Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (2 page)

Three weeks later...

B
lue-white wisps curled upward from the lit end of a tight roll
of tobacco that was hooked under my index finger. I took a lazy
puff and rolled the spicy smoke around on my tongue before blowing
it outward into an evenly spreading cloud that wafted about on the
warm breeze. Then, with a lazy stretch, I rested my forearm across
my knee and contemplated the slowly growing ash on the end of the
cigar.

It had been more than six months since my
last cigarette, so my wife, Felicity, was none too excited when I
decided to revive my old habit of cigar smoking. As I am not one to
do things halfway, these weren’t the greenish, dried out logs you
pick up at the local stop’n’grab. Not at all. My humidor was filled
with rich, Maduro-wrapped symbols of masculinity available only
from a good tobacco shop. Inevitably, with such quality there comes
a price, and said price served simply to provide Felicity with yet
another reason to harbor disdain for the habit.

Of course, with any marriage—well, good ones
anyway—there is a generous amount of compromise. The “compromise”
that had been reached in ours was something on the order of a
matter-of-fact statement from my headstrong wife of, “If you’re
going to smoke those things anyway, you’re going to do it outside!”
After eight years with this auburn-haired, second generation
Irish-American dynamo on a five-foot-four frame, I had learned to
cut my losses and run; for as much as she hated to admit it,
Felicity fit neatly into the stereotype of the tempestuous, Irish
redhead. Though her singsong accent was normally faint—unless she
was tired, angry, or had been in close proximity to her relatives,
whereupon it became very pronounced—her stubbornness and temper
were with her 24/7.

In this particular instance, however, the
fact that there was no way she was about to let me in the door with
a lit cigar was only one of a trio of reasons I had for being
parked on the cement stairs of our modest, suburban Saint Louis
home this warm, late summer’s evening. The second and most
important reason for smoking outside was that we had only recently
discovered that Felicity was six weeks pregnant. The third—I was
waiting for someone.

Earlier in the day, I had received a phone
call from my long time cohort, Ben Storm, a detective with the
Saint Louis City police department. Since he had a tendency to work
somewhat bizarre hours, I was pleasantly surprised when he
suggested that he drop by this evening for an impromptu drink to
congratulate us on our impending family addition. I was more than
agreeable to the idea; unfortunately, the tone of his voice told me
there was an underlying, less social reason for the visit. His
inflection only confirmed a suspicion that had been nagging at me
for nearly two days now.

Late Wednesday night I had received a short,
cryptic call from a distracted and extremely official sounding
version of my friend. He had been seeking information about the
meaning of a religious symbol known as a Pentacle. Though I knew he
was perfectly aware of my religious practices, I was mildly amazed
he had equated me with the emblem. In keeping with his official
demeanor that night, as soon as I finished giving him the requested
details, he abruptly ended the call with curt politeness.

When we spoke again today, I was sure I had
detected a definite note of that same distraction in his voice. I
hoped that I was wrong but deep inside felt that I wasn’t. However,
on the chance that I might have misinterpreted the tenor of his
speech, I had kept the observation to myself, mentioning it neither
to him nor Felicity.

“I take it Ben hasn’t gotten here yet.” I
heard the half question, half statement from my wife through the
screen door behind me.

“Nope,” I replied and took another lazy draw
from my cigar. “But you know how Ben is. If he says six in the
evening, he really means eight.”

“Ever since his promotion, we’re lucky to see
him at all,” she expressed. “Are Allison and Ben Junior
coming?”

“I doubt it. He said something about Al
taking the little guy out shopping for clothes.”

“Well...” She pushed the screen door open a
bit to allow one of our cats to exit the confines of the house.
“I’m going to go upstairs and pay some bills. Let me know when he
gets here. I don’t want to miss this little celebration. Remember,
I’m the one who’s pregnant.”

“I doubt that you’ll let me forget it,” I
answered, looking back at her with a grin. “I’ll call you when he
shows up.”

