Weston Ochse: Reign of Evil

He took Ian’s hand. “Jack Walker, but you already knew that.”

Ian nodded. “What happened here was egregious. We’ll sort this out. It might take a few days, but we’ll take care of it.” He turned to leave. “For now, however, let’s get to someplace warmer. We’ll have a pint and discuss our way ahead.”

Ian’s phone suddenly rang. He pulled it from his pocket and brought it to his ear. Walker couldn’t hear the conversation, but by the look on the man’s face it wasn’t anything good. When it was over, Ian stared at the phone, then slowly replaced it.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get your bag out of your car.”

“What? That’s my rental!”

Ian shook his head. “No reason to have two cars. I’ll have the rental company come pick it up. We have somewhere we need to be, anyway. It might have something to do with the murders. If nothing else, it should shed light on what happened.” Ian stepped out of the stone circle with long, quick strides.

Walker struggled to catch up. His head was spinning. “Who are we going to meet?”

“A seer we use from time to time.”

“A what?”

“A seer. A witch if you will.”

Walker put a hand on Ian’s arm to stop him. “Wait a moment. Who do you work for?”

Ian smiled, revealing a gold tooth on the lower left side of his mouth. “Section 9. We do what you do, only we do it here. Who’d you think I was? The welcome wagon?”

The man took off again, leaving Walker to stare at his receding back. Well, of course England would have its own group. Walker broke into a run to catch up.

They drove in silence for forty minutes before they pulled into the town of Woking. Walker noted the interspersed new and ancient architecture. It had begun to mist and Ian had put on the wipers. Through the prism of wet glass, the land seemed surreal. To think that twenty-four hours ago he’d thought that Jen was still alive and that the life they’d planned together was his definitive future. He squeezed his fists together until his knuckles cracked.

Laws had sent him a text with a few kind words and then a link to what was called the Kübler-Ross Model. It’s also referred to as the Five Stages of Grief, but Walker believed that Kübler-Ross had little to no idea what she was talking about. Her theory was that a person went through each of these stages in order and it was through these stages that a mourner felt at peace. According to her, they were denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. If he was to build a model of stages, it would have at least ten stages, beginning and ending with rage and interspersed with enough anger to fuel movement to the next stage.

He reflected back to his last mission and how dangerous it had been for Jen. Not only could she have been killed by one of the Flayed Ones or the Los Zetas or the Obsidian Butterfly, but Ramon the werewolf could have killed her at any time. To think she survived all of that so she could die on a fucking vacation made him want to explode. What a sad fucking universe this turned out to be.

They passed a sign that read: “Horsell Moor” and Jack immediately thought of the Hound of the Baskervilles. Was the seer’s cabin somewhere on the moor? They turned onto Broomhall Road, a narrow way bordered on either side by shrubberies that blocked the views of the nearby homes. They reached the end of the road where a sign read: “Turning Point No Parking.” Ian turned the vehicle around, then parked.

Ian switched off the car. “It might say no parking, but no one’s going to mess with this car.”

“Do they know who it belongs to?”

“No, and that’s why they won’t mess with it. It only comes back as belonging to Her Majesty’s government with no other affiliation. They’re afraid they might piss someone off if they so much as give the car a parking ticket.”

“So you can drive however you want.”

“With impunity if we have to.” Ian opened the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

They exited the car and headed back down the street. The moor stood dark with multiple layers of shadows on their right. On their left stood homes, brightly lit windows warding off the night above the shrubberies. They turned into one of these homes, which surprised Walker. Doubly surprising was the way the yard was decorated with landscaping lights and cat statues. Seriously? His gaze panned over a plaque with a kitschy slogan about a house never having too many cats. This was the home of a witch?

He meant to comment to Ian, but he was already at the front door and ringing the bell. An old-fashioned buzzer rang from somewhere inside. The front of the house was painted white and lined with dark beams. Walker thought it was the Tudor style but wasn’t exactly sure.

They heard footsteps on a hardwood floor inside coming toward the door.

When it opened, Ian dipped his head. “I appreciate you seeing us, ma’am.”

The woman couldn’t have been a day over thirty. She wore jeans, impossibly tall high heels, and a blouse that could have been at home inside a dance club. Her black hair was tied into a ponytail. She had blue eyes and wore deep-red lipstick. Skeleton earrings hung from each ear. She looked like someone’s sister, not a witch. This was the witch?

“What’d you think I was going to look like?” Her hands were on both hips as she addressed Walker. “A big old warty nose and a broomstick?” She rolled her eyes, then to Ian said, “Where do you get these people?” Then she turned on her heel and clomped back into the house.

Ian gave Walker a look. “I did pretty much the same thing myself.” He gestured for Walker to go inside, then followed.

The brightly lit interior smelled of incense and cooked chicken. Down a short hall and into the modernly appointed living room, two men sat. One was perched on the edge of a chair eating a plate of food, while the other sat back on a sea-foam-green sofa, drinking tea from a small china cup.

The witch sat at a card table and regarded Jack and Ian. A deck of Tarot cards was already on a white lace tablecloth.

“Jack Walker, this is Ms. Moore,” said Ian. “The git over there shoveling food is Trevor Jones, Royal Marine Sniper, and the effeminate one holding the teacup like a poof is Jerry McMahon. He’s our intelligence specialist.”

Trev nodded but kept chewing.

Jerry gave a single hand wave, then sipped his tea.

The witch gestured to the couch, then turned to her cards. “Why don’t you both have a seat?”

Ian folded his hands in front of him and remained in place. “I thought there was a pressing—”

“Oh, dear lord, why didn’t you tell me?” The witch stood and came to Walker. She put her arms around him and hugged him tight. Walker wasn’t sure what to do with his hands and eventually returned the hug. When she released him she said, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I’m just stunned that you’re holding up so well.”

Walker smiled weakly.

“And you’re angry too. I don’t blame you.” She leveled a stern gaze at Ian as she went back to her cards. “You really should have told me. It’s going to be easier now for me to help.”

Ian glanced at Walker. “Easy how?”

“Now we have a personal connection to the event. His spirit was most certainly intertwined with that of his fiancée. That link will serve as a bridge.”

Walker spoke up. “I’m not sure I want anyone messing around with any memories I have. They’re all that’s left.”

“It’s not your memories we need, Mr. Walker. It’s your love.”

Walker stared at the hardwood floor as he fought back emotion. He found he was blinking rapidly, his body’s autonomic response to keep his tears at bay. “What do I have to do?”