Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (24 page)

“Let’s just say that when we put two and two
together, all of a sudden your call wasn’t much of a shock,” Ben
explained.

Deckert made the connection quickly and
glanced from Ben and Constance to the pool, then to me. “So you
mean you predicted this murder? You’ve done that sorta thing
before. No big deal, right?”

“I wouldn’t say predicted really. More like
someone on the other side went out of their way to make sure I knew
exactly what it felt like,” I answered then paused as the
remembrance made me shudder. “In any event, it was a little too
late to do anything about it I’m afraid.”

“What it felt like?”

“Drowning,” I explained.

“You mean someone wanted you to know what it
felt like to drown?”

“Yeah,” Ben answered for me. “In a bone dry
apartment, nowhere near water.”

“So, how?” Deckert pressed.

“Let’s just say my lungs are still a little
damp,” I replied.

He just looked at me and muttered,
“Weird.”

Agent Mandalay agreed softly, “That’s the
word that came to my mind too.”

A large burst of bubbles shot through the
surface of the water on the other side of the pool, and the shiny
neoprene-covered head of the diver poked through. A raspy exhale
through the regulator hissed into the night as he clamped one hand
on the side of the deck and removed the mouthpiece with the other.
He spoke briefly with the coroner and senior evidence technician
before finally nodding and sliding back beneath the surface,
trailing a rope behind him.

The tech looked up from the hole and glanced
across the short expanse at Carl then gave a curt nod. The aging
detective let out a steamy breath and announced quietly, “He found
the body.”

The talk of my recent otherworldly contact
prompted me to recall the reason I was present at this crime scene
to begin with. As much as I feared what I had to do, I knew I
needed to get on with it. I realized fully that opening my senses
to the surroundings would not necessarily bring useful information,
though I dearly hoped that it would. I was patently aware, however,
that it would most certainly bring a handcart full of painful
emotions and Technicolor horror streaming directly into my very
soul.

The dim glow of the diver’s flashlight was
starting to grow brighter, and small eruptions of expelled air
bubbling up through the surface of the murky water were coming at
increasingly regular intervals. The coroner’s assistant and a burly
crime scene unit tech were steadily and carefully pulling on the
rope that had been attached to the body.

We stood watching the macabre scene unfold
under the harsh glow of the halogen lights. Oblique blue shadows
cut across the still forms of the officers on the other side of the
pool giving a surreal appearance to their stoic faces. Each gurgle
of bubbles that broke the surface of the water seemed to echo
louder in my ears and reverberate through my body.

Slowly my chest began feeling heavy, and I
noticed my heart was rattling mercilessly against my ribs. Bitter
fear surged upward from my bowels at the thought of once again
feeling the water in my lungs. I was only seconds away from panic
when the first of two cinder blocks appeared above the edge of the
ice as they were dragged from the turbid depths. I exhaled heavily,
and it instantly dawned on me that I was not reliving the drowning,
as was my immediate suspicion. I had simply been holding my
breath.

The twinge of panic subsided, and I continued
to watch across the expanse of smooth, crystalline snow to the
gaping wound in the sheet of ice. I was amazed by how silent the
scene had suddenly become. The only sounds to be heard were the
rhythmic bubbling of the diver’s expelled air coupled with the wet
scrapings of the two concrete weights rubbing against one another
as they were wrestled from the hole. Even the multitudes of police
radios riding on the hips of uniformed officers and in the hands of
detectives seemed to have fallen unnaturally mute.

I was concentrating so hard on what was
before me that I scarcely realized my meticulously erected defenses
had fallen of their own accord. I wasn’t even aware that my hand
had crept over to begin tearing at a violent itch on my
forearm.

A tangle of blonde hair finally breached the
surface of the water and was slowly followed by the nude body of a
young woman being skillfully supported by the diver. From where I
was positioned, I could easily see that her arms were bound tightly
behind her and that the rope stretched down her back to encircle
her ankles.

