“Me Grandmother wouldn’t be drinkin’ that fizzly water now,” my brother-in-law’s voice boomed once again. “Whiskey man! We’ll start with two and ye keep it flowin’!”
Felicity’s older brother was hopelessly enamored with his ancestral roots and had spent a large amount of time in Ireland during his youth. To this day he spent as much time there as he could. Fortunately, his position with an overseas firm as a structural engineer allowed him great latitude in his choice of assignments, and he had been able to work there continuously for the past several years. Because of this, his brogue was unfaded by distance and time and was only slightly tarnished by his inherent Americanism.
Coming from the same stock as my wife, he bore the ruddy complexion and bright red mop of a classic Irishman, right down to his rust-colored beard. He was at once jovial, cantankerous, loud, obnoxious, loyal, hard-drinking, and if the stories I had heard of his youth were true, hard-fighting as well. Of all my in-laws, he and I got along the best. I was sorry we didn’t get to see each other more often.
“Austin!” I cheerfully yelped as he greeted me further with a brotherly bear hug. “When did you get in?”
“Just last night, Rowan old man, just last night.” He cuffed me on the shoulder again and pushed a full shot glass of whiskey along the bar to me as he grasped his own.
In one motion he lifted the glass with his right hand and thrust it straight out from his shoulder. I mimicked the motion, and he clinked his shot against mine as he said, “May the grass grow long on the road to hell for its want of use! Slainte!”
“Slainte!” I echoed the Gaelic equivalent of “cheers.”
With that he tossed back the ounce of liquor and loudly clacked the glass back onto the bar. I followed suit with somewhat less gusto. I suspected he already had a substantial head start on me.
“Again, man!” he shouted to the hustling bartender then turned back to me. “And where would ye be hidin’ me charming sister then? I trust you’ve been takin’ good care of her now.”
I chuckled and pointed. “She’s across the way there. With a couple of your cousins.”
He followed my finger and nodded as he saw her repeating her earlier mini performance with the other two women.
“Aye, old man, you definitely got yourself the pick of the O’Brien crop with her. She’s the loveliest of the sisters.”
“As I recall she’s your only sister, Austin,” I laughed.
“Aye, and I’m prejudiced as well!” he chuckled in return.
The frantic bartender had refilled the two shots, and my brother-in-law nudged one to me again. “Here’s to the health of your enemies’ enemies!”
“I can go for that. Slainte!”
“Slainte!”
We raised our drinks in unison and clinked them together soundly. Before we could bring them to our lips, however, we were interrupted by the Celtic lilt of a familiar female voice.
“Austin! There you are!” the voice exclaimed, and we both swiveled our heads toward it. “Oh, hello, Rowan. I didn’t know you and Felicity had arrived.”
“Maggie,” I smiled and nodded to my mother-in-law.
“Austin, dear,” she continued, “your father needs to speak with you. You don’t mind, do you, Rowan?”
“Not at all.”
“Aye, can’t it wait?” Austin protested at first. However, since he instantly found himself on the receiving end of a sharp “don’t question your mother” glare that an offspring of any age would obey, he tossed back the shot of whiskey and settled the empty glass on the bar. “I’ll be catchin’ up with ya’ then, old man,” he told me as he followed her away. “Don’t you be runnin’ off now.”
“Don’t worry,” I called after him. “I’ll be here all night. Promise.”
Had I known at the time I would have to break that promise, I never would have made it.
CHAPTER 11
“Shamus O’Brien, my father-in-law, would never be in any danger of becoming elected president of my fan club; of this you could be certain. Our relationship was one that stressed the boundaries of polite tolerance and mute indifference. I am sure he allowed this much solely for the benefit of his only daughter. In general, he wasn’t what you would call outwardly discourteous to me. I was, of course, well aware of his feelings, and I endeavored to respect them by keeping my distance; therefore he was rarely even given a chance to become rude. However, we would invariably be thrust together by holidays or other family functions at intervals throughout the year. At these times I would make it a point to avoid any controversial topic on which he may have a strong opinion—which was only a shade left of everything.
