Blood Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation (2 page)

Of course, since the myth of the bright light
was just another thought about death rolling around in my skull, it
really wasn’t helping matters any. If anything, the implications of
finality it brought just made the acid churn of guilt eat away at
my stomach even more, especially when I found myself wondering what
Constance would see if she crossed over.

I simply couldn’t get away from it. No matter
how hard I tried to think of something else—anything besides
dying—I couldn’t. I was just going to have to let the fixation play
itself out. The scary thing is I wasn’t so sure I was ready for the
thoughts to end because as long as I feared what may be coming,
that meant it hadn’t happened yet. And, just as I had been afraid
something would go wrong with the sting operation, another feeling
was now making its way up my spine. An unearthly foreboding that
made me feel painfully empty, and I couldn’t shake the sensation
that the loss of yet another friend was coming far too soon.

With that terrifying premonition also came a
sense of panic, backed by utter helplessness. They had both started
off as small eddies in the random whitewater currents of my
emotions but grew exponentially on the way here, becoming violent
undertows in their own right. Now, they were endeavoring to pull me
down into the depths of a cold and darkened despair.

I felt something soft press against my palm.
I looked away from the panel and over to see Felicity staring at
me, a similar mask of fear and guilt evident across her features. I
gave her hand a squeeze, trying to reassure her, but was gravely
conscious of the fact that I failed in doing so. I was broadcasting
my own emotions far more than I wanted to admit, and there was no
way for me to soothe her when I couldn’t even comfort myself.

The elevator seemed like it was taking
forever to deliver us to our floor. I knew we were moving because I
could feel the vibration as we poked along. Just to be sure, I
broke my silent gaze away from my wife and looked up. I stared at
the numbers over the door, watching them flicker to life then wink
back to darkness as the next would illuminate. In my mind they were
advancing nowhere near quickly enough. Of course, I’m sure the
futile exercise of willing them to go faster was only contributing
to my ever-increasing agitation.

Finally, after the less than one-minute
upward trip folded itself into feeling like ten, the car ceased
moving. An electromechanical tone was followed by the sound of the
outer doors rattling as they parted in sync with the inner
barriers. I stepped out of the elevator as soon as the gap was wide
enough to permit. Felicity, still clinging to my hand, kept up
without missing a beat. We started down the starkly illuminated
hallway, following the directions we had been given by the
attendant at the main desk several floors below. Agent Parker, who
had brought us to the hospital from FBI headquarters, fell in close
behind, but she remained mute; not that such was anything different
from the established norm. The simple fact was that none of us had
uttered a word for several minutes now.

A good fifty yards ahead, the corridor
abruptly terminated by emptying directly into a carpeted waiting
area. The softer lighting of the distant room gave it the
appearance of a calm oasis, neatly tucked away from the blinding
glare throughout the rest of the building; however, I knew it was
anything but. Especially, right now.

We instantly picked up the pace. From the
moment we were out of the vehicle downstairs, we had been traveling
at a fast walk, but with our destination now in sight, we
automatically broke into a jog. I realized there was no logical
explanation for the urgency we felt. It was all based in pure
emotion. There was nothing any of us could do, and I knew that. I
was certain Felicity and Agent Parker did as well. But, knowing
didn’t keep us from rushing headlong toward some glimmer of hope.
Whether or not it would actually be there when we arrived was
another story.

Within seconds, the quick thud of our feet
against the tile turned to a soft, thump, as the harder flooring
gave way to the carpeted expanse of the waiting area. Entering
through the wide archway, we slowed to a halt. I quickly glanced
around, searching the hidden corners of the room with my eyes.
Felicity and Parker were doing the same.

The lounge was devoid of anyone and anything
save the furniture and dog-eared magazines resting in a haphazard
pile on the center of a low coffee table. The glimmer we sought
wasn’t here. All was empty and still, utterly silent except for the
last flat echoes of our footsteps.

