In addition to knowing where I was at the moment, I also had a fair recollection of how I’d gotten here. These simple facts may seem obvious and mundane to virtually everyone else, but to me they were comforting revelations.
As to the why I was here, well that was obvious-it was the middle of the night and I was trying to sleep. Unfortunately, there was a perverted mantra running around inside my head that was insisting that I do otherwise.
I rolled to the side, upsetting Dickens in the process, and sleepily scanned the face of the clock. The digital readout showed it to be almost a quarter past four. For all intents and purposes that simply meant 4:00, since my wife kept the timepiece set fifteen minutes fast to avoid being late. The self-imposed mind trick didn’t actually work for her, but that’s another story entirely.
My arm was beginning to regain its feeling, and every moment that passed was bringing me closer to being fully awake. The eerie echo reverberating inside my skull had been absent for a good number of minutes now; however, it had been replaced by my own inner voice repeating the rhyme over and over.
D-E-A-D-I-A-M!
D-E-A-D-I-A-M!
What’s that spell?
Dead I am!
Louder!
Dead I am!
One more time!
DEAD I AM!
The seeming approbation of death was imprinted upon my consciousness with indelible permanence, and it continued to loop like a snippet of a song that you simply can’t get out of your head. If its intent was to keep me from sleeping, it was accomplishing that task with absolute perfection.
Letting out a resigned sigh, I climbed out of the bed as quietly as I could in order not to wake Felicity. My eyes were fairly adjusted, and I managed to pull on some clothes without much fuss and then retrieved my glasses and Book of Shadows-a Witch’s dream journal of sorts-from a drawer in the nightstand. Even though I knew I was in no danger of forgetting the morbid ditty, I figured I’d best make written record of it because I was certain that anything this insistent meant something important.
I just didn’t know what.
*****
“How’ya feelin’?” The left field greeting issued from the handset immediately following my “hello.” Ben’s down to business approach to telephone conversations, sans the typical salutations, was as identifiable as his voice, so I wasn’t at all phased by the abruptness.
“About as well as can be expected, I suppose,” I returned, glancing at the clock in the corner of my computer screen, “considering that I have an appointment with your sister in a couple of hours.”
I didn’t offer the fact that I had been up since 4 a.m. because I was pretty sure I knew where the conversation would turn from there. I was also fairly certain that he wouldn’t accept the uneventful truth for an answer. He would assume I was hiding something then belabor the point, and I really didn’t need any more distractions right now. As it was, I’d been parked in my office for the better part of my somewhat expanded morning trying to get some work done. So far I’d accomplished little more than going through the previous day’s mail and moving a pile of paperwork from one side of my desk to the other. I hadn’t exactly been what you could call productive.
What I really needed to do was return a few phone calls and put together some proposals for clients, but I simply didn’t have the motivation. Even though I was trying, I was still feeling so overwhelmed by everything; it seemed useless to attempt anything more than simply existing.
“Cheer up, white man,” he told me. “She’s good at what she does. It’s not like she’s gonna bite or somethin’.”
“I know, Ben. I know.”
We both fell speechless, him becoming just the sound of someone breathing on the other end of the phone and me turning quietly introspective.
“Well, there’s really no easy way ta’ tell ya’ this,” my friend finally spoke. “But I’ve got some news ya’ prob’ly don’t wanna hear.”
“The handwriting?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s not Paige Lawson’s.”
“Are they sure?”
“No doubt, Row,” he replied. “They don’t look anything alike.”
“Damn,” I muttered.
This latest revelation did nothing to help my overall sense of demoralization. I had been certain that Paige Lawson was trying to communicate with me. Now, I couldn’t even be sure that it wasn’t simply all in my head.
“Graphologist said that based on the slant, the sample was most likely from a left-handed individual,” he continued. “And prob’ly female, although they get a little hinky ‘bout swearin’ to one gender or the other.”
“Well, I told you that much,” I offered.
“Yeah, I know, but like I said, the samples are worlds apart…and yours still ain’t from Paige Lawson. Ta’ be honest, the difference is so obvious I really didn’t even need the crime lab for this. But just ta’ be sure, I had ‘em verify it anyway. Accordin’ to the experts, the buck-fifty analysis is this, and I quote-The moderate left slant coupled with the narrow spacing denotes an independent and possibly introverted individual. The heavy pressure and ornate loops in the letters indicate a secretive personality…
“There’s some more here about the margins, size, and stuff, but it all boils down to the same thing. It ain’t Paige Lawson’s handwritin’.”
“It isn’t mine either.”
“Yeah, I know. I went ahead and had ‘em compare yours from some of the forms I’ve had ya’ fill out down here. There wasn’t enough to get a fancy analysis, but they were confident that you weren’t the one pushin’ the pencil. I didn’t tell ‘em any different.”
At first I was surprised at what he’d done, but Ben’s actions made perfect sense. He had to rule out all of the possibilities, and since I claimed the writing had come out of me, it was a logical move.
“Anyway, on the bright side,” he told me, “there’s a note here sayin’ that the little curly-q thing with the I’s is pretty unique. Very personal…for whatever that’s worth.”
