M Sellars - Perfect Trust

I watched on helplessly as my hand moved of another’s volition, guided by an invisible though firm and icy grip. As my fingers drew closer to the handle of the drawer, I fought to cry out for help. Still, my voice caught in my throat, and I managed nothing more than a weak, raspy gurgle that went unheard.

“I said SHHHHHHHH!” Debbie Schaeffer admonishes me. “You have to trust me.”

“A prayer,” Doctor Sanders stated flatly, her tone betraying her lack of belief in what she’d just been told.

“Open it, Rowan. Open it.”

My hand moved in a jerking parody of a mechanical appendage as it was forced to grasp the handle and then tug the latch open. A second later I was sliding the drawer smoothly outward on the heavy-duty rollers amidst their mild roar of friction.

In an instant I was face to face with the pallid remains of Paige Lawson, and still my hand moved, guided by an invisible but wholly distinguishable force. My arm literally vibrated as I struggled against Debbie Schaeffer’s ethereal control. My palm hovered mere inches above the chilled corpse of the young woman.

“Touch her, Rowan. You REALLY, REALLY, REALLY need to see this!”

“Is there a particular…” Doctor Sanders started to continue her interrogation only to be interrupted by the sound of the opening drawer. “MISTER GANT! JUST WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!”

The sharpness of the medical examiner’s demand shattered the delicate pane of the trance like a baseball hitting a plate glass window. Unfortunately, it was too late.

Debbie Schaeffer’s ghostly form drove my hand downward, bringing my latex sheathed palm against Paige Lawson’s cold flesh.

Colors flashed in a riot of sparks, blooming to the absolute pinnacle of saturation then bleaching to dull shades of grey. An otherworldly electricity coursed through my body on a never ending quest to jangle every nerve, seeking out and destroying anything in its path. Light flickered before my eyes and then drained away in a chaotic whirlpool of luminescence, bleeding red then black.

A rapid burn ripped its way along the side of my neck.

Blinding pain erupted inward from the side of my skull and wrapped around to repeat the assault.

My chest tightened and spasmed as I felt the breath chased from my lungs.

My own words mixed with those of Doctor Sanders as the catch in my throat opened wide to release the escaping air in the form of a tortured scream, “HELP ME!”

I had never really paid that much attention to acoustic ceiling tiles. Actually, I had never really had a reason to do so. At this particular moment in my life, however, the random pattern of decorative holes punched into their dull surfaces was occupying my full and undivided attention. I quickly discovered that if you stare at them long enough, the randomness of the indentations would become less and less chaotic. With little more than a spoonful of imagination mixed in, the dots became easy to connect and rallied themselves into complex pictures, complete with highlight and shadow.

In my mind’s eye, I was just applying the final touches to a particularly intricate portrait when reality elected to position itself between my canvas and me. My carefully constructed image of a striking young woman with long, flowing hair exploded into a shower of bright red sparks that hesitated for a moment then fell slowly earthward, systematically burning themselves out along the way like the dying bursts of holiday fireworks.

It really didn’t matter that the fantasy had been disturbed because the image was replaced in kind with a face of equal-if not superior-beauty, even though it was wrinkled with a mixture of anger and concern.

“How’s your head, then?” Felicity asked as she peered down at me.

With the artistic trance broken, I set about focusing my attentions on the question I’d just been asked. I took a quick mental assessment and discovered that my head was still throbbing somewhat. However, there was another sensation that overshadowed the mild pain in a big way-I wanted a cigarette and I wanted it yesterday.

“Hurts a bit,” I croaked, trying without success to ignore the craving.

“Aye, you kept mumbling something about that while you were out,” she said. “That, and cigarettes.”

The proverbial cat was now on the loose. “How long?”

“You mean how long were you out? A few minutes,” she replied. “Barely long enough for us to bring you in here, really.”

From the looks of everything around me, “in here” was apparently one of the offices on the main floor of the morgue.

“Great,” I mumbled. “Did I do anything besides complain about my head and cigarettes?”

“You mean other than go off chasing after answers on your own?” She submitted the query with measured terseness born of her underlying anger with me, and the words themselves explained why.

“Whoa, before you unleash that wrath on me, it wasn’t exactly my choice,” I protested. “Debbie Schaeffer was apparently on a mission.”

“What do you mean?”

“She insisted on me touching Paige Lawson,” I said. “She kept saying there was something she needed to show me that I really, really needed to see.”

“And that was?”

I shrugged. “Beats me. I don’t remember much of anything after pulling the drawer open, and believe me, I did that under duress.”

“So why didn’t you say something before going off on your own?”

“I tried. But somehow Schaeffer’s spirit was actually in control of my body.”

“Aye…” she nodded as the pieces fell into place for her. “And now do you understand why I’ve been so worried about you?”

“Yeah.” I gave a slight nod myself. “The experience was definitely a wake up call.”

“How ya’ feelin’?” Ben’s voice overtook the momentary silence as he followed the opening door into the room. He seemed tense, almost reserved, and businesslike.

“Okay, I guess,” I answered as Felicity moved back and helped me to sit up. “Rattled.”

“So who’s the bad guy?”

“What?”

“All the hocus-pocus you did.” He waved his hand around in the air. “Tell me ya’ figured out who the bad guy is.”

“Well, no, I didn’t. Not exactly.”

“Wunnerful. What’s not exactly mean? Ya’ got clues? Leads? Anything?”

“Maybe… I’m not exactly sure. I saw… I saw…” I stumbled over what I wanted to say as I suddenly realized that I didn’t really remember what I had seen. “I think…”

He didn’t allow me to flounder for long. “Yeah. Great. So you good enough ta’ travel?”

“I suppose, but shouldn’t we…”

“No but’s, no shouldn’t we anything’s, white man.” He shook his head. “We need ta’ leave. We can get some coffee down the road and talk about it there.”

“But I’m not sure I’m finished here.” I wasn’t lying. I could feel that the memory of what I’d experienced downstairs was flitting around inside my head, just out of reach. I simply needed a trigger to bring it home to me. “There might be something else, Ben. We won’t know unless…”

He cut me off. “Look, you got no idea what it took for me ta’ convince the Doc there wasn’t somethin’ really hinky goin’ on down there tonight. I wouldn’t count on gettin’ anywhere near those remains in the near future if I was you.”

“I can talk to her…”

He interrupted me again. “Leave it alone, Row. If I was ta’ visit a proctologist right now he’d have two assholes ta’ choose from if you get my meanin’. We gotta go. Now. That’s it. Do not pass go. End of discussion.”

“Doctor Sanders chewed you out? But…” I let the remainder of the question hang unspoken.