Chapter 10:
MISSING PIECES
Eight-year-old June Collier knew the fall would kill her even if she did not know the measure of the height. She stood with her body taut, her feet together on a tree branch, and her back leaned against the trunk. Her right hand clamped a small branch by her head; her left hand cradled a jar with two cicadas that her ten-year-old sister Angie had already caught. The summer air pressed hot and still against her tiny, sweltering body, but any wind providing relief that swayed the tree just an inch would inflict panic on June. Vertigo had hit when she reached this height and looked around, and now it paralyzed her.
Why can't my sister just catch fireflies like everyone else? Thought June.
Two cicadas in this tree buzzed so tortuously loud that June wanted to cover her ears. Angie, who stood further out on the same branch as June, seemingly had no fear of heights and loved flaunting it. She used no handholds walking out further on a branch that was only little more than sixty centimeters (two feet) wide and tapering fast. A very loud cicada had lit further out.
Angie turned back toward June without swaying.
"Come on," June did not really hear her above the noise, but she thought that's what Angie must have said. June could barely even even shake her head "No way!" so much had her body stiffened in fear for her sister. There were absolutely no handholds above the branch where Angie stood, nothing to catch herself with.
Angie looked annoyed, put her forefinger to her lips in the "be quiet" gesture, and then turned to walk out further.
"Be quiet?" thought June. "The darned bug couldn't hear us over its noise!"
The bug sat noisily on a twig coming off a side branch. Angie crouched and reached out for the creature, causing adrenaline to surge through June's muscles. It looked unbelievably dangerous.
How can she look down like that?
Angie grabbed and missed it. The huge insect flew into her eye, and then buzzed, sending all those blaring decibels right through her eyeball. She screamed, stood bolt upright, and toppled off the branch.
Faster than thought, June unfroze and lunged. She caught her sister's ankle with both hands, landing heavily on her chest with her legs locked around the branch. Pulled upside down, she felt the snap-force wrench painfully through her arms, shoulders, and back, yanking her legs loose. It bought the split second for Angie to catch another branch, to her right herself, and slow her fall as she grabbed other branches and twigs going down.
Both girls fell flailing and screaming through through the branches. June grabbed at them herself but was buffeted like a pinball. She hit her head and was lucky for once that she was small and light. Finally she landed on her back seeing stars. Everything hurt as she tried to cry, but she couldn't make a sound, she couldn't even inhale. Meanwhile, Angie had landed squarely on her feet.
"Oh, shit!" said Angie, her hand over her eye looking at the broken jar. "My cicadas!"
As though on cue, one of those insects lit on June's face by her lip. With her mouth open trying to breathe, she felt hysterical that it could crawl down her windpipe.
Angie said, "June, don't move!" June tried to hold still as Angie grabbed at the cicada, but instead punched June in the lip; the insect flew away, Angie tried to go after it, but it had flown out of her reach.
"Shit!" said Angie.
". . . can't breath!" June barely whispered.
Hearing that, and seeing June turning red, it occurred to Angie her sister might be hurt.
"June? Are you okay?"
By now, June had panicked, thinking she was going to die. Her vision was going blue.
". . . can't . . . breath!" her voice was barely audible, and every bit of breath she lost felt like her very life.
Angie then realized her younger sister had the wind knocked out of her, and put June's arms up, which put June in excruciating pain . . .
. . . which she awakened from with relief, while all the vivid pain she re-experienced from that day in her childhood faded. As it had continued, Angie then realized June had broken arm, while June lost her childhood adoration for her older sister with the incident. It would be years before Angie would thank her, citing it as the time that June saved her from a life in a wheel chair.
"Wheelchair?" June answered. "I saved your fucking life!"
Now, June had awakened on her belly instead of her back. This dream of her childhood memory puzzled her more than all the perplexing nightmares previous. After her second nightmare last night, June had prayed, for more than two hours. Then she fell asleep, only to have this normal dream instead, normal, except for its abnormal vividness.
Now to her relief, it was morning. To her annoyance, she had a non-song stuck in her head. June began to roll over, and instantly saw a creepy figure above her in a nightshirt, looking at her with transparent, unblinking eyes and bloody sleeves.
"AHH!" she started. "Bobby, would you mind? Give me five minutes? Please!"
"This is my room!" he said, with unblinking indignity.
