Superstition

Big Announcement!

2008-08-17T21:43:00.001-07:00

I am once again following the esteemable Gavin Williams' lead and have taken a new home over at DigitalNovelists.com.

Starting Monday (today), all new updates for both AEOL and Superstition (as well as archives) can be found at http://allantmichaels.digitalnovelists.com.

I hope to see you there!

Chapter 18

2008-08-16T22:20:00.001-07:00

“Missing?” Peter Scofield asked.

“Yes,” Dashiell replied. “We believe the killer took it after finishing with your mother.”

Peter Scofield thought about this, then nodded. “Well there you go. Elizabeth would have taken it, so that its details would never see the light of day. While she has her flaws, lack of intelligence is not one of Elizabeth’s failings. She would know Mother’s death would only fuel interest in her book. Therefore, it can never be allowed to see the light of day.”

“You realize,” Regina said, “that means she’s probably destroyed the manuscript.”

“Of course,” Peter Scofield said. “That would stand to reason.”

“Well, absent that manuscript, there’s nothing, other than your theory, which ties your sister to your mother’s death.”

Peter Scofield half smiled. “As I said, Detective, Elizabeth is not lacking in intelligence.”

“There’s another problem,” Regina said. “The timeline doesn’t fit. We know your mother was alive when the reporter and photographer from Washington Woman left at 11 a.m. Watson didn’t report seeing your sister at all this morning. That doesn’t seem like the sort of detail he’d leave out.”

This time, Peter Scofield did smile. “Detective Robins, all of us children have been sneaking in and out of the house without disturbing Watson for years. It was the only way we could indulge in our various youthful discretions. It even became a game. I assure you, Elizabeth was quite capable of coming and going from the house without alerting anyone to her presence.”

“As are you?” Regina asked pointedly.

“Of course. But why would I want to harm my mother? And more importantly, why would I tell you I had the ability to do so undetected?”

“That seems to be a question we’ve been running into a lot today,” Regina said.

Dashiell had his arms crossed, one hand stroking his chin, deep in thought. Finally, he spoke. “Mr. Scofield, you know why Mr. Watson hired me, don’t you?”

“Because you’re reputed to be the best occult detective in the Metropolitan area. You had an exemplary record of government service and the police routinely hire you to help in cases involving the occult.”

“Exactly,” Dashiell replied. “Which leaves me wondering…even assuming your sister had a motive to kill your mother, how she would have accomplished it? Specifically, how she would have done it in a way that required my services?”

“Oh that’s easy, Mr. Aldridge. Elizabeth has been interested in the occult for years.”

Chapter 17

2008-08-06T21:18:00.000-07:00

Silence reigned for several seconds.

Finally, Dashiell broke it. “Your sister? Why do you think that?”

“I think it had to do with her autobiography. My mother was being quite frank. Some of the information may have been….less than flattering.”

“So you’ve seen a copy?” Regina asked.

“Not as such, no. But mother was completely open about her book with us. She called each of us in and told us what she planned to write. I didn’t speak directly with Elizabeth about it, but I know she was quite upset when she left Mother’s office.”

Dashiell and Regina exchanged a look. Dashiell spoke next. “And when was that, Mr. Scofield?”

Peter paused for a moment and thought. “It must have been….about two weeks ago now is when Mother spoke to me. She spoke to Elizabeth just before me. I passed her on my way in. She appeared to be in tears.”

“What sort of information was your mother going to reveal about your sister?” Regina interjected.

“I don’t know all the details of my sister’s youth. But I understand there were some….indiscretions. Things that would be quite embarrassing for someone in our social circle.”

“Embarrassing?” Dashiell commented. “There’s a far cry to being embarrassed by something and being willing to kill over it. Especially when the victim is your own mother.”

“Mr. Aldridge, you need to understand. My sister has a certain reputation among her friends. She was held up by all of our friends' parents as the ideal to which they should strive. That image has carried with her to this day. If it were to be tarnished, or worse yet, flat out destroyed, it would devastate her.” He paused. “Sad to say, yes, I believe that protecting her reputation would be enough to drive her to this desperate end. Especially given….”

“Especially given, what?” Dashiell prompted.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Aldridge, Detective Robins. There are some things we just don’t discuss outside the family. Certain topics we are ingrained not to mention. It is a habit that is hard to break, especially after so many years. But then, there’s no need to hide it from you. You’ve doubtless already read, or will shortly read, Mother’s book.”

Regina and Dashiell exchanged another look. “Actually….” Regina began, letting her sentence trail off.

“What?” Peter asked.

“The only copy of the manuscript is missing.”

Next>

Chapter 16

2008-08-03T23:47:00.000-07:00

The doors opened on a plush lobby area. Dashiell and Regina stepped out and turned to the left. There, behind a set of glass doors sat a reception desk. The desk was backed by dark wood paneling. Gold letters spelled out the name of the firm, Scofield and Associates.

Dashiell shook his head. Leave it to the old man to hog all the glory. Most other law firms had at least two partner names on the wall. Crowell and Moring. Powell Goldstein. Wilmer Hale. But William Scofield, the family patriarch, had insisted on top, and only billing. It was a subtle reminder that even though other lawyers might make partner, compared to the Scofields, they were merely associates.

Dashiell stepped forward and held the door for Regina. She walked up to the reception desk and Dashiell stood next to her. “Dashiell Aldridge and Regina Robins to see Peter Scofield,” he said.

“Yes, of course Mr. Aldridge. If you’ll please have a seat, I’ll let Mr. Scofield know you’re here.”

Dashiell looked over in the indicated direction. There was a large slab of white tiled floor, upon which sat several large plush chairs, upholstered in what looked like calf leather. There was a large table, upon which sat a variety of legal publications, as well as copies of the Economist and Foreign Affairs.

“Mr. Scofield will be with you in just a moment,” the receptionist, a young man in his early twenties said. “May I get you something to drink? Water? Soda?”

“No thanks,” Regina said. The young man looked at Dashiell, who shook his head.

Dashiell settled into one of the large chairs as Regina paced around.

Two or three minutes passed. Dashiell was just about to grab the copy of the Economist when movement caught his eye. There was a spiral staircase in the middle of an open area, off to the left of the reception area. A well dressed man was walking down it. He appeared to be dressed in well tailored slacks, an Oxford blue shirt, dark tie and suspenders. He wasn’t wearing a jacket.

When he reached the lobby floor, Dashiell noted expensive-looking black leather shoes, polished to a mirror shine. He coughed lightly, and when Regina looked his way, he thrust his chin toward the man. She turned to look at him as he came up, extending a hand.

“Mr. Aldridge? Detective Robins?” Dashiell nodded an affirmative. “Peter Scofield. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but under the circumstances I think you’ll understand my lack of enthusiasm.”

“Of course, Mr. Scofield,” Regina said, shaking his hand. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

Dashiell levered himself out of the chair and also shook Scofield’s hand. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

“Right to the point, I like that,” Peter Scofield nodded. “Please, come to my office. What I need to tell you needs to be said in private.” Dashiell nodded and Peter Scofield headed back for the stairs. Dashiell and Regina followed. He led them down a hall on the upper floor to a large set of heavy oak doors. He held them open as they walked in to a large office. The entire far wall was floor-to-ceiling windows, with a view out over the downtown area. Thanks to the height restrictions in the D.C. building code, Dashiell could see the Capitol.

Peter Scofield shut the heavy doors and came around to his desk, leaning against it.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I understand that in murder investigations, the first twenty four hours are the most important.”

“Well, Mr. Scofield, you should know,” Regina said, casting a sidelong glance at Dashiell. “We haven’t officially ruled this case a homicide yet.”

Dashiell opened his mouth to protest when Peter Scofield made it unnecessary. “That’s why I called you here, Detective Robins. I wanted to tell you I think I know who killed my mother.”

Dashiell and Regina both froze. They looked at each other for a moment, before turning their eyes back to Peter Scofield. He answered the obvious question.

“I believe it was my sister, Elizabeth.”

Next>

Chapter 15

2008-07-30T00:17:00.001-07:00

He fished his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, trying to control his irritation. “Hello?

“Yes, this is Dashiell Aldridge, who’s this?” Dashiell listened for a moment and then looked up at Regina, his eyebrows raised in surprise. She looked at him questioningly in response.

“Hello Mr. Scofield. How can I help you?”

Regina mouthed “Mr. Scofield”? Dashiell nodded in response. “Yes, I’ve spoken with Mr. Watson….No, none of the suspects have panned out so far, sir.” He looked down at his watch. “Yes, sir. I can be there in half an hour. Do you mind if I bring my partner?” He paused. “Detective Regina Robins, Metro PD…..Very well, sir. We’ll be there soon.”

He closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. “What was that about?” Regina asked.

“That was Peter Scofield, the elder son. He told me he’s got some information that might be helpful. He didn’t want to say what it was over the phone, so he invited us over to his office.”

“And you told him we’d be there in half an hour? Dash, it’s rush hour. And his office is back downtown.”

Dashiell smiled. “Relax, Regina. Most of the traffic is heading out, it being so close to the end of the day. And his office is down on K. We could walk there in less time.”

“Not in this heat, Dash.” She shook her head, the hint of a smile appearing at the corners of her mouth.

He chuckled. “Of course not. But let’s go. His office is on 17^th and K. Finding parking won’t be easy.”

Dashiell slid into the passenger seat as Regina got behind the wheel. She pulled out into traffic and headed back downtown.

“So what do you think he has to tell us, Dash?”

“I have no idea. But hopefully it’ll be a motive. If we can figure out why Mrs. Scofield was killed, we might be able to figure out who did it.”

Regina nodded. They sat in silence for the rest of the ride. The tension of their fight had been broken, but it still hung in the air. Dashiell wondered what would have happened if his phone hadn’t rang when it did. He didn’t like fighting with Regina. She was his best friend and the only person he spent a considerable amount of time with.

She pulled into a garage near the corner of 18^th and K. She flashed her badge at the attendant and he waved her in. She grabbed a spot on the topmost level.

Dashiell exited the car and walked with Regina back up the ramp. They entered the glass doors of the building into a massive lobby and approached the reception desk.

“Dashiell Aldridge to see Peter Scofield.” The guard handed over a roster, and Dashiell and Regina signed in. He then walked them over to an elevator, pulling out a Kastle Key. He pressed the up button and when the golden doors opened, he leaned in, flashed the key over a sensor and pressed the button for the 8^th floor. He headed back to his desk as the doors closed.

Next>

Chapter 14

2008-07-26T00:09:00.001-07:00

Dashiell and Regina walked back towards Regina’s car. “So where does that leave us, Dash?”

“That’s a good question. Jessica and Carolyn backed each other up. So unless you believe they are part of a conspiracy, that counts both of them out. And as we’ve discussed previously, it makes no sense for Watson to have done it.”

“It’s possible that the death was natural, Dash.”

“But that doesn’t explain the absence of a soul.”

“Well, Dash, do souls always hang around for a full six hours?”

“Typically yes. And as far as we’ve been able to determine, we were there within three hours. And I’m not aware of any cases where a soul departed in that short a time absent outside influences.”

“Well, Dash….” She hesitated, stopping outside the door to her car.

“What is it, Regina?”

“Is…is it possible Watson was right? Is it possible that something went wrong with the spell?”

Dashiell shook his head. “No Regina. I followed the proscribed spells. I’ve done them successfully before. Something took her soul.”

“But Dash….even you admit it’s been a while since you’ve performed the spell.”

Dashiell stiffened a bit. “Regina, the spell was cast correctly. You haven’t doubted one of my spells since the first time we worked together.”

“I know Dash, but….”

“But what?”

“But unless we get something from the toxicology report, there’s nothing to indicate this death wasn’t natural, except for your inability to raise her soul. And all of our suspects have alibis. They don’t have opportunity, except for Watson, and he has no motive. And none of them have the means to make her soul disappear. Occam’s Razor says—“

“I don’t want to hear about Occam’s Razor, Regina. It rarely applies in my line of work, because Occam didn’t deal in the world of the occult.”

“I know, Dash…but we have to face facts.”

“And what fact is that? That I screwed up?”

“I’m not saying that Dash….”

“Then I’m not sure what you’re saying. Either I screwed up or someone killed Mrs. Scofield.”

“Well, Dash, if you come up with a suspect, be sure to let me know!”

Dashiell looked like he was about to respond when suddenly, his cell phone rang.

Next>

Chapter 13

2008-07-24T23:25:00.000-07:00

The office was sparsely furnished, the chairs and desk all slick black matte and chrome. The walls were painted a deep blue. Along the wall to the left of the doors was a large set of shelves on which sat a variety of cameras. Some were old-fashioned, while others were brand new. They ranged from old film 35mm cameras to ultra-modern digitals, with formats ranging from Polaroid to large format.

Dashiell and Regina stepped forward as Carolyn Bartlett allowed the doors to close and walked around the desk to take her seat. Dashiell and Regina sat as well. “I was terribly sorry to learn about Elaine. And to think I saw her just this morning.”

“That’s what we’d like to talk to you about,” Dashiell said. “We understand you may be one of the last people to see her alive.”

“I guess so. Jessica Hill and I went to see her on behalf of Washington Woman. But of course, you know that. I’m sorry. I’m a little shaken up.”

“You knew Mrs. Scofield well?” Regina asked.

“Not really. Elaine and I travelled in some of the same social circles. I’ve done some work for her and the family before. But it was a professional relationship.”

“Yet you call her Elaine,” Regina pointed out.

“Well, as I said, we’ve seen each other at parties and such. That was the limit of our social interaction.”

“Can you tell us about the interview?” Dashiell asked, trying to get the interview back on track.

“We arrived just before ten a.m. and I set up my lights while Jessica asked some preliminary questions. The interview got going in earnest and I went to work. I’m known for my documentary style when it comes to photos for interviews and other profiles. Just before eleven we wrapped things up and I packed up my equipment.”

“You don’t work with an assistant?” Dashiell asked.

“No, not in these situations. Having assistants around tends to hamper the flow of things and that affects the pictures. And I’m still fairly spry for my age.” She smiled.

“And that was the last time you saw Mrs. Scofield?” Regina interjected.

“Yes. Jessica and I left. I came back here and I assume she went back to her office. I’ve been here working ever since.”

“Yes, I wanted to ask about that. You said you were in the dark room. You still shoot with film?” Dashiell asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “For some shots, I do. Elaine Scofield was writing an autobiography. It was a look back at her life and I wanted to evoke that feeling by using an older style of photography. I lit her like they used to light Eva Gardner and other starlets. It was all very 1950s. So I went with three cameras. A digital for archival purposes, as well as medium and large format cameras. Nothing in the digital world can touch the sheer quality of a larger negative.”

Dashiell nodded. Regina was flipping through her notebook.

“Well, that matches up with what Miss Hill told us,” she said. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Bartlett.”

“Happy to help in any way I can, Detective. May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“How did Elaine die?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Bartlett, but we can’t discuss those sorts of details in an on-going investigation,” Regina answered.

“Of course, Detective. I was just curious, since the police were involved.” She paused. “It’s probably best I don’t know.”

Regina looked at Carolyn Bartlett’s face, and her own softened. “It was nothing gruesome. Mrs. Scofield was a powerful figure in Washington life and by all reports in excellent health. Her sudden demise was unexpected, and thus we felt it best to investigate pending a cause of death.” Regina hesitated. “I’d appreciate you not repeating that to anyone.”

Carolyn relaxed. “Of course, Detective. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Regina said.

“Well, we should get going, stop taking up your valuable time,” Dashiell said. He had been examining the various cameras on the shelves. He turned to go.

