“Then you’d be at the morgue right now sporting a toe tag instead of here talking to me.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head and chuckled. “Mister Gant, while your concern is commendable, the woman you are so worried about is a retired cop from Tennessee. She had you pegged as an imposter from the word go, and she was packing a Glock in her housecoat. The only reason she didn’t just shoot you before calling us is that she knew we’d probably want to talk to you first.”
CHAPTER 8:
My rental car had yet to be impounded according to Detective Fairbanks, so it was supposed to still be sitting on the parking lot of the Southern Hospitality Motor Lodge where I had left it. I had been allowed to use a phone to call a cab while I was waiting for my personal effects, and since it took several minutes to get me officially signed out, by the time I was at the curb, my wait was relatively short.
I set about the task of getting my credit cards and other odd items situated back into my wallet after I had told the driver where I was going and then settled back in the seat. I quickly checked my cell phone and noticed it was off, so I thumbed it on and laid it in my lap as I continued to arrange my life in the worn fold of leather. The phone started vibrating and warbling the instant it latched on to a signal.
I knew the familiar tone was alerting me to voicemail, but that could wait. When it finally stopped, it was only briefly before starting into the upwardly stair-stepped trill of an incoming call. I shoved my still disorganized wallet into my pocket then picked up the chirping device and glanced at the screen. The display showed that the caller was Ben. Apparently, Detective Fairbanks hadn’t wasted any time letting him know I’d been released.
My thumb hovered over the talk button as I debated whether or not I really wanted to listen to my friend read me the riot act at this particular moment in time. According to the digital clock in the corner of the LCD, it was already pushing 10 A.M. I knew I would have to deal with him eventually, but right now I wasn’t sure I was in the right frame of mind to take the flak. Fortunately, the internal deliberation was rendered moot by my hesitation, and the call defaulted to voicemail.
I let out a sigh and then proceeded to punch a speed dial number before tucking the device up to my ear. The phone at the other end rang twice then was picked up by a hospital operator.
“Doctor Helen Storm, please,” I asked.
“Whom should I say is calling?”
“Rowan Gant.”
“Hold please.”
The strains of some unidentifiable instrumental piece flowed into my ear for the better part of three minutes before the line clicked and a fresh voice came on.
“Good morning, Rowan,” Helen said. “I was expecting you to call much earlier.”
Ben’s sister was sometimes harder to talk to than he was. Not because she would become as undone as he, but rather the opposite. Being a psychiatrist, she had far more effective ways to let you know you had screwed up. However, I assumed she wouldn’t have any reason to do so in this case. On top of that, I wasn’t calling her about me; I was calling about my wife. Felicity was currently under her care, for several reasons; not the least of which was that she was the only one I trusted where that was concerned.
“I was unforeseeably detained,” I replied.
“I know. Benjamin called me earlier.”
“Lovely,” I mumbled. Obviously my assumption had been wrong. “So, I guess he’s ready to kill me by now.”
“He certainly is not happy. However, for the most part he is understandably concerned about you and what you are getting yourself involved in,” she continued. “As am I.”
“What’s new about that, Helen? You’ve been concerned about me since the day we met. I doubt that’s going to change anytime soon.”
“I suppose you are correct about that, Rowan,” she replied. “However, there are those times when I am even more concerned than usual. Such as now, for instance.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”
“I sincerely doubt that you are.”
“Is that my friend or my analyst saying that?”
“Both.”
“Yeah. I’m not surprised.”
“Have you been getting any sleep?”
“Sure. Plenty.”
“You are lying, Rowan. I can hear in your voice that you are exhausted.”
“Listen, Helen,” I said. “I didn’t call to talk about me. How’s Felicity doing?”
“She is holding her own at the moment,” she replied. “She has good moments and bad. Right now she is in a mild depressive state, but that is to be expected under the circumstances.”
“Has she had any more of the episodes?”
Episode was the only generic term I could muster for what I meant. Helen had actually witnessed Felicity under the control of Miranda before I left for New Orleans, so she knew exactly what I was talking about.
“Fortunately, no.”
“Good.”
“Is there a reason she might have?”
“I’m not sure…” I allowed my voice to trail off for a moment. “All I can say is that I think I might have riled up the Lwa just a bit.”
“How so?”
“I can’t really get into any details at the moment. Let’s just say Miranda and I had an encounter.”
“You found her?”
“Not physically, no, but…” I left the alternative unspoken.
Helen sighed and a fresh measure of concern threaded into her voice, “Rowan, you do realize that you are making my case for me. You are not going to do Felicity any good if you manage to lose touch with yourself in the process.”
“I know that, Helen.”
“You need to be careful.”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
“I know you too well. You are there alone, and you do not have anyone to stop you from taking unnecessary risks.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I suppose you do know me. Well, I am. Being careful, that is.”
“I hope you are correct, however, I suspect that what you perceive as being careful is a far cry from fact.”
“You don’t have to mother me. I know what I’m doing,” I returned, even though I wasn’t sure I believed the statement myself. Rather than allow it to go any further, however, I changed the subject. “So, like I said, I called about Felicity. Not me. Is there any chance I could speak to her?”
“Yes, there is. In fact, I suspect hearing your voice might help her mood,” she replied. “Hold on for a moment, and I will have the switchboard transfer you to her room.”
The music filled the earpiece once again, though this time I thought I might have recognized the tune. I didn’t get much of a chance to place a title with it, however, as I was treated to a much shorter wait than when I was originally placed on hold. The song was abruptly cut short, and I heard my wife’s voice in its place.
“Rowan?”
“Hey…” I said, trying to inject some liveliness into my tone. “How’s my favorite redhead?”
“Okay.”
“Just okay? Helen says you’re doing pretty good.”
“Aye,” she muttered, her singsong Celtic lilt coming through. “Helen should know, I suppose.”