She smiled in return and left me to my cigar
and quiet contemplation of the tree-lined street, as well as my
attempts to dull the secret, foreboding sensation with a tumbler of
single malt scotch on the rocks. Ten minutes short of an hour
later, not only had I still not managed to shake the feeling, but
it grew even stronger as a tired-looking Chevrolet van rolled into
my driveway. The engine knocked and complained as the driver
switched it off, and then it sputtered into silence. After a
moment, the door opened with a labored screech, and the occupant
extricated himself from the seat.

Ben Storm was a Native American, six-foot-six
with jet-black hair and the finely angular features one associated
with the boilerplate portrayal of feather-adorned natives from TV
Westerns. He kept himself in excellent physical condition and made
a very imposing figure both in and out of uniform. When he had been
a street cop, I often joked that he was the last person I would
want to see coming down a dark alley at me if I had done something
wrong. He always made it a point to bet that he would be the first
person I would want to see coming down that alley were I in
trouble. I never hesitated to agree.

Just over a year ago, fate dealt him a
winning hand. He had been promoted to Detective and was assigned to
homicide investigations. This was a radical, though welcome, change
from knocking down the doors of crack houses, which had been his
previous assignment. Now, at times, his work schedule had become
less structured and was often expanded with overtime. However, that
time was more often spent interviewing suspects and gathering
evidence than dodging bullets sprayed from an illegally modified,
Tech Nine machine pistol in the hands of a fifteen-year-old
gangbanger.

I knew for a certainty that his wife was
happy to have him out of the direct line of fire. Felicity and I
had made no secret of the fact that we were just as relieved.

The van door made a loud groan of protest as
he pushed it shut, then he turned and strode up my sidewalk with a
brown paper bag tucked casually under his arm.

“I can’t believe you’re still driving that
old piece of crap,” I called to him and motioned toward the
decrepit looking Chevy.

He was halfway up the flagstone walkway when
he stopped, looked back at the vehicle for a moment, then turned
back to me. “What?” he answered, feigning insult, then with a shrug
continued walking. “It still runs.”

He climbed the stairs and parked himself on
the edge of the porch then stretched and let out an exhausted
sigh.

“Ya’know,” he finally said as he set the
paper bag carefully on the first step. “Bein’ a copper is a menial
job... It’s kinda like bein’ the secretary for all the chaos out
there in the world...But anyway…” He reached into his jacket and
pulled out two cigars then handed one to me. “Congrats on the kid
ya’ silly ‘effin white man.”

“Thanks, Chief.” I took the cigar and gave it
a close look. “Dominican, eh? Been hanging around the tobacconist
playing Wooden Indian again?” I grinned.

“Yeah, blow it out your
ass,” he laughed. “One of the coppers I helped with a case owed me
one and finally paid up.” Reaching into the bag he pulled out a
bottle of
Glenlivet
and a bottle of de-alcoholized white zinfandel. “So where’s
the little woman?”

“Upstairs doing that bill paying thing,” I
answered, sliding the cigar beneath my nose with a flourish and
sniffing the spicy, Spanish cedar veneer that encased it. “She’s
gonna just love you for this,” I continued, waving the expensive
smoke at him. “I’m supposed to call her down when you get here, and
I suppose that would be about now.”

“I’ll get ‘er,” he told me as he stood up and
took a stride to the door. “I need a glass and some ice anyway. You
good?”

“I could go for a couple of cubes. Just fill
the ice bucket and bring it out if you want.”

“Everything still in the usual place?” he
asked as he opened the door.

“Yeah, same as always.”

I could hear him calling up the stairs to
Felicity as the screen door swung shut; something pseudo-official
sounding about having the place surrounded and that all tiny
red-headed women should come out with their hands up. His call was
answered by my wife bounding down the stairs followed closely by
our English setter and Australian cattle dog vociferously making
their individual presences known. A few short minutes later he
returned, ladened with the ice bucket, a fresh glass, and Felicity
in tow.

“So, before you even get started with your
cop stories,” my wife began, perching herself on the ledge near the
stairs, “how are Allison and Ben Junior?”

Ben extracted the cork from the bottle of
white zinfandel and filled the wine glass she held forth.

