Chapter 10

Canada, Twenty-Eight Years Ago

The family picked their way down to the road and huddled under a copse of Douglas fir adjacent to the road. Chepi held the unconscious Sheshebens on her lap, and the boy curled into a knot on the snow next to her. Noshi used his hands and a beautiful mule skinner with a red stag handle to dig an adequate ice cave, and they all crowded in…

Northern California, Present Time

Some said a pair of ghosts haunted Mama Winter’s Bookstore and Coffee House. In spite of her own unexplained experiences, Maggie wasn’t about to buy into the idea of phantoms and spirits. When Sally complained about items mysteriously flying off shelves, spooky disembodied voices, and opening shop some mornings to find all the furniture had been rearranged during the night, Maggie said, “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Someone’s messing with you.”

The ghost story first circulated in the late 19th century when a mysterious fire broke out and gutted Wicklow Mercantile and Apothecary, the building that later housed Mama’s. The owners, brothers Caleb and Jedidiah perished in the inferno. According to legend, their ghosts haunted the building, and were responsible for all kinds of mischief. Sally named them “Iggy and Squiggy” and often talked to them. Maggie thought it absurd, but even she was a little unnerved when this morning she arrived as Sally opened shop, and the two women discovered every bistro table and chair in the place piled on top of one another into a wobbly tower that reached to the ceiling.

“Looks like a cartoon magician’s balancing act. Who else has a key?” asked Maggie.

“John has one, and so does Dawn.”

“Where were they last night after you closed?”

“John, as usual, was passed out drunk.” Sally tapped her fingers on the barista bar. “Let see. Dawn’s still working at the Dandelion this week…no, no, she’s at the Medieval Festival in San Diego, that’s right. She’s not even in town.”

“Has to be some explanation. Maybe kids came in through a window.”

“I don’t know why you are in such denial,” Sally said. “As I recall, you’ve had an experience or two of your own.”

Sally was the only person Maggie told about Mikey, the “Hey Girly Ghost,” she called him. Just now, she regretted having said anything. Maggie inspected the interior, found all the doors and windows secure with no evidence of forced entry. “I’m telling you, someone is fuckin’ with you, Sally. Don’t give in to this ghost story stuff.”

Sally looked toward the ceiling. “Iggy and Squiggy, do you mind? You know how challenging it is to run a business around here. I don’t need to deal with your B.S. on top of everything else. Cut me a break, will ya? She disappeared behind the bar and retrieved a white pillar candle and a bag of sea salt. She lit the candle, mumbled a few words, and walked clockwise around the coffee shop throwing handfuls of the salt into each of the corners.

“What are you doing?” Maggie asked.

“Protection and cleansing spell.”

“Really, Sally?” Maggie laughed and shook her head.

“Yes, really. And, don’t ridicule what you don’t understand.”

Sally and Maggie disassembled the tower of tables and chairs and were putting things back to normal when Sam entered the shop. “Is it all right if I leave the door open? It’s a little stuffy in here.”

“Sure,” Sally said.

“I see Iggy and Squiggy have been at it again. Need help?”

“No. We got it. Thanks.” She walked behind the counter. “The usual, Sam?”

Sally turned to the espresso machine and tamped grounds into the portafilter. The customer sat at a corner table and opened his laptop.

Bearing two mugs, one filled with coffee the other with chai latte, Sally sat across from Maggie. “You want to talk?” She withdrew a small vial from her purse, and dabbed some of the contents on her neck. The space filled with the scent of jasmine, Sally’s signature fragrance. Even when she couldn’t see Sally, Maggie always knew when her friend was around because the atmosphere was scented with jasmine.

“I’m now on the investigation team for the serial killings. I’m afraid this is official business.”

“I’m happy to cooperate in any way I can.”

Maggie took a sip of her coffee. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you about John. Where was he night before last around eight o’clock?”

“I have poker with the girls on Sunday nights. He was home when I left at six p.m., and he was home when I returned at ten. You don’t think he has anything to do with this, do you?”

“You have no idea where he was while you were gone?”

“He’d never do anything like this.” Sally stared at Maggie with astonishment.

“John was arrested for indecent exposure to children. We have to consider him a suspect.”

“Mother Goddess, that was years ago. He was drunk. It was stupid. But, there’ve been no incidents since.”

“He took out his pecker at a library and showed it to a group of first-grade girls. We’ll have to bring him in for questioning.”

“I think, really, you just don’t like John.”

