“But we want change brought about peacefully. Wiccans honor the feminine, but, first and foremost, we view our religion as a personal, positive celebration of life. We revere the creative forces of nature, symbolized by both a god and goddess.”

She took my hands in hers.

“Let me introduce you to the others. Let us show you who we are, what we believe, what we do. You’ll see. No one among us could take the life of another.”

“All right,” I said. “Show me Wicca.”

So I met Sky Bird, Raven, India, and Dreamweaver. I witnessed dancing and drumming and chanting. I ate. I listened. I asked questions.

I learned that Wicca claims an estimated 400,000-plus practitioners, making it the tenth largest religion in the United States, behind Christianity, nonreligious/secular, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, agnostic, atheist, Hinduism, and Unitarian Universalist.

I learned that Wicca has no official book, central governing agency, physical leader, or universally recognized prophet or messenger.

I learned that there are many Wiccan traditions, each with its own distinct teachings and practices, including Alexandrian, Faery, Gardnerian, Odyssean, Reclaiming, Uniterranism, and dozens of others.

I learned of the Law of Threefold Return, the belief that both good and bad deeds reflect back on the doer, and of the Eight Wiccan Virtues: mirth, reverence, honor, humility, strength, beauty, power, and compassion.

Despite the tarot cards, and grimoires, and crystals, and love spells, I sensed an unaffected genuineness in all I met.

I came to understand that Wiccan beliefs and practices remain largely unknown because followers hide out of fear of persecution.

Persecution of the sort sold wholesale by Boyce Lingo.

I left at midnight, still unsure about Asa Finney, but certain we needed to proceed cautiously lest our investigation be tainted by preconceived bias. Convincing Slidell would be a hard sell. But that was for the morrow.

Pulling into my driveway, the headlights swept a rectangular object sitting on the back stoop.

Charlie strikes again. I smiled, got out, and walked toward the door

The object was a cardboard box with the flaps tucked tight. Balancing it on one knee, I unlocked the door and let myself in.

“I’m home, Bird,” I called.

Birdie appeared as I was removing my jacket. After figure-eighting my ankles once or twice, he hopped onto the counter.

And froze in a Halloween cat tableau, back arched, tail poofed to double its size. A primal clicking sound rose from his throat.

The skin crawled on my arms and neck.

I gathered Birdie and displaced him to the floor. He shot back onto the counter.

Blocking the cat with one arm, I disengaged the flaps one-handed and opened the box.

A dead copperhead lay upside down in the bottom, belly slit, innards billowing, glossy and red. Below the jaw, an inverted pentagram had been carved into the pale yellow skin.

27

MY SLEEP WAS VISITED BY THE COPPERHEAD I’D SEALED IN A trash bag and placed in the marigolds flanking my porch. In my dream it was very much alive, pursuing me through dense trees hung with thick Spanish moss, all the while emitting a breathy, sibilant sound. Asa. Asa. Asa.

The faster I ran, the closer the snake came to my heels. I climbed a tree. It slithered past me up the trunk and grinned down from above, Cheshire cat-style. Its tongue flicked my face. I batted at its head.

The tongue came at me again. Above the forked tip I could see three red sixes. Above that, a tiny glowing cross.

A tree branch morphed into a sinuous tentacle and circled toward me holding a microphone. The metal brushed my cheek.

Again I lashed out.

And connected with something solid and furry.

I awoke to find Birdie licking my face.

“Sorry, Bird.” I wiped saliva from my cheek.

The clock said 7:20.

I was making coffee in the kitchen when my cell phone rang. Slidell. Bracing, I clicked on.

“They kicked him this morning.”

It took me a moment. “Finney?”

“No. Jack the Freakin’ Ripper. ’Course I’m talking Finney.”

I held back a comment.

“Bleeding-heart DA agreed with the PD we got insufficient evidence to charge Finney with either Klapec or Rinaldi. And the bones rap ain’t enough to keep him locked up.”

Slidell’s reference to Charlie Hunt caused another mental cringe. OK. No more avoidance. I’d call Charlie this morning.

“-dirty and I ain’t giving up on the little prick.” Slidell’s voice brought me back. “Anything on your end?”

I told him about the snake.

“Sonovabitch. Who you thinking?”

I’d given the question considerable thought.

“I criticized Boyce Lingo publicly last Friday.”

“Man’s got a lot of fans, but they don’t seem the type to be carving up reptiles.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“It made the papers you and me tossed Cuervo’s operation on Greenleaf.” Slidell paused, considering other possibilities. “Or maybe it was one of Finney’s voodoo-ass buddies.”

I told him about Jennifer Roberts and my trip to Full Moon, then waited for the tirade. Slidell surprised me.

“Gimme your take.”

“A lot of ecofeminism and bad poetry.”

“Meaning?”

“Though unconventional, the people I met seemed benign.”

“So did John Wayne Gacy.”

“Do you think the copperhead was meant as a threat?”

“That or someone’s unhappy Finney was busted, decided to try a little mojo to spring him.” Slidell snorted loudly. “Wouldn’t that be ironical. They juju some snake, next morning their boy walks. Whatever, what ain’t funny is some nutjob knows where you live. You need to watch your back.”

I’d thought of that, too.

“How about I step up surveillance on your place?”

I was about to decline, thought of Rinaldi. Why take a chance?

“Sure. Thanks.”

“I’ll have a unit swing by every hour or so, make sure everything’s kosher. Maybe we should agree on some sort of distress signal.”

“A lantern in the tower of the Old North Church?”

“Huh?”

“One if by land?”

Nothing.

“If there’s trouble I’ll leave the porch light on.”

“That works.”

“You want the snake?”

“What the hell am I gonna do with a gutted copperhead?”

I told Slidell about the slides I’d left with Marion Ireland at UNCC.

“Why’s it important?”

“It may not be. I’ll know when I get the blowups.”

I listened to a moment of nasal wheezing. Then, “Found a guy name of Vince Gunther was booked for solicitation on twenty-eight September. Spent the night in the bag until someone ponied up bail the next afternoon. I’m thinking Gunther could be Eddie’s chicken hawk, Vince. I’m gonna try tracking him through the bondsman.” Slidell paused. “I guess they’re finding Eddie was having money problems.”

“Oh?”

“Over fifty thousand in credit card debt.”

“And?”

“And nothing. They’re checking it out.”

“He never mentioned financial difficulties to you?”

“No.” Tight.

“Do they think he got involved in something that got him killed?”

“They’re checking it out.” There was a long pause. “I don’t see it. After his wife died all Eddie wanted to do was go home, play his egghead music, and work crossword puzzles. And that other thing. That thing with numbers.”

“Sudoku?” I guessed.

“Yeah. That’s it. And he’d cook, just for himself. Real meals, with fresh pasta and herbs and stuff.” Slidell pronounced the h.

Sudden stab of pain. Though I’d known Rinaldi for almost twenty years, other than the fact that he originally came from West Virginia, had been widowed and lived alone, was compulsively neat, liked classical music, good food, and expensive clothing, I’d learned very little about the man. Now I never would.