Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “I said I’m talking to you, Rowan!” she asserted.

  “Well, I’m not talking to you,” I finally muttered under my breath.

  It didn’t really matter that I was mumbling. I didn’t even have to speak for her to hear me. The simple fact that I acknowledged her with my thoughts was enough to set her in motion.

  “And why not?”

  “Hmmmm, let me see,” I offered in a sarcastic tone, speaking a bit louder. “Could it be the fact that you’re really fucking annoying?”

  “You can do better than that.”

  “Okay, how about that I’m not terribly impressed with that little stunt you pulled this afternoon? That good enough for you?”

  As I finished the sentence, I glanced over at the passenger side. As I suspected, there she was, fully decked out in her cheerleading uniform, hair up in a ponytail, and her arms crossed over her chest.

  “I helped you find out what you were after, didn’t I?” she stated more than asked. “You just needed a little push in the right direction, that’s all.”

  “Not literally,” I replied.

  All of the progress I’d made so far seemed to simply fly out the window. If anyone were to pull alongside it would probably look like I was talking to myself. I felt utterly insane sitting here having an argument with a ghost while traveling down the highway on Christmas Eve. Of course, what better night could one pick to be visited by a ghost? Do I hear Scrooge, anyone?

  I let out a heavy sigh then told her, “I think I liked it better when you just did the automatic writing. You were a hell of a lot less annoying that way.”

  “I’m not annoying. You just weren’t paying enough attention,” she spat. “Besides, this is more fun.”

  “Fun? Give me a break, will you? I’m doing the best that I can. I’ve got my own problems you know.”

  “What? Like I don’t have problems?”

  “In case you weren’t paying attention, Debbie, the guy who tried to kill me last February is running around loose.”

  “Yeah, so? I’m already dead.”

  “So you’ve told me…repeatedly… And I hate to tell you this but that’s something I can’t fix.”

  “Don’t be so selfish, Rowan. You’re supposed to be helping me. Paige is counting on you too.”

  “What?” I exclaimed aloud. “Me being selfish? What about you?”

  Yes, it was official. I had to be insane. There was no other explanation.

  “Yes, you being selfish. Here you are all worried about your problems when I’m dead. Dead I am, dead I am,…”

  “…I do not like that dead I am, yeah Debbie, I get it. Will you please give the cheerleading crap a rest?” I announced with a healthy note of exasperation. “Can we move on to something else?”

  “That’s up to you, Rowan. If you’ll just start paying attention.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She didn’t answer. I glanced over at the passenger seat and found an empty void. She was gone. Great, I thought to myself. Now she’s going to give me riddles. Of course, that’s what they all do. I’ve never understood why spirits can’t just say what they mean and be done with it.

  Although, I had to admit that this particular specter was a first in my book. Most of the ethereal visits I’d experienced tended to take place during a heavily tranced state or even sleep. Clues were often complex strings of symbolic messages that required serious deciphering. Debbie seemed to be phasing back and forth between the planes at will and was even carrying on conversations—cryptic yes, but conversations nonetheless. This was definitely one I needed to record in my dream journal.

  I jerked with a quick start as the music suddenly returned, blaring through the cab of the truck. I reached over and turned the volume down, then took a drag from my cigarette, and propped my hand up on the steering wheel.

  The lane dividing line flashed by in my headlights, flickering in on-again/off-again reflective stripes. I continued to stare out the windshield, over the top of the steering wheel, and through the rippling column of smoke that was rising from my burning cigarette. Eventually, reflex drove me to bring my hand toward my face for yet another puff, and my vision was suddenly replaced by a Technicolor flash of memory.

  A lit cigarette smokes in his free hand as the other pumps faster between his legs. I concentrate on the glowing coal, not wanting to witness his self-stimulation. I watch him raise the cigarette to take a puff and notice that it is positioned between his middle fingers.

  Curious.

  I’ve never seen anyone hold a cigarette like that before.

  As the bloom of color faded, I jerked the wheel quickly to the left in order to correct for my inattentive drifting, which was just about to cause me to run off the road at the Hampton exit. When I’d settled the vehicle back into the lane and swallowed my heart back down into my chest, I stole another glance at my hand. There between my middle fingers rested the smoldering cigarette.

  No wonder I was so screwed up. I wasn’t channeling the victims; I was channeling the rapist. I had been all along.

  I started to reach for my cell phone in order to call Ben but stopped mid stretch. There was nothing he could do with the information at this point in time, so why bother him. Besides, I’d be home soon. I’d pick up Felicity and we’d head over to his house for dinner; therefore, I could tell him in person.

  I glanced at the clock on the dash and saw that it was now a quarter after six. It had taken longer to get myself together and get out of police headquarters than I’d expected. The last stop for the “Santa Brigade” was merely a donation check drop-off at a food bank less than a mile from our house. Make the presentation, a few quick pictures, and they would be out of there, so Felicity was most likely already home by now.

  My biggest concern at this point was figuring out how to pack an overnight bag for the two of us without her asking why.

  This was going to be a tough one.

