From: MeridyM <meridym@home.com>
Date: 3 Sep 2001 17:54:08 -0700
Subject: NEW FIC:  OBLIGATION (1/10)  R
Source: atxc

OBLIGATION 1/10
By MeridyM
meridym@home.com  

Distribution:  Just let me know where.

Disclaimer:  Nope, these characters aren't mine, except the 
ones you don't recognize--those came from my own 
imagination. 

Rating:  A strong R for violence, language, and sexuality.

Key Words:  Doggett/Other, Doggett/Reyes friendship, case file.

Classification:  A Doggett,/Reyes case file complete with
romance, magic, mayhem, friendship, drama, sex, angst, violence,
and...birds.

Summary: Face it, John: Normal life involves family.  It involves
recreation. It involves friendships with people you *don't* work
with. It involves companionship with the opposite sex.  And if you
were really lucky, it might even involve love.   He missed the man
he'd been.  That man would have kissed that pretty woman in a way
she wouldn't have forgotten.  Where the hell had he gone?

Feedback:   You know I love it!

Note:  This story is a stand-alone case file, but is also a companion
piece to the stories "Intuition" and "Empathy."   You can definitely
enjoy this story without having read those stories, but it would 
enhance your pleasure (ooh!) at least a little to have read them
first.

Special thanks to David Stoddard-Hunt and WJMTV for their
helpful comments, to Jo, Michele and Rina for bearing with
this long piece as a work-in-progress, and to Entil'zha
for letting me borrow a bit of his DoggettFic universe.

Author's notes are at the end of the Epilogue.


CHAPTER 1

Ft. White, Florida
June 

Carrying a bouquet of fresh wildflowers, the ruddy-faced 
man stepped carefully between the headstones of the old 
graveyard in Ft. White, Florida.  The sun was 
already fierce even in the early morning, the grass dry and 
brittle from the lack of rain.  His coppery hair was damp 
with sweat, and he wiped his forehead with the back 
of his hand.  He crossed a gravel path and walked over to a 
grave in the shadow of a towering cypress tree that was 
draped heavily in pale green Spanish moss.  

He sat down in the scrubby grass to the side of the grave 
and bowed his head for a moment.  He rubbed his hand across 
his mouth and spoke quietly, leaning over close 
to the gray marble headstone.

"I'm going to punish the people who failed you," he said in 
a slow north Florida drawl,  "and the ones who shouldn't 
have lived.  I owe you that."  He traced his 
fingers over the letters on the headstone, slowly, one by 
one:  N. . .O. . .R. . .A.  "They'll pay, all of them--the 
sorcerers, and the whoremongers, and the fearful, and 
unbelieving, and abominable, the idolaters, and all 
liars..."  His voice had become monotonous and singsong as 
he quoted from Revelation, and his fingers, trembling 
now, moved on the headstone again:   G. . .O. . .O. . .D. . 
.A. . .L. . .L.

"The doctor who didn't save you is dying.  God's justice is 
working.  But the others--" He stood up abruptly.  "I'll 
make them pay."  He leaned over and carefully lay the bouquet
on the grave and stood up.  He looked at the headstone for
another moment and then turned to leave.  He almost bumped
into the tall black groundskeeper who was trimming the wayward
grass around the headstones.  The man nodded to him, and he
wondered as always why they let a heathen like that work in a
good Christian place like this.  Then he walked away, heading 
east into the stark morning sun, toward the river.



               *         *          *


The Ft. White Methodist church sat back from a sandy lane 
lined with moss-strewn cypress trees.  The building was 
old, its whitewashed lumber fading from age and neglect.   
The minister's name in the display case out front read 
"erald P ice," the "G" and "r" in the name having fallen 
away long ago.  

The nearby streetlamp cast a weak glow over the front of 
the old church.  A beat-up pickup pulled around to the 
back, and a man slid out of the driver's seat and pushed 
the door shut behind him.  He walked with a still 
deliberation to the back of the truck and opened the 
tailgate.  Reaching inside, he dragged a garbage bag to the 
edge of the truck bed and strained to lift it out.  He 
hefted the heavy burden and half-carried, half-dragged it 
to the back door of the church.

Inside, the man lugged the bag past the door to the 
sacristy into the moonlit sanctuary.   He stopped at the 
front of the high-ceilinged room with its hard wooden pews 
and pulled his skinning knife out of its scabbard on his 
belt.  He bent over and slit the garbage bag completely 
down the middle and pulled out the freshly killed Nubian 
goat.  He inserted the knife at the notch of the sternum 
and slit the animal down the middle, opening up first the 
skin, then the fascia.  Then he hooked the barbed tip of 
the knife into the top layer of muscle and split the animal 
in two at the chest. 

"Damn!" he breathed, jumping back as the warm blood poured 
out over his feet and soaked into the old carpeting, a 
spreading stain.  He reached inside the hot carcass 
and carefully sliced the filmy serosa, loosening the 
intestines and pulling them out, slicing them free of the 
carcass.

His hands slick with blood, he carried the armful of goat 
intestines up to the altar, climbing the stairs slowly.  He 
dumped them without ceremony onto the old cherry wood 
altar, and began winding them around the altar, around the 
brass cross in its middle, and around the large leather-
bound bible.

"But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and 
murderers," he muttered as he wound the entrails,  "and 
whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, 
shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire 
and brimstone, which is the second death."  He walked back 
to the gutted animal and carried it to the front of the 
sanctuary and laid it on the carpet in front of the altar.  
He knelt in front of the goat and dipped his hands in the 
blood pooled in the animal's abdominal cavity, stood up 
again and splattered the blood over the altar, shaking his 
hands, watching droplets of blood fly and land on the pews, 
the pulpit, the carpet.  He did this again, and again, 
until he could get no more blood from the carcass.

Then he walked over to the split-open garbage bag, gathered 
it up from the floor, and walked back out the way he'd come 
in.  He tossed the remains of the bag into the truck bed, 
got behind the wheel and drove off.


Inside the sanctuary, the light of the full moon filtered 
through the stained glass in the windows:  Jesus feeding 
the multitudes, the Good Shepherd, the Resurrection.  It 
was quiet, except for the wind moving the cypress trees 
outside.  That, and a low sound almost like faraway cicadas 
or perhaps a generator, rhythmic, hypnotic.  There was a 
smell like ozone.

And then a light, that started out low and built to a 
brilliant flash that illuminated the entire sanctuary and 
all the darker corners of the foyer at the front of the 
church.  And a fire descended on the goat, the entrails, 
the blood, with heat that seared, burned, evaporated.

A tall black woman, the fire reflected in her dark eyes, 
stepped out of the sacristy doorway and watched the flames, 
her face unutterably sad.  She slowly turned and walked back
into the darkness.


             *           *           *


Gainesville, Florida
One Month Later
Wednesday

The bearded, dark-eyed man yawned and stretched his long 
legs as much as he could in the cramped airline seat. 
He was just glad to be on the ground, home again after a 
week-long business trip--an exhausting one, too, mostly 
spent putting out fires and holding clients' hands. 

He pulled his briefcase out from under his seat and set it 
on the empty middle seat next to him.  He looked again at 
the woman across the aisle in the opposite window 
seat, knowing that if he was going to make any kind of 
move, it was going to have to happen soon.  The plane was 
taxiing slowly to the gate, and soon everyone would be 
crowding into the aisle, grabbing things from the 
overheads, and squeezing to the exit, heading to points 
unknown. If there'd been an empty seat beside her during 
the flight, the move would have been a fait accompli.


He looked at her.  He'd been looking at her off and on for 
the last three and a half hours.  Right now she was turned 
to the window, but he'd had plenty of time to study 
her.  He'd surreptitiously watched her sleep, read a book, 
eat lunch, write in a journal.  She was slender but had a 
nice figure, shapely legs obvious in the sandals and short 
denim skirt, pretty breasts hinted at under a white shirt 
rolled to the elbows.  She had short glossy-black hair, 
falling loose from a big comb in messy curls.  A big watch 
on a black strap hanging loose on her fine-boned arm, no 
rings.  She'd looked his way a couple of times and had 
smiled at him once.  She had wide eyes that were a 
startling shade of light green.  A soft, full mouth with an 
easy smile.  Fair skin.  He bet she smelled good too.
 
He was definitely interested.

The plane pulled up to the gate, and people began standing 
up, gathering up their things.  The aisle filled up fast, 
and he straightened his tie and watched her.   She sat, 
quiet, holding her black leather shoulder bag in her lap, 
as the aisle filled up with waiting people.  She remained 
in her seat as they began filing down to the plane's 
exit.  

At last she stood up and squeezed her way out of the row of 
seats into the aisle.  He stood up, picked up his 
briefcase, and followed her down the aisle.  

"Thanks, y'all," she said to the flight attendants standing 
at the exit, and he heard the Southern voice.  She's home 
for a visit?  She lives here and was visiting in Denver?

He followed her down the bridge from the plane to the 
terminal.  There was a slight hesitation to her gait, 
almost but not quite a limp.  It made her body sway just 
slightly when she walked, and it was oddly attractive.

Finally, she turned and looked over her shoulder at him as 
she walked. "I'm not buyin'," she said.

"You married?"  He followed her closely. 

"Not anymore."

"Do you have a guy?"

"Yes."  She kept walking.

"Is he meeting you here?"

"No."

"Would you like to have a drink?"

The woman laughed, and glanced at him again, exasperated.  
"Mister, what part of 'I'm not buyin' ' is so hard for you 
to grasp?"   She pushed through the terminal door 
and began walking a little faster, scanning the crowd for 
the familiar faces that were supposed to be there.

"Mo!  Over here!"

It was her sister's voice, and she smiled, relieved, 
straining to find her in the sea of bodies.  Out of the 
corner of her eye, she saw the man hesitate, stop.  Then 
she caught sight of the two small women who were pushing 
their way through the crowd to her.   They both pulled her 
into a hug at the same time, and the three women, two 
short, one quite a bit taller, held each other in silence 
for a moment.

Then the younger, auburn-haired woman held her at arm's 
length and looked her up and down.  "Mo, you look good--
skinny, but a hell of a lot better than you did." 

Mo Dannah nodded.  The last time her sister had seen her, 
she *had* looked pretty rough. "I'm a whole lot better, 
Maeve.  Thanks."  She turned to her mother.  "Mama, 
how are you?"  She hugged the older woman, who patted her 
back.

"I'm holdin' up, sweetie," Ruth Dannah said in her soft 
Carolina drawl.  "Just a day at a time, you know?"

"Come on, let's go get your baggage and get out of here," 
Maeve said to Mo.  "Did you pick up a bird dog, Mo?"  Maeve 
gave her an amused glance as the three of them 
walked toward the stairs to the lower level.

Mo rolled her eyes.  "Oh, you mean that guy?  He was 
staring at me the whole flight.  I think he just wanted to 
ask me out, but it *was* a little creepy.  I mean," she 
looked at Maeve, "havin' a man think you're attractive is 
one thing, but a man actin' like a stalker is another thing 
altogether."

"Hey, maybe a man is what you need."  Maeve laughed.  "Not 
necessarily that one, though."

Mo put her arm around her mother and smiled down at her, 
then over at her sister. Maeve had that right:  A man was 
exactly what she needed.  Damn, was it that obvious?



Outside, the heat hit Mo in the face, like the fiery 
assault when you open an oven to check on what's inside.  
She gasped.  

"Not like this in Boulder, huh?" Maeve said with a smile.  

"My God, no," Mo said.  "Mama, how long's it been since it 
rained?"

"A good long time, darlin'," Ruth Dannah said.  "Seems like 
a couple of months.  There've been wildfires not too far 
south of us.  They had to carry some folks from 
Judson and Trenton over to Gainesville a while back."

"There's the car," Maeve said, and pushed the button on her 
key to unlock the doors.  

"Here, Mama, you sit up front where it's comfy--I'll take 
the back," Mo said, opening the door for her mother.  

"Sweet darlin'," Ruth said, reaching up and hugging her 
older daughter.  "It's so good to see you, Morgan.  I'm so 
sorry it has to be for somethin' like this."

Mo just held her mother, and helped her into the front seat 
of the new model Stratus coupe.  Then Mo climbed into the 
back seat and fastened her seatbelt.  Meave got in 
and gunned the car and pulled out of the lot.

"Is this your car, Mevvie?" Mo asked.

"Well, it is for the next few days," Maeve replied, 
following the signs for I-75 north.

"A rental.  I thought it was awfully clean."  Mo smiled.

"Oh, har," Maeve replied, throwing her sister a look.  

"Mama, are all the arrangements made?  Do you need me to do 
anything?" Mo asked her mother.

"Sweetie, about the only thing we really need is some help 
with the food on Saturday, at the wake," Ruth said.  

Mo leaned back in the seat and pressed her fingers to her 
eyelids, suddenly realizing how tired she was.  "I'll help 
do whatever you need, okay?"

"Are you gonna tell her about the weird stuff, Mama?" Maeve 
asked, "Or do you want me to?"

" 'Weird stuff'?" Mo sat up straighter.

Ruth shook her head.

"Mo, someone's been desecrating local churches," Maeve 
said, catching her sister's eye in the rearview mirror.

"How?  Who?"  Mo frowned.  "Do the police know anything?"

