“Hey, Wendy,” Ben called after her, a good-natured tone underscoring his words. “Tell Chuck I said don’t be so friggin’ stingy with the onions this time.”
He had purposely spoken loud enough to be heard by virtually anyone in the diner but most especially the fry-cook. His answer came as a grumble and a mock threatening wave of a spatula from the large man behind the grill. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Storm. Yer always complainin’ about somethin’.”
The exchange was met with a few lighthearted chuckles from some of the other regulars in the diner, along with some additional friendly jibes. Chuck finally laughed then threw up his hands in an imitation of surrender, announcing in the process, “Hey, if youse don’t like it, go eat somewheres else.”
The restaurant settled quickly back into its morning routine, leaving our booth in a quiet wake.
“Okay,” I finally said after taking a healthy swig of coffee and giving Ben a solemn look. “So what’s up? It’s been my experience that when you offer to buy me a meal, something is going on, and it’s usually not good.”
“Hey,” he feigned insult. “Did’ya ever think I might just wanna buy ya’ breakfast and visit with ya’?”
I nodded. “It crossed my mind, but then reality got in the way.”
“Jeez, white-man.”
“So, am I wrong?” I asked. “Is this just social? If so, I apologize.”
He sat mute, took a sip of his coffee, and then stared out the slightly fogged window next to us for a moment before turning back to me. “Well, no, but it ain’t necessarily a bad thing. Maybe.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “So what is it, maybe?”
He sent his large hand up to the back of his neck and gave it a quick massage as a mildly troubled expression panned across his features. After a moment he reached down into the seat next to him and brought his hand back up with what looked like an oversized index card in it.
“Porter, Eldon Andrew,” my friend told me succinctly, tossing the name out as a raw fact for me to digest.
“Sounds like a beer,” I replied.
“Just look at the picture,” he returned as he handed over the black and white mug shot.
I took the card and stared at the muddy grey tones of the photo as I leaned back in my seat, feeling a slight wince of pain in my shoulder in the process. The twinge might very well have been psychological, but the surgery to repair the joint and its associated musculature was still less than a year old. If I could believe the doctor, whom I had no reason to doubt, an occasional pain wouldn’t necessarily be all that unusual for a while yet.
I suppose that when you consider all the facts, a minor pain should actually be welcome. I mean, first, a madman bent on ushering me across into the world of death rams an ice pick into my left shoulder. Nearly up to the handle… Twice… Planting it firmly into bone on the second plunge I might add. And, if that weren’t enough, I ended up plummeting off the side of a bridge, only to have the very same shoulder forcibly dislocated by the sudden stop at the end of the fall. Of course, I suppose I should be thankful that the rope held, or the sudden stop would have been farther down and more along the line of fatal. And finally, I proceeded to hang from the damaged joint while the crazed serial murderer attempted to finish the job he’d started. I was lucky to even be alive, much less to still have the arm intact and functioning.
Still, looking at the photo that was officially labeled Texas Department of Corrections brought that night back to the forefront of everything with painful clarity. A finger of acidic fear tickled the pit of my stomach, threatening to invoke nausea. I ignored it and continued to stare at the picture.
The countenance depicted in the photograph was younger than I recalled and lacking the greasy shag of white hair that had framed it earlier this year. In fact, in the photo his head was shaved. His cheeks were fuller, and though the picture was black and white, one could tell from the grey scale tones that his complexion held a healthy color. The gaunt mask I had faced ten months before had been almost devoid of such pigment, appearing pasty and ghostly white in pallor—the color of death. Even so, his eyes hadn’t changed at all. Dark and sunken, almost hidden in their deeply shadowed sockets, they burned with a furious malevolence. Just as they had done when I stared into them months ago.
When last I had seen this face, it had been firmly attached to the ice pick wielding lunatic.
The self-proclaimed Witch hunter…
The modern day, self-appointed inquisitor with a singular purpose—to eradicate from the world those he perceived as heretics. Being a Witch, and a male one at that, I matched up easily with his set of criteria for those belonging on his hit list.
He had managed to kill six others before getting to me, two of them not even actual Pagans. Why he had not yet killed again, I was at a loss to explain.
If you asked the authorities why—even the cop sitting across from me now that I call my best friend—you would be told that it was because he was dead.
You would be told that I had shot him in self-defense, perhaps mortally, though no one could be sure. And even if the wound was not fatal, it didn’t matter because he had then fallen to his certain death from the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge into the ice-laden Mississippi river.
That was the official story. But I knew better.
Yes, I will admit that I had most definitely shot him. However, I fired the round into the arm he was using to try to choke me to death. And while there was plenty of solid evidence that I had not missed when I pulled the trigger, something told me that the wound wasn’t nearly so grievous as others believed. That same something also told me that he did not in fact fall into the river that night, but instead, escaped.
How? I couldn’t begin to tell you, but it was a feeling far in the back of my head. One of those sensations that begins as a slight itch that can’t be quelled by any means and then quickly grows into a fearful foreboding. The kind of mysterious intuition you just don’t ignore—especially if you are a Witch.
