Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation (9 page)

“Exactly,” I affirmed, ignoring his
sardonic addition. “It
is
nice handwriting. But it’s not
my
handwriting.”

“Whaddaya mean? I thought ya’ said you wrote
it.”

“I did, but not of my own volition.”

“You wanna explain that?”

I sighed. I’d been through this with him
already when I’d called, but obviously either I hadn’t made myself
clear or he’d been ignoring me. I suspected it was the latter, but
considering the altered states I’d been in recently, I couldn’t say
for sure.

“It’s called automatic writing, Ben,” I
explained. “It’s a psychic event that occurs when a spirit or
entity channels through someone on this plane of existence. The
person doing the channeling simply acts as the conduit for the
spirit who then communicates by writing.”

“Okay…” my friend said as he tilted his
chair back forward and picked up the notepad once again. “So what
you’re sayin’ is that this is one of those
Twilight Zone
things?”

“It has to be.” I nodded. “I was completely
unaware of the fact that I was writing any of that until it was
pointed out to me. Also, I was writing with my left hand. I’m
right-handed.”

He picked up a large mug and took a swig then
set it back on the stained blotter. “So if I’m connectin’ all the
dots here, you think maybe Paige Lawson is tryin’ to communicate
with ya’.”

“That’s my guess.”

“Okay.”

I was dumbfounded by the matter of fact tone
in his voice and his apparent lack of interest. I know I had at
least one false start before I managed to stutter, “What do you
mean, ‘okay’?”

“I mean, okay.” He shook his head and
shrugged. “I’ve seen some weirder shit than this since I’ve been
hangin’ around with ya’, so I’m willing to believe what you’re
tellin’ me here.”

“So? Are you going to do anything about it?”
I asked.

“Whaddaya want me ta’ do, Rowan?” he asked.
“I’ve got a pad of paper here that has a little rhyme written on it
about five jillion times.”

“Well shouldn’t you look into it? It’s a
message from a dead woman.”

“You don’t know that for a fact, but just for
the sake of argument, okay… Let’s say Paige Lawson is communicatin’
with ya’. I gotta admit I can see where she’s comin’ from. I expect
that if I was dead I wouldn’t be all that happy about it
either.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe what he was
saying.

“Look, it’s not like this is some kind of hot
clue you’re handin’ me here. It’s a piece of paper that says
someone is dead and ain’t happy about it. News flash, Kemosabe, we
already knew the first part… The second part’s just kinda obvious,
don’t ya’ think?”

“But…”

“But nothin’, Row.” He cut me off before I
could even form the objection and then ran his hand up to smooth
his hair. “Look, here’s the real deal, between you and me. It’s
lookin’ like this might not even be a murder. We’re still waitin’
on the autopsy, but there were no signs of a struggle. No forced
entry. The place wasn’t trashed. She wasn’t shot, stabbed, or
beaten. The only thing out of place is a small welt on the side of
her neck…”

“Which side?” I interrupted quickly.

“Left, I think. Why?”

“Because I had a burning sensation on my neck
last night.” I indicated the area with my hand. “It was on the left
side too.”

“Okay,” he shrugged, “but if you’d let me
finish what I was sayin’, you’d know that didn’t kill ‘er. It could
be from a thousand different things, so even though we haven’t
discounted it, it’s prob’ly nothing. The preliminary report I got
from the coroner says she has a blunt force trauma to the side of
her head that could be consistent with the corner of the end table
just inside ‘er doorway. It looks like she prob’ly just slipped,
fell, an’ clocked ‘erself. Damn shame for a young, good lookin’
woman like her, but it happens.”

“But why was I there, Ben?” I implored. “What
made me show up at the scene like that?”

“You tell me,” he stated with a frown.
“‘Cause I’ll be honest, it’s got me a little worried.”

“So you mean you think I’m right and it might
not have been just an accident?” I latched on to the glint of hope
in his words.

“No,” he shook his head vigorously and
turned the glimmer to worthless pyrite. “I’m worried about
you
. I think what happened out on
that bridge earlier this year has still got you fucked
up.”

