Dance For The Devil (12 page)

Jake nodded impatiently, he knew this. It was a standard joke in the Montclaire household. The louder the music, the better the food.

“I go to check on her, she’s gone. I look everywhere. The front door is wide open.”

Jake ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Amy’s room was empty, the bedcovers strewn about, indicating... what? A haste to leave? A struggle?

Time seemed to unravel at half-frame, like a dream where his legs were encased in cement. When he thinks back on these minutes, none of it will seem real. He’s playing a role, and he already knows the outcome.

Like a puppet, he goes thought the necessary motion – an inventory of Amy’s closet confirms she hasn’t bothered to dress. The shoes are the main tipoff: some muddy joggers, three pairs of Doc Martens, and one pair of snow boots. All footwear present and accounted for.

Her purse is lying on the girlish desk she insisted on bringing from Toronto, even though it’s more suitable for a six-year-old than a teenager. Jake emptied the purse on the bed, scattering the contents. Her cellular phone, turned off. Her wallet, containing fifteen bucks and some spare change. His credit card. How long had she had that? A hairbrush, a half pack of gum, some tampons... a bit of makeup... a condom?
Jesus!

His bad feeling reaches epic proportions. Very bad. Skeeter entered the room, looking only marginally awake. “Did you hear anything?” Jake asked, his voice too harsh.

Skeeter shook his head, looking confused, and Jake squelched the urge to rattle answers from the boy.

He phones the police instead. They’ll send an officer over, and the dispatcher tells him not to worry, probably a teenage-thing. She asks Jake a few questions about his relationship with his daughter, and Jake answers, aware of how damning he sounds.
Yes, they have been fighting a lot. Yes, she has skipped school recently. Yes, she did come home late from her curfew. Yes, she is grounded. Yes...Yes...Yes...
He answers sharply, knowing he sounds like the worst parent in history.

The officer arrives shortly and is sympathetic. He asks for a recent picture of Amy, which he tucks into his report book, glancing only briefly. He tells Jake not to worry.
Why is everyone telling me not to worry?
They’ll keep an eye out for her but nothing formal will be done until twenty-four hours. “Chances are she’s with friends, hanging out at some mall. Call her friends. Does she have a boyfriend? Check with him first.”

The officer leaves, and Jake picks up the phone. He’s not sure what her friends’ numbers are, so he phones the school and explains the situation to the school secretary. Her voice sounds funny, concerned, and she asks him to wait. Almost immediately, the principal comes on.

“I was just trying to contact you,” the principal says, and for the life of him, Jake can’t remember the man’s name.

“I have some unsettling news. Last night, one of Amy’s friends was murdered, but I’m not certain of the details yet. A girl named
Elise Keeler. Amy’s friend Alex Kreschenski is also absent, no answer at his house.”

“And... Jason Vandercamp?” Jake asked, his head reeling.

“The Vandercamp boy is here. I’m going to send for him and ask him some questions. What about Amy?”

“Amy’s missing,” Jake said, his voice cracking.

An uncomfortable pause. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
There it is again. Empty words that were beginning to take on their own sinister connotation.
“Those four are as thick as thieves, pardon the expression. My guess is that Amy is with Alex. I’ll talk to Jason and I’ll keep you apprised. If you hear anything, please let me know.”

Jake hung up the phone, feeling frustrated. Feeling frightened. Feeling impotent.

He can’t just sit here.

He has to do something.

The situation calls for desperate measures.

He remembers
he’s supposed to return to the office, but no longer cares. He doesn’t even bother to phone in. Let Gil sort out his own goddamned mess, Jake has more important things to do.

He picked up the phone and
called directory assistance, feeling foolish but not knowing where else to turn. The operator put him through. “Blessed Be Bookstore?” Jake asked hesitatingly. “May I please speak to Cari Valentine?”

CHAPTER FIVE

Jake’s skin had taken on the hue of old Naugahyde, his expression
taut with torment. His headache had grown proportionately with the events of the day, until in desperation he downed a half-dozen aspirin without benefit of water. The gritty remains lingered bitterly in his mouth, somehow a fitting epitaph. But the medicine worked its magic, and while the pain was still there, it became distant and bearable, a foggy haze as surreal as his living nightmare.

Cari Valentine sat across from him, dwarfed in an overstuffed chair, regarding him openly. His aura was one of despair. She wasn’t sure how to begin and was relieved when he made that choice for her.

Jake spread his hands before him, studying his fingernails. When he finally spoke, his voice was raspy with emotion. “I’m desperate, you understand. Part of me feels if I listened to you, heeded your warning, my daughter wouldn’t be missing.”’

“And the other part?”

Jake glanced around, gathering his thoughts as he observed Cari’s living room. It was a feminine room but not overpoweringly so... a room a man could feel at ease in. Womanly touches appeared in the floral pattern of the tapestries, the fringed cushions, the vases of flowers – yet the dimensions were of masculine proportions. Chairs large enough for a man to settle comfortably. Footstools obviously meant to be used, not just decoration. Dainty yet rugged, like a garden room. Jake sighed and loosened his tie. “The other part of me thinks I’m a complete idiot for being here.”

