“Shamus O’Brien, my father-in-law, would never be in any danger of becoming elected president of my fan club; of this you could be certain. Our relationship was one that stressed the boundaries of polite tolerance and mute indifference. I am sure he allowed this much solely for the benefit of his only daughter. In general, he wasn’t what you would call outwardly discourteous to me. I was, of course, well aware of his feelings, and I endeavored to respect them by keeping my distance; therefore he was rarely even given a chance to become rude. However, we would invariably be thrust together by holidays or other family functions at intervals throughout the year. At these times I would make it a point to avoid any controversial topic on which he may have a strong opinion-which was only a shade left of everything.
The one subject that remained an absolute taboo on any and all occasions was my choice of religious paths; for you see, that was the one and true reason Shamus didn’t like me.
If asked about it, my stern in-law would return a blank stare and pretend to ignore the subject entirely. But, if one were truly inclined to press the matter, he could be made to speak of it, and speak of it he would.
The entire discourse would begin with him muttering a long string of Gaelic expletives under his breath. Soon, his ruddy complexion would flush even brighter, and he would begin gesturing with a stiff index finger while making his opinions adamantly known. Finally, he would proceed to explain how I had turned his fair daughter from the righteous path of God with my heretical Pagan practices. The story seemed to grow more heinous each time he told it.
My mother-in-law, Maggie, would simply roll her eyes and sigh then sternly admonish, “Oh Shamus, just you hush now!”
It didn’t matter to him that Felicity was a practicing Witch long before our first chance meeting-a meeting that interestingly enough occurred at a local Magickal and Earth religion festival. No. He would have none of that, and he would even deny the fact with great fervor. She was his little Colleen, and she couldn’t possibly have taken this road without being tempted by some unsavory character such as myself. Each time she would try to reason with him, it simply flowed into one ear and straight out the other. To Shamus, his little girl could do no wrong, and in his mind, she was just going through a phase.
Needless to say, I went to great lengths to avoid this subject entirely.
Tonight, however, much to my chagrin, I had no control over the topic being debated no matter how hard I tried to evade it. My face had been plastered all over the news, both electronic and print, placing me in the astringent beam of an unwanted limelight. My religion had suddenly made me something of a morbid celebrity among those relatives of local residence, and whispered stories of my involvement in the murder investigations, both past and present, were spreading through the room like fire through a dead forest. One of Felicity’s second cousins, a wide-eyed, round-faced, young girl of eight or nine, had even asked me for my autograph.
Like everyone else, my father-in-law had been at work on his own share of Irish whiskey in celebration, and the alcohol had freed his sharp tongue from the sheath where it was normally kept. Felicity and I had only been here the sum total of one hour and twenty-minutes. I had been backed into a corner listening to his closed minded diatribe for the twenty.
“…Aye, and how can you be expectin’ us to plan our family gatherin’s ‘round your Pagan holidays now?” he queried, his voice a mere notch away from belligerent.
“I’ve never asked you to do that, Shamus, and you know it,” I returned, struggling to remain calm and looking past him in search of my wife. I needed to be rescued soon before I lost my temper and said something I would regret.
“What about last March then?” he shot back. “We tried to plan your mother-in-law’s birthday party, we did. But you had one of your godless holidays conflictin’!”
“It was a Spring Equinox celebration, and if anything, I’m poly theistic, so you can hardly call it godless. Besides, it was only one weekend, and you know you wouldn’t have given it another thought if we had simply told you we were busy and left it at that.”
It was getting harder by the moment for me to keep my cool. Continuing my search, I spied Felicity across the room as haunting violin music began to fill the hall. The mournful wail of the fiddles quickly took on a brighter tempo, and my wife began dancing about with her similarly garbed cousins. Having witnessed her perform this particular traditional prancing jig before, I knew it was going to last for several minutes. She wasn’t going to be providing me with an avenue of escape anytime soon.
I was just bracing myself for what I was sure would be a spitefully barbed comeback when I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. I looked back to see the concerned face of my brother-in-law, and knew I was about to be emancipated. Unfortunately I also knew that I was only going to be chained to another situation I would rather not face.
“Aye, Rowan.” He gave his father a quick nod then looked at me. “There’s a pair out in the hotel lobby flashin’ badges and askin’ after you. Considerin’ that, I don’t suppose it would be good news then?”
My heart double thumped in my chest, and my throat turned instantly dry. An intimately known and caustically burning itch I had been struggling to ignore once again announced itself on my forearm in an extremely familiar spot.
“No, Austin,” I agreed sadly. “It isn’t at all.”