“That’s not it, Ben, and you know it.”

“Felicity? A little help.” Ben appealed as he
looked over at her.

“I have to agree with him, Row,” she stated,
voice even. “You haven’t been yourself lately at all.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I muttered, more
than just a hint of incredulity in my tone. “You’re on Ben’s side
with this? Come on, Felicity, last time I checked you were just as
open minded about this kind of thing as me. You’ve seen the things
that have happened. You’ve even experienced them first hand.”

“Yes, I have,” she agreed. “But I was never
in as deep as you have been. This is different somehow. Ever since
you got involved in that investigation last February, you’ve seemed
disconnected. Ungrounded. You even admitted it then.”

“Yes I did, but that was months ago. I’m well
over that.”

“No, you’re not,” she replied. “In some ways
you’re even worse than you were then. You’ve seemed almost out of
control at times.”

“Out of control how?”

“Like tonight,” she asserted. “Disoriented.
Not knowing who or where you are.”

“But this was an isolated incident.” I spoke
the lie and didn’t look back. I figured I’d be caught in it
eventually, but I thought I’d at least have some time to prove I
was on to something important. I definitely wasn’t expecting my
capture to be so immediate.

“Rowan, you’ve been sleepwalking for almost
two months now.” My wife offered the truth back to me without
judgment or anger—just a simple recitation of cold fact. “And the
night terrors came like clockwork before that. I know you thought
you’d kept them hidden from me, but you didn’t.”

We were fortunate, for the sake of my ego
anyway, that the homicide division was less than fully staffed at
the moment. There was no one close by enough to overhear the
embarrassing revelations that were being put forth. I looked over
at my friend’s somber face as he nodded and stared at me from
behind his desk.

“I’ve known for a while too, white man.
Felicity called me. Why do you think she was so mad at me earlier
when she thought I might have brought you in on this? I gotta admit
though, I was pretty surprised to have you turn up at an active
crime scene like that.”

I sat there completely mute. I wanted to be
angry with them both, and in a sense, I was. I wanted to lash out
at them for engaging in these clandestine discussions behind my
back. I wanted to admonish them for their conspiring to betray me.
But I was still rational enough to realize that I was dealing with
my wife and my best friend, and that they were obviously worried
about me. The growing conflagration that was my ire was quickly
reduced to a smolder when I asked myself simply, what if the two of
them were correct? What if I was, in point of fact, out of control?
What if I was so completely disconnected and ungrounded that I was
starting to channel anything and everything without discrimination.
The prospect brought a completely new and totally real fear into
the fold.

“Listen, Row…” Ben now had a business card in
his hand and was fiddling with it aimlessly. “Remember I told ya’
my sister had moved inta town?”

“Yeah,” I answered absently as I contemplated
what my situation might possibly have now become.

“Well, here’s the deal,” he continued. “She’s
a shrink…a good one. Hell, I’ve called ‘er a coupl’a times for
advice myself. She’s even helped me with some of the shit I deal
with on the job, and you know how I feel about shrinks.” Ben paused
and brought a hand up to massage his neck then held the card out to
me. “Anyway, Felicity and I have discussed it, and we both think it
might be a good idea for ya’ ta’ talk to ‘er.”

“So now I’m crazy,” I said.

“No, Rowan, that’s not what we’re saying at
all,” Felicity interjected.

“It’s called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,
Row,” my friend offered. “We see it here all the friggin’ time. I’m
not sayin’ I’m qualified ta’ diagnose it, but if anyone’s a prime
candidate, Bubba, it’s you.”

He had a point. It was even a valid one.
Still, a painful depression was starting to set in. I’d fought
harder than I’d ever thought I could just to get Ben to accept the
things I was telling him at times—things where I had no tangible
proof of their validity. I’d eventually won. I’d managed to
convince him and others that I wasn’t a raving lunatic, and he had
for a time accepted my word on an almost blind faith.

Now, I was right back where I started—maybe
even a step or two to the negative—and it was very possible that
this time I wasn’t the one controlling the dice.

