Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (22 page)

“But how?” Constance asked. “You’ve been
right here the whole time. How could you possibly get pool water in
your lungs?”

I shook my head wearily and held up my
blood-covered hand, “I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing from
the same place I got these symbols.”

“Take off your jacket and let me have a look
at that arm,” Doctor Sanders ordered.

“Jeez, Rowan, that’s way out there.” Ben
shook his head as I complied with the doctor’s instruction. “I mean
water just appearin’ in your lungs from nowhere?”

“I know,” I agreed with a nod. “Trust me, I’m
as freaked out by this as you are.” Even now I was fighting an
involuntary urge to tremble. Precognition, psychometry, channeling,
even the stigmata were one thing, but this… This was beyond
anything I had ever experienced, and I was at a loss to explain it.
More than that, however, I was afraid of it and that made it even
worse.

“You mean this isn’t something that happened
because you’re a Witch?” Constance asked.

“Maybe,” I answered, using my explanation to
direct my attention away from the rancid fear still slithering up
and down my spine. “But WitchCraft is merely a practice and way of
life coupled with a religion. Even though it’s not unusual to
develop some level of psychic ability through meditation and all,
conjuring matter into thin air is the stuff of myths and fairy
tales.”

“What about your arm then?” she
contended.

“As bizarre as it seems, stigmata aren’t
unheard of. My body is simply reacting to an outside stimulus.
Granted, in this case the stimulus is coming from the other side of
the veil, but nothing was conjured or made to appear from
nothingness.”

A muffled peal emitted from Ben’s coat. He
thrust his hand into his pocket and withdrew his cell phone.

“Storm,” he answered tersely after flipping
the device open. “...Deck? Where the hell are ya’? You were s’posed
ta’ be here an hour ago... What? No. You ain’t serious?”

My respirations were now almost normal, and I
sat quietly, allowing Doctor Sanders to treat my bruised and
bleeding arm. Constance and I watched Ben, listening in on the
one-sided conversation as the concerned M.E. tended to my wounds.
She had been told about the original occurrence of the symbol, but
this was the first time she had witnessed it for herself. However,
after what she had seen that night at the morgue, she seemed to be
taking this all in stride.

“...Damn!” Ben spat. The phone was now
cradled between his ear and shoulder while he scratched in his
notepad. “How long ago? Uh-huh... Yeah... Who called it in? Yeah...
Okay, gimme that address again... Uh-huh... Yeah, Cherry Wood
Trails. Got it. Uh-huh... Yeah, and Mandalay’s with us too... Yeah,
we’ll be there as soon as we can. Bye.”

We stared at him expectantly as he ended the
call and returned the phone to his pocket. He rested his gaze on me
and sighed.

“What was that all about,” Constance
asked.

“That was Deckert. I think I just found out
why Rowan’s got two of those marks on his arm.” He lifted his free
hand and smoothed his hair back.

“Well?” She raised her eyebrows and looked at
him questioningly.

“Deck got a call while he was on ‘is way over
here. Seems a security guard was makin’ ‘is rounds over at the
Cherry Wood Trails condo complex, and he noticed the gate was open
leadin’ in to the swimming pool. He went in and found one of those
monograms spray painted on the side of the pool house and a Bible
layin’ on the snowdrift in front of it.”

I spoke. “Victim number four.”

“They think so. There’s a hole in the ice.”
He bobbed his head. “It hasn’t even started to freeze back over
yet.”

“I was afraid that might be why there were
two.” I nodded toward my arm as Doctor Sanders mechanically wrapped
gauze around it and listened in. “But I ignored it again, and
whoever is trying to talk to me resorted to the water...” I let my
voice trail off as a spasm of the recent personal horror worked its
way back into my thoughts.

“Is that what you meant earlier?” the M.E.
questioned cynically. “You actually think the water was somehow
mystically conjured into your lungs because of what the killer did
to the latest victim?”

“No offense, Doctor,” I ventured, “but do you
have a reasonable explanation for how it got there? Medical or
otherwise?”

“Fluid can build up in lung tissue due to a
variety of medical conditions,” she replied.

