The Coven

By Lee Bragan

Former detective Joe Robinson's six year old daughter has been kidnapped by a coven of witches intent on sacrificing her on the next full moon.

A series of grisly child sacrificial murders have occurred in Alabama. Now, former Mobile detective Joe Robinson's 6 year old daughter has been taken and appears to be the next victim of a coven of witches sacrificing children in hopes of resurrecting an ancient witch. Robinson has 3 weeks until the next full moon to find the coven and save his child. He enlists the aid of a man facing execution for killing a member of the coven months before in an attempt to find the coven's whereabouts. The man, whose son was killed by the coven years before agrees to help Robinson and, with the aid of Robinson's friends and allies a three week search to find them begins.

Each time it looks as if Robinson may finally catch a break another obstruction blocks his path. As Halloween night, and the full moon approach, it appears that he has lost his child and the coven has escaped. But one final opportunity presents itself and Robinson and his friends race through endless darkness to face a terror never thought to exists in modern times. Can he save his child and defeat the witch and her coven in time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Bragan
• Release date: Aug 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989826303

Lee Bragan

Lee Bragan was born in Fort Worth, Texas but resides in Birmingham, Alabama with his wife, Rena. His favorite authors are Stephen King, Dean Koontz, David Baldacci and Michael Connelly. Besides The Coven, he has also written The Path, a story about a group of children growing up in Birmingham after the Civil War. He is currently working on a novel entitled Hell’s Bell and hopes to have it available shortly.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Waterloo, Illinois, 12 years earlier

The barn had stood on the slope for eighty-seven years. It leaned heavily to the right and appeared ready to crumble and fall. The tin roof was rusted and torn from the beams. Gray, weatherworn boards barely clung to the sides. Cobwebs hung from the rafters and filled the corners. One door still hung precariously by the bottom hinge while the other lay at an angle against the entrance to the barn. Several pieces of dilapidated and rusted-out farm equipment sat randomly around the walls. The inside stank of mildew, rot and ancient manure.

Vines and several large hardwood trees protected two sides of the barn and the front faced a large field where corn and soybeans once grew. An overgrown trail led from the barn to a farmhouse. About fifty yards from the house a rusting aluminum gate leaned against a rotting fence post smothered in blackberry and honeysuckle vines.

The van drove down Route 3 from Columbia, Illinois. The sky was cloudless and the moon cut through the darkness. The passengers were quiet as they huddled in their seats. However, there was evil electricity inside the van that each person felt. They breathed heavily in anticipation of what lay ahead.

The driver turned off the headlights as he turned onto a dirt road that led to the barn. He drove for almost a mile before stopping at the gate. A young woman opened the side door and jumped out. She walked around the van and tugged at the gate until the weeds gave way allowing her to pull it open. The van drove through and stopped on the other side as the woman pulled the gate back and rejoined her companions. They drove through tall weeds that beat against the tires and sides. When they reached the barn, the driver turned so the back doors could be opened and the contents taken straight inside.

The driver, another man and three women climbed out and stood quietly for a moment. All the van’s occupants were young, none was over thirty. They were also tall, lean and muscular and dressed entirely in black from head to toe. The men went to the rear of the van and opened the back doors. Each woman carried a kerosene lantern as they walked into the blackness of the barn.

At the direction of the women, two shallow holes were dug on each side of the pathway that led through the center of the barn. The men pulled broken boards from the siding and filled the holes. Torches were tied to the beams and lit.

The women walked in a circle, raising and lowering their lanterns as they inspected the progress of the work. The men took the lanterns back to the van. When they returned, they were carrying an old railroad cross tie. One woman was holding a compass as she directed the men to a spot between the center torches. This was laid on the ground parallel to the barn's entrance about three feet in front of the center torches facing east. Three more cross ties were brought in and placed next to the first.

The women moved underneath the torches and stood silently as the men lay freshly cut dogwood branches on the cross ties. Each branch was two feet long and pointed on each end. Finally, a leather strip was tied to each corner of the outside cross ties.

The woman in the center nodded approval and in unison, all three moved to the side of the makeshift altar. They bowed their heads as the men walked in carrying the banner of their master on three, eight-foot spears bound together at the end by leather tongs. They carried the banner past the altar and set it up a few feet behind the center torches. A sheepskin hung from the top of the spears and one of the women went to it and pulled a string that allowed it to unroll. The sheepskin hung about halfway down the shafts of the spears. The men tied each side of the sheepskin to one of the spears to hold it in place.

The women knelt before the altar and looked at the banner. The sheepskin faced them and they bowed to the goat's head encircled by a five-point star surrounded by a large circle that touched each point of the star. Small splatters of blood were near the rough edges of the sheepskin.

