Chapter 22
MAGGIE
‘What the hell was that?’
I lift my phone to show Chester the texts.
‘Call them now,’ he urges. I do, but there’s no answer.
As I shrug and end the call, Ches asks, ‘What’s Redhaven?’
Very faintly, as if from some Disney-movie enchanted forest, a bell is ringing in my memory.
‘Written evidence about it was submitted to the DC hearings,’ I recall. ‘Some kind of lost witch commune?’
I pull up the filings on my laptop and yup, there it is.
Some disputed Civil War event in which an illegal coven may have been murdered and burned in their farmhouse, may have murdered and burned each other, or may never have existed at all.
I’ve no idea why someone wants to talk to me about a 150-year-old cold case, or what the link is to Lachlan Frey.
‘I’ll go,’ I tell Ches. ‘But can you follow and be close by? And let’s wire up.’
My buddy nods, and as night falls I’m pulling over the state line into Pennsylvania.
Or as I think of it these days, Sandra Ortiz’s home turf.
My destination is a parking lot near a walking trail for the circular route around Lake Wallenpaupack.
Chester pulls into the small marina a few hundred yards further along, and he’ll keep his engine running ready to block the exit if anything alarms him.
‘I don’t like this,’ I hear him say in my ear. ‘Doesn’t it feel a bit like Bittershore?’
The hairs lift along my arm and I really wish he hadn’t vocalised that, because I’ve been thinking the same.
My headlamps rake the only other parked car as I turn in.
There’s a figure leaning up against the hood, and my heart turns over all over again, because that’s how Pierre Martineau was standing when Ches and I found him and Sarah Fenn swinging a pendulum to locate Bea Garcia.
If this is to be some kind of reunion from that night, it’s not going to be Pierre waiting for me this time.
I swallow against the lump in my throat.
I turn the car again, as if I’m lousy at parking, to rake the standing figure with my lights for another look. And I can’t be certain, but it looks a lot like …
‘Fuck!’ I mutter, only to hear Chester’s worried voice in my ear.
‘I’m fine,’ I tell him quickly as the guy pushes off his car and begins to approach. ‘I’m fine, but Ches, I think it’s …’
It’s Luka-fucking-Ortiz. Breaking his bail conditions. To meet me, a cop. The cop who arrested him.
I get out of the vehicle, hands open to show I’m not holding a weapon, but pat beneath my arm so he knows I’m carrying.
‘Luka. This is a breach of your bail. This sends you automatically to jail, when you’re already accused of a very serious crime.’
He flaps his hands as if that’s merely an inconvenience.
‘Detective Knight, I have to know. Please tell me. Where is Redhaven? I know they’re saying its leader, Lachlan Frey, is the one who fucked me up.
But if it was him, I need him. These Redhaven people are the only ones who ever saw me as a witch, even if they only wanted to use me.
You worked the Sanctuary case, and Bittershore, and the hearings in Washington.
You must know. Please, I’m begging you.’
This kid is a mess. His eyes gleam in the darkness, wet with tears, or panic, or hope.
Once again, I’m torn between revulsion and pity.
That floppy hair clearly hasn’t been washed since I saw him at his pretrial.
His skin is dull, shadowed. How is he spending his days?
It would have been a condition of his bail that he not contact people connected to the case, or research it online, or anything related to it.
Has he abided by that, or has he been spending sleepless nights trawling for more knowledge about magic – and how to murder with it?
Luka Ortiz looks to me like he’d benefit from an urgent psych evaluation.
‘I arrested you,’ I tell him, trying to keep my voice level and calm. ‘I’m the last person you should be meeting. Stop asking these questions, go home, and try and figure out your questions with your mom and your attorneys. The law will uncover the truth about what happened to you.’
‘My mom hates me,’ he cries. ‘She’s mad about what I said, and I haven’t seen her for days. My lawyers tell me nothing. They grill me with question after question but never share a thing in return. Harper Fenn’s gone. Why will no one help me?’
In his frustration, Luka slams the hood of my car with both fists and Ches yelps in my earpiece.
‘Don’t panic,’ I say, hoping Ches understands the message is for him, too. ‘Don’t do anything.’
‘None of you!’ Luka yells. ‘Frey’s right. Not one of you mundanes understands what it’s like. I thought you might be different. You seemed sympathetic. But of course not – you’re the one who fucking shot me. That’s what you authorities would do to all witches, given half the chance.’
He storms toward his car, and damn, I should have handcuffed him while I had the chance. Called it in as a medical emergency.
‘Ches,’ I bark. ‘He’s leaving. Follow him!’
Luka roars past me in a car and a moment later, Chester follows. Heavy-hearted, I know what I have to do next. Call this in.
‘Mags, what were you thinking?’ Remy bawls down the line.
I’m expecting to get my non-existent balls chewed off, but to my surprise I detect something more heartfelt in my boss’s voice.
‘The kid’s killed a woman, tried to make it two – allegedly,’ added with deep irony.
‘He could have been intending to kill you, to stop you testifying. Did you even think of that?’
I protest that I didn’t know who had contacted me – and that I took backup.
Had I half-suspected it was Luka Ortiz and decided to go anyway, because deep down I really do see him as a victim in all this?
Maybe. But if I do think Luka is even halfway innocent, then where am I pinning the blame?
Because sure as heck someone’s ultimately responsible for that dead woman in Bittershore DI Theodorou is trying to get justice for.
Is it really Lachlan Frey and his resistance network – ‘Redhaven’, or whatever it calls itself?
It’s a big step from trashing registration centres and leaving creepy little witchmarks burned into brick, to using a boy for murder.
But that’s the angle Sandra Ortiz is working, and I can’t discount the possibility it’s correct simply because she’s a colossal bigot.
‘I think he’s having some kind of mental breakdown,’ I tell Remy. ‘Chester’s on his tail, and of course he has an electronic tag. He won’t get away from us.’
‘He’d better not,’ Remy sighs.