The Witching Hours, page 2
“And you can be even better, working with people with whom you can be honest,” Jackson assured her. “Let’s head on over to the Bolton house and see … what you can see there.”
The Bolton house wasn’t one of Salem’s eighteen “first period houses,” but the base for the house itself had been there since the late 1600s—but that was just the foundation and a few walls. The house, as it stood today, did date back to the latter part of the eighteenth century; it was a beautiful and historic home. It had been lovingly tended by the Bolton family through the centuries. Mike Bolton had turned the house over to his grandson, Justin Bolton, just the year before, since they had lost Justin’s parents years ago when he’d been a teenager. Mike’s son died from cancer, and his daughter-in-law died from a heart condition. A widower, Mike Bolton had helped his grandson make his way through college. When Justin’s second child had been born, Mike had convinced his grandson it was time for something bigger than the apartment they lived in downtown. Mike reminded him that the house was historic, and the family had cared for it for years and years, and now it was Justin’s turn.
Justin had accepted the responsibility, but he hadn’t wanted his grandfather to move out. So they’d arranged for a family apartment to be created out of the old garage or old carriage house. Justin, his wife, Alicia, and their children could reside in the main house, but Mike never needed to be far away—or worse, alone.
They had been a happy family because with Mike there, neither Justin nor Alicia had to worry if they ran late at work and the nanny needed to get going because she was taking classes. Mike was more than capable of watching the kids for an hour or so.
But Alicia had returned from work one day to find her grandfather-in-law dead in the carriage house—and their nanny, along with their oldest child, Jeremy, age five, were gone. No note, no possible explanation. They were just …
Gone.
She found their baby, Lily Marie, just eleven months old, alone and terrified, crying in the playpen.
Alicia had naturally been terrified and in a panic herself, but smart enough to call 911 first, and then her husband before she had, by all accounts, broken down completely. It had been her husband, Justin, who had forced down his emotions to give them all the information they did have—the nanny was Patricia Yale, just twenty, a student at the local college. She was a young woman who had grown up in foster care, but had done exceptionally well with her studies while working at the same time. She loved children, especially both the baby and Jeremy, and they loved her. She had worked for another family in the area who had used Patricia frequently for date nights, and they had recommended her to Alicia and Justin Bolton with glowing praise.
Jeremy was a smart little five-year-old. He knew his parents’ phone numbers and his home address. He was a loving child who was always eager to meet people, but they had tried to teach him a little about stranger danger.
But nothing was heard from little Jeremy, and Patricia had not returned to the apartment where she lived with three other college-aged friends.
Because there had been no explanation and no clues to be discovered in the hours that came after what the ME had classified as a murder—not a death—in the house, Lieutenant Gavin Bruns, a friend of Jackson’s from a situation years before, had called on the Krewe of Hunters.
Skye had looked Bruns up online, since he had been the one to call on Jackson and allow for the Krewe, or “Feds,” to come in. He was a man in his midthirties and had risen swiftly within the department, mainly because of his expertise in weighing a situation, using logic, and never attempting to micromanage those with him.
Jackson Crow was a keen observer of people.
And Skye knew now Jackson had been watching her and her investigations, interviewed her, and knew that while she wasn’t “different” in the way that he and the Krewe were, she was “different” in her own way, and so …
Here she was.
For this case, Jackson had arranged for Skye to be “on loan” from the NYC field office. But she also knew Jackson had other plans for her. He was creating yet another special unit within the Bureau with the help of Adam Harrison, a man who had lost a beloved son with special abilities and thus had begun to put the true but unimaginable together and … get things done!
“Onward! To the Bolton house. In truth, I’m happy to be here,” Skye assured them. “I came often while I was growing up—back then, I had lots of family in the area. I met several true wiccans. Laurie Cabot brought the first Witch Shoppe to Salem in the early 1970s, my mom said, and there were a lot of people who were practicing wiccans at the time—not people who did any harm. Wiccans wouldn’t. Kind of like voodoo—doing anything evil would come back by a factor of three on the person who did.”
“Crow Haven Corner is still here, but with different owners, I think. If I’m not mistaken, Laurie may still be involved,” Jackson told her. “Anyway, it is a fascinating town. There’s more history, too—”
“Seafarers!” Skye said. “Pirates and more!”
They’d reached the car, and continued chatting on the way, but it wasn’t much of a drive to the Bolton house.
Crime scene tape remained on the door, but it had been broken. Someone was already in the house.
“Zach must have beat us here,” Jackson said. “That’s his car on the street.” He pushed open the door and shouted. “Zach—it’s us, Jackson, Angela, and Skye!”
Skye had yet to meet the man she was being partnered with for the case. She knew his name was Zachary Erickson, and that he had been with the Bureau for several years, based in Boston.
She also knew Jackson had watched him—just as Jackson had watched her—and determined they’d be right for federal investigation, one that they’d been asked in on by the local police.
“In here!” a male voice called.
