This morning she was dressed in her usual. A well-worn leather bomber jacket fit over her torso, hanging just loose enough to hide the nine-millimeter Beretta riding in a shoulder rig beneath her left arm. Her badge was clipped on her belt, visible, but unobtrusive.
“The nurse is finishing up with her now.” The doctor nodded as they walked, answering her query about the kit before adding, “We called it in as soon as she arrived.”
Generic instrumental Christmas music was filtering softly in from overhead to mix with the ambient sounds of the ER. It wasn’t doing much to lift Charlee’s spirits though. She had been on edge with an itchy, nervous kind of energy for over a week now. She’d had the feeling before and she’d known what was coming—this. The truth is, she’d been fully expecting this call ever since that second case file hit her desk, and she’d been dreading it all the while. Now that it was here, the dread wasn’t subsiding.
“Good, good,” Charlee nodded as she absently took another swig of the latte then screwed up her face. Yeah, this stuff was definitely an unpleasant surprise. Trying to ignore the bizarre taste in her mouth, she asked, “Get anything?”
“Unfortunately, not much.”
“Did she wait?”
The doctor had traveled this road before and immediately understood the meaning behind the question. “No, not long. She said it had only been an hour or so since she regained consciousness. She’s a smart girl. She had enough wits about her not to shower or clean up, so there’s definitely evidence of the rape. We did collect semen, and that will be on its way to the lab shortly.”
“So she was unconscious? I’m already not liking the sound of this, Doc. You get pictures?”
“The regular routine, yes,” he returned. “But she wasn’t really abused. There are a few bruises, but it seems to profile almost like a date rape.”
“This may sound crass, but what I wouldn’t give for a simple date rape right now… She say whether she can ID the guy?”
“She can’t remember anything other than that she thinks she was attacked in the parking lot of her apartment complex.”
“She thinks she was attacked?”
“She appears to be suffering from anterograde amnesia. Possibly drug induced.”
“Yeah, that actually fits.” Charlee nodded as she spoke, her mood darkening even more as the conversation progressed. “Blood test?”
“Of course. We’ll screen for Benzodiazepines. Rohypnol, GHB, etcetera.”
They came to a stop outside the door of the treatment room.
“This’ll probably sound strange, but how about hickeys? She have any of those?”
“Actually, yes, there are a few large hematoma on her neck,” he answered with a hint of surprise.
“I was afraid of that. Okay, let me see if I can bat a thousand here,” she continued. “This woman is in her early to mid-thirties, petite, and blonde—Am I right?”
“Of course, but don’t try to tell me that you are psychic, Detective,” the doctor returned. “We gave all of that information when we called it in.”
“Yeah, well that information is exactly why I’m here instead of a uniform.”
The significance behind Charlee’s comment was in no way lost on the doctor. He acknowledged it with a simple nod and a query of his own, “Serial rapist?”
“You didn’t hear that from me. Not yet, anyway, but let’s just say I’ve got two case files just like it on my desk right now. In my book, two makes it a suspicious coincidence. Three makes it a pattern.”
“I see,” he nodded thoughtfully and motioned to the door. “Well, she’s in here. If you need anything else you can have the nurse page me.”
“Hey, Doc,” she addressed him as he turned to go.
“Yes, Detective?”
“You going past a restroom or a sink?”
“Most likely, why?”
Charlee held out the almost full cup of chai latte to him. “Do me a favor and dump this crap, will’ya?”
CHAPTER 1
Overwhelming violation saturated my very being. I hated the feeling, but I clung to it like a piece of flotsam in a raging flood because it was very simply all I had to keep me afloat.
Waking up in a cold sweat seemed to be the norm for me as of late. When it first started, it had only been once every few days, maybe twice at most. Now it was rare for a week to pass without it happening three or even four times. Recently I’d even had an incident where it occurred twice in one night. The lack of a decent night’s rest was taking a measurable toll, and I was definitely feeling the effects.
More often than not I spent my waking hours on autopilot, fueled by bitter coffee and an almost constant, insatiable desire for a cigarette. Considering that I’d quit smoking—well, except for an occasional cigar—somewhat over a year ago, I found the craving more than a bit unusual. Thus far, I’d managed to keep it in check with nicotine gum, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last. The need was beginning to achieve absolutely ridiculous proportions.
Of course, one could easily imagine that after surviving a run-in with a crazed serial killer, nightmares would be expected. The problem was that I’m not exactly sure you could call these events nightmares; this is not to mention the fact that they hadn’t even begun until several months after the fact. On top of that, the episodes weren’t about my brush with death at all. At least I don’t think they were.
To tell the truth, I couldn’t really be certain what they were about.
The bald facts were that I would wake up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding in a furious attempt to escape the confines of my chest. My mind would be a jumble of nothingness, and I would be incapable of pinning down a single thought. That, in and of itself, brought on sudden panic. I had always been very cognizant of my dreams and night terrors, remembering them in vivid detail. It went way beyond troubling for me to suddenly be devoid of that clarity.
And then there was this inexplicable feeling of violation.
