The Witch's Ladder (31 page)

“
You’re damn straight I have a point. How about this? The first murder occurred at the Center the very night Jean started working there?”

“
I remember,” I said, but Carlos was doing well and was not really looking for my feedback anymore. He started in with facts, dates, and tidbits I had long since forgotten about. However, none of that mattered anymore. As he continued, all the ambient noises in the coffeehouse seemed to fade. I could hear only the voice in my head asking why I hadn’t pieced it together sooner. All the signs were there. When I went to Jean’s house to question her about the towels, she called to me from the kitchen and told me to come in, yet the kitchen was at the back of the house. She could not possibly have seen me at the front door—unless she was psychic.

Also, Jean told me she had stumbled on a lucky streak, winning all kinds of cash at the racetrack. Again, picking long shots that paid sixty-to-one and ninety-to-one. It all seemed nothing short of clairvoyant.

I slammed my hand down on the table, causing cups and saucers to chatter nervously. “Carlos. You’re absolutely right,” I said, paying no attention to the consequence of my actions. My sudden outburst startled Carlos, who fumbled his cup and spilled hot coffee all over the table. He squirmed in his seat as he tried to avoid the spill rolling off the table’s edge onto his lap. “Jean is the Surgeon Stalker. I see that now. She came to the workshop to kill the members and steal their psychic powers.”

“
By all accounts,” said Carlos, “we have six down. If you count Leona, then we still have four lively candidates out there with nice healthy livers just waiting for the taking.”

“
I think we have to include Leona.”

“
So, who’s next? Michael?”

“
No, I don’t think so. My guess is Lilith. She represents the most danger to Jean after this. If another killing occurs and another liver gets cut out, then Lilith will surely put two and two together and figure out who’s doing it.”

“
And if there is another killing, any idea when it might happen?”

“
That’s a good question.” I pulled my phone out and queued up the calendar. “Let me see. If I note only the dates that workshop members were killed, excluding the twins because their livers were not removed, then that would leave us with….”

My words faded with preoccupation as I worked on identifying a pattern for the killings, hoping to predict the next murder. Meanwhile, Carlos got busy emptying the napkin holder, desperately trying to dry the spilled coffee from his lap. A young, curly-haired server named Natalie came by offering fresh refills of coffee. Carlos waved her off, embarrassed that she might see the wet spot on his pants. Instead of escaping humiliation, however, he exacerbated the situation by accidentally knocking over the remainder of his coffee, spilling it again on his lap.

Out of sheer innocence and instinctive reflex, the young woman dropped to her knees with a towel in hand and proceeded to rub the coffee spill from his pant leg. The ensuing commotion commanded the unruly attention of everyone in the house. By the time poor Natalie looked up and noticed the shock on Carlos’ face, the entire restaurant had erupted into juvenile howling, whistling and catcalling. Not surprisingly, the bulk of the disruption came from the other cops in the cafe. The abashed young women gasped in utter humiliation and hurried off into the kitchen in tears.

I looked at Carlos and shot him a disapproving glare. “Are you done having fun?”

“
Tony. I didn’t do anything. We had an accident.”

“
You know if that girl is under eighteen you can get into big trouble for fooling around like that.”

“
Tony, I… I…”

“
Never mind. Listen up. Travis Webber was killed on March 19
^th
; Barbara Richardson on April 18
^th
and Chris Walker on May 18
^th
. See a connection yet?”

Carlos nodded, but his answer came slowly. “It looks like once-a-month intervals.”

“
That’s right, just about once a month. What does that tell you?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. Jean suffers from a mean case of PMS?”

My lip curled sharply upward. “No, Carlos. It’s not PMS.”

“
Then what?”

“
Think more along the lines of astronomy rather than biology.”

“
Come again.”

“
Lunar cycles, not menstrual cycles.”

“
We’re talking about full moons.”

“
Yes. As near as I can tell, the three murders occurred on full moons. And unless I miss my guess, we have until June 16th before the next bloodbath.”

“
So why don’t we take Jean in now for attempted murder on your life?”

“
It’s not that easy. I can’t prove anything. Her sending me to the pier is circumstantial at best. When you think about it, we have nothing on any of them. I’m afraid our choices are limited.”

Carlos straightened up in his chair. “Limited to what?”

“
Waiting. We wait until the 16th and hope no one else loses a liver before then.”

“
Would this be a good time for me to put in for a vacation?”

I waved another server to the table for coffee refills. “No, Carlos. I think you should stick around. It’s just getting interesting.”

Twenty-one

The next few weeks proved excruciatingly difficult for me. I had to keep out of sight so that Lilith and the others wouldn’t know I was still alive, and the sitting around with nothing to do gave me cabin fever. At one point, the boredom got so bad it nearly gave way to a catastrophe of epic proportion.

In the middle of a bright June day, after only the second week of biding my time, I decided to see what would happen if I untied one of the knots from my witch’s ladder inside the police station. I imagined if I employed intense concentration and discipline that I could produce a very small tornado, not unlike the one in Jean’s house, only much smaller. As the resident office moles and attending detectives gathered around, I cleared a space on my desk and proceeded to tap the potential of Mother Nature’s fury.

It started innocently; a novelty of amusement for all whom bore witness to its charming, whimsical little dance. Like a miniature Tasmanian devil, the swirling wind whipped an enchanting path across my desk, lightly ruffling papers and files hastily pushed aside for its crusade.

