The young woman tending the desk had made an effort to offset the plainness of her scrubs, having adorned herself with a holiday bow in her hair and an electronic reindeer pin above her name badge. As we approached, the LED in the plastic novelty’s nose was flashing wildly, and the circuitry embedded within was belting out a medley of holiday tunes comprised entirely of a series of slightly off-key electronic tones.
“Can I help you?” she asked cheerfully as she looked up, obviously noticing that no one in our trio appeared to require immediate medical attention.
“City Police,” Charlee told her as she flashed her badge. “I’m Detective McLaughlin; this is Detective Storm and Mister Gant. I received a call from a Doctor Kennedy a little while ago.”
“Yes.” The nurse nodded, her smile fading. “The rape. He said to expect you. Treatment room four.” She stood and leaned slightly across the counter then motioned with one hand. “Down this corridor, left at the end, through the double doors, and it will be about halfway down on the left.”
“Thanks,” McLaughlin told her.
We rounded the corner of the admitting desk and headed down the hallway with Charlee in the lead. Ben reigned in his extra long stride and put a hand on my arm to hold me back as well, allowing us to fall a few paces behind her.
“I haven’t had a chance ta’ talk ta’ Chuck about the hocus-pocus stuff,” he half whispered to me. “Not ta’ mention that this victim is comin’ right off the incident, and she hasn’t had time ta’ come ta’ terms with it.”
“I understand,” I replied.
“Really, Row,” he admonished. “Don’t go in there slingin’ fairy dust or whatever right outta the box. We gotta feel out the situation first.”
“Okay, Ben,” I reiterated, “I’ve got it. I’m sorry about what I did back at the station and I won’t do it here. I promise.”
“Okay, I just gotta be sure,” he told me as he rummaged in his pockets again.
“What? Do I need another breath mint?” I queried, noticing his preoccupation with the task.
“Prob’ly,” he huffed flatly. “You hot-boxed four cigarettes between gettin’ to the van and gettin’ in here.”
“Yeah, well, blame it on Miranda Hodges. Besides, I seem to recall seeing a Fuente Chateau clenched between your teeth, my friend.”
“Yeah, but I was just chewin’ on it. Actually, I wanted ta’ give you somethin’ else.” He finally withdrew his fist from his pocket and held it out to me. “Here.”
I extended my palm, and he dropped a wad of small paper packets into it. “What’s this?” I asked.
“Salt,” he answered matter-of-factly. “I stole ‘em outta the break room before we left.”
“What do you want me to do with them?”
“Hey, you’re the Witch, you tell me. Felicity seemed ta’ think it was pretty important ta’ have salt the other night. I’m just tryin’ ta’ help.”
“She was doing something a bit different than what I’m about to do.”
“Yeah, well it’s all the same in my book,” he returned. “Besides, I haven’t seen Felicity go off the deep end yet, so maybe ya’ oughta try it her way.”
I was going to object again, but we were almost to the door of the treatment room, and I really didn’t have time to explain the difference between Magickal workings and psychic abilities to him.
Of course, the real truth was that in my case they were probably closer to one another than I wanted to believe. On top of that, he was most likely correct in his assessment. Given my current state, a little caution might very well go a long way. Especially since I now had an ethereal vigilante cheerleader threatening to use me as a weapon to exact her vengeance.
I almost had to laugh at that thought. The entire concept sounded like a bad fifties sci-fi/horror movie—I Was A Killer Teenage Zombie Cheerleader, or something equally ridiculous. Unfortunately, I was playing the starring role in the production and it was all far too real.
I stuffed the handful of salt packets into my coat pocket and kept my mouth shut.
CHAPTER 21
Charlee stepped back out of the treatment room, already shaking her head. Ben and I had waited outside so as not to overload the victim. With what she’d been through, she definitely didn’t need us coming at her full force without some kind of warning.
“Unless he’s breaking his pattern, this isn’t our boy,” she told us as the door shut behind her.
“You sure?” Ben asked.
“No welt from a stun gun that they can find, and the bruising on her neck is from hands.” She motioned to her own neck with a gripping posture as an example. “Looks like she was choked. Turns out that after talking to her, she’s in an ongoing abusive relationship with a boyfriend.”
“I hate that shit,” Ben muttered. “Someone needs ta’ kick ‘is ass.”
“Tell me about it,” she returned.
“What about the Roofies?”
“They don’t have the blood test back yet, but I’m betting it will be negative.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because here’s the real kicker—this isn’t the first time she’s been in.”
“The abuse?”
“Overdose.” McLaughlin shook her head. “She’s an addict. More tracks than Union Station.”
“Don’t tell me.” Ben shook his head. “Last time she scored was Saturday night.”
Charlee laid one index finger against the side of her nose and simply pointed at him with the other.
“So what the hell’d they call ya’ for?”
“She’s blonde…”
“…and petite, and doctors ain’t cops.” Ben finished the diatribe for her while nodding his head then slapped his open palm against the tiled wall and leaned into it. “Shit! Hodges bolts and now this is a dead end. We can’t catch a fuckin’ break!”