“Good,” he answered. “Pretty good. Al said
ta’ tell you guys ‘hey’ and sorry she couldn’t make it. The little
guy told me to make sure I said ‘hi’ to the dogs.”

“We really need to find some time to get
together for a barbecue or something,” I stated as he planted
himself back on the edge of the porch and went about the task of
opening the Scotch.

“Yeah,” Ben returned. “Why don’t ya’ tell
that to the bad guys. I could use a little time off.” He poured
himself a drink and topped mine off before sticking his cigar
between his lips and setting it alight with a wooden match.
“Ahhhhh,” he exclaimed, blowing out a stream of pungent smoke.
“I’ve been so damn busy lately, I really haven’t had a chance to
enjoy a cigar... Ya’know, I think this is the first time I’ve had
anything lit in my mouth in a month.”

“Like you really need it,” Felicity
admonished. “Allison and I get you two to quit cigarettes, and the
next thing we know you’re sucking on some other burning
carcinogen.”

“Boys will be boys,” I told her.

“Yeah,” Ben chimed in. “What he said.”

The friendly chatter eased my mind for the
time being, but I still felt a nag in the back of my skull. Sitting
here, I knew that just as I had suspected, my friend was without a
doubt its undeniable source.

* * * * *

Later in the evening, we called out for pizza
and moved our celebration indoors. After putting the dogs through
their paces for a handful of the crusts, Felicity said her
goodnights and went off to bed, for she had an early outing with
her nature photography club the next morning.

Ben had grown quieter as the
evening wore on, leaning more heavily on the Scotch than I can ever
recall him doing before. After I finished clearing the dishes from
the table, he refilled our glasses from the near-depleted bottle
of
Glenlivet
, and
then we ventured out to the back deck.

My friend dropped his large frame heavily
into a chair and went about trimming the end from a fresh cigar as
I lit the citronella-oil-filled tiki torches that rimmed the deck.
Mosquitoes had been bad this summer, and these seemed to stave them
off fairly well while providing an unobtrusive light. After
bringing the last torch to life, I took my seat opposite Ben at the
patio table and proceeded to work on my own after-dinner smoke. I
could literally feel his introspection building to a point of
release and knew that the worry clouding the back of my mind would
soon be summoned forward.

“You’n Felicity are still into that Wicca
thing, right?” Ben queried after an extended silence.

“If you mean have we converted to Catholicism
or something, no we haven’t,” I answered. “We aren’t connected with
a coven right now, but we still practice. Once you’re a Witch, you
usually stay a Witch.” I lit my cigar and then took a sip of my
Scotch. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” he replied hesitantly.

I knew there was more to the question than
mere curiosity, but I also knew better than to press this
particular subject with Ben, for that would only serve to make him
feel ill at ease. He had always been willing to accept that
Felicity and I practiced what was considered by most to be a
non-traditional religion but usually showed a clear desire to leave
it in the background. Out of sight, out of mind. As with most
things that didn’t fit with the majority view, the masses,
including Ben, were entirely off base in their misconceptions
regarding Wicca, WitchCraft and almost any other alternative
religion for that matter.

I had once attempted to explain to him that
Wicca and WitchCraft, or simply “The Craft” as we often call it,
involved no pointed hats, bubbling cauldrons, or flying brooms. To
the knowledge of any practitioner of the religion, it never did
truly include such things. I told him that Wicca was simply an
Earth religion, and as for deities, ours were the Earth and the
Moon: Diana and Pan, respectively. There was no evil intent, and in
fact, our most basic and all-important covenant was to “Harm None.”
We viewed our religion as a way of life through which we did our
best to live in harmony with nature, and through study and
meditation, we attempted to learn control over the natural energies
that inherently reside within all of us. I further explained that
in doing this, we sometimes developed abilities that some would
consider psychic in nature, such as an uncanny sixth sense or the
ability to heal others and ourselves: We think of these as learned
talents, nothing more, and nothing less. I even added that I knew
of no incident where anyone had been turned into a frog, except in
fairy tales. The simple fact was that even if that were possible,
no self-respecting Witch would consider it.