Chapter 2
JAGG
Ipulled the gun from my belt and did a three-sixty scan, the shadows from the candles taunting me, playing tricks on my vision.
Once I was certain I was alone—in the human form, at least—I slid my Glock into the holster and used my cell phone flashlight to scan the tree. One particular doll caught my eye. Stringy, black spirals of hair fanning across a carved face. A flash of light lit the doll’s eyes.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
My gaze shifted to the slashes of moon through the leaves, spotlighting each doll, their beady gazes fixed on me.
I was familiar with witchcraft. But it had been years since I’d come across a Wiccan shrine in the middle of the woods… Yards from the cemetery… Days before a full moon.
In school, I took an interest in astronomy, particularly cosmology, where I learned about the highly debated theory that a full moon affects human behavior.
“The Lunar Effect,” or “The Transylvania Effect,” suggests the full moon causes changes in behavior and exaggerates mental illness.
Theories are just that, though. I prefer facts, and I know from experience that crime is more common on nights with full moons.
I pocketed my phone and secured my gun. Taking care not to touch any of the dolls, I pulled myself onto the lowest branch of the tree, then onto the next, then the next, testing each before releasing my weight.
Being a six-four, two-thirty former SEAL is a lot for any branch to take on.
I climbed the path laid by the dolls—by whoever had done this.
“’Scuse me, Chucky,” I muttered, passing a doll that I swear had changed positions since I’d started climbing.
At the top, I gripped the branch above me for stability and peered down at the cemetery in the distance, at the exact spot I’d been sitting not ten minutes earlier. A beam of moonlight highlighted the fresh grave. It was a perfect view of the gravesite, and of the funeral hours earlier.
Coincidence?
Swatting a cloud of gnats, I climbed down the tree, this time with faster, swift movements reflecting my racing thoughts. The moment I hit the ground, I pulled my phone from my pocket.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Tanya, it’s Jagg.”
“Detective, good to—how can I help you?”
“Send someone out to the city park. I’ve got a fire hazard and some sort of Wiccan shrine I want to get eyes on.”
“I’m sorry… a shrine?”
“Yes. A shrine.”
“Okay, where would you—”
“Six yards east of the cemetery. Tell them to follow the music.”
“Music?”
“Is there some sort of connection issue here, Tanya?”
“No. Sorry. Shrine, music, got it. I’ll have someone there right away. Can you please tell me—”
I clicked off and swept my light along the forest floor, kneeling beside a boot print.
I followed them past the Voodoo Tree into the thicket, where they disappeared.
Weeks of no rain and sweltering temperatures would make it impossible to pull a cast from the prints, or discern the length, width, or tread of the shoes worn. Assuming shoes were worn, of course.
I was photographing the shrine when a twig cracked behind me.
“Holy sh—”
“Watch your step, kid.”
In full uniform, Tommy Darby, a recent high school graduate and even more recent academy graduate, froze mid-stride, his big brown eyes wide, his mouth squeezed into a little “O.” Darby was so new, his paperwork still had creases. The department only hired him because no one else applied.
He was eager. He was polite.
He was absolutely hopeless.
“What is this, sir?”
Sir. It was always sir.
“You tell me, Darby.”
“Looks like a shrine.” He didn’t move beyond the bush he’d frozen behind.
“Was that your deduction? Or Tanya’s?”
His eyes flicked toward mine.
Snap back at me. Come on, pup. Grow a spine. But he didn’t.
“Yes, sir. Stupid question. She already told me.” A bead of sweat slid down his face.
I returned my focus to photographing the surrounding trees. “You waiting for an invitation, boy?”
“Sorry, sir.”
Darby stepped over the thicket, his eyes skirting between the voodoo dolls. This kid. I shuddered to think what would happen when he saw his first real-life homicide.
“What’s the code for unlawful burning, Darby?” I asked.
“5-38-310, sir. Is that right? A class A misdemeanor and a five hundred dollar fine.”
“Incorrect.”
He glanced over his shoulder, frowned.
I stared back. Waiting. Impatiently.
My jaw ticked. “Hot night, isn’t it, Darby?”
“Oh! The burn ban. Right. Sorry. We’re under a burn ban.”
Finally. “Which means the penalty triples.” I scooped up a handful of dry needles and dropped them at his boots. “We’re a matchstick away from torching half of Berry Springs. Wind picks up, these candles tip, and suddenly we’ve got a wildfire moving eight miles an hour.”
“Of course…” His cheeks flushed. “Yes, sir.”
I shook my head, then continued the good fight. “Eighty percent of forest fires are caused by human neglect. An ember can travel hundreds of feet. What’s hundreds of feet from here, Darby?”
“Main Street.”
“Exactly. Your little fire just turned into a mass evacuation, and probably a search and rescue, too, which cuts the manpower to fight the thing in half. With dry weather like we’ve been having, this fire could travel eight miles an hour—and double that in valleys and gorges. Got any valleys around here, Darby?”
“More than I can count.”
“Think close. Closer.”
“Oh. Devil’s Cove, a few miles west of here.”
“That’s right. That cove connects us to miles of forest. This town is surrounded by steep mountains, a ticking time bomb for wildfire season. Now, tell me again, what’s the charge for unlawful burning in this case?”
“Uh, okay, let’s see. The penalty for leaving a fire unattended, like these candles, while violating a fire restriction, such as a burn ban, can lead to six months in jail and fines exceeding five thousand dollars. But…”
“…But what?”
“This particular incident didn’t cause a forest fire. So, it’s still a class A misdemeanor.”
“Look around. What else do you see?”
His gaze lifted to the carvings on the tree trunk.
“Defacing of public property, because this is a city park. So, vandalism.”
I nodded. “What else you got?”
He took a few minutes to survey the shrine. Finally, he turned to me, a line of confusion squeezing his brows. “Do you know who did this?”
“No, but I want you to find out.”
Darby pulled a notebook from his pocket and scribbled something as I watched his little wheels turning. He finally looked up, inquisitive brown eyes narrowed.
“This just doesn’t seem like that big of a deal to me, or worth our time to pursue, Detective.
Forgive me, sir, but you’re notorious for letting misdemeanors slide.
I heard about the time you caught a group of football players fighting a bunch of band kids in the park, and instead of arresting them, you laid out each one on their asses in what you called a self-defense lesson…
And about the time you chased down a man who kicked a woman out of a moving car, ran him off the road, and slashed his tires—only after stopping to pick up the woman.
And then, there’s the story about the two women you caught soliciting prostitution on Main Street.
You ordered them to clean the bathrooms of the women’s shelter for six months, only after someone called in a noise complaint behind Donny’s Diner, citing, I quote, two women groaning, gasping, and multiple rounds of screams.”
I cleared my throat.
“So, Detective, my question is, what’s so different about this one? So what if some witches had a little party. Who cares? Nothing serious has come of it. Why not let this one slide?”
I stared at him.
Ten grueling seconds of self-restraint later, his puppy-dog eyes went wide.
“Oh. …Unless you think this has something to do with Lieutenant Seagrave’s murder.”