Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (27 page)

The Seven of Pentacles.

Pain rips through my back and into my chest.
Out of reflex I look down. The gilt end of a beveled blade is
protruding from my chest.

Blood.

Scarlet, thick blood runs down my shirt.

“
All...Is…Forgiven.” A dark voice laughs
from behind me. The knife juts farther from my solar
plexus.

I look down at the tarot cards in my hand.
Slowly they spill into space, fluttering then fading away. I fight
to focus on them as they quickly flash their faces to me before
they disappear.

They are all the same card.

They are all the Seven of Pentacles.

Darkness.

An endless tortured scream.

I awoke to the sound of my
own voice. Maybe
voice
isn’t the right word as it was more the sound of my own
bloodcurdling and tortured scream. The dogs were alertly stationed
before me, growling and barking as if an intruder had burst into
the house, invading their territory. The cats were nowhere to be
seen, and I can’t say that I blamed them.

Once again, I was bathed in a cold sweat,
breathing heavily as though I had just finished running a marathon.
This was becoming ridiculous. I had only managed one decent night’s
sleep out of the past four, and it was beginning to take its toll.
This time the nightmare had taken on even more intensity. It was
obvious that Ariel was trying to tell me something; I was certain
of it. Doubtless, she had been trying to do the same in the last
dream as well.

After calming the dogs, I immediately
retrieved my Book of Shadows and recorded the still vivid details
of this latest nightmare. By the time I finished, fatigue once
again overtook me, knocking the second wind from my sails and
leading me into a restless sleep.

* * * * *

The next morning, Felicity was dressed and
waiting for me when I arrived at the hospital. Her doctor had
released her earlier, and she was more than ready to remove herself
from the premises. She had been fortunate in some respects as her
injuries could have been far worse. Other than the miscarriage, she
sustained only two cracked ribs and some minor bruises.

My fiery-tressed wife demonstrated her
stubbornness and resolve in her refusal to be pushed out of the
hospital in a wheelchair, though she did allow me to carry her
overnight bag for her. I left Felicity sitting on a bench at the
main entrance while I rode up in the elevator and then brought my
truck down through the spiraling corkscrew of the parking garage.
Moments after I left her, I exited the concrete structure, quickly
zipped around the block, and brought the truck to a halt directly
in front of the bench.

“I should have known you would be ready to
leave,” I told her after I turned onto the street.

“I hate hospitals,” she answered. “You know
that.”

“Well, you must have at least gotten some
rest.”

“What makes you say that?”

“No heavy accent this morning.”

“I don’t have an accent.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, leave me alone,” she returned with a
slightly annoyed tone then returned to the original subject. “I
didn’t need to stay overnight. I feel fine.”

I pushed the truck forward and turned left
onto Kingshighway. “I’m glad you feel fine, but what did the doctor
say?”

“He said I was okay,” she acknowledged. “I
just need to take an iron supplement for a while.”

“What about the ribs?”

“He told me they’d be sore for a week or so,”
she went on. “But they’ll heal up okay.”

I veered right toward the on-ramp and sped
up, merging with the highway traffic. We rode along in silence for
a few moments, Felicity staring out the side window.

“How are you with the whole miscarriage
thing,” I gently queried. “I mean mentally.”

“I honestly don’t know,” she replied, her
voice flat. “I’m kind of in shock I guess. I’m not sure if it’s
really sunk in yet.” She let out a long sigh and continued staring
out the window. A few moments passed, and she turned to me once
again. “I don’t know that I really felt all that pregnant.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, I know I had the morning
sickness and all…” She fumbled as she searched for the words to
explain her feelings. “But that was only once. I don’t think I was
pregnant long enough for it to really sink in. I don’t know. I hope
I don’t sound callous. I’m sure I’m not making any sense to
you.”

“You don’t sound callous,” I reassured her.
“And I think I understand.”

“I’m depressed about it,” she announced after
another long pause. “I just don’t think I’m going to go off the
deep end or anything. What about you? How do you feel about all of
this?”

