M Sellars: The Law Of Three

“What about my track record?” I asked.

He started shaking his head again, “I got news for ya’, Row. Your track record has a few potholes, which is another reason why you aren’t scorin’ any points. Right now you’re kinda looked upon as a loose cannon.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” he continued. “Chasin’ after Porter on that bridge, the thing at the morgue…”

“What about you?” I asked with a nod in his direction. “What do you think?”

He fell silent for a moment, looked away, then sighed before bringing his eyes back to meet mine.

“After what you did a few weeks back, I think maybe you might be a bit of a danger to yourself, yeah.”

He was talking about the fact that I had deliberately run his van through a set of plate-glass windows in order to get inside a building.

“That was different, and you know it,” I argued. “The sonofabitch had Felicity in there.”

“Yeah,” he rebutted. “And that’s the only reason I let it go, white man. If you’ll remember correctly, I lied about what really happened on my report.”

I didn’t have a comeback for the comment because I knew he had done exactly that.

“Listen, Row,” he started after an uncomfortable silence. “You’ve still got friends in the department, and I’m one of them.”

“Even though you think I’m a danger to myself,” I volunteered with a slightly sarcastic edge to my voice.

“Yeah, even though,” he echoed. “Cut me some slack here. I know what you can do. I’ve seen it first hand. And I’m even willin’ to trust you if you wanna know the truth.”

“Trust me to what?”

“To help stop this bastard.”

“That will be hard to do if I’m cut off from the investigation.”

“I know.”

My friend turned to stare out the window, and I allowed my gaze to follow his. Our muted reflections stared back from the pane of glass, mirroring our weariness like an overexposed snapshot. The darkness of night was still holding its ground and seemed in no hurry to relinquish its position. A quick glance at my watch told me that there was a pair of hours yet to go before the morning would ooze in above the heavy clouds.

“So, where do we go from here, then?” Felicity piped up again.

“Back to the beginning. Back to what started this whole conversation.” He turned his gaze to her, then to me. “Do you think you can come up with somethin’ worthwhile off that crime scene?”

“That’s kind of a moot point isn’t it?” I shook my head as I asked the question.

“No. No it’s not,” he replied.

“But you said I was banned from the investigation.”

“Officially you are.”

“Aye.” My wife cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “What are you saying?”

“What I’m sayin’ is that if I’m gonna take a chance on losin’ my badge, I need to know it’s gonna get us somewhere.”

I never got a chance to answer my friend’s question.

The muffled electronic wail of a pager began sounding from somewhere across the table. By the time it had completed its second demand for attention, it was joined by the steadily rising trill of a cell phone vying for the same.

“Jeeeez…” Ben complained aloud as he pulled the beeper from his belt and fumbled with it until he managed to switch it off and then peered at the display while sending his other hand to rustle through his coat pocket. “It’s Albright,” he told us as he laid the pager on the table and withdrew the screaming phone.

Before he could thumb the button on the second device to answer the call, the beeper began pulsing once more, prompting him to clumsily stab at it again.

“Yeah, Storm, hold on…” he barked into the phone while struggling to mute the pager.

The device was swallowed by his large hand, and his searching fingers were no match for its relatively diminutive size. Felicity finally reached out, snatched the noisemaker from his palm, and pressed the appropriate button. He quickly mouthed the word “Thanks” in her direction before turning his attention to the voice at the other end of the cell phone.

“Uh-huh, yeah, I’m here,” he said as he sent his free hand on another fishing expedition, withdrawing it from his pocket a moment later and laying his notepad on the table. “Yeah… Yeah…”

My friend held his pen poised over the paper as his eyes closed, and his face noticeably slackened. He dropped the pen and sighed heavily.

“Yeah, okay. You’re sure? Uh-huh. Yeah, great… No, I’ll take care of that. Jeez, I don’t fuckin’ need this… Yeah, I know. Okay. Yeah.” He picked up the pen, and his hand began moving as he scratched out a jumble of letters that were legible only to him. “Can ya’ spell that? Yeah…Yeah…Uh-huh…t-i-g-k-e-i-t. Yeah. Two S’s? Okay…Got it.

“Okay, yeah. You sendin’ someone?” He shook his head as he spoke into the phone. “Yeah. Yeah. No problem. He’s with me now. We’ll be there in about ten. Yeah. Later.”

He pulled the device away from his ear and immediately began stabbing at buttons in an ordered fashion.

“What’s going on?” Felicity asked.

“Just a sec,” he told her as he tucked the phone against the side of his head once again. “Yeah, Osthoff, it’s Storm… Yeah, tell me about it. Listen, there’s a file folder in my desk, middle drawer. Yeah…Yeah…Got it? Good. So there’s a list in there. Yeah. So, I need you to call Ackman and feed him the numbers. Yeah, yeah… It’s not good. No, he’s with me. Yeah, I know. No, he’s on scene so call his cell. You got the number? Great. Thanks. Yeah, I’ll tell him. Bye.”

The cell phone beeped as he pressed a button to end the call and then stared across the table at us with an eyebrow arched and a pained frown deepening the fatigue lines in his face.

“What?” I finally asked.

“I’m thinkin’” was his reply.

“Uh-huh,” I returned. “Now tell me something that isn’t obvious.”

“Chill, Row.” He reached up and rubbed his forehead. “This ain’t good.”

“What is it, Ben?” Felicity asked, her voice carrying far more concern than had mine.

“Well, that was Ackman back at the scene. Albright had him call. Looks like she wants you there after all.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Seems Porter left you something.”

“What?”

“A note. But they aren’t sure quite what it says. Well, not all of it, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s apparently a page from a book,” Ben explained. “Or a copy of a page. His handwritten note reads ‘Gant-your wife has lovely hair.’”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I shook my head and frowned.

“Beats me, but the rest of the printed text is in German, so until it’s translated we won’t know much. Albright did recognize a few words; apparently, she took German in high school or somethin’. Prossneck, Deutchland, Folterung, Hexefertigkeit and the year sixteen twenty-nine.”

He stumbled over the pronunciations, but I’m not sure I could have done much better.

“According to Bee-Bee they roughly translate as Prossneck, Germany, torture, and WitchCraft.”

Felicity audibly caught her breath and jerked, dropping her coffee cup in the process. Hot java splattered across the table, spilling over the edge. The ceramic mug bounced once from the wet surface before falling to its demise on the tile floor. Ben jumped back in his seat and instantly began extracting handfuls of paper napkins from the metal holder next to the window. In his haste, he sent the salt and pepper shakers spilling into the seat and a bottle of catsup rolling toward me. The condiment-filled vessel came to rest against my own coffee cup with a sharp plinking noise, which is fortunate, because I wouldn’t have caught it. I was otherwise paralyzed by the words my friend had just recited.