The Law Of Three: A Rowan Gant Investigation (2 page)

He’d done as little damage as possible when
breaking in, made a guess about what might work, took only what he
needed, and then begged his Lord to forgive him for the sin of
theft. He knew his absolution had been granted when the fever
finally broke three days later, and he had remained free.

Unfortunately, his penance had come in the
form of lameness. The severity of the bullet’s cruelty, combined
with the infection, had left his hand a shriveled and useless claw
and his forearm a misshapen appendage that was still visited by
constant pain. Considering what the outcome could have been, in
some small way he counted himself fortunate.

Gazing at the mostly healed wound, he noticed
that the flesh surrounding the scar was reddish and swollen. The
infection was gaining a hold again, as it had done several times
now. He would need more antibiotics soon. Something different,
stronger this time, because obviously what he had was no longer
doing the job.

“…
So if you haven’t pulled out your
snow shovel yet, you might want to think about it, because this
front is definitely going to bring frozen precipitation with it
this afternoon and evening. Most likely in the range of three to
six inches.” Yet another, different feminine voice squawked from
the television in the corner.

“There’s no way we can get a reprieve from
that?” the anchor joked.

“Sorry, Skip, I don’t make the weather, I
just forecast it,” the woman returned with a good-natured lilt in
her voice.

“Meteorologist, Tracy Watson. Thanks, Tracy.
It’s six twenty-eight, and coming up in the next half hour of
Eyewitness News this morning, health reporter Doctor Patrick
Kennedy will tell us about some alternative treatments for back
injuries.”

“…
And,” the co-anchor chimed in on cue,
“We’ll have more on why the Major Case Squad has enlisted the aid
of Saint Louisan and self-proclaimed Witch, Rowan Gant, to solve a
bizarre homicide. We’ll be back right after this…”

All that was within the small motel room came
to a complete and abrupt halt.

The endless prattle that had in Eldon
Porter’s mind heretofore served only to chase away silence
now
had his full and undivided
consideration. The mere mention of the warlock’s name pealed loud
and clear through the muddy audio, striking deep into his soul and
bringing him to instant attention.

Water continued to sputter from the faucet as
he turned to look at the flickering TV screen. He continued to
stare, silent and completely motionless throughout all one hundred
eighty lethargic seconds of inane commercials—advertisements for
everything from fruit juice to car loans. Never once did he twitch
or so much as even blink. In point of fact, he scarcely even
breathed.

He had been in Saint Louis for over a week
now and thus far had been completely unable to track down the
warlock. On the surface, Gant’s house appeared completely
unoccupied. But, he knew it was not—not completely anyway. He knew
this as he had been watching it carefully. Very carefully, because
he also knew that he was not the only one watching.

Others were spying upon the house. In
addition, others were spying from it. However, they were not
looking for Rowan Gant; they were looking for him.

Eldon had begun to fear that the warlock had
fled. That he was far removed from Saint Louis. Perhaps even from
the state. It was this fear that had driven him to force the
warlock’s hand; that action had brought him here, to this room, to
wait.

Now, his wait appeared to be over.

A tinny riff of music that intermixed with
syncopated drumming noises suddenly spilled into the room to
announce the resumption of the morning news broadcast. As it faded
out, a dead-on shot of the anchors popped in to replace the station
ID graphic.

“Welcome back to Eyewitness News this
Thursday morning, it’s six thirty-two, I’m Skip Johnson…”

“And I’m Brandee Street, filling in for the
vacationing Chloe Winchell.” The co-anchor dropped into the cadence
with practiced timing. “At the top of the news this morning, peace
talks are continuing…”

As per usual, the teasers that came before
the station break were just that—teasers. Tidbits of information
intended to keep you tuned in while the unimportant drivel is
paraded before your eyes. Eldon held fast to his firm resolve and
continued his frozen stance for yet another three-minute
eternity.

“Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad
officials have confirmed reports that a self-proclaimed Witch is
playing an important role in a murder investigation. Rowan Gant
most recently aided the police in solving the murder of Debbie
Schaeffer, the Oakwood College cheerleader who went missing late
last year. He has now been called in once again to help with a
bizarre homicide. Eyewitness News field reporter, Colin Kelso,
joins us live outside city police headquarters. Colin…”

The screen switched to a video feed showing
the image of a reporter clutching a logo-adorned microphone and
staring stoically into the camera. Even with the extreme blur, his
overly youthful appearance was evident. “Thanks, Brandee. As you
stated, we have confirmed that self-proclaimed Witch, Rowan Gant,
has been brought in to help with the investigation of a very
strange and brutal murder. At around three a.m., police were
summoned to an abandoned warehouse at the corner of Locust and
Fourteenth streets. There they found the body of a man suspended by
a rope from the roof ledge.”

“Colin,” the anchorwoman’s voice cut in, “I
understand that there has been some speculation that this crime
might somehow be linked with another murder?”

“Yes, while authorities have not made an
official statement, there has been speculation on that fact.
Viewers will remember that two weeks ago, the body of Lena Duke was
found hanging from a tree in Cherokee Park in Cape Girardeau,
Missouri. The ritualistic manner in which she was killed bears a
striking resemblance to this crime.

“Statements released earlier this week
indicate that the Cape homicide may be somehow linked to the
killing spree of Eldon Porter which occurred here in Saint Louis
early last year.

“Right now, authorities are still being
tight-lipped about this case. We will keep you updated as the
situation develops. Back to you, Brandee and Skip.”

The screen cut back to a headshot of the
unnaturally honey-blonde newscaster paired with a smaller inset of
the field reporter. “Colin,” she spoke. “Has Mister Gant actually
been to the scene of this particular crime?”

“I’ve been told by one detective that, yes,
in fact Mister Gant was brought in early this morning. An
interesting development, however, just moments ago Mister Gant was
seen leaving the scene with Detective Benjamin Storm of the city
homicide squad and a woman we believe to be his wife, Felicity
O’Brien. Although we were unable to obtain a comment, we did get
this footage showing some type of altercation.”

The screen switched to show the wildly
shaking image of a van, partially illuminated off and on by video
lights. Unintelligible, but obviously heated voices could be heard
in the background over the shouts of reporters and camera
operators. As the centerpiece of the video byte grew larger and
began to stabilize, a man shot into view from behind the open door
of the vehicle, apparently rushing toward the cameras. In an
instant he halted, then appeared to be jerked backward,
disappearing into the vehicle.

“Any idea what was going on there, Colin,”
she asked as the video repeated.

“We were unable to obtain a comment from
anyone on the scene at this time, I’m afraid.”

“Okay, thanks Colin,” she said, and the inset
was replaced by a wide shot of the news desk, revealing both
anchors as well as a third figure seated at the L-shaped return.
“Keep us updated on this breaking story.”

“Will do, back to you Brandee and Skip.”

After a measured beat, the anchor continued.
“So, how many of us have complained about lower back pain?”

“I know I have,” chimed in Skip Johnson.
“Joining us this morning is Doctor…”

Eldon finally blinked, and as he did he
instantly tuned out the voices coming from the television,
relegating them once again to muted background noise. He allowed a
thin smile to pass briefly across his face, the only outward sign
of the elation he now felt.

The warlock was still here.

He had just needed to draw him out, and his
plan had worked even quicker than he had hoped.

He absently wiped his wet hand on his shirt
as he took the few steps across the room to the broken down bed.
The water continued sputtering and splashing in the rusty basin,
melding in an off-kilter tune with the voices from the TV. On the
scarred surface of a makeshift nightstand, a book was positioned
with supreme care, as if on display. Eldon reached out with his
good hand and lifted it reverently, then used the knuckles of his
clawed left hand to open it and flip through the pages.