"I know Bobby, but . . . I'm your guest." she said, mustering her sweetest voice and most charming smile. "So, please be the gentlemen that you always are and treat me like a lady? I must get dressed."
"Yes, milady. My pleasure."
He walked off and into the wall. His pleasure? June hoped that was not worship she saw in his expression. Probably not. Unlike Ginger, Bobby's facial expressions were somewhat static. She immediately got up to dress. June still had the non-song stuck in her head. It was a bunch of instruments played out of tune: guitar, bass, drums, keyboard, a horn, and a male voice singing flat with lyrics she could not make out. This was ominous to her: a sign of a manic. If the moods took her again with the medications she was on, she was aware her prognosis would not be good. It sounded to her vaguely like soft rock or something archaic, like psychedelia. In a very short time it began to grate on her.
She found to her disgust that she had neglected to do her laundry. With so much fear and sweating over the last two days, she only had one clean pair of underpants, a pair of jeans torn in the knee, and no bras she could use without feeling physically sick. Worse, the only shirt left was a hideous purple and black button-up with frills and wide sleeves. She had not touched it since her brother dropped it off with the rest of her clothes, and was surprised she even had it anymore. She had not worn it since her freshman year and was doubtful it still even fit.
She put her hands on her breasts above her nipples. Fuck! I'm blessed? These haven't brought me anything but annoyance, misery, creepy looks, resentment from girls, and a couple of asshole boyfriends. Laundry would have to be the first thing she did.
She dressed hurriedly, wanting to finish before Bobby re-appeared. She wondered about her dream. Prior to having it, she kept having nightmares, and finally prayed to the "Good God of the Universe," as opposed to any evil ones she thought had to exist. Was the dream the answer? Could it have been made more cryptic? Since she had to concede to some kind of spiritual process now, she was officially a believer. In what, she had not decided, but she would choose carefully. Prior to Brigitte showing up, she had already reread the King James Bible available in Four Point. She had found it impossible to believe. Any of it. Now she still considered all of it extremely unlikely. Yet, spiritual processes were officially undeniable
I'm a medium. No wonder I used to see freaky people in grave yards.
Finished dressing, she brushed her teeth and began the unpleasant task of de-tangling and combing her hair, which had grown wild in the last month. She decided to sit on the bed for the long detangling process done mostly with her fingers.
Yesterday, after Brigitte had conked out, June spent much time in her own room talking to Ginger, and learning as much about the sisters and lycanthropy as she could. Ginger, the spirit, was so different than Bobby. Bobby was never visible for more than fifteen minutes at a time and thirty minutes a day tops, while Ginger could be around for hours. June could sit down and talk to Ginger as though she were a person. Bobby sometimes became confused or lethargic, or, worse, began to wail. He also had little in the way of facial expressions. He never sat down, never laid down as Ginger did, but always stood. So, the ghost of Ginger was somehow much more robust than Bobby, if robust were the right term to use for dead people.
Why the differences?
June learned much from picking Ginger's brain, but unfortunately there were terrible gaps in her knowledge, including what could be done to treat or cure lycanthropy. Most importantly, Ginger did not know if the person would ever change back, but she suspected very strongly that it was irreversible. June realized that, for finding something that really helped Brigitte, she was in a worse position than Brigitte had been with Ginger. There were no books on the subject, no drug dealer/agronomist to consult. Ginger did know everything about how it was affecting Brigitte's mind. Unfortunately, it was on that topic that their conversation ended badly:
"No! That's fucking dumb!" said Ginger, sitting on the bed, her face shocked and furious. "You must fucking promise me you will not tell anybody about Brigitte's illness."
"Even if they could help?" asked June, sitting in the chair after pacing. Her fingers began twisting a lock of her hair. It was a bad habit she broke years before but it had started up again.
"You don't fucking understand, June. Paranoia is part of it. This disease does not want anybody to know that you have it. Brigitte told somebody about it, and I was actually thinking of killing the guy she told and then running off. She was smart enough to say she actually had the problem instead of me, so I didn't do that . . . or anything else so stupid."
"What if I tell somebody who could get her out of here, though?" asked June, who stopped herself from twisting her hair now.
"It's fucking unlikely anybody will believe you . . . why are you even thinking it?"
"I know," said June. "Ginger, I'm just checking our options."
