Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation
Page 13
Darkness…
Darkness…
Yet another sudden infusion of brightness.
More spots in the mix.
Darkness fading to a soft light.
A silhouette moving in the shadows.
Visceral fear.
My ethereal self jerks quickly back as the most recent experiences of Debbie Schaeffer’s life—and perhaps death—assault me without apology. Her fear wraps its icy grip about my heart and begins to squeeze mercilessly. I have no idea what I am going to see, but I am certain it will be less than pleasant.
Felicity’s grip on me remains steadfast; I don’t think I could break free of her even if I wanted to. As I force myself back forward into the ethereal quest for answers, I feel a wholly familiar presence in the room. In the here and now—in the land of the living. But I can tell beyond a shadow of a doubt that it no longer belongs on this side of the bridge.
Phasing in and out of synchronization with time, the entity’s feminine voice rings directly into my ear.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up. I’ve been waiting for you, you know, Rowan. What took you so long?”
Before I can respond, Debbie Schaeffer turns her attention elsewhere. She is apparently observing something that I cannot see. She continues her recitation off in the distance, speaking as much to herself as to me.
“What’s he doing now? Oh man, is he kidding? Would you look at that, Rowan? Is he an idiot or what? I mean it’s not like it’s rocket science to pick out an outfit, you know. He’s got to be color blind or something.”
I have no idea what she is talking about.
I cannot see what she is seeing.
The volume of her voice fades from high to low and then low to high as it moves about my head in an insane demonstration of stereophonic principles. The disconcerting pattern of her speech continues to shift in and out of time between planes of existence.
“Get a grip, will’ya? Those red shoes don’t go with that skirt. The black ones, you moron, the BLACK ones!” Her voice seems directed at someone unseen by me.
“I don’t think he can hear me. Hell, I can’t even hear me. What do you think, Rowan? Can he hear me?”
“Who?” I ask aloud. “Tell me who can’t hear you.”
“What’s that?” Ben’s voice slowly rumbles past me in a discordant echo.
Oh God, what’s happening?
Where am I?
Absolute terror burns its way into my chest.
I can see only a silhouette in the dim light. I can’t make out any features.
An explosion of brightness sears my eyes.
I’m blind.
I try to scream, but it catches in my throat and rests there, making me choke.
I can feel the burn of tears welling in my eyes.
An angry voice exclaims, “Fuck! Not again! STOP IT! STOP CRYING! Your makeup is running!”
“I don’t care. It serves you right, you weirdo. Oh, no way. Are you blind? That lipstick is way too dark. Look at me, you idiot.” Debbie Schaeffer’s voice vibrates inside my head as she admonishes some unseen figure.
She turns her attention back to me for a moment. “Can you believe this guy, Rowan?”
Before I can even begin to answer, she is yelling at him again.
“Go ahead, make me look like a circus clown, you dipshit!”
Her voice bounces around inside my skull, trying on my psyche for size. From one moment to the next, I am she and she is me. We are one and the same. We are neither and separate. We phase in and out of one another like playing cards shuffled into a deck.
She stands at my shoulder.
She faces me.
She steps into me.
She steps out of me.
She runs to the brink of a distant unseen abyss and casts her deprecating observations into its depths.
The darkness enveloping me bleeds black then suddenly shifts to blue grey.
Then it all becomes blackness again.
She jumps in and out of my head as if trying to find the most comfortable spot to reside.
I try not to fight the process but wonder if the pain is truly worth what I may eventually discover from her; if I discover anything at all.
She settles in behind my eyes, and the landscape becomes a muted haze. I am beginning to see what she sees. But what for her is vivid color, for me is nothing more than a faint outline.
Together, we watch with growing interest as the shadow moves about.
Who are you?
Why are you touching me?
No! Please, no?!
Oh God, please don’t!
A violent thrust from nowhere purges Debbie Schaeffer from me. The suddenness of it all is even more painful than her careless entries and exits have been. The scene changes point of view, and I see a young woman clad in a party dress. She is arranged in a chair, her body limp. Her face is a palette of colors, painted haphazardly on delicate features.
Visceral, primal thoughts race through my head.
Electrically charged sexual desire wells within me, coursing throughout my body with an animalistic passion.
The feeling is unnatural and foreign.
The intensity of the desire frightens me, but I cannot back away from it.
In the real world I am disgusted by something dark that permeates the arousal.
In the real world I begin to feel physically sickened by the perversity that is woven within the shroud of lust.
Between the worlds I am engaged by it and craving more.
