To Kill a Sorcerer (13 page)

“Telekinesis?” Aliena asked.

“Similar in form, but this is sorcery.”

“Is there anything we can do right now to stop him?” I asked.

“Not unless you have a working crystal ball.”

“Tell me, Auggie,” Aliena said, “is there a timetable involved?”

“Isn’t there always? Both
grimoires
contain the usual references to planetary alignments and seasonal fluctuations being the only times when these rituals will deliver the true power of the ancients.”

“The day before Christmas, we will have a rare conjunction between Venus, Saturn, Jupiter, and a crescent moon, that will last for three days,” I said. “That’s his time frame.”

“Bingo.”

“When is the closest conjunction?” I asked.

“Two days from now,” Reed said. “If he has murdered three girls and completes the final sequence Christmas Eve,
está hecho—
it is done.”

“And so are we, I think,” Hamilton said, putting away his notebook.

“In that time,” I said, “he needs to kill at least one more girl, possibly two.”

“Yes.”

I watched the Christmas lights winking along the top of the doorsill, racking my brain for some way to track this killer quickly. I didn’t see any shortcuts. Hamilton and I would have to run down the slim leads we had on the incense and the black candles, and talk to the neighbors of the two murdered girls. A slow process. Too slow. Watanabe was right. The killer had undoubtedly marked his third victim by now.

It appalled me that we were helpless to stop him from taking her.

“Okay, Auggie, thanks for the info. Keep us advised on your search for possible artifacts and anything else you can dig up on this Thief of Souls.”

“Will do.”

Aliena, Hamilton, and I walked across the lobby and pushed through the front doors. The night had turned chill. A near-crescent moon hung just above the palm trees on the other side of the street.

“Call me later, Sebastian,” Aliena said. She waved to Hamilton and walked down Ash Street, her boots clicking on the sidewalk. We watched her for a moment, then turned toward the parking lot.

“She’s just going to walk home?” Hamilton asked.

“Oh, I doubt Aliena’s going home. She’s a night owl.” And like an owl, was surely in the air by now.

“Yeah? What does she do?”

“She loves the clubs. She’s a people person.”

“Doesn’t that make you jealous?”

“A little.”

After we were back in the car and on the road, I said, “Where to? The station or home?” The Maserati’s clock showed nine fifty.

“The office. I have paperwork before bed.” He turned toward me, shifting in his seat. I knew what was coming. “This is a homicide investigation. We are looking for a man. Not a sorcerer. Okay?”

“How does the killer know the girls are virgins?”

“Who knows? But it’s not—”

“Hold on, chief. Unless you can give me a good answer to that question, I will pursue all possibilities. Including using a marijuana smoker to identify the incense at a crime scene if that’s all we have.”

“I didn’t have a problem with Charlie. I’ll take leads wherever I can get them. But incense is a helluva long way from astral travel.”

True. But that didn’t mean the theory was wrong. I have learned to achieve meditative states that alter my conscious perception. During these sessions, I release my
ka
, or spirit, from my body and travel in the shadow world of the astral plane, a world that is just as real as the “physical” world. Unfortunately, such an experience is uncommon to most Western cultures and difficult for the uninitiated to grasp.

“If you no longer wish to be a part of those discussions, that’s your choice,” I said. “But Aliena is right. How can you tell a girl is a virgin if you don’t know her?”

“Are you crazy? Are you really going to say the only possible answer is magic or astral travel, or whatever?”

“No, of course not. But we’re at an impasse as to determine how he knows anything about these girls at all. Maybe he
can
travel in the stellar plane.”

He snorted. “Come off it. There are probably a dozen ways he could get that information.”

“Such as?”

“I can’t think of one offhand, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s like you said, he’s doing a drive-through of the neighborhood.”

“And picking up the talk on the street that Sherri Barlow has never done the deed.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. He’s doing his research somehow.”

“I agree.” I accelerated and cruised through a red light.

“Give me a break. I suppose you and Aliena know magic, too.”

