Read Online Black Magic Woman by Justin Gustainis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Justin Gustainis
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Contemporary, Mystery & Detective, Horror, Paranormal, Witches, Mystery Fiction, Occult fiction, Occult & Supernatural, Occultism
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either."
"But how did you figure out how he and Winona were using a radio transmitter? Some sort of mystical divination?"
Libby snorted. "More like common sense, honey," she said. "He had to be getting the information from Winona—who must have a remarkable memory, to go along with that nasty mouth of hers. And since she clearly didn't talk to him before he came on stage, she had to be feeding him the stuff while he was actually up there. They make radio receivers the size of a shirt button these days, and he certainly had one in his ear. I couldn't see it, but then I didn't need to—uh, driver, this is my building coming up, on the corner."
Five minutes later, Libby Chastain, was unlocking the door to her condominium. As she went around turning on the lights, she was humming softly—a tune that the Reverend Tommy Timberlake would have recognized as "Rock of Ages".
Then the phone started ringing.
* * * *
Quincey Morris sat on the edge of his bed at the Holiday Inn and squinted at the plastic display card that bore the directions for making outside calls. After a moment, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a slim address book. He looked up a number and began to punch buttons.
The phone at the other end was answered on the fourth ring. "I knew you were going to call." It was a woman's voice, alto and a little husky.
"I bet you say that to all the boys, Libby."
The woman chuckled. "Yes, I do, Quincey, and to the girls, too. Helps create that aura of mystery, you know."
"I've always found you eminently mysterious," Morris said. "So, how's business?"
"Well, I just got home from an interesting gig that a certain preacher and his wife aren't likely to forget soon. But, other than that, things have been pretty slow."
"Maybe you need to get your own 900 number."
"Sure, that's it. 1-900-ME-WITCH, maybe? I could have my own infomercial."
"It's got potential," he said. Then his voice became serious. "Listen, I'm on a case in Madison, Wisconsin, and I need you."
"All right. When?" Her voice had also lost its levity.
"Quick as you can get here."
She thought for a moment. "If there's a flight out tonight, I'll be on it. If not, I'll get the first one tomorrow."
"Okay, that'll be fine."
"So, what's the job? I need to know what kind of gear to pack."
"I want you to do a couple of things. First is to revive, and maybe strengthen, a network of warding charms in a house."
"How powerful do you need them to be?"
"The strongest you've got. The family's been under escalating magical attack over the last three months. With lethal intent, looks like."
"All right, that seems fairly straightforward. What's the rest of it?"
"Find whoever's responsible for this assault and stop it."
"Stop the assault—or stop the person?"
Morris thought about the LaRues, saw again the fear and exhaustion and despair etched into their faces, like copper engravings inscribed by acid.
"Whatever it takes, Libby," he said quietly. "Whatever it takes."
* * * *
Morris dialed another number, this one a room-to-room call. When Walter LaRue answered, Morris asked, "Are you folks all settled in?"
"Pretty much. We decided to keep the connecting door open. Marcie's next door with Sarah, and Timmy, and I'll bunk in here. But I still don't get why you think we'll be any safer here than at home. I mean, if we're talking about something, uh, you know…"
"Supernatural?"
"Yes, right. I mean, what prevents it from following us here, whatever it is?"
"Because the attacks are all aimed at your living space," Morris explained. "Has your daughter reported any incidents occurring while she was at school?"
"No, she hasn't, you're right. Wait—what about the time in my car, when I damn near had a head-on with that truck?"
"Your car's part of your living space. You're in it every day, I'd guess, and at predictable times. Commuting, and so on."
"And you think that makes a difference?"
"I'm sure it does. We'll talk about that some more tomorrow. You
"But how did you figure out how he and Winona were using a radio transmitter? Some sort of mystical divination?"
Libby snorted. "More like common sense, honey," she said. "He had to be getting the information from Winona—who must have a remarkable memory, to go along with that nasty mouth of hers. And since she clearly didn't talk to him before he came on stage, she had to be feeding him the stuff while he was actually up there. They make radio receivers the size of a shirt button these days, and he certainly had one in his ear. I couldn't see it, but then I didn't need to—uh, driver, this is my building coming up, on the corner."
Five minutes later, Libby Chastain, was unlocking the door to her condominium. As she went around turning on the lights, she was humming softly—a tune that the Reverend Tommy Timberlake would have recognized as "Rock of Ages".
Then the phone started ringing.
* * * *
Quincey Morris sat on the edge of his bed at the Holiday Inn and squinted at the plastic display card that bore the directions for making outside calls. After a moment, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a slim address book. He looked up a number and began to punch buttons.
The phone at the other end was answered on the fourth ring. "I knew you were going to call." It was a woman's voice, alto and a little husky.
"I bet you say that to all the boys, Libby."
The woman chuckled. "Yes, I do, Quincey, and to the girls, too. Helps create that aura of mystery, you know."
"I've always found you eminently mysterious," Morris said. "So, how's business?"
"Well, I just got home from an interesting gig that a certain preacher and his wife aren't likely to forget soon. But, other than that, things have been pretty slow."
"Maybe you need to get your own 900 number."
"Sure, that's it. 1-900-ME-WITCH, maybe? I could have my own infomercial."
"It's got potential," he said. Then his voice became serious. "Listen, I'm on a case in Madison, Wisconsin, and I need you."
"All right. When?" Her voice had also lost its levity.
"Quick as you can get here."
She thought for a moment. "If there's a flight out tonight, I'll be on it. If not, I'll get the first one tomorrow."
"Okay, that'll be fine."
"So, what's the job? I need to know what kind of gear to pack."
"I want you to do a couple of things. First is to revive, and maybe strengthen, a network of warding charms in a house."
"How powerful do you need them to be?"
"The strongest you've got. The family's been under escalating magical attack over the last three months. With lethal intent, looks like."
"All right, that seems fairly straightforward. What's the rest of it?"
"Find whoever's responsible for this assault and stop it."
"Stop the assault—or stop the person?"
Morris thought about the LaRues, saw again the fear and exhaustion and despair etched into their faces, like copper engravings inscribed by acid.
"Whatever it takes, Libby," he said quietly. "Whatever it takes."
* * * *
Morris dialed another number, this one a room-to-room call. When Walter LaRue answered, Morris asked, "Are you folks all settled in?"
"Pretty much. We decided to keep the connecting door open. Marcie's next door with Sarah, and Timmy, and I'll bunk in here. But I still don't get why you think we'll be any safer here than at home. I mean, if we're talking about something, uh, you know…"
"Supernatural?"
"Yes, right. I mean, what prevents it from following us here, whatever it is?"
"Because the attacks are all aimed at your living space," Morris explained. "Has your daughter reported any incidents occurring while she was at school?"
"No, she hasn't, you're right. Wait—what about the time in my car, when I damn near had a head-on with that truck?"
"Your car's part of your living space. You're in it every day, I'd guess, and at predictable times. Commuting, and so on."
"And you think that makes a difference?"
"I'm sure it does. We'll talk about that some more tomorrow. You
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