Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (37 page)

“Tell ‘im to get his ass back here now,” Ben
turned and barked over his shoulder. “I want everyone in the
conference room in fifteen. And have somebody get a map of the
streets around this shithead’s house.”

Detective Deckert acknowledged and
immediately relayed Ben’s message into the phone before hurrying
off to set up the meeting. Ben turned his attention back to the
thin-lipped, staunchly staring face of Agent Mandalay.

“Like I said, Special Agent, I’m busy. If
you’re still interested in helpin’, the tactical meeting is in
fifteen minutes.”

Her expression never changed as she hissed
venomously, “I’ll be there.”

* * * * *

“How in the hell can you stand wearing one of
these things?” I whispered my question to Ben through the darkness
behind his van.

I was trying to force myself to ignore the
itching sensation that was erupting over the majority of my torso
as we took our positions in the shadows. The air was unmoving and
viscous with humidity, and though it was already after ten in the
evening, the mercury had only dipped into the mid-eighties.

Rivulets of sweat brought on
by the tenseness of the situation, as well as the heat, were
tickling my chest and back as the force of gravity inched them
slowly downward. Mid-chest, a particularly sensitive bundle of
nerves began to complain. The more I tried to keep my mind off it,
the more intense it became, until finally, a violent itch burst
forth. Instinctively, my hand shot up to relieve the prickling
sensation with what promised to be an ecstatic scratch.
Unfortunately, instead of giving me the relief I sought, my fingers
impacted with a dull thud against the object of my earlier vocal
disdain—a
Kevlar
flak vest.

“Ya’ just do,” Ben whispered back. “Besides,
I promised Felicity I wouldn’t let ya’ get hurt.”

The tactical meeting had gone quickly as the
veteran members of the MCS had studied the enlarged street map in
order to plan the best avenue of assault. From the moment the
warrant was signed, the machine that was the Greater Saint Louis
Major Case Squad shifted into high gear—each individual doing
whatever was necessary to ensure the success of the operation. The
local police department had been immediately notified and the house
placed under surveillance. That had been just over an hour ago.
Thus far, the only activity in the residence had been the lights
going off.

We had stationed ourselves on a side street
diagonally across from the address while the rest of the force had
fanned out around the home. The houses directly behind and to
either side had been surreptitiously evacuated in order to keep the
occupants out of harm’s way. To someone such as myself who had
witnessed such things only on television cop shows, the entire
process seemed oddly surreal.

Every member of the Major Case Squad and more
than a handful of officers from the local municipality, uniformed
and not, were spread in a tight circle around the small brick
house. Here and there, if you knew exactly where to look, you could
occasionally catch a fleeting glimpse of one of them through the
shadows. A flash of eyes peering out the gap of a full-face-hugging
balaclava. A quick instant where the stenciled yellow POLICE on
someone’s flak vest came into view or even the glint of the
streetlights from the barrel of a gun.

“Are you sure you need this many people?” I
whispered nervously once again. “I mean, I’m not trying to tell you
your job or anything, but, you know...”

If Ben noticed my anxiety, which I’m sure he
did, he didn’t mention it. “I’m a great believer in excessive
force,” he quipped softly. “’Specially when it comes ta’ assholes
like this one.”

The streets were barricaded for two blocks in
either direction, and there had been no vehicular traffic for the
past ten minutes. The only sound to be heard was the almost
mechanical on-again off-again warbling of nature’s chitin-covered
orchestra in the trees. Even the city had fallen quiet, or so it
seemed.

The sound of a car coasting quietly to a stop
behind us violated the hush. I started nervously, and Ben simply
turned, still tactfully ignoring my jitters.

Detective Deckert had switched off the
headlights and killed the engine farther up the street then allowed
the stored momentum to roll the vehicle smoothly up to us. As
soundlessly as they could manage, he and Special Agent Mandalay
climbed out of the station wagon and gently pushed the doors shut.
Our position was fairly obscured by a tall evergreen hedgerow, so
they were able to duck down and remain unseen as they made their
way forward. The moon had stationed itself behind a shadowy wall of
clouds, and we were parked as far away from the streetlights as
possible. However, there was still enough of a dim glow for me to
see that Deckert had squeezed himself into a vest as well. Over
hers, Agent Mandalay had donned a dark blue windbreaker bearing the
stenciled logo “FBI” across the left breast.

