The Wizard Page 4

  Something about the car niggled at him. It finally came to him. He’d driven that car one night, following a Christmas party at the Herald. Emily Hunt had had too much to drink and he’d been worried about her. He’d taken her keys and driven her home with Breanna following in their car.

  The whole time Ellie had been drunkenly grateful, telling him how much she’d always admired him. He was the most handsome, sweetest, kindest, greatest reporter she had ever known. That the only thing bad about him was that he was married and obviously in love with his wife.

  He and Breanna had made sure that Ellie was safe and tucked up in her apartment before they left.

  “That’s quite a case of hero worship she has,” Breanna said as they walked back to their car. “I do believe she has a crush on you.”

  He kissed her in response. “Then she’s doomed to unrequited love, because my heart belongs to you.”

  “It had better.”

  What was Ellie Hunt doing in Austin? She didn’t report on politics on her own. She’d helped him with several pieces, but she normally did the lifestyle beat.

  Or maybe he was wrong. He hadn’t really been concentrating. He could simply have mistaken what he’d seen.

  He got into the car after unlocking it, and put the cup on the dash to fasten his seatbelt. When he looked up, ready to grab his coffee and put it into the console, he froze.

  The steam from the coffee had condensed on the inner surface of the windshield. There, written in the steam was one word: mother.

  He looked to his right as if to find the answer to this puzzle in the passenger’s seat. No one was there. No ghost. No apparition. No hallucination. Only the word mother written in steam.

  What the hell?

  After grabbing his coffee he wiped the back of his hand over the word, but in the time it took to put the cup in the console it appeared again.

  “At least it didn’t happen while I was driving,” he said, addressing the windshield. “If I have to have an hallucination, at least I didn’t kill myself or anyone else.”

  He debated going back to the coffee bar, sitting inside and nursing his coffee until his brain returned to normal. Could grief make you batty? Not a PC term, but one that seemed apropos for the moment.

  Where were you, Mr. McPherson, when you felt the last gasp of your sanity slip away?

  Well, Doctor, I was sitting in my car on a street in Austin. It was a beautiful day, and there were a lot of people around me. Students, business types, people buying coffee, sitting in the sidewalk cafe. An otherwise unremarkable day, all in all.

  He could imagine that conversation taking place. If he had the nerve to tell anyone about this.

  The steam had dissipated, but he could still see the faint outline of the word on the windshield.

  He finally dared himself to turn his head and look at the passenger seat again. It was still empty, thank God. No one was sitting there. No translucent figure dressed in red. Nothing. No doubt the people walking by the car thought he was odd, a man sitting by himself in his car, his hands on the wheel as he stared straight ahead.

  As ventures into insanity went, this was proving to be an interesting one. Mother. What the hell was he to think about that? He blinked a few times, looked away, then back at the windshield. Nope, the word was still there.

  What was odd was that his real mother had called him yesterday. Had his subconscious pushed him to think about that?

  It was borderline plausible to accept that the stress of the past ten days was playing havoc with his mind. Plus, his sleep patterns didn’t help the situation. Sleep deprived and grief stricken — he was ripe for a mental takeover.

  He took a sip of his coffee, winced at the heat scorching his tongue, put it back in the cup holder, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled into traffic.

  The damn word was still there.

  Ellie stayed in her car while Derek went into the coffee shop, returning in less than ten minutes with a tall cup. He’d gotten into his car, but instead of pulling out immediately he sat there for a few minutes. She felt conspicuous sitting there, hoping that he didn’t look in the rearview mirror and see that she’d pulled in behind him. She busied herself by cleaning out the glove compartment, holding up a receipt from her last oil change in front of her face. From time to time she peered over the top to make sure he hadn’t pulled away.

  That’s when she saw it.

  She didn’t have all that many talents. She saw things that happened before they did, but her skill at precognition wasn’t yet tamable. Nor did she ever know when it was going to appear or about what. She’d seen aircraft disasters and car wrecks involving people she didn’t know. The last major derailment with an Amtrak train had come to her only four hours before it happened.

  She rarely had the opportunity to warn people. Once, she’d reached someone at an airline who considered her a freak. Rather than be reported to Homeland Security she’d hung up.

  She didn’t possess as many innate abilities as some of the NASACA. What she lacked in instinctive knowledge she made up with tenacity. She read prodigiously and she practiced a different incantation every day. If she couldn’t get a spell correct, she worked on it until she did. There were only three spells in the past ten years that she hadn’t completely mastered. Once a year she took all three of them out and tried again, thinking that it was maturity and wisdom that she needed to accumulate more than power.

  She was skilled enough, however, to see the writing on the windshield. Anyone walking past the car could have seen. It took her a moment to make out the whole word, but when she did she was still lost. Mother? What did that mean? And who had conveyed it to Derek? Transposition was an elemental skill they taught young witches.

