my precognitive intuition would sometimes take.
“Headache.”
“Humph,” she grunted, then asked hopefully, “Did you take anything just in case?”
“Not that kind of headache,” I replied.
“You’re certain, then?”
Her question was answered by the grating peal of the telephone vibrating against the walls of the small room before I could even utter the “yes” that now lodged itself in my throat.
My wife looked up at me with sadness in her jade-green eyes and then gave a slight nod to the coffeepot. “Aye, I’ll go put on some clothes. Best pour me a cup of that as well.”
I started to protest. “I don’t think…”
“…That I should go?” she shot back, filling in my sentence and cutting me off. “Are you planning to stay out of it?”
I sighed and fidgeted at the sudden tension. She already knew what my answer would be.
“Aye, I thought so. We’re not discussing this, Rowan,” she continued with a stern shake of her head. “If you go, I go. End of story. Now answer the phone, then.” She was already turning around the corner of the doorway on her way back to the bedroom as she issued the last command.
I knew better than to press my luck, especially on this subject. We’d beaten it beyond recognition already, and we were both too stubborn to give in. I took a step forward, picked the phone out of its cradle on the fourth ring, and then placed it to my ear.
“Yeah, Ben. I’m here” was all I said.
“Awww, Jeezus H. Christ, Row… Jeeeez… Goddammit…” He launched immediately into a string of curses, his voice a peculiar mix of relief, anger, and disgust.
Whenever my friend started a sentence this way, I knew that what followed probably wasn’t going to be good. Of course, I’d known that before the phone ever rang, but there was always that small inkling of hope that I might be wrong. Judging from the baseness of Ben’s first words, I knew that this would not be the occasion.
“Porter?” I inserted my question into the lull that trailed along in the wake of his outburst.
“Yeah,” he returned, his voice slightly calmer. “But that was a given, I guess.”
In an instant, the “probably” became an absolutely, and the “wasn’t going to be good” was nothing less than a cold fact.
“Uh-huh. Truth is I’m surprised he waited this long,” I replied. “It’s been more than two weeks since he killed that woman in Cape Girardeau.”
“Yeah.” He paused. “So, what gives? You sound like you were awake already.”
“Yeah. I was.”
“So what’s up? Don’t tell me you were waitin’ for me to call.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“Jeez, Row…” The note of resignation in his voice was clear. “So, did you have one of those nightmares or somethin’?”
“No. Just a headache.”
“Bad one?”
“Bad enough.”
“Regular, or was it one of those hinky, weird-ass, Twilight Zone ones that you get?”
“Something like that.” I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me.
Twilight Zone. That’s what my friend liked to call it whenever I would engage in any form of psychic detection or supernormal communication. He was accustomed to the peculiar psychic events that had seemed to plague me for the past couple of years, but he still had his own unique branding for them. He had a whole handful of euphemisms-“la-la land,” “out there,” and even just plain “weird,” but Twilight Zone remained his favorite. I guess I couldn’t blame him for the interpretation though. Even I wasn’t always comfortable with the paranormal excursions myself, but then, I also didn’t always have control over them either. And, while a certain amount of mysticism comes along with being a practicing Witch, at times I felt almost as if I had plugged directly into the main switchboard of the “other side.”
Disconcerting is just about the nicest word I could use to describe it. You don’t want to hear the others.
“So why didn’t you call me?” he asked.
“And do what? Tell you I had a headache?”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
“Actually, when I’ve called you in the past I’ve had a little more to say.”
“Yeah. Maybe so.”
“So, do you want me to meet you?”
“For what?”
“To go to this crime scene?”
“No, actually. I was just calling to make sure you were okay.”
The meaning behind his words was quickly apparent to me. For a number of reasons, I was most likely at the top of Porter’s hit list; not the least of which was the fact that I had shot him. Of course, he was trying to kill me at the time, so I didn’t have much choice. However, since he had already tried once, we had every reason to believe that he would do it again.
This was exactly why Felicity and I had spent the past two weeks residing in a tiny, unfamiliar apartment in a secure building instead of our own home. We were in hiding, and it was starting to get on my nerves.
“So, the victim is male?” I asked
“That’s what they said. I just got the call a few minutes ago.”
“So where is the scene?” I pressed again.
“No way. Stay put, Row. Let us handle this.”
“You know I can’t do that, Ben.”
“You don’t have a hell of a lotta choice now do ya’?” he shot back.
“I’ll just show up,” I told him calmly. “I can find out where the scene is without your help.”
“And I’ll fuckin’ arrest your sorry ass if you do.”
“Ben…” I just allowed my voice to trail off.
“You know, Rowan, we ain’t just a bunch of bumblin’ idiots. Cops solve murders all the time without your help.”
“I know, Ben, but this is different.”
“Yeah, I know you think it is, but it’s not. Why can’t you just stay put where I know you’re safe, and let me handle this?”
“Because I want my life back, Ben.”
“Gettin’ yourself killed would kinda defeat the purpose now wouldn’t it?”
“We’ve had this discussion before, Ben.”
“And I don’t recall bein’ convinced that time either.”
“I need to do this,” I appealed.
He huffed out a heavy sigh after an extended silence. “Fine. Jeez. Okay. At least if you’re with me, I can keep an eye on ya’. I’ll swing by and pick you up. But listen, Row, you’d damn well better tell Felicity before I get there. I don’t have time for an argument like last time.”
“Don’t worry. She’ll be coming with us.”
“Both of you?” he groaned. “Sheesh. Lucky me.”
“Hey, it’s not my idea.”
“Are you willin’ to stay home and let me handle this?” he queried flatly.
“I thought we’d already established that as a no,” I replied, somewhat confused by the question.
“Then quit tryin’ to blame her. It IS your fuckin’ idea,” he huffed. “Meet me in the lobby. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
CHAPTER 2:
