The barrier had eventually burned away, but by then it was too late. I could sense without a doubt that she had been aware of her fate to the very end.
Color and light began to drain from the scene around me in a glittering whirlpool, and I knew I was being pulled into a place I didn’t dare go. Without even trying I was about to channel her last moments on this physical plane. Consciously, I knew that without a solid anchor to pull me back, this was one I could not survive.
Steeling myself against the onslaught of desperate emotions and excruciating unearthly pain, I latched myself onto the nearest thing I could find.
“Rowan!” Ben yelped, finally breaking his stare as I grasped his arm and stumbled forward. He took hold of my shoulders and steadied me before I could plunge face first onto the concrete.
Standing on the opposite side, Carl came to my aid as well. “Hey, Row, are you all right?”
“Thanks…” I muttered to them both as I shakily regained my balance. “Sorry about that.”
“You were goin’ all Twilight Zone, weren’t ya’?” Ben asked. I’m sure that having witnessed similar episodes before he knew the signs all too well.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “But I think I caught it in time.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Carl interjected in his usual fatherly tone.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I hate ta’ ask,” Ben queried in an apologetic tone, “but ya’ didn’t happen to see the asshole who did it when you went… Well, went wherever it is ya’ go when ya’ do that.”
“No. I wish I had.”
The flesh rending pain that had started as a simple itch on my forearm was eating at me with a vengeance. I could feel my eyes watering as I fought to suppress tears.
“Did you find a Bible anywhere on the scene?” I queried Detective Deckert while attempting to ignore the torment.
“No. No Bible.” He shook his head. “But funny you should mention that.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Carl ventured and extended his arm, pointing toward the corpse. “The real reason I called was the symbols.”
My eyes followed his finger down to the stone base of the fire pit. There, skillfully drawn in matte black spray-paint, was the Christian symbol that had become painfully familiar over the past few hours. The Monogram of Christ.
“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 showers before finally applying itself in an all out assault on the already blanketed white landscape.
Ben and Carl were waiting in the van when the officer delivered me back to the nearly deserted crime scene. Snowflakes dying on the Chevy’s windshield, first becoming water then steamily evaporating, told me the vehicles heater had been running for some time. I had scarcely managed to thank my escort and unlatch the door before the two of them were out of their warm sanctuary and heading toward me.
“So what’d the docs say?” Ben’s words were opaque with concern as he came around the front of the squad car.
I took a moment to wave to the departing officer as she backed out, and then I turned to face my friend.
“They thought I did it to myself,” I answered wryly. “So, other than being diagnosed as a self-destructive masochist, I’m fine. It looked worse than it is.”
“You sure?” Carl pressed. “It looked pretty bad to me.”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“They give ya’ anything for the pain?” Ben pressed.
“Acetaminophen,” I replied. “It really isn’t that bad any more. I think it was primarily a psychic reaction of sorts. My body’s way of getting me to look at it. Like the itching probably was.”
Carl appealed, “Yeah, but why’d it show up on you to start with?”
“Best guess? Someone or something is trying to get my attention. Obviously, it has something to do with the
