Free The Witch of Agnesi by Robert Spiller Page B

But breaking in . . .” She blew out the smoke, looking disgusted.
    “What happened?”
    The older woman waved away the smoke. “Ali was the one who actually saw the truck. We were all stacking wood for the balefire when she heard a noise. She ran. She said someone slammed the back door of the house then jumped into a red pickup. It sped away down the frontage road.” Her hand shook as she pointed off into the gloom.
    “Did you call the police?”
    Rhiannon shook her head. “We went through the house but couldn’t find anything missing, or even disturbed. We had already started to decorate the five-petal altar. He could easily have vandalized that, but he didn’t.”
    “Missus Pinkwater.” Ali held out the phone. “The policeman wants to talk with you again.”
    Bonnie put the phone to her ear. “What do we do now?”
    “I’ll phone in the assault, send someone around to pick up Jesse Poole. You get to a hospital. Have your head examined.”
    She chuckled. “You’ve been waiting a long time to tell me that.”
    “Almost makes being woken up worth it. Good-night, Missus P.”
    “Goodnight yourself, youngster.” She closed the phone and looked up to see a dozen-plus eyes staring down at her. She held up her index finger. “Just one more call?”
    “I’ll stay with her,” said Ali.
    “We’ll all stay,” Rhiannon said. “Make your call, Missus Pinkwater.”
    Bonnie pulled a crumpled wad of paper from her pocket. She unfolded the paper and punched in the number written there. She’d copied the number, it seemed a lifetime ago, when she was having second thoughts on the advisability of sharing coffee with a certain gentleman.
    Armen Callahan answered on the third ring. “Hallo.”
    “Armen, it’s me, Bonnie.”
    “Do you mean the Bonnie Pinkwater who left me sitting at Capulets for over an hour?”
    She swallowed, not really sure what do with the anger in his voice. “The very one. I’m sorry, Armen, but I have a good excuse.”
    “A poor substitute for a coffee date, but try me.”
    She told him the highlights of her evening.
    He whistled. “I’d say that’s a pretty good excuse.
    So, if I understand you right, you’re currently injured, sitting on the ground next to a dying fire in the com-pany of witches.”
    “Why, yes, I am.”
    “I’ll be right there.”
    She sat up straight as if by doing so she could demonstrate her surprise, or possibly her disapproval.
    “What?”
    “You need to go to the hospital. I’ll take you, but it’s going to cost you.”
    She considered declining his offer, but realized she would have to inconvenience someone if she wanted to get to the hospital that night—and here was Armen vol-unteering.
    “What’s the price?”
    “You buy me coffee at the hospital.”
    “Black?”
    “You betcha. See you in about half an hour.” He hung up.
    Bonnie closed the phone and handed it to Winston. She squirmed uncomfortably. “I think my rear end is permanently numb from this hard ground. And I need to visit the little girl’s room. Is there really a house out there somewhere in the night, or did you witches make it disappear?”

    BONNIE HOBBLED OUT OF THE BATHROOM. HANGING onto the doorjamb, she scanned the rough-hewn log living room for a place to sit.
    Good luck.
    All furniture of a sitting variety had been removed from the living room. An immense white altar spanned the entirety of the far living room wall. Two-tiered, the altar’s upper tier sported more than a dozen white candles burning in brass holders. Aside from this light, the first floor of the ranch-house—which stretched to a family room and den to the right and a kitchen and mud room to the left—lay in darkness.
    White flower garlands adorned the altar’s lower tier, spilling onto a satin apron. An honest to God cauldron sat centered on a pentagram rug in front of the apron, much of the cauldron’s occult mystique mitigated by its use as a planter. White lobelia festooned over the