M. R. Sellars - Rowan Gant 2 - Never Burn A Witch

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NEVER BURN A WITCH

Rowan Gant 2

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

EPILOGUE

Never

Burn A

Witch:

A Rowan Gant Investigation /

M. R. Sellars

E.MA. 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.

NEVER BURN A WITCH: A Rowan Gant Investigation

A WillowTree Press Book

PRINTING HISTORY

WillowTree Press First Printing / May 2001

Second Printing / September 2002

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

other means, without the express permission of the author.

For information contact WillowTree Press

On the World Wide Web at http://www.willowtreepress.com

WillowTree Press is a member of the Independent Mystery Publishers

http://www.mysterypublishers.com

ISBN: 0-9678221-1-4

Webster

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

Harm None:

"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

Never Burn A Witch:

"Mr. Sellars presents us with an excellent offering of mystery/suspense. From the

opening pages to the cliff hanger ending, it's a "can't put it down" novel!"

—Boudica

The Wiccan - Pagan Times

"M.R. Sellars, Pagan master of suspense, does it again! If you only read one

book this year, make it NEVER BURN A WITCH. It's a tale so realistically

terrifying, that the memory will haunt you forever."

—Dorothy Morrison

Author of Everyday Magic and The Craft

"Sellars has tackled a unique and controversial topic with boldness and aplomb.

He makes no apologies and NEVER BURN A WITCH is even more aggressive than

the first Rowan Gant mystery, HARM NONE… It's a hair-raising good time… "

—P. J. Nunn

Senior Mystery Reviewer,

The Charlotte Austin Review

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

—Rosemary Edghill

Author, The Bast Mysteries

"NEVER BURN A WITCH is a tale of haunting possibilities. The stuff that

nightmares are made of!"

—FaDraSha.COM

"NEVER BURN A WITCH is simply a chiller… This is a must read book!"

—Nancy Lankford,

Literary Reviewer

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As always there are a number of individuals to whom I owe a debt of gratitude,

for without them and their staunch moral support, Rowan Gant would not exist—

Officer Scott Ruddle, SLPD for helping me keep it real; my incredible (and

sadistically evil) team of editors—Celeste, Kathy, Margo, Roxanne, Scott, and

Sharon; John Minton for cover art I could never have dreamed of; the entire staff of

WillowTree Press; Peter Franciscus for the swimming pool technicalities; Dr. Ed

Uthman for the information on postmortems; Chris and Evelyn; Dorothy; and finally,

my daughter Willow Ann for making me understand just how much I would have

missed being a Father.

PS. Roxanne, I'm glad you liked Chapter 18 so much.

In remembrance of

Vito John Ponticello

January 5, 1949 - September 29, 2000

Mystic Valley goes on but you will be sorely missed.

For Kat.

My Wife.

My Best Friend.

My Confidant.

And most of all,

My Soul Mate.

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.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or

prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the

press; or the right of the people to peaceably assemble, and to petition the

government for a redress of grievances.

Amendment I

Constitution of the United States of America

Ratified December 15,1791

PROLOGUE

Wet clumps of snowflakes streamed heavily downward from the low blanket of

clouds that covered the city.

Along Wellington Parkway a large clock on a bank marquee winked languidly in

the frosty night. With several of its bulbs having long since outlived their usefulness,

dark holes were left gaping in the teeter-tottering display of time and temperature.

Four-Oh-something A.M. Twenty-something degrees F. Minus-something degrees

C. The sign continued silently dispensing the information even as yet another of its

incandescent elements flared and sputtered into nonexistence. Now, only an empty

black rectangle stared back from where the 'something' used to be.

The old man cinched his threadbare overcoat tighter against the chill winter wind,

and took another pull on the pint of off-brand whiskey before burying his half-frozen

hands in his pockets. Watching the clock with bleary, watered eyes, he muttered

nonsensically to himself. His slurred voice recited a local adage that said, 'If you

don't like the weather in Saint Louis, just wait a minute. It'll change.' Thus far, the

only change he had witnessed had been for the worse.

This winter felt just as fickle to him as the recent summer. Brief reprieves followed

by endless torture. It made no difference that the experts were proclaiming this an

unusually harsh winter for Saint Louis. The harshest in more than twenty years they

said. If you lived on the streets, isobaric graphs were mere scribbles on a map and

"El Nino" was just a foreign phrase. Reality was that you either froze or you broiled.

The pleasant weather in between the two extremes never seemed to last for long.

The whiskey finished burning its way down the old man's raw throat, and

splashed hard in the pit of his empty stomach. The merest tingling sensation spread

outward, lending him only the faintest illusion of warmth. In his clouded brain, he

feared it wasn't real. In his apathetic heart he knew it wouldn't last.

Recent events bleached lackluster by the alcohol flickered unevenly through his

brain, bringing a brief smile to his blistered lips. The warmth and comfort of the mall

before the rent-a-cops had chased him from its sanctuary. A fresh pint of whiskey.

A half pack of cigarettes carelessly lost by someone who could afford more, and

serendipitously found by him. But most especially, watching the televisions through

the window of the video store, just like he did every night. Yes, most especially that.

He never missed the evening news, and he always made sure to watch Channel

Four. The others were okay, but Channel Four was his favorite, all because of

Tracy. Tracy Watson, the cute brunette weather girl with the red, pouting lips and

bright blue eyes. Now, even in the frigid night, he felt a rush of warmth as he

fantasized about the way she enhanced the burgundy sweater she had been wearing

when she gave her forecast. The pearl necklace around her delicate neck. The way

she brushed the hair from her face with manicured fingernails just before smiling at

him and motioning to the chroma-keyed radar map.

