M Sellars - Perfect Trust

If he cries, then we’ll be there.

We want him to hurt, and to be afraid.

We want him to die in this bed he’s made.

Now go catch the killer,

We’ll make him pay.

And pay, and pay,

And pay, and pay,

And pay, and pay, and pay, and pay, and pay…

The vengeance laced words continued to echo inside my head as they faded in concert with the rapidly dissolving image of Debbie Schaeffer. I felt a hard knot in my stomach and nausea gripped me. This wasn’t good at all.

Debbie had literally taken over my body once before, and even though I was in better shape now than I had been that night, if I wasn’t careful she could do it again. The last thing I needed was for her to use me to commit murder-even if the victim was a killer himself. There’s no way in the world I’d ever be able to convince a jury that my physical body had been possessed by the spirit of a dead cheerleader with a hunger for revenge. No, this was worse than not good. This was just plain bad.

I’m not sure how much time I spent standing there contemplating this fresh threat, but it couldn’t have been long. I started with a violent jerk as the door at the top of the landing bumped open with a heavy thud and Ben stuck his head through the opening.

“Hey, Rowan,” my friend called down to me. “You comin’ or what?”

The doors leading from the ambulance bay slid open before us to reveal something resembling an all-day-long progressive holiday celebration in halting swing. The on-again, off-again nature of the work here was managing to consistently interfere and prevent the festivities from ever making it to the status of a full-blown party.

As we entered, for the second time this week the antiseptic atmosphere of an emergency room assaulted me full force; but at least this time I wasn’t a patient. The sweet smells of cookies and candies mingled with the savory aromas of cheese and cold-cut trays on the cool air. They were in turn undercut with the sharp fumes of isopropyl alcohol and other medicinal preparations. The entire melange was bound together by the peculiar plastic odor of adhesive bandages.

Fortunately, it didn’t appear to be too terribly busy at the moment-yet another calm before the storm considering that, statistically, holidays bring out the worst in some people. Still, even with the lull, the staff wasn’t exactly twiddling their thumbs either. The nurse behind the desk was involved in paperwork, presumably from a recent admission. Here and there, others could be seen taking care of various tasks or simply snatching a cookie from one of the many plates.

The young woman tending the desk had made an effort to offset the plainness of her scrubs, having adorned herself with a holiday bow in her hair and an electronic reindeer pin above her name badge. As we approached, the LED in the plastic novelty’s nose was flashing wildly, and the circuitry embedded within was belting out a medley of holiday tunes comprised entirely of a series of slightly off-key electronic tones.

“Can I help you?” she asked cheerfully as she looked up, obviously noticing that no one in our trio appeared to require immediate medical attention.

“City Police,” Charlee told her as she flashed her badge. “I’m Detective McLaughlin; this is Detective Storm and Mister Gant. I received a call from a Doctor Kennedy a little while ago.”

“Yes.” The nurse nodded, her smile fading. “The rape. He said to expect you. Treatment room four.” She stood and leaned slightly across the counter then motioned with one hand. “Down this corridor, left at the end, through the double doors, and it will be about halfway down on the left.”

“Thanks,” McLaughlin told her.

We rounded the corner of the admitting desk and headed down the hallway with Charlee in the lead. Ben reigned in his extra long stride and put a hand on my arm to hold me back as well, allowing us to fall a few paces behind her.

“I haven’t had a chance ta’ talk ta’ Chuck about the hocus-pocus stuff,” he half whispered to me. “Not ta’ mention that this victim is comin’ right off the incident, and she hasn’t had time ta’ come ta’ terms with it.”

“I understand,” I replied.

“Really, Row,” he admonished. “Don’t go in there slingin’ fairy dust or whatever right outta the box. We gotta feel out the situation first.”

“Okay, Ben,” I reiterated, “I’ve got it. I’m sorry about what I did back at the station and I won’t do it here. I promise.”

“Okay, I just gotta be sure,” he told me as he rummaged in his pockets again.

“What? Do I need another breath mint?” I queried, noticing his preoccupation with the task.

“Prob’ly,” he huffed flatly. “You hot-boxed four cigarettes between gettin’ to the van and gettin’ in here.”

“Yeah, well, blame it on Miranda Hodges. Besides, I seem to recall seeing a Fuente Chateau clenched between your teeth, my friend.”

“Yeah, but I was just chewin’ on it. Actually, I wanted ta’ give you somethin’ else.” He finally withdrew his fist from his pocket and held it out to me. “Here.”

I extended my palm, and he dropped a wad of small paper packets into it. “What’s this?” I asked.

“Salt,” he answered matter-of-factly. “I stole ‘em outta the break room before we left.”

“What do you want me to do with them?”

“Hey, you’re the Witch, you tell me. Felicity seemed ta’ think it was pretty important ta’ have salt the other night. I’m just tryin’ ta’ help.”

“She was doing something a bit different than what I’m about to do.”

“Yeah, well it’s all the same in my book,” he returned. “Besides, I haven’t seen Felicity go off the deep end yet, so maybe ya’ oughta try it her way.”

I was going to object again, but we were almost to the door of the treatment room, and I really didn’t have time to explain the difference between Magickal workings and psychic abilities to him.

Of course, the real truth was that in my case they were probably closer to one another than I wanted to believe. On top of that, he was most likely correct in his assessment. Given my current state, a little caution might very well go a long way. Especially since I now had an ethereal vigilante cheerleader threatening to use me as a weapon to exact her vengeance.

I almost had to laugh at that thought. The entire concept sounded like a bad fifties sci-fi/horror movie- I Was A Killer Teenage Zombie Cheerleader, or something equally ridiculous. Unfortunately, I was playing the starring role in the production and it was all far too real.

I stuffed the handful of salt packets into my coat pocket and kept my mouth shut.

Charlee stepped back out of the treatment room, already shaking her head. Ben and I had waited outside so as not to overload the victim. With what she’d been through, she definitely didn’t need us coming at her full force without some kind of warning.

“Unless he’s breaking his pattern, this isn’t our boy,” she told us as the door shut behind her.

“You sure?” Ben asked.

“No welt from a stun gun that they can find, and the bruising on her neck is from hands.” She motioned to her own neck with a gripping posture as an example. “Looks like she was choked. Turns out that after talking to her, she’s in an ongoing abusive relationship with a boyfriend.”

“I hate that shit,” Ben muttered. “Someone needs ta’ kick ‘is ass.”

“Tell me about it,” she returned.

“What about the Roofies?”

“They don’t have the blood test back yet, but I’m betting it will be negative.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because here’s the real kicker-this isn’t the first time she’s been in.”