M. R. Sellars - Rowan Gant 4 - The Law Of Three

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THE LAW OF THREE

M. R. Sellars

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

The Law

of Three

A Rowan Gant Investigation

A Novel of Suspense and Magick

M. R. Sellars

E.M.A. Mysteries

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are

the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE LAW OF THREE: A Rowan Gant Investigation

A WillowTree Press Book

PRINTING HISTORY

WillowTree Press First Hardcover Edition / July 2003

WillowTree Press First Trade Paper Edition / July 2003

Excerpt from NEVER BURN A WITCH: A Rowan Gant Investigation on pages

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any

other means, without permission.

For information, contact WillowTree Press on the World Wide Web,

http://www.willowtreepress.com

ISBN: 0-9678221-8-1

Printed on 20% Post-Consumer Recycled Acid Free Paper

Printed With Soy Based Ink

PRINTED IN CANADA

Westcan Printing Group

Winnipeg Manitoba

Books By M. R. Sellars

The Rowan Gant Investigations

HARM NONE

NEVER BURN A WITCH

PERFECT TRUST

THE LAW OF THREE

Praise for M. R. Sellars and the

Rowan Gant Investigations:

"Fans of Hamilton and Lackey will want to religiously follow the exploits of Mr.

Rowan Gant."

—Harriet Klausner Literary Reviewer

"The Law of Three is certain to keep M.R. Sellars' ever-widening circle of

spellbound fans up well past the Witching Hour in the throes of masterful suspense.

Like Sherlock Holmes, Nancy Drew, and other time-honored worthies in my own

Inner Coven of the Spellbinding Sleuths, the stalwart and immensely likeable Rowan

Gant is destined to take on a life of his own as the distinguished Sellars puts the

Witch Detective genre ever more firmly on the literary map. Bravo, M(andatory)

R(eading)! "

—Lady Isadora, recording artist,

Priestess of the Pentacle, et al;

Author of the forthcoming

The Pen is a Magic Wand

"Fans of Mercedes Lackey's defunct Diana Tregarde Mysteries rejoice—a new

witch is in town!"

—Melanie C. Duncan,

The BookDragon Review

"These books should be marketed as controlled substances…"

—Kathleen Hill,

Founder/Moderator,

Pagan Page Turners Book Club

"Hooray for M.R. Sellars, the master of Pagan fiction!"

—Dorothy Morrison

Author of Everyday Magic and The Craft

"M.R. Sellars has gifted the world with another page turner! The Law of Three

finds amateur detective Rowan Gant facing an old nemesis bent on revenge in a wild

ride that ends with an explosive climax you won't want to miss. Sellars' gift for

involving the reader in the story and characters will have you hanging on every word.

—Patrick D. Monagin

Board Member, Magical Education Council

"Rowan Gant is a detective in the tradition of Diana Tregarde and Anita Blake."

—Rosemary Edghill

Author, The Bast Mysteries

"I am impressed with M. R. Sellars' latest book. The Law of Three is a

fascinating study in religious fanaticism and mental illness. The characters are

refreshing and feel authentic. Sellars captures the politics of major police

investigations… an entertaining read."

—Kerr Cuhulain

Author of Wiccan Warrior and

The Law Enforcement Guide to Wicca

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are so many people who have come into and gone out of my life over the

years that I've lost count, and each of them is in some part responsible for what

happens between the pages of my novels. It is literally impossible for me to thank

each and every one of them here individually, but there are some who stand out in

the crowd, and I feel it a moral imperative that they be mentioned—

Dorothy Morrison: Friend, mentor, and supreme conjuress of the "Bobble Head."

Officer Scott Ruddle, SLPD: Best-Bud, confidant, and real life "copper"—Ben

Storm without the ancestry.

Roy Osbourn: Teller of wonderful stories, purveyor of invaluable information,

and barbecued rib chef extraordinaire.

Tammi Nesser: Thanks for letting me borrow your Neuroses and Phobias.

Trish Telesco and A.J Drew: Friends, cohorts in crime, and charter members of

the "Bobble Head Coalition."

My long distance family: Mystic Moon Coven.

Duane, Chell, Angel, and Randal: I love you guys.

