By the time I would reach the end of the poem, I would have spent so much energy trying not to make a fool of myself that I usually forgot what it was that I set out to do in the first place. So out of a sense of self-preservation, I usually opted for the silent approach. I would gather myself, steel my energies, and project them outward on the task to which I’d set my mind—all without uttering a sound. It worked well for me, so I had never really seen a need to change it.
Something told me that this time, however, a word or two might be in order. Unfortunately, I was drawing a blank. I stood there silently for a moment with an open packet of salt poured into the palm of my hand and feeling incredibly self-conscious. I heard Ben clear his throat and felt my heart skip a beat.
It was at that moment, just before I was sure to break out into a cold sweat, that a not so random thought crawled out of its hiding place and announced itself.
I had once attended a workshop on Magick and SpellCraft given by a noted Pagan author. After the lecture I had had the opportunity to discuss with her the method by which I practiced the art. While she found no fault with my methodology, she told me to always keep in mind that the Lord and Lady loved to be entertained, and that to them, poetry was a joy. Therefore, if one’s intent was truly focused on the task, it didn’t always matter what was said but how one said it. I seized on that memory and began to mumble the first thing that entered my brain.
“Tis the night before Christmas, and this I do fear, someone is watching, with intentions unclear. My back is wide open and there’s a pain in my head, could you please watch out for me so I don’t wind up dead.”
It wasn’t the most eloquent spell imaginable, but I kept my voice low as I walked a small circle, sprinkling salt in my wake. I doubted that anyone could actually make out the words, but the cadence was probably crystal clear. For all they knew, I might very well have actually been reciting “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” If that is what they thought, however, none of them voiced it, and for that I was grateful.
When I completed the circuit and looked up, Ben was staring at me with one eyebrow arched. He’d never before seen me take it upon myself to engage directly in the ritualistic trappings of The Craft, save for the recent Yule circle he’d witnessed. This was something that was Felicity’s forte, not mine, so I knew he was going to have some questions. But they would simply have to wait.
“Go ahead and sit down,” I told Heather as I turned and then took a seat opposite her.
“You’ve done this before, correct?” she asked.
I nodded in response. “Yes, several times. Why?”
“You seem a bit nervous to me.”
“That’s because I am.”
“Why?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“Because I’m not entirely certain I really want to see what you’re about to show me.”
“Oh,” she said quietly.
“So with that said, are you sure you want to go ahead with this?” I gave her one last chance to back out before we started down the path.
“You really think this asshole might have killed that cheerleader?”
“There’s a strong possibility, yes,” Ben interjected.
She looked down and briefly pursed her lips, but her quiet rumination didn’t last long. Bringing her face back up she looked at me and said, “Then let’s see what I can remember.”
“Okay, everyone quiet please,” I announced to the room, glancing around then focusing my gaze back on Heather Burke.
As our eyes met, I willed a connection to form between us. My respirations evened out and slowed, and I felt a solid bond between the earth and myself. This was the strongest ground I’d accomplished on my own in some time, and I took a moment to revel in it. My confidence was steadily returning, and the light at the end of this long tunnel seemed to be growing brighter by the moment.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her in an unwavering monotone.
“Fine,” she answered, her voice betraying the calm that had begun to permeate her being. “Very relaxed.”
“Good.”
“So,” she asked. “Is this the part where you tell me to visualize nothingness?”
“Do you know what nothingness looks like?”
“Actually, no.”
“Neither do I,” I said with a slight smile in my voice.
I was lying. Unfortunately, I had faced the horror of nothingness on more than one occasion since my bane had made itself know. However, it was something that defied description.
I brought my voice back to the emotionless baseline I’d set with my original words. “Let’s try something else. I want you to imagine nothing but a blank sheet of paper—white, clean and unblemished. Allow it to fill your field of vision. Let it grow and fill your mind until there is nothing else. Just pure white from top to bottom, side to side, corner to corner, above and below, before and behind.”
This visualization was simply a place to start. I had no idea if it would work for her or if we would need to try something else. Some people are like resistors in an electronic circuit, impeding the flow of energy. Others are like capacitors in the same circuit, grabbing that energy and hoarding it, unwilling to share. Still others are simply conductors of energy like the wires that complete the connections between the components in that circuit. Heather Burke was an excellent conductor.
I watched her face as I spoke, feeling the rhythmic ebb and flow of an ethereal plasma moving between us. Her eyes slowly took on a glassy quality, remaining locked with mine, unblinking. The trance met no resistance and overtook her quietly and comfortably.
“When was she attacked?” I asked aloud, shifting the tenor and lowering the volume of my voice so as not to disturb the young woman in front of me.
I could hear Detective McLaughlin rustling about behind me, flipping through pages of a notebook. After a long moment she whispered, “The call came in to Sex Crimes on five, December.”
“So probably some time on the fourth?”
