Heat of the Moment - Lori Handeland Page 0,50
had ignored the order to stay already or he wouldn’t be in the house. They were going to have to do some retraining before they went back to Afghanistan.
“Baby boy,” Owen’s mother murmured again, and Reggie inched a little closer.
“Seriously?” Owen asked the dog.
Reggie hung his head as if he understood, even as he scooted ever nearer, as though he couldn’t help himself.
Animals liked Owen’s mom, and they, in turn, calmed her, as she was calmed by little else but heavy medication. Becca had always had a dog or a cat or two, which had followed her everywhere, including to Owen’s house. They’d usually wound up on Mary’s lap, or curled next to her wherever she’d passed out. Too bad they’d never been able to afford pets. Might have helped more than therapy ever had.
“Go on.” Owen flapped his hand in his mom’s direction, and Reggie’s head tilted. “You know you want to.”
Reggie promptly sprawled across Mary McAllister’s filthy crazy-house slippers. From their worn appearance she’d walked here, which was a pretty damn long walk. The Northern Wisconsin Mental Health Facility was a half-hour drive from Three Harbors.
“You think he smelled the blood on her?” Reitman asked.
Owen stiffened as if he’d inherited Reitman’s stick. “Excuse me?”
“I suppose she’s washed up since she did this.” The doctor indicated the pentagram and everything beneath it.
“She didn’t do that.”
“She’s got a knife.”
“So does three quarters of the town.”
“She’s here.”
“So are we.”
“She’s obviously off her rocker.”
“So are you.” The guy did believe he was a witch. “She’s barely able to function. She certainly didn’t have the capacity to snatch all those animals without someone seeing her.”
Although she had escaped a secure mental institution, and Owen really needed to find out how. When? And why he didn’t know about it.
“These are domestic animals,” Reitman continued.
“Your point?”
“They wouldn’t be hard to snatch. They’d probably come right to her.” His gaze went to Reggie. “He did.”
“She’s not a killer, especially of animals.”
Becca cast Owen a quick glance, which he ignored. His mom hadn’t killed anyone. Yet. Apparently she hadn’t given up trying.
“Consider the dog,” he continued. “He’s trained to know what a killer smells like.”
“Can he smell a witch?” George asked.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Owen demanded.
George shrugged.
“She’s a witch?” Reitman glanced at Becca.
Becca shook her head. “They called this the witch’s house when we were kids.”
“Still do,” George offered.
Becca gave George a dirty look before returning her attention to Reitman. “You know how small towns are.”
“Not really,” he said.
“What difference does it make if she is a witch or if she isn’t?” Owen blurted. “You said this wasn’t witchcraft.”
“I said it wasn’t Wicca.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Wicca is a religion. Witchcraft is a skill set.”
Owen blinked. “Huh?”
“Witchcraft is a craft. Spells and magic.”
“Magic,” Owen repeated. “You think this is magic?” He waved at the mess nearby.
“I don’t know what it is, but that”—Reitman pointed to the inverted star—“hints at Satanism.”
Owen thought it did more than “hint” but he wasn’t the expert. Didn’t want to be.
“My mother definitely isn’t a Satanist.”
Reitman eyed Mary. “You sure?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s helpful.”
Owen let out a breath. “She worships narcotics not the devil. She’d rather drink vodka than blood.”
“Who said anything about drinking blood?”
Owen considered giving the guy the finger, but that would be redundant.
“She was the local crazy, who lived in a broken-down house in the forest,” Owen said. “Hence the name ‘witch’s house. ’”
Reitman’s forehead crinkled. “I don’t get it.”
“Where are you from?”
“L.A., originally.”
“They don’t have witches there?” Owen asked.
“They call them something else. Starts with a b.”
“You can say bitch. No one will wash out your mouth with soap.” Though it might be fun to try.
“Bruja.” Reitman’s lips tightened. “In L.A. they call them brujas.”
“What. Ever.” Owen’s lips tightened too. “My mother isn’t one.”
“We still don’t know that she didn’t kill these animals.”
“I do. You’re the one who doesn’t believe it.”
“Convince me.”
Owen toyed with another bout of “fuck you.” Then Becca touched his arm. “You should probably call the mental health facility.”
“You should probably call a lawyer,” George said. “Attempted murder is pretty serious.”
“Good luck with that,” Owen returned. “She’s certifiable.”
A judge had said so—although in more legal-type terms—and one continued to say so every year when the order to keep Owen’s mother in the mental facility came up for renewal.
“She’s also committed,” Becca said. “She didn’t check herself out, especially dressed like that. You need to find out what she’s doing here.”
“They won’t know the reason.” Owen considered his mom, who was still whispering to Reggie. At least