The Law Of Three: A Rowan Gant Investigation Read online

  THE LAW OF THREE

  A Rowan Gant Investigation

  A Novel Of Suspense and Magick

  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.

  THE LAW OF THREE: A Rowan Gant Investigation

  A WillowTree Press Book

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2003 by M. R. Sellars

  Cover design Copyright © 2003, 2006 Johnathan Minton

  Excerpt from NEVER BURN A WITCH: A Rowan Gant Investigation Copyright © 2001 by M. R. Sellars

  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

  There are so many people who have come into and gone out of my life over the years that I’ve lost count, and each of them is in some part responsible for what happens between the pages of my novels. It is literally impossible for me to thank each and every one of them here individually, but there are some who stand out in the crowd, and I feel it a moral imperative that they be mentioned—

  Dorothy Morrison: Friend, mentor, and supreme conjuress of the “Bobble Head.”

  Officer Scott Ruddle, SLPD: Best-Bud, confidante, and real life “copper”— Ben Storm without the ancestry.

  Roy Osbourn: Teller of wonderful stories, purveyor of invaluable information, and barbecued rib chef extraordinaire.

  Tammi Nesser: Thanks for letting me borrow your neuroses and phobias.

  Trish Telesco and A.J Drew: Friends, cohorts in crime, and charter members of the “Bobble Head Coalition.”

  My long distance family: Mystic Moon Coven.

  Duane, Chell, Angel, and Randal: I love you guys.

  All of my good friends from the various acronyms: C.A.S.T., F.O.C.A.S.M.I., H.S.A., M.E.C., S.I.P.A., and S.P.I.R.A.L.

  Patrick Owen: What can I say, brother? A Romeo and Julietta Churchill, VSOP, and an easy chair—I’ll be there.

  My parents: I will never be able to thank you enough for introducing me to the written word.

  Chell, Cindy, Dorothy and Kathy: The team who tirelessly reads, re-reads, and then reads some more.

  “Chunkee”: Who not only reads and re-reads but also has the guts to argue with me. My friend, you ARE the Rowan Gant scholar, and I cannot write these without you.

  Johnathan Minton: A sorcerer of graphic art, who can take my innocuous ramblings about a cover idea and create a masterpiece worth well more than a thousand words.

  My daughter: For being my daughter.

  My wife, Kat: For story editing; running the household; putting up with my dual career; making sure I get where I am supposed to be, when I am supposed to be, while still making me look presentable to the public—and she looks gorgeous doing it. Then, after all that, she claims that she still loves me.

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

  For Dorothy.

  Thank you for reminding me

  that this is supposed to be fun…

  Ribbit!

  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.

  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.

  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…

  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 high
er-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.

&nb
sp; “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.”