Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (37 page)

He continued to work his large hand on the
back of his neck as he fell silent. He had made it perfectly clear
that he was not at all convinced of Agent Mandalay’s stability. I
knew from past experience that his grudging acceptance of my
reassurance was going to continue to eat away at him. At the moment
it was a prominent, but still small, bother. Very soon it would
grow into a malignant vexation that would further poison his
perception of the federal officer.

“I know you prefer to shy away from anything
you consider touchy-feely, Ben,” I offered, “but, you could call
her and ask her yourself, you know.”

“Me ask her what’s up?” he asked
rhetorically. “I’m no good at that crap.”

“Well, that’s my only suggestion if you want
to know anything more than I’m at liberty to give you.”

After a moment of quiet thought, he took in a
deep breath and huffed it out. “So what if I do call ‘er? Is she
just pissed or is she gonna cry or somethin’?”

“She might. I don’t know.”

“Jeez, Rowan. I vapor lock when Allison
starts ta’ sniffle. I can’t do that cryin’ shit.”

“Ben,” I appealed. “It’s obvious that this is
going to keep working on you until you get an answer. You know that
I can’t give it to you, but if you talk to her, maybe she
will.”

“Ya’think?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I shook my head. “But
it’s worth a try. I’m sure Constance can understand your concerns.
She’s just as much a part of the cop fraternity as you are.”

“Yeah…maybe you’re right.” A look of
resignation molded itself to his features. “Maybe I’ll do
that.”

“I think it would be a good idea.” I told him
with a nod, then as much to ease his tension as for curiosity, I
maneuvered the subject into a different lane. “So whatever happened
to Carl? I didn’t see him upstairs.”

“Oh, he left awhile ago. He took Roberts out
to the County lockup since he lived in their jurisdiction,” he
replied with a noticeable drop in his stress level.

“What ended up happening with that?”

“Somethin’ ta’ do with pirated software or
somethin’ like that,” he explained. “Federal offense so County will
prob’ly be turnin’ ‘im over to the Feebs at some point. Guess he’d
better hope Mandalay is off duty that day, huh?”

“That would probably be in both their best
interests,” I agreed. “So anyway, when are you going to get out of
here? I thought you were planning on dinner with the family.”

Ben shot a tired glance through the glass
doors at the darkened sky and then rolled his watch face up and
gave it a calculating stare. As he let his arm drop, he conceded
yet another defeat at the hands of his vocation. “Well, it looks
like that idea is in the dumper, not that I expected any different.
Guess I’ll wrap up a few things here then go home and have a cold
meatlump sandwich.”

“Does Allison know you talk about her cooking
like that,” I queried with a smile.

“Hell, white man, she’s the one that named it
meatlump. So what about you?” He dipped his head at me. “What’re
you gonna do? I’m sure Al made plenty if you wanna come by.”

“Thanks, but I’m beat and I’m liable to crash
hard as soon as I get something in my stomach. There’s some
leftover Dublin Coddle in the fridge at home, so I’ll probably just
nuke a bowl and then hit the sack.”

“Dublin Coddle? Sounds funky. That somethin’
from that party?”

“Yeah. Actually it’s kind of a potato, onion
and sausage stew. It’s pretty good.”

“Maybe I should come with you. Sounds a damn
sight better than meatlump.”

“I’m sure there’s more than enough if you
want.”

“Nahhh.” He shook his head. “I was just
kiddin’. If I hurry maybe I can tuck my kid in for a change.
Besides, I think I’m prob’ly right there with ya’ on the whole
crashin’ thing.”

“Yeah, I thought you might be,” I said. “So
how about tomorrow? Where do we go from here?”

My friend’s tone again grew somber. “Well,
NARC will keep workin’ the Roofies angle, and I guess we’ll see
what we can come up with on the whole Catholic thing. The
Archdiocese wasn’t what you’d call thrilled when Osthoff and Martin
showed up, if ya’ know what I mean.”

“I can imagine. So you probably don’t really
need me down here tomorrow then?”

