Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (35 page)

“It felt like…” I began, then frowned and
shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably just
nerves.”

“See what I mean?” Ben jibed.

“Are you positive, Rowan?” Charlee asked.

“Ya’ just haven’t been around ‘im enough yet,
Chuck,” Ben told her. “He does this kinda shit when he starts doin’
the hocus-pocus stuff.”

“Really, Charlee,” I said, “I’m fine. It’s
nothing.”

Too bad I didn’t actually believe that. I
couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, and the
sensation was extremely disconcerting. My first instinct was to
think that Debbie Schaeffer might be waiting in the ethereal wings
for me to pinpoint a target for her. But the more I dwelled on it,
the more the presence felt nothing like her. It was familiar, yes,
but not her. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t pin it down to
an individual or even a place, and as I continued to mull it over
the feeling just got worse.

A thin lance of pain stabbed through my bad
shoulder, and I winced inwardly. I was starting to feel jumpy, and
my hands began to clench and unclench with the nervous energy. I
was still wearing my jacket, so I shoved them into my pockets to
hide the fidgeting from outside notice. In doing so, I immediately
felt the wad of salt packets Ben had given me.

“Are we ready?” Heather asked as she came
back into the room.

“Row?” Ben raised an eyebrow at me.

“What? Oh, yeah.” I was still contemplating
the phantom invasion of my privacy and hadn’t even noticed her
return. “One question though, Miz Burke?”

“Yes?”

“This may sound odd, but as hypnosis goes
this isn’t going to be typical. So I was wondering, would you mind
terribly if I sprinkled a bit of salt around? Just for…”

“…
purification and protection?” she
finished for me, nodding as she spoke.

“You’re familiar with the ritual practices of
The Craft?” It was my turn to be surprised, and ultimately
chagrined.

She stretched the baggy t-shirt out with her
hands to display the iron-on more prominently. “I read quite a bit,
Mister Gant.”

* * * * *

I had never been much for the poetic
showmanship of spell casting. While I certainly wasn’t opposed to
the process, I tended to get tongue-tied whenever I set about
reciting a series of couplets. Stumbling over rhymes did little for
the actual effectiveness of the spell and in turn served only to
destroy my concentration, which in reality was the true driving
force behind working Magick.

By the time I would reach the end of the
poem, I would have spent so much energy trying not to make a fool
of myself that I usually forgot what it was that I set out to do in
the first place. So out of a sense of self-preservation, I usually
opted for the silent approach. I would gather myself, steel my
energies, and project them outward on the task to which I’d set my
mind—all without uttering a sound. It worked well for me, so I had
never really seen a need to change it.

Something told me that this time, however, a
word or two might be in order. Unfortunately, I was drawing a
blank. I stood there silently for a moment with an open packet of
salt poured into the palm of my hand and feeling incredibly
self-conscious. I heard Ben clear his throat and felt my heart skip
a beat.

It was at that moment, just before I was sure
to break out into a cold sweat, that a not so random thought
crawled out of its hiding place and announced itself.

I had once attended a workshop on Magick and
SpellCraft given by a noted Pagan author. After the lecture I had
had the opportunity to discuss with her the method by which I
practiced the art. While she found no fault with my methodology,
she told me to always keep in mind that the Lord and Lady loved to
be entertained, and that to them, poetry was a joy. Therefore, if
one’s intent was truly focused on the task, it didn’t always matter
what was said but how one said it. I seized on that memory and
began to mumble the first thing that entered my brain.

“Tis the night before Christmas, and this I
do fear, someone is watching, with intentions unclear. My back is
wide open and there’s a pain in my head, could you please watch out
for me so I don’t wind up dead.”

It wasn’t the most eloquent spell imaginable,
but I kept my voice low as I walked a small circle, sprinkling salt
in my wake. I doubted that anyone could actually make out the
words, but the cadence was probably crystal clear. For all they
knew, I might very well have actually been reciting “‘Twas the
Night Before Christmas.” If that is what they thought, however,
none of them voiced it, and for that I was grateful.