“Just one more thing,” Dashiell said, pausing at the glass double doors. “Did you happen to listen to the interview?”

Carolyn’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Detective, no. I was there while Elaine and Jessica were talking, but when I’m looking through the camera my mind is wholly focused on my work. I tend to tune everything else out. Why?”

Dashiell shrugged. “Just curious. It’s possible she said something that could be of use to us.”

“I’m sorry Detective. You’d have to ask Jessica for her notes.”

“Of course. Thank you for your time.”

Next>

Chapter 12

2008-07-15T23:08:00.001-07:00

Regina drove them the short distance over to Dupont Circle. While the gallery district hosted a great deal of Carolyn Bartlett’s work, her studio was located in an out of the way building not too far from Dashiell’s own office.

They entered the building and were confronted by a massive granite desk, behind which sat an officious looking man with close-cropped hair. He had a headset on with a microphone perched before his mouth. Behind him was a massive print of a still life, done in black and white. It featured a large white lily in a dark vase. Underneath were the words “Carolyn Bartlett Photography.”

“Carolyn Bartlett Photography, how may I help you?” Dashiell was about to say something when the man behind the desk spoke again. “I’m sorry, she’s not available at the moment, may I take a message?” He typed something on his computer keyboard. “I’m afraid she’s booked on the 17^th. It looks like she has an opening on the 23^rd.”

Dashiell turned to Regina, who raised an eyebrow, then flashed her badge at the man behind the desk. He gave it the barest glance and then finished typing. “We’ll see you then, Senator.”

He clicked a button on his desk and turned back to his computer, typing rapidly. It appeared for all the world as if he had forgotten Dashiell and Regina were standing there.

Regina began to tap her nails on the granite. After about thirty seconds, the officious little man turned his eyes toward her. “Yes, officer? How can I help you?”

“We’d like to see Ms. Bartlett,” Regina said, her tone a bit snappish.

“And do you have an appointment?”

“THIS is my appointment,” she replied, laying her badge on the desktop and tapping it.

“So that’s a no,” the little man said.

Regina’s upper lip began to curl in an expression Dashiell recognized as trouble.

“Please tell Ms. Bartlett that the police would like to see her,” he intervened. “We have some questions about her photo shoot this morning at Scofield Manor.”

The man’s eyes darted to Dashiell and looked him over. Dashiell felt as if the man could correctly guess the cost of his outfit and how much change he had in his pocket. “I’m sorry, sir, but Ms. Bartlett is very busy—“

“Oh send them back, Geoffrey,” a feminine voice arose from the air around the desk. Whoever had installed the hidden speakers had done a very good job.

“Very well, ma’am. You may head back.” He indicated with one hand a path to the right of the wall behind him.

Regina picked up her badge and stalked in the indicated direction, Dashiell hurrying after.

They walked behind the wall with the large painting and the hallway turned to the right, heading into the building’s interior. The walls were lined with various photos of famous people and beautiful places. Dashiell recognized some of them from magazine covers and others from art museums. There were a set of glass double doors at the end of the hallway and a woman who appeared to be in her early sixties was stepping out from them.

She was trim and dressed in well cut slacks, with a black turtleneck. Her hair was silver, not white, and hung loose around her shoulders.

“Good afternoon, officers. I’m Carolyn Bartlett. My apologies for Geoffrey. I was working in the darkroom and he knows I don’t like to be disturbed.”

“Not even for the police?” Regina asked somewhat sharply.

“I’m sorry officer. We regularly see agents from the Secret Service and U.S. Marshalls here, as well as numerous private bodyguards. Many of them try to intimidate Geoffrey and so he’s grown a prickly exterior. My services are in high demand and he’s very protective of my time.

"Now, I believe you said you had some questions about my visit to see Elaine Scofield this morning? Gayle Norton told me what happened. It’s just awful.”

Dashiell stepped forward before Regina said something she might regret. “Yes, a real tragedy. We just have a couple of questions. We’ve already spoken with Jessica Hill. We just need to confirm a few details.”

“Anything you need. I’m happy to help out in whatever way I can. Please, step into my office.” She held the door as Dashiell and Regina stepped inside.

Next>

Chapter 11

2008-07-12T23:36:00.003-07:00

“What do you think?” Dashiell asked as they walked back to Regina’s car.

“I don’t think she did it,” Regina replied.

Dashiell nodded. “I don’t think so either. Her surprise read as genuine to me, and she didn’t act like someone who has been caught by the police.”

“That was my thinking. So where does that leave us?”

“Well, clearly it leaves us with Ms. Bartlett.”

“But they were together. Bartlett couldn’t have killed her without Jessica knowing. Besides, Carolyn Bartlett is a world-renowned photographer. What reason would she have for killing Elaine Scofield? And more importantly, how would she have done it?”

“Both excellent questions,” Dashiell acknowledged. “I suppose when we discover the answers, we’ll have solved the mystery.”

Regina stopped walking and looked at Dashiell. “Would you stop talking like Sherlock Holmes. Doesn’t it make much more sense to say the butler did it? He had opportunity. If Bartlett’s story matches the one we just heard, then we’ll know Mrs. Scofield was alive at 11 am. And by his own admission, the only other person to visit the office was Watson.”

Dashiell kept walking, forcing Regina to match his stride. “That leaves two problems. First, as you pointed out, there’s the question of how he did it.”

“That’s your department,” she cut in.

Dashiell nodded. “Yes. But more importantly, there’s the fact that Watson came to us, well me, in particular. If he did it, why would he come to me?”

“To make himself look innocent, of course.”

Dashiell shook his head. “No, he was already well on his way to that. He could have just contacted the police. There was no evident cause of death which could be tied to him. And if he used an occult means, then there is likely no evidence that the M.E. could identify.

“That means one of two things. One, either it gets chalked up to natural causes, and there is no investigation, or two, you call me and I tell you it’s too late, because more than six hours have elapsed and I can’t raise her soul. Either way, he’s got no incentive to even hint at the occult if he did it.”

They paused as they reached the car. “Alright then. So our only other suspect has no means, motive or opportunity, and an airtight alibi. The Captain’s going to love this.”

Dashiell couldn’t help but smile. “Forget about the Captain. What about the Chief?”

Next>

Chapter 10

2008-07-08T21:05:00.000-07:00

“Dead?!” Jessica Hill’s eyes widened. Gayle Norton’s eyes narrowed. Dashiell could almost read her thoughts. She was redesigning the cover in her mind. Last interview with Elaine Scofield. But she was also clearly thinking of something else.

“What does this have to do with my reporter?” she asked.

“The information we have indicates that she was one of the last people to see Mrs. Scofield alive,” Regina replied. Dashiell hung back, leaning against the wall. He was watching Miss Hill while Regina was talking to Ms. Norton.

“Well, Jessica will be happy to answer any questions you have, so long as they don’t compromise any of her sources.”

Jessica leaned forward in her seat, nodding. Her hands were now clenched in her lap. She looked nervous, but Dashiell didn’t think it was the nervousness of someone who’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. It looked more like the nervousness of someone who felt the police thought she had her hand in the cookie jar.

“Very well,” Regina said. “What can you tell me about your interview with Mrs. Scofield?”

Dashiell crossed his arms across his chest, a silent mass leaning against a wall, eyes boring into Jessica. He was playing bad cop. He was also waggling his fingers under his arm, hiding the gesture with his elbow. It wasn’t a fool proof spell, even when done on a large scale. And as a small cantrip, it was likely to be almost entirely ineffective. But it would sharpen Jessica’s mind on key details and encourage her to speak the truth, if it worked, and it certainly couldn’t hurt.

“We arrived just before 10 o’clock. Research told me that Mrs. Scofield was very punctual,” Jessica began.

“We?” Regina prompted.

“Myself and Carolyn Bartlett, who the magazine had hired for this shoot.” Regina nodded and indicated Jessica should continue.

“I interviewed Mrs. Scofield for about 15 minutes, while Carolyn set up, then continued as Carolyn shot her. She likes to work with subjects in their personal spaces, and she likes to shoot them as they talk. Additionally, we’d only been given one hour for the whole affair, so we had to work quickly.”

“What was the interview about?” It was a classic policeman’s ploy, pretending not to know as much as you did, in order to try and catch a suspect out in a lie. Dashiell didn’t really think she was a suspect, but knew it was never good to jump to conclusions.

Jessica looked over at Gayle, who nodded. “Go ahead and tell them.”

“It was about her autobiography,” Jessica replied. “It was due to come out later this summer and this was a teaser interview.”

Gayle broke in. “Now, mind you, we don’t go for gossip. But Mrs. Scofield was one of the premier players in Washington life for the last forty years. Her book is going to be a best seller.”

Regina nodded, as if she didn’t blame Gayle Norton for descending into what was essentially tabloid journalism. Dashiell tried not to smile as he sensed Regina fighting not to roll her eyes.

“What happened next?” Regina asked.

“Nothing. We concluded the interview around 11. Carolyn got some great shots. We left.”

“And Mrs. Scofield? How did she seem?”

“Perfectly fine. She was the picture of health, as far as I could tell.”

Regina nodded and got up to leave. She turned toward Gayle Norton. “Would you mind setting up an appointment with Carolyn Bartlett for us? We’d like to speak to her as well.”

“Of course,” Gayle replied. She buzzed out to her secretary and began to make arrangements. Regina turned back to Jessica.

“Just one more thing, Miss Hill. Did Mrs. Scofield show you her manuscript?”

Jessica’s brow furrowed. “No. We talked about it, but that’s it.”

“Thank you for your time, Miss Hill.”

Regina collected Dashiell with her eyes as she headed out the door. They stopped at the secretary’s desk to get Carolyn Bartlett’s address and a time when it would be convenient to drop by, then they left the offices of Washington Woman.

Next>

Chapter 9

2008-07-05T22:01:00.000-07:00

Washington Woman was the premiere women’s magazine of the Metro area. And their offices confirmed it. The furnishings were rich and tasteful, if somewhat subdued. Dashiell sat in a comfortable chair, drumming his fingers on a plush armrest. Regina sat across from him.

A secretary had taken their names and offered them a beverage of their choice. Dashiell had taken a Diet Coke. Regina had declined to drink anything.

His eyes scanned the office, trying to pick out their subject. Washington Woman was modeled on the open air design. A series of desks laid out in a grid, no walls, not even cubicles. There were offices arranged along the outer walls of the building, and in between the offices there was art, heavily representing female artists. Dashiell was no art critic, but he knew a Georgia O’Keefe when he saw one. And he thought he recognized some Frieda Kahlo.

“Where do you suppose she is?” he asked Regina. “I can’t imagine she’s got someplace else to be, with a deadline coming up.”

Regina glanced around. “I imagine she’s closeted with her editor, wondering why a Metro detective is asking to speak with her. And deciding what it is they’ll say to whatever it is we ask.”

The secretary who had first seated them walked back up. “If you’ll follow me, Detective Robbins, Detective Aldridge. Ms. Norton will see you in her office.”

“Ms. Norton?” Regina raised an eyebrow.

“She’s the Editor in Chief. She and Miss Hill are awaiting you.” The young woman indicated with her hand the direction Dashiell and Regina should head. Regina turned to Dashiell with an “I told you so” look on her face.

Dashiell had agreed that Regina should take the lead in this interview. It had nothing to do with Regina being a woman. Regina had suggested it because she had a badge and that tended to cut through a lot of bullshit. They also left the secretary with the misimpression that Dashiell was a fellow detective. It would cut down on questions.

They walked through a frosted glass door and saw two women in the office. One, clearly Ms. Norton, stood behind the large desk. Framed images of various covers hung on the walls. Ms. Norton was tall for a woman, nearly six feet, with long blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. She had black framed glasses perched on her nose, covering blue eyes.

“Gayle Norton,” she said, extending her hand to Regina, then Dashiell. “What can we do for you, detectives?” She included Miss Hill with a hand gesture.

Jessica Hill was sitting in front of her editor’s desk. She was dressed in a grey skirt suit. She had brown hair, hanging down around her shoulders. Her hands were folded calmly in her lap.

“We need to speak with Miss Hill,” Regina said. “About her interview with Elaine Scofield this morning.”

“Has Mrs. Scofield filed a complaint about something? I assure you, my reporter was entirely professional.”

“Mrs. Scofield hasn’t said anything,” Regina replied. “She’s dead.”

Next>

Chapter 8

2008-07-01T20:49:00.001-07:00

“I assure you, Mr. Aldridge, Mrs. Scofield was in perfect health,” Watson said.

“Well, I’m convinced foul play of some sort is afoot. Otherwise, her soul would be here,” Dashiell explained.

“What if her death was natural?” Regina asked. “Would her soul still hang around? I thought it took a violent end to trap it here. That’s what the ghost stories all say.”

“Well, a violent end will prolong a soul’s stay. Sometimes well beyond the six hours that is typically observed. But any soul is able to be summoned for six hours after death in typical circumstances. Clearly, that’s not what we’re dealing with here.”

“So what’s your next step, Mr. Aldridge?” Watson asked.

“Well, the next step is to talk to the last people to see Mrs. Scofield alive. From what you’ve told me, that would be this reporter and photographer from Washington Woman. Who was it that came to interview Mrs. Scofield?”

Watson reached into the inside breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a small PDA. “The reporter they sent was named Jessica Hill. The photographer was Carolyn Bartlett.”

Regina let out a low whistle. “Carolyn Bartlett? She’s amazing. She’s done all sorts of work. Shot lots of famous people.”

“Yes,” Watson confirmed. “I assumed that’s why the magazine chose her. Mrs. Scofield would have insisted on the best. They sidestepped the need for her to ask by hiring Ms. Bartlett in the first place.”

Dashiell took some quick notes on a small pad. While he was well versed in using computers, for field work he still preferred the old fashioned way.

“Well, Mr. Watson, I don’t think there’s anything else we need from you at this time. I’m going to try and get appointments to meet with Ms. Hill and Ms. Bartlett. Although the second interview could be a bit tricky.”

“I may be able to help you out there, Dash,” Regina chimed in.

“You think the Captain will let you work with me on this?”

“My plate’s pretty clean right now. And you’ve convinced me there’s something funny going on. What with it being Mrs. Scofield, the Chief will want a full investigation, and the Captain will comply. I’ll give him a call on our way to the office of Washington Woman.”

Next>

Chapter 7

2008-06-28T21:35:00.000-07:00

Dashiell stood there, his hand outstretched.

Long seconds ticked by.

Still nothing happened.

Dashiell let his hand fall to his side. “I guess we’re too late.”

“Impossible!” Watson exclaimed.

Dashiell turned his head to regard the butler, as did Regina. “And what makes you say that?”

“The spell should work for seven hours, according to my research!”

“Six, actually,” Dashiell replied.

Watson looked undeterred. “Six then. The point is, Mrs. Scofield was alive six hours ago.”

“Are you sure?” Regina asked.

“Of course I am sure. Mrs. Scofield had an appointment at 10 am. I assure you the people from Washington Woman would have mentioned if she was dead when they arrived.”

Dashiell checked his watch. It read 1:17 p.m. “Alright then. We have a case of a soul departed before its nature says it should depart. There must be another explanation.”

“I can think of one,” Watson said.

Dashiell looked calmly at Watson, not rising to the bait. Instead, he looked around the room. “Was there, by any chance, a cat in here between the time she died and when we arrived?”

Regina looked puzzled, but Watson just shook his head. “No. Mrs. Scofield was allergic to cats.”

Dashiell looked interested. “How allergic?”

“What does that matter, Dash?” Regina inquired.

