Suddenly, there was a rush of people in uniform toward Frank and into the warehouse. Pete threw an arm around him, and I saw Frank give him a bewildered look.
I sagged against John, who held on to me. I wanted to run over to Frank, but there was no way in hell to get over to where he was. The SWAT team was moving back out of position. A public relations officer made his way over to the place where we were penned up with the rest of the press.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “right now it appears that the suspect, Mr. Jerry Tanner, has taken his own life. As soon as we have more, I’ll let you know.”
I looked back over to see Frank slowly but deliberately walking off from an angry Carlson; Pete followed Frank. I couldn’t make out any of what was being said, just Bredloe shouting Frank’s last name. Frank turned, and said something back, then he and Pete drove off.
John talked to Baker for a minute and then guided me back to his car.
“He’s all right, Irene,” he said.
But something in Frank’s manner as he walked out of that building, the arguing with Bredloe, the way he walked to the car, all said John was wrong. Carlson was a jerk, but Frank always got along very well with Bredloe; it wasn’t like him to just ignore the man. That and, well, he just seemed dejected. Like he didn’t care about anything. I remembered the look on his face when Pete had been so happy to see him come out of the building alive — as if he didn’t know what the big deal was.
Something was really wrong.
John was quiet for a while, then he started talking to me about the D.A.’s campaign. I tried to focus on his questions, but I know I answered them woodenly.
As we pulled into the parking lot, he turned to me and said, “Snap out of it. Frank’s okay, it was just a nasty scare. You’ll be laughing about it over dinner tonight.”
There was no way to tell John about the gulf of silence that lay between Frank and me, to say that no dinner or laughter was on the agenda for a while. But I saw John’s efforts to comfort me; in fact, in the last hour or two he had been more gentle with me than I had ever seen him be with anyone. “Thanks,” I said.
He noticed my mood though, and studied me for a moment.
“What are you working on this afternoon?” he asked.
“Following up on the Jacob Henderson story.”
“Hmm. I guess you better stick with that. But unless you’ve got interviews lined up tomorrow morning, why don’t you catch up on your sleep, come in a little later. Hard to keep your perspective when you’re exhausted.”
That really surprised me. “Maybe I will. You’re right, I’m too tired to think straight.”
“Goddamn right I’m right. Now get upstairs before you besmirch my reputation as an asshole.”
I smiled at this and said, “You overestimate my abilities, John.”
I STOPPED BY the lobby desk and thanked Geoff, reassuring him that Frank had survived. He smiled and said, “I’m so happy for you, Miss Kelly.” I went upstairs and made some phone calls, getting reactions to the Montgomery flyer. I had hoped there might be a message from Jacob or Sammy. No luck. I forced myself to think about work, and not what had gone on at the harbor.
I suddenly felt exhausted, and knew it was a combination of delayed shock over the events of the afternoon and my struggle to overcome my reluctance to write up a story on the Montgomery accusations. In the latter case, I just didn’t feel as if I had all the facts. I wondered if there was any other way to get in touch with these local witches.
Starting on the easy route, I pulled out a phone book and then thumbed through the yellow pages. The local phone company advertised them as the “Everything Pages,” and I had to smile to myself at the notion of finding something under “covens,” “hexes,” or “spells.” There wasn’t anything listed under witchcraft, but I did find a heading for “Occult Supplies.” I noticed with some amusement that it fell just below “Nuts — Edible.”
Right here in Las Piernas, there was a shop called Rhiannon, named after a magical woman in Celtic lore, if I remembered my folktales. It offered “books, incense, oils, bulk herbs, athalmes, and crystal balls.” I had to look up “athalmes” — witchcraft’s ritual knives.
From the address in the phone book, I saw that the shop wasn’t too far from the office — a few miles down Broadway, near the college. It was a district full of cafes that stayed open late, small bookshops, and artists’ studios. A little rundown, but cherished by its residents. It was here that those who lived alternative lifestyles of one kind or another could fairly well imagine that the world had grown accustomed to them. I wondered how long it would be before someone started buying it all up and converting it into a fashionable upscale hot spot.
Never, I hoped.
Any day now, I knew.
I had started clearing off my desk, getting ready to drive over to Rhiannon, when my phone rang.
“Kelly,” I answered.
“Hi, it’s Jacob. I was wondering if you know where Sammy is.”
“No, I’m sorry. She left a message for me last night, but I wasn’t home. She sounded scared and she said she was running away from the shelter. I was hoping you might know where she is.”
“No.” Even over the phone, I could feel the weight of the worry in that one word.
“Any ideas on where she might go?”
“I’ve been looking for her, but she’s not in any of her usual hideouts. I left school early today. I looked all over. It scares me — I can usually find her.”
“I guess you know the flyer is out.”
“Yeah. My dad is going to kill me.”
