Harm none argi-1 Read online

  “Like you really need it,” Felicity admonished. “Allison and I get you two to quit cigarettes, and the next thing we know you’re sucking on some other burning carcinogen.”

  “Boys will be boys,” I told her.

  “Yeah,” Ben chimed in. “What he said.”

  The friendly chatter eased my mind for the time being, but I still felt a nag in the back of my skull. Sitting here, I knew that just as I had suspected, my friend was without a doubt its undeniable source.

  Later in the evening, we called out for pizza and moved our celebration indoors. After putting the dogs through their paces for a handful of the crusts, Felicity said her goodnights and went off to bed, for she had an early outing with her nature photography club the next morning.

  Ben had grown quieter as the evening wore on, leaning more heavily on the Scotch than I can ever recall him doing before. After I finished clearing the dishes from the table, he refilled our glasses from the near-depleted bottle of Glenlivet, and then we ventured out to the back deck.

  My friend dropped his large frame heavily into a chair and went about trimming the end from a fresh cigar as I lit the citronella-oil-filled tiki torches that rimmed the deck. Mosquitoes had been bad this summer, and these seemed to stave them off fairly well while providing an unobtrusive light. After bringing the last torch to life, I took my seat opposite Ben at the patio table and proceeded to work on my own after-dinner smoke. I could literally feel his introspection building to a point of release and knew that the worry clouding the back of my mind would soon be summoned forward.

  “You’n Felicity are still into that Wicca thing, right?” Ben queried after an extended silence.

  “If you mean have we converted to Catholicism or something, no we haven’t,” I answered. “We aren’t connected with a coven right now, but we still practice. Once you’re a Witch, you usually stay a Witch.” I lit my cigar and then took a sip of my Scotch. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” he replied hesitantly.

  I knew there was more to the question than mere curiosity, but I also knew better than to press this particular subject with Ben, for that would only serve to make him feel ill at ease. He had always been willing to accept that Felicity and I practiced what was considered by most to be a non-traditional religion but usually showed a clear desire to leave it in the background. Out of sight, out of mind. As with most things that didn’t fit with the majority view, the masses, including Ben, were entirely off base in their misconceptions regarding Wicca, WitchCraft and almost any other alternative religion for that matter.

  I had once attempted to explain to him that Wicca and WitchCraft, or simply “The Craft” as we often call it, involved no pointed hats, bubbling cauldrons, or flying brooms. To the knowledge of any practitioner of the religion, it never did truly include such things. I told him that Wicca was simply an Earth religion, and as for deities, ours were the Earth and the Moon: Diana and Pan, respectively. There was no evil intent, and in fact, our most basic and all-important covenant was to “Harm None.” We viewed our religion as a way of life through which we did our best to live in harmony with nature, and through study and meditation, we attempted to learn control over the natural energies that inherently reside within all of us. I further explained that in doing this, we sometimes developed abilities that some would consider psychic in nature, such as an uncanny sixth sense or the ability to heal others and ourselves: We think of these as learned talents, nothing more, and nothing less. I even added that I knew of no incident where anyone had been turned into a frog, except in fairy tales. The simple fact was that even if that were possible, no self-respecting Witch would consider it.

  Even after I had answered his several pointed questions, he still clung to his misconceptions, and so, out of respect for him, I made sure to steer clear of the subject entirely.

  Now, for the second time in less than a week, Ben was asking me about a part of my life he normally avoided. I wasn’t about to push, so I was more than willing to bide my time and wait for him to get around to what he wanted. I could feel his preoccupation thick in the darkness around us, so I was certain my wait would be a short one.

  “So… You remember when I called you ‘bout that five-pointed star a couple days back?” he finally asked.

  “You mean the difference between a Pentacle, and a Pentagram?” I returned. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “That’s it,” he affirmed. “Would ya’ mind tellin’ me the difference on that again?”

