Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (44 page)

“Dammit, Ben!”

“Row, I told ya’, we’ll check it out. But, we
can’t just go bust ‘is door down without probable cause. Can ya’ at
least give me a motive?”

I heaved out an exasperated sigh. “Just the
other day Felicity told me she thinks he has a crush on her.”

“Just a crush, or somethin’ more serious?” he
asked. “Like, has he been stalkin’ ‘er?”

“I don’t know,” I couldn’t keep the urgency
out of my voice. “But he has been know to call here for no good
reason, and I don’t doubt what Felicity said.”

“Okay, okay, I believe ya’,” he said. “I’m
afraid a suspected crush ain’t gonna get us a warrant, but let’s
start by checkin’ ‘im out. You got a last name so we can get a home
address?”

“He won’t be at home,” I told him confidently
as I glanced down at the label on the box. I suddenly realized that
in my haste I’d neglected to give him a piece of information that
would have made my theory quite a bit easier to swallow. “He’ll
have her at the lab where he can take pictures of her.”

“Okay, then, we can start there then move ta’
the home. What’s the address?”

“Thirty-seven fifty-four Ash Bend
Avenue.”

He was scribbling in his notebook as I
recited the address. His pencil slowed and he looked up at me
silently.

“Yeah. It wasn’t a name. It was an
address.”

“But…”

“Dyslexia,” I said before he could finish.
“I’ll bet you anything that Heather Burke suffers from
dyslexia.”

* * * * *

Ben killed the headlights on the van and
eased it into the parking lot of Arch Color Labs, allowing the high
idle of the engine to slowly propel us forward as he surveyed the
building. It had taken us less than five minutes to make the trip,
and my earlier overabundance of nervous energy was returning in
full force. I reached for the door and popped the latch while the
vehicle inched along at a pace that would make a tortoise
ashamed.

“Dammit, Rowan!” Ben hissed as he quickly
twisted a control on the dash to extinguish the dome light. “What
the fuck are ya’ doin’? Close the door!”

“Well what are you doing?” I shot back
between clenched teeth. “Felicity is in there and you’re just
screwing around out here!”

“Listen, I understand where you’re at,
believe me, but we can’t just rush in there like the cavalry or
somethin’.”

“Dammit, Ben, he’s got Felicity!”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“I do!”

“Fine,” he spat, “I ain’t gonna argue
with ya’. But we’re doin’ this
my
way. Got it?”

It was all I could do to contain myself. The
earlier thud that had occupied my head was still there and seemed
to be acting as a pump for the visceral rage I was experiencing.
With each thrum of pain, I could feel the anger course through me.
It was rising fast, and it wasn’t going to be long before it
consumed me.

The van idled its way around a low retaining
wall to reveal the opposite end of the L-shaped parking lot. There
in the shadows of the far back corner sat a car. The tall lamps
positioned around the building poured their sodium vapor glow into
the night and cut a small swath across the front quarter of the
vehicle.

A vague memory of the night Ben had hurried
me out of my house in advance of the descending media flitted
through my mind. It was the Thunderbird that had been parked on the
side street across from my driveway. I recognized the blotches of
primer.

“Remember the car we almost hit the other
night?” I asked, pointing toward the T-bird. “You wanted to know if
he was stalking her… Well there’s your answer.”

“Yeah, I see it,” he grunted.

Ben brought the van to a halt next to the
concrete retaining wall and switched off the engine. The silence
that followed rang hollow in my ears, piercing directly into my
soul.

Through the windows, the interior of the
building appeared dark. The only sound inside the van was that of
me, Ben, and Helen breathing. The coldness of the night began to
quickly seep in.

“What now?” I finally asked, my words riding
out on a cloud of visible breath. “Are you waiting for an
invitation?”

“Rowan, ya’ wanna can it?” my friend ordered
more than asked. “Ya’know, if you were anyone else I woulda kicked
your ass by now.”

“Well, what are we doing?” I demanded, though
with a bit less harshness in my voice.

