Perfect Trust argi-3

by M. R. Sellars

  “I know,” I returned. “But try to follow me here. I’m talking about her other physical attributes. Size, shape of face, skin tone. That’s why he uses the wig and the tinted contacts. Try to imagine Heather Burke with long red hair.”

  “Okay.” He nodded slightly after a thoughtful pause. “I guess maybe I can see that.”

  “Now, what about Miranda Hodges and Paige Lawson?” I urged.

  “Yeah, they all kinda resemble one another, but don’t ya’ think you’re pushin’ it a bit?”

  “No, I don’t.” I shook my head hard. I wanted to get moving but I knew it was never going to happen unless I could convince him I was correct. “He has been dressing them up to look like Felicity and then taking pictures of them. He’s been living out his fantasy about my wife through them.”

  “I dunno, Rowan. We’ll check it out, but let’s not start drawin’ conclusions just yet.”

  “Fine,” I snarled, “fine, just forget all that. The important thing is I’m telling you he’s the one who’s got Felicity, and we need to stop him before he hurts her.”

  “I’m not doubtin’ ya’,” Ben held up a hand before I could object, “Well, actually, yes I am, ‘cause we don’t need ta’ go off half-cocked an’ chasin’ our tails right now.”

  “Dammit, Ben!”

  “Row, I told ya’, we’ll check it out. But, we can’t just go bust ‘is door down without probable cause. Can ya’ at least give me a motive?”

  I heaved out an exasperated sigh. “Just the other day Felicity told me she thinks he has a crush on her.”

  “Just a crush, or somethin’ more serious?” he asked. “Like, has he been stalkin’ ‘er?”

  “I don’t know,” I couldn’t keep the urgency out of my voice. “But he has been know to call here for no good reason, and I don’t doubt what Felicity said.”

  “Okay, okay, I believe ya’,” he said. “I’m afraid a suspected crush ain’t gonna get us a warrant, but let’s start by checkin’ ‘im out. You got a last name so we can get a home address?”

  “He won’t be at home,” I told him confidently as I glanced down at the label on the box. I suddenly realized that in my haste I’d neglected to give him a piece of information that would have made my theory quite a bit easier to swallow. “He’ll have her at the lab where he can take pictures of her.”

  “Okay, then, we can start there then move ta’ the home. What’s the address?”

  “Thirty-seven fifty-four Ash Bend Avenue.”

  He was scribbling in his notebook as I recited the address. His pencil slowed and he looked up at me silently.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t a name. It was an address.”

  “But…”

  “Dyslexia,” I said before he could finish. “I’ll bet you anything that Heather Burke suffers from dyslexia.”

  *****

  Ben killed the headlights on the van and eased it into the parking lot of Arch Color Labs, allowing the high idle of the engine to slowly propel us forward as he surveyed the building. It had taken us less than five minutes to make the trip, and my earlier overabundance of nervous energy was returning in full force. I reached for the door and popped the latch while the vehicle inched along at a pace that would make a tortoise ashamed.

  “Dammit, Rowan!” Ben hissed as he quickly twisted a control on the dash to extinguish the dome light. “What the fuck are ya’ doin’? Close the door!”

  “Well what are you doing?” I shot back between clenched teeth. “Felicity is in there and you’re just screwing around out here!”

  “Listen, I understand where you’re at, believe me, but we can’t just rush in there like the cavalry or somethin’.”

  “Dammit, Ben, he’s got Felicity!”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “I do!”

  “Fine,” he spat, “I ain’t gonna argue with ya’. But we’re doin’ this my way. Got it?”

  It was all I could do to contain myself. The earlier thud that had occupied my head was still there and seemed to be acting as a pump for the visceral rage I was experiencing. With each thrum of pain, I could feel the anger course through me. It was rising fast, and it wasn’t going to be long before it consumed me.

