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We turned to look into Lucien’s smiling face.
“I don’t know what that means—” Jenny giggled “—but it sure sounds nice. Was that Shakespeare?”
“Yeats,” Lucien replied. He flashed a wide smile at Jenny then focused his obsidian eyes on mine. “Jeff tells me you’re interested in pentagrams.”
I didn’t answer. It felt as if his cavernous gaze was extracting my ability to speak. I controlled my urge to fidget and my other urge to run.
Jenny stepped closer so that she was shoulder to shoulder with me. “Yes, Tabitha has had a rather interesting few days, pentagram speaking.”
“Really?” His eyebrows rose in amusement, his gaze still securely locked on mine. “It sounds like an interesting story, perhaps one that should be told over dinner? Tonight?”
“Um, sorry. Actually, I’m working tonight.”
“Oh? Jeff told me you work in a law office, is there an emergency legal matter to attend to?” The corners of his mouth twitched.
“I have a second job at a movie theater.”
“But she’s not busy now,” Jenny piped in and I would’ve pinched her if she hadn’t sidestepped out of pinching distance. “You could always go for coffee.”
“Splendid idea.” Lucien grinned. “I’ll just let Jeff know that he’ll be running the store.”
He turned on his heel and then I did pinch Jenny.
“Ow!”
“What the hell did you do that for?” I snapped. “I don’t want to go out with him!”
“You’re the one who is always saying that coffee with a man is the perfect predate test,” Jenny reasoned thumbing through the pages of her love spell book. “What’s so awful? So you spend a few minutes together. Big deal. You can determine whether or not there’s a spark and whether or not he’s capable of stringing a few words together, then if he passes the predate test you’re safe to attempt dinner.”
I hated having my own lecture tossed back in my face.
“Well, you’re coming with us.”
“No way! The man doesn’t even look at me when I’m standing right next to you.”
“I don’t care. I need a buffer because he’s just so—” I groped for the word “—intense.”
Jen rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you can handle him on your own for a few minutes. I’ll be right across the street at that discount shoe place. When you’re done having coffee with Mr. Intense you can meet me there.”
Before I could protest further Mr. Intense was at my side and shrugging into a black leather jacket and within minutes we were at a coffee shop next door cozily sipping steaming lattes.
“So tell me about your pentagram escapades,” Lucien urged.
“Jenny likes to be a little dramatic,” I replied, and after taking a deep drink of my coffee I relayed to him all about the purse snatcher, the following cat yukiness and then the incident at the Dumpster. I omitted Detective Jackson’s subsequent visit.
Lucien leaned in, listened patiently and made tsk-tsking sounds at all the appropriate places. Once I’d completed my story he leaned back and considered me with his scrutinizing gaze.
“Having the sight must be both a blessing and a curse for you.”
I jumped enough to slosh a little coffee on my fingers. “I do not have ‘the sight.’” I drew quotes in the air with my fingers then wiped the coffee from them with a napkin. “I assure you that I cannot foretell the future or read minds.” I took a long pull from my coffee cup. “Occasionally I do have intuition,” I begrudgingly admitted, then I laughed nervously. “Women’s intuition. Ha ha. We all have it.”
But he wasn’t buying it. “But you did know something was wrong even before you saw the dead cat or the Dumpster. I’m willing to bet that you’ve also had premonitions about what actually did happen at that Dumpster.”
“You’d lose that bet.”
He shrugged. “But you do believe a woman was killed and put in the Dumpster and you also believe the pentagram in the cemetery and the one on the Dumpster were made by the same person.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t need to say it.”
“Oh, so now you’re the clairvoyant?”
He sipped his coffee and grinned. “I think some people have a sixth sense but most ignore it.”
I considered that to be true as well and told him so.
We sat in silence for a moment then suddenly he reached inside his turtleneck and pulled out a long silver chain. Dangling from the chain was a silver disc, an amulet, with a pentagram carved into its center. Intricate letters and figures I couldn’t quite make out were engraved around and inside of it.
“That’s a different kind of pentagram,” I commented. “Do all those symbols on it have a meaning?”
