Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (20 page)

“Maybe.”

“Well it’d hafta be another case
entirely.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because we’ve already had our quota on
serial killers this century.”

I shrugged as I shook my head. “Just
speculating.”

“Well speculate somethin’ else,” he
instructed.

I stubbed the remaining couple of inches of
the cigarette out in the small glass ashtray, and its smoldering
carcass joined the other half dozen yellow-brown stained filters. I
felt a need to immediately light another but resisted and hoped I’d
had enough of a fix to hold me for a while.

“So,” my friend directed us back onto the
original topic we’d set out to discuss, “why don’tcha tell me what
I just got my ass chewed for?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” I returned.

“That’s
not
what I wanna hear, Row.”

“I know, Ben, but that’s what I was trying to
tell you back at the morgue. It’s all a jumble. I don’t really
remember anything coherent.”

He brought his hand up and massaged his neck
then sighed. “Lemme cut ya’ a little slice of reality here. We all
know that I’m not exactly one for goin’ strictly by the book, so I
already walk a thin enough line as it is. Well, tonight just turned
that thin line into a fuckin’ tightrope, so you’re gonna hafta give
me somethin’. Anything.”

“What if you just start with anything that
you can remember,” Felicity ventured. “Maybe we can piece it
together.”

“Well…” I thought hard for a moment, trying
to pick out something of consequence and settling for whatever I
could grasp. “A lot of darkness, and a cheerleader with an attitude
for starters.”

“Whaddaya mean ‘attitude’?” Ben asked.

“Exactly that.” I shrugged. “She seemed
really cocky… And incredibly demanding. But she kept bouncing
around, and she was kind of hard to keep track of.”

“What makes you say she was cocky though?” he
pressed.

“Well, she kept calling some guy a moron, I
remember that pretty clearly. I seem to recall her referring to him
as an idiot too.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say it
was the guy that killed her.”

“Yeah, no shit. I kinda figured that part out
myself. I wanna know who he is. Did’ya’ see ‘im?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t really
remember seeing anyone other than her…” I thought hard for a
moment. “Although there was this shadowy movement here and there
and I heard a male voice.”

“What did he say?”

“He was angry. Something about her crying and
her makeup running.”

“What do you think that’s all about?”
Felicity asked.

“Search me.” I didn’t know what to say. “I
told you I didn’t remember anything that made any sense. I suppose
it might not have been the guy that killed her at all. Maybe it was
some kind of latent memory. Argument with a boyfriend or
something?”

“Maybe her boyfriend is the killer,” she
offered.

“We’ve beaten that horse.” Ben shook his head
vigorously then took a sip of his coffee. “Boyfriend’s clean.”

“Ex-boyfriend?” I posed.

“There isn’t one. You gotta understand,” my
friend explained, “this girl was like right out of a fifties TV
show. A regular Stepford kid.” He began ticking items off on his
fingers. “Honor roll, cheerleader, never been in trouble, been
datin’ the same guy since high school. She’s friggin’ unreal.”

“That sure isn’t the impression she gave me
when she was bouncing in and out of my head,” I told him.

“What can I tell ya’?” he shrugged.

“It doesn’t really matter.” I was shaking my
head now. “Because you’re right, the boyfriend idea is the wrong
track anyway. If it had been her boyfriend, then we’d be talking
about a crime of passion, right?”

“That ain’t a given, but it’s pretty likely.
Why?”

“Well if it was a crime of passion then it
would be an isolated incident. There wouldn’t have been any reason
for her to insist on me touching Paige Lawson. Unless, of course,
there’s a connection there that we’re missing.”

“We haven’t had a reason ta’ look for one.
Lawson is an accidental death… Whoa… Wait a minute, back up… So are
you tellin’ me Debbie Schaeffer’s ghost had somethin’ ta’ do with
that whole stunt you pulled back there?”

“Exactly.” I nodded affirmation.

“So, she like what, talked ya’ into it or
somethin’?”

“No, she actually physically dragged me over
there and forced me to do it.”

