Crone's Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation
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CRONE’S MOON
A Rowan Gant Investigation
A Novel of Suspense and Magick
By
M. R. Sellars
E.M.A. Mysteries
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The “Don’t Be Brothers” Irish Band and the persona of Dorothy Morrison
are used with permission.
CRONE’S MOON: A Rowan Gant Investigation
A WillowTree Press Book
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2004 by M. R. Sellars
Cover design Copyright © 2004 Johnathan Minton
This e-book edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book edition may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission.
For information contact: WillowTree Press on the World Wide Web http://www.willowtreepress.com
Smashwords Edition – 2010
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With every book I write, the list of people I feel compelled to thank grows. If I keep at this long enough, the roll call will take an entire volume in and of itself, but I don’t mind. True friends are a rare commodity, and those who stick by you are worth more than their weight in gold. The fact that my list keeps growing warms my heart, and thanking those people here is the least I can do. So, without further babbling on my part, (yeah, right. Like I’ll ever stop) here are the ‘usual suspects’ along with a few new additions—
Dorothy Morrison: Gods, what can I say about you my dear friend? You are not only like a sister to me; you are an inspiration—each and every day.
Officer Scott Ruddle, SLPD: The Scotch, Cigars, and back deck are here for you any time my friend.
Roy Osbourn: A character, an invaluable source of information, and hell of a guy. I’m glad to be able to call you friend.
Tammi Nesser: Thanks for letting me borrow your neuroses and phobias—again. Sorry about the whole getting killed off thing.
Trish Telesco: Good friend and author extraordinaire.
A.J Drew: What can you say about the Yeti. He’s big, fuzzy, and a great guy. Oh yeah, AJ, be careful what you ask for.
As always, my ever-expanding, long distance family: Mystic Moon Coven.
Duane & Chell: Words cannot express my love for you two.
Angel & Randal: Ditto.
Scott & Andrea: Love you guys too.
All of my good friends from the various acronyms: C.A.S.T., F.O.C.A.S.M.I., H.S.A., M.E.C., S.I.P.A., and S.P.I.R.A.L.
Patrick Owen: Friend and unofficially adopted brother. We’ve seen some serious sh*t my brother. Good and bad. I couldn’t have picked a better person to weather it with.
Tish Owen: Love ya’ hon!
Lori, Beth, Jim, Dave, Rachel, Doug, Duncan, Kitti, Edain, Boom-Boom, Kevin, David, Bella, Shannon, Denessa, Boudica, Imajicka, Owl, and probably twenty or thirty more…
My parents: I will never be able to thank you enough for introducing me to the written word. I wish you both were here.
“Chunkee”: The man behind the author. You keep saying you have a poor memory, but why is it you know the stories I’ve written better than I do? Thanks for being there.
Johnathan Minton: The guy who creates the art you buy when you pick up one of my books. All I do is throw some words at the pages in between.
My daughter: For making life an adventure and allowing me to see the world through a fresh set of eyes. Thank you for constantly amazing me.
My wife Kat: Editor, friend, soul mate, keeper of the household, and the one person on earth I cannot live without.
Jim Sellars: My uncle—I am thankful I got to know you again before you had to leave for good.
Styx, Ozzy Osbourne, Loreena McKennitt, Enya, and a host of other artists, that tirelessly (by the magick of the CD player) and unknowingly provide the ambient sound for my office whenever I am writing.
James Young and Tommy Shaw for the song These Are The Times. I realize it was written about something wholly unrelated, however each time I hear it I cannot help but think of the relationship between Ben Storm and Rowan Gant.
Firestorm Publicity Services and all that they do to keep me going.
The person who discovered coffee and then decided to turn it into a drink.
The “Don’t Be Brothers.”
The gang at CAO for producing some of the best cigars a man could ever smoke. Thanks for the tour.
Bucky Katt, Satchel, Wendi, ‘The Penguin Mafia’, and flying monkeys.
And, as always, everyone who takes the time to pick up one of my novels, read it, and then recommend it to a friend.
For my father,
M. R. Sellars, Senior
If, in my lifetime, I am able to be
even half the man you were in yours,
I will truly have accomplished something.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
While the city of St. Louis and its various notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create an illusion of reality to be experienced and enjoyed.
In short, I made them up because it helped me make the story more entertaining, or in some cases, just because I wanted to.
Note also that this book is a first-person narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. In first person writing, the narrative should match the dialogue of the character telling the story. Since Rowan, (and anyone else that I know of for that matter,) does not speak in perfect, unblemished English throughout his dialogue, he will not do so throughout his narrative. Therefore, you will notice that some grammatical anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order to support this illusion of reality.