“Are we on the right floor, then?” Felicity
asked, becoming the first to break our collective reticence. Her
pronounced Irish brogue was an audible betrayal of the fatigue we
were all feeling. Normally her accent was a mild lilt, noticeable,
but not terribly prominent. However, when she was tired it would
thicken as it did now. The accent highlighted her words in broad
strokes with each syllable she uttered. Given the uncharacteristic
Southern twang that had overcome her voice during the height of
this nightmare, the familiar Celtic affectation was a welcome
sound.

“The seventh floor waiting area is where they
said they were,” Agent Parker responded. “They should be here.”

I had been fumbling in my coat pocket and now
had my cell phone in hand. I began dialing a number as quickly as I
could. “Yeah, well they should be but they aren’t,” I said, eyes
never leaving my thumb as it stabbed buttons on the keypad.

“Could it be they’ve gone for coffee or
something?” Felicity offered the question with a note of
uncertainty in her voice.

“Maybe,” Parker replied, surety lacking in
her tone as well.

Just as I was about to place the phone
against my ear, a distant mechanical chime sounded from behind,
prompting all three of us to turn in near unison. At the far end of
the hallway, from whence we had come only moments before, a set of
doors in the dual bank of elevators began to slide open with a
muted rumble. As the stainless steel parted, a lumbering janitor
exited, pushing in front of him a wheeled bin. Without looking up
he aimed himself toward a nearby trash receptacle as if on
autopilot.

The fresh expectation of hope instantly
dashed, I felt myself sag right where I stood, slumping into a
dejected posture that physically announced my disappointment. To be
honest, at this point the only thing really keeping me upright and
focused was adrenalin augmented with caffeine, but both of those
were swiftly running out.

Of course, the rapid depletion of the
chemicals from my bloodstream was the least of my worries. They
were only keeping me awake. My emotional self-flagellation was
quickly starting to get the better of me, and no amount of caffeine
could fix that. I knew that if it weren’t for the immediacy of the
current crisis, Felicity and I probably would have already given
ourselves over to the post-traumatic breakdowns we both had looming
on our personal horizons. There was no doubt they were coming—the
only questions that remained were how soon and which one of us was
going to have the worst time of it. Something told me neither
journey was going to be a cakewalk. But, one thing I knew for
certain was that the level of severity for both of us was presently
hinging on Constance’s survival.

We had faced down far too much already, and
this was just a sadistic extension of the horror we had now been
living for better than a month. It was as if we were waking up only
to find our fleeting relief shattered by a fresh terror in an
endless cycle.

I felt someone nudge me, then a voice drifted
into my ears.

“Aye, Rowan,” Felicity said. “Your phone
then.”

I snapped out of the introspection and gave
my head a tired shake, tearing my vacant stare away from the
oblivious janitor. Glancing at my hand I saw the aforementioned
device resting there, flipped open with my fingers wrapped around
it. The small speaker on the phone was vibrating with a barely
audible voice saying something I couldn’t quite make out.

I immediately placed the cell against my ear
and asked, “Ben?”

“Yeah, Row,” Detective Benjamin Storm
replied, the two words coming out slow and deliberate.

I could almost feel the exhaustion in my
friend’s voice. It was something I had heard coming from him
countless times over the years. However, what I detected now was
different in a way far worse than anything I could describe. Not
only did Ben sound tired, he sounded ancient, on the verge of
feeble. But beyond even that, his tone held a percussive note of
unimaginable emotional pain.

I feared I knew what was causing that anguish
but chose to ignore the fresh twist in my gut. There was a question
I knew needed asking, but because of his tone I dreaded the answer
more than anything. I simply couldn’t bring myself to advance the
query, so I danced around the subject as if doing so would make it
magically disappear.

“We just got here, Ben,” I half stammered.
“We’re at the seventh floor waiting room. Where are you?”