They entered the house. It was a truly handsome historical residence, with a large parlor decked out with Victorian furniture, a staircase that curved to a balcony and hallway and rooms above, and arched doorways that led to side rooms.
Zachary Erickson made his entrance.
Her first impression of the man was …
Interesting.
He came into the parlor carrying a baby’s rattle, shaking it as he walked. He was a tall man, with dark hair and blue eyes so dark they almost appeared black. She knew that he was thirty-three, that he was originally from Harpers Ferry, and later moved to Boston and had been with the Boston Police Department before joining the FBI. Like most field agents, he appeared to be fit and professional.
Which made it appear a bit more ridiculous that a tall man in a pristine dark blue business suit was waving a baby’s rattle.
But he was looking at her, too, maybe wondering what kind of a weird being he was being set up with, she assumed. According to Jackson, Zach’s ability was a little more common than hers, one that had been utilized by police many times—even if it wasn’t the accepted norm or a “talent” believed in by skeptics.
According to Jackson, Zach had psychic abilities. He could touch objects and see things through them … sometimes, people or places.
Where they had been.
And possibly, where they were as he held the object.
He was staring at her, of course.
She wasn’t tall, but she wasn’t tiny, standing about five-five. And on a good day, she weighed almost 120 pounds. She had long light-auburn hair, and she was thinking she should have put it back that day, maybe add a little leverage to a look of professionalism …
She had, at least, worn a pantsuit and hoped she would appear to be professional in dress, if nothing else.
“Hi,” he said, looking at Skye.
“Um, good to meet you,” she said. Of course, she didn’t know yet if it was or wasn’t.
“Enjoying yourself with that?” Jackson asked him, referring to the rattle.
“They never touched the baby,” Zach told him. “Small favors. As far as Mike Bolton, I just got the ME’s report in on my phone; you must have it, too.”
They all pulled out their phones.
“Cause of death, heart attack. Method … cocaine?” Jackson said, looking up at them.
“Ingested,” Zach said. “The man had no history whatsoever of drug use. So whoever was here kidnapped the nanny and the kid, and forced or tricked it into the old man somehow.”
“He would have done it if someone threatened the children,” Skye said.
“Do you want to go to the outbuilding and see what you can get?” Angela asked Skye. “I mean, if—”
“Yes, of course, and I’m fine!” Skye assured them, making a point at not looking at the man who was supposed to be her partner for the enterprise.
Angela and Jackson had to be back in DC for a case involving a lobbyist; and while they had other agents there in their stead, the powers that be wanted them.
Everyone here is weird in one way or another! she reminded herself.
So she looked straight at Zach Erickson and said flatly, “Lead the way. Let’s see if there is something that I can … see.”
He nodded. She tried to determine if he was skeptical or not. Well, he shouldn’t be.
And she shouldn’t be acquiring such a chip on her shoulder already. The man hadn’t acted in any way that suggested he thought she was a fake.
“Out the back door is easiest,” he said. “Of course, here’s where the forensic crew that the police sent out were stymied—there was no break-in. There were no fingerprints found anywhere that didn’t belong to the nanny or to family members or friends we’ve already seen and questioned and who all have alibis. And kids, of course. A five-year-old has playdates, so … Anyway, the grandfather was found in his little apartment, out here.”
Zach led the way through the house.
An archway led from the parlor straight back into a kitchen that had been modernized, Skye thought, within the last ten years. There was a breakfast table with a booster seat and a high chair drawn to it at the one side, with a large work island toward the middle of the room. A large refrigerator-freezer, double sink, oven, microwave, and more of the usual made up the rest of the kitchen.
The door to the rear of the house was right behind the breakfast table. It was probably new as well, with a window that looked to the back and could be covered by a pretty, flowered drapery.
Zach opened the door and headed out.
The rest of them followed.
The distance between the main house and the outbuilding was about twenty feet; it sat a little to the left of it, from their perspective.
The yard itself was charming. Trees surrounded the back, and flowering bushes had been planted close to the house.
A little trail of stones led to the quarters where Mike Bolton had died.
“The man was eighty,” Zach murmured as they walked. “A healthy eighty, from all accounts; a man who taught high school until mandatory retirement age; was loyal to his wife, who died after a stroke about six years ago; and a good father. From all accounts and records, he was a model citizen, a man who never even accrued so much as a parking ticket.”
“No suggestion that his lifestyle might have caused him to, um, imbibe a bit?” Skye asked.
Zach looked at her and shook his head.
“From everything we’ve learned, he didn’t imbibe so much as a sip of champagne at family weddings. And in an age when the world smoked cigarettes or pipes or cigars—nope. Never smoked, never drank, never did drugs,” Zach told her.
“Zach was up here yesterday,” Jackson informed Skye. “I know we just dragged you in this morning—”
Skye laughed. “You didn’t drag me in. If I can help find a child and help solve a cruel murder, I’m happy to be here.”
Jackson nodded.
Zach studied her while opening the door to the outbuilding.
It, too, had been sealed with crime scene tape, but the tape had been broken—by Zach Erickson, Skye thought.
