Perfect Trust argi-3

by M. R. Sellars

  I felt more than a little queasy about being here. I wanted to believe that I was simply following my instincts by coming to the spot where Debbie Schaeffer’s remains had been found. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was actually being guided by a tortured soul who had recently discovered she held a healthy measure of control over me, even in this world. Realistically, she was probably pulling the strings and was the one directly responsible for bringing me to this place. What was left for me to come to terms with was whether or not I was capable of handling what she wanted to show me without first asking for outside help.

  The events of the previous night screamed, “No.”

  My clouded judgment shouted back a resounding, “I don’t know.”

  Debbie Schaeffer’s haunting voice just kept echoing in the back of my skull, “I’m dead, Rowan. Do something about it.”

  I continued to sit there, staring out the window while the grey shadows faded to inky black as if condensed into a single minute of time-lapse video. Taking a deep breath, I weighed my options and considered what was being presented. I was in no way naive enough to believe that I was going to stumble across some enlightening bit of physical evidence that would break the case wide open. That was the sort of thing that always happened in dime store mystery novels-but almost never in real life. Trained crime scene investigators had already been over this area with eyes sharper than mine, so the odds of my finding anything more than a pile of dead leaves were beyond astronomical.

  Unless, perhaps, that mythical piece of evidence was simply invisible to the unaware-a latent clue, hidden from the view of those not able to see beyond this plane of existence. Still, it would need to be tangible for it to be worthwhile, and such a thing was far from likely.

  Besides, something about that idea just didn’t feel right either. No, evidence was not why I was here. Not by a long shot. I was here for the connection-for the proximity to ground zero. I was here for the express purpose of reliving someone else’s nightmare-as if I didn’t have enough of my own already. Deep down, I was beginning to resent the fact that these visions were being imposed on me against my will. I’d already had more than enough of them to last me a lifetime, but there seemed no end to the horrifying pictures that begged my attention. It was no wonder I felt like I was going mad.

  I engaged in a few more moments of restless indecision before finally surrendering to the idea that I was already here so I might as well get out and take a look. I’d already wasted enough time so as to deprive myself of any natural lighting, so I rummaged about beneath the seat and eventually extracted a flashlight before climbing out of the cab and starting down the shallow embankment.

  I wasn’t entirely sure if it was just the darkness, or the place, or even if the temperature had actually dropped, but it felt far colder than it had just an hour or so before. I stopped for a moment to zip my jacket, shrugging it closer and turning up the collar to fend off the slight breeze. Standing there on the side of the small hill, I looked to my left and in the distance saw the muted glow of the lights from the Clark Bridge just peeking over the barren treetops. Exhaling a frosty breath, I watched the foggy luminescence disappear from view as I ventured the last few steps down the grade and into the stand of trees.

  My feet crunched noisily through the dry layer of leaves, and with each step I kicked up the damper stratum beneath, filling the air with the sharp, “composty” odor of decay. The flashlight wasn’t the most powerful in the world, but I’d expected better performance than I was getting. The batteries were apparently just this side of dead, so the faint yellow beam quickly dissipated less than two yards ahead, making my progress slow and unsteady.

  To my back, commuters were making their way home from jobs on this side of the river, and an occasional car would rush by, the beams of its headlights cutting a swath through the trees well above my head. Totally useless for illuminating my path, however, they did create oblique shadows that would quickly arc through a semicircular pattern as the vehicle approached then flitter to obscurity when it passed. I’m sure it was nothing more than my anxiety-fueled imagination, but some of those visual artifacts seemed to possess lives of their own-and they didn’t look friendly.

  I carefully picked my way through the scrub, tripping twice on the same fallen log and only narrowly regaining my balance before almost being pitched to the ground. Leaning against a tree for support, I decided to stop once again in order to get my bearings. The crime scene tape had looked to be some thirty or so yards from the roadside. In my estimation, I had probably managed to cover half that distance so far.

  With each step, the world had seemed to close off behind me, creating an isolating darkness. Even the swish of randomly passing vehicles had faded so far into the background that the only sound left for me to hear was my labored breathing and pounding heart. As I stood in place, wheezing in the cold air, my body screamed for a dose of nicotine. I reached my hand inside my jacket at the impulse but then thought better of the idea before fully withdrawing the pack of cigarettes. Shoving it back into my breast pocket, I panned the dying flashlight across the landscape in search of a trail or break in the undergrowth.

  A flicker of bright yellow lashed quickly through the weak beam as the wind swelled and then fell off in a rolling wave. I had apparently made it farther than I’d suspected. I cocked my head to the side and listened carefully as a static-laden hum began inside my head. Eventually my ears filled with a faint whisper.

  Dead I am. Dead I am. I do not like that dead I am.

  “I know you are.” I found myself answering the voice aloud. “Trust me, I know.”

  Aiming myself in the direction of the yellow flicker, I stiff armed my way through a close huddle of saplings and pushed closer. As I inched forward, hollowness began to invade the pit of my stomach, mixing with the other ingredients of the night to spin itself into a thin thread of fear. I continued listening intently to the breeze, waiting for the voice that only I could hear.