Let me repeat something—I DID IT ON PURPOSE. Do NOT send me an email complaining about my grammar. It is a rude thing to do, and it does nothing more than waste your valuable time. If you find a typo, that is a different story. Even editors miss a few now and then.
Finally, this book is not intended as a primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan path. However, please note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations may not fit your particular tradition, but you should remember that your explanations might not fit mine either.
And, yes, some of the magick is “over the top.” But, like I said in the first paragraph, this is fiction…
When the moon is high and new,
kiss your hand to her times two.
When the moon rides at her peak,
then your hearts desire seek.
When the moon turns to the Crone,
in Saint Louis, don’t walk alone…
Couplets #5-6
The Wiccan Rede
Lady Gwen Thompson, First Printing, Green Egg #69, Circa 1975
Couplet # 7 as written by Rev. Duane Marshall, 2004
Thursday, January 10
Three days prior to the new moon
10:00 A.M.
North of Granite City, Illinois
PROLOGUE:
Her jaw is hurting.
It isn’t the only part of her body that is aching by far, but at th
e moment, it is in the forefront of her mind. She can tell she has been grinding her teeth. There is no doubt about it, because she always does when she sleeps.
Bruxism, that’s what her dentist calls it. Pain, that’s what she calls it; especially right now. She has a plastic mouth guard she sleeps with that is specially designed just for the affliction, and it helps; but, she knows that considering the amount of pain she is experiencing and the fact that she can’t feel it in her mouth that the appliance must not be here.
Thinking about it doesn’t help much.
She is beginning to take notice of the laundry list of aches plaguing her body. Her head, her chest, her wrists, her ankles… hell, there isn’t an inch of her that doesn’t hurt. There are just some parts that are screaming louder than the others.
She starts to move, then flashes on a distant memory. She’s not supposed to move? She shouldn’t move? She can’t move? She tries anyway and finds that option three is apparently the winner. She doesn’t know why she can’t move, but she decides not to think about it. It just seems easier not too.
It is odd to her that she can remember the word bruxism, but for some unknown reason she can’t recall much else. She has no idea how long she has been here. A day? A week? A month? No clue. But what does it matter? She doesn’t know where ‘here’ is.
Come to think of it, she doesn’t even know WHO she is. Confusion seems to be the order of business, and she has absolutely no idea why. The only thing she knows for certain is that it is dark, cold, smells odd, and she is hurting.
She lets out a sudden whimper as a glut of visceral fear gives her stomach a hard twist. She has no idea where it is coming from, but it blindsides her. The terror starts winding its way up from her gut, driving along her spine, and rushes into her brain. She catches her breath as the flush of warmth spreads over her face. She thinks she is going to vomit and swallows hard. She feels a wet tear streaming across her cheek.
A moment later, the fear passes with the same urgency and no more warning than when it had attacked. Again, it seems easier to just forget than to try analyzing it. The question ‘why’ seems so moot.
She decides to move.
“Oh, that’s right,” she thinks to herself. “I can’t move.”
She wriggles her hands, but that only serves to make her wrists hurt more. She tries to move her feet and they hurt too, but there is something more.
She moves her feet again and hears the splashing sound of water. She can feel it against her skin, but it isn’t the soothing sensation one would expect. It actually feels as if her feet have been soaking for days.
“Why are my feet in water?” she wonders to herself and then answers the query within the same stream of thought. “Good question. Where am I again?”
She moves her feet and listens closely. Other than the sound of the water, it is quiet.
It’s almost too quiet.
She doesn’t like that at all. She wishes it wasn’t so still. It can’t be this quiet.
She stops moving and listens.
Distant footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate.
She’s not so sure she likes that sound any more than the quiet. But she keeps listening.
She feels the fear welling in the pit of her stomach once again and tries to focus on something else.
“Who am I?” she wonders aloud in a barely audible whisper.
Her brain feels scrambled, and even the past few moments seem like a washed out memory from another lifetime. She forces herself to concentrate and begins whispering whatever she can grasp from the disjointed thoughts.
“T…”
“Tee?”
“Tuh?”
“Tay?”
“Two?”
“Two, what?” she wonders.
“Two. Two times one is two. Two times two is four. Two times three is six. Two times four is twelve… Twelve? That’s right isn’t it? Of course it is. Two times four is twelve. Two times twelve is sixteen… Wait… Sixteen? No… Wait… I’ll start over. Two times two is eleven… No, that’s not right… What was it I was trying to remember again?”
She gives up. It doesn’t seem worth it.