“Well, if she was deathly allergic, she could have died of anaphylactic shock. And cats have long been believed to carry souls away to the underworld. It would be the perfect crime.”

“She sneezed in their presence. That is all. It was annoying, but not life threatening. Besides, does that look like the body of someone who died due to an allergic reaction?”

Dashiell considered this. “No, it doesn’t,” he conceded. “Then again, it doesn’t look like the body of a woman who died of any unnatural cause.”

Next>

Chapter 6

2008-06-24T22:43:00.000-07:00

The room was immaculate. There was a large, yet undeniably feminine desk backed by a pair of French doors. The walls were lined with bookshelves which contained a variety of reading material and several pictures of Mrs. Scofield and well-known elites. Dashiell counted four, no five, senators as well as three former Presidents and their wives. Mrs. Scofield clearly travelled the circles of power.

The desk was dominated by an old-fashioned typewriter. “She typed the manuscript by hand?” Dashiell asked.

“Yes,” Watson replied. “She did not want details escaping before she was ready and she felt that computers could be hacked too easily. She kept the only copy locked in her desk, except when she was reviewing it.”

“And that copy is gone now?” Regina asked.

“It is,” Watson confirmed.

Dashiell had been moving slowly toward the other large piece of furniture in the room, the chaise lounge. Laying on it, like Cleopatra, was Mrs. Scofield. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful. Whatever had caused her death had apparently not caused her any pain.

Dashiell walked slowly around the body and chaise, examining for any clues of occult practices. He chanted a cantrip under his breath, designed to detect the presence of any other spells cast by another. He felt nothing.

He stopped near Mrs. Scofield’s head. “Which direction is that?” he asked, pointing in a line from her head out the window.

Watson looked up. “West.”

Dashiell nodded. He’d have preferred north, but you worked with what the scene gave you. And on the plus side, it wasn’t south. That also spoke against someone with occult experience.

He reached into his bag and drew out eight candles. He was going to surround the body with two circles. Five of the candles would represent the points of the pentagram. Four were used to mark the four cardinal directions. He had eight candles because the candle at the top of the pentagram also represented one of the directions, tying the circles together.

Dashiell opened the book he had brought and flipped it open to a dog-eared page. Regina and Watson stood by the desk, watching.

Dashiell begin to chant words from the book as he placed a candle on the floor, near Mrs. Scofield’s head. He walked clockwise around the chaise, mapping out a circle. When he got to a point in line with her right hip, he placed another candle. He then placed one near her feet and one on a line with her left hip. He then moved back to her head.

He then touched the candle near her head and began a different chant. He moved counterclockwise this time. When he reached a spot in line with her left shoulder, he placed another candle. He walked around the circle, placing the other four candles in the pentagram. When he was finished, he touched the candle near her head a third time. You could draw a circle that would intercept all eight candles.

Dashiell then went back in his bag. He pulled out a small brass brazier and set up a small tripod. In the brazier, he placed three sprigs of dill. He then took out a taper of cedar wood and lit it with a lighter. Once it was burning, he walked around the circle, clockwise, lighting all eight candles. When they were burning, he placed the taper in among the dill.

A sharp smell began to dominate the air of the room as the herb burned. Dashiell blew gently on the smoke, urging it toward the body. He began a new chant from the book.

The smoke crept along the floor, surrounding the chaise, ringing the body of Mrs. Scofield. It danced up around her head, entering her nostrils.

Regina gasped as the smoke moved with an apparent intelligence. Watson merely looked on, his staid demeanor betraying no emotion.

Dashiell finished chanting. “Elizabeth Mallory Scofield,” he intoned. “Your work here on Earth is not quite finished. I call upon your spirit to come forth, that you may disclose unto us how you died.” He raised his hand imploringly toward the body.

Nothing happened.

Next>

Chapter 5

2008-06-21T23:21:00.001-07:00

The car drew to a stop and Watson hurried out the door, holding it open for Dashiell and Regina. He then led them into the house.

“What was in the autobiography?” Regina asked.

“I am sure I would not know,” Watson replied.

Regina stopped in her tracks and gave Watson a look. “Come now, Mr. Watson. You might not know the particulars, but you’ve been working here how long? You must have some idea.”

Watson looked uncomfortable. “Please, Detective. You must understand. There are certain standards someone in my profession has to respect. If word were to get out that I was speaking out of turn…”

Dashiell held up a restraining hand. “Mr. Watson, from the sounds of things, if you are correct, this manuscript is probably at the center of it. We understand your position, but if you want us to catch whoever did this, we need some idea of who would gain from your employer’s death.”

Watson pursed his lips momentarily, looking for a moment as if he wouldn’t answer. But then his shoulders sagged. “Very well. In any woman of wealth’s life, there are bound to be skeletons in the closet. But of course, Mrs. Scofield was not born to wealth. Mr. Thomas Scofield shocked his family when he chose to marry her instead of another member of the upper classes.

“Since she was not raised to this world, she had more…’history’ than other women who typically inhabit the role Mrs. Scofield inhabited. From what little I heard of her discussions, she was being quite candid in the book. It did not appear that she was holding anything back.”

“And who knew about this book?” Regina asked.

“Quite a few people. The family all knew of course. And the publisher. And then members of the press. That is why Washington Woman was coming to interview her. It was a teaser interview and photo shoot to promote the book. It was to be the first of several such interviews, so it appeared that many in the media knew it was forthcoming.”

“And was she just candid about her past?”

“I am not sure what you mean, Detective Robbins.”

“Was she candid about the members of the family?” Regina pressed. “Some of them might not be too thrilled to see their dirty laundry aired for the world to see. If even a quarter of the rumors about some of the children are true, well, that’s a motive for murder right there.”

Somewhere in the middle of the interrogation, the group had resumed walking. Suddenly, they stopped outside a set of thick oaken doors with large brass handles.

“Inside is Mrs. Scofield, just as I found her. So far as I know, the only people to set foot in this room today are Mrs. Scofield, myself and the reporter and photographer. I have left the body as undisturbed as possible.”

Dashiell nodded. “Very well then. Let’s go in. Time’s a wasting.”

At this prompt, Watson threw open the door.

Next>

Chapter 4

2008-06-17T20:35:00.001-07:00

Dashiell and Regina followed Mr. Watson down the stairs and saw a large black town car idling near the curb. He opened the rear door and held it open for them. It appeared to be a natural movement for him.

Dashiell and Regina entered the rear of the automobile and Mr. Watson joined them.

“Do you mind if Detective Robbins joins us?” Dashiell asked.

“Not at all. If I am correct, it will speed things along. Additionally, she can serve as a witness to the summoning.”

The car pulled away from the curb and into D.C.’s noon-time traffic. “So tell me, Mr. Watson. Exactly which member of the Scofield family passed away?” Regina asked.

“It was Mrs. Scofield,” Watson said.

“Which Mrs. Scofield?” Regina prompted, knowing there were three current Mrs. Scofield’s.

“I am sorry, Detective. Within the household, only Mrs. Elaine Scofield, the matriarch, was referred to as Mrs. Scofield. The others were known by more familiar names.”

Dashiell whistled. Elaine Scofield was the head of the family’s charitable trust. She sat on the Board of the Children’s Hospital, was a donor to Feed the Homeless and was renowned for her work with various charities around the city. A death within the Scofield family was noteworthy. The death of the matriarch was sure to be national news.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Dashiell asked.

“No one. I felt it best to be discreet in this matter, especially until we know for sure what happened.”

Dashiell nodded, somewhat relieved. Of course, the fact that the family was consulting him was another reason to keep this matter quiet. Many would look askance at the use of an occult detective.

“What makes you suspect foul play?” Dashiell inquired. “If memory serves, Mrs. Scofield was of a fairly advanced age. In her late seventies, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” Watson confirmed. “However, she visited with a doctor just last month and he assured her she was in perfect health. I myself saw her just this morning when serving her breakfast and she looked quite vigorous.”

“And what did her morning consist of?”

“It was a full schedule. She spent a great deal of time on the phone with various charities. She had a photo shoot for Washington Woman magazine and then spent time alone in her study working on her autobiography. The publisher was expecting a copy of several chapters next week.”

“What happened?” Regina asked.

“I went to check on her, to inquire what she wanted for lunch. I found her laying on the chaise lounge. I tried to wake her, but to no avail. I checked her vital signs and found nothing.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you sought me out,” Dashiell said. “People die suddenly all the time.”

“A fair point, Mr. Aldridge,” Watson said. The car was pulling into a long driveway in front of a very large house. “However, when I looked around the office I realized that the manuscript Mrs. Scofield had been working on was gone.”

Next>

Chapter 3

2008-06-14T20:00:00.001-07:00

Regina stifled a scoff as the impeccably dressed man made this statement, but she noticed that Dashiell merely looked thoughtful.

“How long ago was the body discovered?” Dashiell asked.

“About an hour ago. I would have been here sooner, but I needed to check your credentials,” the man replied.

Dashiell didn’t seem perturbed by this. “I take it they checked out.”

“I am here, am I not?”

Dashiell nodded and turned to walk back towards Regina. “Very well. I just need to collect a few supplies.”

He skirted past Regina into his messy office. He stepped over to a bookshelf and ran his fingers along the spines of the books there. He stopped on one, checked the title and pulled it out. He then moved over behind the desk and grabbed a small black attaché case that was there.

He opened the book automatically to a page and scanned it quickly. He checked the case, rummaging around a bit. He placed the book within the case. He then turned to the desk and opened the left hand drawer. He pulled out some chalk and a candle, placing them in the case as well.

He then turned and walked toward the door. Regina watched him throughout the whole process. She had a skeptical look on her face.

“Dash, can you really summon a dead woman’s soul?”

“I guess we’re going to find out.” He walked back into the main room as he said this.

The well-dressed man overheard the exchange. “Are you saying you might not be able to do this, Mr. Aldridge? I was led to believe….”

Dashiell waved a hand to cut him off. “Don’t worry. It’s been a while since I’ve done it, but I have successfully raised spirits in the past. But you’re right about the time constraints. The soul only remains with the body for a set number of hours. After that, I am powerless to do anything. Assuming the victim died shortly before you came looking for me, I should be able to call it forth.”

The man nodded and turned toward the outer door to Dashiell’s office. “Then let us hurry, Mr. Aldridge.” He opened the door and swept into the hallway, followed by Dashiell and Regina. “Pardon my lack of manners, Mr. Aldridge, but I have been in a hurry. My name is Charles Watson. I work for the Scofield family.”

Dashiell and Regina exchanged looks. The Scofields were one of the richest families in the city. There were Scofields on the board of the Kennedy Center, the Smithsonian and a variety of private foundations. They regularly hosted the crème-de-la-crème of the political elite in D.C. If Mr. Watson was right, this was going to be a media nightmare.

Next>

Chapter 2

2008-06-10T20:54:00.001-07:00

Dashiell absorbed this. “You believe?”

“Yes,” the man replied. He didn’t appear like he was going to add any more.

“Wouldn’t that be a matter for the police?” Dashiell asked, aware that Regina was listening in.

“It would, Mr. Aldridge, if I thought they’d rule this case a murder.”

“You have reason to doubt they would?” Regina piped up from the hall.

“May I ask to whom I am speaking?” The man’s manners were as impeccable as his cleanly pressed suit.

“That’s Detective Robbins, DCPD Homicide. You can see why she might be interested,” Dashiell replied.

The man nodded. “Very well, Detective. What was your question?”

“I asked,” Regina replied, “if you had reason to doubt the police would rule this a murder.”

“I do. A cursory examination of the body shows no evidence of foul play.”

“Well, there are still plenty of ways that someone could be murdered. If you’re that concerned, an autopsy would reveal if any poisons or other non-obvious methods were utilized,” Regina said.

“That would take too long, Detective. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve been led to believe that time is of the essence.”

“And why is that?” Regina inquired. “The body’s not going to get more dead.”

“May I explain on the way?” He directed the question to Dashiell.

“What is it you expect me to do?”

“Well, Mr. Aldridge, if I’m correct, I’d like you to summon the soul to tell us who killed her.”

Next>

Chapter 1

2008-06-07T20:37:00.000-07:00

Dashiell G. Aldridge was a big slab of a man. He sat in a large chair behind a large wooden desk in his second floor walkup in downtown Washington, D.C. Across from him sat a petite redhead, Detective Regina Robbins, DCPD. They were sharing Chinese food and shooting the breeze.

“So then,” Dashiell said, “we hear this scream, and my partner slaps his hands over his ears yelling out ‘Banshee!’”

Regina laughed. “He didn’t!”

Dashiell shook his head. “He did. He fell to the floor, curled up into a little ball and cried like the world was ending. Good God, it was like he forgot it was a training exercise.”

Dashiell went to set the box of General Tso’s chicken he was holding and knocked a fork to the floor. He bent over and picked the fork up, examining it.

“You expecting anyone, Regina?”

She shook her head, wiping her eyes and trying to get her laughter back under control. “No, Dash. Why?”

“Well then, it looks like I have a client coming to visit. A man.”

As he finished speaking, there was a knock at the door.

“One of these days, Dash, you’re going to have to tell me how you do that,” Regina said with a smile.

“It’s fairly simple really,” he explained, rising to his feet and heading toward the front of the converted apartment. “It’s all in the silverware.” With this cryptic remark, he walked into the foyer and opened the front door to his office.

“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

Dashiell examined the man standing in the open doorway and one word came to mind – polished. The man was impeccably dressed, with a crisp white shirt, dark blue tie, navy slacks and polished brown shoes with a matching belt. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue.

“You are Dashiell Aldridge, the occult detective?” He had a slight New England accent. Old money, thought Dashiell.

“I am, sir. Would you care to come inside?” Dashiell stepped back and beckoned toward the interior and his office. Regina had stepped into the door, looking down the short hallway at the man in the door.

“There’s no time, Mr. Aldridge. I would like to engage your services and from what I understand, time is of the essence.”

Dashiell’s eyebrows raised. “And what sort of case do you have? Missing person?”

“Nothing so mundane, Mr. Aldridge. I believe there has been a murder.”

Next>

The End - For Now

2008-05-25T12:07:00.000-07:00

This is the end of Superstition - Book 1 - Something Wicked This Way Comes

I will be taking two weeks off, while I plot the next adventure of Dashiell and Regina. Please check back on Saturday, June 7, for chapter 1 in the next book.

Thanks for reading - I hope you've enjoyed it.

In the meantime, please feel free to check out my other on-going project, An Empire of Law.

Chapter 30

2008-05-24T21:55:00.000-07:00

Dashiell was frozen in a moment of silent horror as that gaping maw came closer and closer to his exposed fist, held out for feeding on, as if the now dead zombie clamped onto his arm was holding it out for its still moving companion.

Suddenly, Dashiell heard a loud report and the zombie’s head was ripped off at the jaw line. Its lower jawbone, filled with rotting teeth, hit the ground in front of his knee, unmoving. He said a silent thanks to the Gods and to the police sniper hidden out of sight who had remembered to aim for the head.

Dashiell wasted no more time, prying the dead hand off his arm and regaining his feet. Shots were ringing out as the snipers opened up on the undead and Dashiell and Regina joined in, whenever a walking corpse got close enough to pose a threat.

As the number of undead diminished, so did the fog surrounding Dashiell and Regina. They stood back to back, facing out into the thinning mists.

“What the hell happened Dash? You threw salt in that thing’s face and it just kept coming.”

“Well, Regina,” Dashiell replied calmly, shooting another zombie through the forehead, “apparently these zombies don’t subscribe to Haitian beliefs. It was worth a try. But I didn’t really expect it to work. At that point, I was desperate.”

