Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation Read online

  “...So listen, Row,” Ben’s voice suddenly replaced the mechanical tick-ticking static of the hold button, “I gotta go have a second look at a crime scene, so I may not be around when you get here. If I’m back in time, you wanna grab lunch? I’ll buy.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there. Especially if it’s on you!”

  “Good deal. I’ll catch ya’ then. Later.”

  “Bye.”

  I was just settling the phone back onto its base when my eyes fell across the message pad. At first, I dismissed the concentric circles and figure eights of blue ink gracing the page as simply the random scrawling of my unoccupied mind. It was only upon the second glance, as I was tearing the page from the backing in order to discard it, that something struck me as odd. More than just meaningless scratches, the curves and lines twisted around, traced and retraced, forming numbers.

  2218.

  An obscure remembrance in the back of my head told me that I had dreamt this number earlier this morning. I stared at it for a long moment, wondering at its significance, before discounting it as a bizarre coincidence and crumpling the page in my fist. As I dropped it in the wastebasket, a pair of flannel-covered arms hooked about my waist, and a soft, curvaceous body pressed against my back. Any remnant of the puzzling number left in my mind was immediately and thoroughly replaced by thoughts vastly different.

  “Aye, who were you talking to this early in the morning, then?” Felicity’s sleepy voice murmured.

  “Ben,” I answered, turning in her embrace and squeezing her gently. “I was just checking in to see if I was still supposed to give that lecture this morning...what with the snow and all.”

  “What did he say?” she asked quietly.

  Her warm breath tingled my skin as she nuzzled in closer, her soft lips roaming up my neck.

  “Still on. It’s set up for ten. I guess I need to be there by nine-thirty or so.”

  “Mmmmmm... You smell good.”

  “Thanks...You don’t smell so bad yourself.”

  Clouds of her loose auburn curls floated about her lightly freckled face as she looked at me with drowsy, jade green eyes. She was a perfect picture of her own Irish-American heritage, and the Celtic lilt in her voice tied the package together. While normally a singsong note simply underscoring her words, she needed only to spend a few short hours with her family, or be tired as she was now, to re-kindle a heavy brogue that even included occasional lapses into Gaelic.

  “So what time is it now?” she cooed, rubbing cat-like against me and nibbling lightly at my earlobe.

  “About eight.”

  “I don’t have any clients scheduled this morning...” she whispered, referring to her profession as a freelance photographer.

  “Good for you.”

  I was feigning ignorance of what she implied, but she continued undaunted. When Felicity had set her mind to something, there was little I knew of that could stand in her way.

  “...And you’ve got some free time,” she breathed.

  “Uh-huh.” I was rapidly starting to melt.

  “I’m loving you a whole bunch right now...”

  I wasn’t exactly late, but it was close. I didn’t arrive at the Saint Louis city police headquarters until five minutes to ten.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Really. Trust me on this,” I said in a calm but very firm tone. “Witches DO NOT have lurid orgies by the light of the full moon for the purpose of spawning demon children. I don’t care WHAT that newsletter says.”

  The bulk of the lecture was finished and by all accounts had gone very well. For the better part of ninety minutes, I had outlined the philosophy of WitchCraft and the Wiccan religion. Taking great pains to stress their benevolence, I recited the Wiccan Rede and focused on its most important covenant—An it Harm None, do what ye will. I had covered the rituals and the symbols of the two, most especially, the Pentacle and Pentagram. For centuries, negative connotations had been placed on the five-pointed star hemmed by a circle. It had obviously come as a shock to the group that the true meaning of the symbol, no matter how you turned it, was that it represented man and his relationship to the elements. Nothing evil. Nothing Satanic. Of further distress to their preconceived notions was the fact that Witches don’t even believe in Satan. They weren’t entirely sure what to do when I informed them that Lucifer wasn’t our boy, but theirs and theirs alone. That fallen angel was simply a deity more closely associated with Judeo-Christian practices and held no place in the Wiccan faith. Even so, there was still at least one of them who remained unconvinced. Because of him, I was now explaining to a room full of blue-uniformed police officers why a particular right-wing publication he flaunted like a shield was factually incorrect.

  “My best guess on this would be that they are drawing an incorrect conclusion from two basic facts. One, that Witches and Wiccans often hold their ritual circles on the full moon... And two, that there are certain groups which hold their meetings in a manner known as skyclad. And yes, that very simply means that they are ‘in the buff’ so to speak.”

  “So you are confirming what the article says then.”

  The cocky challenge issued from the young buzz-cut-sporting officer who was responsible for bringing the literature in question. He had made it obvious from the beginning that he intended to discredit me in some fashion consistent with his own beliefs. His momentary false impression of victory told me that he sincerely believed he had just caught me in a lie. Thick, red anger was seeping through from his comments, and I was certain that I wasn’t the only one aware of the obvious chip on his shoulder. In the back of my mind, it frightened me that someone as prejudiced as he was allowed to wander the streets with a loaded gun on his hip.

