M Sellars - Harm none

“Your health is going to start suffering,” Felicity intoned. “You can’t keep going like this. You really need to decompress.”

“Yeah… I know,” he answered with a sigh. “I haven’t seen my wife face to face in nearly a week. Shit, she told me this mornin’ on the phone that the little guy asked her if Daddy still lived there.”

“Go home, Ben,” I told him. “Go home and hug your kid, kiss your wife, and have a meal with your family. Then get some sleep.”

“I haven’t got the time,” he objected.

“Unless you have some kind of secret information that you haven’t told us about,” I admonished, “you aren’t going to catch this guy tonight. You need some sleep, man. Besides, it’s not just you working this case. The entire Major Case Squad is on it now.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” He slumped more noticeably in his chair. “But I still wanna talk ta’ the kid today. I think I’ll sleep better if I do.”

“If that’s what it takes, do it,” I told him. “But get some rest either way because something tells me we haven’t seen the end of this yet.”

“What a cheerful thought,” he mumbled.

Ben eventually left us in search of R.J. Felicity and I spent a quiet afternoon together trying not to think about serial killers and of course, were unable to ponder anything else. In an effort to put the subject out of our minds, we made a quick trip to the store and returned with fresh, yellow fin tuna steaks for the grill. Together with a medley of vegetables from our garden, we made a light meal and after cleaning up the dishes, generally lazed about into the evening hours.

Stories of Ariel Tanner and Karen Barnes’ murders flooded the airwaves as the top story during the late evening news on every station. Details about the crimes were convoluted and misconstrued to the point that they were telling a different story on each channel. The two points they all agreed on were the nominative “Satanic Serial Killer” and the practice of flashing the newspaper photo of me on the screen. Touching my thumb to the remote, I rolled back through the channels in the hope they had found something else to talk about. I was giving serious consideration to turning off the chattering box when a familiar face, other than my own, leapt out at me from the screen. I swiftly reversed the direction of my scan and came to rest on that station.

Detective Arthur McCann’s worry-lined face stared back at me with concern and determination creasing his brow. Apparently, he had just finished speaking as the picture suddenly cut to a wide-eyed Brandee Street anxiously clutching a microphone. I punched up the volume a notch and settled in.

“Can you explain a little more about the Wiccan religion,” she asked him.

“Certainly,” Arthur returned authoritatively. “This so- called religion is nothing more than a fancy name for cult activities. The individuals involved undermine the morals of our children and recruit them into these cults. There they become addicted to drugs and often are the victims of sexual abuse.”

I had heard his speech before, but each and every time, I was amazed by what he said. I found it hard to believe that an intelligent human being could be so blind to the truth.

“Do you believe that one of these Wiccan cultists is responsible for the bizarre murders that have recently occurred?” Brandee’s voice came again.

“Since I’m not involved in the investigation, I cannot directly comment, but I will say that it wouldn’t surprise me,” he answered.

“You have been one of the leading authorities on cults within the Saint Louis County Police Department for the past few years. Why aren’t you involved with the Major Case Squad?”

“I resigned from the MCS this morning due to a shift in caseloads,” Arthur succinctly replied.

“Way to go Arthur,” I thought as I listened to his reply. “At least you engaged your brain before opening your mouth this time.”

“Would your resignation have anything to do with the involvement of Rowan Gant as a consultant to the Major Case Squad?” Brandee persisted.

“I have no comment on that.” He continued his guarded, tactful stance.

“Mister Gant is a self-proclaimed Witch and practitioner of the Wiccan religion,” she pressed harder. “You yourself stated that this amounts to nothing more than a cult.”

Arthur’s face had reddened, and I could tell that he desperately wanted to spill his guts. He was dying to tell the world of the police department’s moral decrepitude due to my involvement. He probably even wanted to take a few verbal shots at me personally. But Arthur McCann was only a few short years away from his pension, and whatever his personal beliefs, he was still a dedicated cop.

“No comment,” he finally returned.

The picture changed back to the talking heads behind the anchor desk on the stylized set. They began to banter back and forth, making what they believed to be clever quips about me, and Witches in general.

It wasn’t long before I was thoroughly disgusted with the entire exposition and switched the television off. Following my wife’s example, I went to bed.

A distant scream.

Darkness.

Indigo Darkness.

A point of light far away.

A distant scream.

The light grows brighter. Larger. Closer.

I move toward the light.

The light stays beyond my reach.

A violent chord struck sharply upon an unearthly instrument. Grating tones that seem to last forever, carrying themselves visibly aloft on directionless winds. Sounds that can be seen as well as heard.

A terrified scream.

Grey.

Damp, thick greyness.

It’s raining. Not heavily, just a gentle mist. A light sprinkle raining down from a gloomy grey sky.

“ Rowan, so nice to see you again.”

I turn to the voice and find Ariel clad in white lace. She smiles at me then looks upward. I try to speak but have no voice. She looks up at the sky, the misty rain lightly bathing her innocent smiling face. She looks back to my face, eyes smiling and a strand of hair clinging damply to her cheek.

“ It always rains here,” she says to me. “I don’t know why. It’s mostly just a misty rain.”

A dark figure rises from the grey nothingness behind her.

A figure black as night.

A figure wrapped in a hooded robe.

“ Do you like the rain, Rowan?” Ariel asks me. “I do, but I think it rains too much here. What do you think?”

A flicker of light.

No, a reflection.

There is something in the dark figure’s hand.

Once again I try to speak. I try to warn her. I scream a silent scream.

Her eyes grow large in sudden astonishment. Her lithe body jerks upward in a violent spasm. A crimson stain spreads savagely across her breast.

I’ve seen this before.

I can’t make it stop.

I can’t look away.

“ Why, Rowan?” she mouths wordlessly. “Why?

Indigo darkness.

A distant ceaseless scream.

“ Why don’t you make it stop, Rowan?”

I turn again. Ariel faces me, her lace gown streaked vermilion. Glassy eyes stare unblinkingly at me. Her lips are frozen in a perpetual scream, yet only silence moves past them.

“ How can I make it stop, Ariel? Tell me.” My voice halts and jerks, changing in speed and pitch as if haphazardly pieced together.

“ Please make it stop, Rowan?” Her pleading voice meets my ears.

Her lips never move.

Misty rain.

Grey misty rain.

An endless scream.

I don’t know when the nightmare started or even how long it lasted. It could have begun mere moments after I closed my eyes or for all I knew, the last slumbering seconds before reopening them. Logically, I knew that the entire sequence couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes at the most. Emotionally, I was certain it had lasted for hours.