Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (11 page)

In addition to knowing where I was at the
moment, I also had a fair recollection of how I’d gotten here.
These simple facts may seem obvious and mundane to virtually
everyone else, but to me they were comforting revelations.

As to the why I was here, well that was
obvious—it was the middle of the night and I was trying to sleep.
Unfortunately, there was a perverted mantra running around inside
my head that was insisting that I do otherwise.

I rolled to the side, upsetting Dickens in
the process, and sleepily scanned the face of the clock. The
digital readout showed it to be almost a quarter past four. For all
intents and purposes that simply meant 4:00, since my wife kept the
timepiece set fifteen minutes fast to avoid being late. The
self-imposed mind trick didn’t actually work for her, but that’s
another story entirely.

My arm was beginning to regain its feeling,
and every moment that passed was bringing me closer to being fully
awake. The eerie echo reverberating inside my skull had been absent
for a good number of minutes now; however, it had been replaced by
my own inner voice repeating the rhyme over and over.

D-E-A-D-I-A-M!

D-E-A-D-I-A-M!

What’s that spell?

Dead I am!

Louder!

Dead I am!

One more time!

DEAD I AM!

The seeming approbation of death was
imprinted upon my consciousness with indelible permanence, and it
continued to loop like a snippet of a song that you simply can’t
get out of your head. If its intent was to keep me from sleeping,
it was accomplishing that task with absolute perfection.

Letting out a resigned sigh, I climbed out of
the bed as quietly as I could in order not to wake Felicity. My
eyes were fairly adjusted, and I managed to pull on some clothes
without much fuss and then retrieved my glasses and Book of
Shadows—a Witch’s dream journal of sorts—from a drawer in the
nightstand. Even though I knew I was in no danger of forgetting the
morbid ditty, I figured I’d best make written record of it because
I was certain that anything this insistent meant something
important.

I just didn’t know what.

* * * * *

“How’ya feelin’?” The left field greeting
issued from the handset immediately following my “hello.” Ben’s
down to business approach to telephone conversations, sans the
typical salutations, was as identifiable as his voice, so I wasn’t
at all phased by the abruptness.

“About as well as can be expected, I
suppose,” I returned, glancing at the clock in the corner of my
computer screen, “considering that I have an appointment with your
sister in a couple of hours.”

I didn’t offer the fact that I had been up
since 4 a.m. because I was pretty sure I knew where the
conversation would turn from there. I was also fairly certain that
he wouldn’t accept the uneventful truth for an answer. He would
assume I was hiding something then belabor the point, and I really
didn’t need any more distractions right now. As it was, I’d been
parked in my office for the better part of my somewhat expanded
morning trying to get some work done. So far I’d accomplished
little more than going through the previous day’s mail and moving a
pile of paperwork from one side of my desk to the other. I hadn’t
exactly been what you could call productive.

What I really needed to do was return a few
phone calls and put together some proposals for clients, but I
simply didn’t have the motivation. Even though I was trying, I was
still feeling so overwhelmed by everything; it seemed useless to
attempt anything more than simply existing.

“Cheer up, white man,” he told me. “She’s
good at what she does. It’s not like she’s gonna bite or
somethin’.”

“I know, Ben. I know.”

We both fell speechless, him becoming just
the sound of someone breathing on the other end of the phone and me
turning quietly introspective.

“Well, there’s really no easy way ta’ tell
ya’ this,” my friend finally spoke. “But I’ve got some news ya’
prob’ly don’t wanna hear.”

“The handwriting?” I asked.

“Yeah. It’s not Paige Lawson’s.”

“Are they sure?”

“No doubt, Row,” he replied. “They don’t look
anything alike.”

“Damn,” I muttered.

This latest revelation did nothing to help my
overall sense of demoralization. I had been certain that Paige
Lawson was trying to communicate with me. Now, I couldn’t even be
sure that it wasn’t simply all in my head.

“Graphologist said that based on the slant,
the sample was most likely from a left-handed individual,” he
continued. “And prob’ly female, although they get a little hinky
‘bout swearin’ to one gender or the other.”

“Well, I told you that much,” I offered.

