Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation
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NEVER BURN A WITCH
A ROWAN GANT INVESTIGATION
A Novel of Suspense and Magick
By
M. R. Sellars
E. M. A. Mysteries
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
NEVER BURN A WITCH: A Rowan Gant Investigation
A WillowTree Press / E.M.A. Mysteries Book
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2000, 2001 by M. R. Sellars
Cover design by Johnathan Minton, Copyright © 2001
This e-book edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book edition may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission.
For information contact: WillowTree Press on the World Wide Web http://www.willowtreepress.com
Smashwords Edition – 2010
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always there are a number of individuals to whom I owe a debt of gratitude, for without them and their staunch moral support, Rowan Gant would not exist—
Sergeant Scott Ruddle, SLPD for helping me keep it real; my incredible (and sadistically evil) team of editors—Celeste, Kathy, Margo, Roxanne, Scott, and Sharon; Johnathan Minton for cover art that goes beyond my wildest imagination; the entire staff of WillowTree Press; Peter Franciscus for the swimming pool technicalities; Doctor Ed Uthman for the information on postmortems; my wife; and finally, my daughter for making me understand just how much I would have missed being a father.
PS. Roxanne, I’m glad you liked Chapter 18 so much…
In remembrance of
Vito John Ponticello
January 5, 1949 – September 29, 2000
Mystic Valley goes on but you will be sorely missed…
For Kat…
My wife…
My Best Friend…
My Confidant…
And most of all,
My Soul Mate.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
While the city of St. Louis and its various notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create an illusion of reality to be experienced and enjoyed.
In short, I made them up because it helped me make the story more entertaining, or in some cases, just because I wanted to.
Note also that this book is a first-person narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. In first person writing, the narrative should match the dialogue of the character telling the story. Since Rowan, (and anyone else that I know of for that matter,) does not speak in perfect, unblemished English throughout his dialogue, he will not do so throughout his narrative. Therefore, you will notice that some grammatical anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order to support this illusion of reality.
Let me repeat something—I DID IT ON PURPOSE. Do NOT send me an email complaining about my grammar. It is a rude thing to do, and it does nothing more than waste your valuable time. If you find a typo, that is a different story. Even editors miss a few now and then.
Finally, this book is not intended as a primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan path. However, please note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations may not fit your particular tradition, but you should remember that your explanations might not fit mine either.
And, yes, some of the magick is “over the top.” But, like I said in the first paragraph, this is fiction…
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion,
or prohibiting the free exercise thereof;
or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press;
or the right of the people to peaceably assemble,
and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.
Amendment I
Constitution of the United States of America
Ratified December 15, 1791
Thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live.
Holy Bible – KJV
Book of Exodus
Chapter 22, Verse 18
PROLOGUE
Wet clumps of snowflakes streamed heavily downward from the low blanket of clouds that covered the city. Along Wellington Parkway, a large clock on a bank marquee winked languidly in the frosty night. With several of its bulbs having long since expired from usefulness, dark holes were left gaping in the teeter-tottering display of time and temperature. Four-Oh-something A.M. Twenty-something degrees F. Minus-something degrees C. The sign continued silently dispensing the information even as yet another of its incandescent elements flared and sputtered into nonexistence. Now, only an empty black rectangle stared back from where the “something” used to be.
The old man cinched his threadbare overcoat tighter against the chill winter wind and took another pull on the pint of off-brand whiskey before burying his half-frozen hands in his pockets. Watching the clock with bleary, watered eyes, he muttered nonsensically to himself. His slurred voice recited a local adage that said, “If you don’t like the weather in Saint Louis, just wait a minute. It’ll change.” Thus far, the only change he had witnessed had been for the worse.
This winter felt just as fickle to him as the recent summer. Brief reprieves followed by endless torture. It made no difference that the experts were proclaiming this an unusually harsh winter for Saint Louis. The harshest in more than twenty years, they said. If you lived on the streets, isobaric graphs were mere scribbles on a map, and “El Ninõ” was just a foreign phrase. Reality was that you either froze or you broiled. The pleasant weather in between the two extremes never seemed to last for long.
The whiskey finished burning its way down the old man’s raw throat and splashed hard in the pit of his empty stomach. The merest tingling sensation spread outward, lending him only the faintest illusion of warmth. In his clouded brain, he feared it wasn’t real. In his apathetic heart, he knew it wouldn’t last.
Recent events bleached lackluster by the alcohol flickered unevenly through his brain, bringing a brief smile to his blistered lips. The warmth and comfort of the mall before the rent-a-cops had chased him from its sanctuary. A fresh pint of whiskey. A half pack of cigarettes carelessly lost by someone who could afford more and serendipitously found by him. But most especially, he recalled watching the televisions through the window of the video store just like he did every night. Yes, most especially that.
