John talked to Baker for a minute and then guided me back to his car.

“He’s all right, Irene,” he said.

But something in Frank’s manner as he walked out of that building, the arguing with Bredloe, the way he walked to the car, all said John was wrong. Carlson was a jerk, but Frank always got along very well with Bredloe; it wasn’t like him to just ignore the man. That and, well, he just seemed dejected. Like he didn’t care about anything. I remembered the look on his face when Pete had been so happy to see him come out of the building alive – as if he didn’t know what the big deal was.

Something was really wrong.

John was quiet for a while, then he started talking to me about the D.A.’s campaign. I tried to focus on his questions, but I know I answered them woodenly.

As we pulled into the parking lot, he turned to me and said, “Snap out of it. Frank’s okay, it was just a nasty scare. You’ll be laughing about it over dinner tonight.”

There was no way to tell John about the gulf of silence that lay between Frank and me, to say that no dinner or laughter was on the agenda for a while. But I saw John’s efforts to comfort me; in fact, in the last hour or two he had been more gentle with me than I had ever seen him be with anyone. “Thanks,” I said.

He noticed my mood though, and studied me for a moment.

“What are you working on this afternoon?” he asked.

“Following up on the Jacob Henderson story.”

“Hmm. I guess you better stick with that. But unless you’ve got interviews lined up tomorrow morning, why don’t you catch up on your sleep, come in a little later. Hard to keep your perspective when you’re exhausted.”

That really surprised me. “Maybe I will. You’re right, I’m too tired to think straight.”

“Goddamn right I’m right. Now get upstairs before you besmirch my reputation as an asshole.”

I smiled at this and said, “You overestimate my abilities, John.”

I STOPPED BY the lobby desk and thanked Geoff, reassuring him that Frank had survived. He smiled and said, “I’m so happy for you, Miss Kelly.” I went upstairs and made some phone calls, getting reactions to the Montgomery flyer. I had hoped there might be a message from Jacob or Sammy. No luck. I forced myself to think about work, and not what had gone on at the harbor.

I suddenly felt exhausted, and knew it was a combination of delayed shock over the events of the afternoon and my struggle to overcome my reluctance to write up a story on the Montgomery accusations. In the latter case, I just didn’t feel as if I had all the facts. I wondered if there was any other way to get in touch with these local witches.

Starting on the easy route, I pulled out a phone book and then thumbed through the yellow pages. The local phone company advertised them as the “Everything Pages,” and I had to smile to myself at the notion of finding something under “covens,” “hexes,” or “spells.” There wasn’t anything listed under witchcraft, but I did find a heading for “Occult Supplies.” I noticed with some amusement that it fell just below “Nuts – Edible.”

Right here in Las Piernas, there was a shop called Rhiannon, named after a magical woman in Celtic lore, if I remembered my folktales. It offered “books, incense, oils, bulk herbs, athalmes, and crystal balls.” I had to look up “athalmes” – witchcraft’s ritual knives.

From the address in the phone book, I saw that the shop wasn’t too far from the office – a few miles down Broadway, near the college. It was a district full of cafes that stayed open late, small bookshops, and artists’ studios. A little rundown, but cherished by its residents. It was here that those who lived alternative lifestyles of one kind or another could fairly well imagine that the world had grown accustomed to them. I wondered how long it would be before someone started buying it all up and converting it into a fashionable upscale hot spot.

Never, I hoped.

Any day now, I knew.

I had started clearing off my desk, getting ready to drive over to Rhiannon, when my phone rang.

“Kelly,” I answered.

“Hi, it’s Jacob. I was wondering if you know where Sammy is.”

“No, I’m sorry. She left a message for me last night, but I wasn’t home. She sounded scared and she said she was running away from the shelter. I was hoping you might know where she is.”

“No.” Even over the phone, I could feel the weight of the worry in that one word.

“Any ideas on where she might go?”

“I’ve been looking for her, but she’s not in any of her usual hideouts. I left school early today. I looked all over. It scares me – I can usually find her.”

“I guess you know the flyer is out.”

“Yeah. My dad is going to kill me.”

“You haven’t talked to him?”

“Not yet.”

“Jacob, I think your dad will believe you. He’s probably under a lot of pressure right now, so don’t judge him by his first reaction, okay?”

“I took your advice about changing my look. My mom about died. She said she hasn’t seen me wearing this many colors at one time in years. It’s an exaggeration. I’m just wearing blue jeans and a white shirt. At least she was happy with me this morning. By now they probably both hate me.”

“I doubt it. They’re probably angrier with Montgomery. Your dad won’t like having his opponent pick on his family. In the meantime, I’m going to see if I can hunt down some other people from the coven. But I’m getting near deadline, so I’d better run. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I gave him my home number and told him to call me if he needed someone to talk to later. It wasn’t going to be easy for him to face his family. I felt my resentment for this kind of campaign tactic rising.

For a moment or two, I sat there reminding myself that I had to stay more neutral. I left the office.

Something within me made me sit in my car for a while before I went into Rhiannon. Was it some childhood fear of witches? Or did my Catholic upbringing rebel at the thought of an encounter with this other belief system? No, I thought, I didn’t feel that uneasiness about Islam or Judaism or Taoism. This was something different.

If I hadn’t been up against a deadline, I might have driven off. Instead, I forced myself to get out of the car. The exterior of the store was painted black, which was no real surprise. In the display window were books, tarot cards, candles, and various other objects, some of which I didn’t recognize. Crystals – raw quartz and amethyst – were suspended in the window.

“Double, double, boil and trouble,” I said to myself, and pushed the door open.

THE FIRST THING I noticed was an overpowering sweet fragrance; some kind of spice or incense. It made me think of high school, when many of my classmates and I burned patchouli or sandalwood incense in our bedrooms, driving our parents crazy. After some time away from the smell of incense, I could see why it took a little getting used to.

Some sort of underwater bell-and-flute soundtrack was playing in the background. I had to admit it was soothing, but smiled remembering a musician friend of mine who once pooh-poohed all “new-age” music as “hippie noodling.”

Apparently a new shipment of herbs had just arrived. Boxes were piled in stacks here and there in the aisles. The walls were filled with shelves, the shelves filled with jars, the jars filled with all manner of things. I didn’t look around for any fillet of fenny snake; it was clear that all the potions and remedies were from the plant kingdom or the earth itself. Through the middle of the store there was a sort of self-service set of small bins, each holding stones or crystals that were carefully labeled for effect: this one for inner peace, this one for easing menstrual cramps, this for sleeping better at night. A large black cat with bright yellow eyes stared at me from the counter where the cash register was, as if guarding against shoplifting. For an amused moment, I wondered if it was going to transform itself into human form.