M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“If the guy dropped the assault charges though, you can be sure he got some pressure from the upper management.”

“Aye. Surely you’re correct on that.”

“I realize Austin felt he was just being loyal to a family member, but he should really go apologize to the man.”

“He probably already has.” She reached over and gave my thigh a loving pat. “That’s where he was planning to go this morning after breakfast.”

A flat-bottomed mass of clouds hung like an anvil over the small corner of Saint Louis’ south county-an oppressive reminder of winter casting a harsh, blue-grey silhouette across the mounded snow. The temperature managed to bootstrap itself to a few degrees above the freezing point by the time the clock hands met at twelve. This, in combination with the moderate amount of sunshine that peeked through, had already rendered the small dusting of the fresh white stuff we had received overnight to a damp memory. It was now continuing to work silently at melting away the remnants of the recent miniature blizzard.

The general populace of the city and county were visibly active in the wake of this serendipitous “heat” wave. Self-service car washes were raking in the quarters as patrons choked their small lots-everyone vying for positions to wash the corrosive road grime from their vehicles. For every clean car to exit on the backside, seemingly two more would rush to join the throng waiting for a turn. As we passed by these small pockets of frenzied activity, we saw no less than a half dozen fender benders caused by the impatient confusion.

Special Agent Mandalay turned the dark sedan into the parking lot of a plain looking strip mall on Gravois. Due to the possible federal jurisdiction surrounding this crime-or portion of a larger crime-she and I had been elected to make this call. Constance was, of course, the official representative of law enforcement. I was along simply as a translator. Someone to make sense of any computer and internet jargon she might not be familiar with.

Everyone else, including Ben and Deckert had either remained behind or set out in different directions, all intent on following up other leads, sparse as they were. Another purpose for my friend to remain at the MCS command post was to be able to direct the actions of the squad. Even his superior officers were giving him free rein over this case based on his recent past history with the last serial killer and to an even greater extent, me. Because of his relationship with me, as well as the circumstances surrounding the last case, he was viewed as the ranking officer when it came to crimes that dealt with anything even remotely related to what they termed “occult dealings.” I suppose that in their opinion, a madman going around murdering Witches by all the conventions of the Inquisition fell under that particular heading. I guess I had to agree.

The long brick building we were rolling toward across the wet asphalt was nestled comfortably between a small restaurant on the right and what appeared to be a light industrial area to the left. A laundromat equipped with its own bar, aptly titled SUDZ, occupied one end of the structure. Neon signs painted on the window boasted a Tuesday and Thursday singles night. Not exactly my idea of a good time, but then I had never been one for enjoying either activity-doing the laundry or singles night at a bar. Not even when I was single.

The opposite end housed the office and showroom of a small accounting firm with a decidedly ethnic name. A few other nondescript businesses occupied the center, with our destination sandwiched in between. South County Online Internet Services, L.L.C.

Constance nosed her sedan into a space in front of the establishment and directly next to an older, but apparently well maintained, Cutlass Supreme. The car showed almost no sign of the chalky, whitish-grey salt that coated her vehicle and in fact, was even steaming slightly in the sunlight as water from an extremely recent wash evaporated into the chilled air. It couldn’t have been pulled into its space very long before we arrived.

A haggard looking man with shoulder-length hair, dressed in denim jeans and an oversized sweatshirt bearing the logo of a modem manufacturer stood outside the door of the service provider. His winter coat hung limply open over his thin frame, and his wide eyes bore the signature glaze of the programmer’s trinity-caffeine, nicotine, and a late night spent staring at the sixty hertz scan of a computer monitor. Years ago, before I had gone into business for myself, I had seen a very similar face staring back at me from the bathroom mirror each and every morning.

He took a deep drag from the remains of the cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger as he watched us get out of the vehicle. With a lazy flick, he sent the butt sailing through the air in the direction of a large coffee can without even looking. I assumed the receptacle was partially filled with sand, but it was impossible to be sure as it was already overflowing onto the sidewalk with the extinguished remnants of countless other cigarettes. The butt impacted the concrete near the can and exploded a small shower of red embers outward to quickly die then rolled to a stop and laid smoldering amidst the others that had come before it.

The bedraggled man nodded in our direction as he blew out a thick cloud of smoke intermixed with steamy breath. “You two the cops that called?”

Constance reached into her coat as she stepped around the front of the car and withdrew the leather case containing her credentials. In a practiced motion she smoothly flipped open the wallet with one hand to display her badge and identification to him.

“I’m Special Agent Mandalay with the FBI,” she stated in an even, businesslike tone. “This is Mister Gant.”

“FBI, huh. I was just expectin’ cops,” the man grunted then chuckled lightly. “Shouldn’t you be a redhead and shouldn’t he be taller?”

Constance glanced over at me with a thin frown sealing her lips but refrained from commenting on the TV show reference she had probably heard more times that she could easily recollect. Fluidly closing the leather case, she thrust her identification back into her pocket and looked back to the man.

“You are the systems administrator for this Internet Service?” The tone of her voice turned the statement into a question, and she motioned to the sign on the window that proclaimed South County Online to be the “Leading Edge In Internet Information Services.”

“That’s me.” He extended his hand as he acknowledged in a somewhat unsettled tone, having most certainly noticed Agent Mandalay’s cold reaction to his quip. “Rocky Wendell.”

We exchanged quick handshakes and then followed him through the door into the dark interior of the building.

“I can put some coffee on if either of you want any,” he told us as we tagged along through the reception area, past a service desk, and into a corridor lit dimly by a glowing exit sign.

“Thank you, no,” Constance gunned down his offer with sharp, vocational politeness. “We’re running a little short on time, so if you could just answer a few questions about one of your clients, we’ll let you get on with what’s left of the weekend.”

Wendell hesitated for a moment after slapping a pair of switches and stood studying her face as fluorescent illumination poured into the hallway and rear half of the building. It was becoming obvious that the petite federal agent’s demeanor had him off balance. It was almost as if he wasn’t quite sure how to handle dealing with a woman in a position of authority.

Finally, he simply shrugged then turned and continued down the corridor. “Suit yourself.”

“Kendra Miller, yeah, here it is,” Wendell told us from behind a glassy eyed stare at a screen positioned on his desk, “Witchvixen at yadda yadda yadda.” He ripped off a string of keystrokes, and we could see the light of the screen flicker across his face as it changed. “According to her activity log, I think she might have taken that nickname a little too seriously… Says here she was subscribed to some of those wacko newsgroups… alt dot WitchCraft, alt dot Witches, alt dot Wicca…”