The women stood up and two of them moved to one end of the altar. The third woman pulled her black robe over her head and let it fall to the ground. Her naked body was milk-white in the light of the torches. She bowed to the banner and lay down on the altar. The women tied each wrist with the leather strips. They moved around to the front of the altar and stood with their backs to the banner. The first woman pointed to the van driver and he came forward. He stopped before the altar and bowed to the banner and the women. They did not return his bow, but pointed to the woman on the altar. He removed his robe and threw it to the other man. He rubbed his penis as he looked down at the woman beneath him. The man knelt between her legs and entered her. She lay still without emotion or feelings as he moved inside her. Her eyes were open and fixed on the banner. This was not an act of love, but a privilege her master had extended to her and she was a willing participant. As the man began to climax, he pulled from her and ejaculated onto the dogwood sticks.

He quickly rose, dressed and moved to the end of the altar and stood at the woman's head. The second man took the woman just as the first, spilling his seed onto the branches between her legs. The woman was untied and she dressed while the men walked back to the entrance of the barn. Without a word, each woman took sticks and candles from a paper sack and began drawing a large circle in the dirt. The circle was stepped off and measured nine feet in diameter. It began in front of the altar and completely encircled the crossties and dogwood branches. Two lines forming a cross were drawn in the dirt inside the circle. The women placed candles at the four points of the circle where the cross touched its boundary. The first candle facing north was lighted, followed by the east candle, then the south and finally the candle pointing west. The women stepped back and observed their work, careful to make sure all the preparations were exact. One woman went to the northeast part of the circle and drew a small line through the circle, breaking it. Satisfied that their work was finished, they joined the men at the entrance of the barn.

It was close to midnight and the sky glowed with the brilliance of the moon. The women stared into the face of the moon. They felt its power and worshipped its majesty. The men stood behind them. The women’s eyes brightened when they saw her.

The white figure walked up the overgrown dirt road towards the barn. Two men and five women, all dressed in black followed her. The group at the barn backed away from the entrance, watching the party draw closer. Ezmira, dressed in white, seemed to be floating as she neared the barn. Her white hair moved slightly as a breeze fluttered behind her. She stopped a few yards from the entrance and turned her back to the door. The remainder of her coven walked past her and inside except for one man who was carrying a young boy in his arms. The child appeared to be asleep. He paused next to Ezmira holding the child out to her. She pushed the hair back from the child’s forehead. The boy cringed at the pointed fingernails that lightly brushed his skin. She turned away from the boy and raised her face towards the moon. The child was carried into the barn and bound to the altar.

The coven stood divided on each side of the runway and waited on the witch. From outside they heard the high-pitched voice of Ezmira chanting to the moon, imploring the sphere to work its magic. She fell to her knees and went into a trance as she drew down the moon. The coven waited as their master communed with the Mother Goddess. When the witch came into the barn, the coven went to their knees.

Ezmira walked among them with a quietness that was deafening. Her unblinking eyes saw the holes filled with barn wood. She raised her arm and pointed at the holes on her right and hissed. Spittle flew from her mouth and struck the wood that filled them. Fire leaped out of them as wood ignited and burned. She turned to her left and started the fires in those holes. The coven rose and moved into the runway. They followed Ezmira as she made her way to the front of the altar. She went to her knees and gazed at the trembling child who lay naked on the dogwood sticks, tears streaming down his face. Fear had taken his ability to scream. Ezmira ran a finger along the side of his face and caught a tear. She licked her finger and then rubbed the boy's face with the back of her hand. She looked at the banner bearing the symbol of her master, raised her arms and chanted in a language only she understood. The coven knew she was conversing with the master and bowed their heads. The sheepskin began to move slightly and then started to shake so violently it almost toppled. Outside the barn, the wind blew and the fires and torches danced in its wake. Ezmira stood and crossed her arms and held her shoulders. The wind died as quickly as it appeared. She whispered to herself and then fell silent.

Ezmira walked around the altar and stopped with her back to the banner. Without looking, she raised one hand and beckoned the coven to enter the magic circle. Her eyes were fixed on the child as the coven obeyed and gathered around the altar. The child's eyes were wild as hysteria took over where had fear left off. His lips quivered and his frail body trembled. Finally, he turned his head away from her glare and closed his eyes.

The witch nodded at a woman who came around the altar and stopped next to her. The woman held a wooden box. Ezmira opened the box and removed her ceremonial silver knife from the velvet sack that protected it. She raised it above her head and with arms outstretched turned for all to see. The coven saw the blade sparkle and shine in the light of the fires as electricity and adrenalin surged through them. They tightened the circle around the altar as Ezmira turned to the banner. The boy's eyes were now open in a catatonic stare as she turned back to him.