He nodded. “It’s called the Pentagram of Solomon. It protects from danger.” Grinning he said, “You know, many people get a kick out of playing around with witchcraft or the occult. A few satanic or Wicca doodads around the house can make great conversation pieces.” He rolled the amulet between his fingers and it glinted in the florescent lighting of the coffee shop, then he tucked it back inside his shirt. “I’d say the majority of my customers are just curious and some may even dabble occasionally but that doesn’t make them satanic cultists or evil murderers.”
“Of course not, just like going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.”
He tossed back his head and laughed throatily. “Exactly.”
“Still—” I downed the rest of my coffee “—you must get some so-called true believers in your store.”
“Sure, in Washington state alone there are over a dozen Wicca covens practicing on a regular basis.” As if he were tossing them away with a wave of his hand he continued, “They’re harmless. It’s those who don’t belong to the groups, those who follow their own path, who are probably more likely to be dangerous.”
Suddenly, he leaned on our small table until his face was scant inches away from mine. “Have you tried to focus your visions? I have a terrific assortment of scrying mirrors.”
I leaned back. “I don’t believe in them.”
He frowned and drew his brows together. “I’m sure it doesn’t work for all but many seers trust in scrying. How can you not believe in scrying when your own ability should be enough to convince you of its possibilities? Perhaps you should learn more about the subject before saying you don’t believe.”
I sighed. “Scrying is the art of clairvoyance achieved by concentrating on an object,” I recited. “The word scrying comes from the English word descry, which means ‘to make out dimly’ or ‘to reveal.’”
He clapped his hands politely. “Obviously you’ve already done your homework on the subject. Yet you still claim not to be a believer. Why is that?”
“A couple years ago I got curious. I spent some time at the library and with a psychic. The so-called psychic cured me and proved to me that most of what’s out there is a lot of horse hockey.”
I didn’t reveal to him the fact that my sudden interest was triggered by a premonition of my father’s demise followed by his actual death in precisely the manner I envisioned.
“Most—but not all—of the stuff is bunk, I’ll give you that, but how do you explain the fact that some people have very accurate visions while scrying?”
“It’s simple, if you’ve ever sat staring at a blank wall until you began to see images, or if you’ve ever lain in bed staring up at the ceiling until you saw blurry patterns in the stucco, then you’re doing the exact same thing as staring into a scrying mirror until a so-called vision manifests itself.”
He didn’t respond except to finish his coffee. When he spoke again he abruptly changed the subject. We spent the remaining few minutes discussing the weather and then whether or not the Seahawks had a hope in hell of beating the Chicago Bears tomorrow.
When we parted company in front of the coffee shop I had to admit I was a tiny bit disappointed that he didn’t ask me out. Not that I was sure I’d even accept, still, it was always nice to have a gorgeous guy ask.
Jenny had used our few minutes apart to add to her shoe collection. She lived valiantly by the credo that if the shoe fits buy it in every color. She picked up a prized pair of red stilettos for her date that night. Jenny was a full-figured gal and with stiletto heels she looked like a pear on stilts. Then again I was probably just jealous because, unlike me, Jenny rarely was desperate and dateless on a Saturday night. True, the guys she dated were usually blind dates that never asked for seconds—hell some even went to the bathroom halfway through the evening and didn’t return. Still, Jenny was an optimist and figured Seattle had a lot of men and she was determined to date all the single ungay ones or die trying. You have to admire someone with that kind of tenacity.
Jenny and I grabbed a burger for lunch then parted company. I did laundry at home and then shuffled off to work. That night at the Movie Megaplex I was friendless ’cause Lara had scored a night off. The first wave wasn’t too bad—there were lots of groups of singles. Then the second wave hit and there were lots of couples all smoochy and cuddly after a romantic dinner. I tried to dish out the popcorn, drinks and candy without making eye contact. If I saw that glazed lust-on-its-way-to-love look on one more face I’d start slamming my head into the counter. Then, just when it couldn’t get any worse, a warm male voice forced me to look up.
“A diet cola, bottled water and a jumbo popcorn.” Clay Sanderson beamed down at me. He had that same challenging spark in his eyes and the same glittery blonde hanging off his arm.
