Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (3 page)

My world begins to fade.

Twilight.

An endless scream, “Why, Rowan, why?”

Darkness.

Falling.

Impact.

I was vaguely aware of struggling toward
consciousness as my nightmare world sought to meet reality.
Something, or someone, wasn’t ready for that however.

Running.

I am running blindly through a forest.

Chased.

Hunted.

The icy snow numbs my frozen feet. I am nude.
Nude and streaked with blood. Wounds cover my tortured body.

Fear tears mercilessly at my soul as my
labored breaths take in the wintry air, bringing frozen pain to my
already frostbitten lungs.

I stop and search franticly for a place to
hide. From what, I do not know.

A tortured scream in the night.

Fire.

Fear absolute.

The taste of death.

I am running.

I started to sudden wakefulness, eyes
snapping open, and my body feeling as though it had just been
soundly pummeled with a two-by-four. Foggy disorientation quickly
lifted and was replaced with knotted fear in the pit of my stomach.
Fortunately, after a few short moments of deep, labored breathing,
I realized that it had only been a nightmare. It was simply yet
another terror in the long series of phantasms that had once again
begun to plague my sleep in these recent weeks. I thought I had
seen the end of them, September last. Apparently, I was
mistaken.

It was coming up on six months since my
friend and former student of the Wiccan religion, Ariel Tanner, had
been hideously tortured and finally, murdered by a sadistic killer.
It was also approaching six months since I had stopped that killer
from doing the same thing to an innocent little girl for the
purpose of a twisted ritual sacrifice. To this day, no one had been
able to determine what he had hoped to accomplish; perhaps
fortunately, four 9mm slugs had seen to it that we probably never
would. What we knew for certain was simply that his deranged mind
had pushed him to mutilate, torture, and murder five women. Then,
in the name of some perverse evil, kidnap a small child with the
intention of doing the same to her. In stopping him, I had almost
been separated from my own life that night in Wild Woods Park
beneath a full, silver-veined moon. Had it not been for the
marksmanship of my friend Benjamin Storm, a Saint Louis city
homicide detective, I’m firmly convinced he would have succeeded.
Ironically, Ben was the very reason I had become involved in the
investigation to start with.

The vignette so forcefully appended to the
end of the nightmare was another story entirely. I had no rhyme or
reason for its cryptic display and wasn’t entirely sure I wanted
any. Mutely, I wished for it to be an anomalous event that would
never recur.

Shaking off the vivid remembrances that, in
my opinion, couldn’t fade quickly enough, I gently tossed back the
covers. Being careful not to wake Felicity, I let my feet touch the
hardwood floor and drew in a sharp breath. A quick glance at the
clock showed it to be 5:24—minus the phantom fifteen minutes, of
course—which readily accounted for the fact that the electronic
thermostat had not yet signaled the furnace to increase the comfort
level in the house.

I quickly pulled on socks and sweats and then
stuffed my feet into a pair of tennis shoes. Our English setter and
Australian cattle dog both stirred as soon as they were convinced
that I was up and moving about. With a choreographed pair of lazy
stretches and slowly wagging tails, the two of them followed me
through the house and into the kitchen where I let them out the
back door. The motion sensor on the outdoor sentry instantly
detected their movement and snapped the floodlights on full. The
intense halogen beams pierced the darkness to illuminate our
white-blanketed back yard and deck. Countless jewel-like pinpricks
were reflected back from the crystalline snow, making the pristine
landscape appear to be covered with a fine dusting of tiny
diamonds.

Clusters of the cottony ice were still
falling steadily from a grey sky; the low strata of clouds
reflected the omnipresent lights of the city, lending to an
illusion of almost brightness. Emily, our calico cat, brushed
against my leg and started out the doorway onto the snowy deck. The
moment her paws contacted the frigid substance, she lurched back
with a hiss, back arched and tri-toned fur afrizz. The weather
having brought about an abrupt end to her planned morning hunt, she
pranced back into the atrium, leaped lithely into a chair and
settled herself in, electing to watch rather than participate. The
dogs had seen to their business and were now reveling like small
children in the wonders of the snow that hadn’t been there less
than eight hours before. They would be at play for some time yet,
so I shut the door and proceeded back into the kitchen. I knew they
would let me know when they wanted in.

After dumping a healthy portion of roasted
Columbian Supremo beans into the grinder, I covered it with a
dishtowel before depressing the button. I was still trying not to
wake Felicity, and I wanted to muffle the noise. A choked rattle
began immediately and was followed by an escalating whine as the
blades increased in speed, first cracking and then crushing the
contents. After a couple of sharp taps, I removed the shroud and
emptied the near-powdered contents into the filter basket then
filled the coffee maker with purified water. Rich inviting aromas
were already screaming “CAFFEINE” at me when I let the dogs back in
and made my way to the shower.

