformed officers came through the trees and into the little clearing. They were competent and compassionate at the same time, the first checking the victim and securing the scene, the second speaking with Rocky and Devin Lyle. It was while they were in the midst of the conversation that more sirens sounded, and Rocky was surprised to look up and see that a third officer, this one in plain clothes, was coming his way.

He was even more surprised to realize that he knew the man.

“Hell, Rocky—you’re back in town?” the newcomer demanded.

“Jack Grail,” Rocky said, shaking Jack’s hand. “And you’re still here.” He grinned; it had been a good ten years since he’d seen Jack.

“Come on, I moved a bit. This is Salem, not Peabody.”

“Right. You working these murders?” Rocky asked.

“This one, anyway,” Jack said. They looked at each other for a long moment, both of them remembering a long ago day.

When they’d stared at the same scene that was before them now.

Rocky arched a brow. “Just like Swampscott, right?”

“Don’t go talking that way, Rocky. People will think we have a serial killer on our hands, and the last thing we need is mass panic. Kind of suspicious, though, isn’t it? You leave town not long after Melissa Wilson dies, and now you’re back and we’ve got two more dead women.”

Rocky stared at him and realized Jack wasn’t serious—not about
that,
anyway. He
was
serious that he didn’t want anyone yelling “serial killer” right now.

No, he didn’t seriously suspect Rocky.

But they knew. They
both
knew. They had been there. They had seen Melissa’s body, and they couldn’t deny the eerie similarity of the newest murders.

“So you grew up to be a detective with the county?” Rocky asked Jack. “Good going.”

Forget the past. They both had to shake off this feeling of déjà vu. They’d been boys back then. Now they were men—and the men assigned to work these newest killings.

Jack nodded. “And you just happened to discover this body, too?”

Rocky shook his head. “I just got back into town. Jack Grail, this is Devin Lyle.” He nodded toward her. “She found the body. She flagged me down in the road.”

“My house is over there,” Devin said, pointing through the trees. “I heard a noise and ran out without my phone, and when I...when I saw her, I ran for the road to get help. I guess I should have gone back in and called, but...I just ran for the road,” she finished lamely.

Jack turned his attention to Devin. As he spoke to her, the crime scene techs got to work and the night seemed to come alive with flashes as pictures were taken.

Rocky waited while Jack talked to Devin and let his mind wander.

Jack looked good. Funny, Rocky had always thought that he’d wind up flipping burgers by day and smoking pot by night.

Finally Devin’s interview was finished and an officer escorted her back through the woods to her house.

“So I heard you’re a fed, like you planned,” Jack said.

“Yeah. And it’s good to see you, Jack. Bad circumstances, but it really is good to see you.”

Jack grinned. “You, too, Rocky. Last I heard, though, you were working the mean streets of L.A.”

“I just transferred to a new unit.”

“We have a unit here?” Jack said, frowning.

Rocky smiled. There were field offices all over the country, with the one in New York City being the largest. “I was assigned to a behavioral unit out of Boston, but we go all over.”

“And you were sent
here?
” Jack asked him. “To work
this
case?”

Rocky wasn’t sure the assignment was official yet—whether Adam Harrison had cleared the way for FBI involvement—but he decided to be honest.

“I read about the woman in Swampscott,” he said.

Jack looked grave as he lowered his head and nodded. “Yeah. Freaked me out,” he admitted quietly. He looked at Rocky again. “None of us ever got closure, did we?” he asked.

“Not me, that’s for sure,” Rocky said. He studied Jack. “That why you became a cop?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah—worked my way up from the streets to make detective.” He hesitated. “I study the old case sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time.”

He looked at Rocky with an odd mixture of emotions, shrugged and started toward the crime scene. He turned back. “You coming?”

Rocky followed him. They hunkered down by the body and the medical examiner.

“Dead about four hours—give or take thirty minutes. Not too cold tonight, but not hot, either, so I think we’re looking at just about five o’clock,” the M.E. said.

