M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“Shit! Almost missed it!” he exclaimed.

The tires spun with a raspy crunch until they chewed through the loose ice and bit into pavement. With a short squeal of rubber against asphalt, we were launched forward over a small snow dike and bounced our way once again into the near-deserted parking lot of the Saint Louis city morgue.

Once Ben parked the van in what he declared to be a valid space, we braved the cold wind and deepening drifts to hurry inside. We both took a moment to shake off in the outer foyer before pushing through the second set of double doors and embracing the welcome warmth of the building’s interior.

Ben had just unzipped his coat and was about to display his badge to the receptionist when she spoke up. “Was that you that just pulled in the lot?”

“Yeah, that a problem?” he responded as he held the gold shield up for her to see.

“Haven’t you been listening to the radio?”

Ben looked at me then back to her and raised an eyebrow. “Should we have?”

“The snow is coming down at over an inch per hour,” she explained with mild exasperation in her voice. “All city and county streets are closed to traffic except emergency vehicles and road crews until further notice.”

“So, did the body make it in from the county?” Ben queried, dismissing what he had just been told without acknowledgement.

“About two hours ago,” she returned. “Doctor Sanders is back there with her now.”

I looked at the clock on the wall behind the young woman’s desk and then drew in a deep breath. It was already approaching seven p.m.

“Excuse me,” I addressed her politely, “but could you direct me to a phone I can use? If we’re going to be stuck here, I need to call my wife.”

“I just saw you on television,” Felicity told me as soon as I had finished explaining where I was, along with the fact that I wouldn’t be home anytime soon.

“Wonderful. I hope they got my good side,” I returned without even trying to hide the sarcasm. “What are they saying?”

“A lot of speculation for the most part,” she answered. “The popular theory at the moment is that a cult is getting their revenge for that whole thing last year.”

“Cult, huh? They just love that stuff, don’t they?”

“Row, what’s really going on?” I could hear mild concern in her voice. “And what was all that about you being wounded?”

“That? It was nothing.”

“Rowan…”

“Seriously, just a minor cut. No big deal.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yes, honey,” I assured her. “A doctor has already looked at it.”

“Okay,” she conceded. “But you still haven’t told me what’s really going on.”

“Well,” I exhaled the word heavily. “It’s not something I can get into over the phone except to say that it’s pretty bad.”

“As bad as last summer?” she prodded.

“Worse… Potentially, a lot worse.”

I could hear her measured breathing on the other end of the line and knew she was digesting what I had just said. I suppose I could have told her more, but I saw no reason to subject her to the same fears I was barely holding at bay this particular moment. Especially not while she was alone.

“You can tell me about it tomorrow then,” she said, realizing fully that I was simply trying to protect her. She allowed the subject to drop for the time being, but I knew she would expect a full explanation soon enough. “Oh, by the way, I was cleaning up around here and I found a note you left next to the phone. Did you need to keep it?”

“Note?” I echoed in a puzzled tone.

“Well, I guess that’s what it is,” she explained. “It’s mainly just scribbling, except for a number. Two-two-one-eight.”

All that happened today had managed to push the haunting, senseless number out of my mind. Now, it returned with a vengeance, tattooing itself across the front of my grey matter and refusing to be ignored. Demanding my full and absolute attention, of this I was certain, for I had thrown that note away.

“Where did you say you found it?”

“Next to the phone,” she replied. “It looked like it had been crumpled up and then smoothed back out. Like maybe you decided not to throw it away or something.”

A Wiccan poem known as The Rede scrolled through my brain as I mentally weighed what Felicity had just said. Without realizing it I mumbled aloud the snippet of verse that had parked itself in the forefront, “When the wind blows from the west, departed souls will have no rest…”

“What was that?”

“Huh? Nothing. Nothing… Just… Just hang on to it for me, okay?” I said hesitantly.

“Rowan, is something wrong?” Her earlier troubled tone embraced the words. “Does this mean something?”

“Yes… I mean no…” I stumbled over the answer. “I mean I’m fine. Everything’s just fine.”

“Rowan…”

“Really. I’m okay… Listen, I’ve got to get off the line here. I’ll explain it all to you in the morning, okay?”

“Well, okay,” she reluctantly agreed. “Be careful. I love you.”

“I love you too. Stay warm. Bye.”

“Bye-bye.”

I left my hand resting on the handset after lowering it back into its cradle. The number twenty-two eighteen did in fact mean something. It was a warning. An ethereal signal meant to get my attention, and when it hadn’t worked, the harsher measure of physical pain had been employed through the wounding of my arm. Even with that, however, the note had returned. Placed back into prominence by one unseen in the physical world.

The number’s significance, at least on the surface, was something I had known all along but had no reason to remember until now. I made a conscious decision to keep this entire incident to myself for the time being-at least until I could figure out just who was telling me this and why.

“I should have seen it,” I finally muttered aloud to no one but myself. “Exodus twenty-two eighteen. Thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live. ”

“Here.” Doctor Sanders handed me a small glass jar and brushed at her upper lip with her index finger. “Put some of this under your nose. It will help a little with the smell.”

I took the offered container of Tiger Balm and did as she instructed. The sickening reek of scorched flesh had been intense at the crime scene, and that had been outdoors. Here in the enclosed autopsy suite, the odor was nearly intolerable.

The infinitely more pleasant menthol-clove perfume of the waxy salve competed with the airborne foulness as I dabbed it around my nostrils. While there was no one true victor in the battle, as long as I kept my breaths shallow, the atmosphere in the room became at least bearable. I then passed the container quickly on to Ben who already had his hand extended.

Doctor Sanders had just finished tucking her shoulder-length, salt and pepper hair beneath the elastic band of her cap and was now pulling on a second layer of latex gloves.

“I don’t know how you did it, Storm, but in all my years with this office, I’ve never seen a body from an open investigation transferred across jurisdictional boundaries,” she said. “This is definitely a first.”

“Guess it’s just my charming personality,” Ben replied.

“Sure it is,” she grumbled, her voice sarcastic. “Or maybe you just can’t stand to see me have any time off.”

“What can I say, Doc? I like working with the best of the best.”

“So you’ve told me numerous times before, Detective.” She sighed. “Anyway, surprisingly enough, your corpse wasn’t as frozen as one might have thought, so I decided that if I was going to be stuck here all night, I might as well get some work done.” Her back was still to us as she spoke from across the room. “I wasn’t really expecting to have an audience, however.”