Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (19 page)

“Open it, Rowan. Open it.”

My hand moved in a jerking parody of a
mechanical appendage as it was forced to grasp the handle and then
tug the latch open. A second later I was sliding the drawer
smoothly outward on the heavy-duty rollers amidst their mild roar
of friction.

In an instant I was face to face with the
pallid remains of Paige Lawson, and still my hand moved, guided by
an invisible but wholly distinguishable force. My arm literally
vibrated as I struggled against Debbie Schaeffer’s ethereal
control. My palm hovered mere inches above the chilled corpse of
the young woman.

“Touch her, Rowan. You REALLY, REALLY,
REALLY need to see this!”

“Is there a particular…” Doctor Sanders
started to continue her interrogation only to be interrupted by the
sound of the opening drawer. “MISTER GANT! JUST WHAT DO YOU THINK
YOU ARE DOING?!”

The sharpness of the medical examiner’s
demand shattered the delicate pane of the trance like a baseball
hitting a plate glass window. Unfortunately, it was too late.

Debbie Schaeffer’s ghostly form drove my hand
downward, bringing my latex sheathed palm against Paige Lawson’s
cold flesh.

Colors flashed in a riot of sparks, blooming
to the absolute pinnacle of saturation then bleaching to dull
shades of grey. An otherworldly electricity coursed through my body
on a never ending quest to jangle every nerve, seeking out and
destroying anything in its path. Light flickered before my eyes and
then drained away in a chaotic whirlpool of luminescence, bleeding
red then black.

A rapid burn ripped its way along the side of
my neck.

Blinding pain erupted inward from the side of
my skull and wrapped around to repeat the assault.

My chest tightened and spasmed as I felt the
breath chased from my lungs.

My own words mixed with those of Doctor
Sanders as the catch in my throat opened wide to release the
escaping air in the form of a tortured scream, “HELP ME!”

I had never really paid that much attention
to acoustic ceiling tiles. Actually, I had never really had a
reason to do so. At this particular moment in my life, however, the
random pattern of decorative holes punched into their dull surfaces
was occupying my full and undivided attention. I quickly discovered
that if you stare at them long enough, the randomness of the
indentations would become less and less chaotic. With little more
than a spoonful of imagination mixed in, the dots became easy to
connect and rallied themselves into complex pictures, complete with
highlight and shadow.

In my mind’s eye, I was just applying the
final touches to a particularly intricate portrait when reality
elected to position itself between my canvas and me. My carefully
constructed image of a striking young woman with long, flowing hair
exploded into a shower of bright red sparks that hesitated for a
moment then fell slowly earthward, systematically burning
themselves out along the way like the dying bursts of holiday
fireworks.

It really didn’t matter that the fantasy had
been disturbed because the image was replaced in kind with a face
of equal—if not superior—beauty, even though it was wrinkled with a
mixture of anger and concern.

“How’s your head, then?” Felicity asked as
she peered down at me.

With the artistic trance broken, I set about
focusing my attentions on the question I’d just been asked. I took
a quick mental assessment and discovered that my head was still
throbbing somewhat. However, there was another sensation that
overshadowed the mild pain in a big way—I wanted a cigarette and I
wanted it yesterday.

“Hurts a bit,” I croaked, trying without
success to ignore the craving.

“Aye, you kept mumbling something about that
while you were out,” she said. “That, and cigarettes.”

The proverbial cat was now on the loose. “How
long?”

“You mean how long were you out? A few
minutes,” she replied. “Barely long enough for us to bring you in
here, really.”

From the looks of everything around me, “in
here” was apparently one of the offices on the main floor of the
morgue.

“Great,” I mumbled. “Did I do anything
besides complain about my head and cigarettes?”

“You mean other than go off chasing after
answers on your own?” She submitted the query with measured
terseness born of her underlying anger with me, and the words
themselves explained why.

“Whoa, before you unleash that wrath on me,
it wasn’t exactly my choice,” I protested. “Debbie Schaeffer was
apparently on a mission.”

“What do you mean?”