The one subject that remained an absolute taboo on any and all occasions was my choice of religious paths; for you see, that was the one and true reason Shamus didn’t like me.
If asked about it, my stern in-law would return a blank stare and pretend to ignore the subject entirely. But, if one were truly inclined to press the matter, he could be made to speak of it, and speak of it he would.
The entire discourse would begin with him muttering a long string of Gaelic expletives under his breath. Soon, his ruddy complexion would flush even brighter, and he would begin gesturing with a stiff index finger while making his opinions adamantly known. Finally, he would proceed to explain how I had turned his fair daughter from the righteous path of God with my heretical Pagan practices. The story seemed to grow more heinous each time he told it.
My mother-in-law, Maggie, would simply roll her eyes and sigh then sternly admonish, “Oh Shamus, just you hush now!”
It didn’t matter to him that Felicity was a practicing Witch long before our first chance meeting—a meeting that interestingly enough occurred at a local Magickal and Earth religion festival. No. He would have none of that, and he would even deny the fact with great fervor. She was his little Colleen, and she couldn’t possibly have taken this road without being tempted by some unsavory character such as myself. Each time she would try to reason with him, it simply flowed into one ear and straight out the other. To Shamus, his little girl could do no wrong, and in his mind, she was just going through a phase.
Needless to say, I went to great lengths to avoid this subject entirely.
Tonight, however, much to my chagrin, I had no control over the topic being debated no matter how hard I tried to evade it. My face had been plastered all over the news, both electronic and print, placing me in the astringent beam of an unwanted limelight. My religion had suddenly made me something of a morbid celebrity among those relatives of local residence, and whispered stories of my involvement in the murder investigations, both past and present, were spreading through the room like fire through a dead forest. One of Felicity’s second cousins, a wide-eyed, round-faced, young girl of eight or nine, had even asked me for my autograph.
Like everyone else, my father-in-law had been at work on his own share of Irish whiskey in celebration, and the alcohol had freed his sharp tongue from the sheath where it was normally kept. Felicity and I had only been here the sum total of one hour and twenty-minutes. I had been backed into a corner listening to his closed minded diatribe for the twenty.
“...Aye, and how can you be expectin’ us to plan our family gatherin’s ‘round your Pagan holidays now?” he queried, his voice a mere notch away from belligerent.
“I’ve never asked you to do that, Shamus, and you know it,” I returned, struggling to remain calm and looking past him in search of my wife. I needed to be rescued soon before I lost my temper and said something I would regret.
“What about last March then?” he shot back. “We tried to plan your mother-in-law’s birthday party, we did. But you had one of your godless holidays conflictin’!”
“It was a Spring Equinox celebration, and if anything, I’m polytheistic, so you can hardly call it godless. Besides, it was only one weekend, and you know you wouldn’t have given it another thought if we had simply told you we were busy and left it at that.”
; It was getting harder by the moment for me to keep my cool. Continuing my search, I spied Felicity across the room as haunting violin music began to fill the hall. The mournful wail of the fiddles quickly took on a brighter tempo, and my wife began dancing about with her similarly garbed cousins. Having witnessed her perform this particular traditional prancing jig before, I knew it was going to last for several minutes. She wasn’t going to be providing me with an avenue of escape anytime soon.
I was just bracing myself for what I was sure would be a spitefully barbed comeback when I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. I looked back to see the concerned face of my brother-in-law, and knew I was about to be emancipated. Unfortunately I also knew that I was only going to be chained to another situation I would rather not face.
“Aye, Rowan.” He gave his father a quick nod then looked at me. “There’s a pair out in the hotel lobby flashin’ badges and askin’ after you. Considerin’ that, I don’t suppose it would be good news then?”
