Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (23 page)

“Trust me. I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t, because you did not kill that
woman.”

There was a brief lull as I pondered her
comments. I wanted to believe what she said was true, and in
reality she had made some very strong arguments. To the contrary,
they were stronger than mine when you got right down to it. Still,
I was at a loss to explain my presence at that crime scene, and it
had become like a terrible itch that I couldn’t reach, no matter
how hard I tried.

By some convoluted reasoning it seemed almost
logical that I might have murdered someone. The only thing that
kept me from going over the edge was the fact that the reasoning
was just exactly that—convoluted.

“I wonder if this whole idea crossed Ben’s
mind at all?” I speculated aloud.

“Possibly,” Helen allowed. “Quite probably,
in fact. But you can be certain he dismissed it fairly
quickly.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If Benjamin had any inkling that you were
responsible for the murder, you would be under the microscope at
this very moment.” She made the matter-of-fact statement as she
stared out at the muted sky, then turned she back to face me. “Had
he any evidence to support such an idea, you would already have
been arrested.”

“Do you think so? I mean, we’ve been friends
a long time. You don’t think he’d hold back a bit?”

“Not if he had any evidence, most definitely.
Not even if he had an intuition that you had committed a murder. As
his friend you must certainly know that the only loyalty he holds
in higher stead than to his friends and family is loyalty to his
job as a police officer. No, Rowan. If he thought you did it, you
would be in custody. Friend or not.”

“Yeah,” I agreed quietly. “Ben Storm,
supercop.”

“It is a large part of who he is,” she
explained. “We all draw our identities from different sources. For
Benjamin, it is his work. He is at his most comfortable as he is
defined by his job. In a way, you could say that it is his
destiny.”

“Which would make mine to be what? The flaky,
new-age sidekick?” I mused.

“Your life is not defined by his, Rowan. It
is defined by you and your choices.”

“Maybe, but it seems that my choices over the
past couple of years have put me smack in the middle of his
world.”

“Yes, they have,” she conceded. “But in doing
so you have been instrumental in bringing down two serial killers.
Is that such a bad thing?”

“At what cost to me though?” I said. “I’ve
got no idea which end is up anymore.”

“I will admit that the cost to you on an
emotional level has been substantial,” she replied. “But that cost
is not a permanent deficit. That is why you are here talking with
me.”

“You really think I’m going to come out of
this okay?”

“Of course you are, Rowan. You are far
stronger than you give yourself credit.”

“I wish I’d never gotten involved in that
first case to begin with,” I sighed heavily.

“You know you do not mean that,” she
rebutted. “Be honest with yourself. If you were in that same
situation again, you would make exactly the same decision you did
then.”

“Yeah, probably,” I admitted. “So I guess
that makes me a bit of a masochist.”

“It makes you exactly what your name purports
you to be. A person of strength; a protector.”

Had it been anyone else, I believe I would
have been taken aback by the explanation. There aren’t many people
who know the inherent meaning of the name Rowan right off the top
of their heads, and those who do are usually Pagan. It seems we
Pagans have a penchant for knowing the significance behind our
appellations. For some reason, however, it came as no surprise to
me that Helen Storm would know this, and I took great comfort in
it.

Thick silence cloaked us once again as she
allowed me to continue mulling over her well thought out rebuttal
to my hasty revelation. The fear had not yet vacated the premises,
but it had at least settled into dormancy for the time being.

“Just as long as I don’t have to wear
tights,” I finally said.

“I’m sorry? I am not sure I understand.”

“If I’m going to be Ben’s sidekick,” I
explained. “I can’t wear tights. I just don’t have the legs for
them.”

* * * * *

What had been an emergency hour of
psychotherapy had turned into almost two hours of deeply thoughtful
banter. I was feeling better than I had when I arrived, but I was
by no means out of the woods. While I no longer harbored any
serious suspicions about being guilty of murder, I couldn’t shake
the sense that I was somehow involved more deeply than it appeared
on the surface. Whether directly or indirectly, I just knew there
was something about Paige Lawson’s death that connected solidly
with me. I also had no doubt whatsoever that she was the victim of
more than a random accident. I just had no way to prove it…yet.

