Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (35 page)

My brain objected, but still it followed
orders and started shifting into a higher gear, so I held the
device up to my face and inspected the backlit LCD. Even with the
minor fog that lingered over my cognitive abilities, however, I
recognized the number instantly. My only comment was a heavy sigh
before shoving the device back into my pocket.

“Who is it?” Ben asked.

“It’s my father-in-law,” I replied
flatly.

“Aren’t ya’ gonna answer it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not in the mood for it right now.”

“You should answer it,” he urged.

“He’s already left a voice mail. He can leave
another one.”

“You mean he called before? When?”

“While you were still talking to the kid back
at the club.”

“That why you disappeared?”

“No,” I replied. “I disappeared because I
didn’t think I could handle hearing any more.”

“About what she…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he echoed then after a moment he
added, “Ya’know, your father-in-law might be callin’ about
‘er.”

“I’m sure he is,” I agreed. “She was the
subject of his first obnoxious message.”

“But, what if she contacted ‘im?”

“I doubt it, besides, he wouldn’t be calling
me if she did.”

“Don’t sell the man short, Row.”

“Have you ever met him, Ben?”

“No, not actually.”

“Okay then. Just trust me, I’m the last
person Shamus O’Brien would call if he knew where she was.”

“How can you know that?”

“It comes with the territory.”

“One of those Witch things?”

“Kind of,” I harrumphed. “Me Witch, him good
Christian.”

“But surely he would…”

“No, he wouldn’t,” I cut him off. “He’s just
calling to scream at me for corrupting his daughter and to blame me
for whatever trouble she’s in right now.”

“But I thought you two still got along.”

“Yeah, well, that was awhile ago. He used to
just not care for me, but over the past few years that’s pretty
much turned into hate.”

“Yeah, but even so, I don’t see how he can
blame you for this.”

“He’ll find a way.”

“Jeezus.”

“Yeah, him too.”

“Well, you still oughta answer it.”

“Too late,” I said. “It’s not ringing
anymore.”

“Then you should call ‘im back.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You should work it out, white man.”

I looked across at my friend, and I know the
expression on my face had to be a mix of surprise and disbelief. He
shot a glance my way then did a double take as I continued to stare
at him mutely.

“What?” he finally asked.

“Just getting a good look at the hypocrite
behind the wheel is all,” I replied.

“Do what?”

“You,” I continued. “I can’t believe that you
of all people are telling me how to handle my personal
relationships.”

He caught on immediately to my inference.
“That’s different. You don’t know the whole story.”

“And neither do you.”

“Fine. Fuckit,” he spat. “So don’t talk to
‘im.”

“I don’t plan to.”

“I was just sayin’ it might have somethin’
ta’ do with Firehair.”

I didn’t respond. Getting into an argument
with him wasn’t going to help the current situation, and besides, I
simply didn’t feel like it. The earlier funk hadn’t fled; in fact,
in light of the conversation, it seemed like it might even be
getting worse. It was rattling around inside my head as if waiting
patiently for me to return to its fold. I tried to tell myself to
run from it, but to be honest I didn’t see any chance of
escape.

And, of course, the more I fought it, the
sicker I felt.

“What happens now?” I finally asked.

“I guess we burn a lotta gas,” my friend
replied. “Unless I can talk ya’ into waitin’ at home until we hear
somethin’.”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Maybe.”

“Did you just say maybe?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Okay, so now I know somethin’s fucked up,”
he returned. “You aren’t seriously sayin’ you’d be willin’ ta’ go
home and wait, are ya’?”

“I don’t know, Ben,” I replied. “I just don’t
know anymore.”

“What gives, Row?”

“I’m tired.”

“Me too, white man,” he said. “But, somethin’
ain’t right with you, and it’s not because you’re tired.”

The nagging doubt bubbled to the surface, and
I found suddenly that I could no longer contain it. “What if I’m
wrong?” I blurted.

“Wrong about what?”

“About Felicity.”

“You’re not.”

