I don’t know how I have endured all that has been done to me.
My mind races...
I remember the taste of a lime green snow cone on a sweltering summer day when I was seven.
I remember getting caught cheating on an algebra exam.
I remember that I have dry cleaning to pick up.
I don’t know why I remember the things I do.
I just do.
I still feel the fear.
Why did I answer the door that night?
I wasn’t expecting anything.
Delivery trucks don’t run that late anyway.
What was I thinking?
“In as much as you have been found guilty, and that you are damned in body and soul, your sentence on this day is death. The sentence is to be executed immediately, without appeal, in the manner of expurgation by fire.”
A single spark in the night.
A faint flickering glow.
A bright explosion fills the darkness.
Fire billows upward across my nude body.
The heat is beyond imagination.
I remember burning my hand as a small child.
I remember the fear.
I feel it anew.
“May the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon your soul.” The angry voice reaches me through the rush of the fire.
I hold my breath.
I twist against my bonds.
I want to scream.
That damn truck.
A cold steel talon rips into my shoulder, and I feel myself wrenched violently backward. Cacophonous screaming pierces my eardrums as I hurtle upward.
Downward.
Forward.
Backward.
I no longer know.
I spiral through nothingness.
I am blind.
I am omniscient.
Colors bleed and disappear. Greyness blooms and contrasts itself against the backdrop of space.
A random chord plays out of sync with the universe.
My heart stops.
My heart races.
My lungs tighten and burn.
Hot yellow fire explodes past me.
Thick fog douses the flame.
Reality slams into me full force as dull color erupts into view.
“ROWAN!” Felicity screamed my name as she shook me hard.
I gasped in a deep breath as I snapped my eyes open and stared back at my wife. Ben and Charlee were kneeling on the ground with her, and everything was moving in a mad rush. I saw Charlee gesturing at the paramedics and Ben frantically saying something I couldn’t make out.
I could feel the warm barrier of Felicity’s own shields as she cast them around me to ward off the vision I had inflicted upon myself. My earlier ground had been severed the moment I allowed the veil between life and death to be pierced. I would never have been able to cling to this plane of existence had she not intervened.
Though the supernatural connection between Amanda Stark and myself was effectively cut, the stream of consciousness that had been set into motion was forging ahead unhindered. Memories I might otherwise have considered random flashed before me in an endless stream, repetitive and disorganized. Folding one into the next like an insane exercise in origami.
“…Tracy gived it to me. Did’ju see thuh truck too?”
Delivery trucks don’t run that late anyway.
“…I’m not sure I heard her right considering
what the fire did to her throat
and all, but I’d almost
swear she said
‘truck.’”
I’m crossing the street. A large, black panel van rolls past. A patina of grey and white from salt and road grime dusts its dark exterior.
A sudden roar mixes with the rush of the
fire and marries with a high-pitched grind before fading away on the night.
Flames consume all that is.
A multi-pitched, mechanical groan emits from
beneath the van, audibly announcing
the improperly meshed gears.
A cold tingle dances
up my spine and
my scalp
tightens
painfully.
My head is killing me. The thick rush of blood fills my ears in pulsing time with the hammering inside my skull. The sound of a metal sliding door, badly in need of adjustment and lubrication forces itself past the din…
A sudden roar mixes with the rush of the fire and marries with a high pitched grind before fading away on the night.
I look up the street to check for traffic
and see only what appears to be a large delivery van parked parallel to the curb.
“…I toad her about thuh truck.”
“…Did’ju see thuh truck too?”
“…But I’d almost swear she said ‘truck.’”
A sharp icepick of agony bites deeply into the core of my being as a black panel van, greyed with a patina
of salt and grime pulls away from
the curb. The low mechanical roar is underscored by the high-pitched grind of recalcitrant
gears as the vehicle accelerates and hooks almost angrily around the corner.
That damn truck.
Delivery trucks don’t run that late anyway.
“…But I’d almost swear she said ‘truck.’”
“…But I’d almost swear she said ‘truck.’”
“ROWAN!” My wife’s determined voice once again waded through the flotsam of remembrances.
The present collapsed inward to replace the rampant kaleidoscope of the past pin wheeling through my mind, and the stream of thoughts crashed forcefully into the wall of reality.
“She did say truck,” I whispered as the snippets of visions and conversations blended into a solid, tangible deduction.
“What?” Felicity asked as she searched my face. She had stopped the insistent shaking but her hands remained tightly entwined in my shirt.
“She did…” My voice came as a thin wisp once again, and I aborted the sentence to clear my throat before finally continuing in a stronger tone. “She did say truck. The killer is driving an old delivery truck.”
As I voiced the revelation, I could almost physically sense the dull pestilence of confusion as it drained from my being.