“And what about the flame? It went out at pretty much the perfect time. Did you do that?” By now the numbers of undead were dwindling.

“In a manner of speaking. One of the last calls I made tonight was to a friend of mine. I asked him to drop by the local terminal for the gas company and cut the feed to the cemetery. Apparently, he got past security.”

“He was cutting it a little close, don’t you think, Dash?”

“Well, he doesn’t exactly have access to the place. Also, I didn’t want him to cut the gas too early, or else the witches wouldn’t be here. They needed to be involved in the spell. Although I’ll admit, it was a little close for comfort.”

With a final crack from a sniper’s rifle, the last body hit the ground. Dashiell looked around. The plateau was littered with corpses, and two very scared women laying on thr ground. Regina went over and cuffed them, then called for an EMT team when she saw that the older witch was apparently covered with burned flesh.

“Dashiell, what the hell did you throw at this woman, napalm?”

“Holy water actually. Not sure if it was the holy aspect, or just the water that did it though. She should be okay, though. The burns don’t look that bad. Besides, she’s not my biggest concern.”

“She’s not?”

“No. I’m much more worried about the one who got away. From what I could tell, she was the leader of this coven. She took the lead in the spell and was clearly the most experienced at wielding magic. And she’s still out there, somewhere.”

“I got a pretty decent look at her face, when I bluffed the younger one. I’ll have the department put out an APB on her and I’ll pass it on to the FBI,” Regina said.

“We’ll have to hope that’ll work. Although something tells me, we’ll be seeing her again. At any rate, we’re not likely to find her tonight. Think you can handle the clean up, Regina? It appears my role in this affair is over. I think I’ll leave the rest to the real cops.”

Regina smiled at his sarcasm. “Get out of here, Dash. And thanks for your help. We’d never have solved this one without you. I promise, I’ll make sure the Captain knows how essential you were to the investigation.”

“Thanks Regina.” He turned to go when she called out to him.

“Hey Dash! Don’t you want your bead back?” She toyed with the item in question.

“Keep it, Regina. I think you’re going to need it.”

Chapter 29

2008-05-20T20:06:00.001-07:00

Regina’s head snapped up as Dashiell said this and turned to follow the aim of his gun. A mist had sprung up from the damp ground, cloaking the region in a gray fog. There was virtually no light as the fog rose to blot out the stars. With no moon visible, that left Dashiell and Regina in an eerily dark world, where sound was magnified.

“Regina,” Dashiell whispered, his voice echoing loudly, “can your snipers see through this?”

“Depends Dash,” came the reply, sounding farther away than he knew Regina to be.

“On what?”

“On whether or not zombies show up on night vision goggles.”

The whole time, Dashiell had been scanning the scene with his eyes, looking for the telltale signs of movement in the mists. And he was straining his ears to try and isolate the shambling sound he could hear coming from all around them.

“Stay where you are, Regina. I’m going to try and offer us some protection.” So saying, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of salt. He dribbled it out upon the ground, walking in front of where Regina was last standing and then circling around a large area.

Salt was a universal spell component, especially in circles of protection. And since salt was supposed to send zombies back to their graves, he had high hopes it would repel them.

He was about halfway through the circle, behind Regina, when a ghostly hand reached out of the mists and clamped onto his arm. Its grip was like cold steel, even through the protective spells woven into the jacket. Dashiell cursed loudly, causing Regina to spin around with a cry.

“Regina, watch your back!” The mists had started to swirl, revealing a circle of undead figures in various states of decomposition closing in on the pair. Dashiell turned his attention back to the zombie that had latched onto him, bringing his gun up, pressing it into the soft, melting flesh of the forehead and pulling the trigger.

The thing’s head exploded in a fine grey spray and it fell heavily to the ground. Dashiell’s exaltation was quickly quashed as he noted that the iron grip did not let up with the death of the zombie’s mind. Instead, it reverted back to its more natural state, the metacarpals still locked firmly on his forearm.

The unexpected weight jerked him off balance and he flailed his gun arm wildly to keep his balance. He failed and went down on his left knee.

Shots rang out from Regina’s gun as she rotated checking her nine, twelve and three o’clock, covering her half of the circle, sending a variety of the undead back to their graves.

Dashiell slammed the wrist of the hand holding his arm with the butt of his gun, but had to break off as another zombie reared up out of the mists. The zombie was moving its mouth toward his left hand, open wide, a rotting stench flowing from its gaping maw.

With a flick of his wrist, Dashiell hurled the last of the salt in his fist into the creature’s face, a good deal landing in that tooth-filled chasm.

The creature kept coming.

Next>

Chapter 28

2008-05-17T19:51:00.001-07:00

Pandemonium reigned on the small plateau. Dashiell had been waiting for this, and had pulled out a second vial of holy water. He took a shot and threw the vial as hard as he could in the direction where he had seen the crone. “The power of Christ compels you!” He shouted after it. He heard it break, followed by an agonized scream, whether because the witch was Christian or had just watched the Wizard of Oz too many times, he couldn’t be sure. But he was fairly sure that she was out of the fight, at least for now.

He felt an impact on his side as his coat absorbed a spell that had been hurled at him. It shook him a bit, but had no other effects. His gun was still in one hand, but he was afraid to fire blindly, knowing Regina was somewhere on the other side of the circle.

He heard a strange voice speaking in low tones, off in the direction where he had last seen Hecate. Whether it was her, or one of the two witches still in the game, he couldn’t be sure. His coat probably couldn’t withstand the attack of the demi-goddess, at least, not at full force. But he and Regina had disrupted the spell.

Hecate was still here, at least in some form. And that meant that she could exercise her powers. He had to get rid of her. He knew he didn’t have the power to banish her, but she also wasn’t fully manifested on this plane. That meant she was unlikely to be here by her own force. Instead, she was tied to this place by the spell. So he had to break the tie.

He had been moving the entire time he was thinking, making sure not to be in the place where the last spell had hit him. He had lost track of where everyone was, and an eerie silence descended on the scene. It was broken only by the sound of the still bubbling cauldron.

And that was the key. He turned and charged the center of the circle, bending low and putting his shoulder into the side, just under the lip, lifting and heaving at the same time. The heat of the cast iron burned, but the coat was protected against elements as well as spells, so it kept him from being scalded.

The huge pot raised off of two of its pegged feet and paused in the air as Dashiell’s initial burst of power halted. The cauldron was huge and full to the brim of the ingredients the witches had utilized in their spell. Some of the liquid slopped over the edge. Dashiell braced himself and pushed harder, until he crossed the invisible line where the weight of the brew caused it to capsize, spilling out over the ground, creating a slippery, chunky mess on the granite.

His eyes had adjusted to the starlit darkness as he was doing this and he saw three feminine figures outlined against the horizon, all within a few feet of him. One of them was holding a gun, and he knew that to be Regina.

He raised his gun to take aim at the remaining two figures. As the vile mixture of plant, animal and human remains washed over their feet, one of them wavered and became translucent, before vanishing entirely. So much for Hecate.

He turned his weapon toward the final figure. She was weaving her hands and Dashiell thought he could make out a look of hatred on that middle-aged face. Then, her face turned toward Regina and Dashiell was moving as her hand shot out. He threw himself into the air between the two women and again felt the force of a spell being absorbed.

“Dash!” Regina cried out as he hit the ground, rolling to look for the witch. She was nowhere to be seen.

Regina ran up and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Dash! Are you okay?”

He sat up, rubbing his side where it had hit the ground. “I’m okay Regina. My coat took most of the blast. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dash.” She turned her gun towards the two figures laying prone on the ground. “Looks like we caught two of them. Don’t know what happened to the others.”

Dashiell was just turning to look at their captives when he heard a new sound, coming from the East. It was an odd, shuffling sound. It sent a chill through him.

He quickly got to his feet, and checked his weapon, to make sure it was ready to fire. “Regina, we have company,” he said quietly.

“And remember….aim for the head.”

Next>

Chapter 27

2008-05-13T22:48:00.000-07:00

Oh shit, Dashiell thought. They had a circle of protection surrounding them. Of course. How could he be so stupid? He should have expected it. He shook himself, recovering from the hard knock as he ran into that shield.

As his vision cleared, he saw for the first time the fourth figure Regina had spotted. At this point, it was a hazy outline, though definitely of feminine shape. As Dashiell watched, it started to solidify.

He heard the witches speaking.

“Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

Then, the witch with her back to him, spoke. “Cool it with a baboon’s blood, Then the charm is firm and good.”

That was the end of the spell. They were through at least one recitation, and based on the solidity of the fourth figure, it was likely the second.

The young girl spoke up. “Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.”

Regina finally caught up to Dashiell, weapon still drawn. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. But we have problems. They have a circle of protection up. I can’t get through.”

“Well can’t you cast a spell, or something?”

“No. The circle is specifically designed to prevent interference of a magical nature. There’s no way to get through.”

“Well this isn’t magic.” She raised her gun, taking aim between two of the witches. Before Dashiell could stop her, she squeezed off a round.

He dove to the ground as the shell ricocheted off the air, skittering around to the side and embedding into the granite where Kennedy’s “Ask not what your country” quote was carved. Chips of rock exploded upward.

“Jesus Christ!” Regina yelled. She had hit the deck as well.

“I tried telling you, Regina. We can’t get through.” He had noticed something though. As he dove to the ground, the youngest witch had flinched. She didn’t have full faith in the spell. That might be his way in.

“Regina,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the chanting. “Walk around behind that young lady, and shoot her in the back of the head.”

Regina turned her eyes to him, looking confused. Turning toward Regina, he mouthed the words “Trust me.”

Dashiell reached into his cloak and pulled out one of the vials of holy water, passing it to her. “Be sure to sprinkle this down the barrel on the chambered round. It’s a special potion of dispelling. It’ll get through the circle.”

It was all bullshit, but he was betting the girl didn’t know that. And the other witches couldn’t tell her to have faith without disputing the spell.

Regina hustled around the circle, coming to a stop behind the young witch. Dashiell watched her eyes go wide again, unable to see what was going on behind her and unwilling to turn. The witches were entering the last round of “Double doubles”. There was a brief pause in the chant and he heard Regina cock her weapon dramatically.

Two things happened in the next instant. First, the young witch threw herself to the ground crying out and second, the flame beneath the bubbling cauldron suddenly snuffed out, plunging the area into darkness.

Next>

Chapter 26

2008-05-10T23:17:00.000-07:00

Dashiell swore under his breath. “Then we may be too late. But we have to hurry, just in case.”

He started heading toward the memorial flame, running quickly while trying to keep low and out of sight. Unfortunately, the cemetery wasn’t built for stealth. He had to hope that they were too involved in casting their spell or talking to the demi-goddess to notice him and Regina rushing up the hill.

He turned his head slightly and saw Regina mirroring his movements. She had spread out about ten yards to his right. That was smart. There was no way a spell from the witches could get both of them at the same time. And Hecate would be more likely to raise the dead to deal with them.

As he approached the hill, he heard the witches chanting in unison. He breathed a small sigh of relief. Apparently they weren’t done with the spell. What Regina had spotted must just be the first impressions of Hecate on this plane. Still, the spell wasn’t that long to begin with. Hopefully, they’d go through the ritual of saying it three times. After all, Hecate was a threefold goddess. But he couldn’t count on it.

Dashiell made a decision. He’d charge them. Yes, they’d notice him, but if it disrupted them from chanting, then he’d spoil the spell. And he was wearing his jacket. He pelted towards the plateau where the witches stood, feet pounding lightly on the payment. Regina must have thought he was insane, Dashiell reflected. Well, maybe he was.

As he rounded the last corner, he got his first glimpse of the three witches. They couldn’t have been more different from each other. The first was old, Dashiell guessed her age around 70. She had flowing white hair down to her shoulders and she stood in profile to him.

The second witch was young, maybe all of 20. She had slick black hair and thick eye shadow. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was a goth poseur like so many girls her age. But he could feel the power radiating from the bubbling cauldron between the witches.

The third witch had her back to him, but years working as an investigator told him that, by the way she carried herself, she was of middle years. Besides, it fit the pattern. These three were following all of the old legends, and Hecate was often pictured as having three forms, the maid, the mother and the crone.

The eyes of the youngest witch widened as she saw Dashiell run up upon them, but she didn’t break her chant. Oh well, he’d have to do it for them. He took a step towards the witch with her back to him, fully prepared to yank her out of the circle forcefully.

At least, that was the plan.

When he got within three paces of her, he slammed into an invisible wall.

Next>

Chapter 25

2008-05-06T21:55:00.000-07:00

By the time Regina pulled the car into the parking lot at Arlington National Cemetery, the sun had fully set. Dashiell got out of the car and scanned the horizon, looking to see if the new moon had risen yet. While it wasn’t easy to spot the new moon, it was possible. As he feared, it hung just above the horizon. It was entirely possible the night’s dark work had already begun.

He looked over at Regina and nodded. She returned the nod. It was time to go.

They knew where they were headed. Dashiell just hoped he had guessed right.

He looked around as they entered the graveyard, trying to spot the backup Regina would have called in. He didn’t see anybody.

“You told SWAT to aim for the head, right?”

She looked over at him. “Yeah, Dash. Although it was a bit hard to explain why. Training says go for the body, and most folks don’t believe in zombies.”

“Well, maybe a few shots that don’t do anything will change their mind. But we really don’t have any time for them to waste shots on the body. Things could get very tight, very fast.”

“What about your backup, Dash? Can we expect any magical help?”

“Unfortunately, Regina, I’m it. At least here. There should be agents guarding the ends of the bridges. Although I hope the fact that the river thawed should protect us there. The undead don’t like crossing running water. But with a goddess involved….well, I didn’t want to risk them being able to overcome it. So we’re the first line of defense, but we’re on our own.”

Regina nodded. It comforted her to know that the safety of the city was not just in her hands this night.

Dashiell reached into his coat and pulled out his gun. Regina drew her weapon as well.

“I’d like to take them alive, but the safety of the city outweighs that concern,” Dashiell said.

Regina turned her eyes toward the JFK Memorial and held up a hand. She and Dashiell stopped moving.

“It looks like there are people up there,” she said.

“Then I guessed right. At least we have some luck running our way.”

“Not sure how much luck, Dash,” she said, her voice sounding worried. “By my count, there are four of them.”

Next>

Chapter 24

2008-05-03T18:48:00.001-07:00

The next morning dawned clear and bright. Dashiell would have preferred rain. Anything to damp down the fire and keep the cauldron from boiling. And, water does nasty things to decomposing flesh. He reflected that, in many ways, water was more dangerous than fire to some zombies. Movies liked to show flame, but decomposing flesh actually wasn’t that flammable.

He spent the day preparing, making phone calls to old contacts. He didn’t expect anyone to join him out at Arlington. He just wanted to activate the phone tree. It was a program the Director had set up before they were shut down. No one currently in the government could publicly lend aid. But there were quiet ways they could prepare the city for a coming disaster.

Finally, he prepared himself, grabbing as many charms as he had in the house. In addition to his usual good luck charms, he hung both a cross and a Star of David around his neck. He didn’t have a crescent in the house, since Muslim spirits weren’t that common in this part of the world. He debated taking a feather, a universal symbol of good luck, but decided against it, since it symbolized the spirit moving from one world to the next. First of all, he didn’t want his spirit traveling anywhere. And secondly, the crossroads were Hecate’s domain. Best not to give her any aid he didn’t have to.

