The last thought I remember clearly was that I had a pair of red patent leather pumps in my closet that would go perfectly with my new dress.
* * * * *
I’m not sure which assault on my senses was the most disconcerting—the smell or the sound. I suppose it could have been either one, or even a combination of both.
On the one hand, there was no mistaking the antiseptic funk of a hospital emergency room. An odor that was the filtered medicinal smell of alcohol, gauze, and used tongue depressors dancing in an olfactory ballet with the stench of sweat, fear, and blood. Of course, all of that was underscored by the “can’t quite put your finger on it” smell of death, just to drive the point home. As a whole, it carried with it an easily recognizable signature that told you exactly where you were without even opening your eyes or hearing a thing.
Then on the other hand, there was the terse exchange going on between my wife and my best friend. A pair of hedged voices, both straining not to outwardly display the overabundance of the anger they were quite obviously holding back. From the sound of it, they were bickering somewhere just beyond the door of the treatment room where I was presently lying flat on my back.
Whichever of the two was responsible, the job was done. I was jarred back from the semi-conscious ledge of introspection I’d been tiptoeing along since the doctor had finished poking, prodding, and interrogating me.
“I asked you not to get him involved any more, Ben,” Felicity was stating in a flat tone. “At least not for a while. He still hasn’t recovered from what he went through the last time, and you know it.”
“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell ya’, Felicity,” he appealed. “He just showed up outta the clear freakin’ blue. I didn’t get ‘im involved this time.”
Their tones were hushed and muted by the hinged obstruction, but if I listened closely I could still make out what they were saying.
My mind had continued to replay the memories of recent events ever since I had come to in the back of an ambulance. I had quickly pieced everything together, but I was still at a loss to explain why I had suddenly “awakened” from what I could only explain as a trance, while at a crime scene in progress to boot. Two things I knew for certain were that my midnight wanderings were no longer going to be a secret and that I was now starting down a road toward an explanation for why they were happening in the first place. I only hoped that I would survive the trip.
The earlier fog that had been ruthlessly shrouding my brain had apparently lifted, though a dull ache still persisted in the back of my head. I knew from past experience that this wasn’t a good sign at all.
It was obvious to me that I was somehow connected to this crime. Ben had already verified for me that the victim was in fact a woman and that her name was Paige Lawson. This information at least seemed to explain the rogue thoughts I’d experienced. However, I hadn’t recognized her name at all, so to my knowledge I didn’t know her, and therefore, I seriously doubted that she knew me.
I remembered feeling a sharp stinging sensation on the side of my neck just before I blacked out. An active tingle still occupied the swath of flesh behind and below my left ear, so I slowly reached up and gingerly probed the area with my fingertips. There were no obvious welts or abrasions that I could feel, but the burning sensation continued. No big surprise there.
“Well what was he doing there then?” I heard Felicity almost hiss.
“I don’t know,” Ben answered as forcefully as he could without raising his voice. “Hell, when I asked him, he didn’t even know.”
I had been trying to ignore them while I concentrated, but I was failing miserably at blocking out their banter. Also, I was getting the impression that they were going to escalate if something didn’t alter their current course. I concluded that I had best intervene.
“He’s right,” I spoke loudly, casting my words in the direction of the door. “It’s not his fault, so will you two please quit arguing about it.”
Silence instantly replaced the tempered squabble. After a moment Ben and Felicity came sheepishly through the door and positioned themselves next to the bed.
“Row…” my wife sighed as she brushed my disheveled hair back from my forehead, “shouldn’t you be resting, then?”
Felicity gave the outward appearance of a fragile china doll standing next to Ben. Petite, with a milky complexion, her own hair was a pile of flaming auburn resting atop her head in a loose Gibson girl. Whenever she let it down, it was a rush of spiral curls reaching almost to her waist. Her green eyes held more than a hint of concern as she gazed back at me. Her normally smooth face was wrinkled with mild anguish. A second generation Irish-American, her voice usually held only the barest hint of an accent but could blossom fully into a thick brogue—at times liberally peppered with Gaelic—if she were tired, stressed, angry, or had recently spent time with certain members of her family. Right now, it was obvious that at the very least the first two options were weighing in, maybe even the third.
“I’m trying to,” I answered, “but it’s a bit noisy.”
“Sorry, white man,” Ben offered apologetically. “Didn’t mean to keep ya’ up.”
“You weren’t, actually,” I replied. “The doctor told me I had to stay awake until the test results came back.”
“So ya’ wanna help me out and tell the red squaw here that I didn’t call ya’ in on this.”
“What were you doing there then?” Felicity queried without waiting for me to fulfill Ben’s request.
“Ben didn’t have anything to do with me being there.” I went ahead and made the statement for his benefit then addressed my wife’s question. “And, I haven’t quite figured that part out yet.”
The last half of my sentence was joined by the swooshing sound of the door to the treatment room swinging open. A tired looking brunette woman dressed in blue hospital scrubs and a lab coat followed the door inward. In her hand she carried an oversized brown envelope clearly marked with my name and a handful of other scrawlings that only made sense to someone in the medical profession or a two-year-old. I wasn’t sure which.
