Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (44 page)

what the fire did to her throat

and all, but I’d almost

swear she said

‘truck.’”

I’m crossing the street. A large, black panel
van rolls past. A patina of grey and white from salt and road grime
dusts its dark exterior.

A sudden roar mixes with the rush of the

fire and marries with a high-pitched grind
before fading away on the night.

Flames consume all that is.

A multi-pitched, mechanical groan emits
from

beneath the van, audibly announcing

the improperly meshed gears.

A cold tingle dances

up my spine and

my scalp

tightens

painfully.

My head is killing me. The thick rush of
blood fills my ears in pulsing time with the hammering inside my
skull. The sound of a metal sliding door, badly in need of
adjustment and lubrication forces itself past the din…

A sudden roar mixes with the rush of the fire
and marries with a high pitched grind before fading away on the
night.

I look up the street to check for traffic

and see only what appears to be a large
delivery van parked parallel to the curb.

“…
I toad her about thuh
truck.”

“…
Did’ju see thuh truck
too?”

“…
But I’d almost swear she
said ‘truck.’”

A sharp icepick of agony bites deeply into
the core of my being as a black panel van, greyed with a patina

of salt and grime pulls away from

the curb. The low mechanical roar is
underscored by the high-pitched grind of recalcitrant

gears as the vehicle accelerates and hooks
almost angrily around the corner.

That damn truck.

Delivery trucks don’t run that late
anyway.

“…
But I’d almost swear she
said ‘truck.’”

“…
But I’d almost swear she
said ‘truck.’”

“ROWAN!” My wife’s determined voice once
again waded through the flotsam of remembrances.

The present collapsed inward to replace the
rampant kaleidoscope of the past pin wheeling through my mind, and
the stream of thoughts crashed forcefully into the wall of
reality.

“She did say truck,” I whispered as the
snippets of visions and conversations blended into a solid,
tangible deduction.

“What?” Felicity asked as she searched my
face. She had stopped the insistent shaking but her hands remained
tightly entwined in my shirt.

“She did…” My voice came as a thin wisp once
again, and I aborted the sentence to clear my throat before finally
continuing in a stronger tone. “She did say truck. The killer is
driving an old delivery truck.”

As I voiced the revelation, I could almost
physically sense the dull pestilence of confusion as it drained
from my being.

* * * * *

The disconcerting light show had lessened
considerably once the fire trucks and rescue vehicle had departed
the scene. The coroner’s hearse would be arriving in due course,
and Amanda Stark’s remains would be zipped into a body bag and
driven the short distance to the morgue. Even now the CSU
technicians were packing up, and the crime scene would soon be
officially cleared.

“That’s right, a dark colored panel van.
Probably black. Like a delivery truck,” Ben said into his cell
phone and shot me a questioning glance at the end of the
sentence.

I nodded assent and mouthed the color.

“Yeah, I can hold for a second.”

Once I had convinced Felicity and he that I
was okay, we had moved away from the crime scene proper to put some
distance between Amanda Stark’s corpse and me. My wife was
diligently maintaining preternatural defenses around the both of
us, but the physical distance was an added measure of safety. I was
feeling particularly helpless at having to depend upon her for
protection in an arena I was so familiar with, but I was also
beginning to feel confident that my vulnerability was rapidly
coming to its end. At almost the very instant the staccato barrage
of memories had cemented themselves into a single lucid and
meaningful thought I had automatically grounded. The connection had
remained strong and unchallenged since, and the adjunct to my
recent revelation that came as a deep feeling of calm was still
with me. Things were starting to make sense.

“So how’re you feelin’?” Ben addressed me
with a stab of his finger while he was placed on hold. Out of habit
he shifted the mouthpiece back out of the way as he spoke. “You’re
actin’ like ya’ just came out of a coma or somethin’.”

“In a way I did,” I confessed. “I think maybe
my inability to connect the dots is the reason I’ve been so out of
it.”

“You’ve had trouble makin’ sense of stuff
before, and it’s never done this to ya’. Why now?”

