Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “Look,” Deckert intoned after a long pause. “I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you all this, but to be honest, I don’t understand why you two are so sure this kid’s innocent. Hell, from what I understand, you just met him a few days ago.”

  “That’s true, but at the risk of sounding cliché,” I explained, “it’s a Witch thing. It’s just a gut feeling.”

  “What about Devon Johnston?” My wife was on a mission, and she wasn’t about to give up. “We haven’t heard anything yet. Isn’t he still a suspect?”

  “He pulled through, but he’s gonna be laid up for a good long time,” he answered. “We talked to him this morning, and Ben checked out his alibi. Except for killing a dog, the assault on you, and a couple of trespassing charges, he’s in the clear.” Once again he stared past the small jungle of potted plants and out through the atrium window. After a short pause, he let out a sigh of resignation and then continued in a fatherly tone, “Trust me, I’d like to believe you guys, but like I said, there’s a lot of evidence, even if it is circumstantial. It’s the fingerprint you found on the candle that really clinches it.”

  “I wish I’d never seen it,” Felicity muttered in a dejected tone.

  “And if R.J. really is guilty?” Deckert asked her rhetorically. “How would you feel then? Look, I don’t want to see an innocent kid go down either, but I’m not so sure that’s what’s happening here. The shrink says it looks like the kid got himself a crush on these women and then got rejected. It just kept building, and he finally snapped and carved ‘em up. Got himself a vicious circle going. Kill a woman then feel guilty. Fix it, in his mind anyway, with that expulsion thing of yours and then do it all over again.”

  “Expiation spell,” I corrected. “And as pat and logical as that all sounds, it doesn’t feel right.” The hair rose on the back of my neck, and a tingle ran down my spine as I voiced my next thought, “R.J. being unjustly accused isn’t our biggest worry right now though.”

  “What is then?” he questioned.

  “If we ARE right, and he IS innocent,” I expressed grimly, “then the real killer is still out there, and that means another young woman is going to die.”

  * * * * *

  The waxing moon was creeping steadily toward fullness and had just begun its trek across the cloudless, early evening sky as we parked in front of Ben and Allison’s home. Nestled snugly within the confines of the historic district of the city, the stone structure rose upward two stories from the well-kept lot to a steeply pitched, slate tile roof. The two of them had spent the first few years of their marriage restoring this house, and Felicity and I had been there to help them put it all together. Now, the two of us felt as if we were, in a figurative sense, responsible for tearing it apart. We weren’t about to let that happen.

  After Detective Deckert left earlier in the day, I called Ben at the MCS command post. He had remained distant and guarded during the conversation, much as he had the day before, but I was determined in my desire to resolve the situation and effectively invited Felicity and myself over for a visit. Before he could object, I said goodbye and hung up.

  Allison met us at the front door wearing a thin, disconcerted smile and kept silent as we entered. Ben was wearily lounging on the sofa, tie undone, and fingers twined around the neck of a full bottle of beer.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Allison offered mechanically.

  “No thanks,” I responded, “I’m fine at the moment.”

  Felicity just shook her head. Allison fidgeted nervously, reminiscent of a trapped animal. It was as if our declining her offer had somehow cut off an avenue of escape, leaving her no choice but to face that which she was working so hard to avoid. After spending a tense moment recalculating her options, she hesitantly positioned herself on the couch. She took a seat noticeably distant from Ben but close enough to give the outward appearance that nothing was wrong. Still, the strain with which this was done would have been palpable to even the most oblivious stranger. The fact that we knew them as well as we did turned the small sign into a lighted billboard.

  “Where’s the little guy?” I asked as Felicity and I found chairs opposite them.

  “He’s sleeping over with his friend across the street,” Allison replied, seeming to ease somewhat at the benign question.

  “I guess Deckert told you ‘bout R.J.,” Ben interjected, unceremoniously changing the subject.

  “He did,” I answered, “and while we have our own views on the subject, that’s not the first thing on our agenda.”

  “Agenda?” Ben repeated. “Are we havin’ a meetin’?”

  “You could say that.”

  The two of them simply stared back at us sullenly. We sat and allowed the thick silence to envelope the room and the four of us with it. Felicity and I had troubled over this conversation the entire afternoon, and though we had discussed and rehearsed everything we wanted to say, when it came down to the wire, the memorized script was forgotten.

  “Look, Felicity, I’m sorry,” Ben suddenly gushed. “If there was anything I could do, I would. I wish I had never mentioned this case to you guys.”

  “So Deckert was right,” I asserted. “You really do blame yourself for what happened.”

  “If the shoe fits,” Allison muttered.

  “Are you serious?” I faced her. “You actually believe Ben is at fault?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you two?” my wife blurted, unabashedly taking the bull by the horns.

  “Whaddaya mean?” Ben’s expression changed from guilt to shock at Felicity’s candor.

  “What I mean is, what gives you the right to feel responsible for my miscarriage?”

  “If Ben hadn’t...” Allison started.

  “Cac capaill!” My wife spat a Gaelic profanity. The gates were open, and Felicity was living up to the stories about redheads and their tempers. “Ben had nothing to do with it!”