  “No problem. A Pentacle is basically just what you said, a five-pointed star surrounded by a circle. It’s a very common symbol in the Wiccan religion. When it’s upright,” I scribed the symbol in the air with my finger, “with only one point at the top, it represents man and the spirit as it rules over the four elements. That’s when it’s called a Pentacle. If on the other hand you turn it one hundred-eighty degrees, and two of the points are at the top,” I spun my finger in a circle, “it’s called a Pentagram and represents the spirit’s union with material elements.” I relaxed back into my chair. “Some however, place an improper, albeit widely accepted, meaning on the Pentagram. They claim it represents Satan, evil, black magick, etcetera.”

  “So, if it’s right side up or whatever, it doesn’t mean anything evil?” he posed.

  “It actually depends on who drew it, and the significance THEY placed on it, but it’s really nothing more than a symbol. Inherently, neither of them mean anything evil,” I answered. “In my religion anyway.”

  Ben stared thoughtfully out into the night, absently fingering the rim of his Scotch glass and quietly puffing on his cigar. I didn’t disturb him. Instead I watched the orange glow on the end of the cigar each time he puffed and waited patiently for the next question.

  “What about colors?” he asked. “Do ya’ color it in or somethin’? You know, like a rainbow?”

  “Sometimes you’ll find a different color at each of the four corners,” I answered. “Yellow in the upper left, blue in the upper right, red in the lower right, and green in the lower left. They represent the elements of Air, Water, Fire, and Earth. On occasion the top point will be white, representing Akasha, or the spirit.”

  “Would they be pastels?” he queried.

  “Well, I suppose if you wanted to be artistic about it they could,” I laughed. “But they don’t have to be. Just yellow, blue, red, green, and white.” I could feel his tension congealing around us and knew that something about a Pentacle was really bothering him. I was just about to break my own rules and press for the problem when he elected to reveal it on his own.

  “So listen, Rowan,” he began. “I’ve got this case I’m workin’ on, and ta’ be honest, it’s really got me screwed up. It’s not normal…there’s somethin’ real strange about it.”

  “Something to do with a Pentacle, I assume?” I asked, already knowing it to be true.

  “Yeah,” he continued. “The theology expert the department called in can’t seem to make up his mind. His theory changes every time we try to talk to ‘im. A couple of the old timers on the force say the whole thing reminds them of a Satan-worship-slash-cult-murder they worked a few years back. That’s why I called you Wednesday night.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “I was almost ready ta’ agree with ‘em about the cult stuff, but somethin’ kept eatin’ at me,” he explained. “I’m sittin’ at my desk thinkin’, ‘where have I seen this star thing before?’ All of a sudden it hits me…” Ben pointed at me and waved his hand about. “Hangin’ around YOUR neck.”

  The fact that he had been able to match me with the symbol suddenly made sense. The quarter-sized pendant I wore was for all intents and purposes a part of me, for I almost never took it off; much as one who wears a Crucifix or the medallion of a patron saint. For the most part, it remained hidden behind the fabric of my shirt, and I had honestly never given any thought to the fact that he might have noticed it, but obviously, he had. Of course, what good is a cop
if he’s not observant?

  “So you called me to find out if I was in a cult or something?” I posed.

  “Hell no, I knew better than that. I called ya’ because I figured ya’ just might know a little more about what it means than the wingnut the department hired.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “Now the problem is I’m even more confused.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, if this star is a good thing, I don’t get why it was at the scene.”

  “If I’m following you, you’re talking about a murder, correct?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he answered and took a long swallow of his drink. “Murder… Sacrifice… Something…”

  “And you’re sure what you found was a Pentacle, and not a Pentagram?”

  “It had five points, and it was right side up,” he explained. “So yeah, it was a Pentacle I guess.”

  “So what does your expert have to say?”

  “Well, the latest theory from that Einstein is that it’s a ritual sacrifice from a Satanic African cult called Santeria.”

