Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (7 page)

Of course, this was
my
bizarre life, and something like that wasn’t
about to happen.

I guess I should have known I wouldn’t be
blessed with such normalcy considering the circumstances, not to
mention the fact that just over one year ago my very existence had
veered off course to follow this far more tremulous path. On a
sweltering August night, an ability that would soon become my
life’s bane had exited thirty plus years of shadow to come fully
into the light.

It was on that night that a perverted serial
murderer had taken the life of one of my friends—a student I’d
instructed in the ways of The Craft. Her final passage across the
bridge into Summerland had cost me dearly.

I would never again be the same. In
fact, I often wondered if what that really meant was that I would
never again be
sane
.

It was during the investigation of her
death—as well as the subsequent victims—when I discovered that a
cigar is not necessarily always a cigar. I had learned that for me
at least, a nightmare is quite possibly a harbinger of reality;
that an intimate supernatural connection with the “other side” was
my talent as a Witch—and at the same time, my torment.

Just as unfortunate was the fact that the
random visions and nightmares didn’t always make much sense—like
right now. And they were very often accompanied by a headache that
would make a migraine seem like a welcome relief. Sometimes a
sensation would even manifest as an unexplained pain localized in
some other part of my body—once again, just like now.

The only saving grace was that this
didn’t happen
all
the time.
There were actually long stretches where I was able to experience
“life as usual.” But, torment did happen frequently enough to keep
me off balance and always wondering. I just never knew when or
where to expect it.

Judging from the current circumstances,
this was obviously one of the
when’s
, and wherever I was at the moment was,
well, one of the
where’s
.

And once again, as I’d known for some time
that I would end up, I was smack in the middle of something I’d
rather have no part of. Especially given the fact that I was parked
in the chilly back seat of a Saint Louis City police cruiser,
wearing a pair of handcuffs and staring out the window at my best
friend’s incredulous face.

As I said before, how I’d come to be here I
wasn’t entirely certain. The last thing I remembered for a fact was
climbing into bed next to my wife, Felicity. From there, to the
best of my recollection, I had gone to sleep.

The next thing I even begin to remember after
that is chasing after the glowing yellow rectangle. Upon adding up
the imagery with the circumstances and carrying the remainder, I
had concluded that the luminous shape was none other than the
doorway to the apartment in the near distance. It didn’t help that
said doorway was quite obviously the entrance to an active crime
scene.

“Rowan? Jeezus…” Ben’s voice came to me,
initially muted by the tempered glass of the windows, only to have
the rest of the sentence leap in volume as he jerked open the car
door. “What the fuck?!”

From what I could tell, the woman’s thoughts
that had commandeered my synapses were pretty much gone, for now at
least. At the moment, I was feeling relatively lucid, though there
was still a definite fog hanging over me that kept threatening to
obscure rational thought altogether. I hoped it would hold off long
enough for me to figure out what was going on.

“Hey,” I answered sheepishly.

“Jeezus H. Christ, white man,” he continued.
“What’s goin’ on? What’re ya’ doin’ here?”

“Honestly?”

“Hell yes,
honestly
, Rowan!” he barked. “This is a fuckin’
crime scene, not a shopping mall.”

“I don’t know.” There it was. The
omnipresent and wholly unsatisfactory answer to a serious question
that had become my pat answer. But as much as I wanted to give him
something different, once again it was all I could conjure at the
moment. I shrugged then continued, “I was actually hoping that you
could tell
me
.”

“No way, Row.” He shook his head. “No way.
You’re gonna hafta do better’n that.” With a thick frown pasted
securely to his face, he huffed out a heavy sigh and stepped back,
pulling the door open wider as he did so. “C’mon, get outta
there.”

I rocked myself forward, and scooted across
the stiff upholstery of the cold bench seat, then twisted toward
the opening. Impatiently, my friend took hold of my upper arm with
one large hand and guided me out onto the curb, telling me to watch
my head at just about the same instant the back of it impacted with
the doorframe. I’m pretty sure he timed it that way on purpose
because it was more than plain that he wasn’t at all happy with me
right now.

