Conspiracy of Ravens

  Conspiracy

  of

  Ravens

  Chrystal Vaughan

  For my husband, Caleb

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Cover Art:

  Emily Valentine; copyright 2014. Stock photo provided by Emily Hershey, copyright 2014.

  Maps courtesy of DreamsTime. The Tarot Card images used in this book are from the Rider-Waite-Smith deck, published in 1909, and therefore are now public domain and part of the creative commons.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com

  Copyright 2014 Chrystal Vaughan

  Map of Catherine Meara’s murders or body recovery locations

  “Although the most acute judges of the witches and even the witches themselves were convinced of the guilt of witchery, the guilt nevertheless was non-existent. It is thus with all guilt.”

  -Friedrich Nietzsche

  “No true Witches today practice human sacrifice, torture, or any form of ritual murder. Anyone who does is not a Witch, but a psychopath.”

  -Starhawk

  “We may brave human laws, but we cannot resist natural ones.”

  -Jules Verne

  0-The Fool

  It was a brightly sunlit day when Catherine Meara, the ‘Raven Witch Killer’, passed through the front doors of the Pennsylvania State Penitentiary. For a few moments, she was able to tilt her head toward its warmth and revel in its light upon her prison-paled skin. I watched her bask in its glory, her stride slow, her arms swinging at her sides. Her hair gleamed like living fire, no longer dulled to the color of old blood under the harsh fluorescent lights of captivity.

  The ravens waited for her, seventeen in all, perched atop the old fashioned gates that separated the land of freedom from the realm of the depraved. They watched her approach, obsidian eyes flat in spite of the brightness of the day.

  She saw them, a guard said later. She saw them there, waiting, and smiled.

  One of them cawed, a harsh sound unsuited to sunlight, more closely attuned with shadows and gloom. As if it were a signal--and perhaps it was--the others raised up on clawed feet, beating their wings against the air. The terrible sound of all their feathers straining against the wind caused both gate guards to clasp their hands to their ears. I could see them from my post just inside the entrance, though the thick glass protected me from their funeral noise.

  We lost eleven minutes of our lives that day. Time we cannot reclaim, though in light of what we were witness to, in light of what was lost, eleven minutes seems a paltry sum.

  Officially, prisoner number 0116152 died of natural causes. A justifiable death, one might say.

  I was there from the beginning to the end, from the moment Catherine entered our sphere of knowledge until the time her physical body left us behind. There was nothing natural about the Raven Witch Killer’s death, or her life for that matter. We never told anyone the whole story, those of us who bore witness to her tale, those who remain, until now, that is.

  They’re back, you see. The ravens.

  I can be silent no longer.

  1-The Magician

  I first heard of Catherine Meara from my boss at the Philly Herald.

  “Sophia, you ever go to school with this broad?” He threw a packet of papers and photographs carelessly onto the scarred surface of my desk. In the blue glow of my computer monitor’s light, Catherine’s mug shot appeared to be screaming at me, eyes glowing like a demon. I dropped my half full coffee cup onto the threadbare puke green carpet and pushed myself as far back as my rolling chair could go before the carpet’s wrinkles gummed its wheels.

  “What the fuck?”

  My boss frowned at my use of language. Rick Halpern prided himself on hiring reporters who had a handy grasp of vernacular, but a mouth like a sailor wasn’t quite what he had in mind when he’d hired me. He scowled deeper at me when I was unrepentant. I gathered my wits and returned to my desk. I could see now that the woman in the photo was not screaming as I’d first imagined. Her face possessed a serene expression instead, as if we were girlfriends sharing a secret. I picked up the mug shot photo and studied it in better light, searching for something recognizable in her features.

  She had bright red hair, very long and curly from what I could see in the photo. Mug shots were not always the best source of a person’s appearance, lacking a certain animation, a trueness that doesn’t translate on film under poor lighting and poorer circumstances. Her eyes were light in color, that I could tell, but what color--blue, green?--was unclear. Her features were regular, pleasant, and unfamiliar.