Next, he took out his key chain and headed to a small locked door under the stairs. He unlocked the door, revealing another set of steps heading down to the basement. He walked down the rickety wooden stairs, pausing for a moment at the bottom. His eyes scanned the room and came to rest on the old wooden chest. He walked over to it, looking down on it for a while. He sighed, dropping to one knee, unlocking the padlock that held the latch closed.

He opened the trunk and took out the dark rosewood case there. He opened it, looking down at his service weapon, a black Glock 9 mm. He hadn’t carried it in a while. But today was a special case. He took the underarm holster from the case and put it on. Then he loaded the clip, sliding it into the handle with a satisfying sound. He cocked the weapon, checked the safety, then slid it into its holster. The weight was odd after all these years.

Underneath the rosewood case, neatly folded, was a large black jacket. He took it out, looking it over. It was standard Bureau issue, with a variety of pockets and special additions, designed to hold a variety of tools and charms. The jacket itself was ensorcelled by the best witches and warlocks who worked for the Bureau. It was basically a walking circle of protection.

He looked through the trunk. He didn’t need the silver bullets. Regular would do. He grabbed three vials of holy water, setting them to the side. He considered grabbing the Bible he stored there, but he wasn’t truly going up against demonic forces. At least, not as the witches saw it. Therefore, the Bible might not work. Of course, he reflected, that means the holy water might not work. He’d bring it anyway. He tucked the vials into the inside of the jacket, in one of the pockets there.

Satisfied that he didn’t need anything else in the trunk, he closed and locked it. Then he went back upstairs and locked the door to the basement. He stopped in the kitchen and grabbed a large box of salt that he had picked up the night before.

He heard a car horn and headed for the front door. Regina was here to pick him up. He gazed to the west, noting the sun sinking below the horizon. It was going to be a busy night.

Next>

Chapter 23

2008-04-29T18:42:00.001-07:00

Regina and Dr. Wexler nodded.

“That sounds about right to me,” Dr. Wexler said.

“So,” Regina said, “we know where they’re going to be. At least, tomorrow night. What do we do until then?”

Dashiell pondered. “Well first thing’s first. I’ve always said, ‘hope for the best, but plan for the worst.’ That means we need to get ready to deal with a potential army of the dead.”

“What about magic, Dash? Anyway you can deal with them?” Regina looked hopeful.

“I’m afraid not, Regina. I’m a decent enough warlock, when the situation demands. But against a demi-goddess? Even the best wizard or witch would be damn near powerless.”

“Well can you banish Hecate?” Dr. Wexler asked.

“Highly doubtful. Ironically enough, most banishing spells actually call on Hecate’s power to succeed. I doubt she’d be kind enough to lend us her power in her own banishment.”

“So that leaves the zombies,” Regina concluded. “Everything I know about zombies I’ve learned in the movies.”

“Surprisingly, they’re not far off,” Dashiell said. “Most zombie films get the basics right. Destroying the brain of a zombie is the most effective way to incapacitate it. Depending on the superstitions you follow, salt can also be effective. In Haiti, it’s said that a zombie that has tasted salt will return to its grave.”

“Is that going to work here, Dash? These aren’t Haitian zombies.”

“I know. I’m honestly not sure. But this opens up another possibility. Typically, holy symbols don’t work to repel zombies. But since these will be raised by a pagan goddess, it’s possible that Christian, Jewish, or Muslim holy symbols will repel them. Especially if they were initially of that religion. A piece of the soul animates the dead flesh. A Christian soul should rebel against pagan presence.”

“So salt, crosses and bullets. Got it. What about the witches?”

“I think I can handle them. But if necessary, they are mortal. Bullets will work on them. But that does remind me….” Dashiell reached into his shirt and pulled out the blue bead on its leather thong. He took it off and handed it to Regina. “Take this. Wear it at all times.”

She took it, giving Dashiell a quizzical look. “What’s this for?”

“Blue beads give protection against witches. That one is from my days with the Bureau, so it’s been fortified with extra spells of protection.”

She put it on, looking slightly worried. “What about you, Dash? Don’t you need something?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a knotted handkerchief and I always carry an acorn. They both bring good luck. Besides, I can try and find another blue bead before tomorrow night.”

“So what do we do until then?”

“Rest up and gather supplies. You should inform the Captain what’s going on. I’ll put in a call to some friends in the government. Otherwise, we just have to wait.”

He turned to Dr. Wexler. “Thank you for all your help Doctor.”

Dr. Wexler nodded. “You’re quite welcome. Good luck.”

Dashiell and Regina left the Library, heading back to Regina’s car.

Next>

Chapter 22

2008-04-26T14:20:00.001-07:00

Silence reigned in the richly appointed room as Dashiell made this pronouncement. Finally, Regina broke it.

“An army?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. It’s the only explanation for raising a demi-goddess. They want numbers.”

“Well then,” Dr. Wexler said, “that makes it fairly obvious where they’ll go, doesn’t it?”

Dashiell and Regina both turned to regard her.

“Well...” she hesitated. “If you truly believe that raising an army is their goal…there’s only one place to go around D.C. - Arlington National Cemetery.”

Dashiell looked thunderstruck. “Of course. They can literally raise an army. My God. Think of the damage they could do.”

Regina turned to Dashiell. “Okay, Dash. So they can raise a lot of corpses. Probably thousands. Is that about the size of it?”

“It’s a little more disturbing than that, Regina. The dead often recall the skills they had in life. Even I can take advantage of the skills of a trained corpse I’ve raised. But with divine involvement, the dead may have better recall. I’ve never dealt with this situation. But it’s possible that not only will they have numbers, they’ll have trained troops. And troops who can’t be killed conventionally. If they manage to arm them….”

Regina and Dr. Wexler shuddered.

“So we need to stop them before they succeed,” Regina said.

“That’s the conclusion I’m coming to,” Dashiell replied. “So where would they set up? Arlington is a big place. We need to narrow it down.”

Dr. Wexler spoke. “Well, they’ll need a fire. I’ll believe they can do without the cave, especially since being in one of Hecate’s domains will strengthen their connection to her. But the spell repeats the phrase ‘Fire burn and cauldron bubble.’ They have to build one.”

“Well,” Regina said, “as large as it is, it’s dark at night. A fire is going to be visible for some distance in the park. They might risk it, since they wouldn’t expect a lot of foot traffic at night.”

“But remember, the park isn’t entirely empty,” Dr. Wexler chimed in. “There’s a dress Marine guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier twenty-four hours a day. If he saw a fire, he’s sure to call it in.”

“Unless, of course, he’s used to seeing one,” Dashiell said quietly. “There’s one place in the cemetery an open flame wouldn’t be noticed, because it’s already burning. The tomb of JFK.”

Next>

Chapter 21

2008-04-22T16:20:00.001-07:00

“That’s easy, Dash. Luray Caverns, out in Virginia,” Regina said. “They’re the only caves of any size within a couple hours of D.C.”

“Hmmm. They’re what, 45 minutes away?” Dashiell asked.

“About that, yes,” Regina replied.

“They’re fairly commercialized, however,” Dr. Wexler said. “Lots of tourists, and a set of park rangers who regularly patrol the entrance to the caves.”

Dashiell shook his head. “Seems like a bad choice. Too easy to be trapped inside. And too hard to get inside in the first place. I imagine a car would stand out in the empty parking lot, and there’s no other easy way to get out there.”

“So you think they’ll be closer in to the city?” Regina asked.

“But what about what you said earlier, about belief and mindset?” Dr. Wexler asked.

“Well, that might be why they wanted the pilot’s thumb. To increase the connection to the spell and the play, since they knew that they wouldn’t be able to use a cave,” Dashiell replied.

“So where else would they go?” Dr. Wexler inquired.

“Well that’s what has me worried. You said Hecate is a demi-goddess of graveyards. If they are planning on raising her, they want to do it in a graveyard.”

Regina looked at Dashiell. “And why would they want to raise her there?”

“I’m afraid they might be trying to raise the dead.”

Dr. Wexler scoffed. “Mr. Aldridge, I understand you’re trying to find these women because they’ve hurt people. But you can’t seriously be considering the possibility that they could actually accomplish anything.”

Dashiell looked at her gravely. “Dr. Wexler, I worked for ten years for the Bureau of Occult Investigations. I have seen things that no living man should have to witness. Raising the dead is fairly minor among them. I assure you, it can be done. I myself have done it on more than one occasion.”

Dr. Wexler continued to look incredulous. But she didn’t seem quite so certain. “You’ve raised a Goddess of the Dead to help you raise corpses?”

Dashiell’s forehead wrinkled. “No. That’s one thing that’s been bothering me. A single witch or warlock can raise the dead. Three together can even raise several corpses together. There’s only one reason I could imagine that someone would want to summon Hecate, or a similar God or Goddess.”

“And what’s that, Dash?” Regina asked from her place by the table.

“To raise an army of the dead.”

Next>

Chapter 20

2008-04-19T18:41:00.001-07:00

They turned at the sound of the voice, and saw an older woman with short brown hair, standing just inside the room. “Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Gayle Wexler. I’m a curator here at the Library, specializing in the study of Shakespeare. I was asked to stop by and answer your questions.”

Regina spoke. “Well perhaps you could answer mine, then. Where do you get a dragon’s scale? Even in Shakespeare’s time?”

“An interesting question. And the answer lies in botany and alchemy,” Dr. Wexler replied. "You see, most so-called ‘witches’ of Shakespeare’s day were wise-women, or what we would call homeopathic medics.”

“See, Regina? I wasn’t that far off when I went to check into traditional remedies,” Dashiell chimed in. “So how does botony come in, Dr. Wexler?”

“Well, in order to keep proprietary knowledge over these remedies, and thus keep their place in society, these women would use code to describe the ingredients. Often times, they’d use the shapes of the leaves or flowers they needed. Thus, tongue of dog was a leaf known as ‘hound’s tongue,’ because of the shape. Today, we call it vanilla leaf.”

“Interesting,” Dashiell said.

“Okay, so then what else would they need?” Regina asked.

Dr. Wexler approached the table and pointed to the passage Dashiell and Regina had been examining earlier. “Well let’s see. In terms of homeopathic medicine, ‘fillet of a fenny snake’ would most likely be chickweed. ‘Eye of newt,’ assuming we’re not being literal, would be daisies. ‘Toe of frog’ is the bulbous buttercup and ‘wool of bat’ would be holly. To answer your original question, ‘scale of dragon’ could be either the flower daemomorops draco, known as ‘Dragon’s blood,’ or, even easier to find, tarragon.”

“Hmmm,” Dashiell ruminated. “Well that takes care of a lot of this. But obviously it can’t all be code. We have one very dead tiger at the National Zoo, alone with his zookeeper, as well as a dead baby and a disfigured corpse or two. I’m also concerned about ‘nose of Turk’ and ‘Tartar’s lips.’”

“Yes, that is disturbing,” Dr. Wexler agreed. “Shakespeare chose to use three items from heretics. Hence the blaspheming Jew, Tartar and Turk. All three were non-Christian, and were viewed as unclean in Shakespeare’s day. And yes, there is no herbal equivalent for the ‘finger of birth-strangled babe.’ At least none that any of the literature has been able to uncover.”

“Well, Dr. Wexler,” Regina said, “someone, or several someones, have been trying to recreate this spell.”

“To what possible end?”

“I think they’re trying to summon Hecate,” Dashiell said. “And we intend to stop them.”

Dr. Wexler laughed nervously. “But that’s crazy! Hecate doesn’t exist. You can’t summon her.”

“Someone seems to think you can,” Dashiell said. “So humor us. Tell us everything you know about her.”

Dr. Wexler sat down in a chair at the table, looking slightly shaken. “I still can’t believe you’re taking this seriously. But I’ll tell you what I know so you can catch whoever did this. Let’s see…” She fidgeted, trying to remember. “Hecate is the Goddess of the New Moon and magic. She’s the Greek Goddess of the crossroads. Both literal crossroads, and the crossroads of life and death. In some cultures, she’s known as the ‘Queen of Ghosts’ and has power over graveyards. This goes hand in hand with her role as a lunar goddess.”

“And it matches up with the use of yew in the spell,” Dashiell said. “Which has long been tied to both the moon and life and death. You say she’s tied to the new moon. That’s tomorrow night. I’m guessing by the way they’ve stepped up their boldness that they plan to complete the spell then.”

“So where would they go to do it?” Regina asked.

“Well the scene takes place in a cave,” Dr. Wexler said. “If what you were saying when I came in is true, that might indicate they would use one.”

“Well I’d guess they’re planning on casting this nearby,” Dashiell said. “They’ve been moving in on D.C. as they get their harder to find ingredients. And with the deadline, they’re likely to be doing this somewhere nearby. So where are the nearest caves?”

Next>

Chapter 19

2008-04-15T20:27:00.001-07:00

Thunder. Enter the three Witches
First Witch
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.

Second Witch
Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.

Third Witch
Harpier cries 'Tis time, 'tis time.

First Witch
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.

ALL
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

ALL
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Third Witch
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches' mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Silver'd in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

ALL
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

Dashiell and Regina hovered over a copy of Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I.

“Dash, how did you ever come up with this?” Regina asked.

“Well, it was fairly simple, actually. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier. But as you can see, it uses some fairly archaic terms. A ‘tiger’s chaudron’ is a tiger’s entrails. That explains the zoo. ‘Finger of birth-strangled babe, ditch delivered by a drab.’ Drab is another word for prostitute. And the liver of blaspheming Jew. You said Mr. Goldman was killed in his home, Friday night at 8. Goldman is a Jewish name, and 8 pm is the Sabbath. He should have been at Temple. So it adds up.”

“Okay Dash, but what about the pilot’s thumb? That’s not here. And they didn’t even have airplanes in Shakespeare’s day. So it had to be some other kind of pilot, like on a riverboat.”

“Ah, well this is where the cleverness comes in. And something of the nature of witchcraft. Most witchcraft spells are designed the way they are not because you need anything specific. Rather, they exist to help clear and focus the mind. The actual words and ingredients are unimportant. In this case, having an airline pilot’s thumb helps the witches concentrate on their end goal. And the fact that it isn’t part of this spell doesn’t matter. It’s associated with the play. Which makes sense. I think they’re trying to summon Hecate. And there’s no reason a demigoddess would be called by a potion. But as you can see, she appears right after the charm is completed. That should be enough to work in this day and age.”

“Alright fine. But what about some of these other ingedients? A witches’ mummy? The ‘maw and gulf’ of a ‘ravined salt sea shark’? And scale of dragon? There’s no such things as dragons, Dash. How can they possibly hope to complete the spell?”

“I think I can answer that,” said a new female voice from the door.

Next>

Chapter 18

2008-04-12T14:37:00.001-07:00

Dashiell stepped into the dark room and the lights automatically flickered on. The room was clean, but it appeared unused. For all he knew, he was the first person to enter the archives since the Bureau had been closed.

He always thought of it as the Bureau, even though most people meant the FBI when they used that shorthand. But he figured it served them right. After all, even though the official designation for his former employer was the BOI, most feds couldn’t resist making a play on the nature of what was investigated, and referred to it as the Bureau of the Occult, or to be cute, BOO.

He made his way through the spacious room, looking around for the reference materials. Once he located them, he took his time trying to locate the volume he wanted. But at last, there is was: “Deities and Demigods.” He pulled the large volume from the shelf next to the more popular Monster Manual, and headed to a large table.

He flipped open to the index and started looking for cross-references to tigers. There were at least 30 different Gods and demigods listed. He decided to skip over the Gods and move right to the demigods and demigoddesses. This still left over twenty five deities. Several were Tiger-Gods, while others were only tangentially related to tigers.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated.