Ezmira looked intently at her coven for the first time since entering the barn. Slowly, she lowered the knife to the child.

CHAPTER TWO

Montgomery, Alabama, present time

Bill Straker paced back and forth. His padded cell was nine by six with only a stainless-steel toilet. A low-watt bulb burned constantly behind a wire cage and a surveillance camera hung in one corner of the ceiling. That was it. He wore only a T-shirt and boxer shorts. When he slept, which was seldom, it was on the floor, never out of the watchful eye of the camera.

Straker was under suicide watch by jail personnel and all safety procedures were employed to ensure his fitness for trial. His court-appointed lawyer feared him so badly that he asks that Straker be restrained during each visit. The deputies fed him on a paper plate slid through a three-inch slot in the cell door. Except for his lawyer, he was allowed no visitors.

Straker was not insane; the state psychiatrist had said so. But his lawyer had already entered an insanity plea on his behalf. Straker knew he was not insane, but he was slowly getting there in this tomb-like cell.

Back and forth he paced.

Unexpectedly, the slot on the door came open. Straker knew it was not time to eat. He moved to the back wall next to the toilet and stood with his arms to his side.

Back against the wall, Straker, came the command from a coarse voice outside. Straker saw the eyes of Deputy Ben Ripley peering through the small portal and knew it was after ten o'clock because Ripley worked the graveyard shift. You've got a visitor. You even blink the wrong way and I'll beat the shit out of you, got it?

A visitor, you kidding me? Who is it, Sigmund Freud come back from the grave? Straker called back at him.

Just shut up and don't move, Ripley barked as he unlocked the door and stepped in.

Ripley was a keg of man with strong muscular shoulders. Years of working around murderers, rapists, dope dealers and child molesters in the county jail had harden his face into a tightness that looked like leather cured in the hot Montgomery sunshine. The job had also tainted his mind to the point that he trusted no one, whether inside or outside the lockup. Over the years he had developed a lightning-fast temper and a foul mouth. As the graveyard shift supervisor, many an inmate, deserving or not, had tasted his wrath and hatred for them. Only a thin fringe of brown hair remained at the crown of his head, barely visible as a result of his military-style haircut. Ripley had no facial hair but brushy tan-colored eyebrows perched above dark-brown eyes. His mouth was fixed in a perpetual smirk highlighted by pale lips. He was carrying handcuffs; two huge guards were stationed behind him. Straker offered no resistance as Ripley put one bracelet around his wrist and told him to turn around. Just as he started to put the second handcuff on, a voice spoke from behind the guards. Straker had not seen this person come in with Ripley and the guards.

That won't be necessary Deputy Ripley, don't put the cuffs on him.

Ripley turned around to face this late night visitor who was ordering him to disobey procedure. The guards took a couple of steps back as the new voice stepped forward between them. Straker had not flinched and was still facing the wall.

What the hell are you talking about? This crazy bastard's a murderer. Do you know what he did? Ripley shook his head and turned back to Straker, I can't do that. This is procedure with this man, besides; the warden would have my ass. Fuck you asshole, I'm locking him down. He took Straker’s arm and started to lock the remaining handcuff.

If you put that cuff on him I'll have your ass right here and now, got that! Take that handcuff off him. The visitor ordered without fear. Ripley was ready to turn on him when he heard a familiar voice from the hall.

It's all right, Ben, do as he says, Warden Bridgeton told him. Take the cuffs off and everybody out. Leave’em alone Bridgeton waved his arm angrily and shouted, Come on, I said get the hell out and lock the door.

Ripley stared back in disbelief for a second. What was the warden doing here this time of night? Ripley had no love for Warden Bridgeton and was happy that they seldom had to see each other. Bridgeton was a big muscular man who had played football at Jacksonville State University as a linebacker. Unlike many college players, Bridgeton had graduated with a degree in criminal justice and quickly worked his way up the Montgomery Sheriff’s Department ladder. More than twenty years younger than Ripley, Bridgeton had been appointed the warden’s job four years before and Ripley had never come to grips with the appointment. But the worst part for Ripley was Bridgeton’s skin color. Within a week of Bridgeton’s taking the job Ripley thought should have been his, Ripley had asked for and been granted charge of the graveyard shift. Bridgeton looked like he could still suit up for a Saturday afternoon game; huge arms and a slim waist underscored his taut frame. His face was clean-shaven except for a neatly trimmed mustache, his brown skin smooth and unwrinkled. Dark eyes missed nothing. Dressed in a white Polo shirt left unbuttoned and Navy-blue slacks, Bridgeton held his big hands on his hips and eyed his chief deputy with disgust and contempt.

