“Dead, Rowan. Dead. That’s what I am. Do something about it.”
The voice whispered past me again, working its way around my head as it bounced between mono and stereo separation.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Debbie,” I answered her aloud yet again. “Give the poetry a rest. Just talk to me. Tell me what you saw.”
I could feel an energetic presence swirling unseen before me and I halted. Icy tendrils of death slapped outward from it, and I felt them slice effortlessly through my body, making me gasp with each strike. I knew then that I’d gone that one step further than I should and needed to turn tail and run. Unfortunately, the command to do so was being diverted upon leaving my brain, and it never made it to my legs. I stood frozen in place, unable to move.
“You’ve done this before, Rowan,” I told myself in a not quite calm voice. “This is nothing new. You can handle it.”
My subconscious immediately objected, telling me in no uncertain terms that while I’d done this before, I had done it when I was capable of grounding and centering.
I didn’t have time to argue with myself. I took in a deep breath through my nose and slowly exhaled through my mouth, trying desperately to relax and achieve a focal point. I could feel the hair on my arms rise as a field of static touched me. I became instantly aware that there was no time for the Wicca 101 exercises in which I was about to engage; I needed to be grounded now, and that simply wasn’t happening.
I steeled myself against an invasion that I feared could very well bring about an end to what small scrap of lucidity I still retained.
Dead I am! Dead I am! I do not like that dead I am!
Dead I am! Dead I am! I do not like that dead I am!
Debbie’s disembodied voice began shifting in phases about me. Pitches rose and lowered as the chant doubled and echoed, increasing in speed with each revolution as if winding itself up to deliver a blow directly into my soul.
Dead I am! Dead I Am!
DeadIAm! DeadIAm!
DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM!DEADIAM!DEADIAM!DEADIAM!DEADIAM!
The mantra blended quickly as the words joined, becoming multi-syllabic noises that made my head vibrate with its bass staccato. The cadence continued to increase toward a roar of white noise, and I felt as if my head was positioned between the jaws of an ever-tightening vise.
A shrill scream pierced the darkness without warning, and my own voice joined it in absolute disharmony. I started quickly, physically tensing while my heart climbed into my throat in search of refuge. When I jumped, I involuntarily released my grip on the near useless flashlight, and it spiraled to the ground in slow motion, landing with a muted thud.
As if on a sudden gust of wind, the twirl of ethereal energy exploded outward, rushing through me, around me, and past me, only to dissipate into nothingness.
The sound of a car whooshing past back up on the blacktop instantly faded in and was followed by a repeat of the shrill scream. After a measured beat, a third warbling scream announced itself, now identifiable as the electronic peal of the cell phone in my jacket pocket.
I allowed myself to breathe and thrust my shaking hand into my pocket then withdrew the chirruping device and stabbed the answer call button.
“Hello?”
“Rowan?” Ben Storm’s voice greeted me with a quizzical tone.
“Yeah, Ben,” I answered, hoping the tremble in my own voice wasn’t noticeable. “What’s up?”
“Ya’ sound like you’re outta breath, white man,” the earpiece buzzed with his words.
“It’s a long story,” I answered, not sure what exactly to say.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I told him then repeated, “What’s up?”
“Well, I called the house and Felicity told me you’d gone to see Helen today.”
“Yeah, she got me in this afternoon.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “Well, I just talked to ‘er and she said you’d left ‘er office well over an hour ago.”
“Checking up on me?” I retorted, somewhat perturbed.
The leaves crunched as I shuffled about then knelt down to retrieve the flashlight.
“Actually, no,” he remarked, “but I’m gettin’ the feelin’ maybe I should be.”
I turned in place and located the distant silhouette of my truck up on the shoulder. Aiming what little glow was coming from the flashlight toward the ground at my feet, I began working my way toward the vehicle.
My friend was correct. Somebody needed to be checking up on me if I was going to make a habit of being this reckless. Truth was, his unexpected call had probably saved my sanity, if not my life.
I softened a bit at the realization. “Yeah. You probably should.”
The rustle of the fallen foliage was loud, and I was certain he could hear it.
“Row, where the hell are you? Ya’ sound like you’re rakin’ leaves or somethin’.”
“Somewhere I shouldn’t be,” I told him, electing to not try hiding the truth.
“Where, Row?” he asked again, sternly this time.
“A little wooded grove out off of Three Sixty-Seven,” I answered.
I could hear him sigh heavily at the other end. “Jeezus, Rowan. What the hell are ya’ tryin’ ta’ do? Make Felicity hate me? She’s gonna have your ass for this, ya’know?”
“It’s not my fault,” I volunteered the thin excuse.
“Don’t tell me. You’re gonna say Debbie Schaeffer made ya’ do it this time too?”
“Kind of,” I returned. “Something like that anyway.”
“Yeah, whatever. Look, I want ya’ to get yer ass outta there right now,” he instructed.
