Charmed To Death Part 30

I sensed energy in the room, but I couldn't focus on it. The frigid waves coming off Comacho kept blocking the other energy in the room. I needed to concentrate, but I was running out of time.

"I asked you what you were doing here, Ophelia?" Bill's voice sounded sharp.

Time's up. Nothing. I ground my teeth in irritation. Dang Comacho and his Iceman att.i.tude Dang Comacho and his Iceman att.i.tude.

"Ahh, Abby's awake."

Boy, did that sound lame. I didn't dare look at Comacho, but I felt the room temperature drop a notch.

"I know. The deputy at the hospital called," Bill said.

"Oh," I chewed on my lip. "I never thought of that."

The temperature dropped again.

"Umm, are there any questions you want to ask me?" I asked while I tried scanning the room again.

The room was getting so cold that I almost s.h.i.+vered.

"One right now-where were you Thursday night?"

I pursed my lips, thinking. Ever since Abby had been hurt, the days blended together. Thursday? Playing with the runes Thursday? Playing with the runes? Better not tell him that. No, the rune reading was last night. Friday night. Thursday night I fell asleep as soon as I arrived home No, the rune reading was last night. Friday night. Thursday night I fell asleep as soon as I arrived home.

"Home asleep?" I didn't mean to make my answer sound like a question.

"Anyone talk to you, stop by?" Bill asked.

I shook my head.

"Well," Bill scratched his head. "I'll have more later, but I think it would be better if you came to the office for those."

My eyes flew to Comacho's face. He was staring at a spot on the wall above my head.

My anger simmered below the surface. I'd told him more about myself, my gifts, than I'd ever shared with anyone in my life and he didn't even have the guts to look at me. I'd never felt so betrayed. This is what I get for being honest? Arrested for murder. d.a.m.n you, Co-macho, look at me This is what I get for being honest? Arrested for murder. d.a.m.n you, Co-macho, look at me!

When his eyes finally met mine, I thought I saw a spark of regret before the wall of ice came slamming down. Defeated, I turned, without speaking, and left the room.

My steps were heavy as I walked down the hall. All I could think about was how I'd blown it. I hadn't been able to shut Comacho out long enough to learn anything.

A door opening to my left startled me.

Charles Thornton.

"Ophelia, I was headed over to your house in hopes of finding you," he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the room before I responded.

I took a fast look over my shoulder. At least he left the door opened.

His room was exactly like Beasley's. Same putty beige walls, same cheap picture, but the dresser and nightstand were clean. The nightstand drew my attention again.

Charles's books lay there.

Trying to read upside down, I studied the books. All I read on one was the name of the author-Cotton Mather. The other book's t.i.tle was in Latin. I craned my neck to read it better. MalleusMaleficarum MalleusMaleficarum.

Amazed, I looked over at Charles. "You read Latin?"

He quickly walked to the nightstand and, after opening the drawer, picked up the books and dropped them in.

"Yes," he replied, shutting the drawer with a bang bang.

"Hey, no need to be embarra.s.sed, Charles. I'm impressed you read Latin."

"My nurse taught me. She liked the cla.s.sics." He turned around and smiled. "I'm glad you're here. I wanted to-"

"Wait a second," I said, breaking in. "I appreciate the flowers and all, but I'm afraid I've misled you."

"I know all about you. How could you mislead me?" he asked, frowning.

"I have. I think." I paused. I might as well get right to the point. "I don't want a relations.h.i.+p, Charles. It's not you," I said, rus.h.i.+ng on. "I'm not interested in that with anyone."

"You're rejecting me?" he asked in a shocked voice.

"Charles, how can I reject you when I don't even know you?" I asked, surprised at his reaction.

"You could get to know me," he said with a pout.

"No, Charles, I don't think so," I said quietly.

He stuck out his bottom lip. "You're like the others, after all. I thought, after I'd met you, that you had some goodness in you. I was wrong."

What an odd thing to say.

I eyed the distance between the door and me. I took a careful step in that direction.

"I'm sorry if you've been hurt by other people, but I can't be involved with anyone right now."

Charles's reaction made me uncomfortable. His blue eyes glinted while he watched me.

I edged myself backward toward the door, and as I did, I made a snap decision.

Time to get the h.e.l.l out of here.

I pivoted on my heel and ran, not slowing till I reached my car.

Driving home, I couldn't get over Charles's strange behavior. We'd talked maybe three times, but he acted like we were involved. Was he that crazy?

I peeked at the clock on my dashboard. It was close to nine o'clock. I made a fast call to check on Abby and talked to my mother. Abby was fine, Mother was fine. Dad, who she'd called before returning to the hospital, was fine. Everybody was fine. Except me. Comacho was getting ready to arrest me.

A sense of unease p.r.i.c.ked at me. I tried to trap its source, but it slid away. I drummed my fingers on the steering column. If I got arrested, the killer, the witch hunter, might win.

Yanking the steering wheel around, I made a fast U-turn in the middle of the street. Darci had said I needed to learn more about the history of witches, so I would. I headed to the library.

At the top of the steps, I fished my keys out of my backpack and unlocked the door. Hitting the light switches on my way, I headed to the reference section. I found the books I wanted right away. After pulling them off the shelf, I went down the stairs to my office.

I hesitated at the door to my office and looked around.

The pictures of Abby and my parents stared at me from my desk. My chair was pushed in just like I always left it at the end of the day. The clutter on the desk was in its normal spot.

Boy, do I miss this place. I have to find the killer so my life can go back to normal. Well, at least normal for a witch and a psychic.

Settling down at my desk, I opened the first book and started reading about the Salem Witch Trials.

An hour and half later, I'd finished.

I propped my feet on my desk and thought about what I'd read.

