Book of Shadows

CHAPTER Thirty-four

He woke abruptly to his head pounding more violently than any hangover he could ever remember experiencing, and there had been a few. He was on the bare black floor of a dark room, naked and alone in the center of a pentagram within a painted circle, and for a long and paralyzing moment he had no idea who he was.
Then the dream came flooding back to him.
Flying through the clouds, through ice, through steam, through desert . . . the sensation of flying . . .
His stomach roiled with the memory of motion, and suddenly another image flashed into his mind.
The landfill . . . the dark shadow . . . the blue Camaro and the license plate . . .
Garrett sat up in the dark velvet-lined room, cringing at the throbbing pain in his head. The air was heavy with the smell of apple musk and sex.
A wave of nausea suddenly doubled him over and he dry-retched, over and over again, his stomach spasming. He sank back on his heels, swallowed, and breathed shallowly, fighting the nausea.
Jesus, what did she give me?
Finally the sickness passed enough for him to straighten. He looked around and saw a wineglass on the floor; red liquid had spilled out in a puddle. He crawled over to it and looked at the glass. There was a thickness to the dregs of sticky liquid left in the bottom.
He reached shakily for his clothes and dressed, wincing at every move, every muscle in his body aching. Then he took out one of the glassine evidence bags he always carried in his coat and stooped to scoop the wineglass into it.
He moved out through the doorway into the dark reading room. The cards were gone from the table, and the room was empty, as was the front of the shop; no sign of Tanith.
Moving gingerly, he walked for the door as quietly as he could . . . but as he was reaching for the knob, he stopped. He turned and looked toward the shelves of herbs and powders behind the counter. Then he crossed to stand in front of the shelves. The jars were labeled and alphabetized, and it took him no time at all to spot the jar he was looking for:
Belladonna.
The homicide room was mercifully quiet for a Saturday. Garrett headed straight for the crime lab and handed the wineglass and the glassine bag of belladonna over to Warren Tufts. “The wine in the glass. I need to know what’s in it.”
Tufts looked him over with a raised eyebrow, and Garrett knew the criminalist was taking in his pallor and bloodshot eyes, his death-warmed-over appearance. Garrett didn’t try to explain. He had no doubt Tufts had seen worse.
He went back to the detectives’ bureau, ignoring a curious Morelli and Palmer, and slumped in his seat behind his desk, too exhausted to muster even the energy to go to his car and drive home. His thighs ached and he had a sudden memory of Tanith riding him, both of them naked and straining, her black hair spilled over her breasts, her mouth ripe and sweet against his . . . and he felt himself weak with desire again.
He tilted his head back against the chair, and must have dozed, because he was in the dark and watching a shadow figure creep from a Camaro—when suddenly a female voice spoke from above him and he jolted awake.
“You look like hell.”
He blinked up to focus groggily on Carolyn, who stood in front of his desk, pristine and unsmiling.
She held a file folder in her hand, which she tossed down on the desk in front of him. “Try doing your own homework next time.”
Without a word of explanation about what she meant, she pivoted on one lethally fashionable heel and was striding out of the room.
Garrett didn’t even have the words left to call her back. He reached for the file and opened it.
The name in black type hit him from the top of the page. Teresa Smithfield, a.k.a. Tanith Cabarrus.
He was looking down at a rap sheet.
It took him two mugs of coffee to go over it all, not because of the length of the file but because of how hard his tired mind was trying to fight it.
A September 1999 arrest for five counts of fraud and grand larceny, for which “Smithfield” received three years and was remanded to MCI Framingham, the state women’s prison, where she served nine months before being released on probation.
A June 2000 arrest for disorderly conduct, after which she was institutionalized at McLean State Hospital for four months, then discharged to the care of a Selena Fox.
The file was thick with photocopied official documents. One of them was an intake report from McLean Hospital.