  * * * * *

  It was 6:25 when I turned my truck into the driveway of our Briarwood home. I slowly urged the vehicle toward the garage at the back of the house, fully prepared to stop and open the gate that normally barred the path but found it was already propped open. I continued forward through the opening and canted the steering wheel to the left. The motion from making the turn around the corner of the deck triggered the outdoor sentry, and floodlights snapped on to light the landscape. Felicity’s Jeep was already parked in the garage.

  My suspicions about timing had been dead on, and I still had no idea how I was going to get the overnight bag past her. The only resolution I had come upon was to forget the bag altogether. I was going to have to come back to the house tomorrow anyway, that much was a foregone conclusion. For one thing, there was a house full of animals that needed to be taken care of, and even with Ben’s promise of seeing to it, Felicity or I should be involved in the process, and it might as well be me.

  I sat there thinking about it for a moment. We could easily set up extra food and water for the cats. The truth was, they would probably enjoy having the run of the place for a while. However, the dogs were going to require quite a bit more attention. Either they would have to go with us, or we would need to board them somewhere. Depending on how long this all took, that could get expensive, unless one of our friends was willing to take them in for the duration.

  This lead to yet another thought—there was the fact that we both worked out of the house. My office was here and so was Felicity’s darkroom. Over the holidays it would be slow, so we’d be able to manage, but that lull was going to be over soon enough.

  What if they weren’t able to find Porter right away? What if he went on another killing spree in the process of coming after me? What if he targeted my friends in order to get to me?

  I could feel myself shaking my head almost unconsciously. I had no idea how we were going to make this work, and I was starting to obsess about it.

  I shifted the truck into park and switched off the engine th
en took a deep breath. “Just take things one step at a time,” I muttered to myself. “That’s what you need to do—just take it one step at a time.”

  Heeding my own advice I climbed out of the truck and made my way up the stairs and across the deck to the atrium door. The cool day had folded itself into a cold night, and I could see my breath in a frosty cloud. I shuffled through my keys then raised my free hand to the door handle, but I never got the key into the lock. Upon resting my hand on the lever-shaped handle, I pressed down out of reflex. The moment I did, the latch clicked and the door swung inward.

  Under any other circumstances I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Felicity was home, and even though she tended to keep the doors locked, she sometimes forgot.

  This time it was different.

  Every hair on the back of my neck immediately rose to attention. The dull thud in the back of my head expanded to encompass my entire body. My ears began to ring, and every ethereal alarm I had was going off in sequence.

  I pushed the door farther inward and stepped through. A cold gust of wind followed behind me and rustled a stack of newspaper that was sitting in a nearby chair. The interior door that led into the house was actually hanging ajar, and beyond it the room was dark.

  I carefully shut the outer door, beating back the desire to panic, then took the few steps across the atrium to the kitchen door and pushed it open slowly and carefully.

  “Felicity?” I called out, stepping into the room.

  I paused, waiting in the darkness, but received no answer. I listened intently and could hear muffled whimpering and barking coming from deeper in the interior. Acid began churning in the pit of my stomach as the panic began to break free and crawl up my spine like a thousand spiders.

  “Felicity?” I called again, louder this time, as I hurried through the kitchen and in my haste glanced against the corner of the island.

  I let out a yelp and grabbed my side, then aimed myself for the dining room. “Felicity? Are you here? Answer me!”

  The only sound to meet my ears was the sharpness of my own voice and the excited yelps of the dogs from somewhere inside the house.

  The light was on in the living room, and it cast an eerie glow through the archway and into the dining room where I stood. Looking around, I could see my wife’s purse on the side table and her long coat draped across the back of a chair.

  My racing heart slowed and I took a deep breath. She was here somewhere. Maybe she’d gone downstairs into her darkroom for something. Or maybe she was in the bedroom and couldn’t hear me over the dogs, assuming that’s where they were presently holed up.

  I crossed the room and flipped the light switch. Even with the artificial wave of relief sweeping over me, the supernatural alarms were still raising a raucous clamor inside my skull. Adrenalin was dripping into my bloodstream on full flow, and I was beginning to physically shake.

  The fleeting moment of calm dissolved as quickly as it had come. Something was still very wrong. With the dogs raising that much ruckus, by now I should have heard Felicity telling them to quiet down or at least come to see what was going on to have them so riled up.

  I immediately bolted through the house, stumbling over my own feet with a clumsiness brought on by the unchecked anxiety. I began screaming my wife’s name like a madman. When I reached the bedroom, the dogs charged out the door the moment I opened it and proceeded to follow me on the rabid quest as I continued on to other floors and rooms.

  In less than two minutes I had covered the entire house—upstairs, downstairs, her darkroom, everywhere. I was panting hard, struggling to catch my breath when I returned to the dining room.

  I stopped and glanced wildly around. Eventually, my eyes fell on the table, and I stood staring at a scene that had escaped my attention in the earlier darkness. Now that I was turned to face it and the lights were on, my heart plummeted into the depths of abject despair.