What had started out as a game of fortune-telling between a group of girls in the winter of 1692 soon became something more sinister.

The girls began to suffer from fits, convulsions. Finding no physical reason, the doctor diagnosed they were bewitched. Charges of witchcraft were brought against the girls by clergyman Samuel Parris. When questioned, at first the girls resisted naming names, but soon, they named a slave, t.i.tuba, then Sarah Osborne and Sarah Good. More names were to come, and, by the time the last witch trial was held in January of 1693, over twenty people had been executed and their property seized. Many of the convictions were based on the testimony of one of the girls, twelve-year-old Anne Putnam. Terror reigned and anyone who spoke out against the trials was at risk of being accused themselves.

I flipped back through the pages and looked at the names of those executed, in most cases, by hanging. One man, Giles Corey, was pressed to death after he refused to answer the court's questions during his trial. He was bound and taken to a field where, each time he refused to answer, his tormentors piled more rocks on his body. It took him two days to die. He was eighty years old.

I'd heard about pressing before, but when? Suddenly it came to me-Darci on the way to Iowa City had been telling me about an article she'd read.

I ran upstairs to the magazine rack and found the article. Taking it with me, I went back to my office and skimmed through it.

Exactly as Darci had told me. An old woman, thought odd by her neighbors, had disappeared from her cabin. Fifteen years later, her bones were found under a pile of rocks in the middle of the woods. It happened in Ma.s.sachusetts.

Had someone tried to get the old woman to confess to witchcraft? What could've happened to make someone suspect her of being a witch? Did she have a squint, too, like Gus? I looked at a photo of her in the magazine; it didn't appear she had a squint. Had she been a witch?

I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath. What about the people in Salem? Were they witches? One woman had cursed a judge as she stood on the gallows. She'd said, "May G.o.d give you blood to drink, for taking my life." Twenty-five years later, the judge died from a hemorrhage in the throat, literally drowning on his own blood. Coincidence?

Tired, I was getting nowhere. I rubbed my eyes again. Did the book mention the name of the judge? I was so exhausted, I couldn't remember. I'd look one more time and go home.

My finger skimmed down the page, looking for the judge's name, I didn't find it. But another name jumped out at me. A name I'd seen recently.

Oh my G.o.d! Follow the pattern Abby had told me and here it was: the pattern. How could I have missed it?

I grabbed the other book and searched until I found what I was looking for.

I read the word out loud. "MalleusMaleficarum."

"That's right, Ophelia," said a voice from the doorway, "The Hammer of Witches. An excellent guide on how to seek out witches and destroy them."

Charles.

Chapter Thirty-Three.

Charles Thornton leaned carelessly against the door-jamb, one hand in his pocket. In his other he held a very s.h.i.+ny, very nasty knife. The one I'd seen the day I'd found Gus's body. If I'd had any doubts, they were gone at the sight of the knife.

The runes had told the truth. A hammer lying beneath a calm surface. Only it wasn't Mjolnir Mjolnir, the hammer of Thor, I sought. It was The Hammer of Witches The Hammer of Witches and finding it would lead me to a killer beneath the calm surface of an ordinary man. and finding it would lead me to a killer beneath the calm surface of an ordinary man.

Too bad I was a little late figuring it out. I stared at the knife. Why couldn't the runes have given me his initials or something? Instead of clues couched in mystery.

Charles noticed my eyes fixed on the knife. He held it up in front of his face, turning it this way and that. "Like it? It's a replica of a medieval dagger. The knights carried them." He smiled, watching the way the fluorescent light flashed on the silver blade. "My mother told me stories of the men who carried daggers similar to this one." He pointed the knife toward me. "I used it to kill your friend, you know."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" I cried, springing to my feet.

He motioned, with the knife, for me to sit down. "Now, now," he said. "I'm not ready to end this yet, but if you don't behave, I will." He pursed his lips in a pout. "I have something special planned for you, but I want us to talk first."

"Okay," I said, sitting down and picking up a pen. The longer we talked, the longer I lived. I drew a doodle of a hammer on a piece of paper. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I didn't mean to kill your friend." He stopped and sighed. "I've always felt bad about him. It was was his fault, though. He shouldn't have chased me." his fault, though. He shouldn't have chased me."

"Brian chased you? When?" I asked, perplexed.

He pushed away from the door and took a step inside my office. "That night at your apartment. I was there, you know. In back. On the porch. I'd been watching you through the window." He smiled at the memory. "I'd watched you so many nights, Ophelia. Watched and waited for the perfect moment. And when the moment came, he spoiled it for me."

"How?"

"Oh, my foot hit a pop can when I was sneaking off your porch. He heard it and came running around the side of the house." Charles frowned. "He chased me all the way back to the van I'd stolen. We fought; he fell against the b.u.mper and was knocked out. After that it was easy."

Charles walked over to the pictures of Abby and my parents. Picking them up, he looked the pictures over.

Yuck, he's touching my things. My lip curled in disgust. If I lived through this, I'd have to disinfect everything in here.

He set the picture frames down in the same spot.

Studying their positions, he moved Abby's over a touch. Satisfied, he strolled back toward my desk.

"You said, 'After that it was easy'?" I reminded him.

"Oh yes," he said, remembering. "I threw him in the van, took him out in the woods, and killed him. I drove back to town and disposed of the body in the Dumpster. I was angry, though, and got carried away."

Carried away? He'd butchered Brian.

Running his finger down the side of the blade, he kept talking. "I thought the pentagram on his forehead was a nice touch." He threw his hands wide. "You see, if he hadn't chased me, he'd be alive today. You'd be dead, but your friend would've lived."

"Why me, Charles? I've done you no harm."