Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (33 page)

“Yeah, well that wasn’t entirely my
fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.” I shook my head. “It
was nobody’s fault. But it’s a moot point anyway. All the promises
in the world aren’t going to keep these nightmares out of my
head.”

“But if I keep ya’ out of it, I can keep ya’
safe.”

“Not from the visions, you can’t.” I shook my
head.

“That’s Felicity’s end of the deal.” He held
up his hands in surrender. “I just handle what I can see.”

“That’s just it. It’s not what you see that’s
doing the harm. It’s what I see,” I appealed. “And even she can’t
protect me from these things, Ben. I think you’ve both realized
that by now. If you haven’t, then you’re blind.”

“Jeezus, Rowan.” He shook his head and rested
one hand on his hip while sending the other up to smooth back his
hair and begin massaging his neck. “Man, if I had a freakin’ time
machine…”

“You’d do what? No, let me guess. You’d go
back in time and never get me involved in the Ariel Tanner
case?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“We’d still end up right where we are now,
Ben.” My voice softened as I spoke. “She was a friend of mine, and
I would have gotten involved anyway. You know that. If you hadn’t
shown up that night to ask me about the Pentacle at the crime scene
maybe someone else would have. Or I would have heard about it
somewhere. Even I don’t believe in pre-ordained destiny, but I know
I was meant to do this. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have these
visions.

“You need to get over this guilt of yours.
The real truth is that neither of us is responsible for this. I
know you don’t necessarily believe it, but there’s something bigger
at work here, and it’s what keeps dragging me into these things;
not you—or even me for that matter. And whether either of us like
it or not, that’s my problem, not yours.”

“Yeah, tell that to my conscience.”

“That
is
your
problem, not
mine,” I told him with a grin.

He huffed out a heavy sigh. “Shit, white man,
every time ya’ get involved in an investigation we end up arguin’
about somethin’.”

“It’s been a bit worse this time around,
hasn’t it?” I acknowledged. “Good thing we’re friends.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “So why the hell do we do
this?”

“Probably because we’re both strong-willed
individuals who, although we’re seeking the same result, have
diametrically opposed ways of going about achieving it.”

“You
have
been hangin’ around my sister too much.” He
returned his own grin.

“So have we cleared the air?” I asked after a
moment.

“I’m still not exactly happy with ya’
blindsidin’ me in there like ya’ did,” he returned.

“Would it help if I apologized?” I asked.

“Right now? Not much. Later, prob’ly.”

“I can live with that,” I said. “So can we
get back to the business at hand?”

He gave me a long, hard look then rubbed his
chin with the back of his hand before pointing a finger at me. “Can
ya’ do this without Felicity here ta’ nail your foot ta’ the
floor?”

“Yeah, I should be okay.”

“Don’t try ta’ snow me.”

“I’m not,” I answered with genuine sincerity.
“We’re not talking about channeling a spirit here, just a bit of
interactive hypnosis. There really shouldn’t be a big problem.”

“What if the stuff she remembers is graphic?
Couldn’t that be a problem?”

“It probably will be graphic,” I conceded.
“But apparently not violent. She’s alive and she obviously wasn’t
tortured or anything, so it should be okay.”

“Nothin’ funky?”

“Well,” I shrugged as I spoke, “depending on
what I see, it could get a little spooky.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” he nodded.
“Better let me fill McLaughlin in before this goes any
farther.”

“So you’re actually going to let me try it my
way?”

“I dunno yet,” he said. “Lemme think about
it.”

Detective McLaughlin was only inches from
colliding with us as we entered through the squad room door on our
way back to the interview room. There was an almost wild look
contorting her face, and the level of energy she was exuding was
physically palpable.

“Whoa!” Ben jumped back, juggling a pair of
hot coffees. He had stuffed the unopened can of soda into his
pocket. “Where’s the fire?”

“Forget about Hodges,” Charlee announced the
matter-of-fact statement. “She’s gone.”

“Do what?” Ben exclaimed. “Whaddaya mean
gone?”