“I’m disappointed,” I told her, “and a bit
depressed. Mainly, I’m pissed at Devon.”

“Did you ever hear how his surgery went?”

I changed lanes then glanced over at her.
“Haven’t heard a thing.”

“Have you talked to Ben?”

“Not since he dropped me off at my truck
yesterday afternoon,” I outlined. “Something’s going on with him
and Allison. He was real quiet.”

“Like what?”

I explained the incident I had only partially
witnessed as well as Ben’s abnormally introspective demeanor that
followed. Felicity agreed with my theory that Ben’s dedication to
his job, combined with the extra hours he had been working, might
be putting a strain on his relationship with Allison. Since she
knew Ben as well as I did, she also agreed that we would have to
wait for him to come to us.

We exited the highway and continued up the
tree-lined streets toward our home.

“They’re going to charge R.J. with the
murders,” Felicity finally announced in a depressed tone.

“We don’t know that,” I responded. “Like I
told you last night, a lot depends on what they find in his
apartment.”

“No. I can feel it,” she insisted. “They’re
going to charge him, and he’s not the one.”

“I know,” I told her. “But
the police can’t make their decisions based on the ethereal
feelings and gut reactions of a couple of
Witches
.”

“Then we need to find something that they CAN
base their decisions on.”

I looked over at her. She wore a determined
expression combined with a creased brow, which told me the wheels
were already turning beneath her auburn mane. I had kept the second
nightmare a secret from her, as I didn’t want her to worry. Now
that the third one had forced its way into my life, I suspected it
might be time to fill her in. I thought maybe, if we worked on it
together, we could decipher the clues I felt Ariel was attempting
to give me.

“So, I think I could use your help with...” I
looked back to the road as I turned down our street and quickly
changed my train of thought. “What the hell?!”

The street in front of our home had become a
small circus of news vans and media personalities. Tall telescoping
booms extended from the vehicles, pushing dish antennas skyward in
competition for the best angle and location. Camera-toting video
technicians, burdened with battery belts and miles of cable,
lounged against the vans in a state of detached boredom while
nearly half a dozen on-air talents milled about expectantly.

“We really don’t need this,” I expressed my
thought aloud as we approached.

“Tell me about it,” Felicity agreed. “You
think they’ll go away if we just ignore them?”

“I doubt it,” I mused sardonically. “They’re
television reporters. They don’t pick up on things as fast as your
average household pets do.”

Intent on not being driven from my home by
the tenacious reporters, I swung the truck into our driveway and
sped past them around to our garage in back of the house. They
sprang immediately into frenetic activity, adjusting neckties or
primping coiffed hair, as they motioned testily for their apathetic
cameramen to follow them.

“So what do we do now?” Felicity asked as the
garage door automatically slid shut behind us. “We can’t sit in
here forever.”

“No, we can’t,” I agreed. “Why don’t you go
in and call Ben. Let him know what’s going on. While you’re doing
that, I’ll go out front and ask them to leave.”

“Ask them to leave?” she echoed. “You don’t
really think that’s going to do any good do you?”

“Of course not, but it can’t hurt.”

She answered me with a familiar roll of her
eyes before opening her door and stepping out of the cab.
“Whatever.”

The throng of TV journalists was shuffling
about in my driveway like a directionless herd of cattle. Some of
them focused their attention on the front of the house while others
craned their necks in an attempt to see where Felicity and I might
have disappeared. When I rounded the corner however, the division
of observation ended and all eyes, including cameras, were brought
to bear on me.

“Mister Gant, can I ask you a few
questions?”

“Dirk White, Channel Four News, Mister Gant,
has there been any progress in the investigation?”

“Rumor has it that a suspect is in custody.
Is that true, Mister Gant?”

“Mister Gant, Mister Gant. Brandee Street,
Eyewitness News. Is it true that your wife was directly involved in
the capture of a suspect?”

