The Law Of Three: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars

what it
says. Well, not all of it, anyway.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, it’s apparently a page from a book,”
Ben explained. “Or a copy of a page. His handwritten note reads
‘Gant—your wife has lovely hair.’”
    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I
shook my head and frowned.
    “Beats me, but the rest of the printed
text is in German, so until it’s translated we won’t know much.
Albright did recognize a few words; apparently, she took German in
high school or somethin’. Prossneck , Deutchland , Folterung , Hexefertigkeit and the year sixteen
twenty-nine.”
    He stumbled over the pronunciations, but I’m
not sure I could have done much better.
    “According to Bee-Bee they roughly
translate as Prossneck ,
Germany, torture, and WitchCraft.”
    Felicity audibly caught her breath and
jerked, dropping her coffee cup in the process. Hot java splattered
across the table, spilling over the edge. The ceramic mug bounced
once from the wet surface before falling to its demise on the tile
floor. Ben jumped back in his seat and instantly began extracting
handfuls of paper napkins from the metal holder next to the window.
In his haste, he sent the salt and pepper shakers spilling into the
seat and a bottle of catsup rolling toward me. The condiment-filled
vessel came to rest against my own coffee cup with a sharp plinking
noise, which is fortunate, because I wouldn’t have caught it. I was
otherwise paralyzed by the words my friend had just recited.
    “You okay, Felicity?” he asked as he began
mopping up the spill.
    My wife’s normally pale complexion was washed
to stark white as she sat frozen, staring across the table at Ben.
Her green eyes were wide, and it didn’t take a Witch to literally
feel the fear coming from her.
    “Felicity?” Ben called her name again and
then shifted to me when she didn’t answer. “Row? What the hell?
What’s going on?”
    The throb in my head moved up the scale a
pair of notches, instantly becoming far more than a nuisance.
Fear-induced nausea welled in the pit of my stomach and sent a
bitter burn into the back of my throat. I slipped my hand along the
edge of the table until I reached Felicity’s and then clasped her
fingers tight.
    “It’s not going to happen,” I said, fighting
to mask my own distress.
    “What?” Ben pressed as he threw more napkins
onto the puddle of cooling liquid. “What’s not going to
happen?”
    I turned my gaze to him but continued
to hold Felicity’s hand tightly. “The page is most likely from a
book by Wilhelm Pressel,” I recited. “It’s pretty obscure, but most
anyone who’s studied the Witch Trials of the Burning Times is
familiar with it. It didn’t dawn on me at first, but the minute you
said Prossneck , Germany,
well, that’s a bit of a giveaway. Anyway, if it is in fact a page
from Hexen und Hexenmeister ,
then the text is an actual accounting of the first day of torture
inflicted upon an accused Witch in the year sixteen
twenty-nine.”
    “Okay. That’s the kinda thing that would fit
with this wingnut’s profile. But, what’s with the comment about
Felicity’s hair?”
    “The first thing the hangman did to this
woman,” I explained, “was to bind her hands, attach her to a
torture ladder, and cut her hair off.” I swallowed hard before
continuing. “He then doused her head with alcohol and set it on
fire to burn the rest of her hair off down to the roots.”
    “Aye,” Felicity muttered quietly as she
regained her voice. “And that was only the beginning.”
    “He’s taunting me,” I stated as anger began
to creep into my voice. “The sonofabitch is telling me what he
plans to do to my wife.”
    “Jeezus… Goddamnit…” Ben whispered. “And I
thought I was takin’ the easy out. So much for breakin’ it to you
gently.”
    “You couldn’t have known,” I offered with a
shrug.
    “No,” he returned. “But the note is only half
of it.”
    “What else,” I asked with a