INTAKE REPORT
IDENTIFYING DATA: The patient is a 23-year-old white female with no known address, arrested by the police on 24 June and brought into the emergency room, subsequently admitted into the locked psychiatric unit as a Section 12: risk to herself and others. She gave her name as Teresa Smithfield. She carried no ID or identifying papers.
HISTORY OF PRESENT ILLNESS: Arresting officers received a 911 call from Salem resident Althea Carstairs reporting “a young woman going crazy in the park.” Police arriving at Salem Willows Park found Ms. Smithfield in a disheveled condition, covered in blood and brandishing a large knife, which she threatened the officers with, screaming at them to stay away. Officers held their weapons on her and instructed her to drop the knife, at which point she began slashing at her arms and chest, screaming that she had to “cut them out.” Officers subdued and disarmed Smithfield using Tasers. Officers conducted a visual examination and concluded the blood on Smithfield was most likely her own, as she had numerous fresh cuts and stab wounds in various parts of her body.
In the patrol car en route to the psychiatric ward, Smithfield kept up a steady stream of muttering and periodic screaming about being attacked. She claimed there were demons inside her.
On admission the patient continued to repeat her belief that there are demons inside her and that they “tricked her” into letting them in. She begged repeatedly for help and screamed not to be left alone. She would not respond to questions about her perceptions but seemed preoccupied with internal stimuli. It is likely that she is experiencing both auditory and visual hallucinations.
Blood and urine screens for alcohol and illicit drugs are positive for significant amounts of the hallucinogen atropine, which indicates possible drug-related psychosis in addition to an organic condition.
PAST PSYCHIATRIC HISTORY: Patient has an arrest record for fraud, and served nine months in MCI Framingham. During the first months of her sentence she received numerous official write-ups for fighting and “antisocial behavior.” Patient has a series of vertical scars on her left wrist, suggesting at least one past suicide attempt.
ASSESSMENT AND PLAN: Patient clearly suffers from a psychotic condition that may prove to be chronic paranoid schizophrenia, quite possibly exacerbated by the use of hallucinogens. The use of antipsychotic medication is indicated and will be initiated. We will continue to carefully monitor Ms. Smithfield’s safety, given her dangerously self-destructive behavior.
There were more documents, and Garrett had no doubt as to their authenticity; there was no more meticulous researcher than Carolyn. And he, of course, had never bothered to check. He felt sick, betrayed—and more than that, like a complete and utter fool.
The phone buzzed on his desk, and he reached for it. “Garrett,” he said, his voice hollow.
“Got that analysis for you, chief,” Warren Tufts said on the other end. Garrett sat up straighter, but he knew what Tufts was going to say next. “You were right on the money. The wine in that glass was laced. Atropine.”
Landauer met him in the smoky dark of the Hibernian, with its polished and endless bar and Irish soundtrack, and there were no “I told you so’s,” no recriminations, only the warm and hulking presence of a partner and friend. Of course, Garrett was fairly certain Land had told Carolyn about Tanith to begin with, but that was for his own good, obviously saving him from himself.
“She was running a phony fortune-telling business, swindled people out of their money. Then a complete mental collapse, institutionalization, delusions, schizophrenia . . . she’s as loony as Moncrief.” Garrett swallowed the rest of his Jameson’s, chased it with a Harp, and nodded to the bartender for more. “I’ve been a total ass.” He was aware he was slurring.
“You’re always a total ass, Rhett,” Landauer said, and Garrett knew he was forgiven. Garrett was not about to be so kind to himself. He spoke harshly.
“She dosed me with belladonna last night.”
Landauer looked at him over his beer. “No shit? How was it?”
Garrett gave him a thin smile “I feel like I was hit by a T. But last night . . . it was wild. Hallucinations . . .” He trailed off as memories of sex, of flight, raced through him . . . then the image of the Camaro, the dark shadow of the man, the shadow’s sudden flight. “It felt wicked real.”
The bartender brought their next round and Garrett swallowed his whole. The lights blurred to a comfortable haze around him. “Here’s the thing,” he said slowly, so there would be minimal slurring. “Belladonna. She’s working so hard to get this kid Jason out, you know what I’m saying? Do you think she’s in on it? He got the drug from her; they’re using these girls for some rituals . . .” He suddenly remembered. “There was a girl—same age as Erin—in her shop. F*ck knows what all she’s in to.” He slammed his hand on the bar.
Landauer looked him over. His face was red from the whiskey, but his eyes were still focused and sharp. “Yeah, she played you good, bro. And maybe her head’s not screwed on so tight. But murder? There’s a difference between kinky and hinky.”
Garrett felt himself swaying on the bar stool. “Dunno . . .” he muttered. Suddenly Landauer’s hand was under his arm, and he realized that his partner had just barely stopped him from falling off the seat.
“I’m driving you home, Rhett. You sleep this one off and we’ll talk in the morning.”
Whiskey on top of belladonna did not turn out to be the happiest of combinations. Sometime during a brutal night Garrett woke from an instantly forgotten nightmare to find himself drenched in sweat, his head and throat burning up. He threw off his sheets and lay back with his head throbbing, feeling as if the bed were rocking.
Flying . . .
He licked sweat from his lips, wondering if he had it in him to make it to the bathroom for water.
And then he heard movement in the living room.
Adrenaline shot through him and he sat up, straining to hear.
Silence . . . nothing but the sense of presence . . .
. . . and then the slow scrape of wood against wood . . .
A window?
Garrett reached to his bed stand, eased open the drawer, and withdrew his Glock.
He stood noiselessly . . . and had to brace himself against the wave of dizziness. He felt weightless, incorporeal. Every muscle in his body was tensed as he moved naked to the bedroom door and put his head against the door frame to look out into the hall.
Pitch-black and no sound.
Garrett barely breathed.
There was no stirring from the living room—only that certainty of presence.
Garrett slipped through the doorway and eased into the hall, one slow barefoot step in front of the other on the hardwood floor. His heart was racing, his mouth dry as dust.
At the end of the hallway he pressed his back against the wall and listened. Nothing.
Slowly, slowly, he peered around the corner . . . and his eyes widened.
The living room was dark and empty—but all the windows were wide open. The curtains billowed, breathing at the frames. Garrett spun to the front door. It, too, was open into the night.
There was a sound behind him and Garrett twisted around again, his weapon aimed in front of him—
Tanith stood on the other side of the room, naked, perfect body gleaming in the moonlight, her dark hair spilled around her shoulders—
She held a large book open in her hands, offering it to him . . .
And behind her in the window, yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness—then leapt forward . . . a dark, thick hulk, hurtling toward him . . . and the leathery shape of wings . . .