The Law Of Three: A Rowan Gant Investigation (17 page)

“Curiosity I guess,” I told him. “Trying to
make sense of everything.”

“Well I hate to sound crass.” Ben tossed in
his two cents, “But his name could be Smith. Doesn’t really matter.
He’s dead.”

“You’re right,” I returned. “But he was alive
once.”

“Uh-huh. ‘Bout two weeks ago,” Deckert
offered and then explained. “According to the M.E., he’d been
deceased for approximately a week when he was found, and that was a
week ago itself.”

I nodded. “So I’ve heard.”

The wholly unmistakable funk of death still
lingered on the gelid air, and the lag time between death and
discovery Deckert just mentioned explained it. Fortunately, it was
faint as there had been some time for the place to air out; which
also explained why every time I spoke I could see my words as well
as hear them. Still, it was nowhere near as bad as it could have
been.

I let my eyes roam and slowly scanned the
area around me, getting a visual feel for the place. We were
actually standing in the partially finished basement of a house
that sat just inside the municipality of Wood Dell. Recently hung
sheet rock formed a wall to our right and was marred at intervals
by wide vertical swaths of joint compound. Bare studs to our rear
formed a half-wall return that separated one section from the next.
At the far end of the room, a doorway led deeper into the basement
and presumably the ongoing remodeling project.

My gaze eventually came to rest on the
centerpiece we’d surrounded—a set of well-seasoned sawhorses,
age-greyed and paint-spattered, that were occupying the middle of
the room. A hardwood one-by-ten was stretched across them with the
beginning of a decorative edge routed into one side. The smoothly
tapered cut ran for approximately ten inches then suddenly degraded
as the careful craftsmanship vanished into an arcing gouge that
hop-scotched across the surface of the wood.

On the bare, plywood sub-floor beneath, a
chalked outline stood out against the sawdust and construction
detritus. At a bulbous point in the scribed profile that was
obviously where the man’s head had been, dried blood stained the
wood a rusty brown. It had pooled in a haphazard pattern that in a
bizarre sense resembled a fuzzy map of Italy, morbid as that
observation was. Additional stains spread outward from what had
probably been the early stages of purging and putrefaction.

The coppery scent of the old blood blended
with the nasal bite of sappy lumber, adding themselves to the
potpourri of odors. Even as faint as it was, in the back of my mind
I wondered if I would ever be able to forget the sharpness of this
smell.

My friend took notice of where my focused
stare had fallen, and he cleared his throat.

“You slippin’ into la-la land?” he asked.

“No,” I returned, breaking my intense gaze
away from the outline and turning to Ben. “Just thinking.”

“Coroner’s report says he bled out,” Deckert
told me as if he felt a need to explain the bloodstain. “Looks like
the wacko came in while the guy was working, picked up a hammer,
and jacked him in the head. Poor bastard just laid there and bled
to death. Of course, he probably would’ve ended up being a
vegetable if he hadn’t.”

“Lesser of two evils,” I muttered.

“Something like that,” he agreed, then
continued. “Anyway, from what we found it looks like the asshole
might have lived here for at least a couple of days after he killed
him. Maybe a week.”

“So Porter’s been in town for at least two
weeks?”

“Yeah,” Deckert answered. “Looks that
way.”

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell
me about it until now,” I contended.

“Albright was already running things, Row,”
Ben spoke. “She made it pretty clear that you weren’t to be
involved.”

“But you called me this morning about Randy,
and that was before you even knew who the victim was.”

“Yeah, and I got my ass chewed for it
too.”

“Earlier you said there were reasons I wasn’t
told,” I continued. “Reasons means more than one.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Would you like to expand on that?”

“You won’t like it.”

“So what’s new about that?”

Ben paused and stared at me for a moment.
“Truth?”

“I would hope.”

“It wasn’t just Albright. Deck, Mandalay, and
I recommended that you be left out of it so we could keep your
sorry ass from showing up here unescorted.”

“That seems to be a theme with you lately,” I
returned.

“So sue me,” he answered.

“Maybe later,” I told him for lack of
anything better to say.

