Blood Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation Read online

  BLOOD MOON

  A ROWAN GANT INVESTIGATION

  An Occult Thriller

  By

  M. R. Sellars

  E.M.A. Mysteries

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BLOOD MOON: A Rowan Gant Investigation

  A WillowTree Press Book

  E.M.A. Mysteries is an imprint of WillowTree Press

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2008 by M. R. Sellars

  Cover Design Copyright © 2008 Johnathan Minton

  This e-book edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book edition may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission.

  For information contact: WillowTree Press on the World Wide Web http://www.willowtreepress.com/

  Smashwords Edition – 2010

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This is the part where I gush about the folks who make all this possible. “This” being all of these words I hurl at paper and hope like hell at least some of them stick. This list is certainly not comprehensive. There are many, many folks who make the Rowan Gant series possible, not the least of which are those of you who buy them each time I write a new one. However, the folks listed here have been directly responsible for support, insurance, research, ideas, steak, crackers, beer, assorted boozes, chips and dip, various candies, donuts, ice cream, and sometimes even a shoulder to cry on when things aren’t going the way they are supposed to in my world. For that, I owe them at the very least a kudo or two here… After all, as my dear friend Tish would say, “It’s a moral imperative.”—

  The usual suspects… After being listed in the last eight novels, you should all know who you are by now. Suffice it to say, each of you has my sincerest love, admiration, and thanks for keeping me sane/fed/upright/not lost…

  As for additional suspects and persons of interest…

  My Ostara Fest 2008 handler, “Lolly” and also her business partner Joyce for making sure “Lolly” remembered to feed me…sometimes…Oh, and just so you know, “The bride is here and she’s wearing tie-dye.” (Don’t ask.)

  The Breckenridge Demolition Crew—you guys and gals rock, as usual…

  And we cannot forget—no line bifocals, Vienna sausages™, ramen noodles, electric pencil sharpeners, three-ring binders, Mister Crane, pushpins, color-coded paperclips, swizzle sticks, tape guns, Drumsticks™ (the ice cream kind—not that there is anything wrong with the chicken/turkey kind), vegetable juice cocktail, and woven wheat crackers. Oh, and also chainsaws, beer and liniment—in that order…

  And finally, as always, everyone who takes the time to pick up one of my novels, read it, and then recommends it to a friend.

  For Denessa Smith.

  I am a better person for

  having known you…

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  While the city of St. Louis and its various notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create an illusion of reality to be experienced and enjoyed.

  In short, I made them up because it helped me make the story more entertaining—or in some cases, just because I wanted to do so.

  Note also that this book is a first-person narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. In first person writing, the narrative should match the dialogue of the character telling the story. Since Rowan (and anyone else that I know of for that matter) does not speak in perfect, unblemished English throughout his dialogue, he will not do so throughout his narrative. Therefore, you will notice that some grammatical anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order to support this illusion of reality.

  Let me repeat something—I DID IT ON PURPOSE. Do NOT send me an email complaining about my grammar. It is a rude thing to do, and it does nothing more than waste your valuable time. If you find a typo, that is a different story. Even editors miss a few now and then. They are no more perfect than you or me.

  Finally, this book is not intended as a primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan path. However, please note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations may not fit your particular tradition, but you should remember that your explanations might not fit mine either.

  And, yes, some of the magick is “over the top.” But, like I said in the first paragraph, this is fiction…

  The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood,

  before the great and terrible day of the Lord come...

  Joel 2:31

  Holy Bible, KJV

  Friday, December 16

  12:53 A.M.

  University Hospital

  Saint Louis, Missouri

  CHAPTER 1:

  …The muffled report of something that sounded far too much like gunshots popped loudly from the speaker of the radio and was followed immediately by panicked screaming.

  “Shots fired!” Agent Book’s voice issued between tinny burps of static. His distressed tone was underscored by the chaotic noise coming from the frightened crowd.

  “Everybody move!” another voice ordered. “Now!”

  Seconds later Book’s words were again hemorrhaging from the speaker, devoid of all composure, “SHOTS FIRED! MANDALAY’S HIT! OFFICER DOWN! OFFICER DOWN!”

  All we could do was sit there, horrified, and listen to the distant scene unfold. They were inside, and we were out here. Deep in my gut I had known something would go wrong with this operation, I just hadn’t expected it to be this.

  I glanced over at my friend, Detective Benjamin Storm. If adrenalin hadn’t been dumping into his system before this point, it definitely was now. He came fully upright in his seat as the frantic chatter continued to burst from the radio.