He never missed the evening news, and he always made sure to watch Channel Four. The others were okay, but Channel Four was his favorite, all because of Tracy. Tracy Watson, the cute, brunette weather girl with the red, pouting lips and bright blue eyes. Now, even in the frigid night, he felt a rush of warmth as he fantasized about the way she enhanced the burgundy sweater she had been wearing when she gave her forecast. The pearl necklace around her delicate neck. The way she brushed the hair from her face with manicured fingernails just before smiling at him and motioning to the chroma-keyed radar map.
He knew she was smiling at him. He knew she was talking directly to him. He knew because she always talked specifically to him, warning of heat waves and cold snaps. Tracy cared about the old
man, of this he was sure—and last night was no exception. With loving concern, she had instructed him to find someplace indoors to sleep because it was going to get colder, and it was going to snow very soon. She was worried about him, and it made the old man feel wanted.
He took heed of her caution, for Tracy was always right about the weather. But, he mumbled aloud as his libido assumed control, even if she wasn’t right this time, “Tracy’s got great tits.”
Bitter wind hacked away at the old man in small choppy gusts, snapping him out of his lurid fantasy and testifying that the pretty meteorologist had truly been correct this time. Icy gobbets of snowflakes spattered against his wind-chapped face and clung momentarily to his scraggly beard before morphing into their liquid state. He took another quick pull on the whiskey bottle then gathered the buttonless front of his overcoat in frostbitten hands before hurrying across the dimly lit street. The sign on the bank winked and visually announced it to be four-thirty-something A.M.
Meadowbrook Park. The old man trudged across the hard ground, his numb feet making crunching noises on the frozen grass as he took staggering aim at a not too distant building. The public restrooms were always unlocked and open, and it was here he would seek refuge whenever Tracy warned him to do so. When it was hot, running water and a cool concrete floor would chase away the sweltering heat of a typical Saint Louis summer. When it was cold, cinder block walls and a roof offered shelter from the bitter wind. To a homeless individual like himself, the Meadowbrook Park public restrooms were like a suite at the Adam’s Mark downtown.
Just a few more steps and he would be inside where he could escape the winter tempest and its dangerous chill, and then he would be okay. Tracy had told him so just before she blew him a kiss.
Sickly yellow light emanating from a low-wattage, incandescent bulb flowed down the side of the small building, struggling to chase away the cold darkness, only to be swallowed by it. He pressed forward, only to be halted by a recent attack of bureaucratic efficiency. Elongated shadows spread diagonally across the brown painted door, cast prominently by a freshly installed, heavy-duty hasp and padlock. The reflections from the shiny hardware taunted the old man as he reached out to touch the ice-cold metal barrier. Yes. Yes, it was really there—not a sour mash-induced hallucination as he had hoped. Of all the times for the county maintenance crews to suddenly do their jobs, why now?
Dammit! What was he going to do? He’d been wandering all night, and if he didn’t find shelter soon he would surely freeze to death. He knew that such a thing would make Tracy sad, and he couldn’t bear such a thought. Even worse, he’d never again get to see her wear that pink blouse he liked so much. The one he was sure he could see right through. The one he was certain she wore just for him.
The old man continued murmuring his random musings about the lovely, young television personality, stopping only for a moment to suck eagerly on the rapidly depleting pint of cheap whiskey. With frost-deadened fingers, he fumbled the cap back onto the bottle and thrust it into his thin coat. Burying his hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders forward to ward off the wind and turned in place as he stamped his feet. The warmth of the alcohol was fading as rapidly as it came, and the bottle would soon be empty. The old man needed to find a place to sleep.
Fire.
At first, he thought it might be just another of those bourbon-induced mirages, but the padlock on the door had definitely been for real, so maybe this was too. Squinting through bleary eyes, the old man struggled to focus on the bright, yellow-orange glow in the near distance. The flickering light was growing brighter by the second and now illuminated the interior of the nearby picnic pavilion from which it came.
Fire.
The old man could smell it, even over his own unwashed stench. The scent of fuel being relentlessly consumed by the ravages of flame. And where there was fire, there would be warmth. Each end of the pavilion housed a large fire pit, vented by a brick chimney. The Parks and Recreation Department had built it that way, so families could seek shelter against a sudden rain and still enjoy their Sunday cookout. The old man knew this because he had been chased away from this shelter only months before by shouting picnickers. Picnickers who selfishly assumed they owned the park on weekends. Angry people. Frightened people. People who didn’t care about him the way his beautiful Tracy did. But it was wintertime now, and there shouldn’t be any picnickers in the park. It was the middle of the night, too. No, there definitely shouldn’t be any angry people here now.
