Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars

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