Never Burn A Witch argi-2, page 35
part #2 of A Rowan Gant investigation Series
The tone was intimately familiar from my visions, and hearing it now, steeped in the trappings of the physical plane, paralyzing fear arced through my very being.
“And as you have refused the medicine of your salvation, we have summoned you to answer for the said crimes before us, but you, led away and seduced by a wicked spirit have refused to appear.”
Eddies of the thick mist swirled around the huge silhouette as it advanced toward me. Looking up from my prone position, he appeared to me as an absolute giant, easily dwarfing Ben by several inches. I shuddered with an involuntary start as I pressed myself into the cold metal fencing and reached upward to the rail. Gritting my teeth against the aches criss-crossing my body, I fought to drag myself to my feet.
“Whereas the Holy Church of God has long awaited you up to this present day of kindness and mercy.” He continued his recitation of question thirty-two as he moved closer still; verbally applying the razor to the guilt he had already confirmed. “That you might fly to the bosom of her mercy, renouncing your errors and professing the Catholic Faith, and be nourished by the bounty of her mercy; but you have refused to consent, persisting instead in your obstinacy.”
My knees were weak with terror as I unsteadily gained my feet. His imposing figure was stationed directly between my still idling truck and me, making that avenue of escape unattainable. I seriously doubted that I could outrun him, and as he loomed through the fog, my options were growing slim.
The man was haloed in backlighting from the oddly canted headlamp on my truck reflecting from the damp sheen that coated the bridge. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the odd scheme, and I could just make out his long, haggard face. His eyes were set back in deep shadowy wells and were framed by a shoulder length hood of stringy white hair that blended into his colorless pallor.
His thin frame was clad entirely in black with a priest’s collar encircling his craning neck. With each word he spoke, his throat would undulate as if he were swallowing hard. His freakish appearance served to propel the already soul-chilling fear deeper into my core.
He was directly before me now, and as had happened in my vision, that fear became an all-consuming visceral terror. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I could only stare back in stunned horror.
In a sudden flash, the man brought his hand up and thrust it downward. Out of pure reflex I brought my arm up and twisted quickly away-but unfortunately, not quickly enough. The cold steel spike of an ice pick bit hard into my shoulder, and I could feel it scrape along the bones that formed the joint. I howled in agony as he mercilessly ripped the stiletto back out and plunged it once again into my upper arm.
His voice boomed imperiously against the backdrop of the music and my agonized screams. “Therefore, following in the footsteps of the Blessed Apostle Paul, we declare, judge and sentence you to be a stubborn heretic and as such to be abandoned to secular justice!”
The sharp pain slapped me out of my quadriplegic stupor, and I lashed out, throwing my uninjured arm forward and into his midsection. Twisting my weight into the motion, I connected with a solid punch that took him by surprise and staggered him backward. I didn’t believe for even a brief second that I would get that lucky again, and I bolted for the first opening that presented itself.
I could feel the ice pick still buried to its handle in my upper left arm, and my hand was tucked into a deformed claw that shuddered with pain. Hot tears were streaming down my cheeks, and the wet mist of the fog felt even colder wherever it touched my bare skin. My attempt at escape lasted for a half dozen frenzied steps around the front end of my truck before I felt the bony hand clamp like a vise on my shoulder.
I was jerked violently backward then immediately thrust back forward at an angle where I made an instantaneous stop against the railing on the south side of the bridge. The air leapt from my lungs, and I gasped as I pitched forward. The erupting stigmata on my forearm intensified to compete with, and then overshadow, all of the other pains that racked my body. At some point my glasses had gone the way of the cell phone, and I cast an unfocused gaze at my hand and saw the small streams of blood dripping from my clawed knuckles.
I fought to regain my breath, and I was once again grasped by the neck and pushed sideways. As the killer held me against the chilled metal, I felt something rough and plastic-like dragged across my face. Looking down with bleary eyes, I saw the nylon rope hanging about my neck bound with a coil of thirteen loops in a perfect hangman’s noose.
“Rowan Linden Gant,” the deep voice began once again. “By this our definitive sentence we drive you from the ecclesiastical Court, and abandon you to the power of the secular Court, that having you in its power now moderates its sentence of death against you.”
In a sudden sense of motion, I felt my feet leave the ground and my body being lifted forcibly upward. I tried to grab for the rail, but my hand slipped from its slick surface and I continued to rise.
The killer proceeded with the passing of my fate, “Whereas you, Rowan Linden Gant have duly and properly admitted your crimes, and having before us the Holy Gospels that our judgment may proceed as from the countenance of God, by this sentence we cast you away as an impenitent heretic and sorcerer.”
He had now lifted me over his head, as one would press a set of barbells. As strong as he was, he was struggling against my weight and was unable to fully extend his arms. I could feel him shaking as he held me there and stepped against the rail. I almost froze in panic, fearing that if I fought against him he would drop me over the side. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that just such an action was what he had planned, but I certainly didn’t want to help him accomplish it.
“In accordance with the thirty second question we do hereby deliver you unto the power of our most Holy God…” His voice cracked as he strained to hold me.