As she was lifted out of her recent and final
hell, and gently placed on an open body bag, profane sound once
again returned to the night. The clamor of the camera crews,
blaring police radios and murmurs of the gathered spectators began
assaulting my ears as if they had never stopped.

I understood then that the silence had never
been real at all. It had merely been a product of my own
deep-seated reverence for the passing of a life.

“Female,” Carl mumbled sadly. “Looks like Ben
and I were right.”

The maintenance worker who had helped clear
the snow and ice was now gesturing to the coroner and pointing
beyond the fence. Even at this short distance, we were unable to
make out for sure what was being said, but it appeared that he knew
the victim.

“I think they might have an ID or something,”
Ben spoke. “I’m gonna go see what’s up. I’ll be right back.”

I was completely unprepared as the sharp stab
of light pierced my eyes and burned mercilessly into the back of my
skull. Color fled from my surroundings in a whirling tempest of
shattered psychedelic glass as the illumination bloomed again and
then slowly subsided. Disjointed sounds crashed in distorted waves
against my tortured eardrums, and fear drove a steely spike into my
heart as the grainy black and white inhumanity played itself out in
my mind.

I am bound painfully.

I cannot move.

I can barely breath.

Tape covers my mouth and I cannot cry for
help.

“Robert! Where are you? ROBERT, HELP ME!” My
scream is trapped between my teeth, only to be swallowed in a
bitter lump.

This can’t be happening.

No! This can’t be happening!

Who are you?

Why are you doing this to me?

What have you done to Robert?

“ROBERT!!!”

There is a voice speaking to me.

It is the one who asked me the questions.

The one who hurt me.

“Christine Liann Webster, in accordance with
the thirty-third question, in as much as you stand accused of the
heresy of WitchCraft by another of your kind, and as you have
refused to admit these crimes, remaining still impenitent, and that
on this day evidence of your heresies has been found...”

Evidence?

What evidence?

What are you talking about? WitchCraft? I
don’t understand.

I am freezing.

Why did he bring me out here in the snow?

Why are we next to the pool?

What is that noise?

What is he doing?

“ROBERT, HELP ME!!”

“...In as much as you have been found guilty,
and that you are damned in body and soul, you are hereby sentenced
on this day to death. To be executed immediately and without appeal
in the manner of drowning. May the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on
your soul.”

“...Is Christine Webster,” Ben’s voice
muscled its way into my ears, forcing me back to reality.
“Maintenance guy over there ID’ed her. Apparently, she lived in a
condo about half a block up this street. Got a coupla uniforms
checkin’ it out.”

“Robert,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?” Agent Mandalay questioned.

“Robert,” I repeated. “She kept trying to cry
out for Robert to come help her.”

A jagged shard of agony tore through the
flesh on my forearm and felt as though it scraped against bone. I
sensed its sickening message deep in the pit of my stomach, and all
I could do was issue a tired sigh because I hated the fact that I
had become so accustomed to violent death.

My head was starting to ache, and I closed my
eyes for a moment.

“Dammit, Rowan! Whaddid I tell you?” Ben
admonished.

“It just happened, Ben,” I barked back as I
rubbed my throbbing temples. “I didn’t have any control over it.
Besides, it’s what I’m here for, right?”

“Jeezus... Okay... Shit...” he stuttered for
a moment, and then decided to make the best of the situation.
“Well, any idea who this Robert is?”

“A husband. A boyfriend. I don’t know.” I
shook my head as I opened my eyes and began to carefully peel off
my glove. My bare hand revealed a smear of blood across its back,
now spreading from beneath my coat sleeve. “But, unfortunately, it
looks like we were all correct because I’m certain that he’s victim
number five.”

My comment was punctuated by a nearby
patrolman’s radio as it crackled and spewed forth a dispassionate
voice from its tinny speaker, “Yeah, this is Ross. You want to
advise Detectives Storm and Deckert that we have another body up
here...”