“Yeah, I know, but like I said, the samples
are worlds apart…and yours still ain’t from Paige Lawson. Ta’ be
honest, the difference is so obvious I really didn’t even need the
crime lab for this. But just ta’ be sure, I had ‘em verify it
anyway. Accordin’ to the experts, the buck-fifty analysis is this,
and I quote—The moderate left slant coupled with the narrow spacing
denotes an independent and possibly introverted individual. The
heavy pressure and ornate loops in the letters indicate a secretive
personality…

“There’s some more here about the margins,
size, and stuff, but it all boils down to the same thing. It ain’t
Paige Lawson’s handwritin’.”

“It isn’t mine either.”

“Yeah, I know. I went ahead and had ‘em
compare yours from some of the forms I’ve had ya’ fill out down
here. There wasn’t enough to get a fancy analysis, but they were
confident that you weren’t the one pushin’ the pencil. I didn’t
tell ‘em any different.”

At first I was surprised at what he’d done,
but Ben’s actions made perfect sense. He had to rule out all of the
possibilities, and since I claimed the writing had come out of me,
it was a logical move.

“Anyway, on the bright side,” he told me,
“there’s a note here sayin’ that the little curly-q thing with the
I’s is pretty unique. Very personal…for whatever that’s worth.”

“Not much, apparently.”

“It’d be easy to identify in another
handwriting sample if we ran across it.”

“And the odds of that are?” I asked
rhetorically. “Besides, you’ve proven that it’s not her, so I
suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

“Yeah, so maybe it’s someone else.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Hey,” he contended, “like I said, I’ve seen
weirder shit than this. Especially outta you.”

“Yes, but neither you nor Felicity seemed
terribly convinced yesterday.” I allowed the words to hang between
us in a verbal challenge of his sudden professed faith in my
sanity.

“Look, Row, let’s not go there. I wish I’d
been able to give ya’ somethin’ here, but…” He sighed. Without even
seeing him I knew he was massaging his neck with a large hand.
“It’s just not there, white man. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I told him. I meant it
even though I’m sure I didn’t sound very convincing. “So what about
Paige Lawson?”

“Whaddaya mean? What about ‘er?”

“You said yesterday that you weren’t even
sure it was a homicide.”

“Oh, that. Well, it’s lookin’ less and less
like it. Right now we’re waitin’ on the final results of the
autopsy, but there’s just nothin’ there at this point that says
foul play.”

“How was she found anyway?”

“Row…”

“Can you humor me?” I appealed, my voice
dull. “You just blew my theory apart. You could at least throw me a
bone here.”

He exhaled heavily at the other end. “Nothin’
spectacular really. Squad car drove by on regular patrol and
noticed the door hangin’ open. When the copper came through about
half an hour later it was still open so he stopped ta’ check it
out. Found her layin’ facedown just inside.”

“And he didn’t notice anything else?”

“Rowan, he’s a cop. We may not be perfect but
this is what we’re trained ta’ do.”

“Yeah, I know,” I responded, feeling mildly
chastised. “I’m just really having a hard time with all of
this.”

“That’s kinda obvious.”

For the second time during our conversation,
silence reared its head, bringing all conversation to a halt. I’m
sure by now Ben was thinking I was worse off than he’d originally
imagined, but so far he was tactfully keeping the observation to
himself. I would almost have agreed with him were it not for the
fact that I kept reminding myself of the old bromide about not
being insane as long as you had enough wits about you to wonder if
you were.

“So anyway,” my friend finally put the brakes
on the swelling pause with a change of subject. “How ‘bout that
Yule thing of yours… That’s this Friday, right? What time were ya’
wantin’ Allison and me over?”

He was correct. Yule was only two days away,
and as usual we had invited some non-Pagan friends to our
traditional gathering. This was the first year that any had
accepted.

The switch in the focus of the conversation
was awkward, much like any shift that occurs in a chat such as
ours. Even with its abruptness, it gave me something tangible and
far more pleasant to grasp. Finally there was something familiar
among the discord.

“You’re welcome any time,” I answered. “The
official ritual will be around six-thirty or seven. I’ve already
spoken to the group, and they are fine with the two of you joining
in if you’d like.”

“We don’t hafta do anything weird, do
we?”

“You don’t have to do anything at all,”
I returned. “But if you do anything
weird
it’s going to be of your own accord,
because we don’t have anything
weird
planned. Just a simple Yule
ritual.”

