“Simplify it for me.”
Ben shook his head. “It ain’t that easy.”
“Okay,” the cop said with a shrug. “Like I said, nothing to discuss.”
“We don’t know where she is exactly, but we can find her,” I interjected.
The detective thrust his hand out and held a finger up in my face. “Sir, I need you to stay out of this.”
“He’s right,” Ben told him.
“Yeah, okay,” the detective said with an air of skepticism, then pressed for more. “So if she can be found then why isn’t the Major Case Squad handling it?”
Ben huffed out a sigh and reached up to smooth his hair. As his hand slid back and began working at the muscles on the back of his neck, he recited his own version of something I’d said to him many times before. “Look, I told ya’ it’s a long fuckin’ story, and you’d think I was nuts if I tried ta’ explain it.”
The county cop regarded him with a raised eyebrow and then looked over at me. “Okay sir, now how is it that you’re involved?”
At this point, I had no interest in skirting the issue nor making friends for that matter, so I replied, “I’m the long fucking story.”
“Yeah? So would you like to tell it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Jeezus, I wish Deckert never freakin’ retired,” Ben mumbled, mentioning the name of a former Saint Louis County homicide detective we had both worked with.
The cop turned quickly to my friend. “What did you say?”
“Nothin’,” he returned. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No,” the cop insisted. “Did you know Carl Deckert?”
“Yeah,” Ben replied, shrugging it off. “We worked together a few times.”
“Wait a minute,” the detective mumbled, his forehead creasing with a nagging thought. He shook his index finger in the air and then cocked his gaze back toward my friend. “Ben Storm. Yeah. You worked those occult homicides with Carl a couple of years back, didn’t you? The media freaks called you guys ‘The Ghoul Squad’.”
Ben nodded. “Yeah, that was me,” he said, his tone uneasy. The reputation he’d gained from that case had never ceased to haunt him, courtesy of a local television reporter with a penchant for sensationalizing every story she did. It didn’t help that she and Ben had been at odds almost from day one. Because of that, the notoriety didn’t always work to his advantage- especially with other cops.
“Yeah,” the detective said as he returned the nod. “That’s been bugging me all evening. I knew I’d heard your name before.”
“Well do me a favor,” my friend said. “Don’t hold it against me.”
“Are you kidding?” the cop said. “Deckert couldn’t say enough good about you.”
“Well, he was a hell of copper himself.”
“Yeah. Sure was. Too bad the heart attack forced him to retire,” the county cop mused and then glanced back over at me. “So that would make you the warlock, right?”
“Witch,” I corrected him.
“Oh, yeah, right.” He nodded. “Carl talked about you too. He thought a lot of you and your wife.”
“Did he talk about us enough for you to understand why we have to go?” I asked.
“You know,” he replied. “Carl Deckert was one of the best cops I’ve ever worked with. He had this way of cutting right through bullshit and getting to the truth. He could talk to someone for five minutes and tell you if they were legit or lying through their teeth. Never seen anything like it.”
The detective paused. I didn’t know if he was waiting for a response or just sizing me up. I simply looked back at him wordlessly.
“Makes sense now,” he finally said, looking over at Ben.
“What’s that?” my friend asked.
“Why Major Case isn’t hot on this with you,” he explained. “What with the ‘church lady’ running things.”
“Yeah, ‘zactly.”
The county cop reached into his pocket, withdrew a business card and handed it to Ben. “You know, I have to apologize. I really hate to inconvenience you Detective Storm, but it’s getting late, I’ve got a witness to interview, and a ton of paperwork to do.
“Do you think you would mind coming in tomorrow to give your statement instead of tonight? And, maybe you could bring Mister Gant and his wife along as well?”
Ben gave him a nod. “Not a prob, just one thing. We’re gonna need the Feeb to come with us.”
“The shooter?” the cop asked. “Now that’s really pushing it. What do you need her for?”
“Because,” my friend replied, “if we’re right about this, we’re gonna be crossin’ state lines.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked Felicity.
“Aye,” she replied, pulling herself into a sitting position and fumbling for the adjustment lever on the side of the seat.
I was kneeling next to my wife, and I slipped my arm in behind her for support as the seatback popped upward into place. I helped her lean back into the cushion, then reached over and pulled the safety belt across.
“I’ll be honest,” I continued while fumbling with the buckle on the harness. “I’m not comfortable with it. In fact it scares the hell out of me.”
“Join the club.”
“I almost didn’t even suggest it,” I said. “You know, it makes me sick that I’m putting you in danger.”
“You aren’t.”
“Yes I am. I’m asking you to do this,” I argued. “But I just don’t see any other way.”
“Tell me now, Row, do you really think you’re the only one who thought of it?” she asked, her voice fractured and weak.
“Are you saying this has been your grand plan all along?”
“Something like that.”
“So why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did,” she said then shuddered with a wave of pain. “Sort of.”
“So this is what you meant earlier when you said there was a way to find her?”
“Aye.”
“So why didn’t you just explain it then?”
She grimaced slightly, then crossed her arms and began to gently rock in the seat. The motion was so shallow that she barely even pressed against the shoulder harness.
She looked over at me and asked in a quiet voice, “Would you have gone along with it?”
“At that point in time, no,” I replied.
“But you are now,” she stated rather than asked.
I answered anyway. “Like I said, only because I don’t see any other way.”
“Me either.”
“You know,” I said. “What you did was reckless.”
She allowed herself a small chuckle, and then closed her eyes tight as she winced. “So are you the pot or the kettle?”
“Yeah… I know.” I muttered, unable to refute the idiom then added, “You know this isn’t right. I’m supposed to be the one dealing with this. Not you.”
“She’s my friend.”
“That still doesn’t make it right.”
“Aye, but it does,” she told me. “It’s your turn to rest.”
“You call this rest?”
She gave another shallow chuckle. “Aye, what is it I’ve heard you say? Welcome to my life.”
“Yeah…” I muttered. “Something like that.”