“How are you feeling, Mister Gant?”
“About the same, I guess,” I answered.
“Good.” She nodded as she crossed the room to the opposite wall. “No new pains or tremors?”
“No. Just a bit of a headache.”
After pulling a rectangular x-ray from the envelope, she deftly popped it into a pair of holding clips on a wall-mounted box and then switched on the backlight.
“How about your memory?” she queried as she stared at the black and white study of my skull. “Can you tell me what day this is?”
“Tuesday, December eighteenth,” I answered, exasperated that I was being put through this line of questioning for yet a third time. “My middle name is Linden, I’m thirty-nine years old, I’m married…”
“All I wanted was the date, Mister Gant,” she cut me off, sounding slightly distracted. “And by the way, it’s past midnight, so it is actually Wednesday the nineteenth.”
“Do I lose any points for that?”
“There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary on your x-rays,” she began, ignoring my jibe and giving the film a final once over. She then turned and crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall. “And your blood work is fine.”
“So why don’t you look pleased?” I asked.
“I’m a little concerned about the fact that you blacked out, as well as the description of your earlier dementia provided by Detective Storm. These could be indicators of a mild ischemic stroke. What I’d like to do is get a head CT and keep you under observation for a while.”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” I protested.
“Well, I do,” she returned flatly. “And while I certainly cannot keep you here against your will, I strongly suggest that you have this test.”
The door whooshed once again, and a nurse urgently poked her head through th
e opening. “Doctor Morrison, we need you in Trauma-two.”
“Why don’t you discuss it with your wife, Mister Gant,” the harried MD told me as she headed out after the nurse. “Someone will check back with you in a few minutes.”
As the door swung shut behind her, I knew better than to open my mouth. Felicity and Ben were looking at me with steeled expressions, and it was immediately plain that they were on her side. Effectively it had become three against one. I never even stood a chance.
* * * * *
It was just past 6:30 in the morning. Felicity had headed out in search of coffee, and I was all but imprisoned in a hospital room against my wishes. Ben had headed back to his crime scene as soon as he was convinced that I would stay put without drastic measures. He had even gone so far as to offer Felicity his handcuffs. Something told me she gave it serious consideration; even though when she declined the offer her comment included a pointed joke, saying that she just might be interested in borrowing them when I was feeling better. At least I think it was a joke. I didn’t always know where she was concerned.
I was hoping the doctor would get the results of her test back soon or at least see fit to release me so that I would be able to head home, but so far it wasn’t looking very promising. I had been trying to squeeze in a nap ever since she had okayed it, but all I’d really managed to do was doze in and out for the past 45 minutes.
My head was resting in the deep depression of a too soft pillow, and I was settled uncomfortably on the inclined bed. I was just taking another run at getting some sleep when I heard the doctor’s voice.
“How are you doing, Mister Gant?”
I opened my eyes and found her standing at the end of the bed. She appeared just as tired as she had a few hours ago.
“As well as can be expected I suppose.”
“Good,” she answered succinctly as she jotted something on a clipboard, then without looking up she added, “Interesting talent you have there. Is it legible or are you just doodling?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“The writing without looking.” She gestured to the adjustable table that was positioned over the bed in front of me. “You were even doing it with your eyes closed when I walked in.”
I tilted my head forward to gaze in the direction she indicated and watched in astonishment as my left hand, gripping a pencil, moved swiftly back and forth across a small notepad. Several pages had already been filled and flipped upward.
The fact that I was right-handed isn’t even what bothered me most. Or even the fact that I was writing both forwards and backwards. No…it was the realization that I’d had no idea what my left hand was doing until it had been pointed out to me that really got under my skin.
As I watched, my hand automatically flipped the newly filled page up and set the tip of the pencil against an empty sheet. I stared on as it continued of its own accord to scribe in smooth, clear, and wholly unfamiliar handwriting, repeating over and over the same line of text as it had on all the previous pages.
Dead I am. Dead I am. I do not like that dead I am.
CHAPTER 3
“So what’re ya’ doin’ now?” Ben asked as he stared at the pad of paper. “Tryin’ ta’ be some kinda morbid Doctor Seuss?”
I’d expected that. I didn’t necessarily like it, but it was bound to come out of someone sooner or later. And the more I thought about it, the more I suspected it would end up being not just sooner or later, but both. Even I had no choice but to admit that the similarity between what I’d written and one of the most memorable lines from a beloved children’s book was uncanny. I was certain to be hearing about it from anyone who became privy to the product of my unconscious scribbling. Under wholly different circumstances the parallel might even have been amusing.
But it was under these circumstances, not different ones, and the word “dead” played a prominent role in the repetitious line of text. Couple that with the fact that the pad full of paraphrased prose came out of me involuntarily, and I didn’t find it amusing in the least.
“I’m being serious here, Ben,” I returned, my voice dull.