“You’re right. I don’t like John. You’re my closest friend, but I don’t mind saying you’re married to a complete asshole. However, that’s not why we are bringing him in, and you know it. Because of our friendship I wanted to give you a heads-up, and I was really hoping for your sake you could provide an alibi. You don’t have a clue where he was the night the Sorenson twins went missing, do you?”

Sally leaned back in her chair, her posture stiffened. “Yes, I do have a clue where he was. He drank his usual half-bottle of Scorsby with a 12-pack of Keystone chasers. He was keeled over on the couch dead drunk when I came home. He couldn’t have done this.”

“Maybe he was faking it. Maybe he poured most of the whisky down the drain. Maybe he left after you did and took a drive to Peony Lane.”

“And maybe he didn’t. Maybe you just think he’s an asshole and want to harass him. You didn’t think he was such an asshole when we were at Wicklow High.”

“That was, what, almost thirty years ago? Half the girls in high school had a crush on ‘Super Jock John.’”

“You were so pissed off when I went to Junior Prom with him that you didn’t talk to me for almost a year.”

Maggie laughed. “You got me on that one.” She became serious again. “I’m talking to you now. Sally…listen. I know this is hard on you but we’re bringing John in, and if you warn him, even though you’re my best friend in the world, I’ll have to arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

“You know things have been tough for John since he shattered his knee.”

“C’mon. That was when he was at USC.” Maggie shook her head. “You’re kidding yourself if you think it’s okay for him to be a jerk now because of a minor injury he received when he was nineteen years old.”

“He was on a full-ride scholarship. That’s all he ever wanted to do – play football. It ruined him when he destroyed his knee, and with it any hope of going pro. That injury was hardly ‘minor.’ It devastated him.”

“Look, I know he’s your husband, and I get that you want to protect him, but John’s ‘poor me shattered knee/shattered life’ excuse wore thin decades ago. When he decided to waste his potential getting drunk, showing his dick to little girls, and hitting you, that’s when I lost any remaining patience I might have had with that sorry son-of-a-bitch.” Maggie took another sip of coffee, then placed the mug back on the table and turned it in circles leaving damp, round traces of moisture on the wood. “Why do you stay with him? I’ve got extra space at the A-frame. Come live with me until you get on your feet.”

Sally raised her hands in resignation. “I’m all John has. In spite of his issues, I love him. I’m sticking, at least for now.”

“Suit yourself. But, if you ever come to believe you deserve respect, my door’s open. I care about you, Sally. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I know. Thanks.”

The hanging bell on the door tinkled as Happy and the new deputy walked in.

Three Dean Koontz novels flew off a shelf landing on the floor spine-end up in a perfect row. Both women jumped. Maggie spilled her coffee.

“Damn it, Iggy and Squiggy. Not now, please.” Sally picked up the books and placed them back on the shelf.

“Oh, c’mon,” Maggie said wiping the spill with a napkin. “It’s windy outside. I’m sure a gust from the open door blew the books off the shelf.”

“A gust of wind can’t blow books that heavy off a shelf, and you know it.”

Sam lifted his head from his laptop. “Man, those two are active this morning. Can I have another espresso, Sally?”

*

Maggie said her goodbyes, and walked across the street to the National Bank. “Is Mingan Metchitehew available?” she asked the teller.

“I believe so, Maggie.”

The teller walked to the back of the bank and knocked on a door.

“Yes?” said Mingan.

“Maggie Sloan here to see you.”

“Oh, good. Show her in.”

The teller escorted Maggie to Mingan’s office. She read the title on the door plaque: President.

“Good morning. Glad you took me up on my invitation to stop by.” Mingan stood from behind his desk.

He wore a tailored navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, burgundy silk tie, and his hair was slicked back. He looked the part of a successful big city banker, rather than a small town branch president. So different than the “barefoot Indian on the rock” Maggie and the twins played with at The Bear Dance. The two sat across from one another at Mingan’s teak desk. Maggie took note of the cross hanging on the wall behind Mingan’s desk.

“President? When you told me you worked in the back offices, I thought you might be a bookkeeper or something. I had no idea you were so high on the food chain.”

“Don’t be too impressed. It’s only a title.” Mingan adjusted his tie and looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, I’ve got a meeting in about twenty minutes, so I won’t have time for a walk to Mama’s. By the way, some of our customers swear that place is haunted. I’ve experienced a few strange things there myself.”

“Not you, too. I don’t believe in monsters, ghosts and myths.”

“I’ve heard within every myth there is a grain of truth.”

“My Yurok mother used to say that.”

“Wise woman, your mother. She knows things are not always as they seem.”

“The better word is knew. She’s been gone for a long time now. Cancer.”

Mingan gave her a sympathetic look. “And your father?”

