M. R. Sellars - Rowan Gant 3 - Perfect Trust

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PERFECT TRUST

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

EPILOGUE

PERFECT

TRUST

A Rowan Gant Investigation

M. R. Sellars

E.M.A. Mysteries

Paperbacks

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.

PERFECT TRUST: A Rowan Gant Investigation

A WillowTree Press Book

PRINTING HISTORY

WillowTree Press First Edition / July 2002

Paraphrased Excerpts from Everyday Magic: Spells and Rituals for Modern

Used With Permission

ISBN: 0-9678221-9-X

Cover design by Johnathan Minton

Text Layout by K. J. Epps

Edited by K. J. Epps

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

Praise for the Rowan Gant Investigations:

"Hooray for M.R. Sellars, the master of Pagan fiction! HARM NONE is a tale so

real, so complex, and so terrifying, that it won't just keep you on the edge of your

seat until the very last word - it's guaranteed to leave you breathless and begging for

more."

—Dorothy Morrison

Author of Everyday Magic and The Craft

"HARM NONE is a superbly suspenseful thriller… highly recommended."

—Midwest Book Review

"…Sellars is a wonderful surprise all around…A good murder mystery has

mystery, it has action, it has its dark sides, it has plot twists, and it has entertainment

value. You can find all of that in this book."

—Boudica

The Wiccan - Pagan Times

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

Rowan Gant."

—Harriet Klausner

Literary Reviewer

"HARM NONE is a gripping, carefully plotted mystery that will keep pages

turning right to the end."

—P.J. Nunn

Senior Mystery Reviewer,

The Charlotte Austin Review

"HARM NONE is one of the most remarkable books I've read this year. I bow to

M.R. Sellars' superior story telling ability!"

—Elizabeth Henze

Murder on the Internet Express

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

witch is in town! Wonderful characterization from a first-person view, chilling

suspense, and a baffling mystery make this first Rowan Gant mystery top-notch."

—Melanie C. Duncan,

The BookDragon Review

"Curl up one weekend with this book. You, too, will find yourself falling victim to

Sellars' dangerously realistic descriptive style."

—Woody NaDobhar

Whispering Willow Pagan Newspaper

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, my own personal Goddess and friend extraordinaire. How I

survived as long as I did without you in my life, I will NEVER understand. You, my

dear, are the REAL Pro.

Officer Scott Ruddle, SLPD. Best-Bud, confidant, and real life "copper"—the

true inspiration behind Benjamin Storm.

Trish and A.J. for their friendship through it all.

Ravenspirit and Chell for their friendship and a place to crash.

Randall and Angel; and everyone from Mystic Moon Coven. You are all part of

my family.

J.D.—Thanks for finding me when I was lost.

Aislinn Awatake Firehawk for helping me breathe credible life into Helen Storm.

My good friends from C.A.S.T., H.S.A., S.I.P.A., and S.P.I.R.A.L.

Patrick—Thanks for all the cigars.

My parents for making the written word so fascinating to me.

Roxanne, Sharon, and Celeste, for reading, re-reading, and then reading some

more.

"Chunkee" for not only reading and re-reading, but for arguing with me when I

was being stubborn—and for being a brother as much as a friend.

Johnathan Minton for putting up with my endless changes of mind whenever he

sets about the creation of a truly magnificent piece of cover art for me.

My daughter for making each and every day an adventure.

My wife Kat, who spent countless hours, both late and early, editing and then

arguing her points when I was being too stubborn to listen. She has somehow put up

with me throughout it all and for some unknown reason actually still loves me.

Chris, Evelyn, and all the wonderful folks at Westcan PG up in the Great White

North.

Finally, and not the least of all, everyone who takes the time to pick up one of my

novels, read it, and then recommend it to a friend.

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.

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.

For Chris, Jo-Jo, Eliot, Kat, everyone on the hill that stormy afternoon, the ladies

at the Highway K canoe rental, both sets of ambulance crews, the Doctors and

Nurses at

Ellington Hospital, the entire staff of Three Rivers Medical

Center in Poplar Bluff, and most especially

Dr. James W. Gieselmann.

You all know why…

Bide the Wiccan laws we must,

In perfect love and PERFECT TRUST.

Couplet One

The Wiccan Rede

Lady Gwen Thompson

Original Printing- "Green Egg #69"

Circa 1975

Late February

Old Chain of Rocks Bridge

St. Louis, Missouri

PROLOGUE

Eldon Andrew Porter was trying desperately to make sense of his current

situation.

He knew that he shouldn't be unsteadily perched here on this cold steel girder high

above the icy waters of the Mississippi river. He knew that he shouldn't be forced to

finish by hand a job meant for, and started by, a hangman's noose. And, he knew he

was short on time.

What he didn't know was just how this peril had come to pass.

One other thing he knew for certain was that this very simply was NOT how it

was supposed to happen. Still, he couldn't focus on exactly what had gone wrong.

Once again, he mulled through the last few events leading up to this particular

moment in time.

He had lured the Warlock to the bridge.

He had applied the razors of the Malleus Maleficarum, a mere formality as such,

because by the Warlock's own public actions and admissions he was quite

obviously guilty of the sin of WitchCraft.

