Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (7 page)

“Yes, burning was done in some parts of
Europe, and it
is
the very
reason modern day Witches call it the Burning Times. But it was
only one form of execution and not the most common at that.
Witches, and those accused, were often garroted, hung,
disemboweled, drowned, or even slowly crushed to death.

“In this case, he was trying to see if she
would save herself instead of facing such a death.”

“Whaddaya mean ‘save herself’? She never had
a chance. He chucked her off a fuckin’ balcony.”

“That wasn’t just an execution, Ben, it was
also a test to verify the validity of her confession.”

“A test how?”

“He wanted to see if she could fly.”

“T
he Empress Chicken
combination plate is pretty good,” Ben was telling me as he cranked
the steering wheel and arced us through the intersection in a left
turn that went far too wide for comfort. Fortunately, there was
nothing in his way, and he serpentined the vehicle back into the
middle of the lane. “But ya’ hafta tell ‘em ta’ lay off the
MSG.”

We were back in his van and making our way
down a near deserted, snow-packed street in the direction of lunch.
He had produced a crumpled menu from the depths of the glove box
and offered it to me before we left the parking lot of the city
morgue. The tri-fold piece of paper screamed neon yellow in between
the scribbled lunch orders, phone numbers, and smudges threatening
to completely cover its face. In the center of the outer fold, it
bore a caricatured cartoon likeness of a balloon-headed Asian man
in a tiny car, gleefully rushing to some unknown destination off
the page. The name of the restaurant emblazoned above the line
drawing read “Happy Wok Express—We Deliver.”

“I’ll probably just have some vegetables and
steamed rice,” I told him after half-heartedly inspecting the list
of specials. “I doubt if I need to eat anything very spicy at the
moment.”

“Vegetables and rice?” He glanced over at me
and chuckled. “Are you serious? Don’t ya’ want any real Chinese
food?”

“Actually, Ben, vegetables and steamed
rice are probably closer to being
real
Asian food than your suggestion of Empress
Chicken.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Hmmph. Well, I’m still gonna have the
chicken.”

“I figured you would.”

Doctor Sanders had arrived in her
office shortly before we left the morgue. Much to my surprise, she
remembered me and made it a point to ask about Felicity’s well
being. Of course, it hadn’t been that long since we’d met.
Considering that we had seen each other several times due to the
body count of the last case, there was no real reason to be
shocked. Truth be told, by the time local media finished trying to
make me into an overnight celebrity—Self Proclaimed Witch Aids
Police In Satanic Serial Killer Investigation, etcetera—I should
have been amazed if someone
didn’t
know me.

Ben engaged in a short banter with the city’s
chief medical examiner and persuaded her to take over the
postmortem on Brianna Walker. She had begun by assuring him that
Doctor Friedman was more than qualified to complete the autopsy but
within minutes agreed to handle it herself. I wasn’t entirely
certain if Ben had been just eloquent enough in his arguments or if
she had agreed for no other reason than to get him to shut up. In
any event, Ben got what he wanted, as usual, and invited her to
lunch with us in return for the favor. She had declined for reason
of a full schedule, pointedly citing the fact that she now had yet
another post to perform on top of her never-ending administrative
duties.

The radio was playing softly from
strategically placed speakers and intermixed with an occasional
tinny spurt of chatter from the police radio mounted vertically to
the face of the dash. The cigarette lighter receptacle stood ready
to accept the plug for the magnetic bubble light that rested on the
engine cover between the seats. I knew from past experience that a
hidden switch somewhere on the driver’s side would activate a
deafening siren behind the exterior grill. Ben was dedicated to his
job, and the modifications he had made to his personal vehicle
showed it.

“A lotta coppers eat here,” he said as he
urged the van over the curb into the unplowed lot and created his
own parking space next to the small building. “I got turned on to
it when I worked this district a coupl’a years back.”

