Demon Inhibitions: Caitlin Diggs Series #3 Read online

  Published by Gary Starta

  Copyright 2013 Gary Starta

  Cover design by Jenee Mathes

  Interior layout: www.formatting4U.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at [email protected]. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For more information on the author and his works, please see www.GaryStarta.net.

  One

  Rested… I should have felt rested. Operative word here is “should.” Five months ago I resigned from the FBI. Yet, I still feel shaky. It’s not something you can see on the perimeter. It’s an internal thing. My younger sister Tara says it’s normal to feel this way. She believes it comes with the job, but the funny thing is Tara never really worked a job – at least not longer than a few months at a time. While Tara moved from odd job to odd job like a bee pollinating flowers, I spent the last fifteen years in the Bureau as a topnotch special agent, amassing the highest conviction rate, doing what I love, living on a precarious high wire where you either savor every drop of adrenaline that courses through your veins--or, become a basket case.

  You know I didn’t plan for my career to end this way, but it had to I guess. Working as an agent, I had lost my partner and lover. I also discovered the former director of the Bureau to be the reincarnation of evil occult magician Aleister Crowley. Yes, I did go through a lot in the last year. Oh, by the way, did I mention the crystal? Well, I’m still paying the price for touching it. I see visions whenever I come into physical contact with people and it’s been hard to keep my emotions under control. Sometimes they get the best of me. Sometimes I think they allow me to see a person’s true character. Nevertheless, when the sun goes down and I have time to contemplate my metamorphosis, I still can’t quite picture myself in a straight jacket--not yet anyway. True, my nerves are a bit frazzled, but not to the point where I can’t reinvent myself. That’s why I moved from DC and become a private investigator in Salem, Massachusetts--perhaps the most celebrated town for paranormal activity. And if that is true, then maybe I was called here.

  Besides the personal loss of dear friends, I simply couldn’t continue working in the Bureau because I couldn’t live a lie. I had to let people know about my abilities, abilities I can use to help them as an investigator. The Bureau could probably still use my talents, but I am a chameleon now. And as far the FBI is concerned, people are not changelings, they can’t reinvent themselves, nor can they change their spots or elevate to a higher plane. But that’s just what I’ve done in the last year or so. And I believed Salem, with all its charm, history and picturesque beauty would restore me. Maybe even renew my soul.

  I began to question this logic when I became mired in my first case one week ago, last Tuesday.

  The day started off innocently enough. I sat at my kitchen table, absorbing a wondrous eyeful of pink petunias growing outside my window when a knock at the door rattled me back to reality. Celeste, my pet Tonkinese, jumped from her usual perch, the kitchen table, and scurried to greet the strawberry blonde perched on my stoop. Her beautiful smile revealed the shiniest white teeth. She shook a paper bag, hoping its contents would entice me to open the door. Because she seemed to possess a rustic appearance, wearing a green and white dress, a yellow bandana about her hair and brown, open toed sandals, I trusted she was not a salesperson.

  I opened the screen door and she introduced herself as Briana McFadden.

  “I’m one of the local witches.” She laughed after an awkward pause. “Silly me, you probably wonder why a witch is knocking at your door. I’m your next door neighbor.”

  I just had to smile. Washington, DC seemed a million miles away. I motioned her in and to take a seat at the kitchen table.