“Okay, okay.” He tossed the notepad onto his desk blotter and leaned back in his chair. Propping one ankle across his knee then clasping his hands behind his head, he gave me a serious look. “I’m listenin’. What’s the deal with this notepad?”
I had called my friend as soon as I’d been released from the hospital. The doctor still had no definitive results back from the tests that had been run, but I was feeling fine, so she’d relented and allowed me to leave. I knew full well that I hadn’t had a stroke, but I wasn’t about to try explaining what had caused my very pronounced symptoms. If I had, I’d probably still be talking to the staff psychiatrist as well as being taken on a tour of their lovely padded accommodations. I’d been down this road before, and I was in no hurry to visit it again.
You tend to get a small spectrum of reactions when you look at someone and say, “I’m a Witch.” The three biggies go something like this: One, they look at you like you are crazy. Two, they try to introduce you to Jesus and save you from yourself; or, three, they run screaming in the opposite direction. In my case, being male, I also get the added, ‘”Don’t you mean warlock?” This usually prompts me to give the actual definition of the word warlock, that being “oath breaker.” The resulting short explanation of the fact that male or female, a Witch is very simply called a Witch, is usually a good one for glazing over the eyes of the uninitiated in less than sixty seconds.
Though I don’t make a secret of my religious path or even my mystical leanings, I’ve learned to avoid the subject in given situations. Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to be honest—plain and simple.
When I’d made my call, I had found Ben behind his desk at City Homicide working on the situation that had gotten him out of bed only a handful of hours before. I’d suspected as much would be the case and hadn’t even tried calling him at home. When I told him what I wanted to show him, he’d suggested that I go to my own home and get some rest. I doubt he’d really expected me to follow the suggestion because he didn’t seem at all surprised to see me coming through the glass-fronted double doors of his department just over thirty minutes later.
Felicity on the other hand, had been a tougher sell. Though her outward appearance may be that of fragile beauty, my wife was as headstrong as they came. I was fully aware that what came across on the surface as stereotypical Irish stubbornness and temper was truly born of intellect, will, and protective instinct. Still in all, igniting that temper was something better left undone unless you had a damned good reason. I just didn’t feel I had a choice this time around, even if my reason was no more than repeating pages of nonsensical rhyme on a notepad and a gut-twisting bad feeling about them.
In the end, it took me all of fifteen minutes to convince her that if she didn’t take me by City Police Headquarters on the way home, I would simply find a way to take myself. She had finally given in, and at this particular moment she was parked next to me in one of the stackable, molded-plastic chairs the detectives used for visitors. It was no secret that she wasn’t happy with me in the least, but I was betting she would get over it. She always did.
I shifted in my own seat, it also being a refugee from the stack of seventies era furniture, and succeeded only in moving the discomfort from one side of my body to the other.
“Did you happen to notice anything other than the similarity to a children’s book about green eggs?” I asked.
“You got nice handwriting.” Ben shrugged. “Kinda pretty. I especially like that little curly-q thing you do with the bottoms of the I’s.”
“Exactly,” I affirmed, ignoring his sardonic addition. “It is nice handwriting. But it’s not my handwriting.”
“Whaddaya mean? I thought ya’ said you wrote it.”
“I did, but not of my own volition.”
“You wanna explain that?”
I sighed. I’d been through this with him
already when I’d called, but obviously either I hadn’t made myself clear or he’d been ignoring me. I suspected it was the latter, but considering the altered states I’d been in recently, I couldn’t say for sure.
“It’s called automatic writing, Ben,” I explained. “It’s a psychic event that occurs when a spirit or entity channels through someone on this plane of existence. The person doing the channeling simply acts as the conduit for the spirit who then communicates by writing.”
“Okay…” my friend said as he tilted his chair back forward and picked up the notepad once again. “So what you’re sayin’ is that this is one of those Twilight Zone things?”
“It has to be.” I nodded. “I was completely unaware of the fact that I was writing any of that until it was pointed out to me. Also, I was writing with my left hand. I’m right-handed.”
He picked up a large mug and took a swig then set it back on the stained blotter. “So if I’m connectin’ all the dots here, you think maybe Paige Lawson is tryin’ to communicate with ya’.”
“That’s my guess.”
“Okay.”
I was dumbfounded by the matter of fact tone in his voice and his apparent lack of interest. I know I had at least one false start before I managed to stutter, “What do you mean, ‘okay’?”
“I mean, okay.” He shook his head and shrugged. “I’ve seen some weirder shit than this since I’ve been hangin’ around with ya’, so I’m willing to believe what you’re tellin’ me here.”
“So? Are you going to do anything about it?” I asked.
“Whaddaya want me ta’ do, Rowan?” he asked. “I’ve got a pad of paper here that has a little rhyme written on it about five jillion times.”
“Well shouldn’t you look into it? It’s a message from a dead woman.”
“You don’t know that for a fact, but just for the sake of argument, okay… Let’s say Paige Lawson is communicatin’ with ya’. I gotta admit I can see where she’s comin’ from. I expect that if I was dead I wouldn’t be all that happy about it either.”
Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 6