Night Shift (3 page)

“Dad has the onset of Alzheimer’s,” Kiki said.

Fiji could only stare at her sister. “Mom didn’t think she needed to tell me? And you didn’t call to tell me?” she said, without any inflection.

Kiki pursed her lips. “I’m telling you now. This is pretty new. I stop by their house maybe twice a week, and I didn’t notice anything wrong for a long time. He was absentminded about things—but he didn’t do any one thing that scared me. It was just like, ‘Where’d I put my car keys? Where’d I leave my phone?’ Stuff like that.” She looked around the shop as if she were appreciating Fiji’s arrangements, but Fiji knew better. “Then one day he called me from the hardware store. He couldn’t remember how to get home.”

“But he could remember how to call you?” Fiji groped to understand.

“He liked my picture by my phone number, so he hit that one.” Kiki shook her head. “Could have been much worse.”

“That must have been really scary. For him. For you.”

Kiki nodded. “No shit.”

“So you decided to come here upon the breakup of your marriage, instead of Mom’s?”

“Yes,” Kiki said firmly. “You know she’s always hated Marty, and I couldn’t stand to listen to her gloat. Plus, helping her with Dad is really stressful. I need to unwind, not get more tense.”

Since Fiji had no intention of going home to help her mother take care of her dad, she hardly had the moral high ground, she realized. “I can understand that,” Fiji said. And she did. But Fiji also knew there was more that Waikiki Cavanaugh Ransom had to tell her, and she supposed sooner or later she would have to hear it. She could hardly tell Kiki to turn around and drive back to Houston, though for a moment that seemed like a delightful possibility. But the bond of family prevailed, somewhat to the new Fiji’s disappointment.

“Well, then, the guest bedroom is just back here,” Fiji said. “I’m sure you remember.” When the family had visited her mother’s aunt, of course Kiki had come, too. “There’s not that much house to remember.”

Fiji walked down the little hall. The bathroom was on her left, her own bedroom was on her right, and the guest room was after the bathroom on the left, across from the kitchen. It was a small room, but now it was a real guest bedroom since she’d bought a shed for the backyard.

Bobo had helped her put it up. Well, Bobo had put it up, with assistance from her and Diederik and a few hours of skilled labor provided by Teacher Reed. The happy memory turned sour in a second, now that she knew she would always be a buddy, never a lover. Fiji pushed back the wave of misery. She would not show weakness in front of her sister.

The bed was single and covered with a bright patchwork quilt. There was a red bedside table holding a lamp and a box of tissues. Otherwise, the room now contained only a narrow chest of drawers (purchased from the pawnshop) and a narrow wardrobe (likewise).

Kiki looked around her, her lips pressed tight together. It didn’t take a mind reader to tell that Kiki had a low opinion of these accommodations.

Fiji let that roll off her back.

“Okay, I’ll go get my suitcase,” Kiki said. She jerked her thumb down the hall. “That’s the only bathroom?”

“Yes. I know it’s not what you’re used to, but we’re lucky Aunt Mildred put one in. She used to have an outhouse.”

“Ew.” Kiki’s disgusted face was enough reply. She pivoted to go to her car out front.

“You can move your car back behind the house with mine,” Fiji called after her sister. When Kiki was out the door, she sat in the chair behind the counter and put her head in her hands. Ordinarily, she’d be calling Bobo to tell him the big news—a family member had actually come to see her. But of course she could not do that. She thought of telling Manfred, but somehow that didn’t suit her mood, either.

My sister is here and there’s more to that story for sure, my dad’s mind is disintegrating, and I just broke off emotionally from the guy I’ve loved for three years. So what else can happen today?
Fiji asked herself.

The bell on the door tinkled as it opened, and Fiji stood up to see an actual customer coming in. “Hi,” she said, hoping she sounded passably sane. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you have any ceremonial daggers? I’m not sure how to pronounce them. Athames?” The middle-aged woman peered around the shop as if one would materialize in front of her. She looked faintly familiar.

Fiji looked at the woman more closely, wondering where she could have encountered her new customer. Fiji would never have pegged this woman for a serious practitioner. On the short and stubby side, she had a graying perm with a severe, almost militant, curl to it. Bright pink lipstick was her only makeup. Her clothes were strictly Chico’s, and her sandals were something good but practical, like SAS.

