Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (12 page)

Obviously, this craving had increased
disproportionately over the past twenty-four-hour period, and the
nicotine gum simply wasn’t doing its job any longer. At the moment,
I had two fresh pieces stuffed simultaneously into my cheek and was
considering a third, even though I was fairly certain that doing so
could make me dangerously ill.

Just as I was about to throw that particular
caution into the trash and reach for another dose of the gum,
without warning the pains of the urge were temporarily replaced by,
of all things, a woman. I had just swung into a parking space and
was switching off the engine of my truck when I noticed her. She
was petite. Dressed in a long skirt and boots. A leather jacket
hugged her torso from the waist up, and her shoulder-length blonde
hair was flying on a cold breeze. She had a milky complexion and
her face bore a tasteful amount of makeup.

After a moment, I caught myself literally
ogling her as she walked across the parking lot from her car and
then disappeared through the glass doors at the entrance of the
building.

I physically shuddered as I shook off the
stare. Two specific thoughts were pin wheeling around inside my
head taking turns at the forefront as they bounced.

The first was that I hoped she hadn’t noticed
my rude gaze. But even if she had, at worst I would simply be
embarrassed.

The second, however, was a bit troubling and,
in a sense, even mildly disturbing.

For some reason I seemed to be trying very
hard to imagine what she would look like if she had long red
hair.

“It is a terrible habit,” Doctor Helen Storm
said aloud and then took a drag from a cigarette. “I really should
quit, but I enjoy it far too much.”

I had arrived early for the appointment, as
was my nature in all things involving a scheduled time. We had
actually met at the door as I was on my way in and she was on her
way out. She’d been hoping to grab a quick smoke break. To her
credit, she had started to put the cigarettes away and take off her
coat, but I insisted that she go ahead and indulge the addiction.
Instead of having me wait alone, she had invited me to walk outside
with her. We were now standing at the railing of an outdoor lounge
that occupied an architecturally truncated corner of the seventh
floor of the building. The air was chilly but it had calmed, and
with the late morning sun to dull the bite, the crispness was for
the most part pleasant.

“I know what you mean,” I replied, mentally
beating down the desire to bum one from her as I shifted a half
step away from the enticing smoke.

“I am so sorry, is the smoke bothering you?”
she asked, noticing my obvious move and shifting away herself.

“Yes and no,” I shrugged. “I quit a couple of
years ago, but for some reason I’ve been having some pretty
horrendous cravings lately.”

“I apologize, Rowan. I should have asked
before I invited you out here with me.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I shook my head and
waved her off before she could extinguish the cigarette. “I’m
fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“So why do you think you have been craving
cigarettes?”

“Dunno.” I shrugged. “Stress I suppose.
Aren’t you supposed to be the one telling me why I’m all screwed
up?”

Helen Storm regarded me with mysteriously
dark eyes that were a mirror image of her brother’s. She bore an
unmistakable family resemblance to Ben, but with a far softer edge
to her features. Her pretty face was framed by shiny black hair
that fell across her shoulders and was interspersed with strands of
grey. My friend had once told me that she was a handful of years
older than him, but the streaks in her hair were the only telltale
sign of that fact. The one physical attribute that came into severe
contrast with her sibling was her size, she being almost a foot
shorter than he.

“You do not have a very high opinion of
psychiatrists, do you, Rowan?” she asked after a moment.

“It’s not really that,” I answered, somewhat
embarrassed that I was broadcasting my distaste for the situation
so clearly. I thought I’d be able to maintain at least some amount
of control, but quite obviously I had not. “I’m just not entirely
sure that I need one.”

“You might not,” she answered easily.

I paused, slightly taken aback. “Well, I have
to admit, that’s not exactly what I was expecting you to say.”

“I got that impression.”

“I’m sorry.” I apologized for my challenge.
“That was pretty rude of me, wasn’t it?”

“Not really.” She shook her head and smiled.
“You are simply voicing your anxiety.”