  “No, I don’t know her. Why, should I?”

  “You both came from the same podunk town. What’s it called? Potter? Potts? Pot-something. You’re gonna pretend you know her, at any rate, and get an exclusive. You leave tomorrow.”

  I glared at him, unconcerned that, at 6’4” and 250 lbs. he out massed me by over half. “The hell I am! I’m not done with the Cortez story!”

  “Phillips is taking Cortez. I want you on this. The cops are calling this woman the ‘Raven Witch Killer’ and I want you to find out why. As a member of the same fair sex, you are my in.”

  “Phillips can’t write a kid’s story! And I got news for you, Rick, women don’t like other women.”

  “I don’t care. You’re doing this, Sophia. Do a good job, and good things will come your way. Do a piss-poor job, and you’re on the Entertainment column for a month. Capisce?”

  “You’re not Italian, asshole,” I muttered.

  “I’m sorry, what was that? You said, ‘Yes, sir, Mr. Halpern, I’ll get right on that for you’-- right? ‘Cause I may have misheard you...”

  “Give me my plane ticket you misogynist pig,” I growled at him. Rick could be an ass but he sold me a good pitch on my future with the Philly Herald. Fresh out of journalism school, high on my escape from coal country, living it up in the big city...I was easy prey. Three years later and I was still waiting for the big story that would launch me into the big time. This could very well be my chance, but I hated the thought that Rick might be on to something. He was just so smug about it. Still...if the cops already named this criminal, given her a nickname of their own, chances were good she’d done something pretty awful. If I did a good job with this story, well, Rick was right. It would prove I was ready to take over some of the big time reporting jobs. First crack at a story was a big deal to me.

  He saw his triumph in the realization I wore like a prayer shawl. He handed me my plane ticket--coach, of course--and said, “Report by phone tomorrow with a two hundred word intro. We’ll run this as a series until you get your feet under you and give me an angle. And, Soph?--I mean it. You’ll be rewarded if you take this and run. So do your best. Okay?”

  “I always do my best.”

  In addition to my plane ticket, he gathered up the manila folder with the papers and photos and handed them to me. At home, I tucked them in my carry on as I packed, anticipating at least a week’s stay.

  My contact at the State Pen was one Officer Shaw. His photo was included in my packet of info, a bland state ID police shot nearly as bad as a mug shot, which revealed a younger man with sandy hair and blue eyes. A handsome face, I decided, studying his
picture on the plane. Possibly a broken nose at some point, which lent it character. Before the job, or because of the job? I wondered.

  My folder contained few stark details about the Meara case, which frankly piqued my curiosity rather than satisfying it. I’m ashamed of that curiosity, now.

  Catherine Meara’s vitals told me she was twenty-seven years old, my age, from Pottsdown, Pennsylvania, also where I was from. There were no listed previous or current addresses or next of kin. She was described as five foot seven inches in height and weighed one hundred and thirty-five pounds She had numerous scars and tattoos listed, that was interesting. None were visible from her mug photo and photographs of these markings were not included in my brief file. Only a typed list told me anything:

  Left wrist-pentagram tattoo, black ink

  Right wrist-pentagram burned into flesh

  Middle back-tree tattoo, possible occult design, multi-colored extending from right breast to left breast-palms/hands tattoo, occult/cabalistic symbols and words inscribed on them, black ink

  From left shoulder to right shoulder-bird shapes, various poses, seventeen total, black ink

  The list went on like that for half a page. The woman’s body must be completely covered in scars and tattoos, I thought. In the back of my small sheaf of papers, finally the crux of Catherine Meara’s case and my purpose in visiting her was revealed, written in cop lingo.

