Crone's Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation (43 page)

“Hey, white man,” my friend prodded quietly.
“You hear me?”

“Yeah,” I replied quietly, my voice a thin
whisper. “Me either.”

I brought my cigar up and tucked it in the
corner of my mouth. I puffed, but nothing happened. I pulled it out
and regarded the business end without emotion. I stuck it back
between my teeth and reached into my jacket pocket for a match.

My right hand was still wrapped in gauze.
Several stitches had been required to close the wounds across my
knuckles. There was a hand-shaped bruise square in the center of my
chest that had already cycled into several bright shades of purple.
My entire body was sore. I didn’t even have to move to feel the
aches, and the damp air wasn’t helping. But, it didn’t matter.

I was finding it hard to really care about
anything right now.

I fumbled with a wooden match, trying to
strike it using my bandaged hand and succeeded only in breaking it
in two. Ben reached over and took the box from me, ignited a match,
then cupped it in his hand and held it forth so I could re-light my
cigar.

I puffed carefully, using my left hand to
twist the stogie as I drew on it, then pulled it away and inspected
the end, blowing a gentle stream of smoke at the glowing coal.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“Not a problem,” he returned as he shook out
the flame and flicked the charred wooden stub over the railing.

“I need a drink,” I announced.

“No you don’t,” he replied.

“Yes I do.”

“Trust me, white man,” he returned. “You
don’t. ‘Specially not right now. Give it some time.”

We continued sitting in silence for several
minutes. Several feet beyond the deck railing a small flock of
birds were pecking at the ground around one of the feeders. Out of
the corner of my eye I could see Emily, our calico cat, stalking
them.

“Just doesn’t seem right,” he said.

“Can we talk about something else?” I asked,
swallowing hard after the words.

“Yeah,” he said, paused, then offered,
“Albright’s pissed.”

I couldn’t say much for his choice of new
topics, but I went along with it anyway. I didn’t have the energy
to do anything else.

“Like I care?” I replied.

He nodded. “Yeah, I know. Guess it was to be
expected, huh.”

“She making life hard on you?”

“A bit, but I’ll survive. I always do.”

“Yeah. You do.”

“By the way, talked to Mandalay this
mornin’,” he offered. “She asked about ya’.”

“She okay?”

“Yeah. Needin’ ta’ talk. The shooting at the
gas station was the first time she’d ever had to kill anyone.”

“And it was a kid.”

“Yeah.”

“She in trouble?”

“A little. She’s on administrative leave.
They aren’t too hot on the fact that she left the scene, but
considerin’ the circumstances she’ll come out okay.”

“Good.”

“They were brother and sister, you know,” my
friend said, switching subjects again.

“Yeah, you told me.”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Guess I
did.”

I shifted in my chair, trying to get
comfortable. I wasn’t succeeding.

“They tested the brother,” he offered. “Got
an IQ of fifty-two.”

“Too bad,” I murmured.

“Why do ya’ say that?”

I looked over at him, unable to muster an
expression and simply said, “Because with an IQ that low, our
judicial system will let the bastard live.”

“Yeah, prob’ly,” he answered, and then sighed
before continuing. “The sister is the real sick one.”

“They’re both sick, Ben.”

“Yeah, but the sister is the one behind the
whole mess.”

“Is she mentally challenged too?”

“No.”

“Good,” I replied. “Then they can execute
her.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the prosecutor will push for
it.” He paused and took a puff from his cigar, rolling the smoke
around on his tongue before letting it out in a slow stream. He
tapped the ash then looked back over to me. “Regular fuckin’
torture chamber they had down in that basement. Crime scene guys
said they actually had some kinda current-slash-voltage regulator
or somethin’ hooked up to the generator. Kinda like a homemade
electric chair.”

“Yeah, they were real experts weren’t they,”
I grumbled.

“I guess,” he replied, then added,
“Apparently electrocution is pretty painful. The sister liked ta’
see how much the victims could take. That’s her kink. Inflictin’
pain.”

“You’ve got an odd view on changing subjects.
Do we really have to talk about this right now, Ben?” I asked.

He frowned and looked away then muttered,
“Yeah. I know. Sorry.”

After a short, uncomfortable silence, he
spoke again. “So whaddaya wanna talk about?”

“Nothing.”

The heavy silence fell between us again as I
puffed quietly on my cigar. I watched on as Emily continued
creeping slowly toward the blissfully unaware flock of birds.

“So, what about the brother?” I asked,
reopening the wound of my own accord.

“I thought you didn’t wanna talk about
it?”

“I changed my mind.”

“Okay, so what about ‘im?”

“He was torturing the women too.”

“He was just doing what his sister told him
to do,” my friend said with a mild harrumph. “Still doesn’t get
that he was doin’ anything wrong.”

“What about the heads?”

“There were fifteen total,” he replied. “From
four different states so far. They’ve identified all of ‘em except
three. Missing women dating back six years. We’re still tryin’ ta’
get ‘em ta’ tell us where the rest of the bodies are buried.”

“I meant why did they keep them.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, it seems big brother thought
they were pretty, so he wanted ta’ keep ‘em.”

“Gods…” I murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Any idea why the scattered grave sites?”

“Not yet.”

I turned my head slightly and watched Emily
as her tail twitched and her hindquarters danced in preparation to
attack. She suddenly uncoiled and sprang forward, missing her mark
but sending the flock noisily into the air.