“Don’t I know you?” Fiji said.

The customer looked up reluctantly. “Maybe,” she answered vaguely, and looked around the shop again. Fiji began to get the feeling something was distinctly off about this woman. This had been a day for encounters that weren’t what she’d expected, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock.

“I have a few athames,” Fiji said. “I keep them here inside this counter, if you’d care to come look.”

The woman approached, and Fiji pointed through the glass of the countertop. There were seven or eight athames on display, of different types, sizes, and styles. The newcomer peered down, apparently fascinated by the blades. Fiji was ready to tell her the different materials used in carving the handles, but the woman didn’t ask a single question. The bone one was plain and simple, a steel one had designs chased all the way down the blade, another had a wicked and practical look, another was modeled on a Scottish sgian dhu.

While the customer looked at the display, Fiji looked at the customer. She was convinced she’d seen her before.

“Athames have very specific usages,” Fiji offered, to break the silence. “Would you like me to explain?”

But the woman shook her head. “I want that one,” the customer said after another moment of contemplation. She pointed to the sharpest one, made of stainless steel—the most utilitarian-looking of the bunch, and the only blade that looked as though it could do real damage. Athames didn’t have to be sharp; they were meant to direct energy. Some witches did use their athames as daily tools, on the theory that usage gave the blades power—but most were strictly ceremonial, like Fiji’s, which she kept locked away.

“So when are you going to use it?” Fiji asked directly, though she took care to smile as she did so.

The woman looked blank. “Oh, you know . . . I’ll take it when my coven meets,” she said finally.

Wrong answer. Usually, only the priestess used an athame during a coven ritual. And if this woman was a priestess, Fiji was a hole in the ground.

Fiji had never faced a problem like this before.
Wouldn’t you know it would be today,
she thought bitterly.

“You have a coven?” she asked, trying to sound as nonconfrontational as she possibly could. “I’ve never heard of one around here. That’s so interesting.”

“Oh, yes,” the woman said vaguely. “You’d be surprised.”

I certainly would,
Fiji thought.
But what’s the harm?
After all, it wasn’t like this woman couldn’t go into any Walmart or hunting store and purchase a knife even longer and sharper, right?

So Fiji extracted the athame, let the woman examine it more closely—which she did, but not as if she really understood what she was seeing—and then took the woman’s proffered cash.

While the woman’s billfold was open, Fiji caught a glimpse of her driver’s license. She was hoping for enlightenment, but the name Francine Owens was unfamiliar. Fiji was still cudgeling her memory for where she’d seen the woman before as she dropped the receipt and the knife into a bag. Fiji felt an overwhelming wrongness emanating from this customer. But she had no evidence, no proof, no information.

“Have you ever come to the class I hold on Thursday nights?” Fiji asked.

“What?” The woman stared at her, bewildered. “Maybe the first one you ever had,” she said, after a significant pause.

“Then I’m glad you returned to visit the store. Enjoy your purchase,” Fiji said automatically, and as Francine Owens walked out of the store Fiji heard Kiki coming out to stand by her.

“Customer, huh?” Kiki sounded unmistakably surprised.

“Yep,” Fiji said, barely aware of speaking. She went to the front door without knowing what she was going to do, and she opened it just as, across Witch Light Road, Manfred Bernardo whipped open the front door of his house and began to run . . . toward Francine Owens, who was walking toward the intersection with her shoulders braced back and a ground-eating walk that seemed close to marching. She’d discarded the bag, which was bouncing east with the wind. The bare knife was in Francine Owens’s hand.

Fiji began running, too. Manfred had had a good head start, and before Fiji could reach the woman, he launched himself from the pavement to tackle Francine Owens just as she would have sunk the knife into her own abdomen. The north/south light had turned green, but thank the goddess, there were no cars coming from either direction.

Fiji reached the struggling couple within seconds. Francine Owens was fighting Manfred. She was a hefty woman and Manfred was a slight man. Fiji landed on her knees beside them. She performed the spell at which she excelled. She froze Francine Owens.

“God almighty,” said Manfred, rolling off the woman. “Thanks, Feej.” He sat back, panting.

