attic, he gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust. Enough light penetrated through ventilation cutouts in the eaves for Michael to get a sense of the space, which was low, but floored. The ceiling was sloped and close enough to touch, the air dry and hot.
“See anything?”
“I see a candle.” It was just a few feet away, a thick shaft of wax melted onto a saucer. “Hang on.” There were matches, too, and he lit one, flame surging, then burning low. He touched the flame to the candlewick and watched light ripple over the floor. He picked up the saucer, and held it high.
“What do you see?”
Michael lifted the candle higher. “You should probably come up here.”
“What is it?”
“Hang on. I’ll make room.”
The pentagram was eight feet wide and looked to have been scratched on the floor with charcoal or the end of a burned stick. It was well drawn, but black and flaky, darker in some places than in others. Around it, another dozen candles were jammed into bottles or melted onto the floor. A giant circle enclosed the pentagram, and in the center of it all lay a pillow and a tangle of rough blankets.
Michael lit more candles, so that light wavered and spread. Outside the circle was a pair of flip-flops, a jug of water and another pair of cutoff jeans. He also saw a bowl, a toothbrush and small tube of lip balm. “Looks like she’s been sleeping here.” Michael toed the blankets. “Hard to say how long.”
“But…” Abigail turned a slow circle. “What
“Something weird. Pentagrams. I don’t know.”
“There’re plenty of people around here who’d be willing to swear her mother’s a witch.”
“I’m sorry. You said a witch?”
“From a lengthy line of them. It’s a long story.” Abigail lifted a candle and made her way toward the far corner of the attic. She had to stoop, but it was not far. She peered into dark places where the rafters came down, then turned and looked the length of the room. “What the hell was she doing up here?”
“I have some idea.” Michael nudged the blanket again. He bent and came up with a long, rolled strip of foil wrappers. He let the strip unfold from his fingers. “Condoms.”
“Great.”
He toed the blanket a final time, froze. “And this.”
Abigail came closer, and Michael stood. A revolver rested heavily in his palm, blued steel that showed rust on the barrel and a shine on the trigger. “Colt.357.” He cracked the cylinder and checked the loads. “One round fired.”
Outside, they stood on the porch and gazed down to boats on far water. Michael spread his hands on the railing, and watched for a long time. Both of them shared the same, terrible thoughts. “Big lake,” he finally said.
“We built it just after we married.” Some memory softened her face. “It was my husband’s idea, a great jewel in the middle of the estate. It was supposed to be a sign of change, and of permanence, a metaphor for our new life together.”
Lines flew out. Another diver dropped.
“I wish he’d made it bigger,” Michael said.
“They’ll find it, won’t they?”
“Is the lake deep?”
Abigail looked forlorn. “Not deep enough.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Victorine went to ground like an animal. She’d found the cave years ago. It was old, with stone worn smooth in the entrance, and the bones of small mammals scattered in its deepest parts. She guessed it had been a panther’s den, back when panthers still moved in this part of the state; but that was a hundred years ago, at least. Maybe even more.
So, the bones were old.
The cave was old.
She’d found it as a girl, exploring barefoot when her mother took her shoes as punishment for some laxness or crime of omission. Mother was like that, when it came to Victorine-sharp-tongued and cruel enough to punish in meaningful ways. And she used to take it, too, until Julian told her how life could be better. Until he showed her.
She dropped to her belly and slid into the cave. Inside, the ceiling rose up to where a crack in the granite let light filter in. The crack gave ventilation for fires, but it let rain in, too, otherwise she’d sleep there. But sleeping there was no good. She’d done it once for a week-first time she’d run away-and the pneumonia almost killed her. Mother said it was God’s punishment for sins delivered to the good woman who’d raised her, but Victorine figured it was the damp and cold and mushroom spores. And that was a lesson she learned, that some were warm at night, and some were cold.
Victorine planned on being warm, but not in her mother’s house. Not ever again. For a second her mind turned on images of the man she’d cut. He had to be Julian’s brother. His face was close enough to make no difference, but the rest of him was nothing like the same. He was going to follow her, even after she’d cut him. She’d seen it in his eyes, one fast tick of determination that simply faded away. She still had no idea why he didn’t come. He was fast enough, strong enough, too, and the cut wasn’t that deep. She puzzled on it, and then let it go.
In the back of the cave she drew out an old crate that held a ratty blanket and a few stubs of candle. She made a bed, then lit the candles. The light glinted on protective markings she’d carved long ago in the rock. Her mother proffered herself as a witch, and in nineteen years, Victorine had seen no reason to doubt her word on that. She was mean enough, and she sure had a power over men. So, maybe she was a witch and maybe she wasn’t, but Victorine played it safe where her mother was concerned. There was too much history there, too much bad blood.
She stretched out in the cave, the blanket on a sandy spot that took her shape and held it as she looked down the road at what the next day might bring. At the moment, she was warm, but figured on being warmer. So, that’s what she did, there among the dark and bones of the old cat’s den. She thought of what she wanted, and of Julian Vane. She thought about how he said her life should be, then of the gifts that God had given her, a body straight from heaven and an artist’s eye, a mind as sharp and bright as the middle tine on Satan’s big, red fork.
She had a plan, but no money. Had a friend, but he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“The Gautreaux women have a way with men.” Abigail was driving, nothing in sight but dirt track and deep woods as they pushed into the back of the estate. “Something in the way they move, in their looks, the way they smell. I can’t explain it. You’d have to see it to understand.” She shook her head. “It’s not natural.”
