The Witch’s Grave by Shirley Damsgaard Read Free Book Online

I envisioned a white shield surrounding me, a bubble of light that nothing could penetrate. When I felt it strengthen and hold, I opened my eyes and joined him.
    Industrial carpeting led to a circular nurse’s station complete with monitors and computers. The individual rooms all had double glass doors, and were positioned in a horseshoe shape around the station, so while sitting there one could observe all the patients.
    I waited nervously while Bill approached a woman near the nurses’ station, wearing a white coat and holding a clipboard. Jerking his head in my direction, they spoke softly for a couple of minutes. With a nod, he pivoted and came back to me.
    “This way,” he said, taking my arm and leading me to Stephen’s cubicle.
    Although I trusted my shield to block the sensations eddying through the unit, I still kept my head down as we walked past the rooms. I didn’t want to risk it wavering. We stopped in front of a glass door. I raised my head.
    Stephen lay like a marble statue atop a bed surrounded by medical equipment. Numerous wires and tubes led from the equipment to his still form. Standing in the doorway, I heard the soft whoosh of a pneumatic machine.
    I approached the bed and pointed to the machine with a tube leading to Stephen’s mouth. “What’s that?” I asked
    “A respirator. And the doctors have him highly medicated. They want him to stay as still as possible. No thrashing around.”
    As I asked my next question, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. “Will he make it?”
    Bill shifted uncomfortably. “You know how doctors are…noncommittal. He’s made it this far.”
    Stephen looked so alone and defenseless—his only company the machines, the only sound the whoosh of the respirator and the rhythmic beep of the monitors. Laying my hand on his arm, the tears gathered in my eyes and slid down my cheeks. With trembling fingers I flicked them away.
    “Does he have any family?” I asked in a thick voice.
    “We managed to track down his agent today. He said Larsen’s mother is in France right now on a tour. He’s trying to reach her. He also gave us the name of an assistant, Karen—”
    “Burns.” I finished his sentence. “Stephen mentioned her.”
    “Did he mention how to reach her? His agent gave us a number, but there’s no answer.”
    Thinking of the book in my purse with Karen’s number listed, I put a protective hand on the strap resting on my shoulder. “No,” I replied honestly. It was the truth—Stephen hadn’t given me her number or address—I’d found it. And no need to tell him I’d already tried the number and had the same result.
    “Come on,” Bill said, taking my arm again. “We have to leave now.”
    With a last glance over my shoulder, I allowed him to lead me from the room and down the hall to a door that said family. He motioned me inside.
    My legs suddenly weary, I sank gratefully down onto one of the love seats. Bill seated himself on a chair at a right angle to mine.
    “You seem calmer today, so I want to hear everything that happened from the moment you met Larsen,” he said without preamble as he removed a notebook from his pocket.
    With a sigh, I told the story again, more coherently this time, but leaving out the kiss. It had no bearing on Stephen’s shooting.
    “…I was trying to stop the blood seeping from the wound when Stephen asked me to take the book from his pocket—”
    “What book?” Bill exclaimed, jumping to his feet.
    “Ah, this one,” I replied as I removed the Baggie from my purse and handed it to him.
    He towered over me and his eyes drilled into mine. “Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?”
    “Um, I forgot all about it.” I squirmed against the back of the love seat. “With all the excitement…”
    Bill watched me with skepticism.
    “Honest…I was in shock…I stuck the book in my pocket when they pulled me away from Stephen and didn’t remember it until last night.”
    “Why didn’t you