  “Suspect arrived at police HQ requesting to speak with a detective and reporter. Suspect claimed she’d murdered seventeen people and needed to confess in order ‘to achieve the next level.’ Suspect was not taken seriously at first but Detective Dayle Wirth took suspect’s statement. Detective Wirth became shaken by the suspect’s demeanor, claiming the suspect was ‘a witch’ and ‘knew things she couldn’t possibly know.’

  Further questioning revealed suspect refused to speak with Detective Wirth, claiming he would ‘die in the line of duty within the year.’ Detective Lena Burke took over the interrogation at this point. Suspect would only tell Detective Burke, 'the girl you are all looking for here in Sunbury? The teenager who never made it home from school a couple months ago? You know the one. Brown hair, brown eyes. Neve something, I think. Ringing any bells?’ Detective Burke indicated the suspect should continue, providing information on the girl’s, Neve Ramirez, whereabouts if she possessed said information.

  Suspect was placed in a holding cell after refusing to speak more, citing she would ‘only talk to the right people. You get me to them.’ Detective Burke advised suspect withholding information on a missing person’s case was a punishable offense. Suspect began laughing. Detective Burke advised superiors the suspect should be remanded to State custody. Suspect was transferred to Pennsylvania State Penitentiary. Officer Bradley Shaw was informed by the suspect she would ‘only confess the seventeen murders’ she committed to him and a reporter by the name of Sophia Pascale from the Philly Herald. Suspect is being held at Pennsylvania State Penitentiary in solitary/lockdown until her demands can be met.”

  The notation continued a bit, citing details about Catherine’s intake into the Pennsylvania penal system but I sat numbly in my uncomfortable plane seat, eyes seeing nothing and my penlight pointed at the shuttered plane window. That rat bastard! I thought. That’s why Rick asked if I’d known her. The town and our age was secondary. She’d asked for me by name.

  I flipped back through the pages, but I’d missed nothing. There was no detailed account of her crimes there, nothing for me to go on, no jumping off point to begin my questions. For the first time since I began covering homicide stories, I didn’t know where to start.

  I was fairly new at my job, sure, only three years as a real reporter under my belt. And my small role with the Herald didn’t land me first dibs on the murderers. In fact, most of my interviews were with the more experienced reporters who had spoken to the degenerates. Only once had I interviewed a murderer myself, and that was Silvio Cortez, at the end of his twelve year stint in the California Correctional for a murder he committed while on PCP. He was saved now, he’d told me. I was as safe with him as a newborn kitten. And I believed him, actually. He was a shell, awaiting reentry into the atmosphere of society, doomed to burn up in its ozone.

  I clicked off my penlight and returned my file to my bag. Tomorrow, after I checked in to the no doubt seediest motel Pittsburgh had to offer thanks to my cheapskate scumbag boss, I’d compose a list of possible questions and a series of sub questions to ask Catherine Meara. I took comfort in the fact that the handsome, sturdy looking Officer Shaw would be there with me. Hey, a girl could look, right?

  Before an uneasy sleep claimed me, I wondered idly why they were calling her the Raven Witch Killer. Must have had something to do with her tattoos, I guessed. I gave in to the deep, dreams of plummeting airplanes borne magically aloft by leagues of black birds, led by a flame haired woman riding a broom, laughing defiantly at the wind swept sky.

  2-The High Priestess

  We awoke some time later, we bleary-eyed zombies of travel. Like cattle, we disembarked but like dandelion seeds, we scattered onward to separate and unknown destinations.

  I rented a car in a stupor, feeling unrested from my dream-filled slumber on the plane. I plugged in the address to the hotel on my phone’s GPS and followed the mechanical woman’s instructions like an obedient child. I was pleasantly surprised to find that my hotel was a modest and comfortable one, from a well-known chain, instead of some dive that rented rooms by the hour. One point for Rick.

  I checked in and dragged my bags to my room. I didn’t put anything away but managed to set my phone’s alarm feature for two hours hence. Rick would be pissed I didn’t check in but what the hell, I hadn’t even talked to Catherine Meara yet and besides, he deserved it for not telling me she’d asked for me specifically.