Straker never moved as the handcuff was unlocked. The guards were in the hall with the warden who was now holding the door. Ripley turned to leave, but stopped at the voice that had talked to him so rudely, gazing up with undisguised suspicion. He was going to speak his mind even with Warden Bridgeton standing only a few feet away. He looked the man in the eye and snarled.

Just who in the hell do you think you are mister, you can't talk to me that way in my jail. He caught himself when Bridgeton glared at him.

Get out of there, Ripley, I told you to move. Get your ass up to my office right now. Bridgeton yelled at him, his face suddenly flushing with anger.

Ripley maintained his glare and did not move. The man held steady for several seconds before a tiny smirk crossed his lips. Joe Robinson's the name, Ripley. Joe B. Robinson. Make sure you remember that.

The veins on Ripley's neck stuck out and he was unable to speak. Robinson continued to glare down at him. Dressed in a dark-gray jacket and black slacks, Robinson looked more like a hit man than a former police detective. His hair was cut short and contained a hint of gray along his temples and ears, dark eyes were bloodshot. Robinson had not shaved in three days and the stubble on his face added to his scruffy appearance. His physique was still trim and firm as a prizefighter.

Get him out of there, Bridgeton yelled at the guards who both jumped at Ripley and pulled him from the cell.

Bridgeton closed the door and the big lock fell into place. The slot opened and Robinson saw Bridgeton peering through the opening. Robinson knew the warden was not happy being called out in the middle of the night.

I'll leave this open and Deputy Harris will stand out here. We can see you on the camera, but as I said earlier, we can't hear you. Damn Supreme Court, they'll let us watch’em, but we can't listen in. Violates some right they got. Take as much time as you need.

Thank you, Warden, but if you don't mind, close the hatch or whatever you call that thing. I'll be fine and I’d like the privacy.

Bridgeton rolled his eyes. All right, Robinson, I'll close it. Just knock when you're ready to leave. Hope you know what you're doing.

We'll be fine, Warden, and again, thanks for coming down here with me tonight.

I hope you get what you want, but I'll say this, somebody's got some powerful friends to get you in here like this. Maybe you can put in a good word for me with them. Bridgeton closed the slide leaving Robinson alone with Straker. He was still facing the wall and Robinson stared at his back for a moment before speaking.

Bill Straker, he said softly.

Straker turned, head still lowered, eyes looking at the floor the way a dispirited prisoner might face anyone in authority.

Look at me.

Slowly, Straker raised his head. Robinson saw a tall, thinning man who looked like he had been on a starvation diet. Straker's hair was disheveled and graying and he was in desperate need of a shave and bath. He had piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through Robinson; a look Robinson had seen in doped-up mental patients at hospitals he’d visited while interviewing different state psychiatrists on cases he was working. Straker’s legs and arms were spindly and covered in fine hair, his hips were narrow but his shoulders appeared muscular under his nasty shirt.

Robinson extended his hand. Straker stared at it for a moment then raised his hand. The two men shook hands and Robinson felt a strength he had not expected in Straker's grip. Straker finally looked into Robinson's face and recognized his visitor was working hard to control his emotions, but said nothing. Letting go of his hand, Robinson said.

I need help, Mr. Straker. I need your help desperately. Robinson’s confident tone had disappeared and he had to lean against the wall. Straker remained silent as he watched his visitor gaze at the abysmal chamber they were locked in. The floor, walls and even the tall ceiling were heavily padded. The padding was covered in a gray, plastic-like material similar to the matting used by gymnast. The low-watt bulb only served to make the wretched conditions more dismal. The stainless steel toilet protruded from the far wall like a deformed nose.

Who are you? Robinson reached into his pocket and handed him a card. While Straker studied the card, Robinson slid to the floor.

You're a cop, Straker remarked.

Robinson massaged his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. Not a cop, Mr. Straker. I'm an investigator for the District Attorney's Office in Mobile. But tonight I come to you as a father, not a cop or investigator. I come to you strictly as a father.

Straker squatted and looked him in the eye. Robinson handed him a small photo.

It's your daughter, I see the resemblance. Straker told him. She's a beautiful child. How long has she been missing?

Robinson looked surprisingly at him. About thirty-six hours, he moaned. We have no clues, no leads, nothing. My wife is a wreck and so am I. I came here to see if you would help me. Straker leaned against the opposite wall and slid down.

Why do you want my help? I'm a murderer. I’ll be on death row in a few months. Didn't they warn you about me? Didn’t someone tell you I’m crazy as Hell?

Robinson rubbed his face and pushed his hair back. You're not crazy, Straker. You killed that woman, I know that, but at this point I don't care. I've learned a lot about you in the last twelve hours, plus I've been following the prosecution of your case from Mobile. I believe you may be the only person that can help me. Help me and I'll help you. That's a promise.