My mind raced in search of a way out, and I realized that in his haste to end my existence, he had neglected to bind my hands. If it was, as it appeared, his intention to hang me, the opposite end of the rope had to be secured. I could think of only one thing to do.
Trying my best not to attract his attention, I quickly hooked my injured left arm up against my chest and forced my bloody fist up through the noose encircling my neck. As I pressed upward, I was able to slide the nylon rope over my head, and the loop dropped down along my arm to encircle it just above my elbow.
“As you, Rowan Linden Gant, are damned in body and soul, your sentence on this day is death. The sentence, to be executed immediately and without appeal in the manner of hanging.”
So intent was he on passing sentence, he had yet to notice my movements. I knew there were only seconds left now that the words of judgment had officially been spoken. In an adrenalin edged rush, I rotated my wrist and twisted a pair of loops around my forearm then forced my hand open and grasped tightly to the nylon rope. The fleetingly morbid thought that it was too bad that we Witches couldn’t really fly shot through my mind as he pronounced my end.
“May the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon your soul.”
With his last statement, he pitched forward and grunted as he forced his arms outward. As I began to roll and drop away, I shot my free right hand out and grasped tightly to a handful of his stringy hair and held fast. I heard him yelp in surprise as he was pulled forward and levered over the rail.
Together, we fell into the shadowy mist of nothingness.
CHAPTER 27
The steel trusses that make up the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge form a superstructure that rests upon beams and piers to span the five thousand plus feet to the other side of the Mississippi. In an angular trek they hopscotch across the water like an undulating multi-humped serpent before taking a twenty-four degree turn and continuing on their merry way to the other side. It was at the vertices of two of these truss sections that we went over the side.
In the pit of my stomach, I experienced an instant feeling of weightlessness followed rapidly by the heavy sense of impending death. I held tightly to the nylon rope as it slid quickly through my bare hand like a serrated knife. My palm burned, begging to let go, and I consciously gripped the lifeline even tighter.
There was a loud, clanging thump as our bodies impacted the wide steel support running beneath the joint of the trusses. We hesitated for a moment, and I felt myself continuing to fall as I slid between the decking and the beam. I continued downward for a handful of inches before the rope tightened around my forearm. Less than a foot later, I jerked to a sudden halt as the noose tightened and the line snapped taut.
I felt muscle tear as the inertia of my plummeting body was stopped cold by nothing more than my left shoulder being forcibly dislocated. I had cried out in pain so often in the past few minutes that my voice was completely raw, and all I could manage was a pathetic whimper.
Thus far my idea had worked. I was still alive.
Through the mist I could just make out the lights of the water treatment plant located in the distance, just south of the actual rock chain that gave the bridge its name. The normally lazy river rushed over this stone anomaly to create a dull roar below. My ever-present phobia of drowning sent a wave of fear to pierce my bowels and was rapidly joined by the terrifying realization that I was not all that fond of heights either.
Above, music still blared from my idling truck, and the mournful strains of a violin added sad emotion to a slowly rising bass hum. A heavy groan punctuated the music from somewhere near my head.
I was twisting slowly on the end of the rope and simply hung there trying to deal with the pain as I lazily spun around to face north. Prickling numbness was overtaking the pain in my hand and forearm as the tight nylon cord dammed off the blood flow. I was almost thankful as it began to ooze downward into my dislocated shoulder.
I could feel something in my right hand, and I slowly brought it up to my face. A large wad of dirty white hair was protruding from between my fingers as they remained in a death grip. Slowly, and deliberately, I forced my hand open and allowed the mass to fall. I watched it as it floated lightly away and melted into the thick mist.
In retrospect, I should have been paying attention to the activity immediately above and to my rear.
A cold palm came quickly against the back of my neck, and bony fingers slipped about my throat from the left. I gasped and kicked as the killer began squeezing as tightly as he could.
Evenly, and with great purpose, bass notes echoed with haunting measure into the night against the crying of the violin.
The smooth tempo of the movement began its migration toward a spastic rhythm.
I sputtered and bucked as I clawed at the massive hand that was threatening to crush my windpipe. I struggled to slip my fingers in behind his and pry them away, but his grip was too tight.
“As you, Rowan Linden Gant, are damned in body and soul,” his angry voice announced as if the words were necessary to validate his actions. “Your sentence on this day is death. The sentence, to be executed immediately and without appeal.”
The back of my head rang hard against the metal beam as I kicked the air and fought to breathe. I could hear my own gurgling as consciousness announced it would be leaving soon. I grasped weakly at his fingers before my arm fell away to my side and bounced against an annoying lump on my belt.
Frantic notes plucked sharply on the strings of a harp insinuated themselves into the ebb and flow of the music from above…
The melody continued from above as I tried to reason out what the annoyance could be. I told myself in no uncertain terms that this was neither the time nor the place to worry about such things. My arm spasmed and caught once again against the weighty protrusion at my side, urging me to think harder on its meaning. In a black and white silhouette against the inside of my eyelids, the nature of the object flashed to the front of my fading thoughts. My hand shook uncontrollably as I hooked my fingers beneath the retaining strap on the holster and pulled. They shuddered and numbly slid away with no effect.
