Unfortunately, his penance had come in the form of lameness. The severity of the bullet’s cruelty, combined with the infection, had left his hand a shriveled and useless claw and his forearm a misshapen appendage that was still visited by constant pain. Considering what the outcome could have been, in some small way he counted himself fortunate.
Gazing at the mostly healed wound, he noticed that the flesh surrounding the scar was reddish and swollen. The infection was gaining a hold again, as it had done several times now. He would need more antibiotics soon. Something different, stronger this time, because obviously what he had was no longer doing the job.
“…So if you haven’t pulled out your snow shovel yet, you might want to think about it, because this front is definitely going to bring frozen precipitation with it this afternoon and evening. Most likely in the range of three to six inches.” Yet another, different feminine voice squawked from the television in the corner.
“There’s no way we can get a reprieve from that?” the anchor joked.
“Sorry, Skip, I don’t make the weather, I just forecast it,” the woman returned with a good-natured lilt in her voice.
“Meteorologist, Tracy Watson. Thanks, Tracy. It’s six twenty-eight, and coming up in the next half hour of Eyewitness News this morning, health reporter Doctor Patrick Kennedy will tell us about some alternative treatments for back injuries.”
“…And,” the co-anchor chimed in on cue, “We’ll have more on why the Major Case Squad has enlisted the aid of Saint Louisan and self-proclaimed Witch, Rowan Gant, to solve a bizarre homicide. We’ll be back right after this…”
All that was within the small motel room came to a complete and abrupt halt.
The endless prattle that had in Eldon Porter’s mind heretofore served only to chase away silence now had his full and undivided consideration. The mere mention of the warlock’s name pealed loud and clear through the muddy audio, striking deep into his soul and bringing him to instant attention.
Water continued to sputter from the faucet as he turned to look at the flickering TV screen. He continued to stare, silent and completely motionless throughout all one hundred eighty lethargic seconds of inane commercials- advertisements for everything from fruit juice to car loans. Never once did he twitch or so much as even blink. In point of fact, he scarcely even breathed.
He had been in Saint Louis for over a week now and thus far had been completely unable to track down the warlock. On the surface, Gant’s house appeared completely unoccupied. But, he knew it was not-not completely anyway. He knew this as he had been watching it carefully. Very carefully, because he also knew that he was not the only one watching.
Others were spying upon the house. In addition, others were spying from it. However, they were not looking for Rowan Gant; they were looking for him.
Eldon had begun to fear that the warlock had fled. That he was far removed from Saint Louis. Perhaps even from the state. It was this fear that had driven him to force the warlock’s hand; that action had brought him here, to this room, to wait.
Now, his wait appeared to be over.
A tinny riff of music that intermixed with syncopated drumming noises suddenly spilled into the room to announce the resumption of the morning news broadcast. As it faded out, a dead-on shot of the anchors popped in to replace the station ID graphic.
“Welcome back to Eyewitness News this Thursday morning, it’s six thirty-two, I’m Skip Johnson…”
“And I’m Brandee Street, filling in for the vacationing Chloe Winchell.” The co-anchor dropped into the cadence with practiced timing. “At the top of the news this morning, peace talks are continuing…”
As per usual, the teasers that came before the station break were just that-teasers. Tidbits of information intended to keep you tuned in while the unimportant drivel is paraded before your eyes. Eldon held fast to his firm resolve and continued his frozen stance for yet another three-minute eternity.
“Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad officials have confirmed reports that a self-proclaimed Witch is playing an important role in a murder investigation. Rowan Gant most recently aided the police in solving the murder of Debbie Schaeffer, the Oakwood College cheerleader who went missing late last year. He has now been called in once again to help with a bizarre homicide. Eyewitness News field reporter, Colin Kelso, joins us live outside city police headquarters. Colin…”
The screen switched to a video feed showing the image of a reporter clutching a logo-adorned microphone and staring stoically into the camera. Even with the extreme blur, his overly youthful appearance was evident. “Thanks, Brandee. As you stated, we have confirmed that self-proclaimed Witch, Rowan Gant, has been brought in to help with the investigation of a very strange and brutal murder. At around three a.m., police were summoned to an abandoned warehouse at the corner of Locust and Fourteenth streets. There they found the body of a man suspended by a rope from the roof ledge.”
“Colin,” the anchorwoman’s voice cut in, “I understand that there has been some speculation that this crime might somehow be linked with another murder?”
“Yes, while authorities have not made an official statement, there has been speculation on that fact. Viewers will remember that two weeks ago, the body of Lena Duke was found hanging from a tree in Cherokee Park in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. The ritualistic manner in which she was killed bears a striking resemblance to this crime.
“Statements released earlier this week indicate that the Cape homicide may be somehow linked to the killing spree of Eldon Porter which occurred here in Saint Louis early last year.
“Right now, authorities are still being tight-lipped about this case. We will keep you updated as the situation develops. Back to you, Brandee and Skip.”
The screen cut back to a headshot of the unnaturally honey-blonde newscaster paired with a smaller inset of the field reporter. “Colin,” she spoke. “Has Mister Gant actually been to the scene of this particular crime?”
“I’ve been told by one detective that, yes, in fact Mister Gant was brought in early this morning. An interesting development, however, just moments ago Mister Gant was seen leaving the scene with Detective Benjamin Storm of the city homicide squad and a woman we believe to be his wife, Felicity O’Brien. Although we were unable to obtain a comment, we did get this footage showing some type of altercation.”
The screen switched to show the wildly shaking image of a van, partially illuminated off and on by video lights. Unintelligible, but obviously heated voices could be heard in the background over the shouts of reporters and camera operators. As the centerpiece of the video byte grew larger and began to stabilize, a man shot into view from behind the open door of the vehicle, apparently rushing toward the cameras. In an instant he halted, then appeared to be jerked backward, disappearing into the vehicle.
“Any idea what was going on there, Colin,” she asked as the video repeated.
“We were unable to obtain a comment from anyone on the scene at this time, I’m afraid.”
“Okay, thanks Colin,” she said, and the inset was replaced by a wide shot of the news desk, revealing both anchors as well as a third figure seated at the L-shaped return. “Keep us updated on this breaking story.”
“Will do, back to you Brandee and Skip.”
After a measured beat, the anchor continued. “So, how many of us have complained about lower back pain?”
“I know I have,” chimed in Skip Johnson. “Joining us this morning is Doctor…”
Eldon finally blinked, and as he did he instantly tuned out the voices coming from the television, relegating them once again to muted background noise. He allowed a thin smile to pass briefly across his face, the only outward sign of the elation he now felt.
The warlock was still here.
He had just needed to draw him out, and his plan had worked even quicker than he had hoped.
He absently wiped his wet hand on his shirt as he took the few steps across the room to the broken down bed. The water continued sputtering and splashing in the rusty basin, melding in an off-kilter tune with the voices from the TV. On the scarred surface of a makeshift nightstand, a book was positioned with supreme care, as if on display. Eldon reached out with his good hand and lifted it reverently, then used the knuckles of his clawed left hand to open it and flip through the pages.
Near the back of the tome, he finally stopped, bringing his gaze to rest on a particular passage, his eyes darting back and forth as he read and re-read the words. Slowly, his lips began to move, and then eventually a whisper of sound began to slip between them. Finally, his gravelly voice spoke aloud to be heard only by him.
“For it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
