Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “Ya’think?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” I shook my head. “But it’s worth a try. I’m sure Constance can understand your concerns. She’s just as much a part of the cop fraternity as you are.”

  “Yeah…maybe you’re right.” A look of resignation molded itself to his features. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

  “I think it would be a good idea.” I told him with a nod, then as much to ease his tension as for curiosity, I maneuvered the subject into a different lane. “So whatever happened to Carl? I didn’t see him upstairs.”

  “Oh, he left awhile ago. He took Roberts out to the County lockup since he lived in their jurisdiction,” he replied with a noticeable drop in his stress level.

  “What ended up happening with that?”

  “Somethin’ ta’ do with pirated software or somethin’ like that,” he explained. “Federal offense so County will prob’ly be turnin’ ‘im over to the Feebs at some point. Guess he’d better hope Mandalay is off duty that day, huh?”

  “That would probably be in both their best interests,” I agreed. “So anyway, when are you going to get out of here? I thought you were planning on dinner with the family.”

  Ben shot a tired glance through the glass doors at the darkened sky and then rolled his watch face up and gave it a calculating stare. As he let his arm drop, he conceded yet another defeat at the hands of his vocation. “Well, it looks like that idea is in the dumper, not that I expected any different. Guess I’ll wrap up a few things here then go home and have a cold meatlump sandwich.”

  “Does Allison know you talk about her cooking like that,” I queried with a smile.

  “Hell, white man, she’s the one that named it meatlump. So what about you?” He dipped his head at me. “What’re you gonna do? I’m sure Al made plenty if you wanna come by.”

  “Thanks, but I’m beat and I’m liable to crash hard as soon as I get something in my stomach. There’s some leftover Dublin Coddle in the fridge at home, so I’ll probably just nuke a bowl and then hit the sack.”

  “Dublin Coddle? Sounds funky. That somethin’ from that party?”

  “Yeah. Actually it’s kind of a potato, onion and sausage stew. It’s pretty good.”

  “Maybe I should come with you. Sounds a damn sight better than meatlump.”

  “I’m sure there’s more than enough if you want.”

  “Nahhh.” He shook his head. “I was just kiddin’. If I hurry maybe I can tuck my kid in for a change. Besides, I think I’m prob’ly right there with ya’ on the whole crashin’ thing.”

  “Yeah, I thought you might be,” I said. “So how about tomorrow? Where do we go from here?”

  My friend’s tone again grew somber. “Well, NARC will keep workin’ the Roofies angle, and I guess we’ll see what we can come up with on the whole Catholic thing. The Archdiocese wasn’t what you’d call thrilled when Osthoff and Martin showed up, if ya’ know what I mean.”

  “I can imagine. So you probably don’t really need me down here tomorrow then?”

  Ben pursed his lips as he thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Well, I’d like ta’ have you there if we get a chance ta’ talk to that old bum again, but other than that probably not. If you’ve got somethin’ else planned already then go for it. I’d appreciate it if ya’ could stay near a phone though.”

  We both shifted out of the way as another pair of officers skirted around us to exit the building.

  “I don’t really have anything planned other than getting caught up with some work that’s been piling up.”

  “I can understand that… So I’ll be able to reach ya’ if I need to though, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be at the house.” I nodded as I reached out and leaned on the door.

  “Okay, Kemosabe. I’ll talk to ya’ later then. Drive careful.”

  “I will,” I answered and pushed the door open. “Don’t stay here too late. And do yourself a favor, call Constance.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll do that,” he called after me as he turned and headed toward the elevators.

  With the introduction of the incident with Agent Mandalay, the order of my thoughts had been radically shifted. Now, an earlier unvoiced concern was once again surfacing. I had considered mentioning it to Ben, but with the other events of the day still woefully fresh in our minds, I finally elected to table it for another day. Unfortunately, I knew for certain that it was something that couldn’t wait for very long.

  What had gone unsaid between my friend and I was the fact that I was harboring my own troubling doubts as well. They were, however, not about Special Agent Mandalay, or him, or any of the other members of the Major Case Squad. My deep apprehension was about my own effectiveness in this investigation.

  I had been on a frightfully uneven keel from the very beginning and had yet to right myself. I had somehow managed to have my moments of attunement, but they were few and far between. Balance was something I still had not signed a contract with. Truth be told, I hadn’t even opened negotiations with it. I was drifting about with no ground and no focus, grasping aimlessly at an ethereal lightning rod and missing at every pass. Thus far, the only thing I had been able to do with any modicum of success was to bleed profusely from preternatural stigmata, spit swimming pool water on the carpeting, and announce that we would soon find another body. That wasn’t really the kind of help that was expected of me, and it was getting us nowhere.

  I was fully aware that if I didn’t get myself under control soon not only was I going to be of no help to the police, but I was going to become a severe risk to my own well being. An ungrounded Witch is a dangerous Witch, and as disconnected as I was right now, I was leaving myself open to things I didn’t even want to consider.

  It was my own fault I was in this situation and I knew it. I forced myself to make a personal promise to do what it took to get back on track. Now all I had to do was keep my word to myself.