  The device hissed for a second, then we heard Agent Book exclaim, “JESUS CHRIST… JESUS CHRIST… ONE GOT PAST HER VEST! SHE’S BLEEDING BAD! WE NEED PARAMEDICS RIGHT NOW!”

  I couldn’t keep the horrible soundtrack from screeching through my head. The nightmare ran in an endless loop, as clear and terrifying as when I had originally heard it a few short hours ago. I could only assume my subconscious was forcing me to relive the event as a by-product of the fear that was now boring a hole in my chest; or maybe it was the guilt that was twisting my gut into a hard knot. The way I felt, I was willing to lay odds both of them were to blame.

  However, if forced to pick one over the other I would say the guilt was probably in the lead. Primarily because it wasn’t just the ordinary remorse one feels over being unscathed when someone else is injured. No, this was much worse. It was the sickening sort of transgression that came from being relieved over another’s misfortune.

  Special Agent Constance Mandalay was a dear friend, and I certainly had not wished for this to happen. Not to anyone, but especially not to her of all people. What I wanted right now was for my friend to be okay—to come out of this grinning and wondering “why all the fuss.” But, in the same moment, a large part of me was grateful that it was her who was now on the verge of death, and that was the source of my guilt. I didn’t want Constance to die, but if someone had to
I was relieved that it was she—because the most likely alternative candidate was patently unthinkable for me.

  The reason it was so inconceivable in my mind was because my wife had been the intended target. Moreover, had Felicity in all her stubbornness been allowed the choice, she actually would have been in the line of fire rather than safely distant from the scene. But, to my relief, real life bears little resemblance to melodramatic television, and the FBI wasn’t about to purposely place a civilian in harm’s way. Instead, Constance had taken her place. Risky as even that was, it seemed the only chance at stopping a serial killer who had escalated, was quickly decompensating, and had now set her sights on my wife and me.

  Of course, before everything was over, Felicity made that step across the boundary of good sense anyway, but I couldn’t really blame her. She wasn’t exactly herself when it happened.

  Still, when all was said and done, my wife was safe, Constance was on an operating table, and the killer had been stopped. But, her capture had come at a steep and still not fully determined cost.

  We’d been told the wounded federal agent had gone into cardiac arrest during the ambulance ride, but they had managed to stabilize her quickly. All we had heard since was that she had lost a lot of blood and that she was still in surgery. The phrase “touch and go” and the word “critical” had been stressed, but other than that, nobody was saying much of anything else.

  Nobody, that is, except the disembodied voices in my head.

  “Book! What is your exact location?!”

  “Just outside the forest exhibit! Right before the path splits! Hurry!”

  “Found the gun,” Agent Frye’s voice blipped over the air. “But no shooter. The area is clear. She must have dispersed with the crowd.”

  “Washburn, cover southeast,” a voice ordered. “If she didn’t go past Book and Frye, then she has to be heading that way. I’m on the main path coming in toward you.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “We’re locking down the park,” another voice added. “SWAT will be here in two.”

  The device continued to burp and hiss with various voices for a moment, all of them reporting that there was no sign of Annalise Devereaux, the serial killer at the center of this evil. There was a quick burst of silence, then one of the agents came across the speaker, “I’ve got something. Red wig in a trashcan outside the restrooms near the stuffed animal workshop… Be advised the subject may have changed her appearance.”

  “WHERE ARE THOSE PARAMEDICS?!” Book’s frenzied words bled through on the heels of the announcement.

  “Where are those paramedics?!”

  “Where are those paramedics?!”

  I struggled to ignore the echo of his fear-stricken voice repeating in my head. The conflicting emotions already had me on the edge of emptying my stomach with extreme prejudice. Constantly reliving the horror was only serving to make the nausea worse.

  I tried to think about something else but wasn’t having much luck. Out of desperation I sent my eyes searching for something on which to focus, and my gaze fell across the illuminated elevator control panel in front of me. I locked onto it and struggled to concentrate. After a moment it seemed to work as my mind shifted gears. Of course, I should have known it wouldn’t last. My brain seemed intent on continuing the self-torture and wasn’t about to let a little thing like switching trains of thought stop it from doing so.

  With less than ten seconds respite of staring blankly at the glowing lights, my thoughts wandered right back into the darkness. My subconscious was in control, and the luminance in front of me simply triggered another morbid reminder of why we were here. Without warning I now found myself wondering about the light described by many who have come back from the brink of death. Technically, I myself had suffered clinical death on more than one occasion, but all I remembered of it was darkness. My own experience made me think perhaps the proverbial light was just a trick of the synapses. Nothing more than a hazy glare brought about by an oxygen-deprived brain being bombarded with intensely focused illumination, especially in a place like this. I hadn’t been to a hospital yet that wasn’t filled with harsh brilliance, and this one was no different.

