Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (29 page)

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” my
wife blurted, unabashedly taking the bull by the horns.

“Whaddaya mean?” Ben’s expression changed
from guilt to shock at Felicity’s candor.

“What I mean is, what gives you the right to
feel responsible for my miscarriage?”

“If Ben hadn’t...” Allison started.

“
Cac
capaill!
” My wife spat a Gaelic profanity.
The gates were open, and Felicity was living up to the stories
about redheads and their tempers. “Ben had nothing to do with
it!”

“I got you involved in this whole mess,” Ben
insisted. “If I’d never asked Rowan to help, you never would’ve
lost the baby.”

“You didn’t ask, Ben,” I expressed evenly. “I
volunteered. So did Felicity.”

“She didn’t volunteer to have some asshole
slam ‘er into a wall,” he shot back.

“I went over to Cally’s house of my own
accord,” my wife interjected slowly and with more than a hint of
anger. “You can’t possibly be responsible for my actions. And you,
Allison.” She shifted her blazing stare. “How can you possibly
blame Ben for something he had no control over?”

“Maybe he didn’t cause it directly,” Allison
returned. “But he never should have brought you into this.”

“She’s right,” Ben added. “You guys aren’t
cops. I never should have exposed you to the risks.”

“
Damnú ort!
” Felicity stood as the
expletive burst from her lips. “How dare you! How can you two be so
selfish?!”

“Selfish?”

“Yes, selfish!” she shouted. “This is MY
pain, not yours! It’s MY fault!”

I joined Ben and Allison in their stunned
expressions as I turned to my wife. We had discussed at length the
fact that Ben was not to blame for the accident, but at no point
had she ever affixed that blame to herself.

Until now.

Felicity remained standing, her auburn hair
draping forward as she dropped her chin, murmuring through choked
whimpers. “It’s my fault. I’m the one to blame.”

I was caught completely by surprise. I
inwardly damned myself for not recognizing the fragility of her
mental state. Even with the heightened senses I had developed
through years of practice and meditation, I had completely missed
this possibility. I shouldn’t have even needed those senses to know
that something like this could happen. I felt horribly fallible. I
had let her down.

“No, Felicity.” Allison was up from her seat
instantly, maternal instincts in overdrive. “No it isn’t.”

I stood and placed a comforting hand on my
sobbing wife’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault, honey. It’s nobody’s
fault. It was an accident.”

She turned quickly and buried her face
against my chest, shoulders heaving as she let out the pent up
emotion. I wrapped my arms about her gently, holding her close but
trying to avoid putting pressure on her cracked and bruised ribs.
Ben was on his feet now. Both he and Allison looked back at me in
astonishment. It was obvious from their expressions that they
hadn’t foreseen this eventuality either.

I continued to hold this woman I loved more
than my very life, crooning softly to her and allowing her to
release the torrent of tears she had been silently gathering for
the past day. We all stood wordlessly in the living room until
Felicity’s weeping ebbed. Eventually, she began to calm. The
shaking slowly faded away, and the sobs were replaced by muted
sniffles. She looked up at me with reddened eyes and brushed a
tangle of hair from her face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “You don’t have
anything to be sorry about.”

She released her grip on me then stepped back
unsteadily and shot Allison an embarrassed glance. “You wouldn’t
have a tissue then, would you?”

“Sure I do,” Allison soothed and slipped an
arm about her shoulders. “Come with me.”

Ben and I stared after them as Allison led
Felicity down the hallway adjoining the living room. Considering
the circumstances, I figured they would be gone for a while.

“Jeezus, Rowan, I’m sorry,” Ben sympathized
as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I never thought...”

“Neither did I,” I echoed as his words
trailed off. “Neither did I.”

