Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (5 page)

“Okay,” he answered, then drained the coffee
from his cup and set it on the table before him. “Let’s go do
this.”

* * * * *

Ariel Tanner had lived on the first floor of
a four-family flat on a street called Shenandoah within the city
limits of Saint Louis. From my house in the suburbs, it took the
better part of thirty minutes to reach it even though the Saturday
morning traffic was light. The morning sun was already climbing in
the sky when we rolled into the alleyway behind the flat and Ben
pulled the Chevy into something resembling a parking space.

“This is it,” he told me, switching off the
knocking engine and pushing open his complaining door.

I climbed out as well, and we stood in the
small patch of grass that served as a backyard, quietly studying
the rear entrance of the building. A short flight of wooden stairs
led up to a whitewashed exterior door. The porch light, fitted with
a dim yellow bulb, still burned in the crisp shadows caused by a
small overhang jutting from the brick wall to cover the
landing.

“The apartment next to hers,” Ben told me,
“and the one directly above are currently unoccupied.” He pointed
to each of the windows. “The other upstairs apartment belongs to a
forty-year-old woman who’s stone deaf. Besides, she wasn’t even
home.”

A ghostly flash of noise battered my eardrums
for a moment. The briefness and ethereal quality of the mechanical
rumble told me it was only in my head, but I knew immediately what
it meant.

“And the air conditioner was running,” I
stated. “No one could hear her over the noise if she screamed.”

“Yeah,” Ben paused and looked at me sideways.
“The other neighbors didn’t hear a thing.” We started walking
toward the stairs. “Anyway, the outer doors automatically lock, and
there were no visible signs of forced entry, so we assume she
either knew the killer and let ‘im in, or he had a key or somethin’
of that sort.”

“Locksmith, maybe,” I offered as we climbed
the stairs and came to rest on the landing.

“We’re checking into that,” Ben replied. “The
upstairs neighbor was the one that found ‘er when she was comin’ in
later that evenin’. Her door was propped open, and the neighbor
thought it was a little strange.”

“Deliberately propped open?”

“Looked that way.”

“Odd…” I mused aloud. “That would seem to
indicate that whoever did this wanted the body found quickly.”

Taking out a key that had been provided to
the police by the landlord, he opened the exterior door, and we
stepped into what could be referred to as a small, shared mud room.
To either side, there was a door, each with a large, sectioned pane
of glass. Peering through the left window, one could see that the
apartment was empty. Through the right, the small kitchen appeared
lived in. Shiny copper pots and pans hung from a ceiling rack in
the center of the room, and there was a can of vegetarian chili
sitting on the counter in front of a small microwave—a last meal
that was never eaten. Ben took a small lock blade from his pocket,
opened it and cut the Police Crime Scene seal on the door. Stowing
the knife and using another key, he unlocked the door.

“Uhhh, Ben.” I reached out and grabbed his
arm as he started to push the door open. “I’d better warn you about
something.”

“Warn me ‘bout what?” He turned to face
me.

“This...” I started. “This might get a little
weird, for lack of a better word.”

“Are you talkin’ about that hocus-pocus shit
again?” he asked, still holding the doorknob.

“One,” I shot back. “Yes, if that’s what you
want to call it. Two, it’s not shit.”

“Okay, okay,” he answered, knowing that he’d
raised my ire. “Sorry. But I already told ya’ I don’t really
believe in all that stuff.” He slipped his hand up to smooth his
hair and let out a resigned sigh. “Okay, look, I’ll give it a try
your way, but don’t expect too much from me. I operate in a world
where physical evidence is what makes the case.”

“Fair enough. For the sake
of argument though, you might want to take notes. Also, if I
zone out
on you, don’t
touch me. That would break my concentration.”

“Okay,” he answered and pushed the door open.
“Whatever you say.”

I knew he was still unconvinced, but I also
knew I could trust him to do as I asked. In any event, as soon as
the door swung open, there was no turning back.

The first thing I felt was the hair on the
back of my neck as it stood on end then was rapidly followed by
every other hair on my body mimicking the action. My skin began to
burn as if I were baking under a sun lamp. Proceeding forward, I
stepped through the entrance, followed closely by Ben. I scarcely
heard the faint click of the door as he pressed it shut.

