“Maybe it was Esbat. Yeah. The Esbat rite.”
Night had fallen hours ago. She stepped over to the windows facing the lake and looked out. The sky was clear. The moon looked as white and round as a snowball. “Good night for an Esbat rite, I’d say.”
Garcia looked down at his sweatpants and sweatshirt. “What do you wear to an Esbat rite?”
She turned away from the window. “I don’t know. Black jeans?”
“What do you think we’re going to see there?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I know what I
don’t
want to see.”
“Seth insists that his witches—”
“His
witches,” she repeated, shaking her head in dry amusement.
“He says they aren’t into animal sacrifice, human sacrifice, ritual abuse. None of that. If he thought that was going on, he’d be all over them. He knows where they all live, Cat, and they know he knows.”
“We’ve already talked about the possibility there’s a renegade,” she said. “I’m really worried about that little baby. Whether it’s being watched by a coven of blackmailing witches, or a couple of greedy kidnappers, we’ve got to get to it.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we have some time. We should go upstairs and give it another go.”
His face darkened. “I don’t need you going blind right before the big dance.”
“The instant I have trouble, I’ll pull out. I swear.”
“I heard that tune before.”
Bernadette started moving around the cabin, shutting off lights. “I’m going to win this one, Anthony.”
“No, you’re not.”
She started for the loft. “I’m not listening.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
B
enjamin Rathers wished he’d listened.
As he clomped around the frozen shores of Walker Bay in a set of borrowed snowshoes with a borrowed headlamp strapped to his head, he wished to God that he’d listened to his statistics teacher, and that he’d taken Uncle Joe up on his generous offer.
In high school, Rathers had displayed a talent for numbers—especially statistics—and his instructor had encouraged him to pursue a career as an actuary. His uncle Joe, a senior assistant actuary for an automobile-insurance company, had offered to find him a position, provided he attended college and passed the Society of Actuaries exam.
Looking for excitement beyond an insurance-company cubicle, Rathers had instead chased a degree in journalism at the University of Minnesota. He’d gotten on with a law journal. That had led to political contacts, and that had led to a mid-level job with the senator’s office in Minnesota. Mid-level in Minnesota morphed into high-level in Washington, and in no time at all he was chief of staff for Mad Maggie.
It wasn’t until after Rathers took the top job that he fully grasped how Dunton had earned his nickname. Outsiders thought the senator was called “mad” because he was so angry, constantly railing against his own government and its agencies. The denizens of Dunton’s innermost circle knew that the noun was more applicable than the adjective: Magnus Dunton was not so much a
mad man
as a
madman
.
Rathers should have known better than to share with Dunton his suspicions that the FBI had the house under surveillance. The news sent the senator into a tailspin of paranoia. A meeting that had been scheduled for later that evening was deemed out of the question because the FBI was watching. Canceling the meeting via phone wasn’t possible because the FBI was listening. Dunton didn’t want anyone driving to the individual’s home to deliver the cancellation notice because the FBI would follow the car once it left the gated community. The black helicopters had not only landed but were minutes away from disgorging an army of black-suited men. Come morning, Dunton and everyone he’d ever met would be eating off cafeteria trays and standing in line to use the urinals at Gitmo.
The only person remotely capable of calling Dunton off the ledge—Mrs. Mad Maggie—was curled up in her bed with her loyal and ever-present companion, Prince Valium.
End result: Rathers was ordered to sneak out back like a criminal, schlep around the lake, and knock on the person’s door to deliver a sealed envelope.
Rathers had no idea why this particular constituent was so important. He’d only met the individual the night before. “A personal matter,” Mad Maggie had said that evening, and chased everyone else out so that he could be alone with the visitor. More cloak-and-dagger crap. Dunton attracted other black-helicopter enthusiasts, and they were always coming to his office with cardboard boxes. Evidence of government malfeasance. Plots within plots. Corruption at the highest levels.
Marybeth had been after him to quit the job, and this messenger-pigeon assignment convinced Rathers that his wife was right. Spending his workdays in a warm cubicle, pricing auto insurance in the southeastern United States, was preferable to crunching through the woods in snowshoes with a sealed envelope stuffed inside his jacket.
As he trudged, he thought about the questions raised by the FBI lady. Her claim that someone had been blackmailing the Duntons had thrown Rathers for a loop, as had the senator’s comment about witches and Satanists. Was that just Mad Maggie tossing something bizarre out there, seeing if it’d stick or cause a stir—he approached legislation that way—or was something more insidious going on? When Dunton came down and found that the woman was still in the house, his reaction had been extreme, even for Mad Maggie.
Definitely time to leave Dunton’s employment.