“We
aren’t
doin’ anything,” he instructed as he unlatched his door. “You and
Helen are gonna sit right here while I check around
back.”

My friend carefully unfolded himself from his
seat and climbed out of the van. Before I had any chance to retort,
he had quietly pressed the door shut and stalked off through the
darkness. I watched on as he disappeared into the shadows.

“Benjamin is correct, Rowan,” Helen told me
in a quiet voice. “He knows what he is doing. Let him handle
this.”

“I know that, Helen,” I answered, my tone all
but devoid of emotion. “But I’m having some trouble with the
concept at the moment.”

Her soothing voice and no-nonsense advice was
a welcome salve on my wounded psyche, but I was desperately afraid
that the prescription was too little, too late. Something that felt
completely beyond my control had already been set in motion. What
was most frightening to me was that I was fairly certain that I
didn’t even want to try stopping it.

“Based on your current demeanor, that would
be an understatement, Rowan,” she returned. “However, as I have
told you, it is a normal reaction to the situation… Do you remember
what I told you earlier today?”

I twisted in my seat so that I could see her.
“You mean about not letting my strength become my
vulnerability?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Helen, but it still sounds like
some kind of cryptic eastern philosophy type of advice to me. I
guess I’m stupid because I’m just not getting it.”

“Your innate strength, Rowan, is your need to
protect.”

“Okay.”

“By allowing yourself to be consumed by this
rage, you are walking a very thin line between protecting someone
you love and exacting vengeance. To do the latter would, in turn,
make you vulnerable to a host of unspeakable things—including your
own fears.”

I pondered her words for a moment before I
spoke. “Helen, did you know this was going to happen?”

“Not exactly.” She shook her head. “I sensed
that something was going to happen, but nothing specific. If I had,
I would have told you.”

“There’s quite a bit more to you than you let
on, isn’t there?”

She simply smiled.

I turned back to face forward then reached
out and unlatched the glove compartment. I thrust my hand into the
darkness and rummaged about carefully. I was banking on a recent
memory holding true, and when my fingers landed against the cold
metal I knew the account was still open.

Ben always carried a backup weapon—an actual
pearl handled, stainless, Smith & Wesson Model 649 “Bodyguard”
thirty-eight special to be exact. The only reason I knew the
specifics in such detail was that he’d sung the praises of the
short-barreled revolver and its shrouded hammer to me more than
once.

When I withdrew my hand from the compartment,
Helen couldn’t help but see the belt clip holster and handgun that
now filled it. To her credit she didn’t even gasp.

“I was under the impression that we had just
discussed this, Rowan” was all she said.

“We did, Helen.” I sighed as I withdrew the
gun from the worn leather and checked to make certain it was
loaded. Then I looked back over my shoulder at her. “We just didn’t
reach the conclusion you wanted. I appreciate everything you said.
I really do. And, to be honest, I’m sure you’re right, and I’m
wrong. But, right now I need you to get out of the van.”

“Why, Rowan?”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Tell me what you are going to do,
Rowan.”

“Tempered glass doesn’t really break as easy
as they make it look like in the movies” was all I said.

* * * * *

The anger had blossomed far beyond the most
severe level I had been able to imagine. I was so consumed with it
that I had gone beyond blind rage and moved completely into
calculated hatred.

Helen did exactly what she should have done.
She tried to stall me by refusing to get out of the vehicle. But I
had ventured well to the other side of reason, and since I’d
expected her to use this tactic, I was more than ready to call her
bluff. I climbed across and into the driver’s seat and then
adjusted it forward enough to reach the pedals.

She continued to calmly talk to me as I
twisted the key and fired up the engine.

She never once lost her cool as I slowly
backed the van across the lot in order to make enough room to build
up speed.

She finally got out when it became obvious to
her that I was going to go through with my plan whether she did so
or not.

