BONES OF A WITCH (Detective Marcella Witch's Series. Book 4) Read online

  “Good, what else?”

  “The victim’s driver’s license said she was five-six and one-hundred-thirty pounds. Using that as a gauge, I’d put our perp at five-eight or nine and one-hundred-eighty pounds.”

  “Wrong,” said Lilith. “Women lie on their driver’s license apps. That tub weighed one-sixty-five if she weighed a pound. And she likely wore heels for her picture. She’s barely five-three. That puts our perp at only five-five or six and two-hundred ten pounds. He’s a porker, like her.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m with Lilith on this one.”

  “Big surprise,” said Carlos.

  “No, really. There are other indicators to gauge this guy’s size. Dominic, run the video again and get ready to stop on my say so.”

  Spinelli ran the video and paused it exactly where I needed it.

  “There.” I pointed at a trash receptacle beside the column from which the killer stepped out into the light. “Look at the shadow from that trash can and then look at our killer’s shadow. They’re nearly perfectly aligned. Now look at the markings on the can. It says NCDPW.”

  Carlos commented, “So? The Department of Public Works handles the trash collection there.”

  “I see where you’re going, Tony.” I knew Spinelli would pick up on it. “That’s a standard issue public trash can. They’re all forty-eight gallon cans that stand thirty-three inches high. Assuming the killer is sixty-five, or sixty-six inches tall, then his shadow should be exactly twice as tall as the trash can’s shadow.”

  “Exactly. It’s relative proportions. You can measure it right here on the screen.”

  And Spinelli did, proving with reasonable certainty that the killer was in fact only five feet six inches tall. From there, we went on to determine that he was also Caucasian, because his coat sleeve momentarily rode above his glove at the wrist as he lunged toward his victim with the knife. We also determined, though mostly through speculation, that he was probably middle-aged or slightly older because of his dress: men’s slacks in lieu of jeans, wingtips rather than sneakers, a topcoat of vintage seventies style and a hat like a fedora, the likes of which even I would not have worn when I was old.

  But perhaps the best clue came not from what we observed of our perpetrator, but from what the camera mounted outside the garage door observed as the killer hopped into his car and sped away.

  “Got a license plate number.” Spinelli announces after working the computer to enlarge and enhance the vehicle’s tag. And by enlarging and enhancing the tag, we were also able read the bumper sticker to the right of the tag which distinguished the vehicle as a rental from New Castle Budget Car Rentals down on Lexington.

  Now things were really moving. I asked Carlos to check out the lead by making a quick phone call to the car rental, while Spinelli showed me the photos he had taken with his own camera down at the crime scene.

  Right away I could see that the kid had a good eye for detail. He not only took pictures of the two cars and their plates on the ground floor, but also of the eight others parked on the second and third levels. Along with those, he snapped photos of all the exits, entrances, stairwell, elevator and the fire alarm box that Lilith pulled. And then there were the pics of the victim, photos so detailed and graphic that our own department photographer might take some cues from Dominic on how it’s done.

  But the most intriguing photo of all was of the knife, an instrument of such stunning artisanship and beauty that I could not wait to see it for myself. He had snapped the picture where the knife lay when found on the ground behind the trashcan we had studied earlier in the security videos. Lilith—being no slouch of a knife enthusiast herself—picked up the photo and gasped. “Holy shit! What’s this?”

  “Sweet, isn’t it?” I said.

  “No it’s not. I’ve seen this knife before.”

  “What? Where?”

  Just then Carlos came in, out of breath and visibly excited. “I got it!” he shouted. “This is a big break—BIG BREAK!”

  Spinelli jumped up. “What is it?”

  “I have a name. The guy just turned the rental in not a half an hour ago. The damn fool used his real name. Can you believe it?”

  Spinelli again, “Tell us then, who is he?”

  “Lemas Winterhutch. The man at the car rental says he’s some foreign guy. Lemas, what is that, French?”

  “No. Winterhutch, I think that’s English.”

  “Winterhutch could be French, too.”

  “But it’s not. Tony, tell him.”

  “It’s neither.” said Lilith, and we all simply turned to her and shut up. I watched her take one last look at the photo before tossing it onto the table. “It’s not even his real name.”

  Leave it to Carlos to dare speak first. “Well then, w…what is his real name?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, but it’s not Lemas Winterhutch.”

  Spinelli took a turn. “How do you know that?”

  She looked at me, so I gave her my two cents. “Yeah, how do you know that, Lilith?”

  She snatched a pen from Spinelli’s top pocket, flipped over the photo of the knife and wrote out the name, LEMAS WINTERHUTCH. Just below that she wrote: SALEM WITCH HUNTER.

  “See. Lemas Winterhutch; it’s scrambled. The man’s a witch hunter.”

  I went up to Lilith, put my hand on her shoulder and stroked it gently. “What makes you so sure?”

  She reached down and flipped the photo back over. “That knife is an American classic, though for all the wrong reasons, I assure you. The blade is made of 924 stainless steel. It represents the purity of Christianity, particularly the Puritans’ brand as practiced in 1692. The blade is also eight inches long, representing the eighth sphere where all hell’s children go. The hilt is finger formed, but you’ll notice for only three fingers. This represents the Holy Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Ghost. It’s also made of pure ivory, once again representing the Puritans and the strength they find in God. But the pommel, that’s the prize. It’s made of solid gold and is carved in the image of the wolf. That’s the icon associated with Ingersoll’s Witness.”

