Smoke on the Water (13 page)

He hadn't touched her. Lately.

“You okay?” She shut the door and sat in the chair across from his desk.

“Yes. Sorry.” He glanced at his notes from their last session and frowned. After writing
“nothing new with Mary”
he'd doodled all over the page.

They'd talked about nothing in particular. Television, movies, books. They had similar taste in all three—TV dramas, movie comedies, fantasy novels. They might have talked for days about
Game of Thrones
. Who couldn't?

He should probably press her on the visions again, but their conversations were so pleasant he didn't want to. That had to stop. They weren't dating, despite topical evidence to the contrary.

“Have you had any—” he began at the same time she said, “I'd like to ask—”

They stopped speaking.

“Go on,” he urged. Maybe she'd discuss her visions without him having to press.

“You know I was in foster care all my life.”

Sebastian nodded.

“Do you have a list of the families I stayed with?”

He sat up, leaned forward. “You don't remember them?” That would be something to talk about besides the “getting to know you” discussions they probably shouldn't be having.

“Not all of them. Before the Dandridges, for instance. I went to live with them when I was three.”

“It would be pretty amazing if you remembered much before then.”

“Which is why I was wondering if there were any pictures they might have taken, or memories they might have that I don't. It's disturbing not to have a past.”

“You have a past,” he protested.

“Do I if I don't remember it?”

“Back to the tree-in-the-woods question, and I think the answer is the same.”

“If a falling tree makes noise even when no one hears it, then I have a past even if I don't remember it?”

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think I'd like to talk to the people who fostered me. Is that possible?”

“I'll make some calls.”

 

Chapter 9

Navigating the foster system was nearly as frustrating as talking to Crazy Mary. Sebastian had planned to enlist the help of Peggy, but he'd forgotten she was on vacation.

Therefore it took him the better part of the afternoon to get an actual person on the phone. Once he did, that person transferred him to another, and then another. Each subsequent transfer resulted in more messages and phone tag.

Willow came by every day. “Any luck?”

“Not yet.”

Her disappointment made him call again and again. Over a week passed. When the phone was picked up he waited for the beep instead of listening to the words. It wasn't until Renee Jones said, “Hello?” the third time, with a good dose of snip in her voice that he realized he'd reached the real deal.

“Hello. Sorry. This is Dr. Sebastian Frasier, from the Northern Wisconsin Mental Health Facility.”

“I got your message, Doctor. I've been swamped. Just pulled the file on Willow Black.” Pages rustled. “I'm sorry to hear she's in your facility, though I can't say I'm surprised.”

“Why's that?”

“You've read her file. Visions, voices, that kind of nonsense usually leads right to your doorstep, and that's if they're lucky. The unlucky wind up in prison or dead. Is she any better?”

Willow seemed pretty sane to him. Except for those nonsensical visions.

“Asking about her past is a good sign,” he hedged. He wasn't sure if it was or not, but at least she wasn't telling him the future.

“I'll fax you the list of her foster families and the contact numbers we have for them. Everyone is still active in the system and willing to answer questions, except for the one family, of course. Such a tragedy.”

“What tragedy?”

“The murders were all over the news a few months ago.”

“I just arrived from Missouri recently. What happened?”

“The Gilletts were stabbed to death in their home. An odd case. Nothing was taken and the wife's body was set on fire but not the husband's.”

“Any suspects?”

“None.”

“When did Willow live with them?”

“Second family. She was eight months old. They kept her two months.”

“Why did they send her back?”

“Same reason most everyone else did. Screamed whenever she came near water like a kid possessed. We didn't know then that she thought she was having visions.”

Willow had been a baby. How could she have “thought” anything? Wouldn't she have had to actually see something in the water at that age to be afraid of it? But just because she believed she had, didn't make it so. Visions weren't real. They were the mark of the nut.

“Thanks for your help. I'll wait for your fax.” Sebastian hung up.

He didn't like that one of Willow's foster families had been stabbed. He was sure they hadn't been wild about it either.

That Willow's weapon of choice had been a knife was disturbing but irrelevant. She'd been in here when the Gilletts were killed. Still, Sebastian was concerned enough by the information that he Googled the murders. Pretty much everything Renee had said was reported—stabbed, wife burned, no suspects. There was one tidbit she hadn't mentioned and it bothered him. The Gilletts had been tortured. As nothing had been taken, said torture was either to get information or just for the fun of it.

He dialed Renee again, didn't bother with hello. “Has anyone else called about Willow?”

“Hold on.” He could hear her moving things. “Yes. But we didn't tell them anything. Privacy.”

“Who was it?”

“They didn't say.”

“When was it?”

She stated a date.

“A few days before the murder.”

“What does that mean?” Renee asked.

“I'm not sure.” He thanked her and hung up a second time.

Had the same someone who'd called the foster care system for information on Willow tortured her former foster parents for the same? How had that person found out that Willow had been with them? Hard to say. Whoever had told them had probably figured it didn't matter since they hadn't seen her for over twenty-five years. They'd been wrong.

Had the Gilletts known Willow's whereabouts? If so, the culprits should have turned up on this doorstep. According to the visitor log, none had.

Sebastian sent an e-mail to the head of security that Willow was not allowed visitors until further notice. Then he called the detective in charge of the Gilletts's case—Jim Hardy—and told him what he knew.

“I can't see how a foster child the Gilletts took care of for a couple of months over twenty-five years ago has much bearing on the case,” the detective said.

“Even when a stranger was asking about her a few days before the victims died?”