“…So anyway, I’m standin’ there tryin’ to calm these two guys down, and the one keeps yellin’, ‘His fuckin’ dog ate my bird! His fuckin’ dog ate my bird!’”
“Yeah?”
The two uniformed officers guarding the entrance to the apartment continued their chitchat while I signed my name on the crime scene log and noted the time alongside. I was starting to become an old hand at these procedures, but every time I had to do it, I felt like I had just swallowed a crucible of molten lead.
The two Major Case Squad detectives that had picked me up had ushered me in and informed the patrolmen that I was here in an official capacity. Upon hearing this revelation, they immediately began to treat me with the same casual indifference afforded any other cop. I suppose the fact that I was still wearing a sport coat and tie made me look like I belonged.
“Well the other guy starts screamin’, ‘He’s crazy! He’s nuts!’ and shit like that…” the officer with the story continued. “So now I’m startin’ ta’ think I’m gonna have a fist fight on my hands, ya’know?”
The other cop was already starting to chuckle, “Yeah? Then what?”
I took an offered pair of surgical gloves and pulled them over my damp hands. It was a struggle to get them on properly as my palms were so thick with cold sweat. I realized I was nervous and suddenly felt very human and vulnerable. I tried to convince myself that it was at least a sign that I hadn’t lost all my compassion.
“Next thing I know the dog starts heavin’ and makin’ all these weird-ass gackin noises, ya’know?”
The officer who was listening could see what was coming and was now barely able to contain an all out guffaw.
“Then yarrrp there it is! The freakin’ dog ralphs up the goddamn bird all over the guy’s shoes… It was one of them parrots or whatever so it was like this psychedelic projectile puke or somethin’!”
“No shit? What’d you do?”
“No shit, man. I thought I was gonna lose it right in front of these two guys…”
Obviously, the tale was intended to be humorous, but my present mood wasn’t conducive to laughing along with it. Though the telling of the story under current circumstances seemed outwardly callous, I’m sure it was merely a defense mechanism automatically kicking into high gear. Nothing more than a way for them to relieve their minds from the stress of the job. A way to deny the horror that waited in the next room. Given that, I certainly couldn’t blame them.
I was just preparing to go ahead into the open apartment when I heard Ben’s voice call from behind me, “Hey, white man.”
“Hey,” I returned sullenly and waited as he lumbered up the hallway.
“Sorry to have ‘em drag ya’ outta your party and all,” he apologized as he flashed his badge to the uniformed officers and penned its number and his name on the log. “Carl’s on ‘is way. He oughta be here in a bit.”
“No problem. I was just getting chewed on by my father-in-law anyway…” I paused and sighed heavily. “I could have asked for better circumstances for an escape, though.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Were you able to find someone to look after Starr and Karyl?” I inquired while watching him don his own pair of oversized latex gloves.
“Yeah, I got an off-duty copper friend of mine over there. Ended up costin’ me a box of Santa Damiana’s though. So, did Ackman and Hirst fill ya’ in?”
“Just that there was a body and that you would meet us here. Do you know who it is?”
“Not officially confirmed but looks like it’s the apartment’s occupant.” He referenced his notepad with a practiced flip of his wrist. “One Sheryl Keeven. Caucasian, thirty-four years old, divorced.”
“Was she…”
“…On the coven list?” Ben finished the question for me. “Yeah. She was on it. Martin was tryin’ to get a hold of ‘er earlier this afternoon. We were just gettin’ ready ta’ send a car by when the suicide call came in.”
“Suicide?” I puzzled aloud as I followed him through the open doorway, unmindfully scratching at my arm through my coat.
“Yeah, they didn’t tell ya’? The bastard left ‘er hangin’ off ‘er balcony. Neighbor called it in.”
“Did anybody see anything?”
“Hell no. Nobody ever sees anything any more.”
The third floor dwelling was fairly standard as apartments go, with a combination living room and dining area divided from the small kitchenette by a half wall lined with potted houseplants. A narrow corridor led back along the far side giving access to the bathroom, a closet with louvered luan doors, and finally, the bedroom. The walls were standard apartment complex white but had been cheerfully decorated with numerous framed pictures forming a silent gallery of what I assumed were relatives and friends. A faint odor of potpourri still permeated the room.
Bookshelves lined one end of the living area and were stuffed with novels, both paperback and hardcover. Anything ranging from mysteries to romances filled every available space. One set of shelves in particular held my attention as they were neatly arranged with non-fiction titles regarding herbs, alternative religions, and more specifically, WitchCraft.