This is Montgomery, you're from Mobile. What can you do here?

I can't do that much, but my wife can do almost anything. She's the District Attorney in Mobile and she can move mountains. She's close friends with the governor, not to mention she knows every D.A. in the state as well as most of the feds, though she doesn't like to admit that.

Straker’s eyes suddenly narrowed as he spoke in a surprised tone. Wait a minute, Joe Robinson, Mobile, Alabama. I've heard of you. You were all over the news a few years ago. You tracked down a serial killer and killed him just before he was about to kill some D.A. I saw it on Fox News. Are you the one? Straker stood up and smiled.

Yeah, I'm the one. It was eight years ago and the killer was the District Attorney himself. He almost killed one of his assistants. She's the D.A. now, and more importantly, my wife.

Robinson handed him another photograph. This one showed him, Nina Robinson, and in her arms a baby girl. Straker studied the photo and returned it to him.

Rachel. That's my daughter's name, he said. She'll be seven years old next July.

Wow! said Straker. I see where she gets her good looks. You're a lucky man, Robinson. Straker sat back down and leaned against the wall. Tell me what happened.

Robinson took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. In the last two months, once each month, a child has been murdered. The first was a six-year old girl, the second, a boy almost eight. Both kidnapped and killed…awful…on some kind of altar, we believe on the night of a full moon. I went to the scene of the second murder. I've seen a lot in my time, but nothing like this. The investigation is at a dead end. My daughter... Robinson stopped as his eyes watered.

You don't need to go on, Straker advised. I've seen this many times over the last twelve years. I know exactly what you're talking about. When's the next full moon?

Twenty-three days. It's in twenty-three days, Robinson answered.

Straker took a deep breath and blew it out. You don't have much time. You're dealing with something that I can promise you is like nothing you've ever seen in your life. If Ezmira has your daughter... well, you'll need everything you've got to stop her. In all your years of police work you've never met, nor will you ever meet anyone like her.

Ezmira! Is that what you said?

Yes, Ezmira. She's a witch.

Straker looked at Robinson who was staring back at him with a bewildered look. I see that look on your face, Straker said standing quickly. He pointed his finger at Robinson as his voice grew louder. Are you having second thoughts, thinking maybe the shrinks are wrong, that Straker's really nuts, cause if you are you can get the hell out of here right now? Go home and dig your daughter's grave because the next time you see her she'll look like those other kids.

Harris opened the slide, but neither Robinson nor Straker looked at him. He closed it when he saw Robinson was all right.

But if you want to save her, I can help you. I've devoted the last twelve years of my life to finding Ezmira and destroying her. I've had to do it alone and I'm no cop. With your help I'd have a better chance and we might save your daughter in the process. I'd rather die trying to stop her than die in this rubber coffin.

Robinson peered up at him. I believe you. I lost one child and I won't lose another. Killing anyone who has touched my daughter won't bother me. Robinson gritted his teeth.

I believe you would. I'll help you, but there are some things I want first. We don't have much time so I suggest you agree and not try to negotiate with me.

Name it. Robinson said.

Can I call you Joe?

Of course you can…Bill.

I want a cup of coffee. I've had nothing but water since I've been in here. Straker scratched the back of his head. What is today’s date?

Tuesday, October eighth, Robinson told him. Straker lowered his head for a moment and when he looked up his eyes were gleaming.

I've been in here nearly six months. I only get out to shower and go to court. They won't even tell me the time of day. He was weeping now as he wiped his eyes on his forearms.

Robinson stood up and moved to the door. He knocked on the slide and Harris opened it. Bring us a pot of coffee and two cups please.

I'll have to check with Chief Bridgeton first, or if he’s gone, Deputy Ripley. Harris replied

I don't care who you check with, just bring it. Robinson told him.

He reached inside his jacket pocket, removed a pack of cigarettes and shook one into his hand. Straker gazed up at him and Robinson extended the package to him. Straker took one with a trembling hand and Robinson gave him a light, before lighting his own. Straker took a long drag and coughed violently. This is the first one since they brought me in. Straker pulled on the cigarette again and this time he was able to hold it without coughing.

What else do you want, Bill?

I want out of this cell. I want to eat without using my fingers. I want to be in a cell where I can smoke a cigarette and read something. I want to be in a cell where I can talk to someone other than my ignorant-assed lawyer.

Robinson heard the door open and turned to see Harris holding a tray with a pot and two metal cups. Ripley stood behind him with a look of utter contempt on his face.

Anything else, your majesty? He snarled at Robinson as Harris set the tray on the floor.

Robinson pointed his finger at him. You don't like me do you, Ripley? That's fine because I don't like you either. Let me tell you something else, if I see your ugly face when I come out of here, I'll rip your nose off and cram it down your throat. You best stay out of my way.

