Smoke on the Water Read online

  “Peggy’s bringing Mary back.”

  Willow took a sip of her coffee. “What did she say?”

  “Mary? Or Peggy?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned her coffee cup this way and that. Someone must have recently washed the thing since several droplets ran down the side. He hadn’t spilled while pouring coffee, at least not that much. The sun sparked off the moisture. Definitely water and not coffee.

  The cup fell, shattering across the floor into two dozen shards. Coffee splashed onto Sebastian’s muddy boots and Willow’s tennies.

  Sebastian leaped to his feet, his own cup falling and breaking. He needed both hands to catch Willow as she pitched forward.

  “Peggy,” she said, and a single tear rolled down her cheek.

  The phone began to ring.

  *

  Dr. Frasier helped me to the couch, made me lie down before he answered the phone. I could tell by the catch in his breathing that what I’d seen in the water was real.

  Peggy was dead.

  “What about Mary?” He listened. “All right. Thank you for calling. I’ll notify her family.”

  Peggy’s daughter. Her new granddaughter. I wasn’t sure how many others would be even more devastated by this news than I was. A fountain of tears leaked from my eyes and tracked down the side of my face to further dampen my hair.

  Dr. Frasier moved to my side.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “What did you do?”

  I shook my head and tears flew like rain. I’d seen it, but not in time. Why not? Maybe because I’d avoided the water for too long. I’d been selfish, childish, and Peggy had paid the price.

  “What did they say?” I asked.

  Quickly he told me what I’d already seen. Mary was gone. She’d had the presence of mind to escape while the “bitch-whore” had used her athame on Peggy. To be fair, Mary had tried to warn Peggy that the woman was up to no good. Peggy hadn’t listened, and she’d died for it. Luckily for Mary, Peggy had held on long enough to exonerate her and implicate the true killer. I doubted my vision would have been as convincing as Peggy’s dying words.

  “Would you like to talk to your psychiatrist?” Dr. Frasier murmured.

  “No.” There was nothing she could do now. Nothing any of us could.

  “Then I’m going to send you back to solitary.”

  “No.” I sat up. “Why?”

  “Whoever tried to hurt you is still out there.” His lips compressed.

  I wanted to run my thumb along them until they loosened up.

  “Maybe in here.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

  I was so jealous of those fingers.

  “I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you.”

  Warmth spread through me. It was almost like he cared.

  “I have to deal with Peggy.”

  “What about Mary?”

  “The Three Harbors PD is pretty motivated to find her, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “They’ve got some things going on there—”

  I remembered what I’d seen at the house, in my vision. An upside-down pentagram on the wall. Black magic? Satanism? There’d been other things in the room my mind had shied away from.

  “Are they up to it?” Mary wasn’t the run-of-the-mill escapee, and what was going on there did not appear very run-of-the-mill either. What did lately?

  “I hope so. We can talk more later, but right now—”

  “Okay.” I lifted my hand to be helped up. He took it and electricity zapped between us. We both jerked back.

  I got up by myself.

  The rest of that day passed, a night, then another day dawned. Then again, maybe it was two. Three? Trying to keep track of time in solitary was like trying to lasso fog.

  At some point I asked about Mary. She hadn’t been found. I started to get worried. What could have happened?

  I requested water; I stared into it for hours and saw nothing. I didn’t have much choice.

  I reopened one of my hand wounds and squeezed a drop of blood into the glass. As it spread outward, the call of the wild rose, filling the room with the howls of wolves—a lot of them.

  “What the—?” The mutter of Deux, who was on duty outside my door, made me think he’d heard them too. I had no time to wonder why.

  My hair stirred in a breeze that wasn’t. I felt the storm.

  No, I brought the storm. I had to.

  This time the tempest did not come to me. I sent it to …

  “Them,” I whispered.

  “Willow?” Deux said. “What are you doing?”

  I wasn’t sure what I was doing, so I ignored him.

  Outside my barred window, the sun shone, but the instant I closed my eyes I saw a stormy sky. Clouds billowed—they looked like women. They looked like me, times three.

  The cloud women’s hair flowed from one to the next, the ends of one becoming the ends of the next. Their cloud fingers stretched toward each other, and when they met, lightning happened. Then rain tumbled down.

  “Stop it,” Deux shouted.

  How did he know I was doing it? It was a storm. They happened all the time. Though never like this.

  The earth shook. The sky went white. I smelled fire, ice, blood, earth.

  Two of the cloud women merged—they were one—the third floated apart. No, the third fell backward. Next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor, clutching at my chest, which felt as if that strange, curved knife—an athame—had been plunged in deep.

  The lights flickered—off, on—and in the instant when the eyes flickered too, I swore I saw that knife in my chest. But when I reached up to touch it, I touched nothing but air.

  In the distance, at war with the howl of the wolves and the thunder that was the storm, I could have sworn someone was laughing.

  Then the darkness descended and I heard, saw, knew nothing more.

  Chapter 14

  “We have been unable to locate Mary McAllister.”

