Nemesis

  Slowly Tammy quieted, finally released Sherlock. She raised her face. “I’m sorry to fall apart again. It’s just that—”

  “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Sherlock patted her arm and walked back to sit down on the brand-new burgundy leather sofa. “Have you ever heard of an Athame?”

  “Yes, sure. My mom has two she made herself. She buried the first one she made to ground its energy.”

  This was a surprise. Savich said, “Your mom’s a Wiccan?”

  “Yes. Like my grandmother and one of my sisters. My mom’s Athame has a plain flint black handle, ugly, really, but she keeps it sparkling clean for all her rituals, won’t let anyone else touch it, says she couldn’t connect to the spirit of things if she didn’t have her Athame. I don’t really know how she believes all that stuff, and to be honest, I don’t really care.”

  “What’s your mom’s name?” Sherlock asked her.

  “Millicent, Millie—Stacy, that’s my maiden name.”

  Savich handed her his cell phone. “Do you recognize this Athame?”

  She looked at the knife, raised stricken eyes to his face. “This isn’t the Athame that killed—”

  “No, no, it’s one that’s similar, that’s all.”

  She shook her head. “The only Athames I’ve seen are my mom’s. This one looks old, really old, doesn’t it, back to when knights were riding around and knocking each other off their horses, right? Are those dragon heads?”

  “Yes.”

  Sherlock asked, “Are there many practicing Wiccans in Plackett, Tammy?”

  “I’ve heard my mom say she wishes there were more around here and that many of them go back at least two generations. She said my grandmother raised her in Wicca, told her Mr. Gardner from England taught them everything way back in the fifties. Gwen—she’s one of my sisters—well, neither of us ever got interested in any of it, so Mom didn’t force it on us. She and my other sister will celebrate Litha—that’s the summer solstice—next month. It’s a time of great joy for them, it’s a popular time for handfasting. That’s a Wiccan wedding. I know that because she said she wanted Sparky and me to celebrate a handfasting with them next month, at Litha. Sparky didn’t know what to say when she asked, but he agreed.

  “My daddy thinks it’s all crazy nonsense, so she doesn’t push it. He told her he’d join her at Litha if they could have wild sex in front of the fire.” Tammy smiled, a ghost of a smile, but still a smile. “She smacked him. For her, Litha is a time of celebration, a spiritual time.”

  Savich asked her, “Is Walter Givens a Wiccan? His family?”

  “Not that I know of. Wiccans don’t advertise, you know? That’s what my mom told me. Most people around here are like my dad—screwy in the head about Wiccans, my mom says.” She made a screwing motion at the side of her head. “So Wiccans tend to keep quiet about their beliefs, and their ceremonies. They don’t advertise.”

  “Can you tell me the names of other practicing Wiccans in town?”

  Well, I know the Alcotts for sure. They say they’re Wiccans outright. My mom told me in a real hushed voice once that she doesn’t have much to do with the Alcotts. She seems a little bit scared of them. I know that sounds weird, but I think it’s true. My mom does feel things, know things,” Tammy added, a touch of embarrassment in her voice.

  “What do you mean, Tammy—what things? Can you give me an example?” Sherlock leaned forward, her eyes on Tammy’s face.

  “I don’t know that much about it, Agent Sherlock. I never paid much attention. I’m sorry.”

  Savich said, “What about Brakey Alcott? Is he involved?”

  “Brakey? Not that I know of. Brakey usually keeps his head down, stays out of trouble. Brakey’s a nice guy, a little shy. He wasn’t all that good in school, but nice, you know? He’s a year older than Sparky.” Her voice hitched, her small hands clenched. She raised liquid eyes to Savich’s face. “He was a year older than Sparky. It doesn’t even seem real. Sparky was only twenty-three.”

  After a couple moments Tammy raised her head again. “Brakey’s an Alcott, and he’d know all about the gossip about his family. How could he not? Why are you asking about Brakey?”