“What the hell is he doing here?!” Special
Agent Mandalay hissed at Ben as she drew up next to us.

“Observin’,” he returned evenly.

“What do you mean ‘observing’?” she declared.
“This is a law enforcement operation. He’s a civilian.”

“Raise your right hand, Rowan,” Ben ordered
without taking his gaze from her.

“Do what?” I voiced my confusion.

He glanced over at me quickly. “Raise your
right hand.” When I had done so, he returned his cold stare to
Agent Mandalay. “Do you, Rowan Gant,” he began, “Swear to love your
wife, pet your dog, and uphold truth, justice, and the American
way, so help you whatever deity it is you Witches worship?”

“You can’t deputize him!” she hissed once
again. “This isn’t a cowboy movie!”

“Well, Rowan? Do ya’?” he pressed.

“Sure,” I replied, not knowing what else to
say.

“I’m going to have your badge, Storm!” she
pronounced angrily through clenched teeth.

“Jeezus Christ,” Deckert interjected in a
harsh murmur. “Will you two give it a rest!? We’ve got a psycho to
stop. If you’re that desperate to have a battle of egos, I’ll be
more than happy to ring the freakin’ bell for ya’... AFTER we catch
this guy.”

The combative stares lingered between the two
of them a moment longer, then Ben turned his head and reached up to
the microphone clipped on the shoulder of his vest and depressed
the talk button.

“All positions report in,” he whispered.

The radio on his belt, set
to low volume, crackled slightly as each of the pre-designated
teams reported in one by one. When all had answered their
readiness, Ben slipped his pistol from its shoulder holster and
hefted it slightly. Deckert and Mandalay followed suit, the latter
still frowning intensely as she quietly filled her hand with a
government issue
Sig Sauer
P226
.

“You do only what I tell ya’ ta’ do, when I
tell ya’ ta’ do it,” Ben directed the command to me. “Stay behind
me at all times, and if I tell ya’ to stay put, then don’t even
fuckin’ breathe. Got it?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I got it.”

With another quick glance at Agent Mandalay,
he thumbed the microphone switch once again and whispered, “All
right, we’re goin’ in.”

I had all but forgotten the earlier itching
of the flak vest. Now, as we stealthily advanced across the street
and up the steps to the porch of the old brick house, the
unpleasant chafing had returned with a vengeance. I was certain
that a large part of my discomfort was psychological, directly
related to the fact that I was unable to scratch.

I fought to relax and push the sensation from
my mind, but the tenseness of the situation had opened the valve on
my adrenal gland to full. Energy was crackling riotously through my
body like a downed power line in a storm and I noticed much to my
chagrin that my hands were shaking.

Ben flattened himself against the wall to the
left of the door and silently motioned with his empty hand. His
signals made it clear that I was to remain with him while Deckert
and Agent Mandalay were to take a similar position on the right.
Following his instruction, I pressed myself into the brick,
attempting to disappear into its face. Looking out over the front
yard we had just crossed, I could see various figures that had
advanced behind us, cutting off any avenue of escape for the
occupant of the house. I was greatly impressed by the precision
with which the entire operation was being executed.

After a few more wordless
signals, Ben reached over and slowly depressed the latch on the
screen door until it released with an audible metallic click. The
noise was something that wouldn’t even be noticed on a normal day,
but to us, it sounded as loud as a gunshot. He waited for an
eternity, then just a few moments more. No lights came on. No sound
issued from the house. The silence was broken only by the raspy
cadence of our own shallow breathing. I couldn’t speak for the
other three, but my heart was racing at a madman’s pace,
threatening to burst from my chest and be contained only by
the
Kevlar
body
armor.

