Dig Two Graves

"Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."

-Confucius

***

"It's MURDER!"

The woman was inconsolable. She was sitting across my desk, weeping, shaking, barely in control of herself. Her hair was tangled and lifeless, her face haggard, her eyes red, her voice cracking, poisoned with a raw, gravelly tone that could only have come from hours and hours of screaming and crying.

"Missus Carlisle. May I call you Janice? Janice. There is no murder. Mister Leloup is still very much alive."

"He's DYING."

"We can't say that. His doctors are bound by HIPAA rules, but they've assured us his condition is stable, not terminal. And there's no evidence of any wrongdoing."

"I'm telling you, he did it! He's RESPONSIBLE."

"To be clear, and for the record... WHO is responsible? And for WHAT?"

"MY HUSBAND! That miserable son of a bitch, HE DID THIS!"

My hand found its way to my face. My eyes closed. Shit. I was seriously going to have to explain it to this crazy woman.

"I'm very sorry, but this is purely a medical issue, not a crime. Mister Leloup suffered multiple pulmonary embolisms and a moderate stroke, all at once. I understand that's rare, but these things apparently happen. There is no action your husband could have taken to cause this. There's no drug, no physical intervention, no circumstance at all which anyone could have used to inflict that condition upon any other person. Claude clearly had some underlying, undiagnosed issues which all just, ah, happened to show up like this. That's unfortunate, but he was very lucky that help was available right away, or it could have been much worse. No one is responsible."

"You're not LISTENING. John DID THIS."

Goddamnit.

"How? Why? What are you trying to say happened?"

"He... " and she said something indistinct. It sounded like... no. She couldn't have said THAT. Could she?

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that."

"He put a CURSE on him, all right? He put a CURSE on my Claude!"

"A curse. Like some kind of gypsy voodoo thing?"

"Yes! No! I don't know. I don't know HOW he did it, but he DID IT."

"And why would he do such a thing?"

She drew in a breath and steeled her nerves. I knew the answer, but it was weird that THIS was the part she felt self-conscious saying.

"Claude Leloup is my lover. It's been going on for about a year. John found out. I didn't think he would, but I suppose it was always a possibility. I tried to assure him that it had nothing to do with our marriage or our relationship, that it was just something I needed to do for myself. It would come to an end in its own time, and then everything would go right back to the way things were before." She shook her head, still agitated. "He didn't listen. He insisted that I break up with Claude right away, or 'There Will Be Consequences.' He said it like that. 'There Will Be Consequences.' I actually laughed at him, I'm sorry to say. God. If I only knew..."

She fell quiet. I let her. Sometimes the best way to keep someone talking is to create an uncomfortable silence. It worked.

"I didn't... I didn't think... well. John vanished. Dropped off the radar. I didn't hear anything from him for days. At first, I thought he was off on a hissy fit, because his little ego had been bruised. I figured he'd be back sooner or later, and we'd kiss and make up. Well. I guess it was a little more than a week later that I got that first phone call. It was John. He didn't say anything, he was just... breathing at me. It was creepy as hell. I tried to get him to talk, to let me know he was all right, but, but he, um. He clearly wasn't. I got a few more calls like that. That's when I had to take out the restraining order."

Right. The goddamn restraining order. That was the only reason I had to listen to this lunatic. Claude Leloup and Janice Carlisle had filed a complaint against her husband, John Carlisle, claiming that he was a potential danger to himself and to others, that he was mentally unstable and potentially violent. It was a strange thing to claim about a thirty-seven year old analyst from Short Hills with no criminal record, but Leloup had money, a decent law firm on retainer, and some leverage with a friendly judge, so the restraining order went through. Mister Carlisle was not permitted to be within five hundred feet of either of the lovers, their vehicles, homes, and places of business. If not for that exquisitely inconvenient bit of paperwork, none of this would be an issue. But here we are, and now I've gotta listen to this crazy bitch.

"So, let me ask you this, ma'am. Do you have any reason to believe your husband violated the restraining order?"

"He must have! Right?"

"Can you prove it?"

"Claude is dying!"

"From a massive series of embolisms. You can't just... give a man embolisms. And we don't even know if he's dying. The doctors say he isn't."

"Then it's assault!"

"How is it assault? Assault by curse? That's not a thing. Did he, what, wave chicken bones at him? What do you think happened?"