He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the display. It showed the number for Metro P.D. That meant it was either the captain calling to check up on him, or Regina with something to tell him. Either way, he decided to answer the phone.

“Aldridge here.”

“Hey Dash.” It was Regina’s voice. “How goes the investigation?”

“Slowly. And I’ve come up with some disturbing possibilities. How about on your end?”

She sighed heavily. “You know, you’d think it’d be easy to return information that I asked for, and not a bunch of extraneous crap. I sent out a bolo to all the local M.E.s asking for information on bodies with missing extremities, and I get all sorts of random bullshit. Like the idiot up in Baltimore who sent word of the body with the missing liver.”

Something in Dashiell’s brain sat up and took notice.

“Wait, what?”

“Huh? I said we got word of a guy with a missing liver. Why? Is that significant?”

“I’m not sure. Tell me about it.”

There was the sound of shuffling papers as Regina looked around on her desk for the file.

“Let’s see….Abe Goldman, 57, killed in his home last weekend, liver had been removed.”

Dashiell’s face creased in thought. “When last weekend?”

“Uh…Friday night.”

“What time on Friday?”

“Let’s see….best the M.E. can tell is sometime around 8 p.m.”

That seemed right. He was right on the edge of something. Like a name on the tip of your tongue.

“Regina, did the Fairfax M.E. send you the report on the car accident on the 273? The local Coroner told me about it.”

More shuffling papers. “Yeah, here it is. Captain Todd Stevens. What about it?”

“Captain? Was he in the armed forces?”

“No. Says here he flew for Delta Airlines.”

The thought that had been percolating in Dashiell’s subconscious for the last several hours sprang fully formed into his mind. It was almost too absurd to be believed. Could someone really be trying that? His eyes scanned the list of demigods on the table in front of him and he found the name he was looking for.

“Which way was he headed when the accident happened? In towards the airport, or away?”

“Uh…westbound. Away from the airport.”

Words flashed through Dashiell's mind. "Here I have a pilot's thumb, wracked as homeward he did come."

“Clever girls….” His voice was soft, as if he was speaking to himself.

“What was that Dash?”

“Regina, I’m almost positive our cases are connected. And that means we’re looking for women. Three of them.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ll explain when we meet, Regina.”

“Meet where?”

“The Folger Shakespeare Library.”

Next>

Chapter 17

2008-04-08T20:10:00.001-07:00

Dashiell approached a door with a frosted glass window, the words “Restricted Access” emblazoned in large letters. As if this wasn’t enough, the two armed guards on either side, members of the Library of Congress Police Force, ensured that no one entered without a proper pass.

Dashiell reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim black wallet. He flipped it open. Inside was a badge that identified him as a former government employee with clearance to enter this portion of the Library. The guard on the right looked over the ID, nodded and then turned to the door. He pressed a code into the keypad next to it, while the guard on the left pressed his thumb into a sensor on his side.

With an audible click, the door opened, and Dashiell stepped through. It closed behind him and he heard the locks engaging. He nodded to the two guards on this side of the door, before looking at what lay before him.

He was standing in a well-lit hallway, florescent bulbs in the ceiling reflecting off the hospital white tile floor. This portion of the Library looked different than the public sections. The hallway was wide. Three people could easily walk abreast down it, without brushing shoulders. Running down either side of the hallway were large oaken doors. Each door was made of a dark, solid oak, and each had a keypad over the handle.

The doors had no nameplates. Instead, the only indication of what lay inside were the official seals that marked the doors in gold paint. The first few doors carried the familiar symbols of the cabinet departments. A cursory examination would show that, starting with the first door on the right, and then alternating across the hall, the cabinet offices were in order of creation, from the oldest, State, to the newest, Homeland Security.

He walked a good way down the hall before he came to the door he was looking for. It was on the left. He briefly reflected on the fact that the secret archives of his former employer was on the sinister side of the hall, and knew that the former Director would have had something to say about it.

He looked at the seal. He hadn’t thought about it in nearly seven years. It would have been both familiar and disturbingly unrecognizable to the average citizen. It looked much like the Seal of the Department of Justice. But where the eagle on the DOJ seal was sitting atop a shield, this eagle was sitting atop a pentagram.

This was the seal of his former employer, the Bureau of Occult Investigations.

Dashiell punched in a seven digit code, then turned the handle.

Next>

Chapter 16

2008-04-06T19:35:00.000-07:00

Dashiell shook himself out of his reverie. Dark thoughts lay down that path and he wasn’t sure he could afford to entertain them. Then again, he was even more worried that he couldn’t afford not to. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that he was right.

And while his subconscious had yet to cough up whatever it was that had started nagging at him in the coroner’s office, it did tell him that this seemed to fit. He just hoped it would spit out whatever it was chewing on soon. He had a feeling he didn’t have a lot of time.

He shook himself again. Okay – he was fairly certain whoever he was looking for was in the process of calling up a god. An incredibly risky and stupid maneuver. But then, smart people didn’t go for a life of crime. So now, the question was, which god? If Dashiell could figure that one out, he might get a jump on finding whoever they were.

Well, he could rule out Western religions. The God of Christianity and Judaism, not to mention Islam, didn’t come when summoned. He came when He felt like it, and contacted the individual or individuals in question. Of course, that was true for most full Gods. Some would deign to respond, when summoned. But most preferred to be the instigators of any contact. And then they’d provide a much easier way to get in touch than this. No, this much power was designed to get a god’s attention.

Maybe they were just going for a demigod. That was much safer, could be handled by three witches or warlocks without too much risk to the casters, and was much more likely to respond to a summons.

Of course, that list wasn’t exactly slim. But he had a big clue. It would be a demigod linked to tigers in some way.

He looked around the section of the Library he was in. Well, there would be some books here, but mainly pop cultural stuff. For the sort of details he needed, he’d be better off with the work the Bureau had done. Much more authoritative.

So he got up and headed even deeper into the building, headed for the parts not open to the public.

Next>

Chapter 15

2008-04-01T18:31:00.001-07:00

Dashiell entered the building and showed his Library of Congress ID. He then headed back into the depths of the labyrinthine library. The place smelled of an odd mixture of old paper and furniture oil. He headed to the room that contained the B section of the call numbers. That’s where the books on magic and superstition were located. If he struck out there, he always had his government ID that would get him into the more restricted section, where the Bureau’s old texts were kept.

He studied the symbolism of the tiger and didn’t like what he found. In India, the god Shiva was known to wear a tiger skin when in his aspect as the destroyer. It was this aspect of Shiva that Oppenheimer invoked when he saw the first atomic bomb – I am become death, shatterer of worlds.

Could whoever he was looking for be trying to conjure up a God? That would explain the effort to keep the knife pure. That was the sort of power that would require purity in the harvesting of ingredients.

But summoning forth a god, while possible, was extremely difficult and even more dangerous. In fact, it was not something that could or should be tried alone. So perhaps he was looking for more than one culprit.

Suddenly, something clicked in his mind. Of course. He had seen marks of three candles on the ground at the zoo. He had assumed that they were three separate focus points to control male, female and tiger cubs. Apparently, he’d been only half right. Those candles had been used by three separate people.

This had its own comforts and fears. It was comforting to the extent that it meant that he wasn’t dealing with a truly powerful warlock or witch. That had been bothering him ever since the zoo.

On the other hand, if he was correct, it made this new theory that much more possible. Witchcraft was a funny thing. Witches and warlocks, working together, were capable of much greater feats than either one working alone, even if they were working on similar spells. When you started messing around with mystical numbers, it got even more powerful. There was a reason that Charmed had three main actresses. Circles of 3, 7 or 13 witches could bring about truly powerful magic.

That was why the Bureau always made sure it had 273 witches or warlocks available in D.C. at all times. When combined, this circle, made up of all three mystical numbers, could do anything. But it took the organizing force of a government to bring together that much magical ability.

If it were Dashiell, he wouldn’t even risk calling forth a god with less than 7, and he’d prefer 13. And even then, he’d stick to the more benign end of the pantheon. Calling up anything more serious, he’d want at least 21 or 39, a combination of two of the three numbers.

To do anything less would be insanity and risk loosing a destructive force on the plant that nothing could stop. Ever since the Administration closed down the Bureau, the agents had scattered to the four winds.

Dashiell had the sudden sinking feeling in his gut that he couldn’t afford to get this wrong. He had to stop whoever was doing this before they could complete their work.

But how?

Next>

Chapter 14

2008-03-29T09:01:00.001-07:00

It was nothing Dashiell could put his finger on, and he knew from long experience not to try and pin it down. It was more like his subconscious was sending him a message that something was coming down the pike, and to keep his eye out. After chewing on it for awhile, his mind would spit out the answer. For now, he’d just have to let it marinate.

“Just reading your report here Doc. I see you found some fibers?”

He nodded. “Yeah, a couple of dark threads. The zookeeper was wearing lighter colors, so they were inconsistent. Probably came from the killer. But they seemed pretty generic. Still, you can never tell. There may be something in the weave or the dye. Those guys at the lab can do amazing things these days.”

“That’s true. I guess I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” He then crossed his fingers.

The Medical Examiner looked a little askance at him, but shrugged. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Aldridge?”

Dashiell shook his head. “I can’t think of anything. If you end up identifying the object that was used to kill the zookeeper, give me a call?”

“Of course.”

Dashiell headed out of the autopsy room and signed out with the young man working the front desk, and he stepped out onto the streets of Southeast D.C. He reflected again upon the choice to place the Medical Examiner’s office here. It made for shorter trips for most of the bodies that the M.E. would have to deal with.

He headed up to the Metro and tried to decide on his next move.

He now knew that whatever the tiger had been intended for, it wasn’t any mere folk remedy. That would help narrow down his research. But at the same time, that was the problem. Almost all of the uses for tigers were traditional cures. In fact, nothing in his books at the office contained anything that would fit. In that case, his course seemed obvious.

He grabbed the Metro to Capital South and headed north, to the Library of Congress.

Next>

Chapter 13

2008-03-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

Dashiell was lost in thought and so he missed something Regina said.

“No nothing here. I can call around to some of the other local Coroners and see if they’ve had anything come through,” the Medical Examiner said.

“Hmmm?” Dashiell looked up.

“I was just asking if the M.E. had seen any other bodies come through with missing body parts,” Regina replied. “This looks like the work of a serial killer. Which means this probably isn’t his only kill. And if he’s taking trophies, that’ll link his kills.”

Dashiell nodded. “Makes sense. I never worked on serials, so I don’t know much about them, honestly. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Dash. I’m gonna call around to other precincts, from Baltimore to Richmond, and see if anyone else has seen anything like this. And to warn them to keep an eye out. We may have been the site of his first kill, but wherever we are in the order, we’re probably not the last. Unless I have something to say about it.” She got that hard look in her eye again. “I’ll call you later. I’ve gotta get on this.” She headed out the door, leaving Dashiell standing alone next to the zookeeper. Apparently, the M.E. had headed out to make those calls he mentioned.

Dashiell picked up the folder of notes the M.E. had left behind. He scanned over it quickly, skipping past all the details on stomache contents, weight of liver and such, to the notes about the cause of death. Nothing too detailed. Just a blunt object. No traces left in the wound, so it was probably a solid object. It was rounded, leaving an inwardly curving dent on the back of the skull. Apparently, death hadn’t been instantaneous.

Dashiell skipped ahead. He didn’t need the details of the poor man’s death. He turned the page and got to the section about trace evidence. Apparently a couple of dark fibers, inconsistent with the zookeeper’s clothing, had been found and sent to the lab. They appeared to be black or dark blue, made of a poly-cotton blend. Dashiell didn’t have much hope that they’d lead anywhere, but it was something.

Dashiell looked up as the door opened and the Medical Examiner walked back in.

“Is Detective Robins still here?” he asked.

“No, Doc. She took off to canvas surrounding precincts. What’s up? You find something?”

“Not really. Only corpse with missing digits from the last couple weeks was from that wreck out by Dulles. Body’s in the Fairfax Medical Examiner’s office.”

“What was missing?”

“Thumb on the left hand and part of the index finger. But it was a car accident, not a murder. Probably just got torn off during impact. People tend to grip the wheel pretty tight when they see the wall or another car coming. Does bad things to the thumbs.”

Dashiell nodded. It sounded like another dead end.

But something in the back of his mind was stirring.

Next>

Chapter 12

2008-03-20T18:25:00.001-07:00

Dashiell wandered over to the table where the Medical Examiner was working with Regina. He had to hold back a gag. What hadn’t been obvious from a distance, and what hadn’t been broadcast on the news, was that there were two bodies laid out on the steel table. And one of them was that of an infant.

“My God. What the hell happened?”

Regina turned to look at him, the sadness hovering around her eyes more apparent from up close. “Some sick bastard sliced up a pregnant hooker, that’s what happened.” Her voice was like cold iron.

“The baby…?” Dashiell left it hanging.

“No,” the Medical Examiner said. “It was born alive. And then deliberately strangled. There’s obvious hemorrhaging in the eyes. Coupled with the blue color, and bruising around the neck, there’s little doubt.”

“Dashiell, there’s a sick bastard loose out there. I won’t have time to work with you. I’ve got to find this son of a bitch and bring him down.”

As Regina spoke, the Medical Examiner continued his inspection of the baby, moving from the main body to the extremities. “Detective,” he said, drawing the attention of both Regina and Dashiell. “Found something else.” He used a small metal implement to gently uncurl one tiny lifeless hand. The baby’s fingers were missing. “Somebody mutilated the body. From the minimal blood loss, I’d guess post mortem.”

Regina grabbed the edge of the metal table and gripped it hard, her eyes going hard. Dashiell put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay Regina?”

She shook herself. “It’s just….You think you’ve seen everything on this job, Dash, and then something like this happens….” She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly let it out. “Someone’s gonna pay for this, Dash. I just hope when we catch up to him, the bastard resists.”

Dashiell nodded. It was a hard sentiment to argue with. Anyone who spent any time in law enforcement had a case like that, somewhere in their background. But as much as he felt for Regina right now, he had his own work to do.

The Medical Examiner finished his notes on the hooker and her baby, then put on a new set of gloves and headed to the other end of the room. Dashiell followed after him.

“So Mr. Aldridge, what can I do for you today?”

“Metro hired me to investigate the death of that tiger at the National Zoo. As you know, this zookeeper was killed at the same time. I’m hoping you can tell me about how he died and who may have killed him.”

The Medical Examiner flipped open the chart. Dashiell looked over the body, laying cold and naked on the steel table. There was a neat Y incision across the chest. Apparently, the autopsy had been completed the day before.

“Let’s see….says the cause of death was a blow to the back of the head, with a blunt instrument.”

Dashiell looked up at the Medical Examiner. “Blunt instrument? He wasn’t stabbed?”

“No, sir. No evidence of a knife wound of any kind. No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle either. Looks like he didn’t see it coming.”

Dashiell thought for a moment. The killer had a knife. Why not use it? Well, if it was sanctified in preparation for the tiger, that might explain it. Still, that was a lot of trouble, to find another weapon to kill the guard. There were few spells that required that level of purity in the ingedients. This changed things. If the killer went to that extent, then he wasn’t using these tiger parts for mere home remedies. He was angling for something a great deal more powerful. But what?

Next>

Chapter 11

2008-03-10T19:38:00.001-07:00

Beep. Beep. Beep.

One of these days, Dashiell told himself, he was going to throw the alarm clock right out the window. He pressed the button that turned off the alarm and stretched. He turned to get out of bed, careful to put his right foot down first, then his left. He headed to the bathroom and took a shower.

