Call Of The Witch by Dana Donovan

Author:Dana Donovan [Donovan, Dana]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Usenet, witchcraft, Paranormal, detective, series, witch, C429, Kat, Exratorrents
Publisher: Dana Donovan
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

From there we headed out to Essex to call on Russell Haywood, Kelly’s riding coach. Spinelli told us Russell was a former equestrian gold medalist who now owned a riding academy. He also told us Haywood coached young boys and girls there and prepared them for competitions, including the Olympics. My initial fear after reading the private messages between Kelly and Haywood on Kelly’s computer was that she was going out to the stables on Saturday by herself to see him. But after checking bus routes, we learned that buses didn’t run out that way from the city. Still, the fact that she couldn’t get out to see him didn’t mean he couldn’t get out to see her.

We followed Route 133 to Essex and turned off down a scenic road that meandered through several miles of the prettiest woodlands this side of the Blue Hills. The road dead-ended directly behind the larger of two barns on Haywood’s property. Both were relatively new structures, framed in steel I-beams, their walls and roof clad in metal sheathing and painted in traditional oxblood red. Because it was Sunday, the riding academy was closed, but we found Russell in the stables of the bigger barn, grooming one of his colts.

“Mister Haywood,” I called.

He turned back just long enough to catch a glimpse of us over his shoulder. “We’re closed,” he said, and continued raking the horse’s back with a wide-bodied scrub brush strapped to his right hand.

“Yes, we know that.” Carlos and I came up on his left side, steering clear of the horse’s hind quarters. “I’m Detective Marcella. This is Detective Rodriquez.” I showed him my badge and ID. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

He paused briefly, just long enough to look me up and down as if gauging my age, perhaps wondering if I was old enough to be a Detective. Then he looked at Carlos, who gave him a subtle nod. He seemed to take that as verification, and went back to grooming the animal.

“Am I in trouble or something?” he said, laughing a little to let us know he was joking.

I had to take a really hard look at him. At first, I thought we might have had the wrong man. The Russell Haywood in the photo Spinelli showed us from Haywood’s Olympic days was a lean-looking, blond-hair athletic type with a Colgate smile and Hollywood eyes. Even his Facebook picture, probably taken ten years later, looked enough like him not to take a second guess. But the man we approached looked vastly different from the one in the pictures. Forget that he was bald. His Facebook picture hinted at that eventuality. He wore a comb-over then that stretched from the back of his head clear to his eyebrows. But this guy had also put on some serious weight, like maybe sixty pounds. His face looked dry and blotchy, tanned deep red in that way old southern farmers with pale skin tan after a full summer in the fields.

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