Ginger pointed at her with an hazardous-looking claw-nail,"You gained her trust, and you did a miracle with that, but you tell somebody and she realizes it . . . I'm not sure I can protect you from her. You fuckin' understand? I thought you were much smarter . . ."
June stood up and yelled,"It's not like I've ever been in this situation before, Ginger. I'm not a certified werewolf counselor. Or a fucking escape artist!" She kicked the bed next to where Ginger was sitting, Ginger started. "I'm a patient in a fucking mental institution. You two have hit me with a lot."
Surprised, Ginger had not even been aware that June could lose her temper, maybe because she expected June would have lost her shit long before this.
June shouted, "Why is solving this even my problem?"
There was a pause where Ginger looked apologetic, "Because you're the only living person we know who can see it?"
June knew that, and knew it was a matter of her life at stake too, but she felt frustrated, and needed a better answer.
Sitting in a diner, Lewis slid the picture of Brigitte Fitzgerald across the table to Frank who picked it up curiously.
"She's fifteen in that photo," said Lewis. "She's seventeen now."
"A runaway?" said Frank. "She looks familiar."
"That's because she is," said Lewis. "Remember the Bailey Downs Incident?"
"Where the a mother of two was convicted of a murdering a teenage girl, and her two daughters and a teenage boy disappeared, while three other people got mauled to death by an unidentified wild animal an . . . "
"Yes," said Lewis, cutting him off. "Not a case one easily forgets about when its in the national news. Odd to say the least. She's Brigitte Fitzgerald. One of the two sisters that have been missing since then."
Lewis tasted his coffee to warm himself. He could not tell Frank that Brigitte's sister was most likely dead, and that her body likely decomposed away within an hour at room temperature, except for the bones, some of which would have lasted eight to ten hours, and the teeth which could last one-to-two days. No effort to preserve even a sample of tissue from a fully animalized werewolf had yet been successful. They just had hair and residue.
Frank warmed his hands over his coffee. He was tall, with black hair and striking blue eyes, and was ten years younger than Lewis. Tough and quick like a hockey player, in fact he had been a center in the Junior Leagues who considered turning professional before he changed careers to criminal justice. He used to work for Lewis, and now, as a subcontractor, he was working for him again. Like Lewis, Frank had recently went through a divorce, another thing that made Lewis think he was the perfect candidate for taking over these investigations. He had a good mind, was fast, strong, was in excellent condition and was a crack shot. He is perfect.
Starting their search in Dauphin today, they were lucky about the weather. It was supposed to be sunny and would surge up to minus ten degrees Celsius (Fourteen Fahrenheit), plus the wind had died down. However, weather in this area could be more unpredictable than usual, and the forecast was not good after tomorrow.
Frank slipped the picture into a protective cover as he said, "Missing girl case, though, seems too simple. I can't believe you brought me into it."
Lewis sipped his coffee again, which to his surprise was not bad, and he said, "As a material witness, she has successfully evaded authorities for the last two years, and my hunch is if we don't get to her, this case could end up being as convoluted as the Bailey Downs Incident. My employers want us to question her about Bailey Downs before authorities do." Lewis just lied a little.
From the window, the sun began glare off the snow into Lewis' eyes. It was to be a sunny day, making sunglasses essential. He called the waitress and asked her to close the blinds. He looked around. The diner had warm yellow lights in contrast to the harsh white of the sun glaring on the snow outside. Just enough of the brief summer remained in here to make the glare and cold edges outside tolerable.
"At least the drive up was worth it, very scenic," said Frank. "What leads do you have?"
Lewis handed him Brigitte Fitzgerald's library record. "We know at midnight a week ago she took out several books from Regional Library and ordered a few more. So, I want you to start there."
"And where will you go?" asked Frank.
"I'll start by speaking with an old friend, an inspector on the force here, have his men keep an eye out for her, and see if she has any arrests. We don't know how she has been supporting herself on the margins so long, but not too many legal options seem plausible to me."
The waitress, a blond haired women in her forties, came out with their food. She put two omelets and a short stack down in front of Frank, and an order of plain scrambled eggs and toast in front of Lewis. Frank picked up the fork, while Lewis stopped to whisper a prayer, for which Frank put the fork back down, but did not fold his hands or bow his head. Lewis finished, and they both picked their forks up and began to eat.
"Any special instructions?" asked Frank, a piece of omelet on his fork.