Ripley did not appear to be concerned with the threat, he did not consider his shift a success without at least three from the inmates he was paid to guard. Still he glared at Robinson with a hatred that would chill most men.

I’m not gonna waste my breath telling you smokin’ against the rules in this rubber room. Pointing his nightstick he continued, I hope you and your newest suck-buddy there choke on’em.

You just did Robinson told him in a condescending tone.

Ripley stepped back and Harris closed the door and the big lock fell into place. Robinson thought about how that must sound to Straker. The man was completely helpless and at the mercy of Ben Ripley. He felt a sudden rush of compassion for Straker. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Straker. Then he poured himself a cup and eased down to the floor.

Is that all you want, Bill? Is there anything else?

Straker sipped the coffee, savoring the flavor. Finally, he looked up. One more thing, Joe, he paused. I want you to listen to my story. If the worst happens and we’re not able to save your daughter, maybe you'll be convinced to continue the search. Ezmira must be stopped. She must be killed, erased from the face of the earth. She and her coven must be destroyed. Listen to my story and believe me. I'm not crazy, but what I'm going to tell you will make you think I am.

Robinson sipped his coffee and tossed the pack of cigarettes on the floor between them. Sitting back down, he stretched out his legs, knowing he was as comfortable as he was going to be. He looked at Straker and wondered why the man had not become a raving lunatic in here. It was like being buried alive. Robinson was sure he would not last six days in here, much less six months.

He thought of the bodies of the two children butchered in Mobile before they even had a chance to live. He knew how their parents must feel. He thought of his wife, Nina. She was counting on him to bring their child back. She trusted no one like she did him and knew firsthand what he was capable of.

Robinson was ready to meet this Ezmira.

Straker was hugging his coffee cup as if it contained liquid gold. Robinson liked the man despite the fact they had been together only a few minutes. He was sure he had made the right choice coming here. Dragging deeply on his cigarette, he blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling. Let's hear it Bill. I'm ready.

CHAPTER THREE

Straker reached hesitantly for the pack of cigarettes on the floor between his leg and the coffee pot. Robinson sensed his reluctance to pick it up and realized that six months of isolation had reduced Straker to a depressed introvert. Straker had committed the most horrifying murder Montgomery County had ever seen. The press had dubbed him the Crusade Killer because Straker told anyone who would listen to him what he was doing. He had readily admitted the crime and vowed it would not be the last.

His trial was several months away and could be postponed even longer. The local stations ran story after story about the witch hunter from Missouri. Shortly after his arrest, the national stations picked up the story and reporters poured into Montgomery looking for that exclusive interview. The court appointed him an attorney and the interviews ceased. Even leaks from jail personnel stopped after Warden Bridgeton threatened to fire anyone who talked about their prize inmate.

Robinson had driven up from Mobile earlier that day while his wife made the necessary phone calls to allow him access to Bill Straker. He met with the Montgomery assistant District Attorney and the investigating detective that afternoon at the courthouse. The lead prosecutor, Fred Ellis, told Robinson he thought Straker was crazy as a loon, but publicly denounced him as a vicious murderer who was as sane as anyone. Homicide detective, Tom Miller, had a different opinion, but was not willing to share it in front of Ellis. The state psychiatrist was going to testify that Straker was sane and the State was seeking the death penalty. After hearing Miller’s account of the woman's murder, Robinson was certain Straker would receive a death sentence. He was no attorney, but he had seen more than his share of murder trials and he knew Alabama juries seldom bought the insanity defense, no matter how crazy the defendant was.

Around five o'clock that afternoon, James Brookside, the Montgomery County District Attorney, joined Robinson and the others in Ellis’s diminutive office. After shaking hands, they sat down.

I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am to see you under these circumstances. I've known your wife for years and I met you about four years ago in Birmingham. You may not remember, but I do, you're still a celebrity in my book.

I remember, Mr. Brookside. I believe we both spent too much time in the hospitality room. I was drinking Sprite, but it seems you had something a little stronger.

Brookside chuckled, slightly embarrassed in front of his assistant and the detective. He was a man of average height with short black hair combed immaculately in place and dark eyes. Though currently out of fashion, Brookside still wore a three-piece suit, gray, with white pinstripes and black, wing-tipped shoes. A gold chain hung from the top button-hole of his vest and ran to a watch in the side pocket. His demeanor confirmed a reputation of unquestionable control and confidence.

Well, that's right, but since it was free how could I turn it down. Call me James, please.

Doesn't matter to me, Mr. Brookside, James. If it hadn't been for Nina, I'd still be leading the pack to happy hour every night. She's the reason I quit. I even gave up smoking until a couple of days ago. If things don't get better soon, I'll join you at the bar.