“You’re the one who questioned me about where
she was…”

“I’m the one who repeated something because I
had no choice, Rowan,” he snapped. “Don’t read anything into
it.”

“But you said you weren’t so sure you didn’t
agree with them.”

“So I fucked up,” he replied. “I didn’t mean
it.”

“But…”

“But nothin’,” he returned. “Is that what’s
botherin’ you? You’re doubtin’ yourself?”

I didn’t reply.

“Answer me!”

“Yes, dammit!” I spat. “Obviously, I’m not as
in tune as I used to be. Maybe I’ve lost it. Maybe I’m wrong about
all of this!”

“That shit at the crime scene was Voodoo
stuff. You’re sure about that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Firehair was talkin’ with a Southern accent,
right?”

“Yes, but…”

“Shut up! She’s not actin’ like herself at
all, right?”

“Yes.”

“You ain’t wrong then.”

“I just don’t know anymore, Ben,” I
appealed.

“You got a headache?”

“Why?”

“Just fuckin’ answer me. You got a
headache?”

“Yes.”

“Is it one of those la-la headaches?”

“I think so.”

“There ya’ go.”

“There I go what?”

“Somethin’s fuckin’ with you, Row.” His voice
was filled with unshakable confidence. “Just like it’s fuckin’ with
Felicity. Now don’t let it win.”

The first strains of the “William Tell
Overture” began chirping through the cab of the van, and my hand
went into my pocket out of reflex. The minute I wrapped my fingers
around the cell phone, however, I started shaking my head.

“It’s probably my father-in-law again,” I
said aloud.

“That was pretty quick for a call back,” Ben
replied. “Maybe it really is important.”

I pulled the phone out and looked once again
to the LCD, but this time I was greeted with a wholly unfamiliar
number. The first thought to go through my head was that all I
needed right now was a client with a software problem. I considered
letting it go to voice mail but then thumbed the answer button
anyway and pressed it against my ear.

“Gant,” I barked into the device.

I heard shuffling at the other end followed
by what might have been sobbing.

“Hello?” I spoke again.

“Caorthann
?”
Felicity’s thick Celtic brogue came across the speaker in a pained
whisper as she uttered my name in Gaelic.

“Felicity?!” I yelped.

“…
Help me, Rowan,” she whimpered
again.

All I could make out through the choked sobs
that followed were the words “I think I killed him.”

The magnetic bubble light was once again
laying down its flickering red glow in front of the speeding van as
we headed east. As soon as we knew where we needed to go, my friend
had quickly exited the highway, looped us through various mid-town
side streets, then jumped onto 40 once again and pointed us back
toward Illinois.

“NO!” Ben stressed the objection loudly into
his cell phone. “Absolutely not… No, I don’t give a fuck… I’m
tellin’ ya’, don’t call ‘er… Let me handle this… Yeah…”

I tuned out his side of the conversation and
focused my attention toward my own cell. Felicity was still on the
line with me but hadn’t said more than a dozen words in the past
five minutes. Even though I continued to speak, trying to calm her,
all I could get from the other end was frightened sobbing and an
occasional “yes” whenever I asked her if she was still there.

“Felicity, talk to me,” I appealed.

Her only audible answer came in the form of a
hard sob, punctuated by a pleading whine that sounded like “What’s
happening to me?”

At this point, we didn’t know what the full
situation really was. After the initial shock of her call had
subsided, I had begun questioning my wife as to her whereabouts. At
first all she seemed to be able to do was sob, but I eventually got
her to tell me that she was in a bathroom. The sound of her voice
made me conjure images of her cowering in a corner, and that only
served to make the painful hollowness return to my chest.

After much gentle urging, I had managed to
coax her out of the bathroom long enough to tell me she was in what
appeared to be a motel room. Ben tried having the call traced, but
we only found that she was using a cell belonging to the individual
with whom she had left the club. While they worked on pinpointing
her location via the cell towers, I continued to do the only thing
I could—talk to her.