“Be careful of that crap they used to dust
for prints, it’ll stain...”

I held up a hand to cut him off and walked
quietly through the kitchen, working my way to the counter. I began
to consciously control my breathing, slowly and deeply in through
my nose and out through my mouth. I relaxed and imagined a spire of
light, white and pure, running from the soles of my feet to the
center of the Earth. In a matter of moments, I was “grounded,” and
I cleared my mind, allowing it to become a blank, unblemished
slate. I slipped easily into a shallow trance, and when I felt
relaxed, centered, and in control, I reached out to touch the
unopened can of chili on the counter. When my hand made contact, I
invited the last few moments of Ariel Tanner’s life to play
themselves out upon the empty screen I had created.

My vision tunneled, and colors bled away,
running like paint being poured from a can. I could hear the
melodious humming of a female voice, pretty and distinct. I looked
around to see where it originated, only to realize that it was
coming from within me as I assumed Ariel’s role. A part of me
struggled to remain earthbound, and I knew that the humming was
occurring only inside my head. My conscious self would have to
narrate what I was seeing for Ben.

“I, Ariel, am humming,” I told him. “I’m
happy and I’m getting ready to fix myself something for
dinner.”

“Whaddaya mean ‘you, Ariel’?” Ben was
perplexed. “What are ya’ talkin’ about?”

“Just listen,” I instructed him.

What was that? A noise. Maybe there’s
someone at the door. I’d better check.

The scenario continued to project itself
inside my mind, and I turned and walked to the door. I was vaguely
aware of Ben quickly shuffling out of my path and following along
behind me.

“There might be someone at this door,” I
continued talking aloud. “She heard a noise, and she’s checking on
it. She’s opening the door.”

That’s funny, no one there. I was sure I
heard something. I guess I just imagined it. Oh well, I need to eat
soon. I just took my insulin twenty minutes ago.

“There’s no one there.” I went on, “She
thinks she must have imagined the noise.” I turned and walked back
to the counter. “She’s a diabetic, and she has to eat something
because she just took her insulin.”

“Yeah, we found it in the fridge,” Ben told
me hesitantly, and I didn’t admonish him.

What?! What’s going on? Who’s there? STOP!
Let me go! Don’t do that! Get that away from my face! What’s that
smell? I’m gagging. Stop it!

I could feel her struggling as she was
grabbed from behind, and I was forced to tense my own muscles to
keep from lashing out in a mirrored response. A phantomlike, sickly
sweet odor tickled my nostrils, urging me to drift off into sleep.
I shook my head, fending off the woozy sensation. “Someone grabbed
her from behind. She’s struggling, but he’s too strong. She smells
something. He put something over her face. Chloroform or
something...”

Dizzy. Sleepy. I’m falling. Falling.

“She’s blacking out,” I stated urgently.

Ouch! What was that? Something bit me on my
arm. Did a mosquito get in here? No. It felt like a needle. Oh, I
feel strange. What’s happening to me? Why does my head feel like
this. I’m dizzy. Why is the room getting so dark?

“Pain,” I almost shouted. “Something on her
arm. A bite? No, a needle. The bastard drugged her. Look at his
face, Ariel! Dammit, look at his face!”

The sequence ended in a black fog, and I
stumbled against the counter. I sensed Ben reaching for me
uncertainly then pulling back, apparently remembering I had told
him not to touch me if I tranced.

“I’m okay,” I told him, regaining my balance
and pulling off my glasses in order to rub my eyes. “He drugged
her. Did the medical examiner check for drugs?”

“Should have. Tox screens are SOP,” Ben
answered. “I still don’t have a report yet. You sure you’re all
right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I answered. “Let’s keep
going. Maybe she saw his face at some point.”

“Look, Row,” Ben started. “Uhhh... Are you
tellin’ me that you’re actually seein’ what Ariel Tanner saw the
night she was murdered?”

“Believe it or not, Ben,” I looked at him
squarely in the face. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling
you.”

“Jeezus,” he said, “I’ve seen some strange
shit, but this...” his voice trailed off.

