Chapter 5

Jack

I’m going to have to put the witch back in jail.

Crouched at the feet of the victim, I force myself to take a deep breath. Here I am, surrounded by death and exhausted from a sleepless night. My eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed directly into the dirt of the trail, and then slapped with branches for good measure.  The last thing I need is a Mayweather cosplayer walking into the middle of my crime scene and offering me a goddamn stick in tribute. 

Who the hell barges into the scene of a grisly murder with a stick of aspen and a handful of leaves? 

It makes the insane sense of relief at her arrival that much more infuriating. 

I am not glad to see her. 

The leaves around her are not a brighter green. That’s impossible. She only appears vibrant in contrast to the surrounding horror. Maybe it’s the glow of sheer audacity? Because this stunt she’s pulling goes far beyond public disturbance. I don’t know if she’s genuinely crazy or just a world class liar, but either way this maneuver is next level. 

I refuse to let one pretend-witch disrupt my murder investigation. And I should embrace the prospect of putting her behind bars, not be stuck battling a strange sense of obligation, as if my body wants to protect her.

Well, tough. 

Eyes narrowing, I lower the phone from my ear and pocket it. 

“Ma’am.” I tip my hat up with my forefinger and slowly get to my feet. “This is a mighty poor decision.”

“Perhaps.” She offers me a tiny smile. “But it is also necessary.”

“Necessary?” I can’t stop a huff of incredulous laughter. I should slap cuffs on this so-called witch and shove her in the back of my cruiser. “There is nothing that makes your presence here necessary. If you had any sense, you’d take your win from last night and stay out of my sight.”

“I’m rarely accused of letting sense stop me.” She gives me another of those smiles, the kind that makes her resemble a martyr—or Mary Magdalene, as painted by the masters. Her cheeks flush with what appears to be embarrassment. 

My heart gives a rebellious kick at the sight.

I debate tasering it into submission. 

But who can blame it?

Last night, when she was covered in dirt and wearing clothing so old it practically decomposed with every step, she’d managed to be the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And now? She’s clean and dressed in a crisp cotton shirt, the ends tucked into a full skirt that belongs on an Amish wagon—or at some hippy boho retreat. The look should be comical. Instead, she makes me think of an ancient Greek goddess, who’s come down from Olympus and is trying to blend in with Montana locals. Only she’s not quite managing it. 

Her beauty is luminous. 

Shocking.

Damn it all. 

Teeth tight, I study her silently for a moment. It pisses me off that the oddly historical style looks right on her, that the wide, pilgrim-style skirt fits with the cowboy hat on her head and boots on her feet. No con artist should appear so damn comfortable while wearing a lie. 

“Sheriff.” She takes a small step toward me. “I know you’re not inclined to trust me. But it’s vital you let me help.”

“No.” I rest a hand on the butt of my weapon. “It’s not.” 

I stalk toward her and meet her gaze. How dare those moss-green eyes be so damn earnest?

“There is a dead kid on that rock,” I say, voice low with warning. “This is a crime scene, not an opportunity for you to spin some fantasy. I’m not letting whatever tale you’re building benefit from this.”

Her head snaps back. “I am not building—”

The sound of tires interrupts whatever lies she’s about to spin. 

Good. It’s about time the medical examiner got here—and they can save me from my fake-witch’s wounded gaze. “Stay here,” I order Mayweather, pointing at the ground for good measure. Then I switch my attention to my deputies. “Les,” I raise my voice, “you’re with me. The rest of you, keep searching the area. The state coroner from Billings has finally learned how to operate his GPS…”

That’s not the state coroner’s truck approaching. 

It’s Doc Keller’s busted wagon. 

What the hell? I march over to the vehicle and lean over the window. “Doc, this is not—”

“Sorry, Sheriff.” The doc peers up at me, blinking through thick round lenses. “Billings called me an hour ago and said their coroner couldn’t make it. They told me to head out to the site and assess the body—”

“Stay in that car.” I lift a finger and pull out my phone. A few swipes and I’m calling the state police. When they answer, I skip the pleasantries. “Sheriff Goodnight here. Devil’s Reach. I’ve got a misinformed local doc at my crime scene—”

“Sheriff.” Two hours ago, this person sounded concerned. Helpful. Ready to assist me in dealing with a horrific crime. Now? Their tone is that finely-honed bland that belongs to anyone who works in bureaucracy. It’s the kind of tone that delivers bad news without a hint of emotion—or humanity. “Resources are limited and we can’t allocate anything for nuisance crimes.”

“Nuisance?” I snarl. “Are you fucking—”

“Mind your language, Sheriff.”