“No. But I know a man, yes.” In fact, I was going to have to meet with Bey soon.

“Jesus.” He shook his head. “How do you know your man isn’t our perp?”

“Because I know him.”

“Look, you’re really not leaving me a choice here. I have to report this to Reyes. She may not usually listen to criticisms of you, but I doubt she’ll want to leave you on the case knowing this shit. We are not looking for a sorcerer.”

“I did not say we were.”

“But you do consider it a possibility.”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Reyes won’t take me off the case,” I said, turning onto Sylmar Avenue.

“Why does the department let you do that? Money? Is it just your damn money?”

I pulled into the parking lot of the Van Nuys Police Station and stopped.

“Fine.” He popped off his seat belt, opened the door. “In the future, have your people stick to scientific observations. They can keep their supernatural speculations to themselves.”

Wednesday, December 22, 10:43 p.m.

I sped up my access road and parked in the garage next to my 1967 T-bird. The Thunder Chicken was a mint-green convertible with wide white sidewall tires and white leather interior. Hector, my special assistant, had returned the car today after installing a new water pump.

I pressed my hand to the security plate next to the door. The lights came on as I pushed inside and passed through the foyer, tossing my keys onto the side table and shrugging out of my jacket. In the living room, my computer was already warming up. While waiting for it to boot, I crossed to the kitchen, grabbed two bottles of Don Julio tequila, and then sat on the couch. Half of the first bottle went down immediately. I set the bottle on the table.

I grabbed my laptop, slid my finger along the biometric security strip, opened the “Hamilton III” file, and added what we had learned from Watanabe, Preston, and Reed.

We now knew the killer was using Tashua Jong incense and black candles as part of his ceremony. We had proof he brought spices to the murder scenes, and we had identified which kinds he used.

By themselves, these facts were nearly useless. We had to connect them with something. For instance, if someone purchased Tashua Jong and black candles from the same store, that was not valueless, especially if that name showed up on another list, say a list from a local hardware store of people who had purchased the brand of rope used in the killings. We would need some luck. In fact, I was counting on it.

The final contents of the first bottle of tequila went down the gullet. I popped the cork in with the ball of my hand, opened the second bottle, and sipped it, leaning back on the couch and studying the dark sky outside. I verbally turned off the interior lights, lit another cigarette, and set the ashtray on the cushion next to me.

Reed said he had seen real magic twice. I have seen it many times in my travels. I watched a priest pass his hand over the face of a man afflicted with leprosy, and that man’s face healed. A witch in Scotland brewed real love potions and curatives that defied medical explanation. There were many other examples, but in every case, two things were true: the magic was not deadly powerful, and the people affected were believers.

Except the Candomble priests and priestesses. They wielded power over life and death. When they constructed a doll meant to be you, you were in the hands of serious juju. I was sure they could not kill
me
—at least not permanently—but I had never tested their powers.

I finished the Don Julio and the cigarette. Kicking my shoes off, I lay down on the couch and relaxed into a twilight state. My
ka
, or astral spirit, began to rise from my body, but I pulled it back. That was for later.

Tonight, I wanted to dream of my family, of my mother and father, and the days before I knew, finally, the limits of my powers.

When I turned fifteen, my family took a trip to Arundel Castle. Mother wanted to cook a special dinner, and she needed vegetables and spices.

“And a small piece of meat for the pot.”

This Saturday featured the annual Harvest Festival, and people from all over West Sussex would be attending.

A cool wind, the day clear and sunny, with a scent of grass and trees in the air. We were all dressed in our best clothes. As we walked through the town of Arundel, James talked excitedly, remembering last year’s bazaar.

“Do you think they’ll have jugglers again?” he asked me.

“Yes, I think they have them every year.”

“How do they do it?”

“You have to have coordination, but it mostly takes practice.”

“Do you think I could learn how to do it?”

“I know you could. We can practice with rocks, if you want.”

“Yes,” he said, “I want to learn how to do that.”

Last year, he had wanted me to teach him how to eat fire. I promised I would help him—and said it deliberately in front of our mother.