"Yes," said Lewis. "First, we absolutely have to find her, and if we pick up her trail, we cannot lose it. Our employers have deemed that this case will not end until she is found. Second, remember, Frank, she's not a suspect, but a witness, and she has suffered trauma. Be as gentle as you can with her."
"Okay," said Frank. He chewed and swallowed his omelet. "Anything else?"
"Yes," said Lewis. "Most important: if you do see her, do not approach her yourself. Call me first and keep tabs on her until I get there."
"Wait," said Frank. "You just said she's not a suspect, but now I'm not supposed to approach her alone? What is she? Armed and dangerous?"
"No, just that I must be the one to talk to her first," Lewis replied, evasively. "I know how to gain her trust, and that's important here."
Not really a lie, thought Lewis.
The non-song was still stuck in June's head as she looked at herself in the murky mirror. She had apparently gone up a cup-size or two since she last wore this shirt. She could hardly button it, and her boobs were so obvious now. Shit! She would put a sweater on over it, but without a bra her nipples would be conspicuous, too. Fuck! I'm a freak. They would bounce as well, unless she walked with baby steps. It made her wish she could stay in her room today. No hiding them for a few hours. Fuck!
She was glad no boys would be around, but there were exceptions that made her uneasy: a few medical techs and the boys in group therapy. She knew Helen would say something cute and ignorant, and would probably have her eyes glued to them. June knew she would be uncomfortable until her laundry got done.
"Shit!" she said.
"How vulgar!" said Bobby startling her. She could not see him in the mirror and had to turn around. She was relieved that there was no gawkiness in his look.
"You have been ill-tempered of late." His bookish, English accent always sounded absurd to her. It sounded funnier than Graham Chapman in The Holy Grail. She was surprised people anywhere once talked like that. At least Bobby did not seem to notice her misshapen chest. Maybe in over a hundred years he had lost all sexual feelings.
"Sorry, I haven't been able to sleep, Bobby, and it's beginning to do bad things to me," she said, turning to him again and listening to the non-song still stuck in her head. Dr. Loraine had warned at how irregular sleep could push her mood into a manic, but it had been almost impossible to sleep peacefully knowing about Brigitte and Ginger. In the dim light of the bathroom, she could see bags under her eyes.
"Do they not give you laudanum?" Bobby asked.
"Uh, the face of medicine has really changed since you were alive," said June.
Bobby looked blank. Maybe the "face of medicine" was not an expression in his time? So she added, "They no longer give laudanum to people. Opium is illegal."
She almost laughed at how startled he looked. He did register some facial expressions.
"Egad! Opium was the only thing that got me through the day," he said. June did not doubt that. Tuberculosis sounded like a slow, torturous way to die. For Bobby, who was just twenty-five years old, it sounded to have punctured an artery earlier than usual. Right now, he appeared with dark blood running from his nose and dried blood on his sleeves.
She noticed that Bobby was weakening fast, becoming more transparent and getting dimmer. She thought about her nightmare, the night before and hurried to ask him, "Are there other spirits in this building, Bobby?"
"Yes, many others that haunt this place; there is much pain and woe here," he said making a sniffling sound.
"How come I can't see them, too?" she asked.
"They haunt the other wings. Sometimes I hear them crying at night. They will wander here, too, but not too often." he said and coughed. "This wing was not for the sickest. I, nonetheless, died in this room."
Almost on cue, June then felt giddy and chilled momentarily. She looked toward the window and then by the door. Ginger stood in front of the latter and looked at June, saying, "June? Well, good morning, I guess," Ginger walked toward her. "I just . . ."
With a scream, Ginger leaped back two feet- actually, she teleported back two feet. "JEESUS FUCKING MARY ON A BICYCLE!" she cried. Ginger had spotted Bobby.
June's voice choked on surprise, fear and laughter. The ghost had seen a ghost and was terrified. June guffawed when her mind processed what Ginger had just yelled. Bobby's usually expressionless face registered major shock, and even fear.
"What is this creature?" said Bobby. "And what is it doing in my room?"
"I didn't mean to . . ." said Ginger, frozen.
"Ginger, that's Bobby. Remember I mentioned him?"
"Uh, yeah, I . . . don't think I really got the picture," said Ginger.
"Does this come from Hell?" asked Bobby.