They shouted their questions, assaulting me
from all sides as they attempted to make themselves heard over
their rivals. I remained calm and continued to amble easily up the
drive toward them, making it a point to be in no particular hurry.
Inevitably, I reached the small crowd and came to a halt a few feet
away.

Brandee Street burst forth, her honey-blonde
mane moussed into immobility. “Mister Gant, sources close to the
investigation say that your wife was injured while aiding in the
apprehension of a suspect in the Satanic Serial Killer case. Would
you like to comment?”

Ignoring the question, I held up my hands in
a quieting gesture and waited for the huddled group to settle down.
Much to my surprise, it didn’t take long for them to comply.
Apparently, they assumed I was about to make some type of statement
as they all held their microphones forward and stared at me
expectantly. What I did tell them, however, was not what they
wanted to hear.

“I just came out here to let you know that
you’re wasting your time,” I announced. “My wife and I have no
intention of making any statements about the case or answering any
questions. So, we would appreciate it greatly if you would please
leave us alone.”

Brandee Street was the first to ignore my
speech. “Was that your wife with you in the truck, Mister
Gant?”

“Was her injury serious?” another reporter
interposed.

As I mutely waved off the questions, I
noticed a dark grey station wagon as it slipped up next to the curb
on the side street across from my house. The thought of another
reporter joining the crowd that was currently assaulting me was
less than pleasant.

“I told you we aren’t going to answer any
questions,” I repeated. “Now can you please leave us alone?”

I cast a glance in the direction of the
station wagon and noticed that the driver was still positioned
behind the wheel. The sun visor blocked the upper half of his face,
and his hand obscured the lower half, as he appeared to be speaking
into what I assumed to be a hand-held tape recorder. I wondered to
myself if Felicity had managed to contact Ben.

“Mister Gant, is there any truth to the rumor
that there is a suspect in custody?” Another reporter, Dirk White,
quickly rattled off the question then pushed his microphone at
me.

“Are you people deaf?” I appealed. “How many
times do I have to tell you we aren’t going to answer any
questions?”

I was only seconds away from throwing my
hands up in utter exasperation and retreating to the interior of my
home. Now, more than ever, I understood why Ben always referred to
the media as vultures. Mere moments before I sought an escape, a
patrol car from the Briarwood police department rolled to a halt on
the opposite side of the street. The light bar adorning the top of
the marked sedan flickered to life, and a thick, uniformed officer
complete with mirrored aviators emerged, citation book in hand.
With a sly grin, the cop nodded and gave me a silent wave. He
opened his trunk and rummaged around for a moment, then finding
what he was after, set about the task at hand. I almost couldn’t
contain my amusement when I noticed that he was adeptly attaching
boots to the front tires of the news vans, rendering them immobile,
presumably until a towing service arrived.

“Do your stations cover towing expenses?” I
asked the swarm of reporters.

“Excuse me?” one of them returned.

“I was just curious,” I continued. “Getting a
vehicle out of the impound lot can be a little pricey, especially
when you add in the towing costs.”

One by one at first, then almost as a
collective, realization set in, and they turned in their tracks.
Various muttered expletives filtered to my ears, and I noticed that
Brandee Street let out a small, angry shriek and stamped her foot
as I had seen her do two nights before. I was momentarily forgotten
as they all began to stride purposefully to their vans. A cameraman
I recognized as Ed, the collector of Brandee’s temper tantrums,
hung back from the group. He grinned widely and flashed me a quick
thumbs up.

“Good one” was all he said before sauntering
off to join the rest.

I was certain that the officer had his hands
full with the crowd of whining prima donnas and was hesitant to
bother him, but I wanted to be sure he was aware of the grey
station wagon parked at the corner. As I debated how to get this
information to him, I looked over to see if the car was still
there. I was greeted with the sight of the vehicle’s occupant as he
strolled across the street toward me, gingerly balancing a baking
dish in his hands. Instead of another reporter as I had suspected,
I was surprised and relieved to see Detective Carl Deckert, grey
hair flying on a light breeze.