The volume was still in my pants, one of the reasons I’d tossed off my own clothes rather than letting Bobby do it. The second reason being my impatience to have him inside me.
My cheeks heated. I’d never wanted a man that badly, never felt for anyone what I felt with him. I’d wanted to whisper in his ear, against his skin and mouth, things I’d never thought, heard, dreamed of in my life. I’d managed not to by making the encounter all about speed, about need. Only in that way could I keep my thoughts and feelings to myself. Now was not the time to fall in love, and Bobby Doucet was not the man to fall in love with. He was as haunted as I was.
I pushed aside such thoughts. I had things to do and very little time to do them in.
I found my pants, removed the book. The handwriting throughout matched that on the first page, which claimed the book as Anne’s. The same writing that had then made the book mine. Those words were still there. Had I thought they wouldn’t be?
Only if I’d imagined them, and I knew better.
“All right,” I said. “I don’t suppose you have a spell for calling reluctant spirits.”
The pages fluttered in an invisible breeze. I lifted my hands as if they burned. They kind of did. The pages stopped fluttering, several stood on end. It was almost as if the book itself were thinking, searching, maybe listening. Then they slowly fell away, yawning open near the end of the pages that held writing. Many more remained in the volume that didn’t.
I took a healthy gulp of cabernet, set the glass down, swallowed. The page twitched as if saying, Look at me!
So I did.
*
Bobby walked into the police station only ten minutes late. An officer named Larry had stood on the landing outside Raye’s apartment. Bobby was glad it wasn’t Pretty Boy Brad. He wouldn’t have been able to refrain from ripping into him about the previous day’s fuckup and then he would have been even later.
Chief Johnson and Dr. Christiansen sat alone in the single office, a half-empty bottle of Jameson on the desk, coffee cups that didn’t hold coffee between their hands. Bobby found a cup, filled it, took a sip, then a seat.
“Where you been?” Johnson asked.
“Madison.”
The man’s brows shot up. Before he could ask why, Bobby told him.
The two older men lifted their cups and together they drank. The clicks when they set them back down were indistinguishable from each other.
“Some of the kids called Mrs. Noita a witch,” Johnson said. “I never considered she was one.”
“You believe that?” Bobby asked.
“Doesn’t matter if I do, only matters if the killer does.”
“Do you know if Noita was her real name?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Noita means witch in Finnish.”
“Huh,” both Johnson and Christiansen said at the same time.
Bobby wasn’t sure her name even mattered any more. “You know anything about a coven near here?”
“A coven,” Johnson repeated, then shoved his hands through what was left of his hair. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”
That was more like it. Sure, there were people who practiced Wicca. That was probably less weird than some of the things others practiced. But covens and witches and spells—oh my—those Bobby had a hard time getting his mind around. And he was glad Johnson felt the same. He was tried of being the only skeptic.
“What about that call you had last month?” Christiansen asked.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Doc.”
“Full moon, bonfire in the woods. Naked people fleeing when the cops showed up.”
Bobby lifted his eyebrows. “Seems like that might have been something you would have shared.”
The chief snorted. “Stuff like that happens all the time.”
“How often?”
“’Bout once a month.” Johnson frowned. “It’s just kids. Drinkin’ beer, makin’ out.”
“Is it always around the full moon?”
Johnson thought a minute then muttered, “Hell.” His gaze flicked to Bobby’s. “Any of your vics involved in witchcraft?”
Bobby shook his head. That he’d remember. Then again, in New Orleans something like that might not even be worth mentioning. He pulled out his phone. “I’m gonna call Franklin.”
He’d asked the FBI agent to check on other brandings and burnings. He hadn’t heard back, which made Bobby think maybe there weren’t any except …
He wasn’t that lucky.
The man answered on the third ring. Bobby identified himself.
“I’ve been meaning to call,” Franklin said. “It’s been a little nuts here.”
Despite the agent’s words, wherever he was didn’t sound busy. Bobby couldn’t hear anything from the other end at all—no doors slamming, no phones ringing, no FBI agents murmuring. If he were in the field, wouldn’t there be sounds of traffic, music, dishes rattling in a restaurant? Now that Bobby thought about it, he’d never heard anything on the other end of the phone but Franklin. However, the man’s next words made him forget his suspicions. Whatever they were.
“There have been other bodies burned in other locations.”
“How many?”