Rowan Gant - Perfect Trust Part 2

Heather stumbled through her apartment toward the bathroom on a single-minded quest for aspirin. If she could make the pain go away then maybe she could concentrate. Surely she would be able to remember how she got here. People don't just lose entire chunks of time out of their lives, except maybe in those alien abduction movies.

"Yeah, right," she almost laughed at herself as she spoke aloud. "Get real, Heather. You weren't abducted by aliens."

Her fingers found the light switch automatically and flicked it on. She squinted and turned her head away as the sudden flood of luminance a.s.saulted her. She groaned audibly and wondered why her entire body seemed to ache. Flu, maybe?

That could be it, she thought. Flu, fever, and the whole nine yards. Yeah, maybe that was the explanation.

Still squinting she looked up and reached for the medicine chest over the sink.

Through slit eyes she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and gasped.

Her s.h.a.g of blonde hair was an absolute mess, but that wasn't what startled her most. Bright crimson smears streaked across her mouth and her face looked splotchy, uneven. It was as if someone had haphazardly wiped away heavy makeup.

Reddish-purple bruises stood out against the pale skin of her neck, almost as if they were glowing.

It was at this very moment that the source of her earlier fear called out from secret places within hidden memories.

The parking lot.

The pain in her side like an electric shock.

The medicinal bitterness on the back of her tongue.

The darkness.

The feeling of helplessness as rough hands groped her without apology.A deep feeling of violation bludgeoned her now. She backed away from the mirror as the earlier terror returned full force. Hot tears were already streaming along her cheeks, and she soon found herself pressed against the tiled wall. She allowed herself to slide down to the floor and hugged her knees against her chest even though it hurt like h.e.l.l.

Heather Burke sat on the cold floor and sobbed for a solid hour before finally summoning the courage to drive herself to the hospital.

"Did you already do a rape kit?" Detective Charlene McLaughlin asked before taking a cautious slug of her hot drink.

She was still working on a Chai Latte from the stop 'n grab she had hit on the way here, and was already regretting it. She knew better than to be adventurous and try something new this morning. She should have just stuck with her regular large coffee-two creams, four sugars. That way she would have known exactly what to expect. Charlee hated surprises, and what was in her cup this morning was definitely of the unexpected category.

Everyone called her Charlee. Some even called her 'Chuck', but only if they knew her very well. Even fewer people actually called her Charlene. Pet.i.te, and sporting an ash blonde pageboy coif, she could almost always be found wearing jeans and running shoes. Given her tomboyish appearance and tough demeanor, the moniker just seemed to fit.

Before her recent transfer to the s.e.x crimes unit, she had been a.s.signed to City Homicide. Among that close knit group of cops there had actually been a running bet that she didn't even own a dress or skirt. She'd made a deal and split the pool with an office worker by showing up one day wearing a nicely tailored skirt and jacket ensemble. She'd been totally uncomfortable the entire day, and vowed to never again wear pantyhose for as long as she lived, but it had been worth the looks on their faces-the hundred bucks cash was just icing on the cake. She never did tell them that she'd had to borrow the outfit from a friend.

This morning, she was dressed in her usual. A well-worn leather bomber jacket fit over her torso, hanging just loose enough to hide the nine-millimeter Beretta riding in a shoulder rig beneath her left arm.

"The nurse is finishing up with her now," the doctor nodded as they walked. "We called it in as soon as she arrived."

Christmas Muzak was filtering softly in from overhead to mix with the ambient sounds of the ER. It wasn't doing much to lift Charlee's spirits though. She had been on edge with an itchy, nervous kind of energy for over a week now. She'd had the feeling before and she knew what was coming.

She'd been fully expecting this call ever since that second case file hit her desk, and she'd been dreading it all the while."Good, good," Charlee nodded as she took another swig of the Latte. Yeah, this stuff was definitely an unpleasant surprise. "Get anything?"

"Unfortunately, not much."

"Did she wait?"

The doctor had traveled this road before and immediately understood the meaning behind the question. "No, not long. She said it had only been an hour or so since she regained consciousness. She had enough wits about her not to shower or clean up, so there's certainly evidence of the rape. We did collect s.e.m.e.n, and that will be on its way to the lab shortly."

