Witchcraft

There wasn't time to search for the orange windbreaker. Following Kimberly's whispered instructions he kept very quiet as they made their way over the porch. Kimberly balanced precariously on the railing, lifting Scott down and then they ran through the storm toward her car.
    For once the temperamental vehicle started relatively easily and Kimberly drove straight to the local authorities. During the drive Scott Emery told her how his kidnappers were really witches. One good thing about the drugging effects of the herbs, Kimberly had reflected privately, was that they seemed to have mitigated the emotional trauma most kidnap victims suffered. Scott didn't appear to realize just how much time had elapsed since he'd been taken. He simply looked forward to seeing his uncle. After that there was a time of confusion and chaos capped by the appearance of Darius Cavenaugh when he arrived to claim his nephew. Whatever drugging influence Scott had been under evaporated quickly in the fresh air. He began to perk up almost at once and started chattering quite cheerfully about the "witches" who had held him captive. His uncle listened intently. The authorities arrived at the cottage to find it abandoned with virtually no clues as to the identity of the kidnappers. Scott's tale of being held prisoner by witches had been dismissed as a child's fantasy, possibly induced by the drug. Only Darius Cavenaugh refused to dismiss Scott's story as an embroidery of the facts. He'd held his own counsel on the subject. Kimberly had spent several hours with Cavenaugh that night. The paperwork and the questions had gone on seemingly forever. Cavenaugh had handled it all with a cool, relentless patience and efficiency that said a great deal about him. During that time she had sensed the strength, the total reliability of the man. No wonder little Scott was convinced his uncle would ultimately take care of things. Cavenaugh was the kind of man who fulfilled his responsibilities, regardless of what it took to do so.
    The kidnappers, as far as Kimberly knew, were still at large. "Why did you almost send for me today, Kim?" Cavenaugh asked again. She took a deep breath. "You won't believe this but I tried to call you because someone gave me a rose." He was silent for a moment. "A rose?" Without a word Kimberly got to her feet and went over to the windowsill.
    Gingerly she picked up the wine bottle and brought the flower over to where Cavenaugh sat watching her. "Remember what Scott kept saying about being held captive by witches?" she whispered. Cavenaugh contemplated the needle in the rose. "I remember." Kimberly sat down again, her fingers lacing together tensely between her knees. "Do you think I'm letting my imagination run away with me?" Cavenaugh met her eyes across the short distance separating them. "No. I think this little gift could quite properly be interpreted as a threat." He considered the rose once more. "That's why you called me, wasn't it? Or rather why you considered calling me. You're scared."
    "Yes." It was a relief to admit it aloud. Then something struck her about the way he had asked the question. She gave him an uncertain glance. "Why else would I have gotten in touch with you?" He smiled whimsically in the firelight. "It occurred to me that you might want to see me again for the same reason that I wanted to see you." Kimberly felt the electrical charge that seemed to be coiling around her. It was a culmination of the growing tension she had been experiencing all day. "Why did you want to see me again, Cavenaugh ?"
    "I've never been sure how much of Scott's story I should take at face value," Cavenaugh said slowly. "But I do know one thing for certain. I did meet a real live witch that night I came to collect him from the local sheriff's office. I haven't been able to get her out of my head for nearly two months. But I told myself it would be wise to wait until she called in the debt owed her. I was just about to give up and come to see you, anyway, Kim. Our timing was just about perfect, wasn't it? Almost like telepathy."

CHAPTER TWO.
    Cavenaugh had anticipated a variety of circumstances under which Kimberly Sawyer might conceivably ask him for help. Most of the scenarios he had imagined involved money. He was used to people asking him for money. It wouldn't have mattered to him if she'd needed money.
    After seeing the rather battered old Chevy in the drive and noting the general condition of the worn furniture, he would