Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (40 page)

“There’s got to be something we can do,” I
appealed.

“There is,” my friend answered. “Call it a
night and come back at it fresh.”

I opened my eyes as I twisted my arm around
and looked at my watch. “But it’s only a little after five.”

“Yeah, and it’s freakin’ Christmas Eve,
Rowan,” he said. “Remember? Santa Claus, reindeer, divine births of
babies in mangers, goodwill towards men? You know, all that holiday
stuff? We’ve done all we can do today.”

“What about Debbie Schaffer’s parents?” I
pushed the button he had revealed earlier in the day.

My friend frowned at me, hard. The kind of
thin-lipped scowl that told me instantly that I shouldn’t have
ignored the sign next to the button that read, “Caution: Do Not
Press.”

“Like I said before,” he snarled, “it’s gonna
be a real disappointin’ holiday.”

“Sorry, Ben,” I apologized, “I shouldn’t have
gone there.”

“Yeah, well now that you’ve been there, do me
a favor and remember that.”

“Okay, you two,” McLaughlin spoke up. “I’m
going to leave you to beat each other up by yourselves. I’ve got a
husband and daughter waiting at home for me.”

“Big plans?” Ben asked without looking
up.

“Scott always makes the traditional Turducken
for dinner, and then we just relax and enjoy being a family.”

“What the hell’s a Turducken?”

“A turkey that’s stuffed with a duck that’s
stuffed with a chicken. Oh, and there’s andouille sausage in there
too.”

Ben finally cast an eye over his shoulder. He
had a classic “give me a break” look creasing his face when he
said, “I was serious, Chuck.”

“I’m serious too,” she told him with a grin.
“Scott’s from Baton Rouge. It’s a Cajun thing.”

“No friggin’ way. A chicken in a duck in a
turkey. Bullshit.”

“Yes way. I’m not kidding.”

“I’ve had Turducken before, Ben,” I
interjected. “She’s really not kidding.”

“No shit. Well maybe you two should get
together then.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Well why stop there,” he submitted with a
shrug. “Shove that damn thing inta’ the bird ya’ served the other
night and ya’ can have yourself one big Osturduckenrich.”

* * * * *

The Trans Siberian Orchestra was filling the
cab of my truck with their particular brand of no-holds-barred
holiday music when I merged onto Highway 40. I had the volume set
mid-level so as not to drown out my cell phone if it was to ring.
My headache was still with me, but thankfully it had settled to an
almost ignorable dull thud somewhere in the vicinity of the right
rear portion of my skull. Of course, had it not been for the
two-fold reason of A) I liked the song, and B) I liked the song
enough that it was helping keep my mind from dwelling on things I’d
rather not think about, I would have turned the radio off
completely.

Unfortunately, there was still one item that
my mind insisted it be allowed to ponder, and that was the fact
that I still couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched. The
feeling had just grown worse as the day wore on. I’d been able to
keep it at bay, for the most part, since I was intensely occupied
with the cross-referencing tasks. However, now that I was alone and
somewhat relaxed, even the frantic rhythms of the music weren’t
enough to drive away that annoying itch at the base of my neck. I
physically shivered, trying to shake off the feeling, and took
another long glance in the rearview mirror.

There wasn’t much to see. Just a wide span of
blackness, marred here and there by a pair of headlights—nothing on
my tail. No one was purposely following me that I could tell. Of
course, I wasn’t any kind of expert on the subject. But it still
looked clear as far as I could see.

Even so, the feeling was still there.

I punched in the lighter on the dash and
fished a cigarette out of my breast pocket. This would be the third
one since I’d walked out of police headquarters. I spit out a
hollow cough and noticed tightness in my chest then stuck the butt
between my lips anyway. I really needed to do something about this.
Maybe now that I had connected the recurrence of the habit with one
of the victims it would be easier for me to break.

The lighter popped and I snatched it out of
its receptacle, touching the glowing end to the cigarette and
taking a deep drag. After replacing the device I took another puff
and tucked the smoldering roll of paper and tobacco between my
fingers.

