Harm none argi-1

by M. R. Sellars

“I’ve got four homicides and a kidnappin’ to deal with because there appears to be a bumper crop of sick assholes this year,” he echoed. “Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy. Because of Rowan, we know who the sonofabitch is, and I’m tryin’ ta’ get a warrant, so we can stop him from killin’ this little girl. If you wanna help, fine. If you wanna cop an attitude and cause me a lotta grief, then you can take your fuckin’ Ivy-league-piled-high-and-deeps and shove them up your…”

  “Ben!” Carl Deckert’s voice sliced surgically through the air as if on cue, preventing Ben from completing his verbal instructions to Special Agent Mandalay. “The warrant’s signed. Benson’s on the phone.”

  “Tell ‘im to get his ass back here now,” Ben turned and barked over his shoulder. “I want everyone in the conference room in fifteen. And have somebody get a map of the streets around this shithead’s house.”

  Detective Deckert acknowledged and immediately relayed Ben’s message into the phone before hurrying off to set up the meeting. Ben turned his attention back to the thin-lipped, staunchly staring face of Agent Mandalay.

  “Like I said, Special Agent, I’m busy. If you’re still interested in helpin’, the tactical meeting is in fifteen minutes.”

  Her expression never changed as she hissed venomously, “I’ll be there.”

  “How in the hell can you stand wearing one of these things?” I whispered my question to Ben through the darkness behind his van.

  I was trying to force myself to ignore the itching sensation that was erupting over the majority of my torso as we took our positions in the shadows. The air was unmoving and viscous with humidity, and though it was already after ten in the evening, the mercury had only dipped into the mid-eighties.

  Rivulets of sweat brought on by the tenseness of the situation, as well as the heat, were tickling my chest and back as the force of gravity inched them slowly downward. Mid-chest, a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves began to complain. The more I tried to keep my mind off it, the more intense it became, until finally, a violent itch burst forth. Instinctively, my hand shot up to relieve the prickling sensation with what promised to be an ecstatic scratch. Unfortunately, instead of giving me the relief I sought, my fingers impacted with a dull thud against the object of my earlier vocal disdain-a Kevlar flak vest.

  “Ya’ just do,” Ben whispered back. “Besides, I promised Felicity I wouldn’t let ya’ get hurt.”

  The tactical meeting had gone quickly as the veteran members of the MCS had studied the enlarged street map in order to plan the best avenue of assault. From the moment the warrant was signed, the machine that was the Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad shifted into high gear-each individual doing whatever was necessary to ensure the success of the operation. The local police department had been immediately notified and the house placed under surveillance. That had been just over an hour ago. Thus far, the only activity in the residence had been the lights going off.

  We had stationed ourselves on a side street diagonally across from the address while the rest of the force had fanned out around the home. The houses directly behind and to either side had been surreptitiously evacuated in order to keep the occupants out of harm’s way. To someone such as myself who had witnessed such things only on television cop shows, the entire process seemed oddly surreal.

  Every member of the Major Case Squad and more than a handful of officers from the local municipality, uniformed and not, were spread in a tight circle around the small brick house. Here and there, if you knew exactly where to look, you could occasionally catch a fleeting glimpse of one of them through the shadows. A flash of eyes peering out the gap of a full-face-hugging balaclava. A quick instant where the stenciled yellow POLICE on someone’s flak vest came into view or even the glint of the streetlights from the barrel of a gun.

  “Are you sure you need this many people?” I whispered nervously once again. “I mean, I’m not trying to tell you your job or anything, but, you know…”

  If Ben noticed my anxiety, which I’m sure he did, he didn’t mention it. “I’m a great believer in excessive force,” he quipped softly. “’Specially when it comes ta’ assholes like this one.”

  The streets were barricaded for two blocks in either direction, and there had been no vehicular traffic for the past ten minutes. The only sound to be heard was the almost mechanical on-again off-again warbling of nature’s chitin-covered orchestra in the trees. Even the city had fallen quiet, or so it seemed.