My heart double thumped in my chest, and my throat turned instantly dry. An intimately known and caustically burning itch I had been struggling to ignore once again announced itself on my forearm in an extremely familiar spot.
“No, Austin,” I agreed sadly. “It isn’t at all.”
* * * * *
“...So anyway, I’m standin’ there tryin’ to calm these two guys down, and the one keeps yellin’, ‘His fuckin’ dog ate my bird! His fuckin’ dog ate my bird!’”
“Yeah?”
The two uniformed officers guarding the entrance to the apartment continued their chitchat while I signed my name on the crime scene log and noted the time alongside. I was starting to become an old hand at these procedures, but every time I had to do it, I felt like I had just swallowed a crucible of molten lead.
The two Major Case Squad detectives that had picked me up had ushered me in and informed the patrolmen that I was here in an official capacity. Upon hearing this revelation, they immediately began to treat me with the same casual indifference afforded any other cop. I suppose the fact that I was still wearing a sport coat and tie made me look like I belonged.
“Well the other guy starts screamin’, ‘He’s crazy! He’s nuts!’ and shit like that...” the officer with the story continued. “So now I’m startin’ ta’ think I’m gonna have a fist fight on my hands, ya’know?”
The other cop was already starting to chuckle, “Yeah? Then what?”
I took an offered pair of surgical gloves and pulled them over my damp hands. It was a struggle to get them on properly as my palms were so thick with cold sweat. I realized I was nervous and suddenly felt very human and vulnerable. I tried to convince myself that it was at least a sign that I hadn’t lost all my compassion.
“Next thing I know the dog starts heavin’ and makin’ all these weird-ass gackin noises, ya’know?”
The officer who was listening could see what was coming and was now barely able to contain an all out guffaw.
“Then yarrrp there it is! The freakin’ dog ralphs up the goddamn bird all over the guy’s shoes... It was one of them parrots or whatever so it was like this psychedelic projectile puke or somethin’!”
“No shit? What’d you do?”
“No shit, man. I thought I was gonna lose it right in front of these two guys...”
Obviously, the tale was intended to be humorous, but my present mood wasn’t conducive to laughing along with it. Though the telling of the story under current circumstances seemed outwardly callous, I’m sure it was merely a defense mechanism automatically kicking into high gear. Nothing more than a way for them to relieve their minds from the stress of the job. A way to deny the horror that waited in the next room. Given that, I certainly couldn’t blame them.
I was just preparing to go ahead into the open apartment when I heard Ben’s voice call from behind me, “Hey, white man.”
“Hey,” I returned sullenly and waited as he lumbered up the hallway.
“Sorry to have ‘em drag ya’ outta your party and all,” he apologized as he flashed his badge to the uniformed officers and penned its number and his name on the log. “Carl’s on ‘is way. He oughta be here in a bit.”
“No problem. I was just getting chewed on by my father-in-law anyway…” I paused and sighed heavily. “I could have asked for better circumstances for an escape, though.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Were you able to find someone to look after Starr and Karyl?” I inquired while watching him don his own pair of oversized latex gloves.
“Yeah, I got an off-duty copper friend of mine over there. Ended up costin’ me a box of Santa Damiana’s though. So, did Ackman and Hirst fill ya’ in?”
“Just that there was a body and that you would meet us here. Do you know who it is?”
“Not officially confirmed but looks like it’s the apartment’s occupant.” He referenced his notepad with a practiced flip of his wrist. “One Sheryl Keeven. Caucasian, thirty-four years old, divorced.”
“Was she…”
“...On the coven list?” Ben finished the question for me. “Yeah. She was on it. Martin was tryin’ to get a hold of ‘er earlier this afternoon. We were just gettin’ ready ta’ send a car by when the suicide call came in.”
“Suicide?” I puzzled aloud as I followed him through the open doorway, unmindfully scratching at my arm through my coat.