  I raised my hand to speak. “Lilith?”

  “I’m getting to that, Tony.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Ingersoll’s Witness is the name of a secret society of witch hunters. This society began back in 1692 and gets its name from Ingersoll’s tavern, where the first witch examinations took place in Salem. After the witch trials were suspended, the society took up witch hunting in secret with the prime directive of exterminating witches wherever they find them. They are men of unscrupulous morals and will stop at nothing to facilitate their goals, including murder of innocent bystanders. And it would seem, based on tonight’s events, that one of these unscrupulous witch hunters has come to our fair town to rid it of its resident witch.”

  Spinelli asked, “But why now? Why has he come here for you now?”

  She let out a sigh. “Because, Dominic, I had to go and claim the bones of my Aunt Ursula, who was also a witch. These men, the hunters of Ingersoll’s Witness, they watch the news closely; they scour the papers from Portland Maine to Portland Oregon looking for news that might alert them to the whereabouts of a witch. When they think they have found one, they go and kill her.”

  “Well,” said Carlos, “this is one witch hunter who has picked a fight in the wrong town, I’ll tell you that. We’re going to give this guy hell. Am I right, Tony?”

  “You’re right, Carlos.”

  “Dominic?”

  “You know it, man. Lilith?”

  The witch in her smiled teasingly. “When I see this guy again,” she said, “I’m going to tell him to kiss my ass.” She turned around, lifted the flap on her back pocket and slapped her cat’s paw tattoo. “Right there,” she said.

  The look on Spinelli’s face was priceless. You could have knocked him over with a feather. Lilith turned and started laughing, and then I started laughing. Finally, Car
los and Spinelli broke up, too, and I realized that was why she did it. It was her ass on the line and she knew we were more worried for her than she was for herself. It’s totally the kind of thing I wouldn’t expect from any of the old girls I used to date. The old Marcella girls were prudes. I guess that’s why I love the new Marcella girl so much.

  Lilith Adams:

  I left the Justice center with Tony feeling sure I had convinced them I wasn’t worried about Lemas Winterhutch. Truth was, though, I left petrified. I’ve known about the men of Ingersoll’s Witness all my life. The belief among witch circles is that no one can escape their vengeance. Once a witch hunter gets a scent of your trail, there is no shaking him. Some old timers in the coven believe they employ their own brand of black magic. Others say they are actually doing the devil’s work. I for one don’t believe in the devil, but I believe in Ingersoll’s Witness.

  Tony must have sensed my uneasiness, because as soon as we got back to the apartment, he took me in his arms and held me like he’s never held me before. It felt good. I won’t deny it, but I have a reputation to protect. I palmed his chest and pushed him away.

  “Whoa. Easy cowboy. Feeling frisky, are we?

  “What?”

  “We can do that later if you want.”

  “Do what?”

  “Come on. Let a girl settle in first, will ya?”

  I walked to the sofa and plopped down on the end cushion. Tony followed and took the seat beside me. “Lilith, that’s not why I hugged you. I just thought you needed….”

  “What?”

  He got back up and headed for the kitchen. “Forget it. You always have to pretend you’re so cool all the time, don’t you?”

  I hate when he thinks he knows me so well. “What’s that’s supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  He’s right, I do, and he does know me well. “No I don’t. I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  He opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. “Whatever.”

  He shut the door and started back for the living room. I jumped up and met him halfway, folding my arms around his waist and pulling him into me tightly. “Tony, don’t be like that.”

  “Me? Don’t you be like that. I know how worried you are about this witch hunter. It’s okay to show your feelings. I won’t think you’re too vulnerable.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Good, because you shouldn’t be. We’re going to get this guy.”

  “I know.”

  “All right then, come on,” He took me by the hand and started me toward the door. “Let’s go out and get a pizza.”

  “No.” I pulled up short and yanked my hand free. “Let’s stay in tonight. I’ll cook.”

  “You?” He laughed cruelly. “You can’t cook.”

  “I most certainly can. I made you lasagna once.”

  “It was frozen.”

  “Not when I served it to you.”

  “No, it was nice and hot then. I’ll give you that.”

  “Then stay in.”

  He turned his head, but was looking right through me for sure. “Fine, but we’ll call for takeout. Feel like Chinese?”

  I rocked up on my toes and kissed him. “Love Chinese. You’re buying.”

  It was somewhere between the Szechuan chicken and the moo goo gui pan when Tony asked me to pass the soy sauce. I picked it up and moved it to just beyond his reach. Of course he gave me that look. I played dumb and asked him, “What?”

  “I can’t reach it.”

  “So?”

  “So will you please nudge it closer?”

  I shook my head. “Nuh-ah.”

  “What?”

  “You can get it. Use your powers. Make it come to you like I made that girl’s balloons come to me.”

  “Lilith.”

  “Seriously, you need to start practicing before your powers fade entirely.”