“She left,” she continued, obviously worked
up about something. “You guys weren’t gone for two minutes, and she
bolted. Said she was sorry, but all she wanted to do is tell me she
remembered something about a dress.”

“It wasn’t because of me was it?” I
asked.

“I doubt it,” she spoke in a rapid fire
staccato, her voice building into a near frenzy. “She was still way
too spooked when she showed up. I’m surprised she stayed as long as
she did to be honest. But anyway, that’s not important.”

“Not important? But…” Ben started to
object.

“No, listen to me.” Charlee shook her head
vigorously and gestured. “I just now got off the phone with
University Hospital. They’ve got a thirty-two-year-old blonde rape
victim sitting in Emergency right now.”

Ben stopped cold and looked at her. “You
pretty sure it’s our guy?”

“Can’t be positive, but according to the doc,
her neck is bruised up, and she can’t remember where she’s been
since Saturday night.”

Ben quickly looked around for a place to
dispose of the drinks he was carrying. Finding none, he shoved the
cups of coffee into the hands of a uniformed officer who was
walking past, giving no explanation other than a muttered, “Here.
Merry Christmas.”

His attention remained focused on Charlee,
and I could almost feel the surge of adrenalin that kicked into him
as he ramped up to her level. We were already hurrying through the
sex crimes squad room as he spoke, “Get the CSU on the horn now.
Tell ‘em ya’ need an evidence team at this woman’s residence
immediately if not sooner. We need ta’ hit this before anyone can
screw with the scene.”

“Already done,” she answered as we
jogged.

“Did they tell ya’ who’s runnin it?”

“No.”

“Call ‘em back and tell ‘em ya’ want Murv. I
don’t care if they hafta drag his ass outta the shower or what. We
want the best on this, and I’d almost swear that guy could lift a
print off a fuckin’ puddle of water if he had to.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll go check in upstairs and let ‘em know
what’s up, then we’ll meet you out back. I’ll drive.”

“See you in ten,” she told us as she peeled
off toward her desk.

“Make it five,” Ben called after her.

I had to break into a near run to keep up
with my friend as he hooked around the desks and shouldered open
the door leading to the stairs.

“Why are we in such a rush,” I asked,
following him through into the stairwell but lagging behind as he
took the stairs two at a time.

“Because I wanna get ya’ together with the
victim while everything’s still fresh,” he said.

“This is kind of an about-face. I thought you
were still a bit leery about all that.”

“Oh, I am,” he called down. “I’m just taking
my turn.”

“What?”

“My turn,” he repeated, his voice starting to
fade in the distance as it echoed from the concrete walls. “You
said it was my turn ta’ trust ya’ for a change. Well, I’m gonna
trust ya’ ta’ figure out who the sick asshole is that’s doin’
this.”

He had already disappeared from view, and I
could hear the creak of the door slowly closing behind him. I
forged on, and finally topping the first flight of stairs, I
rounded the landing and started up the next set, only to halt dead
in my tracks.

Seated on the top stair was a blonde in her
early twenties, clad in a cheerleader’s uniform. Her arms were
crossed, and she was leaning forward with them resting on her
knees. The toes of her unnaturally white sneakers pointed slightly
in toward one another, and she was staring at me quizzically.

After a brief interval of motionlessness, her
mouth began to move. A short measure later, completely out of sync
with her lips, words began glancing from the walls with a
phase-shifted quality that I’d come to expect from the earthly
manifestations of spirits.

I’m dead, She’s dead.

D-E-A-D, dead.

She’s dead, I’m dead.

D-E-A-D, dead.

Her head bobbed back and forth in time with
the ditty as she spoke, making the lack of synchronization between
the movement of her mouth and the words just that much more
disconcerting. Her eyes remained locked with mine, unblinking, and
I could do nothing more than return the stare.

The past two days of quiet had lulled me into
a sense of complacency where such ethereal visits were concerned,
and her sudden appearance here took me by surprise, especially
since I was used to hearing the dead, not necessarily seeing them.
At least not while I was awake.

I simply stood there, unsure of what to
say.