His voice echoed down the corridor directly behind the fading sound of his hand impacting the tile. He was still riding the adrenalin rush that had hyped him up less than half an hour ago, and the disappointment at this turn of events seemed to ravage his features as he huffed out a disgusted sigh.
And right there was a shining example of the portrait I had in my mind. Benjamin Storm, supercop—protector of the innocent.
“I’m right there with you, Storm,” McLaughlin told him, showing mild surprise at his outburst. “But you gotta stop taking it so personally.”
“Yeah, well tell that ta’ Debbie Schaeffer’s parents,” he said. “It’s Christmas freakin’ Eve, and what’s left of their daughter is spendin’ it in a body bag over on Clark Avenue. Merry fuckin’ ho, ho, ho.”
“You can’t change that,” I offered to my friend.
“No,” he admitted, “I can’t change it, but I can give ‘em this asshole as a gift. At least that’d be somethin’.”
“We don’t even know for sure if it’s the same guy,” Charlee said.
“Maybe not, but it’s the best lead I’ve got at the moment.”
“Then let’s follow it,” I interjected, my voice flat.
“How?” he shot back.
“There are other victims,” I offered. “We talk to them.”
“Jeez, white man, like I just said it’s freakin’ Christmas Eve!”
“Yes it is,” I acknowledged. “But you’re the one who wants to give Debbie Schaeffer’s parents this guy as a gift. By my calculations you’ve only got about twelve shopping hours left.”
“Yeah, well I’m thinkin’ it’s gonna be a disappointin’ holiday for all of us.”
I looked over at Charlee. “You said there have been eight rapes reported so far?”
“Yeah,” she nodded.
“Do you have all the victim’s numbers?”
“Yeah, I’ve got their numbers.” She gave me a nod then looked at Ben. “He’s right. It’s worth a try, Storm.”
“Maybe,” he huffed, “but I’m not gonna hold my breath.”
“Okay.” I shot my glance between them. “Rule o
ut Miranda Hodges and that leaves seven. At least one of them has got to be willing to talk to us.”
McLaughlin cocked her head to the door of the treatment room. “This one wants to file a report, not that I think she’ll follow through. Anyway, let me get someone down here to take care of this, and we’ll start making calls.”
“I guess I’d better call the crime scene guys and cancel,” Ben added. “Did they end up gettin’ Murv?”
“Afraid so.” McLaughlin nodded.
“Afraid so? That doesn’t sound good.”
“Yeah, they called him in off of a vacation day.”
Ben puffed his cheeks out and let the breath go with a slow hiss. “Well, guess I’d better stop by the smoke shop on the way home. I’m gonna owe ‘im some cigars for this one.”
“It’s Christmas Eve. Remember?” I said. “Any decent smoke shop is going to be closed by the time you get a chance to run by.”
“Crap. Well, guess I’ll hafta do it Wednesday.”
“Look at the bright side,” I told him. “Maybe you can get them on sale.”
Thirty minutes and five no-answers later our luck began to turn. The woman in the treatment room was giving her statement, the CSU call had been cancelled, and a young woman named Heather Burke answered her phone and said yes.
* * * * *
“Sorry about the mess,” the woman apologized while shifting a basket of clothing from a chair and onto the floor beside it. “I wasn’t really expecting company today.”
“No problem, Miz Burke,” Charlee told her. “We really appreciate you talking to us. Especially with it being Christmas Eve and all.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She shrugged. “I don’t have any family left, and I’m taking a bit of a hiatus from the dating scene if you get my drift.”
Heather Burke was a perfect example of the quintessential “perky blonde.” Large, bright eyes peering out from a soft face framed by a feathery shag of yellow hair. Five foot four, slim, and blessed with what some would call “eyeball measurements.” She was literally a textbook victim for this particular predator. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but think she bore a close resemblance to my wife, except of course for the hair.
She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that sported a faded but still readable iron-on transfer which announced, “Don’t let the hair fool you, I belong to MENSA.”
“Nice shirt,” I observed, thinking to myself that she even had Felicity’s headstrong attitude.
“You like it?” she asked rhetorically, looking down at the lettering then back at me. “Made it myself. It tends to stop the blonde jokes cold.”
“I can imagine.” I nodded.
“Have a seat.” She motioned to us. “Can I get anyone anything? I’ve got coffee on. Soda? Water?”
We all declined the offer, and she simply shrugged then dropped herself onto the couch and crossed her legs in something close to a relaxed lotus position. “I’m not sure what I’m going to be able to tell you,” she began, shaking her head. “It’s been three weeks and I haven’t really remembered anything yet.” She directed her attention to Charlee. “I mean, other than what I originally told you at the hospital.”
“I understand,” McLaughlin told her with a nod. “That’s actually why Mister Gant is here with us. Like I said on the phone, we’d like to try some things to help jog your memory.”
Heather wrinkled her face in concentration, lifting one eyebrow and cocking her head to the side as she muttered, “Gant… Gant… Wait… Now I remember…” She focused her gaze directly on me. “I thought I recognized the name. You’re the Witch, aren’t you?”