Brookside nodded and the tension was broken for the moment. Brookside looked down at the floor. I spoke with your wife a short while ago. She couldn't continue the conversation so she put her father on the phone. I had no idea.

Robinson nodded. So far we've been able to keep it out of the news, but the FBI's in on it now and you know what happens when they get involved-straight to the front page. This is one time I appreciate all the help I can get.

Well, I wish we could do more. Brookside motioned to Miller and Ellis. Have they answered your questions, told you about Straker?

Yes they have. They've been very helpful, but it's obvious your assistant D.A. doesn’t believe his story.

Brookside reached for a cigarette and offered the pack to Robinson. When Brookside could not find his matches, Robinson gave him a light. Brookside admired the eloquent gold lighter, but said nothing.

Robinson exhaled, Detective Miller said you have three unsolved murders on your hands. Three children killed in the same manner, sacrificed during a full moon. Then Straker shows up and kills this woman and the sacrifices stop. We have two children killed the same way in Mobile. Nobody thinks Straker killed your kids and we know he was locked up when the Mobile murders took place. Maybe it's time somebody paid attention to what the man has to say.

I don't know, Joe. Maybe it's just a coincidence.

Robinson shot up from the chair and slammed his fist on Ellis’s desk. Coincidence my ass, Brookside. I just got the details about the children murdered here. Everything's the same as the two in Mobile. Robinson inhaled deeply, scratched his nose and looked at Miller. How much information was given to the press? Robinson sat down and ran his hands through his hair.

None said Miller, not a goddamned thing. The only thing the press knows is the kids was killed in a sick ceremony. They reported it as devil worshippers. Got the whole town paranoid and going crazy, hell fire, handgun sales are up twenty percent, people are putting bars on their windows and doors and most everyone with a kid is carrying them to school and picking them up in the afternoon. We’ve even posted patrol cars around the grammar schools, in full view, when schools open in the morning and then again, when school is let out at two-thirty. Straker really stirred it up with his witch talk, but the press never got the details of the murders. The judge issued a gag order on everybody and it must be working. I get calls nearly every day and I can tell from the questions the news people ask me that they don't know squat. The medical examiner locked up the autopsy reports and photographs. The press don't know anything.

Miller looked at Ellis and blew out a disgusted breath. He reached for a cigarette and dragged hard to light it. Tom Miller was a senior homicide detective in Mobile County well past the twenty year mandatory minimum to qualify for full retirement benefits. Thick graying hair brushed against the tops of his ears. His face was well-tanned and contained a few dark freckles which would require a dermatologist attention as time went on. Robinson noticed a couple of similar dark splotches on the back of Miller’s hands, the result of years of exposure to the blistering Mobile sun. Miller had on a purple tie pulled open at the neck, and a light blue shirt underneath his Navy-blue jacket. The bulge of a .38 revolver was clearly visible beneath his left arm pit. He was overweight but not fat and flabby, still Robinson thought the detective was only a few short steps away from a heart-attack.

It was clear Ellis was not a smoker and did not like them smoking in his office. Ellis was in his late-twenties and looked like a child compared to his three visitors. He was dressed smartly in a black suit, white shirt and bright red tie. Ellis was a short man but still lean and trim with well-groomed hair the color of straw and blue eyes. The only jewelry Ellis wore was a Fossil watch around his left wrist.

He started to say something about this being a government building, but thought better of it. Brookside was his boss and Robinson did not look like a man to be told to take his cigarette outside. One more puffing away would not make any difference at this point. Miller blew out a stream of noxious gas and looked at Brookside.

From what Joe’s told us, it's the same killers. There's no way anyone could copy these murders. Only a handful of people know the details of the crime scenes. It's the same killers all right and it's not Straker. It's not some cult he belongs to either. Straker's a loner.

Miller looked around for an ashtray and Ellis finally handed him an empty Coke can. Miller put his cigarette in the can and set it on the desk. Robinson dropped his in and watched as smoke slowly wound its way out the top.

Well, crazy or not, I have to talk to him. If he knows about a cult of devil worshippers traveling the country killing children, I want to know what he knows. I know how crazy it sounds, but I've seen what they're capable of.

I'll say, echoed Miller.

Robinson looked at Brookside who seemed to be considering his comments seriously. But he knew Brookside believed he was wasting his time, he just was not going to say so.

Did you get in touch with Sheriff Johnson? Robinson inquired.

