Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (15 page)

“That would have been me,” she replied. “I
paged him, and he did come to the hospital this afternoon, but I am
afraid it didn’t go very well.”

I didn’t ask what she meant. I was capable of
doing the math, and it really wasn’t all that hard to solve this
particular equation with the values I already had in hand.

“So, do you think they can…” I started a
question then thought better of it and stopped myself short.

“Reconcile?” she finished for me. “I don’t
know, but I must try.”

“I understand,” I said. “So, this is probably
a stupid question, but I take it you’ve tried his cell and his
pager again?”

“Yes. Several times. I have called his
office, his apartment, and even Allison,” she told me, referring to
her former sister-in-law. “I’m afraid I don’t have Constance’s
number, but I was hoping you might.”

“He won’t be there,” I told her. “She’s out
of town right now.”

Helen’s list was the same one I had tried
earlier, with the exception of Allison. However, hearing it recited
by her made me realize that it was incomplete, especially now that
I knew my friend was most likely looking for a place to hide.

“Can I reach you on your cell phone?” I asked
suddenly.

“Yes,” she replied. “Why?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I might have an
idea where he is,” I told her.

“Where?”

“The Third
Place
.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a cigar shop downtown,” I explained.
“If he was in a foul mood when he left the hospital, I’m willing to
bet that’s where he went to cool off.”

“But, would they not be closed at this hour?”
Helen objected.

“To the public, yes,” I agreed. “But, he
knows the owner.”

“Can we call there?” she pressed. “What is
the number?”

“I doubt if anyone will answer the phone this
time of night,” I replied. “I’ll try, but if I can’t get hold of
anyone, I’ll go down there.”

“I’m sorry, what?…” Helen’s voice came across
the line a hollow echo, as if the phone were pulled away from her
mouth. I could hear several other muffled voices in the background
along with nondescript commotion. Her voice grew louder as she
suddenly came back on the line and said, “Hold on for a moment,
Rowan…”

“Sure,” I replied, not certain if she was
even there to hear me.

I listened to the frantic noises going on in
the hospital room at the other end of the line. Whatever was
happening, it didn’t sound any better than it felt. I let out a
heavy breath and forced myself to ground and center. As much as I
empathized with Helen, I had more than enough on my plate at the
moment and that included helping her to find Ben. The last thing I
needed to do right now was to tap into her plummeting emotions
because if I did, I was going to be useless to her.

Felicity had disappeared almost as soon as I
had finished uttering the name of the cigar shop Ben and I
frequented, and she now returned to the kitchen, dressed in denim
jeans and a sweatshirt. Stepping over to the table, she deftly
tossed back the remains of her rum then began gathering her hair
and twisting it into a loose Gibson girl.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Going with you, then,” she replied without
missing a beat. “What does it look like?”

“I might just be making a phone call,” I told
her.

“You won’t get an answer. You know that.”

“Yeah, well it would probably be a good idea
for you to come along anyway, so I can keep an eye on you,” I
returned, glancing over at the bottle of liquor, then added
quickly, “But, the booze stays here.”

“Aye, I’ll leave the bottle,” she quipped.
“I’ll just fill a flask.”

I didn’t get a chance to retort as Helen
suddenly came back on the line. “Rowan?”

“Yes, Helen, I’m here.”

“Please hurry,” she said, her voice revealing
a new level of distress well beyond what it had earlier contained.
“Benjamin needs to make his peace with our father, and there is
precious little time left.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as I hung up with Helen, I
began stabbing the number of
The Third
Place
into the phone, but as I had suspected and my
wife had so matter-of-factly stated, the call went unanswered.
After that first try, I quickly got dressed while filling Felicity
in on the specifics of the rest of the conversation then hurried
out to my truck with her close on my heels.

“You didn’t really fill a flask, did you?” I
asked as I began backing out of the garage.

She didn’t answer, so when I came to a halt
and levered the truck out of reverse, I looked over at her. The
reason for her muteness was readily apparent when I caught her
screwing the lid back on the stainless steel vessel.