I swallowed and dared to meet his gaze. “Uh, if you order the enormous popcorn you’ll get a free box of Rosebuds.”
“You’re the boss,” he joked.
Why me? If he insisted on taking his date to the movies so often why did he have to come to this theatre and my lineup? I filled his order then returned and took his cash, trying to be as quick as possible.
Clay offered me a wink before traipsing in the direction of the theaters. I noticed his girlfriend was wearing high heels similar to the ones Jenny had bought. Only Clay’s girlfriend did not look like a pear on stilts—she had the legs of a dancer. All of a sudden I was depressed.
I took a ten-minute break and ate my way through a supersize Oh Henry! and a box of Junior Mints then returned to do clean up. After the second wave of shows started things got pretty slow behind the concession stand so we began to close the station down. The two pimple-faced teenagers working with me talked excitedly about their plans to attend a party later. It was downright embarrassing that I had nothing to do. I decided that my chocolate binge would need the assistance of a few beers to make me feel better. Yeah, a few beers and maybe a pack of Virginia Slims. When I quit smoking last month I’d not counted on being pummeled by all these new obstacles in my life. Bad dreams. Detective interrogations. A chance I may get a promotion and work with Clay. I needed nicotine to calm my frazzled nerves.
The second wave of moviegoers were spilling into the parking lot as I returned to the staff room to change out of my yellow uniform shirt. I slipped into my Seahawks jersey and shrugged into my Gore-Tex jacket. It was raining when I stepped outside, which matched my mood perfectly. Actually, it wasn’t official rain. Seattleites had many names for the various forms of wet drops that fell and this was a mizzle—a mist increasing to a drizzle. Regardless, it was wet, it was cold and I had to walk home in it.
Most of the second-wavers were darting to their cars and I envied them. I wanted my car. I needed my car. When you had a car you had freedom. I cut diagonally between the parked vehicles but paused midway across as I found myself looking at the abandoned building where Lara and I had discovered the bloody Dumpster. I stopped and stared at it. I was not going near there. Nope. I wasn’t. Really.
“You’re not going over there,” Clay’s voice commanded from behind me.
I turned sharply with surprise. “Of course I’m not!” I said defensively.
He opened the passenger door to a sporty yellow Miata soft-top and the modelesque blonde slipped into the passenger seat, eyeing me dismissively.
“Because you sure looked like you were thinking of going over there and if that is what you’re thinking, I have to advise you against it.”
I felt a dribble of rain dangling from the tip of my nose and swiped it away with my hand. “I was not thinking of going there. I was just wondering if the cops had checked inside the building.”
Clay narrowed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. When he narrowed his eyes they crinkled in the corners, making him look a little older than his midthirties. I wasn’t used to having his undivided attention. I didn’t sigh, even though I wanted to.
“I’m sure that the police have thoroughly checked the entire area and I am just as sure they would not want you checking to see if they checked.”
“Clay, I’m cooold,” whined Modelesque Girl.
“I’ll be just a second, Candy,” Clay replied, and pushed her door shut.
Her name was Candy. Perfect. How could I ever compete with a combination of thinness, blondness and someone whose name was a sweet confection?
“So you’re going straight home then, right?” he asked.
Suddenly I was annoyed. Just because I moonlighted at a movie theater did not mean I didn’t have a life! Okay, well it did mean that but he didn’t need to know it!
“It so happens that I have a date,” I lied.
The corners of his lips twitched. “It’s almost midnight. You should’ve had your date pick you up.”
I jammed my hands into my pockets. “Todd’s meeting me at my place. I live only a couple blocks away and I like to walk.”
Todd was the name of my first boyfriend. I don’t know why his name sprung to my lips but I figured having a name for my fake boyfriend lent some credibility to my lie.
Candy tapped her window impatiently with a long manicured nail.
“Cool it,” Clay said to the window.
Yeah, cool it, Candy, Clay and I are having a conversation here, I thought.
“Okay.” He chucked a finger under my chin. “Just be careful, huh?”
