My hands were still shaking as I poured myself a second drink from the bottle of Gentleman Jack. Under normal circumstances I would have preferred Scotch to bourbon, but obviously, the word “normal” wasn’t something that one would readily apply to what had just transpired. At this particular point I wasn’t about to argue, and since Tennessee whiskey was what Doctor Sanders had hidden away in her desk drawer, it would have to do. At least it was good bourbon.
My shakes weren’t blatantly obvious, but they were perceptible, and very little escaped Ben Storm’s scrutiny. A veteran witness to my sometimes sudden, supernormal departures, he stood mute on the other side of the office, holding up the wall with his back and nursing a drink while patiently waiting for me to continue. Doctor Sanders, on the other hand, while knowing of my perceptions, was a novice in this arena. Seated opposite me at her desk, she was still staring in wide-eyed amazement. Every now and then she would shift her gaze from me to Ben then back. Having only recently been baptized by fire, so to speak, she had done little more than listen and tend to her own libation as I relayed the experience to the best of my ability. No matter how hard I searched, I was unable to find words that could truly describe what I had just shared with the tortured soul of a dead woman.
Tossing my head back, I downed the second three-finger measure of the brown liquor and set the highball glass back onto the desk, taking care to place it on the notepad I was using for a coaster.
“Like I said, I never saw his face… I… She…never had the chance.” As if to punctuate my statement, the handful of ice cubes in the tumbler clinked musically as they settled. “I’m pretty sure I’d recognize his voice if I heard it again, though.”
“And you’re pretty sure on the identity of the corpse too, right?” Ben turned up the notebook he held at his side and glanced quickly down at it. “Kendra Miller. Middle name, Darlene.”
“That’s what he called her.” I nodded as I wrapped my hand around the neck of the bottle of bourbon. “He stated her full name when he passed judgment and informed her of her sentence.”
“You think maybe she knew him?” he asked. “Sure sounds like he knew her.”
“I didn’t get that impression,” I answered. “She was very confused… And she was afraid of him, that’s for sure. But I don’t think she knew who he was, or I would have picked it up. His familiarity with her was probably from afar. He might have stalked her…” I shrugged. “I don’t know. At any rate, the fact that he knew her full name was a formality. It was kind of a ‘legal necessity’ shall we say, for when he passed his sentence on her. Just like it would have been during the time of the Inquisition.”
“By all means, let’s make sure the legal necessities are all friggin’ covered,” Ben muttered sarcastically. “Any possibility this one might’ve been a hooker too?”
I touched the mouth of the bottle to the rim of my glass and carefully splashed another double over the melting ice. “I don’t know. I can guarantee you of one thing about her though… She was guilty as charged. Kendra Miller was a practicing Witch.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Doctor Sanders hesitantly broke her self-imposed reticence. “I mean if I understood you correctly, the killer’s proof was the necklace. It might not have even belonged to her.”
“Oh, it belonged to her all right. No doubt in my mind.” I twirled the alcohol in the tumbler while watching the light glow through its amber translucence and then rested the glass on my knee. I had hammered the first two drinks, and on an empty stomach they had quickly served their purpose by chasing away my trembles with their liquid courage. I was beginning to feel a mildly warm tingle creeping along the back of my scalp and decided I had better take it easy with this one. “I’m sure she was of The Craft because of the strength of the vision and the force with which I was drawn into it. I had a similar experience with Ariel Tanner when she was murdered… Only the spirit of a Witch could have pulled me in like that.”
“Amazing,” she muttered before taking a sip of her own drink.
“You said this asshole told ‘er he got the evidence-the necklace-from her apartment recently. Right?” Ben pressed.
“Yeah. That’s what he said.”
“But ya’ don’t know how long she was left alone?”
“The whole thing was pretty disjointed,” I confessed. “I really couldn’t determine any type of reference point for time, so I guess the answer would be no. Why do you ask?”
Ben set his drink atop a nearby filing cabinet, and his now free hand went up to smooth his hair then slid easily down to begin massaging his neck. “Just curious. I thought maybe once we found ‘er apartment, we could determine a radius or somethin’. An area where this wingnut might be operatin’ out of. But if ya’ don’t know how long he was gone…” He let his voice fade.
“Sorry,” I offered.
“Not your fault,” he returned. “So what about the basement, if that’s what it was. Do ya’ remember anything about it? Anything unique?”
“Just what I already told you. Your standard grey concrete walls and floor. They were a little on the pitted side though, so I’d guess it was an older house… Kind of hefty rafters… Wooden stairs… Had a fairly high ceiling, considering… And then there was the oversized crucifix and the candles. Get rid of those and it’s just a pretty basic basement.”
“Crucifix and candles,” he echoed under his breath then paused. “That would imply that the killer is Roman Catholic.”
“Or Greek Orthodox, or Russian Orthodox, or Lutheran for that matter…” I let my voice trail off. “I’m inclined to agree that he practices some manner of Catholicism based on his adherence to the Malleus Maleficarum. Of course, Saint Louis is just like most large cities. We have a rather substantial population of traditional Catholics as well as the various offshoots. The religion factor, in and of itself, really doesn’t narrow the field much.”