Stung, Ginger said acerbically, "I was about to ask you the same thing about him."
It occurred to June that since Ginger had claws, fangs, an obvious tail, and a creatively dirty mouth, "from Hell" would have been a predictable conclusion for Bobby, who, in life, had been devout.
"No, she's not from Hell, Bobby. This is Ginger, and she's another. . . ghost."
"And what about her animal teeth and claws and that an incantation?"
"That wasn't an incantation, Bobby," said June. "She just has a sailor's mouth and a good imagination."
June was relieved to see that Bobby was running out of energy. He was more transparent now than he had been just the previous minute. She did not want to witness a struggle between two spirits right now, curious though she was. Ginger, apparently feeling the same way, turned to her.
"June, just please take me to my sister," she turned to Bobby. "I didn't mean to trespass, I just appeared in your fucking room without a choice. I'm sorry."
Apparently it was not going to be a problem right now. Because Bobby continued to fade, and his voice was losing volume as it said, "Milady, beware of her, she is a lost soul out of Hell . . ."
"Bullshit!" cried Ginger, who turned to June and yelled, "You don't believe him, do you? He's a liar!"
To June's relief, Bobby was gone then, but Ginger was enraged and shaken. She swept her claw in a wide circle, and it went through the wall like air.
"Of course I don't believe him, Ginge. But he's not a liar," said June. She could see Ginger was still upset and looked at June dubiously. "He just thought that because of your fucking dirty mouth and your claws and shit, but he's wrong about you."
Ginger looked anguished. "Really? He doesn't know anything?"
"No, he doesn't Ginger. He didn't know what he was talking about. I mean, think about your teeth and stuff, and what you shouted? He's from the nineteenth century. He was a divinity student. Can't you see he just guessed wrong?"
Ginger looked unconsoled. She sank into a sitting position, on nothing, and looked ready to cry. "What is it, Ginger?"
"Sometimes I wonder if I'm being punished . . . for what I did to Bee."
It was a tone June had not heard from Ginger, an anguish that hadn't surfaced from her before. The sound of it thickened the inside of June's throat.
Ginger continued, "It's awful watching how it's twisting her, and I'm helpless, just as she was. I'm in the same position she was. Doesn't it sound like I'm being punished?"
"Ginger, what do you think you did?" It was painful to see this anguish in Ginger. The tuneless music in June's head changed tempo. The rhythm was still a ruin, though.
"A lot, it could have been a half dozen things I did; I was so terrible to her in that last month, but I'm afraid I did something far worse than I can remember. Even though Brigitte told me everything, I still feel like that- maybe she didn't."
"Ginger, you weren't sane. You didn't know what you were doing, and you couldn't help yourself," said June. "What god would punish you for being sick?"
"Any god that creates werewolves would punish you for being one," said Ginger, looking up, her fangs gritted together frightfully.
"You're wrong," said June. "That's not why you're here."
"I hope not," said Ginger.
"No," said June, the tuneless song still playing in her head. "That's definitely not why you're here!"
"You know this?" begged Ginger.
"Yes," said June, in complete honesty. "I know this."
She immediately had second thoughts. I didn't just pull that out of my ass, did I? – No!
Though June felt she was forced to stretch a point, and she regretted not knowing how she could know, she would have said that to Ginger again if she had to. The messed up tune in her head reached some transition again, with all notes either too flat or too sharp. Maybe the indiscernible off-key lyrics were subliminal, telling her unconsciously why Ginger was here?
June recalled then, for some reason, the exact moment she dived on the branch to save Angie.
"Good," said Ginger. "Because if I'm here to be punished, it means that Brigitte is fucked . . . and because of me!"
Ginger appeared to be recovering, to June's relief, because June had no reassurances to offer about Brigitte. She thought Brigitte to be destined to change, and right now, she would not tell Ginger anything different.
"No. Ginger, Bobby has no more knowledge of anything than you do. In fact, less. He's been stuck in here for a hundred-twenty years."
Ginger then added, "Oh, tell me I don't look like him do I?"
"No, no Ginger, you don't look anything like him. You're skin has color, your eyes look alive, and you're like talking to somebody who's alive." More to herself than Ginger, June added, "You're remarkably different, really."
"Good," said Ginger. "So, can you take me to Brigitte?"
"Okay, just let me get my shoes on first," said June.