He was making conversation. Going purposely
out of his way to avoid the subject of Brianna Walker and the
revelations I had bestowed upon him less than an hour before. I
knew he was doing so for my benefit. It must have been obvious that
I was still rattled by the entire experience, and this was even
without my having engaged in any psychic exploration of the young
woman’s death. I had to admit to myself that I was already in deep
and that any other fear I had faced in my life to this point was a
cakewalk as compared to what awaited me now. In my mind, I mutely
convinced myself that I was just going to have to get over it.

“You know, Ben, I appreciate what you’re
doing, but we can’t keep avoiding the subject. We have to talk
about this.”

The itching sensation on my forearm had
tapered off to a dull annoyance for a brief time but had now
returned with a growing intensity. The thick, polyfiber-filled
fabric of my coat was positioned armor-like between my clawing
fingers and my burning skin, rendering my attack useless.

“Yeah, white man, I know,” he conceded with a
nod. “But I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I could really do without
another serial nutball runnin’ around loose. Shit! The last one was
bad enough.”

“I hate to tell you this,” I ventured,
“but if I’m right, and this guy is re-creating the Inquisition, it
could get much worse than the last one...
much
worse.”

“Yeah, I was afraid you were gonna say
somethin’ like that.” He paused thoughtfully then turned to stare
out the window for a brief moment before centering his gaze back on
my face. “Sixty-four thousand dollar question, Row. Are ya’ gonna
be able to handle this?”

“Yeah, Ben. I think I will.” I was still
pawing at the itch mindlessly.

“You
think
, or you
know
, Rowan?” he stressed. “I’m not gonna have
ya’ in the middle of this crap if it’s gonna put ya’ over the edge
or somethin’.”

“I understand your concern, Ben, but I’ll be
all right. The whole idea of someone reviving that part of history
just caught me a little off guard. Besides, I thought you said my
involvement in this was requested from further up the line?”

“Yeah, it was. You made a big impression with
that whole mess last fall... But I’ll tell the chief he can kiss my
ass if this is gonna be any danger to you. It’s not like you’re
gettin’ paid for this.”

“I’m in danger whether I help with the
investigation or not, Ben.”

“How do ya’ figure that?”

“I’m a Witch and I’m open about it.
‘Out of the broom closet’ so to speak. My picture has been in the
paper and all over the news. Not to mention the article we were
just talking about this morning. If he’s hunting Witches, then I’m
a prime target who’s already publicly confessed to the
crime
.”

“Sonofabitch... Mutherfuck...” He muttered
the expletives as he shook his head. “Damn…I just can’t win for
losin’.”

* * * * *

The interior of the Happy Wok Express was
just as small as the outside of the building had professed it would
be. Ben told me that it was once a carryout fried chicken franchise
that had been shut down due to several health code violations. The
building had apparently remained vacant until just a few years ago
when the current owners had taken it over. Of the few tables, we
had selected the one in the farthest corner of the establishment.
We were the only patrons at the moment, but there was no guarantee
it would remain that way. What we would be discussing was
definitely not meant to be overheard by the general populace.

“You shoulda had the doc look at your arm
when we were at the morgue.” Ben gestured at my incessant
preoccupation with the itch. “Maybe ya’ touched somethin’ in there
that you were allergic to, ya’know?”

“I can’t ask her for treatment every time I
see her, Ben. She’s already stitched me up once.” I asserted,
referring to the first time she and I had met. I had been bleeding
from a minor scalp wound received in the course of an
investigation, and she had tended to it without hesitation.

“Yeah, well,” he retorted between mouthfuls,
“she’s a doctor, right?”

“Right. But she’s getting paid to be a
medical examiner, not a general practitioner.”

