movie.”
Taylor released the girl’s arm. “Look at me.”
Fane glanced up at her.
“Stop lying, Fane. It was uploaded from your computer. My tech is going over your laptop now-they found the original.”
A beat, the girl gathered her thoughts. “Oh, that. That’s all fake. Playacting.”
“How could you possibly expect me to believe that, when you’ve shot the film at all the crime scenes and you have Brandon Scott’s murder on tape? You want me to believe that it’s a coincidence? Do you think we’re stupid, Fane?”
Fane had calmed herself, was sitting straight again, composed. “Yes, well. We’ve gotten very good. None of that is real.”
“Right. And how about the letter you sent to The Tennessean? Was that fake, too?”
“Isn’t he going to say anything?” Fane turned to McKenzie, eyes pleading. “You can’t let her talk to me like this.”
McKenzie leaned forward, voice deep and grave. “Fane, I’m very disappointed in you. We talked about this earlier. The more you help us, the less you’ll be punished. That’s how this works. We know you’re involved. You hold the key to this mystery. We want to help you, but you have to help us, too.”
“Don’t give me that crap. I’m not going to help you. You don’t care. You said you cared, and I know you don’t.” She started to cry again, McKenzie rolled his eyes at Taylor.
Taylor handed Fane a tissue. “Blow your nose. You’re not going to get any leniency because you’re crying. Tell us what we need to know now.”
Fane snuffled into the Kleenex. “It wasn’t me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I think I’m done answering your questions. I want a lawyer.”
Shit. They’d pushed her too hard.
“That’s your right, Fane. Though if you had nothing to do with all of this, you shouldn’t need a lawyer. But we’ll go arrange for that. One little issue-we need to inform your parents. I wasn’t kidding before, I need to know. Where is your mother?”
“In hell, probably,” she said, then closed her mouth tight and laid her head on the table. They would get nothing more from her.
They left Fane alone in the room. The hall was bright. Taylor felt like she’d spent half this case standing in the hallways of the CJC, trying to interpret the lies spilled in the interrogation rooms. She itched to get outside, back to the scenes. That’s where the answers were going to come from, not this merry band of misguided Goth children, lying and cheating their way through life.
“We need to find this mysterious brother. My gut says he’s involved,” McKenzie said.
Taylor leaned against the wall, one boot propped against the painted cinderblocks. “I want to find her mother. I don’t like any of this.”
“What do you think is going on?”
“I think we’re looking at an unhealthy relationship between a brother and sister who were separated when their parents got divorced. Being together was paramount. When they were split, they started doing anything they could to get back together. I think we need to comb through the Atilio’s house, get word to the husband, see if we can find the mother. She’s too conspicuously absent for anything good to be happening.”
“You may be right. The separation could be a precipitating event. Fane shows definite sociopathic tendencies. If she’s practicing Wicca, she could think she’s got control, that she can change the course of her life according to her will. Happiness would be anathema for her-she’d strike out against anything she saw that reminded her of what she used to have. You noticed that the families we’ve talked to have all been relatively happy, with two parents. That could have been the impetus for choosing the victims.”
“So she arranges with her friend Thorn to have the party kids’ drugs tainted, then sneaks into their houses and carves pentacles in their stomachs? That’s as good a theory as any I’ve come up with, except for one thing. How did she know who would take the pills and who wouldn’t? Theo Howell said he sent word to everyone. Would there have been more? And how would Fane have known?”
“Eight victims. At least three involved. I don’t know, LT. Maybe she was there when they took the drugs.”
“And Brandon Scott? He didn’t take the drugs and was beaten to death because of it. I think we’re going about this the wrong way. These crimes are all related, but it’s still too much of a fluke that some of the kids with the drugs took them and some didn’t. I think the ones who died were forced to take the drugs.”
“Which would mean Fane was at each crime scene. Or…”
Taylor slapped her forehead. “They split them up. Fane and Juri Edvin and Susan Norwood, they split the targets and each handled a few. They must have gotten in under the guise of delivering the drugs. Remember there was no sign of forced entry? So they show, drugs in hand, with some sort of weapon, then force their victim to take the pills. The OD effect would kick in almost immediately, and they’d die quickly. They waited around until the victims were fully unconscious, arranged the bodies, carved the pentacles, shot the film and left.”
“Three kids, eight victims, including Brittany Carson, would be pushing it in the time frame. But four kids, that would even the odds,” McKenzie said.
“And Brittany’s murder was last. According to Juri Edvin, she and Susan Norwood have a history. The Carson girl dated Norwood’s ex-boyfriend and it pissed her off. Juri said Susan wanted him to kill Brittany, that it was her idea. Well. That answers that.”
She stopped. McKenzie was grinning at her-they’d come to the same conclusions at the same time.
“But what about this brother? We still need an ID on the boy from Ariadne’s drawing. Think it’s Schuyler Merritt?”
“I bet it is. Why don’t we go show his picture around? Let’s try Susan Norwood first, see what she does. She’s the vulnerable one in all of this.”
Forty-Seven
Nashville 7:00 p.m.
A riadne crumpled the herbs between her palms, rubbing them back and forth so the fragrant sprigs fell into the fire evenly.
“Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Inana.”
She repeated the Goddess chant four more times, calm, monotonous, stringing out the last long A on Inana, feeling herself become one with her pantheon. Scrying with fire was her specialty, a favorite, and she was sure she’d be able to trace the movements of the warlock now that the bond to his coven had been interrupted. He would be flinging his emotions around on the wind, searching for ways to bring them back together, and Ariadne felt sure she could connect with him.
The flames rose high before her, scented with rosemary for remembrance, and jasmine, because that was the warlock’s scent. She allowed her eyes to close and she fell deeper and deeper into her trance, then opened them, staring into the flames, seeking. Seeking.
She saw an altar, simple, crude, even, and a black-handled athame. Two bodies, male and female, writhing in the Great Act. Then she saw the female crying, and the male disappeared. There was nothing else.
She drew back and sketched the altar she’d seen. It was a feminine deity being worshipped. There were useful identifiers scattered among the lares and penates on the altar. She tried to make sense of it all.
She knew the male in the flames was the boy she’d seen at Subversion. She just didn’t know who he was, or what role he was playing. The female seemed the stronger of the two, but perhaps she was misreading it. Men sometimes withheld their strength in the presence of a female they loved, treated them as equal. When she’d seen them downtown, the boy seemed the stronger half. One thing was certain; their bond was very intense.
She didn’t know what else to do. She’d put the word out among her brethren. They were all looking for the mysterious warlock, as well. She finally drifted off into a light sleep, notepad nearby, hoping that perhaps the pantheon would show her the way in her dreams.
