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“Illegal? How can they do that?”
“Jamaica is not America,” she pointed out. “To practice witchcraft is to beg for trouble.”
Kris had done some stories on witchcraft, but only that practiced in the United States, where such things, while not commonplace, were tolerated. She could understand how, in certain countries with certain backgrounds, that tolerance would be nil.
“So you left Jamaica,” Kris said, “and you came here.”
“Eventually.”
There was a story there, too, but Kris had interviewed enough people to know that you had to stick to one mystery at a time if you wanted to discover anything at all.
“Why here?”
Jamaica shrugged and stared out the window. “Dey say one of my ancestors was from Scotland. Long time back.”
“Ancestor,” Kris repeated. “Buccaneer? Plantation owner?” Basically some white guy who came and took what he wanted. History was full of them.
“Yes,” Jamaica answered, still staring outside. “I always wanted to see dis place. Once I did, I never wanted to leave.”
“You don’t practice Obeah anymore?”
“No.” Now Jamaica’s gaze met hers. “I swear.”
“I believe you,” Kris said. But did she?
Something strange was going on at Loch Ness. Kris doubted it had anything to do with witchcraft. Because real magic was hooey. Problems cropped up when people believed in it.
Jamaica appeared to believe.
The door opened, and a flood of college-age tourists flowed in, chattering about the loch, the village, where they would stay that night, and what they would order right now.
Kris backed out of the way, lifting her nearly empty cup to indicate she’d been waited on. Right behind the kids, a family complete with Mom, Dad, the requisite boy and girl got in line. Jamaica would be busy for a while.
Which was fine. Kris wanted to find out more about Obeah and about Jamaica herself.
Sure, Jamaica had said she no longer “did dat”; she claimed she’d only sacrificed animals. However, there were a lot of missing women in Drumnadrochit, some of them were dead. What if—?
Nah. There was no way Jamaica was sacrificing people. Because if she was, she certainly wouldn’t have told Kris about her witchy-woman past.
Unless …
She planned to kill Kris, too.
Kris rubbed between her eyes. Now she was being foolish, paranoid. Although, after being bonked on the head and tossed off a cliff, she did have good reason to be. Still—
Innocent until proven guilty.
She needed to get to her computer.
Kris hurried back to the cottage. Though it was broad daylight, she still got a little spooked when she lost sight of the village and the village lost sight of her as she trotted across the deserted fields.
She felt again the same way she’d felt on the way into Drumnadrochit—as if she were being watched.
Kris glanced to the rear. No one.
She faced front. Nothing.
A quick peek at the hills made her shrug. Anyone could be up there, doing just about anything, and she wouldn’t see them.
