“Are you two going to kiss and make up?” I finally asked.
Ben and Felicity both stopped in their tracks and looked at me suspiciously.
“Yeah,” I told them. “I heard you two snap at each other. I may not have been in my body at the time, but I was in the room.”
“So look,” Ben started, looking down at the ground. “I’m not really used to this kinda stuff, Felicity. I…”
“Aye, you don’t have to say it, Ben,” Felicity interrupted. “We were both on edge. If we should be mad at anyone, it’s him.” She motioned to me. “Not each other.”
“Wait a minute,” I protested. “I wasn’t involved in your little spat.”
“I beg to differ,” my wife informed me. “Just exactly who was laying in there with no pulse? I told you it was dangerous.”
“She’s right, Rowan,” Ben chimed in. “I thought you were dead, and for what?”
“Grey eyes,” I told them.
“Excuse me?” Felicity intoned.
“Grey eyes,” I repeated. “The killer has got grey eyes. I saw them.”
“So you actually did see somethin’?” Ben queried as he flipped out his ever-present notebook.
“Just the eyes,” I answered. “He was either very careful about being seen, or he was very lucky.”
“That’s somethin’ I don’t quite understand,” Ben stated.
“What’s that?” Felicity asked.
“Why would he care?” he continued. “It’s not like his victims can give an eyewitness description.”
“Fear,” I stated simply. “I think that might be why he props the doors open too.”
They both stared at me blankly as if I had lost them.
“Think about it,” I proceeded. “When my body shut down in there, my spirit or soul, whatever you prefer to call it, left. But it didn’t go very far, obviously, because I watched you two argue about giving me CPR. That’s what turned me on to this idea. I think the killer not only feels remorse but fear as well. He performs the Expiation spell for forgiveness, and he props the door open so his victim’s spirit can leave.”
“I still don’t see the connection with hiding his face from the victims,” Ben puzzled.
“He fears retribution from the spirits of his victims,” Felicity interjected, realizing what I was trying to explain. “He keeps his identity hidden so they can’t find him.”
“You mean ta’ tell me he thinks the ghosts of his victims will come after him for revenge?” Ben asked incredulously. “That’s nuts. That’s just plain nuts.”
“It all depends on what you believe, Ben,” I told him.
“What about the fact that he killed her out here in the park?” he protested. “It seems like that would fit more with the wantin’-ta’-get-caught theory you mentioned.”
“I don’t know why he killed her out here,” I replied. “I just know what I feel, and what I feel right now is that he’s propping the doors open to let the victims’ spirits escape.”
“This is a pretty secluded section of the park,” Felicity interjected as she shaded her eyes and looked around. “You’ve got the wooded area with the fitness trail, but that’s about it. Most of the activity would be taking place closer to the front of the park where the pavilions and ballfields are.”
“Jeezus, this is one twisted fuckhead,” Ben muttered.
“We knew that already,” I told him.
“Does R.J. have grey eyes?” Felicity asked.
“Not that I recall,” I replied, “but I can’t say that I paid that much attention.”
“I still wanna talk to ‘im anyway,” Ben stated flatly.
Ben’s comment was followed by an awkward pause as his suspicion had once again reared its omnipresent head.
“So why don’t we head over to the house,” Felicity finally suggested, breaking the silence. “It’s cooler and there’s fresh, herb, sun tea in the fridge.”
“Sounds great to me,” I intoned. “Besides, that’s where my cigars are.”
“I’m with you,” Ben added.
Felicity rolled her eyes and went around the Jeep to climb into the driver’s seat.
Felicity was changing into shorts and a t-shirt while Ben and I set fire to a pair of cigars out on the back deck. I was just finishing the final adjustments to the patio umbrella when she came out to join us, preceded by our two bounding canines. She set a tray containing glasses and a pitcher of iced tea on the table and then lithely draped herself in a chair to join us.
It was still early afternoon, and the temperature had not yet begun to decline. The air remained thick with humidity, but there was a slight breeze, and as long as we stayed relaxed in the shade, the clime was at least tolerable.
“So I made a coupl’a calls on the way over here,” Ben announced, helping himself to the tea. “Seems Deckert managed to dig some info up on Devon Johnston.”
“Have they found him?” I asked, taking my turn with the pitcher and pouring a glass for my wife.
“Not yet,” he continued, “but we’re still lookin’.”
“What did Detective Deckert come up with?” Felicity asked, taking a sip of her drink.
“Found Johnston’s parents,” Ben answered, “or his mother anyway. His dad is deceased.”
“Why did it take until today?” I queried. “Not that I’m being critical.”
“Illinois license,” he replied. “We were just searching the Missouri DMV records initially. His mom lives in Urbana, and apparently, that’s where he grew up. He just never switched his driver’s license over. But, that’s not the interestin’ part. It seems that one Mister Devon Johnston was recently dismissed from his position as a medical technician with Mercy Hospital… And accordin’ to his records with the DMV, he’s got grey eyes.”
“So that should take the heat off of R.J.,” Felicity stated.