When I completed the circuit and looked up,
Ben was staring at me with one eyebrow arched. He’d never before
seen me take it upon myself to engage directly in the ritualistic
trappings of The Craft, save for the recent Yule circle he’d
witnessed. This was something that was Felicity’s forte, not mine,
so I knew he was going to have some questions. But they would
simply have to wait.

“Go ahead and sit down,” I told Heather as I
turned and then took a seat opposite her.

“You’ve done this before, correct?” she
asked.

I nodded in response. “Yes, several times.
Why?”

“You seem a bit nervous to me.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Why?”

“Honestly?”

“Of course.”

“Because I’m not entirely certain I really
want to see what you’re about to show me.”

“Oh,” she said quietly.

“So with that said, are you sure you want to
go ahead with this?” I gave her one last chance to back out before
we started down the path.

“You really think this asshole might have
killed that cheerleader?”

“There’s a strong possibility, yes,” Ben
interjected.

She looked down and briefly pursed her lips,
but her quiet rumination didn’t last long. Bringing her face back
up she looked at me and said, “Then let’s see what I can
remember.”

“Okay, everyone quiet please,” I announced to
the room, glancing around then focusing my gaze back on Heather
Burke.

As our eyes met, I willed a connection to
form between us. My respirations evened out and slowed, and I felt
a solid bond between the earth and myself. This was the strongest
ground I’d accomplished on my own in some time, and I took a moment
to revel in it. My confidence was steadily returning, and the light
at the end of this long tunnel seemed to be growing brighter by the
moment.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her in an
unwavering monotone.

“Fine,” she answered, her voice betraying the
calm that had begun to permeate her being. “Very relaxed.”

“Good.”

“So,” she asked. “Is this the part where you
tell me to visualize nothingness?”

“Do you know what nothingness looks
like?”

“Actually, no.”

“Neither do I,” I said with a slight smile in
my voice.

I was lying. Unfortunately, I had faced the
horror of nothingness on more than one occasion since my bane had
made itself know. However, it was something that defied
description.

I brought my voice back to the emotionless
baseline I’d set with my original words. “Let’s try something else.
I want you to imagine nothing but a blank sheet of paper—white,
clean and unblemished. Allow it to fill your field of vision. Let
it grow and fill your mind until there is nothing else. Just pure
white from top to bottom, side to side, corner to corner, above and
below, before and behind.”

This visualization was simply a place to
start. I had no idea if it would work for her or if we would need
to try something else. Some people are like resistors in an
electronic circuit, impeding the flow of energy. Others are like
capacitors in the same circuit, grabbing that energy and hoarding
it, unwilling to share. Still others are simply conductors of
energy like the wires that complete the connections between the
components in that circuit. Heather Burke was an excellent
conductor.

I watched her face as I spoke, feeling the
rhythmic ebb and flow of an ethereal plasma moving between us. Her
eyes slowly took on a glassy quality, remaining locked with mine,
unblinking. The trance met no resistance and overtook her quietly
and comfortably.

“When was she attacked?” I asked aloud,
shifting the tenor and lowering the volume of my voice so as not to
disturb the young woman in front of me.

I could hear Detective McLaughlin rustling
about behind me, flipping through pages of a notebook. After a long
moment she whispered, “The call came in to Sex Crimes on five,
December.”

“So probably some time on the fourth?”

“Just a second…” I heard some more rustling.
“Make it the third. She was last seen leaving work that Monday
evening and was a no show for work on the next day.”

“Okay,” I answered then shifted my attention
back to the tranced woman across from me. I tuned my voice back
into a dull monotone and asked, “Heather, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she returned softly.

“Good. I want you to let your mind drift now.
Allow it to float free.”

She giggled and then whispered, “This is
fun.”