  Special Agent Nic Franklin had, indeed, called Sebastian. The agent was in Three Harbors. Whatever had happened to the Gilletts had also happened there. Sebastian didn’t envy the man. Sounded like a hellish case.

  “I heard Mary made a friend in your facility. Might she have told this friend something that would help us find her?”

  “Doubtful,” Sebastian said. “But I’ll ask.”

  “Detective Hardy said that you directed him to a police report from several years ago, where a young woman attempted to kill a man she thought would stab, brand, and burn her. Can you tell me how she knew this?”

  “No. Did Hardy talk to the guy?”

  “He’s disappeared.”

  That was disturbing.

  “I really need to find Mary McAllister,” Franklin murmured.

  “She’s a delusional woman wearing slippers and a jumpsuit,” Sebastian said. “How hard could it be?”

  “You lost her in the first place, Doctor. How’d that happen?”

  As Sebastian hadn’t a clue, he ignored the question and asked one of his own. “Do you know who killed my caseworker?”

  “A woman who goes by the name of Mistress June.”

  “Catch her yet?”

  “The woods are pretty deep and dense.”

  “So, no.”

  “No,” the agent snapped, and hung up.

  “That went well,” Sebastian said.

  He slept on the couch in his office that night. When he got up the next morning he appeared as if he’d been sleeping there for days. He certainly felt like it.

  He filled out the massive number of reports necessary when a patient escaped, as well as the ones required for the death of an employee. He spoke with Dr. Tronsted, who’d sounded as tired of getting his calls as he was of making them.

  “You’re going to have to go before a board of review sooner rather than later,” she said. “It would be good if you had something to tell them besides ‘got me.’”

&n
bsp; Sebastian had to agree, but it wasn’t looking good.

  About mid-afternoon, a storm rumbled in the distance. The wind howled so loudly Sebastian could have sworn there was a pack of wolves in the parking lot. He even went to the window and peered out. Oddly, the sun shone on the facility, though the northwestern horizon was a nasty shade of gray-green.

  The power flickered. What was it with the electricity around here?

  A commotion in the hall had him turning just as Deux appeared. “Dr. Frasier, there’s a problem in solitary.”

  “Willow,” Sebastian said before he could stop himself.

  “How’d you know, sir?”

  “She’s the only patient in solitary right now.” Sometimes Sebastian wondered how smart this guy was.

  “Right.” Deux scrubbed his hand through his hair. “She was staring out the window, kind of like you were.”

  “And?” Sebastian followed him down the hall at a fast clip.

  “She passed out. I can’t get her to wake up.”

  “You left her alone?”

  “It’s solitary,” Deux said, as Sebastian started to run.

  Her door was locked. Sebastian peered in the window. She was there, on the floor, still unconscious. Unless she was dead. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

  Sebastian found his keys. His hand shook so much he dropped them, then he had a heck of a time getting the right one into the lock. Once he did, he shoved the door open so fast and hard the thing banged against the wall and almost smacked him in the face. Willow never moved.

  Falling to his knees, Sebastian set his fingers to her wrist, let out a whoosh of relief when her pulse thudded strong and sure. “Willow?”

  Not a flicker of her eye, not a movement on her face. Her chest didn’t seem to rise and fall. He set his finger beneath her nose and felt not even the slightest trickle of air. Perhaps the pulse he’d felt in her wrist had merely been the echo of his own thunderous heart.

  “Do you want me to call—?”

  “Do you feel a pulse?”

  Deux hunkered down and set his fingertips to Willow’s neck. “Yeah.”

  “Help me get her onto the bed.”

  The two of them carried her there. Sebastian pulled a chair to her side then wasn’t sure what to do beyond take her hand, which he did.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Like I told you, she was staring outside—for a really long time. I asked what she was doing. She didn’t answer. She didn’t seem to hear, then down she went. No reason at all.”

  Sebastian felt her head. No lumps from a fall. He checked her eyes, pupils not fixed. They responded to light. It was as if she were in a very deep sleep.

  The phone began to ring at the desk, and Deux shifted. “Sir?”

  “Go ahead,” Sebastian said. “We’ll give her a few more minutes.”

  If she didn’t come to soon, he’d have to transfer her to the nearest hospital for a CT scan.

  He squeezed her hand and memory slammed into him. So hard, so dark and painful, he gasped. He’d sat at his sister’s side just like this. He’d begged her to come back to him. He’d held her hand, gotten no response. And then she’d died.

  “Willow!”

  She responded no better than his sister had.

  Sebastian broke out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t.

  He patted her cheeks. No response. Her skin was as soft as the petals of a rose. She looked like a rose—Briar Rose. Wasn’t that the name of Sleeping Beauty?

  With her golden hair and her face in repose, Willow resembled that Disney princess more than anyone should. She even wore nearly the same color of blue today that the poor doomed girl had worn when she’d fallen into that deep dark sleep—though the blue in the cartoon was a gown and Willow’s was a T-shirt. Nevertheless …

  Sebastian had watched enough Disney princess movies with his sister to know these things. As children they’d been so close. He’d thought everything would be all right, but he’d screwed up somehow, and he still didn’t know how. Where had he gone wrong with Emma? When had she stopped believing in fairy tales and decided to create an alternate reality of her own? Why hadn’t he noticed until it was too late?

