“We don’t advertise in the Yellow Pages or have a Web site. That’s just asking for trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“You think there’s discrimination against minorities? Try being a witch.”
“No, thank you,” Owen murmured. “If there isn’t a way to find a coven, how do covens get found?”
“Wiccan shops. Word of mouth. I’d ask my high priestess if there was a coven this far north, but…” Reitman’s gaze went back to the animals. “She was murdered last week.”
“How?” Owen blurted.
“Arm hacked off. She was—”
Something creaked upstairs, and they lifted their eyes to the ceiling. The creak continued down the staircase with the measured beat of steps.
“George?” Owen called.
The creaking stopped.
“What the heck was he doing up there?” Owen asked no one in particular.
“What was who doing up where?” George walked through the front door.
“If you’re here then who—”
A figure flew out of the shadows. Long, tangled hair obscured the face. A sacklike, tan jumpsuit shrouded the body. The sunlight through the open front door glinted off a knife.
“Bringen,” Owen said, but Reggie wasn’t there.
“Die,” the apparition shouted, and rushed into the living room.
Owen dived for Becca.
“You witch, huh—”
George plowed into the intruder, cutting off the rest, managing to grasp the descending forearm before the knife plunged into Reitman’s chest.
Becca and Owen crashed to the ground. The knife clattered to the floor. The subsequent thuds and grunts, followed by the jingle then snap of handcuffs, told Owen that George had subdued the attacker.
Beneath Owen, Becca caught her breath. Was there more than one psycho with a knife? Considering what had been going on here lately, why wouldn’t there be?
Owen turned his head. Nope, only one psycho with a knife.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
Chapter 14
Owen hadn’t seen his mother since he’d left on his previous tour. He probably should have felt worse about that. Except the last time he’d seen her, she hadn’t remembered who he was.
He’d told himself it didn’t matter. As long as he was paying for her care, reading whatever they sent him to read, and returning any phone calls made to him about her, then he was doing his duty.
It wasn’t true, but out of sight was out of mind. And Afghanistan was just about far away enough for him to forget for maybe a day at a time that his mother was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
“You told me they weren’t ever going to let her out.” Becca pushed at his chest, making Owen realize he still shielded her from the rest of the room.
“Considering her outfit”—Owen rolled free and stood, then offered Becca a hand—“they didn’t.”
She placed her palm against his and static leaped, the spark making both of them jerk back. It was kind of early in the season for that much of a static shock, wasn’t it? It had been so long since Owen had been in Wisconsin, he wasn’t sure, but the way Becca frowned at her hand, then rubbed it on her pants and got to her feet on her own, made him think she’d been as shocked—ha-ha—by the spark as he’d been. That his hand continued to feel oddly warm and tingly had to be his imagination. There was no other explanation for it. Unless it was witchcraft.
Owen used his nontingly hand to rub his eyes. Talk about cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
“You think she escaped?” Becca asked.
“Yeah.” He dropped his hand. “I do.”
“Th-th-that’s your mother?”
Reitman crouched in the tiny corner formed between the stone fireplace and the wall. Owen couldn’t bring himself to answer. He didn’t have to.
“Mrs. McAllister?” George shouted, and she flinched.
“She isn’t deaf,” Becca said.
“She also isn’t Mrs. McAllister.” Owen’s parents had never been married. Owen wasn’t sure his mom even knew who his dad was.
“Mary?” George said in a normal voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Baby boy,” she cooed. “Come to Mama, sweetheart.”
Becca glanced at Owen.
“She isn’t talking to me.” His mom wasn’t even looking at him but at the empty hallway, and she’d never once called him “baby” or “sweetheart.”
Reggie appeared in the entryway, and Reitman cursed. “Keep him out of here!”
“Talk about a baby boy,” Owen muttered.
“His hair will contaminate the crime scene.” Reitman’s prissy voice reminded Owen of Miss Belinda, the ancient librarian who’d never allowed him and Becca to sit on the same side of the table in school. Had Belinda been her first name or her last?
“The crime scene is three ways from fucked already,” Owen said.
However, he did tell Reggie to “bly’b,” though the dog