* * * * *

After my shower and a change from sweats to
casual but more respectable attire, I had dialed the Saint Louis
city police headquarters and asked for Ben Storm’s extension. He
had picked up on the third ring with his usual gruff and succinct,
“Homicide. Storm.”

“So everything is still on for this morning?”
I said into the telephone handset.

“Hell yes,” my friend’s voice issued jovially
from the earpiece. “Coppers don’t get to stay home when it snows.
Shit, you think the bad guys take the day off?”

Since my recent involvement in solving one of
the most violent killing sprees in Saint Louis’ history, my friend
had become readily accepting of the fact that I was a practicing
Witch—and the uncanny abilities that I developed because of it.
Taking it even a step further, he was now a staunch purveyor of
educating his fellow officers about Wicca and The Craft. In a very
short period of time, he had come to realize the importance of
dispelling the myths about the religion of modern day Witches. His
persistence, along with my success in aiding a serious
investigation, had allowed him to convince the department to
establish a program of lectures. The series of seminars was
designed for the purpose of instructing everyone within the
ranks—from chief to beat cop—about alternative religions and the
fact that being a Witch did not mean that one was a “child-eating,
broom-riding, sacrificial murderer.” Ben’s fierce determination
about this had gotten me through the door. Now, it was my job to
stand up in front of them and do the convincing. Today was to be
the first formal lecture to a group.

“Well, you never know,” I answered with a
laugh. “Seems like half the city shuts down if someone sees a
flurry. You’d think they’d be used to it by now.”

“Yeah, well, what’re ya gonna do?” he stated
rhetorically. “Especially when you got a bunch of prima donnas
runnin’ around worried about gettin’ sno-melt on their new
Lex-eye.”

“Lex-eye? Is that really a word?”

“Lexus, Lexuses, Lex-eye, whatever...” he
answered with a chuckle. “Anyway, yeah, everything’s still on. Even
with the snow, they’d be nuts to cancel now, especially after that
article in the paper.”

“I suppose it would look a little strange to
do that after that kind of coverage,” I said, knowing exactly what
he was referring to. “You know, when I agreed to that interview, I
really didn’t expect the article to be on the front page.”

“That’s nothin’, rumor has it the national
wire services are picking it up. Face it, Row, a self-proclaimed
Witch giving instructional seminars to coppers? You’re news,
Kemosabe. Either that, or,” he added wryly, “it was a really slow
day.”

“Thanks a lot,” I feigned hurt sarcasm. “That
makes me feel real important.”

He laughed heartily on the other end. “No
problem, white man. Hey, by the way, happy Candlestick or Endblock
or whatever you call it.”

“Candlemas or Imbolc, either one is fine.” I
corrected his crucified reference to the Pagan holiday that had
been celebrated only the day before. “I’m impressed you remembered.
Thanks.”

“Hey, I’m tryin’. So what was this one all
about anyway?”

“It’s a celebration of the coming of the
spring season,” I replied.

“Yo, Kemosabe.” He took on a mock serious
tone. “I don’t wanna bust your bubble and all, but you might wanna
take a look at a calendar. I’m pretty sure spring is a ways off
yet.”

“Like I said, the
coming
of the season,” I told him, and then
jibed, “You mundanes have your own bizarre and even less than
scientific version of Imbolc, you know.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you all gather around and wait for a
rodent to come out of a hole to see if it casts a shadow. Then
depending upon the result, you proclaim the length of the winter
season. On the other hand, we Pagans all gather ‘round, hold a
simple rite welcoming spring and the growing season that we know to
be just around the corner, then we have a party. In the long run,
which one do you think makes more sense?”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed. “I give up… You
win.” In the background, I could hear him shuffling papers about
his desk. “So anyway, back to business. According to the
departmental memo here, looks like the class is all set up for
around ten. You need me to come get you?”

“No. Not at all.” I declined his offer. “I’ve
got about two hundred pounds of sand bags in the bed of the truck,
and it’s four-wheel drive.” With a chuckle, I added, “Question is,
should I have given YOU a ride?”

“What, and leave the tank at home?” He asked
facetiously, referring to the dilapidated looking, but well
maintained, Chevy van he always drove. “Not a chance! Someone might
think it’s abandoned and tow it! Besides...” He paused and I heard
faint voices in the background. “Hey, Row...Could you hold on a
sec?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

The sound from the handset cradled on my
shoulder took on the familiar dull hollowness of being placed on
hold. Absently, I filled my hand with an ink pen from the jar on
the bookshelf and began doodling on the notepad next to it. Outside
the window, a muted dawn was managing to filter weakly through the
clouds that still lay like a comforter across the city. Wet clumps
of snow continued chasing one another in a frantic, never-ending
race downward to the already fleeced ground. My hand moved on its
own, tracing non-sensical patterns on the notepaper. I ignored it
and continued staring through the double pane of glass. Distorted
noises of metal against asphalt distantly reached my ears, growing
louder, then fading once again as a street department snow plow
pushed past my house, spewing salt in its wake.

“...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.