  His guilt swamped him, and he let his head fall forward. He’d failed his sister. He’d been young, in school, distracted. Then he’d thought he knew so much, that his shiny new degree could save her. After she’d died he’d tried to atone by helping others, but he doubted he’d ever be able to help enough people to make up for the one he had not.

  Willow’s fingers moved in his. Just a little; he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, so he held his breath and he went very still.

  “Shhh.”

  Her eyes remained closed. Had she shushed him, or did he just want a response from her so badly he’d imagined one?

  “Hush.”

  This time he saw her lips move as her fingers tightened. “Willow?” he asked, but she seemed to have gone back to sleep.

  The really strange thing was the odd sense of peace that came over him, dissipating his guilt, removing his anger and fear. He almost felt … healed.

  Which made no damn sense at all.

  *

  In the darkness lurked many things. Some frightening, some welcoming. Some I understood and some I did not.

  There was a pyre—a woman and man tied to a stake. Considering … everything, I figured they were witches, or at least the dark-clad fellows surrounding them thought so. One took a ring and branded them both. His back remained to me; I could not see his face, or hear his voice, or those of the others, three of whom held infants in their arms.

  The fire whooshed high; when it fell the man, the woman, and the infants were gone, their cries echoing through the ages.

  That laughter I’d heard before now came at me from the dark—here, there, everywhere—before it faded. And while I was glad it was gone, I was also disturbed. Where had it gone? Where had he gone?

  Sadness flowed through me, and it smelled of sun and limes. Dr. Frasier. Sebastian. He hurt. He ached. He was in pain. I took that pain into myself and his went away.

  A gunshot. Into that darkness came a new soul. Closer and closer. I reached out, my fingers almost touched …

  I sat up, my gasp still audible in the darkness of my room. My cheeks were wet with tears. The moon spilled through the window, across the floor. Something moved just past that silvery light.

  “Mary?”

  “Do you know where she is?” Dr. Frasier took the chair at my side.

  “Gone.” I wiped my face.

  “You had us all frightened.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for over twenty-four hours.”

  I glanced at the moon. From this angle I couldn’t tell if it was full but there was a kind of humming power to the light that I was beginning to recognize.

  “I’ve consulted with several doctors at the Marshfield Clinic. If you weren’t coherent by morning, I was going to take you there myself.”

  Sebastian didn’t seem to realize that he held my hand so I remained very still, afraid he would realize and stop. The facility was quiet—solitary confinement in a mental institution in the middle of the night quiet. I should know.

  “Do you know why you passed out?”

  I shook my head.

  “I examined you and couldn’t find anything wrong.”

  He’d examined me? My face heated, and I was thankful for the darkness. I wanted him to examine me again.

  “Did you have a vision?”

  Had I? No. Not before I’d gone wherever it was I’d gone. But while I’d been gone …

  I wasn’t certain what that had been.

  “You need to tell me the truth, Willow.”

  I remembered the storm—distant instead of here—and my feeling that I’d sent it somewhere, to someone.

  “I brought the storm.”

  The sudden silence made me look at him. From his
expression, I guess I’d said that out loud.

  “Was there a storm?”

  “Not here. Though the lights flickered. The horizon was green.”

  “Tornado.” My heart began to beat faster. Had I brought a tornado? Hurt people? Killed people? Why couldn’t I remember anything but the swirl of the wind, the women in the clouds, the howl of the wolves, and then darkness?

  “No mention of a tornado on the news. No sirens.”

  That was good. Except I might have sent the thing far enough away that it wasn’t on our news, and the sirens …

  “It would have to be very close for the tornado sirens to sound.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” His gaze on my face said he was keeping something else in mind. Like upping my meds.

  I wasn’t sure if my vision—if that’s what it had been—was of the future or the past. It might even be of the present.

  “Is the moon full?” I asked.

  “How’d you know that?”

  I decided not to mention the way that it hummed. “I can count.”

  “Do you really think that you brought a storm?”

  “No.” I didn’t think it; I knew it.

  “When you lie, you bite your lip.”

  I stopped biting my lip. His fingers tightened around mine. I made the mistake of tightening mine back and he looked down, then yanked his away so fast you’d think I had Ebola.

  He stood, cleared his throat and moved away. “I’d hoped you were improving, but I’m starting to wonder if you’re getting worse.”

  I was improving, because I was embracing what I was, who I was, rather than fighting against it. People had been telling me I was crazy all my life, and I’d believed them. But if the visions were real, if I did bring the storm, if I was a witch, then I wasn’t crazy at all. Never had been. But how did I convince a psychiatrist of that?

  Telling wasn’t going to do me any good. I’d have to show him.

  “I’m not crazy,” I said.

  “All right.”

  My eyes narrowed. He was placating me, which only made my burgeoning annoyance burgeon. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

  “I’ll prove it to you.” I stood, swayed a bit. I should probably eat something, but I had bigger fish to fry.

  “Ha,” I said.

  “I feel compelled to mention that talking to yourself isn’t helping.”