  The van idled its way around a low retaining wall to reveal the opposite end of the L-shaped parking lot. There in the shadows of the far back corner sat a car. The tall lamps positioned around the building poured their sodium vapor glow into the night and cut a small swath across the front quarter of the vehicle.

  A vague memory of the night Ben had hurried me out of my house in advance of the descending media flitted through my mind. It was the Thunderbird that had been parked on the side street across from my driveway. I recognized the blotches of primer.

  “Remember the car we almost hit the other night?” I asked, pointing toward the T-bird. “You wanted to know if he was stalking her… Well there’s your answer.”

  “Yeah, I see it,” he grunted.

  Ben brought the van to a halt next to the concrete retaining wall and switched off the engine. The silence that followed rang hollow in my ears, piercing directly into my soul.

  Through the windows, the interior of the building appeared dark. The only sound inside the van was that of me, Ben, and Helen breathing. The coldness of the night began to quickly seep in.

  “What now?” I finally asked, my words riding out on a cloud of visible breath. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”

  “Rowan, ya’ wanna can it?” my friend ordered more than asked. “Ya’know, if you were anyone else I woulda kicked your ass by now.”

  “Well, what are we doing?” I demanded, though with a bit less harshness in my voice.

  “We aren’t doin’ anything,” he instructed as he unlatched his door. “You and Helen are gonna sit right here while I check around back.”

  My friend carefully unfolded himself from his seat and climbed out of the van. Before I had any chance to retort, he had quietly pressed the door shut and stalked off through the darkness. I watched on as he disappeared into the shadows.

  “Benjamin is correct, Rowan,” Helen told me in a quiet voice. “He knows what he is doing. Let him handle this.”

  “I know that, Helen,” I answered, my tone all but devoid of emotion. “But I’m having some trouble with the concept at the moment.”

  Her soothing voice and no-nonsense advice was a welcome salve on my wounded psyche, but I was desperately afraid that the prescription was too little, too late. Something that felt completely beyond my control had already been set in motion. What was most frightening to me was that I was fairly certain that I didn’t even want to try stopping it.

  “Based on your current demeanor, that would be an understatement, Rowan,” she returned. “However, as I have told you, it is a normal reaction to the situation… Do you remember what I told you earlier today?”

  I twisted in my seat so that I could see her. “You mean about not letting my strength become my vulnerability?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Helen, but it still sounds like some kind of cryptic eastern philosophy type of advice to me. I guess I’m stupid because I’m just not getting it.”

  “Your innate strength, Rowan, is your need to protect.”

  “Okay.”

  “By allowing yourself to be consumed by this rage, you are walking a very thin line between protecting someone you love and exacting vengeance. To do the latter would, in turn, make you vulnerable to a host of unspeakable things-including your own fears.”

  I pondered her words for a moment before I spoke. “Helen, did you know this was going to happen?”

  “Not exactly.” She shook her head. “I sensed that something was going to happen, but nothing specific. If I had, I would have told you.”

  “There’s quite a bit more to you than you let on, isn’t there?”

  She simply smiled.

  I turned back to face forward then reached out and unlatched the glove compartment. I thr
ust my hand into the darkness and rummaged about carefully. I was banking on a recent memory holding true, and when my fingers landed against the cold metal I knew the account was still open.

  Ben always carried a backup weapon-an actual pearl handled, stainless, Smith amp; Wesson Model 649 “Bodyguard” thirty-eight special to be exact. The only reason I knew the specifics in such detail was that he’d sung the praises of the short-barreled revolver and its shrouded hammer to me more than once.

  When I withdrew my hand from the compartment, Helen couldn’t help but see the belt clip holster and handgun that now filled it. To her credit she didn’t even gasp.

  “I was under the impression that we had just discussed this, Rowan” was all she said.

  “We did, Helen.” I sighed as I withdrew the gun from the worn leather and checked to make certain it was loaded. Then I looked back over my shoulder at her. “We just didn’t reach the conclusion you wanted. I appreciate everything you said. I really do. And, to be honest, I’m sure you’re right, and I’m wrong. But, right now I need you to get out of the van.”