Cari’s mouth quirked. “At least you’re honest.”

“At this point, I think honesty is the only thing I have left.”

“I want to ask questions, but it’s your turn first. Go ahead, ask me something, anything you wish.”

“How long have you been a witch?”

“Direct, I like that, it shows character. I’ve been a witch forever, although I didn’t
realize until high school. I knew I was different but I didn’t know how. Then, one day, some kids were fooling around, dabbling in the occult. Nothing serious, Ouija Board, summoning Kurt Cobain’s ghost, that sort of thing, but somewhere in the foolishness, something twigged, and when I started doing research I knew the concept was right for me. Witchcraft filled my missing void, made me feel complete. I’ve been a practising neo-pagan witch ever since.”

“But what exactly does that mean?”

“Do you know anything about Wicca?”

“Not much.”

“Wicca is an ancient religion, dating back thousands of years. But it’s more than religion, it’s a philosophy, a way of life. Wicca is nonviolent, harmonious, in sync with the Earth and our own body rhythm. Wicca embraces the power from within.”

“Do you believe in magic?”

“Of course. Everyone does, to varying degrees. Some explain magic as coincidence, or timing. How often have you thought about someone you haven’t seen in years and out the blue, you bump into him a few days later? Or that person phones you, and you say
‘Gee, that’s weird, I was just thinking about you’.
Then there’s the power of positive thinking – identifying your needs, vocalizing them, visualizing them, setting a definite course for achievement and allowing them to materialize.”

“How can that be construed as magic?”

“Magic is the power of consciousness. Witches, or Wiccans as I preferred to be called, have fine-tuned this process. Some people are more intuitive than others, and I believe this ability is another step in the evolutionary ladder.”

“
Are you suggesting you’re more evolved than me?”

She laughed. “I would never suggest such a thing. However,
it’s something I’ve practised for years, something I’ve gotten rather good at.”

Jake shook his he
ad. “I don’t know. It’s just so... unconventional.”

“So was the notion the Earth was round
, or that man could walk on the moon. Many popular perceptions change over the course of time. Perhaps witchcraft will one day be a mainstream religion, as acceptable as Christianity.” She smiled at his dubious expression and shrugged. “Or maybe it won’t. People have been struggling with the concept of witchcraft for eons. What they don’t understand frightens them, so they seek to eradicate it. Do you know how many innocent people were executed over the years, simply for being
accused
of witchcraft? Whether they actually were witches was beside the point. The Inquisition years were a tipping point – you didn’t have to be a witch to be tortured and burned at the stake, the accusation was enough to seal your fate. If you had a funny birthmark, then bingo, you were a witch. If you caught a bad fever and became delirious, your incoherent words might be mistaken for speaking in tongues and that was the end of you. If your neighbor didn’t like you, a whisper in the right ear, an allegation of misconduct, and you were toast. Literally.”

“Burned at the stake,” he repeated, thinking,
this is all very interesting, but I need to find my daughter.

“This does have a point,” she said, as if reading his mind. “It serves to prove that witchcraft has been unfairly maligned and is truly honorable.”

“Sorry, go on.”

“Okay, I’ll try to get to the point. No one was immune from accusations: men, women, children, babies. The worst place was Germany. Over a hundred-thousand people were executed in Germany alone, just for being different. In the sixteenth century, witches were persecuted because of their religious beliefs, four centuries later the same thing happened with Jews. Very similar situation: mass hysteria, mass execution. Makes you wonder which target group is next.”

“But what about... the myths?”

She smiled slightly, teasingly. “Let’s see if I can dispel a few of those. I don’t have a broom, pointy black hat, nor warts on my nose. I don’t cook children in my oven, no matter how tasty they look. I don’t do anything evil or against the law. In fact, I’m probably the only person in Victoria who actually
pays
her parking tickets. I practise alone, although occasionally I join a large coven for ceremonies. A witch’s convention, you might call it. Mostly we share stories and recipes, give each other emotional support, do some socializing. Usually these meetings are lots of fun. Any questions?”

“If you don’t have a broom, how do you sweep your kitchen floor?”

“Swiffer.”

“Ah.” He pointed at Daisy, who was
surreptitiously nosing about his lap, looking for a handout. “What about your
familiar
? I thought witches were supposed to have cats for familiars?”

“If you’re suggesting I turned Daisy into a dog, forget it. My powers don’t run that way, and I don’t know any witches whose do, although I must admit, a few of my blind dates have managed to turn themselves into
toads before my very eyes.” She grimaced. “One horrible fellow changed from a mild-mannered accountant into a slimy octopus, with all eight arms going for my breasts. But I digress.”

He was actually smiling. A little. “Anyway,” she continued, “Daisy is an ordinary dog with no special powers, although don’t tell her that. It would hurt her feelings. As for cats, they make me sneeze.”

“How did you know my name?”

“I’m not sure, I just did. Maybe from my dream, but I don’t think so. Sometimes I have to work very hard for information, sometimes things just come to me. Sometimes they don’t come at all, no matter how hard I concentrate.”

“Tell me more. Something else, something to convince me.”