"I don't know! You're the detective! So, so, do some goddamn detecting!"

That earned her a scowl. A well-practiced scowl, the kind only a fifteen-year veteran of the force can produce. Here's a tip, folks. If you want the police, or anyone in the public sector to help you out, do NOT start ordering us around like we're your servants.

"Sorry," she said, "I'm all rattled. I don't know what's going on, I just know... okay. I got one last phone call from him, about a week ago, I guess. He breathed at me for a second and said 'It's done. I put a Curse on him. The nastiest one I could manage. Something bad is gonna happen to that homewrecking son of a bitch, and it'll be your fault. I told you There Would Be Consequences. Just watch, and wait. When it happens, you'll know what you did.' That's what he said."

There were tears pouring down her face.

"I didn't know! I didn't know what it would mean! And now. I mean, just days later, Claude is gonna DIE!"

I showed her my poker face for a few more moments. Then I did my best to rid myself of her.

"Harassment could be a crime. But since those phone calls are from your estranged husband that you WANTED to be in contact with, 'just to let you know he's all right,' as you said, that doesn't count as harassment. It could also be a crime if he was issuing threats. That means he intended to cause fear or harm. But he wasn't trying to frighten you, was he? You didn't believe in the curse. You just told me 'I didn't know what it would mean.' Maybe he intended to cause harm, but as far as I know, the District Attorney does not prosecute witchcraft. I suppose you could interpret anything that happened afterwards as the 'result' of a curse, but there's no way to prove that John caused it. I'm sorry, Missus Carlisle. There is no crime here."

"No crime? NO CRIME?!?! God, a hundred years ago, they'd burn him at the STAKE for this kind of thing!"

"Magic isn't real." Shit, did I seriously need to remind her of that?

"THEN WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO CLAUDE?"

"A terribly unfortunate medical condition. No one is to blame. Certainly not some witch doctor booga-booga nonsense."

"It's not... HE PUT A CURSE ON HIM. Now he's in the HOSPITAL. I don't know how he did it, I don't know how this kind of shit works, but it CLEARLY happened! You can't let him just get away with it! I know people! I've got lawyers, I've got... LISTEN TO ME. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Detective..." She looked around for my nameplate on my desk. I'd introduced myself earlier, but she'd clearly forgotten.

"Schecter. That's S-C-H. Badge eight one four nine."

"Schecter. Trust me, I WILL remember that. You haven't seen the end of this."

The bitch finally left.

***

Two days later, it caught up with me again.

"Schecter. When you've got a minute." The Chief was already on his way out of the bullpen and heading into his office. I know damn well that 'when you've got a minute' means 'come with me right now,' so that's what I did.

"Close the door."

Shit. I closed the door.

"It's the Carlisle thing." He didn't look any happier about it than I was.

"You're fucking kidding me."

"I wish. Look, this lady is like a dog with a bone. She and her boyfriend have some pull, and she's kicking up all kinds of dust. You know it's bullshit, I know it's bullshit, everybody knows it's bullshit, okay? Just go find John Carlisle, interview him, and let's put this one to bed."

"I can't believe it. Who the hell is this woman?"

"Some rich bitch on a rampage." He shrugged and held his hands in the air, the universal sign for 'Whatcha gonna do?' He actually rolled his eyes. "Just stick a cork in it and I'll let you get back to doing some real work. Okay?"

"Fine, fine." I headed out. Damned if I wasn't going to take a few long lunches along the way with this one.

***

It took a week and a half to locate the guy. That surprised me. He had no fixed address anymore. No paper trail. No credit cards, no vehicle. He still had most of the cash he'd drained out of their joint accounts and had camped out under an overpass. He'd have been nearly unrecognizable to anyone who knew him. He'd been eating garbage, dressed in rags, unshaven, unwashed, and staggering around looking like he was drunk. He wasn't drunk, though. Or on drugs. It was more like a PTSD kind of thing. Hang around long enough in this job, and you can tell.

"John Carlisle." It wasn't a question. I was standing over him. He was curled up in some kind of a squat, looking at a puddle of filthy water. He glanced at me, registering my presence, and turned back to whatever it was that held his muddled attention.

"Used to be."