He’d been here. He’d been studying the case. And as of now, he had nothing.
She entered the small building. She knew it had once been a carriage house, and she hoped desperately her vision wouldn’t take her further back than she needed to go. She had to concentrate on very recent history.
It appeared to be a typical grandparent or in-law dwelling. There was a small room that was furnished with a sofa and an armchair and a large-screen TV. The area stretched into a small kitchen area, which held a small refrigerator, a microwave, and a sink. There was a doorway that led to the bedroom.
Skye knew she needed to head into the bedroom.
She brushed past Zach to reach the doorway that led to it. It was like brushing by concrete.
He didn’t seem to notice.
Like Jackson and Angela, he followed her into the small bedroom.
It offered a bed, a dresser, a closet, and a single chair. She looked at the bed, knowing that it was where the deceased man had been found.
She sat in the chair by the bed and closed her eyes.
And waited.
And then, the movie in her mind began.
And …
The door opened; Skye saw the person … the being … slip in.
Mike Bolton had been sleeping. He didn’t open his eyes with alarm; he was expecting his grandson, perhaps, or his little great-grandchild.
But then he saw the being …
It appeared extremely tall, but that was because of the witch’s hat, broad at the brim and pointed at the top. The person was clad in an encompassing cloak over a ruffled black shirt with a high neckline.
The face was …
Green.
Like that of a witch in a movie.
Mike Bolton stared in disbelief for a moment. Then he opened his mouth to scream.
As he did so, the thing rushed toward him, snatching his pillow from beneath his head, shoving it over his face. And when the green being lifted the pillow from the man’s face, Mike Bolton opened his mouth, desperate for air.
As he did so, the being shoved something down his throat. The man gagged, twisted, turned … fought …
And the being put the pillow over his face again. Not enough to kill him …
Just enough to cause him to pass out.
Satisfied, the green being headed for the door, looking back to make sure the man wasn’t going to regain consciousness.
Then the being was gone.
Skye heard the bedroom door slide shut in its wake.
Then the door to the outbuilding.
And then …
She heard the scream. Startled. Quickly cut off …
And …
Nothing.
Skye opened her eyes and blinked away the past. They were all staring at her. Jackson, Angela, and Zach Erickson.
She swallowed hard.
“Well? You saw something!” Jackson said.
She nodded.
“What?” Angela prodded softly.
Skye winced, looking at them all.
“Mike Bolton was killed by …”
“By?” Zach pressed.
“By a witch,” she said. “A green witch, like one might see in the movies. With the black pointy hat as well. Or I am assuming, someone dressed up as a witch with pointed black hat, green flesh, and all.”
She expected the looks she received from them.
But Jackson shook his head. “Great. So we’re in Salem, Massachusetts, and someone is dressing up in a movie-version witch costume—and attacking people.” He paused, grimacing as he looked from Zach to Skye and said quietly, “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
Zach stared at Skye, arching a brow. “A witch … a modern concept of a witch, someone painted green and running around in black clothing and wide-brimmed and pointed hat?”
Is he skeptical, or just assuring himself that he’d heard correctly?
She grimaced. “That’s right, I’m afraid. We’re looking for the Wicked Witch of the West.”
CHAPTER 2
“Can you do this? Now that it’s just us—and the local detectives?” Zach managed to ask softly. He’d pretended he needed Skye to put something in his car, to give them just a few seconds alone as Jackson and Angela departed—and their local counterparts remained waiting in front of them.
“It’s harder, now that the detectives are here,” Skye murmured carefully in reply.
They were on their own with the local law enforcement because Angela had glanced at her watch and then she and Jackson had apologized when the detectives had arrived, and introductions had been made. They had to leave, to get to the airport, because they needed to be back to the DC area as quickly as possible.
So far, the pair had been polite enough, accepting of the additional help from the federal side of things.
Zach nodded and said quietly, “Naturally, knowing we were here, they’re going to be here. They’re local; even if the federal government has been asked in, but we weren’t asked—and we’re not authorized—to take control, just to provide assistance.”
“I wish Angela and Jackson could have stayed a little longer,” Skye murmured. “I do understand, but …”
“All right,” Zach said. “I can give you a few minutes in here. I can keep our police detectives outside, talk about the road, the surrounding area. That will give you time inside.” He sighed softly, shaking his head. “I had the place for about thirty minutes alone before you three arrived this morning. But there was nothing in particular the criminals touched that took on a glow. And the police had already been in here, of course, so what I was getting was images of them being here.” He winced. “Whatever the thing is that I have, it’s best when something is pristine, when I can be there first. This thing with you … it’s really cool. It works no matter what has happened when, right?”
She glanced at the two detectives—they were engrossed in conversation, studying the main door to the residence.
Detective Constance Berkley appeared to be in her early thirties, an attractive woman, with dark brown hair and a lean face. She was about five-three—small next to Detective Vincent Cason, a man who stood at about six-two, broad and fit, blond-haired and strong-jawed, perhaps a decade older than his partner.