It took me another five minutes, but I did
convince her that she needed to leave the bathroom once again and
look for something that would tell her the name of the motel. I
found quickly that I was damning myself for putting her through it
as I listened to her hyperventilate and weep while she moved
through the room. Fortunately, it wasn’t in vain, as she eventually
came up with the needed information from the room key before
audibly scrambling back into the perceived safety of the bathroom.
I wasn’t particularly surprised that the number she squeaked out
happened to be seven.

While I suspected the numeral held a greater
meaning for the killer, I had a terribly sick feeling that it was
going to say something entirely different to the police
investigating the killing spree. After what Ben had told me
earlier, I had no choice but to believe there would be a tremendous
amount of significance placed on that fact in an attempt to tie my
wife to the murders.

Once we had the name of the motel, Ben had
made a quick call and determined that it was a dive known for cheap
hourly rates and a guest register full of Smith’s and Jones’. On
top of that, it was back across the river and only a mile or so
from the club we had recently left. In fact, we had to have driven
past it, both on the way there and back.

The only other thing I had been able to glean
from the mostly one-sided conversation with my wife was that
apparently, Brad Lewis was in the room with her. At least, that was
our assumption. All I could ever really make out was that someone
was there, that she believed “he” was dead; and moreover, that she
had been responsible for his death. I was hoping that she was
wrong, but the fact that she probably still had Constance’s sidearm
was making my stomach twist into a knot. While I had relayed the
information to Ben, he hadn’t let it go any further. I didn’t know
why he was keeping it to himself, but I appreciated the
discretion.

All in all, I counted us lucky to have gotten
as much as we did. Felicity seemed on the verge of absolute
hysterics at one moment, only to shift into quiet sobbing the next.
It was painfully obvious that she was completely disoriented, not
to mention scared out of her wits. I couldn’t truly imagine what
she must be going through at the moment, but my brain was
definitely barraging me with a host of emotions that I was
desperately trying to ignore.

I also didn’t even want to consider imagining
what she might have done. Even if I discounted the firearm, I felt
little comfort, as there were many other ways to take a life.

Of course, we don’t always get what we want,
and unlike the song says, we don’t necessarily get what we need
either. Since my brain was already stuck in overdrive with the
emotional attack, it began generating horrific scenarios to add to
the torturous mix. And, no matter how hard I tried to discount each
of them, they still played out inside my head with agonizing
repetition.

Not knowing what this Lewis individual
actually looked like other than a brief description, my mind’s eye
did the best it could with the imagery at hand. Unfortunately, what
that meant was that I kept seeing Officer Hobbes’ lifeless,
mutilated body with my wife standing over it. And, every time I saw
the flash of her face, she was wearing the wicked grin I had seen
twisting her features earlier in the day. I fought hard to deny the
image, but it soon became the only thing I saw each and every time
I blinked.

As if the torment my psyche was doling out
wasn’t enough, frustration was coursing through me like a heavy
static charge. The anxiety was so high that I could barely remain
still in my seat. A voice in my head kept telling me that I needed
to be with Felicity right now, this moment. I knew without a doubt
that this time the voice was my own.

I wanted to hold my wife in my arms and
protect her. I wanted to make all of this just go away.
Unfortunately, the voice also kept telling me that the last half of
my “want” simply wasn’t going to happen. Whatever had occurred
during the past few hours was going to be with us for a long time
to come, probably even forever.

Whether it was a word, the Gods, or simply
luck, I don’t know. But, whatever the subconscious trigger was,
something suddenly drew me out of my introspection and tuned me
back into the conversation going on beside me.

“…
Yeah,” Ben said again, still talking
into his cell. “Better get an ambulance… Good… No, I don’t know…
Yeah, guess you better call the coroner too, just in case… Yeah,
we’ll be there in less than five… Yeah…”

“Hold on, honey,” I said into my phone.
“We’re almost there.”

The only response I received was the sound of
her nasal whimpering, but at least that told me she was still at
the other end.