"Sidney Schecter. Hey, I'd like to ask about what happened. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Don't drink the stuff." I somehow got the impression he drank from the puddles he was looking at. "As you can see, I'm a very busy man. Lots of important fuck-all that needs to be accomplished. Gotta meet my quarterly goals. Nothing isn't going to do itself, you know."

I snorted. Funny guy.

"It worked." He was speaking to me, but not looking at me.

"Pardon me?"

"The answer to the question that you were about to ask me. Whenever you got around to it, anyway. Yes, I put a curse on that motherfucker. Yes, it worked, better than I ever imagined. No, there's nothing you or anyone else can do about it. I suppose you could throw whatever's left of my ass in jail, if you wanted. But I doubt you have any kind of a case. Also, jail would probably be a step up from where I am. Doesn't matter either way. These things have their price, and I'm paying it."

I squatted down next to him and looked out over the same puddle. Kind of like we were spending a lazy day on a boat, pretending to fish.

"How'd you do it?"

"Huh. There's a couple different ways to answer that question. How'd I do it? Easy. That's how I did it. It was easy."

"So. You're some kind of sorcerer? Some kind of magician?" Hell, if I could get this guy to admit he was crazy, I could close the file right then. Instead, he closed his eyes, hung his head, and started talking in a clear voice, so quietly I could hardly hear him.

"That's the damndest part. I'm not special. Anyone can do it. It's not like some fucked up Harry Potter bullshit. Most people walk around every day doing all kinds of magic. Little things, mostly. They just don't realize what they're doing, and they don't call it that."

"Whaddya mean?"

"It's like... Every time you give somebody the finger, you're throwing a curse at them. A little tiny one, it probably won't do anything. Every time you give them a kind smile, it's a blessing. A little one. Again, probably won't have a lot of effect. But you might, you juuust might, fuck up somebody's day, or make it better, at least to some degree, if it connects right."

"That's not magic."

"It's not HIGH magic. But in its raw, most basic form, that's all magic is. It's using words, symbols, intent, and energy. It's putting a piece of your will out into the world, appealing to or tapping into something greater, and creating a change that you and other people experience."

"Did you just make that up?"

"Hardly. That's what you'd call a kind of consensus definition." He shook his head. "I'm an analyst. I work, er, used to work, anyway, for a consulting organization. I sift through piles and piles of information, and I look for patterns. I figure out the straight dope about whatever they want to know. I'm good at that job. So when I learned about Janice and her fucking goddamn snail-eating piece of shit boyfriend fucker, and I decided I wanted to make them pay, that's what I did. Research. My specialty. My strong suit."

I kept quiet to keep him talking.

"There's all kinds of shit out there. Lots of old books and magazines. Lots of old blogs and chatrooms and bulletin boards and online groups and communities. Lots of new TicTok and YouTube and Insta. Ninety percent of it is self-aggrandizing woo-woo bullshit. Plenty of delusionary nonsense. Lots of arrogant gatekeepers. More childishly authoritarian cliques than all the high-school locker rooms in the country put together. But, once I'd waded through enough of it and learned the language, so to speak, similar threads emerged. Enough people were saying the same kinds of things in different ways, coming from different places, and I got to know what was real, what tends to work. It took months, but I found it. Real Magic."

He'd started holding his head higher as he was talking. For the first time since I'd come over to him, he was able to look me in the eye. This was the real John Carlisle. Not the wrung-out wretch I'd walked up to a few minutes ago.

"John. May I call you John? You know there's no such thing."

He actually smirked at me.

"Of course, you're right. The way you're thinking, absolutely. Nobody can 'cast fireball' without using a flamethrower. People don't get turned into toads. You can't change day into night, or walk through walls, or transmute lead into gold. Magic doesn't move any protons, neutrons, or electrons. It's nothing to do with that. I said it happens at the level of

our experience.

Think about what that means."

"I don't follow."

