“Well, what are we doing?” I demanded, though with a bit less harshness in my voice.
“We aren’t doin’ anything,” he instructed as he unlatched his door. “You and Helen are gonna sit right here while I check around back.”
My friend carefully unfolded himself from his seat and climbed out of the van. Before I had any chance to retort, he had quietly pressed the door shut and stalked off through the darkness. I watched on as he disappeared into the shadows.
“Benjamin is correct, Rowan,” Helen told me in a quiet voice. “He knows what he is doing. Let him handle this.”
“I know that, Helen,” I answered, my tone all but devoid of emotion. “But I’m having some trouble with the concept at the moment.”
Her soothing voice and no-nonsense advice was a welcome salve on my wounded psyche, but I was desperately afraid that the prescription was too little, too late. Something that felt completely beyond my control had already been set in motion. What was most frightening to me was that I was fairly certain that I didn’t even want to try stopping it.
“Based on your current demeanor, that would be an understatement, Rowan,” she returned. “However, as I have told you, it is a normal reaction to the situation… Do you remember what I told you earlier today?”
I twisted in my seat so that I could see her. “You mean about not letting my strength become my vulnerability?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Helen, but it still sounds like some kind of cryptic eastern philosophy type of advice to me. I guess I’m stupid because I’m just not getting it.”
“Your innate strength, Rowan, is your need to protect.”
“Okay.”
“By allowing yourself to be consumed by this rage, you are walking a very thin line between protecting someone you love and exacting vengeance. To do the latter would, in turn, make you vulnerable to a host of unspeakable things—including your own fears.”
I pondered her words for a moment before I spoke. “Helen, did you know this was going to happen?”
“Not exactly.” She shook her head. “I sensed that something was going to happen, but nothing specific. If I had, I would have told you.”
“There’s quite a bit more to you than you let on, isn’t there?”
She simply smiled.
I turned back to face forward then reached out and unlatched the glove compartment. I thrust my hand into the darkness and rummaged about carefully. I was banking on a recent memory holding true, and when my fingers landed against the cold metal I knew the account was still open.
Ben always carried a backup weapon—an actual pearl handled, stainless, Smith & Wesson Model 649 “Bodyguard” thirty-eight special to be exact. The only reason I knew the specifics in such detail was that he’d sung the praises of the short-barreled revolver and its shrouded hammer to me more than once.
When I withdrew my hand from the compartment, Helen couldn’t help but see the belt clip holster and handgun that now filled it. To her credit she didn’t even gasp.
“I was under the impression that we had just discussed this, Rowan” was all she said.
“We did, Helen.” I sighed as I withdrew the gun from the worn leather and checked to make certain it was loaded. Then I looked back over my shoulder at her. “We just didn’t reach the conclusion you wanted. I appreciate everything you said. I really do. And, to be honest, I’m sure you’re right, and I’m wrong. But, right now I need you to get out of the van.”
“Why, Rowan?”
“Because I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Tell me what you are going to do, Rowan.”
“Tempered glass doesn’t really break as easy as they make it look like in the movies” was all I said.
* * * * *
The anger had blossomed far beyond the most severe level I had been able to imagine. I was so consumed with it that I had gone beyond blind rage and moved completely into calculated hatred.
Helen did exactly what she should have done. She tried to stall me by refusing to get out of the vehicle. But I had ventured well to the other side of reason, and since I’d expected her to use this tactic, I was more than ready to call her bluff. I climbed across and into the driver’s seat and then adjusted it forward enough to reach the pedals.
She continued to calmly talk to me as I twisted the key and fired up the engine.
She never once lost her cool as I slowly backed the van across the lot in order to make enough room to build up speed.
She finally got out when it became obvious to her that I was going to go through with my plan whether she did so or not.
I was already standing on the brake and revving the engine until it was screaming when she exited through the sliding door. When I felt certain she was safely away, I let off the brake and the van bucked hard as it lurched forward.
From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my friend racing around the side of the building as he watched his van fly across the asphalt toward the front of the structure. I braced myself with my arms stiff against the steering wheel and glanced quickly down.
The speedometer read 32 miles per hour when the nose of the Chevy leaped over the curb and connected with the plate glass windows.
CHAPTER 29
The initial impact was utterly surreal.
Countless shards of glass showered the front of the van, sparkling in the glow of the exterior lights like a torrential downpour of semi-precious stones. The tortured scream of the over wound engine was joined by the multi-pitched peal of the shattering windows, and at that moment everything seemed to stop for the briefest instant. Languishing in an otherworldly vortex, devoid of the passage of time for only a tiny fraction of a second before rushing headlong into insane reality once again.
The jarring crash reverberated up my stiffly locked arms and rattled my entire body. I fought hard to hit the brakes, missing twice before finally connecting with the pedal and raking my shin on the underside of the dash as I flopped around in the seat.
The vehicle bucked hard and plowed directly into the front counter, splintering the base and laminated top as it pushed it from its mounting place on the floor. I pitched forward on the second impact, and my face bounced against my hands at the top of the steering wheel. My breath was forced from my lungs, and I grunted hard as I was then lashed backward into the seat.