“I think it might go back to that night at
the morgue…”

Ben held up a finger in a “hold that thought”
motion as he was summoned back to the phone. “Yeah, black,” he
repeated to the person at the other end. “So, what I need ya’ ta’
do is pull all the motor vehicle registrations for panel vans in
the city and county, then cross reference the owners against their
DMV files. Start with black ones and work into the other colors if
ya’ don’t get a hit. What we’re lookin’ for is a male, over six
feet, most likely Caucasian, mid ta’ late thirties.”

He listened to the device for a moment then
barked into the mouthpiece once again, “You’ve got computers, don’t
ya’? Uh-huh, yeah… So turn ‘em back on or whatever. Whaddaya mean
ya’ can’t? Yeah, well your maintenance schedule ain’t my problem.
No, tomorrow afternoon isn’t good enough. You’ve got till I get
there which is about,” he stole a quick glance at his wristwatch.
“Ten minutes from now… Uh-huh…Sure…Well I guess you’d better get
started then, shouldn’t ya’? Yeah? Well right back at ya’.”

My friend stabbed the device off with a
disgusted frown then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Sorry ‘bout
that. So what about the morgue?”

“The night I channeled Kendra Miller,” I
continued. “I don’t think that connection was ever fully severed.
What’s been happening to me ever since has probably been me
channeling her frustration at not being able to get her message
across.”

“And?”

“And it just created a vicious circle,” I
explained. “As I channeled her frustration I became even more
disconnected and frustrated myself. I was trying so hard to
understand that I wasn’t focusing. For want of a better analogy, I
couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”

He took a moment to smooth his hair and give
his neck a thoughtful massage before resting back against the side
of his van and folding his arms across his chest.

“Okay, so I guess that’d explain why you’ve
been all fucked up,” he finally stated. “Ta’ be honest I was just
beginnin’ to think you’d gone off the deep end.”

“You and me both.”

“Okay, now what’s the deal about the delivery
truck outside police headquarters?”

“Like I said,” I explained. “It was the day
you brought Allen Roberts in for questioning. That night, when I
left the station, the killer was waiting for me. If it hadn’t been
for the fact that an officer came up right behind me at the street
corner, I’d probably have been the latest victim.”

“So why the hell didn’t ya’ say somethin’
about it before now?”

“Because until now it was just another
delivery van parked on the street. I didn’t know that it was the
killer stalking me,” I answered. “I’ll admit that at the time
something did seem familiar, but I was still fighting a headache
from our session with the old guy, not to mention everything else
that had happened that day. Plus, by that time I’d been so far out
of it that nothing clicked, and I just spaced it off. Now that
everything has come together it seems obvious. The sound was really
the key.”

“How so?”

“It’s the way the transmission sounded when
he drove past me that night at the station. When I channeled Kendra
Miller at the morgue, I heard the same grinding sound in the
background. It didn’t seem to fit, but I can’t say that I know
exactly what you’re supposed to hear when you’re being burned
alive, so I just wrote it off. When we arrived at the Cherrywood
Trails crime scene, a plain black panel van passed right in front
of us when we were crossing the street. Remember? The driver slowed
down, and when he shifted gears, there was the same high-pitched
grinding noise.”

“So this bastard was right there when we
arrived at the Christine Webster scene and we missed ‘im?”

“He’s probably been within sight at every one
of the scenes, Ben,” I returned. “Even tonight.”

“It would stand to reason,” Felicity chimed
in. “If he truly believes in what he is doing, he will want to see
his mission completed. He’ll want to see that the people have
gathered ‘in the town square’ so to speak. To know that they have
witnessed the wrath of God.”

“Yeah, great,” Ben muttered. “So he could be
watchin’ us right now.”

“Not likely,” I shook my head. “He’s not
stupid, and like I’ve said before he’s not doing this for the
thrill. Once he sees that his work has been witnessed, he will move
on. Just like the Cherrywood Trails crime scene. He just drove by.
He didn’t stop and mingle with the crowd.”

“So if he just cruised by on Memorial Drive
and saw the lights and activity, he woulda been happy?”

“Probably.”