“She did what?” He stared back at me in
disbelief.

“Yeah, I know it sounds bizarre, Ben.”

“That’s one word for it… But I guess it
doesn’t matter what ya’ call it… I’ve come ta’ the conclusion
you’re whole freakin’ life is just one really long episode of
the
Twilight Zone,
Kemosabe.”

“Just since I got involved with murder
investigations. Before that I was pretty normal.”

“Says you,” he grinned, his tone
softening.

“Look who’s talking,” I returned the jibe.
“Anyway, I wasn’t in control of my actions when I went after Paige
Lawson’s remains. That was Debbie Schaeffer all the way. That’s the
one thing I can remember clear as daylight.”

“See now, I just figured you were seizin’ an
opportunity, and that just pissed me off.”

“Yeah, I kind of had the impression you
weren’t real happy with me.”

“Uh-huh, well I was pissed when I turned
around and saw ya’ standin’ there holdin’ on ta’ Lawson and
screamin’ your damn fool head off. And, after what she’d just
walked in on, the Doc wasn’t sure what the hell ta’ think. I can
guarantee ya’ it didn’t help matters any.”

“Like she said, we probably should have
called her before going down there.”

“Yeah, well we all know what they say about
hindsight, now don’t we?”

“Can we get back on the subject, then?”
Felicity interjected.

“Yeah, let’s,” Ben agreed. “So you’re sayin’
that there’s some connection between Schaeffer and Lawson?”

“There must be.” I nodded and then took a sip
of my own coffee before setting the cup down and pushing it away.
One taste was all it took to convince me to wait for the fresh pot.
“Why else would she have wanted me to touch the body?”

“I get what you’re sayin’, but everything on
Lawson points ta’ accidental death,” he objected. “So if there’s a
connection maybe it’s somethin’ besides bein’ killed by the same
wingnut.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Ya’ aren’t bein’ much help, Row.”

“Hey,” I shook my head, “I’m doing the best I
can. I told you I’m pretty fuzzy on all this.”

“Maybe Paige Lawson knew Debbie Schaeffer
somehow.” Felicity said. “Or maybe the killer is a mutual friend or
acquaintance.”

“Lawson was a marketing VP for an HMO. What’s
she gonna have in common with a college cheerleader?”

“You have a better idea, then?” my wife
raised an eyebrow.

“No,” he returned, voice flat as he shrugged.
“Maybe they did know each other. If we can’t find a direct
connection, then we can make a list and see if any names match up
as mutual acquaintances. I know Lawson had one of those electronic
organizers in ‘er briefcase. I think Schaeffer had somethin’
too.”

“Do you remember anything else?” my wife
pressed, turning her attention back to me.

“Nothing important. Just something about a
fashion doll in a prom dress, or something like that.”

“Do what?” Ben looked as confused as ever.
Since I was no clearer on what I’d just said than he was, I
couldn’t blame him.

“Yeah, it was green and she didn’t like her
shoes, or some such.”

“Who didn’t like whose shoes?”

“The doll. Debbie. I don’t know, both of them
maybe.”

“You
are
talking about a
toy
fashion doll, right?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Rowan,” Felicity asked. “Are you absolutely
certain you’re okay?”

I slid number eleven from the pack and lit it
up in an unconscious motion. “Believe me, I’ve been wondering that
myself.”

“Are you coming to bed or not?” Felicity
called to me from the hallway. “We’ve a long day ahead, then. In
case you didn’t remember, Yule is day after tomorrow.”

“You mean, Yule
is
tomorrow,” I called back while in the process
of exhaling a plume of smoke through the crack where I was holding
the storm door just slightly open. “It’s pushing five a.m., so it’s
already today.”

“Aye, don’t remind me,” she called back with
a resigned sigh. “We’ve far too much to do, and we’ll need rest if
we’re to get everything done before Friday and still be able to
tend the fire through to dawn.”