“Fluid heavily laden with chlorine?” I
asked.

She didn’t answer. She just shook her head
and continued taping the gauze in place.

“Jeezus, white man,” Ben mused with a
loud sigh, “I thought I was gettin’ used to this
Twilight Zone
shit, but
this...”

“Too weird,” Constance muttered.

“Yeah,” Ben echoed quietly. “What she
said.”

F
or the most part, my
disquiet had faded into the background during the short drive to
the Cherry Wood Trails subdivision. I still did not fully
understand why, but suffocation and drowning were my most
deep-seated phobias. They had been since I was a small child. To
now have my darkest fear brought that close to realization was very
nearly more than I had been able to bear.

After twenty minutes of intense
concentration, I had almost succeeded in forcing the disturbing
thoughts from my mind. Unfortunately, our arrival at the latest
crime scene dredged them immediately back to the forefront.

Ben nosed the van into the only available
parking space he could find and switched off the engine.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, worry once
again creasing his brow.

I realized as he spoke that my breaths were
quickly becoming shallow gasps. The panting had begun as soon as I
stared out across the street at the bustling activity around the
swimming pool enclosure. I knew there had to be terror in my eyes
when I looked at him, and when I jerkily nodded my head to the
affirmative, he stared back with an unconvinced, thin-lipped
frown.

“Bullshit,” he replied. “You’re a friggin’
wreck. You shoulda gone ta’ the hospital. I’m grabbin’ a squad and
sendin’ ya’ home.”

“No.” I shook my head while trying to calm
the rampant panic that was building in the pit of my stomach.

He was correct. At the moment I was a wreck,
but it was a luxury I couldn’t afford. There simply wasn’t enough
time. Me breaking down would not do any good for anyone, including
myself, and it definitely wasn’t going to help find the killer.

“No. I’ll be all right,” I continued. “I just
need a minute.”

Knowing I had to get a grip, I began to
inwardly visualize myself surrounded by an impenetrable shield of
white light. In my mind I was carefully constructing a barrier,
tangible only on a supernormal level, but exactly what I needed to
hold the frightening visions at bay nonetheless. Almost instantly I
began to relax.

“Well if ya’ won’t go to the hospital and ya’
won’t go home,” he ventured, “why don’t you just wait here in the
van? The techs from the crime scene unit are takin’ pictures, and I
can fill ya’ in on any other details afterwards.”

“That may not be enough, Ben,” I
returned and cocked my head in the direction of the scene. “Maybe
this victim saw his face. Maybe there’s something in there that
won’t show up on a photograph but
will
be visible to me. I can’t let a stupid
phobia keep me from doing what I was brought here to
do.”

“Fuck phobias, Rowan!” he shot back. “I just
watched you almost drown in a goddamned dry apartment. That’s not a
phobia, white man, that’s... that’s... Well hell, I dunno what it
was, but I know ya’ coulda died. And that was the second time too!
In my book that’s worth more than just a little fear.”

“I let you know right from the very beginning
that this one was going to be worse than the last case,” I told him
quietly.

“Yeah…” Ben nodded. “But I thought you were
just talkin’ about the body count.”

“Unfortunately, so did I.”

I was feeling much more at ease now, though
it was a sensation that was most certainly only temporary. I had
successfully wrestled the demon known as terror back into its cage
for the time being, and the thick supernatural armor I had erected
around myself would protect me from the outside influences of the
scene. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay hidden behind it the
entire time, for if I did my particular talents would be useless.
However, what I would do was try to keep myself safe for a little
while. At least until I was fully grounded and ready to face
whatever horrific image was waiting for me on the other side.

“Okay,” my friend eventually huffed. “Short
of bannin’ ya’ from the scene, I know I’m gonna play hell tryin’
ta’ keep ya’ out, so I might as well give up. But,” he added
sharply and thrust a stiff index finger at me, “first sign of you
bein’ in some kinda spooky ass trouble, you’re outta here. No
arguments. Understood?”

“Understood,” I agreed.

“Better yet, no hocus-pocus without warnin’
me first.”