  “My powers are fine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. Now leave me alone and pass the damn soy sauce.”

  I was about to use some magic of my own to shove the damn sauce where the sun don’t shine, when my phone began ringing in a tone I was not familiar with.

  “Is that my phone?” I asked, though the look on his face assured me it wasn’t his. I let it ring four times before he dropped his chopsticks and started over toward my purse.

  “No, no, I’ll get it,” I said. I grabbed my purse, fished out the phone and answered it.

  “Ms. Adams?” A voice said.

  I covered the phone and mouthed to Tony, “It’s him.”

  He signaled a dialing motion with his hands and whispered, “Put him on speaker.”

  I did, and the conversation continued.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Ms. Adams.”

  “You? Think how disappointed that poor woman at the parking garage feels. You think you ruined her day?”

  “A causality of war. It happens.”

  “You’re a sick bastard, you and your Ingersoll’s buttfuck`n dick whackers.”

  “Tsk-tsk, Ms. Adams; such language. But you know the truth is that ours is a noble society with a noble and righteous cause. And if you’re familiar with Ingersoll’s Witness, then you know we will not rest until we have what we want.”

  “And that is?”

  “Why, nothing but the complete, swift and utter annihilation of you and your kind, of course. We will not rest until we have finished what our forefathers have started back in 1692.”

  “Really? You think you can outwit me?”

  “Ms. Adams. We do not need to outwit you; we need only to make you see things our way.”

  “Ha! And just how do you propose to do that.”

  His voice dropped to a matter-of-fact whisper. “It’s quite simple. If you do not surrender yourself to me by this time tomorrow evening, I will kill one innocent bystander every day until you do. Is that clear enough for you?”

  “Screw you, ya freakin` lunatic.”

  “I will expect your call tomorrow to accept the terms of your surrender.”

  “Surrender this, asshole. I don’t think you fully appreciate just who the hell you’re dealing with. When I see you—”

  CLICK

  “Uh, the little shit hung up on me.”

  Tony took the phone and dialed back the last incoming number. I didn’t expect he’d get an answer. Lemas picked up. It wasn’t a long conversation. Tony did most of the talking, and man you should have heard him. He was cool but direct, delivering more promise than threat in explaining to Winterhutch how he would crush his skull with his bare hands if he so much as laid a finger on his girlfriend—that’s me. I have to tell you, I’ve never needed anyone fighting my battles for me; I still don’t, but something about watching Tony get all serious and all, his teeth gritting, his nostrils flaring…well, it really was a turn on. By the time Lemas Winterhutch hung up on him, Tony was fired up like a Cummins Diesel. I jumped his bones and dragged him off into the bedroom before he knew what hit him.

  Tony Marcella:

  The following morning Lilith awoke, acting like the phone call from Lemas never happened. I found her in the kitchen, standing by the fridge, eating cold Szechuan from the box. I told her we needed to go downtown to the justice center and get with Carlos and Dominic to figure out our next move, but all she wanted to do was drive out to Gloucester to collect some damn sand for her silly scrying sessions.

  “You’ve got two full jars of sand in your closet,” I told her. “Why on earth do you need more?”

  “That’s river sand,” she argued. “You don’t scry with river sand.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just don’t. If you want to scry accurately you need beach sand, and everyone knows there’s none finer for scrying than sand from Cape Ann, specifically Gloucester Beach. If you took the witch’s covenant seriously you would understand that.”

  “What’s that supp
osed to mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  “Is that a dig? Are you making fun of me because I can’t do all the cool magic tricks that you do?”

  “Tricks?” She marched up to me. “You consider my witchcraft mere trickery?”

  I backed away in measured steps. “No. I’m not saying that, exactly.”

  “Then what are you saying—exactly?”

  “Nothing, it’s just that….”

  “What?”

  “You keep pushing me with this witchcraft thing. I mean, come on, what do you want? It’s not like witchcraft comes with a handbook.”

  “Yes it does.”

  “Huh?”

  “You have the grimoire. You can look up anything you want regarding witchcraft.”

  I blinked a doltish response. “I thought you lost that book when your house blew away.”

  “No.” She turned and went into the living room. I followed. She stopped at the bookcase by the window. There on the bottom shelf, disguised as a dictionary, was the grimoire. She took it out and gave it to me. “See? It’s been here all the time.”

  I opened it up. It was all there, every tattered yellowed page with their cryptic writings and mysterious-looking symbols. Though virtually all the original script was in some obscured pagan text, Lilith had made interpretive notes and pasted them between the pages on sticky notepaper. I glanced up at her. “How did you get it back?”

  She rolled her eyes as if the question should have embarrassed me. “The grimoire always finds its way back,” she explained. “It’s endowed with a rebound spell.”

  My slacked jaw conveyed to her my ignorance to such things. She snatched the book away and returned it to the bookcase.

  “A rebound spell provides for the object under its charm a way and means back to its rightful owner in the event it is lost, stolen or otherwise separated from its possessor.”

  Intrigued, I had to ask. “What if someone puts that spell on you and then—”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “A rebound spell applies only to possessions, and since one cannot possess another, it means that it will not work on people.”