“I’m working on it.”
“Don’t lie ta’ me, Rowan.”
“I’m not.”
Silence filled the earpiece for a moment while I picked my way through the last of the underbrush and started back up the embankment.
“Shit,” my friend exclaimed softly. “I shouldn’t even ask ‘cause it’ll just encourage you…” He sighed as he fell into a thoughtful silence then finally spoke again. “Well did’ja figure anything out?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Man… I just don’t know what ta’ do with you… Jeez…” His voice trailed off.
“If it’s any consolation,” I offered, “you called me just in time to keep me from doing something really incredibly stupid.”
“Like what you were doin’ now isn’t really incredibly stupid?” he shot back.
“No,” I agreed. “It’s stupid all right. But what I was about to do was even more stupid.”
“Great,” he muttered.
I scrambled my way to the top of the hill and sat down on the bumper of my truck for a moment in order to rest. I flicked off the flashlight and set it aside then reached into my pocket and withdrew a cigarette.
“So,” I asked after lighting the butt and taking a deep drag. “Why were you calling me in the first place?”
“Just wanted ta’ let ya’ know we looked into a connection between Lawson and Schaeffer.”
“And?”
“Nothing there, Row,” he told me. “No connection, no common friends, activities, or anything. Nada.”
“Are you certain?”
“Certain as we can be with what we’ve got. The whole Lawson thing is a dead end, white-man. She’s got nothin’ ta’ do with Debbie Schaeffer.”
“So I guess you’re closing the books on her then?” I asked, dejection filling my voice.
“Well, yes and no.”
“What do you mean, ‘yes, and no’? Which is it?”
I could literally feel his hesitation over the phone. “Man… I shouldn’t even tell you…”
“Come on, Ben. You can’t leave me hanging like that.”
“Shit,” he muttered the expletive. “Okay, but ya’ gotta promise me you’ll stay outta this and let us handle it.”
“Fine. I promise.”
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“Yeah, right,” he returned, obviously not believing me for a minute, then he huffed out a breath before continuing anyway. “Okay, listen, it looks like ya’ might’ve been right about Lawson’s death not bein’ an accident. Well, not entirely an accident, anyway.”
“Go on.” I was intrigued, even a little elated. Vindication appeared to be on the horizon, and it was something I sorely needed.
“Remember I mentioned she had a welt on her neck?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Well, the M.E. says it’s consistent with the type of mark that could be left by a high-powered stun gun.”
“I thought those things weren’t supposed to leave marks?”
“Depends,” he explained. “Not always, but there’re a lot of factors; trust me, they can definitely leave a serious welt. I speak from experience.”
My hand lifted automatically to my neck, and I focused on the memory of the burning sensation I’d felt. The jangle and buzz that had taken over every nerve in my body; the disorientation and paralysis that had driven me to fall helpless on the ground while at that crime scene. A piece of the puzzle locked securely in with another. As yet, I could only imagine the picture that was going to be formed, but at least now I had a start.
“So it’s a murder case now?”
“Kinda,” he acknowledged without enthusiasm. “We figure what prob’ly happened was that some asshole waited in the bushes and assaulted ‘er on her way in the door. Most likely a doper or somethin’ lookin’ ta’ score some quick cash. Jammed ‘er with the stun gun, she fell and cracked her head on the table; shithead sees the blood, panics and runs without even liftin’ anything.”
“You think that’s all it was?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“But it could be more, right?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I really don’t think so. There’s nothin’ else there.”
In my mind’s eye I could see him shaking his head as he spoke.
I thought about it silently for a moment. Logically, Ben was correct, but I wasn’t subscribing to logical theories these days. There actually was something else there; he just couldn’t see it, and I wasn’t going to give up until I found it. With what he’d told me, I had a start; now I just needed to build on it. I could tell from my friend’s tone that he was already regretting that he’d told me anything at all, so I was just going to have to chase this lead on my own.
“So what about the whole smoking thing,” I asked, changing the subject as much to hide my intentions as to let him off the hook.
“Yeah, yeah, I looked into it. Far as we can tell they were both clean. Neither of ‘em smoked.”
“Guess it’s someone else then,” I submitted.
“There is no one else, Rowan,” he answered. “Listen, you still out there in the woods?”
“No. I’m sitting on the back of my truck.”
“Good,” he returned flatly. “Then get the fuck in it and go home.”
He ended the call with that abrupt command, an almost angry click following the last words. I wasn’t exactly making people happy.
I’d scarcely managed to climb into the cab of my vehicle and get myself belted in before the cell phone pealed for attention a second time. I gave the face a quick look, and the caller ID display registered my home number. I can’t say that it was unexpected, but I can say that I was dreading it. I answered it anyway.
It was dead on 6 p.m. when I pulled into the driveway, fully chastised via phone. Felicity was waiting for me when I walked through the front door, and she was armed and ready for round two.