  Of course, since the myth of the bright light was just another thought about death rolling around in my skull, it really wasn’t helping matters any. If anything, the implications of finality it brought just made the acid churn of guilt eat away at my stomach even more, especially when I found myself wondering what Constance would see if she crossed over.

  I simply couldn’t get away from it. No matter how hard I tried to think of something else—anything besides dying—I couldn’t. I was just going to have to let the fixation play itself out. The scary thing is I wasn’t so sure I was ready for the thoughts to end because as long as I feared what may be coming, that meant it hadn’t happened yet. And, just as I had been afraid something would go wrong with the sting operation, another feeling was now making its way up my spine. An unearthly foreboding that made me feel painfully empty, and I couldn’t shake the sensation that the loss of yet another friend was coming far too soon.

  With that terrifying premonition also came a sense of panic, backed by utter helplessness. They had both started off as small eddies in the random whitewater currents of my emotions but grew exponentially on the way here, becoming violent undertows in their own right. Now, they were endeavoring to pull me down into the depths of a cold and darkened despair.

  I felt something soft press against my palm. I looked away from the panel and over to see Felicity staring at me, a similar mask of fear and guilt evident across her features. I gave her hand a squeeze, trying to reassure her, but was gravely conscious of the fact that I failed in doing so. I was broadcasting my own emotions far more than I wanted to admit, and there was no way for me to soothe her when I couldn’t even comfort myself.

  The elevator seemed like it was taking forever to deliver us to our floor. I knew we were moving because I could feel the vibration as we poked along. Just to be sure, I broke my silent gaze away from my wife and looked up. I stared at the numbers over the door, watching them flicker to life then wink back to darkness as the next would illuminate. In my mind they were advancing nowhere near quickly enough. Of course, I’m sure the futile exercise of willing them to go faster was only contributing to my ever-increasing agitation.

  Finally, after the less than one-minute upward trip folded itself into feeling like ten, the car ceased moving. An electromechanical tone was followed by the sound of the outer doors rattling as they parted in sync with the inner barriers. I stepped out of the elevator as soon as the gap was wide enough to permit. Felicity, still clinging to my hand, kept up without missing a beat. We started down the starkly illuminated hallway, following the directions we had been given by the attendant at the main desk several floors below. Agent Parker, who had brought us to the hospital from FBI headquarters, fell in close behind, but she remained mute; not that such was anything different from the established norm. The simple fact was that none of us had uttered a word for several minutes now.

  A good fifty yards ahead, the corridor abruptly terminated by emptying directly into a carpeted waiting area. The softer lighting of the distant room gave it the appearance of a calm oasis, neatly tucked away from the blinding glare throughout the rest of the building; however, I knew it was anything but. Especially, right now.

  We instantly picked up the pace. From the moment we were out of the vehicle downstairs, we had been traveling at a fast walk, but with our destination now in sight, we automatically broke into a jog. I realized there was no logical explanation for the urgency we felt. It was all based in pure emotion. There was nothing any of us could do, and I knew that. I was certain Felicity and Agent Parker did as well. But, knowing didn’t keep us from rushing headlong toward some glimmer of hope. Whether or not it would actually be there when we arrived was another story.

  Within seconds, the quick thud of our feet against the tile turned to a soft, thump,
as the harder flooring gave way to the carpeted expanse of the waiting area. Entering through the wide archway, we slowed to a halt. I quickly glanced around, searching the hidden corners of the room with my eyes. Felicity and Parker were doing the same.

  The lounge was devoid of anyone and anything save the furniture and dog-eared magazines resting in a haphazard pile on the center of a low coffee table. The glimmer we sought wasn’t here. All was empty and still, utterly silent except for the last flat echoes of our footsteps.

  “Are we on the right floor, then?” Felicity asked, becoming the first to break our collective reticence. Her pronounced Irish brogue was an audible betrayal of the fatigue we were all feeling. Normally her accent was a mild lilt, noticeable, but not terribly prominent. However, when she was tired it would thicken as it did now. The accent highlighted her words in broad strokes with each syllable she uttered. Given the uncharacteristic Southern twang that had overcome her voice during the height of this nightmare, the familiar Celtic affectation was a welcome sound.

  “The seventh floor waiting area is where they said they were,” Agent Parker responded. “They should be here.”