  Before she sat, she opened the bag for me. I fought the urge to step back. If she truly was a witch, what on Earth might be waiting for me in this bag? Before I actually flinched, I smelled the aroma. Sweet. Sugary. The building blocks of life--or at least my old life where I took comfort in desserts the way a Catholic takes comfort in rosary beads. Celeste took a momentary peek, but slinked off underneath a couch, no doubt offended that the neighbor’s housewarming gift didn’t include meat or fish. Then I remembered this wasn’t my old life. I fought my first instinct, to say no thank you; but I swallowed my feelings and grabbed the bag with a smile, telling her “how wonderful.” I nearly vomited, uttering such a dreaded vernacular. Truth is I’ll never be confused for a country bumpkin or be caught dead at a crafts festival. Homey just isn’t in my vocabulary. I’m just a city girl in the suburbs and no amount of chocolate chip cookies can ever change that. I bit into one--only to show my gratitude of course. My tongue danced around the soft chewy texture of this homemade marvel. I may have lost consciousness for a moment. I had quit sweets four months ago and all the pangs of withdrawal now seemed to be wash away in semi-sweet dark chocolate bliss. Then my conscience came a-knocking. My waistline needed the cookies like my eyes needed a fresh set of crow’s feet. I had to agree. I let one last remnant of gooey goodness slide down my throat. Then I took the bag and tossed it into a nearby cabinet, hoping I might forget I ever put them there. Another relic of the past I was trying to bury.

  Briana insisted we use a first name basis. I began to make tea.

  “So, Caitlin, how do you find Salem?”

  “It’s always been my dream to live in quiet town somewhere near the ocean.” I lied. The only dreams I have are ones where worlds blow up and people die the most horrible deaths.

  She asked what I did for a living. I began to wonder who was supposed to be the interrogator around here. I prayed the last five months hadn’t taken away my edge.

  When I told her private eye, she let out a strange gasp. I nearly dropped the two pretty miniature teacups I had fetched from the pantry.

  “Oh, then you’ll probably be investigating those horrible real estate murders.”

  I heard about the string of killing she had referred to. Five female realtors all killed in the span of four months. All of the victims sold property in Salem and the surrounding community. It seemed a wonder I had been able to find a living, breathing agent to sell me my majestic red Victorian dwelling, complete with fireplace, dining room, glistening hardwood floors and huge bay windows. A part of me couldn’t believe why the house hadn’t already been taken off the market. Situated in north Salem, one can literally walk downtown to the trains, river or parks. And I couldn’t forget the quality of the schools. The agent told me this half a dozen times as I coddled Celeste--my feline “child”--in my arms. Some people just don’t believe pets can take the place of rug rats. I’m not one of these people.

  I felt compelled to educate Briana. I explained most private investigators don’t handle open cases. “I’m sure Salem PD will do just fine tracking the killer without my help.”

  “But they haven’t. In fact I’ve heard rumors they can’t even come up with one piece of forensic evidence. I think the case will soon become inactive.”

  I wondered how she knew this much: Psychic ability? Wicca mojo? Or maybe she simply had a friend at the local coffee shop?

  She told me the police were hot and heavy to arrest real estate broker Justin Manners. He assumed ownership of the realty firm Blue Heav
en upon the death of Alva Pierce. Briana didn’t need to explain further. I knew a little bit about real estate and brokers. I dated one for a few weeks. George, the overconfident bozo/realtor broker had explained the chain of command to me over several painful and damaging dinner dates some years ago. “If the firm’s owner should die, an employee of the office who possesses a broker’s license can simply assume ownership.” I can only remember this one quote from George. Everything other detail about his pompous life I filed in my brain’s recycle bin.

  As an investigator, this tidbit of knowledge fascinated me--despite its dubious source. It certainly could prove a strong motive for murder. I thought about it every night for a week as I fell asleep. I thought a lot less about Bozo George. I gave him one more pity date. A week later I filed this bit of data into memory and got on with my solitary life--or so I thought--because in two weeks I would be promoted from the Los Angeles field office to DC where I would meet the love of my life--Geoffrey McAllister. Unfortunately, Geoffrey died a horrible death when a sting operation failed. Killed the one time we worked separately on a case, Geoffrey’s demise tends to make me fear being alone. With Celeste, I feel comforted despite the absence of a human companion. My sister Tara decided not to move with me to Salem, opting to share a DC apartment with her boyfriend Tony. I feel relieved in a way. She no longer ambles through life alone.

