“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.
“For not killing Harold McCree,” she answered. “You retained your strength. That is very important.”
“I think it was more along the lines of luck,” I offered as I stared out across the dull sky. “Because I can guarantee you that it wasn’t for a lack of desire.”
“The fact still remains that you did not kill him.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know… Given another chance, with different circumstances, the outcome could be different.”
She ignored my comment, and we stood in silence for a moment. I had grown accustomed to her periods of quiet thoughtfulness interspersed throughout our conversations and realized they were as much a signal as an action. They were, in part, her way of triggering my own introspection.
“How is Felicity doing?” she finally asked.
“Good,” I nodded. “As well as one can expect. The Rohypnol was a bit of a blessing in a sense because she doesn’t really remember much of what occurred after Harold dropped by to deliver those photos.
“She’s having a little trouble coming to terms with the fact that nine women were raped and two are dead, all because he was playing out a fantasy that revolved around her.”
“She should come visit me,” Helen offered. “She needs to understand that what transpired is in no way her fault.”
“She knows that, I think. But emotionally…” I allowed my voice to trail off.
“Yes?” she looked at me with a smile.
“Okay, so I forgot who I was talking to for a minute.” I smiled back. “Like I’ve said before, you don’t come off as your average shrink.”
She laughed musically. “How are you both handling the change of scenery?”
We were now living in an apartment in a secure building for the time being. It had been a clandestine move, made in the middle of the night the day after Christmas. It had happened without fanfare, and very little warning, even to us. All in all, it was comfortable enough, but it definitely wasn’t home. Until Eldon Porter was in custody, however, it was something we were getting used to dealing with-for a while, anyway.
“It’s okay,” I shrugged. “Not the same. And we miss having the animals around.”
“Are you boarding them?”
“We thought about it but couldn’t do it to them.” I shook my head. “Some friends took them in. That way they’ll get some attention from people they’re familiar with.”
“Well,” she announced with a sigh after glancing at her watch. “Unfortunately, I am afraid our time is up for today, and I do have another appointment this time.”
; “It flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?” I grinned.
“Funny,” she replied. “Of course, you are the only patient I see who is willing to stand out here and watch me smoke. So in a way it is a big plus for me.”
“Therapists need love too,” I joked.
She smiled at me. “I see that your sense of humor is returning. That is a very good sign, Rowan.”
I gave an abbreviated chuckle as I knocked the ash from the end of my cigar then carefully sealed it into a spring-loaded tube designed to tamp out the coal and keep the remainder somewhat fresh. “Maybe,” I half agreed with a shrug. “But I get the feeling I’m not out of the woods yet.”
“But the terrain is different, Rowan. You can now see the trail, and that is important. As long as you can keep it in sight, you will not lose your way.”
“Next week?” I asked.
“I will be here,” she returned.
*****
“If it was up ta’ me, you wouldn’t even be seein’ this shit,” Ben said as he massaged his neck. “But Helen seems ta’ think it’ll offer some closure. I dunno. I think it’s just friggin’ monkeyshit crazy myself.”
We were standing in a conference room at City police headquarters, staring at a table full of tagged evidence that was still being sorted and cataloged. Some of it had already appeared on the evening news when the story broke, though my friend had done his best to play down my connection.
Worn boxes of everything from five-by-seven to sixteen-by-twenty photographic paper sat in ordered stacks. An entire rack of women’s clothing-evening gowns to business suits to lingerie-occupied one corner of the room; of immediate prominence to me was the wedding gown Felicity had been wearing. Even though it was crammed together with the other apparel, it stood out to me like a beacon in total darkness.
Rectangular boxes were stacked next to the rack in a mound with several pairs of stiletto-heeled shoes on display. At the far end of the long table sat three head-shaped Styrofoam stands, all supporting long, spiral-curled, red wigs; each of which was carefully pinned into a different stylish coif. The man had a small fortune invested in his lurid obsession.
I rested my hand against a pile of photographs and slowly shuffled through them. They were a mix of black and white and color eight-by-tens. Each one contained a woman who on first glance looked much like my wife but upon closer inspection obviously was not. The poses and modes of dress ranged from sophisticated fashion to tasteful nude. Others began somewhere around cheesecake then degenerated into downright pornographic.
Two things they all shared in common were the vacant stares and highly contrasted makeup jobs. In grey tones they looked ghostly. In color they looked plastic and even clown-like.
“He shot enough close ups of all of ‘em ta’ be able ta’ positively identify each of the women, even with the hair and makeup,” Ben was telling me. “Includin’ Debbie Schaeffer.”
“What happened there, do you think?” I spoke the question softly as I continued to peruse the visual diary of infatuated insanity.
“Nut job says she just quit breathin’,” my friend harrumphed in a disgusted tone. “Doc over at the morgue says that could be consistent with a Rohypnol OD, so that’s what we’re figurin’.”
“So he admitted that he took her?”
“Hell, Row, he admitted to all of ‘em,” Ben returned. “His mouthpiece couldn’t get ‘im ta’ shut up. We just sat back and listened.”
