else I hope you’ll keep to yourself.”
She turned and looked at him. “Are you thinking they’re some kind of Wiccan sacrifice? I ask because I know that might be a lot of people’s first impression. But you’d be really wrong. Half my friends are Wiccans. They’re...like flower children. They believe in good things. People have a tendency to think that Wiccans follow Aleister Crowley’s tenets, but you grew up around here, so you must know that’s not true. Crowley was a hedonist who used whatever suited him to create his own brand of religion. He even homed in on Masonic principles, and the Masons I know are great people. My dad is a Mason, and he and his friends bowled a lot and raised money for children’s charities. Trust me, no real Wiccan committed these murders.”
She was passionate and clearly convinced of the truth of what she was saying. And of course, he hadn’t grown up in the area for nothing.
“Do no harm to others lest it be returned to you threefold,” he said.
She seemed a little startled. “Yes.”
“No true Wiccan did anything like this, no,” he said. “But there are still other people out there who could have, and could have made it look like Wiccans were involved. Satanists, or plain old nutcases. We don’t know yet. But hunting down the source of the medallions will be important, and with three of them, we finally have a shot.”
“Well, I can assure you that my friend Beth Fullway, who owns the shop where I bought my medallion, isn’t involved. She and I were thirteen when the first murder occurred. We went to school together.”
“But did she create the piece?” he asked.
“No,” Devin admitted.
“What’s the name of her shop?”
“The Haunted Dragon. It’s right on Essex.”
He picked up his cup and finished his coffee. It was excellent. Black and strong, with no bite or aftertaste. He set the cup down regretfully.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, Agent Rockwell.”
“Rocky,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Please, just call me Rocky.”
“Your name is Rocky Rockwell?”
“Craig Rockwell. But I’ve always gone by Rocky.” He turned toward the door, then stopped and extracted a card from his wallet. “Please, call me if you think of anything.”
She accepted the card and slid it into the pocket of her jeans. “I will.”
“And keep your doors locked.”
“Of course,” she said again, stepping forward and opening the door for him.
He had started toward his car when she called him back.
“Agent Rockwell. Um, Rocky?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe I could come with you. I’ve known Beth all my life. I’m afraid if you just go in and start questioning her...”
“You think I come on too tough?” he asked her.
“Well, when you first asked me about the necklace—the medallion—I thought you were going to arrest me.”
He was thoughtful for a moment, not sure how much he wanted to involve this woman.
“I really can help,” she said. “You’ll find out more if you let me introduce you and play it cool.”
Maybe she could help him. Like Jack Grail, she was a lot more closely tied to the area than he was.
He let out a breath.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
“Wait, give me a second,” she told him.
She ran into another room and came out with a large box. He reached to take it from her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I have it.”
“Please.”
She let him carry it. “Crown jewels?” he asked her.
“Books.”
He looked at her questioningly.
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t elaborate.
“Of what?”
“You mean you don’t just assume that because I live in Salem, I must write about ghosts or monsters?”
“You could write anything. Fiction? Nonfiction?”
She blushed. “Witches—for children.”
He grinned knowingly, and her blush deepened.
“They’re based on my great-aunt.”
“The good witch.”
“The Wiccan. As you know.”
Once they were in his car, she turned to him curiously. “Don’t you think it’s awfully coincidental that you came back to town just in time to be on the road when I ran out?”
“Not really. I’m here because of the murder in Swampscott.”
“Ah,” she said, looking at him. She was waiting for more.
“And because of the murder thirteen years ago. Because of the similarities.”
“You must be pretty high up—to be able to pick your assignments, I mean.”
“I got lucky,” he said simply. He should have added that he wasn’t sure he was even official yet, he just happened to be friends with the lead detective on the case.
They headed to the pedestrian mall on Essex and he parked in the public garage. As they walked out to the street Rocky looked at the old Civil War building that was now the National Park Visitors’ Center. When he’d been growing up, it had been under reconstruction. As they reached Essex Street he reflected that while specifics changed, the town didn’t. Shops had different owners and offered different delights, but the overall effect was still the same. He paused, allowing himself a small moment of pride. Yes, the town was commercialized. But even so, most places—even the shoddy museums with less than stellar mannequins—made a point of getting the history right. They offered theories on what had caused the mass hysteria that led to the witch trials, but they didn’t profess to have the definitive answer. They reported history.
He listened to the chatter on the street. Some of the tourists were talking about the news—about the fact that a second woman had been murdered in just two weeks.
“Young
