PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Thursday morning
On the drive from Richmond to Plackett, Sherlock took a call from the medical examiner who’d just completed the autopsy on Deputy Kane Lewis. Straight up, the knife to the chest had killed him. Also of note: Deputy Lewis had been a longtime drinker, and his cirrhosis was getting serious. He’d had a blood alcohol content of .25, enough to render him nearly unconscious when he’d been stabbed. “I doubt he felt a thing when the knife went in, so that’s something. No need to let this get out in town, though. His family doesn’t need to know.”
Families, particularly the wives, always knew, Sherlock thought. About other women, and certainly about too much booze.
Savich said, “You know Sheriff Watson will find out about Lewis’s being drunk. At least he wasn’t on the job.
“Sparky Carroll didn’t have anything in his system when he was murdered yesterday in the Rayburn Office Building. He had no defensive wounds, either. He knew his attacker, Walter Givens, but there were so many people in the hallway I doubt he saw him until it was too late.
“Burt Hildebrand wasn’t a happy camper when Mr. Maitland turned over the Sparky Carroll investigation to us, but what with the Athame being the murder weapon and Walter Givens not remembering anything about it, I suspect he was also a little relieved.
“He took the chaplain with him to break the news to Sparky Carroll’s young widow, Tammy, yesterday afternoon. He said it was tough, she was a mess. He couldn’t interview her because her mother and her two sisters wouldn’t let him. None of the three, however, could believe Walter Givens had done this. They’d known Walter forever, he was a sweetie, the mother’s words, he fixed their cars and charged them peanuts.
“I think we’ll do better today,” Savich continued. “Tammy Carroll’s had some time to get herself together, to reflect on what it could mean that Walter Givens killed her husband with a witch’s ceremonial knife and has absolutely no memory of it.
“I texted pictures of the Dual Dragon Athame to Professor Hornsby at GW. You know him, he’s the theoretical physicist who’s also a practicing Wiccan—a Wicca expert, I’ve been told.”
“I met him once. He sort of stared at me, shook his head, didn’t say a word. He looks like Ichabod Crane.”
Savich laughed, flipped on his blinker, and smoothly passed an eighteen-wheeler. “You probably terrified him. He’s not known for his social abilities. In any case, he called me right back, told me the Dual Dragon Athame is unusual. It’s not medieval, despite all the ancient-looking elaborate carving on the handle and the dragon heads with the ruby eyes, which, he assured me, were real. He believes it was forged no more than a hundred years ago, probably much less. It’s old enough, though, to be part of a generational collection belonging, most likely, to a Wiccan family. He was appalled when I told him it had been stabbed into a man’s heart.
“He assured me that for Wiccans the Athame isn’t a weapon, isn’t even used to cut up herbs. It’s only used for ritual purposes. He laughed because he said he was clumsy and told me he made sure his knife blade was dull. He showed me photos of Athames. Most are very plain, black handle, unadorned, many made of stone, the key being to keep the material natural. Most have a four-inch blade. All Athames are straight, double-edged blades. The length of the blade of this Dual Dragon Athame is seven inches.
“Hornsby told me a Wiccan’s Athame is his most important tool, that it’s tied intimately to its owner’s energy.”
“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked. “It’s all symbolism?”
“This is what I remember his saying. The Athame serves as a conductor of the wielder’s energy—that is, it directs his energy outward, like a beam of light. And supposedly controls it. What that means, I’m not sure.”
“Did he say any particular Athame was considered more powerful than another?”
“No, they’re all individual, they all draw their power or their energy from their owners.”
Savich pulled off I-95 and onto the 123, and turned right at the Plackett exit some ten miles later. Soon they were on the main street of an old country town with a road sign boasting a population of 2,102. Many of the buildings were turn of the last century and looked a little shabby. But there was charm as well, and a central square with a hundred-year-old stone courthouse surrounded by maple trees. A small pond with a dozen ducks sat off to one side.