He knew she was smiling at him. He knew she was talking directly to him. He

knew because she always talked specifically to him; warning of heat waves and cold

snaps. Tracy cared about the old man, of this he was sure—and last night was no

exception. With loving concern, she had instructed him to find someplace indoors to

sleep, because it was going to get colder and it was going to snow very soon. She

was worried about him, and it made the old man feel wanted.

He took heed of her caution, for Tracy was always right about the weather. But,

he mumbled aloud as his libido assumed control, even if she wasn't right this time,

"Tracy's got great tits."

Bitter wind hacked away at the old man in small choppy gusts, snapping him out

of his lurid fantasy, and testifying that the pretty meteorologist had truly been correct

this time. Icy gobbets of snowflakes spattered against his wind-chapped face, and

clung momentarily to his scraggly beard before morphing into their liquid state. He

took another quick pull on the whiskey bottle, then gathered the buttonless front of

his overcoat in frostbitten hands before hurrying across the dimly lit street. The sign

on the bank winked and visually announced it to be four-thirty-something A.M.

Meadowbrook Park. The old man trudged across the hard ground, his numb feet

making crunching noises on the frozen grass as he took staggering aim at a not too

distant building. The public restrooms were always unlocked and open, and it was

here he would seek refuge whenever Tracy warned him to do so. When it was hot,

running water and a cool concrete floor would chase away the sweltering heat of a

typical Saint Louis summer. When it was cold, cinder block walls and a roof offered

shelter from the bitter wind. To a homeless individual like himself, the Meadowbrook

Park public restrooms were like a suite at the Adam's Mark Downtown.

Just a few more steps and he would be inside where he could escape the winter

tempest and its dangerous chill, and then he would be okay. Tracy had told him so,

just before she blew him a kiss.

Sickly yellow light emanating from a low-wattage incandescent bulb flowed down

the side of the small building, struggling to chase away the cold darkness, only to be

swallowed by it. He pressed forward, only to be halted by a recent attack of

bureaucratic efficiency. Elongated shadows spread diagonally across the brown

painted door, cast prominently by a freshly installed heavy-duty hasp and padlock.

The reflections from the shiny hardware taunted the old man as he reached out to

touch the ice-cold metal barrier. Yes. Yes, it was really there; not a sour

mash-induced hallucination as he had hoped. Of all the times for the County

maintenance crews to suddenly do their jobs, why now?

Damnit! What was he going to do? He'd been wandering all night and if he didn't

find shelter soon he would surely freeze to death. He knew that such a thing would

make Tracy sad, and he couldn't bear such a thought. Even worse, he'd never again

get to see her wear that pink blouse he liked so much. The one he was sure he could

see right through. The one he was certain she wore just for him.

The old man continued murmuring his random musings about the lovely young

television personality, stopping only for a moment to suck eagerly on the rapidly

depleting pint of cheap whiskey. With frost-deadened fingers he fumbled the cap

back onto the bottle and thrust it into his thin coat. Burying his hands in his pockets,

he hunched his shoulders forward to ward off the wind, and turned in place as he

stamped his feet. The warmth of the alcohol was fading as rapidly as it came, and

the bottle would soon be empty. The old man needed to find a place to sleep.

Fire.

At first, he thought it might be just another of those bourbon-induced mirages, but

the padlock on the door had definitely been for real, so maybe this was too.

Squinting through bleary eyes, the old man struggled to focus on the bright

yellow-orange glow in the near distance. The flickering light was growing brighter by

the second, and now illuminated the interior of the nearby picnic pavilion from which

it came.

Fire.

The old man could smell it, even over his own unwashed stench. The scent of

fuel being relentlessly consumed by the ravages of flame. And where there was fire,

there would be warmth. Each end of the pavilion housed a large fire pit, vented by a

brick chimney. The Parks and Recreation Department had built it that way so

families could seek shelter against a sudden rain and still enjoy their Sunday cookout.

The old man knew this because he had been chased away from this shelter only

months before by shouting picnickers. Picnickers who selfishly assumed they owned

the park on weekends. Angry people. Frightened people. People who didn't care

about him the way his beautiful Tracy did. But it was wintertime now, and there

shouldn't be any picnickers in the park. It was the middle of the night, too. No, there

definitely shouldn't be any angry people here now.

The old man hugged his ratty topcoat tightly about his body once again, and

started across the frozen landscape, slitting his eyes against the biting wind and

crystalline lumps of blowing snow. He shuffled as quickly as he could on

cold-anesthetized feet, occasionally tripping over them for their lack of feeling.

One-half measure of the distance across the frigid ground, a sharp sound reached

his ears, and the old man came to a stumbling halt. A slamming sound. The sound of

a large metal door being quickly shut. He stood in the open, confused, not knowing

whether to retreat or press forward. No one should be here in the middle of a

frostbitten February night. It just didn't make sense. The slamming noise was soon

followed by the sound of an engine starting, and was in turn chased by the

disharmonious wrenching of improperly meshed gears. On the opposite side of the

pavilion a large, boxy shape moved in the parking lot. A black panel van—greyed

with a patina of salt and winter road grime—shone briefly in the flickering firelight.

The old man watched as the van disappeared behind the rows of trees, and finally

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