She notices that her mouth tastes funny— strangely metallic.
“That’s weird,” she murmurs. “Hmph. I can remember what metal is, so why can’t I remember what time it is? It sure is dark. Maybe that’s why. There’s that sound again. Like a motor or something. I wonder what it is?”
The sound grows louder for a moment as a dim light falls across the floor in an ever-widening swath. The luminance chases away just enough of the darkness for her to see the grey concrete floor. A pair of heavy black lines snakes across the filthy surface. She doesn’t know what they are, but there seems to be a familiarity about them. She thinks she should know what it is, but she just can’t make the connection in her befuddled mind.
Familiar or not, she knows for sure that she doesn’t like the look of them.
She hears a low creak of hinges that are in desperate need of oil, and the faint light slowly disappears as the motor-like sound is muffled once again.
A noise comes from above and behind her, and she immediately identifies it. The heavy footsteps are back, but now they are loud. They begin descending into the darkness, coming closer with each deliberate thump.
The cold terror returns, and this time it doesn’t go away.
Friday, June 7
Three days prior to the New Moon
7:32 A.M.
St. Louis, Missouri
The television set tossed light out into the room as the picture flickered and changed. The logo of the news station sat prominently in the corner, proudly displaying the network affiliation along with the current time.
It was 7:32 in the morning.
The picture suddenly switched to a shifting, bright background overlaid with an artistic shot of a hovering helicopter, complete with the slow motion blur of its rotors blending into the gradient of colors. The words BREAKING NEWS slashed in bold letters across the screen, and a fanfare of syncopated beats underscored the image.
The screen switched again to a fresh-faced, young reporter holding a logo-adorned microphone. Behind him was a lush scene; leafy trees and dense vegetation disappearing into the unfocused depth of field. It was immediately obvious that he was in a rural or wooded area somewhere.
As he held one hand to his ear, presumably listening in for a cue, he began to speak.
“Thank you Chloe and Russ, I’m on the scene at Rafferty Park overlooking the Missouri River where last evening a jogger made a gruesome discovery. Mike Rickman was coming down this path when he stumbled upon what appeared to be a badly decomposed human arm.
“Authorities were called to the scene and after a thorough search have confirmed finding more remains in a shallow grave well off the path.
“While there has been no confirmation as yet, there has been speculation that the body may be that of Tamara Linwood, the grade school teacher who disappeared from the parking lot of Westview Shopping Mall back in January of…”
The man watching this particular television set this morning might have had an interest in the story had he been able to hear or see it. Unfortunately, he was sprawled on the hardwood floor; face down in a puddle of coffee where his cup had shattered.
He convulsed and postured as the sudden seizure ravaged his body, forcing him to bite his tongue and writhe as if holding the bare end of a live extension cord.
CHAPTER 1:
My tongue felt like someone had taken hold of it with a meat-tenderizing mallet or some other equally heinous implement of destruction. Whatever it was that had happened, at the moment, the salty tang of blood was effectively presenting its unmistakable flavor to the few taste buds that remained intact.
My head was throbbing too. Well, maybe not so much throbbing as imploding and exploding all at once. I knew full well that such was a literal impossibility, of course; even so, that was what it felt like all the same. It didn
’t take long for me to realize that trying to think about it too hard made it hurt just that much worse, so I accepted my brain’s knee-jerk comparison as a cold fact and left it at that.
Additional sensations began sneaking in through the tiny fissures in the pain that was hammering my skull; each of them petitioning to be heard, felt, and otherwise experienced to the fullest. Unfortunately, none of those sensations were any more pleasant than the one occupying center stage at the moment.
Given my current inventory of pains, the only somewhat neutral feeling I could identify was linked directly to the right side of my face. In fact, at this very moment, my cheek was reporting back to me that it was firmly pressed against something hard. What that something was, I had no idea, but it was definitely hard… And if my inner ears weren’t deceiving me, it was horizontal… Not to mention wet. Overall, it was not an exceptionally painful feeling, but it was most certainly uncomfortable. Still, combining the uncomfortable with the excruciating and then multiplying it by a healthy measure of confusion— well, when you did the math, it all pretty much took on the same properties, none of which could be considered any more desirable than any of the others.
I wondered for a moment if the wet portion of the present feeling was, in part, the blood I thought I tasted. It seemed logical: it was wet, warm, and in the vicinity of my face. Unfortunately, I was forced to abandon the whole idea with urgent haste in order to escape the sharp stab of pain in my skull that the simple act of wondering about it had invoked. Apparently, at this particular moment, my brain wasn’t much interested in logic or anything else for that matter.