Harm none argi-1

by M. R. Sellars

  CHAPTER 15

  While Felicity slept, Ben and I executed a roughly choreographed shuffle of vehicles: first, driving my wife’s Jeep from Cally’s house back to where it belonged then retrieving my truck from behind the police station. He remained silent and distant as we drove about, completing the tasks, keeping his eyes glued to the road before him and saying only as much as necessary. I didn’t like seeing him like this, but I knew I could only wait until he was ready to talk, for anything else would only drive him further into his world of introspection. I mutely reassured myself that everything would work out between Ben and Allison and that all would return to normalcy soon. Besides, I had my own pain to contend with.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I asked him.

  We were standing next to my vehicle on the parking lot of the police station. It was still early afternoon, and the bright sun had only recently begun the downward portion of its arc through the sky. A light breeze blew in, tousling Ben’s already disheveled hair as he looked back at me wearily.

  “I’ll see if the search warrant has been issued for R.J.’s place,” he sighed. “And we’ll be waitin’ to hear from the hospital about Devon. Other than that, it’s business as usual.”

  “I know we’ve been down this road before, Ben,” I ventured, “but I really believe R.J. is innocent. You aren’t going to find anything at his place.”

  “For his sake, I hope you’re right,” he acknowledged. “But, I still have a job to do, and I wouldn’t be much of a cop if I didn’t follow all the leads. Look, Row, I’d like ta’ agree with you, but even you hafta admit the fingerprint on the bottom of that candle is pretty incriminatin’.”

  “Yeah. It is,” I agreed, “but I’m sure there’s an explanation for it.”

  “Lemme know if ya’ think of a reasonable one,” Ben returned.

  We stood a little longer, silently staring at one another. Tension still radiated from my friend, and I felt there was something he wished to say but couldn’t find the words. The sounds of sirens being tested filled the wordless void around us as shifts changed and squad cars entered and left the lot.

  Finally, I broke the speechless interlude. “So, you’ll call me if anything turns up?”

  “Yeah, I’ll let ya’ know,” he told me with a nod then added, “Give Felicity my best and… Tell ‘er… Tell ‘er I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Ben had already disappeared into the door of the police station by the time I backed out of my parking space and shifted into forward motion. I reached over and turned up the radio as I pulled out of the lot. I hung a quick right and melded with the traffic then pointed myself in the direction of home. Before returning to the hospital, I still needed to call Felicity’s client to re-schedule as well as put together an overnight bag for her, just in case.

  The last few nondescript chords of a song I didn’t recognize filtered to my ears, and a DJ’s voice blended in behind them. Before she had a chance to tell me the name of the song I had just ignored, I punched a preset and switched to the local National Public Radio affiliate. I was looking for something other than the events of this day to occupy my mind-even if only for a few moments.

  The afternoon faded slowly into evening, and the end of visiting hours approached at an ever-quickening pace. Once Felicity had returned to wakefulness, I spent the evening filling her in on the events that had occurred with R.J. This did little to improve her demeanor, so I elected to leave out the incident with Ben and Allison for the time being. As if my news weren’t enough, the doctor assigned to her case chose to keep her overnight for observation despite her vehement and very animated protestations. The rest of my evening was spent listening to her grumble.

  When the nurse finally decided to eject me from the room, I kissed my still fuming wife goodbye and promised to return bright and early the next morning.

  I arrived home to a sedate household-the dogs moping about listlessly, and the wide-eyed cats lined up along the windowsill, ears twisting like radar dishes searching for even the most remote sign of Felicity. Anyone who tells you that animals don’t sense when something is wrong, or that they can’t show concern, has definitely never owned a pet.

  I tended to their various needs of being let out and in, food, water, and generous amounts of attention before locking up for the night. The house felt empty and hollow without Felicity. We had been separated before but never under circumstances such as these. Never, at a time when among my greatest fears was that of going to sleep-going to sleep and facing another nightmare.

  I put on a pot of coffee and stubbornly decided that I would wait out the night. I would read, play solitaire, watch old movies, but under no circumstances would I allow myself to re-live Ariel’s death in my dreams. Of course, everyone knows about the best-laid plans of mice and men.

  My first mistake was choosing to sit on the couch while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. My second mistake was allowing my eyelids to close as exhaustion crept up on me.

  Darkness.

  Darkness without shape or form.

  Cold, bone chilling darkness from the heart of nowhere.

  I was floating.

  I was falling.

  I was screaming.

  “ Rowan.” Ariel, once again in a white lace gown, smiled brightly at me. “Have a seat. It’s been so long since I’ve read for you.”

  I was sitting. It was sudden. The movement disjointed. I didn’t recall moving to the chair.

  I was sitting.

  Ariel smiled at me across the table. A table that until moments before had never existed. Her face was vibrant, her eyes bright and alive. Her strawberry-blonde hair lofted gently on a cool breeze. In her dainty hands, she held an oversized deck of cards. A deck of tarot cards. I watched as she shuffled them quickly. Or did she? Her hands never moved.

  “ This represents him,” she said aloud, looking down at the center of the table.

  The Knight of Cups.

