Page 18 of Witch
“Thanks, Hiro. Keep an eye on the cameras.” Nine turned to the others in the cafeteria. “Max, Rory, Noah, and Noa. Come with me. We’re going to show this man how to give respect to others.”
“Maybe we should go with you,” said Suzette. “We can talk to him, gently, and show him that we’re nothing more than working women, wives, mothers, grandmothers.”
“She could be right, Nine,” said Camille.
“Alright. Alright, you two can come. Just you two. Let’s go.”
Loading everyone into the SUVs, they drove around the main entrance, up River Road from the south, to make it appear they were just arriving guests. When the door opened, the bell ringing, Marcus Hopkins was complaining that his soup wasn’t hot enough.
“It’s soup. It should be between one hundred and thirty-six-degrees Fahrenheit and one hundred and sixty-seven-degrees Fahrenheit. This is one hundred and thirty-five-degrees Fahrenheit.” He waved his metal thermometer in the air at her.
“Sir, I assure you it was the correct temperature when removed from the pot. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back,” said Sylvia, reaching for the bowl.
He slapped the back of her hand with the thermometer like a child being chastised in Sunday school. She squealed and pulled her hand back.
Hopkins felt a terrible pain in his shoulder, and he cried out, no longer caring about the soup. The attacker twisted his body on the stool at the counter, turning him to face him.
Rory glared at the man’s face and then looked at Sylvia.
“Sylvia, you okay, hun?” he asked.
“I’m good,” she said. “I was more surprised than hurt. He’s mad because his soup was one degree too cool.”
“Really,” said Max. He picked up the soup, dipping his little finger in it. Then, he poured the soup on Hopkins’ lap. The man howled in pain. “Seems like it was plenty hot.”
“I’ll sue you!”
“Oh, please, I beg of you. Please sue so that we can show on camera how you struck the waitress,” said Nine.
“I know you people. I saw you at the witch’s funeral.”
“She was my mother, not a witch,” said Suzette, stepping forward. “Sylvia, let me see your hand.” She looked at the woman’s hand, and Hopkins watched with anticipation, waiting for the sparks, fairy dust, or other magic to appear.
“I’m okay, really I am,” said the woman.
“It’s red, but you should be fine. Just wash it well, and if it starts to hurt, see someone at the clinic.” The disappointment on Hopkins’ face was almost worth the visit.
“I see you didn’t really inherit your mother’s gifts,” he frowned.
“I don’t know what’s up your ass, mister,” said Camille, “but our mother was a good, God-fearing woman. She was devoted to her faith, the church, her community, and her family. My sister is a pharmacist. Very specifically, a research pharmacist. I help to run our family business. My other sisters are nurses, artists, psychologists, and archaeologists. We are educated businesswomen, not witches.
“Now, I’m not sure what your experience is with women who have brains, but clearly it isn’t much. I’m guessing women who can actually think for themselves frighten you.”
“Nine, listen carefully. Hopkins has pulled this shit for the last forty years. It’s never gotten further than his accusations, but dead women have followed him wherever he went.”
“Names,” said Nine. Hopkins stared at him, wondering what he meant.
“Ashley Bonaventure. Norine Dimarco. Finarie O’Hara. There are more, but that’s what I have so far.”
“Ashley, Norine, Finarie,” said Nine. The gray tinge to Hopkins’ skin told Nine everything he needed to know. “What did you do to them?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said with a haughty tone.
“You accused them of witchcraft, tried to bring them to trial, and then they were found dead. What did you do?”
“I did God’s work,” he said, lifting his chin.
“Does God’s work include murdering innocent women?” asked Max. “That’s not the God I know. You’ve been murdering women. Strong, passionate women who had no interest in you, is my guess.”
