M Sellars - Love Is The Bond

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Maybe.”

“Did you just say maybe?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Okay, so now I know somethin’s fucked up,” he returned. “You aren’t seriously sayin’ you’d be willin’ ta’ go home and wait, are ya’?”

“I don’t know, Ben,” I replied. “I just don’t know anymore.”

“What gives, Row?”

“I’m tired.”

“Me too, white man,” he said. “But, somethin’ ain’t right with you, and it’s not because you’re tired.”

The nagging doubt bubbled to the surface, and I found suddenly that I could no longer contain it. “What if I’m wrong?” I blurted.

“Wrong about what?”

“About Felicity.”

“You’re not.”

“You’re the one who questioned me about where she was…”

“I’m the one who repeated something because I had no choice, Rowan,” he snapped. “Don’t read anything into it.”

“But you said you weren’t so sure you didn’t agree with them.”

“So I fucked up,” he replied. “I didn’t mean it.”

“But…”

“But nothin’,” he returned. “Is that what’s botherin’ you? You’re doubtin’ yourself?”

I didn’t reply.

“Answer me!”

“Yes, dammit!” I spat. “Obviously, I’m not as in tune as I used to be. Maybe I’ve lost it. Maybe I’m wrong about all of this!”

“That shit at the crime scene was Voodoo stuff. You’re sure about that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Firehair was talkin’ with a Southern accent, right?”

“Yes, but…”

“Shut up! She’s not actin’ like herself at all, right?”

“Yes.”

“You ain’t wrong then.”

“I just don’t know anymore, Ben,” I appealed.

“You got a headache?”

“Why?”

“Just fuckin’ answer me. You got a headache?”

“Yes.”

“Is it one of those la-la headaches?”

“I think so.”

“There ya’ go.”

“There I go what?”

“Somethin’s fuckin’ with you, Row.” His voice was filled with unshakable confidence. “Just like it’s fuckin’ with Felicity. Now don’t let it win.”

The first strains of the “William Tell Overture” began chirping through the cab of the van, and my hand went into my pocket out of reflex. The minute I wrapped my fingers around the cell phone, however, I started shaking my head.

“It’s probably my father-in-law again,” I said aloud.

“That was pretty quick for a call back,” Ben replied. “Maybe it really is important.”

I pulled the phone out and looked once again to the LCD, but this time I was greeted with a wholly unfamiliar number. The first thought to go through my head was that all I needed right now was a client with a software problem. I considered letting it go to voice mail but then thumbed the answer button anyway and pressed it against my ear.

“Gant,” I barked into the device.

I heard shuffling at the other end followed by what might have been sobbing.

“Hello?” I spoke again.

“Caorthann?” Felicity’s thick Celtic brogue came across the speaker in a pained whisper as she uttered my name in Gaelic.

“Felicity?!” I yelped.

“…Help me, Rowan,” she whimpered again.

All I could make out through the choked sobs that followed were the words “I think I killed him.”

The magnetic bubble light was once again laying down its flickering red glow in front of the speeding van as we headed east. As soon as we knew where we needed to go, my friend had quickly exited the highway, looped us through various mid-town side streets, then jumped onto 40 once again and pointed us back toward Illinois.

“NO!” Ben stressed the objection loudly into his cell phone. “Absolutely not… No, I don’t give a fuck… I’m tellin’ ya’, don’t call ‘er… Let me handle this… Yeah…”

I tuned out his side of the conversation and focused my attention toward my own cell. Felicity was still on the line with me but hadn’t said more than a dozen words in the past five minutes. Even though I continued to speak, trying to calm her, all I could get from the other end was frightened sobbing and an occasional “yes” whenever I asked her if she was still there.

“Felicity, talk to me,” I appealed.

Her only audible answer came in the form of a hard sob, punctuated by a pleading whine that sounded like “What’s happening to me?”

At this point, we didn’t know what the full situation really was. After the initial shock of her call had subsided, I had begun questioning my wife as to her whereabouts. At first all she seemed to be able to do was sob, but I eventually got her to tell me that she was in a bathroom. The sound of her voice made me conjure images of her cowering in a corner, and that only served to make the painful hollowness return to my chest.

After much gentle urging, I had managed to coax her out of the bathroom long enough to tell me she was in what appeared to be a motel room. Ben tried having the call traced, but we only found that she was using a cell belonging to the individual with whom she had left the club. While they worked on pinpointing her location via the cell towers, I continued to do the only thing I could-talk to her.

It took me another five minutes, but I did convince her that she needed to leave the bathroom once again and look for something that would tell her the name of the motel. I found quickly that I was damning myself for putting her through it as I listened to her hyperventilate and weep while she moved through the room. Fortunately, it wasn’t in vain, as she eventually came up with the needed information from the room key before audibly scrambling back into the perceived safety of the bathroom. I wasn’t particularly surprised that the number she squeaked out happened to be seven.

While I suspected the numeral held a greater meaning for the killer, I had a terribly sick feeling that it was going to say something entirely different to the police investigating the killing spree. After what Ben had told me earlier, I had no choice but to believe there would be a tremendous amount of significance placed on that fact in an attempt to tie my wife to the murders.

Once we had the name of the motel, Ben had made a quick call and determined that it was a dive known for cheap hourly rates and a guest register full of Smith’s and Jones’. On top of that, it was back across the river and only a mile or so from the club we had recently left. In fact, we had to have driven past it, both on the way there and back.

The only other thing I had been able to glean from the mostly one-sided conversation with my wife was that apparently, Brad Lewis was in the room with her. At least, that was our assumption. All I could ever really make out was that someone was there, that she believed “he” was dead; and moreover, that she had been responsible for his death. I was hoping that she was wrong, but the fact that she probably still had Constance’s sidearm was making my stomach twist into a knot. While I had relayed the information to Ben, he hadn’t let it go any further. I didn’t know why he was keeping it to himself, but I appreciated the discretion.

All in all, I counted us lucky to have gotten as much as we did. Felicity seemed on the verge of absolute hysterics at one moment, only to shift into quiet sobbing the next. It was painfully obvious that she was completely disoriented, not to mention scared out of her wits. I couldn’t truly imagine what she must be going through at the moment, but my brain was definitely barraging me with a host of emotions that I was desperately trying to ignore.

I also didn’t even want to consider imagining what she might have done. Even if I discounted the firearm, I felt little comfort, as there were many other ways to take a life.