“Did he say why he dumped her out on Three Sixty-Seven?”
“Yeah, actually,” he spat. “Get this-it was convenient for ‘im because he was headin’ in that direction.”
“What about Paige Lawson?”
“Just like we figured. When he saw the blood he just left. Asshole actually had the gall ta’ look me in the eye and say that it was unfortunate ‘cause both of ‘em were ‘almost perfect.’”
“What did you expect?” I shrugged.
“I dunno. Maybe a little remorse.”
“So even without the confession you have enough evidence to charge him with murder, right?”
“Jeezus, Row, we’ve got enough evidence to charge the SOB with everything. Murder, rape, stalking… He’ll even come up on federal charges for kidnappin’.” He sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, he’ll never see real prison. He’ll end up in the prison ward of a mental institution.”
“Something inside me still wants him dead,” I stated coldly.
“Yeah, well that stays between you, me, an’ the fuckin’ wall, okay?” he told me, his voice taking on a stern edge. “I lied my ass off about what really happened that night, and I don’t need ya’ screwin’ it up with an uncensored attack of emotional honesty.”
“Sorry. I just can’t help feeling that way.”
“I know, but he’s a whack job, Row. Shrinks say he’s delusional. Get this, he actually believes that he an’ Felicity are a couple. Hell, he’s been accusin’ you of taking ‘er from him and wants ta’ file charges. Keeps demandin’ we arrest ya’ for kidnappin’.”
“Really…”
“Yeah…fucked up, huh?”
My fingers brushed against another pile of photographs, and I slid them into view. This time images of my wife leapt out at me, and they weren’t of someone dressed as her. They were of the real thing.
There were pictures of her in front of our house working in the yard, getting into her Jeep, getting out of my truck, different times of day, different clothing, even different seasons of the year. He’d been watching her for a long time. Too long.
“By the way,” Ben added. “You were right. I forgot ta’ tell ya’, but when we talked ta’ Heather Burke I found out she does have dyslexia. Very mild case, but she definitely has trouble with it if she’s tired.”
“Thought so,” I answered.
“Okay, so you answer one for me.”
“What’s that?”
“You and the Red Squaw are so tight that ya’ can feel each others pain, right? I mean…I’ve seen ya’ do it.”
“Yeah,” I acknowledged with a nod. “It’s been known to happen.”
“Well, with all that hocus-pocus Twilight Zone shit ya’ do, why didn’t ya’ feel it when she got zapped by this creep?”
“Best guess? I was otherwise occupied by an angry cheerleader at the time. Then, after that, probably a combination of the Rohypnol shutting her down and my own mental state kept me from feeling her presence at all. Wrong place, wrong time, and a lot of supernatural interference.”
“So Schaeffer really fucked with ya’ bad, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” I nodded without looking back at him. “She’s a very determined spirit. Pretty annoying too.”
“She gone?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” I returned. “I haven’t felt her around since that night, so I hope so.”
“Too freakin’ weird for me.”
“Me too, Ben,” I agreed as I looked back at him. “I’m a Witch, not a Ouija board. I’m starting to wonder if the spirits on the other side understand that.”
Silence filled the hollowness behind my words, and we continued to stand there, Ben massaging his neck in deep thought. I turned back to the table and stared at a picture of Felicity as she was seen through the eyes of a lunatic. As I looked at the photograph, I had to admit to myself that the composition and tone held a message. In this particular instance at least, he seemed to view her with almost as much reverence as I did.
That fact did little for my current state of mind.
After a moment my friend cleared his throat and spoke quietly, “So…ya’ done here?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m done,” I finally answered. “For now.”
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” he said as he pulled open the door. “There’s one other thing I need to tell ya’.”
“What’s that?”
“Ya’ owe me for a radiator, one tire, and a crapload of body work.”
EPILOGUE
“You don’t have to do this, the
n,” the woman insisted, her words were thick with an Irish brogue that would always beset her when she was emotionally distraught.
“Yes, I do,” the man answered her with a calm note in his voice.
Her long, spiral curls of auburn hair were piled atop her head in a loose Gibson girl, and her green eyes flashed wetly with deep concern. She’d tried anger already and it hadn’t worked. She’d even been willing to try guilt, but he still hadn’t budged. He knew her too well.
Now, she was back to making demands.
“What did Ben say?” the woman contended, as if the answer to her question would somehow make a difference.
“The same thing you just said,” the man replied.
She watched as he ran his hand across the lower half of his face, thoughtfully brushing his bearded chin. She noticed that he winced for a moment as his fingers caught the still healing wound on his upper lip.
She took on a pleading tone. “Then why are you doing it?”
“Because we can’t keep living like this,” he answered. “Because I want us to have our lives back.”
“How can we have our lives back if you get yourself killed?”
“I’m not going to get myself killed.”
She was crying now. “Damn your eyes, Rowan Linden Gant, you’d better not, then. Aye, you’d better not.”
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