Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “I guess you could say that,” I answered as I turned and shook out the nearly spent wooden match.

  He had just finished paring the end from his own smoke and now tucked it into the corner of his mouth before burying his hands into his pockets. “One good thing ‘bout this freakin’ blizzard,” he mumbled, “the bastard’s prob’ly snowed in just like the rest of us.”

  “Probably, but I wouldn’t count on that stopping him for long.”

  “Yeah. Great. Bust my bubble why don’tcha.”

  We stood in silence, listening to the relentless pattering of the falling snow. Ben shielded the end of his cigar with large hands and lit it purposefully, taking time to remove it from between his lips and inspect the glowing tip once he had extinguished the lighter. Satisfied, he placed it back in his mouth and gazed out across the white-blanketed parking area. Of the three vehicles on the lot, his van was the least buried. The other two seemed to be no more than huge shimmering dunes cast in soft blue shadows.

  Directly across the street, the backside of the building that housed City Hall was a dim, hulking shadow in the night. Catty-cornered from where we stood, a small coffee shop was all but obscured by the downward streaming curtain of ice crystals. A short distance behind it, the lights of the indoor ice arena that was home to the Saint Louis Blues hockey team cast an upward glowing halo. No sound was issuing from the nearby highway, and it seemed that even the police headquarters, which dominated most of the block, had fallen silent and still.

  “So, Red Squaw was pretty upset, huh?” he finally asked.

  “Yeah, she was. Scared mostly, but she’s okay now,” I replied. “What about you?”

  “Whaddaya mean? I’m fine.”

  “Yeah. Right,” I returned, sarcasm flowing through my words. “You put up a good front, Ben, but you aren’t fooling me. I know for a fact that what happened in there scared you. I could feel it then and I can feel it right now.”

  A nervous laugh emitted from between my friend’s clenched teeth. “Yeah, well, you’re wrong. I wasn’t scared. I was more like fuckin’ terrified if you wanna know the truth. When ya’ went all Twilight Zone in there, I just kept thinkin’ about that whole deal last time... Last summer... Ya’know what I’m sayin’?”

  I allowed my mind to wander for a moment, recalling the incident to which he referred. In an almost reckless attempt to identify a sadistic killer, I had channeled the last living moments of his second victim, a young woman named Karen Barnes. I could still feel the same tortuous pain she had felt when the killer physically ripped her beating heart from her chest. My own heart had gone still that day, and had it not been for the actions of Felicity, it would have remained that way.

  I shuddered inwardly and pushed back the horrific remembrance. “Yeah, Ben, I know what you’re saying. I was a little on the ‘fucking terrified’ side myself.”

  “I didn’t hit ya’ too hard, did I? I mean... Well I wasn’t quite sure about what ta’ do.”

  “No. No, you didn’t,” I replied and then added, “But remind me never to make you angry.”

  We both let out a light chuckle, and the sea of tension ebbed, if only for a brief moment.

  “You can still feel ‘er or whatever, can’t you?” He asked, glancing sideways in my direction and squinting against the wind.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “That’s why I came out here.”

  “And it ain’t just her, is it? You pick up all kinds of shit the rest of us can’t see, don’tcha’?”

  I nodded. “It happens.”

  “All the time?”

  “No, not all the time, fortunately.” I puffed on my cigar as I paused. “But enough.”

  “Jeezus, white man...” He shook his head. “How do ya’ stand it? It’s gotta drive ya’ nuts.”

  “How do you stand the things you see every day as a cop, Ben?” I asked rhetorically. “Just like you, I’ve learned to tune it out. But sometimes...”

  An awkward pause rushed in behind my words to fill the void once more. Held fast by the chilled darkness surrounding us, it was cemented securely in place by our own fears of what we were facing. A thin streak of light danced hesitantly through the distant sky, spreading spidery tendrils and bringing an orange glow to the flat underbelly of the low-hanging clouds. Languid seconds flowed by, and finally a throaty rumble of thunder echoed in from the west, announcing the storm’s relentless advance.