“Not really,” Ben told her. “It just gives me another asshole who’s moved one of his bricks into the suspicious pile ta’ worry about. Granted, his bricks are a little heavier than R.J.’s.”
“Seems to me they should be a lot heavier,” I interjected.
“Like I said,” Ben blew out a stream of smoke, “the information you get from one of your visions doesn’t do a damn bit of good in a courtroom. If it gives us a lead, great, but I still hafta come up with hard evidence. Hell, I don’t even know why I believe you. This ain’t exactly an everyday method of investigation, you know.”
“Maybe because you’re an open-minded individual,” Felicity chimed. “Whether you want to admit it or not.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But sometimes, I still feel like I might be a little nuts to go for some of this stuff.”
I knew exactly what Ben meant; I had even been known to be a bit skeptical myself in earlier years. I had been a practitioner of The Craft for all of my adult life, and though I had come to accept the things my otherworldly senses would tell me, I could still be surprised. As someone unfamiliar with the supernatural talents of the mind, this had to be very hard for him. I had to admit, he was holding up better than most.
I took advantage of the momentary silence to watch our dogs at play in the sun-soaked backyard. They tumbled and rolled with one another, tails wagging in a delighted frenzy as they wrestled, oblivious to the horror we three humans were being forced to contemplate. I sometimes wished I could be just as unmindful.
“Any ideas where Devon might be?” I queried, ending the self-imposed reticence.
“Nada,” Ben answered with a slight, somewhat animated shrug. “His mother hasn’t heard from him in six months, or so she says. We’ve got somebody sittin’ on her place too, just in case. We checked with his former co-workers, and it appears like he’s a bit of a loner. None of ‘em really got to know ‘im that well, and from what was said, they really didn’t care to either.”
“What about Cally?” Felicity intoned. “He called her once. Do you think he might try to contact her again?”
“We hafta hope that she�
��ll tell us if he does,” he returned. “We’re watchin’ her place, but if he calls ‘er or meets ‘er somewhere else, we’ll prob’ly miss it.”
“Can’t you follow her?” I asked.
“Not enough evidence at this point.” Ben turned his attention to me. “Last thing we need is ta’ get nailed for harassment.”
Ben paused as he puffed on his cigar and quietly watched the hummingbirds assault a hanging feeder like WWII era airplanes in a spectacular dogfight. Eventually he reached up and began smoothing his hair. Felicity and I looked at each other then back to him, as we were both intimately familiar with the gesture.
“So let me ask you somethin’,” he finally spoke.
“Shoot,” I returned.
“You said somethin’ about this creep taking Karen Barnes’ heart with ‘im so he could ‘finish the ritual’. What was that all about?”
“It’s part of the sacrifice,” I explained. “And what he does with it is entirely dependent upon what he is trying to accomplish. He might burn it, or he might bury it… Hell, he might eat it.”
“I was afraid you were gonna say somethin’ like that,” he mumbled.
“I wish I could say for sure, but I’m still not entirely clear on what he’s trying to do.” I continued with a frustrated sigh. “To be honest, something about his whole ritual is bothering me.”
“How so?” Felicity asked.
“The energy at the crime scene.”
“What energy?” she queried, confused. “I didn’t feel anything except death.”
“Exactly,” I replied.
“What are you two talkin’ about?” Ben interjected his question, coming fully upright in his seat and paying rapt attention.
“Whenever a Witch or practitioner of magick does something, an invocation for example,” I explained, “he or she leaves behind residual energy. Kind of a left over that just floats around until it dissipates.”
“So what’s your point?” he pressed.
“That excess energy wasn’t there,” Felicity stated. “Neither of us felt it.”
“I was at that scene within hours of the murder,” I told him. “And we were there again today. That energy should hang around for a good long time, but there’s nothing there. Just the energies given off by Karen Barnes. Her fear, pain, and especially her death.”
“Okay,” Ben replied slowly. “So I’d still appreciate it if ya’ could tell me what this is s’posed ta’ mean.”
“Maybe nothing,” I answered. “There could be a few different explanations, like maybe he just went through the physical motions but didn’t actually perform the ritual as he should have. It’s just something that kind of bothers me.”
“So it’s not a lead or anything like that.”
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
Ben returned his attention to the cigar held loosely between his fingers then relaxed and leaned back in his seat. It was obvious that he was on edge, and I was certain that a lack of sleep was partially to blame.
“When is the last time you had a decent night’s sleep, Ben?” Felicity asked him, following my thoughts as if I had spoken them aloud.
“I think it was sometime during winter ‘bout three years ago,” he answered facetiously.
“Do you really need to talk to R.J. today?” I questioned. “Couldn’t that wait till tomorrow?”
“Probably. Why?”
“You need sleep, Ben,” my wife stated matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, chief,” I agreed. “No offense intended, but you’re all edgy, and you look like someone ran over you with a truck.”
“Your health is going to start suffering,” Felicity intoned. “You can’t keep going like this. You really need to decompress.”
“Yeah… I know,” he answered with a sigh. “I haven’t seen my wife face to face in nearly a week. Shit, she told me this mornin’ on the phone that the little guy asked her if Daddy still lived there.”