  “No, I am not,” I returned, biting back my own rising impatience. “Skyclad means just what I said. They aren’t wearing any clothes. Being nude does not presuppose sexual activity.”

  “So you’re saying you are completely nude when you practice this religion?” Another officer interjected her question. “Doesn’t it get a little cold for that this time of year?”

  A light-hearted chuckle hopscotched through the room, rending a hole in the balloon of tension and deflating it to a much less explosive level. I added my own laugh to that of the group.

  “Yes, I suppose it is a bit chilly on a day like this. But I, personally, am not nude when I perform a ritual or practice my religion. There are some groups who do worship skyclad, and there are many others who don’t. I happen to be one of the don’t crowd.” I smiled back at her. Though we were still on the subject of nudity, her query was of great relief to me. “Like I told you earlier, there are several traditions of The Craft and Wicca, as well as many other Pagan and/or alternative religions.” I made quote symbols in the air with my fingers to punctuate the word alternative. “To assume that they are all exactly the same would be as ludicrous as saying that Catholicism and Judaism are exactly the same thing. You all know, and accept I might add, that there are numerous facets of Christian and mainstream religions... There are the Catholics, the Baptists, the Lutherans, and the Jewish... just to name a few. It is the same for other faiths as well. The whole reason behind this lecture is to show you that just because someone doesn’t follow what is considered by the masses as a mainstream religion, it doesn’t make them evil. Being a Druid, Buddhist, or even an atheist doesn’t mean that you have any more proclivities toward violence than anyone else. This seminar could be given by any open-minded individual of any religion. It just so happens that I am a Witch.”

  “I still think you’re hiding something,” the young rookie in the front row spat.

  A deeper, coarser voice issued from the back of the room, “Then ya’ obviously didn’t pay attention, did ya’?”

  Heads quickly swiveled at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and were greeted by a six-foot-six column of muscle. Clad in casual tan slacks and knit sweater with a gold shield clipped to his belt, the classically angular features of the Native American were carved fr
om dusty red granite. His hardened face was framed by jet-black hair worn at a length just barely within tolerance of his superiors. Dark eyes that had already witnessed far too much suffering for one lifetime focused tightly on the crew-cut patrolman. Detective Benjamin Storm pressed the door shut behind himself and ventured farther into the room.

  “Sorry for the interruption.” He nodded at me and slid into the first empty chair he spotted. Even seated, he towered over the rest of the group. “Please continue.”

  Gnawing sensations tickling my lower abdomen prompted me to glance at my watch. The fact that Ben was here joined in to tell me that lunchtime was just the other side of now.

  “Well, that pretty much concludes the lecture...unless there are any more questions?”

  I can only assume that fear of retribution from the large man in the back row kept the heretofore-argumentative patrolman from continuing his verbal attack. As for the rest of the officers, I was certain that their minds were just as occupied by the thought of filling their stomachs as mine was. The room remained silent, and not a single hand moved to rise.

  “...Then you all have my number on the handout I gave you. If something comes to mind, don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll be glad to answer any questions.”

  Low-pitched squeals of rubber-footed, metal chairs against unwaxed linoleum joined with the quiet mumblings and shuffle of footsteps. As the sea of dark blue funneled through the now-open doorway, a few of the officers took a moment to shake my hand and thank me for the presentation. The literature-bearing heckler, however, maintained a wide berth and held his gaze elsewhere. As he made his way out, Ben stood and motioned him to the side. There followed a short private exchange between the two, and he let out what appeared to be a nervous laugh. Ben’s face bore a wide grin as he clapped the young patrolman on the back with a meaty paw and sent him to join his fellow officers.

  “What did you say to that guy?” I asked when the room was finally clear and my friend sauntered to the front.

  “Who? The jerkoff?” He angled his thumb over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “I told him if I found out about him harassing you on the phone or anything, that I’d shove his night-stick so far up his ass it’d take a team of proctologists a week just to find it.”

  “You know, Ben, intimidation isn’t exactly the message I was trying to get across to these people today.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He brought a hand up to smooth back his hair and left it resting on the back of his neck, a mannerism I’d long ago learned to be a blatant signal that my friend had something of import going on in the back of his mind. “Sorry ‘bout that. It just pisses me off when assholes like that won’t listen.”

  “Yeah, Ben,” I sympathized. “Remember, I deal with it all the time. Not all that long ago, even from you to some extent “

  “Yeah, well, I got over it.”

  “Yes, you did. Now just give them a chance to do the same.”

  “Yeah, okay, you’re right… So, anyway, white man. Enough with that. You ready to grab somethin’ to eat?”

  “Sure. What’d you have in mind?”

  “There’s a great Chinese place not too far from the morgue. Just gotta make a real quick stop first.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that the stop you are referring to and the morgue are one and the same?”

  “You tell me. You’re the Witch.”