  When the wind blows from the West, departed souls will have no rest. The line of poetry drifted through my mind yet again.

  “So what did Doctor Sanders find out?” I asked, forcing a minor redirection of the subject.

  “She found soot and blistering in her trachea,” Ben answered. “That pretty much confirms she was alive when she was torched. Her shoulders were dislocated like you described. She had several torn ligaments and stress fractures. It was all just like ya’ said... Only other obvious thing was a few deep puncture wounds on ‘er back. She was only able ta’ find those because a portion of ‘er back was shielded from the fire by what she was chained to... Other than that, we’ll hafta wait on the lab stuff.”

  “They called that pricking,” I sighed. “Witches aren’t supposed to bleed or feel pain, so it was believed that by stabbing them, the accusation could be proven.”

  “That must not’ve been too effective,” he ventured. “Ya’ stick somebody, they’re gonna bleed.”

  “They often used stilettos with retractable blades. Like a magician’s trick knife. That way there was no wound and therefore no blood and no pain.”

  “They’d rig the test?”

  “Of course. It wouldn’t do for them to be proven wrong after making a public accusation of heresy.”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t rig this,” he protested. “She actually had wounds. Deep ones. Doc says she prob’ly woulda’ died from the internal injuries if he hadn’t torched ‘er first. She definitely bled an’ I’ll guarantee ya’ she had ta’ have screamed. I sure as hell would’ve.”

  “He probably just assumed the blood wasn’t real and that it was an illusion. A spell cast by a consort of the devil. Any cries of pain were more than likely attributed to an attempt to trick him as well.”

  “So even when this asswipe disproves his accusations with his own tests, he just changes the rules?”

  “Correct,” I answered. “Once he accuses someone of heresy and WitchCraft, there is no reprieve. We’ll end up with a body.”

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  “You know, Ben,” I volunteered, “I hate to bring it up, but there is a relatively large and outspoken Pagan community in Saint Louis. Especially Witches and Wiccans. He isn’t going to have to look very hard for victims.”

  He puffed quietly on his cigar then let out a long, frosty sigh before replying, “Yeah. Don’t remind me.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Bright sun shone down from a deep blue sky, decorated here and there with only the barest trails of wispy cirrus clouds. Though no longer pristine and unblemished, a deep blanket of snow still covered the city. Wide swaths of trampled footprints from children at play cut paths through otherwise smooth, white, rolling lawns. Across the street a stocking cap adorned snowman stood sentry outside the entrance of a carefully constructed snow fort. Armed with a broomstick, he stood rigidly at attention, executing his assigned duty like a frozen Marine.

  Dirty grey mounds replete with grime, cinders and chemical additives were heaped alongside curbs, courtesy of County maintenance crews, resting exactly where they had been placed by the passing street department plows. They lined the avenues like the ornamental walls of a fairy tale winter wonderland estate. Each passing hour of warmth from the radiant sunlight slowly and painstakingly sculpted the piles into smaller versions of themselves, sometimes gouging Swiss cheese holes through areas of lesser density.

  Later, when the temperature would again dip well below the freezing point, the process would switch gears, grinding mid-motion into reverse, and they would once again harden
with crusty layers of glistening ice.

  Iridescent stalactites flowed downward from the edge of our roof—several of them refracting the sun as Mother Nature’s slender prisms. Electric-hued primary colors danced through their conical, transparent shafts seeming to undulate slowly as the frozen water hovered just the other side of liquid fluidity. Shimmering droplets rolled steadfastly downward and gathered purposefully at the tips. Each drip growing and bulging ever larger until its weight combined with gravity to send it plummeting toward the earth below, only to be followed momentarily by yet another, and another...

