Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (14 page)

However, another Witch could not only
understand but could empathize as well. This fact, among many
others, served to make my auburn-tressed wife both my friend and
confidant—my personal psychiatrist and steadfast anchor in this
reality. But, most of all, Felicity was my soul mate.

Beyond the double-paned window, I could make
out the faint noises of rubber singing against wet asphalt as
vehicles cautiously made their way up and down the street. The
muted but unmistakable squeal of damp brakes punctuated the other
outdoor sounds, and the familiar shape of a Chevrolet van halted in
front of the house. After waiting for a car to pass in the opposite
direction, the worn-out looking vehicle canted a shallow turn into
my driveway, splashing through the gutter full of icy slush and
squeaking again to a stop.

My heart catapulted itself into my throat
then dropped slowly back down to its rightful place in my chest,
performing an advanced series of somersaults all the while. My
first assumption was that our self-proclaimed inquisitor had passed
sentence upon his third victim. Even though I was expecting it, the
possibility thrust me into a weary catatonic gaze.

The dogs began the boisterous announcement of
their presence in order to chase away the intruder and in the
process disrupted our three peacefully slumbering felines. Furry
masses bolted from perches on sunny windowsills, and our English
setter led the canine charge for the front door. Thankfully, the
sudden commotion wrenched me away from the unblinking stare.

Ben hadn’t called this morning and neither
had Carl Deckert. There had been no mention on the news of a body
being found as yet. I quickly decided it would be more logical to
at least wait until my friend had made it to the door before
jumping to any conclusions. I took another sip of my coffee and
pushed back the unwanted thoughts, calming perceptibly. However, I
was still left with the sickening aftertaste of fear on the back of
my tongue.

“Sweetheart,” I called out as I watched the
occupant of the van unfold himself from the seat and start up the
narrowly cleared path of our walkway. “You’d better get out another
half dozen or so eggs. We’ve got company.”

Our friend’s appetite being legendary,
as well as his proclivity for showing up at mealtime, she didn’t
even bother to ask who it was. My only slightly exaggerated
estimate of the additional food needed was clue enough. From the
kitchen I heard the faint sound of cracking eggshells as she added
more to the skillet. The muttering that followed formed a simple,
matter-of-fact comment. “Okay, we’ll have
scrambled
eggs then.”

The dogs had settled for a moment and now
burst back into excited yelps at the sound of heavy footsteps on
the porch. I shushed the two noisemakers and commanded them to sit,
which they did in almost perfect unison. Ben was just reaching for
the bell when I opened the heavy oak door.

“Morning, Chief,” I greeted him as he pulled
on the screen door. “Business or social?”

“A little of both, Kemosabe,” he admitted as
he stepped in, waving a large manila envelope at me. “Got the labs
back on the Miller woman.”

No new bodies. That was good news. I breathed
an inner sigh of relief and felt the knot in my stomach wind
tighter by one more turn. The tense waiting game would continue,
for now anyway.

“Coffee?” I offered while he shrugged off his
coat.

“Absolutely.” He nodded and sniffed
animatedly in the direction of the kitchen. “That wouldn’t be one
of Firehair’s world famous breakfasts I’m smellin’, would it?”

“You know it.” I chuckled at yet another of
his nicknames for my flame-maned wife while I took his coat and
hung it in the closet. “You hungry?”

“Starvin’.”

“You don’t look terribly starving to me,”
Felicity chided as she rounded the corner from the dining room.

“Yeah, okay, so I’m not really starvin’,” he
returned with a grin and leaned in to kiss her atop her forehead.
“But I’m not about to turn down a meal in this house.”

“Well then you’d better come in here and grab
a plate,” she told him with a pleased smile. “I’m not going to play
waitress for you... and by the way, for showing up when you did,
you win today’s door prize.”

“Seconds and thirds?”

“Aye, even better. You get to help wash the
dishes.”

* * * * *

“Looks like he doped ‘er up with Roofies,”
Ben told me as he finished drying the last pan Felicity handed him
and then hooked it on the pot rack suspended over the stove. Where
my wife and I had to stretch to accomplish the same task, he had to
duck to avoid getting beaned by a saucepan.