Cari arched her eyebrow. “I’m not a sideshow performing tricks for your amusement.”

“No,” Jake said slowly, “I don’t suppose you are. Forgive me, I’m being rude.”

“Forgiven,” she said, mollified. “You’ll find I don’t hold a grudge. A good quality, don’t you agree?”

“Yes. I wish I could say the same thing about my daughter. I’ve been in the doghouse for so long, I can’t remember how I got there.”

“Teenaged angst, of which I’m an expert. If you want to torture your parents, try telling them you’re a witch. That goes over real well.” She laughed
self-deprecatingly. “Your daughter will forgive you when she’s about twenty.” Her face clouded. “Jake, about your daughter... I
did
see something.” She hesitated, but there was no way to sugarcoat it. “I think your daughter is in serious trouble. I had a vision of an inverted pentagram, the symbol of Satan.”

His mouth dropped. “Okay. You’ve convinced me. Can you help me?”

“I’m not sure. Tell me everything you can, from the beginning.”

Jake raked his hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in awkward tufts. Combined with his bloodshot eyes and haggard face, he looked like an escapee from an insane asylum. “A year ago, everything seemed fine. I had a secure job, loving wife, adoring children. Or so I thought. I blinked, and everything fell apart. My wife left me... ostensibly to find herself. She found a career... and a new sexual orientation. I’m still trying to figure that one out. My once exciting job became dull, my children were strangers, which
was more my fault than theirs. I learned the hard way that being a decent father requires more than putting money in the bank and making Sunday afternoon appearances.”

“Midlife crisis?”

“With a vengeance. I decided we needed a new start. So, I took a new job in a new city. I gave up financial security for a behemoth house that I hate, and a job that is looking less secure by the day. My boss thinks I’m a thief, my daughter thinks I’m an ogre, my twelve-year-old son wets his bed, a habit he gave up when he was three. Let’s see, did I leave anything out?” Jake shook his head ruefully. “Nope, that’s it in a nutshell.”

Cari reached over to the fireplace and handed Jake a piece of kindling. “What’s that for?” he asked, startled.

“Since you’re intent on beating yourself up, I thought you might as well do it properly.”

“I don’t think this stick is big enough.”

She leaned over and put the wood aside, then took both his hands into hers. “Self pity, besides being unattractive, is useless. It also won’t get your daughter back. Life’s full of decisions, sometimes we make the wrong ones, but mostly we make the right choices. So you made mistakes, who hasn’t? I’ll bet you’ve been doing your damndest to rectify them, hmmm?”

“Yes, but it’s one step forward, two steps back.”

“Life’s lesson 101. Tell me about your daughter... Amy, isn’t it?”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “How did you do that, know her name?”

“I don’t know, it just came to me.”

He felt a chill run down his back. This mind reading thing of hers was...
unsettling. He pushed aside his trepidation and told her what he could.

“That makes sense,” Cari said, nodding, when he tol
d her about the pentagram whittled into Amy’s arm. “That explains my vision.” He wrapped up with last night’s visit to the Emergency Ward, and this morning’s news of her friend’s murder. “And do you think her death is connected to Amy’s disappearance?”

Jake flinched. He hadn’t even
made
that connection yet.
Oh, God...

“The logical place to begin,” Cari was saying, ignoring his stricken expression, “is Amy’s boyfriend. He might have some answers.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Could you....” he hesitated asking, but this small woman’s strength was like a beacon in a moonless night. “Could you come with me?”

“Count on it. But first, I have something I need to give you.” She took the amulet from her pocket. “I made this. Call it a
good luck charm. Wear it always, even at night. It’ll help protect you.”

Jake tried to keep the scepticism from clouding his eyes. “What’s in it?”

“Bunch of different things, mostly disgusting. You’re better off not knowing. Will you wear it?”

He slipped it over his head, feeling the small pouch cool against his chest, the silky rope against this neck. He wasn’t one for wearing jewelry, other than a watch, so it would take some getting used to. “I’ll wear it. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you,” Cari said.

“No, thank you.”

**

Jason Vandercamp was visibly upset. He’d been questioned by the school principal, interrogated by the police, now Amy’s dad was waiting for him in the parking lot, leaning against Jason’s freshly washed Mustang. “Mr. Montclaire,” Jason said respectfully. “Have you found Amy yet?”

“No. I was hoping you might have some answers.”

Jason shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Wish I did, I haven’t been able to think of anything else. I’m really worried about her
, Mr. Montclaire. Did you hear about Elise?”

“Yes, I did.”

Jason looked like he might cry. “I can’t believe it. I was with her last night, with her and Alex. We went to a costume party at an old warehouse, and things started to get crazy. Elise was really drunk, she’d been flirting with some guys, pretending she was nineteen. One second she’s pressed up against some guy, slow dancing, the next she’s on the floor and her clothes are being ripped off. I told Alex to stay, and I went to get help, to call the police. It took me a few minutes, I don’t know, maybe fifteen. When I got back, Elise was gone and so was Alex, so I figured he got her out of there. Things were really ugly, so I split. God, Mr. Montclaire, this is all my fault. I took them there, I gave them fake I.D.’s. My dad is going to kill me.”