The Witch's Key (8 page)

“If that’s so, then why doesn’t she show it? She’s
had plenty of opportunity. But each time I think she’s about to
acquiesce, she backs away.”

“Maybe because you have not consummated.”

“I know! That’s what I’ve been trying to do with her.
But she won’t let me.”

This made Leona laugh, though timidly. She covered
her lips and turned away in a blush.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

She returned to me on a shy glance. “Forgive me,
Detective. I have embarrassment for me. What I mean to tell you is
that you must complete the cycle. Witchcraft relies on returning
energy. You cannot take and then not give back.”

“So, what do I do?”

“You must find a way to give back.”

“Give what?”

She raised her shoulders slightly and dropped them.
“I am sorry. I do not know.”

“Then, why doesn’t Lilith tell me this?”

“She may be in denial about her feelings for you. A
strong witch will not so easy admit her fragilely.”

“You mean, fragility?”

“Sí,” she said, and she giggled between splayed
fingers. “My English, it is sometimes—”

“No-no, your English is wonderful. Trust me. And I
appreciate what you are saying, but I do not consider Lilith
fragile in the least—frigid maybe, flirtatious and frisky,
sometimes; freakish, frumpy, frosty and fastidious on a good day,
you bet—but fragile? Definitely not.”

My assessment of Lilith made Leona laugh once again,
but I noticed how she tactfully avoided agreeing with me. “It is
not my place to speak of Lilith directly, Detective,” she said
after composing herself completely. “But I will tell you that all
women have a fragile side, if not so easy to see, and Lilith is no
exception.”

I smiled at her and shook my head in wonder. “How is
it that your wisdom is so advanced for someone of your slim
years?”

She smiled back. “I believe I am an old soul.”

“Yes,” I said, “and a beautiful one at that.”

She blushed brightly and turned away. “Detective,
your words are too kind.”

“Not at all.” I stood up and started to show myself
out. “And by the way, you can call me Tony. I’m not a detective
anymore.”

She got up and followed me to the door. There, she
took my hand and squeezed it tightly. “You will always be
Detective,” she said. “It is who you are.” Then she rocked up on
her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.

I thanked her, not knowing what else to do, and then
let myself out. Much later, I learned that we were not alone in the
apartment, and that Leona had had the chain on the door moments
before I arrived. After I left, her visitor stepped out from the
bedroom. Leona latched the safety chain on the door and peered back
over her shoulder.

“Did I do well?” she asked.

“Yes. You did very well. Thank you.”

“I do not believe he suspected you were here.”

“No, of course he didn’t.”

Leona turned and pressed her back to the door. “You
know, I do not like making lies to Detective Marcella. I wish you
to not ask me again.”

What her visitor said next was not important, but
seeing that she always gets her way, I didn’t bank much on Leona’s
wishes coming true anytime soon.

When I got home, I half expected to find my stuff
tossed out onto the curb or in the community trash bin. It is not
that Lilith is particularly vindictive. She is just deliberate and
matter of fact about things like that. If my declaration of love
for her made her the least bit uncomfortable, then I knew she would
have no problem dealing with it in the most absolute and efficient
way possible. To my surprise, my personal effects were all present
and accounted for. Lilith, however, was not.

I checked the bedroom first, noting that her
previously made bed now look slept in. I had only been gone a
couple of hours, which made me think that I had just missed her.
So, I checked the laundry baskets next. If our clothes were
missing, I knew it meant that she likely stepped out to the
launderette. If only hers were missing, well, you get the idea. But
a quick peek in the closet squelched both those possibilities. That
left just one other: that she had gone for a walk to clear her
head, maybe reconsider her feelings for me. I welcomed that notion
as my best hope for resolution in the matter, concluding that if
she didn’t come around, or at least think that we had a chance
together, then my only wish would be that I never took part in her
damn rite of passage ceremony to begin with.

