Before I was able to get in his face about that, Ferris said, "Regardless of how you twist our words, Detective, the fact remains that the woman is already on record as practicing witchcraft. As I understand it, that's even in her job description."
"Rachel Proctor's job title is 'consulting witch', it's true," McGuire said. "But the job position specifies the practice of white witchcraft exclusively."
The two witchfinders looked at each other, their expressions saying as clearly as words, What are we to do with such idiots?
"Black witchcraft, white witchcraft," Crane said. "The important word in each phrase is the noun, not the modifier: witchcraft."
McGuire leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk blotter. "Let me see if I've got this straight," he said. "You fellas don't see any difference between black witchcraft and white? None at all?"
Ferris shrugged his narrow shoulders. "We are aware that various apologists have argued the distinction, claiming that so-called white witchcraft is somehow less pernicious than the other variety. In practice, Reverend Crane and I have found little difference between them."
This conversation was becoming so ridiculous that I didn't even know what to say. It's true that black witchcraft is exactly what these two clowns had been talking about: you mortgage your soul to Satan, in return for supernatural power to do eviclass="underline" curses, deadly spells, stuff like that. But white witchcraft, an outgrowth of Wicca, derives its power from nature and can't be used to hurt people, except sometimes in self-defense. The difference is as obvious as, well, black and white.
Fortunately, McGuire wasn't stuck mute by this bullshit. "Well, here's one difference the two of you had best keep in mind," he said. "The practice of black witchcraft is a felony, subject in some cases to capital punishment. But white witchcraft is legal, and protected by the law, just like any other kind of free expression."
Crane drew breath to speak, but again Ferris quieted him with a touch on the arm. The older witchfinder drew himself up and his voice was frosty when he said, "We are well aware of the law, Lieutenant, and it will be followed to the letter. We shall lawfully apprehend this witch Rachel Proctor, and we shall then put her to the question as to the nature of her recent activities, just as the law allows. And when – excuse me, if – she confesses to the practice of black witchcraft, which is both a crime against the state and an offense before Almighty God…"
Ferris turned his head to look at me for a second before returning his gaze to McGuire. "… then we shall lawfully show unto her, God's judgment, exactly as Scripture has specified."
He turned away and walked stiffly toward the office door. Crane stood looking at us, however. Maybe he felt the need to add to his boss's little oration, or maybe it was his job to have the last word. Before following Ferris out of the office, Crane looked at us and declared, with the certainly that only the truly self-righteous ever achieve, "Exodus 22:18. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."
In the silence that followed, Crane's words seemed to hang in the air like a storm cloud. Before either of us could speak, there was a tap on McGuire's open office door, and Karl walked in.
"I was watching from the squad room," he said. "What the hell was that about?"
I quickly ran down for him who the visitors were, and what they intended. When I finished, Karl just shook his head.
McGuire leaned back in his chair. "You know, I've been thinking about Rachel quite a bit lately. Trying to figure how she could do evil shit like that to anybody, let alone a couple of cops. It didn't seem like her, to put it mildly."
"And now we know it wasn't her – well, not really her," I said.
"So you believe the sister?" McGuire asked me.
"Yeah," I said. "I do."
McGuire nodded slowly. "I think maybe I do, too." He moved some stuff around on his desk that didn't need moving. "Well, possession has been used successy as a legal defense before. Kulick's not a demon, exactly, but the principle's probably the same, under the law."
"She's not gonna get the chance to make her case in court – not if those two sanctimonious bastards get hold of her," I said.
"I didn't know there even were such things as witchfinders anymore," Karl said. "They didn't tell us about it at the academy, and nobody's mentioned it since I joined the squad, either."
"Nobody in law enforcement talks about them much," I said. "They're kind of a dirty little secret."
"Why should they have any better chance of finding Rachel then you and me?" he asked. "Or even as good a chance, since we know the town and they don't?"
"Because they've got a Talent," McGuire said. "Some people, like Rachel and her sister, are born with the Talent for magic, and others are born with a Talent for sniffing it out. It's kind of like the polar opposite of the witchcraft Talent. Most people who have it don't even know they do."
"But what they're doing is fucking vigilantism," Karl said. "And that's against the law, goddammit."
"It is and it isn't," McGuire said sourly. "Their brand of vigilantism is actually legal in Pennsylvania, and most of the New England states."
"That's because when they were colonies, there were laws on the books against witchcraft," I told Karl. "Laws that nobody ever got around to repealing."
"So these fuckers can kidnap Rachel, torture her until she confesses, and then… what?" Karl asked.
"Burn her alive," McGuire said. "Just like in Europe, five hundred fucking years ago."
I looked at McGuire, then at Karl. My throat felt tight as I said, "Unless we find her first."
As we left McGuire's office, Louise the Tease motioned us over. She had the phone receiver in one hand, and she held it out to me as I reached her desk. "It's for you," she said. "Some doctor, says he's at the hospital."
As my hand reached out, I ran down the list of all the bad things this could mean. It's a good thing my mind works fast, because the list was a long one.
I took the phone. "This is Detective Sergeant Markowski. Who's this?"
"Hello, Detective." The voice was male, and deep. "This is Dr Barry Santangelo at Mercy Hospital. Benjamin Prescott, that man from DC who suffered a recent stroke, is a patient of mine."
He's dead, I thought. Prescott's dead, and they're gonna say it's my fault. And maybe they're right.
But what I heard instead was, "Mr Prescott has come out of his coma."
A few seconds went by while I got used to breathing again. I hadn't even realized I'd stopped.
"Detective? Still there?"
"Yeah, sorry, Doctor. That's great news, really great."
"Relapse is always a possibility in these cases, of course, but not very likely. I just finished a thorough neurological examination, and it's my opinion that Mr Prescott is going to stay awake – and, quite possibly, recover completely."
"I'm really glad to hear he's going to be okay."
"It's a nice change for me, to be the bearer of good news," Santangelo said, "but that's not why I'm calling."
"Oh? What is it, then?"
"Well, Mr Prescott's still in intensive care for the time being, that's standard procedure with coma patients. Still… I don't see a problem in this case."
"I'm sorry, Doctor, you lost me. Problem with what?"
"Prescott wants to see you. You and your partner."
• • • •
I'd first been to Mercy's Intensive Care Unit when Christine was a patient there. That was before I took her home and… did what I did. The place doesn't exactly have happy associations for me, but I suppose that's true for most people.
In my case, the creepiness factor was ramped up by the fact that I'd recently been looking at video of this very area, trying to figure out what had happened to Rachel Proctor. I thought I knew the answer to that now, but the knowledge didn't keep me from a mild case of the willies as Karl and I took turns rubbing foamy disinfectant over our hands from the dispenser they keep just outside the door.