We’d all finally decided that we were far too
exhausted to continue the discussion, and since we weren’t getting
anywhere to begin with, it wasn’t a hard call. The caffeine was all
we were running on, and I think we’d even started becoming immune
to its effects in short order. Our bout of speculation was
terminated with the idea that a bit of sleep might bring some more
of what I’d seen to the surface. While I agreed with the idea in
theory, I most definitely wasn’t looking forward to the possibility
of yet another Technicolor nightmare.

Upon returning to Ben’s house, we had bid him
goodnight, and I had apologized once again for getting him into
trouble with his superiors. His response had simply been for me not
to worry, they’d get over it. I hoped he was correct.

Like zombies, Felicity and I had piled into
her Jeep and then made the trek down Highway 40 to home. By the
time we pulled into the driveway, the minute hand was already well
into its climb toward the top of the coming hour. Fortunately for
us, true to what Ben had told me earlier in the evening,
Briarwood’s finest had seen to the task of discouraging the media
from camping on our lawn. How they’d done it without infringing
upon the constitutional freedom of the press, I had no idea—I
wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know either. I was just happy not
to have to deal with them right now.

I took a last drag on the cigarette, exhaled,
and then dropped the butt in a large can filled with sand we kept
on the porch for our friends who smoked. After that I pushed the
front door shut and twisted the deadbolt until it gave a dull
thunk. “Yeah,” I called out to Felicity as I punched in the code to
engage the alarm system. “It’ll be a long night. Not to mention
that if you don’t get some rest, everyone is going to think you
just got off the boat.”

“What’s that, then?”

“The accent. It’s gotten pretty thick over
the past few hours. Kind of obvious that you’re exhausted.”

“I don’t have an accent,” she replied,
raising her voice so she could be heard from the bedroom.
“
You
do.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever.” I chuckled. “Are you done
in here?”

“Aye. Did you let the dogs out?”

“Yeah, they’ve been out already. And yes, the
back is all locked up.”

“Did you check the answering machine, then? I
noticed it blinking when we came in.”

“So why didn’t
you
check it?”

“Because I wanted to go to bed.”

“Uh-huh,” I harrumphed. “Me too. I’ll check
it in the morning.”

“I thought you said that it was morning
already.”

“How about, I’ll check it later then?”

“I suppose. And, Rowan?”

“Yeah?”

“Best you brush your teeth and gargle,” she
instructed sleepily, her voice fading along a deepening arc. “Maybe
twice. I’m sure not sleepin’ next to an ashtray, then.”

* * * * *

Disorientation gave way to longing.

There was only one thing that I cared
about.

Her.

She was here.

But was it really her?

No.

She was close, but it wasn’t really her.

Her hair spiraled softly across her
shoulders, streaked with highlights from the sun’s rays filtering
through the mini-blinds.

She sat motionless, legs crossed, lounging
seductively in the chair… Looking at me with lust in her eyes.

Yes, the blinds worked. They were
artistic.

But something still wasn’t quite right.

Perhaps it was the sun.

Maybe just a bit less yellow…Yes, that would
help.

And maybe tweak the blinds just a bit
more.

Yes, perfect.

Well almost.

It would only be perfect when she was really
there.

She moaned softly.

Need to hurry.

She whimpered.

Yes, must hurry before she moves.

She slid downward, falling to the side then
off the chair, coming to rest as a tangled mess on the floor.

She was no longer perfect.

A flash of light.

Fear.

Pain.

Loneliness.

Lust.

Animal passion.

Needful desire.

Putrefaction sets in within twenty-four to
forty-eight hours. Purge fluids escape through the bodily orifices
as the organs begin to decompose, and breakdown of the vascular
system occurs.

Almost perfect.

If she’ll just stay in one place a bit longer
this time.

If only she was really her…

Then…

Then she would be perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

Death settles in,

warming itself briefly on the fading
embers

of a passing life.

I’m cold.

So very cold.

Why me?

Darkness.

A mocking chant in the distance.

Listen everybody; I’ve got a story to
tell,

I’m lying here dead, and he just says, “Oh
well.”