“I can’t always control it, Ben. You know
that.”

“Yeah, but sometimes ya’ do shit without
tellin’ anyone and ya’ get yourself in trouble. That’s the kinda
thing I’m talkin’ about.”

“Okay, okay. If I try to do anything, I
promise I’ll tell you first.”

“Like I said,
don’t
try anything. If it just happens ain’t much
I can do about it, but don’t be makin’ it happen.”

“Yeah. Okay. I won’t.”

“I’m serious, Row.”

“I know you are.”

After he finally gave his reluctant,
negotiated blessing, Ben and I climbed out of the beat up Chevy and
started across the small parking lot toward the crux of the
activity. Since we were on the opposite side of the street, we had
to stop for a moment and wait as a large, black panel van rolled
past. A patina of grey and white from salt and road grime dusted
its dark exterior, blending it in with every other vehicle in the
city that had yet to see time in a car wash. A multi-pitched
mechanical groan emitted from beneath the van, audibly announcing
improperly meshed gears as the driver shifted and slowed. The van
coasted for a second while the occupant stared at the spectacle, or
so I assumed. A fraction of a minute later the engine gunned and
roared its protest in an off key duet with the transmission as it
was up-shifted again.

“Take a picture, asshole,” Ben called after
the pair of dusky red taillights. “It’ll last longer.”

As we crossed the narrow lane immediately
behind the passing vehicle, a cold tingle danced up my spine. My
scalp tightened painfully, and the hair on the back of my neck
tilted upward, sending a prickling sensation throughout. I caught
myself as I tripped across the low curb and stifled a small gasp.
Fortunately, Ben didn’t know the real reason behind my stumbling,
and I was able to mask the event as a random attack of
clumsiness.

I was more than a little surprised and took a
moment to bolster my defenses even more. I shouldn’t have felt
anything yet, and if something was getting through to me already,
then this was going to be worse than I originally thought.

In that moment, I became even less pleased by
the prospect that I would soon need to cast away these ethereal
shields in order to view the scene with senses other than the
physical. I tried not to think about it as we continued walking.
Needless to say, I met with only limited success.

The street immediately in front of the pool
enclosure was alive with light bars atop emergency vehicles
flashing in and out of sync. Each revolution temporarily stained
the snow with harsh, multi-colored blotches of brilliance. The
wildly flickering show was almost enough to mesmerize.

Powerful halogen lamps were mounted high on
strategically placed standards around the pool area, and they now
flooded it with severe blue-white illumination. Originally meant to
extend the hours of swimming enjoyment deep into summer nights,
they cast eerie shadows across the frozen tableau. The hard edges
of obscurity served only to underscore the horror and misery that
had forced its way into this place intended for happiness and
pleasure.

Ben slipped his badge onto a thick cord as we
walked and then hung it around his neck in plain view before we
signed ourselves in on the crime scene log. The officer tending the
entrance to the pool area was from the local municipality that
encompassed the subdivision of condominiums and was unfamiliar with
my part in the investigation. Since I lacked a badge, it took a
terse and abbreviated explanation of my role by Ben in order to
overcome the patrolman’s unwillingness to allow me entry. Finally,
we continued past the yellow tape barrier without further
challenge.

“Ben, Rowan.” Carl Deckert addressed us
grimly as we skirted around taut stretches of bright,
canary-colored plastic labeled with simple black letters—CRIME
SCENE - DO NOT CROSS.

“Carl,” I returned with equal bleakness in my
voice.

Ben just nodded and silently inspected the
surroundings, all the while casting an occasional watchful eye in
my direction.

“I thought Connie was comin’ with you,”
Deckert remarked, cocking his head and glancing past us for the
absent federal agent. He was the only person I’d ever met who could
get away with calling her by the clipped version of Constance. I
guess it had something to do with his grandfatherly demeanor.

“She should be here in a bit,” Ben replied.
“She doesn’t live too far away, and she wanted to stop and change
clothes.”

“Change clothes? What for?”

My friend just shook his head. “She was
dressed a little on the formal side tonight. Somethin’ to do with
an assignment.”