CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
T
rees ringed the flat worship space like silent participants in the ritual, and the full moon looked down with the bright indifference befitting a deity.
One after another, two hooded figures walked a circle. The hems of their black velvet robes dragged in the snow, making a softly slithering sound like some winter-hardy snake. Each carried a lit pillar raised to the nighttime sky.
Twenty other coven members stood outside the round, raising their own candles to the darkness. As usual, a few members were missing. Cerridwen and Odin were home with colicky baby Herne. Irene Edwalters, also known as Sapphyre, had a hot date with a nice Catholic man from Bemidji.
All the celebrants wore thick-soled boots on their feet and heavy jackets under their robes, creating distinctively bulky witches. Their hoods were pulled up over a variety of headgear, including blaze-orange stocking caps and fur bomber hats, and insulated gloves and mittens covered their hands. Practicing witchcraft outdoors in Minnesota in the winter required a substantial amount of sensible layering.
Pillar candles had been placed atop tree stumps positioned at the north, south, east, and west quarters of the circle. The north candle was green, representing the earth, and the south one was red for fire. East was yellow, in honor of air, and the west pillar was aqua blue, symbolizing water. In the center of the round was a makeshift altar: two sawhorses bridged by a sheet of plywood and draped by a ceremonial cloth with a pentacle embroidered in the center.
The light that topped the altar—a battery-operated Coleman lantern—wasn’t exactly regulation for Wiccans. Some of the coven’s more safety-conscious members insisted that they couldn’t worship in the deep woods at night with only candles for illumination, especially when the ceremonial ground was one the coven didn’t regularly utilize. Someone could trip and break a hip. Next to the Coleman was a more standard white pillar candle, and beside that was a bowl of cheap vodka. Water was the norm, but it would have frozen within a matter of minutes. Other objects on the altar were an obvious bow to the moon: Crescent-shaped silver medallions. Round crystals the size of golf balls. A platter of frosted sugar cookies in both crescent and round shapes. A child’s picture book with the smiling face of the moon on the cover. A yellow crescent-moon stuffed toy.
After one complete rotation, the priest and the priestess took their stations, one at each end of the altar.
The priestess raised her candle high. “I Isis, named for the consort of Osiris, say the circle is about to be cast. May all those who enter it do so with complete trust and love.” The priestess looked across the altar at the man and nodded once.
Taking the cue, the priest began lighting the candles at the four cardinal points, starting with the one in the east. “I Osiris, named for the beloved of Isis, call to the guardians of the east. Creatures and powers of air, watch over our rites so that we may enter the circle with complete trust and love.”
As the priest bent down to light the yellow candle with his pillar, the flame quit on him. “Shoot,” he muttered.
One of the worshippers reached into her robes and produced a Zippo. The woman held it out to the priest, but his back was turned. “Psst… Roger … here you go.”
Osiris turned around, went over to the worshipper, and accepted the lighter. “Thanks, Delores.”
The priest flicked the Zippo and restored his candle’s flame, and used the lighter to ignite the yellow pillar. He moved on to the next element. “I Osiris, named for the beloved of Isis, call to the guardians of the south. Creatures and powers of fire, watch over our rites so that we may enter the circle with complete trust and love.” He bent over the red candle and flicked the Zippo.
Hiding among the trees was an angry, grief-stricken man who had no intention of entering the circle with complete trust and love. He was hunkered down behind a boulder, about a hundred yards from the south quarter of the witches’ circle. He knew when and where they’d be meeting because they’d invited him. They were going to honor her in some way during the ceremony. He’d politely informed them that they could fuck off. The sheriff knew the ritual was going to take place that night in the park, but he didn’t know the exact time or place. He’d given Wharten bogus details. He knew the cops would get him that night, but he wanted to buy himself enough time to get the job done.
He’d driven into the park a good hour before their ritual, and parked where they’d never see his vehicle. Found the perfect spot to wait. He was dressed in his winter hunting camo, and his face was smeared with hunter’s mud-brown camo cream. In his hands was his favorite deer rifle—a Browning semiautomatic thirty-ought-six. She’d saved and scrimped to buy it for his birthday two years ago. The attached scope was her gift to him just this past Christmas. The extra clips he carried that night were going to be his gift to the witches.
