remains, sir?”
He took it from her, dropped it on the ground, and stepped into it. “Should have shot the motherfuckers. Every last one of them.”
“I thought you liked dogs.”
“Not those dogs.”
“Maybe we need to get some backup,” said Bernadette, her eyes focused on the black windows as they walked toward the house.
They both stood at the bottom of the front stoop, waiting for the woman to let them inside. She seemed in no hurry as she made her way from the barn toward the house.
“Before we call in the troops, let’s uncover the nature of this particular illegal enterprise,” Garcia said under his breath.
“Pit-bull rescue?” Bernadette sputtered.
“They should be put down,” Garcia grumbled.
“Don’t start that with me,” Ashe warned.
Bernadette pointed to the windows. “And what is all the black paper about?”
“I do psychic readings and healing touch, and I need it dark for both.”
They were all three standing in the middle of a small front room, its walls painted a nameless shade that could be achieved only by mixing leftover cans. The wood floor was covered by an area rug, its muddy color one that could be achieved only by a failure to vacuum. Under the blacked-out windows was a black leather couch with a coffee table in front of it. Against the opposite wall was a brick fireplace, a blaze popping behind a screen. Against the same wall, to the right of the hearth, was a doorway leading to a hall and the bedrooms. The house smelled of dogs and cigarette smoke. Beneath those was another aroma. Reefer? No, something else, thought Bernadette. Maybe it was pine. There was a tree, and ornament boxes on the floor around it. Someone was in the midst of taking down the decorations.
To the left of the fireplace, tucked into a corner, was a round table covered with a black cloth. Two metal folding chairs were parked across from each other, and between them, in the center of the table, was a set of tarot cards. Bernadette went over to the deck, picked it up, and shuffled through it. The colorful images—apparently taken from paintings—were soft and beautiful. “I’ve seen these before,” she said, stopping at a card called the Ace of Pentacles. It depicted a nude woman reaching up toward a five-pointed star. “Witches Tarot, right?”
“I’m impressed,” Ashe said dryly, and then looked at Garcia. “I need to smoke. Can I reach for my smokes without getting shot?”
“Go ahead,” said Garcia, keeping his eyes trained on her hands.
The woman unzipped her down vest. “Appreciate it, especially since it’s my house and all.”
“Where’s Karl Vizner?” asked Bernadette, setting down the cards.
Ashe took a pack of Camels and a lighter from the front pocket of her flannel shirt. As she lit up, her attention shifted from Bernadette’s blue left eye to her brown right one. “I’m not answering any questions until you tell me what this is about.”
“Where’s Vizner?” repeated Garcia.
“Plowing.” Ashe took a deep drag and exhaled in Garcia’s direction. “Is this about that dead kid they found in Paul Bunyan? I heard the FBI was coming to town. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
“You folks live close to the scene,” said Garcia, his hands in his jacket pockets.
Obviously remembering that Garcia had a gun, Ashe looked nervously at his right arm. “So?”
“So did you see anything suspicious on New Year’s Eve?”
Instead of answering, the woman took another pull on her cigarette.
Spotting a sagging bookcase, Bernadette went over to it and surveyed the contents. A Shakespeare anthology and a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald paperbacks shared space with a fat volume on the Wicca religion. An entire shelf was jammed with books on alternative and holistic medicine. She lifted the lid off a clay jar, picked it up, and took a whiff of what was inside. “Nice pot. What’s inside of it?”
“Sage,” Ashe said as she exhaled a cloud. “I use it
He took it from her, dropped it on the ground, and stepped into it. “Should have shot the motherfuckers. Every last one of them.”
“I thought you liked dogs.”
“Not those dogs.”
“Maybe we need to get some backup,” said Bernadette, her eyes focused on the black windows as they walked toward the house.
They both stood at the bottom of the front stoop, waiting for the woman to let them inside. She seemed in no hurry as she made her way from the barn toward the house.
“Before we call in the troops, let’s uncover the nature of this particular illegal enterprise,” Garcia said under his breath.
“Pit-bull rescue?” Bernadette sputtered.
“They should be put down,” Garcia grumbled.
“Don’t start that with me,” Ashe warned.
Bernadette pointed to the windows. “And what is all the black paper about?”
“I do psychic readings and healing touch, and I need it dark for both.”
They were all three standing in the middle of a small front room, its walls painted a nameless shade that could be achieved only by mixing leftover cans. The wood floor was covered by an area rug, its muddy color one that could be achieved only by a failure to vacuum. Under the blacked-out windows was a black leather couch with a coffee table in front of it. Against the opposite wall was a brick fireplace, a blaze popping behind a screen. Against the same wall, to the right of the hearth, was a doorway leading to a hall and the bedrooms. The house smelled of dogs and cigarette smoke. Beneath those was another aroma. Reefer? No, something else, thought Bernadette. Maybe it was pine. There was a tree, and ornament boxes on the floor around it. Someone was in the midst of taking down the decorations.
To the left of the fireplace, tucked into a corner, was a round table covered with a black cloth. Two metal folding chairs were parked across from each other, and between them, in the center of the table, was a set of tarot cards. Bernadette went over to the deck, picked it up, and shuffled through it. The colorful images—apparently taken from paintings—were soft and beautiful. “I’ve seen these before,” she said, stopping at a card called the Ace of Pentacles. It depicted a nude woman reaching up toward a five-pointed star. “Witches Tarot, right?”
“I’m impressed,” Ashe said dryly, and then looked at Garcia. “I need to smoke. Can I reach for my smokes without getting shot?”
“Go ahead,” said Garcia, keeping his eyes trained on her hands.
The woman unzipped her down vest. “Appreciate it, especially since it’s my house and all.”
“Where’s Karl Vizner?” asked Bernadette, setting down the cards.
Ashe took a pack of Camels and a lighter from the front pocket of her flannel shirt. As she lit up, her attention shifted from Bernadette’s blue left eye to her brown right one. “I’m not answering any questions until you tell me what this is about.”
“Where’s Vizner?” repeated Garcia.
“Plowing.” Ashe took a deep drag and exhaled in Garcia’s direction. “Is this about that dead kid they found in Paul Bunyan? I heard the FBI was coming to town. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
“You folks live close to the scene,” said Garcia, his hands in his jacket pockets.
Obviously remembering that Garcia had a gun, Ashe looked nervously at his right arm. “So?”
“So did you see anything suspicious on New Year’s Eve?”
Instead of answering, the woman took another pull on her cigarette.
Spotting a sagging bookcase, Bernadette went over to it and surveyed the contents. A Shakespeare anthology and a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald paperbacks shared space with a fat volume on the Wicca religion. An entire shelf was jammed with books on alternative and holistic medicine. She lifted the lid off a clay jar, picked it up, and took a whiff of what was inside. “Nice pot. What’s inside of it?”
“Sage,” Ashe said as she exhaled a cloud. “I use it
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