Warlock Wolf / Bring The Night / Chapter 2

The six of them bunched up when the hallway passed a wide archway on their left that led to a kitchen. It had high ceilings, all pro kitchen appliances in stainless, and commercial countertops; the floors were black and white tile, and there were potted palms and paintings on the walls. Sitting at the counter on a stool was a sturdy older woman in her late-fifties, with her gray hair in pink plastic rollers. She’d been crying and held a bundled tissue in one loose fist pressed to the side of her neck.

Boston worked his way through the group, getting himself up to Black so he could take the lead. He said, “That’s Ekaterina, the housekeeper. She’s the one made the call. The Cartwrights are in Europe for the season and she’s here alone.”

Maddie said, “She discovered the body?”

“That’s right,” Boston said, “Probably why she’s so shook up.”

Black saw Maddie nod to the one called Pris, who nodded in return, took the large book with gold-edged pages from her and headed into the kitchen.

The housekeeper sat with a police officer, his hat on the kitchen counter. He saw the girl coming, said hello to her then stood, putting his hands in his pockets and stepping back. He said something close to the housekeeper’s ear, and she nodded.

Black said to Maddie, “What’s happening?”

Maddie said, “Pris is just going to ask her a few questions.”

Now they all watched the one called Pris set her ancient tome on the kitchen counter, pushing the police officer’s hat aside and moving a stool so she could sit across from the old woman. She seemed to introduce herself, the old housekeeper looking a little anxious but being polite. Probably used to manners and protocol living in a house like this and working for people like how he imagined the ultra-wealthy Cartwrights might be.

Now Pris was patting a hand on the top of the book and the woman’s eyes watched. Pris drummed her fingers on the leather cover then opened the book. Black could see it was one of those fake trick books with the inside pages bored out. A square had been cut through the pages and set inside the square was some sort of intricately carved wooden box. Pris ran her fingertips over the box’s details and the housekeeper’s expression began to sink.

Pris plucked open the lid of the box and the housekeeper’s eyes lit up, her expression pulled taut with joy. She almost brought her hands together to clap as if what she saw there was the most delightful and unexpected thing imaginable. There was nothing there.

Black said, “What the hell is happening?”

“I told you, Agent Black, Pris is asking her a few questions.”

He said, “Looks like she’s doing some sort of magic trick.”

“Perhaps to you.”

“What kind of questions is she asking?”

“Just hold on and watch.”

“I’m watching,” he said, letting her hear a little impatience in his voice. He thrust both his hands in his pants pockets and continued to watch. Pris was asking the woman questions, and the woman was nodding then shaking her head no then nodding again. The whole time her eyes were glued to the wooden box. There were a few times he believed he saw something there himself. Shimmering light, maybe, and it reminded him of one of those old music boxes for little girls that played Stravinsky and had a little porcelain ballerina that rotated.

Pris closed the lid on the box and the woman’s joyous expression slowly faded and she shook her head as if coming out of a trance. Pris closed the book, stood up and thanked the woman, patted her shoulder.

Black looked to Boston to see what he made of this, but the guy stood watching just like the girls did, showing patience and understanding like this was all old news.

Pris rejoined them in the hallway, extending with both hands the leather-bound magic book. Maddie reclaimed it and clutched it to her bosom. She asked Pris, “Well?”

“No magic,” Pris said, “what she’s telling you is true. Or at least she believes it.”

Boston said, “Well, we didn’t think she was the murderer.”

Black said, “Why’s that?”

Boston shrugged, still watching the housekeeper who was looking back and forth between the two police officers returning to their stools as if she didn’t know where she was. “You’ll see,” he said.

“Okay,” Black said, rubbing at his forehead, “Where is this damn body, anyway?”

#

Boston led them to the rear of the first floor of the mansion, down to a sunken living room, across the living room with its towering ceilings and oak paneling to an open door at the back. Boston said to them, “The library,” his voice a heavy sigh, indicating they’d arrived at the scene of the crime.

Black could see through the open door there was a light on in the library. Bookcases lined the wall that he could see, stacked with the spines of fancy looking books with gold gilded edges and bright-colored leather. As they came to the entrance, another police officer came out, a handkerchief to his mouth and looking a little worse for wear.

Boston said, “You okay, Nixon?”

The cop said through his handkerchief: “Can’t say I like being here alone.”

“You can go on to the kitchen. Send Rufus in here in about ten minutes.”

