A Witch's Tale Read Free Page A

particularly happy, the local citizens began to disperse. However, the media was not so ready to quit their posts.
    “And all you newsmen, and ladies too, y’all might as well get on about your business too. There ain’t nothin ’ gonna happening around here for quite a spell.”
    “Just tell us if it was a ritualistic killing, Sheriff.”
    “How many of those witches do you figure participated in the murder?”
    “Have they been having orgies out there in the woods?”
    “Have you seen a rise in animal mutilations since the witches moved here?”
    “Hold it, hold it! I didn’t come out here to make a statement. As soon as we’re sure we have our facts straight, I promise to call a press conference and tell you everything I legally can. But until that time, I must ask you to disperse. I won’t have you disrupting my town.”
    When he had come to Port Bellmont from the Houston, Texas , police department five years earlier , folks had described Walt Whitaker as a bull dog in uniform. It was an apt description. Whit was not a man to take any guff from anyone. The local citizens had quickly learned that when Walt Whitaker said something he damn well meant it, earning him the respect of everyone in town, whether they be law abiding citizen or not.
    After giving the assembled reporters a look that said he meant what he said, the sheriff stepped back into the courthouse, closing the door firmly behind him.
    “Yeah, sure, blame all the fuss on us,” a woman reporter next to Mac grumbled. “As if a coven of witches killing and ripping the heart out of a nice old minister wouldn’t cause a little disruption.”
    Mac turned a sardonic smile on the woman. After she’d been in the business as long as he had, she’d be used to being dumped on. If she couldn’t take it, she had better get herself another job.
    He glanced at his watch as he walked down the steps away from the courthouse. Nine-thirty. A cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes sounded good. He glanced in both directions, figuring that some enterprising soul would have opened a coffee shop within easy walking distance of the police station.
    “Hey, there! Haven’t we met before?” The question was directed at Mac by a tall, slender man leaning against a Ford Bronco that was parked directly in front of the courthouse. About forty-five to fifty, the man’s casual , yet obviously expensive , clothes somehow didn’t fit in with the regular citizens of the city, nor did it reflect the general appearance of the members of the third estate who had swarmed into Port Bellmont for the murdering witches story. Attached to the side of the car was a magnetic sign proclaiming it to be the property of The Port Bellmont Sentinel .
    Mac put on his professional ‘ I’m your new best friend, why don’t you tell me everything you’ve ever known ’ smile as he reached out to shake the other man’s hand.
    “Could be, buddy. I’ve been around a bit and I suppose you could say the same, right?”
    Mac couldn’t believe his luck. Getting in with the local newsman was better than striking gold. These small town reporters were usually more than willing to share all they knew about the locals just to be able to rub shoulders with a pro such as himself .
    “Quite a show, heh ?” the man made an indication toward the disbursing crowd with his pipe.
    “That it is. Say, you wouldn’t know where a guy could find a good cup of coffee in this town, would you? Somewhere close by? Maybe you’d like to join me. Give us a chance to remember where it was we met, talk about old times.”
    “Why, sure!” The man’s eagerness was pathetic as he insisted on giving Mac a lift to the caf é , though it was only three blocks down the street.
    Mac was pleased to accept the man’s invitation. He knew reporters well enough to bet that every last one of them would soon be crowding into that little caf é . By the time the others got there, he figured he’d have already ordered his