She continued the piece of morose poetry,
picking up the disharmonious pace as she went.

Rowan, Rowan, he’s our man!

If he can’t do it, nobody can!

She’s dead, I’m dead, what to do?

Find the killer, we’re counting on you!

Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe,

Catch the killer, don’t let him go.

Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe,

Make him suffer, don’t you know.

If he screams, well we don’t care,

If he cries, then we’ll be there.

We want him to hurt, and to be afraid.

We want him to die in this bed he’s made.

Now go catch the killer,

We’ll make him pay.

And pay, and pay,

And pay, and pay,

And pay, and pay, and pay, and pay, and
pay…

The vengeance laced words continued to echo
inside my head as they faded in concert with the rapidly dissolving
image of Debbie Schaeffer. I felt a hard knot in my stomach and
nausea gripped me. This wasn’t good at all.

Debbie had literally taken over my body once
before, and even though I was in better shape now than I had been
that night, if I wasn’t careful she could do it again. The last
thing I needed was for her to use me to commit murder—even if the
victim was a killer himself. There’s no way in the world I’d ever
be able to convince a jury that my physical body had been possessed
by the spirit of a dead cheerleader with a hunger for revenge. No,
this was worse than not good. This was just plain bad.

I’m not sure how much time I spent standing
there contemplating this fresh threat, but it couldn’t have been
long. I started with a violent jerk as the door at the top of the
landing bumped open with a heavy thud and Ben stuck his head
through the opening.

“Hey, Rowan,” my friend called down to me.
“You comin’ or what?”

* * * * *

The doors leading from the ambulance bay slid
open before us to reveal something resembling an all-day-long
progressive holiday celebration in halting swing. The on-again,
off-again nature of the work here was managing to consistently
interfere and prevent the festivities from ever making it to the
status of a full-blown party.

As we entered, for the second time this week
the antiseptic atmosphere of an emergency room assaulted me full
force; but at least this time I wasn’t a patient. The sweet smells
of cookies and candies mingled with the savory aromas of cheese and
cold-cut trays on the cool air. They were in turn undercut with the
sharp fumes of isopropyl alcohol and other medicinal preparations.
The entire mélange was bound together by the peculiar plastic odor
of adhesive bandages.

Fortunately, it didn’t appear to be too
terribly busy at the moment—yet another calm before the storm
considering that, statistically, holidays bring out the worst in
some people. Still, even with the lull, the staff wasn’t exactly
twiddling their thumbs either. The nurse behind the desk was
involved in paperwork, presumably from a recent admission. Here and
there, others could be seen taking care of various tasks or simply
snatching a cookie from one of the many plates.

The young woman tending the desk had
made an effort to offset the plainness of her scrubs, having
adorned herself with a holiday bow in her hair and an electronic
reindeer pin above her name badge. As we approached, the LED in the
plastic novelty’s nose was flashing wildly, and the circuitry
embedded within was belting out a medley of holiday tunes
comprised entirely of a series of slightly off-key electronic
tones.

“Can I help you?” she asked cheerfully as she
looked up, obviously noticing that no one in our trio appeared to
require immediate medical attention.

“City Police,” Charlee told her as she
flashed her badge. “I’m Detective McLaughlin; this is Detective
Storm and Mister Gant. I received a call from a Doctor Kennedy a
little while ago.”

“Yes.” The nurse nodded, her smile fading.
“The rape. He said to expect you. Treatment room four.” She stood
and leaned slightly across the counter then motioned with one hand.
“Down this corridor, left at the end, through the double doors, and
it will be about halfway down on the left.”

“Thanks,” McLaughlin told her.

We rounded the corner of the admitting desk
and headed down the hallway with Charlee in the lead. Ben reigned
in his extra long stride and put a hand on my arm to hold me back
as well, allowing us to fall a few paces behind her.

“I haven’t had a chance ta’ talk ta’ Chuck
about the hocus-pocus stuff,” he half whispered to me. “Not ta’
mention that this victim is comin’ right off the incident, and she
hasn’t had time ta’ come ta’ terms with it.”