M R Sellars - [Rowan Gant 03], page 1
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PERFECT TRUST
By
M. R. Sellars
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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
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PERFECT
TRUST
A Rowan Gant Investigation
M. R. Sellars
E.M.A. Mysteries
Paperbacks
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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
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2002 by M. R. Sellars
Paraphrased Excerpts from Everyday Magic: Spells and Rituals for Modern
Living on page 115 Copyright © 1998, Dorothy Morrison,
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
by
Westcan Printing Group
Winnipeg Manitoba
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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
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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.
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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.
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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…
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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
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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 screa
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 only to find these brothers and sisters, and then together they would show everyone the true might of God.
The Warlock was struggling. Not as much as he had at first, but he was still fighting. The movement had all but stopped earlier, but when he had released his grip to check for the rope, even for that brief moment, the Warlock had gained a breath.
Now, something pressed upward from beneath his arm, cold and hard against the flesh of his wrist.
Puzzling.
It must be the Warlock clawing at his hand again.
But this was different.
It didn't feel like the hand that had fought to pry against his fingers before.
It was cold.
Hard.
Metallic.
A sharp, chemical odor blended with the moist air to tease Eldon's nostrils. He knew that smell. Its pungent edge was painfully familiar to him.
Gun cleaning solvent.
He released his grip and rotated his arm quickly away just as the explosion pierced his ears and the muzzle of the handgun erupted with bright orange flame.
He just didn't rotate it quickly enough.
Harried voices barked commands with life and death urgency through the cold night air. The tinny bursts of police radios punctuated the sounds coming from the scene above, all mixed with the frenzied pace of the music. The activity sounded rushed but methodical.
