The Law Of Three
( A Rowan Gant investigation - 4 )
M R Sellars
The Law Of Three
M. R. Sellars
Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written,
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
Romans 12:19, Holy Bible, KJV
Mind the threefold law ye should,
Three times bad, and three times good.
Couplet twenty-three
The Wiccan Rede
Lady Gwen Thompson, First Printing, “Green Egg #69,” Circa 1975
Thursday, January 10
St. Louis, Missouri
PROLOGUE:
White video static raked itself across the barely-focused television screen in a free-for-all wrestling match with overblown chroma and luminance. The brightest spot on the tube fell somewhere near the center where the thick dust had been haphazardly wiped away by a bare hand. As if actively seeking this small porthole, the oddly hued video flickered in random bursts through greasy fingerprints to create angry shadows dancing throughout the confines of the small room.
Splotchy stains washed across the walls, illuminated by the swiftly shifting silhouettes. Most of them had long ago been rendered unidentifiable by the growing layers of filth. They now competed for attention with their more recent counterparts. Some of them looked as though they could be the remnants of foodstuffs, possibly hurled in anger or disgust. Others bore more than a passing resemblance to various bodily excretions better left unconsidered by those easily sickened-or in at least one instance, horrified. Still others might simply be nothing more than the result of water damage from the sieve-like roof. Whatever they had each been in their individual existences, they now blended to become a single stomach-turning mosaic.
The canvas for this nauseating mural was the paint that covered the crumbling sheetrock. It might have been pale blue in a previous incarnation, but the color, much less the particular shade, now defied any positive recognition. Dirty grey did not even come close to describing it, and the patina of grime did nothing to lend even the smallest clue.
“It’s now six seventeen a.m., and here’s Jennifer to fill you in on what to expect for your morning commute.” A muddy voice rattled outward from the speaker on the geriatric television set. “How’s it looking out there, Jen?”
A higher-pitched voice buzzed through as the hand-off was taken in a smooth segue. “Not so good, Skip.”
The screen switched to what might have been a chroma-keyed map being gestured at by what might have been a somewhat attractive woman-it was hard to say through the blur.
She continued. “Traffic is at a standstill at Forty-Four and Two-Seventy extending all the way back to Bowles Avenue due to an earlier accident, so you might want to avoid that area this morning if at all possible. And a reminder, police and MoDot crews are still on the scene of an overturned tractor trailer on I-Seventy, just east of Bermuda…”
The rushing sound of water in conjunction with a hollow, porcelain-throated burp echoed from a curtained corner of the room to drown out the thick audio of the TV. A steadily increasing whine followed, punctuated by a deep thud inside the walls as the plumbing complained. The familiar wet hiss of a toilet tank automatically refilling fell in behind-the pronounced noise droning unmuted for lack of a lid.
“Thanks, Jen.” The news anchor’s voice once again projected into the room from behind a faux woodgrain plastic grill. “In local news, the Saint Louis Major Case Squad is still looking for leads in the disappearance of Tamara Linwood. You will remember Eyewitness News was first to bring you this story when the twenty-seven-year-old grade school teacher was reported missing over one week ago after not showing up for work. Her locked car was found abandoned on the parking lot of the Westview Shopping Mall.
“Authorities suspect foul play but have declined to comment on a possible connection with the case of Sarah Hart. Hart disappeared from the same parking lot just under one year ago. Her badly decomposed remains were found several months later in a wooded area along the Missouri River. Anyone with information should contact the Major Case Squad at the number on the bottom of your screen.”
Eldon Porter was paying little attention to the prattle of the reporters. They were nothing more than background noise filling the small motel room. He listened with only passing interest to the periodic weather updates and even less concern for the actual news.
Pipes sang a pained lament once again as he twisted the faucet handle on a rust-stained basin that barely clung to the wall-supported more by the deteriorating drain pipe beneath than the corroded lag bolts that were supposed to be doing the job. He frowned at a cracked rectangle of glass mounted on the wall over the canted sink, peering into a kidney-shaped section where the silver had not yet peeled from the back. With no more than a sigh, he automatically set about the task of washing his right hand. There was a time in his life, not that long ago, when he would have washed his hands. Not the singular, hand. But the plural, hands-as in two.
However, there is no reason to wash something you almost never use, and that is how it had been for almost a year now.
Ever since that night on the bridge-ever since the warlock, Rowan Gant, had tried to kill him with something so mundane as a bullet.
Of course, Gant had been left with no other choice than to turn to such a commonplace method of attack to save himself. Eldon’s devotion had prevailed, and he had not been taken in by the sorcery and tricks. He had seen through the chicanery that masked the true depravity of the Satan-spawned heretic. The mundane was all that was left, for he was immune to the mystical. Had he only realized that the warlock would be carrying a pistol, he would have been triumphant.
Instead, he had failed in his task. Still, his righteousness and loyalty to his God’s mission had protected him from death that night- but not from the hardship of injury.