My otherworldly senses were bombarded with random energies and sensations from the residence. The primary feeling in the room was one of abject fear and death. Not surprising at all, and I would have expected nothing less. The underlying impression that peeked out from behind the horror, however, was one of warmth and love. It told me that Sheryl Keeven had been the kind of person who dotted her i’s with smiley faces and went out of her way to help someone in need-even a stranger.
The ethereal touch slipped in and introduced itself. Now, I could no longer view her as an unfamiliar name. I could only see her as someone I wished I had had the opportunity to know. Even though we had never met in this physical plane of existence, the fact that she was dead filled me with the dull ache of loss.
I shook off the wash of emotion and forced myself back into stoic objectivity then continued to scan my surroundings.
In the corner, a nineteen-inch television with a severe chroma problem flickered mutely, displaying a weather update that warned of yet another approaching snowstorm. Though it was not expected to be anywhere near the strength of last week’s blizzard, we stood to accumulate a good two to four inches. At least, that is what they were saying.
A set of sliding glass doors at the center of the living/dining area’s back outer wall stood levered wide open. The frigid night air streamed in through the opening only to clash with the warmth being continuously pumped into the room through the furnace vents. One of them would eventually win, and I suspected it would be the cold.
A crime scene technician with a wind-chapped face stood quietly frowning as she expertly dusted the door handle and the glass surrounding it. When she slid the door partially closed for a moment, I could see a segment of a white, curved line decorated with hash marks. Encompassed within the arc, there appeared to be one side of a large X and possibly a piece of the vertical line that may form a capital P. It was apparent that the marking was large enough to spread across the face of both door panels.
At random intervals the room would brighten for a brief instant as the thyristor flash on another evidence technician’s camera exploded harsh white light out on the balcony. The runny lines of the large painted symbol cast an eerie shadow each time and left me with an oblique after-image branded on my retinas.
“They bring you in the front or the back?” Ben asked me as he stood surveying the room.
“Front,” I answered. “It was a mess.”
“Shit, you think the front’s bad?” he huffed. “Goddamned news vultures are all over the back parkin’ lot. That’s where the balcony is, and we can’t move the body until the M.E. gets here.”
Sarcasm gelled my one word response. “Wonderful.”
“And here I thought you were leaving all those messages at the office because you guys wanted to pay up on that dinner you owe me.” A feminine but distinctly authoritative voice issued from the doorway.
Constance Mandalay was holding forth a leather case containing her badge and FBI ID to the officer at the door while simultaneously scratching her name into the log. With a curt nod to the patrolman, she closed the wallet and thrust it into her pocket as she entered.
The brunette federal agent was clad in a wide-collared beige overcoat that now hung open to reveal her petite figure hugged in an intriguing fashion by a shimmery, metallic-blue cocktail dress. Completing the ensemble, she wore matching satin high-heels and a splash of unpretentious silver jewelry. Her shoulder-length hair was elegantly styled, and her face had seen a very tasteful brush with a handful of cosmetics.
Ben let out a blatant, teasing wolf-whistle as he stopped and did a double take. “Whoa, the Feeb’s wearin’ girl clothes! Nice legs, Mandalay.”
“Watch it, Storm, or I’ll call your wife!” she warned jokingly.
“I’ll risk it, ‘cause I’m just dyin’ ta’ know where you’re hidin’ your Sig in that getup,” he returned with a grin, referring to her sidearm.
“I’m afraid that’s a government secret,” she quipped then smiled over at me. “Hi, Rowan. I see he’s got you involved in this one up to your eyeballs.”
“Heya, Constance,” I acknowledged. “I thought you were on some kind of security assignment?”
“Visiting dignitary,” she said, as she nodded and held the front of her overcoat open wide for a brief moment. “Just finished working the farewell party. A real Yawwwn if you know what I mean.” With a quick nod she canted her head toward me. “What’s your excuse?”
“Felicity’s grandparent’s anniversary party.”
“Watchin’ after a vip, huh,” Ben snorted the acronym as a word instead of spelling it out. “I would’a figured that for a Secret Service gig.”
“Normally it would be,” she answered with a sigh. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say he’s gone, and I’m all yours now. Would you like to bring me up to speed? All I know is what you told Agent Bartlett and what’s been on the news. The only reason I knew you would be here is that I returned your call figuring I’d leave a voice mail and got a live person instead.”
Someone loudly cleared his throat nearby. Ben held up a finger to Constance and turned to the evidence technician. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“We’re all finished out here,” he said. “It’s all yours.”
“Get anything?” my friend asked.