Intense quiet suddenly filled the passenger cabin of the vehicle. All motion had come to an end, and I was staring through the windshield at the dark interior of the front office area. I regained my breath and reached for my pocket where I’d stuffed the revolver before starting my run at the building. My fingers contacted the smooth surface of the weapon, and I tightly clutched my fist around it. Shouldering the door open, I climbed out of the van and landed unsteadily on a pile of glass and former countertop.
The engine was idling roughly—sputtering and choking as it fought to remain alive. The sharp odor of photographic chemistries mixed with the stale water funk of engine coolant. A cloud of steam was rising steadily from the front of the Chevy, and I could hear water splattering on the floor. In the distance to my back, I could hear Ben screaming my name. In front of me, through an open doorway, I could hear the muted strains of Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”
My body was already starting to ache, and I could taste blood in my mouth. I ignored it and pressed forward. Just over thirty seconds had passed since the van had first struck the windows. I was immediately worried by the fact that Harold hadn’t come running to investigate the horrendous noise. I was certain that he was here, and so was Felicity. Fear gripped me as I wondered about what he might have already done to her.
I heard my name called again, closer now. Ben was sure to be coming to stop me. There was no longer any time to think, there was only time to act. Picking my way around the debris I stepped quickly through the doorway and into the dark corridor.
I could hear the muffled sound of someone frantically rushing a
bout intermixing with the low tones of the music, so I followed it. I heard the dying sputter of the van behind me as it gave one final cough before shutting down. My footfalls were echoing through the darkness at their own frenetic pace, and Ben’s voice was growing even louder. He would be upon me soon.
I met the door at the end of the hall at almost a dead run. I simply assumed that it would be locked. Whether it was or not, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be sure. At any rate, the discount-store-special pre-hung barrier gave way on the second strike. The luan-encased frame shattered at the handle, splintering loudly as the door swung inward on its hinges.
The pistol was stiff-armed in front of me in my right hand as I pushed through the opening and into the large, dimly lit room. My bad shoulder had been the battering ram for the door, and it now burned with absolute agony. My ears were filled with a rush of noise, and I realized that it was my own tortured scream as the pain blossomed outward.
The room was laid out as a studio. Light stands strategically placed with gel filters resting in holders. Reflective umbrellas perched at angles, pointing diagonally toward the ceiling in order to shower their bounced luminance back down onto the scene. Rolls of backdrop fabrics were suspended from a wheeled rack in a cascade, ready to be spooled out behind the subject.
In the center of it all was a chair, and in that chair sat my wife, clad in an ornate wedding gown and staring vacantly into space. A garish mask of makeup was painted onto her face, lending an almost plastic quality to her features.
“NO!” a distinct and vile male voice screamed from the shadows. “She’s MINE!”
I’d heard the voice before. I’d even felt the ragged insanity of it inside my own head. I twisted toward the words, and my eyes came to rest on Harold. He was standing twenty feet away from Felicity and twenty yards away from me, a camera in one hand and a cigarette protruding between the middle two fingers of the other. He stepped closer to the chair as if to protect a prized possession.
“Stay away from her!” I screamed at him, tracking his movement with the pistol in my outstretched hand.
I wanted him dead. I wanted him dead right now. But I had a huge problem and I knew it. He was far too close to her and I was a lousy shot.
“She’s MINE and you can’t have her!” he screamed back at me with crazed defiance in his eyes. “She doesn’t want you! She wants ME!”
If I was in a movie, I knew I would have a suitably dramatic line to deliver. Somehow, reality just isn’t quite like the movies. All I could muster was a hoarse scream of, “Get away from her, you bastard!”
I heard heavy breathing and the shuffle of feet behind me but didn’t turn. I knew full well who it was.
“POLICE! Step away from her now!” my friend’s stern voice ordered.
“SHE’S MINE! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT?! SHE’S MINE!” Harold screamed once again.
Ben was moving slowly forward. On the periphery of my vision I saw the muzzle of his nine-millimeter move into view. The tip of the sidearm was followed by his arms, which were locked into a rock steady firing position. Finally, the rest of his body filled the corner of my eye as he came alongside me.
As I directed my attention forward, I could see my hand shaking—the polished surface of the revolver flickering in the dim light.
“I’m ordering you to step away now, sir!” Ben returned, keeping his attention fully focused on Harold. In a quieter but no less demanding tone he issued a command to me. “Put the gun down before you get yourself killed, Rowan!”
“GO AWAY!” Harold demanded wildly. “GO AWAY, SHE’S MINE! SHE’S PERFECT AND SHE’S MINE!”
“Put the fucking gun down, Rowan,” Ben snarled at me again.
I knew he was right. I needed to heed the order and be done with this. In my mind, I knew it was over for me. Ben had control of the situation and he was the professional. The emotions that were driving me had no choice but to give wide berth to the reality of the situation. It was a given that I couldn’t pull the trigger and risk hitting Felicity. As much as I wanted this man dead, there was literally nothing I could do, so I started to lower the gun.
Or at least that is what I tried to do. My arm wouldn’t move.
