Chapter 2
“Can you do this? Now that it’s just us—and the local detectives?” Zach managed to ask softly. He’d pretended he needed Skye to put something in his car, to give them just a few seconds alone as Jackson and Angela departed—and their local counterparts remained waiting in front of them.
“It’s harder, now that the detectives are here,” Skye murmured carefully in reply.
They were on their own with the local law enforcement because Angela had glanced at her watch and then she and Jackson had apologized when the detectives had arrived, and introductions had been made.
They had to leave, to get to the airport, because they needed to be back to the DC area as quickly as possible.
So far, the pair had been polite enough, accepting of the additional help from the federal side of things.
Zach nodded and said quietly, “Naturally, knowing we were here, they’re going to be here. They’re local; even if the federal government has been asked in, but we weren’t asked—and we’re not authorized—to take control, just to provide assistance.”
“I wish Angela and Jackson could have stayed a little longer,” Skye murmured. “I do understand, but …”
“All right,” Zach said. “I can give you a few minutes in here. I can keep our police detectives outside, talk about the road, the surrounding area. That will give you time inside.” He sighed softly, shaking his head.
“I had the place for about thirty minutes alone before you three arrived this morning. But there was nothing in particular the criminals touched that took on a glow. And the police had already been in here, of course, so what I was getting was images of them being here.” He winced.
“Whatever the thing is that I have, it’s best when something is pristine, when I can be there first. This thing with you …
it’s really cool. It works no matter what has happened when, right? ”
She glanced at the two detectives—they were engrossed in conversation, studying the main door to the residence.
Detective Constance Berkley appeared to be in her early thirties, an attractive woman, with dark brown hair and a lean face.
She was about five-three—small next to Detective Vincent Cason, a man who stood at about six-two, broad and fit, blond-haired and strong-jawed, perhaps a decade older than his partner.
“Well, not so simple, I’m afraid. I’ve seen horrible things, but I came here to see what happened in this house and I still don’t really have any kind of a full and complete picture. So far, my best image has been of a hanging during the Salem Witch Trials,” she told him ruefully.
But he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you also saw something here that is really going to help guide this investigation.
We know we’re looking for someone who wants to play dress-up while they’re committing crimes.
Of course, the why is going to be important.
Was the costume someone’s idea of the typical black hoodie that’s so favored by criminals—along with half the population when the weather is chilly. Or is there some symbolism behind it?”
“What could that be? The innocents accused of witchcraft back in the day were just ordinary citizens.” She grimaced. “Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz wasn’t written for another few hundred years.”
He laughed softly. “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, to be precise. And it was published in 1900. So, yeah, you’re right there; it was a long way off.
Thankfully, long past the day when the world believed in spectral evidence and screaming kids—most probably influenced by words their parents had said.
Hey, if you’re mad at someone or you feel that person slighted you in some way, why not accept they made you miserable because they were a witch, dancing with the devil, consumed with darkness.
Oh, and our friends are on the way over here,” he added, indicating the doorway.
He turned and offered a grim smile to Detectives Cason and Berkley as they walked back over toward the house, Vincent Cason shaking his head and telling them, “Of course, we’ve kept the family out of the house since Alicia returned home yesterday—we’ve got them in a hotel in town.
But at this point, we’ve had our crime scene unit through the place and …
well, you know. Whoever was in here wore gloves and left nothing.
We’re going to let them come home, although …
that’s not going to be easy for them. Mike dead and the kid missing. Have you gotten anything?”
“I’ll take another look, if you don’t mind,” Skye said, stopping to add, “Oh, Zach—”
“It’s okay; I’m right behind you. The detectives can give me a better idea of the immediate surrounding area,” he said.
She disappeared inside.
“So,” Zach said, shaking his head, “I think you’re right; whoever did this also did a lot of studying on our easily accessible social media sites, or they’ve practiced what they’re doing, being criminals.
Someone had to know, however, that Mike Bolton was older, and he had the usual ‘older body’ problems. Not a stretch to think that breaking and entering, and threatening the children, was enough to get him to imbibe the drug that could bring on a heart attack in just about anyone. ”
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking,” Constance Berkley told them earnestly.