June sat on the bed and she began to put on her shoes with the Velcro, her breasts dangled downward onto her thighs.
"So . . . what are you going to be doing today?" asked Ginger.
June looked up. Ginger had crouched down gazing at her.
"What are you looking at?" asked June.
"Sorry," said Ginger, averting her eyes, embarrassed.
June sighed, and said, "Okay, first, I was going to see the social worker. I'm going to have him look into whether keeping your sister here involuntarily is even legal. It might solve the whole problem."
Done with her shoes, June walked to the dresser to get her sweater. Ginger still gazed at her oddly.
June was afraid to ask her why and continued quickly, "They weren't in yesterday. On smoke break, I looked at some of the windows up there. They do open and it might be possible to get your sister out through one of them. But they're on the second floor, the only access we have is during a smoke break, and we're really supervised then."
June had pulled on the sweater, and, walking to the bathroom, began to button it in front of the terrible mirror. "There's also a third floor, but I know nothing about it. Hard to check on it during smoke break. They really watch us, but I think I can get some interference."
"Then you're really working on it," said Ginger. "Thank you."
"I haven't done anything yet," answered June. "They have your sister and I together for both groups this afternoon," June continued. "I hope those meds are really working on her."
"Groups?" asked Ginger.
"Yeah, group therapy, four hours worth," said June, turning profile. Her nipples did not stick out too obviously now, but she knew if they had even a hint of being erect, guys would shrivel their eyeballs staring, and too frequently her nipples had a lot more than a hint of it.
"This place is really a fucking pain," said Ginger.
Her sweater now buttoned, June turned to face Ginger. "Yes, I'm just tired of it! Been here a fucking month! I want out so bad . . ."
June noticed something obvious about Ginger, and immediately felt stupid for missing it for two days. She felt like a bungling detective who misses the obvious, case-breaking clue on the first page and spends five hundred more trying to solve the case.
"Ginger," she said, disbelieving, "Is that a skull you're wearing?"
Ginger giggled nervously, looked down and took it in her hand. "This . . . yeah. A raven's skull. Brigitte and I both used to wear them."
"You both? And . . . it's part of a necklace?"
June just continued to stare at it as her spine tingled. How had she missed that before? Maybe seeing a ghost with claws and fangs, and with a werewolf sister had mentally overloaded her. It did not occur to her that something about the sisters might have been amiss before the werewolf attack.
"Brigitte still has both of them . . ." Ginger said, then paused, apprehensive.
"Here?" asked June, knowing the staff carefully went through belongings whenever a new patient arrived.
"No, not here, at Bee's motel room," Ginger was clearly worried.
"Why did you wear them?"
"Well, they showed we were wicked, and they were symbols of our pact," Ginger paused. "And . . . they, like, kept other kids at a distance."
"I bet they did," said June. "When and where did you get them?"
"We were eight-years-old vacationing in Algonquin Park. There was an Indian Powwow happening there. This Indian woman selling stuff really thought my hair was pretty, and she only had this one pair of these necklaces. She said that they were real, and they were a set. She showed them to Brigitte and I without Pamela and dad seeing, and I thought they were so cool. We bought both for three dollars total."
The skull looked fragile to June. "And you wore them- for seven years?"
"Oh, no." said Ginger. "We couldn't let mom or dad see them. We'd sometimes take them out and wear them when we were alone, usually for play."
"Usually for play?"
"We used to play like we were evil witches," said Ginger.
"Oh, I see," said June, not really seeing.
"In my last year, we started wearing them all the time."
"Could you hold it out to me so I could see it closer?" asked June.
"As long as you don't touch it, or me," warned Ginger.
"I won't," but June noticed how tense Ginger's expression and posture looked as she stood up and drew nearer. As June tried to look closer, the necklace simply became more transparent.
"Fuck," said June. "It's no use, I can't see it any closer," Ginger backed away with relief as June thought of something else.
"Ginger, let's try something, Take one of your rings off."
"Why?" said Ginger.
"Please, I want to see what happens," said June.
Ginger reluctantly took a ring off her right index finger. It appeared solid to June.
"Now drop it," said June.
"What?" said Ginger. "I don't want to lose this."
"Please Ginger. This is important."
"Hmmm, okay." She dropped it. Once it left her hand, it disappeared, never hitting the ground.
"Fuck, I hope I get that back!" said Ginger.