“Felicity…” I moaned.

“This place has cigarettes, right?” she
asked.

I simply sighed as the pain in my skull
ratcheted up yet another notch. I was starting to feel like I was
caught in the middle of a three-way collision between Ben,
Felicity, and a yet to be identified supernatural force.

I just didn’t know which one of them was
going to crash into me first.

* * * * *

Before we were even halfway there, we had
made three more attempts to reach the cigar shop using my cell, all
with the same result. We finally gave up on the calls but pressed
on and arrived at the storefront less than fifteen minutes after
leaving the house. Now, standing on a deserted downtown sidewalk, I
was just about to rap my knuckles hard on the glass for a third
time. However, as I raised my hand, I saw motion in the back of the
store and hesitated. Eventually, a figure moved forward from the
shadows.

Though not quite Ben’s stature, Patrick Owen
was a large man, standing a head taller than me and possessing a
healthy girth that bespoke of an appetite for good food and drink.
His boyish features and brightly smiling eyes went a long way
toward hiding his true age; however, even they were visibly
betrayed by greying hair and a full beard that was almost
completely ash white.

As usual, he was clad in a dark shirt and
paisley vest. A gold chain dipped down across his round abdomen and
back up to disappear into a watch pocket. He smiled back at me from
the opposite side of the glass as he thumbed through a set of keys
before finally settling on one, twisting it in the lock, and
pushing the door open.

“What brings you out in the middle of the
night, Rowan? Run out of MX-Two’s?” he asked with a chuckle as he
mentioned my preferred cigar. His voice was smooth and drawled
slightly at the end of the sentence, affected by a mild accent
reminiscent of middle Tennessee.

The man was a bit of an enigma. We knew
little about him other than the fact that he was intelligent and
filled with facts about virtually any subject. Also, if he didn’t
happen to know the answer, he was quite capable of making up a
convincing line of bull on the fly; though he would purposely out
himself before it went too far.

I can’t say that I had ever seen him tired or
worn down, no matter what the hour, and tonight was no exception.
If I didn’t know better, I would assume that he simply never slept
nor even had the need.

“Nothing quite so innocuous, Patrick,” I
replied as we entered, and he began locking the door behind us.
“We’re looking for Ben. Is he here by any chance?”

The aroma of fine tobaccos mingled with the
rich tang of spices, filling the atmosphere of the store with what
I considered a heady aroma. Whether or not it was this incense, I
couldn’t say, but there was just something about this place that
made me feel immediately comfortable. Even given the current
situation, I felt myself relax simply upon stepping across the
threshold. Ben had mentioned to me before that it had the same
effect for him, so it made sense to me that this is where he would
seek an escape.

“Why, yes he is,” Patrick replied. “So, I
take it that was you calling.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “It was us.”

“I suppose I should have answered the
phone.”

“That would have made things a little
easier,” I agreed.

He turned his attention to Felicity. “And, I
take it this is the Missus?”

I nodded then rushed through an introduction.
“Felicity, Patrick. Patrick, Felicity.”

“My dear, the photograph your husband carries
doesn’t begin to do you justice,” he told her with a smile and
slight bow.

“Thank you,” Felicity returned.

“You are quite welcome.” He gave her a nod
then extracted the pocket watch from his vest and thumbed it open.
“Given the late or shall I say early hour, I assume that you are
here on a task of some import.”

“Yeah,” I answered. “It’s pretty
important.”

“Come along then,” he told us as he stowed
the watch and began ambling through the narrow store, giving us a
wave to follow. “The constable is upstairs.”

We trekked past the walk-in humidor, which
was to our left. On our right was a display case counter with a
cash register. Behind that, floor-to-ceiling shelves held various
imported cigarettes, chocolates, teas, and other curiosities. At
the back of the store, we went through an open doorway, continued
through a small storeroom, and then made our way up a long flight
of aging wooden stairs.

I had been up here countless times
before. It was the “smoking room” and in some ways what made
The Third Place
what it was to many
of us. It was a place where Patrick’s friends and close
acquaintances could sit and relax, smoke a cigar or pipe, play
chess, chat, enjoy a glass of aged port, or even all of the
above.

