Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (18 page)

The lights came up in the room, and I heard
Felicity switch off the bulb on the projector, though she left the
fan running in order to cool it down. It droned on in the otherwise
somber room.

“That’s really all that I have for now. I
know it’s not much,” I told them, making my way back to the
rostrum. “I will be in contact with Detective Storm and will let
him know if I’m able to glean anything else from all of this. Are
there any more questions?”

“Yeah,” one of the detectives in the center
of the room spoke up. “I’m curious about somethin’. Ain’t you
s’posed to be called a warlock?”

“Big fan of
Bewitched
were you?” I
chuckled, feeling the mood in the room lighten at his query. “No, I
am a Witch. The definition of warlock is ‘liar or breaker of
promises’. The word has also been used to describe a practitioner
of the
Black Arts
,
either of which I am most definitely not. If you want to get right
down to it, I’m really just a person like any of you, only I happen
to be of a different religion.”

“It’s heresy. I don’t care what you say.” The
statement was punctuated by a notebook slamming shut and a chair
screeching on linoleum.

The voice had issued from a man everyone
recognized. Detective Arthur McCann stood up and strode toward the
door. He had been a valued member of the county police department
for as long as anyone cared to remember. He was the prototypical
good guy and esteemed member of his church. I had known him well a
few years back when I helped out waiting tables in the small family
diner my mother had owned and where he had been a regular customer.
These days, he appeared in the paper often, a one-man task force
bent on the eradication of the Wiccan religion and occult practices
in Saint Louis. It was his belief that anything which didn’t
include his God was nothing more than a cult and therefore evil. He
was not about to listen to anything different.

“If you insist on having a Witch involved in
this investigation...” He turned as he reached the door, fixing his
gaze on Ben, who was standing next to me. “Then I will have no part
of it.”

“Arthur,” I stated evenly, “how many times
have I told you, good is good and bad is bad. I’ve done nothing
bad.”

“You speak heresy,” he spat back angrily.
“You go against the word of God.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I returned.
“And it bothers me that it hasn’t been that long ago that you
thought I was a pretty good guy...Until you found out my religion
that is.”

He didn’t answer, his face just grew redder,
and he stormed out of the room, angrily slamming the door behind
him.

* * * * *

While I could still detect a definite lack of
enthusiasm for my presence in the investigation by the rest of the
members of the Major Case Squad, there had been no more outbursts
for the rest of the briefing. We left the frenetic activity behind
as Ben escorted us out of the building, dropping off our visitor’s
badges with the desk sergeant before exiting into the bright,
sunlit day. The small, nomadic media city from the night before had
positioned itself in front of City Hall, and local television
personalities were vying for positions from which to do their live
reports.

“Looks like a goddammed airhead convention
out there,” Ben spat as we walked.

The sun was beating down hard on the
pavement, and combined with the moisture from the previous night’s
rain, we had the makings of a legendary Saint Louis summer day. The
humidity was thick in the atmosphere, and the stillness of the air
made the ninety-four degrees on the thermometer seem less than
accurate. Felicity peeled off her light jacket and arranged it over
the back of her seat when we arrived at the Jeep.

“I have to tell you,” I said to him as I
stowed the slide projector and tray, “it went much better than I
expected.”

“Yeah, but what was that crap with McCann? I
didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“Awhile ago,” I answered. “Back when Mom had
that diner. I helped out waiting tables and got to know him
then.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. He had been to the diner
many times himself. “So I guess he’s outta here.”

“Looked that way,” I said, haphazardly
tossing my own jacket into the Jeep and getting a stern look from
Felicity. “So, why didn’t you say anything about R.J.?” Knowing my
wife’s expressions, I retrieved the jacket and hung it properly
over the back of the passenger seat.

“Pretty much ‘cause I’m workin’ on a hunch,”
he explained. “You see, the way I look at it, everybody starts with
ten bricks in their pile. As the investigation progresses, some of
the bricks get moved into the suspicious and/or guilty pile, and
the rest stay right where they were and don’t bother anybody. Right
now, I’d say R.J.’s only managed to move a couple’a his bricks over
to the suspicious pile.”