“Yeah, they didn’t tell ya’? The bastard left ‘er hangin’ off ‘er balcony. Neighbor called it in.”
“Did anybody see anything?”
“Hell no. Nobody ever sees anything any more.”
The third floor dwelling was fairly standard as apartments go, with a combination living room and dining area divided from the small kitchenette by a half wall lined with potted houseplants. A narrow corridor led back along the far side giving access to the bathroom, a closet with louvered luan doors, and finally, the bedroom. The walls were standard apartment complex white but had been cheerfully decorated with numerous framed pictures forming a silent gallery of what I assumed were relatives and friends. A faint odor of potpourri still permeated the room.
Bookshelves lined one end of the living area and were stuffed with novels, both paperback and hardcover. Anything ranging from mysteries to romances filled every available space. One set of shelves in particular held my attention as they were neatly arranged with non-fiction titles regarding herbs, alternative religions, and more specifically, WitchCraft.
My otherworldly senses were bombarded with random energies and sensations from the residence. The primary feeling in the room was one of abject fear and death. Not surprising at all, and I would have expected nothing less. The underlying impression that peeked out from behind the horror, however, was one of warmth and love. It told me that Sheryl Keeven had been the kind of person who dotted her i’s with smiley faces and went out of her way to help someone in need—even a stranger.
The ethereal touch slipped in and introduced itself. Now, I could no longer view her as an unfamiliar name. I could only see her as someone I wished I had had the opportunity to know. Even though we had never met in this physical plane of existence, the fact that she was dead filled me with the dull ache of loss.
I shook off the wash of emotion and forced myself back into stoic objectivity then continued to scan my surroundings.
In the corner, a nineteen-inch television with a severe chroma problem flickered mutely, displaying a weather update that warned of yet another approaching snowstorm. Though it was not expected to be anywhere near the strength of last week’s blizzard, we stood to accumulate a good two to four inches. At least, that is what they were saying.
A set of sliding glass doors at the center of the living/dining area’s back outer wall stood levered wide open. The frigid night air streamed in through the opening only to clash with the warmth being continuously pumped into the room through the furnace vents. One of them would eventually win, and I suspected it would be the cold.
A crim
e scene technician with a wind-chapped face stood quietly frowning as she expertly dusted the door handle and the glass surrounding it. When she slid the door partially closed for a moment, I could see a segment of a white, curved line decorated with hash marks. Encompassed within the arc, there appeared to be one side of a large X and possibly a piece of the vertical line that may form a capital P. It was apparent that the marking was large enough to spread across the face of both door panels.
At random intervals the room would brighten for a brief instant as the thyristor flash on another evidence technician’s camera exploded harsh white light out on the balcony. The runny lines of the large painted symbol cast an eerie shadow each time and left me with an oblique after-image branded on my retinas.
“They bring you in the front or the back?” Ben asked me as he stood surveying the room.
“Front,” I answered. “It was a mess.”
“Shit, you think the front’s bad?” he huffed. “Goddamned news vultures are all over the back parkin’ lot. That’s where the balcony is, and we can’t move the body until the M.E. gets here.”
Sarcasm gelled my one word response. “Wonderful.”
“And here I thought you were leaving all those messages at the office because you guys wanted to pay up on that dinner you owe me.” A feminine but distinctly authoritative voice issued from the doorway.
Constance Mandalay was holding forth a leather case containing her badge and FBI ID to the officer at the door while simultaneously scratching her name into the log. With a curt nod to the patrolman, she closed the wallet and thrust it into her pocket as she entered.
The brunette federal agent was clad in a wide-collared beige overcoat that now hung open to reveal her petite figure hugged in an intriguing fashion by a shimmery, metallic-blue cocktail dress. Completing the ensemble, she wore matching satin high-heels and a splash of unpretentious silver jewelry. Her shoulder-length hair was elegantly styled, and her face had seen a very tasteful brush with a handful of cosmetics.
Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 14