Rowan Gant - Perfect Trust Part 43

"Why, Rowan?"

"Because I don't want you to get hurt."

"Tell me what you are going to do, Rowan."

"Tempered gla.s.s doesn't really break as easy as they make it look like in the movies," was all I said.

The anger had blossomed far beyond the most severe point I had been able to imagine. I was so consumed with it that I had gone beyond blind rage and moved completely into calculated hatred.

Helen did exactly what she should have done. She tried to stall me by refusing to get out of the vehicle. But I had ventured well to the other side of reason, and since I'd expected her to use this tactic, I was more than ready to call her bluff. I climbed across and into the drivers seat, and then adjusted it forward enough to reach the pedals.

She continued to calmly talk to me as I twisted the key and fired up the engine.

She never once lost her cool as I slowly backed the van across the lot in order to make enough room to build up speed.

She finally got out when it became obvious to her that I was going to go through with my plan whether she did so or not.

I was already standing on the brake and revving the engine until it was screaming when she exited through the sliding door. When I felt certain she was safely away, I let off the brake and the van bucked hard as it lurched forward.

From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my friend racing around the sideof the building as his van flew across the asphalt toward the front of the structure. I braced myself with my arms stiff against the steering wheel and glanced quickly down.

The speedometer read thirty-two miles per hour when the nose of the Chevy leaped over the curb and connected with the plate gla.s.s windows.

CHAPTER 29.

The initial impact was utterly surreal.

Uncountable shards of gla.s.s showered the front of the van, sparkling in the glow of the exterior lights like a torrential downpour of semi-precious stones. The tortured scream of the over wound engine was joined by the multi-pitched peal of the shattering windows, and everything seemed to stop for the briefest instant.

Languishing in an otherworldly vortex, devoid of the pa.s.sage of time for only a tiny fraction of a second before rushing headlong into insane reality once again.

The jarring crash reverberated up my stiffly locked arms and rattled my entire body. I fought hard to hit the brakes, missing twice before finally connecting with the pedal, and raking my shin on the underside of the dash as I flopped around in the seat.

The vehicle bucked hard and plowed directly into the front desk, splintering the base and countertop as it pushed it from its mounting place on the floor. I pitched forward on the second impact and my face bounced against my hands at the top of the steering wheel. My breath was forced from my lungs, and I grunted hard as I was then lashed backward into the seat.

Intense quiet suddenly filled the pa.s.senger cabin of the vehicle. All motion had come to an end, and I was staring through the windshield at the dark interior of the front office area. I regained my breath and reached for my pocket where I'd stuffed the revolver before starting my run at the building. My fingers contacted the smooth surface of the weapon, and I tightly clutched my fist around it. Shouldering the door open, I climbed out of the vehicle and landed unsteadily on a pile of gla.s.s and former countertop.

The van's engine was idling roughly-sputtering and choking as it fought to remain alive. The sharp odor of photographic chemistries mixed with the stale water funk of engine coolant. A cloud of steam was rising steadily from the front of the Chevy and I could hear water dripping onto the floor. In the distance to my back, I could hear Ben screaming my name. In front of me, through an open doorway, I could hear the muted strains of Judy Garland singing Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.My body was already starting to ache, and I could taste blood in my mouth. I ignored it and pressed forward. Just over a minute had pa.s.sed since the van had first struck the windows; there was no longer any time to think, there was only time to act. Picking my way through the debris I stepped quickly through the doorway and into the dark corridor.

I could hear the m.u.f.fled sound of someone frantically rushing about intermixing with the low tones of the music, and I followed it. I heard the dying sputter of the van behind me as it gave one final cough before shutting down. My footfalls were echoing through the darkness at their own frenetic pace, and Ben's voice was growing louder. He would be upon me soon.

I met the door at the end of the hall at almost a dead run. I simply a.s.sumed that it would be locked. Whether it was or not, I don't suppose I'll ever be sure. At any rate, the discount store special, pre-hung barrier gave way on the second strike. The luan-encased frame shattered at the handle, splintering loudly as the door swung inward on its hinges.

The pistol was stiff-armed in front of me in my right hand as I pushed through the opening and into the large, dimly lit room. My bad shoulder had been the battering ram for the door and it now burned with absolute agony. My ears were filled with a rush of noise and I realized that it was my own tortured scream as the pain blossomed outward.

The room was laid out like a studio. Light stands strategically placed with gel filters resting in holders. Reflective umbrellas perched at angles, pointing diagonally toward the ceiling in order to shower their bounced luminance back down onto the scene. Rolls of backdrop fabrics were suspended from a wheeled rack in a cascade; ready to be spooled out behind the subject.