  “Talk to me, Debbie,” I muttered under my breath. “Tell me your story.”

  The thread of foreboding began to embroider itself up my spine, bringing a chill that made me physically shiver and hug my coat tighter. I rubbed my palm against the day’s growth of scratchy whiskers on my cheeks then tugged thoughtfully at my beard as I let out a nervous laugh. If I wanted proof that I was insane, then this was it. I was out here in the dark with a dying flashlight, completely and totally ungrounded and unprotected. What’s more, I was actively inviting the spirit of a murdered woman to pop into my head when I knew for a fact that doing so was no less than inviting disaster. Yeah, I thought, I’m definitely pushing the envelope with this one.

  Silence still permeated the night, leaving me with the rattle of my breathing and thump of my adrenalin-affected heart as the only audible companions. The burst of rational thought should have driven me to immediately turn and flee, but rationality wasn’t my strong suit right now. I pressed forward and the droning hum began again.

  “Dead, Rowan. Dead. That’s what I am. Do something about it.”

  The voice whispered past me again, working its way around my head as it bounced between mono and stereo separation.

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Debbie,” I answered her aloud yet again. “Give the poetry a rest. Just talk to me. Tell me what you saw.”

  I could feel an energetic presence swirling unseen before me and I halted. Icy tendrils of death slapped outward from it, and I felt them slice effortlessly through my body, making me gasp with each strike. I knew then that I’d gone that one step further than I should and needed to turn tail and run. Unfortunately, the command to do so was being diverted upon leaving my brain, and it never made it to my legs. I stood frozen in place, unable to move.

  “You’ve done this before, Rowan,” I told myself in a not quite calm voice. “This is nothing new. You can handle it.”

  My subconscious immediately objected, telling me in no uncertain terms that while I’d do
ne this before, I had done it when I was capable of grounding and centering.

  I didn’t have time to argue with myself. I took in a deep breath through my nose and slowly exhaled through my mouth, trying desperately to relax and achieve a focal point. I could feel the hair on my arms rise as a field of static touched me. I became instantly aware that there was no time for the Wicca 101 exercises in which I was about to engage; I needed to be grounded now, and that simply wasn’t happening.

  I steeled myself against an invasion that I feared could very well bring about an end to what small scrap of lucidity I still retained.

  Dead I am! Dead I am! I do not like that dead I am!

  Dead I am! Dead I am! I do not like that dead I am!

  Debbie’s disembodied voice began shifting in phases about me. Pitches rose and lowered as the chant doubled and echoed, increasing in speed with each revolution as if winding itself up to deliver a blow directly into my soul.

  Dead I am! Dead I Am!

  DeadIAm! DeadIAm!

  DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM! DEADIAM!

  The mantra blended quickly as the words joined, becoming multi-syllabic noises that made my head vibrate with its bass staccato. The cadence continued to increase toward a roar of white noise, and I felt as if my head was positioned between the jaws of an ever-tightening vise.

  A shrill scream pierced the darkness without warning, and my own voice joined it in absolute disharmony. I started quickly, physically tensing while my heart climbed into my throat in search of refuge. When I jumped, I involuntarily released my grip on the near useless flashlight, and it spiraled to the ground in slow motion, landing with a muted thud.

  As if on a sudden gust of wind, the twirl of ethereal energy exploded outward, rushing through me, around me, and past me, only to dissipate into nothingness.

  The sound of a car whooshing past back up on the blacktop instantly faded in and was followed by a repeat of the shrill scream. After a measured beat, a third warbling scream announced itself, now identifiable as the electronic peal of the cell phone in my jacket pocket.

  I allowed myself to breathe and thrust my shaking hand into my pocket then withdrew the chirruping device and stabbed the answer call button.

  “Hello?”

  “Rowan?” Ben Storm’s voice greeted me with a quizzical tone.

  “Yeah, Ben,” I answered, hoping the tremble in my own voice wasn’t noticeable. “What’s up?”

  “Ya’ sound like you’re outta breath, white man,” the earpiece buzzed with his words.

  “It’s a long story,” I answered, not sure what exactly to say.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I told him then repeated, “What’s up?”

  “Well, I called the house and Felicity told me you’d gone to see Helen today.”

  “Yeah, she got me in this afternoon.”

  “Uh-huh,” he grunted. “Well, I just talked to ‘er and she said you’d left ‘er office well over an hour ago.”

  “Checking up on me?” I retorted, somewhat perturbed.

  The leaves crunched as I shuffled about then knelt down to retrieve the flashlight.

  “Actually, no,” he remarked, “but I’m gettin’ the feelin’ maybe I should be.”

  I turned in place and located the distant silhouette of my truck up on the shoulder. Aiming what little glow was coming from the flashlight toward the ground at my feet, I began working my way toward the vehicle.

  My friend was correct. Somebody needed to be checking up on me if I was going to make a habit of being this reckless. Truth was, his unexpected call had probably saved my sanity, if not my life.

