“Colin,” the anchorwoman’s voice cut in, “I understand that there has been some speculation that this crime might somehow be linked with another murder?”
“Yes, while authorities have not made an official statement, there has been speculation on that fact. Viewers will remember that two weeks ago, the body of Lena Duke was found hanging from a tree in Cherokee Park in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. The ritualistic manner in which she was killed bears a striking resemblance to this crime.
“Statements released earlier this week indicate that the Cape homicide may be somehow linked to the killing spree of Eldon Porter which occurred here in Saint Louis early last year.
“Right now, authorities are still being tight-lipped about this case. We will keep you updated as the situation develops. Back to you, Brandee and Skip.”
The screen cut back to a headshot of the unnaturally honey-blonde newscaster paired with a smaller inset of the field reporter. “Colin,” she spoke. “Has Mister Gant actually been to the scene of this particular crime?”
“I’ve been told by one detective that, yes, in fact Mister Gant was brought in early this morning. An interesting development, however, just moments ago Mister Gant was seen leaving the scene with Detective Benjamin Storm of the city homicide squad and a woman we believe to be his wife, Felicity O’Brien. Although we were unable to obtain a comment, we did get this footage showing some type of altercation.”
The screen switched to show the wildly shaking image of a van, partially illuminated off and on by video lights. Unintelligible, but obviously heated voices could be heard in the background over the shouts of reporters and camera operators. As the centerpiece of the video byte grew larger and began to stabilize, a man shot into view from behind the open door of the vehicle, apparently rushing toward the cameras. In an instant he halted, then appeared to be jerked backward, disappearing into the vehicle.
“Any idea what was going on there, Colin,” she asked as the video repeated.
“We were unable to obtain a comment from anyone on the scene at this time, I’m afraid.”
“Okay, thanks Colin,” she said, and the inset was replaced by a wide shot of the news desk, revealing both anchors as well as a third figure seated at the L-shaped return. “Keep us updated on this breaking story.”
“Will do, back to you Brandee and Skip.”
After a measured beat, the anchor continued. “So, how many of us have complained about lower back pain?”
“I know I have,” chimed in Skip Johnson. “Joining us this morning is Doctor…”
Eldon finally blinked, and as he did he instantly tuned out the voices coming from the television, relegating them once again to muted background noise. He allowed a thin smile to pass briefly across his face, the only outward sign of the elation he now felt.
The warlock was still here.
He had just needed to draw him out, and his plan had worked even quicker than he had hoped.
He absently wiped his wet hand on his shirt as he took the few steps across the room to the broken down bed. The water continued sputtering and splashing in the rusty basin, melding in an off-kilter tune with the voices from the TV. On the scarred surface of a makeshift nightstand, a book was positioned with supreme care, as if on display. Eldon reached out with his good hand and lifted it reverently, then used the knuckles of his clawed left hand to open it and flip through the pages.
Near the back of the tome, he finally stopped, bringing his gaze to rest on a particular passage, his eyes darting back and forth as he read and re-read the words. Slowly, his lips began to move, and then eventually a whisper of sound began to slip between them. Finally, his gravelly voice spoke aloud to be heard only by him.
“For it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
He continued to repeat the passage with growing rabidity, clipping the sentence until the only words spoken were “Vengeance is mine.”
Three Hours Earlier
CHAPTER 1:
Graphical images of playing cards expanded in happy accordion patterns across the glowing screen of my notebook computer as the machine proclaimed me victorious in this latest game of solitaire. Unless I’d lost track, this one made six for me and something on the order of ten million for the machine, give or take. I wasn’t actually keeping count, though. Well, not of the computer’s wins, anyway.
I tucked my fingers back in behind my eyeglasses, forcing the frames to ride up on the bridge of my nose, then rubbed my eyes before directing my bleary gaze at the lower corner of the screen. I’d started this mindless activity at twelve and it was now 3:07.
That was a.m., mind you.
Of course, there wasn’t much else to do. Watch TV, surf the web, read a book. None of these options were particularly appealing to me, not even the endless games of solitaire. What I really wanted to be doing was sleeping, but the way my head was throbbing, that wasn’t about to happen.
The annoying thud that was pounding out a droning rhythm throughout the whole of my grey matter began early in the evening and had not subsided in the least. But, so far it hadn’t grown any worse, for which I was thankful. Of course, I knew that wouldn’t last. It would be getting much worse. I just didn’t know exactly when.
I’d had this kind of headache before, more times than I cared to count, actually. It wasn’t sinuses, and it wasn’t just your normal stress related “take two aspirin and lie down for a while” kind of pain either. This was an ache born of unnatural influences. It was the pure physical manifestation of fear and dread. The kind of headache I experienced every single time I knew something horrible was about to happen, and there was nothing in this world I could possibly do to prevent it.
Unfortunately, for me, I tended to be afflicted by these damnable things way too often.