“Broad daylight,” Jack muttered. “Sexual assault?”

“No. Probably pretty quick—merciful, under the circumstances. Looks as if she was standing here when her killer came from behind and slashed right across her throat. See the pattern of the blood spray—almost a straightforward gush. Then he just laid her down and arranged the body.”

Jack looked at Rocky. Neither of them spoke. Everyone knew how Melissa had died. She’d had her throat slashed. That much had leaked out; though, as far as he knew, only he, Jack and Vince, along with the cops and medical personnel who had worked the case, ever knew the details of the killing. With law enforcement and the powers that be afraid of both repercussions on the Wiccan community and that the investigation could be compromised, all the specifics had been kept quiet by the police, rather than let out for any would-be copycats to act on.

At the time, they’d all been so stunned and devastated, they’d never even spoken of it among themselves. They’d prayed and they’d waited for the murderer to be found....

And waited.

The killer eluded all efforts by the police to discover his—or her—identity.

Back then, the cops had talked about cults. Maybe they’d do the same now.

Within the hour, the body was on the way to the morgue. The crime scene unit continued to comb the woods, and Rocky stood with Jack by the side of the road.

“Shit,” Jack muttered, looking at Rocky. “I don’t study this kind of stuff—you know, the psychology of a killer. I guess you do. But my wife watches those shows all the time.” He paused and looked at Rocky a little sheepishly. “My wife—Haley.”

Rocky smiled. “Congratulations. I’m sorry I missed it. I guess I should have come home more.”

“We sent you an invitation to the wedding.”

“I never saw it. I was probably working out west and it never reached me.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, Haley is hooked on all the crime shows. She’s relentless—trying to tell me how to be a better cop all the time. I guess it doesn’t hurt. But how could this be the same guy? Melissa was killed, what? Almost thirteen years ago? I thought serial killers escalated, getting more violent and killing more frequently.”

“Usually. But there have been cases where a killer starts, stops, then picks up years later. Sometimes it turns out he was in prison for something else, but sometimes he just loses the urge until something happens to trigger it again. No one has ever really cracked the puzzle of the human mind. We can look for patterns, we can base our investigations on what we’ve learned, but we’re surprised all the time. This looks like the same killer, but we don’t know yet that it
is.
”

“Copycat?”

“Possibly. Are you lead on the case in Swampscott?” Rocky asked him.

Jack nodded. “They’ve taken everything else off my plate. They want this one solved.” He shook his head. “Nothing to do with Melissa. It’s just my job.”

“So,” Rocky said, “tell me about her.”

“Carly Henderson,” Jack said. “She was a redhead. We found her in the same kind of situation, small patch of woods in a semiurban area. She was a local. I don’t know who this woman was, but I’m willing to bet she’ll prove to be local, too.”

“Like Melissa,” Rocky said.

“Like Melissa,” Jack agreed.

* * *

“I definitely need a dog,” Devin said, leaning back against the door. It was locked and bolted. She’d checked the back door and the windows, too. She still felt on edge. “A giant dog. Or maybe an attack cat—like a tiger.”

I just found a woman with her throat slashed!

She suddenly wondered at her own courage—or stupidity—in running into the road. She might have flagged down the killer instead of an FBI agent. A normal person would have run back to the cottage, locked the door and called the police.

But what if the killer had hidden in her house?

At least she knew the killer wasn’t inside with her now. The young officer who had walked her back had made a thorough search. He’d gone into her closets and looked under the beds. And the cops would be nearby, searching the scene, for a while, she knew.

Poe squawked.

Her hands, she realized, were still shaking.

She could still see the woman all too clearly in her mind’s eyes. Lying there. Dead.

Poe let out another cry.

“I’m sorry. You’re a great bird. You just don’t have fangs and claws,” she told him.

It was all right. She was locked in, and she wasn’t opening her door to anyone.

Devin walked to the entertainment center—artfully hidden behind lattice doors—and turned on the television, wanting company.