M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

With the investigation at a standstill, a frighteningly eerie apathy had epoxied itself to the city of Saint Louis. While the search for this serial killer officially remained a priority, bureaucrats were in control of the purse strings and decisions made behind closed doors routed tax dollars to projects viewed as more important by those in power. Overtime for the members of the MCS became a thing of the past, and officers were shifted and shuffled to meet the demands of other cases. Suddenly, the round-the-clock protections originally provided for those believed to be on the killer’s list became little more than semi-frequent drive-by’s courtesy of the local police departments.

Adding insult to injury, Detective Deckert was forced to reluctantly absent himself to fill in for a vacationing colleague with the county homicide division. Shortly thereafter the FBI recalled Special Agent Mandalay, assigning her to tend other duties deemed more critical in light of the stalled manhunt. While there was still federal involvement, it was relegated to the background. Ben continued to head up what was left of the effort, even with the greatly reduced staff.

And then there was me.

While I was still listed as a consultant for the MCS, there was very little for me to consult about. With each cut or contusion that inexplicably appeared on my arm, I became a barometer by which we knew, or at least suspected, that Amanda Stark was still among the living. Beyond that, I was relegated to playing the role of potential victim-watched over day and night by Ben and off duty officers who owed him for one reason or another.

The “Ghoul Squad” was no more.

I was almost certain that the seemingly endless supply of favors owed my friend was in reality a rapidly mounting debt for him. While I knew he had markers he could call in, Felicity and I were never left alone, and it would have taken one man several lifetimes to accumulate such a surplus of obligements. Fortunately, Carl and Constance took it upon themselves to fill whatever shifts they could, and I knew they were doing it out of friendship and not for the trade off.

My daily objections always fell on deaf ears with Ben. It didn’t matter to him that I felt it unfair that I should receive protection when the other potential targets weren’t; or even that I was worried about what he would end up owing to the parade of cops who came in and out of my home. He had told me before that he was going to protect his “corner of the world,” and there was no stopping him from doing just that-whatever it took.

Truth was, I was actually relieved to have them there. Not so much for my own safety as for the peace of mind it gave me knowing I wouldn’t have to worry about Felicity if something happened. The real debt being accumulated was on my end. I owed my friends in a big way.

When the long anticipated other shoe finally did meet the floor, the resulting explosive crash instantly reduced our anxious calm to shimmering crystalline shards that fell abrasively upon the landscape.

It didn’t seem like we had been in bed any time at all when I awoke to heavy handed pounding on our bedroom door blended with the distant sound of my name being urgently called. Strategically placed within the stream of noise a duet of angry barks and growls filled out the cacophonous melody. At first, I thought it was nothing more than the dying remnants of a dream as I strained to listen in the darkness and heard only the rhythmic in and out rush of ocean waves droning from a compact disk set on repeat. I had been using the natural sounds for a meditation aid as I urged myself back toward center-not that I had been overly successful. Apparently, on this night, Felicity and I had fallen asleep with the player still running.

I gave a moment’s consideration to answering the phantom voice and decided I should check the time first. I rolled to the side, and before my eyes were even fully open a square fist of pain rained a double jab down upon my forearm. I winced as I started to move the appendage and sent the agony in a reverberating right hook up through my elbow and into my shoulder. Reflexively I reached for the origin of the torture and was presented with a handful of sticky wetness far beyond anything that had occurred in the past septet of days.

I knew instantly that the voice had not been a dream at all.

“Goddammit, Rowan! Felicity! Wake up!” Ben’s muffled demand joined once more with his frantic hammering against the bedroom door, and again the dogs loudly announced their displeasure in return.

“Hold on,” I managed to croak out through the pain as I sent my hand searching for the switch on the bedside lamp.

By now the commotion had awakened my wife, and she was groggily dragging herself up from her pillow while yawning, “What’s going on?”

“Ben’s at the door,” I groaned as I continued to grope for the light.

“Are you all right?” Felicity questioned as she tossed back the blankets and rolled out of the bed. “You sound like you’re in pain.”

My hand brushed across the switch, and I fumbled with it for a moment before snapping the device to life. The first thing to meet my eyes was the smear of blood on the nightstand where I had been feeling around. The second was the blood soaked patches on the bed sheets. The third was the puckering Monogram of Christ carved deeply into a purplish welt on my forearm. Blood continued to ooze thickly from the symbol as I stared at it with a dejected frown.

“Oh Gods, Rowan!” my wife yelped as her bleary eyes fell across the wound. Till now she had only seen the monogram as fading pink scars on my flesh, and the variety of tortures of the past week had never achieved this level of trauma. This was the first time she had witnessed the stigmata in full gory bloom.

The pain was already starting to subside. My ethereal tormentor had my full attention, and the added push of suffering was no longer needed. “It’s okay. I’ll be all right,” I told her. “Let Ben in. I’m pretty sure I know what he wants.”

I glanced at the clock and saw that my earlier thought had been correct. We hadn’t been in bed long at all. It was only 10:34.

“Jeezus H. Christ…” Ben muttered from behind his hand as he covered the lower half of his face in an attempt to ward off a sweetly vile stench.

My wife and I were following suit as the malodor grew in intensity with each intake of breath.

With February racing toward a close, the ever-changeable pattern of Saint Louis’ weather had executed a backflip, and the jet stream was temporarily exacting kindness on the Midwest. The mercury had been hovering a healthy handful of degrees above the freezing point for a few days now in a practice run for the spring thaw. The combination of patchy leftover snow, evaporation, and temperature created the ideal condition for the misty fog that was now rolling in upon us. In a matter of hours it would be an opaque grey veil obscuring everything it touched, but for now it was a clammy humidity that carried with it the stink of burning flesh.

Through the teaming haze that forewarned of the coming thickness, a discordant flurry of attention-grabbing emergency lights generated blurry star-filtered patterns in the air. Emanating from no less than five Metropolitan Saint Louis City police cruisers, two fire engines, one emergency rescue vehicle, and an undetermined number of cars belonging to detectives with the Major Case Squad, the area was a cluster of strobing illumination. Each pulsing flicker of luminescence was immediately blended, bisected, and bounced in triangular directions by the silvery stainless steel plates that composed the Gateway Arch.

A sharp twinge insinuated itself through my nerve endings, and I absently reached to my wounded forearm as we walked, feeling the soreness swell throughout. I wasn’t sure why the pain had suddenly returned, but I feared perhaps another mark might be appearing soon.