Though I had explained to Ben some of the
more minor aspects of WitchCraft, this was the first time he had
ever seen any of the abilities I had cultivated in my studies.
Considering his feelings on the subject, I realized I was asking
him to take a rather large leap of faith, but of all my
non-practicing friends, I felt certain he could be the most
open-minded even if he hadn’t demonstrated it as yet. I flashed him
an understanding smile to let him know that I understood what he
must have been thinking at the moment and patted him lightly on the
arm as I moved past into the wide hallway.

At the end, I could see where the passage
opened into a combination living room/dining room area. To my left,
there was a closet and bathroom, to my right, the doorway to
Ariel’s bedroom. I continued my measured breathing as I stepped
lightly along the worn hardwood floor. Once again, my hairs began
to pivot upward painfully and my skin to sear as I entered the
actual scene of the murder.

Blood on the walls and sheets had turned a
rusty brown where it had continued to dry. A tracing of Ariel’s
body was stretched out across the bed like a frozen caricature of
the once vibrant young woman, the yellow lines clashing with the
brownish red crust of dried blood. I moved slowly to the bed then
grounded and centered. Once again, the color rapidly drained from
the scene about me, and I felt myself being sucked into a dark
tunnel.

Oh my head hurts. Why can’t I see? It’s
dark. No, there’s a light. I have to move toward it. My arms. Why
can’t I move my arms? I’m cold.

As before, the events of that night flooded
into my brain caustically. I was experiencing her terror. Her
pain.

Why am I on my bed? I’m cold. Where are my
clothes? My arms hurt. My back hurts. What’s that noise?!

“I’m...she’s...” I started again, speaking
from the trance I had fallen into. “...On the bed, my arms hurt and
I can’t move them. They’re tied behind me...her. I’m...” I fought
to maintain a separation between the experience and myself.
“...She’s nude. The air conditioner is on and it’s blowing on her.
She’s cold. She hears a noise.”

Who’s there? Why can’t I speak? I’m trying
so hard but nothing is coming out. I’m so cold. I’m frightened.
What’s happening? That noise again. Someone is here. They’re moving
around. Why can’t I remember anything? My head hurts.

“He’s moving around, but she can’t see him,”
I continued. “He must be out of her line of sight or maybe out of
the room. I’m not sure.”

A crash! Am I being robbed? Oh please, let
whoever it is just take what they want and leave. Wait. Someone
grabbed me when I was in the kitchen. Who was it? Oh why can’t I
remember? I’m cold. I’m scared.

“She heard a loud crash or something. From
another room maybe,” I spoke. “She thinks it might be a burglar,
but she still can’t see. She remembers being attacked in the
kitchen. Whatever he drugged her with is still working on her.
She’s foggy. She’s having trouble moving. Come on, Ariel,” I
continued out loud. “Fight it. Concentrate.”

Maybe if I try to move forward. Ouch, that
hurts. Just a little more. I’m so cold. Why is this happening to
me? There, now I can see the door. Ohhhh, I’m feeling sick…hanging
upside down...I can’t. Oh my head hurts.

“She managed to move herself a little. Her
head is hanging over the side of the bed now, upside down. It’s
making her nauseous.”

Who is that? Why is this person in my house?
Why is this person wearing a ceremonial robe? Pull the hood back. I
can’t see who you are. It’s cold. No, don’t go to that side of the
bed, I can’t see you. What are you doing? Am I going to be raped?
Please, don’t let him rape me.

“He came into the room,” I
continued. “He’s wearing a ceremonial robe, and the hood is
covering his face. He walked around to the other side of the bed.
She can’t see him.
NO, don’t do that. I
can’t see you
.” I slipped for a moment, and
Ariel blended into the voice of my conscious self. “She’s afraid
he’s going to rape her.”

What are you doing? He’s touching me. What?
What are you saying? You’re sorry? Sorry about what. It’s cold. My
arms are killing me. Why are you doing this?

“He’s speaking to her!” I exclaimed out loud.
“He’s telling her he’s sorry. She doesn’t understand. Concentrate,
Ariel,” I coached the vision. “Help me help you.”

What are you talking about? Sorry? What are
you sorry about? I don’t understand. Tell me what you mean. Your
voice sounds familiar, but I can’t remember who you are. Ouch! What
are you doing? Get off of me. Oh, why can’t I scream? If I could
just scream, someone would come to help me. It’s cold. Get off of
me. What is that in your hand? What are you doing?!