The underneath part of my chin tingled where he touched it. I turned and strode purposely across the parking lot. After a few steps I could hear his car roar to life and that’s when I let out the breath I’d been holding. The chuck under my chin was not exactly the lip-crushing kiss of my fantasies but it had definitely thrown me off guard.
When I reached the edge of the lot I hesitated. I should turn right onto 156th Avenue and continue my walk. I could stop at the corner store and pick up that pack of Virginia Slims. The ciggies combined with the six-pack of Rainier beer that was waiting in my fridge would take me well on my way to having my own little pity party inside of half an hour. Or I could do all of those things after I checked out the building across the street.
It’s not like I have a death wish. I’m just a curious kind of person and my inquisitiveness was now centered on that dilapidated building. All I wanted was a peek inside. I wasn’t going to go near the Dumpster. No way. I just wanted to know if the inside of this building was what I’d seen in my dream.
I crossed the street. Instead of that eerie feeling I’d felt the other day about the building, there was only a general uneasiness, but it wasn’t thundering inside me. It was just sort of…there, hovering in the background…like when you eat hot wings and you know the heartburn’ll follow, but I could handle that. I mean if the place was really dangerous I’d have that deep sense of foreboding snaking through my veins, right?
Trusting my instincts in this weird kind of way, I scurried toward the building and dipped into the shadows. The front door was padlocked and boarded; the windows along the front and side were also secured with plywood. I inched around to the back, to where one of the boards had fallen away. Standing on tiptoe, I pressed my face close to the window. It was black as ink inside. Damn.
Just then, the clouds opened and it started raining hard. There was a slight overhang covering the back entrance and I scooted out of the wet. Of course the door was also crisscrossed in canary-yellow crime-scene tape, but all I wanted was to wait until the rain tapered back to a sprinkle then I’d head home. It was a shame I hadn’t gotten a better look. Too bad I didn’t have a flashlight. Wait a second! I didn’t have a flashlight but I still carried a Bic lighter. I rummaged through my purse. Lucky for me I hadn’t changed purses since I’d quit smoking. I dug around the bottom of my bag until my fingers clamped onto the smooth familiar feel of the Bic. I lifted it out triumphantly and stumbled backward hitting the door with my shoulder. The tape tore away and the door sprang wide open. Holy shit!
I recovered from my stumble and stared into the dark cavernous building. Swallowing my fear, I fumbled with the lighter until I was able to flick it ablaze. I stuck my arm straight out and the tall flame illuminated the way as I walked inside.
The flame flickered as I walked farther and farther. The back door opened into a hall and after a few steps to my left it turned into one big room. It had the appearance of an old convenience store. On the far wall, shelves were still mounted from floor to almost the ceiling. The lighter was heating up so I let it go out. Using the wall to guide me, I inched along. Suddenly, my foot plunged into a hole. I flicked my Bic and saw that my foot was lodged into a heating vent with a missing cover grate. I had to tug my foot out, leaving my shoe behind, balance on one foot and then do some wriggling to get my shoe free from the crevice. After that, my eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light coming through the opened back door.
The room smelled of dampness, rotting wood and something else. The something else was candle wax. I felt my heart rate pick up when the scent rushed a flash from my dreams. I remembered a room like this and a hand reaching to light a thick black candle.
I switched on the lighter again and something caught my eye. On the wall to my right was a drawing in black marker. Not the large scrawling curse words or tagging of graffiti, but two symbols each about a foot high. The first was a crude drawing that looked kind of like an angel but instead of a halo it had a horizontal crescent shape on top of its head. The second was a circle with a cross inside of it. My fingers reached out to touch the drawings.
“What the hell are you doing?” A voice boomed from the doorway.
I let out a squeak, dropped my lighter and nearly passed out.
Chapter Three
“W hat the hell are you doing sneaking up on me?” I demanded in turn.
Clay Sanderson fisted his hands on his hips. “I distinctly recall telling you not to come in here!”
“You may be my boss at McAuley and Malcolm but I’m on my own time now and if I want to go snooping then—”
He strode dangerously toward me and stopped scant inches away. “You broke into a crime scene!”
“Whoa.” I held up a hand. “I did not break in. The tape came down when I fell against the door, and then it just flew open.”