* * * * *
The disconcerting light show had lessened considerably once the fire trucks and rescue vehicle had departed the scene. The coroner’s hearse would be arriving in due course, and Amanda Stark’s remains would be zipped into a body bag and driven the short distance to the morgue. Even now the CSU technicians were packing up, and the crime scene would soon be officially cleared.
“That’s right, a dark colored panel van. Probably black. Like a delivery truck,” Ben said into his cell phone and shot me a questioning glance at the end of the sentence.
I nodded assent and mouthed the color.
“Yeah, I can hold for a second.”
Once I had convinced Felicity and he that I was okay, we had moved away from the crime scene proper to put some distance between Amanda Stark’s corpse and me. My wife was diligently maintaining preternatural defenses around the both of us, but the physical distance was an added measure of safety. I was feeling particularly helpless at having to depend upon her for protection in an arena I was so familiar with, but I was also beginning to feel confident that my vulnerability was rapidly coming to its end. At almost the very instant the staccato barrage of memories had cemented themselves into a single lucid and meaningful thought I had automatically grounded. The connection had remained strong and unchallenged since, and the adjunct to my recent revelation that came as a deep feeling of calm was still with me. Things were starting to make sense.
“So how’re you feelin’?” Ben addressed me with a stab of his finger while he was placed on hold. Out of habit he shifted the mouthpiece back out of the way as he spoke. “You’re actin’ like ya’ just came out of a coma or somethin’.”
“In a way I did,
” I confessed. “I think maybe my inability to connect the dots is the reason I’ve been so out of it.”
“You’ve had trouble makin’ sense of stuff before, and it’s never done this to ya’. Why now?”
“I think it might go back to that night at the morgue…”
Ben held up a finger in a “hold that thought” motion as he was summoned back to the phone. “Yeah, black,” he repeated to the person at the other end. “So, what I need ya’ ta’ do is pull all the motor vehicle registrations for panel vans in the city and county, then cross reference the owners against their DMV files. Start with black ones and work into the other colors if ya’ don’t get a hit. What we’re lookin’ for is a male, over six feet, most likely Caucasian, mid ta’ late thirties.”
He listened to the device for a moment then barked into the mouthpiece once again, “You’ve got computers, don’t ya’? Uh-huh, yeah… So turn ‘em back on or whatever. Whaddaya mean ya’ can’t? Yeah, well your maintenance schedule ain’t my problem. No, tomorrow afternoon isn’t good enough. You’ve got till I get there which is about,” he stole a quick glance at his wristwatch. “Ten minutes from now… Uh-huh…Sure…Well I guess you’d better get started then, shouldn’t ya’? Yeah? Well right back at ya’.”
My friend stabbed the device off with a disgusted frown then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Sorry ‘bout that. So what about the morgue?”
“The night I channeled Kendra Miller,” I continued. “I don’t think that connection was ever fully severed. What’s been happening to me ever since has probably been me channeling her frustration at not being able to get her message across.”
“And?”
“And it just created a vicious circle,” I explained. “As I channeled her frustration I became even more disconnected and frustrated myself. I was trying so hard to understand that I wasn’t focusing. For want of a better analogy, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”
He took a moment to smooth his hair and give his neck a thoughtful massage before resting back against the side of his van and folding his arms across his chest.
“Okay, so I guess that’d explain why you’ve been all fucked up,” he finally stated. “Ta’ be honest I was just beginnin’ to think you’d gone off the deep end.”
“You and me both.”
“Okay, now what’s the deal about the delivery truck outside police headquarters?”
“Like I said,” I explained. “It was the day you brought Allen Roberts in for questioning. That night, when I left the station, the killer was waiting for me. If it hadn’t been for the fact that an officer came up right behind me at the street corner, I’d probably have been the latest victim.”
“So why the hell didn’t ya’ say somethin’ about it before now?”
“Because until now it was just another delivery van parked on the street. I didn’t know that it was the killer stalking me,” I answered. “I’ll admit that at the time something did seem familiar, but I was still fighting a headache from our session with the old guy, not to mention everything else that had happened that day. Plus, by that time I’d been so far out of it that nothing clicked, and I just spaced it off. Now that everything has come together it seems obvious. The sound was really the key.”
“How so?”
“It’s the way the transmission sounded when he drove past me that night at the station. When I channeled Kendra Miller at the morgue, I heard the same grinding sound in the background. It didn’t seem to fit, but I can’t say that I know exactly what you’re supposed to hear when you’re being burned alive, so I just wrote it off. When we arrived at the Cherrywood Trails crime scene, a plain black panel van passed right in front of us when we were crossing the street. Remember? The driver slowed down, and when he shifted gears, there was the same high-pitched grinding noise.”
“So this bastard was right there when we arrived at the Christine Webster scene and we missed ‘im?”
“He’s probably been within sight at every one of the scenes, Ben,” I returned. “Even tonight.”