I think I might have breathed an inner sigh of relief while I stared at the picture. I had fully expected Ben to produce a case file or crime scene photo from beneath the table that would somehow tie into my current unexplained somnambulistic excursions. On second thought, the sigh might not have been only one of relief but of disappointment as well. I really did need to figure out what was going on, and the sooner the better.
“I’ve been carryin’ that damn thing around for a week,” my friend told me, gesturing toward the photo. “I wasn’t sure if I should even show it to ya’ or not.”
I could sense the concern in his voice, and the careful way in which he was watching me was physically palpable. I looked up from the mug shot and noticed that his jaw was held with a grim set. This expression wasn’t a hard one for him to achieve, what with his deeply chiseled features and dusky skin that visually announced his full-blooded Native American heritage. Even sitting, he was better than a full head taller than me. Standing, he measured six-foot-six and was built like an entire defensive line. The nine-millimeter tucked beneath his arm in a shoulder rig and the gold shield clipped to his belt made him appear just that much more formidable.
His hand went up to smooth back a shock of his coal black hair and lingered once again at his neck, a mannerism that told anyone who knew him that he had something on his mind.
“You worry too much,” I said as I dropped my eyes back to the photo.
“Yeah, you keep sayin’ that, but I know how ya’ are,” he returned.
He was correct. He did know how I was. Until recently, he knew most of the details—though certainly not all—of the nightmares I had experienced, both during and after the investigations surrounding two separate serial killers. Both of which had terrorized Saint Louis in the span of less than one year. He had personally witnessed me involuntarily channeling the victims—and their horrific ends. He had even saved my life in both instances when I had recklessly taken on the killers myself.
He was fully aware of
the emotional toll the investigations, and especially the supernatural elements of them, had taken on me. I had been affected on many levels. Because of this and his deep loyalty as a friend, he worried more about my mental health than I did. The fact that I had only become involved in the cases at his request played more than a small part in it as well.
“I’m not going to wig out on you, Ben,” I returned in a fully serious tone. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah, but all that Twilight Zone shit you go through…” he let his voice trail off.
“Really, Ben. I’m fine,” I offered and then changed back to the subject at hand. “How did you find out who he is? I thought the evidence was inconclusive, and there were no identifiable fingerprints in his van. Besides, it’s been almost a year now.”
“Dumb fucking luck,” he answered. “A coupl’a weeks ago, County got a call from a distraught woman babblin’ about somethin’ she found in her basement. Turns out she was the owner of the house where this wingnut was doin’ his thing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, no shit. Right outta the blue. The house was a piece of rental property she’d inherited. She lives outta state, and it was hung up in probate for a while, so she didn’t even know he was livin’ there. She thought it was vacant. Anyhow, the legal BS finally got cleared up, and then she got around ta’ comin’ inta town ta’ get it fixed up for sale. Well, when she starts cleanin’ up, guess what she finds in the basement? The fuckin’ holy torture chamber. The shrine, the candles, all of it. Everything just like you described from that vision thing ya’ had. Even found a copy of that book ya’ kept talkin’ about.”
“The Malleus Maleficarum?” I offered, referencing the fifteenth century Witch hunting manual the killer had adopted as his manifesto.
“Yeah, that’s the one.” He nodded. “So anyway, the copper that took the call gets a hinky feelin’ and calls Deckert over at County Homicide. He goes and has a look, then calls me before he even leaves the place.”
Carl Deckert was a mutual friend who had also been assigned to the Major Case Squad during the investigation. He was intimately familiar with the case, and I’m sure that when he’d seen the basement of that house it had set off more than one alarm.
“So, why didn’t you call me?”
“For the same goddamn reason I’ve been packin’ that friggin’ mug shot around for a week,” he explained. “I wasn’t so sure it was somethin’ you needed ta’ see.”
“You’re being overprotective, Ben.”
“So sue me. Hell, I’m still not so sure I should be showin’ it to ya’ now.” He sighed and then added, “Why do ya’ think I’m doin’ it here instead of droppin’ by your place?”
“Because you don’t want Felicity to know about it,” I returned, knowing for certain that he was alluding to my wife.
“‘Zactly.” He nodded. “After everything that happened, I promised ‘er I’d keep some distance between you and the cop shit. She finds out and she’ll pull ‘er damn face off.”
“She’s being overprotective too.”
“He looks real pleasant,” a feminine voice came from behind me, interrupting us before Ben could object further. I looked up to see that the waitress had reappeared at our table and was looking at the mug shot over my shoulder. “Number three, scrambled with cheddar,” she continued un-fazed and slid a plate in front of me. “…And a side of biscuits with sausage gravy.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at her while laying the card to the side, face down and out of sight. I suspect it was just a reflex on my part, as she didn’t seem bothered by the photo at all. With the diner being a cop hangout, she’d probably seen and heard more than her share of things like this—probably even worse.
“Kitchen sink omelet with chili and extra onions.” She stressed the word extra as she planted a steaming plate before Ben with a wide grin. “Anything else I can get you two? More coffee?”
“We’re good. Thanks, Wendy,” Ben answered.
As was my habit, I took a moment to twist the cap off of the pepper shaker and liberally blacken my scrambled eggs while Ben watched, and then I returned the condiment to its original state before offering it to him.