  I took a sip from my steaming oversized mug of hazelnut coffee as I watched the scene through the picture window of our living room. A little more than a week had passed since the great midwestern blizzard had all but completely buried Saint Louis and most of the bi-state region for that matter. It had taken a full two days for the city to dig itself out, and talk had already begun about the ability of the metropolitan sewer system to handle the impending run-off. Twenty-three inches of snow—all in one fell swoop—wasn’t exactly normal for the area, and winter still had a good month left to go. There was even panicked speculation that we could be in for a spring that would make the flood of ‘93 look like a minor mishap with a backed up kitchen sink.

  As devastating as a flood would be, it was the least of my concerns at this particular instant. Fear had stalked me every moment, asleep or awake, since my becoming involved in this investigation. Each day that passed without another body turning up allowed me to relax a little more. But I knew deep down that it was only a temporary reprieve. This killer would be passing judgment on someone else and carrying out an execution based on his warped interpretation of an equally warped manuscript. Of this, there was no doubt in my mind. My only question was “When?”

  Absently, I reached over and tended to a tickling itch on my forearm. Entirely unlike the burning pain that had once occupied that spot, the sensation was merely that of new skin growing as my body repaired itself. The wound had healed almost as quickly as it had appeared, lending even more credence to my feeling that it was an ethereal sign meant solely to gain my attention. With its mission accomplished, there was no longer a need for it to remain. The symbol was now visible as nothing more than a faint pink scar. With luck, that too would soon fade.

  The savory smell of Felicity’s family recipe corned beef hash wafted throughout the house, riding piggyback along the sweet scent of freshly baked sourdough bread. My mouth watered slightly, and the mixture of aroma’s sparked a low grumble from my empty stomach.

  “Honey,” her singsong voice called from the kitchen. “How many eggs do you want?”

  “Two would be fine, thanks,” I answered over my shoulder.

  “Over easy?”

  “Always.”

  “Toast?”

  “Please.”

  Upon returning home I kept my promise—as if I had a choice—and recounted for her the details of the day I had spent with Ben as well as the night sequestered in the city morgue. Doing so had been like re-living a nightmare for me. Fortunately, at the same time, it had been necessary and unquestionably therapeutic—an overall catharsis that allowed me to expunge at least some of the horror.

  I could talk about my visions and my feelings with Ben, or anyone else for that matter. I could even make them believe. Then I could prove incontrovertibly that what I witnessed by ethereal means was in fact ultimately true and painfully accurate in the physical realm. Still, no matter how much I talked to the uninitiated, for me it remained a dark and lonely ache; for even my best friend could never truly understand the experience.

  However, another Witch could not only understand but could empathize as well. This fact, among many others, served to make my auburn-tressed wife both my friend and confidant—my personal psychiatrist and steadfast anchor in this reality. But, most of all, Felicity was my soul mate.

  Beyond the double-paned window, I could make out the faint noises of rubber singing against wet asphalt as vehicles cautiously made their way up and down the street. The muted but unmistakable squeal of damp brakes punctuated the other outdoor sounds, and the familiar shape of a Chevrolet van halted in front of the house. After waiting for a car to pass in the opposite direction, the worn-out looking vehicle canted a shallow turn into my driveway, splashing through the gutter full of icy slush and squeaking again to a stop.

  My heart catapulted itself into my throat then dropped slowly back down to its rightful place in my chest, performing an advanced series of somersaults all the while. My first assumption was that our self-proclaimed inquisitor had passed sentence upon his third victim. Even though I was expecting it, the possibility thrust me into a weary catatonic gaze.

  The dogs began the boisterous announcement of their presence in order to chase away the intruder and in the process disrupted our three peacefully slumbering felines. Furry masses bolted from perches on sunny windowsills, and our English setter led the canine charge for the front door. Thankfully, the sudden commotion wrenched me away from the unblinking stare.

  Ben hadn’t called this morning and neither had Carl Deckert. There had been no mention on the news of a body being found as yet. I quickly decided it would be more logical to at least wait until my friend had made it to the door before jumping to any conclusions. I took another sip of my coffee and pushed back the unwanted thoughts, calming perceptibly. However, I was still left with the sickening aftertaste of fear on the back of my tongue.