Through the connection between us, I could
feel the giddiness she was experiencing. I allowed it to flow
through me but maintained my earthly bond as a counterbalance to
its almost overwhelming seductiveness. Moving with her, I struggled
to keep a measure of distance between our ethereal selves, for to
connect with her fully would draw me far too deeply into her
experience.

“Good, Heather. You’re doing great. Now, if
for any reason you can no longer feel my presence next to you, I
want you to come back to this place. Okay?”

“You aren’t leaving are you?”

I could feel a tremor of fear roll through
her voice and begin to well between us.

“Not at all. I’m just letting you know, just
in case. I want you to be safe, so if you lose me, just come back
to this place and nothing can hurt you. Understand?”

“Yes.”

I breathed a quick sigh of relief. The streak
of anguish had come on far more quickly than I’d expected, and I
hadn’t been prepared for it. I now realized just how tenuous the
connection between us was and knew that I was going to have to
effectively disengage some of the safeties I’d put in place for
myself.

I didn’t want to do it, but in my mind I
could see no other way. On a plane beyond time and space where the
two of us now stood, I took a step closer to her in order to
tighten the bond. The hazy miasma of energy, visible only to me,
thickened and intensified.

“We’re going to allow ourselves to drift back
now, Heather.” My voice continued to speak in this reality, though
it no longer needed to do so. “Back in time. Back a few weeks to
the evening of December third. You’ve just left work. Tell me where
you went.”

“Home. I came home.”

“All right,” I answered, “what happened when
you came home?”

“I parked my car and got out. It was dark. I
dropped my keys and they went under the car. Dammit!”

“What, Heather? What’s wrong?” I almost
physically jumped at her exclamation.

“I just put a giant snag in my pantyhose
trying to reach my keys.”

“Okay,” I soothed as I settled myself.
“Forget about that, it’s not important.”

“Not important?” she returned with a hint of
attitude. “Do you know how much a pair of pantyhose costs?”

I was losing control. She was drifting in her
own direction and it was completely opposite of the way we needed
to go. In the ethereal world I inched myself closer to her,
struggling to tighten our bond but still keep enough distance so as
to remain an observer only. It was a dangerous dance, and I wasn’t
exactly known for my grace.

A voice sounded at my back. It was
painfully familiar, and it didn’t belong here.
“Salt, Rowan? Get real. It’s only evil that can’t cross a
salt line. Now I ask you, do I look evil?”

My otherworldly self spun quickly and came
face to face with Debbie Schaeffer.

“Dead I am, dead I am,” she chanted, our
faces only inches apart. “I do not like that dead I am!”

I bolstered my defenses and like an
underwater swimmer who was running out of breath, aimed myself
toward the surface. It was too late. I felt a dainty pair of hands
slam open-palmed into my chest and give me a shove. On that distant
plane the dance was over. I stumbled backwards, bereft of balance.
Unfortunately, Heather Burke broke my fall.

On impact, there was a burst of blinding
light, searing deep into my brain, and I let out a silent
scream.

When sight returned, all color had fled and I
was left in a world of halftone greys.

When sensation and feeling returned I was
devoid of warmth and chilled to the bone.

When clarity of thought returned I was in the
middle of a gender dysphoric identity crisis.

I am reaching for my keys while kneeling next
to the car. A cold breeze whips across the parking lot and finds
its way under my skirt. Guess I should have brought a coat, but it
was 64 when I left for work this morning! This weather is just
insane. December and it still can’t make up its mind if it is going
to be warm or cold. Should have paid more attention to the forecast
I suppose. Well, it’s not like I have that far to walk. If I can
just get these damn keys!

Another gust angles around the car and sends
a chill down my back. I’ll check the weather channel when I get
settled. If it is going to stay cold I guess maybe I’ll wear slacks
tomorrow… Or my tartan wool skirt, maybe. Wait a minute; did I pick
it up at the cleaners? Hmmmm, I’ll have to check. I can’t
remember.