“Don’t remind me,” he sighed.
The ensuing silence was interrupted by a muffled electronic warble demanding immediate attention. Ben stepped over to a chair and rummaged about in his coat then produced a hand-held cell phone from a pocket. Flipping it open and stabbing it on, he cut off the third ring mid-peal and placed it against his ear. “Storm.”
Only he was privy to who was on the other end of the line, but his broken attempts to reply made it apparent that the person was a mere heartbeat away from hysterics. The caller’s identity became immediately obvious when he was finally able to forcibly wedge a sentence into the one-sided conversation. “Whoa, whoa, calm down, okay? He’s right here and he’s fine. I’m standin’ here lookin’ at ‘im… No problem. Hold on.”
Ben had covered the short distance between us as he talked and now offered me the device. “It’s your wife. If I understood her right she seems ta’ think that you’re dead.”
Upon hearing my voice, Felicity abandoned her frenzy of concern and burst into relieved sobs. Running the full gamut of emotions at a breakneck pace, her solace was quickly followed by happiness, embarrassment, and eventually anger. I allowed her to vent, and after five minutes of bombarding me with her particular brand of Irish fury at my having engaged in such a dangerous endeavor, she completed the circle and returned once again to relief. A few moments later I finally convinced her I was fine and promised to stay that way.
Doctor Sanders had been sitting quietly and now stared at me incredulously for a moment as I switched off the phone and handed it back to Ben.
“Your wife could see what you were seeing?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” I returned. “More along the lines of a premonition or a nightmare. She saw me being burned and felt some of the pain that I was feeling.”
She continued to stare across her desk at me and slowly cocked one eyebrow. Momentarily, she drained her glass of bourbon and planted it on the desktop then pushed her chair back. “I’m not entirely sure what to make of anything I’ve heard so far tonight, Mister Gant… But on that note, I believe I have an autopsy to finish.”
My dinner consisted of a stale Zagnut coaxed unceremoniously from a recalcitrant vending machine in the lobby of the building. I had washed it down with coffee served in a cheerfully decorated paper cup left over from a holiday office party. It now felt as though it was lodged sideways in the pit of my stomach, angrily fighting for space with the three tumblers of bourbon. Not exactly fine dining at Kemoll’s, but I took what I could get.
Quarter-sized clumps of snow were pelting me mercilessly as I tipped my head back and swallowed the last dregs from the red and green, holly-inscribed vessel. The remaining brew had already begun to grow cold, and it slowly forced its way down my throat in a bitter, watery lump.
While sitting alone in the break room, choking down the dry candy bar, I had been subjected to only slightly muted versions of the earlier pains brought about by the procedure going on in the autopsy suite. Physically, I could neither see nor hear what was happening in that room. Mentally, I was being treated to-or more accurately, tortured by-a first hand view through a dead woman’s eyes. Before long I was left with no choice other than to seek safe haven by placing even more distance between the corpse and myself. Constrained by the hazardous travel conditions and my only avenue for refuge being outdoors, I had ventured out into the snowy night. The added distance served to blunt a good deal of the pain; however, even the frozen darkness couldn’t remove it entirely.
I had continued to feel the spirit of Kendra Miller cry out in protest at what was being done to her earthly remains. I was unable to escape her wailing lament at what she could only view as more torture.
I crumpled the empty paper cup and stuffed it into my coat pocket then turned my back to the frigid wind, seeking what shelter I could alongside the glassed-in foyer that jutted from the front of the building. With cold-numbed hands, I slipped the cellophane from a Cruz Real #2 and neatly guillotined the end. A thick swoosh sounded behind me as the sluggish metal-framed door was forced open, and I heard heavy footsteps squeakily crunching in the snow.
“Still hooked on those Mexicans, eh?” Ben’s voice met my ears, the words making a weary jab at my choice of cigar brands.
The match I held cupped in my hands flared to life, and I touched its fire to the cigar clenched between my teeth. Staring into it, I felt myself becoming mesmerized by the tiny flame. A hot knife dragged down my spine, and I closed my eyes tightly, forcibly willing away the vibrant Technicolor flashes of my recent vision.
“I guess you could say that,” I answered as I turned and shook out the nearly spent wooden match.
He had just finished paring the end from his own smoke and now tucked it into the corner of his mouth before burying his hands into his pockets. “One good thing ‘bout this freakin’ blizzard,” he mumbled, “the bastard’s prob’ly snowed in just like the rest of us.”
“Probably, but I wouldn’t count on that stopping him for long.”
“Yeah. Great. Bust my bubble why don’tcha.”
We stood in silence, listening to the relentless pattering of the falling snow. Ben shielded the end of his cigar with large hands and lit it purposefully, taking time to remove it from between his lips and inspect the glowing tip once he had extinguished the lighter. Satisfied, he placed it back in his mouth and gazed out across the white-blanketed parking area. Of the three vehicles on the lot, his van was the least buried. The other two seemed to be no more than huge shimmering dunes cast in soft blue shadows.
