had helped her. William sighed.
He'd thought this kind of persecution was over, that the haled and horror of the old days had faded.
But it wasn't, it hadn't, it never would.
The green flames were gone, and he stared down at the twisted black lump that had once been a body, thinking of his mother. He remembered the way she had looked at the stake, remembered the panicked expression on her doomed face, remembered the way her eyes had scanned over him without recognition, mistaking him for merely another face in the hostile crowd that was putting her to death. 'Run!' the man with the torch had ordered her, and she had run in place as the fire caught, as first the kindling and then the bigger branches had begun to burn. She had continued to run as the sack dress she was wearing ripped open, had continued to run naked as around her the blaze grew.
He touched the twisted form with his foot. In his mind, as clear as if it had been yesterday, he heard the sound of his mother screaming as the flames scorched her skin, as her legs blackened and she started to burn. He'd wanted her to save herself, to use whatever magic she had left and kill however many men she could, and he had not understood at the time why she'd gone down passively, why she hadn't struck back.
But he knew now that she'd done it for him. Any indication that the judge was right, that she really was a witch, would have ensured that he, too, would be put to the stake. But dying this way had kept alive a flicker of doubt in the townspeople's minds, had guaranteed him life.
Men like Stevens and his friends had killed his mother, and though he understood that they feared what they did not understand, it did not excuse their actions. He felt no qualms
about putting an end to Stevens' life. It had been kill or be killed--as it was so often out here in the territories--and he would do the same thing over again if given the chance.
But he had no time to dally. They would be back. He gathered his bag of writings and powders, took whatever food and clothing he could fit onto the horse, and headed out. He considered torching the house, leaving behind no evidence, but then they'd know for sure he'd fled.
This way they'd search the house and the property before giving chase.
It would buy him some time.
He ran the horse at first, but then slowed it to a trot. If the gathering posse really wanted, he knew, they would be able to overtake him. Maybe not the first day. But the second. Or the third. And he thought it better to appear less desperate. Let them know he was leaving, but also let them think that he was not afraid, that he was confident enough of his powers that he did not need to run.
From behind him, he heard the sound of a shotgun, its thunderous blast amplified and echoing in the cold winter night. He told the horse it was nothing and made the animal continue forward at its leisurely pace.
Even if one of the men was shooting at him--which he doubted--none of the bullets would find their mark. The first thing he had done was cloak himself in a protective spell that was strong enough to shield him from all but a direct blow with a handheld weapon. '
Ahead of him was blackness..
Behind him echoed the sound of another shotgun blast. He looked up at the position of the moon. It was after midnight, he realized. It was Christmas. When the sun rose, the men behind him would be opening presents, giving thanks to God, going to church. =
He sighed. It didn't matter.
He continued slowly forward into the darkness.
It wasn't a day he recognized anyway.
The body was torn in half lengthwise. Literally torn. Like a piece of paper. With the entire right side of the connected head, torso and abdomen pulled down so that the man's left half and right halves were touching only at the feet.
He had never seen or heard of anything like this happening before, and Miles stared with revulsion and horror at the spilled guts and broken bits of bone that littered the bloody hardwood floor. He felt like throwing up, and it was only through an effort of sheer will that he managed to keep down his breakfast.
It was the smell that was the worst, the disgusting stench of bile and excrement and bodily fluids. He was forced to hold his hand over his nose, and he wished that the policemen and forensic experts would offer him a surgical mask like the ones they were wearing.
Graham Donaldson had called him find Graham Stood next to him now, watching as the police dusted for fingerprints, collected trace evidence, and photographed the crime scene. Miles didn't know why the lawyer wanted him here-as a witness perhaps, as a nonofficial observermbut Graham was a friend, and he had come automatically.
He had not been prepared for what he'd found.
A criminalist crouched near the shattered left half of the head and gathered a sample of blood from the brain cavity. Miles turned away.
His no irish fantasies had sometimes involved murder cases, but those dreams had crashed to earth
in the first second he'd seen the body---or what was left of it. He realized how lucky he was to be working in a downtown office suite with computers and ergonomic office furniture and nice clean paperwork.
He'd never complain about being a glorified clerk again. Miles turned to Graham. 'So why, exactly, am I here?' The lawyer shrugged. 'I thought you might be able to help me find out who did this. I figured it'd be better if you were at the scene and could oversee what the cops were doing rather than simply read about it afterward and look at pictures.'
At this, two of the nearest policemen turned toward them.
Graham ignored the hostile stares. 'I need to know if it was someone from or someone hired by Thompson.'
Miles turned back toward the body. Montgomery Jones was supposed to have met Graham at Jerry's Famous Deli in the Valley to go over their strategy before heading over to a deposition session with Thompson's lawyers. Miles had managed to dig up some pretty good statistical dirt on the company's minority hiring practices, as well as a rather incriminating quote from Thompson's CEO, and Graham had been excited about his client's chances for a settlement and was anxious to discuss it with him.. Only Montgomery had never shown.
His body had been found, two hours later, here, in the old carriage house near the Whittier Narrows dam.
'I have no legal status here,' Miles pointed out. ]hey told me to stay behind the tape, and I have to---'
'I know that,' Graham snapped. 'Don't talk to me about 'legal status.'
''
Miles raised an eyebrow.
'I'm sorry,' the lawyer apologized. 'It's just ... It's a stressful situation. I know you can't go conducting a private investigation of your own. You weren't even hired by him or technically working for him. You're working for me. But
I was hired by him, and I mean to see that his killer is brought to justice.'
'he cops seem to be doing a thorough job.'
'I just wanted you as a witness in case they weren't. I don't know what I'm going to do or how I'm going to handle this, and I want to make sure all my bases are covered from the begining
It was what he'd figured, d Miles nodded, satisfied. He glanced around the carriage house, at the antique horse carts and livery, at the huge ham like doors. Were the doors open all the time? There didn't seem to be any padlocks or locks of any sort, and the chain-link fence around the Whittier Narrows recreation area had been breached in several places. Anyone could have come in here.
Thompson Industries could be playing hardball, but somehow Miles didn't think so. Ruthless businessmen they might be, but he didn't think they could afford the public relations nightmare of being associated with a criminal act. Particulary not one this heinous.
Besides, even if they were into this stuff, they would've been more discreet. Montgomery would not have been so publicly dispatched. He would have just disappeared.