“She insisted on me touching Paige Lawson,” I
said. “She kept saying there was something she needed to show me
that I really, really needed to see.”

“And that was?”

I shrugged. “Beats me. I don’t remember much
of anything after pulling the drawer open, and believe me, I did
that under duress.”

“So why didn’t you say something before going
off on your own?”

“I tried. But somehow Schaeffer’s spirit was
actually in control of my body.”

“Aye…” she nodded as the pieces fell into
place for her. “And now do you understand why I’ve been so worried
about you?”

“Yeah.” I gave a slight nod myself. “The
experience was definitely a wake up call.”

“How ya’ feelin’?” Ben’s voice overtook the
momentary silence as he followed the opening door into the room. He
seemed tense, almost reserved, and businesslike.

“Okay, I guess,” I answered as Felicity moved
back and helped me to sit up. “Rattled.”

“So who’s the bad guy?”

“What?”

“All the hocus-pocus you did.” He waved his
hand around in the air. “Tell me ya’ figured out who the bad guy
is.”

“Well, no, I didn’t. Not exactly.”

“Wunnerful. What’s not exactly mean? Ya’ got
clues? Leads? Anything?”

“Maybe… I’m not exactly sure. I saw… I saw…”
I stumbled over what I wanted to say as I suddenly realized that I
didn’t really remember what I had seen. “I think…”

He didn’t allow me to flounder for long.
“Yeah. Great. So you good enough ta’ travel?”

“I suppose, but shouldn’t we…”

“No
but’s
, no
shouldn’t
we
anything’s, white man.” He shook his head. “We need
ta’ leave. We can get some coffee down the road and talk about it
there.”

“But I’m not sure I’m finished here.” I
wasn’t lying. I could feel that the memory of what I’d experienced
downstairs was flitting around inside my head, just out of reach. I
simply needed a trigger to bring it home to me. “There might be
something else, Ben. We won’t know unless…”

He cut me off. “Look, you got no idea what it
took for me ta’ convince the Doc there wasn’t somethin’ really
hinky goin’ on down there tonight. I wouldn’t count on gettin’
anywhere near those remains in the near future if I was you.”

“I can talk to her…”

He interrupted me again. “Leave it alone,
Row. If I was ta’ visit a proctologist right now he’d have two
assholes ta’ choose from if you get my meanin’. We gotta go. Now.
That’s it. Do not pass go. End of discussion.”

“Doctor Sanders chewed you out? But…” I let
the remainder of the question hang unspoken.

“She was just a warm up, my friend, and she
wasn’t the only one who got dragged outta bed tonight.” He shook
his head. “I just now got off the phone with my lieutenant.”

“Oh, man, Ben… I’m sorry. I didn’t
think…”

“Save it,” he returned. “Let’s just get the
fuck outta here while I still have a badge.”

* * * * *

We walked in relative silence down the
corridor and past the reception desk. The guard who had earlier
been pushing cards around the computer screen in a hot game of
solitaire was now just outside the glassed-in front of the
building. He pulled open the outer door and held it for us as we
exited through the small foyer.

“Rough one?” he asked as the three of us came
through the doorway. He seemed totally oblivious to what had been
transpiring within the deeper recesses of the morgue.

“Yeah, Joe.” Ben nodded. “But they’re never a
cakewalk.”

“Yeah. Damn shame. Sucks.” He nodded in
return as he took a deep drag on the cigarette he held between his
fingers and then let out a cloud of smoke. “Well, good luck finding
the asshole that did it.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

The nicotine-laden cloud hung in the air and
gently wrapped itself around me. The pungent smell was more than I
could take. The stress of everything I’d experienced over the past
hour combined with the guilt I was feeling at having gotten Ben
into hot water. When conjoined they became an irresistible
catalyst. The omnipresent and still unexplained craving instantly
expanded beyond management to become a dire need.

“Excuse me,” the words left my mouth before I
even realized what I was saying, “but do you think I could bum one
of those from you?”

“Sure,” the guard answered with a quick grin
of smoker camaraderie then warned, “they’re menthol.”

“Perfect.” I nodded my head as I pulled a
cigarette from the pack he held out to me.