“Language…” I suck in a breath. “With all due respect,” I snap the words like a coyote might a mouse’s neck, “you saw the pictures. This is not a nuisance crime. This is murder. A violent, possibly Satanically-motivated murder. We don’t have crime like this in Devil’s Reach, and we don’t have the resources or training to deal with one. We need state support. Now.”

“I…I don’t know what to tell you, Sheriff.” The person sounds uncomfortable. 

I picture them shifting nervously in their office chair—it’s not as appealing as imaging my fist colliding with their face. 

They clear their throat. “We’ve been told to focus resources in population centers.

A bitter huff escapes me. “Not enough voters in Devil’s Reach to qualify?” Or bootlickers. Fucksake. “Look, can we shelve the politics? Montana has a killer that cracked open a kid’s chest and splayed them on a rock, surrounded by markings made in blood. State police need to give a damn about that, regardless of our population.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” the person says again, quietly. “Good luck.”

The line goes dead. 

“Fuck…” Cursing politicians and bureaucracies, I punch the number for the Billings FBI Offices, or whatever the hell they’re called now, into my phone. I’ve lost track on what the current administration is calling things, and normally I don’t give a damn. Right now, however, I need them to give a damn about me. I’d contacted the local office with initial images of the crime scene and been promised assistance. I have a sinking feeling that has now vanished along with my county coroner. 

“Yes, hello,” I say when the receptionist answers. “This is Sheriff Goodnight from Devil’s Reach. Put me through to whatever you have resembling a field boss.”

An ominous pause greets my request.

Silence shifts into music. Was I just put on hold? And what kind of FBI office has Dolly begging Jolene for mercy?

This is going to go poorly. But I resolutely stay on the line until Dolly stops crooning. 

“Sheriff.” This time the voice on the other end is clearly male and shows no vestiges of discomfort. “The FBI assessed your images and deemed them a hoax. Learn to tell real blood from fake. Don’t call us again unless you have something meaningful.”

Once again, the line goes dead. 

“Fuck.” I start to throw my phone on the ground and barely stop myself. Breaking my phone isn’t the answer, even if it would feel damned good. Of course, it would feel even better to shove it up the ass of whoever decided my county doesn’t matter. If only I could figure out who that person is, and how to reach them…

“Something the matter, Sheriff?” 

The polite question sets my teeth on edge. I point at Mayweather. “Quiet, you.”

It infuriates me that she’s stayed exactly where I told her to. How dare she be respectful about that of all things? She can crash my crime scene but can’t give me an easy excuse to kick her out afterward?

I rub the bridge of my nose and search the branches overhead for inspiration. I find nothing except pinecones, falling needles and a fresh layer of frustration. Goddammit. I need the FBI—not a family doctor and a fake witch. 

“Ahem.” I look down and find the doc has exited his car. “Can I examine the body now?”

“I don’t know.” I stare down at him. “Can you examine it without touching it?”

The doc inflates like a balloon. “Sheriff, be reasonable.”

“For now, Doc, you can do a visual assessment. Visual.” I’ve got one more card to play before I concede defeat and hand my autopsy over to the doc. Don’t get me wrong, the doc’s a great guy. But he’s an aging country physician on the brink of retirement, not an experienced coroner, and a crime this violent shouldn’t be handed to anyone who isn’t used to facing the depraved. “Les, take the doc here to the body. Find out what he’ll need—if he performs the autopsy.”

I follow them as they head toward the body, clocking Doc Keller’s pause as we come into full view of the scene. But, to his credit, the doc doesn’t falter. I can tell his gait would have remained steady—if my two junior deputies hadn’t been milling around the trail, blocking direct access. 

I sigh. “Charlie. Sage. You need to give the doc some room,”

The pair stare owlishly at me.

And this is why we need help. 

I ease around Les and the doc, and make my way to the nearest deputy. “This way, Long.” I take Charlie by the shoulders and gently steer him to the side of the path. I’m pretty sure at this point  the junior deputy has thrown up the pizza he ate last week. “You too, Hoffman.” I do the same with Sage, guiding her out of the way. The deputy hasn’t let go of the simple silver cross she wears since arriving. 

“Sorry, sir,” Sage stammers, her distress palpable. “I…”

“It’s fine,” I grunt. “Take a minute.”

She’s in her early twenties and in her first year with the station. No road kill and bar fights could prepare here for this. Moreover, she’s never left the county. Never faced anything beyond the hills of her childhood. But even if she had? I can guarantee it wouldn’t have prepared her for this—it didn’t prepare me. 

