All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation (8 page)

“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.”

“No, she wouldn’t have and here’s
why—because she didn’t kill any of them. I told you what was going
on. She was possessed by a
Lwa
that night.”

“Dammit, Row, that’s not gonna fly an’ you
know it. Not with my superiors and sure as fuck not with a
court.”

“It’s still the truth.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” I snipped. “So now you don’t believe
me either?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, well from where I’m standing you
haven’t said much, period.”

He didn’t reply. He just kept working on the
knotted muscle in his shoulder.

“So, what’s this hard evidence?” I pressed,
returning to my original query. “Tell me.”

“I’ve already said more than I should.”

“Damn you, Ben,” I growled.

He sucked in a quick breath and pulled his
hand from his shoulder, stiffly jabbing his index finger toward me.
His eyes glowered as his face hardened once again, and his mouth
opened in preparation to deliver some manner of angry ripost.
However, no sound issued from him even though his jaw slowly worked
at forming the words.

After a tense exhale he lowered his hand and
shook his head. With a sad note underscoring his words, he mumbled,
“Yeah, Row. Damn me. That’s fine. If it makes ya’ feel better, go
ahead an’ damn me all ya’ want.”

We stared at one another in almost total
silence for a handful of heartbeats. I couldn’t think of anything
else to say. I wanted answers I wasn’t going to get, even from my
friend. With that avenue closed to me, I was suddenly feeling very
flustered. I suspected the only thing keeping me from losing any
semblance of rationality I still maintained was the seething anger
that filled my very being.

For that very reason, I clung to the outrage
like a lifeline.

Ben turned and glanced out the fogged door
once again, pushing it open for a moment to get a better view. When
he looked back to me, he broke the silence. “The guys from the CSU
just pulled up. They’re gonna hafta search the house.”

“I pretty much got that from the handful of
papers. What are they looking for?”

“Look at the warrant. It’s all listed.”

“I did and it’s pretty goddamned ambiguous,
Ben.”

“Yeah, well that’s how they write ‘em.”

“Obviously. So what are they really looking
for?”

“I can’t tell ya’. You should know that.”

“Uh-huh, that seems to be your answer for
everything right now.”

He shook his head. “They’re lookin’ for
evidence, Row. Evidence.”

“Dammit, Ben. This is wrong and you know
it.”

“Call your lawyer,” he said. “And light a
candle…or burn some incense…or whatever the hell you Witches do.
‘Cause I’m tellin’ ya’ now, Felicity’s gonna need it.”

“This isn’t over, Ben.”

“Jeezus, Row, believe me…I hope like hell
you’re right.”

“I want to talk to her before you go,” I
demanded.

“She’s already in custody.”

“Yeah. No shit.”

“What I’m sayin’ is that means I can’t let
ya’ talk to ‘er. Not now. Not yet.”

“Bullshit! Get out of my way. I’m talking to
her.”

“I just told ya’, you can’t,” he replied in a
far more stern tone, punctuating it with a shake of his head.
“Don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

“The hell I can’t!” I shot back as I started
forward.

I didn’t get very far.

I was stopped cold as the palm of Ben’s hand
thudded hard in the center of my chest. I wasn’t surprised that he
would do something of the sort, but I also had no intention of
letting it stop me for very long. I instantly lashed out, swinging
my right arm wide in a roundhouse punch.

Of course, I should have realized that he
would be expecting it. As turbulent as the past few minutes had
been, he had probably been waiting for me to do something stupid
all along. And, stupid was putting it mildly.

My friend’s left arm shot upward out of
trained reflex, sliding against mine and deflecting my angry fist
harmlessly away. With a quick thrust of his right, he pushed me
hard. Since my wildly careening punch already had me off balance,
it didn’t take much for him to launch me backward across the
room.

I stumbled a pair of steps before completely
losing my footing, and a split second later sharp pain shot through
my buttocks as they impacted the floor. That sensation was almost
instantly followed by a stab of agony lancing into my left elbow
when it came down against the hardwood, and finally there was a
dull thunk on the back of my head from striking the arm of the
chair. That last blow didn’t exactly do wonders for my already
throbbing grey matter.

I heard myself yelp, and then I started to
scramble upward but only came a few inches off the floor before
dropping back down with a heavy thud. Dull pain was radiating from
my tailbone up through my lower back, and my nerves were more than
just a little jangled.

“Jeezus! Fuck me! Goddammit, Rowan!” Ben
sputtered with more than enough anger to fill the room to capacity.
“GOD DAMMIT! GOD DAMMIT!”

I was definitely stunned from the fall, and
my ears were now ringing, so his tirade came at me as a muted
string of syllables. Fortunately, I didn’t feel any queasiness or a
blackout coming on, so I didn’t think I was truly injured.

However, I just kept sitting there,
motionless, letting my rage work as an anesthetic for all the pain,
emotional as well as physical.

Ben’s tone ratcheted down the scale from
anger to remorse in the span of a single sentence. “Awww, Jeez,
Row…Man…What’d ya’ hafta fuckin’ go an’ do that for?!”

I assumed the question was rhetorical, not
that I had really intended to answer him if it wasn’t. Still, I
couldn’t help but throw one of his earlier comments back in his
face.

“I think you know,” I spat.

“Jeezus…Are ya’ okay?” He stepped forward as
he spoke, extending his arm and offering me a hand up.

I simply shrugged away from him.

“Row…”

“Fuck you, Ben,” I told him.

“Dammit, Row, this…”

“Get out of my house,” I ordered, my voice a
low growl, fully devoid of any compassion. “Just…Just get out of my
house.”

He stood there, looking down at me with
abject sadness welling behind his eyes. What just happened was
something neither one of us was going to be able to fix, at least,
not right at this moment. And, the way I was feeling, I wasn’t sure
if I ever wanted it fixed. I had a sickening notion that I was
going to need every bit of my anger just to get through what was
coming, and that was assuming that I was going to make it through
at all.

The silent pause continued with us both
staring at one another, him pained, me incensed. I allowed it to
continue for what seemed a full minute but was in reality probably
no more than a scant few seconds.