“Not much, apparently.”
“It’d be easy to identify in another handwriting sample if we ran across it.”
“And the odds of that are?” I asked rhetorically. “Besides, you’ve proven that it’s not her, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter.”
“Yeah, so maybe it’s someone else.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Hey,” he contended, “like I said, I’ve seen weirder shit than this. Especially outta you.”
“Yes, but neither you nor Felicity seemed terribly convinced yesterday.” I allowed the words to hang between us in a verbal challenge of his sudden professed faith in my sanity.
“Look, Row, let’s not go there. I wish I’d been able to give ya’ somethin’ here, but…” He sighed. Without even seeing him I knew he was massaging his neck with a large hand. “It’s just not there, white man. Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I told him. I meant it even though I’m sure I didn’t sound very convincing. “So what about Paige Lawson?”
“Whaddaya mean? What about ‘er?”
“You said yesterday that you weren’t even sure it was a homicide.”
“Oh, that. Well, it’s lookin’ less and less like it. Right now we’re waitin’ on the final results of the autopsy, but there’s just nothin’ there at this point that says foul play.”
“How was she found anyway?”
“Row…”
“Can you humor me?” I appealed, my voice dull. “You just blew my theory apart. You could at least throw me a bone here.”
He exhaled heavily at the other end. “Nothin’ spectacular really. Squad car drove by on regular patrol and noticed the door hangin’ open. When the copper came through about half an hour later it was still open so he stopped ta’ check it out. Found her layin’ facedown just inside.”
“And he didn’t notice anything else?”
“Rowan, he’s a cop. We may not be perfect but
this is what we’re trained ta’ do.”
“Yeah, I know,” I responded, feeling mildly chastised. “I’m just really having a hard time with all of this.”
“That’s kinda obvious.”
For the second time during our conversation, silence reared its head, bringing all conversation to a halt. I’m sure by now Ben was thinking I was worse off than he’d originally imagined, but so far he was tactfully keeping the observation to himself. I would almost have agreed with him were it not for the fact that I kept reminding myself of the old bromide about not being insane as long as you had enough wits about you to wonder if you were.
“So anyway,” my friend finally put the brakes on the swelling pause with a change of subject. “How ‘bout that Yule thing of yours… That’s this Friday, right? What time were ya’ wantin’ Allison and me over?”
He was correct. Yule was only two days away, and as usual we had invited some non-Pagan friends to our traditional gathering. This was the first year that any had accepted.
The switch in the focus of the conversation was awkward, much like any shift that occurs in a chat such as ours. Even with its abruptness, it gave me something tangible and far more pleasant to grasp. Finally there was something familiar among the discord.
“You’re welcome any time,” I answered. “The official ritual will be around six-thirty or seven. I’ve already spoken to the group, and they are fine with the two of you joining in if you’d like.”
“We don’t hafta do anything weird, do we?”
“You don’t have to do anything at all,” I returned. “But if you do anything weird it’s going to be of your own accord, because we don’t have anything weird planned. Just a simple Yule ritual.”
“Well, you know what I meant.”
“You know, for a Native American you sure have a bizarre view of alternative spirituality.”
“Like I’ve said before, it’s a long story, Kemosabe, and ya’ don’t wanna hear it. Trust me… But hey, at least I’m tryin’,” he replied, then chuckled. “So what happens after the ritual? Do we like commune with ghosts or somethin’?”
“No, wrong Sabbat. That would have been back in October for Samhain.” I referred to the traditional holiday non-Pagans call Halloween. A night when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest, and we honor those who have passed before us, which made his comment closer to the mark than he realized-especially since he had intended it as a joke. “Actually, after the ritual we have a late dinner and wait for dawn.”
“Why, is she gonna be late?”
I winced as he delivered another joke in an attempt to further lighten the mood. It wasn’t terribly effective in its intent, but I still responded in kind. “Yeah, Ben. She’s probably not going to arrive until morning.”
“So ya’ want us to bring anything?” He returned a serious question, thankfully leaving the pun to die a quick death before the exchange could deteriorate further.
“We’ve pretty much got it covered,” I said. “If there’s something special you want to drink, you might want to bring it along, but other than that, just yourselves.”
“Okay, so what’re we eatin’?”
“Food.”
“Yeah smartass, what kinda food?”
“It’s a surprise, Ben.”
“You’re not gonna try ta’ make me eat nothin’ but vegetables or somethin’, are ya’?”
“No, Ben.” Even with my current mood I had to at least chuckle at the seriousness of his query. “There’ll be meat on the table.”
“Beef? Pork?”
“You’ll find out Friday.”
“It ain’t gonna be somethin’ strange, is it?” he pressed.
“You’ll find out on Friday.”
“Jeez, Kemosabe…” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, be that way, but don’t be surprised if I bring a sack of Whitey burgers as backup.”
“Felicity will kill you.”
“So I’ll leave ‘em in the van, and sneak out if ya’ try ta’ feed me tofu ala whatever kinda shit.”
“Uh-huh. And, if you stink up the van with a bag of Whitey’s, then Allison will kill you.”