The home of Sparky Carroll and his wife, Tammy, was in the middle of Pine Nut Street, a solidly middle-class residential neighborhood parallel to Main Street. Oaks and maples had thickened up nicely for late spring, the sky was blue, and a slight breeze stirred their hair as they walked up the flagstone driveway to the ranch-style home. It was perhaps ten years old, and well maintained, the grass freshly mowed, pansies planted in narrow beds in front of the house. Savich was glad to see there were no cars in the driveway. He’d called Mrs. Carroll, asking to speak to her alone.
A perfect pocket Venus answered the door. She was barely five feet tall, curvy, with long straight brown hair and brown eyes red from weeping. She was painfully young. Savich and Sherlock showed her their creds, introduced themselves.
“We are very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carroll,” Savich said. “Thank you for seeing us. We really need your help.”
Tammy didn’t say anything; it seemed her throat had been clogged with tears since she’d heard all the shouting and screams on her cell when Sparky had called her. She’d known, she’d known something terrible had happened. She turned away on her small feet and showed them into a long, narrow living room with windows across the front, the thick green draperies pulled tightly shut, shadowing the room.
She waved a small white hand. “Please, sit down. May I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Savich said. “We’re fine.” He walked over to her and gently took her small hands between his. “We will find out why Walter Givens killed Sparky, Mrs. Carroll.”
Tammy blinked up at him. “But didn’t Walter tell you why?”
“Walter has absolutely no memory of killing your husband. He has no idea why he even drove to Washington, why he even went to the Rayburn Office Building. When he came to, I guess you could say, he did remember that Sparky had told him he was making his big pitch to a congressman yesterday, but he couldn’t explain what he’d done. He was so horrified and scared because his memory of what happened is simply gone. We don’t think he’s lying. Please, sit down, Mrs. Carroll.”
Tammy Carroll slid her tongue over her lips, nodded, and eased down on what was obviously her husband’s big TV chair. She scooted to the edge and sat stiff, her back board straight, like a schoolgirl, her hands on the knees of her jeans. “Call me Tammy. I’ve been thinking and thinking, but still, it doesn’t make any sense that anyone would stab Sparky, much less Walter, one of his best friends. And you said Walter doesn’t remember? You mean he blocked out what he did because he felt so bad about it after he—” She swallowed.
Savich said, “All we know is that Walter doesn’t remember. Do you know of anything between them, a business dispute, a fight over something, jealousy, anything that might explain Walter stabbing your husband?”
“No, no, nothing.” Tears brimmed over, snaked down her face. Sherlock leaned forward, her voice low and soothing. “Mrs. Carroll—Tammy—how long have you known Walter Givens?”
Tammy swallowed her tears, drew herself up. “Walt and Sparky and I grew up together. I met them when I was in the fifth grade and they were in the eighth. Despite the age difference, despite the fact I was a little girl, we all became friends. We were together all through high school. Walt wanted me to go out with him in high school, but Sparky and I were already getting serious. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t break anything up, we were still friends, you know? That’s what doesn’t make any sense. Walt is—was—one of Sparky’s groomsmen at our wedding.” She paused, then raised tear-filled eyes to Savich. “That was four months ago. Four months. I’m only twenty and I’m a widow.” She lowered her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Sherlock walked to the big chair and sat on the wide leather arm. She pulled Tammy against her, rubbed her hands up and down her back. Tammy’s arms came up around Sherlock’s back. She pressed her face against Sherlock’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered against Tammy’s shiny hair. “So very sorry. We will find out what happened, I promise you. But you need to help us, Tammy. Can you do that?”
Slowly Tammy quieted, finally released Sherlock. She raised her face. “I’m sorry to fall apart again. It’s just that—”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Sherlock patted her arm and walked back to sit down on the brand-new burgundy leather sofa. “Have you ever heard of an Athame?”
“Yes, sure. My mom has two she made herself. She buried the first one she made to ground its energy.”
This was a surprise. Savich said, “Your mom’s a Wiccan?”
“Yes. Like my grandmother and one of my sisters. My mom’s Athame has a plain flint black handle, ugly, really, but she keeps it sparkling clean for all her rituals, won’t let anyone else touch it, says she couldn’t connect to the spirit of things if she didn’t have her Athame. I don’t really know how she believes all that stuff, and to be honest, I don’t really care.”