  “ No, Ariel. The Knight of Cups is not my significator,” I try to tell her. “It doesn’t represent me.”

  My words fall soundlessly to the floor like a grotesque parody of a children’s cartoon.

  “ This covers him.” She continues to look only at the table.

  The Devil.

  She’s not reading for me.

  She’s reading for the killer.

  “ This crosses him,” she continues.

  The Tower.

  I watch the cards intently.

  “ Rowan, how nice to see you,” a lilting voice comes from behind me.

  I turn.

  Ariel is smiling at me. A dark shape, hooded and malevolent, moves behind her. I want to warn her, but I know that I can’t.

  Crimson spreads across the white lace.

  “ Why, Rowan? Why?” her gurgling voice calls to me.

  Darkness.

  Dull black void.

  “ Hey, Mister,” a tiny voice asserts itself.

  I turn and look down.

  A young girl. Silky, strawberry-blonde hair tied back with white bows. A white lace dress encases her. She looks up at me with large, sad eyes. A familiar deck of cards is clutched tightly in her tiny hand. She holds it out, offering them to me. I take the cards.

  “ Why don’t you stop the bad man?” the child asks.

  Before I can reply, she is gone.

  I spin about in search of her and find only darkness. I look back to the deck of tarot cards in my hand. They seem so tiny. I turn over the top card.

  The Seven of Pentacles.

  Pain rips through my back and into my chest. Out of reflex I look down. The gilt end of a beveled blade is protruding from my chest.

  Blood.

  Scarlet, thick blood runs down my shirt.

  “ All…Is…Forgiven.” A dark voice laughs from behind me. The knife juts farther from my solar plexus.

  I look down at the tarot cards in my hand. Slowly they spill into space, fluttering then fading away. I fight to focus
on them as they quickly flash their faces to me before they disappear.

  They are all the same card.

  They are all the Seven of Pentacles.

  Darkness.

  An endless tortured scream.

  I awoke to the sound of my own voice. Maybe voice isn’t the right word as it was more the sound of my own bloodcurdling and tortured scream. The dogs were alertly stationed before me, growling and barking as if an intruder had burst into the house, invading their territory. The cats were nowhere to be seen, and I can’t say that I blamed them.

  Once again, I was bathed in a cold sweat, breathing heavily as though I had just finished running a marathon. This was becoming ridiculous. I had only managed one decent night’s sleep out of the past four, and it was beginning to take its toll. This time the nightmare had taken on even more intensity. It was obvious that Ariel was trying to tell me something; I was certain of it. Doubtless, she had been trying to do the same in the last dream as well.

  After calming the dogs, I immediately retrieved my Book of Shadows and recorded the still vivid details of this latest nightmare. By the time I finished, fatigue once again overtook me, knocking the second wind from my sails and leading me into a restless sleep.

  The next morning, Felicity was dressed and waiting for me when I arrived at the hospital. Her doctor had released her earlier, and she was more than ready to remove herself from the premises. She had been fortunate in some respects as her injuries could have been far worse. Other than the miscarriage, she sustained only two cracked ribs and some minor bruises.

  My fiery-tressed wife demonstrated her stubbornness and resolve in her refusal to be pushed out of the hospital in a wheelchair, though she did allow me to carry her overnight bag for her. I left Felicity sitting on a bench at the main entrance while I rode up in the elevator and then brought my truck down through the spiraling corkscrew of the parking garage. Moments after I left her, I exited the concrete structure, quickly zipped around the block, and brought the truck to a halt directly in front of the bench.

  “I should have known you would be ready to leave,” I told her after I turned onto the street.

  “I hate hospitals,” she answered. “You know that.”

  “Well, you must have at least gotten some rest.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “No heavy accent this morning.”

  “I don’t have an accent.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, leave me alone,” she returned with a slightly annoyed tone then returned to the original subject. “I didn’t need to stay overnight. I feel fine.”

  I pushed the truck forward and turned left onto Kingshighway. “I’m glad you feel fine, but what did the doctor say?”

  “He said I was okay,” she acknowledged. “I just need to take an iron supplement for a while.”

  “What about the ribs?”

  “He told me they’d be sore for a week or so,” she went on. “But they’ll heal up okay.”

  I veered right toward the on-ramp and sped up, merging with the highway traffic. We rode along in silence for a few moments, Felicity staring out the side window.

  “How are you with the whole miscarriage thing,” I gently queried. “I mean mentally.”

  “I honestly don’t know,” she replied, her voice flat. “I’m kind of in shock I guess. I’m not sure if it’s really sunk in yet.” She let out a long sigh and continued staring out the window. A few moments passed, and she turned to me once again. “I don’t know that I really felt all that pregnant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I mean, I know I had the morning sickness and all…” She fumbled as she searched for the words to explain her feelings. “But that was only once. I don’t think I was pregnant long enough for it to really sink in. I don’t know. I hope I don’t sound callous. I’m sure I’m not making any sense to you.”

  “You don’t sound callous,” I reassured her. “And I think I understand.”

  “I’m depressed about it,” she announced after another long pause. “I just don’t think I’m going to go off the deep end or anything. What about you? How do you feel about all of this?”

