Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (46 page)

I rested my hand against a pile of
photographs and slowly shuffled through them. They were a mix of
black and white and color eight-by-tens. Each one contained a woman
who on first glance looked much like my wife but upon closer
inspection obviously was not. The poses and modes of dress ranged
from sophisticated fashion to tasteful nude. Others began somewhere
around cheesecake then degenerated into downright pornographic.

Two things they all shared in common were the
vacant stares and highly contrasted makeup jobs. In grey tones they
looked ghostly. In color they looked plastic and even
clown-like.

“He shot enough close ups of all of ‘em ta’
be able ta’ positively identify each of the women, even with the
hair and makeup,” Ben was telling me. “Includin’ Debbie
Schaeffer.”

“What happened there, do you think?” I spoke
the question softly as I continued to peruse the visual diary of
infatuated insanity.

“Nut job says she just quit breathin’,” my
friend harrumphed in a disgusted tone. “Doc over at the morgue says
that could be consistent with a Rohypnol OD, so that’s what we’re
figurin’.”

“So he admitted that he took her?”

“Hell, Row, he admitted to all of ‘em,” Ben
returned. “His mouthpiece couldn’t get ‘im ta’ shut up. We just sat
back and listened.”

“Did he say why he dumped her out on Three
Sixty-Seven?”

“Yeah, actually,” he spat. “Get this—it was
convenient for ‘im because he was headin’ in that direction.”

“What about Paige Lawson?”

“Just like we figured. When he saw the blood
he just left. Asshole actually had the gall ta’ look me in the eye
and say that it was unfortunate ‘cause both of ‘em were ‘almost
perfect.’”

“What did you expect?” I shrugged.

“I dunno. Maybe a little remorse.”

“So even without the confession you have
enough evidence to charge him with murder, right?”

“Jeezus, Row, we’ve got enough evidence
to charge the SOB with everything. Murder, rape, stalking… He’ll
even come up on federal charges for kidnappin’.” He sighed heavily.
“Unfortunately, he’ll never see
real
prison. He’ll end up in the prison ward of
a mental institution.”

“Something inside me still wants him dead,” I
stated coldly.

“Yeah, well that stays between you, me, an’
the fuckin’ wall, okay?” he told me, his voice taking on a stern
edge. “I lied my ass off about what really happened that night, and
I don’t need ya’ screwin’ it up with an uncensored attack of
emotional honesty.”

“Sorry. I just can’t help feeling that
way.”

“I know, but he’s a whack job, Row.
Shrinks say he’s delusional. Get this, he actually
believes
that he an’ Felicity are a
couple. Hell, he’s been accusin’ you of taking ‘er from
him
and wants ta’ file charges.
Keeps demandin’ we arrest ya’ for kidnappin’.”

“Really…”

“Yeah…fucked up, huh?”

My fingers brushed against another pile of
photographs, and I slid them into view. This time images of my wife
leapt out at me, and they weren’t of someone dressed as her. They
were of the real thing.

There were pictures of her in front of our
house working in the yard, getting into her Jeep, getting out of my
truck, different times of day, different clothing, even different
seasons of the year. He’d been watching her for a long time. Too
long.

“By the way,” Ben added. “You were right. I
forgot ta’ tell ya’, but when we talked ta’ Heather Burke I found
out she does have dyslexia. Very mild case, but she definitely has
trouble with it if she’s tired.”

“Thought so,” I answered.

“Okay, so you answer one for me.”

“What’s that?”

“You and the Red Squaw are so tight that ya’
can feel each others pain, right? I mean…I’ve seen ya’ do it.”

“Yeah,” I acknowledged with a nod. “It’s been
known to happen.”

“Well, with all that hocus-pocus
Twilight Zone
shit ya’ do, why
didn’t ya’ feel it when she got zapped by this creep?”

“Best guess? I was otherwise occupied by an
angry cheerleader at the time. Then, after that, probably a
combination of the Rohypnol shutting her down and my own mental
state kept me from feeling her presence at all. Wrong place, wrong
time, and a lot of supernatural interference.”

