The Anointing. Aubrey Smith

Mike breathed low.

      Hitchcock had arrived and was standing beside the two city officers. “Not a pretty sight,” he spoke in a reserved way. “We’ve been running this through the analyst’s computer at Ranger Headquarters and we may have hit on a link.”

      “What link?” Flores asked from the grave.

      “Seems that all of the graves that have been dug into contained people who died in July,” Hitchcock replied.

      Hitchcock was a big man, tall and rugged. He walked a little stooped as he moved away from the grave and along the cemetery road.

      “Just a minute. We may know another thing,” Slore called, as Hitchcock continued to walk away from the open grave. “Yes, this grave fits the cult patterns I read about in the library this morning.”

      Hitchcock turned and started back toward the waiting officers. As Slore continued to speak, Hitchcock approached while writing in his notebook. Slore pointed out, “This is the seventh grave on the seventh row. There must be some combination of three sevens in any Santeria grave robbing. Seven is their special number. In this case, the person died in July, the seventh month. She was laid to rest in this grave, which is the seventh grave on the seventh row. Three sevens!”

      Slore continued to address his spellbound audience. “There have been several other robberies across South Texas during this month, July, the seventh month. In every instance, there is some combination to add up to at least three sevens. In some cases, the town had seven letters in its name like Sabinal. I talked to Sheriff Smith in Uvalde County this afternoon and they’ve had a grave dug into. From what he told me, I think the MO will match this one exactly. Three sevens. I’m also sure that all of these grave robberies happened on Thursday, during the dark of the moon. This really amounts to Wednesday night after midnight. The dark of a moon on Thursday is special in this religion.

      “They take the middle finger from the body or the head, if they can get it.” Slore pushed on, telling the mesmerized officers standing in a semicircle around the open grave, “The thieves use the bones in their worship and for spells or charms. The head is supposed to have the most power and could easily bring ten to twenty thousand dollars if they sell it.”

      The rest of the morning passed quickly as the officers went about the job of reconstructing the crime scene. The grave robbers left behind some shovels and a flashlight, which were dusted for prints. Casts were taken of some tire tracks and pictures were taken of two jogging shoe prints found in some loose dirt around the grave. When everything was completed, the okay was given to the backhoe operator to cover the grave. The cemetery was checked for any other evidence and to be sure no other graves had been violated.

      Hitchcock had not stayed long and was the first to leave.

      “That’s the way Rangers are. All show and no go,” Valdez remarked about Hitchcock. “Why didn’t you tell me what you knew as we drove out?”

      “I wanted to be sure before I opened my mouth and put my foot in it. I just needed to see for myself. Let’s go. Captain Flores, we’re out of here. Glad I don’t have to be the one to tell the family about someone stealing their mother’s head.” Slore meant it. “That’s what captains are for.”

      They waved goodbye to the deputies, then climbed into the brown Ford and drove away.

      “I told the clerks to have your reports ready by the time we got back. Hopefully they will,” Valdez said as they drove back into the city.

      Slore barely heard Valdez. He was mentally gasping for breath. He felt a tingle start in the end of his fingers and proceed up into his hands. A sense of panic stirred just under his skin. There it came. The blackness followed by a twinge of red and then a rush of foul air. This time he managed to stay upright by holding onto the door handle and Mike Valdez never knew something was short circuiting in his friend.

      Mike turned off the freeway and headed toward the station, unaware that Slore had drifted away to a place where demons dwell.

      “Let’s get a bowl of caldo at Mi Tierra,” Mike said for the second time.

      “What?”

      “Let’s get lunch at Mi Tierra’s,” Mike repeated.

      “Okay.”

      Valdez pulled the unmarked police car into the back parking lot behind the café. “Lunchtime.”

      A silent nasty anger was building within Slore as he ate lunch. Valdez assumed the grave robberies had taken away his friend’s usual good mood. They ate with little conversation.

      Deep behind that brown door in the inner recesses of Slore’s mind, plans to destroy Henserling were being drawn and redefined. The war room was a busy center of activity as he went through the motions, the facade of eating lunch. He had a new compelling purpose for his life. He thought, I’ll take a sword and cut Henserling’s yellow-eyed, snakehead off so I can breathe again.

      The hate and rage that had been held in check pushed and pulled to be released. Training and protocol helped him to control these emotions for a while, but the feelings that were held dormant this past twenty‑four hours began to bubble and boil. The evil of a witch’s cauldron was being stirred, and the fire that heated this evil brew was being stoked by Slore’s memories. The pot boiled hot as goop splattered on the floor and ran between the cracks of his sanity.