“Irish from Belfast. Active in the I.R.A. Blown up in a car bombing. My daddy was the most fascinating man I ever knew.”

“Sorry to hear about your father. I lost both my parents, too, when I was seventeen. Murdered. Stabbed to death in their sleep. The authorities never found the weapon and never caught the killer.”

“That’s a terrible ordeal for a teenager. I’m so sorry.”

“It was difficult then, but my uncle raised me and it worked out. He was a good guy, but he’s passed on now, too. My faith in Jesus sustained me. Maggie, do you believe in God?”

“What about other family? Siblings?” Damn, I hope he doesn’t get religious on me.

“No brothers or sisters. And the only other relative I have any contact with is in a locked mental ward in a Toronto Hospital. I used to visit her now and again, but she’s so delusional that she has on more than one occasion physically attacked me. She says I’m a ‘demon,’ a ‘monster’ who has to be killed to save the world.” He laughed, reached over, and took her hand.

Not yet, buddy. A little too early for that. She withdrew her hand and put it in her lap. “I can’t imagine anyone thinking of you as a monster.”

“Well, I’m glad you don’t see me that way,” he said staring into her eyes. “So, no Mama’s this visit, but I can offer you a decent cup of National Bank’s best?”

“No, thanks. I’m coffee’d out.”

“Besides coming to visit me, what are you up to today?”

“We didn’t have a lot of time to really talk at the Bear Dance. You probably don’t know this but I’m a retired detective with the Oakland Police Department.”

“Oh?” He raised a questioning brow. “Bear said you’d been a cop, but a detective?”

“Twelve years ago I led the investigation into a Bay Area rape, torture and murder of two sisters, ages seven and nine. Those little girls…when I saw their mangled bodies and the expressions of terror on their faces, it hit me hard. I killed a suspect who fled the scene of the murderer. What was worse…I shot the wrong guy. I was put on a leave of absence and opted for an early retirement, and the bastards who did it are still out there.” Maggie looked down at her lap then up again. “I failed those girls and their families. After that, I simply couldn’t do it anymore.” Her expression brightened. “So…here I am back in Wicklow, your friendly ex-detective.”

“If it hadn’t been for that tragedy, I may have never met you. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you retired and are here now.”

Maggie tried not to stare at Mingan’s face, his eyes so dark that she couldn’t tell his irises from the pupil. Onyx. His eyes are the color of polished onyx. Why was it always the eyes that get to me?

The sexual tension building between them was strung taut to the breaking point. But, Maggie felt uneasy and broke their gaze. “I’m on the reserves with the sheriff’s department. Jake Lubbock asked me to help with the investigation into the serial killings. If the Sorenson boys aren’t dead already, they will be soon.” Maggie looked out the window. The autumn sun back lit the liquid amber directly outside of Mingan’s office. Its leaves had already begun to turn burgundy. “I haven’t figured out why he takes their hearts. It’s too gruesome, too cruel to imagine. I keep thinking about their parents, how they must feel knowing how their children died.”

“You’ve come out of retirement for good, I gather?” Mingan sunk back into his plush chair.

“I don’t know for good, but for now. This is my community. You’ve met Bird and Flower…I have to do this for them, then I’m back to my quiet life on the river.”

“Like that guy in the Bay Area, not all killers get caught, you know. Some are intellectually brilliant and can easily outsmart the police. You heard about ‘The Monster of Florence’ haven’t you?” Mingan crossed his arms.

“I studied the case when I was in school. Some sicko butchered seventeen people, maybe more, in Florence, Italy, between 1974 and 1986. He targeted lovers in parked cars on moonless nights. Carved out the women’s sexual organs with precision, Jack-the-Ripper style. Sometimes, he cut off the left breast. There were many suspects, but the Italian cops never actually found the murdering son-of-a-bitch.”

“That’s my point. He’s most likely still alive and probably has an IQ off the charts. The most intelligent killers never get caught, Maggie.”

“I read the detailed report on this guy. Special Agents Dunn, Galinda and O’Tool from Quantico issued an investigative analysis that states most likely the killer was of average intelligence.”

“You really think he is less than brilliant?”

“He’s not exceptionally intelligent, or clever, or special in any way. He’s nothing but a twisted, psychotic murderer, exactly like the jerk we are dealing with now. I’m going to do whatever it takes to get this bastard. Bird and Flower fit the killer’s victim profile too closely.” Her folded her arms were snug across her chest.

Mingan picked up a pen and twisted it between his forefinger and thumb. “I’m telling you, no one who commits that many murders over that long a period without getting caught is of only ‘average’ intelligence.”