Free Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page B

.
    “Fuck me,” Ben muttered.
    “Excuse me?” Carl looked at him
curiously.
    Ben shook his head. “Sorry… Just that we got
one just like it carved into a dead call-girl in the city
morgue.”
    “You found Christ’s Monogram at another
murder scene?” Carl asked incredulously.
    Ben cocked his head to the side and gave
Deckert a sideways look. “You know what it is?”
    “Yeah. I’ve seen it before.” Carl nodded.
“Not a lot, but I remember it from church when I was a kid.”
    “You said symbols,” I interjected the
question between stabs of blinding pain. “Plural.”
    “Yeah,” Deckert answered with a nod. “The
other one is layin’ on the ledge of the fire pit. It’s one of those
Pentacle necklaces. That’s kinda why I wanted to get your
opinion.”
    By now I could take no more. It felt as if
someone were driving a white-hot blade mercilessly into my
flesh.
    “I told ya’ you shoulda had the doc look at
that, white man,” Ben chided, noticing my attention to the
appendage.
    “Somethin’ wrong with your arm?” Carl asked,
genuine concern wrinkling his face.
    “I don’t know. It started itching when we
were at the morgue,” I grimaced against another bolt of pain as I
answered. “Now it’s killing me.”
    I peeled off the glove and unzipped my coat.
The cold no longer mattered at this point. I had to see what could
possibly be exacting such pain upon my arm. I knew that I hadn’t
injured it, and there had been nothing wrong until Ben had taken me
to the morgue. I couldn’t imagine that I had touched something and
not noticed doing it. Besides, I was wearing a long-sleeved
shirt.
    Carefully I slid my throbbing arm from the
thick coat. It had begun to feel sticky and wet, and upon seeing it
the answer became obvious. Blood had soaked through the fabric of
my shirt along the forearm and matted it to my skin.
    “Shit, man, you’re bleeding!” Ben
intoned.
    Unbuttoning the cuff and gingerly rolling up
the sleeve, I revealed the source of the crimson flow. My flesh was
bruised purple and black, looking for all the world as if I had
been beaten. Off-centered, in the mass of dark contusions, blood
oozed freely. Carved deeply into my skin was a circle, decorated
with hash marks along the side arcs and encompassing a large letter
X that was bisected by a large letter P.
    Carl Deckert was the first to break the
silence as he softly muttered under his breath, “Holy Jesus, Mary
Mother of God.”
     
     
    * * * * *
     
     
    Even with the intense pain radiating up
my arm, I still felt that Ben’s reaction was overkill. Despite my
reservations, I had been instantly hustled into a county police
cruiser and taken to the nearest emergency room. Inescapable, as
well, were the full benefits of a warbling siren and rapidly
flickering light bar. When all was said and done, the trip to and
from the local medical center had taken less time than the
treatment itself. Of course, as if I didn’t have enough to think
about, the lengthiest portion of my stay in the E.R. was the period
spent trying to convince the doctor of two basic things. One,
that, no , I did not purposely carve the design into
my own arm. And two, no , I did
not need a psychological consultation because, I repeat, I
did not purposely carve the
design into my own arm. Since I knew they wouldn’t believe the
truth, and I had been unable to concoct a convincing lie, I was
unable to give them a reasonable explanation for the injury. In the
interest of time, and my own sanity, I was finally forced to assure
them that I would seek help for what they had deemed to be an
“unhealthy proclivity toward self-mutilation.”
     
     
    * * * * *
     
     
    Pastel blue-greys streaked the clouds where
the sky finally fell earthward to meet the cluttered horizon. Dusk
was nearly upon us, and what little muted light remained was
fleeing the oncoming night with hasty dispatch. The promised second
wave of snow had blown in and began falling in hesitant