Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “Finally! He speaks!” he exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I returned hoarsely and nodded without looking at him. “I’ll be okay.”

  “So what gives? You were just sittin’ there yakkin’ with the old guy, and the next thing I know he’s screamin’ like an idiot, and you’re holdin’ your head like you’ve just been clocked in the face with a two-by-four,” he described. “Ya’ wanna tell me what the hell that was all about?”

  Fortunately, the old man’s screaming had ended as abruptly as it had begun, and he was now perfectly content to be once again drooling over his picture of Tracy Watson. Had it been otherwise, I’m sure there would have been much more commotion than had actually occurred.

  I was standing at the sink holding my hands cupped beneath the spigot as I stared into the mirror at my drawn face. Soon they were filled to overflowing with cold water. Before answering him I took a moment to bury my face in the pool of chilly liquid before it could all seep through my fingers. Slowly I massaged the water against my burning skin, allowing my fingertips to linger at my temples for a long moment before falling away. At this moment, with the way I felt, I would have welcomed the headache that had plagued me on the previous day.

  I remained pitched forward, leaning on my forearms against the basin, remnants of the water dripping from the end of my nose to splatter against the porcelain. The spigot continued to trickle with a liquid hiss, spewing its offering into the sink to disappear down the drain.

  “Backlash,” I answered succinctly.

  “Backlash?” he repeated the word in an almost questioning tone as if it were alien in meaning.

  “Backlash,” I echoed.

  “From what?” he asked after a moment.

  “From me not being grounded.”

  “That some kinda Witch thing?”

  “You could say that.”

  There was a loud ratcheting followed by a mechanical thunk. The pair of noises repeated twice in close succession, shadowed only by their dull echoes, then silence fell in behind them. A tearing sound came close afterward, and a moment later my friend was handing me a wad of paper towels.

  “So why weren’t ya’ grounded?”

  “I seem to be having trouble with that particular task lately,” I answered as I accepted the towels. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Any idea why?”

  “I wish I knew. I guess it really started about the time the whole thing with the pool water happened… I suppose that shock to my system might have something to do with it… But, to be honest this whole investigation has had me off kilter,” I offered. “The idea of someone reviving the Burning Times must have affected me a little worse than I originally suspected it would.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy all that.” He began pacing between the basins and the stalls. “But ya’ seemed okay yesterday. I’ll admit you were a bit unsettled but nothin’ like this. You’ve gone downhill in a big way all of a sudden, white man. What’s different now? What else is goin’ on?”

  “Well, I think it might be what I mentioned earlier that I wanted to talk to you about,” I admitted as I dabbed the brown paper at the wet spots on my face. “I had a pretty serious dream last night.”

  “Like the kind where ya’ get one of those weird clues or somethin’?”

  “Something like that I guess,” I acknowledged. “It was a continuation of the nightmare I had the other night. The one I wasn’t sure meant anything.”

  “But ya’think it means somethin’ now.”

  “I’m pretty sure it does.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  I sighed heavily before allowing my answer to spill into the room. “I think I’m on the list.”

  “What list?”

  “The killer’s.”

  My friend’s incredulous voice reverberated through the porcelain echo chamber as it suddenly rose in pitch, “Shit! You mean like ON the list, on the list?”

  “Yeah,” I almost whispered. “Like ON the list, on the list.”

  “Why the hell didn’t ya’ tell me this sooner?” he demanded.

  “Like I said, I planned to talk to you about it as soon as we were done with the interview.”

  Ben came to a halt in front of me. He started to reach for his neck in his usual unmindful gesture but seemed distracted even from that. A second later he blurted, “All right, so where’s Felicity right now?”

  “She’s safe,” I told him. “She’s with a client.”

  I could almost see the cogs and wheels turning behind the massive Native American’s eyes as he calculated and schemed around the information he had just been given. After a short interlude of silence, he wrinkled his brow and pointed at me.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” he instructed. “You and Felicity are stayin’ with me an’ Al. I’ll call ‘er soon as we get upstairs.”