“Just a second…” I heard some more rustling. “Make it the third. She was last seen leaving work that Monday evening and was a no show for work on the next day.”
“Okay,” I answered then shifted my attention back to the tranced woman across from me. I tuned my voice back into a dull monotone and asked, “Heather, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she returned softly.
“Good. I want you to let your mind drift now. Allow it to float free.”
She giggled and then whispered, “This is fun.”
Through the connection between us, I could feel the giddiness she was experiencing. I allowed it to flow through me but maintained my earthly bond as a counterbalance to its almost overwhelming seductiveness. Moving with her, I struggled to keep a measure of distance between our ethereal selves, for to connect with her fully would draw me far too deeply into her experience.
“Good, Heather. You’re doing great. Now, if for any reason you can no longer feel my presence next to you, I want you to come back to this place. Okay?”
“You aren’t leaving are you?”
I could feel a tremor of fear roll through her voice and begin to well between us.
“Not at all. I’m just letting you know, just in case. I want you to be safe, so if you lose me, just come back to this place and nothing can hurt you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
I breathed a quick sigh of relief. The streak of anguish had come on far more quickly than I’d expected, and I hadn’t been prepared for it. I now realized just how tenuous the connection between us was and knew that I was going to have to effectively disengage some of the safeties I’d put in place for myself.
I didn’t want to do it, but in my mind I could see no other way. On a plane beyond time and space where the two of us now stood, I took a step closer to her in order to tighten the bond. The hazy miasma of energy, visible only to me, thickened and intensified.
“We’re going to all
ow ourselves to drift back now, Heather.” My voice continued to speak in this reality, though it no longer needed to do so. “Back in time. Back a few weeks to the evening of December third. You’ve just left work. Tell me where you went.”
“Home. I came home.”
“All right,” I answered, “what happened when you came home?”
“I parked my car and got out. It was dark. I dropped my keys and they went under the car. Dammit!”
“What, Heather? What’s wrong?” I almost physically jumped at her exclamation.
“I just put a giant snag in my pantyhose trying to reach my keys.”
“Okay,” I soothed as I settled myself. “Forget about that, it’s not important.”
“Not important?” she returned with a hint of attitude. “Do you know how much a pair of pantyhose costs?”
I was losing control. She was drifting in her own direction and it was completely opposite of the way we needed to go. In the ethereal world I inched myself closer to her, struggling to tighten our bond but still keep enough distance so as to remain an observer only. It was a dangerous dance, and I wasn’t exactly known for my grace.
A voice sounded at my back. It was painfully familiar, and it didn’t belong here. “Salt, Rowan? Get real. It’s only evil that can’t cross a salt line. Now I ask you, do I look evil?”
My otherworldly self spun quickly and came face to face with Debbie Schaeffer.
“Dead I am, dead I am,” she chanted, our faces only inches apart. “I do not like that dead I am!”
I bolstered my defenses and like an underwater swimmer who was running out of breath, aimed myself toward the surface. It was too late. I felt a dainty pair of hands slam open-palmed into my chest and give me a shove. On that distant plane the dance was over. I stumbled backwards, bereft of balance. Unfortunately, Heather Burke broke my fall.
On impact, there was a burst of blinding light, searing deep into my brain, and I let out a silent scream.
When sight returned, all color had fled and I was left in a world of halftone greys.
When sensation and feeling returned I was devoid of warmth and chilled to the bone.
When clarity of thought returned I was in the middle of a gender dysphoric identity crisis.
CHAPTER 22
I am reaching for my keys while kneeling next to the car. A cold breeze whips across the parking lot and finds its way under my skirt. Guess I should have brought a coat, but it was 64 when I left for work this morning! This weather is just insane. December and it still can’t make up its mind if it is going to be warm or cold. Should have paid more attention to the forecast I suppose. Well, it’s not like I have that far to walk. If I can just get these damn keys!
Another gust angles around the car and sends a chill down my back. I’ll check the weather channel when I get settled. If it is going to stay cold I guess maybe I’ll wear slacks tomorrow… Or my tartan wool skirt, maybe. Wait a minute; did I pick it up at the cleaners? Hmmmm, I’ll have to check. I can’t remember.
I can smell the lingering exhaust and petroleum fumes from the vehicle. I cough as another gust of wind pushes the foul gases up into my face. I can feel the heat of the noisily cooling exhaust system as it seeps down toward the hand that is groping for the keys.
Where the hell are they?
I scoot around, balancing on the balls of my feet and stretching my arm beneath the vehicle at an awkward angle. It’s too dark for me to see under the car, and I wonder if I have a flashlight in the glove box. Then I remember that I do, but the batteries are dead.
The wind dies for a moment, and I hear something that sounds like footsteps. My heart thuds in my chest as I jump, startled, and I lose my balance. My knee brushes against the rough asphalt, and I literally feel the tear happen.
