Death Before Facebook

That was bad—there were very few cars, which meant they had a good chance of being seen.
    They stayed as far behind as they dared, and when they no longer heard Kit’s motor, they parked, hoping the other car had stopped rather than surged ahead.
    Skip started to open her door, but heard another car behind her. Both she and Hodges ducked, and as it passed, she saw Lenore riding shotgun.
    Wonder what she does with Caitlin
? Skip was reminded suddenly of Marguerite, out every night when Geoff was a small boy.
    She and Hodges waited another fifteen minutes, too keyed up even to talk. A few more cars passed, then all was quiet.
    They got out and split up. Skip followed the road a little farther, staying close to the side, where the trees were. It was a warmish night without much wind. The moon was rising and, because it was full, she could see very well—but so could she be seen if anyone happened along. She had an odd sense of anticipation, of excitement, a kind of tingling.
    A reaction to danger?
she wondered. But it wasn’t her usual sort, which involved a lot of heart pounding and sweat This was pleasurable, almost a sexual sensation—a marked contrast to her fear the other night. For the life of her, she couldn’t have said why.
    She had walked about ten minutes, until she heard the sound of voices. The women were in a cleared space, perhaps a meadow. In the center of it they had placed a table of some sort—the altar, Skip surmised, and noted with relief that it was neither the size nor shape for human sacrifice. And this time there was no skull. But the moon glinted on the dagger, and she could see the pentacle plate.
    Small scarves or bits of colored cloth were scattered at equal intervals around the altar—four of them, with a candle in a jar on each one, and a few other things, Skip couldn’t tell what, but they looked like rocks and shells.
    The women were still fussing, organizing, arranging, making things pretty. Behaving much like women giving a tea party. Skip thought again of the banality of evil, but tonight she couldn’t make it stick; the beauty of the evening, the woods bedecked in silver light, the purity of the air, the softness of the women’s voices—somehow, it just didn’t add up to degradation and horror.
    I’ll feel differently when they put on those spooky black robes and get the bloodcurdling chant going.
    But to her amazement, they put on white robes instead—all but Kit, who had disappeared.
    Oh my God, they’re playing dress-up. A cult with outfits; just what I need.
    * * *
     
    Pearce had seen her arrive after the others, and realized it must be her car he had passed, parked on the side of the road. He had followed Lenore. She must have followed one of the others, probably Kit.
    He had seen her colleague too, the old guy.
    He had arrived at the opposite strategy from theirs, had driven past the glen where the women were having their little picnic, had parked, and doubled back. He’d already been in position when the cops arrived. It amused him that he was the better stalker.
    They were all in white now, in belted robes with little bags like drawstring purses hanging from their belts; little bags and knives—a very medieval look. But Kit was missing.
    Ah—now she was coming, just emerging from her car.
    Unlike the rest of them, she wore yellow, a gorgeous yellow robe, belted with some sort of cord threaded through the loop of another, shorter cord. From the shorter cord hung a large metal ankh. The effect was of a rosary, or whatever priests dangled from their cassocks. On her head she wore some kind of headband with a sort of disk on it, affixed so that it stood upright, on its edge. It was gold-colored metal, probably brass, and the moonlight glinted eerily on it.
    Her hair had been teased out in all directions, forming an unruly mane around her face, a variation on the Bride of Frankenstein look. And she had painted her face. Even with the brightness of the moon, he couldn’t see terribly well, but from his vantage point, it looked as if she’d put horizontal stripes on her cheeks, like cat whiskers.
    The women stood in a circle. They took turns lighting the four candles they’d placed around the middle table, each one mouthing some sort of mumbo jumbo about east and west and earth and fire, and who knew what kind of crap. It embarrassed him.
    But each one, as she did it, slid a knife from its sheath and drew something in the air with it—what, he couldn’t