Perhaps a skilled surgeon, or even a back alley quack for that matter, could have repaired some of the damage that had rendered his hand so useless. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. The point was moot now, as it had been then, for he could ill afford the risk of being caught.
Not as long as the warlock, Rowan Gant, was still alive.
Eldon looked down at his left forearm. The monstrous pink and white depression extended from just below his wrist to a point halfway up to his elbow where the bullet had ripped away a tunnel of flesh. It might not have been so severe had it not been for the raging infection that almost instantly made a home in the wound, killing off even more of the ragged tissue. The resulting fever had seared his brow for days and was quelled only after he had been able to muster enough strength to break into a pharmacy for antibiotics and dressings.
He’d done as little damage as possible when breaking in, made a guess about what might work, took only what he needed, and then begged his Lord to forgive him for the sin of theft. He knew his absolution had been granted when the fever finally broke three days later, and he had remained free.
Unfortunately, his penance had come in the form of lameness. The severity of the bullet’s cruelty, combined with the infection, had left his hand a shriveled and useless claw and his forearm a misshapen appendage that was still visited by constant pain. Considering what the outcome could have been, in some small way he counted himself fortunate.
Gazing at the mostly healed wound, he noticed that the flesh surrounding the scar was reddish and swollen. The infection was gaining a hold again, as it had done several times now. He would need more antibiotics soon. Something different, stronger this time, because obviously what he had was no longer doing the job.
“…So if you haven’t pulled out your snow shovel yet, you might want to
think about it, because this front is definitely going to bring frozen precipitation with it this afternoon and evening. Most likely in the range of three to six inches.” Yet another, different feminine voice squawked from the television in the corner.
“There’s no way we can get a reprieve from that?” the anchor joked.
“Sorry, Skip, I don’t make the weather, I just forecast it,” the woman returned with a good-natured lilt in her voice.
“Meteorologist, Tracy Watson. Thanks, Tracy. It’s six twenty-eight, and coming up in the next half hour of Eyewitness News this morning, health reporter Doctor Patrick Kennedy will tell us about some alternative treatments for back injuries.”
“…And,” the co-anchor chimed in on cue, “We’ll have more on why the Major Case Squad has enlisted the aid of Saint Louisan and self-proclaimed Witch, Rowan Gant, to solve a bizarre homicide. We’ll be back right after this…”
All that was within the small motel room came to a complete and abrupt halt.
The endless prattle that had in Eldon Porter’s mind heretofore served only to chase away silence now had his full and undivided consideration. The mere mention of the warlock’s name pealed loud and clear through the muddy audio, striking deep into his soul and bringing him to instant attention.
Water continued to sputter from the faucet as he turned to look at the flickering TV screen. He continued to stare, silent and completely motionless throughout all one hundred eighty lethargic seconds of inane commercials-advertisements for everything from fruit juice to car loans. Never once did he twitch or so much as even blink. In point of fact, he scarcely even breathed.
He had been in Saint Louis for over a week now and thus far had been completely unable to track down the warlock. On the surface, Gant’s house appeared completely unoccupied. But, he knew it was not-not completely anyway. He knew this as he had been watching it carefully. Very carefully, because he also knew that he was not the only one watching.
Others were spying upon the house. In addition, others were spying from it. However, they were not looking for Rowan Gant; they were looking for him.
Eldon had begun to fear that the warlock had fled. That he was far removed from Saint Louis. Perhaps even from the state. It was this fear that had driven him to force the warlock’s hand; that action had brought him here, to this room, to wait.
Now, his wait appeared to be over.
A tinny riff of music that intermixed with syncopated drumming noises suddenly spilled into the room to announce the resumption of the morning news broadcast. As it faded out, a dead-on shot of the anchors popped in to replace the station ID graphic.
“Welcome back to Eyewitness News this Thursday morning, it’s six thirty-two, I’m Skip Johnson…”
“And I’m Brandee Street, filling in for the vacationing Chloe Winchell.” The co-anchor dropped into the cadence with practiced timing. “At the top of the news this morning, peace talks are continuing…”
As per usual, the teasers that came before the station break were just that-teasers. Tidbits of information intended to keep you tuned in while the unimportant drivel is paraded before your eyes. Eldon held fast to his firm resolve and continued his frozen stance for yet another three-minute eternity.
“Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad officials have confirmed reports that a self-proclaimed Witch is playing an important role in a murder investigation. Rowan Gant most recently aided the police in solving the murder of Debbie Schaeffer, the Oakwood College cheerleader who went missing late last year. He has now been called in once again to help with a bizarre homicide. Eyewitness News field reporter, Colin Kelso, joins us live outside city police headquarters. Colin…”
The screen switched to a video feed showing the image of a reporter clutching a logo-adorned microphone and staring stoically into the camera. Even with the extreme blur, his overly youthful appearance was evident. “Thanks, Brandee. As you stated, we have confirmed that self-proclaimed Witch, Rowan Gant, has been brought in to help with the investigation of a very strange and brutal murder. At around three a.m., police were summoned to an abandoned warehouse at the corner of Locust and Fourteenth streets. There they found the body of a man suspended by a rope from the roof ledge.”