  “Why, Rowan?”

  “Because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Tell me what you are going to do, Rowan.”

  “Tempered glass doesn’t really break as easy as they make it look like in the movies” was all I said.

  *****

  The anger had blossomed far beyond the most severe level I had been able to imagine. I was so consumed with it that I had gone beyond blind rage and moved completely into calculated hatred.

  Helen did exactly what she should have done. She tried to stall me by refusing to get out of the vehicle. But I had ventured well to the other side of reason, and since I’d expected her to use this tactic, I was more than ready to call her bluff. I climbed across and into the driver’s seat and then adjusted it forward enough to reach the pedals.

  She continued to calmly talk to me as I twisted the key and fired up the engine.

  She never once lost her cool as I slowly backed the van across the lot in order to make enough room to build up speed.

  She finally got out when it became obvious to her that I was going to go through with my plan whether she did so or not.

  I was already standing on the brake and revving the engine until it was screaming when she exited through the sliding door. When I felt certain she was safely away, I let off the brake and the van bucked hard as it lurched forward.

  From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my friend racing around the side of the building as he watched his van fly across the asphalt toward the front of the structure. I braced myself with my arms stiff against the steering wheel and glanced quickly down.

  The speedometer read 32 miles per hour when the nose of the Chevy leaped over the curb and connected with the plate glass windows.

  CHAPTER 29

  The initial impact was utterly surreal.

  Countless shards of glass showered the front of the van, sparkling in the glow of the exterior lights like a torrential downpour of semi-precious stones. The tortured scream of the over wound engine was joined by the multi-pitched peal of the shattering windows, and at that moment everything seemed to stop for the briefest instant. Languishing in an otherworldly vortex, devoid of the passage of time for only a tiny fraction of a second before rushing headlong into insane reality once again.

  The jarring crash reverberated up my stiffly locked arms and rattled my entire body. I fought hard to hit the brakes, missing twice before finally connecting with the pedal and raking my shin on the underside of the dash as I flopped around in the seat.

  The vehicle bucked hard and plowed directly into the front counter, splintering the base and laminated top as it pushed it from its mounting place on the floor. I pitched forward on the second impact, and my face bounced against my hands at the top of the steering wheel. My breath was forced from my lungs, and I grunted hard as I was then lashed backward into the seat.

  Intense quiet suddenly filled the passenger cabin of the vehicle. All motion had come to an end, and I was staring through the windshield at the dark interior of the front office area. I regained my breath and reached for my pocket where I’d stuffed the revolver before starting my run at the building. My fingers contacted the smooth surface of the weapon, and I tightly clutched my fist around it. Shouldering the door open, I climbed out of the van and landed unsteadily on a pile of glass and former countertop.

  The engine was idling roughly-sputtering and choking as it fought to remain alive. The sharp odor of photographic chemistries mixed with the stale water funk of engine coolant. A cloud of steam was rising steadily from the front of the Chevy, and I could hear water splattering on the floor. In the distance to my back, I could hear Ben screaming my name. In front of me, through an open doorway, I could hear the muted strains of Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”

  My body was already starting to ache, and I could taste blood in my mouth. I ignored it and pressed forward. Just over thirty seconds had passed since the van had first struck the windows. I was immediately worried by the fact that Harold hadn’t come running to investigate the horrendous noise. I was certain that he was here, and so was Felicity. Fear gripped me as I wondered about what he might have already done to her.

  I heard my name called again, closer now. Ben was sure to be coming to stop me. There was no longer any time to think, there was only time to act. Picking my way around the debris I stepped quickly through the doorway and into the dark corridor.

  I could hear the muffled sound of someone frantically rushing about intermixing with the low tones of the music, so I followed it. I heard the dying sputter of the van behind me as it gave one final cough before shutting down. My footfalls were echoing through the darkness at their own frenetic pace, and Ben’s voice was growing even louder. He would be upon me soon.