Once again, the violence of this death strikes me. 

The body hasn’t moved since I arrived on scene, yet it radiates tension. I saw dark, desperate things when I cut my teeth in vice in Miami, but somehow the bloodiest gangland shootings failed to send the same chill into my bones. Those scenes were chaotic bloodbaths, clubs littered with broken glasses and glitter. And sure, they were bad. But the violence at work here is colder, more thoughtful. 

I repress a shudder as Doc Keller hunkers down to examine the victim, and force myself to crouch beside him.

“Ah, Sheriff,” Deputy Long calls out, “sure you should be standing so close?”

“No, he shouldn’t,” Mayweather calls from behind me. “None of you should. Not before I’ve cleansed the area—not without protection,” 

“Sir…” Charlie’s voice wavers with uncertainty. “Maybe you should step back?”

“Yes! Step back.!” Mayweather’s feigned urgency is impressive. “Please, Sheriff.”

“Enough.” I glare over my shoulder at her. “Be quiet.”

“Ma’am, you are not to interfere in a police investigation. If you attempt to interfere, I will be forced to detain you.” Trust Les to follow my grumpy comment with more official jargon. “Long, Hoffman, you aren’t here to question the Sheriff, you’re here to do your job. Both of you need to focus on the job. You remember what that is, right?”

I don’t need to look to know both Sage and Charlie are staring blankly at my senior deputy.

“Sheriff.” The doc speaks quietly, his words just for me. “They’re scared.”

“Yeah. I know.” My reply is barely a whisper. 

That’s what I get for bringing two junior deputies with no experience on scene—not that there’s anything else I could have done. We’re a small station. I need all the manpower I have to catalog the scene. In theory, they’d search the area, tag and document any evidence. Except both are pale, and neither have hands steady enough to do anything—which is probably why they’re hovering, watching the body from the corners of their eyes as if waiting for it to snap at them like a snake. 

The sad truth is: my team isn’t ready for this. 

I pinch the bridge of my nose, then I raise my voice, “Hoffman, Long, I need the pair of you to secure the perimeter. Twenty feet from the body. Search the underbrush to see if our perpetrator dropped anything.”

“Yes, sir.” Their relief is palpable as they hurry down the trail. 

“That was kindly done,” Doc says. 

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “Do your visual assessment.”

Straightening, I give the doc a little room and consider my phone. 

As far as final cards go, the odds are not in my favor. In truth, reaching out to this source is as likely to get me hell than it is to bring help. But in the Goodnight family, we play the hand we’re dealt. 

I pull up the contact and send a brief, respectful text message. I won’t earn any favor by being wordy.

“Sheriff,” Mayweather’s voice is soft, yet insistent. “Please let me help.” 

“You are not the help I’m looking for,” I tell her. “Now, be quiet.”

“Please!” She starts toward me—and the body. “It is not safe. None of you should be near the body until I have—”

Finally. 

A reason. 

“Thank you.” I catch her wrist, snap a cuff on it. Before she can pull away, I close the other cuff around a nearby branch. “Mayweather, you are not to leave this spot. You are not contaminating this crime scene. And you are sure as shit not driving a stick through what remains of that kid’s heart.”

“Please let me help you.” She struggles against the restraint, reaching out to me with her free hand. 

I step swiftly out of range. “Do us both a favor and shut up.”

“Sheriff.” Her expression is impressive. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was an ancient witch desperate to protect my deputies from a curse. But witches aren’t real, and some liars are more skilled than others. “You cannot touch that body without protection. You have no idea what you’re inviting in.”

“I know who I’m not inviting,” I say. “You.” 

I return to the body. 

“What can you tell me, Doc?” I ask. 

“Too much. And not enough.” Doc Keller looks pale. He mops his brow with a handkerchief. “I will need to examine the body properly to tell you anything more than you already know.” 

“No!” Mayweather cries from behind us. “Do not touch it without protection!”

“Young lady, do be calm,” the doc’s tone is stern, the kind he uses when small children refuse to take their medicine. “You have to do what the sheriff says. I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive.”

“I very much doubt that,” she retorts, voice dry.

“Stop it.” I jab a finger at her in warning. “You are not an old-timey witch. You have not been doing anything for over a century.” I shift my attention to the doc. “Go ahead, Doc. I’ve made my own assessment, but I still need to hear yours.”

“Very well.” Doc clears his throat and gestures at the body. “The victim looks to be Pete Yarrow’s younger kid, Benson. Heard the boy was running wild with a few others this year, the group of them connected to petty crimes—some vandalism, shoplifting and such. Nothing like this.  I’ll need dental to confirm.” He scratches his head and sighs. “The boy  has been dead for at least 12 hours. Possibly longer. I can tell you he died slowly. The pain must have been excruciating. No efforts were made to muffle his cries.”