“I’m…downstairs…in the chapel,” he droned out
the answer, pausing randomly before falling completely silent.

I closed my eyes as the dark portent in his
words crept along my spine, making me physically shiver. Ben was
devoutly secular. He claimed a belief in God but in the same breath
noted that he despised organized religion. For him to be in the
chapel was a harbinger of the worst kind. I waited for him to
continue, but after several heartbeats my chest began to tighten
and I forced a single word past the lump in my throat, “Ben?”

His voice cracked as he said, “Yeah…listen
Row…I’ve got some bad news to tell ya’…”

Tuesday, December 20

10:37 A.M.

Sacred Heart Cemetery

Saint Louis, Missouri

The procession from the funeral home to the
cemetery had been long, both in its physical size and the time
spent covering the distance between the two locations. Several
squad cars from the county police department provided a somber
escort, light bars flickering out of respect, as our pace was
unhurried. Local municipalities stopped traffic at intersections
along the route, waving us through as our line of vehicles slowly
snaked toward the final destination. Then, even after we arrived
there was a substantial delay. So many people had turned out for
this solemn occasion that it took several minutes before everyone
was parked and the graveside service could officially commence.

Around us now was a sea of uniforms
intermixing with the suits, dresses, and overcoats, all in varying
hues of grey and black. If there were any other colors, I didn’t
recognize them. The world had been leached to dull black-and-white
halftones for me.

In my eyes, most everyone else was a
faceless, nameless mannequin set apart from the others only by the
subtle differences in shades of their dark clothing. While I
recognized some of the officers I had worked with over the years,
those few were the exceptions to the rule.

Each member of the law enforcement who was
present wore a black band across his or her shield. Even though my
mind was blending the crowd together in response to my grief, the
overt display of respect for a fallen comrade stood out and was
impossible to ignore. Another salient observation was that among
them, almost any local department I could readily name appeared to
be represented here by at least one officer or detective, if not
more.

With abrupt sharpness, a loud crack split the
cool morning air, and my wife flinched at the sound. The members of
the rifle squad moved smoothly through the ceremonious steps of
lowering the weapons, then on cue, placing them back against their
shoulders in preparation for firing the second volley of
blanks.

Felicity leaned against me. I slipped my arm
around her and held her tight; her body was tense, as if she was
steeling herself against what we all knew was coming next. Even so,
she started as the second round and then the third sounded their
reports across the cemetery grounds.

Behind us, as the echoes faded, bagpipes
began filling in the void, starting as a low hum that escalated
into the melancholy strains of
Amazing Grace
. Felicity was
trembling now, and even without looking I knew she was no longer
holding her tears at bay. I shoved my hand inside my overcoat and
sent it searching for a handkerchief. Finding the one I’d stashed
in an inner pocket, I pulled it out and carefully dabbed her cheeks
before slipping the square of cloth into her hand. She pressed
herself harder against me and allowed her head to hang, chin
against her chest as she quietly expressed her grief.

The rifle squad was now standing at
attention, their weapons ordered at their sides, while the honor
guard carefully removed the flag from the casket and proceeded to
fold it into a tight triangle. I was having trouble containing my
own tears at this point, but I took a deep breath and bit them
back. I would have to find time to grieve later. Right now I needed
to be strong for my wife. Even though “fragile” was almost never an
accurate description where she was concerned, “temporarily
breakable” definitely fit the bill at the moment. Emotionally she
was still floundering in the dangerous wake of her own far too
recent crisis, and that left her vulnerable. One of us had to hold
it together awhile longer, and it might as well be me. She had seen
me through my share of moments in recent years, and I owed her.

I hugged Felicity closer and allowed her to
cry as I stared past the ranks in front of us. My eyes eventually
settled on the casket at the center of the crowd. I could see Ben
standing off to the side of it along with the other pallbearers. Of
course, being six-foot-six, and full-blooded Native American, he
would have been hard to miss even if he was with the rest of the
masses.