A minute or so pa.s.sed before there was a dull click at the other end and a new voice issued from the handset. "Doctor Rieth's office, this is Kathy, may I help you?"

"Good afternoon, Kathy," I said as I rocked back forward and straightened my posture. "Is Doctor Rieth in by any chance?"

"No sir, I'm afraid she's gone for the holiday break. I'm her a.s.sistant, can I help you?"

It hadn't even dawned on me that Thanksgiving was less than one week away at this point. Considering that, I was probably fortunate to have reached anyone at the university at all.

"No offense, but probably not," I replied. "I'm calling from Saint Louis, and I need to speak with the doctor about something in her book, Voodoo Practice in American Culture."

I glanced at the corner of my desk where the tome was resting atop a pile of other books, all with the same general subject matter, Afro-Cuban religion and mysticism.

"I'm sorry, sir, but all queries regarding Doctor Rieth's books should be made via the University Press," Kathy replied, launching into a decidedly prepared sounding spiel. "The address can be found..."

"I understand that," I spoke up, truncating her instructions. "Please understand that I'm not looking for an autograph or trying to dispute her or anything like that. I'm doing some research regarding a murder investigation here, and I think she might be able to help me."

There was no reply from the other end, but I could still hear background noise, so I knew she hadn't hung up.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said.

"Yes, I'm here," the a.s.sistant replied. "I'm sorry. Where did you say you were calling from again?"

"Saint Louis, Missouri, why?"

"Just curious. Doctor Rieth received a call a year or so back from a police officer in South Carolina regarding a murder investigation."

My curiosity was immediately piqued. "Really? Do you remember any of the details?"

"No," she replied. "And, honestly, I really shouldn't have said anything."

"That's okay, I won't tell," I replied half jokingly then moved on rather than risk alienating her. "Is there any way I can reach Doctor Rieth? It's very important."

"I'm afraid not," she replied. "She is scheduled to return the Monday after the holiday however."

I wasn't excited about the wait, but it was just that time of year, so there was little I could do. I went ahead and asked, "Do you think it would be possible for me to leave a message for the doctor then?"

"Yes sir, I can certainly do that," she answered. "Which police department are you with again?"

"I'm actually an independent consultant," I explained then took the truth and wrapped it into an interwoven pretzel before relaying it to her. "I'm currently working with the Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad."

It wasn't a complete lie, but I hoped that the doctor didn't elect to verify my story because under the current circ.u.mstances, I was betting no one would be willing to back me up.

I finished giving her my contact information and bid her a pleasant afternoon before hanging up and pondering what the young woman had just let slip. Hopefully, if and when Doctor Rieth returned my call, she would be willing to share a bit more about what she had consulted on in South Carolina.

I picked up a pen and jotted a quick note about it in a steno pad I had been using for keeping track of my research. I heard the dogs barking outside and wondered for a moment if they were wanting back in the house. I started to get up, but they quieted down before I could get completely out of my seat, so I figured it must be a taunting squirrel or simply a pa.s.serby. When I settled back into the chair, however, a familiar p.r.i.c.kling sensation crawled across the back of my neck as I felt my hair pivoting at the roots.

I reached up and rubbed the offending spot as I looked around the room. I couldn't imagine a reason for the brief attack of shivers. It faded quickly so I tried to put it out of my mind.

Returning to the materials I had at hand, I shuffled through the stack of books on my desk and withdrew another one, heavily laden with bookmarks protruding from the end, and flipped it open to the copyright page. I was just about to begin typing in the publisher's website address in search of contact information for the author when I heard the doorbell ring.

Now I had my answer as to why the dogs had been barking.

I knew Felicity was downstairs in her darkroom and probably wouldn't be able to answer it. In reality, most of her work these days was digital and didn't require the somewhat antiquated processes of chemicals and light sensitive papers. However, I had the impression that my wife was finding the familiarity and closeness of her a.n.a.log works.p.a.ce a comfort in the wake of her recent experience. Put simply, she was hiding from the world, and while I was willing to condone it for a brief period, I wasn't going to allow her to do it forever. But, at this particular moment, I wasn't going to press the issue.

I tossed the book back onto the pile and pushed away from my desk. I found that I had to skirt around d.i.c.kens, our black feline, who had elected to take a nap almost immediately in front of the office door. He opened one yellow eye and regarded me silently as I stepped over him, but other than that he didn't even twitch.

I was making my way down the stairs when the doorbell pealed once again in a rapid staccato.

