Read Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation for Free Online Page B

the chilly breeze.
    Harsh red and white splashes of brightness
flickered across the scene from active light bars atop emergency
vehicles, their on and off glare lending a patina of chaos to what
would seem an otherwise somber night. The familiar background din
of static and tinny voices prevailed from police radios, running
the gamut of low range volumes.
    Although Ben had recently begun to show a
minor bit of greying, he still possessed a collar length helm of
almost completely jet-black hair. That, his complexion, and his
dark eyes combined with his rugged features to leave no doubt as to
his full-blooded Native American heritage.If any doubt still
existed, however, the nickname he had just tagged me with was a
direct product of that history as well.
    We’d been friends longer than I cared to
remember, and the tongue-in-cheek banter had been a part of our
dynamic almost from the word go. I would call him “Chief”, “Tonto”,
or even “Injun”. He would counter with “Kemosabe”, “white man”, or
“paleface”. He even went so far as to give Hollywoodesque Indian
names to Felicity such as “Firehair” or “Red Squaw”.
    We were both perfectly aware that people
around us could be so caught up in runaway political correctness
that they would visibly cringe when they heard us. Of course, if we
happened to notice their discomfort, we would both be so amused
that we would exaggerate the repartee for nothing more than our own
entertainment.
    However, at this very moment, the most
important thing about the moniker was that it told that he wasn’t
angered about me tagging along. He was merely giving me grief just
for the sake of it. Considering his earlier tone, I hadn’t been
sure what his reaction was going to be. His eventual reply to my
non-answer simply perpetuated the chaff.
    “Didn’t say it wasn’t nice ta’ see ya’,” he
said. “I just don’t remember invitin’ you to our little
rendezvous.”
    “You woke me up,” I told him. “That’s
invitation enough for me.”
    My friend grunted then gave his head an
exaggerated shake and parked his hands on his hips. Looking over at
my wife with a flirtatious grin, he exclaimed, “Well damn,
sweetheart! Guess we’re gonna have ta’ find a different place ta’
meet now.”
    She quickly picked up on the joke and nodded.
“Aye. I suppose you’re right, pookums.”
    “Go ahead,” I offered with a shake of my
head. “She’d just hurt you.”
    “Yeah, you’re prob’ly right ‘bout that,” he
agreed with a chuckle.
    “So, you’re in an awfully good mood
considering the circumstances,” I said. “You didn’t sound this
chipper on the phone.”
    “Prob’ly lack of sleep,” he replied, rubbing
a large hand across his chin. “That, or just tryin’ ta’ stay sane,
take your pick.”
    “Knowing you? All of the above,” I
returned.
    “Uh-huh,” he grunted then added with a note
of seriousness slipping into his voice, “Yeah, well, you got no
idea, Row.”
    “Is it really that bad in there?” Felicity
asked.
    My friend reflexively brought his hand back
up to smooth his hair, something he always did when he was
carefully mulling over a crucial thought. “If you’re talkin’ like
real gory, yes and no,” he finally said. “It sure’s hell ain’t
pretty, that’s a fact… Guess it depends on your stomach, but I know
you’ve both seen worse.”
    “So not very high on the gore-meter?” she
returned.
    “Oh, I dunno. ‘Bout a six or seven, I guess…
But that’s not really what I’m talkin’ about. The bad is gonna
happen soon as the TV people get here.”
    “I’m surprised they aren’t already,” I
observed.
    “Yeah, me too,” he agreed then suddenly gave
his head a quick jerk and exclaimed, “Jeezus, this is gonna be
fucked up!”
    I shrugged. “You mean the press? So what?
That’s not unusual.”
    “Yeah, I know, but I’m tellin’ ya’ this is
worse. It’s gonna be capital F-U-C-K-E-D fucked with an