"I'm somehow certain you will. Now, Ginger, try taking off the necklace."
Ginger looked appalled. "What? No!"
"Come on, Ginger, please."
"Fuck, no!"
"Ginger, please, this could be really important."
Ginger said angrily, "Tell me what do you think is going to fucking happen if I do, June?"
"Sorry, I absolutely have no idea, Ginger. Why do you think something bad might happen to you if you take it off?"
Ginger looked embarrassed and said reluctantly, "Because Brigitte and I swore our blood oath on them."
"What?" exclaimed June, stunned.
"It seemed wicked at the time," said Ginger, smiling with embarrassment. "And we liked to play evil witches then."
It now dawned on June that anything that appeared normal about the Fitzgerald sisters prior to their werewolf encounter was probably deceiving.
Lewis sat in the middle of the Dauphin police station across a desk from his old Army friend, Inspector Arthur Hall. There were eight other officers and a few clerks in the room at their own desks or stations. Every one of them had a desktop computer except the desk he and Arthur sat at, which had a laptop. Arthur gazed at the picture of Brigitte just handed to him.
"You say she was involved in that mess in Bailey Downs?" asked Arthur, looking up with deep brown eyes. Lewis was surprised that his old friend was going bald already, but besides that, it was the same meticulous, impeccably neat person Lewis remembered after twelve years.
"Yes, the Bailey Downs incident, as you know had a lot of loose ends. She could tie them up."
To Lewis' surprise Arthur called to the front of the room. "Hey, Joey?"
A plain-clothed officer by the front window answered back, "Yes, inspector?"
"Pull the file on that Jane Doe we found last week," said Arthur.
"Yes inspector."
Jane Doe? Found? Lewis did not like the sound of that. In police work, nobody stayed a Jane Doe for a solid week if the outcome had been good.
"Jane Doe?" said Lewis. "You mean she's dead?"
"No, Lewis, I'm not even sure it's her. Wait until Joey pulls the file and you'll see why."
Lewis felt a little relieved. A "Jane Doe" type case would be bad luck.
Lewis' cellphone vibrated. He turned to Arthur and said, "It's my partner, I have to take this. Is there an office I can use?"
"My office," Arthur said and pointed at a door as Lewis answered.
"Yes Frank?" Lewis said, reaching the door.
"I'm at the library," said Frank. "She hasn't checked out any more books. Nobody on the day shift here knows anything about her. So, I'm going to be visiting the night shift people today and asking them."
Lewis said, "But that's not why you're calling me." It was very much unlike Frank to call and report nothing.
"No, there is something. A librarian on the night shift disappeared, and on the same night the Fitzgerald girl made her last check-out. A Jeremy Cain. Twenty-three years old."
"You're right, that is interesting," said Lewis, disturbed. "I'll check to see if there's some connection. Is there anything else?"
"No, that's it Lewis, but I'll let you know when anything turns up."
Lewis emerged from the office and walked back to the middle desk where Arthur sat. When he sat down, Arthur slid a file folder over to him.
Lewis wanted to open it immediately but stalled long enough to ask Arthur, "Do you have any reports about a missing person? A Jeremy Cain?"
"Yes, he's been missing for a week; how did you know about that?"
"Turns out it might tie in with my case. I'll tell you how in a second," said Lewis.
He opened the file and immediately the picture within struck him, of a female with a swollen blue face and with a large white splotch on her left cheek. Her eyes closed, her lips blue, she lay in a hospital bed. He recognized the complexion of severe hypothermia and frostbite. She had the right color hair to be Brigitte Fitzgerald, but all else was uncertain. He looked up at Arthur quizzically.
"No, she wasn't dead," said Arthur. "A grocer found her in an alley unconscious. We were having a snowstorm that night with high wind and far below-zero temperatures. Her coat wasn't even on. She was exposed to the cold all night, and as you can see, there's no way to tell if she's the same person as your Fitzgerald girl. They took her to Regional in critical condition. She didn't gain consciousness for five days. And . . . during that time, nobody else inquired about her. No friends, no family."
Lewis quickly noted that she couldn't be infected if she suffered hypothermia. Unless she was taking monkshood . . .
"That's just horrible. Any recent word on her condition now?" said Lewis.
Arthur looked frustrated, putting his palms up in an empty gesture.
"Then, on Monday, Regional reported her missing."