“Yeah, ya’ got a point there… Hmmm… Pizza’d prob’ly be okay.”
“You won’t need it. Trust me.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” he said. “So look, I gotta get back ta’ work. You gonna be okay?”
“Yeah, Ben,” I assured him. “I’ll be fine. Sure, I’m disappointed that I was wrong, but I’ll be just fine.”
“Okay. Tell Helen I said ‘hey’ and that I’ll call ‘er later about Christmas Eve.”
“Will do.”
“Later.”
“Bye.”
When I hung up the phone, the distraction it had provided immediately dissipated, leaving me once again alone in my thoughts. Or, perhaps not so alone if I counted the cheerfully taunting female voice that was echoing deep inside my head as it repeated, “What’s that spell? Dead I Am! LOUDER! DEAD I AM!”
Again I applied the razor I’d used earlier while on the phone. The one that basically says if you are insane, you are unable to recognize your illness and will simply assume that you are fine. Conversely, if you are in fact sane, you should be fully cognizant of the two differing states of mental health and therefore able to question said sanity.
I made it a point to ask myself this question aloud. But even though I was able to do that and not simply assume I was fine, the resulting uncertainty in my answer wasn’t terribly comforting.
*****
The offices of Metro Counseling were located just on the outskirts of downtown Claymont, only a few miles from my home in Briarwood. Still, it took me longer to get there than it really should have due to my two semi-aborted stops to purchase cigarettes. The first time I hadn’t even climbed out of the truck. I’d simply sat there for several minutes, arguing with a sudden attack of will power, before eventually backing out of the parking space and starting once again on my way to the appointment. But on the second stop I had actually gone in to a small convenience store, and purchased a pack from the cashier, then tossed them unopened into the trash outside before heading out again. Earlier in the day, I’d even considered lighting up a cigar from my humidor, but I’d been doing my best to avoid them of late. I knew if I had one in my hand I’d inhale it, and that was the last thing I needed to start doing.
Obviously, this craving had increased disproportionately over the past twenty-four-hour period, and the nicotine gum simply wasn’t doing its job any longer. At the moment, I had two fresh pieces stuffed simultaneously into my cheek and was considering a third, even though I was fairly certain that doing so could make me dangerously ill.
Just as I was about to throw that particular caution into the trash and reach for another dose of the gum, without warning the pains of the urge were temporarily replaced by, of all things, a woman. I had just swung into a parking space and was switching off the engine of my truck when I noticed her. She was petite. Dressed in a long skirt and boots. A leather jacket hugged her torso from the waist up, and her shoulder-length blonde hair was flying on a cold breeze. She had a milky complexion and her face bore a tasteful amount of makeup.
After a moment, I caught myself literally ogling her as she walked across the parking lot from her car and then disappeared through the glass doors at the entrance of the building.
I physically shuddered as I shook off the stare. Two specific thoughts were pin wheeling around inside my head taking turns at the forefront as they bounced.
The first was that I hoped she hadn’t noticed my rude gaze. But even if she had, at worst I would simply be embarrassed.
The second, however, was a bit troubling and, in a sense, even mildly disturbing.
For some reason I seemed to be trying very hard to imagine what she would look like if she had long red hair.
CHAPTER 5
“It is a terrible habit,” Doctor Helen Storm said aloud and then took a drag from a cigarette.
“I really should quit, but I enjoy it far too much.”
I had arrived early for the appointment, as was my nature in all things involving a scheduled time. We had actually met at the door as I was on my way in and she was on her way out. She’d been hoping to grab a quick smoke break. To her credit, she had started to put the cigarettes away and take off her coat, but I insisted that she go ahead and indulge the addiction. Instead of having me wait alone, she had invited me to walk outside with her. We were now standing at the railing of an outdoor lounge that occupied an architecturally truncated corner of the seventh floor of the building. The air was chilly but it had calmed, and with the late morning sun to dull the bite, the crispness was for the most part pleasant.
“I know what you mean,” I replied, mentally beating down the desire to bum one from her as I shifted a half step away from the enticing smoke.
“I am so sorry, is the smoke bothering you?” she asked, noticing my obvious move and shifting away herself.
“Yes and no,” I shrugged. “I quit a couple of years ago, but for some reason I’ve been having some pretty horrendous cravings lately.”
“I apologize, Rowan. I should have asked before I invited you out here with me.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I shook my head and waved her off before she could extinguish the cigarette. “I’m fine.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“So why do you think you have been craving cigarettes?”
“Dunno.” I shrugged. “Stress I suppose. Aren’t you supposed to be the one telling me why I’m all screwed up?”
Helen Storm regarded me with mysteriously dark eyes that were a mirror image of her brother’s. She bore an unmistakable family resemblance to Ben, but with a far softer edge to her features. Her pretty face was framed by shiny black hair that fell across her shoulders and was interspersed with strands of grey. My friend had once told me that she was a handful of years older than him, but the streaks in her hair were the only telltale sign of that fact. The one physical attribute that came into severe contrast with her sibling was her size, she being almost a foot shorter than he.
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