The guy nodded quickly, met Black’s eyes for a moment, said hello to the girls quietly, then walked quickly through the living room up toward the kitchen.

“All right, Agent Black,” Boston said. “You ready for this?”

“I’ve been ready for fifteen minutes,” he said, talking tough but unable to deny a certain trepidation for what they would find in the library.

“After you, then,” Boston said and stepped aside for Black to enter the library.

The library was like a room you’d read about in a Sherlock Holmes book. Victorian, treasures from Asia, Oriental rugs, towering library shelves; the back wall had an oak desk the size of a Hyundai, a leather bound chair was toppled to the floor. There was one of those ladders that rolled around on wheels so you could reach the higher books; torn pages scattered the floor around the desk, the lampshade knocked askew. The whole place had a cathedral ceiling and more oil paintings on the walls, the kind with eyes that followed you.

Immediately out of place, more stark than the disarray, was the naked man in the middle of the floor. Blood spread around him in irregular-edged pools that seeped into the expensive rug.

“Holy shit,” he couldn’t help sighing.

While the man was naked, he was shrouded in blood. It streaked and splashed all over him. He was prostrate on his back, face turned up to the ceiling his expression twisted in a mask of tortured horror. On the floor, drawn underneath him, the man laying almost dead center, was a pentagram drawn in powdery lines. The points of the pentagram’s stars each held a china saucer with a candle. They’d been lit, used recently, but extinguished. Black cleared his throat, said to Boston, “You guys put out the candles?”

“Didn’t want to burn our crime scene down.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Now he searched his own pocket, looking for something to cover his mouth and nose with. Wished that cop Nixon had an extra for him. The room reeked of blood. It was thick and coppery, and iron was in the air.

Maddie said, “Can we take a closer look?”

Boston raised his eyebrows, saying, “Of course. That’s what you’re here for.”

Now the girls were walking ahead of him, and he didn’t want that, so he hustled to catch up. The girls were careful where they stepped, putting their polished loafers where there was no blood, walking on their toes. All of them had their faces turned down watching the awful murder scene with plain, sober expressions.

They gathered around the man in four points, and Black came to stand at the dead man’s feet.

Boston came behind him, saying to the girls, “He’s been stabbed. Haven’t turned him over yet, but near as we can tell he’s got around a hundred-plus stab wounds.”

Black said, “Where?” He’d seen stabbing victims when he worked robbery, and this didn’t look like it.

“Look close,” Boston said, “you’ll see ‘em. Small stab wounds. This wasn’t a hunting knife. Wasn’t a butcher knife. Wasn’t even a penknife. Something smaller.”

Pris turned her pretty face to the deputy, eyes wide and glistening in the lamplight. “What was it?”

Boston shrugged. “Beats me. That’s what you all are here for, isn’t it?”

Maddie squatted down, tucking her skirt behind her knees, cocking her head from side to side as she examined the dead body. The victim was maybe in his forties. Not exactly a stunning physique by any measure. A typical paunchy middle-aged dude. He had a soft chest, a round belly, thin legs with knobby knees. Pretty decent-sized pecker, and now he felt weird about that, these four college girls standing around looking at it.

The blonde-haired girl, the one called Goody, squatted down as well, also tucking her skirt and shifting her knees to the side so she wouldn’t give anybody a peep. Proper private school girls. Then she extended a hand with a ballpoint pen and touched the man’s penis, dipping the point of the pen underneath it and lifting it up. She said to Maddie, “You see that?”

Maddie took a look and nodded.

Pris said, “What do you see?”

Goody said, “His testicles have been stabbed. One of them is almost avulsed. Hacked to lunchmeat.”

Maddie said, “Eww.”

Goody grimaced, said, “Sorry.”

“And his eyes.” Lizzy said, her voice like a chorus of angels in his ears. His knees went suddenly weak, and he dipped a little, putting his hands on his thighs and bending over as if he was peering to get a better look instead of feeling lightheaded. “Or at least, I should say, where his eyes should be.”

“That makes sense,” Maddie said.

Now Lizzy was standing up like something had occurred to her. She began to look around the room, Black had to force himself not to ogle her.

Maddie said, “I’m thinking something primal.”

“Me too,” Pris said.

“Primal?” Black said.

Maddie said, “A primal spirit. . . . You know, chimps, Agent Black? You ever read about a chimp attack?”