“Rowan, Rowan, you’re the guy! You found our killer, now don’t be shy! We wanna make him suffer, don’t you know. We wanna make him die, don’t let him go!”
The angry ditty rang inside my skull, audible only to me and the cheering section that was chanting it. My hand continued to shake but never wavered from its target.
“Dammit, Rowan, we’ve got a problem here,” Ben hissed. “I can’t take this guy down if I’ve gotta worry about you shootin’ me in the back!”
I could feel my finger tightening on the trigger, and as I watched, the cylinder of the revolver started to perceptibly rotate.
“STEP AWAY FROM HER!” Ben ordered Harold again and then said to me, “Help me out here, white man. I don’t think this asshole is real stable.”
“I…can’t…” I managed to stammer before gritting my teeth.
It was taking every ounce of will I had to keep my finger from squeezing the trigger any tighter. The colors in the room were blooming in a kaleidoscope of contrasts, and my head felt like an echo chamber. An urgent voice bounced from every corner, riddling my brain.
“Come on, Rowan! Do it! Make him die!”
My entire body was shaking now. Harold was staring at me as if he was completely unaware of the guns that were trained on him. I looked past him at my wife’s slackened face and in the dim light saw a dark line running down her cheek. Even at this distance I knew it was a tear.
“This would be so much easier if you were using your left hand like a normal person!” Debbie barked in my ears.
“Jeezus, Rowan, put the fuckin’ gun down!” Ben ordered again.
I felt the control over my index finger slip and watched in horror as the cylinder began turning again. It was less than a second away from rolling over and being struck by the hammer when I made my decision. If Debbie Schaeffer needed to exert that much force on my finger and arm because I was using my right hand, maybe her control over the rest of my body was severely weakened.
In a final bid I gave up fighting against her and thrust every ounce of energy I had left into changing the target instead. With a scream I twisted hard at the waist. My finger squeezed tight on the trigger, but I was already swinging to the side and brought the weapon to bear on a blank wall just as the hammer released. There was a loud roar and fire flashed from the muzzle in a bright burst. Dust flew as the projectile punched a hole in the sheetrock well away from any human targets. The gunshot echoed in my eardrums as the explosive sound bounced from the walls. My ears instantly felt clogged, and they began to ring with a painful stab deep inside. The recoil jerked my arm upward and its force allowed me to loosen my grip on the weapon. As my hand opened, it went flying and clattered across the concrete floor.
As I continued to spin I detected motion from the corner of my eye, and I saw Ben rushing toward Harold, then slamming into him full force, and knocking him to the floor.
It was all over in the proverbial blink of an eye. Harold was screaming, “SHE’S MINE, SHE’S MINE… FELICITY, HONEY, TELL THEM!” as Ben snapped a pair of handcuffs onto his wrists and patted him down. I scrambled across the floor, putting as much distance as possible between the discarded revolver and me before finally climbing to my feet and bolting for my wife.
I fell to my knees and wrapped my arms around her, not saying a word. I was simply listening to the soft sounds of her breath and feeling the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat. Tears were streaming down my face as I hugged her close and felt her warmth against me—alive and unharmed.
We were starting to hear sirens and squealing tires in the near distance as squad cars from the Briarwood Police Department arrived outside. Whether summoned by a silent alarm or by Ben, I didn’t know. I was glad to hear them nonetheless.
Ben slipped his Beretta into its holster beneath his
arm then folded himself to the floor next to me with a tired sigh. Harold was on his stomach, several feet away, hands securely cuffed behind his back. His head was turned to face us, and he wore a pained mask of loss. Through choked sobs he continued to call out, “Felicity…tell them…you’re mine…”
My friend pulled out his badge and held it up in preparation for the impending invasion of local police officers that would be descending upon us at any second. Somewhere inside the building, a clock finished chiming out the hour with the final bong in a series of twelve consecutive notes.
Still holding his shield and ID aloft, Ben looked over at me and said, “Merry Christmas, Kemosabe. Merry fuckin’ Christmas.”
CHAPTER 30
“I am actually very proud of you, Rowan,” Helen Storm told me as we stood at the railing of the outdoor smoking lounge in her office building.
She was working on a cigarette, but for a change I was not. I hadn’t had a craving for one since Christmas, go figure. I did, however, have a Maduro Cruz Real #2 hooked under my index finger, and it was slowly growing a grey-white ash at its tip.
I took a puff, consciously placing the cigar in the left corner of my mouth to avoid the pair of stitches that were holding my lip together on the right. The bruises had worked their way into the reddish-purple and yellow haloed stages, so I still looked pretty frightening. My injuries had come from crashing the van into the building for the most part. Mainly just the bruises and split lip, although the jolt had fractured my left wrist, and it was securely taped. My shoulder was sore, and my entire body had ached for several days, but even that was now subsiding.
“What for?” I asked. “Waiting until you were out of the van before running it into the building?”
This was the first chance I’d had to talk with Helen since Christmas Eve; not that it had been all that long ago. New Year’s Eve was tomorrow, so less than one week had passed. Still, it seemed like forever.
Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 34