“Jeezus, Row. That stuff’ll kill ya’,” he told me as he accepted the glass shaker but set it aside without using it.
“And what’s on your plate won’t?” I countered. “So anyway,” I continued, pointing toward the card with my fork. “That’s him all right. It’s an old picture, but it’s him.”
“Yeah, when we compared it to the sketch that was made from your description, there was pretty much no doubt. We found enough good prints in the house ta’ get a match through AFIS, and in no time we had ‘is file from the TDC. Seems ‘e was a guest of the Lone Star state for a few years. Once we had the file, everything fell inta place. Blood type, all that jazz.”
“What was he in prison for?”
“Aggravated assault and manslaughter,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
“So have you notified NCIC or put out an APB or whatever acronym it is that you law enforcement types like to do?”
“A BOLO? What for?” He shrugged.
“So you can be on the look out for the guy, maybe?” I stated incredulously. “I’m assuming that’s what BOLO means?”
“Yeah, that’s what it means…But Jeez, Row, you ain’t gonna start that again, are ya’? The asshole is dead.”
“Did you ever find a body?” I demanded.
“No. So what?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s suckin’ mud on the bottom of the river.”
“The body would have surfaced by now, Ben.”
“Not necessarily, Row.” He shook his head. “What goes down don’t always come up. Trust me. Plus, the river flooded pretty good this spring. Maybe I am wrong and ‘e ain’t suckin’ mud at all. Maybe ‘e ended up bein’ fish food in the gulf or somethin’. At any rate, he’s gone. Dead. Eighty-sixed.”
“I’m telling you he isn’t, Ben.”
“All right, tell me. How do ya know?”
“It’s just a feeling, but I know I’m right.”
“Like I’ve told ya’ before, white man, this is just one feelin’ I can’t get with you on. I think you’ve just got some left over heebee jeebees or somethin’.”
“No, Ben,” I spat back tersely. “It’s more than that.”
“Okay,” he took on his own hard edge, “then where is he? Why hasn’t he killed again? Hell, why hasn’t he come after you again?”
I had to admit that I didn’t have the answers to these questions. It was somewhat of an ongoing theme between Ben and me. Something would tickle the back of my brain, and I would have some manner of instinctual feeling or precognitive episode. I would tell my friend, stressing the urgency of the vision, and he would start asking questions. Then like an idiot, I would sit there and say, “I don’t know.”
I had to give him credit though; he had come a long way. The first time I had helped him with an investigation, he had been a complete and total skeptic. This last time around, he had been extremely open-minded and willing to chase down the avenues I pointed out with only my word as a catalyst.
The real truth was that I had even been a bit of a skeptic myself at first. Even though Magick is a very real part of my religious path, until recently, I’d never experienced it to anywhere near the extent that I had during my time helping with the murder investigations. That’s the funny thing about faith. Believing in something is one thing. Having it sneak up and bat you over the head is something else entirely.
Suffice it to say, I was only now getting over the resulting headache.
But as accepting as he had become, on this particular point of contention between us Ben was not about to budge. He was firmly convinced that the now identified Eldon Andrew Porter was dead, never to return.
This was one instance where I wished with every fiber of my being that he was correct and that I was completely and unequivocally wrong. But that itch in th
e back of my head just wouldn’t go away.
“Yeah, I thought so,” my friend finally replied to my silence then let out a sigh. “Look, Row, I’m not tryin’ to be an ass here. And this is exactly what I was afraid was gonna happen. I know your intuition is pretty good. Hell, I’ve come to rely on all that hocus-pocus stuff at times, but I really think you’re wrong on this one. ID’n this whack-job was just a piece’a blind luck, and it’s nothin’ but clerical shit now. It’s just a name an’ face ta’ stick in the case file. The closed case file.”
I didn’t argue. Belaboring the point was going to cause nothing more than strife between us. Besides, I really and truly did want him to be correct this time instead of me.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay. So if we’re settled on that, here’s somethin’ else we found out about ‘im that ya’ might find interesting,” Ben offered, as if giving me a consolation prize for losing the disagreement.
“What’s that?”
“During his trial it seems there was a bit of a ruckus over his mental state,” he explained. “Coupl’a expert witnesses rattlin’ a bunch of psycho babble about ‘im being highly suggestible and incapable of distinguishin’ right from wrong. But as it was, he had an overworked and under funded PD for an attorney. Just couldn’t get the jury to go for the insanity defense.”
“So you think he was insane?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged. “I think any asshole that goes around killin’ people is insane, but then I also don’t think they should get off scot-free because of it.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, but I’m not sure I follow.”
“That’s ‘cause you haven’t heard the really hinky part yet.”
“And that is?”
“When they put ‘im away he ended up in a special kind of cell block. Somethin’ called a God Pod.”
“God Pod?”
“Yeah, it’s a cell block that’s run by a prison ministry. Rehabilitation by gettin’ religion.”
“That’s not entirely a bad thing, Ben,” I said. “Faith can be an important part of a person’s life. It can provide a moral compass to those who need direction.”
Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 4