Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (4 page)

“Of course, but don’t try to tell me that you
are psychic, Detective,” the doctor returned. “We gave all of that
information when we called it in.”

“Yeah, well that information is exactly
why
I’m
here instead of a
uniform.”

The significance behind Charlee’s comment was
in no way lost on the doctor. He acknowledged it with a simple nod
and a query of his own, “Serial rapist?”

“You didn’t hear that from me. Not yet,
anyway, but let’s just say I’ve got two case files just like it on
my desk right now. In my book, two makes it a suspicious
coincidence. Three makes it a pattern.”

“I see,” he nodded thoughtfully and motioned
to the door. “Well, she’s in here. If you need anything else you
can have the nurse page me.”

“Hey, Doc,” she addressed him as he turned to
go.

“Yes, Detective?”

“You going past a restroom or a sink?”

“Most likely, why?”

Charlee held out the almost full cup of chai
latte to him. “Do me a favor and dump this crap, will’ya?”

Overwhelming violation saturated my very
being. I hated the feeling, but I clung to it like a piece of
flotsam in a raging flood because it was very simply all I had to
keep me afloat.

Waking up in a cold sweat seemed to be the
norm for me as of late. When it first started, it had only been
once every few days, maybe twice at most. Now it was rare for a
week to pass without it happening three or even four times.
Recently I’d even had an incident where it occurred twice in one
night. The lack of a decent night’s rest was taking a measurable
toll, and I was definitely feeling the effects.

More often than not I spent my waking hours
on autopilot, fueled by bitter coffee and an almost constant,
insatiable desire for a cigarette. Considering that I’d quit
smoking—well, except for an occasional cigar—somewhat over a year
ago, I found the craving more than a bit unusual. Thus far, I’d
managed to keep it in check with nicotine gum, but I wasn’t sure
how long that would last. The need was beginning to achieve
absolutely ridiculous proportions.

Of course, one could easily imagine that
after surviving a run-in with a crazed serial killer, nightmares
would be expected. The problem was that I’m not exactly sure you
could call these events nightmares; this is not to mention the fact
that they hadn’t even begun until several months after the fact. On
top of that, the episodes weren’t about my brush with death at all.
At least I don’t think they were.

To tell the truth, I couldn’t really be
certain what they were about.

The bald facts were that I would wake up in a
cold sweat with my heart pounding in a furious attempt to escape
the confines of my chest. My mind would be a jumble of nothingness,
and I would be incapable of pinning down a single thought. That, in
and of itself, brought on sudden panic. I had always been very
cognizant of my dreams and night terrors, remembering them in vivid
detail. It went way beyond troubling for me to suddenly be devoid
of that clarity.

And then there was this inexplicable feeling
of violation.

All of it together was bad enough, but there
was something even worse happening—I wasn’t always waking up in my
bed. Sometimes I would find myself sprawled on the living room
floor. Other times, it might be the kitchen. One time, I had even
awakened lying next to my truck on the cold concrete of my garage.
I can personally guarantee you that is definitely not a place you
want to find yourself half-naked in the middle of winter.

I think perhaps that was the incident that
frightened me most. Upon gathering my wits, I had even felt the
hood of the truck to see if it was warm. It wasn’t, but it hadn’t
really meant much since I had no clue how long I’d been lying
there. For all I knew, the truck could have had plenty of time to
cool down. Of course, as cold as it was, I wasn’t suffering from
hypothermia, so my only assumption could be that it really hadn’t
been for very long. The only thing that finally quelled my panic to
any extent, however, was the fact that the fuel gauge hadn’t
appeared to have budged. So most likely I hadn’t been driving in my
sleep, but if I had, then at least I hadn’t gone far. Still, the
not knowing was a threatening cloud that had been hanging over me
ever since.