“When were you planning to talk to him?” I
queried.

“I kinda figured on paying him a visit a
little later this afternoon.”

“What’s the plan with Devon?”

“We’re sittin’ on his house, and I got a
basic description from his cousin out on the streets,” Ben
answered.

“Hey,” Felicity interrupted, “in case you two
haven’t noticed, it’s hot and muggy out here, not to mention that
I’m the only one standing here in heels.”

“Point taken,” I told her and then looked
back at Ben. “Do you have a little free time to get us in to the
Karen Barnes murder scene?”

“Yeah, why?” he asked.

“I’d like to play a hunch of my own,” I
answered. “I want to make sure I didn’t miss something last
night.”

L
eaving the parking lot proved to be much more of a nuisance
than I originally expected. We were exiting ahead of Ben, and the
moment our Jeep rounded the corner of the building, the drive was
blocked by a swarm of reporters and cameramen. Felicity pressed
lightly on the accelerator, inching us through the mob as they
thrust microphones at our windows and barked questions made
unintelligible by the din of them all speaking at once. Viewing the
spectacle, it was impossible to miss Brandee Street, short skirt,
trendy hair and manicured nails, as she ruthlessly insinuated
herself between the others.

“Mister Gant,” she shouted over the uproar.
“What exactly is your role in this investigation?”

Even with the windows up and the air
conditioner cranked as high as it would go, I could still hear her
singsong voice. I ignored her and reached over to turn up the
radio.

“Mister Gant.” She was shuffling along at my
window as we inched forward. “Is it true the police have called you
in to communicate with the spirits of the victims?”

Suddenly, the crowd parted, and the reason
became instantly clear as we saw the flashing red lights and
uniformed officers executing much-needed crowd control. With a
quick glance in either direction, Felicity shifted gears and gunned
the engine, letting out a short squeal from the tires as she
propelled us away from the bedlam. I turned and looked out the back
window and saw Ben’s van behind us, emergency bubble-light flashing
on the corner of the roof. Once we merged with traffic, it switched
off, and I saw him reach out and pull it inside.

“Awfully determined young lady, wasn’t she?”
Felicity asked as we came to a stop at a traffic light.

“You could call it that,” I answered. “Ben
yanked her chain last night, and she threw her microphone at
him.”

“You’re kidding,” she stated
incredulously.

“Nope. Not kidding. She launched it at him,
but she missed.”

“What did he do to her to get that kind of
response?”

The light changed, and Felicity nudged the
Jeep forward into the intersection then hooked into a left
turn.

“Apparently there’s some kind of long running
adversarial relationship between the two of them,” I answered. “She
follows him around chasing stories, and he won’t give her the time
of day. Last night he took the microphone out of her hand and
unplugged it, then handed it back to her.”

“Serves him right then.”

“What do you mean?” I questioned.

“Never make a woman angry then be stupid
enough to hand her something to throw at you.”

* * * * *

The small cinder block building in the back
of the park was cordoned off and locked up just as I had expected.
We parked our vehicles and followed the same path we had last
evening, this time without the rain and organized pandemonium of
the crime scene investigation. Ben produced a key and opened up the
restroom.

The pungent aroma of the charred sage and
rose oil still hung faintly in the air, mixing with the sharp and
musty odors of old disinfectant, damp concrete, and the coppery
smell of blood. The heavy door swung slowly shut behind us,
creaking on hinges badly in need of oil.

“Once the crime scene unit clears this
place,” Ben told us, “someone is gonna have a hell of a mess to
clean up.”

Darkening stains smeared the floor where
Karen Barnes’ body had laid. Spatters of blood spread forth,
rusting from bright crimson to dull reddish brown. Smooth surfaces,
such as the basin and walls nearby, were greyed by the powders that
had been used in the futile attempt to find fresh fingerprints, and
all but the smallest shards of the shattered mirror had been
removed from the scene.