  “It has to do with Deputy Kane Lewis,” Savich said. “Did you or Sparky know him?”

  “He’s been here forever, even before I was born. I knew him better when we were kids and he was always giving us a hard time if he caught us at Milson’s Point over on Route 7.” She blushed and swallowed again. “He nearly surprised Sparky and me once. It was close. I don’t really like him, but my folks do, all the parents do. Why do you ask?”

  As Savich spoke, Sherlock watched Tammy Carroll closely. “Deputy Lewis was found at the Reineke post office this morning stabbed through the heart with another Athame. Like Sparky. I’m sorry. He’s dead.”

  Tammy Carroll couldn’t take it in. She stared at Savich, through him, really, and quietly, without a sound, she slid from the sofa to the floor. She hadn’t fainted. She lay curled up on her side, not crying, not making a sound, simply staring ahead of her.

  CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT

  HOOVER BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Thursday, early afternoon

  Savich opened the door to the interview room on the third floor of the Hoover Building, down the hall from the Criminal Apprehension Unit, the CAU. Griffin had Brakey Alcott waiting for them there. He’d picked him up chowing a hamburger at Milt’s Diner. Griffin told him if Brakey was worried about anything, he didn’t show it at the diner. He was chatting up the waitress big-time. But he was scared now.

  Savich said, “Mr. Alcott, I’m Agent Savich and this is Agent Sherlock. You’ve already met Agent Hammersmith.” He nodded to Griffin, who sat at the end of the table, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, looking as stern as possible. Sherlock knew that look would never work on a woman. Griffin was too handsome.

  Brakey Alcott was slight, and skinny as a parking meter. He had to top out at under one hundred and forty pounds, if that. He had beautiful light green eyes, an artist’s hands—slender, with beautifully tapered long fingers. He was wearing a large silver ring on his fourth finger, a dark sapphire sitting high in the middle. Not a sapphire. Closer up, it looked nearly black. He was nervous, sweaty, his elegant hands moving, clasping, unclasping in front of him on the table. Savich and Sherlock sat across from him.

  Brakey said in a sweet Virginia drawl that crawled with fear and confusion, “Agent Savich, Agent Hammersmith hasn’t told me much of anything. I was eating my hamburger at Milt’s when he came up to my table and told me I had to come with him. I’ll tell you, people really looked at me weird then. I’d heard about Deputy Lewis getting killed and being found in the Reineke post office, but he told me somebody put his body in an OTR that was on my truck. I swear I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  Brakey jerked forward in his chair when he realized the three grim-looking federal agents didn’t believe him. “Listen, I swear, I don’t know anything about poor Deputy Lewis, only what I heard at Milt’s. Everybody was talking about his being dead, and looking at me funny. Even Laurie was nervous, brought me my hamburger medium rare instead of my usual well done, but I didn’t mind. I knew she was upset about Deputy Lewis, like everybody else. And then this agent came in. Everybody saw him haul me away. It’s my hometown.” He paused and focused on Sherlock, came out of his chair. “Wait, I know you, ma’am, I saw you on every single TV station yesterday—you took down that terrorist at JFK, kicked him to the ground. You’re Agent Sherlock.” He beamed at her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Alcott, but that was yesterday. Today I want you to tell us about the dead man in your OTR. And please, don’t waste our time telling us you have no idea how Deputy Kane Lewis’s body got there.”

  “No, no, honest, I don’t know.” He nodded again toward Griffin. “I alrea
dy told him I didn’t know he was there. Really, I had no clue. I’m as shocked about it as everyone else. I mean, I’ve known Deputy Lewis all my life, I always liked him—”

  Savich interrupted him, leaned forward, his voice hard. “You’re expecting us to believe that? You’re telling us the murderer simply happened upon your truck while you were in Milt’s Diner having your two cups of coffee and a bear claw this morning? There’s no trace anywhere of someone trying to break into your truck, no sign of forced entry on the truck doors, and you’ve said you never leave it open. And if someone did get in without your knowing about it, they somehow stuffed Deputy Lewis’s body into an OTR, even covered the body with parcels, while you were sipping your coffee? You can’t be stupid enough to think we don’t know it was you who killed him.”

