“Rowan, you know damn good ‘n well what this is about!” my friend shot back. “A dead federal judge and a dead copper.”
“Bullshit! Politics is what it’s about,” I snarled at him. “Who’s behind this? Albright?”
I almost gagged on the name of the cop whose life’s mission seemed to be anything that involved making my very existence unbearable. Captain Barbara Albright, self-appointed leader of the “God Squad.”
Of course, there you had it, plain and simple.
When you took into consideration the fact that she was an old school, fundamentalist Christian with a badge, and I was a Neopagan Witch who consulted for the police department, we were bound to clash. The problem was, it was even worse than that. In plain truth we weren’t just at polar opposites; in many ways we seemed almost to be one another’s arch nemesis. Unfortunately, she tended to take that idea very seriously and more often than not would push things way too far.
She had already interjected her opinions and views into the current investigation, casting aspersions on both Felicity and me. Out of all of my detractors, she had been the one I most feared would skew the investigation. Given how vocal she had already been, it stood to reason that she would be behind this action. However, in my estimation, her habit of pushing things too far had just turned into shoving them completely over the edge and gleefully watching them fall.
“Look, I already said this a dozen times,” my friend spat in reply. “Ya’ got the goddamned warrants right there in your hand. Read ‘em!”
I barked in return as I waved the sheaf of legal documents in the air, “And, I’ve told you every time you said it that I already did and they don’t tell me a fucking thing.”
“Well, try readin’ ‘em again!”
Ben stared back at me, grimly silent on the heels of the shouted order. I had to keep my head tilted back to meet his gaze, as he stood six-foot-six and was, therefore, better than a head taller than me. He carried himself on an overtly muscular frame that often made him seem larger than life, and in a sense, almost heroic.
His classic, angular features, which not only broadcast his pure Native American heritage but also served him well in forming his handsome visage, were now creased into a hard scowl. The deep lines made him look less like my friend and more like the stoic “Injun on the warpath” from an old Western. All he needed were some feathers and face paint to make the caricature complete.
In fact, a travesty is all that was left of him in my mind, for at this particular moment, even though his dark eyes were betraying his own turbulent mix of emotions, any sense of heroism I envisioned in him had long since fled. To me, he had become no more than a threatening obstacle standing dead in the middle of my path.
He sighed heavily then shook his head and cast his eyes toward the floor. Out of reflex he reached up with a large hand to smooth his jet-black hair. This was a mannerism I’d seen countless times, and it was something he always did whenever he was thinking hard on a subject. I stood watching him, and in the wake of the motion, I could see salty flecks of grey that I knew for certain had been there for quite some time but now seemed to be appearing right before my eyes. It was as if he was visibly aging as he stood there.
Under the circumstances, I think perhaps we both were.
I waited for a healthy measure, or at least I think I did. I know I tried. Unfortunately, my patience was as thin as the dry, paper-like skin of an onion right now and even more brittle. I wasn’t interested in giving him time to think about anything. I wanted answers and I wanted them ten minutes ago.
“Tell me what’s going on, Ben!” I repeated my demand for the umpteenth time.
“GODDAMMIT, ROWAN! I CAN’T!” he shouted then suddenly slammed the heel of his fist hard against the doorframe before repeating in a near whisper, “I just…can’t.”
Whether we were getting somewhere or not, I couldn’t say, but this was the first time he had given me a response other than “you know” or “read the warrants.”
My friend looked over his shoulder through the glass of the storm door as it slowly worked its way toward obscuring the view by fogging over with condensation. After a second he looked back at me and muttered, “Jeezus fuckin’ Christ, Row…don’tcha think I wanna tell ya’?”
I didn’t let up. “You sure as hell aren’t acting like it.”
“Sonofabitch! Dammit…I…Jeez…I…It’s…Shit! Fuck me! Dammit, Row, I just can’t!” He stuttered through the sentence as his morose tone ramped back into anger.
Mine, however, had never ramped down. “That’s not good enough!”
“Well it’s gonna hafta be for now!”
Ben Storm was probably my second best friend walking the face of the planet-period, end of story. However, at this instant I was within a hair’s breadth of planting my fist square on his chin replete with every last speck of strength, anger, and unfettered malice I could muster. Never mind the fact that it would probably be the one and only shot I would get before he pummeled me into the middle of next month, or even that he was a cop with a gun and a similarly armed partner sitting in a vehicle in my driveway. Right now, none of that mattered to me.
What did matter, more than anything, was what had brought the two of us to the brink of a violent, physical confrontation such as this. And, that, beyond any shadow of a doubt, would be my best friend. Not my second best friend, but my first, and absolute, best friend-a petite, redheaded, Irish-American woman whose name was typed prominently upon the warrants.
And, the thing about my dear and lovely wife that had me on the edge of committing assault against Ben was the fact that I had just stood here in my living room and watched him place her in handcuffs then recite to her the Miranda rights of silence.
Miranda.
Now there was irony in all its glory considering that one simple word, the name “Miranda”, had everything to do with the head-on collision my life, my friend’s life, and moreover, my wife’s life had just become.
Our screaming match was far from over, and since it was my turn I shouted back, “Something, Ben! You’ve got to be able to tell me something! ”
“I told you, I CAN’T!”
“Fuck that! What you mean is you WON’T!”
“Goddammit, Rowan! What I mean is I CAN’T! Do ya’ really think I like this any more than you do?”
“Ben, you just arrested my wife for murder! You can’t just do that then walk out like nothing’s happened! You’ve got to give me some answers here!”
He huffed out a breath then dropped his forehead into his hand and allowed it to rest there for a moment before pushing his palm back through his hair once again. This time, he left the large paw clamped onto his neck and began working his fingers against the muscles.
“I wish I could.”
“Well, answer me this: Why aren’t you arresting me too?”
“We ain’t got a reason. But trust me, it was mentioned.”
“Dammit, you don’t have a reason to arrest her either!”
“I’m afraid we do, Row.”
“What is it? Tell me.”
“Look,” he offered. “I’m not even s’posed to say this, but all I can tell ya’ is there’s hard evidence that Firehair might be the one that killed Hammond Wentworth and Officer Hobbes.”
I found myself offended by the fact that he called her Firehair. The use of the friendly moniker he had long ago dubbed Felicity with seemed inappropriately familiar under the circumstances. Considering what he had just done, I didn’t feel he had that right. I started to say something but decided against it before the words could leave my throat. No matter what my visceral response to it, the truth is, the hypocrisy I saw in his use of the nickname really wasn’t what was important right now.
Instead, I focused on the crux of what he had just said and made a demand. “What kind of evidence? Surely not the hairs you said they found at the Wentworth scene.”
“I can’t say, Row.”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s bullshit and you know it. She didn’t kill anyone.”
“I…she…crap…” he muttered.
“Dammit, Ben, think about it! If she killed Wentworth and Hobbes, then why didn’t she kill that character she picked up at the club?”
“I dunno. You tell me. For all you know she might’ve if things had gone different.”