Other than the sensation of debasement, there
was one constant in all this I was able to grasp, that being no
matter where I awoke it was always with a very particular sort of
pain. It was always localized, though not always in the same place.
Sometimes it would be in my side, sometimes my back. Another time
it had been on my shoulder. Wherever it occurred on my body though,
it was always the same savage burning sensation. Fortunately, or
perhaps unfortunately, depending on your point of view, it would
always fade away within a handful of minutes and there would be no
visible evidence with which to identify its cause.

The fear and panic brought on by all these
constants was a different story. They took quite a bit longer to
subside.

So far, I’d managed to keep these
incidents to myself while I tried to figure out just what they were
all about. However, the increased frequency was making them much
harder to keep a secret. Unfortunately, my wife was bound to find
out soon, and she wouldn’t be happy about it. She knew as well as I
that when these kinds of things started happening to a
Witch—
especially me
—something
beyond terrible was about to make itself known in
spades.

And as usual, I was going to be right in the
middle of it.

Either that or I was finally going completely
insane. Given my recent history, I had to wonder if that might be
the preferable option.

* * * * *

As neighborhood diners go, Charlie’s
Eats at the corner of Seventh and Chouteau was just about as
boilerplate as you could get. Housed in the renovated and
whitewashed cinder block remnants of a long-closed gasoline
station,
Chuck’s
, as it was
affectionately labeled by the regular patrons, was busy 24/7. Being
located well within the Saint Louis city limits and not terribly
far from police headquarters, it was also a regular hangout for
cops. There were two favorites, Chuck’s, and Forty, which was
directly across the street from headquarters. Word among the cops I
knew was that Forty was the place for a quick sandwich or greasy
burger. Chuck’s was where you wanted to go for something served on
a plate—and to flirt with the waitress.

Whatever the case, time of day wasn’t even a
factor, as the greasy spoon never seemed to be at a lack for a
uniform at the counter or occupying a booth. Whether it was one
officer or several coming off duty or just taking a meal break,
there was always a blue shirt nearby. The small parking lot even
had a pair of spaces reserved just for city police cruisers.

I took a quick right from Seventh Avenue into
the entrance of the lot and then slowly cajoled my truck between
the rear end of an old station wagon and a slightly canted utility
pole. As I tucked my vehicle into the first available space, the
sun was just beginning to peek up over the jagged horizon that was
East Saint Louis, Illinois. Now that it was filtering across the
Mississippi river in a glittery band, it momentarily bathed the
city in that indefinable yellow-orange glow that immediately
precedes the actual dawn of the day. The eerie kind of color that
occurs only in nature, and then, fleetingly—a shade of the light
spectrum that will never be found in a box of crayons nor be
captured in exactness by any artist, no matter how talented.

As it always did, the glow rose quickly in
intensity to become a full-fledged sunrise, raising several visual
octaves from the chalky orange to bright yellow-white. I gave a
quick glance around the parking lot and spotted a tired-looking
Chevrolet van which I knew from first hand experience was nowhere
near as decrepit as it appeared. The vehicle’s owner was the reason
I had made this early morning trek into the city from the outlying
suburbs where I lived, and since I couldn’t see him through the
windshield, it was a safe bet that he was already inside the
diner.

I switched off the truck and levered the door
open, tucking my keys into my pocket as I got out. A crisp breeze
was blowing and the temperature was holding steady for the moment
at a brisk 42 degrees Fahrenheit. According to the radio, the high
for the day was expected to be somewhere around 65. Considering
that it had been in the mid 20’s on Thanksgiving day with snow
flurries, this was about par for the course. It was December in
Saint Louis, and it was as unseasonably unpredictable as it could
get.

I locked my vehicle, even though it was
probably unnecessary considering that there were two police
cruisers on the lot, not to mention that the person I was here to
meet was a city homicide detective. Security around here definitely
wasn’t much of an issue, but locking up was a habit, and a good one
at that.

