Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (19 page)

“...Aye, and how can you be expectin’ us to
plan our family gatherin’s ‘round your Pagan holidays now?” he
queried, his voice a mere notch away from belligerent.

“I’ve never asked you to do that, Shamus, and
you know it,” I returned, struggling to remain calm and looking
past him in search of my wife. I needed to be rescued soon before I
lost my temper and said something I would regret.

“What about last March then?” he shot back.
“We tried to plan your mother-in-law’s birthday party, we did. But
you had one of your godless holidays conflictin’!”

“It was a Spring Equinox celebration,
and if anything, I’m
poly
theistic, so you can hardly call it godless.
Besides, it was only one weekend, and you know you wouldn’t have
given it another thought if we had simply told you we were busy and
left it at that.”

It was getting harder by the moment for me to
keep my cool. Continuing my search, I spied Felicity across the
room as haunting violin music began to fill the hall. The mournful
wail of the fiddles quickly took on a brighter tempo, and my wife
began dancing about with her similarly garbed cousins. Having
witnessed her perform this particular traditional prancing jig
before, I knew it was going to last for several minutes. She wasn’t
going to be providing me with an avenue of escape anytime soon.

I was just bracing myself for what I was sure
would be a spitefully barbed comeback when I felt a hand rest on my
shoulder. I looked back to see the concerned face of my
brother-in-law, and knew I was about to be emancipated.
Unfortunately I also knew that I was only going to be chained to
another situation I would rather not face.

“Aye, Rowan.” He gave his father a quick nod
then looked at me. “There’s a pair out in the hotel lobby flashin’
badges and askin’ after you. Considerin’ that, I don’t suppose it
would be good news then?”

My heart double thumped in my chest, and my
throat turned instantly dry. An intimately known and caustically
burning itch I had been struggling to ignore once again announced
itself on my forearm in an extremely familiar spot.

“No, Austin,” I agreed sadly. “It isn’t at
all.”

* * * * *

“...So anyway, I’m standin’ there tryin’ to
calm these two guys down, and the one keeps yellin’, ‘His fuckin’
dog ate my bird! His fuckin’ dog ate my bird!’”

“Yeah?”

The two uniformed officers guarding the
entrance to the apartment continued their chitchat while I signed
my name on the crime scene log and noted the time alongside. I was
starting to become an old hand at these procedures, but every time
I had to do it, I felt like I had just swallowed a crucible of
molten lead.

The two Major Case Squad detectives that had
picked me up had ushered me in and informed the patrolmen that I
was here in an official capacity. Upon hearing this revelation,
they immediately began to treat me with the same casual
indifference afforded any other cop. I suppose the fact that I was
still wearing a sport coat and tie made me look like I
belonged.

“Well the other guy starts screamin’, ‘He’s
crazy! He’s nuts!’ and shit like that...” the officer with the
story continued. “So now I’m startin’ ta’ think I’m gonna have a
fist fight on my hands, ya’know?”

The other cop was already starting to
chuckle, “Yeah? Then what?”

I took an offered pair of surgical gloves and
pulled them over my damp hands. It was a struggle to get them on
properly as my palms were so thick with cold sweat. I realized I
was nervous and suddenly felt very human and vulnerable. I tried to
convince myself that it was at least a sign that I hadn’t lost all
my compassion.

“Next thing I know the dog starts heavin’ and
makin’ all these weird-ass gackin noises, ya’know?”

The officer who was listening could see what
was coming and was now barely able to contain an all out
guffaw.

“Then
yarrrp
there it is! The freakin’ dog ralphs up
the goddamn bird all over the guy’s shoes... It was one of them
parrots or whatever so it was like this psychedelic projectile puke
or somethin’!”

“No shit? What’d you do?”

“No shit, man. I thought I was gonna lose it
right in front of these two guys...”

Obviously, the tale was intended to be
humorous, but my present mood wasn’t conducive to laughing along
with it. Though the telling of the story under current
circumstances seemed outwardly callous, I’m sure it was merely a
defense mechanism automatically kicking into high gear. Nothing
more than a way for them to relieve their minds from the stress of
the job. A way to deny the horror that waited in the next room.
Given that, I certainly couldn’t blame them.

