• • •
After my shift, I went home—yes, the apartment was finally becoming home—and read the ritual research files, making notes and looking things up on the Internet until my eyes hurt. Would firing Gabriel mean I’d lose my free Internet access? Would he send a repo man to take back the laptop? Fifty-fifty on both, I figured. Rose seemed to like me, so she might not listen if Gabriel asked her to change her Internet password. Would he be petty enough to ask? Hard to say. Better to do what I could quickly.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I was up early the next morning. Stressed about firing Gabriel, if I was being honest with myself. I worked it off with a 6 A.M. jog. I was rounding the corner by the community center when I saw a new gargoyle. It was on an ivy-covered stone post, and I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if the breaking light hadn’t hit the post at just the right angle, making the gargoyle’s green stone eyes glitter.
“Clever,” I murmured as I cleared away the ivy for a better look. “Another one for my list.”
I started to smile, then stopped myself. Thinking of gargoyle lists only brought my mind back to a place I’d been trying to leave—Gabriel. I shook it off and started to run again, but I kept thinking about the gargoyles, and when I passed the bank, my gaze instinctively went to the place where I’d seen one the other night, with Veronica.
It wasn’t there.
I walked over to the stonework. The door was framed with rosettes. The other night, though, one of those carvings had been a gargoyle face. And now? All I saw were rosettes.
I looked from several angles. Even ran my fingers across the one that I was sure had been the gargoyle. Nothing.
“A night gargoyle,” I murmured.
I looked back down the road at the post by the community center. That “hidden” one made sense—you just didn’t notice it if the sun didn’t hit it right. But this . . . ?
I ran my fingers over the rosette again, then gave my head a sharp shake and continued on.
• • •
I spent my shift thinking about ritual murder. It wasn’t as common as Hollywood and the tabloids might lead one to believe. There’s no human sacrificial tradition in Wicca, satanism, voodoo, or any of the faiths we associate with modern American occultism. According to the experts Gabriel had hired, if you find corpses with evidence of ritual sacrifice, you’re probably dealing with fringe nut jobs.
There were no indications that Pamela and Todd Larsen were fringe nut jobs. She’d admitted to being a practicing Wiccan, but everything the police found in that chest was evidence of the benign, Earth-mother-worshipping form embraced by college students everywhere.
The experts Gabriel hired hadn’t been able to identify most of the ritualistic elements in the murders. There were no pentacles drawn in blood. No black candles. No dead animals. In the end, both experts decided the Larsens had made up their own ceremony. One was convinced they were secret occultists who believed their self-made ritual would grant them some boon. The other thought they’d simply invented it to throw the police off the trail.
I liked theory two. Two sociopaths want to kill people and get away with it. One has some minor experience with occultism. They decide to add fake ritual aspects to their murders to mislead the authorities.
And yet I couldn’t help thinking there was more to it. Maybe I was looking for patterns where none existed. I’ve often thought that’s where my obsession with omens and superstitions comes from—trying to find order and meaning in a chaotic world. In trying to make sense of these ritual elements, maybe I was just falling into the same trap as the other investigators.
• • •
When my shift ended at three, I offered to come back to help Trudy again. Since the dinner rush in Cainsville starts at five, I’d eat an early meal there and work quietly at a corner table.
That was the plan, anyway. The reading and note-taking wasn’t so easy when Ida and Walter stopped by for tea and wanted to talk about whatever I was working on so hard. I shut my folders quickly and said, “Just some research.”
In my haste to scoop up the pages, one fell and Walter got to it before I could.
“That’s just—” I began.
“About your parents,” he said, glancing at the page before he handed it back. “The Larsens. You’re investigating their crimes.”
Ida nodded, looking as concerned as if I was researching new appliances for my apartment. At the next table, Veronica perked up and inched her chair closer.
“I, uh . . .”
“You’re curious,” Ida said as she sat across from me. Walter took the extra chair at Veronica’s table and swung it over. “That’s natural. It must have been a huge shock for you. You need to understand it.”
When Lores’s interview came out and no one in Cainsville mentioned it, I’d told myself no one had noticed. That had seemed odd, but they’d said many times that they weren’t interested in city news. Now I realized they’d known who I was for a while. Maybe even before the article came out. They just hadn’t brought it up.
“I’m just checking a few things,” I said. “Are you staying for dinner? The special is roast ham—it wasn’t ready for me to snatch some early, but it smells amazing.”
“Is that what you were doing with Gabriel?” Walter said. “Investigating the murders?”
“He’s not working for me anymore. Did I mention there’s strawberry and rhubarb pie? Trudy brought fruit in from her garden, and Larry made it this morning.”
Ida reached out and patted my hand. “You don’t need to hide things from us, dear. We know you’re investigating the crimes and we think it’s a lovely idea.”
Lovely?
“What are you working on now?” Veronica asked. She’d moved her chair up beside Walter and was peering at the folder.
“Um, just, uh . . .” Oh, hell. They weren’t about to be brushed off. Might as well get it over with. “There were ritualistic aspects to the murders. I’m trying to understand them.”
“Witchcraft, wasn’t it?” Ida said.
Walter shook his head. “They’re called Wiccan now, dear.”
“No, Wicca is a different thing altogether. Mavis’s granddaughter became a Wiccan when she went away to college, and she certainly never killed anyone. That’s witchcraft. Or a satanic cult.” She looked at me. “What did they think it was with the Larsens?”