The old man hugged his ratty topcoat tightly about his body once again and started across the frozen landscape, slitting his eyes against the biting wind and crystalline lumps of blowing snow. He shuffled as quickly as he could on cold-anesthetized feet, occasionally tripping over them for their lack of feeling.
One-half measure of the distance across the frigid ground, a sharp sound reached his ears, and the old man came to a stumbling halt. A slamming sound. The sound of a large metal door being quickly shut. He stood in the open, confused, not knowing whether to retreat or press forward. No one should be here in the middle of a frostbitten February night. It just didn’t make sense. The slamming noise was soon followed by the sound of an engine starting and was in turn chased by the disharmonious wrenching of improperly meshed gears. On the opposite side of the pavilion, a large, boxy shape moved in the parking lot. A black panel van—greyed with a patina of salt and winter road grime—shone briefly in the flickering firelight. The old man watched as the van disappeared behind the rows of trees and finally re-appeared at the distant park entrance. Only then did the driver switch on the headlights before turning onto the street and accelerating slowly away.
The old man watched until the dusky red tail-lights were no longer visible and audibly reminded himself to tell Tracy about the incident when he saw her on the television again. He was sure she would think it just as strange as he did, but she was smart. She would understand and explain it to him as she always did.
The yellow-orange radiance was flickering madly now, and it belonged only to him. He gleefully giggled and followed with a raspy coughing fit as he pressed forward to the shelter.
Warmth and light filled the pavilion, emanating from the fire pit at the near end. The old man shuffled gratefully into its embrace, standing with his back to the rising column of flame. The fire crackled and sputtered; the fuel whistled a dying wail as it fed the blaze. It was obvious that the fire had been recently set, as the pungent odor of kerosene insinuated itself into his nostrils. That was good. He would get to enjoy the whole fire instead of just the dying embers.
Intermingled with the sharp scent of the blaze, the old man imagined he could smell meat cooking on a grill, and that made him feel hungry. That was far too much to hope for, however, and that aroma, he was certain, had to be a delusion.
Yellow-white light painted itself playfully around the interior of the brick shelter, casting oblique shadows and illuminating the sturdy, wooden picnic tables. On the surface of the table directly in front of the ever-increasing blaze, a thick, rectangular shape was carefully positioned. For a brief moment, lucid curiosity flitted through the old man’s rapidly misfiring neurons, and he shuffled forward to inspect the eccentricity. A book. Black and leather-bound with gold embossing on the cover. He picked up the book and brought it closer to his face then squinted carefully to read the words impressed on the cover. Slowly, he mouthed the letters, remembering somewhere in the back of his booze-pickled grey matter that he knew how to read.
“H-O-L-Y-B-I-B-L-E.”
Holy Bible. He knew this book. He remembered his mother making him read from it when he was just a child. He remembered also that none of its promises had ever come true, for him at least.
A thin strip of white ribbon, attached to the binding, protruded from the book. It appeared to have been placed there with great purpose. A bookmark. The old man fumbled with deadened fingers to open the leather-bound scripture and pulled the place marker aside. By the firelight he
could see that a passage had been deliberately highlighted. He rubbed the back of his chapped hand across his tired, clouded eyes and concentrated on the words. He sounded them out under his breath, which wasn’t easy since his mouth was still watering from the imagined smell of grilling meat. “EX-O-DUS. TWEN-TEE-TWO EIGHT-TEEN. THOU - SHALT - NOT - SUFF-FER - A - WITCH - TO - LIVE.”
The old man stared at the passage and tried to understand what its significance could possibly be. His eyes hurt, and all this concentrating was giving him a headache. He would much rather think about what Tracy wasn’t wearing under that sweater she had on tonight. Concentrating on THAT didn’t hurt. It felt good. REALLY good. Maybe thinking about Tracy would keep his mind off his hunger too, for he would almost swear he could smell burning meat. With a lecherous cackle, he closed the book and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Tracy, Tracy. I love Tracy. Tracy with the big, big tits!” he sang gleefully to himself, making cupping gestures at his own chest as he wriggled in place while turning slowly back to the warmth of the fire.
He pulled out the treasured pint bottle and drained the remaining brown liquor down his throat, almost choking because he forgot to quit singing his pornographic ditty before swallowing. He wiped the spittle from his face with the back of his thin sleeve and coughed raspily once again. When he lowered his gaze to the fire, his mouth fell open and the contents of his stomach, cheap whiskey and bile on the whole, were propelled to the concrete with a liquid splatter. Putrid smells rose steamily from the vomit to mix with the foul reek of sizzling flesh. The old man fell heavily to his knees and pitched forward, heaving twice more. When he finally looked back up, the body of the charred human being was still there. Still there, teeth grinning at him morbidly where the flesh was even now searing away.