  The sound of a car coasting quietly to a stop behind us violated the hush. I started nervously, and Ben simply turned, still tactfully ignoring my jitters.

  Detective Deckert had switched off the headlights and killed the engine farther up the street then allowed the stored momentum to roll the vehicle smoothly up to us. As soundlessly as they could manage, he and Special Agent Mandalay climbed out of the station wagon and gently pushed the doors shut. Our position was fairly obscured by a tall evergreen hedgerow, so they were able to duck down and remain unseen as they made their way forward. The moon had stationed itself behind a shadowy wall of clouds, and we were parked as far away from the streetlights as possible. However, there was still enough of a dim glow for me to see that Deckert had squeezed himself into a vest as well. Over hers, Agent Mandalay had donned a dark blue windbreaker bearing the stenciled logo “FBI” across the left breast.

  “What the hell is he doing here?!” Special Agent Mandalay hissed at Ben as she drew up next to us.

  “Observin’,” he returned evenly.

  “What do you mean ‘observing’?” she declared. “This is a law enforcement operation. He’s a civilian.”

  “Raise your right hand, Rowan,” Ben ordered without taking his gaze from her.

  “Do what?” I voiced my confusion.

  He glanced over at me quickly. “Raise your right hand.” When I had done so, he returned his cold stare to Agent Mandalay. “Do you, Rowan Gant,” he began, “Swear to love your wife, pet your dog, and uphold truth, justice, and the American way, so help you whatever deity it is you Witches worship?”

  “You can’t deputize him!” she hissed once again. “This isn’t a cowboy movie!”

  “Well, Rowan? Do ya’?” he pressed.

  “Sure,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

  “I’m going to have your badge, Storm!” she pronounced angrily through clenched teeth.

  “Jeezus Christ,” Deckert interjected in a harsh murmur. “Will you two give it a rest!? We’ve got a psycho to stop. If you’re that desperate to have a battle of egos, I’ll be more than happy to ring the freakin’ bell for ya’… AFTER we catch this guy.”

  The combative stares lingered between the two of them a moment longer, then Ben turned his head and reached up to the microphone clipped on the shoulder of his vest and depressed the talk button.

  “All positions report in,” he whispered.

  The radio on his belt, set to low volume, crackled slightly as each of the pre-designated teams reported in one by one. When all had answered their readiness, Ben slipped his pistol from its shoulder holster and hefted it slightly. Deckert and Mandalay followed suit, the latter still frowning intensely as she quietly filled her hand with a government issue Sig Sauer P226.

  “You do only what I tell ya’ ta’ do, when I tell ya’ ta’ do it,” Ben directed the command to me. “Stay behind me at all times, and if I tell ya’ to stay put, then don’t even fuckin’ breathe. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “I got it.”

  With another quick glance at Agent Mandalay, he thumbed the microphone switch once again and whispered, “All right, we’re goin’ in.”

  I had all but forgotten the earlier itching of the flak vest. Now, as we stealthily advanced across the street and up the steps to the porch of the old brick house, the unpleasant chafing had returned with a vengeance. I was certain that a large part of my discomfort was psychological, directly related to the fact that I was unable to scratch.

  I
fought to relax and push the sensation from my mind, but the tenseness of the situation had opened the valve on my adrenal gland to full. Energy was crackling riotously through my body like a downed power line in a storm and I noticed much to my chagrin that my hands were shaking.

  Ben flattened himself against the wall to the left of the door and silently motioned with his empty hand. His signals made it clear that I was to remain with him while Deckert and Agent Mandalay were to take a similar position on the right. Following his instruction, I pressed myself into the brick, attempting to disappear into its face. Looking out over the front yard we had just crossed, I could see various figures that had advanced behind us, cutting off any avenue of escape for the occupant of the house. I was greatly impressed by the precision with which the entire operation was being executed.

