A woman spoke, her voice muffled, then Franklin cursed and his voice lowered. “Someone’s coming. A lot of someones. Get here, but quietly.” The line went dead.
Bobby reached the marker. A black sedan sat right next to it. The FBI had never been very invisible. He didn’t think they tried to be. Although if they did they were really bad at it.
Dusk was nearly gone and true night was falling. The trees whispered. Bobby wanted to bring his flashlight—and several very large friends—but he’d been told to come quietly. He didn’t want to come at all.
Before he’d traveled the prescribed half mile, Bobby heard voices, saw the flicker of flames. He walked more slowly, more carefully, afraid he’d step on a stick and alert everyone to his approach.
As if his mind had conjured it—nice choice of words—a stick cracked. He froze, waiting for figures to fly from the darkness like the monkeys from the witch’s castle.
He shuddered. Oz had always freaked him out.
Someone clapped a hand over his mouth, and his hand went to his gun. It was gone.
“Calm down.” Even at a whisper, he recognized the voice as Franklin’s.
The man released him, and Bobby spun. There was just enough light left for him to see that the agent was older than Bobby had imagined. Or maybe it was just the sheen of silver that glinted in his dark hair, or the lines around his eyes, which could be the result of too much sun, or too much death. Either one aged a man.
Franklin handed Bobby his gun. “I counted about ten or so.”
“You want me to help you arrest them?”
“They haven’t done anything yet.”
“They will.” A woman swam out of the gloom.
“Cassandra?” he asked.
Despite talking just above a whisper, his voice must have revealed his skepticism. She smiled. “I know. I’m the least likely candidate for a voodoo priestess in the world.”
She was tiny, with a pixie haircut and big blue eyes. If it hadn’t been for the white streak at her temple, she wouldn’t have appeared a day over twenty.
“She consults with the FBI on certain paranormal occurrences,” Franklin said.
“Like when people think they’re witches?”
Cassandra cast Franklin a glance. He shrugged. “Skeptic.”
“Don’t tell me you believe this crap?” Bobby asked.
“Once you’ve seen enough crap, you start to believe.” Bobby opened his mouth, but Franklin shook his head. “Later.” He beckoned Bobby to follow as Cassandra led them closer to the leaping flames.
In the center of a clearing a bonfire blazed in front of a tall, flat stone. Nearly a dozen people—men, women, young, old—milled about chatting as if it were a social gathering. If they weren’t all naked, it might have been.
“Skyclad,” Cassandra whispered. “Some covens prefer it when they do rituals.”
Bobby wondered where they’d left their clothes, then caught a glimpse of a decrepit cabin at the edge of the trees, which answered that question as well as where the maniac, and any other strangers in town, had most likely been staying.
“Not a coven.” Franklin lowered the smallest set of binoculars that Bobby had ever seen and handed them over. “Check out their fingers.”
Bobby wasn’t sure what fingers had to do with anything until he peered through the spyglass. Every person in the clearing wore the snarling-wolf ring of the Venatores Mali.
“They aren’t witches,” Franklin said. “They hate witches.”
“Doesn’t mean they aren’t about to perform a ritual,” Cassandra observed.
“Hypocritical much?”
“When dealing with dark magic and crazy people, you’d be surprised.”
“I doubt it.”
Bobby used the binoculars—which had the best night vision adjustment he’d ever seen—to get a better look at the rock altar. Streaks of brownish-red marred the top and the sides. If it hadn’t been stained by blood, it was doing a pretty good imitation.
“I think you found your crime scene,” Franklin said.
“Or a crime scene.” If that wasn’t Anne McKenna’s blood it belonged to someone else.
Everyone in the clearing turned to face the path on the far side. Bobby lifted the binoculars again, making sure to keep the eyepieces high enough to avoid another unappealing view of several backsides that should not be skyclad. A new arrival appeared at the edge of the clearing, and Bobby nearly dropped the spyglass.
What was Pretty Boy Brad doing here?