Certainly Rathers felt terrible about what had happened to Lydia, but she’d been headed for trouble for years. Spoiled rotten. Always on her father’s lap. Always dressed in designer duds, like a miniature of Michelle. Enrolled in that artsy academy when she should have been sent to a more disciplined school. Then came the sleazy boyfriend and the pregnancy. The big fight with her parents. Whether they’d tossed Lydia out or she’d run off, Rathers didn’t know for sure. Didn’t matter. There was no blackmail plot. There were no witches or Devil worshippers. The girl had fallen victim to a random nut job, a whacked-out woodsman. It was as brutally simple as that.
Rathers huffed and puffed around the frozen bay. He’d originally planned to take a snowmobile, and had gotten as far as driving one down to the shoreline behind Dunton’s pal’s house. Rathers had been intimidated by the power of the thing, however. He’d never used a sled and decided that he wasn’t comfortable trying to take a crash course in the dark. He switched to the snowshoes. Though he hadn’t been on a set in years, he knew for a fact that they couldn’t toss you off or drive you into a tree at fifty miles an hour. The webbing helped him float above the snow, rather than sink knee-deep into it. All he had to do was walk slightly bowlegged and remember that he couldn’t back up in them because the metal cleats on the bottom would catch. He also borrowed a set of ski poles, and those helped him keep his balance and make good progress.
There was no wind and the sky was clear, but it was in the double digits below zero. Rathers had a headlamp strapped over his stocking cap, but he wouldn’t need to turn it on yet. The moon was full and bright. With the shore on his right, he took in the cluster of fish houses on his left. A couple of them were strung with rope lights, and a few of the cabins on the lake had their yard lights going.
After he put the fishing village behind him, he stopped and stabbed his poles into the snow. Swiped his dripping nose with the back of his glove. Reached up and clicked on the headlamp. He pulled out the written instructions and held them in front of his face, so that the lamp illuminated the paper. Like the cabin where the Duntons were staying, the home was on the bay. It sat farther south, however, away from downtown Walker. It was also set back from the lake, which would make it more difficult to spot from the shore. He put the map back in his pocket and kept going.
Rathers came upon a compact cabin sitting close to shore, at the bottom of an incline. Its interior was lit and its small windows glowed like gold squares. He was supposed to pass a small cabin, its outhouse painted with a peace sign. He looked up at the dinky home. Sure enough, it had an outhouse set back from the lake. He tipped his head this way and that, and thought he could make out something painted on the side of the biffy. That meant the target house was six cabins down. He adjusted his grip on the ski poles and resumed his trek.
He thought he had the right place. The incline was thinly wooded, and he was sure that he saw lights at the top. He walked toward the shore and started the long hike up the hill. On snowshoes, the best way to tackle a hill was to go straight up, utilizing the poles for balance and added traction. The cleats on the bottom grabbed the surface nicely and kept him from sliding backward.
A third of the way up, Rathers realized that he’d underestimated the steepness of the hill and overestimated his physical capabilities. Leaning heavily against the poles, he stopped to catch his breath, and to contemplate the very real possibility that he was having a heart attack. His chest was pounding like crazy, and he felt the sweat collecting under his armpits. The outdoor wear that he’d borrowed—a set of snowmobile pants and a ski jacket—didn’t fit properly. Dunton’s buddy was built like Dunton. Tall and skinny. The pants sagged at the bottom and cut into him at the waist, and the jacket was compressing his chest. Or was that the heart attack?
“Fuck!” he wheezed, standing in the cloud of his labored breaths.
Could he even call for help from here? He pulled out his cell and checked the screen. Dead.
“Fuck!” he wheezed again, and put the phone back.
He had no choice but to continue the climb. He had to stop twice more, and each time took advantage of the trees, propping a hand against a trunk for support.
By the time he got to ground that wasn’t so steep, he was drenched and his legs felt like jelly. The clearing ahead of him was angled but not as steep. At the top of it was the house. The windows facing the lake were lit, and he could see a deck running across the width of the place. Another log structure. People up north couldn’t get enough of them. He’d had his fill of them, and made a mental note to cover his own cabin in vinyl siding, were he ever to buy a lake home.
When he got to the cabin, he saw that there were steps along one side leading up to the deck and a bright yard light mounted above the door.
“More climbing,” he groaned.
Rathers took off the snowshoes, nearly falling over as he bent down to undo the straps from his boots. He leaned the snowshoes and poles against the side of the house. As he went up the steps, he hung on to the rail. When he got to the top, he took another break. He was light-headed, and starting to feel slightly chilled. Maybe he’d have the constituent drive him back. Screw Dunton and his FBI phobia.