As amazing as it seems, even in the middle of
the night, if you happen upon a crime scene, you will find at least
a handful of onlookers seeking a morbid thrill. At the moment I was
apparently the object of that thrill. If that wasn’t enough
embarrassment for one sitting, we were being paid even more intense
regard by a clutch of reporters and cameramen. Blue-white cones of
artificial brightness instantly glared outward from their powerful
lights, making the two of us the centerpiece of the harsh
setting.

“Friggin’ assholes… Don’t turn around, Row…”
Ben instructed me in a clipped voice, helping me forward with a
rough hand as he stepped quickly in behind me.

We walked at an even pace, him guiding me
with a hand planted firmly on my shoulder, weaving through cops and
evidence technicians until we were positioned in the shadows behind
a Crime Scene Unit van. Out of sight of the cameras and prying eyes
of the reporters, we came to a halt and he told me to stand
still.

I heard the clinking of metal, followed by a
muted ratcheting noise, and my left hand was suddenly free. I
rolled my shoulder and felt it give a slight pop as I brought it
back to its natural position. A moment later, the metal was no
longer chafing my other wrist, and I repeated the motion for my
right shoulder as I turned around.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Yeah, thank me later after I kick your ass,”
my friend told me. “Now what gives? What’re ya’ doin’ here?”

“I was serious, Ben,” I answered with a shake
of my head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know how I got here.”

“Hell, that’s easy,” he told me while jerking
his thumb over his shoulder. “Your goddamned truck is parked right
over there in the middle of the fuckin’ street blockin’
traffic.”

“Who was murdered?” I unconsciously dismissed
his statement and blurted out the question while looking past him
at the glowing doorway.

“No… Me first, Row.” He shook his head
vigorously. “Is there somethin’ about this I should know? Is this
some kinda
Twilight Zone
shit
here? You havin’ one of those visions or somethin’ like
that?”

“It might be, Ben. I don’t know.” I shook my
head again as I gravitated ever so slightly toward the scene.

“Whoa, Kemosabe.” He reached out and stopped
my progress easily. “Just where do ya’ think you’re goin’?”

“I want to have a look at the scene, Ben,” I
answered automatically.

“What for?”

I didn’t reply because I simply didn’t know
the answer.

“Look, Row, this is a pretty routine
investigation here, if you can call somethin’ like this routine.
Truth is we don’t even know if it’s a murder or an accidental death
just yet. There’re no weird symbols or any crap like that, so I
don’t get what you’re doin’ here.”

He was making reference to the anomalous
evidence that had prompted him to bring me into the two previous
investigations. I could understand his point of view, but it was
becoming apparent to me that visible evidence wasn’t always going
to be what triggered my involvement.

“Now, let me ask ya’ somethin’,” my friend
continued. “Did’ya know someone who lived in this apartment?”

The shroud of disorientation was descending
on me again, rendering my fleeting clarity a thing of the past. My
scalp was starting to tighten, and the back of my head held fast to
a dull throb that was threatening to increase exponentially. I
still had no real clue what I was doing here, but the growing
pressure in my skull told me that there was definitely a reason. I
was just too mesmerized by the doorway to recognize what it
was.

“Look, Rowan, you’re actin’ pretty weird. How
‘bout I call Felicity and get ‘er down here to pick you up.”

“I’m fine,” I said, looking past him and
focusing on the door. Something unseen, but very powerful, was
compelling me to move toward that oblong patch of light.

“No, man, you ain’t fine,” he told me,
emphasizing the word. “It’s two-friggin’-thirty in the mornin’, and
you just showed up outta nowhere at a crime scene. Uninvited mind
you. Then ya’ ducked under the barrier tape and started walkin’
across the yard like some kinda zombie, completely ignorin’ the
officers who told you to stop. I got news for ya’… not every copper
in Saint Louis knows who you are. You’re damn lucky ya’ didn’t get
hurt. I mean, Jeezus… Hey… Hey… HEY Rowan! Are you even listenin’
ta’ me?”