I was just preparing to go ahead into the
open apartment when I heard Ben’s voice call from behind me, “Hey,
white man.”

“Hey,” I returned sullenly and waited as he
lumbered up the hallway.

“Sorry to have ‘em drag ya’ outta your party
and all,” he apologized as he flashed his badge to the uniformed
officers and penned its number and his name on the log. “Carl’s on
‘is way. He oughta be here in a bit.”

“No problem. I was just getting chewed on by
my father-in-law anyway…” I paused and sighed heavily. “I could
have asked for better circumstances for an escape, though.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Were you able to find someone to look after
Starr and Karyl?” I inquired while watching him don his own pair of
oversized latex gloves.

“Yeah, I got an off-duty copper friend of
mine over there. Ended up costin’ me a box of Santa Damiana’s
though. So, did Ackman and Hirst fill ya’ in?”

“Just that there was a body and that you
would meet us here. Do you know who it is?”

“Not officially confirmed but looks like it’s
the apartment’s occupant.” He referenced his notepad with a
practiced flip of his wrist. “One Sheryl Keeven. Caucasian,
thirty-four years old, divorced.”

“Was she…”

“...On the coven list?” Ben finished the
question for me. “Yeah. She was on it. Martin was tryin’ to get a
hold of ‘er earlier this afternoon. We were just gettin’ ready ta’
send a car by when the suicide call came in.”

“Suicide?” I puzzled aloud as I followed him
through the open doorway, unmindfully scratching at my arm through
my coat.

“Yeah, they didn’t tell ya’? The bastard left
‘er hangin’ off ‘er balcony. Neighbor called it in.”

“Did anybody see anything?”

“Hell no. Nobody ever sees anything any
more.”

The third floor dwelling was fairly standard
as apartments go, with a combination living room and dining area
divided from the small kitchenette by a half wall lined with potted
houseplants. A narrow corridor led back along the far side giving
access to the bathroom, a closet with louvered luan doors, and
finally, the bedroom. The walls were standard apartment complex
white but had been cheerfully decorated with numerous framed
pictures forming a silent gallery of what I assumed were relatives
and friends. A faint odor of potpourri still permeated the
room.

Bookshelves lined one end of the living area
and were stuffed with novels, both paperback and hardcover.
Anything ranging from mysteries to romances filled every available
space. One set of shelves in particular held my attention as they
were neatly arranged with non-fiction titles regarding herbs,
alternative religions, and more specifically, WitchCraft.

My otherworldly senses were bombarded with
random energies and sensations from the residence. The primary
feeling in the room was one of abject fear and death. Not
surprising at all, and I would have expected nothing less. The
underlying impression that peeked out from behind the horror,
however, was one of warmth and love. It told me that Sheryl Keeven
had been the kind of person who dotted her i’s with smiley faces
and went out of her way to help someone in need—even a
stranger.

The ethereal touch slipped in and introduced
itself. Now, I could no longer view her as an unfamiliar name. I
could only see her as someone I wished I had had the opportunity to
know. Even though we had never met in this physical plane of
existence, the fact that she was dead filled me with the dull ache
of loss.

I shook off the wash of emotion and forced
myself back into stoic objectivity then continued to scan my
surroundings.

In the corner, a nineteen-inch television
with a severe chroma problem flickered mutely, displaying a weather
update that warned of yet another approaching snowstorm. Though it
was not expected to be anywhere near the strength of last week’s
blizzard, we stood to accumulate a good two to four inches. At
least, that is what they were saying.

A set of sliding glass doors at the center of
the living/dining area’s back outer wall stood levered wide open.
The frigid night air streamed in through the opening only to clash
with the warmth being continuously pumped into the room through the
furnace vents. One of them would eventually win, and I suspected it
would be the cold.