  Magic could be used to your benefit. Magic demanded the sacrifice of time, energy, and commitment. In turn, most of what you wanted could come to fruition. Most, but not everything. It was dangerous to ask for too much. First of all, a difficult spell would exhaust you, sometimes for days. Secondly, you had to worry about earthly situations, like law enforcement or the rules of nature. You couldn’t exactly levitate your car in the middle of a traffic jam.

  But write a word on a windshield? An easy task. Who was sending a message to Derek and why?

  6

  By the time Derek got to San Marcos the message on the windshield had evaporated.

  Had he imagined it? If so, what the hell was happening to him?

  Nothing made any damn sense. It was like his practical nature had run headfirst into a wall.

  Maybe he should handle everything like an exposé he was writing. Perhaps if he used a little investigative journalism he could distance himself enough from the situation to look at it… His thoughts stopped. Look at it how? Like everything was normal?

  Derek frowned, wished the traffic wasn't so congested, and that he didn't have things to do for the rest of the day. He would've preferred to return to his study, close the door, and go crazy all by himself.

  An unfamiliar car was parked in front of the house when he got home. Instead of taking the road to the back of the house and the garage, he pulled up next to the car at the same time the driver left the vehicle.

  Darla Jimenez was a striking Latina, nearly six feet tall and thin enough to be a high-fashion model. She had cheekbones like her Aztec ancestors along with distinctive gray eyes that always reminded him of a fox.

  She and Breanna had been close friends. Close enough that they talked nearly every day. Derek had managed to avoid her at the funeral and she hadn’t returned to the Crow’s Nest after the ceremony.

  In her hands she held a covered casserole dish. Yet another meal for which he’d have to write a thank you note. He was running out of ways to say thank you. Leave me alone wasn’t a good response. Or thank you, but for the love of all that was holy, stop bringing me food.

  He had a refrigerator filled with non-disposable containers. Somehow, he was going to have to return the right one to the right person. Maybe
the giving of food was a conspiracy, geared to force the grieving person to interact with other people.

  “Darla,” he said. As a greeting it sucked, but it was all he had the energy for at the moment.

  “How are you doing, Derek? I know the funeral was hard on you.”

  He honestly didn’t have a response to that. Of course the funeral was hard on him. What else would it be?

  “Yes, well. Would you like to come inside?” he asked, hoping she would decline.

  She held up the casserole. “I brought you something. Breanna once told me that you loved cherry pie. It’s kind of a combination cherry pie tart thing my grandmother taught me how to make.”

  At least it wasn’t another casserole. Something with broccoli, or a chicken rice combo, or ground beef and peas.

  He forced a smile to his face and took the dish from her.

  “Thank you, that was very nice of you.”

  He turned and began to walk toward the front door, hoping that she would explain that she couldn’t stay. Unfortunately, she kept pace with him.

  “It was all so terrible, Derek.”

  He glanced at her and then away, wondering what she expected him to say. Of course it was terrible. Breanna died. It couldn’t get much worse than that.

  “Yes.” It was all he could muster.

  “I know Breanna would have wanted you to get on with your life.”

  He stopped before he made it to the first step of the grandiose entrance to the Crow’s Nest. Turning, he faced her. Words failed him for a moment and he earned his living with words. Yet he wrote sentences of explanation, exposition that educated. He didn’t delve into emotions unless it was justifiable anger at some bureaucratic idiocy or political malfeasance.

  He had never been faced with anyone saying something as stupid as what Darla had just said.

  “What do you know about Susan?”

  She blinked at him, obviously surprised.

  Darla and Breanna worked in the same division. They often lunched together. Maybe Breanna had confided something in Darla that she hadn’t told him.

  “About Susan?”

  He nodded.

  “Nothing, really. Why?”

  He wasn’t going to answer that.

  “Breanna never spoke to you about her?”

  She shook her head. “No. Why?”

  “Was she pregnant?”

  “Susan?”

  “No, Breanna.”

  “Pregnant?”

  The question was simple enough. Why was Darla having such a hard time with it?

  “Was she?”

  “I don’t know, Derek. She didn’t tell me if she was.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  The question was intrusive and he wouldn’t have asked it ordinarily.

  “Our last conversation? That the rumors were that Breanna was up for the Edmond award. She’s going to get it, by the way. Posthumously.”

  He didn’t give a flying fig for the Edmond award, even though he knew it was a great honor, given to those research scientists for their contributions to their respective field in the past year. Unfortunately, he didn’t know what Breanna had done to merit the prize. He wasn’t going to tell Darla that.

  “So you’re saying that she never confided in you?”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t understand what you’re asking. Breanna was happy. She adored you. She loved her job. And if she was pregnant she didn’t tell me.”

  She glanced down at her watch. “Damn, I forgot about a meeting. I’m so sorry, Derek. Let me know what you think about the cherry pie. There’s no hurry getting the dish back to me.”

  He wanted to hand it to her and tell her that he had no intention of eating anything she prepared, Grandmother’s recipe or not. He didn’t trust her and that development was about five minutes old.

  She retraced her steps and got back into her car.

