Nemesis (11 page)

D
on’t call me Morgana, Mother,” Deliah Alcott said. “You’re going to confuse these agents. I don’t know if you’ve properly met. This is my husband’s mother, Ms. Louisa Alcott.”

The old woman gave them another big smile. If Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, there was a twinkle in her faded old eyes. “No, you don’t want to put shackles on poor Brakey,” she repeated. “If you’re wondering, I’m not Louisa May Alcott. I’m not that old. Maybe someday.”

“It’s a fine name,” Savich said, “a name to be proud of.”

“My middle name isn’t May, like you’re expecting, it’s Lorna, as in Lorna Doone. My mother was a witch like me, but she loved her classical romances, even though she was always muttering about how foolish the characters were, how if they knew some witchcraft, they’d be less stupid.”

“So you’re from a long line of witches, Mrs. Alcott?” Savich asked her.

“Oh, yes, we go back further than the silly Wiccan stuff Morgana spouts.”

“My name isn’t Morgana, Mother.”

The old woman shrugged scrappy shoulders. “Sounds better than Deliah. Morgana was a wicked woman, a powerful woman. Look what she did to poor Arthur, twisted him up but good, didn’t she?”

Down the rabbit hole. Savich said to Brakey’s mother, “Mrs. Alcott, may we come inside, speak to you alone?”

She looked out over the four children now hooting and hollering again, Tanny throwing the football to Jenny. She called out, “Time to go home, kids.” The kids whined about it not being dark yet, but Mrs. Alcott held firm. She turned back, eyed them. “Very well. My boys are in the den. We can talk in the living room.”

“But what about Daddy?”

“Jenny, he’ll come when the TV newscast is over,” Mrs. Alcott said. “Go now, scat, your mama is waiting.”

One by one, the children trailed off, splitting up into pairs as they went to their own houses, each looking back over their shoulders. Deliah looked down at the old lady.

“Go on with the agents, Morgana. I like it out here alone, no more noise from the children. The crickets will be out soon. A fine time of day.”

“I’ll be right inside if you need me,” Deliah said. “Don’t call me Morgana.”
Her daily litany?

She led Savich and Sherlock through an ornately carved front door. There was a brass pentacle hanging from it, at least a foot long, the five brass points of the star within the circle polished to a high shine.
Some kind of protection charm?
Sherlock wondered, and saw a pentacle hanging in each of the front windows, smaller than the one on the front door, but as highly polished. Fresh flowers adorned the entryway, set inside a large iron container with three legs that looked like an old-fashioned cooking pot or cauldron. There was a smell of incense in the air.

Mrs. Alcott waved them into a country-style living room filled with oversized furniture. Sepia photos dating back to the late nineteenth century covered the walls. The impression was charming, in spite of the strange bric-a-brac scattered around the room—feathers, seashells, jars full of herbs, an incense burner, and a crystal sphere set in isolated splendor on top of an antique marquetry table.

Behind a big television Sherlock saw a set of bookshelves with a mishmash of paperbacks. She could make out some of the titles nearest to her—
The Magic of Crystals
and
Encyclopedia of Herbs
. She saw a box of tarot cards on a table by the sofa, more Wiccan trappings.

Deliah noticed them looking around. “The objects you see are part of our tradition. We call them tools. We’re proud of them, have no reason to hide them.”

She went still, faced them, arms at her sides. “I know you believe my son is a murderer. You’ve terrified him. Now, if you would tell me what you wish to know, perhaps we can be done with this, you will leave, and I won’t have to call my friend Eileen over.” Her voice rose. “Eileen is the family lawyer. Believe me, she wanted to be here, and is willing to act as Brakey’s lawyer.”

Savich saw the weight of the world looking out at him through Deliah Alcott’s eyes. She was tense and angry and was no longer hiding it. He knew her husband had died only six months before, and now her son was in deep trouble. He said, “We’re here to gather information, Mrs. Alcott. We realize you’re a Wiccan. We also know that one of a Wiccan’s tools is a ceremonial knife, an Athame. I’m sure Brakey told you that each of the murdered men were killed with an Athame. Brakey said he doesn’t remember anything about last night. Can you help us with that?”

Her look was suspicious, as if she was parsing each word Savich said, but she nodded. “Yes, Brakey told me about the Athames. I can’t begin to understand that. All I can say is that someone is trying to throw the blame on us. There’s no other answer. As to his not remembering anything from last night, this complete loss of conscious self—I have no answer for that. Believe me, I wish I did.

“But for anyone to think that Brakey, or any Wiccan, would murder someone with an Athame—it is unthinkable, impossible. Using an Athame for violence is anathema to us.” She actually shuddered, looked faintly ill. “Listen, I’m not lying to you. Both my husband and I come from families of Wiccans, so all of us are quite familiar with those traditions, even those of us, like Brakey, who have chosen a different path. My husband was an amazing man, he . . .” Her voice fell off, her grief too close to the surface. She caught herself, cleared her throat.

“The first rule of Wicca is to practice kindness, to do no harm so that no harm will return to us. We believe our karma guides each of us to use our powers to heal ourselves and others, not destroy them, not murder them.”

“What sort of powers do you mean?”

“You believe energy exists in a physical sense, Agent Savich. We believe everything in the natural world is a form of energy, people included. Wiccans strive to become ever more aware of that energy, more at one with that energy, by celebrating the rhythms of the moon and the sun, the seasons, the powers within nature and ourselves that people have worshipped as deities through the ages.

“You’re looking at some of our tools around you; many are common everyday items you are familiar with. We use them in our rituals—dance, music, chants, all to heighten our awareness of how we fit into the spirit of the natural world.

