Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  Deep down inside I suppose I knew that this wasn’t his fault, but right now I needed someone to blame. He had known Porter was alive and on the loose, but he’d kept it from me.

  While I’d doubted right from the beginning Porter’s demise, that night on the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge, my friend hadn’t believed me. No matter what I’d said, he hadn’t been willing to give in to trust. And then, when I was finally proven correct, he’d hidden the fact from me. Whatever he claimed was his motivation for the secretiveness, at this moment it didn’t wash. It was unacceptable.

  I continued to stare into his eyes, feeling my own expressionless face harden to a blank mask.

  “Rowan? Talk ta’ me.” His voice held a pleading tone.

  I quietly lit another cigarette from the one I’d just finished and then flicked the spent butt out into the street. I took a deep breath and shook my head.

  “Where were they, Ben? Where the fuck were all those concerned people that were supposed to be watching after us when the sonofabitch came and took my wife?”

  “Rowan…”

  “Save it.” My voice was cold and sharp. I could tell that each word was cutting him deeply and I didn’t care. “You had a chance to stop this and you didn’t.”

  “Row…”

  “Go to hell, Ben,” I cut him off again. “Just fucking go to hell.”

  I turned and walked away.

  * * * * *

  “Benjamin is terribly concerned about you, Rowan.” Helen Storm spoke to me in a soothing voice.

  She was direct and wasted no words; still, her tone had the ability to lull one into the fold of her confidence. I was glad that she was here, even if I didn’t show it.

  I had been spiraling through the various emotional states one can experience at a time such as this. Disbelief, anger, fear, guilt… All of them rolled into a tense ball that I couldn’t escape. At the moment I was experiencing some form of defiant hostility that had arrived directly on the heels of an uncontrolled fit of sobbing.

  “What about you, Helen?” I asked, my dull words forming a weak challenge. “Are you concerned about me too?”

  We were seated on my deck, both of us holding lit cigarettes and staring into the darkness. Well, I was staring into the darkness; she could have been staring at me for all I knew. I didn’t bother to check. It was nearing 10 p.m.. Crime scene technicians were still finishing up around the interior of the house but had finally vacated the garage, so this one spot had become my safe haven for the time being. Out of sight, out of mind—if only that really worked.

  A biting wind rose and fell in a serpentine arc around the corner of the house and dragged its icy claws across my face. I ignored it. I could hear Helen shift, and I glanced over as she pulled her heavy shawl tighter, but that was her only acknowledgement of the chill.

  “Of course I am, Rowan,” she said.

  “Humph,” I grunted. “There seems to be a lot of that going around lately.”

  “You do understand,” she began and then paused for a brief second. I could tell from her silence that she was gingerly picking the words she was about to use. “There is every indication that your wife has not been harmed.”

  “I don’t feel her, Helen,” I stated plainly. “If she was okay, I’d be able to feel her.”

  “I am not so certain of that. You have been dealing with a severe emotional trauma, Rowan,” she offered. “I would be greatly surprised if you could feel anything at all in the sense to which you refer.”

  Helen was correct. I couldn’t even feel her, and she was sitting right next to me. How could I expect to sense Felicity, wherever she was? The only thing I really felt was bitter hatred for Eldon Andrew Porter.

  “So did Ben bring you over here to make sure I didn’t wig out?” I changed the subject.

  “Benjamin asked me to come here with him because, as I said, he is very concerned about you.”

  “He thinks I blame him for this, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does,” she answered. “You all but told him that yourself when we arrived.”

  “I guess I do, in a way,” I sighed. “But not completely. Not irrevocably.”

  “That is understandable, considering the circumstances. But be aware, Rowan, that he blames himself much more than you blame him. The judgment that my brother is exacting upon himself is a far higher price than you would ever dream of asking.”

  “Are you asking me to feel sorry for him?”

  “Not at all,” she confessed matter-of-factly. “I am simply showing you both sides of the coin.”