  He’d made her uncomfortable with his questions, which was a red flag. Whenever he questioned a politician and the person didn’t want to answer, they claimed a meeting, a vote, some important reason to avoid him. Darla had done the same thing.

  Even more important, her physical mannerisms had given her away. Her voice had changed, grown thin as she answered. She’d clenched her hands together in front of her. Her gaze had darted from the left to the right and back again as she’d hesitated.

  She might not have been lying, but he didn’t believe she was telling the truth, either.

  Ellie couldn’t take the corkscrew drive up to Derek’s house without being seen. She found a vantage point not far away, however, one that was elevated enough that she could see his house and its approach.

  She’d never known anyone who lived in a mansion, but Derek’s house was more than that. Some people said that it was a grotesque example of too much money. Derek had once said that he couldn’t figure out why Lionel had called it the Crow’s Nest, but she could see it. The house, with its black brick and jutting angles, looked like a crow ready to fly.

  Lionel Adams had been a real character, evidently. Lots of rumors still flew around about him despite the fact that he’d been dead for years. He was a man filled with rage and not shy about exhibiting it. He fired every member of his staff one day, demanded the phones of the replacements, and generally kept the tabloids busy with stories of his tyrannical behavior.

  Breanna had been nothing like her father.

  She’d been naturally beautiful. Breanna didn’t need makeup. Sometimes NASACA helped members obtain positions, but nobody had to give Breanna a leg up. She was smart on her own. Plus, Lionel’s fortune had paid for her expensive schooling, the trips to Europe, and the wardrobe from well known designers. Yet despite that, she’d been nice. She had a wonderful sense of humor and a ready smile, plus she was kind. She had a great deal of empathy and went out of her way to help people and animals.

  True, there were a few people in NASACA who weren’t Breanna fans, but Ellie thought that was down to jealousy more than anything else. She had it all: wealth, beauty, a handsome husband who adored her, a great job, respect, and magic. Breanna was one of the most talented practitioners Ellie had ever met.

  Men like Derek attracted beautiful women. He was tall, handsome, with black hair and piercing blue eyes. He and Breanna had been a striking couple. People turned and watched them as they walked into a crowded room. When they were together you could almost feel the chemistry, as if they struck sparks off each other. He would look at her sometimes and Ellie felt a surge of envy.

  All of that evaporated the minute she learned of Breanna’s death.

  Something was happening. It wasn’t just what she’d seen in Austin. It was what she felt: a thrumming kind of energy that was spreading out from the ugly house on the hill.

  There were mysteries she still had to learn, secrets to penetrate that were obscured to her now.

  If she was wise she’d go to the Elders immediately and tell them what she’d seen and what she was feeling. Her assignment was to follow Derek, find out what he was doing and monitor his activities. Nobody had told her why.

  She had the feeling that keeping silent was going to cause her problems. For now she was willing to take the chance.

  When Derek was eighteen years old his mother had asked him to meet her in the family room. Once there, she’d presented him with a red and black cardboard box about a foot square. Inside were those items she’d saved from his first days of life.

  He hadn’t been abandoned. The adoption had been private, arranged between two attorneys. At least that’s what he’d been told. His birth mother hadn’t been anonymous, but her privacy had been closely guarded. In other words, Angie and Paul had been allowed to see some details about her life, but not all of them.

  He’d been eighteen, soon off to college. His past hadn’t meant anything to him. In fact, he’d been a little insulted that Angie thought the mini-celebration of turning over the box to him was so important.

  “You’re my moth
er,” he’d said. “Paul is my father.”

  They’d never made a secret of his adoption. They’d framed it as a choice they’d made to include him in their lives. They’d picked him out of all the babies in the world. He’d always felt special because of the way they’d told him when he was six. That feeling had lasted his entire childhood.

  Paul and Angie had been his parents. They always would be.

  He’d always been good about digitizing his personal documents, but he’d never done the documents in the red and black box. It took him over two hours to find it. The Crow’s Nest didn’t have an attic, per se, because of the design of the house with its turrets and spires. They did have a climate controlled storeroom, however, located on the second floor of the north wing. Everything was categorized by item, then year, then more personal notes. His box was under Personal Papers, the year they’d been married, and his name.

  Everything from his apartment had also been stored there, including his furniture, purchased piece by piece after college. It should have been donated. Instead, it was lovingly wrapped in plastic and tagged with his name.

  Breanna had often told him of her father’s penchant for saving everything. Evidently, the acorn hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

  His father called while he was reading his adoption papers.

  "Sorry I bailed on you this morning, Derek," Paul said. "You know what they say about fish and visitors."

  "You weren’t here three days, Dad. Besides, you're welcome anytime."

  "I appreciate that. Are you going to take care of those things I left for you?”

  “When I get a chance, Dad.”

  “I’ve got a buddy you could call. He does home repairs, that kind of stuff.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Or you could sell that elephant of a house."

  They'd had this discussion too many times in past week. He didn't want to think about selling the oil tycoon's house right now. Maybe later.