  After a few more wordless signals, Ben reached over and slowly depressed the latch on the screen door until it released with an audible metallic click. The noise was something that wouldn’t even be noticed on a normal day, but to us, it sounded as loud as a gunshot. He waited for an eternity, then just a few moments more. No lights came on. No sound issued from the house. The silence was broken only by the raspy cadence of our own shallow breathing. I couldn’t speak for the other three, but my heart was racing at a madman’s pace, threatening to burst from my chest and be contained only by the Kevlar body armor.

  Ben began pulling the screen door open at a laboriously slow speed. All the while, his eyes remained locked with those of another cop who had crept up the stairs and was now crouched on the top step. I could only see the man’s eyes as his face was obscured by the tight fabric of a full-face mask. Still, I recognized him as Bill, the young detective that had given me so much grief at the Major Case Squad briefing. He glanced over at me briefly as a flicker of recognition ran through his eyes then gave me a slight nod. From the manner in which the fabric covering the lower half of his face momentarily stretched, I almost believed he smiled.

  The screen door was halfway open now, and Ben kept a steady pressure on it, easing it wider by the second. The aluminum frame pivoted almost soundlessly on the evenly spaced hinges, making only a slight whispering sound of mild friction. It was when the door reached three-fourths its open arc that my heart stopped.

  Maybe the frame was bent slightly, maybe there was rust deep in the hinges, or maybe any of a countless number of other reasons. Whatever the exact maybe was, the point was moot. The door emitted a sudden small groan of protest, followed instantly by a piercing creak that echoed across the empty street. In the split second following the end of the harsh metallic wail, the porch light snapped on.

  Time slowed for me. I don’t know if it was a supernatural effect or just a psychological aberration due to the newness and intensity of the situation. Whatever it was, it made the next few moments appear to me in what I can only describe as Hollywood slow motion. Ben was nodding vigorously as he yanked the door fully open, sending another series of loud groans resounding through the night. As I turned, I saw Bill come up from his crouch like a sprinter at the sound of a starting pistol. Two long strides later, his shoulder met the wooden door, followed by his full weight in motion, causing the frame to buckle and splinters to fly in several directions.

  The Hollywood slow motion continued with a decelerated soundtrack meeting my ears. The frenzied crash of the shattering doorframe was drawn out into a banshee wail resembling fingernails on a chalkboard mixed with marble-sized hail hitting a tin roof. Bill’s voice joined the raucous clamor with a commanding, stretched out “Pollleeeeeccccce!”

  Detective Deckert and Special Agent Mandalay had turned their heads to shield themselves from the storm of fracturing splinters and were now slowly turning back as they stepped out from the brick wall. Fluidly, they aimed their bodies at the newly created opening, pistols held at the ready, and rushed forward, echoing Bill’s cry.

  A deep, rushing chord filled my ears, and at its finish, I plunged into chaotic real time. By now, several other cops had rushed up the stairs and were filing quickly in through the now fully open door, their flashlights sketching comet trails in the darkness. Ben was screaming “go, Go, GO!” as he waved them onward, still holding the traitorous screen door wide open.

  “You stay here!” he shouted at me as the last of them passed us, and he whipped around the aluminum frame, rushing headlong into the pandemonium.

  A few short moments later, the clamor began to subside, and I started hearing muffled shouts of “Clear!” from several different voices. The interior lights snapped to life one by one, casting a dim incandescent glow. Soon afterwards, Ben returned to the front porch wearing a crestfallen face. He looked at me sadly and motioned with his head for me to come inside as he holstered his sidearm and snapped the quick-release shut.

  “The son-of-a-bitch isn’t here,” he pronounced dully. “He’s gone.”

  “What about the little girl?” I pressed.

  “He must have her with him.”

  “But the porch light,” I protested. “It came on when the door creaked.”

  “Coincidence. It was on a timer.” He reached up and angrily wiped the sweat from his forehead. “They were all on a fucking timer.”