  I joined the zipper on the front of my coat as I walked and began pulling it upwards, all the while clinging hard to the warmth of my resolve to spend some time grounding and centering. An angry gust of winter chill made one last assault on the shrinking seam and managed to slip inside the folds of my jacket. Rounding the corner of the building on my way to the parking area where my truck currently resided an involuntary shiver danced along my back, and I quickly flipped my collar up around my ears.

  Slowly, dull fingers of pain inflicted an unwanted massage at the base of my neck and began inching along the back of my tightening scalp. My guess was that the handful of granulated aspirin I took earlier had finally worn off, and now the headache that had been making a home inside my skull was being aggravated by the cold.

  The fingers slowly transformed into an octet of stinging tendrils as they conquered the crown of my head and thrust their poisonous caress inward. Metered pounding announced its cadence directly behind my forehead, becoming louder with each step I took. Completing the rhythm section of the painful orchestra, the thick rush of blood filled my ears in harmony with the hammering metronome.

  I came to a halt at the corner, my eyes watering and stinging from a combination of the headache and icy wind. I shot a painful glance up the street to check for traffic and saw only what appeared to be a large delivery van parked parallel to the curb thirty or so yards away.

  The sound of a metal sliding door, badly in need of adjustment and lubrication, forced itself past the din in my ears, sequestering itself faintly in the background. With another quick glance, I stepped out into the street and immediately stumbled as a stab of pain expressed itself.

  I scarcely heard the hurried footsteps of the officer who rushed up behind me and grasped my arm. “Sir, are you all right?”

  I blinked past the pain as I regained my balance and carefully nodded. “Yes, thank you. I just tripped I guess.”

  In the distance the scraping of the metal door repeated itself, ending in a hollow thud. I imagined the sound had an almost frightened urgency this
second time around.

  Headlights sparked to life, and a low, mechanical roar overtook the night, underscored by the high-pitched grind of recalcitrant gears. A sharp ice pick of near agony bit hard into the core of my being as the black panel van, greyed with a patina of salt and grime, pulled away from the curb. The officer and I waited as the vehicle accelerated and passed in front of us then hooked almost angrily around the corner, its transmission protesting all the while.

  “Looks like he’s in a hurry,” the officer mused as he let go of my arm. “Guess he got stuck working O/T or something.”

  “I guess,” I echoed, not really sure what else to say.

  “Well have a good evening, sir. And watch your step.”

  “I will,” I acknowledged. “Thanks again.”

  As the uniformed cop and I continued in different directions, a tickle in the back of my mind told me that something about that van was supposed to be familiar. An itch in the front of my mind told me to go home and steep a handful of willow bark in a cup of hot water then drink it as fast as I could. The itch won.

  By the time I reached my truck and climbed into the chilly cab, the makings of the all out migraine had at least settled enough for me to make it home in one piece.

  * * * * *

  “Wherefore, since you, Rowan Linden Gant, are fallen into the damned heresies of Witches, practicing them publicly, and have been by legitimate witnesses convicted of the sin of heresy, or by your own confession received by us in Court; and after your capture you have escaped, refusing the medicine of your salvation: therefore we have summoned you to answer for the said crimes in person before us, but you, led away and seduced by a wicked spirit, have refused to appear...”

  My heart pounds forcefully in my throat as I run to escape the angry voice.

  Darkness surrounds me.

  Agony envelops me.

  Fear feeds upon me.

  “And whereas the Holy Church of God has long awaited you up to this present day of kindness and mercy, that you might fly to the bosom of her mercy, renouncing your errors and professing the Catholic Faith, and be nourished by the bounty of her mercy; but you have refused to consent, persisting in your obstinacy…”

  I cannot escape the voice.

  I cannot escape the darkness.

  I cannot control the fear.

  “Therefore, following in the footsteps of the Blessed Apostle Paul, we declare, judge and sentence you, absent or present, to be a stubborn heretic, and as such to be abandoned to secular justice…”

  I pump my legs harder against the frozen ground, each step excruciating torment.

  The fear has become visceral terror.

  I am consumed.

  “And by this our definitive sentence we drive you from the ecclesiastical Court, and abandon you to the power of the secular Court that, if it ever should have you in its power, it will moderate its sentence of death against you…”

  Silence.

  Pure.

  Clean.

  Dim light creases the darkness before me.

  The sturdy form of a tree unfolds itself in the light.

  A tree bearing corymbs of white flowers, their very presence making it stand as an oddity against the snow at its base.

  A European Mountain Ash.

  A Rowan Tree.

  So enraptured am I at the appearance of this tree in full bloom that my fears are forgotten.

  My terror melts away.

  My pains dulled to non-existence.

  Slowly I begin to circle the tree as red fruits appear and the delicate flowers wither.

  I continue as the berries follow in the same fashion, leaving only the feather-like leaves.

  When I round the backside of the tree, they too atrophy and die.

  The once sturdy timber now stands bereft of its foliage, appearing sickly and barren.

  Confusion fills the void once occupied by fear.

  Deep in the now dull and lifeless trunk a scar puckers. As I watch, it forms a circle bisected along the arc by small hash marks. In its center an X marries itself with a P.