  I woke later to the insistent sound of the alarm. I took a nice long soak in the tub and dressed in a pair of black slacks and a pale blue blouse. I slipped on my sensible pumps and a dressy jacket, grabbing my purse and hotel key on my way out. I dialed Rick’s cell phone in the elevator, knowing he was likely at home relaxing at eight p.m. on a Monday, the paper put to bed early during the week. I hope I ruined his communion with the whiskey bottle. I was still ticked.

  Rick answered with, “Where the fuck have you been, Sophia?”

  “Thanks for the decent hotel, Halpern. The roaches let me shower first. It’s a real nice joint.”

  “Whatever. Did you talk to her yet? I want those two hundred words you owe me for tomorrow’s paper, which by the way, you didn’t get to me on time. Now it will have to go in Wednesday. I hope you’re happy.”

  “I’m not happy. I haven’t even seen her yet. And why didn’t you tell me Catherine Meara asked for me by name? Slip your mind?”

  “Don’t bust my balls, Soph. It’s not like I kept it from you on purpose, I just didn’t have time, okay?”

  “Bullshit, Rick! I would never have agreed to this if I knew some psychopathic bitch from hell had asked for me personally!”

  “Well, now you have a chance to find out what she wants from you, don’t you? Two hundred words, Sophia, by noon tomorrow, understand?” and he hung up the phone before I could scream at him some more.

  I treated myself to a very expensive dinner on Rick’s dime. Petty, I know, but I was reduced to such tactics in lieu of further confrontation. Back in my room, I turned on the television and dialed the volume down low. Changing into my pajamas, I decided to help myself to the wet bar and had a little mini-mimosa: sample sized Brut champagne and itty bitty orange juice. I piled all the pillows in the middle of the bed’s headboard and leaned against them, my legal notepad in my lap and my drink close at hand. I figured Catherine would have her lawyer present, and I needed to have a few questions written in several different ways. Wording was key here. If I asked a question her lawyer objected to, I had to be clever enough to get the answer to the question by asking it in a roundabout way. I tapped my pen against my upp
er lip while I thought. Finally, I scribbled down a list of twenty or so questions with alternate phrasing on each. I was nervous, inexplicably, to meet with Catherine Meara. I’d never been nervous to interview anyone before, not even Cortez. But of course, none of my previous interviews had been with a self-confessed serial killer. I set my notepad on the nightstand and downed my cocktail. Though it was still relatively early, I shut off the light and laid back against the bank of pillows. I left the television on, muted, a night light against the dark unknown shadows of the hotel room.

  The alcohol buzzed pleasantly through me, lulling me into a light sleep that was broken repeatedly in the night by dreams of enormous black birds, sharp beaks dripping with blood and gore.

  I was groggy the next morning, awakened by my faithful phone. I’d forgotten to set the alarm but Rick was apparently not taking chances. With a groan, I noticed it was only six a.m. His payback for interrupting his nightly date with the hooch, no doubt. I didn’t bother to answer. Instead, I put the extra time to good use, doing some light yoga poses to wake up my weary bones and get my blood flowing. I showered and dressed in a professional outfit consisting of a black pencil skirt, white button down blouse, and black tailored vest. I slipped on my trusty black pumps and twisted my long dark hair into a French knot on the nape of my neck. After applying light make up, I proclaimed myself ready and stuffed everything I thought I would need into my briefcase. I grabbed my purse, long black woolen coat, and leather gloves, setting off in search of coffee and breakfast. It was not quite eight a.m. and my appointment at the prison was not for another hour, so I hit a coffee shop close to the hotel and enjoyed the morning paper over a latte and croissant. All of the nervousness I felt yesterday was oddly dissipated, but I was grateful for that. I didn’t want to face Catherine Meara without all of my faculties in working order, dulled by fear.