"So she was unconscious? I'm already not liking the sound of this, Doc. You get pictures?"

"The regular routine, yes," he returned. "But she wasn't really abused. It seems almost like a date rape."

"This may sound cra.s.s, but what I wouldn't give for a simple date rape. She say whether she can ID the guy?"

"She can't remember anything other than that she thinks she was attacked in the parking lot of her apartment complex."

"She THINKS she was attacked?"

"She appears to be suffering from anterograde amnesia. Possibly drug induced."

"Yeah, that fits." Charlee nodded as she spoke, her mood darkening even more as the conversation progressed. "Blood test?"

"Of course. We'll screen for Benzodiazepines. Rophynol, GHB, etcetera."

They came to a stop outside the door of the treatment room.

"How about hickeys? She have any of those?"

"Actually, yes, there are a few large hematoma on her neck," he answered with a hint of surprise.

"I was afraid of that. Okay, let me see if I can bat a thousand here," she continued. "This woman is in her early to mid-thirties, pet.i.te, and blonde-Am I right?"

"Of course, but don't try to tell me that you are psychic, Detective," the doctor returned. "We gave all of that information when we called it in."

"Yeah, well that information is exactly why I'm here instead of a uniform."

The significance behind Charlee's comment was in no way lost on the doctor. He acknowledged it with a simple nod and a query of his own, "Serial rapist?"

"You didn't hear that from me. Not yet, anyway, but let's just say I've got two case files just like it on my desk right now. In my book, three makes it a pattern."

"I see," he nodded thoughtfully and motioned to the door. "Well, she's in here. If you need anything else you can have the nurse page me.""Hey, doc," she addressed him as he turned to go.

"Yes, Detective?"

"You going past a restroom or a sink?"

"Most likely, why?"

Charlee held out the almost full cup of Chai Latte to him. "Do me a favor and dump this c.r.a.p, will'ya?"

CHAPTER 1.

Overwhelming violation saturated my very being. I hated the feeling, but I clung to it like a piece of flotsam in a raging flood because very simply, it was all I had.

Waking up in a cold sweat seemed to be the norm for me as of late. When it had first started, it had only been once every few days, maybe twice at most. Now, it was rare for a week to pa.s.s without it happening three, or even four times. Recently, I'd even had an incident where it had occurred twice in one night. The lack of a decent night's rest was taking a measurable toll and I was definitely feeling the effects.

More often than not I spent my waking hours on autopilot, fueled by bitter coffee and an almost constant, insatiable desire for a cigarette. Considering that I'd quit smoking-well, except for an occasional cigar-somewhat over a year ago, I found the craving more than a bit unusual. Thus far, I'd managed to keep it in check with nicotine gum, but I wasn't sure how long that would last. The need was beginning to achieve absolutely ridiculous proportions.

Of course, one could easily imagine that after surviving a run-in with a crazed serial killer, nightmares would be expected. The problem was that I'm not exactly sure you could call these events nightmares; this is not to mention the fact that they hadn't even begun until several months after the fact. On top of that, the episodes weren't about my brush with death at all. At least, I don't think they were.

I couldn't really be certain to tell the truth.

The bald facts were that I would wake up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding in a furious attempt to escape the confines of my chest. My mind would be a jumble of nothingness and I would be incapable of pinning down a single thought. That, in and of itself, brought on sudden panic. I had always been very cognizant of my dreams and night terrors, remembering them in vivid detail. It went way beyond troubling for me to suddenly be devoid of that clarity.

And then there was this inexplicable feeling of violation.

To make matters worse, I wasn't always waking up in my bed. Sometimes Iwould find myself sprawled on the living room floor. Other times, it might be the kitchen. One time, I had even awakened lying next to my truck on the cold concrete of my garage. Rest a.s.sured, this is definitely not a place where you want to be half-naked in the middle of winter.