“I suppose you’ve dealt with worse.”

“Were I at liberty to do so, I could tell a
few stories,” she chuckled.

“Okay, so now that we have the awkward moment
out of the way, I guess I can assume Ben has filled you in on some
things?” I posed the question without accusation.

“Yes. Some.” She nodded. “I will not lie to
you. Benjamin and I have talked at length about your situation. I
have even spoken with your wife.”

“The conspiracy grows,” I remarked
flatly.

“That is one way to view it,” she returned.
“Or you could look at the other side and see it as some people who
care very deeply for you and are trying to help.”

“You’re right. That comment was unfair.”

“Fairness is somewhat subjective. It is all a
matter of the individual perception.”

“So it’s okay for me to perceive that my wife
and best friend have conspired against me? I thought that was
considered paranoia.”

“It is perfectly natural to feel a sense of
betrayal when a loved one disagrees with you on something such as
this,” she explained. “But healthy individuals will reason it out
and understand that they are not being betrayed at all. It would
only be paranoia if you took it to the extreme.”

“So you don’t think I’ve taken it to the
extreme?”

“Seriously, at this juncture, no I do not.”
She took a drag from her cigarette and made it a point to exhale
the smoke downwind before bringing her penetrating gaze back to my
face. “To begin with, you are here and obviously no one is forcibly
escorting you. Secondly, you are not visibly angry. Maybe a bit
apprehensive… Some confusion… Yes, I can sense some definite
confusion… But I do not really detect any fear. If anything, you
are somewhat curious about what I think about everything I have
been told thus far. All in all, I would have to say you are
probably a perfectly rational human being. Of course, we have only
been talking for a few minutes now. So I suppose I should reserve
me judgment.”

At the end of her impromptu analysis, she
gave me a disarming smile.

“Don’t you need to show me some ink blots or
play some word association games with me before you can draw that
conclusion?” I asked.

“I tend to trust my instincts,” she chuckled.
“It would appear that you have as many misconceptions about
psychiatrists as the general public have about Witches.”

“So Ben told you about that.” I offered the
words more as an observation than a question.

“Of course, not that he needed to do so,” she
explained. “You have made no secret of the fact and therefore have
attracted more than your share of media coverage from your
involvement with the Major Case Squad.”

She was correct. I had been the hot topic
earlier this year in both print and broadcast media. Among the
headlines were such things as “SELF PROCLAIMED WITCH AIDS POLICE IN
MANHUNT” and “POLICE SEEK HELP FROM PAGAN PRACTITIONER.” There was
usually a picture of me to accompany the story, so my faith and way
of life weren’t exactly secret. The worst, however, had to have
been the moniker coined by a local TV station news team. Ben, FBI
Special Agent Constance Mandalay, and I had been dubbed the “Ghoul
Squad.” That one, along with a video clip of the three of us at a
particularly gruesome crime scene, had even made it into the
national media pipeline.

“So the Witch thing doesn’t bother you?” I
asked.

“Should it?” She raised an eyebrow and
questioned me as much with her gaze as her words.

“No.” I shook my head. “But it did take some
time to convince Ben, so I assumed maybe you might be…” I let my
voice trail off as I searched for the least offensive phrase.

“…
Just as closed minded?” She offered
the words to me. “My brother is peculiar that way.”

“I thought so,” I agreed. “Especially for a
Native American.”

“Benjamin never truly embraced his heritage,”
she told me. “Only on the surface, culturally perhaps, though not
completely in that respect either. And especially not deep down.
Certainly not at a spiritual level. I cannot fault him for it; he
has his reasons. But I can easily see where it would seem odd to
you.”

It was obvious by the way she spoke that she
was intimately familiar with the history to which Ben would
occasionally allude, but never reveal. Still, she didn’t offer any
further details, so I didn’t ask.