“It’s cold in here,” Felicity stated, hugging
herself and shivering slightly.

“Whaddaya mean cold?” Ben asked in disbelief.
“It’s close to a hundred degrees out here.”

“Not that kind of cold,” she told him. “The
cold of death. It’s strong enough for me to feel it.”

“So you’re gonna go all spooky on me too,” he
said, then turned his attention to me. “What are you lookin’ for in
here anyway?”

I walked around the interior of the restroom
slowly and silently. I had no earthly, or even unearthly, idea what
I was looking for. I only knew that something had suddenly begun to
gnaw at the back of my brain. A relentless nagging that told me I
had missed something that had been staring me straight in the face
the night before.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “But if it’s
here, I’m going to find it.”

I continued to shuffle around the small room,
intently inspecting walls and fixtures that had already been
perused by eyes more prying than mine. I could feel the same
coldness Felicity had mentioned and gave a barely noticeable shiver
as it danced subtly up my spine.

“Did I say anything last night when I spaced
out?” I asked aloud.

“No.” Ben recalled, “You just kinda went
blank and stared off. You weren’t zoned for long before I decided
to snap you out of it... With what Felicity said and all... Ya
know...”

“It’s all right,” I told him. “I
understand.”

“Why do ya’ think ya’ might have said
somethin’?” he queried.

“Just a thought,” I replied,
still making my way around the stalls. “I’ve just got this nagging
feeling that I missed something.” I glanced over at him. “And for
some reason, I think that
something
might be important.”

“Well, guys,” Felicity spoke up. “My feet are
killing me. I’m going to run out to the Jeep and see if my tennis
shoes are in my gym bag.”

My wife started for the door with a
deliberate turn. The gritty shuffle of her shoe soles against the
concrete was rapidly followed by a sharp, tinkling sound as she
inadvertently kicked a small piece of the broken mirror, sending it
skittering across the floor.

“HOLD IT!” I exclaimed. “Don’t move.”

She froze. Ben froze. I froze.

“What is it?” Felicity finally whispered.

The sound triggered a memory, the memory
induced a thought, and the thought congealed in my brain as I
closed my eyes and listened to an imaginary pane of glass shatter
inside my head. Slowly, I opened my eyes and looked to my wife,
then to Ben.

“The mirror,” I told them.

“Yeah. You told us why ya’ thought he broke
it last night,” Ben stated. “Somethin’ about not wantin’ ta’ trap
whatever he was callin’ up, or somethin’ like that.”

“I know,” I returned. “But that’s not what
I’m talking about.”

“Then what?” Felicity asked as she relaxed
her stance.

“If Karen Barnes was standing in front of the
mirror when she was attacked,” I began.

“Then she might have seen the killer’s
reflection,” she finished for me, light dawning in her eyes.

“Excuse me,” Ben interjected, “but Karen
Barnes is not gonna be givin’ any eyewitness descriptions. In case
you’ve forgotten, she’s dead.”

“This is true,” I told him. “However, I might
be able to do the same thing with her that I did with Ariel.”

“Channel her?!” Felicity exclaimed. “Don’t
you think that’s a little too dangerous?”

“Not if you help me,” I replied.

“Whoa,” Ben interjected. “This ain’t one of
those things where you could die or somethin’ is it?”

“Yes it is.” Felicity turned to him quickly.
“If it isn’t done correctly.”

“Well I dunno then...”

“Hey,” I interrupted them both. “The
operative phrase there is ‘done correctly’. If you help me,” I
indicated to my wife, “and we take some precautions, I shouldn’t
have anything to worry about.”

“What precautions?” Ben queried.

“An anchor on this plane, for one,” I
answered. “Getting me the hell out of there before the moment of
death for another.”

They both looked at me as if I had totally
lost my mind. I knew it was because they were worried about the
possible consequences, and to be honest, I was too—but I was also
bound and determined to proceed with the idea.