He had applied the test of 'pricking' in order to be certain of the accused one's

guilt. Of course, the Warlock had tried to deceive him in this test by screaming out in

pain when the ice pick pierced his flesh, but he knew this to be a ruse. A trick used

by the impenitent sorcerer in order to avoid his due punishment.

He had not been fooled.

With the Warlock's guilt proven, Eldon had then set forth the judgment as

decreed by Almighty God and the Holy Church.

He had proceeded with the sentence by placing the noose about the man's neck

and pronouncing his punishment as death by hanging.

And, finally, he had executed that sentence by throwing the Warlock over the side

of the bridge.

That should have been it. End of story. But something had gone quite terribly

wrong.

It was hard to think, his head ached so miserably. He vaguely remembered that

for some reason he had pitched over the railing himself. Somewhere within that

ghostly memory he also recalled feeling a jarring impact against the steel girder that

stopped his fall. Then, everything had faded to black.

The top of his head burned like fire whenever he touched it. There was a tortured

spot on his scalp that seemed devoid of hair. It was wet and sticky and that wetness

clung to his hand when he pulled it away. He assumed it must be blood.

The raucous clamor of loud music blaring from the Warlock's vehicle on the

bridge above blended hesitantly with the muted sounds of the icy river. The

cacophony was disconcerting, and when combined with the pain, it made it just that

much harder for Eldon to concentrate.

What could have gone wrong?

He rewound the sketchy memories and thought through the scenario yet again.

He had lifted the Warlock upward, pronouncing the punishment as he did so.

Then, straining against the man's weight, he had pushed his arms outward to thrust

the condemned over the railing and into the foggy night.

It was then that his head suddenly began stinging.

His scalp had felt as if it was on fire and he was instantly doubled forward against

the railing himself. Gasping, he was deprived of the breath that had been forced from

his lungs by the sudden crush against the blue and green steel barrier. The rest of it

was a blur, and a split second later he had blacked out.

But he hadn't had any of those episodes for such a long time. Not since prison.

Could it possibly be happening again? It had been years since he had blacked out,

hadn't it?

Or had it only been months? He couldn't remember for certain.

Could he have simply fainted and fallen over the side?

No, there was something different. There was the burning in his scalp. His

episodes had never been preceded by pain, ever. This felt like someone had

physically ripped the hair from his head.

But how could the Warlock have done that?

His hands were bound.

He had tied the Warlock's hands, hadn't he?

Surely he had done so.

The sudden rush of recent events flooded in to answer the question. The Warlock

had been clawing at Eldon's hand as he endeavored to choke the life from him.

His hands were free.

Had he been in such a rush that he had merely forgotten to bind the hands of the

condemned?

No, he could not have been that careless. He refused to believe it. He would not

have forgotten to do so simple and necessary a task before hanging one accused of

the heresy of WitchCraft.

Somehow the Warlock had tricked him. He had conjured a glamour that made

him believe he had completed the necessary tasks when in fact he had not.

This was wrong. He should be immune to the conjurings of the demonic, for he

was righteous in his path. This was disturbing and bore the need for inner reflection

and judgment upon one's self.

But not right now.

Not at this particular moment.

There was a more pressing judgment at hand.

There was also the question of why the hangman's noose had not done its job.

Eldon relinquished his single-handed grip around the man's throat for an ever so

brief moment and quickly felt for the nylon rope.

But it wasn't there.

The Warlock coughed and gasped, quickly sucking in the air he had been denied.

Through the darkness and fog Eldon could just make out the rope stretched taut

from the railing above, thinly scribing a tight line in the night to finally disappear

behind the man's outstretched arm. He had thought perhaps the rope had merely

twisted beneath the man's shoulder during the struggle, but now he knew this was

not the case. The noose was cinched tight about the Warlock's arm instead of his

neck where it should have been. A triple twist of the rope serpentined around the

man's appendage and trailed through his tightly clenched fist.

The Warlock had managed to slip out of the noose and save himself.

But he would not avoid his final judgment. Eldon would see to that.

It wouldn't be long now, he thought, as he compressed his pale hand tighter about

the man's throat. Just a few more moments and then the sentence would be carried

out.

The Warlock would be dead.

He was sure he could feel his victim's windpipe starting to give way against the

pressure of his long fingers. As his bony digits spasmed slightly from the force he

was trying to exert he stretched them quickly, fighting to keep his grip secure.

Warlock.

Witch.

Sinner.

Heretic.

Different words but all the same. This one—the Warlock Rowan Gant—was

himself evil incarnate. A minion of Satan set forth on this earth to do the bidding of

the Dark Lord. Surreptitiously spreading the vileness of sin and debauchery among

the lambs of almighty God under the false guise of goodness and light.

Eldon could not allow it to go on. He could not allow those who worshipped the

devil to remain among the righteous. Why no one could understand this was a fact

he couldn't fathom. Why no one realized what was happening by allowing these

appalling sinners to cast shadows upon the earth, frightened him.

But, it didn't matter.

He understood what needed to be done. He hadn't at first. Not for the longest

time. He had been just like everyone else, but then came prison and it had been a

hidden blessing. It was prison where he had learned of his true purpose in life. It was

there he had learned he was a part of God's righteous army. It had taken that

incarceration for him to discover he was chosen by God himself to eradicate the

infestation of heresy.

There would be others to help him, of course, of that he was sure. He needed

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