“So Schaeffer really fucked with ya’ bad,
didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I nodded without looking back at him.
“She’s a very determined spirit. Pretty annoying too.”

“She gone?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I returned. “I
haven’t felt her around since that night, so I hope so.”

“Too freakin’ weird for me.”

“Me too, Ben,” I agreed as I looked back at
him. “I’m a Witch, not a Ouija board. I’m starting to wonder if the
spirits on the other side understand that.”

Silence filled the hollowness behind my
words, and we continued to stand there, Ben massaging his neck in
deep thought. I turned back to the table and stared at a picture of
Felicity as she was seen through the eyes of a lunatic. As I looked
at the photograph, I had to admit to myself that the composition
and tone held a message. In this particular instance at least, he
seemed to view her with almost as much reverence as I did.

That fact did little for my current state of
mind.

After a moment my friend cleared his throat
and spoke quietly, “So…ya’ done here?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m done,” I finally answered.
“For now.”

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” he said as he
pulled open the door. “There’s one other thing I need to tell
ya’.”

“What’s that?”

“Ya’ owe me for a radiator, one tire, and a
crapload of body work.”

“You don’t have to do this, then,” the woman
insisted, her words were thick with an Irish brogue that would
always beset her when she was emotionally distraught.

“Yes, I do,” the man answered her with a calm
note in his voice.

Her long, spiral curls of auburn hair were
piled atop her head in a loose Gibson girl, and her green eyes
flashed wetly with deep concern. She’d tried anger already and it
hadn’t worked. She’d even been willing to try guilt, but he still
hadn’t budged. He knew her too well.

Now, she was back to making demands.

“What did Ben say?” the woman contended, as
if the answer to her question would somehow make a difference.

“The same thing you just said,” the man
replied.

She watched as he ran his hand across the
lower half of his face, thoughtfully brushing his bearded chin. She
noticed that he winced for a moment as his fingers caught the still
healing wound on his upper lip.

She took on a pleading tone. “Then why are
you doing it?”

“Because we can’t keep living like this,” he
answered. “Because I want us to have our lives back.”

“How can we have our lives back if you get
yourself killed?”

“I’m not going to get myself killed.”

She was crying now. “Damn your eyes, Rowan
Linden Gant, you’d better not, then. Aye, you’d better not.”

An active member of the HWA (Horror Writers
Association), M. R. Sellars is a relatively unassuming homebody who
considers himself just a “guy with a lot of nightmares and a word
processing program.” His first full-length novel, Harm None, hit
bookstore shelves in 2000 and he hasn’t stopped writing since. He
says that the biggest adjustment he has had to make with his
writing career is coping with the time spent away from his family
while traveling on promotional tours. Still, he approaches it with
the same humorously deadpan and occasionally acerbic wit that he
applies to life in general.

All of the current novels in Sellars’
continuing Rowan Gant Investigations saga have spent several
consecutive weeks on numerous bookstore bestseller lists as well as
a consistent showing on the Amazon.com Horror/Occult top 100.

Sellars currently resides in the Midwest with
his wife, daughter, and a host of what he describes as “rescued,
geriatric, special-needs felines.” At home, when not writing or
taking care of the household, he indulges his passions for cooking
and hanging out with friends.

M. R. Sellars can be found on the web at:

www.mrsellars.com

Brainpan Leakage the M. R. Sellars Satire Blog

www.brainpanleakage.com

OTHER BOOKS BY M. R. SELLARS

The Rowan Gant Investigations

HARM NONE

NEVER BURN A WITCH

PERFECT TRUST

THE LAW OF THREE

CRONE’S MOON

LOVE IS THE BOND

ALL ACTS OF PLEASURE

THE END OF DESIRE

BLOOD MOON

MIRANDA

(Available in both print and e-book editions)

Other

YOU’RE GONNA THINK I’M NUTS…

(Novelette included in Courting Morpheus Horror
Anthology)

MERRIE AXEMAS: A KILLER HOLIDAY TALE

(Novella)