It’s only a sense. When Grandfather and Father first refused to teach me how to perform escapes, telling me that I was too young and that it wasn’t appropriate for a girl, they found me later that night in a motel bathtub, half frozen from all the ice cubes I’d packed in there to practice an endurance stunt.
“We either teach her, or we have to come up with a convenient explanation for her suicide,” Grandfather had remarked after they dragged me out of the tub.
I look back at the roof and think about the fact that we were being watched the whole time. Our reactions, everything. Somebody was studying us.
I hope there’s enough evidence in the body to tell us if it was a timed fire or something remotely activated. If it was done by remote, then I’d bet everything on our voyeur being the Warlock.
The problem is that he would be cutting things very close. He’s seemed smart so far, why would he risk being this near to us? One of the first things investigators do is scan the scene for potential suspects.
Maybe it’s the thrill.
Or maybe it’s part of a bigger deception. He might just want us to think he’s that predictable. I’m overthinking things, but I can’t get the idea of the long burn out of my head.
Gimbal calls into his radio for someone to come bag the piece of cardboard. Shannon and I walk back to the fence, still the shortest path to the cemetery. He asks if I need a hand over the fence, but I’m already on the other side before the words leave his mouth.
A moment later he lands next to me, trying to hide the fact that he’s out of breath.
“Yoga” is all I can say.
Fire crews have managed to put the blaze out or it burned itself out. Gladys is still standing there, trying to make sense of it. As I get closer I can see her eyes are scrutinizing every detail. The fire marshal says something to her and she nods her head.
There’s an acrid tang in the air. “Potassium permanganate?” I ask.
She nods. “You study chemistry?”
“No. Only the kind that makes pretty flames.” Our garage was filled with many wonders for a child. Magic cabinets, costumes, props from a dozen different shows. My favorite part had been the workbench where my father has tinkered away on projects. Next to the tools and cans of paint was a rack of chemical compounds used to make puffs of smoke and magic flashes. Through trial, lots of error, and dog-eared science textbooks that belonged to Grandfather when he was a boy, I learned the basics of chemistry.
Her face has a pained expression. “I think he probably filled the poor girl’s stomach with the stuff and the body with glycerol.” She shakes her head at what’s left of the body. “Wants to make it look like spontaneous human combustion or something equally ridiculous.” She waves her hand at the body. “Of course, it’ll just be our word against theirs.”
“Theirs? Who do you mean?” I ask.
She points to the masts of the television trucks. “The people who want to believe this sort of thing. The ones that think you can talk to the dead or that ghosts are real. My niece even watches that garbage. We’ll try to explain what we think happened, but they won’t listen. I’m sure some of them will even accuse us of trying to destroy the body to hide the truth they think we’re hiding.” She gives me a frustrated look.
I don’t know what to say. In my mind it’s clear, or at least mostly clear, what we saw. But I think I understand. The Warlock only needs to create enough doubt. Tomorrow’s headlines are going to be filled with news about a dead girl crawling out of her grave and then erupting into flames in front of an army of helpless FBI agents. It’s a story too sensational to ignore.
The discussion is going to be about what happened. Not why. A girl was murdered just hours ago but the story is going to be on whether or not we’ve witnessed a miracle.
It’s a dirty, evil, vile trick.
The Warlock turned one girl’s death into a
“We either teach her, or we have to come up with a convenient explanation for her suicide,” Grandfather had remarked after they dragged me out of the tub.
I look back at the roof and think about the fact that we were being watched the whole time. Our reactions, everything. Somebody was studying us.
I hope there’s enough evidence in the body to tell us if it was a timed fire or something remotely activated. If it was done by remote, then I’d bet everything on our voyeur being the Warlock.
The problem is that he would be cutting things very close. He’s seemed smart so far, why would he risk being this near to us? One of the first things investigators do is scan the scene for potential suspects.
Maybe it’s the thrill.
Or maybe it’s part of a bigger deception. He might just want us to think he’s that predictable. I’m overthinking things, but I can’t get the idea of the long burn out of my head.
Gimbal calls into his radio for someone to come bag the piece of cardboard. Shannon and I walk back to the fence, still the shortest path to the cemetery. He asks if I need a hand over the fence, but I’m already on the other side before the words leave his mouth.
A moment later he lands next to me, trying to hide the fact that he’s out of breath.
“Yoga” is all I can say.
Fire crews have managed to put the blaze out or it burned itself out. Gladys is still standing there, trying to make sense of it. As I get closer I can see her eyes are scrutinizing every detail. The fire marshal says something to her and she nods her head.
There’s an acrid tang in the air. “Potassium permanganate?” I ask.
She nods. “You study chemistry?”
“No. Only the kind that makes pretty flames.” Our garage was filled with many wonders for a child. Magic cabinets, costumes, props from a dozen different shows. My favorite part had been the workbench where my father has tinkered away on projects. Next to the tools and cans of paint was a rack of chemical compounds used to make puffs of smoke and magic flashes. Through trial, lots of error, and dog-eared science textbooks that belonged to Grandfather when he was a boy, I learned the basics of chemistry.
Her face has a pained expression. “I think he probably filled the poor girl’s stomach with the stuff and the body with glycerol.” She shakes her head at what’s left of the body. “Wants to make it look like spontaneous human combustion or something equally ridiculous.” She waves her hand at the body. “Of course, it’ll just be our word against theirs.”
“Theirs? Who do you mean?” I ask.
She points to the masts of the television trucks. “The people who want to believe this sort of thing. The ones that think you can talk to the dead or that ghosts are real. My niece even watches that garbage. We’ll try to explain what we think happened, but they won’t listen. I’m sure some of them will even accuse us of trying to destroy the body to hide the truth they think we’re hiding.” She gives me a frustrated look.
I don’t know what to say. In my mind it’s clear, or at least mostly clear, what we saw. But I think I understand. The Warlock only needs to create enough doubt. Tomorrow’s headlines are going to be filled with news about a dead girl crawling out of her grave and then erupting into flames in front of an army of helpless FBI agents. It’s a story too sensational to ignore.
The discussion is going to be about what happened. Not why. A girl was murdered just hours ago but the story is going to be on whether or not we’ve witnessed a miracle.
It’s a dirty, evil, vile trick.
The Warlock turned one girl’s death into a
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