"Hold on!" I yelled, not that I really expected anyone outside to hear me. "I'm coming, I'm coming..."

I skipped the last couple of stairs near the bottom, making the turn at the landing, and almost jogged across the living room. With a quick turn of my wrist, I unlocked the door and swung it open.

My friend, homicide detective Benjamin Storm was standing on my front porch, along with someone else I thought I recognized as a member of the MCS but to whom I couldn't place a name. Neither of them looked particularly happy, but I didn't need to see their expressions to know something was wrong. The warning signs had been there for a while now. I had just been too absorbed, and even more unwilling, to pay attention to them.

Ben reached out and pulled the storm door open, looking at me quietly for a heartbeat or two before saying, "Do you mind if we come in, Row?"

I definitely didn't like the sound of his voice, and my skin started p.r.i.c.kling once again.

"That depends, Ben," I replied evenly. "Do I have any choice in the matter?"

He reached up and smoothed his hair back, looked down at the porch briefly, then back up to my face. "Actually... No."

"Do I need to call our attorney?" I asked.

He returned a shallow nod. "It'd be a good idea, Row."

What transpired in the fifteen minutes following that simple statement set a series of events into motion that, if they didn't kill me, would undoubtedly leave an indelible scar upon my life, and the lives of those I loved.

CHAPTER 4:.

"Dammit, Ben!" I screamed. "Talk to me! Why won't you tell me what the h.e.l.l is happening here!"

"Rowan, you know d.a.m.n good 'n well what this is about!" my friend shot back. "A dead federal judge and a dead copper."

"Bulls.h.i.t! Politics is what it's about," I snarled at him. "Who's behind this? Albright?"

I almost gagged on the name of the cop whose life's mission seemed to be anything that involved making my very existence unbearable. Captain Barbara Albright, self-appointed leader of the "G.o.d Squad."

Of course, there you had it, plain and simple.

When you took into consideration the fact that she was an old school, fundamentalist Christian with a badge, and I was a Neopagan Witch who consulted for the police department, we were bound to clash. The problem was, it was even worse than that. In plain truth we weren't just at polar opposites; in many ways we seemed almost to be one another's arch nemesis. Unfortunately, she tended to take that idea very seriously and more often than not would push things way too far.

She had already interjected her opinions and views into the current investigation, casting aspersions on both Felicity and me. Out of all of my detractors, she had been the one I most feared would skew the investigation. Given how vocal she had already been, it stood to reason that she would be behind this action. However, in my estimation, her habit of pushing things too far had just turned into shoving them completely over the edge and gleefully watching them fall.

"Look, I already said this a dozen times," my friend spat in reply. "Ya' got the G.o.dd.a.m.ned warrants right there in your hand. Read 'em!"

I barked in return as I waved the sheaf of legal doc.u.ments in the air, "And, I've told you every time you said it that I already did and they don't tell me a f.u.c.king thing."

"Well, try readin' 'em again!"

Ben stared back at me, grimly silent on the heels of the shouted order. I had to keep my head tilted back to meet his gaze, as he stood six-foot-six and was, therefore, better than a head taller than me. He carried himself on an overtly muscular frame that often made him seem larger than life, and in a sense, almost heroic.

His cla.s.sic, angular features, which not only broadcast his pure Native American heritage but also served him well in forming his handsome visage, were now creased into a hard scowl. The deep lines made him look less like my friend and more like the stoic "Injun on the warpath" from an old Western. All he needed were some feathers and face paint to make the caricature complete.

In fact, a travesty is all that was left of him in my mind, for at this particular moment, even though his dark eyes were betraying his own turbulent mix of emotions, any sense of heroism I envisioned in him had long since fled. To me, he had become no more than a threatening obstacle standing dead in the middle of my path.

He sighed heavily then shook his head and cast his eyes toward the floor. Out of reflex he reached up with a large hand to smooth his jet-black hair. This was a mannerism I'd seen countless times, and it was something he always did whenever he was thinking hard on a subject. I stood watching him, and in the wake of the motion, I could see salty flecks of grey that I knew for certain had been there for quite some time but now seemed to be appearing right before my eyes. It was as if he was visibly aging as he stood there.

Under the circ.u.mstances, I think perhaps we both were.

I waited for a healthy measure, or at least I think I did. I know I tried. Unfortunately, my patience was as thin as the dry, paper-like skin of an onion right now and even more brittle. I wasn't interested in giving him time to think about anything. I wanted answers and I wanted them ten minutes ago.

"Tell me what's going on, Ben!" I repeated my demand for the umpteenth time.