  “How clinical of you,” I remarked with an underlying harshness in my voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be coddling me and telling me everything will be okay?”

  “If I was dealing with someone else in this situation, perhaps. But not you… And not now. It would serve no purpose.”

  “What? I don’t deserve a little coddling? My wife has been kidnapped and is probably dead,” I spat the comment almost angrily.

  “What you deserve, and what you want are two vastly different things, Rowan. You know that,” she answered. “Besides, I have a feeling that your particular talents will be necessary to find her, so the time for coddling will have to come later.”

  “You seem convinced that she’s still alive.”

  “You should be too.”

  “I want to be.” I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. “Gods, I want to be. But then at the same time, for her sake, I have to hope that she isn’t. I saw what he did to his other victims, Helen.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Do you?” I asked. “Because when I say that I saw what he did, I mean I saw what he did. I saw it… I felt it… I experienced it. To believe that he is doing those things to Felicity, now… That’s more than I can take.”

  “Yes, Rowan, I understand that far better than you know.”

  “Then you know why it’s hard for me to believe that Felicity is still alive.”

  A healthy supply of anxious energy was crackling along every nerve in my body, and I found myself fidgeting almost constantly. I was unable to maintain a grip on myself for more than a few minutes at a time. This latest period of calm reached the end of its somewhat protracted cycle, and I angrily leapt from the chair.

  “What the hell are they doing in there?” I exclaimed as I began to pace. “Shouldn’t they be out there looking for the sonofabitch?!”

  “They are, Rowan,” Helen told me calmly. “You know that.”

  “A few minutes,” I muttered. “If I’d only been here a few minutes sooner.”

  “What would you have done had you been here?” she asked with a shake of her head.

  “What would I have done?” I echoed the question back to her harshly. “I would have blown the sick bastard into next week.”

  “Would you have?” she asked simply.

  “I have a gun and I know how to use it,” I retorted. The words sounded sophomoric even as they tumbled out of my mouth.

  “I do not doubt that, Rowan.” She tactfully ignored the childish bravado of my comment. “But neither the implement nor the skill to use it are what I am questioning. What I am curious about is your innate ability to take a life.”

  “I shot him once,” I offered.

  “Yes, you did,” she agreed. “But you shot him to wound, not to kill. Furthermore, you did so when your own life was literally hanging in the balance.”

  “I assume you have a point here?” I contended.

  She didn’t allow my adversarial posture to faze her. “My point is that when presented with the opportunity to kill this man, you did not. Furthermore, when you believed that there was some possibility that you may have been responsible for his death—however unintentional—emotionally, it brought you very close to the edge.”

  “I never really believed he was dead. I made no secret of that,” I told her. “Besides, this is different.”

  “Now it is,” she nodded in agreement. “But what if you had been here
? Would he not have set his sights on you instead of Felicity? At least, initially?”

  “I think that’s a given,” I responded with a shrug.

  “Then you would simply have been repeating history,” she commented.

  “So maybe I realized I made a mistake out there on that bridge,” I offered.

  “Perhaps,” she returned. “But I do not believe that, and I am inclined to think that you do not either. You are a man of firm conviction, Rowan. The rede by which you have lived your life is more a part of you than you wish to admit.”

  “Maybe it’s time for me to wake up,” I told her sadly. “Idealistic beliefs are for fools.”

  “That would be a terrible loss, Rowan,” she offered. “Your ideals are a very large part of who you are. And I know that you do not truly believe that idealists are fools.”

  Before I had a chance to formulate a retort, our conversation was interrupted by the sound of someone purposely clearing his throat. I looked over toward the door and saw Ben standing on the top step. The light cast at a downward angle across his face and his chiseled features were craggy with lines and shadows. He looked tired, and he looked very old. Helen was correct. He wasn’t taking this any better than I was.

  “Ben.” I acknowledged his presence with a curt nod. I no longer wanted to hit him, but he wasn’t at the top of my list for chatting with either.