I think perhaps that is the one time that frightened me most. Upon gathering my wits I had even felt the hood of the truck to see if it was warm. It wasn't, but that didn't really mean much since I had no clue how long I'd been lying there. For all I knew, it could have had plenty of time to cool down. Of course, as cold as I was, I wasn't suffering from hypothermia so I must not have been lying on the concrete for too long. The only thing that finally quelled my panic somewhat was the fact that the fuel gauge hadn't appeared to have budged. So, most likely I hadn't been driving in my sleep, but if I had, then at least I hadn't gone far. Still, the not knowing was a threatening cloud that hung over me ever since.

One constant that I was able to grasp, in addition to the sensation of debas.e.m.e.nt, was that no matter where I awoke it was always with a very particular pain. It was always localized, though not always in the same place. Sometimes it would be in my side, sometimes my back. Another time it had been on my shoulder. Wherever it occurred though, it was always the same savage burning sensation. Then, it would always fade away within a handful of minutes and there would be no visible evidence with which to identify its cause.

The fear and panic brought on by all these constants usually took far longer to subside.

So far, I'd managed to keep these incidents to myself while I tried to figure out just what they were all about. However, the increased frequency was making them much harder to keep a secret. Unfortunately, my wife was bound to find out soon, and she wouldn't be happy about it. She knew as well as I that when these kinds of things started happening to a Witch-especially me-something beyond terrible was about to make itself known in spades.

And, as usual, I was going to be right in the middle of it.

As neighborhood diners go, 'Charlie's Eats' at the corner of Seventh and Chouteau was just about as boilerplate as you could get. Housed in the renovated and whitewashed cinder block remnants of a long-closed gasoline station, 'Chuck's', as it was affectionately labeled by the regular patrons, was busy twenty-four/seven.

Being located well within the St. Louis city limits and not terribly far from Police Headquarters, it was also a regular hangout for cops. Time of day was never even a factor. Whether it was an officer-or officers-coming off duty, going on duty, or just taking a meal break, the greasy spoon never seemed to be at a lack for a uniform at the counter or occupying a booth. The small parking lot even had a pair of s.p.a.ces reserved just for city police cruisers.

I took a quick right from Seventh into the entrance of the lot, and then slowly cajoled my truck between the rear end of an old station wagon and a slightly cantedutility pole. As I tucked my vehicle into the first available s.p.a.ce, the sun had just begun to peek up over the jagged horizon that was East St. Louis, Illinois. Now filtering across the Mississippi river in a glittery band, it was momentarily bathing the city in that indefinable yellow-orange glow that immediately precedes the actual dawn of the day. The eerie kind of color that occurs only in nature, and then, fleetingly-a shade of the light spectrum that will never be found in a box of crayons, nor be captured in exactness by any artist, no matter how talented.

As it always does, the glow rose quickly in intensity to become a full-fledged sunrise, raising several visual octaves from the chalky orange to bright yellow-white.

I gave a quick glance around the parking lot and spotted a tired looking Chevrolet van which I knew from first hand experience was nowhere near as tired as it appeared. Its owner was the reason I had made this early morning trek into the city from the outlying suburbs where I lived, and since I couldn't see him through the windshield it was a safe bet that he was already inside the diner.

I switched off the truck and levered the door open, tucking my keys into my pocket as I got out. A crisp breeze was blowing and the temperature was holding steady for the moment at a brisk forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. According to the radio the high for the day was expected to be somewhere around sixty-five.

Considering that it had been in the mid-twenties on Thanksgiving Day with snow flurries, this was about par for the course. It was December in St. Louis and it was as unseasonably unpredictable as it could get.

I locked my vehicle, even though it was probably unnecessary considering that there were two police cruisers on the lot, not to mention that the person I was here to meet was a city Homicide Detective. Security around here wasn't much of an issue, but locking up was a habit, and a good one at that.

Even though for all intents and purposes I was a morning person, I had been dragging a bit when I climbed out of bed on this particular day. I had been up late working on a piece of software for a client of my home-based consulting business. I couldn't complain, really. I got to work from home and set my own hours. No neckties, no suits, and I did fairly well pulling down a decent enough living for my wife and I. And, with her being an in-demand freelance photographer, we were actually living rather comfortably. Still, I'd pull a late night every now and then, and last night happened to be one of the 'thens'.

