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Neighborhood Witch

David Vierling

David Vierling wanted to be either a mad scientist or a paperback writer if he grew up. But he's not quite there yet, so he's settling for having built a solar-power array on his home and writing in his spare time. Dave is married, has three children, and works for the IRS to pay the bills. "It's good to have a friend at the IRS," he reminds people . . . leaving it to them to decide if that's a veiled threat. For more information on David's writing, including how to design and build your own home solar power system, see www.davidvierling.com.

 

Tommy pounded on the door. A woman opened it, eyeing the red-bearded, bear-like man in the flannel shirt. "May I help you, sir?" she asked.

"Afternoon, ma'am," said Tommy. "Is your husband home?"

Before she had time to reply, a man's voice called from behind her, "Okay, then, can I help you?"

Tommy held his hand out past the woman and said, "I'm Tommy. I'm sort of an unofficial welcoming committee."

"I'm Ansel," said the man inside the house, shaking hands with Tommy.

Tommy said, "Seein' as you're new to the neighborhood, we wanted to invite you over for a barbeque this afternoon. Sort of a guys-only thing." He glanced briefly at the woman, "You understand."

She shrugged and headed toward the kitchen. Ansel glanced toward the kitchen and said, "I'm kind of busy this afternoon . . ."

"Aw, come on, grow a pair!" said Tommy. "You wouldn't want your new neighbors to think you're whipped, would ya?"

"I guess I could break free for a little while," said Ansel, looking at his shoes.

"There's the spirit!" said Tommy, slapping Ansel on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "Seven thirty-three Herne's Lane, around three o'clock. See you then!" He turned on his heel and Ansel watched him head back down the walkway. As Tommy reached the street he crossed paths with a tall brunette woman dressed all in black. She sneered at him as she passed, then she stalked along the slate walkway to the house like a cat sizing up a mouse.

"Yes?" said Ansel as the woman strode up to the porch.

"I will speak to the Lady of the House," said the woman imperiously. She dripped silver jewelry, Ansel noticed.

"Hey Retta!" he shouted in the direction of the kitchen. "There's someone here for you." Addressing the visitor, he asked, "Would you like to come in?"

Without a word, the woman crossed the threshold but came no further into the house. Retta emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a small towel, which she tossed over her shoulder. "Yes?"

The tall woman eyed Retta for a moment and then extended her be-ringed hand. "I am Jade." Her nostrils flared a little when she spoke.

"Retta," she shook Jade's outstretched hand, setting off a sympathetic chime from the woman's bangle-bracelets.

Jade spoke as if she hadn't heard her. "Many of the Ladies of the neighborhood will gather this afternoon for Tea. They wish to meet you. Join us at three o'clock. Nine twenty-six Moonstone Place. Until then?" She held out her hand again.

"Um . . . okay," said Retta. Jangle. Jade stalked away.

Retta closed the door. "That was Jade," she explained.

"I noticed. High tea, huh?"

Retta shrugged. "Wouldn't want the new neighbors to think I'm whipped, would I?"

Shaking his head and laughing, Ansel said, "I've got a bad feeling about this neighborhood."

"You've said that every time we've moved. It's not like we're staying here forever."

"Yeah, that's what you always say."

A knock on the door interrupted them.

They opened the door to find a man and a woman standing on the porch. "Hi!" said the woman brightly. "You must be Mister and Missus Cutter!"

"We're the Cutters," said Ansel. "And you are . . . ?"

"I'm Vicki, and this is Dion," the woman said. "We're sort of the unofficial welcoming committee for the neighborhood. Would you be able to join us for an hour or so this afternoon, say . . ."

"Around," interrupted Retta.

"Three?" hazarded Ansel.

"We were going to suggest four," said Dion.

"Sure," the invitees chorused.

"Unity Court, Number Two," said Vicki. "See you then!"

Ansel shut the door. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That having somewhere to go at four o'clock might not be a bad thing?"

"Right there with you."

 

Three o'clock: The door opened before Retta's knock could land. "You must be Retta!" enthused a skinny man with a head of wooly hair, wearing a black pullover and black jeans. He reminded Retta of a hobbit with a gland condition. "I'm Jazz. Everyone's in the parlor." Jazz wrapped his well-manicured hand around her arm and guided her down the hall. "Everyone! Retta's here!"

In the parlor, Retta found herself surrounded by whispering women wearing Too Much Black; black Indian cotton, black gauze, black lace, black spandex on hips and legs which should not be seen in spandex. And all of it set off with silver and crystals: rings, bracelets, amulets, anklets, nose-rings, earrings, pendants. The place sounded like a wind-chime factory.