  “Listen, Row, I know ya’ don’t wanna talk ta’ me right now, but this is important,” he began, smoothing his hair back and bringing his hand to rest on his neck. He was thinking hard.

  “I will leave you two alone,” Helen offered, making a move to stand.

  “No, stay,” I told her.

  I needed her to be here. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, everyone was correct. I was very close to the edge, and I had no compunction about jumping. Right now she was the only one standing between me and the sudden stop at the end.

  “What is it?” I asked, trying to keep the bark out of my voice.

  “It doesn’t look like Porter has anything ta’ do with this.” He blurted out the words as if he could no longer contain them. “There’s some shit that just doesn’t add up.”

  “Excuse me?” I stared back at him like he’d grown an extra head. “What are you talking about? Of course he did this!”

  “Hear me out, Rowan.” He rushed the request out as quickly as he could and moved down the steps toward me. “The only thing that really pointed ta’ Porter to begin with was the Bible, and he ain’t the one who left it…”

  “How do you know that?” I demanded before he could continue.

  “I made some calls,” he explained. “Everyone in Felicity’s charity group got one of those Bibles. They were gifts to ‘em from the kids at the children’s home they visited this afternoon.”

  “W-W-What?” I stammered.

  “Yeah,” he nodded as he spoke. “Everyone I talked to said Felicity didn’t have the heart not ta’ take it, ‘cause the kids were so excited about givin’ them somethin’. She’s the one who left it on the table, Row. Not Porter.”

  “Okay, so then where the hell is she?!” I snarled the demand.

  “I dunno yet, white man,” he returned. “But I’m gonna find ‘er.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Hope was ignited from a miniscule spark that set flame to a tiny candle somewhere deep inside me. Its glow was so incredibly faint so as to be almost beyond notice, but it was there—flickering defiantly into the face of the shadowy fear that threatened to extinguish it.

  “It could still be Porter,” I announced.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Ben replied.

  “Well I really doubt she just went for a walk,” I snapped. “Something obviously happened here.”

  “Yeah, and we’re gonna find out what,” Ben told me. “Accordin’ to your monitoring service, the alarm was disabled usin’ Felicity’s code via the keypad in the kitchen at six-oh-seven p.m.”

  “Then it had to have happened after she was already in,” I offered. “We have a duress code she would have used otherwise.”

  My friend nodded agreement. “Figured as much. There wasn’t a trigger from the panic buttons either.”

  “Then whoever took her must have been following her.”

  “Maybe, but I’m workin’ a different angle. We’ve done a door to door. Nobody saw anything, but considerin’ what day it is, no big surprise there.”

  “What about the people who were actually supposed to be watching the house?”

  “That’s a cluster.” He shook his head. “Left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doin’. Locals thought the Feebs were on tonight, Feebs thought the locals were on, and…and well…there’s just no way ta’ sugar coat it, Row. Somebody fucked up, and there hasn’t been anyone watchin’ the house since about three this afternoon.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. I wanted to explode, but logically I knew that doing so wouldn’t help. Still, just how much longer I was going to stay on the side of rationality remained to be seen.

  “That doesn’t sound at all like Constance,” I said. “She’s meticulous.”

  “That’s ‘zactly why it’s a cluster. Mandalay had ta’ go back down ta’ the scene in Cape, so she wasn’t even in Saint Louis.” Ben’s disdain for the FBI was almost legendary. Constance Mandalay was the only agent he trusted, and the events of this evening added just that much more evidence to his personal case file against the agency. “But let’s not go there, ‘cause it ain’t gonna get us anywhere with this. Now, movin’ on,” he continued. “The front door was unlocked. Did you do that?”

  “No,” I shook my head vigorously. “They’ve already asked me that.”

  “I’m just double checkin’,” he told me. “Since you two normally come in the back, that’d mean Felicity had ta’ have opened it since there was no sign of a forced entry.”

