I had been fumbling in my coat pocket and now had my cell phone in hand. I began dialing a number as quickly as I could. “Yeah, well they should be but they aren’t,” I said, eyes never leaving my thumb as it stabbed buttons on the keypad.
“Could it be they’ve gone for coffee or something?” Felicity offered the question with a note of uncertainty in her voice.
“Maybe,” Parker replied, surety lacking in her tone as well.
Just as I was about to place the phone against my ear, a distant mechanical chime sounded from behind, prompting all three of us to turn in near unison. At the far end of the hallway, from whence we had come only moments before, a set of doors in the dual bank of elevators began to slide open with a muted rumble. As the stainless steel parted, a lumbering janitor exited, pushing in front of him a wheeled bin. Without looking up he aimed himself toward a nearby trash receptacle as if on autopilot.
The fresh expectation of hope instantly dashed, I felt myself sag right where I stood, slumping into a dejected posture that physically announced my disappointment. To be honest, at this point the only thing really keeping me upright and focused was adrenalin augmented with caffeine, but both of those were swiftly running out.
Of course, the rapid depletion of the chemicals from my bloodstream was the least of my worries. They were only keeping me awake. My emotional self-flagellation was quickly starting to get the better of me, and no amount of caffeine could fix that. I knew that if it weren’t for the immediacy of the current crisis, Felicity and I probably would have already given ourselves over to the post-traumatic breakdowns we both had looming on our personal horizons. There was no doubt they were coming—the only questions that remained were how soon and which one of us was going to have the worst time of it. Something told me neither journey was going to be a cakewalk. But, one thing I knew for certain was that the level of severity for both of us was presently hinging on Constance’s survival.
We had faced down far too much already, and this was just a sadistic extension of the horror we had now been living for better than a month. It was as if we were waking up only to find our fleeting relief shattered by a fresh terror in an endless cycle.
I felt someone nudge me, then a voice drifted into my ears.
“Aye, Rowan,” Felicity said. “Your phone then.”
I snapped out of the introspection and gave my head a tired shake, tearing my vacant stare away from the oblivious janitor. Glancing at my hand I saw the aforementioned device resting there, flipped open with my fingers wrapped around it. The small speaker on the phone was vibrating with a barely audible voice saying something I couldn’t quite make out.
I immediately placed the cell against my ear and asked, “Ben?”
“Yeah, Row,” Detective Benjamin Storm replied, the two words coming out slow and deliberate.
I could almost feel the exhaustion in my friend’s voice. It was something I had heard coming from him countless times over the years. However, what I detected now was different in a way far worse than anything I could describe. Not only did Ben sound tired, he sounded ancient, on the verge of feeble. But beyond even that, his tone held a percussive note of unimaginable emotional pain.
I feared I knew what was causing that anguish but chose to ignore the fresh twist in my gut. There was a question I knew needed asking, but because of his tone I dreaded the answer more than anything. I simply couldn’t bring myself to advance the query, so I danced around the subject as if doing so would make it magically disappear.
“We just got here, Ben,” I half stammered. “We’re at the seventh floor waiting room. Where are you?”
“I’m…downstairs…in the chapel,” he droned out the answer, pausing randomly before falling completely silent.
I closed my eyes as the dark portent in his words crept along my spine, making me physically shiver. Ben was devoutly secular. He claimed a belief in God but in the same breath noted that he despised organized religion. For him to be in the chapel was a harbinger of the worst kind. I waited for him to continue, but after several heartbeats my chest began to tighten and I forced a single word past the lump in my throat, “Ben?”
His voice cracked as he said, “Yeah…listen Row…I’ve got some bad news to tell ya’…”
Tuesday, December 20
10:37 A.M.
Sacred Heart Cemetery
Saint Louis, Missouri
CHAPTER 2:
The procession from the funeral home to the cemetery had been long, both in its physical size and the time spent covering the distance between the two locations. Several squad cars from the county police department provided a somber escort, light bars flickering out of respect, as our pace was unhurried. Local municipalities stopped traffic at intersections along the route, waving us through as our line of vehicles slowly snaked toward the final destination. Then, even after we arrived there was a substantial delay. So many people had turned out for this solemn occasion that it took several minutes before everyone was parked and the graveside service could officially commence.
Around us now was a sea of uniforms intermixing with the suits, dresses, and overcoats, all in varying hues of grey and black. If there were any other colors, I didn’t recognize them. The world had been leached to dull black-and-white halftones for me.
In my eyes, most everyone else was a faceless, nameless mannequin set apart from the others only by the subtle differences in shades of their dark clothing. While I recognized some of the officers I had worked with over the years, those few were the exceptions to the rule.
Each member of the law enforcement who was present wore a black band across his or her shield. Even though my mind was blending the crowd together in response to my grief, the overt display of respect for a fallen comrade stood out and was impossible to ignore. Another salient observation was that among them, almost any local department I could readily name appeared to be represented here by at least one officer or detective, if not more.
With abrupt sharpness, a loud crack split the cool morning air, and my wife flinched at the sound. The members of the rifle squad moved smoothly through the ceremonious steps of lowering the weapons, then on cue, placing them back against their shoulders in preparation for firing the second volley of blanks.
