“Unless you have some kind of secret information that you haven’t told us about,” I admonished, “you aren’t going to catch this guy tonight. You need some sleep, man. Besides, it’s not just you working this case. The entire Major Case Squad is on it now.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” He slumped more noticeably in his chair. “But I still wanna talk ta’ the kid today. I think I’ll sleep better if I do.”
“If that’s what it takes, do it,” I told him. “But get some rest either way because something tells me we haven’t seen the end of this yet.”
“What a cheerful thought,” he mumbled.
* * * * *
Ben eventually left us in search of R.J. Felicity and I spent a quiet afternoon together trying not to think about serial killers and of course, were unable to ponder anything else. In an effort to put the subject out of our minds, we made a quick trip to the store and returned with fresh, yellow fin tuna steaks for the grill. Together with a medley of vegetables from our garden, we made a light meal and after cleaning up the dishes, generally lazed about into the evening hours.
Stories of Ariel Tanner and Karen Barnes’ murders flooded the airwaves as the top story during the late evening news on every station. Details about the crimes were convoluted and misconstrued to the point that they were telling a different story on each channel. The two points they all agreed on were the nominative “Satanic Serial Killer” and the practice of flashing the newspaper photo of me on the screen. Touching my thumb to the remote, I rolled back through the channels in the hope they had found something else to talk about. I was giving serious consideration to turning off the chattering box when a familiar face, other than my own, leapt out at me from the screen. I swiftly reversed the direction of my scan and came to rest on that station.
Detective Arthur McCann’s worry-lined face stared back at me with concern and determination creasing his brow. Apparently, he had just finished speaking as the picture suddenly cut to a wide-eyed Brandee Street anxiously clutching a microphone. I punched up the volume a notch and settled in.
“Can you explain a little more about the Wiccan religion,” she asked him.
“Certainly,” Arthur returned authoritatively. “This so- called religion is nothing more than a fancy name for cult activities. The individuals involved undermine the morals of our children and recruit them into these cults. There they become addicted to drugs and often are the victims of sexual abuse.”
I had heard his speech before, but each and every time, I was amazed by what he said. I found it hard to believe that an intelligent human being could be so blind to the truth.
“Do you believe that one of these Wiccan cultists is responsible for the bizarre murders that have recently occurred?” Brandee’s voice came again.
“Since I’m not involved in the investigation, I cannot directly comment, but I will say that it wouldn’t surprise me,” he answered.
“You have been one of the leading authorities on cults within the Saint Louis County Police Department for the past few years. Why aren’t you involved with the Major Case Squad?”
“I resigned from the MCS this morning due to a shift in caseloads,” Arthur succinctly replied.
“Way to go Arthur,” I thought as I listened to his reply. “At least you engaged your brain before opening your mouth this time.”
“Would your resignation have anything to do with the involvement of Rowan Gant as a consultant to the Major Case Squad?” Brandee persisted.
“I have no comment on that.” He continued his guarded, tactful stance.
“Mister Gant is a self-proclaimed Witch and practitioner of the Wiccan religion,” she pressed harder. “You yourself stated that this amounts to nothing more than a cult.”
Arthur’s face had reddened, and I could tell that he desperately wanted to spill his guts. He was dying to tell the world of the police department’s moral decrepitude due to my involvement. He probably even wanted to take a few verbal shots at me personally. But Arthur McCann was only a few short years away from his pension, and whatever his personal beliefs, he was still a dedicated cop.
“No comment,” he finally returned.
The picture changed back to the talking heads behind the anchor desk on the stylized set. They began to banter back and forth, making what they believed to be clever quips about me, and Witches in general.
It wasn’t long before I was thoroughly disgusted with the entire exposition and switched the television off. Following my wife’s example, I went to bed.
A distant scream.
Darkness.
Indigo Darkness.
A point of light far away.
A distant scream.
The light grows brighter. Larger. Closer.
I move toward the light.
The light stays beyond my reach.
A violent chord struck sharply upon an unearthly instrument. Grating tones that seem to last forever, carrying themselves visibly aloft on directionless winds. Sounds that can be seen as well as heard.
A terrified scream.
Grey.
Damp, thick greyness.
It’s raining. Not heavily, just a gentle mist. A light sprinkle raining down from a gloomy grey sky.
“Rowan, so nice to see you again.”
I turn to the voice and find Ariel clad in white lace. She smiles at me then looks upward. I try to speak but have no voice. She looks up at the sky, the misty rain lightly bathing her innocent smiling face. She looks back to my face, eyes smiling and a strand of hair clinging damply to her cheek.
“It always rains here,” she says to me. “I don’t know why. It’s mostly just a misty rain.”
A dark figure rises from the grey nothingness behind her.
A figure black as night.
A figure wrapped in a hooded robe.
“Do you like the rain, Rowan?” Ariel asks me. “I do, but I think it rains too much here. What do you think?”
A flicker of light.
No, a reflection.
There is something in the dark figure’s hand.
Once again I try to speak. I try to warn her. I scream a silent scream.
Her eyes grow large in sudden astonishment. Her lithe body jerks upward in a violent spasm. A crimson stain spreads savagely across her breast.