"What do we see? Do we see wavelengths of light? No. We see Colors. We see them as pretty, or ugly, or neutral. We feel a certain way about them. Some of those colors make shapes, and we see them as objects, or creatures, or people. They might inspire love, or fear, or longing, or dread. What do we hear? Do we hear vibrations in the air? No, we hear Sounds. Some of it's language. Some of it's music. Some of it has meaning. Some of it's just noise. That's the level at which we function. We create and detect Meaning. Salience. Implication. Association. There are such things as honor, and respect, and betrayal, and treachery. There's hope, and inspiration, and horror, and suffering, and love. That's the world we actually live in. Magic is just as real as all of those things. When you start talking about matter and energy and stuff like that, well, that's just math. Explanatory abstractions. Theoretical models. Not, not... RELEVANCE. That stuff doesn't hit us where we live. Humanity existed for tens of thousands of years before we started thinking like that. Ah, but a gentle touch from a loved one? A kiss from your mother? Or a stern expression from someone in authority? Those are the things that truly affect us."

As much as I wanted to think of this guy as a crackpot, I couldn't. I worked with all that in my job, every day. A stern expression? Hell, I'd pulled that on this guy's wife.

"So... magic is Psychology. And Emotion."

That got me another smirk.

"Ah. You're a reductivist. Well. You're not entirely wrong, but you're nowhere near right. There's a lot of psychology and emotion IN magic, but that's not even close to the whole story. You might as well say that the best pancakes you ever had, the ones your mother made you one perfect morning when you were eight years old, the ones that tasted like sunlight, and love, and validation, and the celebration of a new day? They were just 'wheat.' Dry stalks of grass that grew up out of the ground and got smashed into powder. That's technically correct, but it misses the point completely."

"So... what else is going on? I mean, that counts as magic?"

"Ah. So, so, much. At the practical level, there's a structure to it. It doesn't matter WHAT you do, but some things have been proven to work pretty well; language and ritual that have the strength of tradition. The important thing is that you're well practiced and can relate to it properly. There's an invocation, then some kind of action or offering, followed by a very specific appeal or petition you're putting forth, and a binding or closure at the end. That's just the basic form of any spell. These things can be however long or short, as casual or as formal as you like, they can involve however many people and be directed towards anything at all. There's also the motivation and force of will that you put into it, the energy you generate and how you feel about it. It's important to prepare yourself properly, and context is everything. The trickiest part, though, is dealing with whatever or whoever all else you invoke. It can't just come from yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"There are energies. Spirits. Zeitgeists. Egregores. Angels, demons, or gods. Elementals. Concepts. Grandfaloons. They have dominions or characteristics related to whatever it is you intend to accomplish. You might be praying for the intercession of a saint, or appealing to the west wind, or making an offering to the spirit of the earth, or whatever. Maybe you're doing it 'In the name of Love,' but you're plugging yourself into SOMEthing. This is the part that sounds like mumbo jumbo, I admit. But the cold hard fact is that every human civilization in all of history has recognized it, and worked with such things, and made them part of our culture and language and everyday patterns of thought."

"That... does sound like mumbo jumbo."

He turned and looked me square in the eye. His gaze bore straight through me.

"Tell me, that never, ever, at all in your life, you've never stepped into a room and gotten a funny feeling. You've never caught the creeps. Or, take it the other way- you've never stepped into a place and thought 'Wow, this is nice, I feel right at home here.' Tell me that no person has ever come across as... Wrong, somehow, for no reason you can explain. Or that there's no one you immediately connected to when you first met, trusted them right away and knew they'd always be your friend. Tell me that's never happened. Say it out loud, Sidney Schecter."

I couldn't. I think I just let my mouth hang open a little.

"You're a cop. I'm sure you've developed your instincts, so you know what I'm talking about, I can see it. It's just that simple. There's no science to it, but it works. You can't deny it. It's as real as the ground you're standing on. Hell, you probably learned about this stuff in Hebrew School. Kabbalah. The Gematria. Jewish mysticism. The Israelites learned magic from the Egyptians, you know."

Okay. Now we were into woo-woo territory, maybe, but I couldn't simply discount the man.

"That's the medium in which The Art is created. The ritual is the method. The emotion, the psychology and symbology, that's the substance. And the Magic... that's the result. The actual experience of it." He turned, standing up now, and looked across into the distance.

"You asked 'How'd I do it?' I hated the man. In order to curse someone, to really, really, CURSE him, you have to hate him. I. Had. So. Much. Hate. I had a rocketship filled with hate, ten stories tall, more volatile than liquid oxygen. I used what I'd learned to forge a precisely shaped flame the size of a house, to channel that hate into thrust and send it into low orbit, knowing precisely where it would land. I used it as a weapon, and I unleashed it upon him. That's what I did."