M Sellars: The Law Of Three

Thursday, January 10

St. Louis, Missouri

White video static raked itself across the barely-focused television screen in a free-for-all wrestling match with overblown chroma and luminance. The brightest spot on the tube fell somewhere near the center where the thick dust had been haphazardly wiped away by a bare hand. As if actively seeking this small porthole, the oddly hued video flickered in random bursts through greasy fingerprints to create angry shadows dancing throughout the confines of the small room.

Splotchy stains washed across the walls, illuminated by the swiftly shifting silhouettes. Most of them had long ago been rendered unidentifiable by the growing layers of filth. They now competed for attention with their more recent counterparts. Some of them looked as though they could be the remnants of foodstuffs, possibly hurled in anger or disgust. Others bore more than a passing resemblance to various bodily excretions better left unconsidered by those easily sickened-or in at least one instance, horrified. Still others might simply be nothing more than the result of water damage from the sieve-like roof. Whatever they had each been in their individual existences, they now blended to become a single stomach-turning mosaic.

The canvas for this nauseating mural was the paint that covered the crumbling sheetrock. It might have been pale blue in a previous incarnation, but the color, much less the particular shade, now defied any positive recognition. Dirty grey did not even come close to describing it, and the patina of grime did nothing to lend even the smallest clue.

“It’s now six seventeen a.m., and here’s Jennifer to fill you in on what to expect for your morning commute.” A muddy voice rattled outward from the speaker on the geriatric television set. “How’s it looking out there, Jen?”

A higher-pitched voice buzzed through as the hand-off was taken in a smooth segue. “Not so good, Skip.”

The screen switched to what might have been a chroma-keyed map being gestured at by what might have been a somewhat attractive woman-it was hard to say through the blur.

She continued. “Traffic is at a standstill at Forty-Four and Two-Seventy extending all the way back to Bowles Avenue due to an earlier accident, so you might want to avoid that area this morning if at all possible. And a reminder, police and MoDot crews are still on the scene of an overturned tractor trailer on I-Seventy, just east of Bermuda…”

The rushing sound of water in conjunction with a hollow, porcelain-throated burp echoed from a curtained corner of the room to drown out the thick audio of the TV. A steadily increasing whine followed, punctuated by a deep thud inside the walls as the plumbing complained. The familiar wet hiss of a toilet tank automatically refilling fell in behind-the pronounced noise droning unmuted for lack of a lid.

“Thanks, Jen.” The news anchor’s voice once again projected into the room from behind a faux woodgrain plastic grill. “In local news, the Saint Louis Major Case Squad is still looking for leads in the disappearance of Tamara Linwood. You will remember Eyewitness News was first to bring you this story when the twenty-seven-year-old grade school teacher was reported missing over one week ago after not showing up for work. Her locked car was found abandoned on the parking lot of the Westview Shopping Mall.

“Authorities suspect foul play but have declined to comment on a possible connection with the case of Sarah Hart. Hart disappeared from the same parking lot just under one year ago. Her badly decomposed remains were found several months later in a wooded area along the Missouri River. Anyone with information should contact the Major Case Squad at the number on the bottom of your screen.”

Eldon Porter was paying little attention to the prattle of the reporters. They were nothing more than background noise filling the small motel room. He listened with only passing interest to the periodic weather updates and even less concern for the actual news.

Pipes sang a pained lament once again as he twisted the faucet handle on a rust-stained basin that barely clung to the wall-supported more by the deteriorating drain pipe beneath than the corroded lag bolts that were supposed to be doing the job. He frowned at a cracked rectangle of glass mounted on the wall over the canted sink, peering into a kidney-shaped section where the silver had not yet peeled from the back. With no more than a sigh, he automatically set about the task of washing his right hand. There was a time in his life, not that long ago, when he would have washed his hands. Not the singular, hand. But the plural, hands-as in two.

However, there is no reason to wash something you almost never use, and that is how it had been for almost a year now.

Ever since that night on the bridge-ever since the warlock, Rowan Gant, had tried to kill him with something so mundane as a bullet.

Of course, Gant had been left with no other choice than to turn to such a commonplace method of attack to save himself. Eldon’s devotion had prevailed, and he had not been taken in by the sorcery and tricks. He had seen through the chicanery that masked the true depravity of the Satan-spawned heretic. The mundane was all that was left, for he was immune to the mystical. Had he only realized that the warlock would be carrying a pistol, he would have been triumphant.

Instead, he had failed in his task. Still, his righteousness and loyalty to his God’s mission had protected him from death that night- but not from the hardship of injury.

Perhaps a skilled surgeon, or even a back alley quack for that matter, could have repaired some of the damage that had rendered his hand so useless. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. The point was moot now, as it had been then, for he could ill afford the risk of being caught.

Not as long as the warlock, Rowan Gant, was still alive.

Eldon looked down at his left forearm. The monstrous pink and white depression extended from just below his wrist to a point halfway up to his elbow where the bullet had ripped away a tunnel of flesh. It might not have been so severe had it not been for the raging infection that almost instantly made a home in the wound, killing off even more of the ragged tissue. The resulting fever had seared his brow for days and was quelled only after he had been able to muster enough strength to break into a pharmacy for antibiotics and dressings.

He’d done as little damage as possible when breaking in, made a guess about what might work, took only what he needed, and then begged his Lord to forgive him for the sin of theft. He knew his absolution had been granted when the fever finally broke three days later, and he had remained free.

Unfortunately, his penance had come in the form of lameness. The severity of the bullet’s cruelty, combined with the infection, had left his hand a shriveled and useless claw and his forearm a misshapen appendage that was still visited by constant pain. Considering what the outcome could have been, in some small way he counted himself fortunate.

Gazing at the mostly healed wound, he noticed that the flesh surrounding the scar was reddish and swollen. The infection was gaining a hold again, as it had done several times now. He would need more antibiotics soon. Something different, stronger this time, because obviously what he had was no longer doing the job.