"Well, if they do, they're playing it close to the vest," 
Maeve said.  "The press has been having a royal field day, 
as you can imagine.  There were animals sacrificed, 
blood everywhere.  The press is saying it's a devil cult of 
some sort."  She glanced over to Ruth.  "Mama didn't really 
want to tell you, Mo, well, because of the whole 
cult angle."

Mo sighed, not sure whether she should feel angry or 
grateful.  "I appreciate your concern, but what happened to 
me was quite a while ago now, and I'm not as fragile 
as y'all seem to think."

Maeve glanced at her mother but didn't say anything.

"What churches were desecrated?" Mo asked.

"The Calvary Baptist at the end of town, the Lutheran 
church, and the Methodist church."

"The Methodist church behind grandmama's house?" Mo was 
shocked.  "That's scary." She stared out the side window at 
the fields and the billboards rolling by on I-75.  "How
long has this been going on?" 

"Seems like it started about a month ago, honey," her 
mother put it.  "I don't think it's anything you need to 
worry about."

"Yeah, she has other things to worry about," Maeve put in, 
smiling wickedly.  "Like the fact that Max is coming 
tomorrow."

"Max?" Mo laid her head back against the seat and sighed.  
"Oh, Jesus God," she muttered.  Max definitely wasn't the 
man she had in mind.


          *           *           *


Jimmie Lee Carlson shifted his ample behind on the hard 
seat of the weathered wooden skiff and hocked a big one 
into the brown water.  Was there, he wondered, 
anything better than this? Unless it was doin' the naked 
pretzel with a pretty little thing, he couldn't think of 
anything.

Yep, it was hotter'n a bitch, but here on the river at 
least there was a breeze.  He had to hug the shore to fish 
under the vegetation there.  The river was low 'cause of 
the damn drought, lower than he'd seen it in an age, but 
the guys at Stu's Live Bait and Tackle had told him the 
redfish and mullet were biting close to shore--and if you 
were lucky you might find y'self some cats or some bass. 

He cocked his head to one side.  Goddam, what the hell were 
the birds goin' on about?  Crows, from the sound of 'em.  
He wiped the sweat off his face and neck with a large red 
bandana and pulled his white mesh cap off.  His curly blond 
hair was plastered against his skull in soggy ringlets.  He 
fanned the cap in front of his red face, and reached into 
his cooler for another cold Busch. 

As he pulled the wet can out of the cooler, something on 
the shore caught his eye, over amidst the pines.  He shut 
the cooler and squinted at the line of trees, trying to 
make out what it was.  He popped the can open and took a 
deep swig.  The cold beer felt good going down.  

Huh, Jimmie Lee huffed to himself.  It was a man.  Sitting 
under a friggin' pine tree.   It was a damned odd place for 
a picnic--not that the guy looked like he was takin' the 
air for pleasure.  He was sitting stiff and still, bolt 
upright against the tree trunk, like he had a stick up his 
ass. 

Jimmie Lee took another drink of the beer and set the can 
down on the seat beside him.  He slowly reeled in his line, 
watching to see if anything dragged on it.  Jack 
shit.

Jimmie Lee looked back over at the trees, feeling like 
something cold was touching his spine.  The man hadn't 
moved a muscle.  He reeled his line in all the way and 
fastened it to the rod.  He laid the rod and reel in the 
bottom of the skiff and pulled on the oars for a few 
seconds, propelling the skiff a little closer to shore.  

"Fuck me," he breathed, peering at the man through the 
pines again.  Whoever the hell it was still hadn't moved.

Jimmie Lee climbed out of the skiff and splashed through 
the shallow water, pulling the boat after him and beaching 
it.  He walked up the bank and, slowly, over to the 
stand of pines.

The birds had gone quiet, and Jimmie Lee could hear his 
footsteps in the sandy soil, crunching pine needles 
underfoot.  He stopped, feeling his stomach dropping out 
from under him at the sight of the man propped up against 
the pine tree in front of him.

It was a big black man, dressed in what looked like some 
kind of drab gray uniform.  He was staring, sightless, 
right at Jimmie Lee's midsection.  The man's body was 
sliced open from his chest to his crotch, and his 
intestines had been pulled out and twined around and around 
and around the tree, effectively binding him to the trunk.  
He had bled out into the sandy soil below the tree, stained 
a deep red, starting to turn brown now.

Jimmie Lee fell to his knees and got rid of the fried steak 
and collards he'd had for lunch, and then kept vomiting 
until there was nothing left in his stomach.

The crows in the trees began calling to each other again, 
first one, then another, and then the air was full of their 
hoarse cries.  The only other sound was the quiet retching 
of the man crouched next to the dead man, and the buzzing 
of the flies.


CHAPTER 2

Alexandria, Virginia
Thursday Noon

Monica Reyes grabbed the carton out of the fridge and 
poured some of the orange juice into a glass on the 
cluttered kitchen counter.  Barefoot, she carried it out to 
the empty flagstone patio.  She looked around and sighed, 
returned to the kitchen and hooked the step stool there 
with one hand and carried it back outside. It had rained a 
few hours before, cooling the city down for about a 
heartbeat. D.C. was oppressively hot, stiflingly humid, and 
staying inside in the air conditioning would have been 
smarter.

But she wanted a smoke, so she sat on the step stool in the 
middle of the patio and pulled a cigarette and lighter out 
of the pocket of her shorts and lit up. She smoked and 
slowly sipped the juice, thinking about how perfectly 
innocuous things become habits.  There was no reason on 
earth why she couldn't smoke inside, but going outside for 
a smoke had been drummed into her over the years.  And she 
had to admit that maybe she didn't really want to smoke 
inside her new place anyway.

Her life was ass-over-teakettle right now. Essentially, her 
life was in boxes, or half in and half out of boxes, 
scattered all over this strange new apartment in this 
strange new city. She didn't do chaos well. Having a 
tendency to feel too much from the get-go anyway, when 
things were turned upside down she felt totally ungrounded 
and found it hard to think straight. But she wasn't a space 
case; it was just that, because of the things she was able 
to perceive, she often knew things other people didn't--and 
she wasn't afraid to mention it right out loud.  She knew 
damn well it was one of the reasons why she sometimes 
seemed a trifle, well, flaky to people. 

She drew the smoke into her lungs and wondered for the nth 
time if she'd made the right decision, leaving a city and a 
job she knew well for a job in a small, less-than-
prestigious division of the Bureau, even if it were in 
Washington, D.C. On top of it, she'd be working with a man 
who, she was fairly certain, viewed her with a conflicted 
mixture of fondness and dread. She smiled ruefully. If 
"conflicted" wasn't the right word for John Doggett, she 
didn't know what word was. 

But it wasn't like he didn't want her to work with him--
*he'd* asked *her*, after all. She crossed her long, 
slender legs and pinched her lower lip in thought. She 
liked to keep an optimistic attitude; she'd found it worked 
far better for her than the opposite, despite the 
"Pollyanna" label it had earned her from some of her 
colleagues.

And it wasn't as if John wasn't a good man and a superior 
agent, one of the best she'd ever known. He was 
intelligent, fair, meticulous, indefatigable, stubborn, 
hard. But also, under the flintiness, he could be 
thoughtful and gentle and kind, with a deep lode of 
melancholy--not that he would ever consciously let most 
people in on the secret. He was that type of man, kind of a 
throwback. Monica liked him for it, though he could push 
her buttons faster than almost anyone she'd ever known. She 
was pretty sure she had the same effect on him.  More often 
than not, she could see right through him, and she knew 
that unsettled him, though he tried not to show it.

Monica stripped the elastic out of her messy ponytail and 
ran a hand back through her dark brown hair. She took 
another drag of the cigarette, another sip of the orange 
juice. Well, if the cases John had already involved her in 
were any indication, at least this new assignment wouldn't 
be boring. Weird as hell, but not boring. But then, she 
*did* do "weird" pretty well--had quite the reputation for 
it, in fact. She shook her head and stood up, grabbed the 
stool, and walked back into the messy kitchen. She had 
about four days before she actually started official work 
on the X-Files. It wasn't much time to get her house in 
order. 

She tucked the stool up under the breakfast bar and looked 
around for the ashtray she'd just unpacked. Damn, it was 
there just a minute ago. Her cell phone trilled. She 
rummaged around in the stuff on the breakfast bar and 
finally found the phone--and the ashtray--underneath a 
towel. She picked up the phone.

"Monica Reyes," she said into the phone, stubbing out the 
cigarette in the ashtray.

"Mon, what the hell you doin' in D.C., gal?"

Monica frowned, confused, until she placed the honey-
magnolia drawl with the right face. 

"Why, Everett Clyatt, how are you?"

"I'm just fine, hon. I spoke to Sid this mornin', and he 
said you'd taken an assignment there in D.C.  When'd you 
leave N'awlins, anyway?"

"Just a few days ago, actually, Ev. It all happened pretty 
fast," Monica moved a box off one of the dining room chairs 
and sat down.

"Well, I was wonderin' if y'all might have time to give me 
a hand with somethin', just a consult, mind you."

"Are you still down in Jacksonville, Ev?"

"Yes, ma'am. There's been some weird shit goin' on down 
here in a little bitty town, Ft. White, not too far from 
Gainesville." 

"What kind of weird are we talking about, Ev?"

He chuckled.  "You know, your name came up in the database 
search when we input 'weird.'  No, seriously, there've been 
a series of church desecrations, sacrificed animals, blood 
chucked around.  There were threatening messages left in a 
couple churches.  In one, the bastids left a dead dove. And 
there's been a murder--body was found yesterday by a local 
man who was out fishin'.  Looked to be dead five, six 
hours."

"Is it related? Was it ritual too?" Monica asked, intrigued 
now.

"There was another dead dove, and the man was gutted just 
like the animals in the churches, with the same exact type 
of  blade. M.E. used the word 'eviscerated.' I'm sure y'all 
know what that means."

Monica felt her stomach take a little lurch, and she took a 
deep breath. "Yeah," she said. "Do you have any leads? Any 
ideas about motive, who could be doing this?"

"The Gilchrist County Sheriff seems to think it could be 
tied to a Santeria cult in the area. The dead man was a 
Santeria priest."

Monica frowned, doubtful.

"Mon?"

"Yeah, I'm still here."

"There any way you could help us out?"

Monica looked around the room at the half-unpacked boxes, 
the out-of-place furniture. Then she laughed to herself.  
John will just *love* this, she thought. She glanced at her 
watch. It was just a little after 1.  "Sure, Ev," she said 
into the phone. "When do you want me?"  

"When's the next plane to Gainesville?"


            *            *            *


The little bungalow just off the road to High Springs was 
quiet.  Its weathered boards normally vibrated with music
and energy and laughter.  Now its silence felt like anguish.
It felt like death.

The front room was carpeted with a remnant bought at
Discount Carpet Warehouse  in Gainesville several years
before.  It hadn't held up very well, and the thin spots
were beginning to show up as pale patches in the otherwise
dark blue.  The walls were covered with brilliant West
African hangings, family photos, and musical instruments--
a mbira from Zimbabwe, a kora from Senegal.  The furniture
was old but comfortable, an overstuffed red sofa overlaid
with colorful throws, a wooden chair, a large armchair, an
old floor lamp.  It was a welcoming room, rich in color and 
warmth.

Deborah Boadu sat down at the kitchen table with the glass 
of iced tea she'd poured--a habit she'd picked up since 
living in north Florida, where everyone seemed to have a 
jar of it in the refrigerator year-round.  A tall, stately 
dark-skinned woman with a head full of long black braids 
caught back in a cloth, she wasn't used to feeling as lost 
as she felt right now.  Normally lively and optimistic, she 
hadn't felt anything remotely like this since she had left 
Lagos with her late husband Jaime and her young son  and 
came to live in the U.S. with her brother-in-law Enrique.  
That was 17 years ago.

How could it be that long ago already?  She had been so 
much younger then!  Stephen had only been 6 when they'd 
moved here and didn't really remember Africa very well.  He 
was truly American.  She had always tried her best to be 
American, and she thought she'd succeeded fairly well.  She 
seldom wore African dress, just the occasional color-
drenched headcloth.  But she and her family were Lucumi, 
and it had been very hard to fit in at first.  Their 
religion was suspect; their ways were mocked.  She had 
learned to be very circumspect over the years.  She had 
even taken a job as caretaker at the local Methodist Church
in an attempt to continue to reassure the rest of Ft. White 
that Lucumi, or Santeria as they insisted on calling it, 
had nothing to do with their Christian devil or his 
worship.  Why they would even assume that was hard for her 
to understand, but that was the way it had always been, 
here and everywhere--even in Africa, among fearful 
Christians and Muslims.

She smiled bitterly and sipped the cold tea.  But as lost 
as she had felt when she first came here, a young Nigerian 
wife and mother transplanted to Florida, it was nothing 
compared to the horror of her husband's brother being 
murdered.  That she was quite certain she knew who had 
killed him made it ten times worse.  

The screen door opened and slammed shut, and Deborah slowly 
got up and walked into the living room.  

"Stephen, what have you found out?" She asked the tall 
young man who stood, very still, in the middle of the room.  
A much smaller, much older man stood next to him.  What the 
man lacked in size, however, he more than made up for in 
substance and powerful dignity.  

"The police and the people at the morgue say that we can't 
have Uncle Enrique's body for another day, because he was a 
murder victim," Stephen sank down into the armchair and 
looked up at his mother and the other man.  "They say they 
need to do more tests."

"You told them that we need to prepare his body for ritual 
and burial?"  Deborah asked.