Oh Jesus! She is just so gorgeous!
She’s so close! So close!
Damn! She’s almost perfect!
Muted darkness.
Explosive blinding light.
Muted darkness.
Explosive blinding light.
Muted darkness.
Jesus…So close.
My desire is stiffening, and I can’t wait any longer.
I must fulfill the need.
Quench the fire.
On this side of reality I deny the urge to take myself in hand. In the darkness between, I am unable to resist.
“Dammit, Rowan! Don’t let him in!” Debbie’s voice scrapes past my ears with anger charged static. “You aren’t like him. Stop it!”
Panting…
Heart racing…
Quickening…
She’s so close…
She’s the closest yet…
If only she was really her…
So close…
Quickening…
Faster…
Again, Debbie’s voice punches inward and wrestles me away, evicting the sudden perversion from its warm and comfortable place in my head. For all the disconcerting imagery she brings with her, I am thankful for the rescue. Her voice is frenzied and caustic—aimed at me, him, whomever. She slips into the three-piece suit of my id, ego, and superego taking absolutely no care as the seams rip. The intensity of her emotion painfully rends the garment that is I.
“Look at me, shithead. I must look like a two-year-old who got into Mommy’s makeup. Are you blind or are you just stupid? How in the hell can that be getting you off?”
She slips out without warning and stands before me. I feel the hard sting of her palm against my cheek. “Don’t you ever do that again! It’s GROSS! You’re supposed to be HELPING me, Rowan, not acting just like HIM!”
Her voice calms, and she studies me carefully.
“Okay. That’s better. So now that you’re back, you want to tell me what is up with this guy, Rowan?”
Again, she flits away before I can answer. I am left standing in the cold darkness.
I hear her distant tenor echo in the abyss.
“Hey, you! Perv boy! Are you listening to me?”
She returns as quickly as she left, making my stomach churn as she turns my neural pathways into an amusement park ride.
Her momentary occupation of my conscious ends as she is bludgeoned from behind and thrown forcibly into the cold.
My
hand is warm and wet…
Panting.
Heart still racing.
I’m spent…for now.
I tug at my zipper.
She’s so beautiful.
She’s so very close.
If only she really was her.
Then…
Then she would be perfect.
I tap directly into the solid grounding Felicity is forcing upon me and fight to expand my “self” outward. My growing consciousness forces the vile invader from within me. But it isn’t enough. I’m caught between Debbie and the shadow of her tormentor—effectively outnumbered. And, each time I chase one of the them away, the other comes from behind to occupy the space. I struggle to follow the tennis match going on between the hemispheres of my brain.
For one brief instant, calm ensues and I find myself face to face with a petite blonde.
She strikes a pose then begins to dance about.
Hey, hey, hey, whaddaya say!
Rowan’s here, now we can play!
Hey, hey, hey, whaddaya say!
Look at me, I’m dead today!
Take a good look, don’t you turn away!
Just look at me, Rowan, I’m dead today!
She stops and glares at me with a serious frown.
I’m dead, Rowan. So what are you gonna do about it?
“Rowan?” Ben’s voice slides in behind the morose prose. “What’re ya’ seeing? Tell me what you’re seein’.”
Before I can open my mouth to answer, my “self” is hijacked yet again.
“Oh yeah, that’s a great dress, asshole—if I was going to some kind of retro masquerade prom, MAYBE. Who the hell wears that much puke green taffeta? It makes me look like a bridesmaid in some kind of wedding from hell.” She unleashes a verbal assault then whispers into my ear, “Can you believe this guy, Rowan? He’s got the fashion sense of a rock.”
I just can’t even move.
I’m just so tired.
Don’t know why.
I’m so scared.
What is he going to do to me?
“But, you know, that dress is just plain ugly.”
What is he doing back there?
Oh God no, please…
I’m sobbing inside.
“Will you quit messing with my hair, you freak?” She shifts her view and yells angrily into the darkness, “Can’t you see that you’re scaring me?
“Yeah, that’s it. Come around here where we can see you.”
She turns her attention to me with a quickly uttered instruction, “Watch close, Rowan, here he comes.”
Blinding light.
“Dammit! Did you see him, Rowan? Did you?”
I see nothing but darkness.
“All right, you weirdo, quit messing with my feet. Get up and turn around so Rowan can see you, fetish boy.”
What is he doing now?
OUCH! That hurts!
What is he doing to my feet?
Why?
My heart rattles in my breast.
I can hardly breathe.
I’m so frightened.
“Look at that. The moron can’t even tell left from right.