We continued along the main street, greeting the people we knew.

As we moved past the last of the buildings, the castle appeared to our left, silhouetted against a blue sky. People streamed across the drawbridge. From this distance, I could see two men-at-arms, both of them knights, standing at the gateways, watching everyone as they walked through.

We joined the general throng and proceeded across the bridge. The two sentries wore light armor, and they both looked sweaty and irritable. The one on the right glanced our way. He squinted as he looked at me. I recognized him. He had stared at Marguerite while she and my mother bought vegetables the last time we had come. His face streamed sweat, soaking wet, and his red beard was matted from the damp. He shifted his gaze to Marguerite.

Although only thirteen years old, Marguerite had physically matured beyond other girls her age. As tall as my mother, she had the same hourglass figure. In her best smock, she looked like a lovely woman of nineteen or twenty.

The five of us passed through the gateway in the middle of our small crowd.

To our right, the massive stone keep dominated the courtyard. The castle also had its own church, shaped like a cross.

To the left were the jugglers and clowns and even one man “eating” the end of a flaming pole.

“Wow,” James said, his eyes wide as he tried to look everywhere at once.

“Stay close, you two.” My mother held her hand out to James and gestured for Marguerite to stay at her side.

“What about Sebastian?” Marguerite asked Father.

“Sebastian is old enough to take care of himself. You mind yourself, young lady.”

We continued down the street, Father and I following the other three. Marguerite still glared at me, livid. I stuck out my tongue.

She and Mother began inspecting the stalls of vegetables, breads, and sausages. My father wanted to step into the alehouse, but my mother said no, he could have a beer on the way home.

“I don’t want you in there all afternoon with those . . . women.”

“Careful, Mrs. Montero,” my father said, putting his arms around her. “You are the only one for me, and you know it.”

“Yes.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I like to hear you say it.”

I took James’s hand and pulled him away. “We’re going over there,” I said, pointing at the part of the street where the entertainers were grouped.

My mother looked in that direction. Her mouth tightened, but she nodded.

James and I walked off together. I looked down at him. “Big brother to the rescue.”

We neared a woman who was walking a dog on a large wooden ball covered with multicolored stars. She held a smooth stick with thin colored streamers in front of the dog’s face and led it back and forth, causing the ball to roll.

“Sebastian, look,” James said. It was the fire-eater. Uh-oh. Mother was going to be angry with me if he started talking about that again.

Pulling him away, I began to steer us back to where Mother and Marguerite were haggling with the butcher over a piece of beef. The negotiations seemed to conclude, for my father handed over some pennies and the butcher wrapped the beef.

I was wondering if I could accompany my father to the alehouse when a boy of nine or ten darted out of one of the many side streets and ran up to Marguerite.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said. He paused to catch his breath. “Would you like to buy this?” He held up a cheap rock pendant on a thong made of rushes. “Only a farthing, it is. It would look beautiful on you.”

The boy’s clothes were barely more than rags. Marguerite smiled at him and shook her head. A guttural roar caused her to flinch.

“You miserable whelp!” The red-bearded knight hustled past my father with his truncheon raised, advancing on the boy. The kid tried to run, but the club caught him on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The knight raised the trunch again. The boy rolled out of the way of this blow and scrambled up. He looked at Marguerite, his face a map of pain.

“Sorry,” he said. He ran off limping, holding his left arm against his side.

I pulled James along until we were standing with our parents and Marguerite.

The knight had fallen to the ground after missing with his last wild swing, and his tunic had ridden up his back, giving the crowd an unflattering view of his rather hairy backside. He stood and straightened his clothing. He was barrel-chested with spindly legs; his face still ran with perspiration, and he was breathing heavily.

“Don’t come back here!” he bellowed after the fleeing boy. He stared down the side street for a few moments, clearly enraged. Then he seemed to remember something, for his face cleared. He turned back to us. “Are you okay, miss?” he asked Marguerite. He tried to take her arm, but she shrank away from him.