He wasn’t on a hunt so much as a mission. This was about revenge. He’d take down as many as he could before the law found him and took him down. He didn’t care anymore. The love of his life had been killed. The FBI had descended on his house, trampled all over his property, and threatened him. Accused him! All the while, these fools were out romping around in their ridiculous Halloween costumes, free to do as they pleased—and they were the real murderers. Each and every one of them was responsible. They might as well have taken turns wrapping their hands around her throat and squeezing the life out of her. She’d died for their sins, and now they were going to return the favor.
He poked his head over the rock and peered through the trees toward the glow. They all had their backs turned toward the woods, and it was difficult to distinguish tree trunk from black robe. He’d observed their rites before, and knew from their positions that the priest and the priestess were casting the circle right about now. When they were through with that, they’d all move in tighter. He’d move in closer and start picking them off. It’d be like ambushing yearlings at a salt lick.
The candles at all the quarters were lit. The first coven member—a big man with monster mukluks on his feet—entered the circle and approached the altar, gloved hands wrapped around his candle and head bowed.
“Speak the truth,” the priestess ordered him, and laid her hand on his massive shoulder. “How do you come into this circle?”
“With complete trust and love,” answered a gruff voice.
“I bless you and invite you to take your place among us, brother,” said the priestess, removing her hand. The man stepped away from the altar and took a spot just inside the circle.
A female celebrant came up to the priest, her head down. “Speak the truth,” the priest ordered her, and laid one of his hands on her shoulder. “How do you come into this circle?”
“With complete trust and love.”
“I bless you and invite you to take your place among us, sister,” said the priest, removing his hand.
One at a time, each of the coven members went up for a blessing before assuming a position inside the circle. As the last celebrant joined the circle, a shot rang out and one of the hooded figures folded.
Bernadette and Garcia were headed north on Minnesota 64, driving through the south section of Paul Bunyan, when Bernadette’s cell rang. They were edgy, and the sound jarred both of them.
“Finally, someone calling for me,” she said with a nervous grin, and flipped open her phone. She put the cell to her ear, and what she heard sent a chill running from her hand down to her heart.
Gunshots, and screaming.
“Help! He’s trying to kill us! He’s killing us!” screamed a man’s voice. “Help!”
“Who is this?” Bernadette yelled back.
“Hessler! This is Sven Hessler! There’s someone … he’s in the trees! He’s shooting!”
“Someone’s shooting at the witches!” Bernadette told Garcia.
“Jesus!” he said, and accelerated.
Bernadette heard more gunshots and screaming. Her hand tightened over the phone. “Sven—”
“He’s shooting at us!” Hessler yelled. “He’s shooting!”
“Who?” she asked.
“I don’t know! We can’t see him!”
There was a break in the shooting, but the screaming continued. “Where are you?” she asked.
“Paul Bunyan!”
“The north section? We’re on our way to—”
“No, not the north! The south!”
Bernadette looked at Garcia. “They’re in the south unit!”
Garcia braked and the truck shuddered. “Wharten said they were in the—”
“It was a trick! The witches are being ambushed!” She heard the shooting resume, and it was rapid.
“Oh, God!” Hessler yelled over the screams in the background. “Hurry!”
“Where?” she asked. “Where in the south?”
“Oh, no!” Hessler yelled. “Two people! We’ve got two hit! We need an ambulance!”
“Sven … Dr. Hessler … I need to know where. We’re on Minnesota 64 heading—”
Hessler yelled back, “We’re on the east side of the …”
Hessler’s end went dead, and Bernadette looked at the cell with horror. “Two down, and I don’t know where the fuck they are!”
Garcia pulled out his cell, punched in a number, and put the phone to his ear. “Come on, come on, come on. Answer … Seth? The witches are in the south section, and someone’s taking shots at them and … No, the south! Hessler called! We need ambulances! We need backup!”