“And it’s frightening to believe whoever did this is from the area.
You can’t imagine how dense the forests around here can be, and just how many derelict buildings haven’t been discovered yet by the parks department.
” She sighed softly. “We’re a tourist town.
Go figure, tragic history makes us commercially viable. But we do get our share of …”
“Weirdos, wackos, and kooks,” Cason offered. “Trust me, you don’t want to be here around Halloween!”
Zach laughed softly. “Hey, I’ve been here for Halloween.
My parents loved the place. I grew up in Harpers Ferry and then Boston, but had a great-aunt who lived here when I was growing up and we met here fairly frequently, Detective Cason.
But, of course, at that time, all I had to do was watch with awe all the incredible costumes and things going on—didn’t have to deal with any of the things that could go on when it all got a bit crazy. ”
Cason grinned. “First, looks like we’re in this together for the long haul—please, just call me Vince.”
“And I go by Connie!” Detective Berkley told him.
“Well, then, of course,” Zach said. “I’m Zach and my partner is Skye.”
They all nodded, looking at one another with small smiles. Working together was always easiest when everyone was on the same page.
“Hey, as I was saying, I’d love to get a better idea of the outside of the house—there’s a forest to the rear, right? But neighbors to the left and the right—” Zach began.
“Come on, we’ll show you,” Connie said. “Should we wait for your partner?”
“Right, sorry!” Vince Cason said, pausing.
“No, no, we’re fine. She just wanted to go back in there for a second; get a good sense of the flow of the house.
Right now, it appears Patricia must have opened the door to whoever did this—which suggests, as we discussed before, that it was someone she knew, or someone who claimed to be part of the electric company or some such thing. I’ll be right out,” Zach assured them.
How the hell could I ever explain to anyone just what it was that my partner did? Of course, that’s the whole point of the “special” units within their law enforcement community; they didn’t have to explain.
Because, of course, they were all gifted, cursed, or just plain crazy.
But what Skye McMahon had …
He could barely put his mind around it. To see, to literally see things as they had happened …
Damn. Well, he was good and useful, too. And Jackson Crow seemed to think that their talents would complement one another.
That remained to be seen.
More importantly, a missing child and a young woman needed to be found.
Alive.
And right now, that mattered more than anything.
Skye stood still, closing her eyes for a minute, willing herself to see the past—and hoping it would be the past that she needed. And she was lucky; time unfolded exactly as she’d hoped.
The bell rang. Young Jeremy was sitting on the sofa in the parlor, reading from one of his schoolbooks.
The baby was in her playpen, lying down, laughing up at a cloth doll.
Patricia Yale, a young ponytailed brunette in a T-shirt and jeans, had been answering Jeremy on how to spell the word “believe.”
Patricia heard the bell; she’d come out of the kitchen to answer Jeremy. She had, perhaps, been getting a snack for one of them.
She opened the door.
She stepped back, laughing, not alarmed.
“Hey, it’s not Halloween! Funny, funny, who the hell—” she began.
But that was when the green witch, with the pointed black hat, produced a gun. “You, the boy, out here with me, now!”
It was the same witch who had killed Mike Bolton.
But the voice …
Male? Female? Distorted mechanically?
“I can’t just leave the baby—” Patricia said, trying to get out a sentence again.
“Well, I can shoot her if you like,” the green being said.
“No, no, no! Of course not! Uh, Jeremy … wait, please! You’re not going to hurt the boy, please—”
“Obey every word I say and neither of you gets hurt. But you don’t want the kid dead? Then don’t give me any grief! Out here, now!”
Jeremy sat on the sofa, staring in pure terror at the creature. But Patricia didn’t intend to give the witch any excuse to hurt the boy. She ran to the sofa, sweeping the boy up and into her arms and pausing just a second by the playpen to whisper desperately, “Your mommy will be home soon!”
She ran out, pausing at the door as she stared at the bizarre witch.
“Now! We go,” the witch said.
Patricia stepped out, Jeremy still in her arms.
The door closed in their wake.
It closed with a slam—the witch’s way of leaving, so it appeared.
* * *