At the top of the stairs, Patrick opened a
door and ushered us through. I could hear the hum of the air
cleaner running, but the room still smelled of both fresh and stale
smoke. While that didn’t bother me at all, I noticed Felicity
wrinkling her nose.

“You okay?” I asked quietly.

She nodded and then whispered, “Aye. It
stinks, but I’ll be fine.”

“Still want a cigarette?” I chided.

She simply shot me a glance and rolled her
eyes.

The brick-walled expanse we now entered was
the same width as the retail space below but seemed somewhat larger
since it didn’t need to house the walk-in humidor. Sections of the
plank floor were covered by oriental throw rugs in various states
of wear. A mismatched pair of small sofas rested at opposing ends
of the room, with the one at the front positioned beneath an arched
window. On the left was a small bar and on the right, a trio of
bookshelves fully stocked with reading material.

Basically, it was a throwback to gentlemen’s
clubs of days gone by, except that the overall theme was one of
“post-modern fraternity house.” In short, it was a patchwork décor
spanning what amounted to probably three decades and a dozen
differing styles.

Positioned both solitary and in pairs
throughout the expanse were a handful of equally incompatible
recliners; one of which was presently occupied by Ben.

As we proceeded inward, Patrick calmly
proclaimed, “Benjamin… You have visitors.”

“Who?” my friend said, leaning forward and
peering around him. “Oh, Row, it’s you… And Firehair too? Okay,
well, you’ve both already heard this one, but I’m almost done… So,
anyway, Patrick, where was I? Oh yeah… So my partner swings around
the other side of the stage, and all of a sudden this asshole we’re
chasin’ comes runnin’ outta the shadows right at me. He’s buck
fuckin’ naked and holdin’ a goddamn flagpole like a spear or
somethin’. He’s screamin’ at the top of his lungs and…”

“Ben,” I interrupted. “Can this wait a
minute? I really need to talk to you.”

“Wassup, white man?” he asked. “You do
the
Twilight Zone
thing or
somethin’?”

“No, but you already knew that.” I shook my
head. “I’m sure you know why we’re here.”

“Nope. Got no idea,” he replied.

I searched his face, and even though his tone
was almost convincing, I knew he was lying.

“Get serious, Ben. Felicity and I just showed
up here in the middle of the night and all you said was ‘Oh, it’s
you’.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Yeah, so, Helen has been trying to reach you
for hours. So have we.”

He stared back at me with a blank expression
then took a deliberate puff on the cigar that was hooked beneath
his index finger. Finally letting a cloud of smoke curl slowly from
his mouth, he reached up to smooth his hair back then allowed his
hand to fall down to his neck and begin working at the muscles.

After a moment he asked, “She okay?”

“She’s distraught,” I told him. “But given
the circumstances I think that’s to be expected.”

“Yeah, well,” he mumbled. “She made the
choice.”

“You should be there, Ben.”

“No. No I shouldn’t.”

“Damn you, Benjamin Storm!” Felicity spat,
unable to contain herself. “Your father is dying.”

“Yeah, well, it’s about fuckin’ time” was his
only reply.

“You don’t mean that,” I told him.

“Hell if I don’t,” he spat.

“Look, Ben, I don’t know what went on between
you two…”

He didn’t let me finish. “That’s right, Row,
you don’t, so just stay the fuck out of it.”

Felicity brushed past me and stepped toward
him while exclaiming, “He’s your father!”

“Not as far as I’m concerned he ain’t!” he
shot back.

Our friend started forward as if to stand
then huffed out an angry sigh and fell back in the chair. He went
silent; shaking his head as he grimaced, he then reached up to
massage his temple. After a moment, he focused back on us and held
up his hand. “Listen, I understand what you two are tryin’ ta’ do
here, but you’ve got no clue what’s goin’ on. Ta’ be honest, it’s
none of your business, and Helen never shoulda gotten ya’
involved.”