  Below it another appears.

  And another…

  And another…

  And another still…

  A quintet of the blemishes now infects the peeling bark.

  Sound interrupts the stillness.

  Metal against wood.

  Stabbing.

  Scraping.

  Carving.

  I continue my trek around the dying plant in search of the source.

  In a surreal wipe, the back of a robed figure appears opposite me.

  Finding myself devoid of words, I simply stare in silence. The scraping sound ceases, and the figure cocks its head to the side. Slowly and purposefully the figure reaches up and pulls back the hood of the robe to reveal a tangle of fiery red hair. The figure turns to face me.

  Kendra Miller stares at me with vacant eyes, in her hand an athamé. On the quickly rotting tree trunk behind her is a freshly carved Monogram of Christ. With nothing resembling any form of emotion, she raises her hand and points the athamé at me.

  My confusion flees.

  Fear returns in force, surging upward from the depths of my bowels.

  “Whereas you, Rowan Linden Gant have duly and properly admitted your crimes, and having before us the Holy Gospels that our judgment may proceed as from the countenance of God, by this sentence we cast you away as an impenitent heretic and sorcerer…”

  The intermittent sounds of creaking punctuate the sentences that spill imperiously from the dark voice.

  “…And do hereby deliver you unto the power of our most Holy God. As you are damned in body and soul, your sentence on this day is death. The sentence, to be executed immediately and without appeal in the manner of hanging.”

  My eyes snapped open at the explosive sound of a gallows trap door violently swinging wide.

  The first thing I saw was the pitched ceiling of the upper floor of my house. I tilted my head forward and stopped the moment the sore ache shot from one side of my neck to the other. Awakened by its friend in the upper vertebrae, a nagging pinch began to dance about my lower back. Acute awareness of my position in the chair told me I had been there far too long.

  Slowly I allowed my head to begin its forward tilt once again but decided to take things one-step at a time and told the rest of my body to stay put. A well-worn paperback copy of the Malleus Maleficarum was splayed out on the desk in front of me with my glasses placed carefully in the center. A half empty bottle of beer sat to the right; next to it, a ceramic mug that had contained willow bark tea.

  The sound of the fan on my computer hummed in a medium pitched drone punctuated by a regular staccato smacking noise to my left. I shifted my bleary gaze in the direction of the wet sound, and it came to rest on the corner of my workstation.

  There, Salinger, our Himalayan was perched carefully on the edge of the desktop peering wide-eyed at me over the rim of a bowl. His wary feline gaze locked with mine, and he tensed in preparation to bolt but continued to lap at the discarded remnants of my dinner.

  After a moment or two of playing stare down with the fluffy cat, I shifted my weight and allowed the chair to pivot forward. Salinger immediately leapt down as the springs groaned in protest but took only a few quick steps before turning and planting himself a short distance away with Emily and Dickens. Apparently, the cats had been taking turns at the feeding trough while the other two acted as lookouts.

  I rubbed my eyes to dislodge the sleep still clinging in them then slid my glasses onto my face as I stood. The clock in the corner of my monitor read 11:17, so there was still plenty of time for sleep before the sun made its way over the horizon. Mechanically, I shut down my system and switched off the master switch on the power strip before scooping up the open volume from the desktop.

  For a double beat of foggy consideration, I pondered taking my dirty dishes down to the kitchen and at least putting them in the sink. The tug of war over what to do ended as
soon as my muddy brain centered on the fact that the kitchen was farther from my present location than the bedroom. That question answered, I left the bowl for the cats to fight over.

  As I started out the door, I realized that I was unconsciously carrying the copy of the Malleus Maleficarum that had been in front of me. I didn’t even remember why I had picked it up. I started to toss it back onto the desk and noticed my finger was thrust between the pages, physically marking the place I had apparently left off.

  Curiosity momentarily interrupted the desire for sleep, so I flipped the book open and gave the text before me the once over. The marked pages screamed back in crisp black and white, starkly announcing the thirteenth method of arriving at a definite sentence when a person is accused of heresy.

  Question number thirty-two. The method to be put to one who is convicted but who hath fled or who Contumaciously Absents himself.

  As I read the words that followed, I imagined for a moment that there was always the possibility that the lack of sleep combined with re-heated Dublin Coddle could be responsible for my most recent night terror. Unfortunately, there was no denying that they couldn’t have been a factor the night before.

  I carefully tucked a scrap of notepaper into the binding and closed the cover before laying the volume back on the desk. Now, I wasn’t entirely sure if I wanted to go back to sleep.

  I had to resign myself to the fact that I was no longer just another Witch among the myriad of Pagans—closeted or otherwise—that lived in this city. The fact that I was the official Witch of the Major Case Squad wasn’t what now set me apart either.

  I had already been tried, convicted and sentenced in the deranged court of a serial killer.

  I was on the list.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Keep goin’ at this rate and we’re just gonna need ta’ get ya’ a shield,” Ben mused as I clipped a laminated visitors pass to my shirt. “You’d be the bad guys worst nightmare—a Witch with a badge.”