I said, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t.” She shook her head and gave a
slight shrug as she crushed out the remains of her cigarette. “With
that said, however, what do you say we go inside and see if we can
figure out just exactly what has been keeping you off balance as of
late.”

The remainder of my time spent with Helen
Storm was relaxing if nothing else. She was so easy to talk to that
I actually felt calm and even partially grounded while we chatted
in the comfort of her office. My earlier apprehension had melted
quickly away, only to return for wholly separate reasons when the
session came to an end.

While we hadn’t stumbled across any great
revelations or uncovered any “ooga-boogas,” as she called them,
lurking in my psyche, Helen felt that we had actually made some
amount of progress. I just didn’t know exactly how much or of what
type that progress was, and she didn’t elect to tell me.

Still, though it was hard for me to believe
that simply talking with her for an hour could have such an effect,
I wasn’t about to knock it. Without a doubt, I was actually looking
forward to my next appointment with her.

* * * * *

“Jeezus fuck! I can’t believe this is
happening!” an extremely agitated Ben Storm exclaimed as he came
through my front door.

I’d barely managed to pull the barrier open
in response to the repeated jangle of the doorbell that was coupled
with an impatient knock. His six-foot-six frame was already in
forward motion the moment I turned the knob.

“Well, hello to you too,” I said as I quickly
sidestepped out of his way.

I was gnawing my way through yet another
piece of nicotine gum and, for the moment, wasn’t feeling nearly as
jittery as I had fifteen minutes before. I’d been home for several
uneventful hours now and was actually in the process of throwing
together dinner when Ben first assaulted the front doorbell.
Felicity and I had intended to spend the evening going over our
plans for the upcoming Yule ritual. Unfortunately, the frenzied
tone of my friend told me that was about to change.

He completely ignored my jibe and using one
of the handful of nicknames he’d assigned to my wife asked, “Is
Firehair home?”

“Not yet, why?”

“Shit. She got ‘er cell phone with her?”

“Probably. What’s going on, Ben?”

“Well, we can’t wait, so ya’ better call ‘er
and tell ‘er ta’ meet us. Make sure ya’ tell ‘er ta’ not even come
home first.” He shot his hand up to rub his neck as he began to
pace. “Jeezus she’s gonna freakin’ kill me for this.”

“Why not? Meet us where? What are you talking
about?”

He didn’t seem to hear me and instead of
answering simply muttered, “Dammit, white man, you are just too
fuckin’ spooky.”

“BEN!” I exclaimed, raising my voice to
capture his attention. “Would you mind telling me what the hell
you’re going on about?”

He stopped and looked at me with a deadly
serious gaze then shook his head. “Ya’know your little foray inta’
the world of sick poetry?”

“What about it?”

“Well the handwritin’ might not have belonged
ta’ Paige Lawson, but it sure as shit belonged ta’ Debbie
Schaeffer.”

“Debbie Schaeffer? Why does that name sound
so familiar?”

“Because she’s been all over the friggin’
news. She’s the college cheerleader that went missin’ about two
months ago.”

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 words rang inside my skull with painful
clarity, and the exuberance of the morbid cheer was now sharply
obvious. Ben didn’t need to say anything more for me to know that
Debbie Schaeffer was no longer a missing persons case. Her legacy
now belonged to homicide and the Greater Saint Louis Major Case
Squad.

“Where should I tell her to meet us?” I asked
quietly as I turned toward the phone.

I had no doubt it was going to be a very long
night, in more ways than one.

My wife’s cell phone was either off or out of
range, and based on the way her schedule often ran, I wasn’t
exactly certain when she would be home. Ben seemed almost in a
panic, edged with a sense of urgency that he’d thus far left a
mystery. He made it clear that he wasn’t at all interested in
waiting for her to call back, and he insisted upon us leaving
immediately. Knowing him like I did, I elected not to press for any
further explanation until his adrenalin level started to drop off.
As much as I hated to, I had done the only thing I could and left a
quick message on Felicity’s voice mail telling her to meet us at
his house.