  “I got you involved in this whole mess,” Ben insisted. “If I’d never asked Rowan to help, you never would’ve lost the baby.”

  “You didn’t ask, Ben,” I expressed evenly. “I volunteered. So did Felicity.”

  “She didn’t volunteer to have some asshole slam ‘er into a wall,” he shot back.

  “I went over to Cally’s house of my own accord,” my wife interjected slowly and with more than a hint of anger. “You can’t possibly be responsible for my actions. And you, Allison.” She shifted her blazing stare. “How can you possibly blame Ben for something he had no control over?”

  “Maybe he didn’t cause it directly,” Allison returned. “But he never should have brought you into this.”

  “She’s right,” Ben added. “You guys aren’t cops. I never should have exposed you to the risks.”

  “Damnú ort!” Felicity stood as the expletive burst from her lips. “How dare you! How can you two be so selfish?!”

  “Selfish?”

  “Yes, selfish!” she shouted. “This is MY pain, not yours! It’s MY fault!”

  I joined Ben and Allison in their stunned expressions as I turned to my wife. We had discussed at length the fact that Ben was not to blame for the accident, but at no point had she ever affixed that blame to herself.

  Until now.

  Felicity remained standing, her auburn hair draping forward as she dropped her chin, murmuring through choked whimpers. “It’s my fault. I’m the one to blame.”

  I was caught completely by surprise. I inwardly damned myself for not recognizing the fragility of her mental state. Even with the heightened senses I had developed through years of practice and meditation, I had completely missed this possibility. I shouldn’t have even needed those senses to know that something like this could happen. I felt horribly fallible. I had let her down.

  “No, Felicity.” Allison was up from her seat instantly, maternal instincts in overdrive. “No it isn’t.”

  I stood and placed a comforting hand on my sobbing wife’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault, honey.
It’s nobody’s fault. It was an accident.”

  She turned quickly and buried her face against my chest, shoulders heaving as she let out the pent up emotion. I wrapped my arms about her gently, holding her close but trying to avoid putting pressure on her cracked and bruised ribs. Ben was on his feet now. Both he and Allison looked back at me in astonishment. It was obvious from their expressions that they hadn’t foreseen this eventuality either.

  I continued to hold this woman I loved more than my very life, crooning softly to her and allowing her to release the torrent of tears she had been silently gathering for the past day. We all stood wordlessly in the living room until Felicity’s weeping ebbed. Eventually, she began to calm. The shaking slowly faded away, and the sobs were replaced by muted sniffles. She looked up at me with reddened eyes and brushed a tangle of hair from her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  She released her grip on me then stepped back unsteadily and shot Allison an embarrassed glance. “You wouldn’t have a tissue then, would you?”

  “Sure I do,” Allison soothed and slipped an arm about her shoulders. “Come with me.”

  Ben and I stared after them as Allison led Felicity down the hallway adjoining the living room. Considering the circumstances, I figured they would be gone for a while.

  “Jeezus, Rowan, I’m sorry,” Ben sympathized as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I never thought...”

  “Neither did I,” I echoed as his words trailed off. “Neither did I.”

  * * * * *

  The blame and self-accusation had finally completed its rounds, starting with Cally and ending with Felicity. Of everyone involved, she understandably took it the hardest. It was nearing midnight before we finally left Ben and Allison. All four of us were emotionally drained and physically exhausted, but the two of them were getting along much better than they had been when we first arrived. The cathartic episode left Felicity red-eyed and fighting a sinus headache, but in a somewhat selfish way, I was relieved that it was now over. Whether the police wanted to believe it or not, there was still a psycho out there, and I was certain he was preparing to kill again. I needed to be able to apply all of my attention to figuring out who he was before that happened.

  “So I guess I managed to make a complete fool of myself this evening,” Felicity lamented, eyes shut, head tilted back on the headrest and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I consoled. “You just did what anyone else in your position would have. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At least Allison and Ben are straightened out.”

  “Yeah. I think they’re pretty clear on the subject now.”

  We continued on quietly, and I hooked a cautious left through the flashing yellow light at the intersection, speeding onto the highway in the direction of home.

  “I guess I owe you an apology,” I finally announced.

  “For what?” She was still massaging her sinuses, head back and eyes closed.

  “For not being prepared,” I explained. “For not knowing how it was that you really felt.”

  “How could you have known?” she half asked, half stated. “I told you I was fine. You aren’t a mind reader.”

  “I’m a Witch. I should have sensed that something was wrong.”

  “You’ve been preoccupied lately,” she admonished. “You can’t expect to be able to do everything.”

  “I can at least expect to be sensitive to you and your feelings,” I expressed, glancing over at her.

  “Don’t beat yourself up over this, Rowan.” She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Take it from someone who’s been doing just that. It won’t accomplish anything.”

  I paused for a moment, pondering the wisdom of what she had just said. “I just wanted you to know I love you,” I whispered.

  “I never doubted it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Darkness.

  Cold, lifeless, complete darkness.