All of it together was bad enough, but there was something even worse happening—I wasn’t always waking up in my bed. Sometimes I would find myself sprawled on the living room floor. Other times, it might be the kitchen. One time, I had even awakened lying next to my truck on the cold concrete of my garage. I can personally guarantee you that is definitely not a place you want to find yourself half-naked in the middle of winter.
I think perhaps that was the incident that frightened me most. Upon gathering my wits, I had even felt the hood of the truck to see if it was warm. It wasn’t, but it hadn’t really meant much since I had no clue how long I’d been lying there. For all I knew, the truck could have had plenty of time to cool down. Of course, as cold as it was, I wasn’t suffering from hypothermia, so my only assumption could be that it really hadn’t been for very long. The only thing that finally quelled my panic to any extent, however, was the fact that the fuel gauge hadn’t appeared to have budged. So most likely I hadn’t been driving in my sleep, but if I had, then at least I hadn’t gone far. Still, the not knowing was a threatening cloud that had been hanging over me ever since.
Other than the sensation of debasement, there was one constant in all this I was able to grasp, that being no matter where I awoke it was always with a very particular sort of pain. It was always localized, though not always in the same place. Sometimes it would be in my side, sometimes my back. Another time it had been on my shoulder. Wherever it occurred on my body though, it was always the same savage burning sensation. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on your point of view, it would always fade away within a handful of minutes and there would be no visible evidence with which to identify its cause.
The fear and panic brought on by all these constants was a different story. They took quite a bit longer to subside.
So far, I’d managed to keep these incidents to myself while I tried to figure out just what they were all about. However, the increased frequency was making them much harder to keep a secret. Unfortunately, my wife was
bound to find out soon, and she wouldn’t be happy about it. She knew as well as I that when these kinds of things started happening to a Witch—especially me—something beyond terrible was about to make itself known in spades.
And as usual, I was going to be right in the middle of it.
Either that or I was finally going completely insane. Given my recent history, I had to wonder if that might be the preferable option.
* * * * *
As neighborhood diners go, Charlie’s Eats at the corner of Seventh and Chouteau was just about as boilerplate as you could get. Housed in the renovated and whitewashed cinder block remnants of a long-closed gasoline station, Chuck’s, as it was affectionately labeled by the regular patrons, was busy 24/7. Being located well within the Saint Louis city limits and not terribly far from police headquarters, it was also a regular hangout for cops. There were two favorites, Chuck’s, and Forty, which was directly across the street from headquarters. Word among the cops I knew was that Forty was the place for a quick sandwich or greasy burger. Chuck’s was where you wanted to go for something served on a plate—and to flirt with the waitress.
Whatever the case, time of day wasn’t even a factor, as the greasy spoon never seemed to be at a lack for a uniform at the counter or occupying a booth. Whether it was one officer or several coming off duty or just taking a meal break, there was always a blue shirt nearby. The small parking lot even had a pair of spaces reserved just for city police cruisers.
I took a quick right from Seventh Avenue into the entrance of the lot and then slowly cajoled my truck between the rear end of an old station wagon and a slightly canted utility pole. As I tucked my vehicle into the first available space, the sun was just beginning to peek up over the jagged horizon that was East Saint Louis, Illinois. Now that it was filtering across the Mississippi river in a glittery band, it momentarily bathed the city in that indefinable yellow-orange glow that immediately precedes the actual dawn of the day. The eerie kind of color that occurs only in nature, and then, fleetingly—a shade of the light spectrum that will never be found in a box of crayons nor be captured in exactness by any artist, no matter how talented.
As it always did, the glow rose quickly in intensity to become a full-fledged sunrise, raising several visual octaves from the chalky orange to bright yellow-white. I gave a quick glance around the parking lot and spotted a tired-looking Chevrolet van which I knew from first hand experience was nowhere near as decrepit as it appeared. The vehicle’s owner was the reason I had made this early morning trek into the city from the outlying suburbs where I lived, and since I couldn’t see him through the windshield, it was a safe bet that he was already inside the diner.
I switched off the truck and levered the door open, tucking my keys into my pocket as I got out. A crisp breeze was blowing and the temperature was holding steady for the moment at a brisk 42 degrees Fahrenheit. According to the radio, the high for the day was expected to be somewhere around 65. Considering that it had been in the mid 20’s on Thanksgiving day with snow flurries, this was about par for the course. It was December in Saint Louis, and it was as unseasonably unpredictable as it could get.
I locked my vehicle, even though it was probably unnecessary considering that there were two police cruisers on the lot, not to mention that the person I was here to meet was a city homicide detective. Security around here definitely wasn’t much of an issue, but locking up was a habit, and a good one at that.
I yawned as I started around toward the front of the building. Even though for all intents and purposes I was a morning person, I had been dragging a bit when I climbed out of bed on this particular day. I had been up late working on a piece of software for a client of my home-based computer consulting business. I couldn’t complain, really. I got to work from home and set my own hours. No neckties, no suits, and I did fairly well pulling down a decent enough living for my wife and me. And with her being an in-demand freelance photographer, we were actually living fairly comfortably. Still, I’d be forced to pull a late night every now and then, and last night happened to be one of the thens.