My friend rubbed his large hand across his
chin and huffed a misty breath into the fog before giving his watch
another glance. “Okay, so look, I’ve gotta go back to the station
and kick some ass on this whole DMV thing. I really doubt there’s
anything you can do ta’ help, so we might as well get ya’ back home
so ya’ can get some sleep.

“Now here’s the deal—Mandalay wasn’t
scheduled to come over and relieve me till about five-thirty, so I
need ta’ find someone to watch ya’ till she gets there.”

“I think we’ll be fine for a few hours, Ben,”
I offered. “He’s already performed an execution tonight.”

“Yeah, so? Last time he went on a rampage, he
killed three people in a night, not just one.”

“True, but he held Amanda Stark captive for a
week, and we’re pretty sure what was happening to my arm was a good
indication of what he was doing to her during that period. It’s not
hard to guess what he was after. You can bet that his list of names
has grown considerably, and we don’t really know that he’s
following a particular order. I may not even be a priority
anymore.”

“But ya’ don’t know that for sure,” he
chided.

“Well no, I don’t.”

“Then I’m findin’ someone to watch ya’ until
Mandalay shows up. End of discussion.”

* * * * *

For the second time in a single night, I was
awakened by the sound of urgent pounding on my bedroom door. Also
for the second time in that same night, I was fairly certain that I
hadn’t been in bed for very long. At least this time, when I rolled
over to look at the clock, the insistent pain of an ethereal symbol
tattooing itself into my arm didn’t greet me as it had done
earlier.

“Mister Gant! Miz O’Brien!” Detective
McLaughlin’s urgent voice came from the other side of the door and
was followed by another round of rapid knocking.

“Just a sec,” I called out.

Bleary eyed but feeling whole for the first
time in almost two weeks, I climbed from the bed and shushed the
dogs. After quickly pulling on my jeans I opened the door.

Charlee McLaughlin was possessed of a fresh,
farmer’s daughter kind of face that bordered on the quintessential
definition of cute. On any given day, her youthful appearance
betrayed no indication whatsoever that she had recently turned
forty.

Looking at her now, I would have guessed her
age far beyond those four decades.

Her face was drawn tight and absent of any
color save for a chalky white pallor. Worry creased her brow, and
absolute terror filled her eyes. My mind shunted immediately into
high gear as it raced through the various scenarios that placed a
killer at my door.

“What’s wrong?” I stammered and took a half
step back, as the latest of the possibilities flashing in my head
had the killer already in the house and forcing her to awaken
us.

“Mister Gant, I have to leave,” she told me
in a frantic tone as she struggled into her leather jacket. “My
husband just called me. Our daughter was in an accident, and
they’ve taken her to the hospital.”

“Oh Gods!” Felicity’s voice came from behind
me as she roused from the bed. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Charlee answered, her eyes
beginning to shine with the first warning of tears. “Scott said
something about the fog, a drunk driver, and emergency surgery. I’m
supposed to meet him at the hospital.”

She was already starting to shake.

“Go,” I told her. “We’ll be fine.”

“No.” She shook her head and gave me a
pleading look. “You have to come with me. Agent Mandalay won’t be
here for another three hours, and I can’t leave you alone.”

I started to object, but before I could form
the words, the gremlin named “Reason” whispered in my ear. Charlee
needed to be with her daughter, and it was a very real possibility
that time was not on her side. I instantly realized that arguing
the point was the last thing I needed to do right now. Especially
when that argument would be with a distraught mother who carried a
gun.

My unspoken objection turned inside out to
become concession, “Okay. Give us just a minute to get
dressed.”

* * * * *

From the time Ben had bestowed upon me the
loaded and holstered Glock 17, it had been making its home in my
sock drawer. As far as I was concerned it could have stayed that
way, and since I really hadn’t left the house for the past seven
days, it never presented itself as a problem. Earlier in the
evening however, when we had left for the crime scene, my friend
had displayed his militant attitude about the weapon and badgered
me into wearing it. When we arrived back home, the only thought on
my mind was crawling into bed and sleeping until spring. My clothes
were a non-concern, and they ended up in a less than neat pile
gracing a chair in the corner of our bedroom. Now, due to our
haste, the sidearm was still attached to my belt beneath the folds
of my jacket, and it was feeling incredibly awkward.