  I puzzled over the information wordlessly for a moment, staring deliberately into my own drink as I formed a response. “I realize that I haven’t seen the evidence myself, but based on what you’ve said, I would seriously doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  “To begin with, a Pentacle isn’t a Santerian symbol, but that’s only a minor part of it. Santeria is an Afro-Cuban religion, not a cult, and it has nothing to do with Satan worship. Their sacrifices are normally small animals such as chickens, not human beings. In most cases, the animal is cooked and eaten as a part of the ritual. Truth is, they treat their dinner with more respect than you or I do.

  “Another thing you might want to take into account is the fact that the actual Satanic religion doesn’t endorse human blood sacrifice either. My guess would be that your expert has some pre-conceived notions and is misinterpreting the facts.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” Ben looked at me with an expression of mild surprise, his cigar held frozen several inches before his face.

  “I read a lot,” I told him. “Wicca and WitchCraft get compared to everything under the sun. Good, bad, and otherwise. I just like to keep up with what I’m being accused of.”

  “Makes sense.” Thoughtful silence followed his measured reply, leaving us with the trilling night song of countless crickets.

  I realized my explanation had, unintentionally, served only to add more confusion to his current discomposed thoughts. I could also feel his aura of internal conflict as he debated over his next question. In the interest of addressing both of the complications, I voiced my own query, “So…Are you looking for help?”

  “I shouldn’t drag you into it,” he answered after a long pause.

  “You aren’t dragging me anywhere, Ben,” I told him. “If what happened is actually some kind of cult sacrifice, it could mean something bigger than just one homicide. Besides, the fact that you found a Wiccan symbol bothers me just as much as it does you. Like I’ve told you before, our most basic rule is to ‘Harm None’. Even if it has nothing to do with the religion, if I can help you track down whoever did it, then let me.”

  Ben ran one hand through his hair and smoothed it back, a gesture I had come to equate with his being lost in thought. I had known this man for more years than I cared to remember and had seen him through good and bad. He was a consummate professional, without a doubt. Still, I knew that all the training and even all the experience in the world could never prepare someone for every scenario he may encounter in this line of work.

  I was constantly amazed by my friend’s ability to remain detached and objective in an investigation, but tonight was different. I had never seen him so disturbed by a case. Ever. I could tell from his troubled demeanor that this one must be beyond what even a seasoned veteran considered bad.

  “I’ve got some pictures with me,” he finally spoke after what seemed a lifetime. “Do ya’ think you can give me an idea of what some of the stuff might mean?”

  “I’ll be happy to give it a try,” I told him.

  “You haven’t seen this stuff yet,” he replied. “It’s bad, Rowan.”

  “I understand.”

  “No you don’t,” he sighed. “When I say bad, I mean it’s fuckin’ sick.”

  I had just turned on the overhead light in the dining room and seated myself at the table when Ben returned from his van with his briefcase. He peeled off his sport coat and threw it over the back of a chair then sat down. With a quick snap, he released the latches on the case and retrieved a large manila envelope bearing a case number and the word EVIDENCE printed in bright red block letters. I could see sweat already forming on his brow, and his hands trembled slightly as he handed me the packet.

  “Man,” he said. “I really hate ta’ do this to ya’. This shit is enough to give ya’ nightmares. It has me.”

  “Like I said,” I took the envelope, “you aren’t doing anything to me. I offered to help.”

  I unwrapped the string that held the package shut and folded back the flap. Tilting it, I slid out a healthy stack of eight-by-ten photographs, some color, some black and white. I began thumbing through the pictures slowly, studying each one carefully and giving Ben my general impression of the images.

  The first photo was of a crudely painted Pentacle on a wall. Sections were shaded in pastel yellow, blue, and green. The outline of the symbol was a deep, rusted red, and a portion of it was smeared with the same color.

  “Now I see why you were asking about the pastels,” I stated. “But the red looks a little strange. Not really a pastel.”

  “It’s the victim’s blood,” Ben volunteered matter-of-factly, his voice almost a whisper.