  He was already starting to hustle me toward the door of the men’s room as he spoke. We rushed past the trash receptacle so fast I think the wad of paper towels I tossed at it ended up on the floor.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ben was not at all keen on the idea of our keeping the dinner date we had arranged with Austin for this evening; but in the grander scheme of things, that was actually the least of his concerns. What provided his strongest point of consternation was the fact that Felicity and I had refused to abandon our home in the face of my being the target of a serial killer. While at first I was almost inclined to go along with his cautionary actions; after some thought I knew for certain that if this killer wanted me bad enough, he would find me wherever I holed up. Hiding away at Ben’s would most likely only prolong the inevitable, and that would guarantee to tip my internal scales even farther from center in the process.

  As frightening as the entire prospect was, I mused aloud that this might even be the break we needed. There was next to nothing in the way of useful evidence thus far, and in my own opinion I had been no real help to the investigation either. If the killer was after me, then perhaps we could set a trap with me as the bait. My friend wasted no time informing me that I had seen too many television shows and that this was real life and not an episode of the latest cop drama. It simply didn’t work that way.

  For a moment, I made a grab for the diaphanous skirts of a long shot and partially allied myself with Ben to make a half-hearted attempt at convincing my wife to follow his advice and stay with he and Allison for a while. I knew better than to even make the suggestion, especially considering that being pulled away from her photo shoot and escorted to the police station by a pair of uniformed officers had already set her mood at an oblique angle to the rest of the world. My bid for the brass ring ended as soon as she rolled her eyes, while turning to face me, and then slowly cocked her head to the side. From behind a spiral fall of fiery auburn curls, her jade green eyes subjected me to the Felicity O’Brien trademark I beg your pardon glare. Her message was received free of any distortion or ambiguity whatsoever, and no further word was spoken on the subject—from me at any rate.

  Better than an hour passed by while Ben continued to demand, argue and even plead with both of us, but as sound as his contentions were, we remained steadfast in our decision to stay put. In the end he finally conceded grudgingly but only under a specific condition. We were to be afforded the same protection as the other individuals that were believed to be on the killer’s list.

  We agreed with the compromise, and then Felicity dropped the other shoe—our dinner engagement with her brother. Before my friend could even begin to object, she outlined in no uncertain terms that there was no room for negotiation on this point.

  Ben had let out a resigned sigh as he automatically massaged the back of his neck. After a trio of short phone calls, he laid out his own non-negotiable terms.

  One, he would be pulling the first watch with us personally.

  Two, we were to eat at a busy, very public restaurant with valet parking, and he wanted to know which one it was before we left so we could be tailed.


  Three, we were to go straight there and come straight home.

  And finally, four, we were to meet him at our house no later, but no earlier, than eleven p.m.

  Had the service at the restaurant been slower or had we encountered a little more traffic on the streets, we just might have been able to comply with the last point.

  The fact that the glowing digital clock on the in-dash radio read 10:13 p.m. at the moment we exited the highway didn’t really register—even though I looked directly at it.

  “Aye, Rowan, an’ you’re sure now you wouldn’t want to be stoppin’ for a cheeseburger or some such?” Austin’s cheery voice boomed from the back seat of Felicity’s Jeep. “That fare on your plate didn’t seem enough for a young lad, much less a grown man.”

  “I got plenty,” I told my brother-in-law with a chuckle. He had been ribbing me about my dinner selection for the better portion of the evening. I knew it was all in fun, and it seemed to be keeping him entertained. Besides, it was keeping my mind off the far less pleasant realities I was facing, and a diversion was something I desperately needed—so I played along.

  “I’m still thinkin’ you would have been better served with a good steak, man,” he offered as he reached forward and gave me a good-natured jab in the side. “What was that frou-frou you ordered again?”

  “Seared sea scallops with bourbon-horseradish-mustard and grilled asparagus in a balsamic vinaigrette.”

  “Aye and what about that plate of cheese and such?”