  “I’m disappointed,” I told her, “and a bit depressed. Mainly, I’m pissed at Devon.”

  “Did you ever hear how his surgery went?”

  I changed lanes then glanced over at her. “Haven’t heard a thing.”

  “Have you talked to Ben?”

  “Not since he dropped me off at my truck yesterday afternoon,” I outlined. “Something’s going on with him and Allison. He was real quiet.”

  “Like what?”

  I explained the incident I had only partially witnessed as well as Ben’s abnormally introspective demeanor that followed. Felicity agreed with my theory that Ben’s dedication to his job, combined with the extra hours he had been working, might be putting a strain on his relationship with Allison. Since she knew Ben as well as I did, she also agreed that we would have to wait for him to come to us.

  We exited the highway and continued up the tree-lined streets toward our home.

  “They’re going to charge R.J. with the murders,” Felicity finally announced in a depressed tone.

  “We don’t know that,” I responded. “Like I told you last night, a lot depends on what they find in his apartment.”

  “No. I can feel it,” she insisted. “They’re going to charge him, and he’s not the one.”

  “I know,” I told her. “But the police can’t make their decisions based on the ethereal feelings and gut reactions of a couple of Witches.”

  “Then we need to find something that they CAN base their decisions on.”

  I looked over at her. She wore a determined expression combined with a creased brow, which told me the wheels were already turning beneath her auburn mane. I had kept the second nightmare a secret from her, as I didn’t want her to worry. Now that the third one had forced its way into my life, I suspected it might be time to fill her in. I thought maybe, if we worked on it together, we could decipher the clues I felt Ariel was attempting to give me.

  “So, I think I could use your help with…” I looked back to the road as I turned down our street and quickly changed my train of thought. “What the hell?!”

  The street in front of our home had become a small circus of news vans and media personalities. Tall telescoping booms extended from the vehicles, pushing dish antennas skyward in competition for the best angle and location. Camera-toting video technicians, burdened with battery belts and miles of cable, lounged against the vans in a state of detached boredom while nearly half a dozen on-air talents milled about expectantly.

  “We really don’t need this,” I expressed my thought aloud as we approached.

  “Tell me about it,” Felicity agreed. “You think they’ll go away if we just ignore them?”

  “I doubt it,” I mused sardonically. “They’re television reporters. They don’t pick up on things as fast as your average household pets do.”

  Intent on not being driven from my home by the tenacious reporters, I swung the truck into our driveway and sped past them around to our garage in back of the house. They sprang immediately into frenetic activity, adjusting neckties or primping coiffed hair, as they motioned testily for their apathetic cameramen to follow them.

  “So what do we do now?” Felicity asked as the garage door automatically slid shut behind us. “We can’t sit in here forever.”

  “No, we can’t,” I agreed. “Why don’t you go in and call Ben. Let him know what’s going on. While you’re doing that, I’ll go out front and ask them to leave.”

  “Ask them to leave?” she echoed. “You don’t really think that’s going to do any good do you?”

  “Of course not, but it can’t hurt.”

  She answered me with a familiar roll of her eyes before opening her door and stepping out of the cab. “Whatever.”

  The throng of TV journalists was shuffling about in my driveway like a
directionless herd of cattle. Some of them focused their attention on the front of the house while others craned their necks in an attempt to see where Felicity and I might have disappeared. When I rounded the corner however, the division of observation ended and all eyes, including cameras, were brought to bear on me.

  “Mister Gant, can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Dirk White, Channel Four News, Mister Gant, has there been any progress in the investigation?”

  “Rumor has it that a suspect is in custody. Is that true, Mister Gant?”

  “Mister Gant, Mister Gant. Brandee Street, Eyewitness News. Is it true that your wife was directly involved in the capture of a suspect?”

  They shouted their questions, assaulting me from all sides as they attempted to make themselves heard over their rivals. I remained calm and continued to amble easily up the drive toward them, making it a point to be in no particular hurry. Inevitably, I reached the small crowd and came to a halt a few feet away.

  Brandee Street burst forth, her honey-blonde mane moussed into immobility. “Mister Gant, sources close to the investigation say that your wife was injured while aiding in the apprehension of a suspect in the Satanic Serial Killer case. Would you like to comment?”

  Ignoring the question, I held up my hands in a quieting gesture and waited for the huddled group to settle down. Much to my surprise, it didn’t take long for them to comply. Apparently, they assumed I was about to make some type of statement as they all held their microphones forward and stared at me expectantly. What I did tell them, however, was not what they wanted to hear.

  “I just came out here to let you know that you’re wasting your time,” I announced. “My wife and I have no intention of making any statements about the case or answering any questions. So, we would appreciate it greatly if you would please leave us alone.”

  Brandee Street was the first to ignore my speech. “Was that your wife with you in the truck, Mister Gant?”

  “Was her injury serious?” another reporter interposed.

  As I mutely waved off the questions, I noticed a dark grey station wagon as it slipped up next to the curb on the side street across from my house. The thought of another reporter joining the crowd that was currently assaulting me was less than pleasant.