“A few smudges on the sliding door. Nothing of any consequence. There’s a Bible out there, King James Version. Hardback, like you’d find in just about any bookstore. It’s bagged.”
“Was it marked in any way?” I questioned while pawing at the insistent itch on my forearm.
“Yeah,” the tech said with a nod as he referenced a sheaf of papers attached to a worn clipboard. “Plain Jane cardboard bookmark. Looks like a standard yellow hi-liter was used on a passage in the book of First Samuel. Chapter fifteen, verse twenty-three. For rebellion is…”
I interrupted and finished the passage for him. “…As the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being king.”
“Yeah. That’s it,” he acknowledged, the paused and nodded toward my absently clawing hand. “Something wrong with your arm?”
“Trust me,” I answered. “You don’t really want to know.”
“Anything else?” Ben queried, cutting him off before he could comment.
“Well, the rope looks like regular utility clothesline you can get at any hardware store. We’re gonna check it out. The symbol on the door was spray-painted. We took samples. That’s about it.”
“Okay, thanks.” Ben gave the tech a quick pat on the shoulder. “Do me a favor, will ya? Check downstairs and see if the coroner is here yet. I wanna get this body moved as soon as possible. The uniforms can’t hold off those reporters down there for much longer, and we really don’t need ‘er showin’ up on the ten o’clock news.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.”
The technicians were barely out the door when Ben turned to me with a concerned gaze. “What’s goin’ on with the arm? I thought it was all healed up.”
“It was,” I answered and began tugging off my coat. “But it started itching again earlier this evening.”
“Why do ya’ think that is?”
“Well, obviously I’m being told something. Maybe I was being warned about this murder.”
“Ahem.” Constance mimicked the earlier noise made by the tech to grab our attention. “You guys want to fill me in? What’s wrong with your arm, Rowan?”
“Show ‘er, white man,” Ben told me.
He held my coat and jacket for me after I wrestled out of them, and I proceeded to unbutton my cuff and roll back the shirtsleeve. There was no blood soaking through the fabric, so it apparently had not yet progressed as far as it had the last time.
Agent Mandalay stepped closer to have a look as I finished peeling back the material and turned my forearm upward to bring it into view. The faint pink scar of the original wound was barely visible as a pale outline against my brightly flushed skin. The flesh of my forearm was hot and already beginning to take on shades of purple and blue as the unseen force bruised me. On the surface of my arm was a raised circular welt encompassing a large X bisected by a large P.
“Christ, Rowan!” Constance exclaimed as she reached out and gingerly touched my arm. “How in the world did that happen?”
“You shoulda seen the first one,” Ben interjected.
“I think it’s a sign from the other side,” I told her as I reached up and started to dig my nails in for a blissful scratch.
“Don’t,” she admonished and grabbed my wrist. “You’ll just make it worse. What do you mean a sign from the other side? I thought you saw things in visions or something?”
“I do,” I explained. “But communication from an ethereal plane can take different forms. I think someone is trying to tell me something, and I just haven’t figured out what, so they are getting a little insistent.”
“Damn, Rowan,” she muttered. “You’re like something out of a horror movie.”
The door to the balcony was still hanging wide open, and the temperature inside the room was spiraling toward equilibrium with the frigid night. Outside, a thumping echo sounded rhythmically in the distance. I realized as we were standing there that I was beginning to shiver.
“Guys,” I said between teeth that were starting to chatter. “It’s getting a little on the chilly side. Mind if I put my coat back on?”
“Wait a minute,” Ben insisted. “Look at your arm again. Does it look a little strange to you?”
“I think that’s already been established, Storm,” Constance told him in a sardonic voice.
“No, I mean look at the symbol,” he huffed in exasperation and directed our gaze with his finger. “It’s like a twin image or somethin’.”
“Twin image?” I asked.
I was so intent on what Ben was trying to point out that I scarcely noticed that the reverberating clamor outside had grown louder.
“You ever seen a coin that’s been double-struck?” he asked. “Like that. One image overlappin’ the other.”
“He’s right,” Constance agreed. “Look.”
Upon closer inspection, I could see exactly what Ben was trying to say. The welts that formed the itching Monogram of Christ on my arm were offset slightly over another similar set. The blemish was carefully enjoined to scribe two circles encompassing a matched pair of X’s bisected by P’s.
“Whaddaya think that’s s’posed ta’ mean?” Ben queried.
I didn’t get a chance to answer him. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, a violent rush of wind and icy snow blasted through the open sliding door. Outside, amid a thunderous din, the light of a small sun was born into the chilled darkness.