Ritual Magic

retreated.
    Lily and Erskine reached the patrol unit where Hardy was locked up. Erskine nodded at the patrolman sitting in the driver’s seat. “Open up.”
    The moment Lily opened the door Hardy turned to look at her. He didn’t try to get out, but he turned in the seat and stretched out both hands urgently.
    Automatically she bent and took his hands.
    No icky magic. She exhaled in relief. No blood, either. At least none she could see.
    He kept hold of one of her hands, patting it as if reassuring her. Lily gently tugged it free. “Hello, Hardy. Please step out of the car so we can talk without me bending over.”
    He climbed out. He wore the same blue flannel shirt and worn gray pants she’d seen him in the night before. He stood there looking down at her sadly.
    “You understand that it looks bad, don’t you? You were found with that body. You didn’t want to leave it.”
    He started humming.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t know that song.”
    “‘Washed in the blood,’” he sang soft and slow, “‘washed in the blood of Jesus.’”
    Lily didn’t react, but it wasn’t easy. “You wanted to wash in the blood?”
    He shook his head and frowned at her as if she’d disappointed him. Then he tried again. This time he sang an old commercial ditty.
    “Mr. Clean? You, uh . . . you were trying to clean something?”
    He nodded quickly, then sang, “‘Move, Satan, move on out of my way.’”
    “You were casting out the devil?”
    He cocked his head as if considering her word choice, then nodded slowly.
    Weird. The body really did need cleansing or the casting out of devils, or something along those lines. Hardy’s singing hadn’t done the trick, but he’d tried. Or claimed he had, she reminded herself. It was harder to think of him as a possible bad guy when she stood in front of him. “Was that man alive when you first saw him, Hardy?”
    He shook his head, his eyes dark with sorrow.
    “Did you see anyone near the body?” Another head shake. “Do you have any idea who did it?” Another. “Do you know who the murdered man was? No? Ever seen him before? Okay. I can’t think how to make this next one a yes or no question. How did you find the body?”
    He hummed a few snatches of tunes, as if he were hunting for the right lyrics, then started singing about coming into a garden alone where a voice that “‘the Son of God discloses . . . bids me go.’” He stopped, switched tempo and key, and added, “‘Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains.’”
    “Jesus told you about it? Or an angel?”
    He nodded.
    “Which one was it?”
    He spread his hands. Shrugged.
    “You don’t know?” He nodded and she looked at Erskine, raising her brows to see if he wanted any more questions right now. He shrugged. When she looked back at Hardy she saw Karonski wending his way to them through the cars and officers. She told Hardy she’d talk to him some more later. “Do you need anything? Some water?”
    He nodded and smiled.
    “I’ll see that you get some. Oh. One more thing. Is Hardy your first name? No? It’s your last name?” He nodded. “All right, Mr. Hardy, I’ll—” He was shaking his head again. “Okay. Just Hardy, no ‘mister.’”
    Karonski arrived and gave a little jerk of his head. Erskine told one of his men to get Hardy some water and get him back in the patrol car, then walked with her to where Karonski waited.
    “I called the coven,” Karonski said. “We need a strong circle set around that body while we figure out what we’re dealing with. You learn anything?”
    “No contagion on the boys or Hardy.” As she summarized what she’d learned from Hardy, she felt the subtle easing that meant Rule was here. She glanced at the entrance to the parking lot and saw his Mercedes pulling in. “Does that conform with what Hardy told you, Detective?” she asked Erskine.
    “You got more from him than I did.” He snorted. “Jesus told him to do it.”
    “You’re jumping to conclusions. There’s no blood on him.”
    Erskine gave her a scathing glance. “So he stood back while his partner did the slicing. He’s a brain-damaged man who hears voices, for God’s sake.”
    Lily wasn’t about to tell Erskine that Hardy might be a saint, but she didn’t like the way Erskine was zeroing in on the homeless man. “We’re not dealing with your typical crazy-guy killer. Whoever murdered that man knew exactly what he was doing, and he generated a whole