"Of course I did, Mama."  Stephen wiped his damp forehead on 
the rolled sleeve of his work shirt.

"The authorities here have their rules," the old man spoke 
up.  "We have no choice.  And they do not understand our 
ritual."

"But they will let us have him tomorrow?"  Deborah asked, 
feeling a knot grow larger in her stomach.  "We can go to 
Gainesville and get him?"

"That's what we were told," Stephen said.

Deborah looked at the old man.  "Old Owdeye, I have to go 
to the police and tell them what I saw, what I know," 
Deborah said to him.

"Deborah," the old man said, his eyes intent on her face,
"the alejo justice cannot be trusted.  The police, the
ashelu, they do not need to be told.  We must trust Olorun. 
He will take care of us." 

"You know that I trust and honor the orishas.  But if this 
man is doing what I think he is doing, he may come after the
rest of us too."  She stood very still.  "We can't let that 
happen, and you need to know that right now.  If I have to, 
I will take care of it my way."


             *            *            *


"Mon, thanks again for comin' down on such short notice."  
Everett Clyatt glanced over at Monica Reyes, who turned 
away from the car window to smile at him. 

"Oh, Ev, no problem.  I don't have to start my new job till 
Monday, and I didn't want to unpack right now anyway."  
Monica uncrossed and recrossed her long legs, feeling 
fidgety sitting in the hot sun that was beating in through 
the windshield.  They were on their way down Route 24 from 
the Gainesville Airport to the Alachua County Sheriff's 
department.  

Ev Clyatt really was a lovely man.  He'd worked with Monica 
and her former partner on a couple of cases before, in 1996 
and 1997.   He'd been in the New Orleans field office for 
14 years before he was transferred to Jacksonville in 1999.  
He was tall, starting to go to fat now that he was past 40, 
his dark hair thinning and combed over in that ridiculous 
thing balding men sometimes do.  Come to think of it, Ev 
couldn't be a whole lot older than John Doggett.  She 
raised her eyebrows at the thought.  John still had plenty
of hair--albeit short--and a midsection you could serve dinner
from. There wasn't a lot of comparison in the looks department,
that was for sure.  But at least Ev was less likely than John
to think she was, well, flighty.  

John Doggett.  She smiled to herself just a little.  He'd 
probably be more convinced of that than ever when he got 
wind of this.  Somehow that gave her a perverse 
satisfaction.  She really did like and respect John, but 
sometimes he could be awfully fun to tweak.

"Ev," she said, "I'll need to see the body of the murdered 
man."

"Sure, Mon.  Sheriff Ritch'll arrange all that stuff."

"And this might seem like an odd request, but I'd also like 
to take a look at the dead dove that was left next to the 
body."

Clyatt glanced over at her skeptically.  "Well, I don't see 
why you can't do that."  He didn't ask why.

"And fill me in:  You were brought into this case why--?" 
she asked, smiling.

"The county authorities were scared shitless of the hate 
crimes statute.  Simple as that."

"Because the murdered man was Lucumi?"

"You got it."  Clyatt turned left onto Hawthorne Road.  
"Everybody's nervous about that crap nowadays."

"And it's about time," Monica said.  


             *           *           *


The first thought that came to Monica when she and Ev had 
walked into the Alachua County Sheriff's office was that 
Sheriff Al Ritch was one big fellow.  Monica figured he'd 
probably always been the biggest kid in his class, even in 
grade school.  Had to shop at the Big and Tall Men's stores 
and remember to duck going through certain doorways.  She 
realized that she literally had to look up at him, and she 
wasn't exactly petite.  He was the classic cinema Southern 
lawman, 40-ish, slow-moving, sunglasses hooked in his shirt 
pocket, face sun-blasted and crinkled, voice a slow drawl
that stretched each vowel to its breaking point. 

And right now he was standing with her and Ev in the County 
Morgue.

"Whoever killed this guy had to be higher'n a Georgia 
pine," Sheriff Ritch said to Monica.  "I mean, the man was 
still alive when the sumbitch gutted him, pulled out his 
insides.  It's enough to make y' lose y' lunch."

"Well, I understand that the man who found him did just 
that," Monica put in gently, leaning over the body of 
Enrique Boadu and squinting prettily.   Whoever had done 
the autopsy had done a fine job of stitching up a body that 
had been opened up from the pubis to the sternum.  Monica 
swallowed hard.  The man was tall and sturdy and had been 
strong and vibrant once, of that she was certain.  Ev had 
told her Boadu had been a priest, but she would have known 
that without being told.  There was. . .something about 
him.  She couldn't put her finger on it, but this man had 
been a powerful presence.  Some of that power lingered 
still, despite the death of his body.

The infamy of the murder brought sudden tears to her eyes, 
taking her by surprise, and she blinked hard to keep them 
at bay.  There was no way she'd let Sheriff Ritch see her 
cry.  She took a deep breath and turned around to face the 
big man.

"Tough sometimes, ain't it, gal?"  His shrewd brown eyes 
studied her not unkindly.

She met those eyes, ready to reject what sounded like 
condescension, but saw something else in his face.  
Understanding--*real* understanding.  The corners of her 
mouth quirked up.  Damn, sometimes irony just reared up and 
smacked you.  He only *looked* like a Central Casting 
redneck.

"Yes, it is," she said simply.  "Sheriff Ritch, I was led 
to believe that the motive was rivalry within the Santeria 
community, not drugs."

"Yeah, that's true.  I guess I just have a helluva time 
believin' that anyone not totally whacked out could do what 
was done to that poor bastid."

Monica nodded.  "And  I have a hard time believing that any 
practitioner of Lucumi would do something like that."

"And why's that?"  Ritch leveled his sober gaze at her.

"Just my past experiences--not that you won't find crazy 
people in any faith," Monica hastened to add.

"And there was the bird," Ev prompted.

Monica nodded.  "The dove that was left at the scene-
there's no way Lucumi would have killed the bird that way."

Ritch squinted at her skeptically.  What the hell did *that*
mean?

"A dove is a common sacrifice in the religious practice of 
Santeria, but to the people who practice Lucumi, a 
sacrifice--whether it's fruit or a dove--is always a symbol 
of love and devotion to God.  The bird would never be 
gutted like that one was.  It would have been killed as 
gently as possible and offered to whatever orisha was 
receiving the sacrifice."

Ritch didn't look convinced, but he was clearly not going 
to argue with her, the reputed expert on all such things.  
"So what're you sayin', Miz Reyes?  That whoever did this 
was tryin' to make it look like it was the Santeria folks?"

"Well," Monica said, "that's one possibility.  I'm sure 
you've already thought of it," she added. She walked away 
from the priest's body and back over to Ev, who was 
standing by the wall, letting her take the lead.  "From 
what I know about Lucumi, I'm just suspicious, that's all."

Sheriff Ritch joined her and Ev, and they walked out of the 
bay and into the hallway.  "Am I assumin' rightly that 
you're gonna want t' see the murder scene and the churches 
too?"

"Sheriff Ritch, you're assuming just right."  Monica smiled 
at him.

"Well, then, y'all may as well come on with me."  Sheriff 
Ritch settled his hat on his head and pointed the way.  "We 
can take my truck."


             *            *            *


The old clapboard house had stood there in the little town 
of Ft. White since 1927, when Gerald Dannah, his wife, 
brother, cousin, and various friends had built it.  It was 
a comfortable but modest house for its time, and downright 
small for the 21st century, with its modern motto of bigger 
is always better.  But the house had seen three children, 
seven grandchildren, three great-grandchildren, at least 16 
cats and seven or eight dogs arrive and thrive and move on 
over the seventy-some years it had been there, and it still 
felt like home to the various Dannahs who visited it, and 
to the two who had come to stay several years earlier.

When Gerald Dannah's widow had passed on in 1997, their son 
Jack and his wife Ruth had sold out their business and home 
in South Carolina and had moved everything down to Florida, 
ostensibly to retire.  But neither one of them liked 
retirement.  Ruth found herself playing piano at local 
nursing homes, and Dr. Dannah  ended up practicing medicine 
the way he always had, taking patients who couldn't afford 
to pay most of the time.  Ruth kept telling him to slow 
down, but he was as hardheaded as their two daughters, so 
she just watched him and smiled.  She told herself it was 
why she'd fallen for him all those years ago, anyway, so 
why complain now?

When they found his cancer two years later, he still didn't 
want to slow down, but eventually his body made it clear to 
him that he had to, and, grudgingly, he did.  Eventually he 
became too weak to do much of anything, and that had been 
the worst time of Ruth Dannah's life.  


Mo Dannah pulled on her mother's old gardening gloves and 
sat down cross-legged on the spiky broad-blade grass in the 
side yard.  Her mother's flower beds needed some serious 
help.  Her father's final illness had taken a toll on her 
mother, on the house, and on the yard.  Mo wanted to do all 
she could to get things ready for the wake on Saturday, 
just two days away.  She had already watered the three 
parched beds here on the side of the house, to make it 
easier to get the weeds out and then put in some new 
flowers she'd just bought at the nursery outside of Lake 
City.

She adjusted the sun hat on her head and gave silent thanks 
for sunblock.   The afternoon sun was fierce today and 
could bake her fair skin well-done.  She dug into the soil 
with the garden fork and loosened some of the more stubborn 
weeds.  Her mother's four o'clocks were wilted, the cosmos 
barely holding their own.  Some new petunias and pansies 
were just the ticket.  

A shadow fell on her, and she looked up to see Maeve 
standing there, extending a glass of iced tea her way. 
"Thought you could use a cold drink."

"Thanks, sweetie, it's just what I need," Mo said, taking 
the glass from her sister.  

Maeve settled herself in the grass next to Mo.  

"What's Mama doin'?" Mo asked her.  She took a grateful sip 
of the cold, sweet tea.  

"You know, right now she's actually lyin' down.  I 
practically had to force her.  But I convinced her that you 
and I can take care of gettin' the house ready and that she 
really *could* relax a little bit."

"Good," Mo said, hollowing out a space for a pansy.  She 
put the plant into the soil and patted the brown earth back 
on top of it. 

"So, Mo, how've you been? I mean, really." Maeve sat back 
and wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees, studying 
her older sister.   She loved her sister Morgan to 
distraction, but they were so different it was hard to 
believe they'd grown up in the same house.  Where Mo was 
medium-tall and slender like their father, with the same 
black hair and green eyes, she was like their mother:  
little, rounded, auburn-haired, and brown-eyed.  She was 
outgoing, had dated the football captain in high school, 
led the debate team, majored in political science and had 
become a lawyer.  Mo was quieter, hadn't gone out much in 
high school, had hung with the drama crowd, studied classical 
ballet and modern dance, and made intuitive healing her 
life work.   

Mo glanced at her sister, wondering if it was a loaded 
question.  "I've been okay.  I've been working pretty hard 
since I went back full-time."

"When was that?"

"I think it was about four months ago," Mo replied.

"Any guys?  I mean, you haven't really talked about anyone 
since. . ."

"Since Max and I split?  Yeah, well, there haven't been 
too many guys--or at least not too many who meant anything.  
One or two.  You know what it's like.  Once you've been 
divorced, it's not easy to climb back into the saddle."

"So to speak," Maeve said dryly, grinning.  "There's no one 
special though?  Mo, you're too young to turn into a 
celibate.  I can't believe there aren't any guys you're 
interested in."

"Well, there're a couple I've seen in the last year or so.  
There was a guy named Chris who I saw for a while.  He was 
sweet, but that didn't really go anywhere.  That ended last 
winter.  And there's a guy I've spent a little time with.  
Nothing too serious. I hardly ever see him." Mo's voice was 
carefully casual, which immediately alerted her sister.  

"Really?  What does he do?"

Mo gave one of the weeds a particularly savage prod with 
the garden fork.  "He works in law enforcement."  She dug more 
earth out of the way, this time for a petunia.

Maeve stared at her sister, and then laughed.  "Sorry, Mo.  
No offense--a cop?  You?"  Maeve was thoroughly amused.  
"The Hippie Healer and the Lawman.  They could write a 
Harlequin romance about you."

Mo laughed gently.  "I guess it *is* pretty odd.  But it's 
not like we're an item.  Like I said, I don't see him very 
often.  He lives out of state."

Maeve gave Mo a long, appraising look.  It was clear to 
Maeve that her sister was lonely.  Maeve might not have the 
intuitive abilities Mo had--she couldn't "feel" other 
people in the same way--but she could read people, and she 
knew Mo like a favorite novel.  Even though Mo's divorce a 
few years back hadn't embittered her--well, at least she never 
spoke ill of her ex-husband--Maeve knew Mo's heart had 
taken a beating when her bittersweet marriage had ended and 
her photographer husband had left town pretty much for 
good.  Maeve also knew that Mo spent far too much time 
taking care of other people, and there just didn't seem to 
be many people in her life right now who were taking care 
of *her*.  Maeve found herself wishing she could do or say 
something to help.

"Mo, I--" Maeve started to say, when they both heard a car 
drive up, a door open and slam shut, and a deep voice call 
out:

"Hey!  Anybody home?"

It was a familiar Carolina drawl, and Mo stopped her 
weeding mid-pull.  "Oh God," she said. "It's Max."

"Over here, Max!" Maeve yelled, and the tall man shortly 
followed the deep voice.

Mo took a deep breath.  She hadn't seen him in almost two 
years. 