In the center of it all was a chair, and in that chair sat my wife, clad in an ornate wedding gown and staring vacantly into s.p.a.ce. A garish mask of makeup was painted onto her face, lending an almost plastic quality to her features.

"NO!" a distinct and vile male voice screamed from the shadows. "She's MINE!"

I'd heard the voice before. I'd even felt the ragged insanity of it inside my own head. I twisted toward the words, and my eyes came to rest on Harold. He was standing twenty feet away from Felicity, and twenty yards away from me, a camera in one hand and a cigarette protruding between the middle two fingers of the other.

He stepped closer to the chair as if to protect a prized possession.

"Stay away from her!" I screamed at him, tracking his movement with the pistol in my outstretched hand.

I wanted him dead. I wanted him dead right now. But I had a huge problem and I knew it. He was far too close to her and I was a lousy shot.

"She's MINE and you can't have her!" he screamed back at me with crazed defiance in his eyes. "She doesn't want you! She wants ME!"

If I was in a movie, I knew I would have a suitably dramatic line to deliver.Somehow, reality just isn't quite like the movies. All I could muster was a hoa.r.s.e scream of, "Get away from her you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

I heard heavy breathing and the shuffle of feet behind me, but didn't turn. I knew full well who it was.

"POLICE! Step away from her now!" my friend's voice ordered sternly.

"SHE'S MINE! CAN'T YOU SEE THAT?! SHE'S MINE!" Harold screamed once again.

Ben was moving slowly forward. On the periphery of my vision I saw the muzzle of his nine-millimeter move into view. The tip of the sidearm was followed by his arms, which were locked into a rock steady firing position, and then finally the rest of his body filled the corner of my eye as he came alongside me.

As I directed my attention forward, I could see my hand shaking-the polished surface of the revolver flickering in the dim light.

"I'm ordering you to step away NOW, sir!" Ben returned, keeping his attention fully focused on Harold. In a quieter, but no less demanding tone he issued a command to me. "Put the gun down before you get yourself killed, Rowan!"

"GO AWAY!" Harold demanded wildly. "GO AWAY, SHE'S MINE! SHE'S PERFECT AND SHE'S MINE!".

"Put the f.u.c.king gun DOWN, Rowan," Ben ordered me again.

Logically, I knew it was what needed to be done. In my mind, I knew this was over for me. Ben had control of the situation and he was the professional. The emotions that were driving me had no choice but to give wide berth to the reality of the situation. I knew that I couldn't pull the trigger and risk hitting Felicity. As much as I wanted this man dead, there was literally nothing I could do, so I started to lower the gun.

My arm didn't move.

"Rowan, Rowan, you're the guy! You found our killer, now don't be shy! We wanna make him suffer, don't you know. We wanna make him die, don't let him go!"

The angry cheer rang inside my skull, audible only to me and the cheering section that was chanting it. My hand continued to shake but never wavered from its target.

"Dammit, Rowan, we've got a problem here," Ben hissed. "I can't take this guy down if I've gotta worry about you shootin' me in the back!"

I could feel my finger tightening on the trigger, and as I watched, the cylinder of the revolver started to perceptibly rotate.

"STEP AWAY FROM HER!" Ben ordered Harold again, and then said to me, "Help me out here, white man. I don't think this a.s.shole is real stable."

"I... Can't..." I managed to stammer before gritting my teeth.

It was taking every ounce of will I had to keep my finger from squeezing thetrigger any tighter. The colors in the room were blooming in a kaleidoscope of contrasts, and my head felt like a hollow chamber. An urgent voice bounced from every corner, riddling my brain.

"Come on, Rowan! Do it! Make him die!"

My entire body was shaking now. Harold was staring at me as if he was completely unaware of the guns that were trained on him. I looked past him at my wife's slackened face and in the dim light saw a dark line running down her cheek.

Even at this distance it was obviously a tear.

"Jeezus, Rowan, put the gun DOWN!" Ben ordered again.

I felt the control over my index finger slip and watched in horror as the cylinder began turning again. It was less than a second away from rolling over and being struck by the hammer when I made my decision. If Debbie Schaeffer was exerting that much force on my finger, I had to hope that she was ignoring something else.

In a final bid I thrust every ounce of energy I had left into changing the target.

With a scream I twisted hard to the side, bringing the weapon to bear on a blank wall just as the firing pin released. There was a loud roar and fire flashed from the muzzle in a bright burst. Dust flew as the projectile punched a hole in the sheetrock well away from any human targets. The gunshot echoed in my eardrums as the explosive sound bounced from the walls. My ears felt suddenly clogged and they began to ring with a painful stab deep inside. The recoil jerked my arm upward and its force allowed me to loosen my grip on the weapon. As my hand opened, it went flying and clattered across the concrete.