A brace of violins engaged in an angry exchange bringing ever more urgency to the pace of the melody…
The killer was hanging precariously from the support beam, leaning out and downward to reach me. As he shifted for a better position, his hand loosened in a quick spasm. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I gasped in a small slice of a breath and felt a brief moment of clarity surge through my body.
I pushed my still shaking hand back up to my side then thrust my thumb beneath the nylon strap and pushed outward. With a dull pop it released, and I immediately wrapped my hand around the grip of the pistol.
The miniscule piece of breath I’d been able to grasp was failing quickly, and my vision was darkening as my eyes started rolling back in my head. The abbreviated lesson in the use of the pistol flashed through my mind as just so much jumbled nonsense. I could find no way to apply the instructions to my present situation.
Being unable to aim, I centered on what was left of my strength and pressed the gun upward at an angle across my chest until it met resistance.
The panicked voices of various stringed instruments blended to a thick, disharmonious crescendo in my ears…
For a brief instant I considered the fact that my left arm was now completely numb, and I silently begged for the resistance I found to be his arm and not my own. Then, tensing my body, I pulled the trigger.
The muzzle flashed.
The explosion reported deafeningly in my ear.
The spent shell ejected directly toward me and transferred its searing heat to my cheek.
Thick blood spattered like heavy rain across the side of my face.
The cold fingers snapped open.
Something thudded heavily against me and fell away.
A tortured scream faded into the distance below.
A single violin cried into the night, fading with sorrowful purpose toward silence…
Everything went completely black.
*****
The tinkling sound that met my ears made no sense at first. I couldn’t really place it as anything I was familiar with other than the fact that it sounded like metal against metal. Even at that it was competing with a thickness that filled my head and made everything muddy and dull.
Numbness still permeated my left arm as well as a good portion of my shoulder and upper chest. I could feel the dampness of the fog against my face but didn’t really care. Warmth was creeping into my body now to replace the chill, or so I believed. All I wanted to do was go back to sleep, but the annoying brightness of the noise was growing louder.
From somewhere in the back of my head, random voices began backfilling the silent spaces to push urgently in and out of my semi-conscious world. On the periphery of my senses, I could feel something immediately in front of me, and the sharp tinkle was emanating from it.
My slow twist halted, and I felt something warm pressing against the side of my neck. For a brief instant I considered the pistol still gripped tightly in my right hand and thought perhaps I should shoot the intruder. Fortunately for us both, the message traveled a maze of nerve endings and never found its way to the proper set of neurons in order to create the motion.
I slowly opened one eye as I continued to feel the gentle pressure against my neck. Finally, partial focus sluggishly set in through the misty darkness, and I was greeted by the concerned face of a paramedic in full climbing gear suspended before me in the fog.
“He’s still alive!” I heard him say as he removed his fingers from my pulse point and began to carefully attach a safety harness about my waist. “Can you hear me, Mister Gant?”
I forced my other eye open and attempted to answer but was only able to emit a thin whisper that scarcely resembled a “yes.”
I barely remember anything that followed. Whether an hour passed or only five minutes, I couldn’t say. All that remains clear are the chaotic sounds of a crime scene investigation in full swing and Ben Storm’s concerned face, haloed in fog and flickering emergency lights, looking down at me as I laid on a gurney.
“Goddammit, white man. Ya’ just can’t stay outta the middle of shit, can ya’?” was all I heard him say before I slipped once again into nothingness
CHAPTER 28
“The plates were stolen,” Ben was telling me. “We tracked the VIN on the panel van but didn’t get much. The artist sketch from your description hasn’t matched up ta’ anything, and the prints he left on your truck were too smudged to be much good to us at all. The two partials the CSU pulled off the bruises on your neck still haven’t hit on AFIS yet, so that’s lookin’ like it’ll be a bust. Either way, we sent all of ‘em along with the blood samples to the crime lab in D.C.”
I was staring out the window of my hospital room, watching as winter tried to rally back with a sudden cold front. The grey sky spit wet flurries in a thwarted attempt at actual snow, and the look of it all gave me a slight chill. Gloomy was the only way to describe it, and it matched my mood well.
Five hours of surgery had gone into repairing my arm and shoulder, so I was told. All I knew of it consciously was the fact that my left arm was now completely immobilized, and the incisions were already starting to itch mercilessly as they began to heal. My voice was weak and hoarse from a bruised larynx, and the rainbow of colors ringing my neck formed a hand-shaped contusion that still throbbed with tender soreness. I didn’t even remember the CSU tech taking the close up photos of the two fingerprints that had been temporarily pressed into my flesh.
A burn scar in the perfect shape of a nine-millimeter shell casing graced my left cheek, and beneath the rope bruises on my forearm, a faint pink outline of Christ’s Monogram still remained. Other than that, physically I was on the mend. Emotionally, however, I still wasn’t entirely sure what kind of damage had been done. Daily visits from a psychiatrist didn’t do much to determine that fact, either.