“What’s your mom’s name?” Sherlock asked her.
“Millicent, Millie—Stacy, that’s my maiden name.”
Savich handed her his cell phone. “Do you recognize this Athame?”
She looked at the knife, raised stricken eyes to his face. “This isn’t the Athame that killed—”
“No, no, it’s one that’s similar, that’s all.”
She shook her head. “The only Athames I’ve seen are my mom’s. This one looks old, really old, doesn’t it, back to when knights were riding around and knocking each other off their horses, right? Are those dragon heads?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock asked, “Are there many practicing Wiccans in Plackett, Tammy?”
“I’ve heard my mom say she wishes there were more around here and that many of them go back at least two generations. She said my grandmother raised her in Wicca, told her Mr. Gardner from England taught them everything way back in the fifties. Gwen—she’s one of my sisters—well, neither of us ever got interested in any of it, so Mom didn’t force it on us. She and my other sister will celebrate Litha—that’s the summer solstice—next month. It’s a time of great joy for them, it’s a popular time for handfasting. That’s a Wiccan wedding. I know that because she said she wanted Sparky and me to celebrate a handfasting with them next month, at Litha. Sparky didn’t know what to say when she asked, but he agreed.
“My daddy thinks it’s all crazy nonsense, so she doesn’t push it. He told her he’d join her at Litha if they could have wild sex in front of the fire.” Tammy smiled, a ghost of a smile, but still a smile. “She smacked him. For her, Litha is a time of celebration, a spiritual time.”
Savich asked her, “Is Walter Givens a Wiccan? His family?”
“Not that I know of. Wiccans don’t advertise, you know? That’s what my mom told me. Most people around here are like my dad—screwy in the head about Wiccans, my mom says.” She made a screwing motion at the side of her head. “So Wiccans tend to keep quiet about their beliefs, and their ceremonies. They don’t advertise.”
“Can you tell me the names of other practicing Wiccans in town?”
Well, I know the Alcotts for sure. They say they’re Wiccans outright. My mom told me in a real hushed voice once that she doesn’t have much to do with the Alcotts. She seems a little bit scared of them. I know that sounds weird, but I think it’s true. My mom does feel things, know things,” Tammy added, a touch of embarrassment in her voice.
“What do you mean, Tammy—what things? Can you give me an example?” Sherlock leaned forward, her eyes on Tammy’s face.
“I don’t know that much about it, Agent Sherlock. I never paid much attention. I’m sorry.”
Savich said, “What about Brakey Alcott? Is he involved?”
“Brakey? Not that I know of. Brakey usually keeps his head down, stays out of trouble. Brakey’s a nice guy, a little shy. He wasn’t all that good in school, but nice, you know? He’s a year older than Sparky.” Her voice hitched, her small hands clenched. She raised liquid eyes to Savich’s face. “He was a year older than Sparky. It doesn’t even seem real. Sparky was only twenty-three.”
After a couple moments Tammy raised her head again. “Brakey’s an Alcott, and he’d know all about the gossip about his family. How could he not? Why are you asking about Brakey?”
“It has to do with Deputy Kane Lewis,” Savich said. “Did you or Sparky know him?”
“He’s been here forever, even before I was born. I knew him better when we were kids and he was always giving us a hard time if he caught us at Milson’s Point over on Route 7.” She blushed and swallowed again. “He nearly surprised Sparky and me once. It was close. I don’t really like him, but my folks do, all the parents do. Why do you ask?”
As Savich spoke, Sherlock watched Tammy Carroll closely. “Deputy Lewis was found at the Reineke post office this morning stabbed through the heart with another Athame. Like Sparky. I’m sorry. He’s dead.”
Tammy Carroll couldn’t take it in. She stared at Savich, through him, really, and quietly, without a sound, she slid from the sofa to the floor. She hadn’t fainted. She lay curled up on her side, not crying, not making a sound, simply staring ahead of her.