An estrogen tsunami engulfed Retta, who found herself fielding questions faster than she could answer: "So, you're a software programmer! Does that pay well?" "Are you sure your contract is only for two years? Such a shame, to meet a new friend like you and know you'll be moving on so soon!" "Would you like some chamomile tea?" (This last came from Jazz, who floated through the group touching and petting everyone and serving hors d'oeuvres.)

While Jazz was out of the room replenishing his serving tray, Retta asked quietly, "Is he a servant of some sort?"

"Jazz is a man who knows his place," said Jade, who had not spoken until now. The buzz of overlapping conversations ceased; even the bangle-bracelet jangle dropped by 20 decibels or so. "Men need to know their place, Retta. For too long, the Earth-mother has languished in the suffocating grip of man. I asked you here to discuss this with us . . ."

 

Also three o'clock: Ansel eyed the iron-bound oak door at seven thirty-three Herne's Lane, unsure if he could lift the enormous horned-stag knocker. It looked as if someone shot a deer, dipped its head in bronze, and stuck it to the door. He rapped with his knuckles instead.

The door opened; out rolled a haze of cigar smoke. "Hey Ansel," said Tommy. "Let me introduce you to some of the boys. The big guy is Randy, the bald guy is Vic, and the skinny guy is James . . ."

Waving from the doorway, Ansel said, "I'll apologize up front . . . I'm terrible with names." As his watering eyes adjusted to the stogie smog, he saw that the door opened into a great room, sort of a combined living room/rec room/Addams Family room—it was decorated mostly in dead animals. The heads and horned skulls of antelope and deer adorned the walls, stuffed black bears flanked the huge stone fireplace, above which hung the skull of a cape buffalo. About a dozen men sat or stood around the room.

"You hunt?" asked Randy, shoving a beer into Ansel's hand.

"Sort of," said Ansel. Several of the men looked at him with expectation, perhaps even a touch of excitement. "I'm a nature photographer, so my work involves most of the same skills and techniques as a hunter . . ."

" 'Cept for all the important parts, like the killin', the skinnin', and the eatin'," said Randy.

"Now Randy, don't be putting down our new friend," said Tommy. "I remember when you moved here, you'd never even touched a gun or a bow. At least Ansel gets out in the woods sometimes, even if he doesn't know the real reason why!" Tommy draped a heavy arm across Ansel's shoulders. "See, buddy, that's the problem with today's world. Men aren't allowed to be MEN. The male of the species is designed to fight and hunt. We're genetically programmed for it! But in the modern world, women have taken over and forced us to bury those basic parts of being a man . . ."

 

Four o'clock: Ansel rang the bell at Number Two Unity Court. From the back yard came a shout, "Come 'round back! Your wife's already here!"

The gate in the high wooden fence stood open. He spotted Retta by the outdoor hot-tub and gave her a hug. "You stink," she said observationally.

"Yeah, I don't know if I'll ever be able to get the cigar-stench out of this sweater," he replied. "I think I'll just burn it."

"Shave your head, too," Retta added helpfully. "It's the only way to be sure."

They met 10 or 15 couples, but with the way their days had gone, all the names began to run together. Come to mention it, all the couples seemed to run together, too. There was a lot of hugging, handholding, and open-mouth kissing going on, and not just between pairs who had been introduced as husband and wife.

"You're name's Ansel? And you're a photographer? Like Ansel Adams?" asked a pert blonde, sandwiched between two men who weren't her husband, one arm around each man's waist.

"Yes, like Ansel Adams . . . only not as good."

"You're just not as famous, dear!" said Retta. "He's so modest. He's really very good. You should drop by and see some of his pictures."

"I'd love to!" enthused the blonde, making Retta immediately regret issuing the insincere invitation. "You bought that two-bedroom stucco cottage on Oak Street, right? The one with the candycane lamppost?"

"I hate that tacky lamppost," said Ansel. "I want to repaint it, but Retta likes it."

"We bought the house over the Internet based on a picture—I think it's charming!" said Retta, smacking Ansel lightly on the arm. "My company only gave me a few weeks' warning before sending me on this job, so we really lucked into the house. It was like magic!"

"Magic . . . fate . . . kismet . . . karma," said Dion, the man who had accompanied Vicki to their house. "Call it what you will, but this neighborhood is truly charmed. It's the center of ley lines from all over this part of the country, attracting people who are sensitive to such forces, focusing all sorts of cosmic energy . . ."

"And human energy," said Vicki, linking her arm through Dion's. "That's the secret to tapping into and channeling the full magical potential of this area. Taking control of that energy through the yin and yang, the sun and moon, the maiden and the man . . ."

 

Five o'clock: Ansel closed the door, locked it, and shoved a kitchen chair under the knob for good measure.

Laughing, Retta said, "Aren't you being a little melodramatic?"

"Not in the least. I'd hang garlic and wolfbane on the door if I had any."