  CHAPTER 23

  A queer, pulsing static encompassed me as I stepped across the threshold of the front door. I could feel the individual hairs on my body as they hastily rose to attention, generating a painful prickling sensation throughout. For the third time in the last half hour, the insistent itching returned, appearing and disappearing in mobile patches across my chest. Since the immediate physical danger was well out of the way, I reached around and ripped apart the Velcro tabs on the flak vest with an audible swoosh. I didn’t remove it but loosening allowed breathing room for my sweat-drenched skin and more importantly, enough space to slip my hand in for a quick, blissful scratch.

  “Don’t touch anything yet,” Ben told me as we advanced farther into the sparsely decorated living room. “Evidence Unit’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Yeah. No problem.” I nodded assent and continued to glance about the room.

  My hair follicles were still stinging with strained discomfort, making my skin seem to crawl, while an arc of intense energy played up and down my spine. It felt pretty much as though I was holding on to a frayed extension cord while standing in a puddle of water. Slowly, my scalp began to tighten and my temples to throb. I had one hell of a headache coming on.

  None of these sensations were new to me. I had felt them a handful of times in the past, though not often, thankfully. They were warnings-the physical manifestations of a “supernatural burglar alarm.” Roger, like any Witch, or practitioner of ritual magick, had shielded his boundaries. He had cast protective energy about his home as a way of marking territory to let others who were aware know that they shouldn’t intrude. In the physical world, I had simply stepped across the threshold. However, being an uninvited guest, in the realm of the ethereal, I had done the equivalent of breaking a trip wire on a hypersensitive home security system.

  Two things immediately occurred. First, the walls of protective energy enveloped me with urgent warnings in an attempt to make me leave. Second, wherever Roger Henderson was hiding, he was made aware of my intrusion. Of course, as I said, these warnings were for others who are aware, so being the only Witch in the room, I was forced to endure the increasingly painful attempts at expulsion in tortured solitude.

  The one feeling that wasn’t a direct descendant of the ethereal burglar alarm was the searing arc of energy playing xylophone on my vertebrae. Red hot, intense, and angry, it was the blatant otherworldly signature of the home’s occupant. The unmasked, undisguised essence of Roger Henderson’s immortal soul. Vile, putrid, and swelling with evil. I had to engage my own defenses in order to keep from becoming violently ill. It was obvious, at least to me, that though he wasn’t here now, he had been here very recently. We couldn’t have missed him by more than a few hours.

  I was only sup
erficially aware of muttered apologies and “excuse me’s” as officers pushed past me to go in and out the door. Several moments passed before I realized I was standing frozen, one step over the threshold, partially blocking the entrance of the house. Slowly, I shuffled around the room and as Ben had ordered, was careful not to touch anything-physically, anyway. As I moved farther inward, a new feeling joined the jamboree of sensations that were clawing at me for equal time. The feeling was fear. It was small and feminine but very intense. It was the fear projected by a little girl named Ariel. I pushed the feeling back and placed it on mental “hold” as I realized my breathing had quickened. I fought to maintain a grip in the physical realm, and closing my eyes, I willed myself to relax. When my respirations came back under control, I allowed my eyelids to flutter open and focused on the scene before me.

  The walls in the small square room were washed with a thin coat of light blue paint, applied lethargically with what had apparently been a worn roller. Several swaths were severely lacking in coverage, unabashedly exposing the original antique white that lay beneath. The floor, at one time smooth, finished hardwood, was scuffed and gouged, with wear patterns criss-crossing the surface in a well-beaten path. A lone, straight-backed chair sat against a sagging card table-the only two pieces of furniture in the room.

  The stained tabletop was littered with cigarette butts from an overflowing ashtray and a paper plate containing a half-eaten sandwich. The curl of the drying bread, a browning crust of mustard, and the unidentifiability of the luncheon meat gave evidence that the sandwich was several days old.

  “Can’t say a helluva lot for his taste in decorating.” Deckert was standing next to me. I hadn’t noticed him until he spoke.

  “I know what you mean,” I answered with a small sigh and began massaging my temples. My head was killing me, and I knew it was only going to get worse before getting any better.

  “You okay?” Concern crept into his voice as he rested a hand on my shoulder.