"G.o.dDAMMIT, ROWAN! I CAN'T!" he shouted then suddenly slammed the heel of his fist hard against the doorframe before repeating in a near whisper, "I just...can't."

Whether we were getting somewhere or not, I couldn't say, but this was the first time he had given me a response other than "you know" or "read the warrants."

My friend looked over his shoulder through the gla.s.s of the storm door as it slowly worked its way toward obscuring the view by fogging over with condensation. After a second he looked back at me and muttered, "Jeezus f.u.c.kin' Christ, Row...don'tcha think I wanna tell ya'?"

I didn't let up. "You sure as h.e.l.l aren't acting like it."

"Sonofab.i.t.c.h! Dammit...I...Jeez...I...It's...s.h.i.t! f.u.c.k me! Dammit, Row, I just can't!" He stuttered through the sentence as his morose tone ramped back into anger.

Mine, however, had never ramped down. "That's not good enough!"

"Well it's gonna hafta be for now!"

Ben Storm was probably my second best friend walking the face of the planet-period, end of story. However, at this instant I was within a hair's breadth of planting my fist square on his chin replete with every last speck of strength, anger, and unfettered malice I could muster. Never mind the fact that it would probably be the one and only shot I would get before he pummeled me into the middle of next month, or even that he was a cop with a gun and a similarly armed partner sitting in a vehicle in my driveway. Right now, none of that mattered to me.

What did matter, more than anything, was what had brought the two of us to the brink of a violent, physical confrontation such as this. And, that, beyond any shadow of a doubt, would be my best friend. Not my second best friend, but my first, and absolute, best friend-a pet.i.te, redheaded, Irish-American woman whose name was typed prominently upon the warrants.

And, the thing about my dear and lovely wife that had me on the edge of committing a.s.sault against Ben was the fact that I had just stood here in my living room and watched him place her in handcuffs then recite to her the Miranda rights of silence.

Miranda.

Now there was irony in all its glory considering that one simple word, the name "Miranda", had everything to do with the head-on collision my life, my friend's life, and moreover, my wife's life had just become.

Our screaming match was far from over, and since it was my turn I shouted back, "Something, Ben! You've got to be able to tell me something!"

"I told you, I CAN'T!"

"f.u.c.k that! What you mean is you WON'T!"

"G.o.ddammit, Rowan! What I mean is I CAN'T! Do ya' really think I like this any more than you do?"

"Ben, you just arrested my wife for murder! You can't just do that then walk out like nothing's happened! You've got to give me some answers here!"

He huffed out a breath then dropped his forehead into his hand and allowed it to rest there for a moment before pushing his palm back through his hair once again. This time, he left the large paw clamped onto his neck and began working his fingers against the muscles.

"I wish I could."

"Well, answer me this: Why aren't you arresting me too?"

"We ain't got a reason. But trust me, it was mentioned."

"Dammit, you don't have a reason to arrest her either!"

"I'm afraid we do, Row."

"What is it? Tell me."

"Look," he offered. "I'm not even s'posed to say this, but all I can tell ya' is there's hard evidence that Firehair might be the one that killed Hammond Wentworth and Officer Hobbes."

I found myself offended by the fact that he called her Firehair. The use of the friendly moniker he had long ago dubbed Felicity with seemed inappropriately familiar under the circ.u.mstances. Considering what he had just done, I didn't feel he had that right. I started to say something but decided against it before the words could leave my throat. No matter what my visceral response to it, the truth is, the hypocrisy I saw in his use of the nickname really wasn't what was important right now.

Instead, I focused on the crux of what he had just said and made a demand. "What kind of evidence? Surely not the hairs you said they found at the Wentworth scene."

"I can't say, Row."

"Well, whatever it is, it's bulls.h.i.t and you know it. She didn't kill anyone."

"I...she...c.r.a.p..." he muttered.

"Dammit, Ben, think about it! If she killed Wentworth and Hobbes, then why didn't she kill that character she picked up at the club?"

"I dunno. You tell me. For all you know she might've if things had gone different."

"No, she wouldn't have and here's why-because she didn't kill any of them. I told you what was going on. She was possessed by a Lwa that night."

"Dammit, Row, that's not gonna fly an' you know it. Not with my superiors and sure as f.u.c.k not with a court."

"It's still the truth."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Maybe?" I snipped. "So now you don't believe me either?"

"I didn't say that."

"Yeah, well from where I'm standing you haven't said much, period."

He didn't reply. He just kept working on the knotted muscle in his shoulder.