He looked at himself in the mirror, preparing to shave. As he often did, he considered letting his hair grow. It would be easier than shaving every day. Then he got over it and shaved.

He headed back into his bedroom and got dressed, putting on a shirt and tie. He was going to be dropping by a government office today, so he should look decent. He placed the blue bead on its leather thong over his neck, grabbed the acorn from the dish he had placed it in and dropped it in one pocket. He then took a clean handkerchief from his top dresser drawer, carefully tied a knot in it, and stuck it in his other pocket. Lastly, he grabbed his jacket and headed out the front door.

He walked over to the metro station, grabbing the first train that came. It happened to be a blue line train, which served his purposes just fine. He needed to be on the blue line anyway, so he might as well climb on board now. He took a seat and read through the Express.

The train ran above ground, past Reagan/National Airport, then dived underground to go pass beneath Crystal City, Pentagon City and the Pentagon itself. It surfaced again to stop at Arlington National Cemetery, before diving back beneath Roslyn and the Potomac River. Twenty minutes later, Dashiell was finished with the Express and the train was just pulling into the Stadium/Armory stop. He exited the train, using the same door he entered through, and headed up the escalators.

Dashiell was always uncomfortable in Southeast D.C. It was a dangerous part of D.C., and the area around the stadium was one of the worst neighborhoods. But sometimes, the job didn’t give him a choice.

It was a short walk to his destination, the D.C. Medical Examiner’s Office.

He walked in the front door and stopped at the desk. He showed his ID and his detective license, and indicated that he was there to check on one of the bodies.

The kid behind the counter told him to head back to autopsy. “Detective’s already here.”

Dashiell figured it must have been in connection to another case, so he was surprised when he opened the door and saw Regina.

“Morning Regina. What are you doing here?”

She turned around from the autopsy table, a mask over the lower half of her face. “I could ask you the same thing, Dash. I’m here for the case I caught yesterday. You?”

“I came in to see if there was anything interesting on the zookeeper’s body. I hit a dead end yesterday.”

The medical examiner looked up from his autopsy of the young woman on the table. “Grab a mask Detective, I’ll be over to speak with you momentarily.” He pointed to a table on the other end of the autopsy room.

Dashiell grabbed a mask, putting it on. He seriously doubted there’d be anything useful to be found here. Then again, one of the iron laws of forensic science was that two objects couldn’t interact without leaving traces on each other. And if the murder was spur of the moment, then there was a good chance some evidence would be left that could point Dashiell in the right direction.

Next>

Chapter 10

2008-03-07T21:23:00.003-08:00

Dashiell spent the rest of the afternoon in an unproductive visit to fifteen residences. True to Frank’s prediction, no one on the list was willing to talk to him. Many of them pretended a complete ignorance of the English language. They gave really obvious bad excuses – “No Engrish” and the like. Dashiell wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t want to push too hard.

After each interview, he would perform a little cantrip outside each door, to detect the presence of witchcraft. He would occasionally detect some small traces, probably from various knickknacks around the house. But there was nothing powerful, that would indicate the use of the tiger parts. And nothing that came close to the level of magic he’d deduced had been used at the zoo.

His feet tired, he decided to head back to his office. One thing he’d learned as an investigator, both as a government agent and in private life, was that sometimes, he just had to wait. Sure, for some crimes, the first twenty four hours were key. But for others, he just had to sit back and wait for something else to happen. It was even possible that the police lab’s mundane detection methods would discover something useful.

But waiting didn’t mean not doing anything. He spent some time in his office looking over alternative uses for tiger parts. Then he expanded the search to include all large cats, and then all mammals. Sure, the tiger was most likely picked specifically. The amount of work that went into getting the parts indicated as much.

But he’d learned long ago not to make any assumptions. Assumptions closed off possibilities, and sometimes you had to explore possibilities in order to find the truth. That was the thing about witchcraft. As much as people relied on the old ways, it was a growing field, and people were constantly discovering new spells, and new uses for old ingredients.

There were limits however. Each item used in witchcraft had certain inherent properties. If you wanted your spells to have maximum effect, you had to harness those properties, and work with them. New spells for newness sake didn’t make sense. Not when you could rely on the old way for the same, or a more potent effect.

So he researched the uses for tiger parts. Tried to discern their inherent properties. Tried to figure out what sorts of magic he’d use them for. Because if he could figure out what the spellcaster intended, well that told him a great deal about them.

After reading over about the fiftieth spell that incorporated tiger parts, Dashiell was no closer to solving the mystery. For obvious reasons, most of the spells were Asian in origin, Far East, Southeast and South Asian. There were even a few European spells. But not many of those.

Tiger parts were mainly used for spells of power and strength. So…he was looking for someone interested in power. Well, Dashiell thought to himself, that really narrowed it down. He looked up at the clock. It was past seven. He decided to call it a night.

He stopped by a little café he knew, and grabbed a quick bite to eat. Then he hopped the Metro and headed home.

He got in around eight and flopped down on his couch, flipping on the TV. He channel surfed until he ended up on AMC. They were playing Casablanca. He set the remote down and grabbed a glass of Diet Coke. It was going to be a good night. He really enjoyed the classics. Bogey was a particular favorite of his.

When the movie ended, he flipped to the local FOX affiliate, to catch the ten o’clock news. After covering the elections, the anchor moved on to local news. The lead local story was the case of a dead hooker found early in the day. He smiled as he saw Regina in the B roll running in the background.

It sounded like a particularly gruesome case. Apparently, she’d been slashed pretty badly, with special attention paid to her nether regions. There was a theory that a psychopath had done it, someone with a pathological hatred of women. He silently wished Regina good luck, and hoped she wouldn’t have trouble sleeping. Some cases could really get to you.

The dead zookeeper and tiger were next. There was no mention of Dashiell’s involvement, which didn’t surprise him. Metro PD probably wouldn’t want it known that they’d hired outside help. And they certainly wouldn’t want to mention any occult involvement in the case. The general public had a strong disbelief in the occult, and that probably wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

When the sports scores came on, Dashiell watched until they reported the score of the Duke game, then he flipped off the TV and yawned. It had been a long day. He decided to call it an early night. He headed upstairs, used the facilities, and emptied his pockets onto the dresser. He placed the acorn in a dish, and untied his handkerchief before dropping it in the laundry, along with his shirt. He hung his trousers on the back of a chair, then climbed into bed, making sure he was facing south. He slowly drifted off to sleep.

Next>

Chapter 9

2008-03-03T18:32:00.002-08:00

“Another body? At the zoo?” Dashiell asked.

She shook her head. “No, unrelated. A hooker up on 13^th and K. But you know how short handed we are. I’m the nearest detective, so I caught the case. Besides, you’ve got this covered. I’ll call you later.”

He nodded as she headed out the door, and he turned back to Frank.

“Look Agent Aldridge, if this tiger was killed last night, it’ll be all over the six o’clock news. No one’s going to be trying to move tiger parts with that kind of attention,” Frank said.

“Too much heat, huh?”

Frank nodded. “Exactly. Whoever did this either has an out of town buyer or plans to use them for himself.”

Dashiell considered this. “Hmmm. It was an awful big tiger for home use…Still, do you have a list of anyone who might be interested in that sort of thing?”

Frank scoffed. “Who’d be willing to talk to you? Look Agent Aldridge, you may talk the talk, but you’re still a white man. Most of the folks who are still into the ancient remedies won’t give you the time of day. On top of which, they’re my customers. You know I like to cooperate, but I can’t afford to be held responsible for a nosy white man poking around.”

“Look, Frank, I understand. But here’s the thing. It wasn’t just a tiger that got killed last night. Someone knocked off the zoo keeper too.”

Frank looked concerned. “Well, that’s another matter.” He considered for a minute, then reached under the counter and pulled out a large black binder. “Alright, Agent Aldridge. I’ll give you a list of the most common customers. People who look for the old remedies. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread my name around….”

“Don’t worry about it, Frank. I don’t want to put you out of business. I’ll do my best to keep your name out of it.”

Frank looked grateful. He copied over a list of about 15 names and addresses, which he handed to Dashiell. “These are the addresses I have for people. But I have to be honest Agent Aldridge. None of these people strike me as the kind who would do this sort of thing.”

“I know, Frank. But then, they rarely do.”

Next>

Chapter 8

2008-02-29T17:19:00.000-08:00

When she stopped laughing, Regina looked at her watch. “Look, Dash, thanks for lunch and all, but we have business to attend to.”

Dashiell signaled for the check, then turned back to Regina. “Oh ye of little faith. I’ve been working.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

“Sure.” Dashiell pointed out the large window they were seated next to, towards Regina’s car. “You see the old Chinese gentleman entering the shop?”

She nodded.

“That’s my contact. I noticed when we pulled up that the shop was marked ‘Closed.’ We needed to kill some time until he came back, and I figured lunch would be a good way to do that.” The waitress returned with the check, and Dashiell reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He left a 21% tip, then signaled to the door with a nod of his head. “Shall we?”

She nodded, rising from the table and leading the way out the door.

They crossed the street and Dashiell held the door open for Regina. The shop was underlit, with the smell of incense thick in the air. It was decorated in a strong Asian theme, with paintings of demons and dragons on the walls. There were assorted odd curios throughout the shop. Behind the counter sat the old man that Dashiell had pointed out. He was Asian, with a long white beard, reminiscent of Fu Manchu. He was that indefinable sort of old, between 60 and 3000. He looked up as he heard them enter.

“Welcome, welcome. Please come inside.” His English was very good. He had a slight accent, but one could almost believe he had been raised in the United States.

Dashiell had paused for a moment on entering, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then approached the counter. “Hello Frank. How are you?”

“I am doing well, Agent Aldridge. And yourself?”

“I’m fine Frank. But you should know by now it’s not Agent Aldridge. Just Dashiell. Allow me to introduce Detective Regina Robins, Metro Police. Regina, this is Frank Chen.”

Regina offered her hand, with a raised eyebrow. “Frank?”

He shook her hand with his own, the skin feeling like old parchment. “It’s my American name. I find it easier to use than my birth name, at least when dealing with Americans. What can I do for you today?”

Dashiell took the lead. “What can you tell me about tiger organs?”

“Tiger organs…. They are used for virility and fertility. Why? Looking for some help?” He eyed Regina up and down.

“Don’t be crude, Frank. Anything else you can use them for?”

“Well, various parts of the tiger have been used in folk remedies for centuries. Back home, there is a thriving black market in tiger organs. You don’t see much call for them here though. First, they’re hard to come by. Second, most folks who live here have become acculturated. They use Western medicine.”

“So who would be interested in tiger parts?” Regina asked.

“Well, in all honesty, if I could get my hands on some, I wouldn’t object. Some people will pay handsomely for the old remedies,” Frank said.

“How handsomely?” she asked.

“Well, if you rationed it carefully, and had a large specimen, you could make several thousand dollars from traditional remedies.”

Dashiell whistled. “Look Frank, I’ll level with you. Someone killed one of the tigers at the zoo last night. Cleaned out the torso. If you hear anything about someone suddenly peddling the home remedies, will you let me know?”

Frank nodded. “Of course, Agent Aldridge. You know I always cooperate with law enforcement.”

“Good,” Dashiell said. “Then I assume that means you know nothing about it?”

Frank looked innocent. “Of course not, Agent Aldridge. I try to get all my ingredients legally. All the money in the world does me no good if I spend it on legal fees.”

Dashiell chose to ignore that. “Very well then. Any idea whe—“

Just then, Regina’s phone rang. She looked apologetic as she pulled it out and answered it. “Yes?....Alright. I’ll be right there.” She turned back towards Dashiell and Frank. “Sorry about that. Dash, I have to run. Will you be okay getting back to your office?”

He nodded. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah. That was dispatch. Apparently another body’s turned up.”

Next>

Chapter 7

2008-02-25T18:54:00.000-08:00

Regina was quiet for a moment. “You know, Dash, since I’m the one that hired you for this case, I find that rather offensive.”

The fork paused halfway to Dashiell’s mouth and he stared at her with a look of horror frozen on his face. “Oh, come on Regina…you know I meant-“

Suddenly she burst out laughing. “Oh God Dash. You’re too easy. You should see the look on your face.” She covered her mouth with a napkin as she chuckled. Dashiell just shook his head.

“You’d think by now I’d recognize your humor,” he grumped.

“Oh come on now, Dash. Don’t be like that.”

He chuckled. “Alright. You got me good, Regina. I guess that’s one I owe you.”

Her eyes twinkled. “By my count, it’s closer to nine.”

“Oh, so you want to play it that way?”

“Yeah, Dash,” she said, examining a shrimp on her fork. “I think I do.” She bit down into the shrimp savagely.

He just shook his head and tucked into his meal.

After a few minutes, he asked, “What about you, Regina? You have any plans for after you’re done with the force?”

She looked around the restaurant and gestured with her fork. “And leave all this?” She chuckled. “I’m sure there’s something. But that’s so far in the future. I’ve got at least 10 until I’m vested. Once that happens….who knows?”

“At least they won’t be shutting down Metro anytime soon. I was 10 years on the job when they shut down the Bureau.”

“You seem to be doing alright for yourself. After all, you can afford to treat a lady to a meal like this.”

He looked amused. “So I’m treating now, am I?”

“Of course,” she nodded knowingly. “You’ll just charge the Department for it as an expense anyway.”

He laughed out loud and then drained his Diet Coke. “You’ve got that right. You’re halfway to being a private detective already.”

“Is that an offer?” she arched her eyebrow.

“Ask me in 10 years, when you vest,” he teased.

She rolled her eyes. “With my luck, some demon will have sucked out your soul. Or your shrunken head will be decorating some witch doctor’s mantle.”

“Never gonna happen,” Dashiell said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Simple. These days, witch doctors use all their shrunken heads as key chains.”

Regina laughed.

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Chapter 6

2008-02-22T19:49:00.000-08:00

Regina drove the two of them downtown, following Connecticut to Dupont Circle, then taking Massachusetts. She made a right on 9^th at Mt. Vernon Square, then a left on H. Dashiell pointed out a spot as they pulled up to 6^th. Regina parked and they got out.

“Ready for lunch?” Dashiell asked.

“Shouldn’t we be interviewing your contacts, Dash?”

“Hey, they have to eat too,” he pointed out.

“Fine. Any ideas?”

He pointed across H at a set of stairs heading to a door about five feet above the street. The sign in the window said “Eat First.” It advertised a lunch special for $5.95.

Regina didn’t look impressed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Dashiell shook his head. “Not at all. Best deal in the city. Good food at a reasonable price. Never have to wait for a table and the service is fast.”

She shrugged. “Lead on.”

He headed across H and up the stairs, holding the door for her. She led the way in, indicating two when the hostess asked how many. They were seated at a table in the window and ordered drinks. Regina stuck with a water. Dashiell ordered a Diet Coke. Then, they perused the menu.

Having been here several times before, Dashiell knew what he was having. Same thing he always had. He was a creature of habit.

He looked across at Regina as she studied the menu. The first thing everyone noticed about her was her bright red hair. She may have an English last name, but there was definitely Irish in her heritage. She was in her mid-thirties, and had laugh lines around the corners of her mouth. She was just starting to develop crow’s feet around her eyes, which he noticed as she squinted at the menu. She probably needed reading glasses, but was a bit too vain to get them. After all, old ladies wore reading glasses, didn’t they?

She finished reading the menu about the time the waitress came back with Dashiell’s Diet Coke. They each ordered. She had the General Tso’s shrimp with white rice. He had the sweet and sour chicken with fried rice.