  As a Salem witch shared chamomile tea with me I was once again reminded of how solitary people seem to be most susceptible to finding the most strange and bizarre people. It seems when you’re in a relationship you’re somehow shielded from the wandering gnomes and contemptuous kooks. But as soon as you walk the path of life alone, some nut pops out of a bush to startle you. I sincerely hoped Briana didn’t fall into this category. We were now neighbors, her doorway and drive sitting mere yards from my porch. Odd how life runs in cycle. Today was no exception.

  “So old Justin has a motive?” I said this aloud, half in thought, half in conversation. I paused and continued. “But why would he kill these other realtors as well?”

  “Competition, my dear. He may be broker of Blue Heaven, but half a dozen other agencies compete to take his business each and every day.”

  I saw her point. I felt compelled to explain I would only become involved in that case if someone were to hire me. It felt strange saying this. All my working life people had assigned cases to me. I never once had the option to pick and choose. Now I could accept or refuse a client at will. Unfortunately, no clients had rung my bell or called my business phone these past few weeks in Salem. Although Geoffrey had left me money in his will to subsidize my seaside home, it wouldn’t be long before sister Tara would come calling for a loan. I needed money and I also needed work--work that would validate my past because you’ve got to understand I just didn’t work at the Bureau, I had been the best of the best. Yes, I would be the first to admit the FBI was better left in the past or relegated to a dusty corner. Especially, the way it reminded me of Geoffrey’s demise. My inheritance also reminded me ever so painfully we would have been married. A few months back I realized I would have to shape shift my way out of this linear thinking. The FBI must be filed away in my mind like Bozo George.

  I can do this despite my stubborn streak.

  The mysterious crystal I had touched while investigating the Arrowhead murders transforms me still, sometimes it feels changes are occurring on an hour-by-hour basis. The crystal has helped me accept that my rigid notion of timelines and deadlines mean little in cosmic terms. Whenever I use my brain for psychic channeling, the crystal shows me the past-the present-and the future-are often one and the same. Coincidentally, Briana reminded me of my infamous contact with the crystal by chance. It all seemed so very Zen at the moment. Later, I would rethink this theory.

  “My stars, it’s you.”

  “Pardon me.”

  “You’re Caitlin Diggs, the FBI agent who stopped the Arrowhead Killer.”

  I couldn’t back out of this one so I nodded my head.

  “I hope I’m not being too forthright. But did you ever see that crystal? I mean the press tells us it disappeared from the killer’s body. But I find that strange. Incredible, one might say. You can tell me in confidence, Caitlin. Did you ever come into contact with the crystal?”

  “No.” I lied just as I had done on my field report. I couldn’t reveal the whereabouts of the crystal. Too many people would be tempted to harness its seductive and destructive powers. I had thrown the crystal into the sea. I tried very hard not to conjure a mental picture in my mind, fearing a witch like Briana might be capable of telepathy.

  I turned to pet Celeste who returned to her tabletop perch. Amazingly, Celeste seemed to sense I needed a distraction. I had acquired Celeste from a detective friend who swears she is psychic. Celeste has had no problems showing me why the detective feels so strong about her gifts. In fact, she saved my ass earlier in the year when I had become obsessed with a magical robe. But that’s a trip down memory lane I didn’t feel like taking right now. Despite Celeste’s best efforts, Briana continued to pierce a hole through me with her emerald green eyes. I could feel them looking at me without actually seeing them. She demanded an answer. I only knew one thing for sure. This conversation couldn’t go any further. I invented an excuse to leave, telling Briana I had a dentist appointment. If she had psychic abilities, she would know this was a fairy tale as well. I had heard quite a few horror stories about the local dentist. One local labeled her as the tooth Nazi. Needless to say I wouldn’t be undergoing any drills in the proximity of Salem. But right now at this moment, I couldn’t read Briana, so I didn’t know if she smelled my lie or not. Sometimes I can tell if a person is sincere or not, simply by looking into their eyes. Yet, this time, I could read nothing about her persona to tell me if she was of good character or bad. I wondered about her interest in the murder case. By the time I escorted her to the door, I was ready to dismiss her interest as simple curiosity. Salem would always be considered a small town and gossip always seemed to flourish best in small locales.