From the bedroom, I walked straight to the kitchen,
remembering about that beer in the fridge that I started to get
earlier. The thought of it sounded mighty good about then. But
something strange happened in the time it took between opening the
refrigerator door and actually drinking the beer. Really, it was
two strange things. The first was the literal time it took. I
remember looking at the clock, noting that it was five after five,
a respectable time to be tapping my first brew. But when I popped
the tab and took a swig, the clock had miraculously jumped ahead
twenty minutes.

The second phenomenon (less mechanical, more
supernatural) came in the form of clean dishes. What was once a
messy pile of cups and plates and things waiting to be washed, was
now a stack of cleaned and dried dishes sparkling pretty on the
counter. I thought for a moment that I might be losing my mind
entirely. But then it hit me. At once, I realized why Lilith ran to
me so quickly to apologize after unleashing the whisper spell in
the envelope that had me humping bedroom furniture around her
bedroom. She knew I was heading to the refrigerator for a beer and
she did not want me to find her next little surprise spell so
soon.

But that little surprise of hers gave me an idea.
Ever since my return to prime, I suspected that I inherited
something more in the rite of passage. Lilith’s incantation sparked
a powerful spell that consumed us both in its breath. I remember
her words exactly. ‘
Banish weaker mortal souls, we summons thee
of witch’s role. Through hexing slight of wizard’s slant, invoke
thy magick, and essence grant.’
You can’t tell me that wasn’t
an order to banish my mortal soul and grant me essence of magic, or
magick, as she put it. The kicker came in her closing invocation.
‘
By Rite of Passage this night begun, bestow upon thy soul plus
one
.
’
That part was for me, the plus one. I tell you, it
was really something. You had to be there.

Ever since then I have suspected I might have come
out of the ritual with something other than the obvious. I was
never sure, though, until Lilith confirmed it. I am a witch. It is
there, she said, in my eyes. And now the time for change had come.
For too long she exploited my affections for her by practicing her
witchcraft on me, knowing that I would tolerate it for the chance
of winning her over—but no more. Her little whisper box in the
fridge had given me an idea, that and something Leona Diaz
said.

I ran back to the bedroom, grabbed her laptop and
headed out to the cyber Café. From there, I rode a virtual witch’s
broom all over the world, sweeping through Witchit dot com and
every other witch friendly site I could find until I had what I was
looking for.

I did not returned to the apartment until after
midnight. Lilith was in bed by then, sleeping soundly. A note on
the fridge said,
Thanks for doing the dishes
, and below
that, a smiley face. I laughed at that and tossed the note in the
trash. My nerves were wired, my brain frazzled and my wits at their
end. But I felt alive, and glad to be home where I knew that a hot
shower and a cold beer would make everything all right—well, almost
everything.

After my shower, I tiptoed into Lilith’s room, kissed
her on the top of her head and then retired to my own bed. By dawn,
I was up and out, long before Lilith awoke. It’s not that I wanted
to avoid her. I didn’t. But I had told Carlos and Spinelli to meet
me in the parking lot of the justice center early, and that meant
sunrise. So, I left the coffee on warm, the newspaper on the table
and a note on the fridge that read simply,
You’re welcome
,
below that, another smiley face.

I met up with the guys in the employee parking lot of
the justice center. A couple of uniforms mistook them for vagrants
and had momentarily cuffed them. As I got closer, I could see why.
Carlos was dressed like a derelict whore in a rumpled knitted
sweater, baggy yellow slacks with patches on the knees and a maroon
kerchief around his head. Spinelli presented a less menacing
threat, though with his smaller frame garbed in a heavy wool
overcoat, Panama hat and sandals, he looked more like an old bag
lady than he did a transient.

By the time I got there, they had just about
straightened the whole thing out. One of the detectives from
narcotics recognized both and vouched for their clearances, which
worked out well for me. Without proper ID, I needed Carlos and
Spinelli to vouch for mine. After a quick run back into the
building so that the guys could retrieve their badges and wallets,
we were on our way.

Because Spinelli’s car looked the rattiest, we all
piled into it for the ride across town. I was not going to say
anything about the get-ups, but I just could not resist when we got
out at Minor’s Point and even the street corner bums there began
laughing. Naturally, Carlos was first to take offence.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” I said. “But you two do look
ridiculous. Is that your idea of working undercover?”

