The Witch's Grave Part 28

His notes went on to mention how the largest source of foreign income for Mexico is the money sent home to families still living there, so it wasn't in their best interest to discourage migration across the border. He talked of young women being s.e.xually abused and the hundreds of people that died every year in the deserts along the border.

He listed the money the United States spent on guarding the borders, apprehending undoc.u.mented workers, and deporting them. It was astronomical.

And caught in the maelstrom of political opinion for and against immigrant workers were people like this young man from El Salvador, just looking for a better life.

"What a mess," I muttered to myself.

It was obvious to me why Stephen had wanted to talk to Vargas. He somehow had found out about Antonio's sister. Had he talked to Ben Jessup about undoc.u.mented workers, too? What would Ben have known about the situation?

I counted up the number of people either hurt or dead: Stephen, Ben Jessup, Antonio's sister. Three lives. But what's three lives when you're trying to protect your share of millions? I needed to call Bill and turn these disks over to him.

While dialing, I drummed my fingers on the desk.

"Hi, this is Ophelia Jensen, but this isn't an emergency," I blurted out when the dispatcher answered. "May I speak to Bill Wilson, please?"

"I'm sorry, he's not in," she replied.

"Is there any way I could reach him?"

"Would you like to speak with a deputy?" she asked, not answering my question.

"No, could I have his cell phone number?"

"No. We're not allowed to provide that information."

"Can you tell me how I can find him?"

"He's at the scene of an accident."

"Where?"

"We're not allowed to provide that information."

I thought about asking if there was any information she could could give me, but decided the remark might come out kind of snippy. give me, but decided the remark might come out kind of snippy.

"Okay, thanks," I said with a sigh, and hung up.

Leaning back, I locked my fingers behind my head and swiveled my chair in a slow circle. Now what? Now what?

I remembered my notes from the rune reading and pulled them out.

Scanning through them, it was obvious the reading hadn't been about me at all. It had been about Madeleine. Her present in Paris 1941 had indicated a psychic talent. That was true-my dreams had revealed her talent at telling the future using cards. Her past was in the hands of an official.

My mouth twisted with bitterness. Vogel.

Her future had shown that she'd receive no a.s.sistance. Again, that was true. Henrick could have helped her save the Gaspards, but refused. As a result, she died.

The doorbell rang then, startling me, and I shoved the notes back in my desk drawer. When I reached the front door, I saw Darci standing on the front porch, literally bouncing up and down.

As I opened the door, she rushed past me, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand.

"I've got it," she cried with excitement.

"Got what?" I asked, shutting the door and following her into the living room. "Don't you have a cla.s.s today?"

"Nah," she replied, plopping down on the couch, then spreading the papers across the coffee table. She stopped and studied me. "Have you done something different to your hair?"

Instinctively, I reached for my head. "No. Why?"

She tapped a finger to her chin as she looked me over. "I don't know...there's just something different about you."

I hadn't shared my experience on the hilltop with Darci, and didn't want to try and explain it now. It was too new, too personal, to share with even my best friend. Maybe later, once I felt more comfortable, I could.

Instead, I sat down beside her on the couch and changed the subject. "What's this?" I asked, pointing at the papers scattered on the table.

"Well, the only names you gave me were the Gaspards, Madeleine, and Henrick Sorenson," she said with a wiggle, "First I tried looking up Jacques Gaspard on the Internet, but didn't find anything."

I felt a wrench of sadness. "I don't imagine you did. If they did exist, they would have disappeared in the Holocaust, like so many others."

"And," she picked up where she left off, "with just 'Madeleine,' I tried looking up French resistance fighters, but the search came up empty. If you do this again, try and get the last name, too," she chided.

I arched an eyebrow and stared at her. "Darce, I don't plan on doing this again," I said vehemently. Picking up the papers, I rattled them at her. "So if you couldn't find anything out, what's this?"

She gave me a sly look. "I didn't say I couldn't find any any information." Her lips formed a smug smile. "Henrick Sorenson." information." Her lips formed a smug smile. "Henrick Sorenson."

I glanced at the papers in my hand in disbelief. "You found Henrick? He really did live?"

"Umm-hmm," she said with a self satisfied nod. "And he was honored by Sweden for his work in helping refugees escape the n.a.z.is."

"But...but in the dreams," I stuttered, "all he cared about was ripping them off."

"Not between 1941 and 1944. He used his father's company to smuggle them into Sweden."

"Really?" I was amazed. "What happened after 1944?"

"Well, the honor was given posthumously-"

"He died?"

"Yup." Taking the papers from my hand, she thumbed through them quickly. "Here it is," she said, giving me a page. "The war was turning against Germany. The Soviet Union had driven them back, and the Allies were getting ready to launch the invasion of Normandy." She pointed to a paragraph. "Henrick went back to Paris for the last time. There, he lured a German colonel...umm...what was his name?" she asked, peering at the paper my hand.

"Vogel," I said without looking.

"Right," she commented with a snap of her fingers, "Vogel. Henrick persuaded Vogel to meet him in the Catacombs, near-"

"Menilmontant," I provided for her.

She c.o.c.ked her head and stared at me. "Hey, did you already know this?"

"No," I said softly.

"Once he had Vogel in the Catacombs, he executed him using a garrote."