As I strode down the corridor toward the
elevators, I was repeatedly turning the plague of confusing
thoughts over in my head—inspecting each, moving on to the next,
and starting the cycle anew when I reached what I believed to be
the last one. Here and there along the hall, some of the doors were
open. To my left, the happy, synthesized chords of Mannheim
Steamroller’s rendition of “Deck the Halls” issued from the
interior of an office; through another doorway to my right, the
angst-ridden voice of Ozzy Osbourne was heading for derailment on
his “Crazy Train.” The two songs met in the middle, intertwined,
separated, and then competed for my attention, neither of them ever
actually winning the contest. Although, I did have to admit that
the helpless anguish being described by the heavy metal lyrics on
my right came closest to describing my mood.

When I reached the end of the hallway, I
punched the recessed call button and waited before the polished
metal doors of the elevator. Eventually an electromechanical ding
announced the arrival of the car, and the doors slid open with a
slight rumble to reveal the empty interior. A heavily syncopated
version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” filtered outward from an
overhead speaker to join the struggle begun by the other two songs.
I stepped in and double tapped the button labeled with an L.

The even mechanical rumble began again as the
two halves of the door began their journeys toward the middle. They
would have met had it not been for a feminine hand thrusting
quickly between them and engaging the safety. The split doors
immediately reversed direction and slid back into their pockets as
a harried, young blonde, balancing a stack of files in one arm,
rushed through the opening.

“Sorry,” she apologized as she shifted the
healthy stack of folders into both arms. “It’s just, sometimes this
elevator takes forever.”

“That’s okay. Sorry I didn’t see you coming,”
I told her. “Which floor?”

“Three, please. Thank you.”

I leaned forward and punched the button for
the third floor as I said, “No problem.”

The young woman remained standing immediately
before the doors, obviously in a hurry. She was petite and dressed
tastefully in a wool skirt and blazer. Her carefully manicured
nails were lacquered a fashionable shade, and her pale skin was
brushed with only the barest necessity of makeup needed to enhance
her natural beauty.

My heart hesitated for a beat as I stepped
back and caught a glimpse of her profile. Just twenty-four hours
ago, I had sat voyeuristically in my truck and watched her as she
made her way into the building, all the while fantasizing about
what she would look like if she had red hair.

The recognition sparked a moment of internal
embarrassment, even though I knew full well that she had no idea
the incident had ever occurred. Unfortunately, the fleeting chagrin
was the least of my worries as the imaginings of her with an auburn
mane suddenly returned, encroaching upon my mind even more
powerfully than before.

I clenched my teeth and struggled to keep my
breathing even as the thoughts once again assaulted me, this time
bringing with them far more lurid imaginings. Dizziness flooded
into my skull and induced a nauseating tickle at the back of my
throat as darkly perverse desires welled within me. The fantasy no
longer entailed a simple change in hair color; it had become a
private reel of soft-core pornography directed by someone unseen
but most definitely felt.

The lights in the elevator seemed to flicker
and dim as the sliding doors touched in the middle, and the car
began its downward journey. She didn’t seem to notice the visual
effect, so I assumed that it was happening inside my head alone—not
exactly the reassurance I wished for. I could feel myself slipping
out of reality, losing control to the director of this lurid
fantasy.

She allows the stack of files to spill onto
the floor of the elevator, turning toward me as she does so. Her
hair has darkened to a deep red and cascades across her shoulders
and down her back. An intense light of desire burns in her eyes as
she looks at me and smiles. Wordlessly she shrugs off her blazer
and allows it to fall to the floor then begins to slowly unbutton
her blouse as she moves toward me.