I’ve seen this before.
I can’t make it stop.
I can’t look away.
“Why, Rowan?” she mouths wordlessly. “Why?
Indigo darkness.
A distant ceaseless scream.
“Why don’t you make it stop, Rowan?”
I turn again. Ariel faces me, her lace gown streaked vermilion. Glassy eyes stare unblinkingly at me. Her lips are frozen in a perpetual scream, yet only silence moves past them.
“How can I make it stop, Ariel? Tell me.” My voice halts and jerks, changing in speed and pitch as if haphazardly pieced together.
“Please make it stop, Rowan?” Her pleading voice meets my ears.
Her lips never move.
Misty rain.
Grey misty rain.
An endless scream.
I don’t know when the nightmare started or even how long it lasted. It could have begun mere moments after I closed my eyes or for all I knew, the last slumbering seconds before reopening them. Logically, I knew that the entire sequence couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes at the most. Emotionally, I was certain it had lasted for hours.
Felicity was still sleeping soundly when I awoke bathed in sweat and tangled almost irremovably in the sheets. My heart was racing, and I gasped hungrily for air to feed it. Slowly, I withdrew myself from the damp snarl of the bed linens and retrieved my Book of Shadows from the nightstand next to me then made my way to the bathroom and closed the door. I switched on the light in an effort to chase away my sudden irrational fear of the darkness then perched myself on the cool tile ledge surrounding the tub and began the task of relaxing. Fifteen minutes and three cups of water later, my pu
lse and breathing finally returned to normal.
Pulling the ink pen from its loop in the cover, I opened the Book of Shadows, my diary of dreams and thoughts, and proceeded to record every detail of the vision I could remember while it was still fresh in my mind. Every single thing I saw, no matter how nonsensical. Every little nuance of my emotions, each and every sliver of information, I scribed within the pages of the book until there was nothing left to write.
Senseless fear fought to grip me once again as I doused the light and returned quietly to the bedroom. I mentally beat the emotion down and after returning my Book of Shadows to the nightstand, slid into the bed next to my wife. I cuddled next to her in search of comfort, and she shifted lazily as I slipped my arm around her. I pressed myself to relax and rested my cheek against her soft auburn hair, drinking in its sweet scent. Before long, fatigue won out over irrational panic, and I floated easily into the world of sleep.
* * * * *
The clock on the nightstand read 1:45 A.M. when I rolled over and peered blearily at its glowing face. I was enveloped in a fog of half sleep and struggled to grasp the concept of why I was awake at such an hour. A loud, obnoxious clamor reached my ears and then fell silent. I closed my eyes and decided I must be dreaming, then rolled over. The noise, now more clearly a ringing sound, filtered into my ears again and was followed by Felicity’s sharp elbow poking me in the ribs.
“Aye, Rowan, get the phone, then,” she mumbled from her own half dream state.
I rolled back to face the nightstand and groped for the receiver. When my fumbling fingers finally located the device, I grasped it and lifted it from the cradle, cutting off the noise mid-ring.
“Hello,” I croaked, my voice permeated with sleep.
“Didn’t wake you, did I?” Ben’s tired voice came rhetorically from the earpiece.
“You’re not in my driveway again, are you?” I mumbled.
“No,” he replied. “But I can have a squad car there in about fifteen minutes if you don’t feel like driving.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, quickly becoming more alert.
“Number three” was his only reply.
CHAPTER 12
I jotted down the address and nudged Felicity into wakefulness. After dragging on a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt, I started a pot of coffee and proceeded to put on my socks and tennis shoes. By the time the coffee was finished brewing, my wife had dressed and was sitting at the breakfast nook with her camera bag slung over her shoulder.
“You want some of this?” I asked her as I filled an oversized travel mug with the hot black liquid.
“Aye, is it decaf?” she asked sleepily.
“No. Sorry.”
“I shouldn’t then,” she said with a slight yawn. “The doctor said I should be avoiding caffeine, what with the baby and all. I’ve already broken that rule a couple of times this weekend.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed. “Would you rather skip this and go back to bed? I can go by myself.”
“No.” She shook her head and stifled another yawn. “I’d rather go along and see if we can catch this guy. That way we can all go back to bed and get some sleep.”
I tucked the address into my shirt pocket and snapped the lid onto the travel mug. Upon opening the front door, we were greeted by slightly cooler temperatures than earlier in the day, though the air was still heavy with humidity. Moments later we were on our way, my petite wife behind the wheel.
* * * * *
The clock was just clicking over to 2:30 A.M. when we rolled to a halt on what should have been a quiet side street in the small suburb of Stone Knoll. The scene was similar to the methodic confusion I had experienced just one night before, minus the rain. Felicity was quickly mesmerized by the flickering lights and sat momentarily transfixed until I rescued her from the stupor with a gentle nudge.
News vans were already rolling in on the scene as we made our way past parked patrol cars to the crux of the activity. A uniformed officer executing his duty blocked our path as we neared the yellow tape that cordoned off the house.
“You’ll have to move back folks,” he stated evenly as he insinuated himself between us and the end of the driveway. “Press isn’t allowed in this area.”