Felicity leaned against me. I slipped my arm around her and held her tight; her body was tense, as if she was steeling herself against what we all knew was coming next. Even so, she started as the second round and then the third sounded their reports across the cemetery grounds.
Behind us, as the echoes faded, bagpipes began filling in the void, starting as a low hum that escalated into the melancholy strains of Amazing Grace. Felicity was trembling now, and even without looking I knew she was no longer holding her tears at bay. I shoved my hand inside my overcoat and sent it searching for a handkerchief. Finding the one I’d stashed in an inner pocket, I pulled it out and carefully dabbed her cheeks before slipping the square of cloth into her hand. She pressed herself harder against me and allowed her head to hang, chin against her chest as she quietly expressed her grief.
The rifle squad was now standing at attention, their weapons ordered at their sides, while the honor guard carefully removed the flag from the casket and proceeded to fold it into a tight triangle. I was having trouble containing my own tears at this point, but I took a deep breath and bit them back. I would have to find time to grieve later. Right now I needed to be strong for my wife. Even though “fragile” was almost never an accurate description where she was concerned, “temporarily breakable” definitely fit the bill at the moment. Emotionally she was still floundering in the dangerous wake of her own far too recent crisis, and that left her vulnerable. One of us had to hold it together awhile longer, and it might as well be me. She had seen me through my share of moments in recent years, and I owed her.
I hugged Felicity closer and allowed her to cry as I stared past the ranks in front of us. My eyes eventually settled on the casket at the center of the crowd. I could see
Ben standing off to the side of it along with the other pallbearers. Of course, being six-foot-six, and full-blooded Native American, he would have been hard to miss even if he was with the rest of the masses.
One by one, the half dozen men came forward and placed their boutonnieres atop the casket. Then each of them stepped over to the row of seated family members and offered their personal condolences before continuing on and melting into the crowd. My friend was the last of them, and he lingered silently for several moments before finally placing his flower with the rest. At this distance it was hard to tell for sure, but I thought I could see the glisten of tears welling in his dark eyes too.
* * * * *
“That was a nice service,” I commented, offering the platitude because I wasn’t really sure what else to say.
“Yeah,” Ben acknowledged, nodding his head slightly as he spoke. “Yeah… it was.”
We were standing on the walkway between the gravesite and the access road that ran through the cemetery. Ben’s van was parked nearby along one side of the narrow, paved stretch. Since Felicity and I had been farther behind in the procession, my truck was out of sight around the corner at the back of the memorial gardens.
People were still in the process of leaving, and we had decided to give them a few minutes to clear out before we added ourselves to the crush of traffic trying to exit onto the main road. I really didn’t mind the wait, especially since this was the first chance in several days that I’d had to speak with my friend at any length. Between everything that had happened only a few nights ago and him being so involved in the funeral arrangements, he had been scarce. Of course I couldn’t blame it all on him. We had been doing our fair share of hiding out as well, so it hadn’t been easy for him to reach us either.
There was a cold breeze blowing, and Felicity was snuggled in against me, trying to keep warm. I glanced to the side, then kissed her lightly on the forehead and hugged her close. Looking at her now, I had to admit that I was still getting used to the new hairstyle. While her loose curls had somewhat returned, and the temporary black dye was gone for the most part, it still left a dull patina, which made her normally fiery mane appear a darker auburn. And, of course, it was much shorter—now hanging only just past her shoulders instead of the longer waist length cascade it had been ever since I’d met her many years ago. The uncharacteristic coif certainly didn’t keep me from thinking she was the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes upon, but the current picture I saw with those eyes was definitely different from the one I remembered whenever they were closed.
Of course, we had all experienced radical change in the past month, both physical and emotional—some worse than others, and some far more permanent. With time, the physical issues would heal, become accepted as the norm, or return to their original states of being. The emotional changes were the wild card because exactly how the deeper alterations to our psyches would manifest still remained to be seen. For better or worse, we would just have to ride them out.
At the moment, my wife was keeping quiet amidst the halting conversation, and a dismal air still surrounded her just as it did all of us. Her sadness, however, was a bit more obvious as she was unconsciously broadcasting it with everything from her expression to her posture. At least the flow of tears had stopped, so I knew she was coping well enough that I didn’t need to worry about her too much for the moment. Still, I suspected her current state was influenced by far more than just the funeral. I knew it definitely was for me.
I turned my gaze back to my friend and said, “There were quite a few more cops here than I expected, considering.”
“Yeah, I know,” he grunted. “Me too. Turns out a bunch of ‘em even took vacation or comp time ta’ be here.”
“That says a lot.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“Are you going to the house, then?” Felicity finally interjected, her voice soft.
“Prob’ly a little later,” he said, as he looked over at her with a quick nod and then glanced at his watch. “I told Constance’s parents I’d take ‘em ta’ lunch.”
“How are they handling everything?” she asked.
“‘Bout as well as can be expected under the circumstances, I guess. It’s not every day a fucked up serial killer shoots your kid.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I’m sure it has to be a nightmare for them. Especially after losing their son.”