It was painfully obvious that the present
management had ruled out the entire concept of remodeling, as the
interior motif still contained blatant references to the goodness
of deep fried poultry. Dark brown ceramic tiles on the walls and
floor, sporting more than their share of chips and cracks, married
with replacements of carelessly unmatched colors. A flickering soft
drink sign hung above the worn Formica counter, balancing a painted
menu on either side. Cardboard rectangles with handwritten
additions were taped over a number of the original selections
announcing price changes in bold strokes from a wide-tipped marker.
Low on a nearby wall, where most likely there had once stood a
drinking fountain, a copper pipe jutted out; the stem of its
shutoff valve was clamped with a small pair of vise-grips. I
couldn’t speak for the decorating and maintenance of the place, but
at least it appeared to be clean.

We continued our meal through the momentary
lull in our conversation. The sounds of metal utensils rattling
against heavy pans echoed from the kitchen area, occasionally
punctuated by a rapid string of speech in an Asian language. Their
phone was still ringing off and on, though the mid-day rush should
theoretically have ended. I assumed that since the weather had
forced a later start to the workday, lunch breaks had been pushed
back as well. Who better to call on a day like this than someone
who would deliver?

The food was edible but nothing that was
going to make the Riverfront Times annual restaurant guide. For
some reason, they had found it necessary to blanch my vegetables
beyond doneness, turning them into a limp pile covered with
something resembling a slightly thickened beef stock. The rice was
cold and dry, which led me to believe it had been steamed far in
advance of today. Ben sang the praises of his selection between
enormous forkfuls of deep fried chicken nuggets in a thickly
sweetened hot pepper sauce; of course, Ben wasn’t the pickiest
diner I had ever met. I simply pushed my lunch around the Styrofoam
plate with the plastic fork, occasionally stabbing a broccoli
floret or slice of carrot that hadn’t been cooked beyond
recognition and popping it in my mouth.

“Your food okay?” Ben asked. “Ya’ don’t seem
ta’ be eatin’ much.”

“It’s fine,” I lied. “I’m just not real
hungry right now.”

“So…” He paused for a moment and guzzled cola
from a thirty-two ounce plastic cup before continuing, “You’re
pretty sure this nutcase is gonna keep killin’?”

“Yes. If he’s following the mentality of the
inquisitors, I would guess that he sees himself as apostolic. He
probably believes that his actions are being directed by God.”

“Don’t tell me God’s talkin’ ta’ this wingnut
through his electric razor or somethin’.”

“I don’t know, Ben.” I said. “If you’re
looking for an accurate and expert psychological assessment, then
I’m not the one you need to be speaking to. You know that. I can
help you with the historical aspects, and if I
visualize
something up here...” I tapped my
forehead with my index finger. “But other than that…”

“You think I need ta’ call the Feebs,
don’tcha?”

“If you want a profile of him.” I confirmed
his comment with a nod then added, “Look, I know you have a problem
with the FBI getting involved, but you’ve got a pretty good working
relationship with Constance Mandalay in the local field office.
She’s pretty open-minded and you know it.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “She’s workable. I just
don’t wanna get stuck with another one of those know-it-alls with
an Ivy League sheepskin an’ a big fat zero in the experience
department. I don’t need that kinda aggravation when somethin’ like
this is goin’ on.”

“So request her specifically.”

“I s’pose I could get ‘er involved
unofficially and see where it goes. If the Feebs end up knee deep
in it then...”

Ben’s vocal musing was bitten off cleanly by
the shrill cry of his pager as it demanded immediate attention. He
thumbed the button to silence the device and peered at the liquid
crystal display with a thin-lipped frown.

“Office,” he proclaimed as he proceeded
to slip the beeper back on to his belt, only to have it begin
blaring loudly once more. Extracting the screaming palm full of
electronic components, he glanced at its face with sharp disgust
before returning it to his side once again. “Jeezus… Fuckin’…It’s
the goddamned office
again
.”

Ben reached around the back of his chair and
into the folds of his coat. After a moment of wrestling with the
flap on the pocket, he withdrew a hand-held cell phone and pressed
the power switch. The compact apparatus looked like a child’s toy
in his massive hand. The moment the ready tone announced the
phone’s status, he stabbed out the department number from memory
and then held it to his ear.