  I softened a bit at the realization. “Yeah. You probably should.”

  The rustle of the fallen foliage was loud, and I was certain he could hear it.

  “Row, where the hell are you? Ya’ sound like you’re rakin’ leaves or somethin’.”

  “Somewhere I shouldn’t be,” I told him, electing to not try hiding the truth.

  “Where, Row?” he asked again, sternly this time.

  “A little wooded grove out off of Three Sixty-Seven,” I answered.

  I could hear him sigh heavily at the other end. “Jeezus, Rowan. What the hell are ya’ tryin’ ta’ do? Make Felicity hate me? She’s gonna have your ass for this, ya’know?”

  “It’s not my fault,” I volunteered the thin excuse.

  “Don’t tell me. You’re gonna say Debbie Schaeffer made ya’ do it this time too?”

  “Kind of,” I returned. “Something like that anyway.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Look, I want ya’ to get yer ass outta there right now,” he instructed.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Don’t lie ta’ me, Rowan.”

  “I’m not.”

  Silence filled the earpiece for a moment while I picked my way through the last of the underbrush and started back up the embankment.

  “Shit,” my friend exclaimed softly. “I shouldn’t even ask ‘cause it’ll just encourage you…” He sighed as he fell into a thoughtful silence then finally spoke again. “Well did’ja figure anything out?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Man… I just don’t know what ta’ do with you… Jeez…” His voice trailed off.

  “If it’s any consolation,” I offered, “you called me just in time to keep me from doing something really incredibly stupid.”

  “Like what you were doin’ now isn’t really incredibly stupid?” he shot back.

  “No,” I agreed. “It’s stupid all right. But what I was about to do was even more stupid.”

  “Great,” he muttered.

  I scrambled my way to the top of the hill and sat down on the bumper of my truck for a moment in order to rest. I flicked off the flashlight and set it aside then reached into my pocket and withdrew a cigarette.

  “So,” I asked after lighting the butt and taking a deep drag. “Why were you calling me in the first place?”

  “Just wanted ta’ let ya’ know we looked into a connection between Lawson and Schaeffer.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing there, Row,” he told me. “No connection, no common friends, activities, or anything. Nada.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Certain as we can be with what we’ve got. The whole Lawson thing is a dead end, white-man. She’s got nothin’ ta’ do with Debbie Schaeffer.”

  “So I guess you’re closing the books on her then?” I asked, dejection filling my voice.

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “What do you mean, ‘yes, and no’? Which is it?”

  I could literally feel his hesitation over the phone. “Man… I shouldn’t even tell you…”

  “Come on, Ben. You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

  “Shit,” he muttered the expletive. “Okay, but ya’ gotta promise me you’ll stay outta this and let us handle it.”

  “Fine. I promise.”

  “Yeah, right,” he returned, obviously not believing me for a minute, then he huffed out a breath before continuing anyway. “Okay, listen, it looks like ya’ might’ve been right about Lawson’s death not bein’ an accident. Well, not entirely an accident, anyway.”

  “Go on.” I was intrigued, even a little elated. Vindication appeared to be on the horizon, and it was something I sorely needed.

  “Remember I mentioned she had a welt on her neck?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Well, the M.E. says it’s consistent with the type of mark that could be left by a high-powered stun gun.”

  “I thought those things weren’t supposed to leave marks?”

  “Depends,” he explained. “Not always, but there’re a lot of factors; trust me, they can definitely leave a serious welt. I speak from experience.”

  My hand lifted automatically to my neck, and I focused on the memory of the burning sensation I’d felt. The jangle and buzz that had taken over every nerve in my body; the disori
entation and paralysis that had driven me to fall helpless on the ground while at that crime scene. A piece of the puzzle locked securely in with another. As yet, I could only imagine the picture that was going to be formed, but at least now I had a start.

  “So it’s a murder case now?”

  “Kinda,” he acknowledged without enthusiasm. “We figure what prob’ly happened was that some asshole waited in the bushes and assaulted ‘er on her way in the door. Most likely a doper or somethin’ lookin’ ta’ score some quick cash. Jammed ‘er with the stun gun, she fell and cracked her head on the table; shithead sees the blood, panics and runs without even liftin’ anything.”

  “You think that’s all it was?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “But it could be more, right?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I really don’t think so. There’s nothin’ else there.”

  In my mind’s eye I could see him shaking his head as he spoke.

  I thought about it silently for a moment. Logically, Ben was correct, but I wasn’t subscribing to logical theories these days. There actually was something else there; he just couldn’t see it, and I wasn’t going to give up until I found it. With what he’d told me, I had a start; now I just needed to build on it. I could tell from my friend’s tone that he was already regretting that he’d told me anything at all, so I was just going to have to chase this lead on my own.

  “So what about the whole smoking thing,” I asked, changing the subject as much to hide my intentions as to let him off the hook.

  “Yeah, yeah, I looked into it. Far as we can tell they were both clean. Neither of ‘em smoked.”

  “Guess it’s someone else then,” I submitted.