Lexi Kavanaugh: Uber Publicist

All of my good friends from the various acronyms: C.A.S.T., F.O.C.A.S.M.I.,

H.S.A., M.E.C., S.I.P.A., and S.P.I.R.A.L.

Patrick Owen: What can I say brother? A Romeo and Julietta Churchill, VSOP,

and an easy chair. I'll be there.

My parents: I will never be able to thank you enough for introducing me to the

written word.

Chell, Cindy, Dorothy and Kathy: The team who tirelessly reads, re-reads, and

then reads some more.

"Chunkee": Who not only reads and re-reads but has the guts to argue with me.

My friend, you ARE the Rowan Gant scholar and I cannot write these without you.

Johnathan Minton: A sorcerer of graphic art, who can take my innocuous

ramblings about a cover idea and create a masterpiece worth well more than a

thousand words.

My daughter: For being my daughter.

My wife Kat: For story editing; running the household; putting up with my dual

career; making sure I get where I am supposed to be, when I am supposed to be,

while still making me look presentable to the public—and she looks good doing it.

Then, after all that, she claims that she still loves me.

Of course, Chris, Evelyn, and all the wonderful folks at Westcan PG up in the

Great White North.

And, as always, everyone who takes the time to pick up one of my novels, read it,

and then recommends it to a friend.

For Dorothy.

Thank you for reminding me that this is supposed to be fun..

Ribbit!

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

While the city of St. Louis and its various notable landmarks are certainly real,

many names have been changed and liberties taken with some of the details in this

book. They are fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create an

illusion of reality to be enjoyed.

In short, I made them up because it helped me make the story more entertaining,

or in some cases, just because I wanted to.

Note also that this book is a first-person narrative. You are seeing this story

through the eyes of Rowan Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. I

know of no one who thinks and speaks in perfect, unblemished English; therefore,

some grammatical anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order

to support the illusion of reality.

Finally, this book is not intended as a primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan

path. However, please note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these

religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations may not fit your

particular tradition, but you should remember that your explanations might not fit

mine either.

And, yes, some of the magick is "over the top." But, like I said, this is fiction…

Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is

written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

Romans 12:19

Holy Bible, KJV

Mind the threefold law ye should,

Three times bad, and three times good.

Couplet twenty-three

The Wiccan Rede

Lady Gwen Thompson

First Printing, "Green Egg #69," Circa 1975

Thursday, January 10

St. Louis, Missouri

Prologue:

White video static raked itself across the barely-focused television screen in a

free-for-all wrestling match with overblown chroma and luminance. The brightest

spot on the tube fell somewhere near the center where the thick dust had been

haphazardly wiped away by a bare hand. As if actively seeking this small porthole,

the oddly hued video flickered in random bursts through greasy fingerprints to create

angry shadows dancing throughout the confines of the small room.

Splotchy stains washed across the walls, illuminated by the swiftly shifting

silhouettes. Most of them had long ago been rendered unidentifiable by the growing

layers of filth. They now competed for attention with their more recent counterparts.

Some of them looked as though they could be the remnants of foodstuffs, possibly

hurled in anger or disgust. Others bore more than a passing resemblance to various

bodily excretions better left unconsidered by those easily sickened—or in at least

one instance, horrified. Still others might simply be nothing more than the result of

water damage from the sieve-like roof. Whatever they had each been in their

individual existences, they now blended to become a single stomach-turning mosaic.

The canvas for this nauseating mural was the paint that covered the crumbling

sheetrock. It might have been pale blue in a previous incarnation, but the color, much

less the particular shade, now defied any positive recognition. Dirty grey did not

even come close to describing it, and the patina of grime did nothing to lend even the

smallest clue.

"It's now six seventeen A.M., and here's Jennifer to fill you in on what to expect

for your morning commute." A muddy voice rattled outward from the speaker on

the geriatric television set. "How's it looking out there, Jen?"