  “The mail,” I offered.

  “What?”

  “The mail was on the dining room table,” I explained. “She probably got the mail.”

  “Yeah, makes sense, but she left the door unlocked. Okay, what about the back? Was it open when ya’ got here?”

  “Closed but unlocked. Although, the inner door was ajar.”

  “What about the lights? Were any on?”

  “I’ve been over this twice now!” I threw my hands up in exasperation. “What does it matter?”

  “Calm down,” Ben appealed. “I’m just tryin’ ta’ get a handle on this.”

  “Get a handle on what, Ben?! My wife is missing!”

  “Listen ta’ me for a minute,” he ordered. “We’re talkin’ about Felicity here, she…”

  “No shit!” I spat. “Did they give you your badge as a reward for recognizing the obvious?!”

  His voice raised a notch. “Shut the fuck up and listen ta’ me goddammit!”

  “Benjamin!” Helen admonished, breaking her self-imposed silence.

  “Stay out of it, Helen!” he barked.

  “Why don’t you quit screwing around and tell me something I don’t already know!” I almost screamed at him.

  Without warning he lashed out. I flinched, fully expecting his fist to connect with my jaw. In retrospect, I certainly would have deserved it if it had. Instead, I felt his large hand twist into the collar of my shirt at the back of my neck, and I instantly felt myself being propelled forward. Less than a minute later I had been forced up the stairs, through the atrium, then the kitchen, and finally into the dining room.

  The crime scene technicians had all but vacated the premises and were finishing up in front of the house. Helen had followed after Ben, and the three of us now stood before the spectacle that had so thoroughly thrust me into despair.

  “Look at the scene, Rowan!” he demanded. “Stop actin’ like an asshole for just one goddamned second and take a good look at it!”

  The bright incandescence of the artificial lighting cast a stark picture before me as my eyes fought to adjust. Just as it had been earlie
r, the dining room table was canted at an angle, pushed a few degrees from its original position in the room. The chairs were in minor disarray from the movement, and as before, one was on its side. The mail we’d just discussed was spread out toward one end, with a trio of #10 envelopes and a medium-sized box resting haphazardly on the floor below.

  The Bible still stared back from dead center as if mocking me.

  The only thing that had really changed was that a patina of graphite and lycopodium powders now enhanced the latent fingerprints throughout.

  “Whaddaya see?” my friend asked, his voice stern but slightly calmer.

  “I don’t know,” I shot back. “My dining room? A mess? What am I supposed to see?”

  He let go of my collar and I immediately wheeled about to face him.

  He thrust a finger at me. “Like I said, we’re talkin’ about Felicity here. This is a woman who once tackled a mugger an’ sat on ‘im ‘till a squad car arrived. Now take another look. Does this room really look like she put up a fight?”

  I didn’t need to look again. He was correct. In reality, the disruption was minor in comparison to what it could have been. My wife was not one who would go quietly into the night without first extracting her own pound of flesh. She would have fought. She would have kicked. She would have screamed like a real Irish banshee. No matter how big or how strong her attacker, she would have wrecked the entire house trying to get away.

  Ben could see the light dawning in my face, and he knew that I was beginning to understand where he was headed, so he pressed forward. “In your statement ya’ said the dogs were shut up in the bedroom, right?”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “They were.”

  “How would that’ve happened?”

  “Felicity would have had to put them there,” I murmured.

  “Why?” he kept going, forcing me to see what he had already surmised.

  My voice fell almost to a whisper. “That’s what we do if someone they aren’t used to is in the house and they are being bothersome.”

  “Exactly,” Ben nodded. “Whoever took Felicity is someone she knows, Kemosabe. Someone she was comfortable enough ta’ let into the house but unfamiliar enough that she had ta’ lock the dogs away. She wasn’t afraid, so he was able ta’ take ‘er down so unexpectedly that she didn’t even have a chance ta’ fight.”