He took the next item and began distantly
working on it with the dishcloth. I had to stifle a laugh at the
sight of him being so blatantly domestic. It’s not every day you
see a six-foot-six Native American drying dishes and being ordered
around by a petite, redheaded Irish woman. Especially when that
“Indian” had a badge on his belt and was packing a nine-millimeter
Beretta in a shoulder holster.

“That might explain why she was so foggy when
I channeled her.” I had propped myself at the breakfast nook and
was looking over the contents of the manila envelope he had
brought.

“They also identified the residue in ‘er
mouth,” he continued. “You were right on the money. Nylon.
Consistent with a pair of pantyhose. The rest of it just shows
elevated carbon monoxide levels in ‘er blood which gives even more
proof that she was alive when he torched ‘er.”

“No offense, guys,” Felicity interjected,
“but what good is all that? All it does is confirm what Rowan
already told you.”

She had a point. And unless I was missing
something, all of this information seemed moot.

“You’re right, ‘cept for the Roofies,” he
returned.

“So he drugged her with Rohypnol,” I
remarked. “Did he use it on Brianna Walker too?”

“No, but that’s not the point.” Ben
continued talking while he finished folding the dishcloth. Then he
topped off Felicity’s coffee and poured himself a fresh cup.
“Roofies aren’t available in the U.S. by any
quote quote
legal means.” He made two-fingered
quotation marks in the air with his free hand as he repeated the
word twice—yet another Ben Storm original mannerism. “So the only
place you’re gonna get ‘em is on the streets. Also, they aren’t
good for anything except makin’ ya’ damn near a zombie. That’s the
reason they call it the ‘date rape drug.’”

Lights went on behind Felicity’s eyes as the
realization reached her a full step ahead of me. “College
campuses.”

Ben looked at her and touched the tip of his
index finger to the end of his nose. “Unfortunately, that’s exactly
where they tend ta’ show up. We’ve got Narcotics on it right
now.”

“But we still have no idea what this guy
looks like or even how old he might be,” I volunteered. “What good
is it going to do to shake down a handful of drug dealers?”

“You got a better idea?” He shrugged and
shook his head. “At least this is a place ta’ start. It might
narrow the field down some. Besides, didn’t you say ya’ thought ya’
might be able ta’ recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

“Well, you’re right,” I admitted. “I might be
able to recognize the voice... at any rate, it can’t hurt.”

“What about working up a profile or
something? Can’t Constance help you with that?” Felicity offered,
referring to our mutual friend with the FBI.

It had been hate at first sight between
Special Agent Constance Mandalay and Detective Benjamin Storm when
we all first met last summer. She was a strong-willed woman in a
male-dominated profession, and he was the lead detective with the
Major Case Squad. To her rigid set of views, I was nothing more
than a carnival charlatan, and she made her opinion well known.
More than a few sparks were brought forth from that point of
contention.

Less than forty-eight hours later, she was
violently subjected first hand to the horrific realities of true
evil and misused Magicks. I just happened to be the one who saved
her life. We had all been friends ever since.

“Already called the field office,” Ben
answered. “She’s on some kinda security assignment at the moment,
so I ended up talkin’ ta’ some SAIC named Bartlett.” He shook his
head in disgust. “This guy’s a real winner. Reminded me of why I
can’t stand Feebs.”

“Do you think he’s going to be able to help?”
she pressed.

“He said he’d see what he could do, but I’m
not holdin’ my breath.”

“Did he at least say when Constance would be
back?” I asked.

“Accordin’ ta’ him she’s s’posed to be back
in the office Monday. That’s only two more days countin’ today. So,
if our luck holds out, and this prick doesn’t off anyone for a
little while longer...”

“That’s a pretty big ‘if,’ Ben.” I shook my
head. “The weather has settled down, and something tells me we
haven’t got that long.”

“Yeah, well, I hope like hell you’re wrong
this time.”

We all sat in the gathering silence for a
moment, sipping our coffee and pondering the weight of what we
faced. Ben reached up to begin working on a muscle in the back of
his neck, and Felicity chewed at her lower lip. Working against the
clock was definitely not new to any of us.