"He strangled him to death."

"Yeah, slowly, I guess. One source quoted Sorenson as saying during his interrogation that he didn't want Vogel to die an easy death."

"I take it Henrick was arrested?"

"Yeah. After he killed Vogel, he calmly turned himself in. He faced a firing squad the next day."

Thirty-Three.

My experience on Monday must have drained me-I'd slept a dreamless sleep. But I hadn't expected the dreams to come. They didn't have anything else to tell me. I'd witnessed Madeleine's death, and thanks to Darci, I knew Henrick's fate. The only unanswered question was what happened to the Gaspards. I never expected to find that answer-there had been too many deaths for one little family to be remembered. My heart felt heavy as I thought about them.

I tried Bill again and talked to the same dispatcher. He still wasn't in, and she was just as unhelpful as she'd been the day before. Now that I knew what Stephen had written on the disks, I wanted them out of my house and in Bill's hands. Once he had them, maybe this whole thing would be over and I'd feel safe about bringing Tink home.

She'd pressed me last night during our daily conversation as to when I thought that event would happen. It wasn't that she wasn't having a swell time and learning a lot from Great-Aunt Mary-I didn't question her about that claim-but she missed her friends, me, Abby, T.P., Lady, and Queenie. I noticed she had mentioned her friends first, but let it go.

I spent the entire morning wandering around the house in my jammies as the animals followed me from room to room. Giving up on trying to accomplish anything productive, I showered and changed into jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt. I decided to go to Abby's and bug her, thinking I might get a free meal out of the deal.

Downstairs, I was ready to slip on my tennis shoes and head out the door when the phone rang.

"Ophelia...?" said a bright voice in my ear.

"Yes...?"

"Louise La.r.s.en. I wanted to call you with some good news." She paused and took a deep breath. "Stephen's opened his eyes."

"Oh, Louise," I exclaimed, "you must be so relieved."

"I am. He has a long road to recovery. He's still on the ventilator and has to be gradually weaned off, and he drifts in and out quite a bit, but the prognosis is much improved."

"Is he able to communicate?"

"Not really. With the ventilator, he can't speak. And he's not with it enough to hold a pencil." Her voice caught. "But he does squeeze my hand when I talk to him."

"I'm sorry I haven't been to the hospital-" I broke off. I didn't want to tell her about Karen's mugging. "I've been out of town. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, I'm fine, especially now that Stephen's better. Well, I must go-I just wanted to give you the news."

"Thank you. I'll slip down to the hospital tomorrow."

"That will be fine. I'll look forward to seeing you again."

After Louise hung up, I pumped my fists in the air. Good, good. I'd turn the disks over to Bill, and Stephen was not only going to live, but could explain how he thought this whole mess started.

But my excitement quickly faded. Eventually he could talk to Bill, but from what Louise had said, Stephen wasn't in any condition to be questioned. A thought occurred to me then. Since Stephen was semiconscious now, did it put him at a greater risk? Was he more vulnerable to an attack? Unconscious, he hadn't been a threat, but now it seemed he was. Would the killer show up at the hospital and try to silence him once and for all?

Nah. I shook my head. Surely Bill would have a deputy on guard.

But he wasn't in charge of the investigation...the DCI was handling it, and they didn't believe Stephen had been a target.

I had to do something, but what?

The doorbell ringing broke into my thoughts. Darci, I thought. She'd probably been up all night surfing the Web, trying to dig up more information.

I was wrong. Claire Canyon waited on my porch. Opening the door, I bent to pick up the daily paper. "Hi, Claire," I said, adding it to the growing pile of unread newspapers lying on the table near the door. "Come on in."

"No," she said with a quick glance at her watch. "I can't stay. I'm on my way to a meeting at the town hall. I stopped by to give you this." She handed me several papers.

"What's this?"

"The guest list...remember you wanted to write thank-you notes?"

Dang. I'd forgotten about my lie, and now I was stuck writing a bunch of notes.

From her spot by the front door, Claire eyed the stack of newspapers. "Have you read about the accident?"

"What accident? I've been kind of busy and haven't been paying attention to the news."

She lowered her gla.s.ses and peered at me over the rims.

I squirmed, s.h.i.+fting my weight back and forth.

"Really, Ophelia," she said as she settled her gla.s.ses back on the bridge of her nose. "You ought to make more of an effort to stay informed. The interstate between here and Aiken has been closed for the last twenty-four hours. The driver of a van fell asleep at the wheel and the van crossed the median, hitting a semi head-on."

"How awful," I said in a shocked voice. "And they closed the interstate?"

"Yes. The van was carrying several immigrants. They were all thrown out into oncoming traffic, and-"

My stomach rolled. I held up a hand, cutting her off. "That's okay...I don't need the details. I can imagine what the accident must've been like if they shut down the highway."

She leaned in. "I heard the driver was one of those coyotes. You know, someone who-"

I nodded quickly. "Yeah, Claire, I know all about them."

More than I wanted to, but I didn't share that with her.

"I think they're using some abandoned farmhouse around here as a base," she said, wiggling her gla.s.ses and peering at her watch. "My goodness, look at the time." She spun on her heel and skipped down the steps. "Send those out soon, will you?" she called over her shoulder.

I stood in the doorway, thinking, as I watched her whip out of my driveway.