Apparently, we had been mistaken for members of the media, and I quickly understood why when I remembered the bulky camera bag slung over my wife’s shoulder.
“We aren’t with the press,” I told him. “I’m Rowan Gant, and this is my wife, Felicity. We were called here by Detective Benjamin Storm.”
“Hold on just a second,” he returned with a nod and then spoke into his radio handset.
A few seconds later, Detective Carl Deckert came out of the front door and trundled down the driveway to the barricade where we stood.
“Rowan, Felicity,” he greeted us, nodding at the officer who acknowledged and extended a clipboard for us to sign in. Deckert waited patiently for us to finish then held up the tape so we could duck under and shook our hands quickly as we walked.
“Ben’s inside. Sorry no one was out here to meet you,” he apologized. “But it’s a little on the busy side around here.”
“Aye, that’s understandable,” Felicity told him, her voice laced with a full Celtic lilt.
“So you’re pretty sure it’s the same guy?” I asked.
“Pretty sure,” Deckert answered, pulling out surgical gloves and handing them to us as we neared the door. “But there are some changes in the M.O. That’s why you’re here.”
“What kind of changes?”
Deckert opened his mouth to reply and then paused for a moment before continuing, “I’d better let you see for yourself.”
“Do you always carry these things around in your pockets, then?” Felicity queried, indicating the gloves as she drew them over her hands.
“In my line of work...” he shrugged and then added with a grin, “Besides, my brother-in-law owns a medical supply company so I get ‘em cheap—as in free. So… if you don’t mind me askin’, what’s with the heavy accent all of a sudden?”
“What accent?” my wife asked, cocking her head to the side.
“She’s the real-deal Irish,” I interjected, answering for her. “It tends to really bleed through when she gets tired.”
“O’Brien, yeah.” He nodded. “Makes sense. Just wasn’t expectin’ it.”
“You get used to the linguistic flip-flops after awhile. You should hear her when she’s had a couple of drinks.”
“Aye, will you two quit talking about me like I’m not even here, then?” Felicity declared.
“Sorry, honey,” I told my wife as I turned my attention to her. “Now, when we go in, ground, center, and be careful. You’re gonna feel a lot of stuff flying at you, and if you don’t watch it, you’ll zone out. Trust me, I’ve already been through it. If you feel like you’re headed for trouble, get out.”
“Okay.” She nodded assent, and I literally felt her falling into a slow, rhythmic breathing pattern that mimicked my own. “I’m ready.”
We entered and followed Deckert toward the rear of the house, carefully weaving our way around crime scene technicians who were focusing intently on their jobs. The cold aura of death surrounded us as we advanced down a narrow hallway and through the doorway at its end. The frigid atmosphere permeated the room, stabbing me with its sharpness. A quick glance at Felicity showed me she was feeling it as well.
The room was simple, basically rectangular in shape, with an antique chest of drawers dominating one corner. Against the wall, a matching dressing table resided. The makeup and perfumes that adorned the top of the table were neatly arranged to the back, and occupying the center were two hardened puddles of candle wax, one white, one black. Next to them, a wine glass was wrapped around its volume of crimson liquid. An ornate, pivoting frame, supported by similarly carved wooden arms, was canted slightly against the wall. The mirror it had once held now lay shattered, spilling like silvery gems across the floor. The once hidde
n wall behind it now bore the pastel-shaded image of a Pentacle and three familiar words inscribed in a dripping scrawl.
A queen-size bed, stripped of the top layer of linens, jutted out into the middle of the room from the wall opposite the dressing table. Occupying the center of the bed was a long mass covered with a white sheet. Hands protruding from beneath the edge of the fabric and bound to the headboard with duct tape gave clear evidence as to the identity of the mass. The pungent odor of burned sage and rose oil still hung cloyingly in the air.
Ben was talking to the medical examiner when we walked in, and he looked up as we ventured farther into the room. The forensics team had recently finished dusting for fingerprints, and the dark grey powder coated any likely surface they had checked.
“Keep it up and the department is going to have to issue you a badge.” A grim-faced Dr. Sanders greeted us as we stopped at the foot of the bed.
“Dr. Sanders,” I said and motioned to the medical examiner. “This is my wife, Felicity O’Brien. Felicity, Dr. Christine Sanders. The doc here is the one that stitched up my head.”
“O’Brien, huh,” Dr. Sanders said as she canted her head in my wife’s direction. “Maiden name?”
“Aye,” she answered.
“Good for you,” the doctor approved. “I kept mine too.”
Felicity smiled and then returned her own nod. I’m sure she was relieved at not having to explain the difference in our last names for once.
“Thanks for comin’ down, you two,” Ben said, once the introductions were over.
“No problem,” I replied and then motioned to the covered body. “Same as before?”
“Not entirely,” he answered. “That’s why I called you.”
“What’s different?” I queried.
Ben nodded to Dr. Sanders, who skirted around us to the other side of the bed and grasped the corner of the sheet.
“You gonna be okay with this?” He directed the question at my wife. “The real thing’s different than pictures, ya’know.”
Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 16