*Oh, God.*

He was even more gorgeous than she'd remembered.  He was 
older, but he was still probably the best-looking man she'd 
ever known, tall, lean, well-muscled, with black hair and 
dark blue eyes and lips that. . .well, they were really 
nice lips. 

She stood up as he walked over to her and Maeve.  Dressed 
in khaki cargo shorts and a white muscle shirt, his bare 
arms and legs tanned and strong, he stopped in front of 
them.  His black hair was shorter than Mo remembered--and 
was that a little gray in that hair?--but those blue eyes 
were still kind and compelling.

"Hey, Mevvie," he said softly, bending to give Maeve a kiss 
on the cheek.  Then he turned to Mo with a small smile that 
got wider as he looked at her.  "Mo, honey," he said and 
gathered her into a hug that almost lifted her off her 
feet.  

He released her, and Mo smiled up at him, blinking a little 
in shock, just grateful that he hadn't kissed her.  

"How's the job?  How's Kyoto?" Mo asked him, trying to 
think of something innocuous to say.

"It's good.  The assignment's really challenging, but I'm
havin' a great time," Max said.  "Incredible photographic 
opportunities there, but it's been an adjustment, I can tell
you.  Can you imagine me living with the Japanese?" He laughed
softly. "I've been there three months, and I haven't met
anyone yet I can look in the eye."

"You don't find that many people in the *States* you can 
look in the eye," Mo said, and he grinned.  "Max, thanks 
for coming all this way.  It means a lot to us," she added, 
her hand on his brown forearm.  

"Mo, your dad meant a lot to *me*."  Max ran a hand back 
through his thick, dark hair and looked at her.  "You look 
good."  

Mo laughed.  "Yeah, sure," she said.  "I'm all dirty and 
sweaty."

"You always did look good, girl," he said softly, closing 
his big hand over her fingers.

"What *is* this?  Visiting hours at the asylum?" Maeve 
muttered, and Mo and Max turned.  A 4 x 4 was moving slowly 
up the lane toward the house.  They walked around to the 
front of the house to see who was going to get out of it, 
Mo leading the way. 

The muddy Blazer pulled up in front of the house, and both 
doors opened.  Two men and a woman climbed out and walked 
toward the three standing by the porch steps.  The driver, 
an imposing man who had a good two inches on the 6-foot 4-
inch Max, stuck his hand out to Mo.

"Ma'am, I'm Al Ritch, Alachua County Sheriff's Office," the 
big man said, taking Mo's hand in a surprisingly gentle 
grip.  "These two folks are from the FBI.  Are you the 
property owner here?"

Mo shook her head.  "No, my mother lives here.  She's 
inside, resting." She glanced at Max and her sister.  "This 
is my sister, and my ex-husband.  We're here for my 
father's funeral on Saturday."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."  Sheriff Ritch said.  "Could we talk to 
your mother for a few minutes?  And to y'all?"  He looked 
at Max and Maeve, then back to Mo.

"Sure," Mo said.  She looked from him to the other, shorter 
man and the tall, dark-haired woman.  "Is--is this about 
the man who was found yesterday?

"Yes, ma'am," Ritch confirmed.

"I'll go tell Mama," Maeve said.  She headed up the steps.

Max stood next to Mo, protective, silent.  

"Come on inside.  I'll get y'all some tea," Mo said, and 
motioned for them to follow her.  

The dark-haired woman was staring at her with a look of 
uncertainty, almost of wonder.  As they walked up the 
steps, Mo glanced at her.  She was a little taller, a 
little thinner than Mo.  She smiled at Mo almost shyly and 
continued to study her.

"I'm sorry," Mo finally said.  "But have I met you 
somewhere?"

Monica held out her hand.  "No, I'm pretty sure you haven't.
I'm sorry if I was staring.  I don't mean to be rude.  But
you. . .remind me of someone.  I'm Monica Reyes."

Mo took her hand, nodding.  "I'm Morgan Dannah.  No, it's 
okay--I was just wondering because, well, of the way you 
were looking at me."  She held the screen door open for the 
other woman.

As they went inside, Mo tried to remember why the name 
"Monica Reyes" sounded familiar.

CHAPTER 3

Alachua, Florida
Ramada Inn
Thursday Evening

Monica Reyes pushed the shower curtain aside and reached 
for the towel she'd left on the back of the toilet.  She 
grabbed it and wrapped it around her wet hair.  She 
stretched her long arm out and pulled the other bath towel 
off the towel bar and wrapped it around her slender body, 
tucking it up over her left breast.  She bent over and 
rubbed her wet hair with the thick towel, trying to get the 
excess moisture out of it.

It was only about 8:45 p.m., but she was tired.  Ev Clyatt 
had headed back to Jacksonville about an hour ago.  Before 
he left, he'd treated Monica to dinner at a little place 
just up 163rd from the motel.  He'd watched her, slack-
jawed, as she'd eaten two helpings of fried snapper with 
hush puppies and butter beans, muttering something about 
where the hell she put it in her skinny little body.  
Monica smiled to herself, remembering his expression.

She walked out of the steamy bathroom into the air-
conditioned motel room and shivered.  She finished drying 
off and pulled a T-shirt and a pair of panties out of her 
suitcase.  She slid them on and wrapped the towel around 
her hair a little tighter.  Grabbing a little bottle of 
Scotch out of the mini-bar, she poured it into a plastic 
motel cup and sat down on the bed.  She pulled the extra 
pillow behind her, and sighed as she sank back onto them.  

She crossed her ankles, wiggled her toes, and sipped the 
Scotch.  Not the best Scotch, maybe, but it would do.  What 
a day!  It was hard to believe that only six hours ago 
she'd been boarding a plane for Gainesville.  What she'd 
seen today had thoroughly puzzled her, intrigued her, and 
frightened her, just a little.  She knew now that she had 
to call John.  Between what she'd seen at the morgue, at 
the Dannahs' house--and especially at the Methodist Church
--it was clear to her that more was going on here than 
anybody had clue one about.

She took another sip of the Scotch, liking the way it bit 
at her tongue, and closed her eyes.  As she knew it 
probably would, the scene in the Methodist Church replayed 
behind her eyelids.  She stood in the aisle of the little 
sanctuary with Ev and Sheriff Ritch.  The Sheriff was 
speaking, describing where the sacrificed goat had been, 
how the entrails had been wound around the altar, how it 
all had been burnt.  His voice began to fade away, and 
everything slowed. . .way. . .down.  The Sheriff's mouth 
continued to move as if he were talking, but she couldn't 
hear his voice.  Instead, she was hearing a sound, like a 
distant hum, or a faraway motor.  And then a brilliant 
flash of light, and the fire fell and burned the animal and 
the viscera. . .but nothing else.  

Monica opened her eyes and set the glass down on the 
nightstand, her hand shaking a little.  She had seen that 
this afternoon--she *knew* she had!  But neither Ev nor 
Sheriff Ritch had any idea what she was talking about when 
she asked them if they'd seen it too.  

Sheriff Ritch's eyes had gotten that look in them that 
she'd seen in John's a few too many times:  an odd mixture 
of hard skepticism, concern that she was off her nut, and a 
grudging desire to believe.   Because she'd been a trifle 
white-faced and shaky afterward, Ev had stuck close to her, 
his hand on her arm.  But, knowing Monica considerably 
better than Sheriff Ritch did, he hadn't said much at all 
beyond making sympathetic noises.

She picked up the TV remote and punched the "ON" button.  
VH1's "Behind the Music."  Great, it was the one on 
Aerosmith that she'd already seen.  Figured.   A stupid 
sitcom.  Some old Kathleen Turner movie.  Benny Hinn 
healing the true believers.  A rerun of "Saturday Night 
Live" from an earlier century.  Shit.

She got up off the bed and went over to the desk, where her 
jacket was draped over the back of the chair.  She fished 
her cell phone out of the pocket of the jacket and stared 
at it, biting her lip.  

John probably wasn't going to like this.
 

           *             *             *  


Falls Church, Virginia

John Doggett glanced up at the sky. The darkness was 
starting to close in, and he was going to lose his light if 
he didn't get this job wrapped. Looking over at the 
upturned bicycle on the deck, he snagged the Sam Adams off 
the redwood table and upended what was left of it down his 
throat. Sweet fucking Jesus, it was hot. He rubbed the 
chill bottle down his damp cheek, sighing.

He wanted to get this thing done so he could ride over the 
weekend, but he was bone tired. It had been a crazy week--a 
solo assignment in West Virginia that had teamed him with a 
hapless local sheriff and had run him ragged.   The past 
four days had been even more nuts than your average week on 
the X-Files, and he had never missed Scully more than he 
did right now.

What was it Fox Mulder had told him, a while ago now? 
"You'll get used to chasing shadows, Agent Doggett, and 
driving yourself crazy trying to solve cases that can't be 
solved. After a while, it'll pass for normal life."

It was what he was afraid of, that this fucked-up stuff 
could possibly start passing for normal. That what had 
always been "normal" to him would gradually start becoming 
less and less important. That normal life wouldn't seem 
that way anymore.  After a year on the X-Files, he was 
beginning to wonder if it hadn't already started happening.  
There just didn't seem to be a whole lot of normal left.

Face it, John: Normal life involves family.  It involves 
recreation. It involves friendships with people you *don't* 
work with. It involves companionship with the opposite sex.

And if you were really lucky, it might even involve love.

Do you realize how long it's been since you had a social 
life?  Since you even *kissed* a woman? Well, yeah, there 
*was* that pretty redhead that Davis in VC fixed you up 
with, what, a month or so ago? You took her out for drinks, 
and when you pulled up in front of her apartment and she 
leaned over and kissed you goodnight, you let yourself 
enjoy it for about a nanosecond, then stammered out some 
bullshit excuse and went home by yourself. The poor woman 
must have thought you couldn't stand her, for all the 
interest you showed in her sexually. Or maybe she thought 
you were studying for the friggin' priesthood. Or maybe--
and this was the most likely scenario--she just thought you 
were an asshole.

He missed the man he'd been.  That man would have kissed 
that pretty woman in a way she wouldn't have forgotten. 
Where the hell had he gone?

He spun the wheel of the bicycle, squinting at it. It 
dragged against the brake pad, making a telltale hissing. 
Yeah, the thing was definitely out of true. He rubbed his 
finger across his upper lip and picked up the spoke wrench 
he'd laid on the step, started adjusting the spokes, one by 
one.
 
*Really* kissing a woman, making love to a woman?  He 
hadn't done that since Mo Dannah's visit, going on four 
months ago now.  The first woman he'd let himself get close 
to in a long time, she'd stayed seriously on his mind long 
after she'd left that last time.   Maybe, in the long run, 
it was a good thing she lived so far away and that they 
didn't talk very often. He had a feeling that if she lived 
closer he would have been completely undone by now--and he 
knew that loving a woman was the last thing he needed.   Or 
more accurately, the last thing a woman would need.

How many times had he been injured since he'd been assigned 
to the X-Files? He'd lost track. Yeah, that was a swell 
thing to ask a woman to deal with.  And, even though he 
knew that Mo, being who she was, would be open to the 
weirdness of the job--a whole lot more open than *he* was, 
he realized with amusement--laying a load of insomnia-
inducing worry and paranoia on her was just bullshit.  She 
needed a good man who would love her and treat her right 
and come home to her at night with no worries about whether 
or not he was going to make it through the next day in one 
piece.  She deserved that.

She didn't deserve what he could offer her.  No woman did.

Or was that just an excuse?  Was he just afraid?

He spun the wheel again, savagely, and lifted the wrench to 
the spokes again and made some more adjustments.

His cell phone rang from inside the house.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. He slid open the 
screen door to the kitchen, padded inside barefoot and 
grabbed the phone off the breakfast bar.

"John Doggett," he said, more tersely than he'd intended.

"John, hi, it's Monica," the voice in his ear said. 

Monica.  Jesus, he'd completely forgotten about her.   He'd 
just returned from West Virginia that afternoon, and his 
head was still spinning.  But, damn, he should have called 
her.  Starting Monday, he was going to be working closely 
with her, and he may as well start acting like it.

"Monica," he said, trying to sound a little less testy, not 
that it really mattered.  He knew he didn't intimidate 
Monica anyway--at least, not anymore.  But Monica had been 
there for him those years ago, and she really didn't 
deserve attitude from him.  "How you doin'? You getting 
settled in okay?"

"Um, yeah," she said, and he knew that something was up.  
He could almost see her pacing, twisting a strand of hair 
around a finger.  "Actually, John, I'm in Florida."

"Florida?"  Doggett stepped back out onto the deck, waving 
away a mosquito.  "What the hell are you doing in Florida?"

"Well, actually," she said, "I got a call today from an 
agent in Jacksonville, a guy I used to work with at the New 
Orleans bureau, and he wanted me to come down for a short 
consult."

Doggett frowned at the phone.  "Are you sure that's the 
wisest thing you could be doin' right now, Monica?  I mean, 
it's your life, but you start a new job in, what, three or 
four days?  And you just moved into a new place."

"Yeah, I know all that," Monica replied.  "I thought about 
that."

"Well, it's your decision," Doggett spun the bicycle wheel 
again, studying it intently.  Monica didn't say anything 
for a few seconds.  "You still there?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm here.  John, what's going on down here is an X-
File," she said.  "I think you should come down."

At that, he stood up straight and raised his eyebrows.  
"Oh, you do? Can you give me one good reason why?"  