“Better than yours.”

I looked down at my attire: faded blue jeans with
holes in the knees, a New England Patriots sweat shirt (slightly
tattered, but not over the top) and work boots, well worn but
watertight. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

“Oh, it’s fine if you’re going to a pep rally.”

“A pep rally?” I looked over at Spinelli. For Carlos’
sake, he didn’t say anything, but when he shed his wool overcoat
and pitched his Panama hat, I knew exactly where his allegiance
lay.

We kicked our way up Dutton Street first, a curvy
little road that leads to the train yard at Minor’s Point. We
figured we would see many transients along the way, but strangely,
at every bend we saw just a glimpse of men in dark clothes slipping
from our sights. The few that did not disappear on us were too
drunk from the night before to try. Eventually we came across one
old guy sitting in an alleyway between two warehouses, clutching an
empty bottle, but awake enough to talk. Carlos asked him if he had
a minute. The old fella took one look at us and spat on the
ground.

“Bug off, oinkers,” he growled, and he spat again.
“Got no need for pigs here.”

I stepped closer, but still maintained a respectful
distance. “Do we look like cops to you?”

“That one does.” He said, pointing his bottle at
Spinelli.

I turned to Dominic and whacked him on the arm. “I
thought I told you not to shave.”

“I didn’t,” he said, framing his naked chin between
his thumb and index finger.

I pointed at Carlos. “What about him?”

The old man eyeballed Carlos up and down carefully.
His level of scrutiny surprised me, as I got the feeling that he
really was not sure. He pointed the bottleneck at him reluctantly
and said, “He’s a cop, too?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “Huh. I wouldn’t a figured.”

“See!” said Carlos. “I told you.”

“Yeah, I pegged him for a transvestite. Thought ya
was haulin` him in for solicitation or sum`um.”

I held my tongue on that. Spinelli, I am afraid, was
unable to exercise as much restraint. When he quit laughing long
enough to stop annoying the old man, I asked him about me.

“You,” he said, “I wasn’t so sure `bout. Ya don’t
look like a cop, but ya sure ain’t no hobo neither.”

“What are we doing wrong?”

He coiled back and sneered, as though our presence
nauseated him. “I’ll tell ya whatcha doin` wrong. Your wastin` my
time. Now, why don’t ya git?”

“Wasting your time?” said Carlos, and just the tone
of his voice caused the old man to shrink against the wall. “I’ll
show you whose time we’re wasting.” Carlos started toward him, but
I grabbed his arm at the elbow and reeled him back in. He gave me a
scornful eye, and under his breath said, “Tony, I wasn’t gonna hurt
him. I’m doing the good-cop bad-cop thing.”

I nodded like I knew that. “Sure, next time, huh? For
now let’s try another approach.” I reached into my pocket and
pulled out a stack of bills. “How much is five minutes of your time
worth,” I asked the old man.

He answered without hesitating. “A shiner.”

“A what?”

“A shiner, a double nickel.”

I looked to Spinelli. “That’s ten bucks,” he
said.

“For five minutes!” I peeled five ones off the top of
my stack. “Here. This is enough to set you up for tonight. Take it
or leave it.”

The old man thought about it for all of two seconds.
Then, like a cobra, he snatched it from my hand and tucked it
inside his shoe.

“All right. We good?” I asked.

He dished up a near-toothless grin. “Weez good,
Capt`n.”

“Okay, tell me. What are we doing wrong? What’s it
take to look like a hobo?”

The old man pointed at my sweatshirt. “First off,
lose that. A hobo always wears dark clothing. It helps him hide in
the shadows so the bulls don’t git`em.”

“Bulls?”

“Railroad officers,” Spinelli said. I knew he’d know
that.

“Secondly, if ya don’t want someone ta know ya from
around here, don’t go advertising the home team.”

I looked down at my favorite sweatshirt again and ran
my hand over the New England Patriots lettering.

“Another thing is ya got no layers. Ya dress like
that and ya might do okay in the jungle, but if ya catch-out on a
cold night, a good sixty mile-hour wind will tear ya a new butt
hole.”