“Colin,” the anchorwoman’s voice cut in, “I understand that there has been some speculation that this crime might somehow be linked with another murder?”
“Yes, while authorities have not made an official statement, there has been speculation on that fact. Viewers will remember that two weeks ago, the body of Lena Duke was found hanging from a tree in Cherokee Park in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. The ritualistic manner in which she was killed bears a striking resemblance to this crime.
“Statements released earlier this week indicate that the Cape homicide may be somehow linked to the killing spree of Eldon Porter which occurred here in Saint Louis early last year.
“Right now, authorities are still being tight-lipped about this case. We will keep you updated as the situation develops. Back to you, Brandee and Skip.”
The screen cut back to a headshot of the unnaturally honey-blonde newscaster paired with a smaller inset of the field reporter. “Colin,” she spoke. “Has Mister Gant actually been to the scene of this particular crime?”
“I’ve been told by one detective that, yes, in fact Mister Gant was brought in early this morning. An interesting development, however, just moments ago Mister Gant was seen leaving the scene with Detective Benjamin Storm of the city homicide squad and a woman we believe to be his wife, Felicity O’Brien. Although we were unable to obtain a comment, we did get this footage showing some type of altercation.”
The screen switched to show the wildly shaking image of a van, partially illuminated off and on by video lights. Unintelligible, but obviously heated voices could be heard in the background over the shouts of reporters and camera operators. As the centerpiece of the video byte grew larger and began to stabilize, a man shot into view from behind the open door of the vehicle, apparently rushing toward the cameras. In an instant he halted, then appeared to be jerked backward, disappearing into the vehicle.
“Any idea what was going on there, Colin,” she asked as the video repeated.
“We were unable to obtain a comment from anyone on the scene at this time, I’m afraid.”
“Okay, thanks Colin,” she said, and the inset was replaced by a wide shot of the news desk, revealing both anchors as well as a third figure seated at the L-shaped return. “Keep us updated on this breaking story.”
“Will do, back to you Brandee and Skip.”
After a measured beat, the anchor continued. “So, how many of us have complained about lower back pain?”
“I know I have,” chimed in Skip Johnson. “Joining us this morning is Doctor…”
Eldon finally blinked, and as he did he instantly tuned out the voices coming from the television, relegating them once again to muted background noise. He allowed a thin smile to pass briefly across his face, the only outward sign of the elation he now felt.
The warlock was still here.
He had just needed to draw him out, and his plan had worked even quicker than he had hoped.
He absently wiped his wet hand on his shirt as he took the few steps across the room to the broken down bed. The water continued sputtering and splashing in the rusty basin, melding in an off-kilter tune with the voices from the TV. On the scarred surface of a makeshift nightstand, a book was positioned with supreme care, as if on display. Eldon reached out with his good hand and lifted it reverently, then used the knuckles of his clawed left hand to open it and flip through the pages.
Near the back of the tome, he finally stopped, bringing his gaze to rest on a particular passage, his eyes darting back and forth as he read and re-read the words. Slowly, his lips began to move, and then eventually a whisper of sound began to slip between them. Finally, his gravelly voice spoke aloud to be heard only by him.
“For it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repa
y, saith the Lord.”
He continued to repeat the passage with growing rabidity, clipping the sentence until the only words spoken were “Vengeance is mine.”
Three Hours Earlier
CHAPTER 1:
Graphical images of playing cards expanded in happy accordion patterns across the glowing screen of my notebook computer as the machine proclaimed me victorious in this latest game of solitaire. Unless I’d lost track, this one made six for me and something on the order of ten million for the machine, give or take. I wasn’t actually keeping count, though. Well, not of the computer’s wins, anyway.
I tucked my fingers back in behind my eyeglasses, forcing the frames to ride up on the bridge of my nose, then rubbed my eyes before directing my bleary gaze at the lower corner of the screen. I’d started this mindless activity at twelve and it was now 3:07.
That was a.m., mind you.
Of course, there wasn’t much else to do. Watch TV, surf the web, read a book. None of these options were particularly appealing to me, not even the endless games of solitaire. What I really wanted to be doing was sleeping, but the way my head was throbbing, that wasn’t about to happen.
The annoying thud that was pounding out a droning rhythm throughout the whole of my grey matter began early in the evening and had not subsided in the least. But, so far it hadn’t grown any worse, for which I was thankful. Of course, I knew that wouldn’t last. It would be getting much worse. I just didn’t know exactly when.
I’d had this kind of headache before, more times than I cared to count, actually. It wasn’t sinuses, and it wasn’t just your normal stress related “take two aspirin and lie down for a while” kind of pain either. This was an ache born of unnatural influences. It was the pure physical manifestation of fear and dread. The kind of headache I experienced every single time I knew something horrible was about to happen, and there was nothing in this world I could possibly do to prevent it.
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