I forced myself to seek any type of grounding
that I could, no matter how thin or tenuous. I needed something to
cling to if I were going to escape this unwanted ethereal bond. I
stared directly ahead, fighting to maintain an even rhythm to my
breathing while I silently willed the vision to evaporate. A
flicker of colors insinuated themselves, flashing the scene from
negative to positive and back again. I blinked and saw reality in
all its stark wonder. The young woman hadn’t moved an inch. She was
standing in front of the doors, her back to me, and still very
blonde.

I made the mistake of sighing in relief, and
my grip on this plane gave way. With my desperate concentration
shattered, the here and now slipped through my fingers like a
greased rope.

She is half nude now, and as I watch she
seductively allows her skirt to drop and steps out of it. Standing
before me she is clad in nothing but a garter belt, stockings, and
heels. Her makeup has gone from subtle to extreme; her lips are
glossed with a garish slash of blood red. She presses her body into
mine without a word. I can feel her hot breath on my neck as she
slowly undulates against me.

Again I reached for reality, denying those
things I thought I was seeing and experiencing. I could feel my
back pressed against the wall in the corner of the elevator. I
wasn’t certain if the sensation was just another part of the cheesy
skin-flick scenario being forced upon me or if it was the real
thing. I banked on it being the latter and folded myself into it as
I shut my eyes.

The sickening male voice I’d heard echoing
within my brain the night before suddenly returned. I squeezed my
eyes shut even tighter and swallowed hard, fighting to ignore its
existence, only to fail miserably in my attempt.

Oh God, she’s so close to perfect!

Her skin…

Her neck…

She could be her!

I desperately wanted to scream. I had no idea
how much longer the elevator ride was going to last, but to me it
had already been an eternity. I was afraid I wasn’t going to make
it.

Look at her…

Oh sweet Jesus, so close…

The black gown…

She’d look so great in the black gown…

She’ll be almost perfect…

Almost her…

Almost…

I opened my eyes to check the car’s downward
progress and sucked in a startled breath. My arm was extended and
my hand was less than a pair of inches from the young woman’s
shoulder. I was starting to tremble, and I snatched my arm back
quickly, grasping my wrist with my other hand and hugging it tight
against my body.

The dark thoughts were now threatening to
infect other portions of my anatomy, and I held my breath, fighting
to force them away. I concentrated on anything mundane I could
grasp—anything that could replace the rampant sexual energies that
were building within me.

A dizzying rush in my ears drowned out almost
everything except my own frenzied heartbeat. I scarcely noticed as
a muffled electromechanical bong sounded overhead, insinuating
itself seamlessly into the barely audible, syncopated mood music.
There was a slight jerk, and the doors split, opening wide upon a
brightly lit hallway.

The young woman turned quickly to me and
flashed a warm smile, “Merry Christmas.”

She was gone through the opening before I
could reply—not that I was able to do so. For reasons unknown, as
quickly as it had begun, the disharmonious reverberation in my ears
was instantly gone, replaced by the muted sound of the elevator
doors sliding shut and a synthesized melody that closely resembled
“Angels We Have Heard On High.”

I let out a heavy sigh as the red-tinted
darkness pooled lower in my body, finally flowing outward to leave
me feeling physically weakened and emotionally spent. I literally
stumbled away from the wall of the car, grateful no one else was
there to witness my condition. I had just begun to regain my
composure when the doors again fractured down the center and opened
onto the lobby.

In a fit of panic, I wondered if I should
rush back upstairs to Helen Storm’s office and tell her what had
just happened, but I was almost afraid I would encounter the young
woman again on the way back up. If I did, I wasn’t entirely sure I
could control the urges that had almost overtaken me moments
before. I thought about it hard, not moving from the corner of the
car as I stared into space at nothing in particular.

My immediate reaction was to seek the
psychological relevance of the episode in order to understand it,
obtain another dose of reassurance that I wasn’t well on my way to
criminally insane. But something in the back of my head kept
telling me that psychoanalysis wasn’t going to reveal an answer to
this one. This was something more—something completely beyond the
pale—at least so far as it applied to the mundane world.