“H
is wristwatch stopped
when the face was shattered,” Doctor Sanders told us over her
shoulder. She was kneeling next to the latest victim and carefully
affixing bags over his hands to preserve any possible evidence.
Mundane things such as hair follicles or even a shard of the
killer’s skin beneath his fingernails could be crucial in the
investigation. “Assuming death occurred sometime during the
struggle, which is a pretty safe bet, I would place the T.O.D. on
or around eleven-forty this evening, give or take.” She peered over
the rim of her glasses at her own timepiece and made a note on her
clipboard. “That’s just a little over two hours ago which is also
consistent with his liver temp.”

“We just missed him,” I breathed sadly.

The harried Saint Louis city chief medical
examiner had arrived shortly after the young woman’s corpse had
been pulled from the depths of the swimming pool. Her counterpart
from the county jurisdiction had seen to the care and transport of
that body leaving Doctor Sanders free to do the same for Sheryl
Keeven. This now being the third murder in one evening, she had
scarcely had time to see to the delivery of those remains to the
morgue before heading out for this scene. In the somewhat crowded
condominium, I couldn’t help but overhear a veteran detective from
the local municipality speaking to another uniformed officer. With
a respectful, somber tone, he referred to the almost choreographed
conveyance of the corpses as a “dead man’s dance.”

Robert Webster’s body was positioned, for the
most part, just as it had been found. He was sprawled against the
wall in the small dining room that adjoined the kitchen. He was
still fully clothed and bore none of the signature markings that
had screamed so prominently from the bodies of the previous
victims. A double strand of nylon cord was still looped tightly
about his throat, and bloody abrasions were visible along his neck
where he had apparently clawed at the makeshift garrote. The
opposite end of the thin noose trailed out across the floor, ending
at a jumbled pile of beige vinyl strips—the remains of mini-blinds
that had once been mounted over a now bare window.

“Gal. 3:1” was harshly scribbled in black on
the wall directly above him. A wide-tipped magic marker was found
on a nearby counter and had already been bagged by the CSU
technicians.

Various signs of a brief struggle were
obvious throughout the room. Mini-blinds that had been
unceremoniously ripped from their mountings now lay in a crumpled
heap. A chair overturned near the table. A potted plant now rested
on the floor, its terra cotta planter shattered beyond repair and
dark soil sprayed across the tile in a wide caricature of a comet
tail. The cluster of aloe vera that had once called the clay pot
home now sat upright in the middle of the debris field almost as if
it had been placed there purposely. I made a mental note to myself
to re-plant it once the crime scene had been cleared. I saw no
reason for it to become a victim too.

As futile as the struggle turned out to be,
at least Robert Webster had put up a fight.

“Sure doesn’t fit the profile of the other
murders. Actually, it looks more like he wasn’t expectin’ the
husband ta’ be here,” Ben muttered as he surveyed the scene. “That
could kinda blow a hole in the stalkin’ theory.”

“Maybe not,” Agent Mandalay offered. “If he’s
stalked all of the other victims, I doubt he’s suddenly going to
change that aspect. Could be that the husband was normally gone on
Saturday nights.”

“Yeah. Like bowlin’ or somethin’,” he nodded
as he spoke. “Good point. We’ll check it out.”

“He was never intended to be a victim,” I
announced. “This was quite obviously unplanned. You’re right, I
don’t think he was expecting him to be here...”

I tilted my head to the side and stared at
the shaky inscription on the wall. It was plainly scrawled in
extreme haste. What was even more perceptible, to me at least, was
the fact that it had been done as an afterthought.

The visual inconsistencies were by no means
the only problem with the setting either. There was no feeling of
greater purpose for this killing as there had been for all the
others. My empathic senses registered none of the conviction and
fiery intent that had thus far been woven through the fabric of
horror that shrouded each successive scene.

What I detected instead was blinding anger
and, to my surprise, painful sadness. All were the product of a
presence recently in the room… A presence that had been at every
other site… A presence that had until now conveyed only misguided
determination coupled with the passing of a terrifying
judgment.