“Move so Rowan can see you. Yeah you, you fathead, Rowan needs to see you.
“Oh, this is good. Look at this, Rowan. Sequined pumps. SEA FOAM GREEN sequined pumps. And would you look at how high those heels are! Where the hell did he get those things? Now I ask you, do I look like I have doll feet?”
A sudden flicker of light.
Psychedelic spots again.
“I think he’s got a wiring problem in that place. The lights kept doing that.”
Another bright flicker.
Pain rakes through my grey matter like a cheap wine hangover as the sudden switch of personalities occurs again. The throb hammers in my temples as the alternating trio of psyches begin a knock-down, drag-out battle for possession of me.
Oh sweet Jesus, she’s so beautiful.
She’s so close.
So close…
“What are you doing?
Please, no.
PLEASE let me go?!
Please don’t put that in my mouth.
Please no!
Somebody help me, PLEASE!
Gagging.
Bitter.
“You shouldn’t have given me that, you moron.
You already gave me too much to begin with.
You ever hear the word overdose?
Sheesh! What an idiot. Man, I just don’t care anymore.
Just let me sleep.”
Heavy breathing.
Struggle.
I feel so tired.
My chest hurts.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it.
Breathe.
I need to breathe.
“Come on you jerk, quit grunting. I’m not that heavy.”
Panting.
Excitement.
Arousal.
It hurts.
Oh God, it hurts.
Why is my heart racing?
God it hurts.
“Look, I may be a cheerleader,
but I don’t bend like that.
Give me a break.”
Heavy breathing in the darkness.
Oh God, why can’t I breathe?!
“Look at him, Rowan. LOOK AT HIM!”
Hair just so.
Chin tilted up.
No, stay that way.
Yes.
Legs crossed.
The silky feel of her stockings
against the back of my hand.
Another rush of arousal.
Yes! Perfect!
POP!
Bright Light!
POP!
Bright Light!
POP!
I can’t feel anything.
I can’t even feel my heart anymore.
I don’t care…
“Talk to me, white man.” My friend verbally insinuates himself into the vision once again, only to become a weak fourth voice in the turmoil.
If only it was really her…
Really her…
Really her…
Darkness.
Fear gives way to warmth.
Warmth gives way to cold.
Cold gives way to nothingness.
I don’t care...
“Oh, man, what are you taking
your pants off for, you idiot?
You gonna jerk off some more?
Oh, no way.
You aren’t going to are you?
Can’t you see I’m already gone?
You fucking killed me already…
You’re gonna be screwing a dead body, you moron!
God, you’re just sick.
Man, put ‘em back
on, that’s just disgusting.
You sick bastard.”
So beautiful…
So close…
For now…
She’ll do for now…
Look at me, Rowan, don’t turn away.
Look at me, Rowan, I’m dead today.
So what are you gonna do about it?
CHAPTER 9
“If I’d been told it was anyone else, I never would have believed it.”
The feminine voice issued from the doorway and was accompanied by the low whooshing sound of the door being forced quickly open. Sheathed in an authoritative tone with an underlying note of incredulity, the words glanced sharply from the tile walls, striking their targets from all sides. Those targets were, without a doubt, Ben, Felicity, and me.
The comment didn’t exactly seem angry, but it wasn’t altogether friendly either. It was more along the line of a mixture between disturbed chastising and a cold statement of fact. In any event, no matter what emotion could finally be pinned to the verbiage, the sentence cut through the atmosphere in the room on a determined course. The intent behind its mission was fulfilled as all three of us came instantly to attention, swinging our startled gazes toward the issuer of the remark.
Doctor Christi
ne Sanders, Chief Medical Examiner for the City of Saint Louis, didn’t look at all pleased. Truth was, she looked like she would much rather be asleep. Considering both the hour and her rumpled appearance, she’d obviously been roused from bed. Her close crop of brunette hair, flocked with grey static, was tousled, and her eyes were heavily lidded with a weary haze. She was hastily adorned in a pair of jeans, a baggy sweatshirt, and sneakers. Her parka-like coat hung across her slight frame, unzipped, with the hood carelessly thrown back.
“Hey, Doc,” Ben offered sheepishly.
Under his breath, my friend muttered a quick trailer to his statement, “Damn, she got here quick.” The barely audible addendum was spoken as if he wasn’t at all surprised by her arrival.
“Just what the hell have you got against me, Storm?” she asked as she allowed the door to swing shut and ventured purposefully into the cold room. “Did I do something awful to you that I’m not aware of?”