I ran my hand across the lower half of my face and felt the rough crop of stubble that, by now, was certainly shading my jaw line. Then I tugged at my goatee for a moment. The action prompted me to remember that I’d recently noticed the dark brown was being infiltrated by grey and white like a quickly spreading fungus. I absently considered a dye job for a moment then dismissed the idea as silly. I’d never been particularly vain before, so there was no reason to start now.
I reached behind with both hands and massaged the back of my head for a moment, hoping that it might help quell the ache.
It didn’t.
Picking up my coffee cup, I took a swig of the remaining contents and noticed immediately that it had grown cold. I guess I’d been a little more caught up in solitaire than I’d realized. Oh well, it had kept my mind off the pain, at least a little.
I pushed back and quietly got up, then carefully hooked around the small dining table where I’d been seated. I aimed myself toward the orange glow of the light on the coffeepot, using it as a beacon in the darkness. Since it was presently residing on the counter in the closet-sized room that was supposed to pass for a kitchen, I gave little thought to this being a problem. However, since I still wasn’t used to the layout of this apartment, in my single-minded quest for fresh java I cut my entry through the doorway far too shallow.
There was a loud thump, followed by me quickly listing to one side, and then the ache in the back of my head was pushed aside in favor of a new sensation. Of course, that feeling was a sharp, and far more extreme, pain in my toe.
I caught my breath, quickly swallowing the yelp that I’d managed to stop midway in my throat, and then fought to stifle a groan that quickly followed on its heels. A pitiful sounding mixture of the two managed to escape anyway.
Just for good measure, I stuttered a few random selections from the big book of four-letter expletives, passing them as quietly as I could through clenched teeth. Finally, I half limped, half hopped into the kitchenette and leaned against the counter.
I’d been propped there for no more than a minute when my muffled swearing was interrupted by a sleepy voice at the doorway.
“Row? Are you okay?”
/> “Yeah,” I grunted with little conviction in my voice. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
I hadn’t heard her approach, not that I was surprised. I was a bit preoccupied to say the least, and besides, she was far more graceful than I would ever be. I grimaced, not so much from the pain, but because waking Felicity was exactly what I had wanted to avoid.
“What are you doing up?”
“Just attempting to break my toe,” I muttered, turning my head and looking back toward her.
“What happened?” my wife asked, her voice a quiet blend of two parts sleep to one part concern, all underscored by a faint Celtic intonation. “You’re sure you’re okay, then?”
Felicity was second generation Irish-American, and she had spent an enormous amount of time in Ireland throughout her life. She was never completely free of the lilt, though it was most pronounced whenever she was overtired, under stress, or as in this case, half asleep. It almost always came bundled with a rich and colorful brogue to match.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I told her as I focused on her slight form. “Just stubbed it, that’s all.”
She had propped herself in the doorway, using the back of her hand for a pillow as she rested it against the frame. In the dim light, I could see that her eyes were closed as she yawned. A loose pile of fiery auburn hair sat atop her head in a Gibson-girlish coif. Whenever she let the cascade of spiraling tresses hang free, it would easily reach her waist. Her pale skin seemed to almost glow in the darkness.
She let out a heavy sigh and stretched slowly. She was clad in an oversized t-shirt, but her tight figure still managed to tug it into varying degrees of eye candy as she languidly arched her back. How she managed to look this good even when she had just climbed out of bed was something beyond my comprehension, but I certainly wasn’t going to complain.
“Aye,” she said as she reached out and switched on the overhead light. “So tell me why you’re awake, then.”
“Because I couldn’t sleep?” I offered, squinting against the sudden infusion of brightness.
“Aye, don’t be a smart ass now. You know what I meant.”
“Would you believe I was trying to get some work done?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Getting a drink of water?”
“Rowan.” She cocked her head and shot me a frown as she paused—effectively impaling me with her I’m serious look. “I’m half asleep, but I’m not blind. You’ve coffee on, and you’ve been playing solitaire on your computer. Quit screwing with me, then.”
“Okay,” I answered with a defeated sigh. “I’m waiting for Ben to call.”
As absurd as it sounded, it was the truth.
It may be the middle of the night, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the telephone was going to ring, and Detective Benjamin Storm was going to be at the other end. For me, very simply, this was a foregone conclusion.
What’s more, it was not because he happened to be my best friend and that he just felt like talking at an odd hour. It was going to be something I didn’t want to hear but probably already knew. In any case, I knew it would be something that I had no choice but to deal with.
Felicity closed her eyes and let her head tilt forward, dropping her forehead into her hand.
“Nightmare?” she asked softly as she began massaging her brow. She was intimately familiar with the forms my precognitive intuition would sometimes take.
“Headache.”
“Humph,” she grunted, then asked hopefully, “Did you take anything just in case?”
“Not that kind of headache,” I replied.
“You’re certain, then?”
Her question was answered by the grating peal of the telephone vibrating against the walls of the small room before I could even utter the “yes” that now lodged itself in my throat.
My wife looked up at me with sadness in her jade-green eyes and then gave a slight nod to the coffeepot. “Aye, I’ll go put on some clothes. Best pour me a cup of that as well.”
