Stone Magic

1

I watched her through the one-way glass. A frail little blonde girl in pink overalls and a white T–shirt, sitting next to a tall Jamaican woman with long, silky hair. The little girl's voice was as fragile as spun glass, but I could hear everything over the speaker set into the wall where I was standing.

"I'm…afraid," the little girl whispered. "He has magic. He said if I told, Mommy would die. He would make her die."

"He has no magic," the Jamaican woman told her, a diamond core to the rich black coal of her voice. "He lies, child. All evil creatures lie. And a lie can harm you only if you believe it."

It came out slowly—like pus gently squeezed from a wound. A new man in Mommy's life. Not like the father she'd never met, a rogue who planted his seed one night and moved on without looking back. This new man was warm. Sensitive. Caring.

Mommy met the man in church. In a holy place.

He came into their lives, moved into their house. He took them wonderful places: the zoo, the park for picnics, into the country for a pony ride. She loved him. She was his little princess.

It started when Mommy was out working. Mommy worked nights. She was a waitress.

It started as a game. First she liked it. Warm and gentle and sweet. But then the secrets came. Ugly, dark secrets.

The pressure got too strong for her little–girl heart. She started wetting the bed, her grades fell way off in school. Then the night terrors came.

She told a friend at school. Her friend told her mother. And the evil came to the surface.

The man was in jail, awaiting trial. Her mother had thrown him out, called the police.

And every night, mother and daughter huddled together, afraid of his magic.

It went on a long time but I never moved. I'm good at it. I learned in all the right places. Reform school. Prison. In Africa, where a quiet man in a rich suit I met in a Houston hotel room sent me.

The Jamaican woman was talking urgently to the little girl now, one hand on the child's shoulders, the red–lacquered nails like talons, guarding.

2

Is it magic you want, my child? I have magic. True magic. Magic I learned from my mother, who learned from her mother. Look in my garden, see?"

The child's face turned. "It's all stones," she said.

And it was. A rock garden, set into a long slab of polished butcher's block. On a miniature scale, the boulders no bigger than my fist, the pebbles as tiny as grains of sand.

"Magic stones, child. Each has great power. But the power comes from choice, you understand? Let your soul guide you. Close your eyes, now. Take a stone from the garden. It will always protect you, I know this."

The little girl hesitated. I felt the waves of encouragement even outside the room. Finally, she closed her eyes and reached out a tiny hand, feeling her way, guided by trust. Her hand closed on a small stone…it looked like rose quartz.

"Look at it," the Jamaican woman told her. "Hold it in your hand. Feel how warm it is? That is the power. All you will need. And you can keep it with you, child. When you testify in court, hold it in your hand. It is magic, true magic."

The little girl's smile was fragile, holding the stone.

3

It took almost another hour before they were done. I watched as a police matron came for the little girl. The guard at the desk nodded his head curtly at me.

"Go on, you waited long enough."

I stepped inside the playroom. The Jamaican woman stood, held out her hand for me to shake. Her grip was strong, dry. Like her eyes.

"Mister…ah, Cross, is it?"

"Yes."

"How can I help you?"

"I'm the child's father."

Her eyes hardened, black fires in her mahogany face. "The child's biological father, you mean."

"Yeah."

"You've never met her?"

"No."

"But you know she's yours?"

"I sent money…."

"Yes, so you did," she said, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand. "For a little more than three years, and then the payments stopped."

"I was inside."

"I know. It's all here. Five years. A payroll robbery, wasn't it?"

"That's what the court said."

"Are you saying you were innocents'

"No. I'm not saying anything. A little rat said it all, and got a walk–away out of it. I did my time, paid what I owed."

"And now you've returned to your…profession?"

"I'm out of work. Just looking around."

She waved the sheaf of papers in my face again, like a talisman to ward off evil spirits. "According to this information, work isn't something you do very often, Mr. Cross."

"Check those papers of yours—I've never been on Welfare."

"No, you've not, have you? Let's see, now…two convictions for armed robbery, one for assault with intent to murder. And you've worked as a mercenary, too." She said the word mercenary like it was coated with maggots.

"I didn't come here for this."

"What do you want?"

"To see if there's anything I can do…to help."

"A bit late for that, isn't it?"

"Not for justice."

"Oh, it's justice you wants Seems to me you're a bit ill–equipped to play at that game."

"Maybe better than giving the child a voodoo story about magic stones."

"You fight the Devil with the Devil, Mr. Cross. And it will work. Watch and see."

4

I did watch. Watched the little girl testify in court, her tiny hand clutching the magic stone. The defense attorney hammered away at her, like a sweating, fat pig, boring for truffles. But she stuck it out—he couldn't change the truth. I was proud of her.

I saw her mother across the courtroom, but I didn't move toward her. Saw her take my daughter's hand and lead her away after it was over.

They looked so alike in my eyes.

5

When it came time for sentencing, the courtroom was near empty. The case hadn't made the papers—I guess it was no big deal.

The defense attorney put an expert on the stand. This expert, he was a doctor of some kind. He told the court the man was sick. A pedophile, that's what he called him. Said he'd done a couple of dozen children the way he'd done little Mary. A sickness in him, couldn't be helped. But they had this program he could go into, fix him right up. So he'd be okay.

The D.A. wanted him to go to prison, but the judge said a lot of stuff about mental illness and let him off with probation. Said he had to attend this special program. He could barely keep the smile off his face when he thanked the judge.

6

I can't make up for it, I know. There's only so much I know about life—I'm a thief.

Two weeks later I went into the building where they interview the abused kids. The ladder was in my pocket—a couple of hundred yards of dental floss, woven into a rope. I went up the side of the building like it was a staircase.

They don't even lock the windows on the fourth floor. I found the Jamaican woman's playroom with my pencil flash. The lock yielded in an eye–blink.