I was already standing on the brake and
revving the engine until it was screaming when she exited through
the sliding door. When I felt certain she was safely away, I let
off the brake and the van bucked hard as it lurched forward.

From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse
of my friend racing around the side of the building as he watched
his van fly across the asphalt toward the front of the structure. I
braced myself with my arms stiff against the steering wheel and
glanced quickly down.

The speedometer read 32 miles per hour when
the nose of the Chevy leaped over the curb and connected with the
plate glass windows.

The initial impact was utterly surreal.

Countless shards of glass showered the front
of the van, sparkling in the glow of the exterior lights like a
torrential downpour of semi-precious stones. The tortured scream of
the over wound engine was joined by the multi-pitched peal of the
shattering windows, and at that moment everything seemed to stop
for the briefest instant. Languishing in an otherworldly vortex,
devoid of the passage of time for only a tiny fraction of a second
before rushing headlong into insane reality once again.

The jarring crash reverberated up my stiffly
locked arms and rattled my entire body. I fought hard to hit the
brakes, missing twice before finally connecting with the pedal and
raking my shin on the underside of the dash as I flopped around in
the seat.

The vehicle bucked hard and plowed directly
into the front counter, splintering the base and laminated top as
it pushed it from its mounting place on the floor. I pitched
forward on the second impact, and my face bounced against my hands
at the top of the steering wheel. My breath was forced from my
lungs, and I grunted hard as I was then lashed backward into the
seat.

Intense quiet suddenly filled the passenger
cabin of the vehicle. All motion had come to an end, and I was
staring through the windshield at the dark interior of the front
office area. I regained my breath and reached for my pocket where
I’d stuffed the revolver before starting my run at the building. My
fingers contacted the smooth surface of the weapon, and I tightly
clutched my fist around it. Shouldering the door open, I climbed
out of the van and landed unsteadily on a pile of glass and former
countertop.

The engine was idling roughly—sputtering and
choking as it fought to remain alive. The sharp odor of
photographic chemistries mixed with the stale water funk of engine
coolant. A cloud of steam was rising steadily from the front of the
Chevy, and I could hear water splattering on the floor. In the
distance to my back, I could hear Ben screaming my name. In front
of me, through an open doorway, I could hear the muted strains of
Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”

My body was already starting to ache, and I
could taste blood in my mouth. I ignored it and pressed forward.
Just over thirty seconds had passed since the van had first struck
the windows. I was immediately worried by the fact that Harold
hadn’t come running to investigate the horrendous noise. I was
certain that he was here, and so was Felicity. Fear gripped me as I
wondered about what he might have already done to her.

I heard my name called again, closer now. Ben
was sure to be coming to stop me. There was no longer any time to
think, there was only time to act. Picking my way around the debris
I stepped quickly through the doorway and into the dark
corridor.

I could hear the muffled sound of someone
frantically rushing about intermixing with the low tones of the
music, so I followed it. I heard the dying sputter of the van
behind me as it gave one final cough before shutting down. My
footfalls were echoing through the darkness at their own frenetic
pace, and Ben’s voice was growing even louder. He would be upon me
soon.

I met the door at the end of the hall at
almost a dead run. I simply assumed that it would be locked.
Whether it was or not, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be sure. At any
rate, the discount-store-special pre-hung barrier gave way on the
second strike. The luan-encased frame shattered at the handle,
splintering loudly as the door swung inward on its hinges.

The pistol was stiff-armed in front of me in
my right hand as I pushed through the opening and into the large,
dimly lit room. My bad shoulder had been the battering ram for the
door, and it now burned with absolute agony. My ears were filled
with a rush of noise, and I realized that it was my own tortured
scream as the pain blossomed outward.

The room was laid out as a studio. Light
stands strategically placed with gel filters resting in holders.
Reflective umbrellas perched at angles, pointing diagonally toward
the ceiling in order to shower their bounced luminance back down
onto the scene. Rolls of backdrop fabrics were suspended from a
wheeled rack in a cascade, ready to be spooled out behind the
subject.