Sisters Of The Craft: Heat Of The Moment Part 22

"Wasn't easy."

"It's impossible."

"Not."

"You weren't limping when you grabbed me behind Becca's place," Reitman pointed out.

Owen doubted that. He also doubted the guy had been noticing anything besides Owen's hands around his throat.

"You walked from my parking lot to your truck before, and I'd have noticed if you were doing that." She jabbed a finger at Owen's leg.

Owen's hand fell to his thigh, and he rubbed at the ache. The movement made him remember Becca's palm landing in the same place only an hour before when he'd helped her stand. An accident, but he'd enjoyed it.

In times past the simple brush of her fingers would have made most of his blood pool north of his thigh, leaving none in his leg to pulse and pain him. That hadn't happened today, but he liked to remember the days when it had. Maybe the memories, the distraction, the shock-who knew-had caused him to forget the pain for a few minutes. It was back.

It didn't matter why he hadn't limped before, he'd done so now and Becca had seen. She pitied him. So did Reitman and George. If his mom had any brain cells left, she might as well.

Owen had to get out of this room-recoup, regroup, recon.

"I'll make that call." He gimped his way into the hall.

Becca followed. "I could do it."

"They aren't going to tell you anything. Privacy rules."

Her gaze flicked to the stairs, then back to him.

"I can manage the stairs, Becca. If I was that bad off don't you think you'd have noticed I had a limp before now? In a few weeks I'll be good as new. I just need more rest."

"You aren't getting any here."

"Not today," he agreed.

Thankfully the stairs wound upward, disappearing from view of the hallway after Owen had climbed the first three. Then he could start taking them with his good leg, pull the bad one up, use his good leg, pull the bad one up. Rather than alternating right, left, right, like the rest of the world.

Two miserable minutes later he reached the porch, wiped the sweat that had sprouted during the stair-climbing portion of the program from his brow, and called the mental health facility. He asked for Peggy Dalberg, his mother's caseworker.

"Missing anyone?" he asked when she picked up the phone.

"How do you know?"

"Starin' right at her." Or close enough.

"Where?"

"Her house in Three Harbors."

"She's never gone there before."

"What do you mean 'before'?"

He had the presence of mind to lower his voice, rather than shouting like he wanted to. He didn't need anyone else knowing about this.

"She's escaped two times. Three if you count today."

"And no one called me?"

"I thought you were in Afghanistan."

"The phones still work."

"What would you have done from there?"

"I still should have been told."

"You would have been if we hadn't found her fairly quickly. We always have."

"How long has she been AWOL this time?"

"Late last night."

"You're sure?"

Peggy drew in a long breath. "Since she got all the way there, yes. Unless someone gave her a ride. We post signs on the highway that people shouldn't, but no one reads as well as they should. Or maybe they don't comprehend as well as we hope."

Owen grunted. Preaching to the choir there. "From the looks of what's left of her shoes, she walked."

"She was definitely here at lights out."

"Okay." His mom was clear for the animal sacrifices, as Owen had found them yesterday afternoon. And, according to Peggy, she'd never come here before.

That they knew of.

"When was the last time she escaped?"

Papers rustled. "A month ago. Or near enough. Not unusual. The full moon is like that."

"You lost me."

"The full moon sets some people off."

"Werewolves?"

She laughed. "Good one. Ask any nurse, psychiatric worker, cop, waitress about the full moon. Makes normal people twitchy. Makes twitchy people a lot twitchier."

Owen would take her word for it.

"Has she always escaped on or near the full moon?"

Papers rustled again. "Yeah."

"Where's she gone the other times?"

"Small towns nearby. No rhyme or reason to them that we can tell. If she lived in any of them before, it isn't in her record."

"What are they?"

She ran through the names.

"Never heard of them."

"We thought she was just running, trying to get as far away as she could. There were some issues with the voices, telling her things. You know how she is. But maybe she was trying to get home all the time and never made it until now."

"How has she been escaping?"

"If we knew that, she wouldn't be able to keep doing it. It's like she's being beamed out."

Owen pulled the phone away from his ear, frowned at it, put it back. "Who is this?"

"Not funny," she muttered.

"Neither are you. My mom is a danger to others, which is why she's incarcerated."

"I know why she's incarcerated. I just don't know how she's getting out. It's a little hard to get good information from people who think tinfoil hats are more than a s.h.i.+ny fas.h.i.+on statement."

"What have they said?"

"Where do you think I got the 'Beam me up, Scotty' explanation?"

"Fair enough."

There was still the issue of his mom trying to kill Reitman. That she'd called him a witch could not be an accident considering what was going on here, there, everywhere, not to mention that he was one, or thought he was. How had Mary McAllister known that? He doubted asking her would lead to a worthwhile answer.

"Anyone gibbering about witches?"

Silence fell. He could almost see Peggy gaping.

"Have you had someone check up on us?"

"Should I?"

"Feel free," she said, unconcerned. Which went a long way toward his being the same. "Your mom made a new friend."

"She has friends?"

"One. They share a common interest."

"My mom was never interested in witches before."

Except those few times she'd thought she was one. But she'd also thought she was a bird and a dragon and a jet plane. Which meant her obsession was flying. Or at least it had been. Why had that changed? Because her "friend" had been whispering sweet nothings, or maybe bad somethings?

"If this person upsets my mom maybe they shouldn't be together."

Kindergarten basic-separate the troublemakers. Probably worked pretty well in mental health facilities too. And prisons. And life. Like the book said: Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.

"Your mom gets even more upset when they're separated."

"Who is it?" Owen asked. His mom had hooked up with some real losers in the past. Why should now be any different?

"A young woman with problems."

"That narrows it down."

"I can't tell you more than that. If your mother does, that's her prerogative."

"My mom's a little 'blah-blah, die, witch' right now."

Shocked silence descended. Owen couldn't blame her.

"That doesn't sound like your mother."

From what Owen could recall, the words might be different but the sentiment was the same.

"She was interested in witches," Peggy continued. "As it's a peaceful religion, and we're a peaceful people, I didn't see the harm in teaching her."

"Teaching her? You?"

"I follow the tenets of Wicca."

Now the stunned silence came from Owen.

"You're sure she said 'die, witch'?" Peggy asked.

"That was the gist," Owen said. "The real kicker was when she tried to kill one."

This time the silence pulsed for three ticks of the clock.

"I'll be right there."

Owen's voice lifted several times-anger? fear? both?-but I couldn't hear what he was saying.

Mary seemed content with Reggie. Reggie was content with her. You'd think animals would sense crazy, and an animal like Reggie better than most. Maybe he did, but Mary's kind of crazy wasn't the kind that bothered him. She didn't smell like explosives and ... whatever else a terrorist smelled like.

"Hush," Mary said, and stroked his head.

Hush.