  “Sweetheart,” I called out as I watched the occupant of the van unfold himself from the seat and start up the narrowly cleared path of our walkway. “You’d better get out another half dozen or so eggs. We’ve got company.”

  Our friend’s appetite being legendary, as well as his proclivity for showing up at mealtime, she didn’t even bother to ask who it was. My only slightly exaggerated estimate of the additional food needed was clue enough. From the kitchen I heard the faint sound of cracking eggshells as she added more to the skillet. The muttering that followed formed a simple, matter-of-fact comment. “Okay, we’ll have scrambled eggs then.”

  The dogs had settled for a moment and now burst back into excited yelps at the sound of heavy footsteps on the porch. I shushed the two noisemakers and commanded them to sit, which they did in almost perfect unison. Ben was just reaching for the bell when I opened the heavy oak door.

  “Morning, Chief,” I greeted him as he pulled on the screen door. “Business or social?”

  “A little of both, Kemosabe,” he admitted as he stepped in, waving a large manila envelope at me. “Got the labs back on the Miller woman.”

  No new bodies. That was good news. I breathed an inner sigh of relief and felt the knot in my stomach wind tighter by one more turn. The tense waiting game would continue, for now anyway.

  “Coffee?” I offered while he shrugged off his coat.

  “Absolutely.” He nodded and sniffed animatedly in the direction of the kitchen. “That wouldn’t be one of Firehair’s world famous breakfasts I’m smellin’, would it?”

  “You know it.” I chuckled at yet another of his nicknames for my flame-maned wife while I took his coat and hung it in the closet. “You hungry?”

  “Starvin’.”

  “You don’t look terribly starving to me,” Felicity chided as she rounded the corner from the dining room.

  “Yeah, okay, so I’m not really starvin’,” he returned with a grin and leaned in to kiss her atop her forehead. “But I’m not about to turn down a meal in this house.”

  “Well then you’d better come in here and grab a plate,” she told him with a pleased smile. “I’m not going to play waitress for you... and by the way, for showing up when you did, you win today’s door prize.”

  “Seconds and thirds?”

  “Aye, even better. You get to help wash the dishes.”

  * * * * *

  “Looks like he doped ‘er up with Roofies,” Ben told me as he finished drying the last pan Felicity handed him
and then hooked it on the pot rack suspended over the stove. Where my wife and I had to stretch to accomplish the same task, he had to duck to avoid getting beaned by a saucepan.

  He took the next item and began distantly working on it with the dishcloth. I had to stifle a laugh at the sight of him being so blatantly domestic. It’s not every day you see a six-foot-six Native American drying dishes and being ordered around by a petite, redheaded Irish woman. Especially when that “Indian” had a badge on his belt and was packing a nine-millimeter Beretta in a shoulder holster.

  “That might explain why she was so foggy when I channeled her.” I had propped myself at the breakfast nook and was looking over the contents of the manila envelope he had brought.

  “They also identified the residue in ‘er mouth,” he continued. “You were right on the money. Nylon. Consistent with a pair of pantyhose. The rest of it just shows elevated carbon monoxide levels in ‘er blood which gives even more proof that she was alive when he torched ‘er.”

  “No offense, guys,” Felicity interjected, “but what good is all that? All it does is confirm what Rowan already told you.”

  She had a point. And unless I was missing something, all of this information seemed moot.

  “You’re right, ‘cept for the Roofies,” he returned.

  “So he drugged her with Rohypnol,” I remarked. “Did he use it on Brianna Walker too?”

  “No, but that’s not the point.” Ben continued talking while he finished folding the dishcloth. Then he topped off Felicity’s coffee and poured himself a fresh cup. “Roofies aren’t available in the U.S. by any quote quote legal means.” He made two-fingered quotation marks in the air with his free hand as he repeated the word twice—yet another Ben Storm original mannerism. “So the only place you’re gonna get ‘em is on the streets. Also, they aren’t good for anything except makin’ ya’ damn near a zombie. That’s the reason they call it the ‘date rape drug.’”