M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“You could be right,” she replied. “But I think the similarities between the e-mail and the actual crime are too important to ignore.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” I told her, “I’m not saying that anything should be ignored, least of all this. I’m just telling you that I truly don’t believe this is the guy. It just doesn’t feel right.”

Constance snapped a quick look over her shoulder and then eased the car onto the ramp to Highway 270. We continued wordlessly for a few moments, the ticking sound of the turn signal filling the cab like a metronome as she blended us into the other traffic. With another glance behind and quick check of the mirrors, she hopscotched the government sedan across a trio of lanes and leaned on the accelerator.

“So this is one of your feelings, huh?” she finally voiced the half question.

“Yeah. One of my feelings,” I affirmed.

The landscape was beginning to slip past the windows at an ever-increasing rate, and the other cars sharing the highway with us had become only momentary flashes of color. I let my gaze drift over to the dashboard and saw the vibrating needle of the speedometer hovering somewhere between seventy-five and eighty.

“Well I guess we’ll know soon enough,” Mandalay expressed matter-of-factly. “Storm is supposed to be getting a description of this guy from DMV. Besides, we should be there inside of ten minutes anyway.”

“Got two cars in the driveway. DMV shows both of them registered to Allen Roberts,” a stocky, African-American officer clad in a crisp tan-over-brown County uniform, told us. He was among a number of people I had seen today who was devoid of a jacket or coat, regaling themselves in the illusion of spring-like weather in the heart of winter. Absently he reached to his belt and adjusted the volume of his radio as it chattered with the voice traffic of the other units patrolling the suburbs of Saint Louis. “Shades are up and I caught some motion through the front window on a drive by. Someone is definitely home.”

Constance and I had met up with Ben, Deckert, and the patrolman on the parking lot of a small combination gas station/convenience store less than a half-mile from the residence. Cars streamed in and out of the station at random intervals. Some moments every available pump would be occupied, and at others the lot would be almost empty. The occasional patron would stop for a moment and stare in our direction, drawn in by idle curiosity at the small assemblage of badge-wearing individuals. I could feel their eyes upon us making the hair stand on the back of my neck as they gazed in wonderment. Being the only non-law enforcement member of the group, I suddenly felt thoroughly conspicuous and horribly out of place. Logically, I knew that the onlookers had no way of knowing that I wasn’t just another cop, but that didn’t stop the prickling sensation from running up and down my back.

In truth, since the beginning of this case, I had been treated by all of them as though I was one of their own. I had only recently begun to realize that I was an altogether vested member of this elite group and that I had been accepted fully into their fold. They depended on me to make sense of things that were unknown to them. They used me to track bizarre killers the way a traffic cop uses a radar gun to catch speeders. While some of my talents and revelations still brought a furrowed brow, or even a brief glazed look of fear, they were doing all this with little or no question.

Still, acting as an advisor and explaining my supernormal visions to a room full of cops was one thing. Being in the middle of an operation such as this one was an entirely different story. I beat back the rhizome of anxiety that was starting to spread and reminded myself that this wasn’t the first time I had done this. It wasn’t something new to me at all and, in fact, was even a bit mundane considering my last experience, which had been an all out assault on a killer’s house. That time I had been clad in a bullet proof vest and wallowing in the thick of it for the sake of rescuing a little girl he intended to ritually sacrifice for some still unknown purpose. The urgency of that situation combined with the adrenalin rush hadn’t afforded me the opportunity to feel this out of place on that night. I guess I was making up for it now.

“Great.” My friend nodded as he planted his large hand on a map spread across the hood of the patrol car and studied it carefully. Every now and then a cold breeze would whip around the end of the small building, lifting the edge of the carefully drawn grid and threaten to take the paper into flight. “That’s terrific. This prob’ly isn’t gonna be much of anything, ta’ be perfectly honest. Well, unless forensics is way off on their height estimation, ‘cause the description of this Roberts individual we got from his license info actually doesn’t match up with the physical profile of our bad guy. But, accordin’ to what Agent Mandalay and Rowan found out, he’s somehow connected with the threatening e-mail one of the victims received, so he might know somethin’. Basically, I’d just like to be ready in case he bolts.”

“The patrol areas overlap here, here, and here,” the uniformed man offered, using his finger to indicate points on the carefully inked grid. “If he runs and manages to get past you, he’s not going far.”

“Good deal.” Ben nodded as he spoke and pushed his own finger around the sheet of intersecting lines then tapped it on the final destination. “We’re just gonna knock on the front door, so you take up a spot on this side street here and keep an eye out.”

“Yes sir,” the patrolman replied with a curt nod and then proceeded to quickly fold the map.

“Okay folks,” my friend announced as he looked around our small huddle. “Let’s get movin’. Row, you ride with me.”

I followed him to his van and climbed in to the passenger side while Deckert shook hands with the uniformed officer and finished thanking him for his help then joined Agent Mandalay in her vehicle.

“Constance told me you think this is a dead end,” Ben stated as he twisted the key in the ignition and the engine kicked over.

“Honestly, yes,” I agreed. “After seeing the actual e-mail, I don’t really believe it has anything to do with the killer.”

“Lovely,” he replied while waiting for the other two cars to back out, watching intently in his side view mirror. “So we just spin our wheels some more.”

“I could be wrong,” I offered.

“Yeah, like I’ve seen that happen a lot lately,” he replied sarcastically. “No, if you’ve got one of your feelin’s, then you’re prob’ly right, but we gotta check it out anyway. So, you get anything outta that space cadet number you were pullin’ this morning, or did ya’ finally decide it was just a bad dream?”

“Haven’t given it much thought,” I admitted. “It’s been kind of a full day so far.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted as he gunned the engine and pushed the van into a backward arc. “Get no argument from me on that.”

With a tired sigh my friend cranked the shift lever down into drive and urged us forward.

“Well,” he volunteered, “on the up side maybe I’ll get ta’ have dinner with my family for a change. Although, Allison did say she’s makin’ a meatlump tonight.”

“Don’t you mean meatloaf?”

“You ever had Al’s meatloaf, white man? Trust me, she’s makin’ a meatlump.”

The heart of Millchester was a West County suburb of the semi-affluent and moderately comfortable. Tree-lined streets hosting domiciles in the range of two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Some a little more, some a little less. For the area, your basic upper middle class subdivision. It was the kind of neighborhood where a reference to “the gardener” was pretentious slang for the third party service that manicured the lawn in the summer and plowed the driveway in winter. A place where “the club” was the private pool and tennis courts maintained by a subdivision committee.