I detected motion from the corner of my eye and saw Ben rushing toward Harold, then slamming into him full force, and knocking him to the floor.

It was all over in the proverbial blink of an eye. Harold was screaming, "SHE'S MINE, SHE'S MINE..." repeatedly as Ben snapped a pair of handcuffs onto his wrists and patted him down. I scrambled across the floor, putting as much distance as possible between the discarded revolver and me before finally climbing to my feet and bolting for Felicity.

I fell to my knees and wrapped my arms around her, not saying a word, just listening to her breathe. Feeling her heart beat in her chest. Tears were streaming down my face as I hugged her close and felt her warmth against me-alive and unharmed.

We could hear sirens and squealing tires in the near distance as squad cars from the Briarwood Police Department arrived outside. Whether summoned by a silent alarm or Ben I didn't know, but I was glad to hear them nonetheless.

Somewhere inside the building a clock chimed out the our with a series of twelve consecutive notes.

Ben folded himself to the floor next to me with a tired gh, Beretta still in hand as he rested his arm on his knee. "Merry Christmas, Kemosabe. Merry f.u.c.kin'

Christmas."

CHAPTER 30.

"I am actually very proud of you, Rowan," Helen Storm told me as we stood at the railing of the outdoor smoking lounge in her office building.

She was working on a cigarette, but for a change, I was not. I hadn't had a craving for one since Christmas, go figure. I did, however, have a Maduro Cruz Real #2 hooked under my index finger, and it was slowly growing a grey-white ash at its tip.

I took a puff, consciously placing the cigar in the left corner of my mouth to avoid the pair of st.i.tches that were holding my lip together on the right. The bruises had worked their way into the reddish-purple and yellow haloed stages, and I still looked pretty frightening. My injuries had come from crashing the van into the building for the most part. Mainly just the bruises and split lip, although the jolt had fractured my left wrist and it was securely taped. My shoulder was sore and I'd ached all over for several days, but even that was now subsiding.

"What for?" I asked. "Waiting until you were out of the van before running it into the building?"

This was the first chance I'd had to talk with Helen since Christmas Eve; not that it had been all that long ago. New Year's Eve was tomorrow, so less than one week had pa.s.sed. Still, it seemed like forever.

"For not killing Harold McCree," she answered. "You retained your strength.

That is very important."

"I think it was more along the lines of luck," I offered as I stared out across the dull sky. "Because I can guarantee you that it wasn't for a lack of desire."

"The fact still remains that you did not kill him."

"Given another chance, the outcome could be different."

She ignored my comment and we stood in silence for a moment. I had grown accustomed to her periods of quiet thoughtfulness interspersed throughout our conversations, and realized they were as much a signal as an action. They were, in part, her way of triggering my own introspection.

"How is Felicity doing?" she finally asked.

"Good," I nodded. "As well as one can expect. The Rophynol was a bit of a blessing in a sense, because she doesn't really remember much of what occurred after Harold dropped by to deliver those photos."

"She's having a little trouble coming to terms with the fact that nine women were raped and two are dead, all because he was playing out a fantasy involving her.""She should come visit me," Helen offered. "She needs to understand that what transpired is in no way her fault."

"She knows that, I think. But emotionally..." I allowed my voice to trail off.

"Yes?" she looked at me with a smile.

"Okay, so I forgot who I was talking to for a minute." I smiled back. "Like I've said before, you don't come off as your average shrink."

She laughed musically. "How are you both handling the change of scenery?"

We were living in an apartment in a secure building for the time being. It had been a clandestine move, made in the middle of the night, without warning or fanfare. It was comfortable enough, but it wasn't home. Until Eldon Porter was in custody, though, it was something we were living with-for a while, anyway.

"It's okay," I shrugged. "Not the same. And we miss having the animals around."

"Are you boarding them?"

"Couldn't do that to them." I shook my head. "Some friends took them in. That way they'll get some attention from people they are familiar with."

"Well," she announced with a sigh after glancing at her watch. "Unfortunately, I am afraid our time is up for today and I do have another appointment this time."

"It flies when you're having fun doesn't it?" I grinned.

"Funny," she replied. "Of course, you are the only patient I see who is willing to stand out here and watch me smoke."

"Therapists need love too," I joked.

She smiled at me. "I see that your sense of humor is returning. That is a very good sign, Rowan."

I gave an abbreviated chuckle as I knocked the ash from the end of my cigar, then carefully sealed it into a spring-loaded tube designed to tamp out the coal and keep the remainder somewhat fresh. "Maybe," I half agreed, "but I get the feeling I'm not out of the woods yet."

"But, Rowan, you can see the trail now, and that is important. As long as you can keep it in sight, you will not lose your way."

"Next week?" I asked.