* * * * *

The blame and self-accusation had finally
completed its rounds, starting with Cally and ending with Felicity.
Of everyone involved, she understandably took it the hardest. It
was nearing midnight before we finally left Ben and Allison. All
four of us were emotionally drained and physically exhausted, but
the two of them were getting along much better than they had been
when we first arrived. The cathartic episode left Felicity red-eyed
and fighting a sinus headache, but in a somewhat selfish way, I was
relieved that it was now over. Whether the police wanted to believe
it or not, there was still a psycho out there, and I was certain he
was preparing to kill again. I needed to be able to apply all of my
attention to figuring out who he was before that happened.

“So I guess I managed to make a complete fool
of myself this evening,” Felicity lamented, eyes shut, head tilted
back on the headrest and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I consoled. “You just
did what anyone else in your position would have. I wouldn’t worry
about it.”

She took in a deep breath and let it out
slowly. “At least Allison and Ben are straightened out.”

“Yeah. I think they’re pretty clear on the
subject now.”

We continued on quietly, and I hooked a
cautious left through the flashing yellow light at the
intersection, speeding onto the highway in the direction of
home.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” I finally
announced.

“For what?” She was still massaging her
sinuses, head back and eyes closed.

“For not being prepared,” I explained. “For
not knowing how it was that you really felt.”

“How could you have known?” she half asked,
half stated. “I told you I was fine. You aren’t a mind reader.”

“I’m a Witch. I should have sensed that
something was wrong.”

“You’ve been preoccupied lately,” she
admonished. “You can’t expect to be able to do everything.”

“I can at least expect to be sensitive to you
and your feelings,” I expressed, glancing over at her.

“Don’t beat yourself up over this, Rowan.”
She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Take it from someone who’s
been doing just that. It won’t accomplish anything.”

I paused for a moment, pondering the wisdom
of what she had just said. “I just wanted you to know I love you,”
I whispered.

“I never doubted it.”

Darkness.

Cold, lifeless, complete darkness.

Falling.

Screaming.

Silence.

Light.

I’m standing somewhere. I’m standing
nowhere.

There is something in my hand. I look down
and notice that I am holding a cane. My hand is encased in a white
glove. I am dressed in white.

Formal.

A white tuxedo with tails.

“
Hello, Mister,” a small voice calls from
the void.

I turn to find a small child. A young girl
with silky, strawberry-blonde hair tied up with perfect, white
satin bows. She is dressed in a lacy, white, party dress and Mary
Janes. She’s looking up at me with large, curious eyes. She holds
out her tiny, gloved hand to me and then waits.

I take her hand.

A scream.

Silence.

The young girl is tugging on my
coattail.

“
Give him the tickets, Mister,” she tells
me.

“
What?” I ask. “Who? What
tickets?”

“
Tickets, please.” There is a faceless man
standing before me.

In my hand, I hold two smooth rectangles. I
turn them over in my hand. I don’t know where they came from or why
I have them. I can only assume that they are the tickets the man
wants.

At first glance, they appear blank.

At second glance, they appear patterned.

At third glance, they appear familiar.

I look at them closer.

The Seven of Pentacles.

“
Mister, give him the tickets, or we’ll
miss the show.”

The young girl continues to tug on my
coattail in frustration.

“
Hurry.”

I give the faceless man the tickets. I don’t
know why.

We are sitting.

We are in a theatre.

Seats seem to extend forever into the
shadows. They are all empty. The young girl and I are the only
audience.

There is a program in my hands. It is
printed on a single sheet of fancy paper and folded in the center.
The symbol adorning the front of the page is the Seven of
Pentacles. I begin to peel open the crisp parchment.

“
They’re starting.” The girl nudges me and
points to the stage before us.

I look up. The tall vermilion curtain is
swinging open slowly. A grey mist is beginning to spill from the
slit forming in the center.

The curtains are open wide, suddenly, as if
they had never been closed.

A faceless woman with strawberry-blonde
hair, dressed in elegant white lace is standing center stage. She
is flanked on her left by a faceless brunette and on her right by a
faceless blonde. They are all dressed alike.

The grey mist spills over the edge of the
stage and is filling the theatre. It hangs wetly around my ankles,
creeping incessantly up my legs.

