“You know, Ben, I appreciate what you’re doing, but we can’t keep avoiding the subject. We have to talk about this.”
The itching sensation on my forearm had tapered off to a dull annoyance for a brief time but had now returned with a growing intensity. The thick, polyfiber-filled fabric of my coat was positioned armor-like between my clawing fingers and my burning skin, rendering my attack useless.
“Yeah, white man, I know,” he conceded with a nod. “But I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I could really do without another serial nutball runnin’ around loose. Shit! The last one was bad enough.”
“I hate to tell you this,” I ventured, “but if I’m right, and this guy is re-creating the Inquisition, it could get much worse than the last one… much worse.”
“Yeah, I was afraid you were gonna say somethin’ like that.” He paused thoughtfully then turned to stare out the window for a brief moment before centering his gaze back on my face. “Sixty-four thousand dollar question, Row. Are ya’ gonna be able to handle this?”
“Yeah, Ben. I think I will.” I was still pawing at the itch mindlessly.
“You think, or you know, Rowan?” he stressed. “I’m not gonna have ya’ in the middle of this crap if it’s gonna put ya’ over the edge or somethin’.”
“I understand your concern, Ben, but I’ll be all right. The whole idea of someone reviving that part of history just caught me a little off guard. Besides, I thought you said my involvement in this was requested from further up the line?”
“Yeah, it was. You made a big impression with that whole mess last fall… But I’ll tell the chief he can kiss my ass if this is gonna be any danger to you. It’s not like you’re gettin’ paid for this.”
“I’m in danger whether I help with the investigation or not, Ben.”
“How do ya’ figure that?”
“I’m a Witch and I’m open about it. ‘Out of the broom closet’ so to speak. My picture has been in the paper and all over the news. Not to mention the article we were just talking about this morning. If he’s hunting Witches, then I’m a prime target who’s already publicly confessed to the crime.”
“Sonofabitch… Mutherfuck…” He muttered the expletives as he shook his head. “Damn…I just can’t win for losin’.”
The interior of the Happy Wok Express was just as small as the outside of the building had professed it would be. Ben told me that it was once a carryout fried chicken franchise that had been shut down due to several health code violations. The building had apparently remained vacant until just a few years ago when the current owners had taken it over. Of the few tables, we had selected the one in the farthest corner of the establishment. We were the only patrons at the moment, but there was no guarantee it would remain that way. What we would be discussing was definitely not meant to be overheard by the general populace.
“You shoulda had the doc look at your arm when we were at the morgue.” Ben gestured at my incessant preoccupation with the itch. “Maybe ya’ touched somethin’ in there that you were allergic to, ya’know?”
“I can’t ask her for treatment every time I see her, Ben. She’s already stitched me up once.” I asserted, referring to the first time she and I had met. I had been bleeding from a minor scalp wound received in the course of an investigation, and she had tended to it without hesitation.
“Yeah, well,” he retorted between mouthfuls, “she’s a doctor, right?”
“Right. But she’s getting paid to be a medical examiner, not a general practitioner.”
It was painfully obvious that the present management had ruled out the entire concept of remodeling, as the interior motif still contained blatant references to the goodness of deep fried poultry. Dark brown ceramic tiles on the walls and floor, sporting more than their share of chips and cracks, married with replacements of carelessly unmatched colors. A flickering soft drink sign hung above the worn Formica counter, balancing a painted menu on either side. Cardboard rectangles with handwritten additions were taped over a number of the original selections announcing price changes in bold strokes from a wide-tipped marker. Low on a nearby wall, where most likely there had once stood a drinking fountain, a copper pipe jutted out; the stem of its shutoff valve was clamped with a small pair of vise-grips. I couldn’t speak for the decorating and maintenance of the place, but at least it appeared to be clean.
We continued our meal through the momentary lull in our conversation. The sounds of metal utensils rattling against heavy pans echoed from the kitchen area, occasionally punctuated by a rapid string of speech in an Asian language. Their phone was still ringing off and on, though the mid-day rush should theoretically have ended. I assumed that since the weather had forced a later start to the workday, lunch breaks had been pushed back as well. Who better to call on a day like this than someone who would deliver?
The food was edible but nothing that was going to make the Riverfront Times annual restaurant guide. For some reason, they had found it necessary to blanch my vegetables beyond doneness, turning them into a limp pile covered with something resembling a slightly thickened beef stock. The rice was cold and dry, which led me to believe it had been steamed far in advance of today. Ben sang the praises of his selection between enormous forkfuls of deep fried chicken nuggets in a thickly sweetened hot pepper sauce; of course, Ben wasn’t the pickiest diner I had ever met. I simply pushed my lunch around the Styrofoam plate with the plastic fork, occasionally stabbing a broccoli floret or slice of carrot that hadn’t been cooked beyond recognition and popping it in my mouth.
“Your food okay?” Ben asked. “Ya’ don’t seem ta’ be eatin’ much.”
“It’s fine,” I lied. “I’m just not real hungry right now.”
“So…” He paused for a moment and guzzled cola from a thirty-two ounce plastic cup before continuing, “You’re pretty sure this nutcase is gonna keep killin’?”
“Yes. If he’s following the mentality of the inquisitors, I would guess that he sees himself as apostolic. He probably believes that his actions are being directed by God.”
“Don’t tell me God’s talkin’ ta’ this wingnut through his electric razor or somethin’.”
“I don’t know, Ben.” I said. “If you’re looking for an accurate and expert psychological assessment, then I’m not the one you need to be speaking to. You know that. I can help you with the historical aspects, and if I visualize something up here…” I tapped my forehead with my index finger. “But other than that…”
“You think I need ta’ call the Feebs, don’tcha?”
“If you want a profile of him.” I confirmed his comment with a nod then added, “Look, I know you have a problem with the FBI getting involved, but you’ve got a pretty good working relationship with Constance Mandalay in the local field office. She’s pretty open-minded and you know it.”
“Yeah,” he grunted. “She’s workable. I just don’t wanna get stuck with another one of those know-it-alls with an Ivy League sheepskin an’ a big fat zero in the experience department. I don’t need that kinda aggravation when somethin’ like this is goin’ on.”
“So request her specifically.”
“I s’pose I could get ‘er involved unofficially and see where it goes. If the Feebs end up knee deep in it then…”
Ben’s vocal musing was bitten off cleanly by the shrill cry of his pager as it demanded immediate attention. He thumbed the button to silence the device and peered at the liquid crystal display with a thin-lipped frown.
“Office,” he proclaimed as he proceeded to slip the beeper back on to his belt, only to have it begin blaring loudly once more. Extracting the screaming palm full of electronic components, he glanced at its face with sharp disgust before returning it to his side once again. “Jeezus… Fuckin’…It’s the goddamned office again.”