"Oh, goddess – that poor woman, whoever she is."
"That spell you used the other night," I said, "the freezing one – I'd reactivate that, or whatever the proper term is."
"Yes, of course. I'll do that at once."
"And you might want to call your sister witches and put the word out. Tell them the danger hasn't passed."
"All right, Stan, I'll take care of it."
"The other witches are probably OK for tonight," I said. "These bastards have never done more than one a night. But then, they never did one in my yard, either."
"Your yard! Oh, Stan, that is so awful–"
Karl made the corner onto my street on what felt like two wheels. Ahead, I could see flashing lights.
"We're almost there. Gotta go. Talk later. Bye."
I wasn't even surprised to see Scanlon anymore. He stood at the bottom of my front steps, hands in his overcoat pockets, and watched me approach. Karl went to talk to the uniformed officers who'd responded first.
I took a few seconds to look at the tree, a poplar that I'd planted on the day Christine was born. But I saved most of my sympathy for the victim. Like the others, she was reduced to a charred lump of meat, tied to the tree with rope at her chest and shins. The odor was – well, it was all too familiar by now, although I never imagined that I'd be smelling it here.
"Ten minutes ago, McGuire said you didn't have an ID on the vic. Anything change since then?" I asked.
"No, she's still a Jane Doe," Scanlon said. "We'll do the usual – send dental work out, DNA, look for a missing persons report that fits. We'll probably have an ID in a couple of days, if the earlier cases are any indication."
I made myself look at what was tied to the tree. Without taking my eyes away, I said, quietly, "I wonder what husband is asking, right about now, where his wife is, or what kid is worried because Mom is late getting home. Or what father– " I had to stop for a second. "What father is going crazy because his daughter's missing."
"You talk to Christine?" Scanlon asked.
"Yeah, she's fine."
"How about Rachel Proctor?"
"Talked to her, too. She's OK."
We stood there in silence, gazing upon the remains of one of the cruelest things one human being can do to another. Finally Scanlon said, "I thought this was supposed to be done with."
"Yeah, we all did."
"As that partner of yours would say, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?"
"I'm pretty sure I know what happened," I said. "Problem is, I can't prove diddly-squat."
"Tell me what you think."
He listened closely as I told him what I'd learned about the Church of the True Cross.
When I was done, he was quiet for a bit, then asked, "What do you figure the point was of doing this in your front yard? Revenge? Defiance? A warning?"
"I think it was their way of saying, This isn't over, motherfucker. And you know something?"
"Um?"
"They're right."
I had to let homicide detectives traipse through my house, to make sure there wasn't anything in there connected to the atrocity out front. I guess Scanlon had told them not to be annoying about it, because they weren't – for the most part. But just having a couple of cops walking around inside your home is enough to annoy most people, me included.
Finally the forensics techs had all the photos and soil samples they wanted, the body of the victim was on its way to the morgue under a Jane Doe tag, and I was free to go back to work.
Once we were in the car, I pulled out my wallet and started sorting through all the junk I've stuck in there and keep meaning to get rid of.
Karl watched me for a few seconds. "What're you doing?"
"Looking for – ah, there it is." I retrieved from amidst all the crap a piece of paper with a phone number on it. I got my phone out and, before Karl could ask, said, "There's an ogre I need to call."
Karl looked at me. "An ogre."
"Yep."
As I started touching numbers, Karl nodded calmly.
"Makes perfect sense to me," he said. Maybe he'd read somewhere that you're supposed to humor lunatics.
Midway through the second ring a voice answered. "Yuh?"
"I'm looking for Ivan." If he asked me for a last name, I was sunk. I didn't know if ogres share phones, or what the hell they do.
"This Ivan."
"This is Sergeant Stan Markowski, Scranton Police Department."
"Mark who?"
I tried not to sigh into my mouthpiece. "The cop who could've shot your brother Igor, but didn't."
"Oh, yeah, Markowski. OK, I remember. Hi."
"You said you owed me a favor, remember?"
"I did? Oh, right, 'cause you didn't kill Igor. Yeah, I owe you, Markowski."
"Well, tonight's the night I collect on it. I need to talk to you somewhere, face-to-face."
"You wanna talk? That's the favor?"
This time, I couldn't stop the sigh from escaping.
"No, I want to talk to you and tell you what the favor is."
"Oh. OK."
I waited, but the ogre didn't say anything more. "Where can I meet you?" I asked, finally.
"Meet? You mean tonight?"
"Yeah, tonight. Soon."
I listened to several seconds of heavy ogre breathing before Ivan spoke again.
"How about Leary's Bar?" he said. "Nice place."
That idea was so brilliant, I knew something must be wrong with it. In a moment, I knew what the flaw was.
"I think maybe they're closed," I said. "For remodeling."
"Nah, I pass by there last night. Didn't go in. Bar is open. Look like all new stuff inside."