Energized by the thought of an easy return trip, Rathers went over to the door and raised his fist to knock.
A peculiar sound made his hand freeze.
The curtains at the patio doors along the deck were closed, but he spotted a gap between the drapes. He carefully stepped over to the glass and peeked inside. All he saw was a figure dressed in jeans and a pink sweater, back turned toward the window. The person was shuffling side to side and jiggling. Rathers had three kids, and readily recognized the odd movement.
Baby dance.
The dancer turned around with a bawling bundle. The infant was obviously only a day or two old, but what brought back that heart-attack sensation was the child’s head.
Orange fuzz.
Rathers slapped a hand over his mouth and fell back from the window. Turned and tiptoed toward the stairs. Stood at the top, wondering what to do and where to go. He remembered that he was wearing a headlamp and clicked it off. Had someone inside noticed the beam? No. They would have come outside. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his cell. Still dead. Dropped it back in his pocket. He looked to the right and left and could see the lights of the other cabins. He’d go to them for help. What would he tell the senator?
He’d found Lydia’s killer, and his grandchild.
A chilling revelation washed over the chief of staff. Rathers pulled off his stocking cap and dragged a gloved hand over the top of his sweaty scalp. He couldn’t tell the senator anything. He’d have to call the cops.
Rathers dropped one foot on the step, intending to run next door.
A large figure in a parka came up behind him and slammed a shovel over the top of his head. Rathers grunted loudly and stumbled down a step with his hands out in front of him. The shovel came down a second time, and he fell forward, his face planted at the bottom step and his booted feet on the top.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
B
ernadette is shuttling back and forth, looking through the eyes of one killer and then the other. This time the murderers aren’t operating in different houses or even in separate rooms but are positioned less than six feet apart from each other. One is kneeling at a man’s stocking feet, flashlight in hand, and the other is at the man’s illuminated head. The light trained on the face of the man gives him a spooky glow. A severed head floating in the woods.
The rapidly shifting viewpoints, so close together, are making her head ache again. But she refuses to release the scrap of fabric that connects her to this death scene. She has no doubt that it is a death scene. She’s equally certain of the dead man’s identity; she’d recognize that shaved head anywhere.
Benjamin Rathers.
Rathers is on his back, sprawled against a blue background. A blanket or a sheet of plastic. While his head is bare and his feet are shoeless, the rest of him is clothed in outdoor gear. Ski jacket and pants, or a snowmobile suit. He was outside when he was killed. The two murderers are so tightly focused on the corpse that they don’t look at each other. Still, Bernadette can make out trees and nighttime blackness around the periphery of this jerky, morbid movie. This is happening right now, somewhere in the woods.
The killer positioned at Rathers’ head reaches down. There is something in the gloved hand. It’s a pen or a marker. Slowly and carefully, the murderer sets the tip on the pale forehead of Benjamin Rathers and begins to draw. A repeat of what happened to Jordan Ashe!
Bernadette gasped and opened her fist, releasing the sliver of fabric and breaking the connection. Eyes closed tight, she collapsed back against the headboard.
“Cat?” asked Garcia, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Can you see?”
Bernadette wasn’t certain which sight Garcia was inquiring about, but she knew which one she valued more deeply. Slowly, she raised her lids. A crack at first. A kid afraid to watch the evisceration scene in a horror flick. As she discerned Garcia’s reassuring profile in the darkness of the bedroom, she opened her eyes all the way and released a relieved breath. “I can see you.”
“What did you see?” asked Garcia, perched on the edge of the mattress.
She leaned forward and dropped her face in her palms. “Give me a minute,” she said through her fingers.
He slid off the bed and went over to the bedside lamp. Clicked it on. “Does your head hurt again?”
“No,” she said, lying. “I’m trying to collect my thoughts is all.”
“Bullshit.”
She sat straight and wrapped her arms around her torso. Shivered. The killers were cold from working outside. Her gut was in a knot, indicating that they were also nervous. Or was it her own anxiety?
Garcia stood over her, arms crossed in front of him. “See anything we can use?”
“Benjamin Rathers is dead,” she said numbly.
“Fuck! Are you sure?”
“They’re in the woods with him, drawing a star on his forehead, just like was done to Ashe.”
“The witches,” said Garcia.
“Why would they pick him?” she asked, questioning herself as much as Garcia.
“Dunton’s daughter, and now his chief of staff. The coven’s got a vendetta against the senator.”
Slowly, she shook her head. “I’m not sure …”
“Are you sure about what you witnessed?”
“The guy was definitely dead, and it was definitely Rathers.”
“And it was taking place in real time?”