  “Mozzarella, red onions, and tomatoes with olive oil. It’s called a caprice salad.”

  “Frou-frou, man!” he announced once again.

  “Really, Austin,” Felicity piped up with her own musical laugh. Her Celtic timbre had been thoroughly reinforced by the evening spent with her brother. “Surely now you’re the only one I know who would go to a restaurant celebrated for its seafood and order a steak.”

  “Aye, the menu said ‘Surf and Turf,’ didn’t it now?” he ventured. “I simply told the lass to keep the surf and bring me extra turf.”

  “Aye.” My wife nodded into the rearview mirror then laid on an extra helping of her thick brogue. “Sure’n that Colleen was makin’ eyes at you too. You were just puttin’ on a show for the young lass.”

  The stick shift clicked smoothly as she pushed the vehicle through a quiet intersection and accelerated along the avenue in the direction of our subdivision.

  “I’m single then, aren’t I?” Austin chuckled.

  “Aye, you are,” Felicity answered. “But she was a bit young then. She’d soon grow tired of an old man like yourself.”

  My brother-in-law’s infectious laughter filled the interior of the Jeep as we hooked through a turn and continued down a familiar tree-lined street toward our home. A pair of short blocks later the radio’s luminescent clock displayed 10:22 p.m. As the last digit blinked itself into a three, we made the arc from the street into the driveway and followed the concrete strip to the rear of our house. The next turn to the left banked us around the back corner and brought the harsh swath of blue-white from the vehicle’s headlamps to bear on the garage door.

  The Jeep screeched to a halt as Felicity less than gently applied the brakes, adding her own high-pitched yelp of surprise to the sudden noise. Austin’s retort was abruptly transformed into a deep huff as he pitched forward heavily against his seatbelt. My hands went automatically to the dash as I did the same. With my palms still planted firmly before me, I lifted my head and simply cast a mute stare through the windshield.

  Overspray fogged the outline of the graffiti that graced the normally solid white overhead door. Haste had been an obvious factor to the perpetrator of the artwork as evidenced by the watery trails of the runs that had trickled from the paint. Still, a familiar and somewhat steady hand had been applied to the task. The symbols were large, even, and painstakingly clear.

  Rev. 21:8

  I blinked hard and glanced at the clock on the dash. It read 10:23 p.m. I looked back at the garage door, in some way hoping that I had been momentarily affected by a small mass hallucination.

  It still read Rev. 21:8

  “Call nine-one-one,” I mouthed as I began to fumble with the catch on my seatbelt, my voice the barest trace of a whisper.

  “What?” Felicity croaked.

  “Call nine-one-one,” I repeated, forcing the prickly lump of fear in my throat to stand aside and allow the words to pass. “And get out of here.”

  The catch popped, and I nervously wrestled my way out of the harness. The rhizome of fear in my throat had spread its invasive roots outward, making my hands tremble and my dinner become a cinder block resting uncomfortably in the deep well of my intestines. I shouldered the door open and shakily poured myself out onto the drive.

  “You aren’t staying here by yourself!” Felicity admonished in a frightened tone. “What if he’s still here?”

  “That’s exactly why I want you out of here,” I shot back.

  “Aye, Rowan,” Austin voiced as he untangled himself from his own safety harness and began tilting the passenger seat forward to create a path of egress. “She’s right. You can’t be stayin’ here by yourself with a madman runnin’ about. I’m comin’ with you then!”

  “No, Austin,” I quickly objected. “I want you to stay with Felicity.”

  “But Rowan man, you can’t…”

  “I’m serious,” I asserted as I cut him off. “If he’s still here I’ll deal with it. I need to know that Felicity is safe, and I want you with her in case something happens!”

  “I’m not leaving you here!” my wife objected.

  “Don’t argue, Felicity!” I ordered as I was pushing the door shut. “Just call nine-one-one and get away from here NOW!”