A higher-pitched voice buzzed through as the hand-off was taken in a smooth

segue. "Not so good, Skip." The screen switched to what might have been a

chroma-keyed map being gestured at by what might have been a somewhat attractive

woman—it was hard to say through the blur. "Traffic is at a standstill at Forty-Four

and Two-Seventy extending all the way back to Bowles Avenue due to an earlier

accident, so you might want to avoid that area this morning if at all possible. And a

reminder, police and MoDot crews are still on the scene of an overturned tractor

trailer on I-Seventy, just east of Bermuda…"

The rushing sound of water in conjunction with a hollow porcelain-throated burp

echoed from a curtained corner of the room to drown out the thick audio of the TV.

A steadily increasing whine followed, punctuated by a deep thud inside the walls as

the plumbing complained. The familiar wet hiss of a toilet tank automatically refilling

fell in behind—the pronounced noise droning unmuted for lack of a lid.

"Thanks, Jen." The news anchor's voice once again projected into the room from

behind a faux woodgrain plastic grill. "In local news, the Saint Louis Major Case

Squad is still looking for leads in the disappearance of Tamara Linwood. You will

remember Eyewitness News was first to bring you this story when the

twenty-seven-year-old grade school teacher was reported missing over one week ago

after not showing up for work. Her locked car was found abandoned on the parking

lot of the Westview Shopping Mall.

"Authorities suspect foul play but have declined to comment on a possible

connection with the case of Sarah Hart. Hart disappeared from the same parking lot

just under one year ago. Her badly decomposed remains were found several months

later in a wooded area along the Missouri River. Anyone with information should

contact the Major Case Squad at the number on the bottom of your screen."

Eldon Porter was paying little attention to the prattle of the reporters. They were

nothing more than background noise filling the small motel room. He listened with

only passing interest to the periodic weather updates and even less concern for the

actual news.

Pipes sang a pained lament once again as he twisted the faucet handle on a

rust-stained basin that barely clung to the wall—supported more by the deteriorating

drain pipe beneath than the corroded lag bolts that were supposed to be doing the

job. He frowned at a cracked rectangle of glass mounted on the wall over the canted

sink, peering into a kidney-shaped section where the silver had not yet peeled from

the back. With no more than a sigh, he automatically set about the task of washing

his right hand. There was a time in his life, not that long ago, when he would have

washed his hands. Not the singular, hand. But the plural, hands—as in two.

However, there is no reason to wash something you almost never use, and that is

how it had been for almost a year now.

Ever since that night on the bridge—ever since the warlock, Rowan Gant had

tried to kill him with something so mundane as a bullet.

Of course, Gant had been left with no other choice than to turn to such a

commonplace method of attack to save himself. Eldon's devotion had prevailed, and

he had not been taken in by the sorcery and tricks. He had seen through the

chicanery that masked the true depravity of the Satan spawned heretic. The mundane

was all that was left, for he was immune to the mystical. Had he only realized that the

warlock would be carrying a pistol, he would have been triumphant.

Instead, he had failed in his task. Still, his righteousness and loyalty to his God's

mission had protected him from death that night—but not from the hardship of

injury.

Perhaps a skilled surgeon, or even a back alley quack for that matter, could have

repaired some of the damage that had rendered his hand so useless. Perhaps yes,

perhaps no. The point was moot now, as it had been then; for he could ill afford the

risk of being caught.

Not as long as the warlock, Rowan Gant was still alive.

Eldon looked down at his left forearm. The monstrous pink and white depression

extended from just below his wrist to a point halfway up to his elbow where the

bullet had ripped away a tunnel of flesh. It might not have been so severe had it not

been for the raging infection that almost instantly made a home in the wound, killing

off even more of the ragged tissue. The resulting fever had seared his brow for days

and was quelled only after he had been able to muster enough strength to break into

a pharmacy for antibiotics and dressings.

He'd done as little damage as possible when breaking in, made a guess about what

might work, took only what he needed, and then begged his Lord to forgive him for

the sin of theft. He knew his absolution had been granted when the fever finally

broke three days later, and he had remained free.

Unfortunately, his penance had come in the form of lameness. The severity of the

bullet's cruelty, combined with the infection, had left his hand a shriveled and useless

claw and his forearm a misshapen appendage that was still visited by constant pain.

Considering what the outcome could have been, in some small way he counted

himself fortunate.

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