“Sure we believe in magic, but even magic is natural. Did you know that, Agent Savich? There’s nothing supernatural about it. Our magic is about using our own personal power, and with the help of the divine power, we direct energy toward what we visualize, perhaps something we desire, something we need. Despite the prejudices and fairy tales about us, we are not so different from you as you think.”

Savich said, “Mrs. Alcott, perhaps you are right and someone is making it appear a Wiccan is responsible for these murders. Perhaps it is someone who doesn’t share your values, perhaps someone you unwittingly harmed.”

“Yes, yes, that is obvious to me.” She paused, drew a deep breath. “We are not idiots, Agent, we fully recognize there are those who profess belief but do not believe. But Brakey is not one of them. He has harmed no one, on purpose or without realizing it. It cannot be a question of revenge. We strive to focus on what is life-affirming and positive. We do not attempt destructive magic, nothing intended to hurt or exploit anyone. There may be someone capable of violence in any group, but for me? The evil of what was done, it terrifies me. And it terrifies Brakey. And that is how I know Brakey simply could not have done this, that it must be someone outside of us.”

“Mrs. Alcott,” Sherlock said, “you said your husband was a witch. We understand he was killed by a hit-and-run driver?”

Deliah looked away from them. They knew she was trying to hold herself together. She swallowed, turned back. “My husband—Arthur—was a gifted man, a spiritual mentor and a powerful witch, but he was kind and honorable, he never hurt anyone. I think Brakey learned that from him. I’ll never understand why the person who hit him didn’t stop, why he didn’t help Arthur.”

They heard Ms. Louisa’s creaky laugh from the doorway. She was waving a knitting needle toward her daughter-in-law. A balding man in his early thirties stood behind her wheelchair, pushing her in. “You speak of Dilly like he was the grand poobah of witches, Morgana. Dilly swayed and twisted like a clothesline in a stiff breeze, you know that. Yes, he was a good witch, but he had no backbone. Weak as water, was Dilly.”

D
illy?” Sherlock asked her.

“Arthur Delaford Alcott was his birth name,” Deliah said with a frustrated look at her mother-in-law. “Only she called him that ridiculous name—Dilly. This is my son, Jonah Alcott. Jonah, these are FBI agents Savich and Sherlock. You know Brakey.”

Brakey moved from behind Jonah to stand stiffly beside a well-used brown leather recliner, hands in fists at his sides, his face white; he was obviously scared. Sherlock nodded to him. “Mr. Alcott.”

“Sir. Ma’am. Agents.”

Brakey’s older brother Jonah walked over to them, sleek and confident, and asked to see their creds. He frowned over them, then said in their general direction, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, or how you can think Brakey murdered Kane Lewis. That’s really stupid.”

“Don’t be rude, Jonah,” Mrs. Alcott said automatically, probably a lifelong habit.

“It’s an insult to Wicca to accuse us of murdering people, Agents, and that’s what you’re doing. Our first and prime rule is to do no harm. My mother must have told you that already.”

Coming from Jonah, it sounded like a clipped party line, memorized to recite to the uninitiated. “So you’re a Wiccan yourself, Mr. Alcott?” Savich asked him.

“Yes, I practice the Craft.”

Brakey broke in. “Dad never talked about any of it in front of us kids. He never celebrated any of the rituals with anyone, didn’t pay any attention to craft tools like candles and stone, you know? Neither does Liggert. I think Dad agreed with Liggert. He laughed at Mom for dancing around in a white robe around a fire, chanting at the full moon.”

Deliah said, “I will tolerate no more disrespect from you about your father, Brakey. You didn’t know him, didn’t know the essence of him. I know you are scared. We are all scared. But that doesn’t give you the right.” She turned back to Savich. “You asked about my husband. Yes, it’s true, he didn’t feel comfortable practicing some of the ways of Wicca.”

“He was a witch,” the old woman said. “A witch, no fancy trappings.”

Deliah Alcott cleared her throat. If she wanted to smack the old lady, she hid it admirably. “Being a witch was a private matter for him. He didn’t take part in any public displays of what he was or what he believed. But what he accomplished, what he could do, was incredible. He never disdained my beliefs.”

“Can you give us an example?” Sherlock asked.

“Example? Well, after that big tornado in ’09 that caused so much damage near here, he put a protection spell around the houses to keep us safe. There have been five more tornadoes since then, causing damage all around us. But not here. His spell still lives with us.”

Jonah said, “The last tornado hit down across the road from our driveway, but no closer.”

The old woman cackled. “Incredible, was he? Dilly protect himself, did he? A car comes along and bam! Knocks him aside the head and kills him. Even though he had a crystal in his pocket, so the Deputy Lewis said.” Dilly’s mother snorted. “He was weak,” she said again, and she rocked faster, the knitting needles clacking loud in the still room. “He was my son. I know what he was made of. You ran all over him yourself, Morgana.”

“My name isn’t Morgana, stop calling me that!” Mrs. Alcott’s teeth clenched. She looked about ready to belt the old lady. Was it like this between them all the time? The old lady pushed and pushed until Mrs. Alcott finally cracked? Probably so, for years and years now. Sherlock wondered if Mrs. Alcott had ever been tempted to send an evil spell her mother-in-law’s way, against the Wiccan rules or not.

She sighed. “I was named after Deliah Mecala, a name I’m proud of. She was a witch who lived in these parts over a hundred years ago, a great healer who worshipped the Goddess of the Air and the Wind. I still have what we would call her
Book of Shadows
today, you see, and that’s how I know.”