“No connection between this guy and the marshal’s sister?”
“None.” The chief shut his notebook.
“Any idea what she was doing here?”
“Visiting her aunt.”
Bobby rubbed his head. This whole thing smelled more random by the minute.
He fucking hated random.
“Look at it this way,” the chief continued. “If the murders stop, then you got your guy.”
“They already stopped for a year, then they started again here.”
Johnson scowled. “Are you sure?”
“What do you mean, am I sure?”
“From what you told me, the murders are only connected by that ring, by the brand. But this guy tried to burn the body.”
“So did our guy. But burning a body isn’t as easy as they make it seem on TV.”
“Damn right,” Christiansen muttered. “Why do they think I have a huge oven?” He gestured in the oven’s direction. The thing did take up a lot of space. “It isn’t like they’re setting fire to kindling.”
“If there were other murders in other places where the body was burned, that would make the brand…” The chief searched for a word, shrugged and went with, “Invisible, then—”
“The year of inactivity wasn’t inactive. We were looking for the wrong MO,” Bobby finished. “I should talk to the FBI.”
“They’re on it,” the chief said. “Questioning the widow, requesting his travel schedule from his employer. Checking the airlines.”
If Bobby was lucky, the maniac—Karl, Bobby amended—had flown to New Orleans the day before every one of the other murders, then flown home afterward. Or perhaps he’d driven a load of hazardous waste there, as well as to towns across the country where people had died then been burned.
Although, if the man had hazardous waste, why burn a body? Why not just dump it wherever they dumped such waste these days? Then again, nothing about this perpetrator had made any sense from the beginning.
Most likely the man had driven not flown on his own time, paying cash at dive motels or sleeping in his serial-killer white panel van. A hazardous waste truck would be as conspicuous as a credit card with his name on it.
Just because he was a maniac that didn’t make him stupid.
*
When my alarm went off, I groaned. Saturdays should be about sleeping in, doing nothing, and they usually were. However, today was the New Bergin Elementary School Carnival.
Torture at its finest.
Bobby’s door was open, the room empty. I panicked for a minute, until I saw that all his stuff was still there.
“You’re an idiot.” I headed for the bathroom. I cared too much, too soon. Bobby wasn’t going to stay now that he’d killed the maniac. He had places to go, other people to arrest. When he left so would Genevieve. And while one less ghost in my life would be fan-fricking-tastic, a heartbroken Stafford would not be.
I turned on the shower, stepped beneath the stream. Henry had said the Venatores Mali were back. Plural. That meant there were more out there like the maniac. Would they come here? How did they know I was a witch when I hadn’t even known it myself? And how would I tell Bobby about them without appearing to be a lunatic?
“Aargh!” I scrubbed my scalp, wishing I could wash all these crazy thoughts out of my head. I needed to talk to Henry.
Would I be able to summon him? I’d never tried. I wasn’t going to try now. I shut off the water. At least until I put on some clothes and got out of sight and hearing range of anyone with a pulse.
A half hour later, dried, dressed, and waiting outside for Jenn—she’d been due here five minutes ago, which meant I had about fifteen minutes to spare—I whispered, “Henry?”
Nothing.
“Henry!” I said a little louder. “I have some questions. I’m alone.” As if he couldn’t see that.
“Pruuuu-dence!” I called, and received the same result. Although what I would have done with a wolf, I had no idea. While she’d seemed to understand us, she certainly hadn’t been able to talk. At least to me.
“Ghosts. Never around when you need ’em.” Always right there when you didn’t.
I called a few more times. Closed my eyes and thought of Henry’s face. I’d seen it enough. I conjured nothing but a slight headache. Which was just what I needed for a day with elementary school children on a sugar high, playing with sticks and balls and water.
Jenn’s tires kicked up gravel as she fishtailed out of the trees and into the yard. I glanced at my phone. Ten minutes late. Which, for Jenn, was pretty damn early.
“Are you okay?” she asked, turning the car in a circle so fast, I nearly tumbled out the door right after I’d gotten in.
“If you wouldn’t drive this thing like a go-cart, I might be.” I fastened my seat belt with a sharp click.
She glanced at me, then back at the road. “I meant after last night.”
“Last night,” I repeated, images tumbling through my mind. Bobby’s kiss. Genevieve’s tears. Henry. Prudence.
Jenn huffed, exasperated. “Someone tried to kill you.”
Ah, that.