Directly across the street, the backside of the building that housed City Hall was a dim, hulking shadow in the night. Catty-cornered from where we stood, a small coffee shop was all but obscured by the downward streaming curtain of ice crystals. A short distance behind it, the lights of the indoor ice arena that was home to the Saint Louis Blues hockey team cast an upward glowing halo. No sound was issuing from the nearby highway, and it seemed that even the police headquarters, which dominated most of the block, had fallen silent and still.
“So, Red Squaw was pretty upset, huh?” he finally asked.
“Yeah, she was. Scared mostly, but she’s okay now,” I replied. “What about you?”
“Whaddaya mean? I’m fine.”
“Yeah. Right,” I returned, sarcasm flowing through my words. “You put up a good front, Ben, but you aren’t fooling me. I know for a fact that what happened in there scared you. I could feel it then and I can feel it right now.”
A nervous laugh emitted from between my friend’s clenched teeth. “Yeah, well, you’re wrong. I wasn’t scared. I was more like fuckin’ terrified if you wanna know the truth. When ya’ went all Twilight Zone in there, I just kept thinkin’ about that whole deal last time… Last summer… Ya’know what I’m sayin’?”
I allowed my mind to wander for a moment, recalling the incident to which he referred. In an almost reckless attempt to identify a sadistic killer, I had channeled the last living moments of his second victim, a young woman named Karen Barnes. I could still feel the same tortuous pain she had felt when the killer physically ripped her beating heart from her chest. My own heart had gone still that day, and had it not been for the actions of Felicity, it would have remained that way.
I shuddered inwardly and pushed back the horrific remembrance. “Yeah, Ben, I know what you’re saying. I was a little on the ‘fucking terrified’ side myself.”
“I didn’t hit ya’ too hard, did I? I mean… Well I wasn’t quite sure about what ta’ do.”
“No. No, you didn’t,” I replied and then added, “But remind me never to make you angry.”
We both let out a light chuckle, and the sea of tension ebbed, if only for a brief moment.
“You can still feel ‘er or whatever, can’t you?” He asked, glancing sideways in my direction and squinting against the wind.
“Yes,” I admitted. “That’s why I came out here.”
“And it ain’t just her, is it? You pick up all kinds of shit the rest of us can’t see, don’tcha’?”
I nodded. “It happens.”
“All the time?”
“No, not all the time, fortunately.” I puffed on my cigar as I paused. “But enough.”
“Jeezus, white man…” He shook his head. “How do ya’ stand it? It’s gotta drive ya’ nuts.”
“How do you stand the things you see every day as a cop, Ben?” I asked rhetorically. “Just like you, I’ve learned to tune it out. But sometimes…”
An awkward pause rushed in behind my words to fill the void once more. Held fast by the chilled darkness surrounding us, it was cemented securely in place by our own fears of what we were facing. A thin streak of light danced hesitantly through the distant sky, spreading spidery tendrils and bringing an orange glow to the flat underbelly of the low-hanging clouds. Languid seconds flowed by, and finally a throaty rumble of thunder echoed in from the west, announcing the storm’s relentless advance.
When the wind blows from the West, departed souls will have no rest. The line of poetry drifted through my mind yet again.
“So what did Doctor Sanders find out?” I asked, forcing a minor redirection of the subject.
“She found soot and blistering in her trachea,” Ben answered. “That pretty much confirms she was alive when she was torched. Her shoulders were dislocated like you described. She had several torn ligaments and stress fractures. It was all just like ya’ said… Only other obvious thing was a few deep puncture wounds on ‘er back. She was only able ta’ find those because a portion of ‘er back was shielded from the fire by what she was chained to… Other than that, we’ll hafta wait on the lab stuff.”
“They called that pricking,” I sighed. “Witches aren’t supposed to bleed or feel pain, so it was believed that by stabbing them, the accusation could be proven.”
“That must not’ve been too effective,” he ventured. “Ya’ stick somebody, they’re gonna bleed.”
“They often used stilettos with retractable blades. Like a magician’s trick knife. That way there was no wound and therefore no blood and no pain.”
“They’d rig the test?”
“Of course. It wouldn’t do for them to be proven wrong after making a public accusation of heresy.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t rig this,” he protested. “She actually had wounds. Deep ones. Doc says she prob’ly woulda’ died from the internal injuries if he hadn’t torched ‘er first. She definitely bled an’ I’ll guarantee ya’ she had ta’ have screamed. I sure as hell would’ve.”
“He probably just assumed the blood wasn’t real and that it was an illusion. A spell cast by a consort of the devil. Any cries of pain were more than likely attributed to an attempt to trick him as well.”
“So even when this asswipe disproves his accusations with his own tests, he just changes the rules?”
“Correct,” I answered. “Once he accuses someone of heresy and WitchCraft, there is no reprieve. We’ll end up with a body.”
“Shit,” he muttered.
“You know, Ben,” I volunteered, “I hate to bring it up, but there is a relatively large and outspoken Pagan community in Saint Louis. Especially Witches and Wiccans. He isn’t going to have to look very hard for victims.”
He puffed quietly on his cigar then let out a long, frosty sigh before replying, “Yeah. Don’t remind me.”