Ben pursed his lips as he thought for a
moment and then shook his head. “Well, I’d like ta’ have you there
if we get a chance ta’ talk to that old bum again, but other than
that probably not. If you’ve got somethin’ else planned already
then go for it. I’d appreciate it if ya’ could stay near a phone
though.”

We both shifted out of the way as another
pair of officers skirted around us to exit the building.

“I don’t really have anything planned other
than getting caught up with some work that’s been piling up.”

“I can understand that… So I’ll be able to
reach ya’ if I need to though, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be at the house.” I nodded as I
reached out and leaned on the door.

“Okay, Kemosabe. I’ll talk to ya’ later then.
Drive careful.”

“I will,” I answered and pushed the door
open. “Don’t stay here too late. And do yourself a favor, call
Constance.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll do that,” he called after
me as he turned and headed toward the elevators.

With the introduction of the incident with
Agent Mandalay, the order of my thoughts had been radically
shifted. Now, an earlier unvoiced concern was once again surfacing.
I had considered mentioning it to Ben, but with the other events of
the day still woefully fresh in our minds, I finally elected to
table it for another day. Unfortunately, I knew for certain that it
was something that couldn’t wait for very long.

What had gone unsaid between my friend and I
was the fact that I was harboring my own troubling doubts as well.
They were, however, not about Special Agent Mandalay, or him, or
any of the other members of the Major Case Squad. My deep
apprehension was about my own effectiveness in this
investigation.

I had been on a frightfully uneven keel from
the very beginning and had yet to right myself. I had somehow
managed to have my moments of attunement, but they were few and far
between. Balance was something I still had not signed a contract
with. Truth be told, I hadn’t even opened negotiations with it. I
was drifting about with no ground and no focus, grasping aimlessly
at an ethereal lightning rod and missing at every pass. Thus far,
the only thing I had been able to do with any modicum of success
was to bleed profusely from preternatural stigmata, spit swimming
pool water on the carpeting, and announce that we would soon find
another body. That wasn’t really the kind of help that was expected
of me, and it was getting us nowhere.

I was fully aware that if I didn’t get myself
under control soon not only was I going to be of no help to the
police, but I was going to become a severe risk to my own well
being. An ungrounded Witch is a dangerous Witch, and as
disconnected as I was right now, I was leaving myself open to
things I didn’t even want to consider.

It was my own fault I was in this situation
and I knew it. I forced myself to make a personal promise to do
what it took to get back on track. Now all I had to do was keep my
word to myself.

I joined the zipper on the front of my coat
as I walked and began pulling it upwards, all the while clinging
hard to the warmth of my resolve to spend some time grounding and
centering. An angry gust of winter chill made one last assault on
the shrinking seam and managed to slip inside the folds of my
jacket. Rounding the corner of the building on my way to the
parking area where my truck currently resided an involuntary shiver
danced along my back, and I quickly flipped my collar up around my
ears.

Slowly, dull fingers of pain inflicted an
unwanted massage at the base of my neck and began inching along the
back of my tightening scalp. My guess was that the handful of
granulated aspirin I took earlier had finally worn off, and now the
headache that had been making a home inside my skull was being
aggravated by the cold.

The fingers slowly transformed into an octet
of stinging tendrils as they conquered the crown of my head and
thrust their poisonous caress inward. Metered pounding announced
its cadence directly behind my forehead, becoming louder with each
step I took. Completing the rhythm section of the painful
orchestra, the thick rush of blood filled my ears in harmony with
the hammering metronome.

I came to a halt at the corner, my eyes
watering and stinging from a combination of the headache and icy
wind. I shot a painful glance up the street to check for traffic
and saw only what appeared to be a large delivery van parked
parallel to the curb thirty or so yards away.

The sound of a metal sliding door, badly in
need of adjustment and lubrication, forced itself past the din in
my ears, sequestering itself faintly in the background. With
another quick glance, I stepped out into the street and immediately
stumbled as a stab of pain expressed itself.