“Don’t thank me, it’s my fault,” she said, her voice coming in jerks as she caught her breath. Fiji looked down at what she’d done. Owens was still and her eyes were open, and she was fixed in the position she’d been in when Fiji had cast the spell. Her right hand was up to slap the side of Manfred’s head, and her left hand had been gripping the athame, perhaps to bring it up to use on him.

Or herself.

“Thank you,” Fiji said. “Thank you, Manfred. So much. For stopping her.”

“She came out of your shop?” He was paler than ever, and his silver piercings glinted in the sun. She could see the black roots on his platinum hair.

“Yes, she bought the athame,” Fiji said. “The knife. But . . .” Fiji had to gasp in a huge lungful of air before she could continue. “But it seemed so strange that she was buying one, and she didn’t seem to know what she was doing. So.” Another heave of her chest. “I watched her, but you got it first.”

“I had a twitch on the thread,” he said, and after a second, she understood. Manfred had a strong psychic ability, which was unreliable but undeniable. He’d felt that he had to prevent a disaster, and he’d obeyed his instinct. “This woman coming up behind you must be your sister?” he said. “There’s a resemblance.”

“Damn, forgot about her,” Fiji said. “Brace yourself.”

“What the
hell
?” said Kiki, from behind Fiji’s back.

“Manfred Bernardo, this is my sister Waikiki Ransom,” Fiji said. “Mostly known as Kiki.”

“Your parents had a thing about islands and beaches,” he said.

“I’m lucky I wasn’t named Capri,” Kiki said. “So, what happened to the crazy woman? Didn’t look like she got hit, thanks to Speedy Gonzales here, so what’s up with her?”

“Your sister put a spell on her,” Manfred said, pushing slowly to his feet. “If this lasts as long as the last time she used this one, the woman will be out for maybe five more minutes. So what do we do with her?”

Fiji stood, too, with considerably more effort. She glanced up at the window of the pawnshop to see Bobo staring out at them. He opened his hands, wordlessly asking if he should come help.

The last thing Fiji wanted was another encounter with him. She shook her head vehemently.

“Oooooh, who’s that?” asked Kiki. “He’s cute!”

Fiji stood and turned to face her sister. “Don’t go there,” she said, in a deadly voice. “Just. Don’t. Go there.”

Kiki nodded, her eyes wide. She took a step back.

“Manfred,” Fiji said, wheeling back to the psychic. She wanted to make it clear the subject had changed. “We need to get this lady in her car and get her out of town. Lest she wake up and try to kill herself all over again.”

“So you think this was a deliberate . . . ?”

“Sure,” Fiji said. “In the next few seconds she would’ve stabbed herself right at the intersection. With the knife she bought from me. Dammit.”

Kiki said, “I guess you’re going to explain this to me later?”

Grimly, Fiji said, “I guess I will.”

“Seems like all we do is haul unconscious women around,” Manfred said, getting to his feet. “This is beginning to seem weird.”

“I agree,” Fiji said. “But I don’t know what else we can do. Wait . . . let’s get her into the shop!”

Diederik made a timely appearance just then. If Kiki had been smitten with lust at the sight of Bobo, Diederik made her mouth fall open. But even Kiki had to be mindful of how young Diederik was, though she could never have guessed quite how young. Diederik said, “Miss Fiji, can I be of help?”

“Yes, you certainly can,” she said. “We’re going to pull this lady upright and see if we can get her into my place. I’m hoping she can wake up there naturally.”

It took the three of them (Kiki stood a distance away and offered verbal supervision) to get poor Francine Owens in an upright position. They managed to sort of lift her and move her a few feet, then a few more, until they got her up the porch steps and into The Inquiring Mind.

“Shall we just lay her on the floor?” Diederik said brightly.

“Yeah, I think so.” Fiji got a cushion from one of the chairs and put it under Ms. Owens’s head, and put a light throw over her legs. “Now she looks cared for,” she said, checking the effect. “Kiki, would you get a glass of water?” Fiji had chased down the store bag with the receipt still in it, and now she placed it and the athame behind the counter where they could not be seen. She put the purchase price of the athame back in Francine Owens’s purse.

Fiji was actually a little surprised when Kiki returned with the water. But she accepted the glass without comment, and when Francine opened her eyes, Fiji was squatting beside her looking solicitous.

“Oh my goodness,” Francine Owens said. “What happened?”