"We have some minced garlic in the fridge," said Retta helpfully. "You could smear that on the door. It might help cover the stench of your sweater."

Ansel peeled off the sweater, opened a window, and tossed it outside. "I told you I've got a bad feeling about this neighborhood."

 

Robes clutched against the pre-dawn chill, the Cutters joined the stream of people jog-trotting down the street toward the flashing red lights. A passing ambulance did a Red Sea number on the crowd, then pulled up alongside the fire and police vehicles at Number Two Unity Court. Hoses ran from the hydrant to the back yard; a pall of steam and smoke hung over the cul-de-sac.

Retta spotted Jazz and asked, "What happened?"

"Someone piled brush around the hot tub and boiled Dion and Vicki," Jazz said. On his face he wore the same cross of smugness and subservience she had seen at Jade's house; on his feet he wore bunny slippers.

"Dion and Vicki?" said Ansel. "We just met them a couple days ago! They seemed like a nice couple. Who found them?"

"Vicki's husband," said Jazz. "The light from the fire woke him, but by then it was too late."

Vicki's Husband. The Cutters let that sink in for a minute. Then Retta asked, "Why didn't they get out of the tub?"

"From what the firemen said, it looked like somebody had tied them up before they lit the fire." He scuffed at a rock, bunny-slipper ears flapping. "I guess all that 'balanced energy' mumbo-jumbo doesn't help you much if someone clubs you in the head while you're going at it." Spotting Jade over the crowd, Jazz slunk off for a huddled conversation with her.

 

POUND. POUND. POUND. Ansel opened the door. "Tommy! Who'd of thought it was you!" he said, noting that the paint had flaked where Tommy had beaten on the door.

"Somebody killed Randy," said Tommy. "A power company guy found his body this morning, up where the high-tension lines cross through the park. The cop said it looks like he was bow-hunting and someone zapped him with a taser."

"A taser?" said Ansel. "Like a stun-gun taser? That shouldn't kill someone."

Tommy shook his head. "Not unless you drop a live high-tension wire on them while they're stunned. Fried him to a crisp."

Retta shuddered. "That's three murders in less than a week."

"Thanks for letting us know," said Ansel. "We'll be on the lookout for anyone acting suspicious." He reached for the door.

"Just a minute," said Tommy, reaching for something propped next to the door, out of the Cutters' line of sight. "With a killer loose, I thought you might want this." He held up a double-barrel shotgun, offering it to Ansel. "You said you don't own a gun."

Ansel said, "I wouldn't know how to use it . . ."

"We'll figure out how to use it," interrupted Retta, taking the gun from Tommy and shoving it into Ansel's hands. "Our house backs up onto that park."

Tommy dug into his coat pocket and handed over a box of shells. "Doesn't work so well without these."

"Thanks, Tommy," said Ansel, closing the door and propping the shotgun and the box of shells next to it. He faced Retta. "You know what I'm going to say."

"So don't say it."

 

Dropping her laptop case next to the door, Retta called, "I'm home!"

Ansel came out of the basement darkroom. "The police were just here. There was a murder last night. Your buddy Jazz."

"Last night?!" said Retta, her face going pale. "What happened to him?"

"Somebody slit his throat. Killed him in his bed."

Retta gasped. "Do the police have any leads?"

"I don't think so. They're going door to door notifying the neighborhood."

She hugged him. "Will we be next?"

Ansel hugged her back and smoothed her hair. "Given the cliques we've seen around here, I wonder if it was a revenge killing—someone from one clique dies; they suspect another group and kill one of theirs. Jazz didn't seem particularly sympathetic when Dion and Vicki were killed."

Retta nodded. "Borderline gleeful is the term I'd use. All right, it's time we did something to protect ourselves." She pulled out her laptop, hooked it to the printer, and turned them on.

* * *

"I thought we'd get a bigger turnout," Retta whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"It's like I said before; with all the cliques in this neighborhood, I don't think anybody trusts anybody else enough," Ansel answered, also sotto voce.

Maybe 20 people had shown up in response to the posters plastered on power poles by Retta:

 

TAKE BACK THE NIGHT!
DON'T BE THE NEXT VICTIM!
NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH
ORGANIZATIONAL MEETING
8 PM MONDAY
ASH STREET REC CENTER

 

Retta stood and cleared her throat. "I'd like to thank everyone for coming tonight. We have sign-up sheets for shifts patrolling the neighborhood, and I bought whistles for everyone to use in case you see something that looks fishy." She looked over the pitiful turnout. "Hopefully we'll get more people signing up later in the week."

As people queued up for shifts and whistles, Retta sought out Jade, who stood in the back near the cloak room. "I'm glad to see you came," Retta said, "After what happened to your friend Jazz, we need to take every precaution."