  I met the door at the end of the hall at almost a dead run. I simply assumed that it would be locked. Whether it was or not, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be sure. At any rate, the discount-store-special pre-hung barrier gave way on the second strike. The luan-encased frame shattered at the handle, splintering loudly as the door swung inward on its hinges.

  The pistol was stiff-armed in front of me in my right hand as I pushed through the opening and into the large, dimly lit room. My bad shoulder had been the battering ram for the door, and it now burned with absolute agony. My ears were filled with a rush of noise, and I realized that it was my own tortured scream as the pain blossomed outward.

  The room was laid out as a studio. Light stands strategically placed with gel filters resting in holders. Reflective umbrellas perched at angles, pointing diagonally toward the ceiling in order to shower their bounced luminance back down onto the scene. Rolls of backdrop fabrics were suspended from a wheeled rack in a cascade, ready to be spooled out behind the subject.

  In the center of it all was a chair, and in that chair sat my wife, clad in an ornate wedding gown and staring vacantly into space. A garish mask of makeup was painted onto her face, lending an almost plastic quality to her features.

  “NO!” a distinct and vile male voice screamed from the shadows. “She’s MINE!”

  I’d heard the voice before. I’d even felt the ragged insanity of it inside my own head. I twisted toward the words, and my eyes came to rest on Harold. He was standing twenty feet away from Felicity and twenty yards away from me, a camera in one hand and a cigarette protruding between the middle two fingers of the other. He stepped closer to the chair as if to protect a prized possession.

  “Stay away from her!” I screamed at him, tracking his movement with the pistol in my outstretched hand.

  I wanted him dead. I wanted him dead right now. But I had a huge problem and I knew it. He was far too close to her and I was a lousy shot.

  “She’s MINE and you can’t have her!” he screamed back at me with crazed defiance in his eyes. “She doesn’t want you! She wants ME!”

  If I was in a movie,
I knew I would have a suitably dramatic line to deliver. Somehow, reality just isn’t quite like the movies. All I could muster was a hoarse scream of, “Get away from her, you bastard!”

  I heard heavy breathing and the shuffle of feet behind me but didn’t turn. I knew full well who it was.

  “POLICE! Step away from her now!” my friend’s stern voice ordered.

  “SHE’S MINE! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT?! SHE’S MINE!” Harold screamed once again.

  Ben was moving slowly forward. On the periphery of my vision I saw the muzzle of his nine-millimeter move into view. The tip of the sidearm was followed by his arms, which were locked into a rock steady firing position. Finally, the rest of his body filled the corner of my eye as he came alongside me.

  As I directed my attention forward, I could see my hand shaking-the polished surface of the revolver flickering in the dim light.

  “I’m ordering you to step away now, sir!” Ben returned, keeping his attention fully focused on Harold. In a quieter but no less demanding tone he issued a command to me. “Put the gun down before you get yourself killed, Rowan!”

  “GO AWAY!” Harold demanded wildly. “GO AWAY, SHE’S MINE! SHE’S PERFECT AND SHE’S MINE!”

  “Put the fucking gun down, Rowan,” Ben snarled at me again.

  I knew he was right. I needed to heed the order and be done with this. In my mind, I knew it was over for me. Ben had control of the situation and he was the professional. The emotions that were driving me had no choice but to give wide berth to the reality of the situation. It was a given that I couldn’t pull the trigger and risk hitting Felicity. As much as I wanted this man dead, there was literally nothing I could do, so I started to lower the gun.

  Or at least that is what I tried to do. My arm wouldn’t move.

  “Rowan, Rowan, you’re the guy! You found our killer, now don’t be shy! We wanna make him suffer, don’t you know. We wanna make him die, don’t let him go!”

  The angry ditty rang inside my skull, audible only to me and the cheering section that was chanting it. My hand continued to shake but never wavered from its target.