  My voice was hard and demanding. Fear of what I might be about to face sharpened it. Fear of any harm coming to my wife honed it beyond to a razor’s edge. I had never used such a tone with Felicity before. I caught the look that creased her face just before her own fear obscured it from view. I knew then that she understood why I was asking her to do this. She didn’t want to leave, but she knew that she had no choice.

  Gears meshed violently as she jammed the vehicle into reverse and stepped on the gas. The Jeep’s engine roared up from idle and propelled them backwards around the corner and out along the driveway. I listened as the rout faded then began anew with a squeal of tires against damp asphalt.

  I stood alone in the darkness, steeled momentarily by the knowledge that Felicity was safely away. My heart was rattling in my chest as it turned somersaults, using my diaphragm as a trampoline and my lungs as tumbling mats. Irregular breaths pulsed hard out of my mouth, condensing in moist clouds before my face. I struggled to avoid hyperventilating.

  My legs were stiff and heavy with near terror as I slowly turned to face the back of my house. Darkness still shrouded me, and I looked up above the door leading into our sun porch. The floodlights on the outdoor sentry appeared to still be intact but remained obstinately unlit. The motion sensor should have snapped them to life the minute we had rounded the corner, but it hadn’t.

  I searched my memories from earlier in the evening, but my thoughts were cloudy, and anything but the here and now was obscured by a thick fog of fear. I suddenly couldn’t remember if it had been Felicity or I that had locked the back door and set the alarm. I didn’t know if the outdoor light had been inadvertently shut off or purposely disabled in some less than obvious fashion. I knew only that I was standing in the dark, paralyzed. Frozen in place by horrifying thoughts I couldn’t escape.

  I fought to seek a ground, feeling like a coward as my hands continued to vibrate in time with my anxiety. Taking in a deep lungful of the gelid night air, I held it for a pair of heartbeats then allowed its escape in a measured stream. I found no calm waiting for me as I had hoped. I had only my resolve.

  Pressing myself to move, I covered the short distance to the deck in a fraction of a minute that presented itself to my ad
dled senses as at least a full hour. Carefully, I climbed the shallow flight of stairs and made my way toward the sun porch. I glanced quickly around to see if anyone was hiding in the shadows, only to discover that the night itself was one enormous shadow, and I was standing in the middle of it. As I turned and took a cautious step, I unknowingly brushed against an arm of a pinwheel squirrel feeder. With the delicate balance of the partially eaten ears of feed corn suddenly disturbed, the assembly rotated with a timid squeak and dull thump as the heavier cob swung downward. As the feed laden arms assumed their new positions, the lowest of the four slapped against the back of my shoulder with a thud. I leapt forward with a yelp and spun, nearly stumbling over my own feet as I tensed. The corncob continued to swing gently as it settled in toward stillness.

  My unseen attacker now identified, I breathed a short sigh of relief then turned and took the last few steps to the porch door.

  My bladder felt weak, and the caustic acid of panic was brewing in my stomach. My hand was trembling uncontrollably as I reached for the handle and wrapped my fingers around the chilled metal. Summoning whatever courage I could find hiding behind the towering levies of abject terror, I twisted my wrist.

  Locked.

  The panic subsided slightly at the discovery, and I let my sweat covered palm fall away. Apparently the lock had not been tampered with, and the rear of the house was still secure. Now, since I didn’t carry a key to the back door, my only course of action would be to enter the house from the front.

  I turned to head in that direction and was immediately blinded by a stringent beam of light that I would later discover had emanated from the business end of a ridiculously powerful Mag-Lite.

  A voice barked angrily in the darkness, “POLICE! DON’T MOVE AND KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

  * * * * *

  Flicking tufts of fur could be seen hanging just below the exposed rafters of our living room ceiling. Dickens, Emily, and Salinger each had taken a position on the wooden beams to watch the proceedings below as police officers and crime scene technicians went in and out of the house. Every now and then, one of the felines would dip a whiskered face down alongside its perch and inspect the goings on in the dining room. It was obvious that they weren’t at all pleased with the intrusion into their territory.