“Whatcha’ thinkin’ about now, Row?” my friend finally prodded.
“Why would Porter do that?” I asked aloud, talking to myself as much as to him.
“Do what?” Ben asked.
“Deliberately kill a non-Pagan individual.”
“Hell, Rowan, who knows?” Deckert shrugged and shook his head. “Covering his tracks probably.”
“But it just doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Porter’s thing has always been killing Witches. The last time around he even had a crisis of faith when he accidentally killed a non-Pagan.”
“As I recall,” Ben offered, “he ended up blaming you for that.”
“That’s how he came to terms with it, yes,” I assented.
“Yeah, well, I think Porter’s made it clear that it’s not just about killin’ Witches anymore, Row. He’s got it in for YOU.”
“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “So why am I here?”
I knew my words sounded more like a demand than a question the moment I heard my own voice, but I couldn’t help it. The dam had finally broken on my headache, and it was ramping up at an ever increasing rate. On top of that, I had an anxious feeling slithering around inside me that I just couldn’t shake. I didn’t know if it was fear, nerves, or something ethereal. I couldn’t even pinpoint if it had to do with me or someone else. All I could say for a fact was that I didn’t feel right, and this excursion was beginning to come across as an exercise in futility.
“Whaddaya mean?”
“I mean exactly that. What am I doing here? What does Albright want me to look at?” I waved my arm in a semicircle to indicate the scene before us. “Surely not this.”
“Well, there’s more in the back,” Deckert offered then held up the brown paper bag. “But she also said she wanted you to see this.”
“So that isn’t your lunch?” I asked, fighting to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and only partially succeeding.
Fortunately, Carl ignored it.
“Hell no,” he replied as he set the bag on the end of the board that was resting across the two-by-fours and then proceeded to unfold the top. “I don’t know what it is.”
Deckert reached into the now open bag, and when he withdrew his hand, he was holding a somewhat old-looking and dirt-smeared mason jar. From where I stood, I could see that the ring holding the lid on was rusted and weathered. A winding or two of black electrical tape encircled the rim and neck of the glass vessel. It appeared to be approximately half full with various shapes; some large, some small, some dark, some light, and some were even shiny. Pale liquid made up the remaining volume to within a pair of inches from the sealed top.
“Where did you find that?” I asked.
“Flowerbed next to the front porch,” Deckert replied. “One of the Crime Scene guys noticed that the mulch had been disturbed. He found this buried about a foot or so down.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “That would be about right.”
“So you sound like you know what it is?” he half-stated, half-asked.
Ben had reached out and taken the container from Deckert and was holding it up in the dim light. He inspected it intensely, holding it close to his face as he twisted it then announced, “There’s nails and fishhooks and razor blades and all kinds of other shit in here.”
“Probably some screws, broken glass, pins, needles, and anything else sharp you can think of too,” I added. “That’s a Witch jar.”
“THIS is a Witch jar?” Ben asked.
“What’s a Witch jar?” Deckert wedged in his question.
“It’s a protective talisman from a long line of folklore.” I offered the same general explanation I’d given Ben earlier. “They are used to repel Witches and especially magick. Sometimes they’re called Witch bottles. Porter probably made it and buried it out front in order to protect himself from me.”
“So when you mentioned these things earlier, I asked you if it was something I needed to know about,” Ben said, still inspecting the container.
“Actually you asked me if you WANTED to know about them,” I replied.
“Same difference,” he shot back.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” I apologized with a somewhat defensive tone in my voice. “I was just speculating at the time. I didn’t know that he’d actually leave a Witch jar somewhere.”
“Yeah, I know, but what I’m sayin’ is that you made out like it was something weird and all. I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s just a bunch of nails and shit in a jar of water.”
“That’s not water, Ben,” I told him. “It’s urine.”
He sat the jar back onto the board in a quick flurry of motion and then began wiping his hand on his pants leg as he screwed up his face in disgust. “What the fuck?! You mean he pissed in it?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “That’s how you make a Witch jar.”
“Jeezus, white man. That’s just gross.”
“Hey.” I shrugged. “I told you that you probably didn’t want to know.”
“Well hell, I can see why they would work,” Ben, announced. “I’m repelled by the damn thing myself.”
“That’s not exactly the intended use, Ben,” I told him. “It’s not the ‘disgust factor’ that does it; besides, now that it’s no longer buried it’s pretty much useless.”
“It has to be buried?”
I canted my head in a quick nod. “In order to work, yes.”
“So it’s just a jar of piss?” he asked.
“Pretty much.” I nodded. “With sharp objects in it.”
“So was it like some kinda magic or spell or somethin’?”
“More or less.”
“Well, there’s a WHY for you. If Porter is so dead set on killin’ Witches then why would he do something like this?”
“For the very same reason he wants to kill Witches,” I explained. “Superstition. Like I said, a Witch jar is something drawn from folklore.”
“So if it’s just a superstition then how can it work?”
“Have you ever heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy?”
“You mean like when you get yourself so worked up worrying about something that you actually make it happen?” Deckert asked.
I nodded my head. “Exactly. It’s the same concept. That’s the thing about magick. If you believe in it enough, you can make it real.”
“Okay, but this thing is still gross.”
“I’m not going to debate that with you,” I replied as I motioned to the vessel. “But, now you know what a Witch jar is.”
“Wunnerful,” he muttered. “I feel sufficiently educated now.”
“So, Carl, you said there was something in the back?” I ignored my friend’s sardonic tone and directed my question to Detective Deckert.
“Yeah.” He pointed to the doorway at the other end of the divided room. “He got a little artistic on the walls back there.”
“Monogram of Christ?” I mentioned the wreath-encircled X bisected by a P because it had been one of Porter’s calling cards the last time he had gone on a killing spree. I had even been on the receiving end of a series of ethereal stigmata of the same shape each time he claimed a victim. Unconsciously I reached my right hand over to massage my left forearm, as it had been the canvas for the bloody signs. Fortunately, there were no indications of a repeat performance at the moment.
“Yeah, there’s a couple of those.” He nodded affirmation as he spoke. “But there’s some other stuff. Star kinda things. Not sure what they’re s’posed to be. You’ll just have to look at ‘em.”
I shuddered for a moment and looked around as the hairs on the back of my neck rose painfully to attention. The tickle of gooseflesh serpentined down my spine and spread out from there, making me tense my muscles in pure reflex.
“You okay, white man?” Ben asked.
“I’m not sure,” I replied without looking at him. “I feel…”
I allowed my voice to trail off very simply because I couldn’t find words to describe the feeling that had come over me.
“You feel what?” my friend pressed after a moment of expectant silence.
The tingle that was prancing about on my skin oozed down my arms and welled in my hands, making them feel as though circulation was only now returning after an extended absence. Painful pricking sensations needled my fingers in a rapid-fire assault. I looked down at my hands and rubbed my thumbs against my fingertips. The pain intensified with each pass, and my hands began to burn as if they were on fire.