“I understand you’re not feeling well today?”

“Just a flu. I’m much better now.”

“Hang on.”

I heard the receiver tap a desktop, footsteps, then a closing door. I pictured Jennifer crossing the office two down from mine. Identical desk, credenza, filing cabinets, and shelves, hers filled with volumes on animism, henotheism, totemism, and dozens of ism’s of which I was ignorant.

“Sorry.” She spoke softly. “There are students in the hallway.”

“I think they camp out there to avoid paying rent.”

She laughed nervously. “You may be right.” I heard slow inhalation, release. “OK. This is difficult.”

Please, God. Not a personal problem. Not today.

“I read in the Observer that you’re investigating the altar discovered last Monday on Greenleaf Avenue.”

“Yes.” That surprised me.

“Human bones were among the objects recovered.”

“Yes.” I had no idea where this was going.

“Last Thursday, a headless body was found at Lake Wylie-”

“Jennifer, I can’t discuss-”

“Please. Bear with me.”

I let her go on.

“The victim was identified as a teenaged boy named Jimmy Klapec. His body was marked with satanic symbology. Earlier, I haven’t the date, another headless boy was pulled from the Catawba River. I don’t know if that corpse was similarly mutilated.”

Obviously she’d heard, or been told of, Boyce Lingo’s tirade. I didn’t confirm or deny the information.

“The police have arrested a young man named Asa Finney. He’s been charged with possession of human remains and is a suspect in the Klapec homicide.”

“Yes.” All that had been reported in news coverage. I didn’t mention that Slidell also suspected Finney of involvement in Rinaldi’s murder.

“They’ve arrested the wrong man,” Roberts said.

“The police are conducting a full investigation.”

“Asa Finney is a Wiccan, not a Satanist. Can you appreciate the enormous difference?”

“I have a rudimentary understanding,” I said.

“The public does not. Asa is a self-proclaimed witch, it’s true. Have you seen his Web site?”

I admitted that I had not.

“Go there. Read his postings. You will find the musings of a kind and gentle soul.”

“I will.”

“There is a Wiccan camp at Lake Wylie. Though I don’t know the exact location, I know that Jimmy Klapec’s body was found at Lake Wylie. That will not put Asa Finney in a good light.”

I didn’t mention the books by Anton LaVey, the resemblance to Rick Nelson, or the Ford Focus seen in the area the night of Klapec’s murder.

“In today’s climate of religious extremism, there are those who condemn beliefs they don’t understand. Responsible, intelligent Christians who would rather see people dead than following what they consider pagan practices. Their numbers are few, but these fanatics exist.”

I heard a voice in the background. Jennifer asked me to hold on. There was muffled conversation, but I could make out no words.

“Sorry. Where was I? Yes. County Commissioner Lingo has twice mentioned Asa Finney by name, fingering him as a disciple of the devil, an example of all that is wrong in today’s world. Given the atmosphere of anger created by Saturday’s police shooting, I fear for Asa’s ability to get a fair hearing.”

“He has excellent counsel.” I didn’t mention names.

“Charles Hunt is a public defender.”

“Charles Hunt is very good.” In more ways than one. I didn’t mention that, either.

Jennifer lowered her voice further, as though fearing her words might carry through the door.

“Asa Finney stole bones from a crypt when he was seventeen. It was a juvenile prank, stupid and thoughtless. That’s a far cry from murder.”

How did she know that? I didn’t ask.

“The police are doing a thorough investigation,” I said.

“Are they? Asa Finney is a loner. They will find no one to vouch for him. Will Asa be sacrificed on the altar of Boyce Lingo’s ambition?”

I couldn’t figure Jennifer’s interest in Finney. Did her zeal grow from a commitment to the principles of her discipline? Or was it born of something more personal?

“I’m unclear what it is you want me to do.”

“Nullify Lingo’s poison. Make a public statement. You’re a forensic specialist. People will listen to you.”

“I’m sorry, Jennifer. I can’t do that.”

“Then talk to Lingo. Reason with him.”

“Why are you so concerned about Asa Finney?”

“He is innocent.”

“How can you know that?”

There was a moment of dead air, then, “We are members of the same coven.”

“You are Wiccan?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. I’d known Jennifer eight years and hadn’t a clue.

“Yes.”

I heard an indrawn breath then silence. I waited.

“Come to Full Moon tonight. We are having an esbat ritual. Meet us. Learn our philosophy.”

My battered brain cells were screaming for sleep. I started to decline.

“You will see. Ours is a joyous religion born of kinship with nature. Wiccans celebrate life, we do not take it.”

The conscience guys piped a voice through the pain in my head.

While Slidell was drowning his grief in work, you were drowning yours in booze.

“When?”

“Seven P.M.”

Barring horrendous traffic, I could make it to the university and get home in time for a power nap before leaving for Full Moon.

I reached for my tablet.

“I’ll need directions.”

26

THE NAP DIDN’T HAPPEN. IRELAND INSISTED ON SHARING A BLOW-by-blow of her SEM prep process. Then I spent an hour creeping through a construction slowdown on I-85. I arrived at the Annex in time to feed Birdie, pop two aspirins, and set out again.

Jennifer’s directions sent me along the same route I’d taken to the Klapec scene on Thursday. This time, a quarter mile before hitting the lakeshore, I turned onto a small, winding road. At an abandoned fruit stand, I made a left and continued until I spotted a hand-painted wooden plaque with an arrow and the words Full Moon. From then on it was gravel.

The sun was low, turning the woods into a collage of green, brown, and red. As I slipped in and out of shadow, crimson arrows shot the foliage and danced my windshield. I saw no other cars.

A quarter mile in, I spotted a wooden trellis curving eight feet above a pair of tire tracks taking off to the right. Following Jennifer’s instructions, I made the turn.

Ten yards beyond the archway, the woods gave way to a clearing approximately sixty feet in diameter. At the far side, two dozen cars angled toward a crudely built log cabin. Another hand-crafted sign above the door announced Full Moon. This one featured what looked like a Paleolithic mother goddess – full breasts and buttocks, just a hint of head, arms, and legs.

Parking beside a battered old Volvo, I got out and looked around. No one approached or called out. Below the goddess, the cabin door remained closed.

The air smelled of pine and moist earth and a hint of bonfire smoke. Notes drifted from the trees beyond the cabin. Panpipes? A recorder? I couldn’t be sure.

Circling the building, I spotted a path and moved toward the music. The sun was down now, the woods in that murky limbo between dusk and full night. No birds called out, but now and then some panicked creature skittered away through the underbrush.

As I picked my way along, the music sorted itself into flute and guitar. A lone female voice sang lyrics I couldn’t make out.

Soon I saw the flicker of flames through the trees. Ten steps and I reached a second clearing, this one much smaller than that surrounding the cabin. Pausing at the edge of the trees, I looked for Jennifer. No one noticed my presence.

The gathering was larger than I’d anticipated, perhaps thirty people. A few sat on logs placed around the perimeter of the fire pit. Others stood talking in groups.