“So you ever get tired of the gumshoe’s life, Dash?” Regina asked.

“Haven’t we covered this ground at some point?”

“No, actually. I don’t think we ever have.” She took a sip of her water. “I mean, I know you used to work for the Bureau, before they shut it down. But you could have transferred to another agency. The FBI for example.”

“No,” he disagreed, shaking his head. “They already had Mulder and Scully working their spook cases.”

She snorted.

“Seriously though, when they shut us down, it became apparent any work I did wouldn’t be dealing with the occult. And someone has to do that kind of work. Just because the current Administration doesn’t like it, doesn’t mean it’s going away.” He drained about half of his drink. “With the Government out of the picture, that leaves a thriving private sector.”

“You really like working for yourself?”

The waitress came up to the table and dropped off their food. Dashiell prepared to take his first bite.

“It’s great. But my boss is a real asshole.”

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Chapter 5

2008-02-18T19:15:00.000-08:00

“The other tigers are locked away?” Dashiell asked.

The Captain nodded. “They’re in the cage, the female and the cubs. If you walk around to the other side of the enclosure, they’ll let you in to examine the body.”

He walked around the enclosure and through the tiger cage, making his way out over the grassy verge toward the limp body. In his mind, he ran over the various uses for tiger parts. In China, the various organs of the tiger were used as parts of folk remedies. Perhaps a trip to China Town later would be in order.

He arrived near the tiger’s body and carefully examined it. As he had suspected from the path, the tiger’s body was neatly slit right up the middle. The cut was clean. Perhaps a surgical instrument had been used. There were no other obvious injuries, so cause of death was unclear. What was clear was that the tiger’s body cavity was completely empty. Whoever had done this had taken all of the internal organs.

His eyes scanned the grassy area around the body. He didn’t see any obvious signs of occult practices. No stray wax from candles. No impressions from a brazier. No. Whoever did this was not wasting any time. Get in, get out. Any rituals would be performed later, to the organs themselves, rather than at the time of harvest. Some might say it would make the organs less potent. Others argued that the ritual at the time of use was more important.

Whoever did it had to deal with not only this tiger, but his mate and their cubs. To do that, and get out alive, without injury, indicated a great deal of skill. He or she would have had to cast a powerful charm spell on all five animals. The fact that he didn’t go after the cubs would have helped. The protective instincts of mother over cubs, and the need of a cub for its mother would have been difficult to overcome. No, if it had been him, he’d have gone for the male too.

Still, that was a powerful piece of witchcraft.

He finished examining the area around the tiger, then headed back out to see the Captain and Regina. As he walked back around the exhibit, his eyes scanned the ground. About the middle of the path around the tiger enclosure he saw what he was looking for. A spattering of black wax on the asphalt. It had blended in fairly well. He knelt down and gave the wax globs a closer look. From their dispersion, it appeared there had been three candles here. That was unusual. You only needed one, for concentration. Then again, every caster was different, and if you were trying to charm multiple targets, perhaps multiple focal points was best. Yes. That made sense. One for the male, one for the female, and one for the cubs. Being younger, they’d be easier to charm.

He took out a pocket knife and scraped up some of the wax. He sniffed it. Odorless. He put the knife away and held the wax in his clasped hands, eyes closed. He spoke a short cantrip. Nothing. Whoever had used these candles had been smart. He hadn’t owned them long enough for traces of an aura to develop.

When he opened his eyes, Regina was standing next to him. She had been quiet during the ritual. She spoke now.

“Find something?”

Dashiell stood. “The tiger’s organs were removed. Someone set up some candles here, probably to charm them. Can’t get a read on who it was, though.”

“Ideas?”

“Well, Eastern cultures have various uses for tiger organs. Since tigers are indigenous to that part of the world, that’s our best bet. I was thinking about taking a run down to China Town, checking in with some sources I have there.”

Regina nodded. “Sounds good. Mind if I tag along?”

“Not a problem for me.” He checked his watch. “With traffic at this time of day, we’ll be getting down there just in time for lunch.”

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Chapter 4

2008-02-16T08:59:00.001-08:00

Dashiell and Regina went down to the street and walked the block to Regina’s unmarked car. It was a standard dark blue Ford Crown Vic. The official car of police detectives everywhere. He was fairly impressed she found a spot so close. Parking in this neighborhood was a nightmare, which is why he usually took the Metro.

She slid behind the driver’s seat and Dashiell joined her in the front. She pulled out and made a right onto 22^nd, then a quick right onto Decatur Place. She made the left when it turned into Florida, and then another left onto Connecticut. After that, it was a straight shot to the National Zoo.

Dashiell looked down into the green when they crossed the bridge over Rock Creek Park and the Potomac Parkway. It always struck him that there was this huge park in the middle of the Nation’s capital. And it was huge. It stretched from the Potomac, near the Kennedy Center, all the way to the Maryland border and beyond. Parts of it were sectioned off into other parks, but they were all one large connected greensward. They offered horseback rides near the northern end.

They pulled up near the front of the Zoo and Regina pulled into the parking lot on the right. She drove down the long drive and parked near the other emergency vehicles that were already there. The ambulance was just shutting it’s doors, a black zippered bag visible on the stretcher. Dashiell arched an eyebrow at Regina. She just shrugged.

They entered the zoo through the side entrance, near the panda enclosure. They asked the officer on duty there where the Captain was and he pointed down hill, telling them to head to the tiger exhibit. The zoo had been open since 6 am, but it wasn’t exactly tourist season, and it was still before 9, so there weren’t many people wandering around. They made their way down past the Ape House and Reptile Discovery Center, swinging around to the Sumatran tigers. They had new cubs if Dashiell remembered correctly.

As they came around the final curve in the path, they were spotted by Captain Montgomery. Charles Montgomery was a small, officious looking black man. He’d been a cop since he was 18 years old. A life-long D.C. native, he’d grown up in a rough neighborhood and fought his way out to become the highest police official in the District. In the most political city in the world, he was a master of politics. And right now, he was standing next to a zoo official and a janitor near a pool of blood.

“Ah, Mr. Aldridge, Detective Robins good morning, thank you for coming. This,” he indicated the zoo official, “is Dr. Frederick Matthews. Dr. Matthews is in charge of the zoo.”

Dashiell nodded to Dr. Matthews, indicated the pool of blood. “Someone was murdered?”

Captain Montgomery nodded.

“Any surveillance video?”

Dr. Matthews spoke up. “Actually no. The zoo hasn’t been equipped for 24 hour surveillance yet.”

This surprised Dashiell. After 9/11, he thought most of the popular tourist destinations in the city had been hardened with at least the addition of video cameras. He said as much.

“Well, Mr. Aldridge, we do have heightened security during the day, when the people are here. But at night, with the zoo closed, the feeling is it’s just not that attractive a target. And on the list of government buildings in D.C. to protect from terrorism, sadly the zoo is low man on the totem pole.”

Dashiell nodded. That made some sense. He turned to the Captain. “So what’s my role in all this? You don’t usually call me in on the run-of-the-mill murders, and I’m looking around the spot where the body was discovered and don’t see anything that would call for my involvement. Unless there’s something about the body itself?”

The Captain shook his head. “No, we didn’t call you in for the body, Mr. Aldridge. At least, not that body.”

Dashiell looked a question at him.

He gestured into the tiger pit. “You’re here for that body.”

Dashiell followed the Captain's gaze. He saw up on the grassy hillock of the enclosure the prone form of a large tiger. When he’d first walked up to the cage, he’d been distracted by the blood on the ground. Now that he gave it a closer look, he saw that the tiger, which he thought had been sleeping, was in fact dead. The white fur on its underside was covered in red.

It was hard to tell for sure from this distance, but it appeared the tiger’s belly had been slit wide open.

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Chapter 3

2008-02-10T21:30:00.001-08:00

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

“Come on in, Miss,” he called to whoever it was.

“How do you always know it’s me?” a female voice asked from the entry hall. Dashiell got out of the chair, bent over to pick up the spoon, setting it on the desktop next to a fork that lay in repose there, and started walking back up the hallway to greet his guest.

“I didn’t know it was you. Could have been any woman.” He entered the main foyer inside his door and nodded to the woman who was standing there. “Hello Regina. What can I do for Metro’s finest?”

“You didn’t answer my question, Dash.” She stood about eight inches over five feet, lean, with a runner’s body, and a crop of bright red hair. It exploded from the back of her head like a firework on the Fourth of July. She had been growing it out recently, but it wasn’t quite long enough for a full ponytail yet.

“Well that makes us even, since you didn’t answer mine.” He leaned against the doorjamb that separated the foyer from the hall.

“I asked you first.” She was dressed in street clothes, not a uniform, but professional, the black skirt suit showing off muscular legs. She was wearing sensible, closed-toe flats. Even standing perfectly still, she looked like she was full of energy, ready to burst out at any second.

“What are you, twelve?”

She stuck her tongue out at him, as if to prove his point.

“Keep that up, your face will freeze like that.”

“Is that a threat?” she asked, in mock affront.

He chuckled. “If I had that power, I’d have used it on you long ago, Detective. Now what brings you to see me?”

She arched an eyebrow at him, then grinned wickedly. “If there’s something strange in the neighborhood,” she sang. “Who you gonna call?”

He rolled his eyes at her. “Very funny, Regina. Now you have something for me, or are you just here to bust my chops?”

“Can’t it be both?” she asked, smiling innocently. When he responded with nothing more than a flat stare, she decided it was time to get to the point. “We have a strange case and the Captain asked me to see if you might be interested in a little work.”

At the word “work,” Dashiell perked up considerably. “What’s up?”

“There’s been a break-in at the National Zoo,” suddenly, she was all business.

“What makes you think it has anything to do with the occult?”

“Captain wasn’t specific. Just said he got a sense the occult might be involved. I got the call on my way into the office this morning. Asked me to stop by on my way up there, see if you might be interested in joining us. I just assumed we always called you for all that ‘eye of newt, wing of bat’ stuff.”

“Well, I’m always happy to assist the Metro Police in their investigations,” he said.

“Funny, that’s not how I remembered it when you worked the Bureau. Why the change of heart?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, a smile returning to his face as he grabbed his jacket, “these days, I can charge you when Metro gets in my way.”

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Chapter 2

2008-02-08T21:25:00.000-08:00

He stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind him. The pair of scissors hanging on the wall rattled lightly as the door closed. He checked the answering machine on a small end table by the door. The light was steady. No messages today.

He walked down the short hallway to his office at the back. The converted apartment was too large for his needs, but thanks to rent control, it was not above his means. Besides, it comforted clients to see that he had a large office. Gave them the impression they weren’t deluding themselves in coming to see him.

The hardwood floors creaked beneath the red carpet that ran down the middle of the hallway. He kept his desk in a back room, so that he could enjoy the view from his windows. In his last job, he’d been on the interior of a large government building. He had grown tired of the institutional off-white they painted the walls and florescent lights tended to give him a headache. Now that he was in the private sector, he was determined to have natural light as much as possible.

He strolled into his office.

The room was a mess, cluttered with the detritus of cases, past and present. He stepped through this cluttered space, not even bothering to avoid the papers littering the floor. It looked as though someone had ransacked the place, yet Dashiell walked through it as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

He walked to his desk and sat heavily in the large leather chair, swiveling to look out the window. It was a nice view. The trees were just starting to bud with new leaves, letting the world know that winter was once again coming to an end.

He leaned forward to the small mini-fridge and opened it, pulling out a can of Diet Coke. He popped it open and took a sip, leaning back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk. There was a loud clatter in the silence as a piece of silverware that had previously been on the desktop fell to the floor.

Company was coming.

His eye traced over the curve of the spoon.

Female company.

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Chapter 1

2008-02-06T20:40:00.000-08:00

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The steady ringing of the alarm was silenced as a meaty hand slammed down on the sleep button. Dashiell Aldridge opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the light streaming in through his south-facing window. He grunted sourly. He’d never been a fan of Thursdays.

He breathed in deeply, stretching his hands over his head, and decided he’d better get up. If he were late into the office again, his boss would give him hell. He sat up and carefully got out of bed, being sure to place his right foot on the floor first. He stood up and crossed to the bathroom where he took care of his usual morning business.

After a shower, he was feeling almost human again. He dressed quickly, grabbing the first thing he saw when he opened his dresser drawers. He paused in putting on his shoes, making sure to put the right shoe on first, then the left. He reached into the top drawer and grabbed a clean, white handkerchief. He unfolded it, grabbed the opposite corners, and very deliberately tied a knot in the middle. He examined it, nodded to himself, satisfied, then shoved it in his right front pocket. Then he reached for a necklace on the dresser top. It was a simple leather cord with a blue bead hanging off it. He tied the cord around his neck and dropped the bead down the front of his shirt.

He headed out his front door, which was painted a friendly blue, and smelled the fresh scent of rosemary from the planter boxes on either side. Spring was coming early this year. He looked toward the large oak tree in his front yard and spotted a squirrel that was out for a morning snack. He strode quickly toward it, his long stride quickly eating up ground. The squirrel, startled, ran up the trunk of the tree. Dashiell bent and picked up the acorn it had dropped.

“Thanks,” he said, with a nod of his head. The squirrel chittered angrily, deprived of its breakfast, as Dashiell put the acorn in his front left pocket. He headed toward the sidewalk, turned left and started walking down the street.

He came to Braddock and made a left, heading for the Metro Station. He grabbed a copy of the Express from Henry, the guy who passed them out every morning, nodding a hello before pulling out his wallet, passing it over the SmarTrip spot and sliding through the automated gateway. He heard the soft roar of an arriving Metro as he replaced his wallet, and hurried up the escalator, staying to the left to get around the standing passengers.

The Yellow Line train toward Fort Totten was just pulling in as he reached the top of the escalator, and he stepped up to the flashing lights of the platform, waiting for the doors to open. When they did, he made his way toward the center of the car, as the feminine voice suggested, grabbing a seat. His stop was close enough to the end of the line that a seat was still available. Towards the center of town, it got to be like a cattle car, the human flesh squeezed together.

He settled into the seat, trying to ignore the greasy smear on the window where some earlier commuter had rested his or her head. These were the things you got used to using public transportation in and around the District. He turned his attention to his paper. There were the typical stories from around D.C. and the world. They were considering raising Metro fares again to compensate for increased costs, and there was talk of extending a spur off the Orange line out to Dulles. There’d been a pretty bad accident on the access road the night before, something this new line might help avoid.

He had just finished reading through “This Day in History” as the train pulled into the China Town/Gallery Place station. He rose from his seat, squeezing toward the doors at the end of the car. He headed up the escalator toward the side marked Shady Grove, to catch the Red Line. The platform was crowded and he had no hope of finding a seat on this train, which meant he wouldn’t be able to do the Sudoku. So he people watched instead. You always got such an interesting mix here in the nation’s capital. There were uniformed soldiers going about their business, men and women in suits heading into work and the inevitable tourists, looking like lost sheep, dressed in garish outfits, even in the middle of winter.

It was three short stops to Dupont Circle, where he sliced through the crowd in the car and squeezed through the double doors before the dreaded “ding ding” which indicated they’d be closing on you, whether you were fully out or not. He headed toward the Q street exit.

The cold hit him as the escalator emerged into the winter air. At the top, he turned right, heading up Connecticut to R. He made a left and followed R to 21^st. He let himself in the door of the converted three story townhouse, climbing to the second floor. There was a broom leaning against the wall next to the frosted glass door, which bore the following legend:

Dashiell G. Aldridge

Private Investigator

Specializing in

Occult Investigations

He opened the door and let himself in.

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