From the corner of my eye I saw Ben shoot an almost startled glance at me. I suppose her recognition caught him by surprise, but I’d been expecting something like this all along. In recent days a file photo of me had been flashed across local TV screens as the media speculated about my involvement in the Debbie Schaeffer murder investigation. There had even been a few column inches devoted to me in the local paper, so someone had been bound to recognize my face, my name, or both. It was only a matter of time.
“I don’t know about being the Witch,” I nodded with a slight smile, “but, yes, I’m the guy that’s been in the newspaper.”
“How cool is that,” she nodded in return then continued in a matter-of-fact tone, “So that would mean that Detective Storm here is the same Detective Storm from Homicide who is investigating the case with the murdered cheerleader. And if that is so, it stands to reason that since you are here talking to me, you think that murder is somehow connected with this rapist.”
Ben answered with a tentative note in his voice as he slowly nodded, “That’s the going theory.”
“Don’t look so surprised,” she told him.
“I know,” he said. “You’re a member of MENSA.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together,” she returned with a quick shake of her head. “I watch the news.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Miz Burke,” I dove back into the conversation to save my friend from the embarrassment of his misconceptions, “given that it has only been three weeks, you seem to be handling the attack very well.”
“I have my moments,” she half shrugged as she spoke. “Luckily you happened to catch me on a good day.”
“Are you certain that you’re up to talking about it?” Charlee chimed in.
“This is as good a time as any,” she nodded. “The sooner I can put this behind me the sooner I can get on with my life. That’s what they say anyway.”
“How do you feel about hypnosis?” I asked.
“Do you mean, am I willing to be hypnotized?”
I wasn’t surprised by her directness. “Yes.”
She shrugged. “Where and when?”
“I should warn you that if this works you will for all intents and purposes be re-living the incident.”
“Okay, fair enough. So answer me this: If it works will it help catch the prick who raped me?”
“I can’t say for sure,” I told her. “But it’s a good possibility, depending upon what you remember, of course.”
“Then I’ll ask you again,” she said, casting a confident gaze directly into my eyes. “Where and when?”
* * * * *
I turned slowly in place, first twisting my head to look over my shoulder and then following with the rest of my body. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and immediately noticed the puzzled expression that my brain had already told me I was wearing. Still, the sudden tickle that had sent me into this physical spiral didn’t subside. If anything, it just grew worse—nagging and clawing at the back of my psyche and sending a wave of gooseflesh across my scalp.
“Somethin’ wrong?” Ben asked, staring at the befuddled mask that was my face.
Heather had excused herself to use the bathroom before we began, leaving the three of us alone in her living room, so at least she wasn’t seeing this display. I had serious doubt that it would have done anything to bolster her confidence in what we were about to do.
“Are you okay, Rowan?” Charlee added her concerned voice to the mix.
“I don’t know,” I muttered at first then reeled my wandering thoughts back in. “I mean, yes, I’m okay… That was just weird.”
“What was weird?” McLaughlin queried.
“We’re talkin’ ‘bout Rowan here. Everything’s weird with him,” Ben interjected. “Ya’know, don’t adjust your television set, yadda yadda. So what’s up, white man? You already goin’ Twilight Zone on us?”
“It felt like…” I began, then frowned and shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably just nerves.”
“See what I mean?” Ben jibed.
“Are you positive, Rowan?” Charlee asked.
“Ya’ just haven’t been around ‘im enough yet, Chuck,” Ben told her. “He does this kinda shit when he starts doin’ the hocus-pocus stuff.”
“Really, Charlee,” I
said, “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Too bad I didn’t actually believe that. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, and the sensation was extremely disconcerting. My first instinct was to think that Debbie Schaeffer might be waiting in the ethereal wings for me to pinpoint a target for her. But the more I dwelled on it, the more the presence felt nothing like her. It was familiar, yes, but not her. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t pin it down to an individual or even a place, and as I continued to mull it over the feeling just got worse.
A thin lance of pain stabbed through my bad shoulder, and I winced inwardly. I was starting to feel jumpy, and my hands began to clench and unclench with the nervous energy. I was still wearing my jacket, so I shoved them into my pockets to hide the fidgeting from outside notice. In doing so, I immediately felt the wad of salt packets Ben had given me.
“Are we ready?” Heather asked as she came back into the room.
“Row?” Ben raised an eyebrow at me.
“What? Oh, yeah.” I was still contemplating the phantom invasion of my privacy and hadn’t even noticed her return. “One question though, Miz Burke?”
“Yes?”
“This may sound odd, but as hypnosis goes this isn’t going to be typical. So I was wondering, would you mind terribly if I sprinkled a bit of salt around? Just for…”
“…purification and protection?” she finished for me, nodding as she spoke.
“You’re familiar with the ritual practices of The Craft?” It was my turn to be surprised, and ultimately chagrined.
She stretched the baggy t-shirt out with her hands to display the iron-on more prominently. “I read quite a bit, Mister Gant.”
* * * * *
I had never been much for the poetic showmanship of spell casting. While I certainly wasn’t opposed to the process, I tended to get tongue-tied whenever I set about reciting a series of couplets. Stumbling over rhymes did little for the actual effectiveness of the spell and in turn served only to destroy my concentration, which in reality was the true driving force behind working Magick.
Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 26