Read Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation for Free Online Page B

he did not in fact
fall into the river that night, but instead, escaped.
    How? I couldn’t begin to tell you, but it was
a feeling far in the back of my head. One of those sensations that
begins as a slight itch that can’t be quelled by any means and then
quickly grows into a fearful foreboding. The kind of mysterious
intuition you just don’t ignore—especially if you are a Witch.
    I think I might have breathed an inner sigh
of relief while I stared at the picture. I had fully expected Ben
to produce a case file or crime scene photo from beneath the table
that would somehow tie into my current unexplained somnambulistic
excursions. On second thought, the sigh might not have been only
one of relief but of disappointment as well. I really did need to
figure out what was going on, and the sooner the better.
    “I’ve been carryin’ that damn thing around
for a week,” my friend told me, gesturing toward the photo. “I
wasn’t sure if I should even show it to ya’ or not.”
    I could sense the concern in his voice, and
the careful way in which he was watching me was physically
palpable. I looked up from the mug shot and noticed that his jaw
was held with a grim set. This expression wasn’t a hard one for him
to achieve, what with his deeply chiseled features and dusky skin
that visually announced his full-blooded Native American heritage.
Even sitting, he was better than a full head taller than me.
Standing, he measured six-foot-six and was built like an entire
defensive line. The nine-millimeter tucked beneath his arm in a
shoulder rig and the gold shield clipped to his belt made him
appear just that much more formidable.
    His hand went up to smooth back a shock of
his coal black hair and lingered once again at his neck, a
mannerism that told anyone who knew him that he had something on
his mind.
    “You worry too much,” I said as I dropped my
eyes back to the photo.
    “Yeah, you keep sayin’ that, but I know how
ya’ are,” he returned.
    He was correct. He did know how I was. Until
recently, he knew most of the details—though certainly not all—of
the nightmares I had experienced, both during and after the
investigations surrounding two separate serial killers. Both of
which had terrorized Saint Louis in the span of less than one year.
He had personally witnessed me involuntarily channeling the
victims—and their horrific ends. He had even saved my life in both
instances when I had recklessly taken on the killers myself.
    He was fully aware of the emotional toll the
investigations, and especially the supernatural elements of them,
had taken on me. I had been affected on many levels. Because of
this and his deep loyalty as a friend, he worried more about my
mental health than I did. The fact that I had only become involved
in the cases at his request played more than a small part in it as
well.
    “I’m not going to wig out on you, Ben,” I
returned in a fully serious tone. “I’m okay.”
    “Yeah, but all that Twilight Zone shit you go through…” he let his
voice trail off.
    “Really, Ben. I’m fine,” I offered and then
changed back to the subject at hand. “How did you find out who he
is? I thought the evidence was inconclusive, and there were no
identifiable fingerprints in his van. Besides, it’s been almost a
year now.”
    “Dumb fucking luck,” he answered. “A coupl’a
weeks ago, County got a call from a distraught woman babblin’ about
somethin’ she found in her basement. Turns out she was the owner of
the house where this wingnut was doin’ his thing.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Yeah, no shit. Right outta the blue.
The house was a piece of rental property she’d inherited. She lives
outta state, and it was hung up in probate for a while, so she
didn’t even know he was livin’ there. She thought it was vacant.
Anyhow, the legal BS finally got cleared up, and then she got
around ta’ comin’ inta town ta’ get it fixed up for sale. Well,
when she starts cleanin’ up, guess