Ben began pulling the screen door open at a
laboriously slow speed. All the while, his eyes remained locked
with those of another cop who had crept up the stairs and was now
crouched on the top step. I could only see the man’s eyes as his
face was obscured by the tight fabric of a full-face mask. Still, I
recognized him as Bill, the young detective that had given me so
much grief at the Major Case Squad briefing. He glanced over at me
briefly as a flicker of recognition ran through his eyes then gave
me a slight nod. From the manner in which the fabric covering the
lower half of his face momentarily stretched, I almost believed he
smiled.

The screen door was halfway open now, and Ben
kept a steady pressure on it, easing it wider by the second. The
aluminum frame pivoted almost soundlessly on the evenly spaced
hinges, making only a slight whispering sound of mild friction. It
was when the door reached three-fourths its open arc that my heart
stopped.

Maybe the frame was bent
slightly, maybe there was rust deep in the hinges, or maybe any of
a countless number of other reasons. Whatever the exact
maybe
was, the point was
moot. The door emitted a sudden small groan of protest, followed
instantly by a piercing creak that echoed across the empty street.
In the split second following the end of the harsh metallic wail,
the porch light snapped on.

Time slowed for me. I don’t know if it was a
supernatural effect or just a psychological aberration due to the
newness and intensity of the situation. Whatever it was, it made
the next few moments appear to me in what I can only describe as
Hollywood slow motion. Ben was nodding vigorously as he yanked the
door fully open, sending another series of loud groans resounding
through the night. As I turned, I saw Bill come up from his crouch
like a sprinter at the sound of a starting pistol. Two long strides
later, his shoulder met the wooden door, followed by his full
weight in motion, causing the frame to buckle and splinters to fly
in several directions.

The Hollywood slow motion
continued with a decelerated soundtrack meeting my ears. The
frenzied crash of the shattering doorframe was drawn out into a
banshee wail resembling fingernails on a chalkboard mixed with
marble-sized hail hitting a tin roof. Bill’s voice joined the
raucous clamor with a commanding, stretched out
“Pollleeeeeccccce!”

Detective Deckert and Special Agent Mandalay
had turned their heads to shield themselves from the storm of
fracturing splinters and were now slowly turning back as they
stepped out from the brick wall. Fluidly, they aimed their bodies
at the newly created opening, pistols held at the ready, and rushed
forward, echoing Bill’s cry.

A deep, rushing chord filled my ears, and at
its finish, I plunged into chaotic real time. By now, several other
cops had rushed up the stairs and were filing quickly in through
the now fully open door, their flashlights sketching comet trails
in the darkness. Ben was screaming “go, Go, GO!” as he waved them
onward, still holding the traitorous screen door wide open.

“You stay here!” he shouted at me as the last
of them passed us, and he whipped around the aluminum frame,
rushing headlong into the pandemonium.

A few short moments later, the clamor began
to subside, and I started hearing muffled shouts of “Clear!” from
several different voices. The interior lights snapped to life one
by one, casting a dim incandescent glow. Soon afterwards, Ben
returned to the front porch wearing a crestfallen face. He looked
at me sadly and motioned with his head for me to come inside as he
holstered his sidearm and snapped the quick-release shut.

“The son-of-a-bitch isn’t here,” he
pronounced dully. “He’s gone.”

“What about the little girl?” I pressed.

“He must have her with him.”

“But the porch light,” I protested. “It came
on when the door creaked.”

“Coincidence. It was on a timer.” He reached
up and angrily wiped the sweat from his forehead. “They were all on
a fucking timer.”

A
queer, pulsing static encompassed me as I stepped across the
threshold of the front door. I could feel the individual hairs on
my body as they hastily rose to attention, generating a painful
prickling sensation throughout. For the third time in the last half
hour, the insistent itching returned, appearing and disappearing in
mobile patches across my chest. Since the immediate physical danger
was well out of the way, I reached around and ripped apart the
Velcro tabs on the flak vest with an audible swoosh. I didn’t
remove it but loosening allowed breathing room for my
sweat-drenched skin and more importantly, enough space to slip my
hand in for a quick, blissful scratch.