  “Oh,” I replied. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  The second picture showed the Pentacle at more of a distance, revealing a mound of black and a mound of white on the floor. The following picture, a close-up of the mounds, showed them to be candles that had burned until they extinguished themselves, leaving behind hardened puddles of wax.

  “Obviously a ritual of some sort,” I told him. “I’m not sure for what.”

  I thumbed through more pictures of the candles and wall from various angles. The black and white images were much easier to tolerate, though knowing that the Pentacle had been inscribed in blood made me imagine I could still see the glaring red within the crisp black and grey tones. Eventually, I came to a picture of another wall. In the same dripping crimson strokes as the Pentacle were the words “All Is Forgiven.”

  “The consultant still can’t manage to explain that,” Ben told me, indicating the pictured words. “He says it probably has somethin’ ta’ do with blood sacrifice rituals. Says he thinks it might…”

  “No,” I interrupted him, holding up a hand, “those words have nothing to do with a blood sacrifice ritual.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” he queried, sitting up a little straighter and focusing his attention.

  “Your expert is apparently pretty full of misinformation. I’m not saying that there wasn’t a sacrifice ritual performed mind you, but just because the victim’s blood was used, that doesn’t make it so,” I detailed. “The Pentacle and the inscription are components of a spell.”

  “You mean a hocus-pocus-poof-you’re-a-frog kinda spell?”

  “No. That’s a fairy-tale misconception. While spells sometimes do involve what can be called magick, they are primarily something like a prayer. This particular spell is a separate ritual unto itself, and if I’m right, then I’m willing to bet your killer performed it because of the murder, not as a part of it.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Ben told me, both eager and frustrated.

  “Just a second…” I got up from the table and went across the room to the bookshelves. “I just want to verify something real quick to make sure I’m right.” I scanned the shelves reserved for our Wiccan and alternative religious literature and quickly found what I was after. “H
ere it is…”

  I pulled the book from the shelf and leafed quickly through it as I strode back across the room and once again took a seat at the table.

  “What is that?” Ben asked as I continued rapidly turning and perusing the pages.

  “A grimoire,” I told him. “Kind of like a recipe book for Witches.” I stopped leafing through the book, and my eyes followed my finger down the text while I quietly mumbled to myself. Eventually I came to rest halfway down the page. “Yes, it’s a variation of an Expiation spell.”

  “A what?” Ben’s still confused voice reached my ears as I handed him the spellbook and quickly leafed back through the pictures I had already seen. According to the grimoire, a piece of the spell appeared to be missing. I felt sure it was there but that I simply hadn’t noticed it.

  “An Expiation spell,” I repeated. “A ritual to rid yourself of guilt and regrets-a way of asking forgiveness from yourself. I’m not finding it…” I stated hurriedly. “Was there a cup or goblet there? It would have had wine in it. Or maybe water.” Only silence met my ears. “Ben?” I queried again, looking up.

  He was staring at me across the table, face ashen, the spellbook held loosely in his hands.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, growing mildly concerned.

  “Yeah, we found a wine glass all right,” he said quietly. “But, it wasn’t filled with wine.”

  The look on his face told me that which I needed but didn’t want to know.

  “It was filled with blood wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “We think the bastard drank her blood.”

  The two of us shared a wordless stare as we were simultaneously bludgeoned by the revolting possibility he had just voiced. I swallowed hard and slowly forced my eyes back down to the permanent visual records of the abomination. Five photographs later, it was my turn for the greyish pallor to overtake my face. The glossy color image before me showed a bed with the nude body of a petite young woman draped across it. Her mouth was frozen in the oval shape of an agonized scream, her dull eyes staring horrifically into space. The wall next to the bed was spattered wildly with blood. Her throat had been cut, and her long, strawberry-blonde hair was matted into the sheets, which flowed to the floor like a crimson waterfall. From the ragged incision at her throat to a point just below her waist, and from shoulder to shoulder, she was nothing but bare exposed muscle. She had been skinned.