“Yeah.” I cross my arms. “That matches what I thought. We’re far enough outside town to limit the chances of being overheard, but sound can carry in these hills. It’s possible someone would have caught wind—except the county fair was going full steam in town square. Lot’s of noise to provide cover.”

“And people were too distracted by rides and games to notice,” Doc says. 

That kind of timing speaks to planning, and I don’t like it one bit. 

I lift my hat, run my fingers through my hair. “Even without moving the body, I can see the rock beneath is cracked.”

“And multiple bones are visibly broken,” Doc adds. “There was… a substantial measure of force brought to bear on this poor boy. It’s impossible to say which injury was the fatal blow without a proper examination. I need to put on my gloves and do my job.” 

“Doc…”

He pats my shoulder. “I know I’m not an experienced investigator, but I am a doctor who has served this county for the better part of five decades. I’ve seen things, son. Let me do my job.”

“Shit.” I sigh. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Doc. It’s—”

“It’s that it’s not safe!” The handcuff on Mayweather rattles against the branch. “Sheriff. Doctor. It is vital that you and your people guard yourselves against the darkness this death has called forth.”

“Uh.” Les sends a nervous glance at her. “Like what?”

“Take basic precautions,” Mayweather says. “Burn some sage and make sure the smoke touches every part of you. Then shower, being careful to scrub yourself down with salt—soap with dried thyme and coarse salt would be best.”

I’m shocked into temporary silence as my deputy takes out his notebook and asks, “Table salt?”

“Table? No.” Mayweather shakes her head. “Sea salt is best, but rock will do.”

“Rock salt…” Les scribbles notes on his pad as if he’s talking to an actual expert.

“For the love of…” I put my hand over Les’ notebook. “You are not taking notes from a con artist half-dressed in historical cosplay. If you want a salt bath, just roll around in the ditch. There’s still enough salt  from the roads to pickle you.”

I turn around to glare at Mayweather. “And I told you to shut up.”

If the timeline didn’t make it impossible for her to have killed this boy, I’d assume my errant witch was in this mess up to the top of her borrowed hat. Maybe I should assume it anyway—she’s lying and she’s holding something on the McCreedy family. Except as hard as I try, I can’t see her as a killer. 

Liar? Sure.

But at least part of her concern is real—no one is capable of sounding that alarmed without a shred of it being true. Still. She’s here, and she knows something. Is she protecting someone? Is that why she’s so desperate to keep us from examining the body? Or is she in over her head and running scared?

Whatever the reason, I need to start thinking like a cop. 

I walk over to her. “Tell me what you know.”

She blinks up at me, surprise evident in her smokey green eyes. “About the spell feeding off this death?”

“No…” I suck in a breath. “Sure. Fine. Tell me about the spell.”

“I—” She visibly pulls herself together. “Very well. Much like your good doctor, there is much I cannot know without a closer look. But I can tell you that this boy’s life was sacrificed to dark powers, and that the circle he lies upon, the one painted in blood, marks a portal for those powers. Such portals act as infectious. All who come into contact with the source become vulnerable to the forces at work. Which is why protection is vital—”

“Hold on.” I catch the sound of another approaching vehicle. A tribal police vehicle rolls into view and a fragile hope forms in my chest. “Stay put, Mayweather. And let’s both hope your act is about to be made redundant.”

She hisses. “Sheriff, I am not acting—”

“Hush.” I put my back to her and stride quickly down the trail, reaching the vehicle as Police Chief Morning Star exits. Her long dark braid is threaded with silver. Her black cowboy hat has feathers on the side of the leather band and a small beaded disc with the symbol of the tribal police at the front. 

“Chief.” I give a respectful nod. “Glad you made it. Little surprised you did, to be honest.”

“Goodnight.” She joins me, glances down the trail at our body. “Damn, son.”

“ Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “It’s a bad scene.”

“It is that, Goodnight.” She shakes her head. “Wish I could help.”

“Wait.” I frown at her. “You wish… what are you doing here, if it’s not answering my call for help?”

“I’m telling you I can’t in person,” she says. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Chief…” I struggle for understanding. “The right thing to do is work with me. Help me. I know the nation has their own problems right now, but your lands are too close not to feel this. My team hasn’t faced anything like this. The state police have yanked any help—including the coroner. The FBI or whatever alphabet-soup they’re being called this week has declared we’ve been taken in by a hoax. But that—” I point angrily at the body splayed on the rocks. “—is no hoax.”