I look around and see nothing. I must have imagined the noise. Great! So now I’m hearing things. I take a moment to inspect my knee. Dammit! This was my last good pair of hose. Well, at least I’m not bleeding, but there’s no saving the stockings. They’re shot, and I’m not going back out to the store tonight. That settles it for sure. Slacks tomorrow.
I send my hand in search of the keys once more. I can get a better angle now because I don’t have to worry about ruining my pantyhose anymore. My fingers touch something and I hear a jingle. I stretch my arm a bit farther and slowly move my hand from side to side.
My fingers touch something cold, and I hook them around the keys, then I pull them out. Standing up I lock the car door and close it. God, it’s been a long day. I just want to get inside, kick off my shoes, look at the television for a while, and then go to bed. I look at my watch—6:45. Traffic was horrible. But then, it always is around the holidays.
My heels make rapid, purposeful clicks against the surface of the parking lot. I hurry through the shadows and glance quickly around in the few small swaths of light. I’m still a bit jumpy. I don’t know why because the noise was all in my imagination. Wasn’t it? I glance about once again, and I twist the keyring in my hand, allowing the points of the keys to protrude between my fingers as I clench my fist.
It is way too dark out here. And with the parking lot on the backside of the building it is too isolated. I don’t like it. Damn superintendent still hasn’t done anything about the lights. Over half of them have been burned out for six months now. During the summer it wasn’t that bad, but it gets dark earlier now. I’d better call and complain again tomorrow.
Hmmph, like it will do any good. It hasn’t yet.
Oh well, just another hundred feet and I’ll be inside. Out of the dark and into the warmth. This next part is the worst. All of the lights are burned out here. And then there’s the overgrown evergreen bushes and the angry shadows they make. I aim myself at the distant door and hasten my steps.
Dammit, Heather! Get a grip girl. You’ll be inside soon. You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. This is a safe neighborhood. Chill out.
Seventy-five feet left to go. Why is my heart racing? I’m not usually this skittish. The clicking sound below me is coming faster now.
What was that?!
This time I KNOW there was a noise!
I stop dead in my tracks. The footsteps behind me make a soft thud, halting just enough out of time with my own to strike fear into the pit of my stomach. Stupid! Stupid, Heather! What the hell did you stop for?! If someone is coming after you what are you going to do? Just stand here and wait for him?
The footsteps behind me begin again, and I glance over my shoulder only to see a shadowy figure moving toward me.
Oh my God! This can’t really be happening!
I begin to sprint without any thought. I instantly understand how those women in the horror flicks manage to run in high heels. They’re just too scared to know better, that’s all.
My shoes are click-clacking rapidly against the pavement now; my heart is firmly entrenched in my throat, blocking all attempts to scream. Panic has stolen my breath. I’ve never been this frightened before.
Fifty feet, I’m almost there. I can hear him back there, running, getting closer. He’s not even trying to conceal himself any longer.
I can feel hot breath against my neck.
I can smell stale cigarette smoke and bad breath.
The sour reek of B.O.
Something hits me hard in the side, and I stumble into the tendril-like branches of the evergreen. What little wind I have left is forced from my lungs, and I struggle to disentangle myself.
He grabs me and I flail wildly. I fall into him and we both crash to the ground with me on top. He is clawing at me, trying to maintain his hold. I kick and twist away, slipping out of my blazer, and crawl quickly as I try to stand. Scrabbling across the sidewalk I fight to regain my footing.
I open my mouth to scream, but nothing more than a choked whimper comes out.
A hand wraps around my ankle, and I kick hard with my other foot. I twist onto my back and kick again, aiming my heel for the ski mask staring back at me. I miss
and my shoe goes flying.
I roll frantically and manage to pull away again then drag myself upward. I start to run but trip over my remaining shoe. The time it takes me to kick it off and begin to run again is all the time he needs.
My blouse has become untucked in the struggle, and it is riding up as I try to regain my balance. Something cold presses hard against the bare skin at my waistline.
I hear a quick electric snap, like a light bulb blowing out.
My teeth clench hard and I freeze in place, every nerve scrambled into a tangled rat’s nest of jittery disorientation. I shudder for a moment and fall to the ground. There’s a metallic tang in my mouth that is slowly replaced by the salty taste of my own blood from where I’ve bitten my tongue. Or at least I hope that is all it is.
Fear still grips me through the disorientation, but my voice is nowhere to be found. All I seem to be able to do is twitch.
I hear him moving nearby.
I see the shadow over me.
Once again I can smell the B.O. and stale cigarettes as he looms closer.
I hear panting breaths and a hoarse, almost awestruck whisper intermixed, “Perfect…She’s almost perfect.”
I can feel the keys in my hand, their metal points still poking between my fingers, as my fist remains clenched. The shadow moves in closer, and I summon everything I have to flail at it with the only weapon I have left. But my arm doesn’t move.
I’m still twitching uncontrollably. He forces my mouth open and pours something onto my tongue. It’s bitter and I gag.
Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 27