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds while, 
Doggett assumed, Monica marshaled  her forces.  "Okay, yes, 
I think I can, John.  Do you have a minute?  I can explain 
a little about the case."

Doggett scowled at nothing in particular, then looked over 
at the bike.  "Yeah, go ahead," he said into the phone.  He 
sat down in the wooden glider on the deck, pulled his bare 
feet up, and got comfortable.  He listened to her as she 
told him about church desecrations, a particularly grisly 
murder that had even him wincing a bit, and about something 
that had happened at the Methodist Church that afternoon.

"Sorry--you what?" he asked, afraid that he'd actually 
heard what he thought he'd heard.

"When I was at the church this afternoon with Ev Clyatt and 
Sheriff Ritch, I saw it, John.  The fire."

"You *saw* it," Doggett said, leaning back into the glider 
and rubbing his eyes.  

"I did," she said simply.  "You can call it a vision, or 
whatever you want, but I *saw* it.  And I heard a sound, 
almost like a motor or cicadas or something--a hum.  And I 
smelled ozone. It was pretty odd, John."

"Well, I'd say stop the presses, but, Monica, you seein' 
odd things isn't exactly news.  I'll ask you again:  What 
makes this an X-File?"

"You know I don't make these things up, John," Monica said. 

The sad thing, Doggett thought, is that he *did* know she 
didn't make the stuff up.  Her "hunches" had played out 
right on a number of occasions, and he did tend to trust 
her instincts, grudgingly. . .unless her instincts had 
something to do with him.  Then all bets were off.

"It might make a difference to you that police and FBI 
forensics weren't able to find any trace of an accelerator 
that could have started the fire that burned in that church 
last month.  And," she hastened to continue before he could 
interrupt, "nothing else in the church was burned.  Just 
the animal sacrifice."

At that, Doggett sat up.  "You mean nothing the burned 
parts contacted was burned?"

"Right.  The altar wasn't even singed.  The carpet was 
fine, aside from the bloodstains."

"How do we know the animal sacrifice wasn't burned before 
it was brought to the church?"  Doggett stood up to walk 
back and forth on the deck, running his hand back through 
his hair.

"That's been thoroughly investigated," Monica said.  
"Forensics says it's pretty clear that the dead goat was 
brought into the church in a plastic trash bag and was bled 
and eviscerated in the middle of the sanctuary in front of 
the altar before any burning happened." 

"And in your. . .vision," Doggett said, "how did the 
burning happen?"  He couldn't believe he was even asking 
the question.

"It just fell, John.  It just fell from somewhere."  
Monica's voice was quiet.  "Would you come?  I know there's 
more going on here than the police want to look at."

And who the hell could blame them for not wanting to look 
at the stuff Monica was implying?  He sighed.  "Monica, 
what makes you think I'm gonna want to look at it either?"

"Because deep down, John, you know I'm not full of it.  And 
because it's your job."  

He could hear the satisfaction in her voice, and he shook 
his head.  "I'll think about it," he said.  "I'll call you 
in the morning if it looks like I can come down." 

"Well, thanks for at least thinking about it," Monica said.  
"It really is a weird situation down here. Oh, and I almost 
forgot," she added,  "there's a woman down here I think you 
need to meet."

Doggett blinked, sure that he couldn't have heard her 
right.  "Monica, don't *even*.  I'll call you in the 
morning."  Doggett turned off the phone and laid it down on 
the glider.  All he was going to do tomorrow was catch up 
on reports anyway.  He *could* go down for a couple of 
days.   It was feasible. 

He shook his head again.  John, you're due for a mental 
health evaluation.  

He picked up the spoke wrench and slid it into his pocket.  
He turned the bike right-side up, wrestled it back into the 
kitchen and propped it against the wall.  It was too damn 
dark out to do any more tonight.  He shut and locked the 
door.

A woman.  Jesus Christ.   He walked upstairs to shower.



           *              *              *


Alachua, Florida
Friday, Early Afternoon

John Doggett set his suitcase on the motel room bed and 
then stood there for a minute, looking around him.  It was 
Classic American Motel:  brown tweedy carpeting, white 
walls with dark paneling, a desk, table and chairs, with a 
blindingly white-on-white bathroom off to the right and a 
queen-sized bed that took up most of the middle of the 
room.  It was no different from the scores of motel rooms 
he'd slept in during his career, on the road by himself or 
with a partner.  There was something reassuring about that, 
and at the same time something a little depressing.  He 
rubbed his hand down his cheek, a bit stunned to find 
himself in room 18 of the Ramada Inn on 163rd Lane in 
Alachua, Florida.  Of his own free will.

"Everything okay, John?"  Monica walked through the open 
door into the room to stand next to him.  She watched him 
but didn't say anything else.  She just waited.

"Yeah, fine."  He looked at the card key he held in his 
hand for a second and then slid it into his breast pocket.  
He glanced at Monica, who was looking at him a little too 
intently for comfort.  "You're next door?" he asked.

"Yep, room 16."

Doggett nodded, seeming to shake himself out of whatever 
reverie he was in.  He turned to Monica.  "We may as well 
do this," he said. 


~~~~


"I'm coming!" Deborah Boadu called out as she walked from 
the kitchen through the living room to answer the door.  
She saw the strangers standing on her porch through the 
patched screen and slowed her pace, wary.  More police?  
Why won't they leave us alone?

"Yes?" She peered through the screen at the tall, dark-
haired woman and her stern-looking male companion. 

The woman on the porch held up what looked like an 
identification badge.  Deborah strained to read it.  "Mrs. 
Boadu, hi," the woman spoke, in a gentle voice to match her 
smile.  "I'm Monica Reyes, and this is John Doggett.  We're 
from the FBI.  Could we please talk to you for a minute?" 

Deborah unlatched the screen door and opened it.  The man 
held it open for the woman, and then followed her inside, 
nodding to Deborah politely, though she noticed he didn't 
have the easy smile of his companion.

Deborah latched the screen door and turned to the two 
agents.  "May I get you anything?  Iced tea?  A glass of 
water?"  She may not want to talk to these people, but she 
would be polite.  

The man shook his head, and met her eyes with a softer 
expression, not exactly a smile.

"No, but thank you, Mrs. Boadu," Monica Reyes said.

"Then, please, sit."  Deborah gestured to the living room. 

Deborah watched the man sit down in the wooden chair.  The 
dark-haired woman chose the large armchair, unconsciously 
smoothing her fingers over its soft, colorful throw as she 
sat down. 

"Mrs. Boadu," Monica said, "we just need to ask you a few 
questions.  I don't think it'll take too long."

Deborah looked at her steadily, and then glanced at the 
man, whose watchful blue eyes, she noted, missed nothing.  
"All right.  Although, you know, I have spoken to the 
police on two different occasions."

"Mrs. Boadu," Doggett spoke up, "do you have any idea who 
might have killed your brother-in-law?"

Deborah's lips curved upward just slightly.  A man of few 
words, this one.  She felt as if he could almost read her 
thoughts.  The woman, in contrast, was all heart. 
 
"Agent--" She'd forgotten his name.

"John Doggett, ma'am," the man said.

"Agent Doggett," she said, "I know of no one who could do 
such a thing.  What was done to Rique crossed every human 
boundary."

The dark-haired woman nodded her head slightly.  "Yes," 
she said.  "But, Mrs. Boadu, is it possible that someone 
was jealous of Enrique, or had a grudge against him for 
some reason?  Or would stand to benefit from his death?"  

Deborah shut her eyes for a moment.  "There was no reason 
for anyone to be jealous of Rique.  He had no power that 
anyone would have wanted for themselves."

The sharp-eyed man leaned forward in his chair, put his 
hands on his knees.  "Did he have any enemies, anyone who 
might've felt he'd done something to hurt them in the past, 
any business dealings that went bad, any former lovers he 
was on bad terms with?" he asked her.

Deborah met his steady gaze with her own.  "Agent Doggett, 
when you are Lucumi in this country, there are always 
people who are afraid of you.  But Rique didn't have any 
enemies that we were aware of.  No bad business.  No 
scorned women."    

"The local cops seem to think that someone in your group is 
responsible for the church desecrations that have been 
goin' on," Doggett said.  "Y'know, it's really not too big 
a stretch to think your group might have something to do 
with the murder too."

Deborah pushed down the anger his words stirred in her.  
She knew that he was a federal policeman, that he was only 
doing his job, that he was trying to find out information 
any way he could.  She breathed in hard through her nose 
and exhaled, looking away from him to the woman, who sat 
quietly, very much with the man but extending something to 
Deborah, too.  

"Mrs. Boadu," the woman said, "is it possible that someone 
is trying to make the police *think* that the local 
practitioners of Lucumi  are the ones behind all the 
crimes?"

Deborah stopped breathing for an instant.  Could this FBI 
woman know something?  Her question didn't indicate that 
she really knew anything for sure, but it was close to the 
mark.  That hugely tall sheriff who had been here yesterday 
seemed to sense something as well.  And this man, here now, 
he seemed to know more than he was letting on too.  

"Yes," Deborah said at last, very softly.  "I think it is 
possible."

"In that case," Doggett put in, "any ideas who?"

Deborah looked at him, shaking her head.  "No, Agent 
Doggett.  I only hope that anyone capable of doing what was 
done to Rique is not a member of our community."

Doggett held her calm gaze for a moment, then nodded.

Monica handed Deborah a card.  "Thanks for your time.  
Would you please call us if anything else comes to you?"

Deborah nodded slowly, looking at the card.  "Monica 
Reyes," it read.   It had several telephone numbers on it.  
"I will.  If anything else occurs to me, I will call you."

The two agents stood up, and the three walked to the screen 
door.  Doggett and Monica stopped and turned to Deborah.

"I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am," Doggett said to her 
quietly.  "We'll find out who did it."

Deborah looked into his eyes for a long moment, seeing 
something genuine there that she hadn't seen before, and
then he turned away and walked out onto the porch.

"Thanks, Mrs. Boadu," Monica said.  "Please call me any 
time."  She caught up with Doggett.

Deborah stood at the door and watched them as they walked 
to their car.  

Monica slid into the car and shut the door.

"What do you think?" she asked Doggett. "Was she telling 
the truth?"

"Not a chance," he said, and put the car in gear and headed 
back onto Highway 27, toward Ft. White.

                                                                      
               *              *             *


"So, who we gonna see now?" Doggett asked dryly, glancing 
over at Monica.

"I'd like you to talk to Ruth Dannah.  She owns the 
property where Enrique Boadu's body was discovered on 
Wednesday afternoon.  Mrs. Dannah's husband died on Monday, 
and they're burying him tomorrow."

Doggett frowned in thought.  " 'Dannah.' " He blinked.  "Do 
you think his death has any connection with the case?"

Monica watched the pine trees and wooden houses roll by the 
car window.  "No," she said, finally turning to look at 
him.  "I don't get that feeling.  Though I don't think much 
about this case is as straightforward as it seems."

"So this Mrs. Dannah lives on the property across the river 
from the old cemetery?"  When Monica didn't respond, he 
looked over at her.  "I mean," he went on, "that's where 
the body was found, right?  By the river, across from the 
cemetery."

Monica was staring out the windshield at nothing, her mouth 
open.  

"Monica?"  Doggett said.  "Hey, you there?  Don't get all 
weird on me, now."

She blinked a few times and turned to look at him.  "John, 
there's something about the cemetery that's important."

He frowned and looked over at her.   "Monica, what--"

"Okay," she said to him, turning her body toward him in the 
car seat.  "Just listen for a minute.  In  religion and 
folklore, water--especially running water--always seems to 
signify purification, truth.  This might sound odd, but no 
one's been able to come up with any reason at all for Boadu 
to have been murdered where he was."  

"Well, maybe that's 'cause there *isn't* any," Doggett put 
in dryly.  "What are you suggestin', that somebody killed 
him across the river from the cemetery for a reason?  And 
that would be because--?"

"Because the cemetery is hallowed ground, and that murder 
was anything but holy."  Monica raised her brows and looked 
at him.  "It could mean that the murderer has something to 
do with the cemetery, or is religious in some way."

He shook his head.  "I think you're reachin', Monica."  

She shrugged.  She'd heard him say that before.  "It beats 
not having a clue, doesn't it?"

"Depends on your point of view," he said.  "Where to?  This 
is Ft. White."

"Right at the stop sign, then another right at the first 
little lane."

Doggett drove the rented Taurus sedan slowly down the old 
macadam road, and turned right onto the sandy lane, through 
the tall moss-hung trees.  

"This is it," Monica said, pointing to the weathered wooden 
house.  

Doggett stopped the car.  He looked at Monica.  She smiled 
and opened her door. 

Doggett got out of the car, shut his door and looked 
around.  The rural deep South was a place he hadn't been in 
a long time.  He took in the barbed-wire fence, the old 
wooden house on stilts, the sandy soil and the tough grass 
with the prickly sand spurs, the gnarled pecan tree full of 
big black birds.  He took a deep breath of the humid, spicy 
air and remembered being a barefoot kid running wild in 
just this kind of baking heat, heat that would soak your 
shirt through in five minutes.  He envied Monica her 
sleeveless blouse.  He'd left his jacket in the car.  Screw 
protocol--it was just too fucking hot for a coat.  Or even 
shirtsleeves, for that matter.  

Monica joined him, looking at the house. "How old do you 
think it is?" she asked.

He threw her a glance.  "I dunno, the '20s, '30s maybe." It 
looked like they were renovating it slowly, though the 
porch didn't look like it had changed any in decades.  He 
didn't think the old swing had ever been replaced.  

Monica walked up the steps to the front door.  

"Monica," Doggett said quietly.

She turned back to him.

"I'll be right there.  I saw something around there." He 
gestured to the side of the house.

Curious, he walked around to the side yard.  He'd seen 
motion, a flash of white.

It was a woman he'd seen.  

Wearing shorts, a white halter top, and a big sun hat, she 
was sitting in the scrubby grass maybe 30 feet away,  
pulling weeds out of a flower bed, her arms working hard to 
get the stubborn weeds out of the ground.  At the sound of 
Doggett's footfalls in the dry grass, she looked up, 
startled.

Mo Dannah watched as the man slowly walked toward her:  
dark dress pants, a white shirt with rolled sleeves, a big 
watch on his right wrist, a somehow-familiar odd, loose-
limbed gait.  He reminded her of John Doggett. . .  But 
that was crazy.

The man ran his hand back through his hair, an unconscious 
gesture.

**Oh my God.**

It *was* John Doggett.  

She stood up, hoping her legs would hold her, and pulled 
off her sun hat and gloves.  As he came closer, she could 
see him clearly and wondered if she looked as dumbstruck as 
he did.

Then a smile spread over his face, and he closed the 
distance between them and wrapped her in his arms, 
enveloping her in his strong hug. He rested his cheek 
against her hair and held her tightly, rocking her back and 
forth.  She could smell his aftershave, the familiar scent 
of his skin.  She hoped he couldn't tell how fast her heart 
was hammering away in her chest.  

He held her away from him by her arms, smiling at her in 
wonder.  "Mo, what the hell?" Then some sort of 
understanding dawned in his eyes. "Is this your mother's 
place?  Is it *your* father who's passed on?"

She nodded, a small motion, never taking her eyes off his 
face. "The funeral's tomorrow."

"Ah, sweetheart, I'm sorry," he said softly, laying his 
hand gently against her cheek.  "I'm so sorry."

She smiled, a little in shock, just happy to see him. 

