Do Not Go Gentle (24 page)

Before Cal could reply, Sedecla raised her hands and began chanting softly. The power emanating from her voice silenced any response Cal might have made.
“Barukh ata Arshaita, Melekh ha-olam.”
Cal did not recognize the language, but menace came through nonetheless. Her voice rose in both volume and intensity. Sedecla now sang the words. Her voice was just below a shout as she finished.

Cal stared transfixed at the woman. She was both beautiful and deadly—like some poisonous snake about to strike its paralyzed prey. He could swear that the temperature had increased and that darkness had begun gathering about her head. By the end of her chanting, an ebony aura surrounded her. Cal felt himself starting to sweat as he was bathed in the intense heat.

Sedecla knelt down beside Cal, and black mist draped about her like a satin cloak, settling over both of them in an almost pleasant manner. Her face was a foot or so away from Cal's, but he was bound too tightly to do more than return her intense gaze.

“Now you shall pay the full price for your intrusions,” she hissed softly. She placed the iron ring on her left hand against the side of Cal's neck. He tried to pull away, but she grasped the hair on the back of his head and forced his head to one side while she lovingly placed the ring onto his carotid artery.
“Qum Dumaya,”
she cried softly.

Cal Cushing thought he knew pain—he had been shot in the line, had broken bones, and had nearly drowned once in a sailing accident. The pain that lanced through him was exponentially greater than any pain he had ever encountered before.

“Qum Dumaya,”
Sedecla said, louder this time.

Cal involuntarily bucked against the woman's grip, but could not pull away. His whole world dissolved into a red haze of pain, washing over his body like lava. He felt his mouth open, although he did not intentionally open it, and neither could he close it. An anguished scream escaped him, and he thought he could see a pale, golden mist emanating from his mouth and nose.

“Qum Dumaya,”
shouted Sedecla, her face inches from Cal's, contorted in an expression of ecstasy and evil.

Cal saw the mist flowing out of his body, and now great pressure added to the pain of the heat, like thunder following lightning. Cal felt as if some giant, unseen hand was squeezing him, or as if he had been placed into a vacuum and was being sucked away with the mist that left him. Sedecla was inhaling him. Cal felt lances of pain wrack his body, and he watched in horror as he began shriveling into an empty husk. Then the pain swept away, like a curtain opening onto a stage, as Sedecla finished ingesting the mist from his body. She sat back, and the blackness vanished.

Sedecla whispered,
“Todi Dumaya.”

The last image that Caleb Newmarch Cushing saw was the triumphant gaze of her glittering eyes as blackness surged in to swallow him whole.

Autumn in New England is fickle. The weather can go from warm and sunny to cold and snowy, and then back to warm and sunny. While long-time residents know this variability all too well, it doesn't mean they like it. Jamie stared morosely out the window of his front door at the sleet that had begun overnight and was still spitting snow and rain early Thursday morning. The weather matched Jamie's mood. In the two days since he lost his job, Jamie had felt crappy. Not just from the illness, although that continued to plague him. What dragged Jamie down the most was the fact that, for the first time in his adult life, he was without a job. It created an exhausting mixture of pain, anger, and grief.

The mood inside the Griffin household was as turbulent as the weather outside. While breakfast had been eaten in silence, once she had sent the girls off to school, Eileen sat beside her husband with a determined look on her face. “Jamie, love, it's been two days now—you can't just sit on the couch and look outside for the rest of your life.”

“Really?” Jamie's reply emerged with bitterness and anger. “I thought maybe it had become an Olympic sport and I might try out for the team.”

Anger now flared in Eileen. “Sarcasm will get you nowhere, boyo. Although I guess anger is slightly better than the moping around you've done here since Monday.”

“Moping.” Now Jamie sat up straight on the couch. Finn MacCool put his head on his front paws and looked anxiously at his owners. “Is it
moping
I've been doing? I thought I was
grieving
.”

“Grieving?” Eileen felt pain in her heart at her husband's loss, but knew she had to snap him out of this mood. “Grieving for what?”

Jamie's eyes widened, and his mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “
For what
? For losing my job, our main source of income, as you may recall. More than my job, love, it was my career, my profession, and now it's gone, probably like my friendship with Cal.”

“Piffle,” said Eileen, pushing Jamie's buttons. “Do you think you're the first man this has happened to? Not even close.”

Jamie sighed. “Perhaps not—but I really don't think this is a case of ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps.' I'm still sick.”

“I know that.”