“Well, you know what I meant.”

“You know, for a Native American you sure
have a bizarre view of alternative spirituality.”

“Like I’ve said before, it’s a long story,
Kemosabe, and ya’ don’t wanna hear it. Trust me… But hey, at least
I’m tryin’,” he replied, then chuckled. “So what happens after the
ritual? Do we like commune with ghosts or somethin’?”

“No, wrong Sabbat. That would have been back
in October for Samhain.” I referred to the traditional holiday
non-Pagans call Halloween. A night when the veil between the worlds
is at its thinnest, and we honor those who have passed before us,
which made his comment closer to the mark than he
realized—especially since he had intended it as a joke. “Actually,
after the ritual we have a late dinner and wait for dawn.”

“Why, is she gonna be late?”

I winced as he delivered another joke in an
attempt to further lighten the mood. It wasn’t terribly effective
in its intent, but I still responded in kind. “Yeah, Ben. She’s
probably not going to arrive until morning.”

“So ya’ want us to bring anything?” He
returned a serious question, thankfully leaving the pun to die a
quick death before the exchange could deteriorate further.

“We’ve pretty much got it covered,” I said.
“If there’s something special you want to drink, you might want to
bring it along, but other than that, just yourselves.”

“Okay, so what’re we eatin’?”

“Food.”

“Yeah smartass, what kinda food?”

“It’s a surprise, Ben.”

“You’re not gonna try ta’ make me eat nothin’
but vegetables or somethin’, are ya’?”

“No, Ben.” Even with my current mood I had to
at least chuckle at the seriousness of his query. “There’ll be meat
on the table.”

“Beef? Pork?”

“You’ll find out Friday.”

“It ain’t gonna be somethin’ strange, is it?”
he pressed.

“You’ll find out on Friday.”

“Jeez, Kemosabe…” He let out an exaggerated
sigh. “Okay, be that way, but don’t be surprised if I bring a sack
of Whitey burgers as backup.”

“Felicity will kill you.”

“So I’ll leave ‘em in the van, and sneak out
if ya’ try ta’ feed me tofu ala whatever kinda shit.”

“Uh-huh. And, if you stink up the van with a
bag of Whitey’s, then Allison will kill you.”

“Yeah, ya’ got a point there… Hmmm… Pizza’d
prob’ly be okay.”

“You won’t need it. Trust me.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” he said. “So
look, I gotta get back ta’ work. You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, Ben,” I assured him. “I’ll be fine.
Sure, I’m disappointed that I was wrong, but I’ll be just
fine.”

“Okay. Tell Helen I said ‘hey’ and that I’ll
call ‘er later about Christmas Eve.”

“Will do.”

“Later.”

“Bye.”

When I hung up the phone, the
distraction it had provided immediately dissipated, leaving me once
again alone in my thoughts. Or, perhaps not so alone if I counted
the cheerfully taunting female voice that was echoing deep inside
my head as it repeated,
“What’s that
spell? Dead I Am! LOUDER! DEAD I AM!”

Again I applied the razor I’d used earlier
while on the phone. The one that basically says if you are insane,
you are unable to recognize your illness and will simply assume
that you are fine. Conversely, if you are in fact sane, you should
be fully cognizant of the two differing states of mental health and
therefore able to question said sanity.

I made it a point to ask myself this question
aloud. But even though I was able to do that and not simply assume
I was fine, the resulting uncertainty in my answer wasn’t terribly
comforting.

* * * * *

The offices of Metro Counseling were located
just on the outskirts of downtown Claymont, only a few miles from
my home in Briarwood. Still, it took me longer to get there than it
really should have due to my two semi-aborted stops to purchase
cigarettes. The first time I hadn’t even climbed out of the truck.
I’d simply sat there for several minutes, arguing with a sudden
attack of will power, before eventually backing out of the parking
space and starting once again on my way to the appointment. But on
the second stop I had actually gone in to a small convenience
store, and purchased a pack from the cashier, then tossed them
unopened into the trash outside before heading out again. Earlier
in the day, I’d even considered lighting up a cigar from my
humidor, but I’d been doing my best to avoid them of late. I knew
if I had one in my hand I’d inhale it, and that was the last thing
I needed to start doing.