  ~ * ~

  The next day Gabriel Pierce knocked on my door just as Briana had the day before, but the nineteen-year-old wasn’t seeking camaraderie like Ms. McFadden. With purple rings about his eyes and an unkempt and unshaven appearance, the youth’s aura reeked of desperation. I didn’t need any psychic abilities to sense this. Pierce implored me to take his case, vowing to keep his promise to his deceased sister, Alva. Empathic and impassioned he summed up his quest in a few words. “May God strike me down if I should fail to bring my sister’s murderer to justice.” The peculiar phrasing struck me. It was as if the boy delivered the line like some kind of medieval Knight.

  Suddenly, I didn’t feel like the oddball I’d painted myself. Maybe a crystal had transformed me into a psychic investigator. But here I seemed to walk among the weird. Strange witch ladies with cookies--young men who spoke in Shakespearian verse--real estate brokers who murdered as frequently as Jason Voorhees. Yes, indeed. Salem was getting stranger by the minute.

  Two

  A hot late July day greeted me on Thursday. Standing on my porch, it called to me like a siren to go visit a beach. The sun filled sky and a rippling warm breeze reminded me of my teenage days strolling along the sands of Long Beach, California. And if it were twenty years ago I might have answered that call and packed a bag of suntan lotion, shades and a big, comfy cotton beach blanket. But today the pleasant idea competed with my conscience. I had been paid upfront by Mr. Pierce--and in cash. My financial situation said I needed to behave like an investigator so I removed Celeste from my shoulder--another one of her favorite perches--and began to map out a plan.

  An hour later I stood face to face with Rufus Halsey, Captain of Salem PD’s Criminal Investigation Division. I feared my first question would unleash the fury of this gruff and very buff officer of the law. Halsey appeared to work out on a regular basis. He swung his massive arms back and forth waiting for me to speak as if he were
preparing to attack the words themselves.

  I shot first, point blank.

  “So, I’ve heard rumors that you’re about to make Salem’s biggest murder case inactive?”

  He squinted and put his hands on his hips. Then he began leering at me. I leered back. I could leer with the best of them. I can’t say it’s the stone cold stare of my sapphire eyes that tell people I mean business. Sometimes I think my height helps. I stand at nearly six feet with heels. Over the years, whether it is my gaze or physical stature, men and women have caved in my presence. I just gawk at them, leaning over the interrogation table. Then I back away and flash an amazonic pose. Geoffrey always enjoyed watching me interview suspects from outside the interrogation room--where he felt free to laugh or grimace. No one would be the wiser thanks to one--way mirrored glass. Right now I missed him terribly. I could seriously use some backup here.

  Halsey continued to fix his eyes on me. Peering back, I eventually realized the man was not challenging me. He simply was buying time, trying to come up with words that would save face for his department.

  His lips wavered, then pursed back into a scowl. Apparently, the words escaped him.

  “It looks like we’re going to close the cases, yes. According to the coroner’s reports all five women may have died from natural causes.”

  “Do you believe that, Captain?”

  He took his hands off his hips and offered me a seat.

  When we were both again at eye level, peering at each other over a mahogany desk, where my height advantage had been neutralized, he spoke.

  “Do you have something you can tell me, Ms. Diggs?” Hands laced together he waited for my response. It didn’t come. “I mean since I hear you’ve got psychic abilities, can you offer us some fresh insight into the murders? The chief would have no problem turning to a psychic or even a witch for that matter…” Halsey paused to grunt; it didn’t sound like a ringing endorsement for witches. I decided to keep Briana’s name out of this. I replied honestly. “No, Captain. However, I have no control over my abilities. It doesn’t mean I won’t be able to help you in the future.”