M Sellars - The Law Of Three

“I don’t know, Ben. I’m feeling like a bad re-tread right now.”

“So, like maybe you need to do that groundin’ thing you and Felicity are always talkin’ about,” he offered. “Ya’know, so the creepin’ ooga-boogas can’t fuck with ya’ so much.”

“That’s the other problem,” I said. “I’m already doing that.”

“For real? You ain’t just sayin’ that to get me off your ass?”

I guess I’d lied to him about my condition too many times for him to take my word for it right off the bat.

“Yeah, for real. You can ask Felicity if you want.”

He pondered my answer for a moment before speaking. “So, that’s not a good thing then, huh?”

“No.” I shook my head. “No, it’s not.”

“So, whaddaya gonna do about it?”

I tucked the hand towel across the bar on the wall then turned to face him and leaned back against the vanity. “I don’t know,” I told him as I shrugged. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Can’t you cook up a potion or wear some garlic around your neck or somethin’?”

“What was that you told me earlier?” I answered. “I think it was, ‘you’ve been watching too much TV.’ Besides, garlic is for warding off vampires.”

“Does it work?” He grinned back at me.

I couldn’t help but allow myself a small chuckle. “I don’t know, Chief. I’ve never met one.”

The sobbing noises that were filtering down the corridor had diminished for the moment. They had actually been sliding up and down the scale ever since they began, and this appeared to be one of the low points. More soft voices, including the unmistakable Celtic brogue of my wife, could be heard joining the first in an attempt to shore up the explosion of grief. I needed to get out there myself, but I didn’t know that I was ready to face it; not quite yet, anyway. I felt a bit selfish, hiding away and wallowing in my own problems, but there was far more to this than just Randy’s death. And, since I was at the center of it, I was bearing a disproportionate load that was getting heavier all the time.

A small tickle had been working on the back of my head for a good part of the morning, and it was now resurfacing. This time it bypassed its normal annoyance stage and leapt directly into a nagging question.

I furrowed my brow and pursed my lips for a moment as I mulled the query over. I wasn’t entirely sure why it mattered, but for some reason it was begging an answer.

“You got that look,” Ben announced.

“Excuse me?”

“You know, that look like you’re confused about somethin’.”

“Maybe a little puzzled.”

“Okay, so spit it out.”

“I don’t really know if it’s important.”

“Yeah, so spit it out anyway.”

“Okay. You wouldn’t happen to know where Porter is originally from would you?”

“Not off the top of my head, why?”

“Because of some of the choices he’s made lately,” I explained. “Using the page from Hexen und Hexenmeister for one. The nail for another.”

“I thought the nail was pretty obvious,” he said.

“On the surface, yes, but he could have guaranteed that we could ID the body in a lot of other ways. The nail has symbolism of its own…” I let my voice trail off.

After a moment, Ben spoke up. “Okay, so you wanna enlighten us mortals?”

I was so caught up in pondering the query that I just gave him an offhanded answer. “Witches aren’t immortal, Ben.”

“Yeah, whatever. You wanna fill me in please? What about the nail?”

“What?”

“The nail, Rowan. You’re obsessin’ about the nail, and I’m kinda lost.”

At some point while I was staring off into space, he had retrieved his notebook from his pocket, and he now appeared poised to record any pearl of wisdom I may utter. I was afraid he was about to be disappointed by a cheap, plastic imitation.

“Oh, that. Nails are a major component of Witch jars and have been long thought by certain cultures to act as a deterrent to magickal forces and WitchCraft. Kind of a protective talisman of sorts.”

“Do I wanna know what a Witch jar is?”

I shrugged. “It’s just a version of the talisman. I can give you details if you want them.”

“Is it important?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t seem to know a lot today.”

My reply was laced with sarcasm. “Thanks a lot.”

“Just an observation.” He shrugged then continued. “Okay, so anyway, two plus two equals what? Thirty-seven?”

I furrowed my brow deeper and shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m tryin’ to figure out where you’re headed with this. You’re just talkin’ about nails and the Hex Meister book. What’s that got to do with where Porter comes from?”

“Like I said, the whole nail mythology fits in very well with particular cultures, such as the Pennsylvania Dutch. Add in the book which is German…”

The distance-muted jangle of a telephone floated down the corridor and came to us through the doorway.

“So what you’re sayin’ is that you think Porter might be from Pennsylvania.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s just a thought.”

“And it tells us what?”

“That’s what is puzzling me. I don’t know.”

“I see.” He flipped his notebook shut with a frown and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Well that was a waste of time.”

“Cut me some slack, will you, Ben,” I stated. “You’re the one who asked.”

He held up his hands. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s been a long one for all of us I guess.”

I heard R.J. pick up the phone on the fourth ring and answer it with a solemn “Harper residence.”

Ben glanced up the hallway from his position leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, then looked back at me, and cocked his head toward the front of the house.

“Looks like they’re gettin' ready to bring ‘er back this way,” he told me. “Guess we’d better make an appearance.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “You’re right.”

“Hey, Rowan.” A young man with long dark hair poked his head around the side of the door. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay, R.J.,” I told him with a slight smile.

“Good,” he nodded quickly. “So, like, the phone’s for you.”

“For me?” I asked, “Who is it?”

“I didn’t catch his name, but he said he was a cop.” He shrugged. “He just asked if he could speak to Rowan Gant.”

“I’m with Ben already. Why would the police be calling me here?” I puzzled.

“Albright’s probably got a copper checkin’ up on you,” Ben offered. “It’d be just like her.”

“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “Just what I need. Okay, R.J., I’ll be right there.”

“’Kay.”

The young man disappeared behind the wall, and we heard him moving back up the hallway.

“Be just your luck she’ll get on the phone and start chewin’ on you again,” my friend offered.

“This wouldn’t be a good time for that,” I returned.

“Hey, at least I warmed her up for you.”

“Thanks, Ben,” I said with something nearing good-natured sarcasm rimming my voice. “Thanks ever so much.”

Everyone had moved back into the dining room before I ventured into the corridor and made my way to the front of the house. Ben tagged along behind me, ostensibly to lend some moral support if I was about to be verbally worked over by Albright yet again.

My left shoulder was beginning to ache, and the pain was going out of its way to make itself known. I’d had trouble with the joint ever since Porter had rammed an ice pick into it that night on the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge, especially when I was faced with a change in the weather like today. Not to mention, bouncing it from the doorframe on Ben’s van had only served to aggravate the old injury. I took a moment to rotate it in the socket and felt a grating pop, which just made it worse. I winced and hoped the ibuprofen would be kicking in soon.