A crime scene technician with a wind-chapped
face stood quietly frowning as she expertly dusted the door handle
and the glass surrounding it. When she slid the door partially
closed for a moment, I could see a segment of a white, curved line
decorated with hash marks. Encompassed within the arc, there
appeared to be one side of a large X and possibly a piece of the
vertical line that may form a capital P. It was apparent that the
marking was large enough to spread across the face of both door
panels.

At random intervals the room would brighten
for a brief instant as the thyristor flash on another evidence
technician’s camera exploded harsh white light out on the balcony.
The runny lines of the large painted symbol cast an eerie shadow
each time and left me with an oblique after-image branded on my
retinas.

“They bring you in the front or the back?”
Ben asked me as he stood surveying the room.

“Front,” I answered. “It was a mess.”

“Shit, you think the front’s bad?” he huffed.
“Goddamned news vultures are all over the back parkin’ lot. That’s
where the balcony is, and we can’t move the body until the M.E.
gets here.”

Sarcasm gelled my one word response.
“Wonderful.”

“And here I thought you were leaving all
those messages at the office because you guys wanted to pay up on
that dinner you owe me.” A feminine but distinctly authoritative
voice issued from the doorway.

Constance Mandalay was holding forth a
leather case containing her badge and FBI ID to the officer at the
door while simultaneously scratching her name into the log. With a
curt nod to the patrolman, she closed the wallet and thrust it into
her pocket as she entered.

The brunette federal agent was clad in a
wide-collared beige overcoat that now hung open to reveal her
petite figure hugged in an intriguing fashion by a shimmery,
metallic-blue cocktail dress. Completing the ensemble, she wore
matching satin high-heels and a splash of unpretentious silver
jewelry. Her shoulder-length hair was elegantly styled, and her
face had seen a very tasteful brush with a handful of
cosmetics.

Ben let out a blatant, teasing wolf-whistle
as he stopped and did a double take. “Whoa, the Feeb’s wearin’ girl
clothes! Nice legs, Mandalay.”

“Watch it, Storm, or I’ll call your wife!”
she warned jokingly.

“I’ll risk it, ‘cause I’m just dyin’ ta’ know
where you’re hidin’ your Sig in that getup,” he returned with a
grin, referring to her sidearm.

“I’m afraid that’s a government secret,” she
quipped then smiled over at me. “Hi, Rowan. I see he’s got you
involved in this one up to your eyeballs.”

“Heya, Constance,” I acknowledged. “I thought
you were on some kind of security assignment?”

“Visiting dignitary,” she said, as she
nodded and held the front of her overcoat open wide for a brief
moment. “Just finished working the farewell party. A real
Yawwwn
if you know what I mean.” With
a quick nod she canted her head toward me. “What’s your
excuse?”

“Felicity’s grandparent’s anniversary
party.”

“Watchin’ after a
vip
, huh,” Ben snorted the acronym as a word
instead of spelling it out. “I would’a figured that for a Secret
Service gig.”

“Normally it would be,” she answered with a
sigh. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say he’s gone, and I’m all
yours now. Would you like to bring me up to speed? All I know is
what you told Agent Bartlett and what’s been on the news. The only
reason I knew you would be here is that I returned your call
figuring I’d leave a voice mail and got a live person instead.”

Someone loudly cleared his throat nearby. Ben
held up a finger to Constance and turned to the evidence
technician. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“We’re all finished out here,” he said. “It’s
all yours.”

“Get anything?” my friend asked.

“A few smudges on the sliding door. Nothing
of any consequence. There’s a Bible out there, King James Version.
Hardback, like you’d find in just about any bookstore. It’s
bagged.”

“Was it marked in any way?” I questioned
while pawing at the insistent itch on my forearm.

“Yeah,” the tech said with a nod as he
referenced a sheaf of papers attached to a worn clipboard. “Plain
Jane cardboard bookmark. Looks like a standard yellow hi-liter was
used on a passage in the book of First Samuel. Chapter fifteen,
verse twenty-three. For rebellion is...”

I interrupted and finished the passage for
him. “...As the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity
and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he
hath also rejected thee from being king.”