She looked out her window. Had Hessler meant to tell her they were on the east side of the highway? She rolled down her window, but she couldn’t hear anything coming out of the woods. She called up Hessler’s number and dialed it. A busy signal. “Fuck!” she yelled into the darkness.
Next to her, Garcia was struggling to pull directions out of Wharten. “Where would they worship in the south unit?” he yelled into his cell. “We’re on sixty-four, heading north! Where should we go? Tell us!”
“What if they’re on the east side of the highway?” she hollered to Garcia. “Where do they worship on the east side?”
Garcia repeated the question to Wharten: “If they’re on the east side of the highway, where would they be in the park? South unit, east side … Uh-huh … Yeah, yeah … Where I missed that ten-pointer last fall?”
Bernadette knew Garcia could find them; a man never forgets where he lost a ten-point buck.
“Got it! Call an ambulance, Seth! Call two of them! You’ve got people down!” Garcia snapped his cell shut and threw it down on the seat. Did a U-turn in the middle of the highway and aimed them south. “We missed the turnoff, but not by much.” He drove half a mile and hung a mad left.
“Jesus, Tony! Jesus! Hurry!”
The truck barreled down a minimally plowed road, bucking like a bronco trying to throw them off. “I know exactly where this is,” he said.
She tried calling Hessler on her cell again. No luck. She kept her window down, listening for the crack of rifle fire. “How far?”
“Not that far,” he said, peering through the windshield. The truck’s high beams fell on a long, narrow trail crowded by trees and bushes.
“How in the hell is the ambulance going to get through?” she wondered out loud.
“It’ll get through,” mumbled Garcia, his eyes trained ahead.
“Christ!” she breathed, as they took a massive mogul and bounced. She clutched the armrest.
“At least they’ve got an ER physician with them,” said Garcia.
Bernadette kept her mouth closed but wondered:
Is the doctor dead? How many others are dead? Who is firing? Why?
Nurse Delores Martini asked herself all four of those questions as she dove for cover behind a boulder. From her spot, she’d watched Sven Hessler make a dash toward the trees, take a bullet in the back, and collapse facedown in the snow. From where she was crouched, she could almost reach out and touch his outstretched arm. Three others were down in the south quadrant of the circle, also struck from behind. In the chaos, all the elemental candles had been knocked over and their flames extinguished in the snow. The Coleman lantern continued to shine, lending an eerie, almost ethereal glow to the carnage. Red splattered the white circle. The black robes of the prostrate celebrants looked like blankets draped over the bodies of the dead. All around them were footprints and discarded candles.
The shooting had stopped and the screaming had subsided, but in the woods behind her she could hear soft weeping and wailing. Someone coughing. Another person groaning. At least three of those who’d made it to the trees had been wounded while fleeing. She’d watched them jerk and go down, and then crawl into the blackness of the forest like injured animals.
Martini prayed that someone had reached the cars, parked about half a mile away on a narrow, snow-clogged trail. Maybe one of their members had managed to call for help. Hessler had a phone in his hand when he was hit, but she had no idea if he’d had a chance to use it. Nor could she see what had happened to the cell. Like many of the coven members, she hadn’t brought her cell with her. This was supposed to be their quiet, meditative time away from ringing phones and the stresses of everyday living.
Who could have predicted they’d be dying?
Hessler lifted the index finger of his outstretched hand and moaned. Raised his face off the snow. The light at the edge of the circle was dim, but Martini swore that his eyes were trained on her. She told herself she had to do something. She’d grown up down the road from the Hesslers and babysat Sven when he was a kid. He’d come back to his hometown to practice medicine when he could have gone elsewhere and made more money. They’d worked side by side for years. She’d given him shit when he deserved it—and doctors always deserved it—but instead of being offended he’d given it right back. If he was going to die, he should do it in his hospital surrounded by his people, not on the frozen ground in the middle of the woods.
Taking a deep, bracing breath, Martini uncoiled her body and reached out from behind the boulder. Staying as low as her large figure allowed, she reached past the voluminous sleeves of Hessler’s robe and latched on to his jacket cuff. Started backing up into the trees with the wounded man.