Black Magic Woman (27 page)

"And what is the nature of your emergency, sir?"

"I guess, uh, I don't know exactly."

"I will need more information if I am going to dispatch someone to your location, sir."

"Cranston Reservoir. Send 'em to the Cranston Reservoir. The uh, west side, yeah, the west side of Cranston Reservoir."

"I need to know why you require police assistance at this time, sir."

"Somebody was, I mean there was like screaming, it just went on and on. Sounded like a kid, maybe, but we couldn't be sure. Oh, God, please, just send the cops, will you?"

"You are reporting screams from the west side of Cranston Reservoir? Is that correct, sir?"

"Yeah, yeah, how many times do I have to fuckin' say it? Some kid was screaming, not like he was fooling around, like kids do, I mean, it was like he was
dying,
or something. Or she, I dunno, I couldn't tell. And then it just, like stopped, as if he had, oh Jesus, God. And there was a car over there, we saw two people get out of this big car, and then the screaming started and for Christ's sake, will you just fuckin'
send
somebody? Please?"

"I am dispatching a unit to your location now, sir."

Van Dreenan nodded slowly. "Yes, I expect you are right."

"How about you? You could go back to your hotel, catch a few z's. I'll call you if anything breaks."

"Thank you, but no. I find that I do not sleep much anymore."

Ten minutes later, Fenton was amusing himself, and possibly even Van Dreenan, by telling a very involved and highly obscene joke.

"So now they're all standing there, right? Dad, Mom, the two kids, Grandma, and the family dog. Naked, panting, dripping with sweat and two or three other fluids, besides. And the talent agent says, 'That's quite an act you've got there. What do you folks call yourselves?' And the father says—"

Then the phone rang.

Fenton grabbed it on the first ring. "Yeah?"

He spent the next minute or so listening intently, occasionally making notes on a legal pad.

"How far a drive is it from the field office to the scene, for somebody using lights and a siren? Yeah? Okay, have a car meet us at the Providence airport, the chopper pad. I want it gassed up, and somebody behind the wheel who knows the way to the crime scene and can get us there fast, okay? Appreciate it."

As soon as the line was clear, Fenton tapped in a three-digit number.

"This is Fenton. Get the chopper warmed up. Destination is the main landing pad at the Providence, Rhode Island airport, whatever its name is. They can't have more than one, a dinky state like that. I wanna be there ten minutes ago. Right, thanks."

Van Dreenan was already on his feet. "I take it something has happened."

"You take it right." Fenton was quickly stowing items in his briefcase, including case files, his laptop, and two clips of 9 mm ammunition for his Glock. "Cranston, Rhode Island," he said tersely. "Some kids from URI were up at the reservoir, gettin' it on in a parked car. Then our perps came along, oblivious, and did their last victim, like a hundred yards away. Kids heard the screams and called nine-one-one."

Fenton looked at his watch. "We're less than an hour behind them. Let's roll."

Van Dreenan had a briefcase of his own that he had taken to carrying around with him lately, although he had never opened it in Fenton's presence. He quickly grabbed the handle and his voice was tight with excitement as he said, "Ready when you are,
baas."

"Ayuh. Couple of minutes, max."

The road soon began to level off; shortly afterward, they could see moonlight on water.

"This is it," Spencer said.

Van Dreenan had sat silently in the back seat during the urgent drive from Providence. Now he leaned forward and placed a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "I want to thank you for getting us here so quickly, Agent Spencer. If you ever decide to leave law enforcement, I believe you might easily find employment in Hollywood, as a car handler."

Seeing the quizzical expression on Spencer's face, Fenton said, "I think he means 'stunt driver.'"

"Oh, right. Hey, it was kind of fun. I don't get to use the flashing light and siren much. It was cool, watching everybody get out of the way."

"You know we're taking the car, right?"

"Sure, no sweat. I'll get a ride back with one of the other guys."

Spencer brought the car to a stop amidst half a dozen other official vehicles—state, local, and unmarked federal. They all had their lights flashing, which turned the crime scene into something that looked like a fundamentalist's notion of Hell.

Fenton and Van Dreenan got out of the car and followed Spencer to the ranking FBI man on the scene, who turned out to be a woman.

Special Agent Rita Garber was a taller-than-average blonde with short hair, a dark suit, and a hard-looking face. Van Dreenan thought the hardness might be temporary, caused by what she had been dealing with for the last hour. He wondered what she looked like when she relaxed, assuming she ever did.

Spencer performed introductions. Agent Garber looked at Van Dreenan longer than she needed to, clearly curious about what a South African cop was doing at the crime scene.

"You didn't say anything on the phone about leaving the body of the vic in place," she said to Fenton, "so I let the local law send her to the morgue. Coroner'll do the autopsy tonight or tomorrow—I can find out when and where, if you guys want to be there."