My friend circled back to the original topic
once again. “Well anyway, considerin’ the name and the evidence,
I’m bettin’ this guy wasn’t a Witch.”

“You can’t base it on his name, Ben.
WitchCraft crosses several ethnic boundaries, and there is such a
thing as Slavic Paganism,” I answered then gave him a nod. “But
you’re right. I don’t think that this victim was Pagan, and that’s
what bothers me.”

Quiet fell in the room while I stood
pondering the unheralded death of a man I never knew. I could feel
my face hardening into a frown as I mulled over the facts I’d been
given.

“Whatcha’ thinkin’ about now, Row?” my friend
finally prodded.

“Why would Porter do that?” I asked aloud,
talking to myself as much as to him.

“Do what?” Ben asked.

“Deliberately kill a non-Pagan
individual.”

“Hell, Rowan, who knows?” Deckert shrugged
and shook his head. “Covering his tracks probably.”

“But it just doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“Porter’s thing has always been killing Witches. The last time
around he even had a crisis of faith when he accidentally killed a
non-Pagan.”

“As I recall,” Ben offered, “he ended up
blaming you for that.”

“That’s how he came to terms with it, yes,” I
assented.

“Yeah, well, I think Porter’s made it clear
that it’s not just about killin’ Witches anymore, Row. He’s got it
in for YOU.”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “So why am I
here?”

I knew my words sounded more like a demand
than a question the moment I heard my own voice, but I couldn’t
help it. The dam had finally broken on my headache, and it was
ramping up at an ever increasing rate. On top of that, I had an
anxious feeling slithering around inside me that I just couldn’t
shake. I didn’t know if it was fear, nerves, or something ethereal.
I couldn’t even pinpoint if it had to do with me or someone else.
All I could say for a fact was that I didn’t feel right, and this
excursion was beginning to come across as an exercise in
futility.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean exactly that. What am I doing here?
What does Albright want me to look at?” I waved my arm in a
semicircle to indicate the scene before us. “Surely not this.”

“Well, there’s more in the back,” Deckert
offered then held up the brown paper bag. “But she also said she
wanted you to see this.”

“So that isn’t your lunch?” I asked, fighting
to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and only partially
succeeding.

Fortunately, Carl ignored it.

“Hell no,” he replied as he set the bag on
the end of the board that was resting across the two-by-fours and
then proceeded to unfold the top. “I don’t know what it is.”

Deckert reached into the now open bag, and
when he withdrew his hand, he was holding a somewhat old-looking
and dirt-smeared mason jar. From where I stood, I could see that
the ring holding the lid on was rusted and weathered. A winding or
two of black electrical tape encircled the rim and neck of the
glass vessel. It appeared to be approximately half full with
various shapes; some large, some small, some dark, some light, and
some were even shiny. Pale liquid made up the remaining volume to
within a pair of inches from the sealed top.

“Where did you find that?” I asked.

“Flowerbed next to the front porch,” Deckert
replied. “One of the Crime Scene guys noticed that the mulch had
been disturbed. He found this buried about a foot or so down.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “That would be about
right.”

“So you sound like you know what it is?” he
half-stated, half-asked.

Ben had reached out and taken the container
from Deckert and was holding it up in the dim light. He inspected
it intensely, holding it close to his face as he twisted it then
announced, “There’s nails and fishhooks and razor blades and all
kinds of other shit in here.”

“Probably some screws, broken glass, pins,
needles, and anything else sharp you can think of too,” I added.
“That’s a Witch jar.”

“THIS is a Witch jar?” Ben asked.

“What’s a Witch jar?” Deckert wedged in his
question.

“It’s a protective talisman from a long line
of folklore.” I offered the same general explanation I’d given Ben
earlier. “They are used to repel Witches and especially magick.
Sometimes they’re called Witch bottles. Porter probably made it and
buried it out front in order to protect himself from me.”

“So when you mentioned these things earlier,
I asked you if it was something I needed to know about,” Ben said,
still inspecting the container.

“Actually you asked me if you WANTED to know
about them,” I replied.