“Real time. Right now. The killers are in the woods, kneeling over Rathers’ body, and one of them is drawing on his forehead.”
“Then what is it you’re not sure about?”
“Whether the witches are the culprits.”
“You keep using the plural.”
“I was doing that ping-pong thing. Ricocheting back and forth between both sets of eyes.”
“Did one look at the other?”
“Sorry.”
“If you didn’t see one or the other, why are you so sure it wasn’t the witches?”
“I’m not saying it wasn’t them,” she said with irritation. “I can’t make any guarantees one way or the other.”
“I can,” he said, and whipped out his cell. “It was the witches.”
“What makes you so confident?”
“Do you know of anyone else with a thing for pentagrams who happens to be in the woods tonight?”
Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, Bernadette jumped down. She felt nauseous and dizzy, but she resisted the urge to clutch something for support. She didn’t want Garcia to concern himself with her; they had a nighttime raid in the woods to worry about.
Garcia jogged down the stairs, punching his cell as he went. “Do you feel well enough to do this?” he asked her.
“I’m fine.” When Bernadette was certain Garcia was out of eyesight, she went to her suitcase and fished some Tylenol out of her toiletry kit. Swallowed the pills dry. As she went after Garcia, she held on to the rails to steady her descent. The top of her head felt ready to explode, and her dinner was crawling up her throat. It was as if she’d just stepped off a Tilt-A-Whirl.
He was in the kitchen, talking on his cell. “Seth? I’ve received some information about tonight. We need to pull this thing together right now … I can’t tell you that. You’ve got to trust me. Here’s the plan …”
Bernadette went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door after her. She fell down in front of the toilet and vomited. Coughed and puked again. Put her hand to her forehead. “God,” she moaned, and got on her feet. Grabbed a towel bar to keep from falling backward.
Garcia banged on the door as she was flushing the toilet. “Are you okay?”
“I took a pee,” she said. “Is that okay?”
“Hurry up,” he said. “We gotta get moving.”
Bernadette clawed a wad of toilet paper off the roll and blew her nose. She opened the medicine cabinet and found an ancient bottle of a generic painkiller. Turned on the tap and swallowed three pills with a handful of water. Rinsed out her sour mouth. Splashed cold water on her face.
Through the door, Garcia said, “I just tried Rathers’ cell and got nothing.”
“Have you got a direct number for the senator?” she asked, clutching the edge of the sink.
Half a minute later: “I got Dunton out of bed. He said Rathers is in bed.” Garcia banged on the door again. “Did you hear me? Are you dead or what?”
She unlocked the door and whipped it open. “Did he ask why in the hell we wanted to know about Rathers this time of night?”
“No. He hung up on me.” Garcia’s brows knotted. “You look like a ghost.”
She patted her face with a towel. “You know using the sight drains me a little at first. I’ll recharge in no time.”
“Do you want to stay here?”
“Kiss my ass,” she snapped, and threw down the towel. Squeezed past him.
“What’s the story?” she asked as they got into the Titan.
Garcia started up the truck. “You and I are going to hop on Minnesota 64, drive through the south section of Paul Bunyan, connect with Minnesota 200, and take that into the north unit.”
“I thought you didn’t know the north.”
Garcia reached under the driver’s seat for the ice scraper. “Seth gave me good directions.”
He hopped out of the truck to clear off the windows. When he got back in, she asked, “What about the rest of the gang?”
“Seth and his men are still meeting up with our folks in Walker. They’re going to get hooked up with equipment and coordinate their—”
“Why aren’t we joining that caravan?” she interrupted, skittish that she and Garcia were venturing off on their own. They didn’t have proper communication equipment in the truck, and all they had for weapons were their handguns.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to wait,” he said, steering the Titan down the driveway.
“Right,” she muttered. They’d switched roles, and she had to admit that she didn’t approve of the way Garcia looked in a cowboy hat. She hoped this wasn’t about showing off for his friend. At least they were wearing vests.
“Since it’s the two of us going in together, I really need to know if you’re going to be okay,” he said, turning out of the driveway and heading for the highway.
“I’m feeling better,” she said, and she wasn’t lying. She reached forward and turned up the heater. “By the time we get to the party, I’ll be a hundred percent.”
“This is going down a lot sooner than Seth figured, isn’t it?”
Bernadette looked at the time on the dashboard and double-checked it against her watch. If the scene she’d observed was indeed part of the Esbat rite, the witches were conducting their ceremony hours earlier than the time given by Wharten’s informant.
Someone had been trying to mislead them, and Bernadette was afraid to point that out to Garcia. For all she knew, his fishing buddy was the problem.