“It would stand to reason,” Felicity chimed in. “If he truly believes in what he is doing, he will want to see his mission completed. He’ll want to see that the people have gathered ‘in the town square’ so to speak. To know that they have witnessed the wrath of God.”
“Yeah, great,” Ben muttered. “So he could be watchin’ us right now.”
“Not likely,” I shook my head. “He’s not stupid, and like I’ve said before he’s not doing this for the thrill. Once he sees that his work has been witnessed, he will move on. Just like the Cherrywood Trails crime scene. He just drove by. He didn’t stop and mingle with the crowd.”
“So if he just cruised by on Memorial Drive and saw the lights and activity, he woulda been happy?”
“Probably.”
My friend rubbed his large hand across his chin and huffed a misty breath into the fog before giving his watch another glance. “Okay, so look, I’ve gotta go back to the station and kick some ass on this whole DMV thing. I really doubt there’s anything you can do ta’ help, so we might as well get ya’ back home so ya’ can get some sleep.
“Now here’s the deal—Mandalay wasn’t scheduled to come over and relieve me till about five-thirty, so I need ta’ find someone to watch ya’ till she gets there.”
“I think we’ll be fine for a few hours, Ben,” I offered. “He’s already performed an execution tonight.”
“Yeah, so? Last time he went on a rampage, he killed three people in a night, not just one.”
“True, but he held Amanda Stark captive for a week, and we’re pretty sure what was happening to my arm was a good indication of what he was doing to her during that period. It’s not hard to guess what he was after. You can bet that his list of names has grown considerably, and we don’t really know that he’s following a particular order. I may not even be a priority anymore.”
“But ya’ don’t know that for sure,” he chided.
“Well no, I don’t.”
“Then I’m findin’ someone to watch ya’ until Mandalay shows up. End of discussion.”
* * * * *
For the second time in a single night, I was awakened by the sound of urgent pounding on my bedroom door. Also for the second time in that same night, I was fairly certain that I hadn’t been in bed for very long. At least this time, when I rolled over to look at the clock, the insistent pain of an ethereal symbol tattooing itself into my arm didn’t greet me as it had done earlier.
“Mister Gant! Miz O’Brien!” Detective McLaughlin’s urgent voice came from the other side of the door and was followed by another round of rapid knocking.
“Just a sec,” I called out.
Bleary eyed but feeling whole for the first time in almost two weeks, I climbed from the bed and shushed the dogs. After quickly pulling on my jeans I opened the door.
Charlee McLaughlin was possessed of a fresh, farmer’s daughter kind of face that bordered on the quintessential definition of cute. On any given day, her youthful appearance betrayed no indication whatsoever that she had recently turned forty.
Looking at her now, I would have guessed her age far beyond those four decades.
Her face was drawn tight and absent of any color save for a chalky white pallor. Worry creased her brow, and absolute terror filled her eyes. My mind shunted immediately into high gear as it raced through the various scenarios that placed a killer at my door.
“What’s wrong?” I stammered and took a half step back, as the latest of the possibilities flashing in my head had the killer already in the house and forcing her to awaken us.
“Mister Gant, I have to leave,” she told me in a frantic tone as she struggled into her leather jacket. “My husband just called me. Our daughter was in an accident, and they’ve taken her to the hospital.”
“Oh Gods!” Felicity’s voice came from behind me as she roused from the bed. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Charlee answered, he
r eyes beginning to shine with the first warning of tears. “Scott said something about the fog, a drunk driver, and emergency surgery. I’m supposed to meet him at the hospital.”
She was already starting to shake.
“Go,” I told her. “We’ll be fine.”
“No.” She shook her head and gave me a pleading look. “You have to come with me. Agent Mandalay won’t be here for another three hours, and I can’t leave you alone.”
I started to object, but before I could form the words, the gremlin named “Reason” whispered in my ear. Charlee needed to be with her daughter, and it was a very real possibility that time was not on her side. I instantly realized that arguing the point was the last thing I needed to do right now. Especially when that argument would be with a distraught mother who carried a gun.
My unspoken objection turned inside out to become concession, “Okay. Give us just a minute to get dressed.”
* * * * *
From the time Ben had bestowed upon me the loaded and holstered Glock 17, it had been making its home in my sock drawer. As far as I was concerned it could have stayed that way, and since I really hadn’t left the house for the past seven days, it never presented itself as a problem. Earlier in the evening however, when we had left for the crime scene, my friend had displayed his militant attitude about the weapon and badgered me into wearing it. When we arrived back home, the only thought on my mind was crawling into bed and sleeping until spring. My clothes were a non-concern, and they ended up in a less than neat pile gracing a chair in the corner of our bedroom. Now, due to our haste, the sidearm was still attached to my belt beneath the folds of my jacket, and it was feeling incredibly awkward.
Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 33