“Jeezus, Row, we’ve got enough evidence to charge the SOB with everything. Murder, rape, stalking… He’ll even come up on federal charges for kidnappin’.” He sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, he’ll never see real prison. He’ll end up in the prison ward of a mental institution.”
“Something inside me still wants him dead,” I stated coldly.
“Yeah, well that stays between you, me, an’ the fuckin’ wall, okay?” he told me, his voice taking on a stern edge. “I lied my ass off about what really happened that night, and I don’t need ya’ screwin’ it up with an uncensored attack of emotional honesty.”
“Sorry. I just can’t help feeling that way.”
“I know, but he’s a whack job, Row. Shrinks say he’s delusional. Get this, he actually believes that he an’ Felicity are a couple. Hell, he’s been accusin’ you of taking ‘er from him and wants ta’ file charges. Keeps demandin’ we arrest ya’ for kidnappin’.”
“Really…”
“Yeah…fucked up, huh?”
My fingers brushed against another pile of photographs, and I slid them into view. This time images of my wife leapt out at me, and they weren’t of someone dressed as her. They were of the real thing.
There were pictures of her in front of our house working in the yard, getting into her Jeep, getting out of my truck, different times of day, different clothing, even different seasons of the year. He’d been watching her for a long time. Too long.
“By the way,” Ben added. “You were right. I forgot ta’ tell ya’, but when we talked ta’ Heather Burke I found out she does have dyslexia. Very mild case, but she definitely has trouble with it if she’s tired.”
“Thought so,” I answered.
“Okay, so you answer one for me.”
“What’s that?”
“You and the Red Squaw are so tight that ya’ can feel each others pain, right? I mean…I’ve seen ya’ do it.”
“Yeah,” I acknowledged with a nod. “It’s been known to happen.”
“Well, with all that hocus-pocus Twilight Zone shit ya’ do, why didn’t ya’ feel it when she got zapped by this creep?”
“Best guess? I was otherwise occupied by an angry cheerleader at the time. Then, after that, probably a combination of the Rohypnol shutting her down and my own mental state kept me from feeling her presence at all. Wrong place, wrong time, and a lot of supernatural interference.”
“So Schaeffer really fucked with ya’ bad, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” I nodded without looking back at him. “She’s a very determined spirit. Pretty annoying too.”
“She gone?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” I returned. “I haven’t felt her around since that night, so I hope so.”
“Too freakin’ weird for me.”
“Me too, Ben,” I agreed as I looked back at him. “I’m a Witch, not a Ouija board. I’m starting to wonder if the spirits on the other side understand that.”
Silence filled the hollowness behind my words, and we continued to stand there, Ben massaging his neck in deep thought. I turned back to the table and stared at a picture of Felicity as she was seen through the eyes of a lunatic. As I looked at the photograph, I had to admit to myself that the composition and tone held a message. In this particular instance at least, he seemed to view her with almost as much reverence as I did.
That fact did little for my current state of mind.
After a moment my friend cleared his throat and spoke quietly, “So…ya’ done here?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m done,” I finally answered. “For now.”
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” he said as he pulled open the door. “There’s one other thing I need to tell ya’.”
“What’s that?”
“Ya’ owe me for a radiator, one tire, and a crapload of body work.”
EPILOGUE
“You don’t have to do this, then,” the woman insisted, her words were thick with an Irish brogue that would always beset her when she was emotionally distraught.
“Yes, I do,” the man answered her with a calm note in his voice.
Her long, spiral curls of auburn hair were piled atop her head in a loose Gibson girl, and her green eyes flashed wetly with deep concern. She’d tried anger already and it hadn’t worked. She’d even been willing to try guilt, but he still hadn’t budged. He knew her too well.
Now, she was back to making demands.
“What did Ben say?” the woman contended, as if the answer to her question would somehow make a difference.
“The same thing you just said,” the man replied.
She watched as he ran his hand across the lower half of his face, thoughtfully brushing his bearded chin. She noticed that he winced for a moment as his fingers caught the still healing wound on his upper lip.
She took on a pleading tone. “Then why are you doing it?”
“Because we can’t keep living like this,” he answered. “Because I want us to have our lives back.”
“How can we have our lives back if you get yourself killed?”
“I’m not going to get myself killed.”
She was crying now. “Damn your eyes, Rowan Linden Gant, you’d better not, then. Aye, you’d better not.”