I scarcely heard the hurried footsteps of the
officer who rushed up behind me and grasped my arm. “Sir, are you
all right?”

I blinked past the pain as I regained my
balance and carefully nodded. “Yes, thank you. I just tripped I
guess.”

In the distance the scraping of the metal
door repeated itself, ending in a hollow thud. I imagined the sound
had an almost frightened urgency this second time around.

Headlights sparked to life, and a low,
mechanical roar overtook the night, underscored by the high-pitched
grind of recalcitrant gears. A sharp ice pick of near agony bit
hard into the core of my being as the black panel van, greyed with
a patina of salt and grime, pulled away from the curb. The officer
and I waited as the vehicle accelerated and passed in front of us
then hooked almost angrily around the corner, its transmission
protesting all the while.

“Looks like he’s in a hurry,” the officer
mused as he let go of my arm. “Guess he got stuck working O/T or
something.”

“I guess,” I echoed, not really sure what
else to say.

“Well have a good evening, sir. And watch
your step.”

“I will,” I acknowledged. “Thanks again.”

As the uniformed cop and I continued in
different directions, a tickle in the back of my mind told me that
something about that van was supposed to be familiar. An itch in
the front of my mind told me to go home and steep a handful of
willow bark in a cup of hot water then drink it as fast as I could.
The itch won.

By the time I reached my truck and climbed
into the chilly cab, the makings of the all out migraine had at
least settled enough for me to make it home in one piece.

* * * * *

“Wherefore, since you, Rowan Linden Gant, are
fallen into the damned heresies of Witches, practicing them
publicly, and have been by legitimate witnesses convicted of the
sin of heresy, or by your own confession received by us in Court;
and after your capture you have escaped, refusing the medicine of
your salvation: therefore we have summoned you to answer for the
said crimes in person before us, but you, led away and seduced by a
wicked spirit, have refused to appear...”

My heart pounds forcefully in my throat as I
run to escape the angry voice.

Darkness surrounds me.

Agony envelops me.

Fear feeds upon me.

“And whereas the Holy Church of God has long
awaited you up to this present day of kindness and mercy, that you
might fly to the bosom of her mercy, renouncing your errors and
professing the Catholic Faith, and be nourished by the bounty of
her mercy; but you have refused to consent, persisting in your
obstinacy…”

I cannot escape the voice.

I cannot escape the darkness.

I cannot control the fear.

“Therefore, following in the footsteps of the
Blessed Apostle Paul, we declare, judge and sentence you, absent or
present, to be a stubborn heretic, and as such to be abandoned to
secular justice…”

I pump my legs harder against the frozen
ground, each step excruciating torment.

The fear has become visceral terror.

I am consumed.

“And by this our definitive sentence we drive
you from the ecclesiastical Court, and abandon you to the power of
the secular Court that, if it ever should have you in its power, it
will moderate its sentence of death against you…”

Silence.

Pure.

Clean.

Dim light creases the darkness before me.

The sturdy form of a tree unfolds itself in
the light.

A tree bearing corymbs of white flowers,
their very presence making it stand as an oddity against the snow
at its base.

A European Mountain Ash.

A Rowan Tree.

So enraptured am I at the appearance of this
tree in full bloom that my fears are forgotten.

My terror melts away.

My pains dulled to non-existence.

Slowly I begin to circle the tree as red
fruits appear and the delicate flowers wither.

I continue as the berries follow in the same
fashion, leaving only the feather-like leaves.

When I round the backside of the tree, they
too atrophy and die.

The once sturdy timber now stands bereft of
its foliage, appearing sickly and barren.

Confusion fills the void once occupied by
fear.

Deep in the now dull and lifeless trunk a
scar puckers. As I watch, it forms a circle bisected along the arc
by small hash marks. In its center an X marries itself with a
P.

Below it another appears.

And another…

And another…

And another still…

A quintet of the blemishes now infects the
peeling bark.

Sound interrupts the stillness.

Metal against wood.

Stabbing.