M Sellars - Perfect Trust

We walked at an even pace, him guiding me with a hand planted firmly on my shoulder, weaving through cops and evidence technicians until we were positioned in the shadows behind a Crime Scene Unit van. Out of sight of the cameras and prying eyes of the reporters, we came to a halt and he told me to stand still.

I heard the clinking of metal, followed by a muted ratcheting noise, and my left hand was suddenly free. I rolled my shoulder and felt it give a slight pop as I brought it back to its natural position. A moment later, the metal was no longer chafing my other wrist, and I repeated the motion for my right shoulder as I turned around.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Yeah, thank me later after I kick your ass,” my friend told me. “Now what gives? What’re ya’ doin’ here?”

“I was serious, Ben,” I answered with a shake of my head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know how I got here.”

“Hell, that’s easy,” he told me while jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Your goddamned truck is parked right over there in the middle of the fuckin’ street blockin’ traffic.”

“Who was murdered?” I unconsciously dismissed his statement and blurted out the question while looking past him at the glowing doorway.

“No… Me first, Row.” He shook his head vigorously. “Is there somethin’ about this I should know? Is this some kinda Twilight Zone shit here? You havin’ one of those visions or somethin’ like that?”

“It might be, Ben. I don’t know.” I shook my head again as I gravitated ever so slightly toward the scene.

“Whoa, Kemosabe.” He reached out and stopped my progress easily. “Just where do ya’ think you’re goin’?”

“I want to have a look at the scene, Ben,” I answered automatically.

“What for?”

I didn’t reply because I simply didn’t know the answer.

“Look, Row, this is a pretty routine investigation here, if you can call somethin’ like this routine. Truth is we don’t even know if it’s a murder or an accidental death just yet. There’re no weird symbols or any crap like that, so I don’t get what you’re doin’ here.”

He was making reference to the anomalous evidence that had prompted him to bring me into the two previous investigations. I could understand his point of view, but it was becoming apparent to me that visible evidence wasn’t always going to be what triggered my involvement.

“Now, let me ask ya’ somethin’,” my friend continued. “Did’ya know someone who lived in this apartment?”

The shroud of disorientation was descending on me again, rendering my fleeting clarity a thing of the past. My scalp was starting to tighten, and the back of my head held fast to a dull throb that was threatening to increase exponentially. I still had no real clue what I was doing here, but the growing pressure in my skull told me that there was definitely a reason. I was just too mesmerized by the doorway to recognize what it was.

“Look, Rowan, you’re actin’ pretty weird. How ‘bout I call Felicity and get ‘er down here to pick you up.”

“I’m fine,” I said, looking past him and focusing on the door. Something unseen, but very powerful, was compelling me to move toward that oblong patch of light.

“No, man, you ain’t fine,” he told me, emphasizing the word. “It’s two-friggin’-thirty in the mornin’, and you just showed up outta nowhere at a crime scene. Uninvited mind you. Then ya’ ducked under the barrier tape and started walkin’ across the yard like some kinda zombie, completely ignorin’ the officers who told you to stop. I got news for ya’… not every copper in Saint Louis knows who you are. You’re damn lucky ya’ didn’t get hurt. I mean, Jeezus… Hey… Hey… HEY Rowan! Are you even listenin’ ta’ me?”

“What?” I asked in a distracted timbre. I’d only barely heard him talking and hadn’t actually registered any of the words. The only thing that mattered right now was the doorway.

“Have you been drinkin’?”

“What?” I stammered absently.

“Pay fuckin’ attention! Have you been drinkin’?”

“No…” I shook my head as punctuation. “Of course I haven’t been drinking.”

At least I didn’t think I had. The truth was, I had no earthly idea.

“Okay… So… Ya’ don’t smell toast or somethin’ do ya’?” he asked in earnest.

“What?” I shook my head, this time in confusion, and stared at him briefly. “Toast?”

“I read somewhere that ya’ smell toast when you’re havin’ a stroke,” he offered.

His words came to me in a random sputter of sound as my cognizance shifted in and out of phase with the rest of reality.

“What?” I mumbled, not sure I had heard him correctly.

“That’s it,” Ben said, sounding as much concerned as annoyed this time. “I’m gettin’ you to a hospital. There’s definitely somethin’ not right with ya’.”

Inside my skull I heard a loud electric snap and felt a burning sting along the side of my neck. The nasty tingling sensation that had been at the back of my concerns had now burst into searing flame through my entire side. I tried to reach upward but found my body was ignoring any instructions issued to it by my brain. I felt myself shaking violently and beginning to stiffen as my mind short-circuited into oblivious disorientation. My chest tightened and began to sharply spasm with the same intense pain that accompanies a nocturnal leg cramp.

My sight was taken over by a darkened tunnel of fading vision, and in a flash the ground leapt upward to meet me. On impact, a sharp hammer blow of agony peened the side of my skull and spread rapidly outward into a migraine-like ache that settled in for the long haul.

As I lay crumpled onto the cold lawn, I could just barely make out the distant sound of my friend’s frantic voice yelling, “Somebody get a paramedic! Now!”

The last thought I remember clearly was that I had a pair of red patent leather pumps in my closet that would go perfectly with my new dress.

I’m not sure which assault on my senses was the most disconcerting-the smell or the sound. I suppose it could have been either one, or even a combination of both.

On the one hand, there was no mistaking the antiseptic funk of a hospital emergency room. An odor that was the filtered medicinal smell of alcohol, gauze, and used tongue depressors dancing in an olfactory ballet with the stench of sweat, fear, and blood. Of course, all of that was underscored by the “can’t quite put your finger on it” smell of death, just to drive the point home. As a whole, it carried with it an easily recognizable signature that told you exactly where you were without even opening your eyes or hearing a thing.

Then on the other hand, there was the terse exchange going on between my wife and my best friend. A pair of hedged voices, both straining not to outwardly display the overabundance of the anger they were quite obviously holding back. From the sound of it, they were bickering somewhere just beyond the door of the treatment room where I was presently lying flat on my back.

Whichever of the two was responsible, the job was done. I was jarred back from the semi-conscious ledge of introspection I’d been tiptoeing along since the doctor had finished poking, prodding, and interrogating me.

“I asked you not to get him involved any more, Ben,” Felicity was stating in a flat tone. “At least not for a while. He still hasn’t recovered from what he went through the last time, and you know it.”

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell ya’, Felicity,” he appealed. “He just showed up outta the clear freakin’ blue. I didn’t get ‘im involved this time.”

Their tones were hushed and muted by the hinged obstruction, but if I listened closely I could still make out what they were saying.