Ben huffed out a breath then asked, “So, what
time are you going to the funeral home?”

“About three-thirty,” I replied.

“That’s comin’ up pretty quick.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You know, it ain’t your fault she’s gone,
Row. You did everything you could.”

I didn’t answer.

“So… You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll make it.”

I thought I heard a noise and turned to see
an auburn-haired vision standing in the open back door. Her hair
was pulled up in a loose Gibson girl, neatly pinned in place. She
was clad in a solemn black dress and pumps.

“Aye, Rowan,” she said softly. “Come in and
change. We have to leave soon.”

“I’ll be right there,” I told her with a
nod.

She looked back at me sadly. Her soft face
looked like it had been brushed with a tasteful amount of makeup,
but it still couldn’t hide the black rim around her eye nor the
bruise on her cheek where she’d taken the punch. Fortunately, the
burns on her opposite cheek had completely disappeared, as had
mine. Would that all injuries healed as quickly and completely as
the ethereal ones seemed to do. In that same vein, it was too bad
that the emotional scars of the supernatural would never really
fade.

I continued to watch as she turned and
disappeared back into the house. When she was out of sight, I
turned back to the yard and puffed on my cigar.

“Yeah,” Ben muttered again. “The Forest woman
really seemed like she was gonna make it when they took ‘er outta
that basement. I guess she’d just been through too much.”

“Yeah,” I replied quietly.

“Jeezus, Row, I know it sounds bad, but
I’m glad it was her and not… Ya’know… And… And I hate ta’ say it,
but I’m just glad she lasted until after the
Twilight Zone
thing fizzled out… Ya’know? And
Firehair didn’t… Well… Ya’know…”

“Yeah, Ben. Me too,” I muttered. “Goddess
help me. Me too.”

H
e closed the door of the
attic office then sat down at his desk and pulled out the lower
drawer as far as he could. The twisted corner of a plastic shopping
bag was peeking out from underneath a stack of paper. It had been
tucked in the back of the file drawer for over a week now. Out of
sight but never out of his mind. Now that the dark moon had come
back around, he was ready for it.

He pulled the bag from its hiding place and
shut the drawer, then he pushed his keyboard and mouse aside,
clearing an area on the surface of his desk. He emptied the
contents out onto the space and set about opening an oblong box.
After a few moments of struggling with twist ties and string, he
managed to extricate the toy from the package.

He sat the 12-inch fashion doll on his desk
and propped her against the face of the computer monitor. Her
plastic skin was pale ivory and her nylon hair a cascade of long,
spiraling, red curls. He looked past the doll at a framed picture
of a woman and was amazed yet again by the resemblance, just as he
had been when he saw the doll in the store.

He shook his head and began to fiddle with
the other items that had poured from the shopping bag. A packet of
salt, a black candle, some clear cellophane wrap, and a spool of
purple ribbon. He didn’t have long to do this. She would be coming
home soon.

After quickly preparing his space, he lit the
candle and began to meditate, breathing in through his nose and out
through his mouth. He wanted his mind clear and focused, because
for this to work, there was no room for even the slightest doubt.
He dropped into a relaxed rhythm and eventually opened his
eyes.

Reaching out, he lifted the doll and began
carefully wrapping it in the clear cellophane. Once he was
satisfied, he began to weave the purple ribbon around the
plastic-encased poppet, criss-crossing it as he went. With each
lace, he murmured to himself, “Never again. With this shield, I
bind you from harm, Felicity Caitlin O’Brien.”

When he finished trussing the doll, he
gathered the trash and stuffed it into the shopping bag. Then, he
picked up the doll and set out for a place to bury it.

With luck, he would put it in a place where
she would never find it.

An active member of the HWA (Horror Writers
Association), M. R. Sellars is a relatively unassuming homebody who
considers himself just a “guy with a lot of nightmares and a word
processing program.” His first full-length novel, Harm None, hit
bookstore shelves in 2000 and he hasn’t stopped writing since. He
says that the biggest adjustment he has had to make with his
writing career is coping with the time spent away from his family
while traveling on promotional tours. Still, he approaches it with
the same humorously deadpan and occasionally acerbic wit that he
applies to life in general.

All of the current novels in Sellars’
continuing Rowan Gant Investigations saga have spent several
consecutive weeks on numerous bookstore bestseller lists as well as
a consistent showing on the Amazon.com Horror/Occult top 100.

Sellars currently resides in the Midwest with
his wife, daughter, and a host of what he describes as “rescued,
geriatric, special-needs felines.” At home, when not writing or
taking care of the household, he indulges his passions for cooking
and hanging out with friends.

M. R. Sellars can be found on the web at:

www.mrsellars.com

Brainpan Leakage the M. R. Sellars Satire Blog

www.brainpanleakage.com

OTHER BOOKS BY M. R. SELLARS

The Rowan Gant Investigations

HARM NONE

NEVER BURN A WITCH

PERFECT TRUST

THE LAW OF THREE

CRONE’S MOON

LOVE IS THE BOND

ALL ACTS OF PLEASURE

THE END OF DESIRE

BLOOD MOON

MIRANDA

(Available in both print and e-book editions)

Other

YOU’RE GONNA THINK I’M NUTS…

(Novelette included in Courting Morpheus Horror
Anthology)

MERRIE AXEMAS: A KILLER HOLIDAY TALE

(Novella)