  Brakey’s mouth opened, closed. He whispered, “Somebody did it somehow. I swear I don’t know anything about it.”

  Savich came out of his chair, leaned forward, grabbed Brakey’s shirt in his fist. “Since it’s obvious you were involved, the real question is, what were you thinking? If you didn’t want to get caught, what you did was idiotic. Was it a mistake? Did you panic after you stabbed Deputy Lewis? You stuffed him in the OTR, threw parcels on top of him, and went back to making your daily delivery to Ellie Moran at the Reineke post office? Did you leave that OTR there by accident, or were you too panicked to think straight?”

  Brakey looked white as death, horrified, shook his head back and forth. Savich let his shirt go. Brakey leaned back as far as he could in his chair.

  Savich slammed down a photo of Deputy Kane Lewis. “Look at him, Brakey. This is what a man looks like after you stab him in the heart.”

  Brakey Alcott stared down at the photo, gulped once, twice. “He’s really dead, Deputy Lewis is dead. I liked him, more than that dickhead Sheriff Watson—” Brakey shot a look toward Sherlock. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but he is one, really, but I shouldn’t have said a bad word like that.” Brakey looked from one to the other. “You think I did this to Deputy Lewis? No, I’d never do that to anybody.”

  “If that’s true, you’ve got to help us prove it,” Sherlock said. “Where were you last night, Brakey? What did you do?”

  Brakey blinked at her. “Last night? I tried to get Laurie from Milt’s to go out with me, but that didn’t happen, so I went home and watched TV with my mom and grandma. We were watching the news, and that’s when I saw you, Agent Sherlock. Jonah, one of my brothers, he came over for a while, brought his kids over like he often does. Both my brothers live on our property, in their own houses across the yard from us.

  “After they left, we all went to bed. That’s it, I swear it to you. I went to bed and I slept all night, woke up when the alarm went off at a quarter to four this morning.”

  He was telling the truth. Brakey Alcott wasn’t a good enough actor, Savich knew, to be lying. He had no memory of what he’d done. And he couldn’t know that Walter Givens, the man who’d stabbed Sparky Carroll in the Rayburn Building corridor, had said the same thing. The press, thankfully, didn’t know that yet.

  Savich placed photos of the two Athames in front of Brakey. “The one on the left is called a Dual Dragon Athame; the other one was used to stab Deputy Lewis to death. Where did you get that one, Mr. Alcott?”

  “I didn’t. It’s not mine!”

  Sherlock sat forward, her voice soft like Glinda the Good Witch’s. “But you recognize both Athames, don’t you, Brakey? I mean, your family are Wiccans, right? Are these Athames in a collection in your mom’s house?”

  He shook his head violently. “No, really. I’m not sure. I’ve seen a lot of them. You should ask my mom, she’ll tell you.”

  And now Brakey was lying. Was he protecting his family? Savich saw he was ready to fold down, from ignorance and fear, and too much knowledge.

  Savich rose. “I would appreciate speaking with your mother, in fact. And your dad?”

  “My dad died six months ago, in an auto accident on route 123. My mom’s still getting over that.”

  “I’m sorry. That will be all for now, Mr. Alcott. I’ll have an agent drive you back to Plackett. I’ll be stopping by later this afternoon and talk with your family.”

  Savich nodded to both Sherlock and Griffin, and out the door they went, leaving Brakey to sit as still as a block of wood.

  PLACKETT, VIRGINIA

  The newly widowed Mrs. Lewis wasn’t alone. As Savich turned off First Avenue onto Briar Lane, they saw cars parked in the driveway, at the curb, across the street, stretching almost a block in both directions. The Lewis house was a simple two-story, maybe fifty years old, with a two-car carport attached. It looked comfortable, like an old armchair that had sat through years of ball games. The house could use a paint job and a lawn mower. Oddly, it didn’t seem like neglect, it seemed like a choice that fit the house’s and the owners’ personalities.