"I am taking every precaution against the violence brought by men," said Jade. "I only came here to see if that," she pointed a long-nailed finger at Tommy, "crawled out of its cave to be here." She widened her eyes and flared her nostrils (reminding Retta momentarily of a frilled lizard) as she leaned in close and whispered, "Do not trust that one alone with you or with any woman. Or with any man for that matter. I will warn the other women as well." With a toss of her long, dark hair, she glided away toward a small knot of women who had already signed up for shifts.

"And that was about . . . ?" asked Ansel, sliding up to Retta in imitation of Jade's haughty locomotion.

"Warning the women to stay clear of your hunting buddy Tommy," Retta replied. "She indicated he is bad juju."

"A lot of people say that about their ex-husbands," Ansel observed.

"Ex?"

"Uh-huh. His buddy Vic mentioned it."

"So many things are so much clearer now."

 

The Neighborhood Watch program had little effect. "Little effect" in the sense of "no positive effect." Four more people died in the next nine days: one smothered; one drowned in her bathtub (drowned with white wine, no less); two stabbed with barbeque skewers, from in front, through the heart. The last two were members of the Neighborhood Watch, on patrol, prompting the police to "insist on an immediate cessation of Neighborhood Watch activities."

Things stayed quiet for a few days. Then on Thursday Ansel came up from the basement darkroom and was startled to find Jade coming through the front door, a crystal-tipped wooden wand in her hand. "How did you get in?" he demanded. "That door was locked!"

"SILENCE, MAN!" Jade commanded, gesturing with the wand. Suddenly, Ansel's throat felt pinched, so parched he couldn't make a sound.

He tried to shove past her, reaching for the shotgun which still sat propped beside the door, but Jade touched his chest with the wand and Ansel was slammed back onto the couch. When he tried to move, he felt as though his arms and legs were bound.

Jade smirked, enjoying the situation. "I know who you are—my Aunt in the old country heard about what is happening here and called to warn me about you two." The wand moved again. "You may speak if you wish."

"What's there to say?" said Ansel, eyeing the open door. "I should have known that locks would do no good against your kind."

"MY kind?! From you?!" Ansel was treated to the frilled-lizard thing with the eyes and nostrils, which looked even more impressive with Jade towering over him as he looked, helpless, straight up her nose. "I should expect such insolence from a cold-blooded killer."

"If you know who we are, you know we didn't start it."

"It does not matter to me how it got started; today, it ends." Jade put her hands on her hips, the wand still clasped in one be-ringed fist. "We will wait here until your wife gets home, and I'll have my revenge on you for killing Jazz . . ."

"Couple corrections, sweetheart. One, we didn't kill Jazz. I figure it was Tommy or one of his coven who did that. Worried the hell out of Retta when it happened—she thought we might be next. But I told her the competition would help keep suspicion off of us. Two, Retta's not my wife, although we have the same last name. And—I guess this makes three corrections—she's already home." The shotgun butt slammed into Jade's head. She went down like a raven smacking into a plate-glass window.

Retta kicked the wand away with her toe, then winked at Ansel. "See? I told you we'd figure out how to use this gun. But your buddy Tommy was wrong—it works just fine without shells."

Freed from the binding spell when Retta butted Jade's head, Ansel started rubbing life back into his arms and legs. "I told you I had a bad feeling about this neighborhood," he said.

"Yes, yes. So you said. Now help me take care of the body and let's get out of here."

 

The SWAT team from the county police listened to the briefing from the FBI Suit as the van rolled down the tree-lined lanes.

"The names on their passports are Greta and Ansel Cutter—she goes by 'Retta'," said Special Agent Smallwood. "Guns aren't their MO, so that's a plus for our side. These two are serial killers, wanted in Albania, Germany, Poland, and the Czech Republic. Interpol tracked them to Canada about four years ago, but the trail went cold. They move into an area and people start turning up dead. They help cover their tracks by starting a neighborhood watch program—it makes them look like concerned citizens. That also gives them free run of the neighborhood, and ensures some of the victims will be out on the streets by themselves. Then they disappear before anyone figures out what they've done. Let's hope they haven't skipped town yet."

The heavily armed team started deploying before the SWAT van stopped moving. They surrounded the house, smashed in the front and back doors simultaneously, and swept the place from basement to attic but found no one.

Special Agent Smallwood came in after the SWAT members gave the all-clear. The leader of the SWAT team said, "They haven't been gone long—the oven's still warm." Savory smells of cooking filled the cottage. He shook his head. "Weirdest husband and wife team I ever heard of."

"They're not husband and wife," corrected Smallwood. "Ansel and Greta are brother and sister . . ."

Their eyes met for a moment, and then they turned toward the oven, stomachs sinking, already knowing what smelled so good.

 

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