My amused associates took turns poking and probing with intrusive fingers inside its conical orifice. It seemed harmless enough, until we noticed the tiny tornado responding to touch with an almost lifelike emotion. Much like a fish reacts when you tap the side of a fish tank, the inquisitive little twister actually seemed drawn by curiosity and then frightened by its discovery.

In time, some of us decided to feed the miniature cyclone a variety of storm worthy debris: cigarette ash, peanut shells, shredded bits of paper and open packets of coffee sweetener. The tornado grew bigger with every morsel it gobbled up until finally I worried that things were getting a bit too scary. I pulled the witch’s out of my pocket and tried untying the next knot in the line. Only this time there was a problem. The knot was so tight I couldn’t work it loose. I began to fumble with it, pulling and yanking on it feverishly and breaking a thumbnail in the process.

“
Better do something!” Carlos yelled. “It’s getting out of hand!”

“
I’m trying,” I said. “The knot’s too damn tight!”

A controlled panic set in. We hastily assembled a cyclone committee to address the emerging crisis. The committee submitted immediate suggestions for how best to snuff out the runaway tempest. Only after attempting to drown it with water, blow it out with a fire extinguisher and suffocating it with coats and hats, did we finally realize that the genie was truly out of the bottle and it was not going back in voluntarily.

In just minutes, the wicked little monster grew tenfold its original size, sucking up everything in the office that was not tied down or part of the structure. Books, papers, desktop photos, all went first, becoming nothing more than a mere blur in the swirling-white vaporous cloud. By the time it began tossing small office furniture about, the cops and staff of the Second Precinct put the word out to abandon ship.

Only after escaping in a crushing stampede did I remember my Swiss Army Knife. I turned back and penetrated the building to square off with the spiraling menace.

An airborne coffee mug greeted me as I re-entered the office, missing my head by only inches. I found that the windows blown out by flying debris were fueling the cyclone and its ever-ferocious appetite for fresh air. It made me wondered how the tiny office could contain such a storm, and if the cyclone got out would it continue to grow and wreak havoc on the entire town? At the rate it was going, it seemed possible. Everything in the office that was not bolted down had either become an integral part of the twister or fragmented splinters permanently embedded into the walls.

From a huddle behind an old cast iron radiator, I began to pry on the next knot with my knife. Pieces of wood and glass pounded me constantly, riddling my hands with dozen of tiny cuts and nicks. My eyes drew shut from smaller, stinging bits of debris sandblasting my face through the spaces in the radiator.

The situation seemed desperate, but with luck and perseverance I managed to loosen the miracle knot. I pulled the rope free and the tornado abruptly ceased. Once again, bits of plaster, wood, metal and glass came crashing down around me like bomb fragments. Some of the fallout hit me hard, causing more cuts and bruises, but most, fortunately, missed me. I made a promise then that I would burn the witch’s ladder as soon as I solved the case. Carlos said later that I’d never do it. I told him we’d see.

The morning of June 16
^th
brought with it a surreal sense of calm. After all the waiting, fraught with anxiety and apprehensions, I finally found inner peace with myself. I didn’t know what the new day would bring, or what the night would leave, but I felt confident that by the next sunrise I would either find resolve for the victims, or I would die trying.

Carlos spent the afternoon as he usually did before a big stakeout, making sandwiches and packing junk food in an overnight bag. Our plan was simple: to stake out Jean’s house. If she held Leona captive and intended to kill her, we figured she would most likely try moving her to a secluded place where she could easily deal with the bloody mess. That is if she had not already done so.

Carlos and I waited for the sun to slip behind the hills before moving into position. We watched the shadows from the oak-lined boulevard succumb to the night long before the moon made its debut in the eastern sky. From there, the hours crawled. Near midnight, Carlos had eaten the pre-made sandwiches and put a healthy dent in his box of Twinkies. He was just tearing open a Scooter Pie when I ordered him to duck.

“
What?”

“
I said duck. I think that’s her.”

We dropped our heads below the dashboard just as a Cadillac turned into Jean’s driveway and parked next to her old sedan.

“
Damn it!” I blasted under my breath. “I forgot she bought a new car.”

We watched from a crouch as she exited her vehicle and carried a small brown bag into the house.

“
She didn’t see us,” Carlos observed.

“
That’s a relief.”

“
So, what gives? Have we been watching an empty house all night?”

I didn’t reply. I grabbed a flashlight and trained it on my watch. “Look at that. It’s almost midnight. Where do you suppose she’s been all this time?”

“
I don’t know, but you can bet she wasn’t at a Girl Scout meeting.”

“
I hope we didn’t blow it. Carlos, if she killed Leona, I swear I’ll—”

“
Whoa, calm down, Tony. We don’t know if that happened. Listen; we’ve been here since sunset. If Jean was gone when we arrived, then that means she left home sometime this afternoon. Right?”

“
So?”

“
Think about it. Would she drag Leona out of the house kicking and screaming and making a scene in broad daylight?”

“
What makes you think Leona went kicking and screaming? What if Jean drugged her?”

“
She’d still have to move Leona to the car and take a chance that someone might see her.”

“
I suppose. That wouldn’t make sense then, would it?”

“
See what I’m saying?”

It wasn’t much to pin one’s hopes on, but Carlos was right. We settled into position again and continued watching the house. We soon spotted Jean through the window, talking on the telephone. She seemed to answer a call rather than make one, with the conversation apparently short. She hung up and immediately began working the rooms, shutting off lights and closing blinds.