  * * * * *

  “Brianna Louise Walker,” Ben was reading to me with quick glances from his ever-present notebook as he drove. In reality, the Saint Louis city morgue was right next door to the police headquarters, but Ben had expressed extreme disdain at the thought of walking the short block in the cold only to have to walk back to get his vehicle. “Twenty-eight years old, single. AKA Mistress Bree, AKA The Wicked Witch of the West End. One a’ those dominatrixes. Regular bondage queen. Charged five bills an hour to use ya’ and abuse ya’.” He spared a quick glance at me before swinging the van around a tight arc into the parking lot of the morgue. “Coupl’a nights ago she took a nosedive off a sixth story balcony at the Riverfront Hilton wearin’ nothin’ but a studded collar and too much makeup.”

  “Suicide?” I queried.

  “Don’t think so...”

  Ben urged the van into a snow-packed space, making a judgment call as to where the yellow demarcation lines might be and nosed it up against a pile of the freshly plowed white stuff. The fan on the heater shut down as he switched off the engine, and we were left in a sudden pounding quiet.

  “...Cause she was also handcuffed. Probably her own. Best guess at first,” he continued, turning in his seat to face me while stuffing the notebook back into a pocket. “Maybe she spanked one of her johns too hard or something. Maybe a dispute over payment, dunno.”

  “Okay,” I paused, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Ben reached up and smoothed his hair then began massaging the back of his neck. He looked past me out the corner of the windshield and let out a troubled sigh. I turned my eyes from him and looked out across the lot. The snow had begun to taper off to small flurries, leaving the final accumulation total somewhere around seven inches. Bitter northern winds sliced down the frozen streets, kicking up miniature tornados of the icy white crystals. It just plain looked cold.

  The thump of the other shoe still not forthcoming, I pressed my friend further. “Come on, Ben. You’ve been telling me all this for a reason. What is it?”

  Ben exhaled loudly, puffing out his cheeks, and returned his reticent gaze to me before pressing ahead, “Okay, white man, it’s like this. She’s got marks all over her body that obviously didn’t come from the double gainer she took. Lacerations... Burns... Looks like the sick bastard that chucked her out the window took time to torture her first.”

  “Go on.”

  “One of the marks appears to be a symbol, and I was kinda wonderin’...”

  “...If I would have a look at it for you.” I finished his sentence for him.

  “If it makes any difference, the request for you came from higher up the line,” he said.

  “All you had to do was ask, Ben.” I told him. “You didn’t have to get all anxious about it and drag me down here under the pretense of going to lunch. Did you really think I’d say no?”

  “Look, Row,” his hand continued working on the self-induced tension in his neck, “I talked to Felicity the other day. She said you’ve started havin’ nightmares again... Ya’know, about Ariel Tanner and all that...”

  “A few. So?”

  “So I don’t wanna drag you into somethin’ that’s gonna fuck you up, man.” He forced out another exasperated breath and turned away, once again avoiding eye contact with me. The windows of the van had fogged from our breath as we talked, and the winter landscape was all but completely obscured from view. Chilled silence filled the van for a long moment before Ben finally spoke in a near whisper. “I did that once already.”

  “Dammit, Ben!” I snapped. “I’m telling you this for the last time. You didn’t drag me into anything. I volunteered to help you with that case. Any “demons” that I’m dealing with because of it are my own and, very simply, are not your fault!”

  I felt like grabbing my friend and shaking him as hard as I could. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to convince him that he wasn’t to blame for everything that had occurred during that investigation—my brush with death, my nightmares, and even Felicity’s miscarriage. Each of those things had come about directly because of my involvement in the search for a sadistic serial murderer. Ben’s loyalty as a friend caused him to cling to that blame like a security blanket, as if by taking responsibility he could protect me from an evil that he himself did not understand. In his mind, he thought all of this was because he’d asked me to decipher a symbol left behind at a crime scene. In my mind, I knew it was because my destiny was to square off with that unseen evil and face it down.

  I let out my own piqued sigh between pursed lips and sent the mild anger with my friend to sp
in away down an imaginary drain. I knew he meant well and that this was all a part of what made Detective Benjamin Storm, “Ben Storm the devoted friend.”

  I unlatched my door and shouldered it open. “Let’s go have a look. If I can help, you know I want to.”

  “Ya’know... I really hated to ask you to do this, Rowan.” Ben turned back to face me, his eyes betraying the pain he still refused to let go. The temperature inside the van had quickly dropped, and his words came in a cloud of steamy breath.

  “I know you did, Chief,” I answered. “But get over it. You can’t protect the entire world.”

  “Maybe not. But I can sure as hell protect my corner of it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “We haven’t cleaned her up yet,” the emotionless voice of the medical examiner told me officially. “We just finished the external examination early this morning. Detective Storm asked us not to proceed with the rest of the postmortem until you had a look.”

  The climate controlled gelidity of the autopsy suite, though still a fair amount warmer than the current outdoor temperature, injected itself uninvited into my joints, quickly hardening them to ice. Insinuating itself like a prickly arthritis, it froze me in place next to the stainless steel table bearing the young woman’s partially shrouded corpse. The only sound to reach my ears was the dull thudding of my own heart. I had been in this very room before with none but the living, but even then the restless souls of the departed had called out to me.