Dickens, our solid black cat, eventually
sauntered into the mute room, tail at attention, and leapt lithely
onto the table. Taking a seat and closing his large eyes, he let
out a regal you-may-pet-me-now mew.

“What about the particulars on Kendra
Miller,” I finally asked. “Obviously the dental records matched up.
Were you able to find out anything more about her?”

Ben broke out of his stupor and rummaged
around in his pocket. After a moment he withdrew his ever-present
notebook and began flipping through the pages. “Yeah, yeah… The
records matched up perfect. Yeah, here it is. Kendra Darlene Miller
was ‘er name all right. Twenty-four, single. Worked as a secretary
over at the gas company.”

“Not a hooker then?” I interjected.

“Not a hooker, no,” he echoed, “but accordin’
to ‘er co-workers, she was a definite party-girl.”

“No law against that,” Felicity said in an
almost defensive tone.

“Maybe not,” he said, “but they said
she played it fast and loose on the singles scene. Also, rumor has
it she buttered both sides of the bread if ya’ know what I mean.”
He paused momentarily as he scanned his notes. “She was real open
‘bout her religion too... Yeah, here it is, she was a member of
a
Dianic
Coven. That mean
somethin’ to you two?”

“Basically it is just a tradition within The
Craft,” I answered.

“The Dianic tradition places the focus purely
on the feminine aspect,” Felicity expanded on my response. “The
Coven will almost always consist only of women and will engage in
Goddess worship with little or no mention of the God or male
influence.”

“Humph.” He rolled his eyes as he
grunted out the sound. “Guess that’d explain the whole
Bi
thing.”

“Don’t be so judgmental,” Felicity chastised.
“Being in a Dianic Coven doesn’t automatically make you a lesbian
or bisexual. But even so, what if she was? What difference does it
make?”

“Hey, whoa!” He held his hands up in mock
defense. “I’m just doin’ my job here. I don’t care what anyone does
as long as they aren’t hurtin’ anybody, and I don’t hafta look at
it...

“Unfortunately though, her bein’
Bi
does set off a few alarms. Couple
it with what ‘er co-workers had ta’ say, and you got someone at
high risk for all kinds of shit.”

“So, to you, her lifestyle puts her in the
same category as Brianna Walker,” I proposed.

“Hate ta’ say it, but yeah. Damn near,
anyway.” He took a sip from his coffee cup and then set it back on
the counter where he was leaning. “I should also mention that she
was takin’ a couple of classes over at the U of M. Narcotics is
payin’ special attention to that campus.”

“So are you coming back to the theory that
this guy is only after hookers?” I asked.

“Not completely, but I do think his choice of
victims so far does say somethin’.” He paused and let his gaze rest
on me then added, “Don’t you?”

“Maybe.” I shook my head. “But I still think
he’s after Witches not prostitutes.”

“Listen, white man…” He let out a frustrated
sigh before continuing, “No one has thrown out your theory ‘bout
the whole revival of the Inquisition thing, least of all me. But
I’ve got a job ta’ do, and we hafta look at all the angles. Whether
he’s after hookers, Witches, or...” He flung his arm out in a
sweeping gesture as he searched for the elusive words. “Awww hell,
whoever! I just want the bastard in a cell waitin’ for his last
meal, that’s all.”

“I know you do, Ben,” I murmured
half-heartedly, “I know you do.”

“Look, Row, we’ve got the Narcs workin’
the dealers, and personally I think that’s a hot lead. We’ve been
over the Miller woman’s apartment with a microscope... Twice...” He
held up two fingers to punctuate. “The place had been tossed, but
all we found were some smudges. The guy was obviously wearin’
gloves. Shit, it’s the middle of winter!
Everybody’s
wearin’ gloves!”

He reached up to smooth his hair and then
shook his head. He was already starting to show signs of stress
over this case himself, and my unsupportive-sounding reply hadn’t
helped.

“We’ve been canvassin’ the area around
Meadowbrook Park, and so far nobody’s seen a thing. If we can
figure out where she was last, we’ll be all over that place too.
Other than that I don’t know what ta’ say...”