“Even then. Without a name, it's going to be hard to figure out who to question.”

“Phone records?”

“I'll try, but with a phone call coming into a government office it ain't gonna be easy. And if this person was planning murder … they probably didn't use their home phone, or even their personal cell.”

Hardy had a point.

“The FBI is in on the case now,” Hardy continued. “I'll let them know. They might have other ideas, better luck. They definitely have better resources.”

“Why is the FBI involved?”

“This case is similar to a bunch of others around the country.”

That made Sebastian think that the Gilletts's killing had been random—or as random as a serial killer got—but at least not related to Willow, as he'd feared, despite the bizarre coincidence in somebody asking about her around the same time.

“You'd think that stabbing a person and burning the body is a serial methodology that would show up in the national news.”

Something about saying those words aloud made Sebastian's brain tickle.

Stabbing. Burning. He pulled Willow's file open once more.

“Snarling wolf,” he said.

“Say again?”

“Were the victims branded with the image of a snarling wolf?”

“How do you know that?”

“I can't tell you.” Sebastian shut the file. “Privileged information.”

“That detail was not released. Only the killer or someone the killer spoke to would know.”

Unless it was someone who'd seen the killer in a vision, something Sebastian couldn't tell Hardy any more than he could tell him anything else.

“Doctor, the killer is still out there. If you know who it is you have a duty to stop the next murder. Imminent harm negates privilege.”

It did. But had the man Willow stabbed been the killer? While Sebastian couldn't tell the detective what Willow had said in any of her sessions, he could direct the man to information he already possessed.

“There should be a police report on Willow Black. Court case too.”

One of the reasons Willow was in here was that she'd thought the man she stabbed was going to stab, then brand and burn her. That he had no stabbing, branding, or burning tools hadn't looked good. It might look a little different now.

“I'll check that out,” Hardy said. “Expect a call from Special Agent Nic Franklin, FBI.”

“Great,” Sebastian muttered.

*   *   *

I was in the common room watching an episode of
Seinfeld
for the eighty-fifth time. Surprisingly, it was still funny. Some shows were like that.

The door opened, and Dr. Frasier beckoned. As Mary was reading the
Book of Shadows
with such concentration she wouldn't miss me, I followed him into the hall. He handed me a piece of paper that appeared to be a printout of a newspaper article, complete with a photograph.

“That's her,” I blurted.

“Who?”

The woman in my vision, but we weren't going there.

“She was one of my foster moms.”

“You recognize her?”

I nodded.

“But not him.” He tapped the photo.

I didn't recognize him because he hadn't been in the vision, but whatever. According to the text beneath the photo their names were Sadie and Malcolm Gillett.

“He seems familiar too,” I lied.

The headline read:
LOCAL COUPLE MURDERED
.

They had both been stabbed. Only Sadie had been burned. Had she also been branded?

Considering what I'd seen of Sadie—the protection spell, which just shouted witch—and what I'd heard from Mary, combined with what I'd read online about the
Venatores Mali
, witch hunters who wore a snarling wolf ring and branded their victims with it, after killing them but before burning them, I kind of thought she had.

Had Sadie's spell of protection been meant to keep away the
Venatores Mali
? It hadn't worked. For her or for me.

Dr. Frasier waited for me to explain something I had no explanation for.

“I didn't remember their names,” I said. “I didn't know this had happened.”

“I'm not accusing you of anything, Willow. You were here when they died.”

“You thought I might have killed them?”

“No.” He shoved a hand through his hair and his earring glittered.

The memory of tickling that ear, tasting that earring, distracted me for a minute. When would those flashes of the future stop? When they became actual memories of the past? Doubtful, but at least they might not make me so dizzy.

I leaned against the wall so I wouldn't sway, tried to make my slouch appear cool and not weak. From the sharp glance the doctor threw my way, I didn't manage. But at least he didn't mention it. He had more important things to talk about.

“They were murdered the same way you said you would be by the man you tried to kill.”

Which probably meant I'd been right about the branding. Yay, me.

“Can you explain that?”

I could but I wasn't going to. Instead I shrugged and spread my hands.

“According to social services, someone called asking for you. Social services didn't tell them anything, obviously. However, the attack on the Gilletts occurred soon after.”

“You think the Gilletts told their killer where I was?”

“I have no idea, but I don't like it.”

Me either. I had no family. No friends. Who would bother? Specifically who would bother to torture and kill someone who hadn't seen me for decades?

The
Venatores Mali
were witch hunters, and Mary thought I was a witch. Mary thought she was too. I could see where Mary's belief might be common knowledge, considering. But no one had been looking for Mary.

That they were looking for me was disturbing on a whole lot of levels. Because that meant someone not only knew about my visions but believed they made me magical and not crazy. Until a few weeks ago, I'd have said they were insane too. But now …

I considered sharing what I knew with Dr. Frasier, except I'd have to tell him I'd seen the witch hunters in a vision. I didn't wanna.

“I've rescinded your visitor privileges,” Dr. Frasier continued. “Not because of anything you've done, but because I don't like that someone was asking questions about you around the time your foster parents were murdered.”

“I don't get visitors. Ever.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And now's not the time to start.”

*   *   *

I didn't return to the common area.
Seinfeld
no longer held any appeal. Instead I headed for my room.

I hadn't remembered the Gilletts until my vision, but now that I had, they felt like family. Not that I knew what family felt like. Mine was most likely all dead. Unless they were searching for me and being blocked by the protection spell. The only person who'd ever found me had tried to kill me. Or would have if I hadn't tried to kill him first.