A scream.

A splash of red spreads across the breast of
the woman at center stage, and her body heaves violently as a
gurgling voice calls out, “Why, Rowan, Why?”

I try to get up. I can’t. The cold grey mist
has crept up over my knees and into my lap. It is holding me in the
seat. I can’t move.

I look over at the young girl. She is
staring intently at the stage.

A scream.

I look back to the stage. I don’t want to,
but I can’t help myself. A crimson stain bursts forth on the chest
of the faceless brunette woman. She begins crumpling to the floor,
shrouded in the mist. A new voice gurgles, “Our Father who art in
heaven, hallowed be Thy name...”

The mist has made its way farther up my body
now. It floats about me mid-chest. I look over to the young girl. I
expect her to be completely covered in the paralyzing fog.

She isn’t.

She looks back at me curiously as the fog
licks at her but never touches. I open my mouth, but I can’t make a
sound. She turns back to the stage.

A scream.

Blood, thick and red, flows from the chest
of the blonde, quickly forming a Pentagram, then blending into a
formless blotch. She begins to slip downward into the fog, her
gurgling voice reaches my ears, “Who are you? Why are you doing
this to me?”

The woman center stage is still standing.
She continues to shake violently, her head rolls forward, and a
face forms where there had only been void. Her eyes open, and she
looks directly at me. She begins to slide away into the grey mist,
and her mouth begins to move, “Why don’t you stop him, Rowan?”

Her body disappears. Standing in place
behind her is a hooded, robed figure, a bloody dirk held firmly in
his grip. He looks at me, then to the young girl, then back to me
again. He appears faceless, but even at this distance, I can see
his eyes.

Cold.

Cold, grey eyes.

The thick fog erupts before him. A plume
rises quickly, then dissipates, falling back to the floor almost as
quickly as it had risen, leaving behind the lace clad form of yet
another young woman. She screams.

The scream echoes forever throughout the
shadows. The robed figure raises the dirk, then plunges it
downward.

Blood.

Dark crimson, thick with the young woman’s
life. The life that flows out of her in time with her waning
scream. The hooded figure thrusts his hand into her chest, then
wrenches it back as her dying body crumples to the floor.

The mist is just below my chin. I’m
completely unable to move now, and I’m finding it hard to breathe.
I look over at the young girl next to me.

“
This is just the dress rehearsal,” she
tells me matter-of-factly, looking up at my face with large bright
eyes. “I’ve got to go now, Mister.”

I try to speak as the girl slides off her
seat and begins skipping up the aisle, a fogless void enveloping
her. Nothing comes out. She disappears.

“
All...Is...Forgiven,” a deep, demonic
voice filters into my ears.

I look back to the stage. The hooded figure
holds his hand aloft, vermilion streaks dripping down his bare arm.
In his hand there is grasped a still-beating heart.

The fog has reached my face. I try to hold
my breath, but it slides in anyway. It creeps into my nostrils and
into my mouth. It tastes foul.

It continues to rise and now covers my
head.

I can hold my breath no longer.

Darkness.

An endless scream.

Once again, I awoke to the sound of my own
tortured scream. As Felicity had suspected days ago, the nightmares
weren’t going to end until this was over. Not until the real killer
was found and stopped.

As neither of us had foreseen, the episodes
were growing more intense. Each nightmare was more disturbing than
its predecessor—more vivid, more maddening. Each dream was drawing
me closer to what could only be an inexorable convergence with the
cancerous insanity eating away at the mind of the murderer.

My wife straddled me in the bed, gripping my
shoulders and shaking me violently. I continued to scream.

“Rowan!” Her mouth formed the word, my name,
but her voice couldn’t penetrate the banshee wail that filled my
ears. “ROWAN!”

A stinging sensation suddenly radiated
through the side of my face as my head wrenched to the side, and
silence faded quickly into the room. It had taken the shock of
Felicity’s hand impacting my cheek to awaken me from the pain of
the nightmare.