The seeming approbation of death was imprinted upon my consciousness with indelible permanence, and it continued to loop like a snippet of a song that you simply can’t get out of your head. If its intent was to keep me from sleeping, it was accomplishing that task with absolute perfection.
Letting out a resigned sigh, I climbed out of the bed as quietly as I could in order not to wake Felicity. My eyes were fairly adjusted, and I managed to pull on some clothes without much fuss and then retrieved my glasses and Book of Shadows-a Witch’s dream journal of sorts-from a drawer in the nightstand. Even though I knew I was in no danger of forgetting the morbid ditty, I figured I’d best make written record of it because I was certain that anything this insistent meant something important.
I just didn’t know what.
“How’ya feelin’?” The left field greeting issued from the handset immediately following my “hello.” Ben’s down to business approach to telephone conversations, sans the typical salutations, was as identifiable as his voice, so I wasn’t at all phased by the abruptness.
“About as well as can be expected, I suppose,” I returned, glancing at the clock in the corner of my computer screen, “considering that I have an appointment with your sister in a couple of hours.”
I didn’t offer the fact that I had been up since 4 a.m. because I was pretty sure I knew where the conversation would turn from there. I was also fairly certain that he wouldn’t accept the uneventful truth for an answer. He would assume I was hiding something then belabor the point, and I really didn’t need any more distractions right now. As it was, I’d been parked in my office for the better part of my somewhat expanded morning trying to get some work done. So far I’d accomplished little more than going through the previous day’s mail and moving a pile of paperwork from one side of my desk to the other. I hadn’t exactly been what you could call productive.
What I really needed to do was return a few phone calls and put together some proposals for clients, but I simply didn’t have the motivation. Even though I was trying, I was still feeling so overwhelmed by everything; it seemed useless to attempt anything more than simply existing.
“Cheer up, white man,” he told me. “She’s good at what she does. It’s not like she’s gonna bite or somethin’.”
“I know, Ben. I know.”
We both fell speechless, him becoming just the sound of someone breathing on the other end of the phone and me turning quietly introspective.
“Well, there’s really no easy way ta’ tell ya’ this,” my friend finally spoke. “But I’ve got some news ya’ prob’ly don’t wanna hear.”
“The handwriting?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s not Paige Lawson’s.”
“Are they sure?”
“No doubt, Row,” he replied. “They don’t look anything alike.”
“Damn,” I muttered.
This latest revelation did nothing to help my overall sense of demoralization. I had been certain that Paige Lawson was trying to communicate with me. Now, I couldn’t even be sure that it wasn’t simply all in my head.
“Graphologist said that based on the slant, the sample was most likely from a left-handed individual,” he continued. “And prob’ly female, although they get a little hinky ‘bout swearin’ to one gender or the other.”
“Well, I told you that much,” I offered.
“Yeah, I know, but like I said, the samples are worlds apart…and yours still ain’t from Paige Lawson. Ta’ be honest, the difference is so obvious I really didn’t even need the crime lab for this. But just ta’ be sure, I had ‘em verify it anyway. Accordin’ to the experts, the buck-fifty analysis is this, and I quote-The moderate left slant coupled with the narrow spacing denotes an independent and possibly introverted individual. The heavy pressure and ornate loops in the letters indicate a secretive personality…
“There’s some more here about the margins, size, and stuff, but it all boils down to the same thing. It ain’t Paige Lawson’s handwritin’.”
“It isn’t mine either.”
“Yeah, I know. I went ahead and had ‘em compare yours from some of the forms I’ve had ya’ fill out down here. There wasn’t enough to get a fancy analysis, but they were confident that you weren’t the one pushin’ the pencil. I didn’t tell ‘em any different.”
At first I was surprised at what he’d done, but Ben’s actions made perfect sense. He had to rule out all of the possibilities, and since I claimed the writing had come out of me, it was a logical move.
“Anyway, on the bright side,” he told me, “there’s a note here sayin’ that the little curly-q thing with the I’s is pretty unique. Very personal…for whatever that’s worth.”
“Not much, apparently.”
“It’d be easy to identify in another handwriting sample if we ran across it.”
“And the odds of that are?” I asked rhetorically. “Besides, you’ve proven that it’s not her, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter.”
“Yeah, so maybe it’s someone else.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Hey,” he contended, “like I said, I’ve seen weirder shit than this. Especially outta you.”
“Yes, but neither you nor Felicity seemed terribly convinced yesterday.” I allowed the words to hang between us in a verbal challenge of his sudden professed faith in my sanity.
“Look, Row, let’s not go there. I wish I’d been able to give ya’ somethin’ here, but…” He sighed. Without even seeing him I knew he was massaging his neck with a large hand. “It’s just not there, white man. Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I told him. I meant it even though I’m sure I didn’t sound very convincing. “So what about Paige Lawson?”
“Whaddaya mean? What about ‘er?”
“You said yesterday that you weren’t even sure it was a homicide.”
“Oh, that. Well, it’s lookin’ less and less like it. Right now we’re waitin’ on the final results of the autopsy, but there’s just nothin’ there at this point that says foul play.”
“How was she found anyway?”
“Row…”
“Can you humor me?” I appealed, my voice dull. “You just blew my theory apart. You could at least throw me a bone here.”
He exhaled heavily at the other end. “Nothin’ spectacular really. Squad car drove by on regular patrol and noticed the door hangin’ open. When the copper came through about half an hour later it was still open so he stopped ta’ check it out. Found her layin’ facedown just inside.”
“And he didn’t notice anything else?”
“Rowan, he’s a cop. We may not be perfect but this is what we’re trained ta’ do.”
“Yeah, I know,” I responded, feeling mildly chastised. “I’m just really having a hard time with all of this.”
“That’s kinda obvious.”
For the second time during our conversation, silence reared its head, bringing all conversation to a halt. I’m sure by now Ben was thinking I was worse off than he’d originally imagined, but so far he was tactfully keeping the observation to himself. I would almost have agreed with him were it not for the fact that I kept reminding myself of the old bromide about not being insane as long as you had enough wits about you to wonder if you were.
“So anyway,” my friend finally put the brakes on the swelling pause with a change of subject. “How ‘bout that Yule thing of yours… That’s this Friday, right? What time were ya’ wantin’ Allison and me over?”
He was correct. Yule was only two days away, and as usual we had invited some non-Pagan friends to our traditional gathering. This was the first year that any had accepted.
The switch in the focus of the conversation was awkward, much like any shift that occurs in a chat such as ours. Even with its abruptness, it gave me something tangible and far more pleasant to grasp. Finally there was