~~~~

Monica walked back down the old wooden steps and picked her 
way quietly through the yard to the side of the house, 
where she saw Doggett in conversation with a woman.  She 
stopped still, suddenly feeling like an intruder. Doggett's 
hands were on the woman's upper arms.  The woman was 
smiling at him.  It was Morgan Dannah.  

Monica raised her eyebrows, turned around, and walked back 
to the porch to wait.
 
~~~~

Doggett still couldn't believe she was standing there in 
front of him. "God damn, it's good to see you.  Are you doin' 
okay?"  He looked her up and down, from her head to her 
bare feet, his eyes lingering on her sunburned arms, her 
bare midriff, her slender legs.

"I'm fine.  How are *you*, John?"

"I'm good."

"You're here about the murder?"

Doggett smiled wryly and gave a shake of his head.  "You 
could say I got called in on it, yeah."  That reminded him:  
Monica.  He gently let go of Mo's arms and looked back to 
the front of the house.  Where *was* Monica?

"John," Mo said, and he turned back to her.   "Are you here 
to speak to my mother?"  She wanted him to touch her again, 
but she was sensing his need to be circumspect.  

"Yeah," he said.  "Agent Reyes is here with me.  She wanted 
me to see your mother."

"John, my mom's not here right now.  Max and Maeve took her 
into Lake City to do some shopping.  There's going to be a 
wake here tomorrow morning."  They  slowly walked together 
to the front of the house.  She looked up into his face.  
"They should be back in a couple of hours, if you can come 
back."  

Monica was sitting in the porch swing, watching them.  "So 
I guess I don't have to introduce you?" she said as they 
walked up the porch steps.  

Jesus Christ.  Doggett rubbed his ear, looking away.  Then 
he turned back to Monica.  "Mo was involved in a case 
Scully and I handled in Colorado last winter," he said.    

Monica got up out of the swing.  She smiled at Mo.  "It's 
good to see you again," she said. 

"You too," Mo said, smiling back.  "My mother's not here 
right now, Agent Reyes.  But she should be back in a while.  
Could I get you two a glass of water, or some iced tea, 
anything?"

"Some water would be great, thanks," Monica said.  

Mo looked at Doggett, her brows raised. 

"Sure," he said.  "Thanks."

Mo went into the house, and Monica and Doggett were left 
alone on the porch in awkward silence.  

"She was involved in a case in Colorado, you said?" Monica 
finally spoke.

Doggett looked at her.  "She was abducted, by a crazy-ass 
son of a bitch.  It was a cult thing.  She almost died--to 
this day I'm surprised she didn't."

"She had more to do," Monica said.

"Monica, don't even start that with me," Doggett said, 
wearily.  

"Why is it so hard for you to hear that sort of thing, 
John?" she asked him gently, though she pretty much knew 
why it was so hard for him.  "Maybe she didn't die because 
she wasn't through doing what she came to do."

He didn't say anything.  He didn't want to think about Mo 
dying.  He didn't really want to think about what had 
happened to her at all; it had been too close a thing.  But 
Monica didn't need to know any of that.

Monica smiled at him.  "John," she said, "you remember I 
told you over the phone that there was a woman down here 
you really needed to meet?"

He stared at her, knowing what she was going to say.

"It was her," Monica said quietly.

Somehow she'd known something.  Monica usually did.  He 
wasn't sure if he loved her or hated her for it.

Mo came back out onto the porch and handed the two agents 
tall glasses of ice water.  They drank in grateful silence, 
while Mo watched them.

After a few moments, Monica handed her the empty glass. 
"Thanks, that was just what I needed," she said.  Mo took 
Doggett's empty glass with a smile, looking into his eyes, 
not saying anything.

"If you can come back in a couple of hours, I'll make sure
my mom's available," she said to the agents.

She watched as they walked down the steps and back to the 
car.  She raised her hand to them as they got into the car 
and drove off.

Then she sat down on the porch steps and just looked off into
the distance for a while.  Life is just getting stranger and
stranger, she thought, wondering what could possibly happen 
next.

CHAPTER 4
 
The ruddy-faced man with the coppery hair smiled at the 
elegant shrub in front of him.  It was his wife's prize 
rose bush, a vital and exquisite La Reine Victoria, its 
classic pink blooms a lush contrast to its green leaves.  
He'd learned over the last year how to prune it, though the 
first time he'd stood over it with shears he'd been afraid 
he'd kill the shrub and, with it, another part of his wife.  
But the bush was forgiving, and it had thrived despite his 
initial ineptitude.   He shut his eyes and breathed in the 
heady fragrance of the blossoms.   The rose bush was a 
thing of beauty in so many ways, he thought, and it helped 
keep his wife alive for him.  He felt the familiar angry 
tightening in his gut as he thought of his wife, his Nora.

It was too bad that he wasn't as forgiving as the rose 
bush.

The sound of a car moving slowly down the lane drew him 
back to now.  He stood up and turned away from the bush, 
taking a deep breath.  A dark late model sedan pulled up in 
the lane and stopped in front of his little house.  He 
stood still where he was and watched and waited.  
Strangers. 

The car doors opened, and a man in shirtsleeves and a 
willowy, dark-haired woman got out and walked over to him.  
They looked like they had business with him, or thought 
they did.

"Hugh Goodall?" the man asked.  His voice was deep, his 
presence no-nonsense.  Goodall looked him over.  He'd seen 
men like this one before--he had "cop" written on him in 
big letters.

"Yes," Goodall answered.  "May I help you folks?"

John Doggett held up his credentials.  The man's eyes 
flicked quickly to them, then back to Doggett's face.  
"Could we ask you a few questions?" Doggett asked.

"Yes, sure," Goodall said.  "Come on inside."  He turned 
and opened the door for the two agents, noticing the quick 
look the two exchanged before they moved to come inside.

They walked into the house's narrow front hallway.   As 
Doggett followed Goodall down the hall, he took unconscious 
inventory, his eyes moving from a small mud room (boots, shoes,
a yellow rain slicker, an umbrella, a fishing rod) to a table
(keys, binoculars, a neat stack of white envelopes), to a hall
closet, its door ajar (too dark to assess).  He felt Monica 
close behind him.  Goodall led them into his living room.

"Please, sit down.  Can I get you anything to drink?"  
Goodall asked. "I know how hot it is outside."

"No, thanks," Doggett said, sitting down carefully in a 
delicate upholstered wing chair.  He looked around.  The 
decor of the house was almost suffocatingly feminine.  The 
room was a hodgepodge of houseplants, chintz slipcovers, 
embroidered pillows, knickknacks, and warring wallpaper 
patterns.  He glanced at Monica, who sat down on the 
flowered sofa and raised her eyebrows at him, smiling just 
slightly.  

"Mr. Goodall," Monica said, after Goodall sat down in the 
chair opposite Doggett, "we just have a few questions for 
you.  I know you've already given your statement to the 
police."

"Yes," Goodall drawled. "I've talked to them twice now."  
His gray eyes were intent on her face.

"Mr. Goodall," Doggett said, "how long have you been the 
sexton at the Methodist Church here?"

Goodall turned to Doggett, frowning.  "It was three years 
in May, I think.  Yes, three years."

"You were the one who reported the desecration at the 
church last month, right?" Doggett asked.

"Yes," Goodall said with a nod.  "I found the sanctuary 
that way in the morning when I went over to check on the 
church.  I usually check in once or twice a day, sometimes 
more often." 

"You didn't hear anything in the night, see anything 
unusual?" Monica put in.

"Well, I did tell that sheriff--the one from Gainesville?--
that I heard a vehicle pull through the lane late the night 
before.  It sounded like a truck, but I'm not sure. That's 
about it, though.  I didn't see anyone, or hear anything 
odd."  Mr. Goodall shook his head.  "This is just all so 
awful, all of it.  I'm just glad my wife isn't here to see 
any of it."

Doggett's eyes narrowed.  "Your wife?"

"She passed away a little over a year ago," Goodall said, 
quietly.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Goodall," Monica said gently.  "I have just 
one more question.  To your knowledge, how has the 
relationship been between the congregation here and the 
local Santeria practitioners?" 

"I've never seen any problems with anyone, he replied.  
"There's a woman who takes care of the church, nice woman, 
Deborah Boadu.  She's Santeria.  She's a fine lady."

Doggett stared at Goodall for a long moment.  "Mr. Goodall, 
could I use your facilities?"

"Of course--just down the hallway we came through, on the 
right."

Monica watched Doggett walk out of the living room, her 
face thoughtful.  



Doggett walked directly to the hall closet and carefully 
pulled the door open wider, thankful that it didn't make 
any noise.  He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, 
or why the hell he was even looking in the closet, but 
something was drawing him there.  He pulled his little 
Maglite out of his pants pocket and clicked it on, shone it 
over the interior of the closet.  A vacuum cleaner, a pair 
of black shoes, a beige cardigan sweater, a blue work 
shirt, a straw sun hat, puffy dust bunnies that skittered 
away to the back of the closet when he opened the door.  
And in the back of the closet, a pair of brown lace-up 
boots, one laying on its side against the back wall of the 
closet as if thrown inside in haste.  

Doggett bent over and pulled the boots to the front of the 
closet, playing the Maglite's beam over them.  They were 
both stained with something dark, dried now, cracked.  

It was blood.  He didn't know why, but he was as sure of it 
as he'd been of anything in his life.  

He pulled his pocket knife and a plastic evidence bag out 
of his pocket, smiling slightly. You're just a regular 
walkin' hardware store, aren't you, John?   He knelt down 
and scraped at the stained area of one boot, then the 
other, catching the flakes of the dried substance in the little 
bag.  He closed the bag and tucked it and the knife back in 
his pocket, along with the flashlight.  He replaced the 
boots at the back of the closet and stood up and closed the 
door, leaving it a little ajar, the way it was when he'd 
opened it.  He crossed to the bathroom and flushed the 
toilet, turned the sink tap on, and put his hands under the 
cool water. He dried his hands on the towel there and left 
the room, walked back down the hall to the living room.

Monica looked at him as he came into the room, questions in 
her eyes. 

He looked from her to Goodall.  "Sorry," he said and sat 
down again in the wing chair.  "Mr. Goodall, are you an 
outdoorsman?  

Goodall looked a little blank.

"You know," Doggett persisted, "do you hunt?  Fish?"

"Oh, yeah," Goodall replied.  "I've been fishin' since I 
was old enough to hold a rod, and my daddy took me hunting 
for the first time when I was about 10."  Goodall stared at 
Doggett.  "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," Doggett said.  "I noticed the rod in your 
entryway, there."  He held Goodall's stare with his own.  
"I'll bet you're good with a knife," he added, pushing it 
just a little.  Go ahead, he thought.  Try me.  I'm in 
just the right mood.  "I mean, you need to be, to hunt and
fish, and all."

Goodall nodded.  His breathing had changed,  become a 
little more shallow.  "Well, sure, I can clean fish, skin 
animals," he said.

"That all you can do?" Doggett watched as the other man 
went white around the nostrils.  **Careful.  Not too far
now.**

"Are you implyin' somethin'?"  Goodall's voice was very 
still.  " 'Cause if you are, you should just say it 
outright."

"No," Doggett said, just as quietly.  "I'm not implyin' 
anything."  A beat.  "Not a thing."

Monica Reyes sat straight and motionless, looking from one 
man to the other.  She took a breath.  "Mr. Goodall, I 
think that's all we need from you right now.  If we need to 
talk to you again, we'll give you a call."  She stood up, 
eyeing Doggett pointedly.  He arose from his chair, still 
looking at Goodall.  

Goodall got up out of his chair then, and the three stood, 
awkward, for a moment.  Then Monica held her hand out to 
Goodall, who took it.  "Thanks, Mr. Goodall," she said.  
"We appreciate your time and attention."

"Yeah, thanks," Doggett said, with a half-smile.  

They walked back down the hallway to the door, and Goodall 
walked out with them, standing in front of his door.  He 
watched them get into the car.   He rubbed his hand across 
his mouth and wondered if he might have to do something he 
hadn't planned.



               *          *          * 


Monica looked over at Doggett as he steered the car slowly 
back down the lane.  

"What was that all about, back there?" she asked.  

He glanced at her.  

"And don't say 'what?', because you known perfectly well 
what." There was nothing about her tone or expression that 
wasn't serious.

"Oh, you mean me and Mr. Friendly?" Doggett said with the 
hint of a smile.

"As if *you* were Mr. Congeniality.  John, I'm serious.  
What was going on?"

Doggett realized that Monica could do that tight-lipped 
thing better than almost anyone but him.  He decided to 
play straight with her, knowing that when she got into this 
mood, any other approach just made her dig in her heels.  
"Something about that guy just didn't ring true to me.  I 
don't know what or why," he said.  "I think I just wanted 
to push him a little, see which way he'd jump."

"Well, he looked like he wanted to jump all right--straight 
down your throat," Monica said.  "But, you know, he did say 
that he heard a vehicle the night the church was 
vandalized--didn't he say he thought it might have been a 
truck?  And there's nothing in his statements to that 
effect."

"There's just something about him.  I don't know," Doggett 
said again, realizing that he'd been saying "I don't know" 
way too much lately.   He glanced at Monica.  "I don't know 
about you, but I'm wondering what Hugh Goodall's been 
watching through those binoculars of his.  I didn't exactly 
get the chance to ask him."

"Well, this may sound a little too obvious, but he could be 
a bird watcher," Monica said.  "There sure are plenty of 
birds around."

Doggett laughed dryly.  "Maybe so." He didn't sound as if 
he believed it. "But those were mighty powerful 
binoculars." He pulled the car back onto Highway 27, 
heading southeast.

"Where are we going?" Monica looked at him.

"We have time, right?  I'm going back to Alachua.   I have 
something for the lab." 


               *            *            *