I’ll admit though, in this instance it had been less by absolute need and more by choice. With what had been happening to me lately, I wasn’t in any real hurry to go to bed. Don’t get me wrong, sleep was definitely something I had a strong desire to embrace, but I preferred to wake up in the same place I started, sans the pain, panic, and profanation. These days that was a game of chance with the odds stacked in someone—or something—else’s favor.
I stifled another yawn as I rounded the corner of the building and dodged an exiting patron with a mumbled “Sorry, excuse me.” Coffee, bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, and a host of other breakfasty smells enveloped me in a warm, olfactory hug as I grabbed the handle of the glass-fronted door before it could fully close, then tugged it open, and stepped inside the small diner. My ears were filled with the murmurs of ongoing conversations between patrons, liberally punctuated with throaty chuckles, clanging utensils, and barked food orders—all of which were underscored by the sizzle and pop of items on the hot griddle.
Directly in front of me was a Formica-sheathed counter complete with vinyl-capped stools bolted to the floor before it and the busy grill behind. Around the perimeter were small booths, the cushioned seats of which were covered with the same obnoxious red vinyl as the stools. A clear Plexiglas enclosure occupied one end of the lunch counter, and its shelves were piled with donuts on their way to being stale. A squat cash register took up residence at the opposite end.
Aged but carefully lettered signs posted on the wall offered such things as “Bottomless Cups of Coffee” and “Slingers” to go—a local indulgence involving among other things, hash browns, eggs, and chili. A sheet of paper was laminated to the back of the cash register with strips of once clear, but now severely yellowed, packing tape. Judging from the fuzzy edges and lack of clarity, it was obviously a photocopy of a photocopy to the power of ten at least. But it was still readable, and posted in plain sight it boasted: These Premises Protected by Smith and Wesson.
It took only a quick survey of the scene to spot my friend in a booth at the back corner. Of course, it would have been hard to miss him, considering that he was most likely the tallest individual in the room with the possible exception of the cook manning the grill. At the moment, however, he was certainly the only full-blooded Native American present. Shrugging off my jacket, I made my way toward him, my progress impeded for a short time as I did a quick box step in the narrow aisle with a young coffeepot-wielding waitress. With the dance and a quick apology out of the way, I hooked around the end of the counter and traversed the scuffed tile floor to the corner booth.
“Heya, Kemosabe,” Detective Benjamin Storm greeted me as I slid into the seat opposite him.
“Yo, Tonto,” I returned before stifling yet another yawn.
“Long night? Ain’t you usually the early bird.”
“Yeah, usually.” I nodded then explained. “I picked up a new client, so I had quite a bit of customizing and data conversion to do for them, so I was up pretty late.”
I wasn’t about to tell him that the project was something I could have easily done during regular business hours. He had a tendency to worry about me just as much as my wife, and if I told him what had been happening lately, I would end up having both of them to deal with. Besides, something told me that it was all going to come to the surface soon enough, so I was going to make the best of what peace I had left.
“Decent cash?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s a pretty good account,” I answered.
“Good deal.”
“Coffee, sir?” The young woman who’d done the two-step with me moments ago appeared stealthily at our table, a Pyrex globe of the black liquid in each hand. They were distinguished, as usual, only by the green or orange pour spout.
“Don’t call ‘im sir,” Ben quipped with a chuckle. “He’ll get a big head.”
“What’s wrong? Are you jealous?” sh
e asked him before returning her attention to me. “Sir? Coffee?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, instantly turning the heavy mug in front of me upright and sliding it toward her. “Regular, please.”
She deftly filled the mug, pouring expertly from the side of the pot, then topped off Ben’s in the same fashion. “You guys ready to order, or do you want a few minutes?”
“I’m ready.” Ben looked over at me and raised a questioning eyebrow. “How ‘bout you, Row?”
“Uhmm,” I muttered as I pulled a single page menu encased in well-worn laminate from behind the napkin holder and gave it a quick once over. “How about…a number three, over-easy, wheat, and a side of biscuits with sausage gravy.”
“Ewwww, runny eggs? Don’t you know you can get sick from those,” she said as she wrinkled her nose.
“Wendy ain’t ‘zactly the most tactful person when it comes to ‘er opinions,” my friend expressed.
“Oh, shut up, Storm,” she chastised him with the same good-natured familiarity of her earlier jab, which told me he was a regular here just as I’d suspected. Then turning back to me, she offered, “How about you have scrambled instead?”
“Would that make you feel better?” I asked with a grin.
“Yes. Yes it would.”
“Okay, scrambled is fine.”
“You want cheese on those?”
“Sure.”
“Cheddar, American, or Monterey Jack?”
“Hmmmm, do I want cheddar?” I asked her with a bit of hesitation.
“Yes, you do. Good choice.” She smiled. “Now, what about you, Storm? I guess you want your usual?”
“Yeah.” He nodded and flashed a quick grin her way.
“You’re in a rut, Storm,” she told him with a grin of her own as she turned and headed back up the short aisle.
Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 3