“Then what?”

“Then do something about it.”

“What, exactly, would you have me do?” Jamie asked, exasperated.

“I don't know. I can't tell you how to fight this, but you can't sit here doing nothing.”

Jamie looked out at the sleet pelting down onto the trees, streets, and other houses. People were fighting their way into their cars and down the street. Overall, it was a nasty day. Finally, Jamie realized that Eileen was going to wait him out and he knew her all too well to try to outlast her. “Fine. How about this? What if I call the disability attorney today and give her the rest of the information she requested and I check with Cal and our ‘supernatural' sources for more info on the case?”

Eileen sat on the sectional beside her husband, with her arms folded in front of her chest. After pausing for several seconds, she sighed. “Well, it's something. I do think it would be good to talk to the attorney, so she can get started. She seems very competent and was pleasant enough at our meeting.”

“True,” admitted Jamie. “Although I'm appalled at how much we have to give her if we win.”

Eileen patted Jamie on the arm. “I know, love, but it would be better than getting nothing. Now,” she continued firmly. “While you and Cal have been partners a long time, why are you going to spend what little energy you have helping him when you're no longer being paid for it?”

“Eileen, darling, you know the answer to that. Cal is more than a partner. He's my friend and a friend to you and the girls. I'm not about to leave him hanging, especially on the cult murder case. The rest of our stuff, especially the paperwork, yeah, I'm going to leave him with that. I don't have much choice, but I'm going to do whatever I can do to help him shut down this lunatic and her followers.”

Eileen's face now furrowed in concern. “She's really that bad, then?”

“Aye. We've tallied at least a dozen murders that are probably connected to her. I'm not sure whether she does the actual killing or if she has her followers do her dirty work. Either way, she's responsible, and we're going to see that she's brought to justice.”

Eileen caressed her husband's face. “That's one of the things I truly love about you.”

“What's that?”

“Your burning desire to right wrongs, to bring bad guys to justice, and to help those in need. You're a good man, Séamus Edward Griffin.” She leaned forward and kissed him, softly and slowly.

When they broke, Jamie looked her in the eyes and cupped her face in his hands. “I love how supportive and loving you are. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

Eileen stood. “Well, don't be making any plans to find out, boyo. Let me know if you decide to head out anywhere, okay?”

“Yes, dear,” Jamie replied in a mocking, sing-song voice.

Eileen cuffed at his head lightly. “Don't give me that attitude, dear one. It's one thing when you're out gallivanting about with Cal—at least I know someone's
trying
to look after you, but given your condition, I worry when you do too much by yourself.”

Jamie reached up and took one of her hands. “I know. I'll be good, I promise.”

“That would be a first.” She leaned down and gave him a quick kiss. “Alright then, I'm off. I'll be at the shop until mid-afternoon.”

“Why don't you take the car?” Jamie asked.

Eileen stopped and gave him a stern look. “Because I know you all too well, husband of mine. You might think you'll be staying here all day, but unless I know you're with Cal, I don't want you deciding you have to go somewhere and trudge down to the T stop.”

“So, it's better if
you
trudge down to the T stop?”

“Yes. I'm not the one feeling poorly. You've still had no luck getting a hold of Cal?”

“No,” replied Jamie.

He watched Eileen walk down the street, bundled up against the sleet beneath a large, blue umbrella, fighting to keep it in the right position.
I don't know what I did to deserve such a good woman, but I'm not about to question it.
He looked down at Finn MacCool, who raised his head expectantly.

“Okay, doggie—let's make some phone calls.”

First Jamie called his disability attorney, Maggie Walsh. She had come recommended by Bill Murphy, so it was no surprise to Jamie when he liked her right away. She had been blunt and honest about his situation. While his superiors on the force might tell him he could get long-term disability, the insurance company that underwrote the coverage would fight tooth-and-nail to deny Jamie's claim. The thing that had irritated Jamie the most was the fact that no matter how comprehensive their documentation of his illness, the insurance company was almost certain to deny the initial claim.

According to Maggie, the insurance company counted on a percentage of claimants dropping the matter in the face of the initial denial, especially those claimants without an attorney. For those claimants who did file an appeal, there was another lengthy period for the insurance company to review the appeal materials. All in all, the entire process could take well over a year, sometimes as long as two years. Maggie told Jamie that he might have to submit to medical exams by physicians from the insurance company, despite the medical evidence presented by Jamie's physicians.