"That won't be necessary, but thanks," Fenton said. He looked over at the patch of ground that was cordoned off by the yellow tape. "Is forensics done with the scene?"

"Done and gone," Agent Garber said. "Theirs and ours, both."

Fenton looked at Van Dreenan, then without a word the two of them went over to the bare patch of earth, lifted the crime scene tape, and ducked under it.

It didn't take them long to observe the essentials: the four tent stakes driven deep into the ground, the torn-up earth around it, the footprints in the muddy soil. The blood had long since soaked into the earth, but each man would have sworn on a Bible that he could still smell the thick, coppery odor.

They had seen it all before. Four other times, to be exact— either in photos, or up close and personal.

Van Dreenan had produced a small but powerful flashlight and was shining it around the immediate area. Suddenly, the moving beam of light stopped. "Fenton."

Van Dreenan's light was focusing on the array of footprints in the soft earth. There were many around the crime scene, made by the police, the coroner's people, the forensics techs, and God knows who else. But one set of footprints stood out clearly from all the others.

The feet that had made them were bare.

They walked quickly back to Agent Garber. "Pictures?" Fenton asked.

"Over here," she said. They followed her to one of the unmarked cars. A laptop computer was open on the hood, a thin, balding man wearing FBI creds hunched over it, typing.

"Connor, show these officers the photos of the scene that our people took earlier," Garber told him.

"Sure, boss, no prob," the man said. He worked with the mouse and the keys for a few moments, then a photo of the area, a wide-angle establishing shot, appeared on the computer screen. The resolution was good, the details clear.

"We've got, I think, forty-eight, all told," he said. "You guys want to see 'em all?"

"No," Van Dreenan told him. "Just the photos of the body, please. Close-ups of the wounds, if you have them."

Agent Connor stared at the South African for a moment, then said, "Yeah, sure, we got 'em. Give me a second."

Four minutes later, Van Dreenan and Fenton were in the car that had brought them, heading back down the hill as fast as Fenton could safely drive.

"All right," Fenton said. "We've been to the scene, and we're sure it was Snake and Cecelia again. The witnesses said the car went back down this way, so we're following the same route the perps took. But we're almost two hours behind them now, man. It's a pretty cold trail."

"Not as cold as you might imagine. They will not have left the area immediately following the murder."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because she still needs to perform the ritual of incorporating the stolen organs into the fetish she is making. That is the object of the murders, remember."

"Yeah, but they could drive a hundred miles before they stop to take care of business." Fenton swerved to avoid a pothole the size of a garbage can lid.

"But they won't. For maximum effectiveness, the ritual must be performed while the organs are still… fresh." Van Dreenan swallowed hard, hoping that Fenton didn't notice. "And, bear in mind that our friends are in no great hurry. They have no idea that they were observed this time by those university students."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because those two young people are still alive."

"Yeah, I guess you've got a point," Fenton said. "So, okay, the trail is fairly fresh, then. What the hell do we do about it?"

"We track them, of course." Van Dreenan had his briefcase in his lap and was fiddling with the latches in the uncertain light.

"And just how do we do that, O great detective?"

There was a loud "click" as the lid of the case popped open. "With this."

R.I. POLICE REPORT FINDING THE BODY OF A MURDERED CHILD NEAR CRANSTON RESERVOIR IN THAT STATE. PRELIMINARY REPORTS SUGGEST THAT THE VICTIM WAS THE LATEST IN A SERIES OF CHILD MURDERS/MUTILATIONS THAT HAVE PLAGUED THE NORTHEAST IN RECENT WEEKS. THE VICTIM, SUSAN ANN MAISANO, 11, WAS REPORTED MISSING FROM THE YARD OF HER PARENTS' HOME EARLIER TODAY. ACCORDING TO THE PROVIDENCE FIELD OFFICE OF THE FBI, AGENTS ARE PURSUING A NUMBER OF LEADS AND ARE EXPECTED TO MAKE…

Walter Grobius would be eager to meet with her—and would be sure to bring his checkbook. And before passing her prize along to him, Christine would use its power to smash the wards protecting the LaRues, and then to crush the LaRues themselves, putting an end to her family's centuries-long vendetta. Afterwards, she would see about those interfering dilettantes Chastain and Morris.

Christine Abernathy looked at her watch and frowned, wondering if she had time to wash her hair before company arrived.

"You may as well go to your room and pack," she said, sounding almost polite. "I will be ready shortly, and then we can be off to Salem to deliver the material and collect our payment."

"Sounds good," Snake said. He left, and walked the twenty feet to his own room. Packing his grip wouldn't take long, but he turned on the TV, anyway. The late local news should be doing their sports segment right about now, and Snake wanted to see if his Braves had beaten the despised Yankees.

He had just opened his small suitcase on the bed when he realized that the news broadcast wasn't doing sports, after all.