Doggett pulled the Taurus sedan up in front of the old 
Dannah house and shut off the engine.  Squinting through 
the dusty windshield, he took in the house, the front 
porch, the woman sitting there in the old wooden swing, her 
arm over its back and her bare feet on its armrest.  He 
could tell by the way she was looking at the car that she 
had a pretty good idea who was behind the wheel.

He could feel Monica's eyes on him, and he glanced over at 
her.  She was sitting, very still, her dark-hazel eyes 
calmly scrutinizing him--not judging, not questioning, just 
watching.  One thing could be said for Monica:  For all her 
out-there theories, you could count on her to be there with 
you when you needed her.  As for staying out of your 
business when you *didn't*--well. . .  At that thought, a 
smile came, unbidden.

Doggett opened the car door and got out, walking slowly 
over to the steps.  Monica followed quietly. He watched the 
woman on the porch, saw her straighten up in the swing, her 
eyes on him.  He and Monica walked up the steps to the 
porch.

"You go on in.  I'll be right there," Doggett said quietly 
to Monica, who blinked once and then nodded.  She knocked 
at the screen door, opened it and, at the "Come on in" 
shouted from inside, walked into the house.

Doggett crossed the porch and stood in front of Mo, who 
smiled up at him tentatively.  He looked at her for a 
moment and then sat down next to her in the swing, saying 
nothing.  They sat together in a charged silence, neither 
of them quite knowing how to act.  

"My daddy grew up here, in this house," Mo said softly at 
last.  "I used to pick pecans from that tree, and I played 
out in the lane--I used to use my grandmama's spoons to dig 
holes in the sand."  She smiled, looking away across the 
field toward the little town.  "There's wicked mean cactus 
out in the lane, too." She looked down at their feet:  hers 
slender and bare, his in big black shoes.  Then she glanced 
over at him.  "And I'm talking too much."  She turned her 
face away, a little abashed.

Doggett pushed his feet against the boards of the porch, 
setting the swing into motion.  She fell against him at the 
unexpected movement, and he caught her arm to steady her.  
The accidental touch inevitably reminded her of the strong 
body that was underneath that white dress shirt, and she 
felt a sudden shock to her middle that made her a little 
dizzy.  It was desire, pure and simple, and she felt an 
embarrassed warmth creep up her neck.

He looked down at her. "How's Marian?" he asked.

"She's good.  She asks about you."

"Does she still think I'm dangerous?" His mouth quirked up 
in a half-smile.

Mo smiled back.  "No.  She wonders why I haven't gone back 
to see you." She touched his hand.  "I wonder that too, 
sometimes.  I've missed you, John."  Her voice was low, and 
he leaned closer to hear her.  She lifted her face and 
looked directly at him for the first time, and she caught 
her breath.  His eyes were such a startling blue.  Could 
she have forgotten?  His grave face was already damp with 
sweat, and she resisted the urge to reach up and wipe it 
from his forehead.  

"I gotta go inside, talk to some people," he said.

"I understand,"  she said. "You're working." 

He stood up and looked back down at her.

"So how are we gonna play this, John?" she asked.   "I met 
you once?" 

Fuck. He ran a finger over his upper lip, studying her.  
Fuck.  "I think it might be better to be discreet," he 
finally said. 

She saw his discomfort.  "Okay.  Discreet it is."

He reached out and smoothed her hair, his eyes intent on 
her. 

"Could I come see you later?" she asked.  "Discreetly, of 
course." She tried not to smile.

"If you don't," he said softly, "I'll come and get *you*."

She did smile then, looked down at her feet.

"I'm at the Ramada Inn," he added.  "Room 18."

"It might be late," she said.

"It doesn't matter," he said.  He turned and walked to the 
door, knocked, and went inside.  She leaned back in the 
swing and closed her eyes.  After a moment, she got up and 
followed him into the house.
                                                      

Just inside the living room, Doggett stopped and looked 
around.  The house was smaller than it looked from the 
outside.  The living room, painted a rich deep peach color 
and full of plants, photos and paintings,  stretched into a 
dining room boasting a big dark-wood table and chairs and a 
brass chandelier.  A room, most likely the kitchen, opened 
off the back of the dining room.  There was a room off to 
the right of the living room.  He noticed that the house 
still had its original doors, with old-fashioned keyholes 
and ceramic doorknobs.  

Monica was sitting on a comfortable-looking green sofa next 
to a small auburn-haired woman, who looked over at him 
questioningly.  She got up and walked the few steps to him, 
extending her hand.  He took it, looking down into a pair 
of intelligent brown eyes.  There was something about this 
woman that made him want to smile.

"Hello," she said to him.  She sounded so much like Mo that 
he must have looked surprised.  At any rate, her smile 
widened.  "I'm Maeve Dannah.  You're--?"

"John Doggett," he said.  "I'm with the FBI."

"Ah, you must be here with Agent Reyes," Maeve said.  

"That's right," Doggett said, nodding.  He heard the door 
open behind him, and turned to see Mo walk in.

"This is my sister Morgan, Agent Doggett," Maeve said.  
"Mo, this is--"

"John Doggett," Mo said.  "Yes, we've met before."

Maeve looked at Mo, her brows arched questioningly.  

"He was one of the agents on my case, last winter," Mo 
explained.

"Oh," Maeve said, drawing out the sound.  She turned back 
to Doggett.  "What a coincidence that you'd turn up here, 
Agent Doggett."  She put her hand on his arm.  "I can't 
possibly begin to express my thanks to you for. . .helping 
Mo."

This sort of thing--people thanking him for doing what he 
got paid to do--had always made him uncomfortable, as a 
soldier, as a cop. . .and even now, apparently. "Thanks," 
he finally said.  "I was just doing my job."   The words 
sounded pretty lame even to him.

"I know," Maeve said quietly.  "But Mo's my sister.  And 
from what she's told me, she would have died if you hadn't 
been there.  So I think you can see where I'm coming from."

"Yeah, I do--but I didn't do it alone," Doggett said. 

"I know," Maeve said, "but that doesn't make my thanks to 
you any less meaningful, does it?"

He could see that it would be harder than hell to get the 
better of this woman, so he just nodded.  He glanced over 
at Monica and saw that she was watching him with a look of 
gentle interest. 

Doggett watched as a tall, dark-haired man walked into the 
dining room.  Who the hell was *this*?  

Seeing the two agents in the living room, the man slowed 
down some.  "Sorry to interrupt," he said.

"Max, this is Agent John Doggett from the FBI.  You 
remember Agent Reyes," Maeve said.  "This is Max 
Somerville."

Doggett nodded to the tall man.  He was a good-looking son 
of a bitch, he'd give him that.  Then he turned to Mo.  "Am 
I the only one in this house whose name doesn't start with 
an M?"

She smiled.  "Oh, that was always such a pain when Maeve 
and I still lived together," she said.  "Then when I 
married Max it got ridiculous."  She noticed the look on 
Doggett's face, and realized that he'd just had his 
question answered about who Max was. "Anyway," she went on, 
"that's a good guess, but no.  My mother's name is Ruth, 
with an R. She's the one you came to see.  I'll go get 
her." 

Doggett watched her escape to the kitchen, feeling a little 
bit like he was down the proverbial rabbit hole. 

"Max, Agent Doggett here is the FBI agent who helped find 
Mo last year," Maeve said.

"No kidding?"  Max walked over to Doggett, his hand 
extended.  Doggett shook it.  "Damn," Max said.  "You 
probably don't have any idea how grateful we all are for 
what you did."

"Thanks," Doggett said.  "But I--"

"Agent Doggett is being modest," Maeve said to Max, who 
nodded.

"Thanks," Doggett said simply, nodding back, and picked his 
way over to the sofa and sat down next to Monica as Max 
followed Mo into the kitchen.

She leaned over to him. "You're the man of the hour, John,"  
she said quietly.

"Monica," he said, the tone of his voice a quiet warning.

It made her smile.  "Aren't you glad I called you about 
this case?" she asked him.  

He just looked at her.

"Agent Doggett?" At the sound of the soft drawl, he looked 
away from Monica and into the face of a small woman whose 
auburn hair was mostly gray now.  She was smiling at him, 
her brown eyes warm.  He realized that this was Mo's 
mother, and he quickly stood up. 

Ruth reached out and captured one of his big hands in both 
of her small ones.  "Agent Doggett," she said again.  "I'm 
Ruth Dannah, and I'm *very* happy to meet you."

"Thank you, ma'am," Doggett said.  Damn, this was awkward.  
And it was worse because Monica was witnessing it all.  

"I'd been wanting to thank you for the longest time," Ruth 
said.  "I'm glad to finally meet someone who helped bring 
Morgan back."

It was hard not to smile at this little woman who reminded 
him so much of Mo, though Mo didn't look a lot like her, 
except around the eyes.  "I was just a part of the team 
that brought her off the mountain," he said quietly.  

"You're a diplomat, too, I see," Ruth said dryly.  "You 
just consider yourself at home here," she said, patting his 
hand.  "Let's sit.  I understand you want to talk to me." 
She waved Doggett back onto the sofa and sat down in the 
chair pulled up opposite him and Monica.  "Can we get y'all 
something to drink?  Are you hungry?"

Southern hospitality, Doggett thought.  How many times had 
he and Monica been offered drink, food, in one afternoon?  
"No," he said to her. "But I appreciate it."

"Mrs. Dannah," Monica said, "I was wondering if you had any 
idea at all why Enrique Boadu was murdered on your 
property."

"Darlin', not a clue," Ruth said.  "I knew Enrique some, 
but Deborah better.  They're wonderful people.  Dr. Dannah 
took care of the Boadus during some illnesses over the 
years."

Monica smiled gently at the old-fashioned way Ruth referred 
to her late husband.  

"Deborah was always sweet to Morgan and Maeve, when they 
would come down here to visit their grandparents.  I think 
Morgan was in college and Maeve was in high school when 
Deborah and her little boy moved here.  Her husband died a 
long time ago, before they moved to the U.S." 

"So the Boadus were known in the community?  Respected?"  
Doggett asked, leaning forward to look Ruth in the eye.

"Well, yes, I'd say so," Ruth said to him.  "They used to 
live not too far from here, in a little house just across 
the river, by the graveyard.  Enrique did groundskeeping 
work there. But they moved out toward High Springs a number 
of years ago now." She looked thoughtful.  "Deborah works 
at the Methodist church."

"Yes," Monica said, "the sexton there mentioned that today 
when we spoke to him."

"Mrs. Dannah," Doggett said, "do you know anyone affiliated 
with any of the churches that were vandalized? The 
Methodist, Baptist, and--" He glanced at Monica.

"Lutheran," Monica inserted.

"Just the Methodist," Ruth Dannah replied.  "It's just out 
behind our house a ways, across the back field. The 
minister there, Mr. Price, is a dear man.  He's been here 
since Hector was a pup.  Seems like Mr. Goodall's been here 
for a few years now, and I can't say I know him all that 
well.  He was always a little too 'Good Christian' for me, 
if you know what I mean."  Ruth's eyes sparkled wickedly. 

At that, Monica glanced at Doggett, and he remembered her 
words about how the murderer might be religious in some 
way, something about why the victim had been murdered where 
he was.

"His wife died last year," Mrs. Dannah was saying, and 
Doggett refocused his attention on her.  "That was awful--a 
terrible illness and then complications."

"Did Dr. Dannah take care of her too?" Doggett asked.  He 
studied her carefully.

"Yes.  It was meningitis.  There was an outbreak, about a 
year ago now.  Dr. Dannah tended her, Enrique Boadu and 
Deborah's son, Stephen."  She saw Doggett glance at Monica.  
"Do you think this is related to the. . .the killing?"

"Well," Monica said, "it could have some connection.  We 
always try to consider everything."  

Ruth looked from Monica and back to Doggett, whose sober 
blue eyes met hers.  They didn't hold any answers. 

Doggett stood up.  "I think I'll take that water now.  No, 
don't trouble yourself," he said to Ruth as she started to 
get up.  "I'll go get it."

"All right.  Morgan or Maeve should be out there in the 
kitchen.  They can help you."

"Thanks," he smiled down at her.  He walked through the 
dining room to the kitchen.  He needed to clear his head a 
little, to think.  Were the illnesses really a connection 
to the case, or was he forcing something into a pattern 
because of the odd reaction he'd had to Hugh Goodall?

"John," Mo said, as he walked into the kitchen.  She was 
covering pies with aluminum foil.  "What can I do for you?"  

"A glass of water?"  He walked closer to her, looking at 
her bare, sunburned shoulders and arms.  "You should put 
something on that," he said softly. 

"The sunburn?"  She made a face. "I remembered the sun 
block yesterday.  Somehow I managed to forget it today."  
She shrugged.  "I'll be all right."  She took a glass down 
from a cupboard and pulled a half-gallon jar of water from 
the refrigerator.  She poured him a glass.

"Thanks," he said, taking it from her, his fingers brushing 
hers.

"Come sit with me here on the porch for a minute," she 
said.  She led the way, and he followed her out the screen 
door to the back porch.  They sat together on the steps 
while he drank the cold water.  He looked around the yard, 
at the shed, the clothesline, the path worn through the dry 
grass.

"There usually so many birds around?" Doggett asked, 
turning to look at her.

Mo smiled and threw him an ironic glance.  "Are you making 
small talk?" she asked.

He shook his head.  "It's just odd."  He looked at one bird 
in particular that was perched on the clothesline just 10 
feet or so away.  It watched him with an unnerving 
intensity.

"I really don't know," Mo admitted.  "But there *are* a lot 
of them around right now, especially crows.  Noisy things."  
Her shoulder brushed his, and she felt his body stiffen 
slightly.  "It's okay, darlin'," she said softly, amused.  
"I won't bite you."  

"I know," he said, smiling a little.  He sipped the water, 
looking out across the back field.  His eyes narrowed.  "Is 
that the Methodist Church over there?" he asked her.

"Mmm, you can walk straight across the field to the back 
lane.  It's just up a ways."  She looked up at him.  He set 
the glass down carefully on the step next to him, lifted 
his hand to her face, and ran a gentle thumb across her 
cheekbone.