  A chair was overturned. The dining room table itself was canted askew as if it had been pushed or knocked out of place. And scattered across the disrupted tableau and onto the floor was the day’s mail.

  I began to shake even harder when my disbelieving stare came to rest on the center of the table. There, as if placed with the utmost reverence, rested a book. Gold letters were embossed along the spine and across the cover, spelling out what, for me, were ominous words: Holy Bible.

  I dropped the phone four times before my unsteady hands managed to dial 9-1-1.

  CHAPTER 26

  I was sitting on the floor staring straight ahead with the handset of the phone still clasped tight in my hand when the first uniformed police officers arrived on the scene. I was in so much pain I couldn’t move. Emotional distress had transcended the boundaries of the physical, and I literally ached with despair. I could feel a hole deepening in my chest and spreading outward in a bid to consume me.

  I was more than happy to let it.

  I didn’t fight, didn’t struggle. I just sat and let the cold darkness eat away at my soul. Right now, this pain was all I had to cling to. It was the only feeling I had left.

  I had no idea what I’d told the emergency operator. All I knew is that I could hear his voice issuing faintly from the earpiece. He was asking me something it seemed, although it was just so much gibberish in my mind. Whatever I’d said to him, it had to have been barely coherent but ultimately grievous, as the two officers entered through the back door with extreme caution and weapons drawn.

  I continued to sit motionless, watching as they came toward me. They were speaking but their words made no more sense than the tinny ramblings of the 9-1-1 operator. It was obvious to me that until they’d fully assessed the situation, I was considered a possible threat.

  I didn’t care.

  At this moment—this horrifically drawn out and extended instant in all of time and space—my life meant absolutely nothing to me. If Felicity was gone then I had no desire to continue.

  A brief spark of a thought glowed in the forefront of my brain. All I had to do was move. Make a threatening gesture. Act as though I was about to train a weapon on the officers and it could all be done. They could end this hollow pain for me.

  Fortunately for me, I simply couldn’t make myself do it.

  I just continued to sit and embrace the pain, letting it pool deeper and deeper, until finally, I was fully immersed in it.

  Sinking.

  Drowning.

  Then the unexpected took place. The pain actually began to fade. Warming slowly from cold agony to hot anger. From the moment I laid eyes on that Bible, my life had taken on a completely surreal property. Everything I’d ever seen, everything I’d ever accomplished, everything I’d ever set out to do, no longer mattered to me in the least. The standard by which I had lived my life seemed like a cruel joke.

  I had raced immediately into the blind desire to end my life, and while that was a prospect I’d not yet ruled out, it would have to wait. I was now climbing out of the hole. A desire for vengeance was upon me, and I was becoming driven.

  I was going to find Eldon Porter, and now the Rede was no longer an option. Harm none, my ass; I was going to send him to meet his God in person.

  * * * * *

  This wasn’t the first time my home had been a crime scene. I could only hope that it was going to be the last. CSU technicians assigned to the Major Case Squad were going over every inch of the house, including the garage and Felicity’s Jeep.

  I could have stayed inside, but I simply couldn’t bear to watch them at work. Not when I recognized so many of them from working the Porter case earlier this year, and especially not when I considered that everyone knew what Porter had done to his victims.

  No, not when I could look into their eyes and know exactly what they all were thinking.

  I wandered out of the house and found myself standing outside the perimeter, smoking yet another cigarette in what had become one unending chain. Yellow and black crime scene tape cordoned off my yard, and I’d ducked
under it to get to the sidewalk. I didn’t need the reminder, so I turned my back to it.

  I’d already given a statement, but I knew the drill. They’d want to talk to me again. There was even a chance that those who didn’t know me might consider me a suspect.

  I thought about that for a moment. I guess I’d better be prepared for it. It could very well present itself as an obstacle to my finding Porter and bringing about his end. Someone would set them straight, though, of that I was certain. I was, after all, up to my neck in the previous investigation, and it had been no secret that Porter had tried to kill me. It stood to reason that he would be trying to finish the job, and Felicity would make the perfect pawn.

  I gave brief notice to the fact that I was standing outside on Christmas Eve, coldly calculating and planning to kill someone. I knew this should disturb me greatly, but it didn’t. It was a curious feeling, yes, but right now it was keeping me warm.

  A quick glance around told me that there were still a few of my neighbors ogling the scene. I didn’t even waste time being angry about it. It wasn’t worth my time.

  I heard a loud screech in the distance and turned toward the sound. Thirty yards up the street, Ben Storm’s van screamed around the corner and accelerated through the puddles of luminance cast by the streetlamps. The magnetic bubble of an emergency light flickered wildly on the corner of his roof and he locked up the brakes, sliding to a diagonal halt in front of the house. He was out of the Chevy and running toward me before the engine stopped knocking.

  “Rowan, are ya’ okay?” He fired the question at me with genuine concern.

  I stared back at him and didn’t utter a word. I took another drag on my cigarette and tried to find a reason not to hit him as hard as I could. Not that I believed I could inflict any damage, but I definitely felt like I wanted to try.