“You know that’s really gross, don’t you?” a
painfully familiar voice bled through the music.

I tried to ignore the presence. I’d seen
enough for one day, and I simply wasn’t sure I could take any more.
I continued to stare straight out the windshield.

“I said, you know that’s really gross, don’t
you?” the voice insisted.

I still pretended not to hear.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, Rowan!” Debbie
Schaeffer demanded my attention again.

Without a word, I reached over to the
controls on the radio and moved the volume up a few notches. Almost
instantly the speakers let out a staticky pop and went dead.

“I said I’m talking to you, Rowan!” she
asserted.

“Well, I’m not talking to you,” I finally
muttered under my breath.

It didn’t really matter that I was mumbling.
I didn’t even have to speak for her to hear me. The simple fact
that I acknowledged her with my thoughts was enough to set her in
motion.

“And why not?”

“Hmmmm, let me see,” I offered in a sarcastic
tone, speaking a bit louder. “Could it be the fact that you’re
really fucking annoying?”

“You can do better than that.”

“Okay, how about that I’m not terribly
impressed with that little stunt you pulled this afternoon? That
good enough for you?”

As I finished the sentence, I glanced over at
the passenger side. As I suspected, there she was, fully decked out
in her cheerleading uniform, hair up in a ponytail, and her arms
crossed over her chest.

“I helped you find out what you were after,
didn’t I?” she stated more than asked. “You just needed a little
push in the right direction, that’s all.”

“Not literally,” I replied.

All of the progress I’d made so far
seemed to simply fly out the window. If anyone were to pull
alongside it would probably look like I was talking to myself. I
felt utterly insane sitting here having an argument with a ghost
while traveling down the highway on Christmas Eve. Of course, what
better night could one pick to be visited by a ghost? Do I
hear
Scrooge
,
anyone?

I let out a heavy sigh then told her, “I
think I liked it better when you just did the automatic writing.
You were a hell of a lot less annoying that way.”

“I’m not annoying. You just weren’t paying
enough attention,” she spat. “Besides, this is more fun.”

“Fun? Give me a break, will you? I’m doing
the best that I can. I’ve got my own problems you know.”

“What? Like I don’t have problems?”

“In case
you
weren’t paying attention, Debbie, the guy
who tried to kill me last February is running around
loose.”

“Yeah, so? I’m
already
dead.”

“So you’ve told me…repeatedly… And I hate to
tell you this but that’s something I can’t fix.”

“Don’t be so selfish, Rowan. You’re supposed
to be helping me. Paige is counting on you too.”

“What?” I exclaimed aloud.
“
Me
being selfish? What about
you?”

Yes, it was official. I had to be insane.
There was no other explanation.

“Yes,
you
being selfish. Here you are all
worried about your problems when I’m dead. Dead I am, dead I
am,…”

“…
I do not like that dead I am, yeah
Debbie, I get it. Will you please give the cheerleading crap a
rest?” I announced with a healthy note of exasperation. “Can we
move on to something else?”

“That’s up to you, Rowan. If you’ll just
start paying attention.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t answer. I glanced over at the
passenger seat and found an empty void. She was gone. Great, I
thought to myself. Now she’s going to give me riddles. Of course,
that’s what they all do. I’ve never understood why spirits can’t
just say what they mean and be done with it.

Although, I had to admit that this particular
specter was a first in my book. Most of the ethereal visits I’d
experienced tended to take place during a heavily tranced state or
even sleep. Clues were often complex strings of symbolic messages
that required serious deciphering. Debbie seemed to be phasing back
and forth between the planes at will and was even carrying on
conversations—cryptic yes, but conversations nonetheless. This was
definitely one I needed to record in my dream journal.

I jerked with a quick start as the music
suddenly returned, blaring through the cab of the truck. I reached
over and turned the volume down, then took a drag from my
cigarette, and propped my hand up on the steering wheel.