No, he's fishing up at Lay Lake. His wife said he wouldn't be back until after dark. Chief Bridgeton said no one was talking to Straker without a court order or Johnson's direct instructions. He doesn't work for me, as you well know, or you'd already be talking to your man. Sheriff Johnson will let you talk to him though, I promise. We'll just have to wait until he gets home from the lake. His wife told me that when he goes fishing he turns off his cell phone so by the time we found him, he’d probably back home. I'd be happy to take you to dinner, it's likely to be several hours before he returns.

Robinson stood up and stretched. He had been up over twenty-four hours and was exhausted. Ellis’s cramped office had only aggravated his frustrations. He stared at the large picture behind Ellis’s desk; a covey of quail was pecking the ground beside an old barn that had been deserted for years. Ellis had four other wildlife pictures hanging on the yellowing faded sheetrock walls. His Alabama law license hung in a black frame rimmed in gold. Ellis desk was empty except for a stack of legal-sized manila folders, the telephone, a picture of him and three friends at a golf course and the smoking Coke can.

I guess that's all we can do for now. Robinson sighed. Is there a phone I can use? I want to call my wife and tell her what's going on.

Sure said Brookside. You can use my office. You know where it is, help yourself. I'll be up there in a little while.

Robinson thanked Miller and Ellis for their help and left. Brookside waited until he was sure Robinson was gone before speaking.

What do you think, Tom?

I don't know what to think, Jimmy, but I'll tell you this. If it was my kid was missing and I knew what I know, you'd have to put me in that rubber room with Straker. I mean we talked about our cases and the ones in Mobile. No question it's the same killers and we know Straker was locked up when the Mobile murders occurred. Not only that, but I've gotten calls from eleven other states as far away as Michigan and Arizona with the same type of murders. Maybe Joe's right. Maybe we should give some serious thought to Straker's story.

Ellis tapped his pen against his desk until both men looked at him.

Have you got something to add here, Fred?

I just don't understand this conversation, Mr. Brookside. Tom's beginning to buy Straker's story. I know these murders occurred and I'm not questioning the fact that some group may be doing something sadistic. But to buy into this business Straker is spouting about a witch being resurrected from the dark ages is way beyond crazy, and Straker has told us some crazy stuff. I just don't want anyone to forget what he did that’s all, I mean…Straker tortured a woman to death and there is absolutely no doubt about that. The press would eat us alive if they got a hint of what we were saying here.

Miller said, That's not what I mean, Fred, hellfire man, I don't believe in witches and goblins anymore than you, but Straker does. The diary we got from him chronicles events that are checking out. The more I go through it, the more I find that the things he wrote about are true. Someone has been doing this for years. They didn't just sprout up here in Montgomery a few months ago. We still don't know anything about the woman he killed. We don't even know her name or where she came from or anything.

Brookside stood up and dropped his cigarette in the Coke can. Smoke danced through the hole like tiny gray ghosts and hung in the air. He walked to the door and reached for the knob.

Did you tell Robinson about the diary? Brookside asked.

No, thank God, snapped Ellis.

I think both of you are right, but I agree with Fred. These conversations can't go any further. Straker's case has gotten too much publicity already. This isn't Salem, Massachusetts and we’re not conducting inquisitions or witch trials. We've got Straker and nothing excuses what he did. If you want to pursue his story, Tom, that's your business. I'd love nothing more than to stick the needle in those sick bastards. Just keep it out of the papers. Remember, I’m up for election next November and I don't need to be answering questions about witches and devil worshipers doing bad things in my county, you understand me?

Brookside opened the door and left. Miller looked over at Ellis with as much contempt as he could muster. What the hell's the matter with you, Ellis. I asked you not to bring this up in front of him. If he calls my captain, there’ll be hell to pay on my part, not yours.

Don't get your panties up your crack with me, Tom. You started it with your bullshit about Straker's story needing to be checked out. This is the biggest case of my life. The press is all over me and I'm not going to blow it. I don't want to hear anymore of this witch crap from you.

Miller stood pointing his finger at Ellis. His face was red and neck muscles strained. Let me tell you something you little shit. I've been a detective for twenty-three years and a street cop for six years before that. I was solving murder cases while you were still shittin’ string beans in your Pampers. The case against Straker is open and shut. Any ten-year old could win this case. I'm going after this witch of Straker's and I'm going to help Robinson if I can. Now, I told you and Brookside I wouldn't talk to the press about the case, but I will if I get any more garbage like this from either of you. You understand me?

Ellis opened his mouth to respond, but Miller was already out the door. Ellis sat still for a moment as he thought about whether to tell Brookside what Miller had said. He decided he would wait and soon he was tapping his pen against the desk.

Miller walked up the hall towards Brookside's office. He went through the large reception area and around a long counter where five secretaries were inputting data into computers, typing motions for assistant D.A.’s and answering telephones. Their workday was almost over and they were ready to leave. Miller proceeded around the women to a doorway located at the back of the