“Same difference,” he shot back.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” I apologized with a
somewhat defensive tone in my voice. “I was just speculating at the
time. I didn’t know that he’d actually leave a Witch jar
somewhere.”

“Yeah, I know, but what I’m sayin’ is that
you made out like it was something weird and all. I don’t see what
the big deal is. It’s just a bunch of nails and shit in a jar of
water.”

“That’s not water, Ben,” I told him. “It’s
urine.”

He sat the jar back onto the board in a quick
flurry of motion and then began wiping his hand on his pants leg as
he screwed up his face in disgust. “What the fuck?! You mean he
pissed in it?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “That’s how you make a
Witch jar.”

“Jeezus, white man. That’s just gross.”

“Hey.” I shrugged. “I told you that you
probably didn’t want to know.”

“Well hell, I can see why they would work,”
Ben, announced. “I’m repelled by the damn thing myself.”

“That’s not exactly the intended use, Ben,” I
told him. “It’s not the ‘disgust factor’ that does it; besides, now
that it’s no longer buried it’s pretty much useless.”

“It has to be buried?”

I canted my head in a quick nod. “In order to
work, yes.”

“So it’s just a jar of piss?” he asked.

“Pretty much.” I nodded. “With sharp objects
in it.”

“So was it like some kinda magic or spell or
somethin’?”

“More or less.”

“Well, there’s a WHY for you. If Porter is so
dead set on killin’ Witches then why would he do something like
this?”

“For the very same reason he wants to kill
Witches,” I explained. “Superstition. Like I said, a Witch jar is
something drawn from folklore.”

“So if it’s just a superstition then how can
it work?”

“Have you ever heard of a self-fulfilling
prophecy?”

“You mean like when you get yourself so
worked up worrying about something that you actually make it
happen?” Deckert asked.

I nodded my head. “Exactly. It’s the same
concept. That’s the thing about magick. If you believe in it
enough, you can make it real.”

“Okay, but this thing is still gross.”

“I’m not going to debate that with you,” I
replied as I motioned to the vessel. “But, now you know what a
Witch jar is.”

“Wunnerful,” he muttered. “I feel
sufficiently educated now.”

“So, Carl, you said there was something in
the back?” I ignored my friend’s sardonic tone and directed my
question to Detective Deckert.

“Yeah.” He pointed to the doorway at the
other end of the divided room. “He got a little artistic on the
walls back there.”

“Monogram of Christ?” I mentioned the
wreath-encircled X bisected by a P because it had been one of
Porter’s calling cards the last time he had gone on a killing
spree. I had even been on the receiving end of a series of ethereal
stigmata of the same shape each time he claimed a victim.
Unconsciously I reached my right hand over to massage my left
forearm, as it had been the canvas for the bloody signs.
Fortunately, there were no indications of a repeat performance at
the moment.

“Yeah, there’s a couple of those.” He nodded
affirmation as he spoke. “But there’s some other stuff. Star kinda
things. Not sure what they’re s’posed to be. You’ll just have to
look at ‘em.”

I shuddered for a moment and looked around as
the hairs on the back of my neck rose painfully to attention. The
tickle of gooseflesh serpentined down my spine and spread out from
there, making me tense my muscles in pure reflex.

“You okay, white man?” Ben asked.

“I’m not sure,” I replied without looking at
him. “I feel…”

I allowed my voice to trail off very simply
because I couldn’t find words to describe the feeling that had come
over me.

“You feel what?” my friend pressed after a
moment of expectant silence.

The tingle that was prancing about on my skin
oozed down my arms and welled in my hands, making them feel as
though circulation was only now returning after an extended
absence. Painful pricking sensations needled my fingers in a
rapid-fire assault. I looked down at my hands and rubbed my thumbs
against my fingertips. The pain intensified with each pass, and my
hands began to burn as if they were on fire.

I’ve never been a big fan of Shakespeare, so
I don’t quite know why I picked his work to quote other than the
fact that it seemed to fit. I looked up at them, and the line of
prose exited my mouth before I could even think. “By the pricking
of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”