If looks could kill she would have been planning my funeral two seconds after I arrived…
* * * * *
It took the better part of the next day for me to finally redeem myself with my wife. I hadn’t tried to hide anything from her, and while that helped my case to a small extent, she was still far from pleased.
I had a tendency to forget that even though Felicity wasn’t prone to the same type or frequency of bizarre visions as myself, she was a Witch nonetheless and very in tune with her surroundings. At this particular stage of the game, I had to accept that she was actually far more in tune than me, whether I liked it or not.
While she was unsure of the details—until she forced me to fill her in, that is—she had been perfectly aware that I was up to something. She had even experienced some sensations of my own fear because of the deep bond between us. Once she became privy to the particulars behind that fear, however, her initial concern folded quickly into anger.
Fortunately, since she had been a direct witness to what had happened at the morgue the evening prior, she was willing to believe that I wasn’t necessarily the one in control of the situation. While that tempered the anger, it only served to return her concern to the forefront, which started the vicious cycle anew.
Still, when everything was said and done, it was noon before she decided that she was speaking to me again.
CHAPTER 15
“Hello?” I said in a hurried voice. I had managed to snatch up the telephone receiver just as the fourth ring was dying away and only a split second ahead of the answering machine.
My greeting was met with nothing more than dead air, although there was a distinct hollowness to it, which lead me to believe that there was almost certainly someone on the other end. After a moment, I repeated the salutation.
“Hello? Anyone there?”
My query was answered by what I thought might possibly have been a shallow breath, though I couldn’t be sure. The sound was promptly followed by a soft click in the earpiece as the calling party hung up.
I dropped the handset back into the cradle and scanned the caller ID box next to it. The blocky letters on the LCD display read, UNAVAILABLE. Whoever it was either lived in an area without the CLID service, or more likely, they’d keyed in the code to disable it.
“Who was on the phone?” Felicity asked, as she zipped quickly through the living room and hooked past me on her way upstairs with an empty box that had earlier contained the holiday decorations that now tastefully adorned strategic locations throughout the house.
We’d both managed to grab a fairly substantial amount of sleep, and her brogue had melted back into the normally perceptible Celtic lilt minus the clipped affectations that had permeated her speech before. Of course, the extra time we’d spent resting was directly responsible for us now rushing about in a frenzy to get everything done before our guests arrived.
“Don’t know,” I called after her. “They hung up and the caller ID says unavailable.”
“That’s weird,” she said as she came back down the stairs, quickly sidestepping to avoid a cat that was on its way up. “There were three hang-ups on the answering machine when I checked it yesterday and another two this morning.”
“There were a couple on there the other morning when you dropped me off here too. Did you check the ID box?”
“Uh-hmm,” she acknowledged with a nod, as she shot past me in the opposite direction this time. “All unavailable except one, and it was a data error. What about your other two?”
“Same. Unavailable.”
“Hmmm,” she remarked. “Wonder what that’s all about.”
“Well, the hang-ups on there yesterday might have been the media from the night before,” I speculated as I followed her into the kitchen.
“Here.” She pushed a cutting board holding a large knob of ginger across the island toward me. “Peel and slice. It goes in this bowl here.”
“For the marinade?”
“Yeah. After you’re through with that, mince three or four green onions and throw them in there too.”
“How do you think ostrich tenderloin is going to go over with this crew?”
“They probably won’t even know it isn’t beef unless we tell them.”
“Well, if we do let it out of the bag, I get to be the one who tells Ben.”
“Just as long as I get to watch.”
“
You can run the video camera,” I joked as I pulled a knife from the block on the counter then retreated back to the other side of the island so I wouldn’t be in her way.
“So don’t you think reporters would have left messages?” she asked after a moment.
“What? You mean the hang-ups? I don’t know.” I shrugged as I absently scraped the skin from the pungent ginger root. “Maybe…maybe not. They probably didn’t figure I’d return the calls if they did, so they might have just been trying to get lucky and catch me.”
“I suppose it’s probably nothing. It could be just some telemarketing outfit,” she offered. “They always mask the caller ID.”
“Maybe, but we hardly ever get those anymore. Not since we got on that no-call list.”
“True, but even that doesn’t eliminate all of them. Non-profit’s and political organizations have a loophole.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed. “Just seems funny that we’re getting so many all of a sudden. We don’t have an election happening anytime soon.”
“Well, it’s the holiday season; whoever it is might not even be looking to sell us anything. They might be a charity begging donations.”
“Yeah. I guess that makes sense.” I nodded. “Especially since nine-eleven was just a few months ago.”
As if it had been listening to us all the while, the object of our discussion pealed once again.
“I’ll get it,” Felicity said as she quickly wiped her hands with a dishtowel and stepped over to the wall phone.
“Well, don’t commit to anything over twenty-five bucks,” I half-joked.
“Hello?” she said, tucking the handset between her ear and shoulder.
Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 19