The chief lets out a long breath. “No. It ain’t.”

She motions with her hand, sketching some kind of symbol in the air. The gesture is fast, practiced. If she was Catholic, I’d think she sketched a cross to ward herself from bad energy. As it is, I’m not going to ask. 

“Chief.” I try to keep my voice level. “I’ve got two junior deputies who’ve never dealt with anything more gruesome than a wife shooting her cheating spouse in the ass, and a senior deputy whose biggest case was busting a drug trafficking ring after a bunch of people got beat to hell at a bar. Two died and it was bloody—and nothing even close to this. Oh, and handcuffed to that tree is a con artist claiming to be the Mayweather McCreedy who cursed the town in the 1880s. Apparently she’s going to save us with sage and a stick.”

She whistles. 

“Exactly. It’s a shit show.” I meet her gaze. “Please, Chief.”

Her lips form a flat line and her shoulders slump. “I wish I could, Jack. Honest. You’ve been good to me. You offer help, you don’t take over and you respect tribal rights. But we’ve got our hands full. People are scared. Too many threats of invasion are wafting up from DC—the worst of your politicians are getting their followers riled up, threatening to retake “their” land.” She takes off her hat and runs a hand over her head, jams it back on. “We’re hanging on. We’ll get through this. But none of my people will forgive me if I pull any of our limited resources and give them to you.”

“Fuck.” I wish I could be angry with her, but it feels like we’re all up shit creek right now. “I get it.”

“I’m sorry, son,” she says softly. “I wish it were otherwise.”

“Me too.” I rock back on my heels, shove my hands in my pockets. “Since you’re here, can you tell me you’ve seen anything like this?”

She gives a quick shake of her head. “Never seen anything like this. Nearest I’ve ever heard is tales some of the elders tell of the wendigo.” She sends me a steely look. “No mocking or bullshit when I ask this: have any parts of that poor soul been eaten?”

My eyebrows lift. “Uh… it doesn’t look like it.”

“Alright,” she says. “That’s good. Still…”

“Still?” I prompt.

She regards me for a moment, chin jutted, eyes steady. “I know you’re not the type to believe in things. But I’m going to suggest you start. Because that kind of dark shit?” She gestures toward the body. “That kind of darkness leaves a mark. Watch yourself—and your people.”

“I always take care of my people.” I choose to ignore the part about belief and walk her back to her car. I open her door and hold out my hand. “Thanks for coming, Chief. For having the decency to say no to my face.”

“Wish it were otherwise, but it’s not.” She shakes my hand. “Good luck, Goodnight. I hope this isn’t anything near what it looks like.” She gets into the driver’s seat, fires up the engine and starts to pull away. Then the car stops and she leans out the window. “The  kind of darkness spread across those rocks? If it is what it looks like, I reckon you can do worse than have a witch at your back.”

I swallow back a curse. “Thanks, Chief.”

I stand there and watch as she drives away. 

It’s official: No help is coming. Well, no help I can use. 

Drawing in a deep breath, I prepare myself to do what needs to be done. I check in with my deputies and give Doc Keller permission to perform an examination of the body. I tap Les to help the doc with the gurney—because there’s no chance that Long or Hoffman will be able to handle that. At least I’ve finally got them bagging evidence. It keeps them occupied while I help the doc ease the body off the rocks. 

It’s grim work. There’s nothing that leaves you more hollow than placing the broken body of a kid in a black bag. 

My stomach is churning by the time we’re finished.

The doc heads into town, but my work here isn’t done. 

Slowly, I turn to face Mayweather. The so-called witch hasn’t said a word since the chief left. She simply stood there, handcuffed to a tree, watching as we carried our work. After feeling those shattered bones shifting with the remains of the kid’s chest, I wish witches were real. Because I’d beg her help. 

It infuriates me that I want to do that anyway. That I want to uncuff her from the tree and bring her over to the station basement, to where the doc is examining the body. That I want her to be able to explain what the hell happened to that poor boy on this rock. But witches aren’t real—and all too often death doesn’t have any good answers. 

As for con artists? 

They always have information. 

I figure it’s time my witch shares what she knows—real information, not whatever fairytale she’s spinning. Maybe it’s connected to this death, maybe it’s not. Once I have the full story, I’ll know what to do with it. 

I walk over to her and unlock the cuff from the branch. “Alright, Mayweather McCreedy. You want help? Great. Me, too. We’re going to the station. When we get there, you’re going to drop the act and answer every one of my questions.”