“Just what do you think she’s going to do
when I tell her I’m a Witch?” I tried to play the only card I had
left.

“Not much, Kemosabe,” my friend replied.
“She’s quite a bit more open than most folks. Hell, we’re fuckin’
Indians, think about it.”

“Yeah, and you’re the biggest skeptic I know.
So what’s your excuse?”

“You don’t wanna know,” he grumbled then
shifted back to the original focus. “Besides, doesn’t matter. She
already knows about it. I’ve told her about the two of ya’.”

Felicity had taken the business card from Ben
as I sat there in silence, mulling over exactly how much I despised
being backed into a corner. I felt a small spark of defiance deep
inside, but I was going down fast. I still desperately needed
something to cling to—some kind of life preserver that would keep
me afloat long enough to give me a fighting chance.

I allowed my stare to fall on the surface of
the desk before me and the answer became instantly clear.
Deliberately, I reached across and picked up the notepad, which had
been the center of our earlier discussion. Slowly, I peeled off a
pair of the pages and tossed them back on the blotter in front of
Ben.

“Now, here’s
my
deal,” I submitted carefully. “I go talk to
your sister, and you have the crime lab compare the handwriting on
those papers with Paige Lawson’s.”

“Row…” He began shaking his head as a furrow
formed across his brow.

“I’m not asking much, Ben.” I held fast.
“Just find out if it’s her handwriting and let me know one way or
the other. That’s it.”

“Okay.” He finally nodded but still kept a
frown plastered to his face. “Okay, but I don’t know what it’s
gonna get ya’.”

“A place to start” was all I said.

* * * * *

“So are you mad at me?” Felicity asked, her
voice somber as she guided her Jeep down an exit ramp and off the
highway.

Our trip from police headquarters thus far
had been made in almost total silence. The reason was not so much
because either of us were angry, but because there was simply too
much to think about. The extent of our conversation to this point
had been my asking whether we should swing by to pick up my truck.
In truth, I actually had no idea where I’d left it, plus all I
really wanted to do right now was sleep. I wasn’t disappointed in
the least when she told me that task had already been handled.

It was approaching mid-day, and the sky was
still heavily overcast with a flat-bottomed stratum of grey clouds.
A misty rain had begun to fall at some point while I was still
being held captive by the hospital, and it hadn’t yet subsided.
Winter’s chill was sharp in the air, even with the official start
of the season still a few days away. The temperature was staying a
few steps ahead of the magical point where precipitation
solidifies, effectively making the difference between the landscape
being a “winter wonderland” and “wintry blah.” Depending on your
tastes, it was the kind of day that either made you feel great to
be alive or depressed you into a mood that begged to be slept off
like a bad drunk. Since I was already lacking in the sleep
department, I was being pushed toward the latter with hardly any
resistance.

“Not really,” I replied. “Although, I wish
you’d said something about all this earlier. Then maybe I wouldn’t
have wasted so much energy trying to keep you from finding
out.”

“Why didn’t you want me to know anyway?”

“It wasn’t something you needed to worry
about,” I answered. “You have enough to do without taking on my
problems.”

“Row,” she admonished, “we’ve had this talk
before.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, “but you get a little
overprotective at times.”

“Aye, and just what is it you’d call what
you’re doing then?” A slight hint of her normally veiled Irish
brogue seeped into the question, audibly announcing her growing
fatigue.

“Yes… I’m being overprotective too,” I
returned. “But that’s nothing new.”

“And it’s something new from me then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

We were only a few blocks from home when she
gave a quick downshift and turned the Jeep into a parking lot of
what appeared to have once been a multi-tenant strip mall but was
now occupied by only a single business. Hooking past a light
standard, she serpentined through the lot then pulled into a space
before the entrance of Arch Color Labs. She shifted into neutral
then set the parking brake before switching off the engine.

“What
are
you saying then?” she asked as she peered at
me, her green eyes searching for a hidden answer. “Are you saying
it’s okay for you but not for me?”