~~~~

Hugh Goodall raised the binoculars to his eyes.  There were 
two people on the back porch of the Dannahs' house, sitting 
close together on the steps.  He focused the lenses.  
There, now he could see them.  A slow smile spread over his 
face.  It was Dr. Dannah's daughter--the older one, he 
thought, the weird one.  And look who was sitting with her.  
That glorified policeman who had been at his house earlier.  
As Goodall watched, the FBI man leaned over and kissed Dr. 
Dannah's daughter right on her pretty lips.  Goodall's 
smile broadened.  He rubbed his hand across his mouth and 
kept watching.


~~~~


Doggett's fingertips slid from Mo's cheek to her neck, and 
she turned her face away from him.  He heard her sigh 
quietly.

"John," she murmured, "someone's sure to see, and you 
said--"

"I know," he said again, simply, returning his hand to his
knee.  "I guess I just had to do that."

She smiled down at her lap.

"Look at me," he said softly.

She lifted her face to his.  Her cheeks were flushed.

"Come to me later," he said, his voice a little hoarser 
than usual.

She nodded, not trusting her voice at all.

He stood up, and she leaned against his legs for a moment.  
He smoothed her hair tenderly, and then turned and went 
back into the house.


~~~~


Goodall watched as the FBI man walked into the house, 
leaving the woman sitting by herself.  She combed her 
fingers back through her hair and sat there alone for a few 
minutes.  Then she too went back inside.  Goodall lowered 
the binoculars.

Well, this was quite the new development.  He'd have to 
figure out what it might mean. 


~~~~


Doggett walked back into the living room, where Monica was 
still sitting talking quietly with Ruth Dannah.  As he 
walked toward them, Monica glanced at him and raised her 
brows.

"John," Monica said, "Mrs. Dannah was just telling me 
something else she remembered."  

Doggett sat down again next to Monica and looked at Ruth 
Dannah.  "Mrs. Dannah?" he prompted. 

"Well, Agent Doggett, there was another woman, Peggy 
Bonfils, who was also seriously ill last year with 
meningitis at the same time as the others.   I don't know 
why I forgot her.  I don't know if it's even important."

"And she recovered?" Doggett asked.

"Oh, yes.  She's fine.  She was just here last week to 
visit my husband."

Monica looked at Doggett, her eyes serious.  "John, Mrs. 
Bonfils is Santeria." 

Doggett frowned, but didn't say anything.  He didn't 
necessarily think Ruth Dannah needed to hear what he was 
thinking.

Ruth watched him, then looked to Monica.  "You know, we'll 
be havin' supper before too long.  Y'all are welcome to 
stay if you can," she said gently.

Doggett blinked, shaking himself away from his thoughts.  
"Mrs. Dannah, I appreciate the offer, but I think we'd 
better be going."  He stood up and looked to Monica.

"Yes, thank you," Monica said to Ruth, standing and 
extending her hand. 

Ruth took Monica's hand and squeezed it.  "I hope I was 
some help to you.  And you're welcome to come back any 
time."  She looked at Doggett.  "And you, of course.  I 
feel I owe you my daughter's life."

Christ, Doggett thought.  If you only knew.  I  wonder what 
you'd think of me then.



They walked together to the car, having made a quiet escape 
from the Dannahs' house.

"John," Monica said, "you think there's something there, 
don't you?  The death of Hugh Goodall's wife, the 
illnesses?  The Lucumi connection?"

"Well, it's sure as hell motive of a sort.  Not that 
there's any evidence," he said.  "Yet."  He looked at his 
watch.  "It's getting late.  Let's call the cops and see if 
we can get a rush on the lab work on that sample.  Then we 
might need to go see our Mr. Goodall again once forensics 
gets the lay of the land."  He smiled grimly.  "Assuming 
there's any land worth worryin' about."

"There's more to this than a man with a grudge," Monica 
said.  "I just feel it so strongly, John."

Doggett looked at her across the roof of the car.  "And 
what would that be?"

"I'm not sure.  But I saw what I saw, and it wasn't just 
your average crime scene," Monica replied.

"So what's the paranormal element, then, Monica?  I can 
tell you this:  There was no para-anything about how 
Enrique Boadu died."

"No, I don't think there was, either.  It's not the
murder--or the murderer--that I'm thinking about."  Monica
got into the car and shut the door, leaving Doggett
standing there.  He sighed, and got behind the wheel. 


             *             *             *


Jacob Owdeye had always loved gardening, even back long ago 
when he'd lived on a farm outside of Lagos.  Tending 
flowers was balm to the soul--at least that's what his 
mother had always told him.  And she had been, if nothing 
else, a wise woman.

He used the sharp end of his hoe to break up some hard 
earth around the roots of his favorite rhododendron bushes.  
Then he shoveled earth, compost, bone meal, and cow manure 
from his wheelbarrow into the loosened area and worked it 
into the soil around the base of the plants, blessing it as 
he went, soil, plant, manure and all.

Working with your hands in the soil was a good thing, Old 
Owdeye thought.  It was life.  It was growth.  It was magic 
in its quiet way.   It always brought him back to what was 
real:  sun, earth, water, air--those four forces that were 
a constant no matter how mankind mucked things up. 

He sat back on his heels, wiping the sweat from his 
forehead with the back of his forearm.  Owdeye, you're 
getting older and skinnier all the time, he thought.  It is 
hard to believe you've been nearly eight decades on this 
earth.  Life is surely sweet and fleeting, but his had been 
good. 

He settled his sun hat more firmly on his head and looked 
up, over at the little house next door, where Deborah 
lived.  It had been terribly quiet there these past few 
days.  He had stayed alert, extending his own senses that 
way more than a few times a day since Rique was murdered.  
He knew that Deborah was a strong woman of many talents, 
but it had been hard on her.  She had been frightened and 
angered by the brutal murder and its implications.

Owdeye's eyes narrowed.  Speaking of Deborah's talents, he 
thought, the birds were everywhere right now.  It was odd.  
Because of the drought, there hadn't been as much food 
available for the birds as there usually was.  They should 
have been migrating elsewhere, but instead there were more 
than usual these last days.  He watched as several dozen 
birds banked and turned and weaved about in the air and 
slowly came to a landing in the tree in the Boadus' back 
yard.  He stood up and walked over to the property line and 
looked up into the tree.

He didn't see the large, glossy crow fly directly into an 
open window of the house.

~~~~

Nude and shaken, Deborah Boadu stood up and grasped the 
footboard of her bed, afraid she might fall.  She picked 
her way around the black feathers strewn about the linoleum 
floor and collapsed onto the bed.  She curled onto her side 
and rested, breathing slowly and deeply.

After a while, she was less dizzy.  She sat up slowly and 
pressed her fingers gently to her eyes.  Changing most 
always gave her a headache.  It usually went away quickly, 
but it was inconvenient.  She slid off the bed and slipped 
on the shift and the panties that she'd left at the foot of 
the bed and walked into the bathroom.  She ran some warm 
water in the sink and splashed it gently on her face.  She 
sighed, looking at herself in the mirror.  What are you 
doing, Deborah, spying on people?  Are you trying to 
protect them, or yourself?  But she knew that only time 
could give her that answer.  

The sudden knock on the back screen door startled her, and 
she quickly dried her face and hands and walked out of the 
bathroom.  She unconsciously patted her braids as she went 
to the door, her head throbbing.  It was Old Owdeye.

"Come in," she said.   She was glad to see him.  They 
needed to talk.  

The old man came inside and stood in the doorway, silent, 
his deep-brown eyes sparkling in his immobile face.  

"Come, sit," she said, pulling out a kitchen chair for him.

The little man sat, and folded his hands in his lap.  
"Deborah, I wanted to come by and see how you were doing 
after today's ceremony."

They'd sanctified and buried Rique that afternoon.  The sky 
was darkening now with approaching dusk, and Deborah was 
still a bit numb.  This little man was her iworo, her 
priest, the man who had trained and consecrated Enrique, 
and she loved and respected him more than almost anyone 
she'd ever known.  But he was wrong about this matter, and 
she was going to have to tell him so.

"Old Owdeye, I'm fine," she said. "Thanks for checking on 
me.  But we do need to talk, about--everything."

"Yes," the old man agreed.  "If this man is doing what you 
think he is doing, he will kill again.  I will take care of 
it, Deborah."

"My deepest respect, babalawo, but how will you take care 
of this crazy man without making things worse?" she asked.  
"It's time to talk to the police, tell them the truth."

The old man shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair.   On 
some level, she spoke sense, but he had a deep-seated 
distrust of the white policemen, who had never been friends 
of the black man, and especially the black Lucumi.  It was 
simply the way it was and the way it had always been, 
though no one ever seemed to want to admit it.

"Deborah, you must let me do what I need to do," he said.

"Babalawo, I saw what this man did in the church.  I should 
have known then that he would do something horrible.  I 
should have exposed him to the police when I saw what he'd 
done at the church. Maybe Rique would still be alive."  
Owdeye could see that she was close to tears.  "I followed 
your wishes and did nothing.  But now I am afraid.  I'm 
afraid he'll come after Stephen."  She put her hand on his.  
"Please let me go to the police, or to the FBI agents who 
were here this morning.  They were at Dr. Dannah's house 
today.  I. . .I believe others may be in danger too." 

Old Owdeye's dark, dark eyes seemed to grow larger.  "Why 
do you say that?"

She leaned closer to him.  "I'm afraid this man's hatred 
will find more targets.  I'm afraid you won't be able to 
protect everyone," she said quietly.  She bent down and put 
her face close to his, and he focused his sharp eyes on 
her.  "Babalawo, you know how much I love you.  You have 
been everything to my family.  I will let you do what you 
must, but I am afraid he might hurt Dr. Dannah's family, 
his daughters.  I will not let them be hurt," Deborah said 
emphatically.  "I owe their father a life."  She 
straightened up.  "And I can't let him hurt my loved ones."

Old Owdeye stood up and looked down at her.  "Let it be, 
Deborah," he said in a voice that was hard to contradict.   
He put his hand on her head gently.  "I will make sure he is
not able to hurt anyone else," he added softly.