Ultimately, even if a claimant won the appeal, the insurance company was ahead of the game since, by withholding benefits for a year or more, they were able to hold onto that money the whole time. The entire process disgusted him.

“Disability Representatives.”

“Hello, Sarah, it's Jamie Griffin.” Sarah Smith was Maggie's administrative assistant.

“Jamie. How are you doing today?”

“Fine, is Maggie available?”

“Actually, wait a minute—yes, she's off the phone. I'll put you through.”

“Thanks.”

Jamie waited a few seconds, and then Maggie greeted him.

“Jamie. Good to hear from you. Have you and Eileen reached a decision about proceeding?”

“Aye. We really have no choice, Maggie. Let's do this. I've got most, if not all, of the information you requested at our meeting.”

“Excellent. I look forward to working with you on this. Sarah,” Maggie covered the phone. “Would you please email Jamie the contract and agreement forms?” After hearing an affirmative response, she came back to Jamie. “I know this is difficult, Jamie, especially for a man like you, who has always been active, the primary bread-winner, and a cop on top of it all.”

“Yeah,” Jamie agreed with a heavy sigh. “It's tough, but I've never shirked my duty or shied away from difficult situations. So let's get started.”

“Okay, then.”

Two grueling hours later, Jamie said goodbye to his new attorney and hung up the phone shaking his head. “Finn, now I know why Shakespeare said, ‘The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.' Maggie is nice enough, but damn, attorneys seem to make everything impossibly difficult. I think it's a form of job security.”

Jamie tried Cal again, on his home and cell phones. Despite what he said to Eileen, Jamie was concerned about his partner.
Former partner, I guess. It's not like Cal to drop out of sight in the middle of a big case.
Jamie spent the rest of the morning reviewing, printing, signing, scanning, and emailing the contract and other documents back to Maggie. As he was finishing, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Jamie. It's Bob Sullivan. How are you doing?”

Jamie's gut tightened slightly. While he liked Sully, Jamie still had a great deal of anger and shame over his situation. “Okay, Sully. No better unfortunately.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I hope you understand that I had to follow orders. I really hate what's happening to you.”

“Thanks. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I know no matter what I tell you both that you're probably still working on some of your last cases with Cal.”

When Sully paused, Jamie replied, “I can't help what you think might be going on, Cap.”

Sully laughed. “Boy, there's a champion non-answer. Anyway, I'm not calling to bust your chops about what you are or aren't doing. I'm calling to see if you've been in touch with Cal lately.”

Jamie's whole body tensed. “No. Why? You haven't seen him lately either?”

“No.” An entire novel of concern condensed in Sully's one word answer.

“Hunh—not good. I haven't seen or spoken to Cal since Monday morning. I'm afraid we had a rather heated discussion just before I came down to the station to meet with you and Valdez.”

“Really? What were you two arguing about?” Sully asked neutrally.

Jamie hesitated a moment before answering, then laughed. “Don't go all ‘cop' on me, Sully. We argued like we always did—Cal was seeing ghosts and New Age crap in every corner of the Raisin Killer case.” While it might have seemed inappropriate to an outsider, cops usually assigned some nickname to a big case. Not like the media, with their catchy names, but something descriptive, often in a dark, humorous manner. It was just one way they dealt with the evil they saw on a regular basis.

“Uh-hunh,” Sully replied. “Is that all you argued about?”

“Look, Sully, if you've got something on your mind, spit it out.”

“Take it easy, Jamie. I know you too well to think you would harm someone, let alone Cal, but he did mention your argument, and he said that you were pretty pissed off at him for cutting you out of the cases.”

“Yeah, we had some words,” Jamie admitted. “Nothing worse than usual. Sure, I was pretty upset, but it's Cal—by the time I left the station, I was more pissed off at you and the force than at Cal.”

Sully chuckled. “That's kinda what I figured, but no one's seen him around since Tuesday. That, in and of itself, might not concern me too much, although Cal's pretty good about checking in, but yesterday, parking enforcement ran the plate on a car they'd been ticketing all day. It was Cal's BMW.”

“Where was it parked, Sully?”

“In the North End, near Copp's Hill. Is there anything I should know about, Jamie?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Jamie grew grim as the possibilities ran through his mind.

“Listen, Jamie, I can't allow you to be directly involved in police investigations—you know that. As of this past Monday, you're a civilian. Anything you do could put the entire case in jeopardy.”

“If you'll recall, Captain, I was a cop for over twenty years. I know what I can and cannot do.”