I hadn’t even realized that the craving had
been for more than the nicotine, but the moment he had mentioned
menthol, the need within me leaped another octave.

“Rowan!” Felicity admonished as she suddenly
realized what I was doing.

She was too late. I’d already tucked the
filter end between my lips and was touching fire to the other with
the guard’s proffered lighter.

Deeply inhaling I felt the volume of smoke
surge into my lungs, cool and hot all at once. An immediate
nicotine rush expanded just behind my eyes and flooded outward to
every nerve in my body. Menthol giddiness warmed me from head to
toe then became an icy tingle across my scalp and down my spine. I
closed my eyes with a deep feeling of satisfaction as I reluctantly
started to let go of the precious smoke.

What should have come out as a simple exhale,
sputtered then burst forth as a barking cough. I bent forward and
brought my free hand to cover my mouth as I violently hacked for a
moment then wheezed air in once again.

“You okay?” Joe asked.

“Yeah,” I answered as I took another deep
drag on the cigarette and expelled the smoke, this time without
incident. “It’s just been awhile. But I’m much better now.”

* * * * *

“Jeez, white man,” Ben exclaimed, waving with
annoyance at the dense scud of smoke hanging around us. “Give it a
rest, will’ya? You’ve hot boxed damn near half a pack already.”

He was correct. In fact, I was working on
number ten at this very moment, and the ravenous craving had only
now begun to smooth around the edges. Upon leaving the parking lot
of the city morgue, I had done no less than demand that he pull
into the first open gas station we came upon. There followed a few
tense moments of opposition from both Felicity and him, however, I
won out. I celebrated my victory by purchasing an entire carton of
menthol-tipped 100’s and a disposable lighter.

I’d had no choice but to give in to Ben’s
refusal to allow me to smoke in his van and, therefore, ended up
quickly huffing a pair of the butts before climbing back into the
vehicle for the short trip back around the block to our originally
intended destination.

We were now parked in an out-of-the-way back
corner booth at Chuck’s, not that where we sat really mattered as
we were the only patrons at the moment. The three of us were taking
turns administering doses of sugar and creamer to coffee that was
an hour or so beyond its expiration. Promises of a fresh pot were
already reaching our ears as the coffee maker behind the counter
audibly spewed hot liquid into a stained Pyrex globe.

“Aye, slow down,” Felicity chimed in. “It’s
bad enough you’ve started up with those nasty things again. You
don’t have to chain-smoke as well.”

“Maybe you should talk to Helen about this
too, Row,” Ben offered. “She’s probably got some psychobabble to
help you out with quitting.”

“Yeah, maybe so,” I agreed if for no other
reason than to hopefully get them to quit harping on me. I didn’t
bother to point out that she was a smoker herself. “I’ll mention
it.”

Still, although I was embracing the practice
for the moment, I was as disturbed as they were that I’d started up
again. It had been almost two years since I’d quit, and it hadn’t
been easy to do in the first place. I’d told myself that the
occasional cigar was as far as I was going to venture into this
realm ever again, and I’d stuck to it—until now. It was true that
I’d been under some very severe stress, but I couldn’t see blaming
it all on that. Something else was amiss. Some other factor was
definitely at work here.

“Were either Debbie Schaeffer or Paige Lawson
smokers by any chance?” I asked as the thought rolled in from the
back of my brain.

Ben thought about it for a moment and then
shook his head. “Don’t think so. I can check into it, but I don’t
recall either of ‘em havin’ cigarettes in their personal effects.
Why?”

“Are you thinking that you’re channeling
impulses from one of them?” Felicity queried.

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Even when I went
through withdrawals back when I quit, I didn’t crave nicotine this
intensely. There’s got to be something more to it.”

“Well, I’ll check,” Ben told me. “I’m almost
positive it’s a no on Schaffer, but I can’t be completely sure
about Lawson. But like I said, I don’t remember any cigarettes with
her stuff either.”

“Maybe it’s someone else entirely,” I
speculated.

“What?” Ben furrowed his brow. “Like another
murder victim?”