I yawned as I started around toward the
front of the building. Even though for all intents and purposes I
was a morning person, I had been dragging a bit when I climbed out
of bed on this particular day. I had been up late working on a
piece of software for a client of my home-based computer consulting
business. I couldn’t complain, really. I got to work from home and
set my own hours. No neckties, no suits, and I did fairly well
pulling down a decent enough living for my wife and me. And with
her being an in-demand freelance photographer, we were actually
living fairly comfortably. Still, I’d be forced to pull a late
night every now and then, and last night happened to be one of
the
thens
.

I’ll admit though, in this instance it had
been less by absolute need and more by choice. With what had been
happening to me lately, I wasn’t in any real hurry to go to bed.
Don’t get me wrong, sleep was definitely something I had a strong
desire to embrace, but I preferred to wake up in the same place I
started, sans the pain, panic, and profanation. These days that was
a game of chance with the odds stacked in someone—or
something—else’s favor.

I stifled another yawn as I rounded the
corner of the building and dodged an exiting patron with a mumbled
“Sorry, excuse me.” Coffee, bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, and a host
of other
breakfasty
smells
enveloped me in a warm, olfactory hug as I grabbed the handle of
the glass-fronted door before it could fully close, then tugged it
open, and stepped inside the small diner. My ears were filled with
the murmurs of ongoing conversations between patrons, liberally
punctuated with throaty chuckles, clanging utensils, and barked
food orders—all of which were underscored by the sizzle and pop of
items on the hot griddle.

Directly in front of me was a
Formica-sheathed counter complete with vinyl-capped stools bolted
to the floor before it and the busy grill behind. Around the
perimeter were small booths, the cushioned seats of which were
covered with the same obnoxious red vinyl as the stools. A clear
Plexiglas enclosure occupied one end of the lunch counter, and its
shelves were piled with donuts on their way to being stale. A squat
cash register took up residence at the opposite end.

Aged but carefully lettered signs
posted on the wall offered such things as “Bottomless Cups of
Coffee” and “Slingers” to go—a local indulgence involving among
other things, hash browns, eggs, and chili. A sheet of paper was
laminated to the back of the cash register with strips of once
clear, but now severely yellowed, packing tape. Judging from the
fuzzy edges and lack of clarity, it was obviously a photocopy of a
photocopy to the power of ten at least. But it was still readable,
and posted in plain sight it boasted:
These Premises Protected by Smith and
Wesson
.

It took only a quick survey of the scene to
spot my friend in a booth at the back corner. Of course, it would
have been hard to miss him, considering that he was most likely the
tallest individual in the room with the possible exception of the
cook manning the grill. At the moment, however, he was certainly
the only full-blooded Native American present. Shrugging off my
jacket, I made my way toward him, my progress impeded for a short
time as I did a quick box step in the narrow aisle with a young
coffeepot-wielding waitress. With the dance and a quick apology out
of the way, I hooked around the end of the counter and traversed
the scuffed tile floor to the corner booth.

“Heya, Kemosabe,” Detective Benjamin Storm
greeted me as I slid into the seat opposite him.

“Yo, Tonto,” I returned before stifling yet
another yawn.

“Long night? Ain’t you usually the early
bird.”

“Yeah, usually.” I nodded then explained. “I
picked up a new client, so I had quite a bit of customizing and
data conversion to do for them, so I was up pretty late.”

I wasn’t about to tell him that the project
was something I could have easily done during regular business
hours. He had a tendency to worry about me just as much as my wife,
and if I told him what had been happening lately, I would end up
having both of them to deal with. Besides, something told me that
it was all going to come to the surface soon enough, so I was going
to make the best of what peace I had left.

“Decent cash?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s a pretty good account,” I
answered.

“Good deal.”

“Coffee, sir?” The young woman who’d done the
two-step with me moments ago appeared stealthily at our table, a
Pyrex globe of the black liquid in each hand. They were
distinguished, as usual, only by the green or orange pour
spout.