The Witch's Ladder by Dana Donovan

But there, conspicuously wedged among the believers, if she could trust her instincts, stood her newest supporter: me. I listened intently with an open mind, more jury than judge if I could help it. Regardless of which side of the fence anyone stood, all hung breathless on her word.
    “ As I mentioned, divination through hepatoscopy is as ancient as civilization itself,” she told us. “And though I’m no expert on the subject, it seems to me that something about these killings doesn’t add up. For instance, why is it—and tell me, Detective, if you haven’t asked yourself the same thing—when Travis and Barbara were killed, their livers were cut out and taken, yet the two homeless men had their livers cut out and left behind?”
    Most in the room understood that the question called for no immediate answer, but Chris offered a possible theory nonetheless. “Maybe the killer didn’t have enough time to finish what he started when he killed the two homeless men.”
    “ That’s ridiculous,” said Gordon. “They were killed in a dark, lonely alley a week apart. The killer had plenty of time to cut them up into little pieces if he wanted to.”
    Michael said, “All right, by the same token, perhaps in the case of Travis and Barbara, the killer didn’t have enough time, and so he took the livers with him to read later.”
    “ That’s good, Michael,” Valerie answered. “I can believe that. It makes sense. What do you think, Detective? Is someone killing these people just to read their entrails? Or do you still think it’s a case of ritual sacrifice?”
    I tapped the brim of my hat without answering, turned and started walking towards Leona Diaz, still the quietest one in the room. She sat alone at the far end of the table, closest to the corner by the door. Until then, few had noticed the fright on her face. As I approached, Leona stiffened her back and shoulders. She glanced several times at Doctor Lieberman, perhaps looking for reassurance, but his smile appeared to offer no immediate comfort. I reached the other end of the table and knelt beside her.
    “ Hola, Leona. Buenos nochas,” I said, my voice trained softly. “Por favor, escusa mi Espanol. Para me, su sido un largo tiempo.”
    Leona’s mouth pinched up at the corners, but stopped just shy of a smile. “Please, Detective,” she answered, nearly in a whisper. “Mi Ingles, es not so bad.”
    “ Gracias. Porque no es preciso mi Espanol.”
    “ De nada.”
    “ Leona. Doctor Lieberman tells me that you can sometimes be in two places simultaneously, that you bilocate. Is that true?”
    “ Si, Detective, it is true, but I do not have power over such things. It happens when I sleep, or if I am hypnotized.”
    “ I see. Then tell me, while experiencing this bilocation, have you ever gone to Suffolk’s Walk?”
    Leona pulled back sharply, gasping as though the wind had been sucked from her lungs in a single instant. Her complexion grew flush. I reached for her hands, which clung like vice grips to the arms of her chair. Terror blazed in her eyes and I thought for a moment I had seen the devil behind them. Valerie Spencer let out a shriek, perhaps evoking the vision that so horrified Leona.
    “ What is it, Leona?” I asked. “What do you see? Tell me what you see.”
    Her stare grew distant. Her hands trembled. She began reciting the Lord’s Prayer, first in English, then in Spanish, until eventually the words became undecipherable, neither English nor Spanish, but rather an utterance of nonsensical gibberish.
    “ Glossolalia!” Shekina cried. “She is speaking in tongues. She is possessed with the Holy Spirit.”
    “ Possessed?” I turned to her. “Why is she possessed?”
    “ She is communicating with the Holy Spirit. Glossolalia will prevent Satan from interfering. She most certainly cannot hear you now, Detective.”
    Astonished beyond words, I turned back and watched Leona fall into a deep, spontaneous trance. I imagined the struggle