Near the back of the tome, he finally
stopped, bringing his gaze to rest on a particular passage, his
eyes darting back and forth as he read and re-read the words.
Slowly, his lips began to move, and then eventually a whisper of
sound began to slip between them. Finally, his gravelly voice spoke
aloud to be heard only by him.

“For it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will
repay, saith the Lord.”

He continued to repeat the passage with
growing rabidity, clipping the sentence until the only words spoken
were “Vengeance is mine.”

Three Hours Earlier

Graphical images of playing cards expanded in
happy accordion patterns across the glowing screen of my notebook
computer as the machine proclaimed me victorious in this latest
game of solitaire. Unless I’d lost track, this one made six for me
and something on the order of ten million for the machine, give or
take. I wasn’t actually keeping count, though. Well, not of the
computer’s wins, anyway.

I tucked my fingers back in behind my
eyeglasses, forcing the frames to ride up on the bridge of my nose,
then rubbed my eyes before directing my bleary gaze at the lower
corner of the screen. I’d started this mindless activity at twelve
and it was now 3:07.

That was a.m., mind you.

Of course, there wasn’t much else to do.
Watch TV, surf the web, read a book. None of these options were
particularly appealing to me, not even the endless games of
solitaire. What I really wanted to be doing was sleeping, but the
way my head was throbbing, that wasn’t about to happen.

The annoying thud that was pounding out
a droning rhythm throughout the whole of my grey matter began early
in the evening and had not subsided in the least. But, so far it
hadn’t grown any worse, for which I was thankful. Of course, I knew
that wouldn’t last. It would be getting
much
worse. I just didn’t know exactly
when.

I’d had this kind of headache before, more
times than I cared to count, actually. It wasn’t sinuses, and it
wasn’t just your normal stress related “take two aspirin and lie
down for a while” kind of pain either. This was an ache born of
unnatural influences. It was the pure physical manifestation of
fear and dread. The kind of headache I experienced every single
time I knew something horrible was about to happen, and there was
nothing in this world I could possibly do to prevent it.

Unfortunately, for me, I tended to be
afflicted by these damnable things way too often.

I ran my hand across the lower half of my
face and felt the rough crop of stubble that, by now, was certainly
shading my jaw line. Then I tugged at my goatee for a moment. The
action prompted me to remember that I’d recently noticed the dark
brown was being infiltrated by grey and white like a quickly
spreading fungus. I absently considered a dye job for a moment then
dismissed the idea as silly. I’d never been particularly vain
before, so there was no reason to start now.

I reached behind with both hands and massaged
the back of my head for a moment, hoping that it might help quell
the ache.

It didn’t.

Picking up my coffee cup, I took a swig of
the remaining contents and noticed immediately that it had grown
cold. I guess I’d been a little more caught up in solitaire than
I’d realized. Oh well, it had kept my mind off the pain, at least a
little.

I pushed back and quietly got up, then
carefully hooked around the small dining table where I’d been
seated. I aimed myself toward the orange glow of the light on the
coffeepot, using it as a beacon in the darkness. Since it was
presently residing on the counter in the closet-sized room that was
supposed to pass for a kitchen, I gave little thought to this being
a problem. However, since I still wasn’t used to the layout of this
apartment, in my single-minded quest for fresh java I cut my entry
through the doorway far too shallow.

There was a loud thump, followed by me
quickly listing to one side, and then the ache in the back of my
head was pushed aside in favor of a new sensation. Of course, that
feeling was a sharp, and far more extreme, pain in my toe.

I caught my breath, quickly swallowing the
yelp that I’d managed to stop midway in my throat, and then fought
to stifle a groan that quickly followed on its heels. A pitiful
sounding mixture of the two managed to escape anyway.

Just for good measure, I stuttered a few
random selections from the big book of four-letter expletives,
passing them as quietly as I could through clenched teeth. Finally,
I half limped, half hopped into the kitchenette and leaned against
the counter.