  Falling.

  Screaming.

  Silence.

  Light.

  I’m standing somewhere. I’m standing nowhere.

  There is something in my hand. I look down and notice that I am holding a cane. My hand is encased in a white glove. I am dressed in white.

  Formal.

  A white tuxedo with tails.

  “Hello, Mister,” a small voice calls from the void.

  I turn to find a small child. A young girl with silky, strawberry-blonde hair tied up with perfect, white satin bows. She is dressed in a lacy, white, party dress and Mary Janes. She’s looking up at me with large, curious eyes. She holds out her tiny, gloved hand to me and then waits.

  I take her hand.

  A scream.

  Silence.

  The young girl is tugging on my coattail.

  “Give him the tickets, Mister,” she tells me.

  “What?” I ask. “Who? What tickets?”

  “Tickets, please.” There is a faceless man standing before me.

  In my hand, I hold two smooth rectangles. I turn them over in my hand. I don’t know where they came from or why I have them. I can only assume that they are the tickets the man wants.

  At first glance, they appear blank.

  At second glance, they appear patterned.

  At third glance, they appear familiar.

  I look at them closer.

  The Seven of Pentacles.

  “Mister, give him the tickets, or we’ll miss the show.”

  The young girl continues to tug on my coattail in frustration.

  “Hurry.”

  I give the faceless man the tickets. I don’t know why.

  We are sitting.

  We are in a theatre.

  Seats seem to extend forever into the shadows. They are all empty. The young girl and I are the only audience.

  There is a program in my hands. It is printed on a single sheet of fancy paper and folded in the center. The symbol adorning the front of the page is the Seven of Pentacles. I begin to peel open the crisp parchment.

  “They’re starting.” The girl nudges me and points to the stage before us.

  I look up. The tall vermilion curtain is swinging open slowly. A grey mist is beginning to spill from the slit forming in the center.

  The curtains are open wide, suddenly, as if they had never been closed.

  A faceless woman with strawberry-blonde hair, dressed in elegant white lace is standing center stage. She is flanked on her left by a faceless brunette and on her right by a faceless blonde. They are all dressed alike.

  The grey mist spills over the edge of the stage and is filling the theatre. It hangs wetly around my ankles, creeping incessantly up my legs.

  A scream.

  A splash of red spreads across the breast of the woman at center stage, and her body heaves violently as a gurgling voice calls out, “Why, Rowan, Why?”

  I try to get up. I can’t. The cold grey mist has crept up over my knees and into my lap. It is holding me in the seat. I can’t move.

  I look over at the young girl. She is staring intently at the stage.

  A scream.

  I look back to the stage. I don’t want to, but I can’t help myself. A crimson stain bursts forth on the chest of the faceless brunette woman. She begins crumpling to the floor, shrouded in the mist. A new voice gurgles, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name...”

  The mist has made its way farther up my body now. It floats about me mid-chest. I look over to the young girl. I expect her to be completely covered in the paralyzing fog.

  She isn’t.

  She looks back at me curiously as the fog licks at her but never touches. I open my mouth, but I can’t make a sound. She turns back to the stage.

  A scream.

  Blood, thick and red, flows from the chest of the blonde, quickly forming a Pentagram, t
hen blending into a formless blotch. She begins to slip downward into the fog, her gurgling voice reaches my ears, “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

  The woman center stage is still standing. She continues to shake violently, her head rolls forward, and a face forms where there had only been void. Her eyes open, and she looks directly at me. She begins to slide away into the grey mist, and her mouth begins to move, “Why don’t you stop him, Rowan?”

  Her body disappears. Standing in place behind her is a hooded, robed figure, a bloody dirk held firmly in his grip. He looks at me, then to the young girl, then back to me again. He appears faceless, but even at this distance, I can see his eyes.

  Cold.

  Cold, grey eyes.

  The thick fog erupts before him. A plume rises quickly, then dissipates, falling back to the floor almost as quickly as it had risen, leaving behind the lace clad form of yet another young woman. She screams.

  The scream echoes forever throughout the shadows. The robed figure raises the dirk, then plunges it downward.

  Blood.

  Dark crimson, thick with the young woman’s life. The life that flows out of her in time with her waning scream. The hooded figure thrusts his hand into her chest, then wrenches it back as her dying body crumples to the floor.

  The mist is just below my chin. I’m completely unable to move now, and I’m finding it hard to breathe. I look over at the young girl next to me.

  “This is just the dress rehearsal,” she tells me matter-of-factly, looking up at my face with large bright eyes. “I’ve got to go now, Mister.”

  I try to speak as the girl slides off her seat and begins skipping up the aisle, a fogless void enveloping her. Nothing comes out. She disappears.

  “All...Is...Forgiven,” a deep, demonic voice filters into my ears.

  I look back to the stage. The hooded figure holds his hand aloft, vermilion streaks dripping down his bare arm. In his hand there is grasped a still-beating heart.

  The fog has reached my face. I try to hold my breath, but it slides in anyway. It creeps into my nostrils and into my mouth. It tastes foul.