“What?” I asked in a distracted timbre. I’d
only barely heard him talking and hadn’t actually registered any of
the words. The only thing that mattered right now was the
doorway.

“Have you been drinkin’?”

“What?” I stammered absently.

“Pay fuckin’ attention! Have you been
drinkin’?”

“No…” I shook my head as punctuation. “Of
course I haven’t been drinking.”

At least I didn’t think I had. The truth was,
I had no earthly idea.

“Okay… So… Ya’ don’t smell toast or somethin’
do ya’?” he asked in earnest.

“What?” I shook my head, this time in
confusion, and stared at him briefly. “Toast?”

“I read somewhere that ya’ smell toast when
you’re havin’ a stroke,” he offered.

His words came to me in a random sputter of
sound as my cognizance shifted in and out of phase with the rest of
reality.

“What?” I mumbled, not sure I had heard him
correctly.

“That’s it,” Ben said, sounding as much
concerned as annoyed this time. “I’m gettin’ you to a hospital.
There’s definitely somethin’ not right with ya’.”

Inside my skull I heard a loud electric snap
and felt a burning sting along the side of my neck. The nasty
tingling sensation that had been at the back of my concerns had now
burst into searing flame through my entire side. I tried to reach
upward but found my body was ignoring any instructions issued to it
by my brain. I felt myself shaking violently and beginning to
stiffen as my mind short-circuited into oblivious disorientation.
My chest tightened and began to sharply spasm with the same intense
pain that accompanies a nocturnal leg cramp.

My sight was taken over by a darkened tunnel
of fading vision, and in a flash the ground leapt upward to meet
me. On impact, a sharp hammer blow of agony peened the side of my
skull and spread rapidly outward into a migraine-like ache that
settled in for the long haul.

As I lay crumpled onto the cold lawn, I could
just barely make out the distant sound of my friend’s frantic voice
yelling, “Somebody get a paramedic! Now!”

The last thought I remember clearly was that
I had a pair of red patent leather pumps in my closet that would go
perfectly with my new dress.

* * * * *

I’m not sure which assault on my senses was
the most disconcerting—the smell or the sound. I suppose it could
have been either one, or even a combination of both.

On the one hand, there was no mistaking the
antiseptic funk of a hospital emergency room. An odor that was the
filtered medicinal smell of alcohol, gauze, and used tongue
depressors dancing in an olfactory ballet with the stench of sweat,
fear, and blood. Of course, all of that was underscored by the
“can’t quite put your finger on it” smell of death, just to drive
the point home. As a whole, it carried with it an easily
recognizable signature that told you exactly where you were without
even opening your eyes or hearing a thing.

Then on the other hand, there was the terse
exchange going on between my wife and my best friend. A pair of
hedged voices, both straining not to outwardly display the
overabundance of the anger they were quite obviously holding back.
From the sound of it, they were bickering somewhere just beyond the
door of the treatment room where I was presently lying flat on my
back.

Whichever of the two was responsible, the job
was done. I was jarred back from the semi-conscious ledge of
introspection I’d been tiptoeing along since the doctor had
finished poking, prodding, and interrogating me.

“I asked you not to get him involved any
more, Ben,” Felicity was stating in a flat tone. “At least not for
a while. He still hasn’t recovered from what he went through the
last time, and you know it.”

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell
ya’, Felicity,” he appealed. “He just showed up outta the clear
freakin’ blue. I
didn’t
get
‘im involved this time.”

Their tones were hushed and muted by the
hinged obstruction, but if I listened closely I could still make
out what they were saying.

My mind had continued to replay the memories
of recent events ever since I had come to in the back of an
ambulance. I had quickly pieced everything together, but I was
still at a loss to explain why I had suddenly “awakened” from what
I could only explain as a trance, while at a crime scene in
progress to boot. Two things I knew for certain were that my
midnight wanderings were no longer going to be a secret and that I
was now starting down a road toward an explanation for why they
were happening in the first place. I only hoped that I would
survive the trip.