style="font-size:15px;"> “Yes, and Wiccan traditions and—”
“Wiccans didn’t do this!” she snapped.
“And Christians aren’t bad people, either—until they take religion and turn it into the excuse for an inquisition,” he told her. “I’m sorry—I’m not trying to fight. And I’ll defend this nation’s Wiccans just as I would her Christians, Jews, Buddhists and Muslims. It’s possible that someone is trying to make these deaths appear to be part of a Wiccan ritual of some kind. The more I understand today’s Wiccans in this city, the better I can figure out what’s happening.”
She was silent for a moment and then told him, “We’re going to a movie tomorrow night. You can pick me up around six-thirty.”
He was stunned. And appreciative.
“Thank you,” he managed.
“I’d ditch the suit, though,” she muttered.
And she hung up.
Rocky headed back to the hotel. Luckily, the bar there served food until eleven. He ate and went up to bed.
That night when he slept, it was Melissa Wilson who entered his dreams.
He was standing by her graveside in Peabody when she came up behind him, setting a hand on his shoulder.
“You couldn’t hear me,” she told him. “I kept crying out for you, but you didn’t hear me.”
“I did hear you,” he told her. “I just didn’t understand.”
“You have to listen,” she told him.
“I’m listening. Who did this?”
“He comes in the dark, he comes from behind,” she said.
He turned to her.
But she was gone.
He awoke sweating. He found a bottle of water and drained it, and looked at the clock. It was only four in the morning. He lay back and prayed for dreamless sleep.
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