“Go home, Ben,” I told him. “Go home and hug your kid, kiss your wife, and have a meal with your family. Then get some sleep.”
“I haven’t got the time,” he objected.
“Unless you have some kind of secret information that you haven’t told us about,” I admonished, “you aren’t going to catch this guy tonight. You need some sleep, man. Besides, it’s not just you working this case. The entire Major Case Squad is on it now.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” He slumped more noticeably in his chair. “But I still wanna talk ta’ the kid today. I think I’ll sleep better if I do.”
“If that’s what it takes, do it,” I told him. “But get some rest either way because something tells me we haven’t seen the end of this yet.”
“What a cheerful thought,” he mumbled.
Ben eventually left us in search of R.J. Felicity and I spent a quiet afternoon together trying not to think about serial killers and of course, were unable to ponder anything else. In an effort to put the subject out of our minds, we made a quick trip to the store and returned with fresh, yellow fin tuna steaks for the grill. Together with a medley of vegetables from our garden, we made a light meal and after cleaning up the dishes, generally lazed about into the evening hours.
Stories of Ariel Tanner and Karen Barnes’ murders flooded the airwaves as the top story during the late evening news on every station. Details about the crimes were convoluted and misconstrued to the point that they were telling a different story on each channel. The two points they all agreed on were the nominative “Satanic Serial Killer” and the practice of flashing the newspaper photo of me on the screen. Touching my thumb to the remote, I rolled back through the channels in the hope they had found something else to talk about. I was giving serious consideration to turning off the chattering box when a familiar face, other than my own, leapt out at me from the screen. I swiftly reversed the direction of my scan and came to rest on that station.
Detective Arthur McCann’s worry-lined face stared back at me with concern and determination creasing his brow. Apparently, he had just finished speaking as the picture suddenly cut to a wide-eyed Brandee Street anxiously clutching a microphone. I punched up the volume a notch and settled in.
“Can you explain a little more about the Wiccan religion,” she asked him.
“Certainly,” Arthur returned authoritatively. “This so- called religion is nothing more than a fancy name for cult activities. The individuals involved undermine the morals of our children and recruit them into these cults. There they become addicted to drugs and often are the victims of sexual abuse.”
I had heard his speech before, but each and every time, I was amazed by what he said. I found it hard to believe that an intelligent human being could be so blind to the truth.
“Do you believe that one of these Wiccan cultists is responsible for the bizarre murders that have recently occurred?” Brandee’s voice came again.
“Since I’m not involved in the investigation, I cannot directly comment, but I will say that it wouldn’t surprise me,” he answered.
“You have been one of the leading authorities on cults within the Saint Louis County Police Department for the past few years. Why aren’t you involved with the Major Case Squad?”
“I resigned from the MCS this morning due to a shift in caseloads,” Arthur succinctly replied.
“Way to go Arthur,” I thought as I listened to his reply. “At least you engaged your brain before opening your mouth this time.”
“Would your resignation have anything to do with the involvement of Rowan Gant as a consultant to the Major Case Squad?” Brandee persisted.
“I have no comment on that.” He continued his guarded, tactful stance.
“Mister Gant is a self-proclaimed Witch and practitioner of the Wiccan religion,” she pressed harder. “You yourself stated that this amounts to nothing more than a cult.”
Arthur’s face had reddened, and I could tell that he desperately wanted to spill his guts. He was dying to tell the world of the
police department’s moral decrepitude due to my involvement. He probably even wanted to take a few verbal shots at me personally. But Arthur McCann was only a few short years away from his pension, and whatever his personal beliefs, he was still a dedicated cop.
“No comment,” he finally returned.
The picture changed back to the talking heads behind the anchor desk on the stylized set. They began to banter back and forth, making what they believed to be clever quips about me, and Witches in general.
It wasn’t long before I was thoroughly disgusted with the entire exposition and switched the television off. Following my wife’s example, I went to bed.
A distant scream.
Darkness.
Indigo Darkness.
A point of light far away.
A distant scream.
The light grows brighter. Larger. Closer.
I move toward the light.
The light stays beyond my reach.
A violent chord struck sharply upon an unearthly instrument. Grating tones that seem to last forever, carrying themselves visibly aloft on directionless winds. Sounds that can be seen as well as heard.
A terrified scream.
Grey.
Damp, thick greyness.
It’s raining. Not heavily, just a gentle mist. A light sprinkle raining down from a gloomy grey sky.
“ Rowan, so nice to see you again.”
I turn to the voice and find Ariel clad in white lace. She smiles at me then looks upward. I try to speak but have no voice. She looks up at the sky, the misty rain lightly bathing her innocent smiling face. She looks back to my face, eyes smiling and a strand of hair clinging damply to her cheek.
“ It always rains here,” she says to me. “I don’t know why. It’s mostly just a misty rain.”
A dark figure rises from the grey nothingness behind her.
A figure black as night.
A figure wrapped in a hooded robe.
“ Do you like the rain, Rowan?” Ariel asks me. “I do, but I think it rains too much here. What do you think?”
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