Of course, in this instance it had been by choice. With what had been happening to me lately I wasn't in any real hurry to go to bed. Don't get me wrong, sleep was definitely something I had a strong desire to embrace, but I preferred to wake up in the same place I started with it, sans the pain, panic, and profanation. These days that was a game of chance with the odds stacked in someone-or something-else's favor.

Coffee, bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, and a host of other 'breakfasty' smells enveloped me in a warm, olfactory hug as I tugged open the gla.s.s-fronted door and stepped inside the small diner. My ears were filled with the murmurs of ongoing conversations between patrons, liberally punctuated with throaty chuckles, clangingutensils, and barked food orders; all of which were underscored by the sizzle and pop of items on the hot griddle.

Directly in front of me was the Formica-sheathed counter complete with vinyl-capped stools bolted to the floor before it, and a busy grill behind. Around the perimeter were small booths, the cushioned seats of which were covered with the same obnoxious red vinyl as the stools. A clear Plexiglas enclosure occupied one end of the lunch counter and its shelves were piled with donuts on their way to being stale. A squat cash register took up residence at the opposite end.

Aged, but carefully lettered signs posted on the wall offered such things as 'bottomless cups of coffee', and 'Slingers' to go-a local indulgence involving among other things, hash browns, eggs, and chili. A sheet of paper was laminated to the back of the cash register with strips of once clear, now yellowed, packing tape.

Judging from the fuzzy edges and lack of clarity, it was obviously a photocopy of a photocopy to the power of ten at least. But it was still readable and posted in plain sight it boasted, 'These Premises Protected by Smith and Wesson'.

It took only a quick survey of the scene to spot my friend in a booth at the back corner. Of course, it would have been hard to miss him, considering that he was most likely the tallest individual in the room, with the possible exception of the cook manning the grill. At the moment, however, he was certainly the only full-blooded Indian present. Shrugging off my jacket, I made my way toward him, my progress impeded for a short time as I did a quick box step in the narrow aisle with a young coffeepot-wielding waitress. With the dance, and a quick apology out of the way, I hooked around the end of the counter and traversed the scuffed tile floor to the corner booth.

"Heya, Kemosabe," Detective Benjamin Storm greeted me as I slid into the seat opposite him.

"Yo, Tonto," I returned before stifling a yawn.

"Long night? You're usually the early bird."

"Yeah," I nodded. "Picked up a new client so I had quite of a bit of customizing and data conversion to do for them."

I wasn't about to tell him that the project was something I could have easily done during regular business hours. He had a tendency to worry about me just as much as my wife, and if I told him what had been happening lately I would have both of them to deal with. Besides, something told me that it was all going to come to the surface soon enough.

"Decent cash?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's a pretty good account," I answered.

"Good deal."

"Coffee, sir?" The young woman who'd done the two-step with me moments ago appeared stealthily at our table, a Pyrex globe of the black liquid in each hand. They were distinguished, as usual, only by the green or orange pour spout."Absolutely," I answered, instantly turning the heavy mug in front of me upright and sliding it toward her. "Regular, please."

She deftly filled the mug, pouring expertly from the side of the pot, then topped off Ben's in the same fashion. "You guys ready to order, or you want a few minutes?"

"I'm ready." Ben looked over at me questioningly. "How 'bout you, Row?"

"Uhmm," I muttered as I pulled a single page menu encased in well-worn laminate from behind the napkin holder and gave it a quick once over. "How about... A number three, over-easy, wheat, and a side of biscuits with sausage gravy."

"Ewwww, runny eggs? Don't you know you can get sick from those," she said as she wrinkled her nose.

"Wendy isn't exactly the most tactful person when it comes to her opinions," my friend expressed.

"Oh, shut up, Storm," she chastised Ben with a good-natured familiarity, which told me he was a regular here just as I'd suspected. Then, turning back to me she offered, "How about scrambled instead?"

"Would that make you feel better?" I quipped with a grin.

"Yes. Yes it would."

"Okay, scrambled is fine."

"You want cheese on those?"

"Sure."

"Cheddar, American, or Monterey Jack?"