The lane dividing line flashed by in my
headlights, flickering in on-again/off-again reflective stripes. I
continued to stare out the windshield, over the top of the steering
wheel, and through the rippling column of smoke that was rising
from my burning cigarette. Eventually, reflex drove me to bring my
hand toward my face for yet another puff, and my vision was
suddenly replaced by a Technicolor flash of memory.

A lit cigarette smokes in his free hand as
the other pumps faster between his legs. I concentrate on the
glowing coal, not wanting to witness his self-stimulation. I watch
him raise the cigarette to take a puff and notice that it is
positioned between his middle fingers.

Curious.

I’ve never seen anyone hold a cigarette like
that before.

As the bloom of color faded, I jerked the
wheel quickly to the left in order to correct for my inattentive
drifting, which was just about to cause me to run off the road at
the Hampton exit. When I’d settled the vehicle back into the lane
and swallowed my heart back down into my chest, I stole another
glance at my hand. There between my middle fingers rested the
smoldering cigarette.

No wonder I was so screwed up. I wasn’t
channeling the victims; I was channeling the rapist. I had been all
along.

I started to reach for my cell phone in order
to call Ben but stopped mid stretch. There was nothing he could do
with the information at this point in time, so why bother him.
Besides, I’d be home soon. I’d pick up Felicity and we’d head over
to his house for dinner; therefore, I could tell him in person.

I glanced at the clock on the dash and saw
that it was now a quarter after six. It had taken longer to get
myself together and get out of police headquarters than I’d
expected. The last stop for the “Santa Brigade” was merely a
donation check drop-off at a food bank less than a mile from our
house. Make the presentation, a few quick pictures, and they would
be out of there, so Felicity was most likely already home by
now.

My biggest concern at this point was figuring
out how to pack an overnight bag for the two of us without her
asking why.

This was going to be a tough one.

* * * * *

It was 6:25 when I turned my truck into the
driveway of our Briarwood home. I slowly urged the vehicle toward
the garage at the back of the house, fully prepared to stop and
open the gate that normally barred the path but found it was
already propped open. I continued forward through the opening and
canted the steering wheel to the left. The motion from making the
turn around the corner of the deck triggered the outdoor sentry,
and floodlights snapped on to light the landscape. Felicity’s Jeep
was already parked in the garage.

My suspicions about timing had been dead on,
and I still had no idea how I was going to get the overnight bag
past her. The only resolution I had come upon was to forget the bag
altogether. I was going to have to come back to the house tomorrow
anyway, that much was a foregone conclusion. For one thing, there
was a house full of animals that needed to be taken care of, and
even with Ben’s promise of seeing to it, Felicity or I should be
involved in the process, and it might as well be me.

I sat there thinking about it for a moment.
We could easily set up extra food and water for the cats. The truth
was, they would probably enjoy having the run of the place for a
while. However, the dogs were going to require quite a bit more
attention. Either they would have to go with us, or we would need
to board them somewhere. Depending on how long this all took, that
could get expensive, unless one of our friends was willing to take
them in for the duration.

This lead to yet another thought—there was
the fact that we both worked out of the house. My office was here
and so was Felicity’s darkroom. Over the holidays it would be slow,
so we’d be able to manage, but that lull was going to be over soon
enough.

What if they weren’t able to find Porter
right away? What if he went on another killing spree in the process
of coming after me? What if he targeted my friends in order to get
to me?

I could feel myself shaking my head almost
unconsciously. I had no idea how we were going to make this work,
and I was starting to obsess about it.

I shifted the truck into park and switched
off the engine then took a deep breath. “Just take things one step
at a time,” I muttered to myself. “That’s what you need to do—just
take it one step at a time.”

Heeding my own advice I climbed out of the
truck and made my way up the stairs and across the deck to the
atrium door. The cool day had folded itself into a cold night, and
I could see my breath in a frosty cloud. I shuffled through my keys
then raised my free hand to the door handle, but I never got the
key into the lock. Upon resting my hand on the lever-shaped handle,
I pressed down out of reflex. The moment I did, the latch clicked
and the door swung inward.