  Savich parked the Porsche a block away. As they walked back to the house, he said, “Quite a crowd. That might actually help us get Mrs. Lewis alone.”

  An older man who answered the door didn’t move, gave them a suspicious look. “Who are you?”

  Sherlock gave him her sunny, guileless smile and showed him her creds. “Special Agent Sherlock, and this is my partner Special Agent Savich, FBI.” Savich showed the man his creds. “And you are, sir?”

  “Sheriff Ezra Watson.” He looked over his shoulder at the living room full of people. “I’m showing in people who want to pay their respects. There’s no excuse for you people to come here today. Glory—Mrs. Lewis—and the family aren’t in any shape for questioning. Why don’t you come back, or call my cell later. I can tell you what you need to know.”

  The sheriff wasn’t wearing his uniform. He was in a shiny black suit that looked like it hadn’t been worn in a long time and was now a size too small. He was nearly bald, sported a comb-over of light brown hair. His long, seamed face was grim, his mouth tight. It had been a rough day for him, Savich thought. He didn’t look like a man pleased with life or his fellow man. Savich stepped into his space and said, his voice pleasant, “I wish we could do that, but we have a job to do, Sheriff. Would you like to introduce us to Mrs. Lewis, or should we go in and introduce ourselves?”

  He’s measuring me for a coffin, Savich thought. The sheriff stared and stood his ground, barely holding his simmering anger in check. Sure, the sheriff was on edge, his deputy had been murdered that morning, but Savich wondered if the man didn’t always act this way.

  The tension lifted when a woman in a purple dress with a pleasant, no-nonsense face and hair drawn up in a bun on the top of her head said from behind the sheriff, “Ezra, who is this?”

  The sheriff turned slightly. “They’re FBI agents. They shouldn’t be here. You should be with your family and friends.”

  “I shall do both. They need to speak to me, I understand that.” She stepped around him, dismissing him rather like a dog, Sherlock thought. Mrs. Lewis was in charge, no doubt about that. She stuck out a graceful hand. “I’m Glory Lewis.”

  They shook her hand, showed her their creds. She was a large woman, but not fat. She looked vital and fit, and quite in control of herself. Sherlock asked, “Is there somewhere we can speak in private, Mrs. Lewis?”

  “Certainly. There’s no one in the den. Follow me.” Mrs. Lewis led them through a knot of people into an overly warm hallway and living room. Most of the people stopped talking and tracked their progress across the room. She paused in front of two younger women whose eyes were red, grief and shock clear on their faces. They both had the look of their mother, but not her composure. Two men, their husbands, Sherlock thought, stood like guard dogs behind them. Mrs. Lewis paused. “These are my daughters, Angela and Cynthia. Agents Savich and Sherlock. They’re here to talk to me about your father.”

  Angela nodded, then whispered, “You’re that FBI agent from JFK.”


  “Yes, I am,” Sherlock said, then, “But that’s not important now, is it? We’re very sorry for your loss.”

  Savich saw Mrs. Lewis was tapping her foot, anxious for them to get away from her daughters. He nodded to them, took Sherlock’s arm, and followed Mrs. Lewis into a small, old-fashioned den behind the kitchen. Photos lined the fireplace mantel and covered every surface. Sherlock recognized Angela and Cynthia in photos from when they were younger, smiling, happy, with their husbands and kids, and dozens of photos showing them as infants and toddlers and young children.

  “Forgive my brother,” Mrs. Lewis said. “He tends to use a hammer when a tack would do the job. My husband always knew when to use the tack.” She smiled impartially at both of them, pointed to a sofa. “Can I get either of you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am, we’re fine,” Sherlock said. “Sheriff Watson is your brother?”

  Mrs. Lewis nodded, eased down across from them on a tatty love seat. “Yes, he is. Are you sure neither of you would like anything?”