I started to protest. “I don’t think…”
“…That I should go?” she shot back, filling in my sentence and cutting me off. “Are you planning to stay out of it?”
I sighed and fidgeted at the sudden tension. She already knew what my answer would be.
“Aye, I thought so. We’re not discussing this, Rowan,” she continued with a stern shake of her head. “If you go, I go. End of story. Now answer the phone, then.” She was already turning around the corner of the doorway on her way back to the bedroom as she issued the last command.
I knew better than to press my luck, especially on this subject. We’d beaten it beyond recognition already, and we were both too stubborn to give in. I took a step forward, picked the phone out of its cradle on the fourth ring, and then placed it to my ear.
“Yeah, Ben. I’m here” was all I said.
“Awww, Jeezus H. Christ, Row… Jeeeez… Goddammit…” He launched immediately into a string of curses, his voice a peculiar mix of relief, anger, and disgust.
Whenever my friend started a sentence this way, I knew that what followed probably wasn’t going to be good. Of course, I’d known that before the phone ever rang, but there was always that small inkling of hope that I might be wrong. Judging from the baseness of Ben’s first words, I knew that this would not be the occasion.
“Porter?” I inserted my question into the lull that trailed along in the wake of his outburst.
“Yeah,” he returned, his voice slightly calmer. “But that was a given, I guess.”
In an instant, the “probably” became an absolutely, and the “wasn’t going to be good” was nothing less than a cold fact.
“Uh-huh. Truth is I’m surprised he waited this long,” I replied. “It’s been more than two weeks since he killed that woman in Cape Girardeau.”
“Yeah.” He paused. “So, what gives? You sound like you were awake already.”
“Yeah. I was.”
“So what’s up? Don’t tell me you were waitin’ for me to call.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“Jeez, Row…” The note of resignation in his voice was clear. “So, did you have one of those nightmares or somethin’?”
“No. Just a headache.”
“Bad one?”
“Bad enough.”
“Regular, or was it one of those hinky, weird-ass, Twilight Zone ones that you get?”
“Something like that.” I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me.
Twilight Zone. That’s what my friend liked to call it whenever I would engage in any form of psychic detection or supernormal communication. He was accustomed to the peculiar psychic events that had seemed to plague me for the past couple of years, but he still had his own unique branding for them. He had a whole handful of euphemisms—“la-la land,” “out there,” and even just plain “weird,” but Twilight Zone remained his favorite. I guess I couldn’t blame him for the interpretation though. Even I wasn’t always comfortable with the paranormal excursions myself, but then, I also didn’t always have control over them either. And, while a certain amount of mysticism comes along with being a practicing Witch, at times I felt almost as if I had plugged directly into the main switchboard of the “other side.”
Disconcerting is just about the nicest word I could use to describe it. You don’t want to hear the others.
“So why didn’t you call me?” he asked.
“And do what? Tell you I had a headache?”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
“Actually, when I’ve called you in the past I’ve had a little more to say.”
“Yeah. Maybe so.”
“So, do you want me to meet you?”
“For what?”
“To go to this crime scene?”
“No, actually. I was just calling to make sure you were okay.”
The meaning behind his words was quickly apparent to me. For a number of reasons, I was most likely at the top of Porter’s hit list; n
ot the least of which was the fact that I had shot him. Of course, he was trying to kill me at the time, so I didn’t have much choice. However, since he had already tried once, we had every reason to believe that he would do it again.
This was exactly why Felicity and I had spent the past two weeks residing in a tiny, unfamiliar apartment in a secure building instead of our own home. We were in hiding, and it was starting to get on my nerves.
“So, the victim is male?” I asked
“That’s what they said. I just got the call a few minutes ago.”
“So where is the scene?” I pressed again.
“No way. Stay put, Row. Let us handle this.”
“You know I can’t do that, Ben.”
“You don’t have a hell of a lotta choice now do ya’?” he shot back.
“I’ll just show up,” I told him calmly. “I can find out where the scene is without your help.”
“And I’ll fuckin’ arrest your sorry ass if you do.”
“Ben…” I just allowed my voice to trail off.
“You know, Rowan, we ain’t just a bunch of bumblin’ idiots. Cops solve murders all the time without your help.”
“I know, Ben, but this is different.”
“Yeah, I know you think it is, but it’s not. Why can’t you just stay put where I know you’re safe, and let me handle this?”
“Because I want my life back, Ben.”
“Gettin’ yourself killed would kinda defeat the purpose now wouldn’t it?”
“We’ve had this discussion before, Ben.”
“And I don’t recall bein’ convinced that time either.”
“I need to do this,” I appealed.
He huffed out a heavy sigh after an extended silence. “Fine. Jeez. Okay. At least if you’re with me, I can keep an eye on ya’. I’ll swing by and pick you up. But listen, Row, you’d damn well better tell Felicity before I get there. I don’t have time for an argument like last time.”
The Law Of Three: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 2
