M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“I told ya’ you shoulda had the doc look at that, white man,” Ben chided, noticing my attention to the appendage.

“Somethin’ wrong with your arm?” Carl asked, genuine concern wrinkling his face.

“I don’t know. It started itching when we were at the morgue,” I grimaced against another bolt of pain as I answered. “Now it’s killing me.”

I peeled off the glove and unzipped my coat. The cold no longer mattered at this point. I had to see what could possibly be exacting such pain upon my arm. I knew that I hadn’t injured it, and there had been nothing wrong until Ben had taken me to the morgue. I couldn’t imagine that I had touched something and not noticed doing it. Besides, I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

Carefully I slid my throbbing arm from the thick coat. It had begun to feel sticky and wet, and upon seeing it the answer became obvious. Blood had soaked through the fabric of my shirt along the forearm and matted it to my skin.

“Shit, man, you’re bleeding!” Ben intoned.

Unbuttoning the cuff and gingerly rolling up the sleeve, I revealed the source of the crimson flow. My flesh was bruised purple and black, looking for all the world as if I had been beaten. Off-centered, in the mass of dark contusions, blood oozed freely. Carved deeply into my skin was a circle, decorated with hash marks along the side arcs and encompassing a large letter X that was bisected by a large letter P.

Carl Deckert was the first to break the silence as he softly muttered under his breath, “Holy Jesus, Mary Mother of God.”

Even with the intense pain radiating up my arm, I still felt that Ben’s reaction was overkill. Despite my reservations, I had been instantly hustled into a county police cruiser and taken to the nearest emergency room. Inescapable, as well, were the full benefits of a warbling siren and rapidly flickering light bar. When all was said and done, the trip to and from the local medical center had taken less time than the treatment itself. Of course, as if I didn’t have enough to think about, the lengthiest portion of my stay in the E.R. was the period spent trying to convince the doctor of two basic things. One, that, no, I did not purposely carve the design into my own arm. And two, no, I did not need a psychological consultation because, I repeat, I did not purposely carve the design into my own arm. Since I knew they wouldn’t believe the truth, and I had been unable to concoct a convincing lie, I was unable to give them a reasonable explanation for the injury. In the interest of time, and my own sanity, I was finally forced to assure them that I would seek help for what they had deemed to be an “unhealthy proclivity toward self-mutilation.”

Pastel blue-greys streaked the clouds where the sky finally fell earthward to meet the cluttered horizon. Dusk was nearly upon us, and what little muted light remained was fleeing the oncoming night with hasty dispatch. The promised second wave of snow had blown in and began falling in hesitant showers before finally applying itself in an all out assault on the already blanketed white landscape.

Ben and Carl were waiting in the van when the officer delivered me back to the nearly deserted crime scene. Snowflakes dying on the Chevy’s windshield, first becoming water then steamily evaporating, told me the vehicles heater had been running for some time. I had scarcely managed to thank my escort and unlatch the door before the two of them were out of their warm sanctuary and heading toward me.

“So what’d the docs say?” Ben’s words were opaque with concern as he came around the front of the squad car.

I took a moment to wave to the departing officer as she backed out, and then I turned to face my friend.

“They thought I did it to myself,” I answered wryly. “So, other than being diagnosed as a self-destructive masochist, I’m fine. It looked worse than it is.”

“You sure?” Carl pressed. “It looked pretty bad to me.”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“They give ya’ anything for the pain?” Ben pressed.

“Acetaminophen,” I replied. “It really isn’t that bad any more. I think it was primarily a psychic reaction of sorts. My body’s way of getting me to look at it. Like the itching probably was.”

Carl appealed, “Yeah, but why’d it show up on you to start with?”

“Best guess? Someone or something is trying to get my attention. Obviously, it has something to do with the two murders so far. So now I just have to figure out what that something is.”

“Whatcha mean someone or somethin’?” He shook his head in a gesture of confusion. “I thought that thing just… Ya’know, like, just appeared on yer arm.”

“It did,” I confirmed his comment. “The someone or something I’m talking about probably doesn’t reside on this physical plane. It’s similar to when Ariel Tanner was speaking to me in my dreams after she had been murdered. This is just a physical manifestation of a similar type of contact.”

“Holy shit,” he murmured.

Ben shook his head and expelled a short whistle that puffed a jet of steamy breath into the night air. “You’re just way too spooky sometimes, white man.”

“Yeah, Rowan,” Carl echoed. “Spooky.”

“Is ‘spooky’ an official police term?” an unmistakable feminine voice asked from behind our huddle.

We turned as a group and were nearly blinded as a powerful light mounted atop a video camera suddenly snapped to life and vomited its harsh glare across us. So intent had we been on our conversation that we hadn’t noticed Brandee Street and her cameraman when they drove up. We had been under the impression that the media had given up their vigil outside the gates of the park and gone in search of other news to sensationalize. Apparently, Brandee had laid in wait for the last squad car to leave before descending upon us in search of a video byte.

She looked like the living rendition of a magazine advertisement for a ski lodge. With brightly rouged lips and thick lashes, she was decked out in stylish hiking boots that no doubt had never seen an actual hiking trail; leggings; and a high-collared, white fur jacket. A matching set of earmuffs completed the ensemble, and her teased mane of blonde hair appeared to have been styled to purposely incorporate them. I half expected the wind to start whistling as it blew through her stiffly moussed, unmoving coif.

“How’d you get in here, Street?” Ben shot back his disgusted query while shielding his eyes from the blaze of the video light.

“We drove,” she answered, her voice ripe with sarcasm as she pointed a gloved finger over her shoulder at the news van. “All right, Jay, we can shoot the intros later…”

Before any objections could be made, she drew in a breath and brought a logo-adorned microphone up from her side.

“Detective Storm. Can you give us any insight as to why the Major Case Squad has been called in on this investigation?”

Ben squinted and jerked back perceptibly as she thrust the business end of the device at him, then he coldly remarked, “This is a closed crime scene. I’m gonna hafta ask ya’ ta’ leave.”

The determined young woman staunchly ignored him and swung her attention immediately to Carl.

“Detective Deckert. What is your reasoning behind getting the MCS involved?”

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that at this time, Miss Street,” Carl returned tactfully.

“Is there any truth to the rumor that you specifically requested Detective Storm on this case?”

“Detective Storm is a fine officer, and I welcome any opportunity to work with him.”

“But is it true that you contacted the city police chief to request his assignment to the MCS?”