After my shift, I went home—yes, the apartment was finally becoming home—and read the ritual research files, making notes and looking things up on the Internet until my eyes hurt. Would firing Gabriel mean I’d lose my free Internet access? Would he send a repo man to take back the laptop? Fifty-fifty on both, I figured. Rose seemed to like me, so she might not listen if Gabriel asked her to change her Internet password. Would he be petty enough to ask? Hard to say. Better to do what I could quickly.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I was up early the next morning. Stressed about firing Gabriel, if I was being honest with myself. I worked it off with a 6 A.M. jog. I was rounding the corner by the community center when I saw a new gargoyle. It was on an ivy-covered stone post, and I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if the breaking light hadn’t hit the post at just the right angle, making the gargoyle’s green stone eyes glitter.
“Clever,” I murmured as I cleared away the ivy for a better look. “Another one for my list.”
I started to smile, then stopped myself. Thinking of gargoyle lists only brought my mind back to a place I’d been trying to leave—Gabriel. I shook it off and started to run again, but I kept thinking about the gargoyles, and when I passed the bank, my gaze instinctively went to the place where I’d seen one the other night, with Veronica.
It wasn’t there.
I walked over to the stonework. The door was framed with rosettes. The other night, though, one of those carvings had been a gargoyle face. And now? All I saw were rosettes.
I looked from several angles. Even ran my fingers across the one that I was sure had been the gargoyle. Nothing.
“A night gargoyle,” I murmured.
I looked back down the road at the post by the community center. That “hidden” one made sense—you just didn’t notice it if the sun didn’t hit it right. But this . . . ?
I ran my fingers over the rosette again, then gave my head a sharp shake and continued on.
• • •
I spent my shift thinking about ritual murder. It wasn’t as common as Hollywood and the tabloids might lead one to believe. There’s no human sacrificial tradition in Wicca, satanism, voodoo, or any of the faiths we associate with modern American occultism. According to the experts Gabriel had hired, if you find corpses with evidence of ritual sacrifice, you’re probably dealing with fringe nut jobs.
There were no indications that Pamela and Todd Larsen were fringe nut jobs. She’d admitted to being a practicing Wiccan, but everything the police found in that chest was evidence of the benign, Earth-mother-worshipping form embraced by college students everywhere.
The experts Gabriel hired hadn’t been able to identify most of the ritualistic elements in the murders. There were no pentacles drawn in blood. No black candles. No dead animals. In the end, both experts decided the Larsens had made up their own ceremony. One was convinced they were secret occultists who believed their self-made ritual would grant them some boon. The other thought they’d simply invented it to throw the police off the trail.
I liked theory two. Two sociopaths want to kill people and get away with it. One has some minor experience with occultism. They decide to add fake ritual aspects to their murders to mislead the authorities.
And yet I couldn’t help thinking there was more to it. Maybe I was looking for patterns where none existed. I’ve often thought that’s where my obsession with omens and superstitions comes from—trying to find order and meaning in a chaotic world. In trying to make sense of these ritual elements, maybe I was just falling into the same trap as the other investigators.
• • •
When my shift ended at three, I offered to come back to help Trudy again. Since the dinner rush in Cainsville starts at five, I’d eat an early meal there and work quietly at a corner table.
That was the plan, anyway. The reading and note-taking wasn’t so easy when Ida and Walter stopped by for tea and wanted to talk about whatever I was working on so hard. I shut my folders quickly and said, “Just some research.”
In my haste to scoop up the pages, one fell and Walter got to it before I could.
“That’s just—” I began.
“About your parents,” he said, glancing at the page before he handed it back. “The Larsens. You’re investigating their crimes.”
Ida nodded, looking as concerned as if I was researching new appliances for my apartment. At the next table, Veronica perked up and inched her chair closer.
“I, uh . . .”
“You’re curious,” Ida said as she sat across from me. Walter took the extra chair at Veronica’s table and swung it over. “That’s natural. It must have been a huge shock for you. You need to understand it.”
When Lores’s interview came out and no one in Cainsville mentioned it, I’d told myself no one had noticed. That had seemed odd, but they’d said many times that they weren’t interested in city news. Now I realized they’d known who I was for a while. Maybe even before the article came out. They just hadn’t brought it up.
“I’m just checking a few things,” I said. “Are you staying for dinner? The special is roast ham—it wasn’t ready for me to snatch some early, but it smells amazing.”
“Is that what you were doing with Gabriel?” Walter said. “Investigating the murders?”
“He’s not working for me anymore. Did I mention there’s strawberry and rhubarb pie? Trudy brought fruit in from her garden, and Larry made it this morning.”
Ida reached out and patted my hand. “You don’t need to hide things from us, dear. We know you’re investigating the crimes and we think it’s a lovely idea.”
Lovely?
“What are you working on now?” Veronica asked. She’d moved her chair up beside Walter and was peering at the folder.
“Um, just, uh . . .” Oh, hell. They weren’t about to be brushed off. Might as well get it over with. “There were ritualistic aspects to the murders. I’m trying to understand them.”
“Witchcraft, wasn’t it?” Ida said.
Walter shook his head. “They’re called Wiccan now, dear.”
“No, Wicca is a different thing altogether. Mavis’s granddaughter became a Wiccan when she went away to college, and she certainly never killed anyone. That’s witchcraft. Or a satanic cult.” She looked at me. “What did they think it was with the Larsens?”