“Tell me about it. Her dad keeps goin’ on about how Constance was s’posed ta’ be a partner in ‘is law firm, not an FBI agent,” Ben added. “Her mom is kinda quiet though… Just stares off inta’ space a lot.”
“Everyone deals with their emotions differently, Ben.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So, how is Constance doing anyway?” I asked.
“Hangin’ in there,” he replied. “You knew they upgraded ‘er from critical ta’ serious, right?”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded. “That’s pretty much all anyone would tell us though.”
“Yeah, well the docs are optimistic right now, but she’s still kinda out of it. She’s been conscious enough ta’ talk a coupla times but nothin’ that makes sense. Then she just drifts off again. Prob’ly ‘cause of all the painkiller shit they got runnin’ into ‘er veins. I honestly dunno if she even realizes what’s goin’ on at this point, but I figure after lunch I’ll go sit with ‘er awhile anyway. That’ll give ‘er folks a chance ta’ rest too.”
“I thought they were only letting immediate family members in to see her?” I said with a questioning note in my voice.
“Yeah, that’s what they said the first time I went in,” he grunted. “But I got a fuckin’ badge.”
“I thought you were still suspended?”
“Yeah, for a few weeks yet, but the hospital doesn’t know that.”
“Uh-huh, I should have figured.”
“Ben,” Felicity asked. “Since they won’t let us see her, can you keep us up to date on how she’s doing?”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
I leaned to the side and looked around him at the line of cars. “Looks like they’re still backed up a bit.”
He cast a glance over his shoulder. “I’m not surprised. It oughta’ be clear in a few though.”
A thick silence settled in around us as the breeze rose and fell. Felicity shivered against the sharp wind even though she was wearing a coat, so I hugged her even closer.
“Would you be more comfortable waiting in the truck?” I asked her.
“I’m fine,” she replied.
“You’re sure?”
“Aye,” she returned with a slight nod. “For now.”
I looked back to my friend after a short silence and nodded toward the distant gravesite. “You know, Ben, that was a real good thing you did. I mean the honor guard and all.”
“Wasn’t just me,” he objected with an animated shake of his head. “B’sides, didn’t really take much. All I did was make a coupl’a phone calls.”
“Something tells me there was more to it than that.”
“Maybe a little, but not much really once the ball was rollin’ and a few favors got called in. Shit, everyone that ever worked with Deckert loved ‘im.”
“He was a hell of a guy,” I agreed. “I’ll never forget how well he treated me even when the rest of the cops had issues with a Witch as a consultant.”
“Yeah, that was Deck, for sure. Which is exactly why we couldn’t let it go. Just ‘cause the department doesn’t do anything for retiree funerals doesn’t mean the rest of us coppers ain’t gonna make it happen anyway. He was one of ours. If anyone deserved it, it was him.”
“Well, I’m glad you did,” I said with a nod. “I’m sure his wife appreciated it too.”
“Yeah, Mona’s good people,” he grunted as he reached up to smooth back his hair then allowed his hand to slide down and rest on his neck. He closed his eyes then gave his head a slight shake as he sighed, “Jeezus, Row… He was just sittin’ there lookin’ at the tube a
nd had a goddamn heart attack. How fucked up is that?”
“Sometimes that’s how it happens. He had a history. That’s what forced him into retirement to begin with.”
“Yeah, but it was at almost exactly the same time, Row. There’s gotta be somethin’ to that.”
I knew exactly where he was heading with the comment, as he had mentioned it to me earlier at the funeral home, but at that point we hadn’t had time for discussion.
“It was just a coincidence, Ben.” I shook my head as I spoke. “There was no connection between what happened to Constance and Carl’s heart attack.”
“How do ya’ know that?”
“Well, I guess I really don’t. Not for an absolute fact, anyway.” I shrugged.
“So then why are ya’ bein’ a skeptic all of a sudden? Deck treated Constance like she was ‘is own daughter. Think about it…” He started ticking off points with the fingers of his free hand. “Damn near the same time. The ambulance brought Deck ta’ the same hospital as her instead of goin’ ta’ one of the closer ones out in the county. When he arrived he was stable. Then it all goes south for Constance while she’s on the table. The docs bring ‘er back, but suddenly Deck keels over right there in the treatment room, and they can’t revive ‘im. Hell, you’re the friggin’ Witch, not me. Ain’t this your kinda shit? You of all people can’t tell me that doesn’t seem a little Twilight Zone, white man. Like some kinda trade off or somethin’.”
I didn’t figure this was an appropriate time to argue with him over the realities of WitchCraft, or even my personal psychic abilities—something that I actually considered to be an unfortunate curse as opposed to a gift. Over the years I’d already explained to him more than a dozen times that magick didn’t work quite like he sometimes wanted to think it did. Of course, I was also well aware that I probably sounded like some kind of hypocrite every time I said as much, given that he had seen me unwillingly channel murder victims on several occasions. And of course, there was our most recent brush with the ethereal, which left even me wondering just what to believe. It was hard to convince someone that the paranormal wasn’t the everyday way of things when it seemed to rain down on you constantly the way it did with me.
Blood Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 2
