“I guess we’ll find out when we visit the Alcotts tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. I’ll call you.”

When he hung up, he realized he was cold again. He pulled Sherlock close until he was warm. She said against his shoulder, “You can tell me all about this, but not now. Now you need to sleep.”

And he did.

ALCOTT COMPOUND

PLACKETT, VIRGINIA

Wednesday morning

It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Griffin said as he got out of the Porsche into the fresh morning air. It was so quiet he could hear a crow cawing high in the air above him.

Savich knocked on the front door. He heard the coming footfalls, recognized the steps as Deliah Alcott’s. When she opened the door, she looked at each of them, and nodded. “Agent Savich, Agent Hammersmith. I’ve been expecting you. I thought it best I be here alone when you arrived, after that scene between you and Liggert yesterday.” She suddenly smiled. “Thank you. Finally, it’s over. Come with me, see for yourselves.”

Savich and Griffin followed her past the pentacle hanging on the front door and down a long hallway fragrant with the scent of lavender, to the very end room. She stopped in front of the closed door, drew a deep breath, quietly opened it, and stepped inside.

It was a large room with old-fashioned furniture, lace curtains on the windows, rag rugs on the polished maple floor, an old person’s room. There was an ancient iron-framed bed against the far wall, and on it lay Ms. Louisa, utterly still, deeply asleep or unconscious. She was wearing a white high-necked nightgown, a white bedspread drawn to her neck. Her hair was in a skinny braid over her shoulder, as gray as her still face. The nightstand beside her was ablaze with lighted green, white, and gold candles surrounding a plate overflowing with herbs and dried flowers.

Deliah looked down at her. “I heard her scream after midnight. When I came running in she was on the floor, clutching her head. Then she fell over unconscious. When I touched her I knew she was gone. How strange it is, but do you know, I miss the sound of those infernal knitting needles of hers?” She turned to them. “You know now, don’t you? You know what she was?”

“Until this moment I wasn’t completely sure whether she was Stefan Dalco,” Savich said.

“You thought I was this Dalco character?”

“Perhaps, for a short time. I quickly realized how much you loved Brakey, how you’d go to any lengths to protect him. You would never make Brakey a murderer.”

“She came after you again?”

Savich nodded. “She would have killed me if Griffin hadn’t shot her. I was helpless until then.”

“Actually,” Griffin said, “a huge black eagle was attacking Savich. I shot its head off.”

Deliah picked up a large book from under the bedside table, handed it to Savich. “She liked her Greek mythology. She was studying this.” He and Griffin looked down at a painting of a naked Prometheus chained to a rock over a violent sea, an eagle hovering above him, wings flapping madly. Savich nodded, handed it back. “Yes, that was what she fashioned for me.” He turned to stare down at the still figure who’d had so much power. He remembered the horrific pain in his side.

Deliah said, “She was always bragging how she was the most powerful witch who’d ever lived. But you beat her, Agents, you beat her.”

“What she was,” Savich said, “was a powerful psychic who used the symbols of witchcraft. And she was quite mad. I’ve known a couple others like her, both of them terrifying.”

“Why isn’t she in a hospital, Mrs. Alcott?” Griffin asked, looking down at the slack face.

“It would do absolutely no good.”

“They could monitor her, feed her intravenously.”

She shook her head again. “As I told you, I knew the moment I touched her that she was no longer there. Come with me to the kitchen. We can have some tea.” She turned and left the bedroom. Savich and Griffin followed her through the lavender-scented hallway to the kitchen.

Savich and Griffin remained silent, watching her prepare the tea, giving it all her focus and attention.

When at last she sat at the table with them, spooning sugar into her tea, she said, “Looking back, I realize she’d been hovering on the edge of madness for a long time, or maybe she always was and I simply refused to see it. After Arthur and I were married, she liked to mock me for being a Wiccan, for my foolish and meaningless rituals, she called them, but never when Arthur could hear her. He held her in check. You see, my husband knew what she was, knew what powers she had, knew she had no compunction about using them. She was his mother, after all. Then a car accident put her in the wheelchair a few years ago. Arthur was driving when a drunk slammed into the passenger side at an intersection. That man died a month later. He killed himself. We didn’t know if she was responsible, but sometimes I would look at her and she would look very pleased with herself. But when her injuries healed, she changed. She was angry all the time. Arthur was worried he couldn’t control her. When he realized he had no choice, he bound her. Binding is a powerful spell that holds a witch’s power in check. After that, she didn’t harm anyone for several years.”