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.”
“The abuse?”
“Overdose.” McLaughlin shook her head. “She’s an addict. More tracks than Union Station.”
“Don’t tell me.” Ben shook his head. “Last time she scored was Saturday night.”
Charlee laid one index finger against the side of her nose and simply pointed at him with the other.
“So what the hell’d they call ya’ for?”
“She’s blonde…”
“…and petite, and doctors ain’t cops.” Ben finished the diatribe for her while nodding his head then slapped his open palm against the tiled wall and leaned into it. “Shit! Hodges bolts and now this is a dead end. We can’t catch a fuckin’ break!”
His voice echoed down the corridor directly behind the fading sound of his hand impacting the tile. He was still riding the adrenalin rush that had hyped him up less than half an hour ago, and the disappointment at this turn of events seemed to ravage his features as he huffed out a disgusted sigh.
And right there was a shining example of the portrait I had in my mind. Benjamin Storm, supercop-protector of the innocent.
“I’m right there with you, Storm,” McLaughlin told him, showing mild surprise at his outburst. “But you gotta stop taking it so personally.”
“Yeah, well tell that ta’ Debbie Schaeffer’s parents,” he said. “It’s Christmas freakin’ Eve, and what’s left of their daughter is spendin’ it in a body bag over on Clark Avenue. Merry fuckin’ ho, ho, ho.”
“You can’t change that,” I offered to my friend.
“No,” he admitted, “I can’t change it, but I can give ‘em this asshole as a gift. At least that’d be somethin’.”
“We don’t even know for sure if it’s the same guy,” Charlee said.
“Maybe not, but it’s the best lead I’ve got at the moment.”
“Then let’s follow it,” I interjected, my voice flat.
“How?” he shot back.
“There are other victims,” I offered. “We talk to them.”
“Jeez, white man, like I just said it’s freakin’ Christmas Eve!”
“Yes it is,” I acknowledged. “But you’re the one who wants to give Debbie Schaeffer’s parents this guy as a gift. By my calculations you’ve only got about twelve shopping hours left.”
“Yeah, well I’m thinkin’ it’s gonna be a disappointin’ holiday for all of us.”
I looked over at Charlee. “You said there have been eight rapes reported so far?”
“Yeah,” she nodded.
“Do you have all the victim’s numbers?”
“Yeah, I’ve got their numbers.” She gave me a nod then looked at Ben. “He’s right. It’s worth a try, Storm.”
“Maybe,” he huffed, “but I’m not gonna hold my breath.”
“Okay.” I shot my glance between them. “Rule out Miranda Hodges and that leaves seven. At least one of them has got to be willing to talk to us.”
McLaughlin cocked her head to the door of the treatment room. “This one wants to file a report, not that I think she’ll follow through. Anyway, let me get someone down here to take care of this, and we’ll start making calls.”
“I guess I’d better call the crime scene guys and cancel,” Ben added. “Did they end up gettin’ Murv?”
“Afraid so.” McLaughlin nodded.
“Afraid so? That doesn’t sound good.”
“Yeah, they called him in off of a vacation day.”
Ben puffed his cheeks out and let the breath go with a slow hiss. “Well, guess I’d better stop by the smoke shop on the way home. I’m gonna owe ‘im some cigars for this one.”
“It’s Christmas Eve. Remember?” I said. “Any decent smoke shop is going to be closed by the time you get a chance to run by.”
“Crap. Well, guess I’ll hafta do it Wednesday.”
“Look at the bright side,” I told him. “Maybe you can get them on sale.”
Thirty minutes and five no-answers later our luck began to turn. The woman in the treatment room was giving her statement, the CSU call had been cancelled, and a young woman named Heather Burke answered her phone and said yes.
“Sorry about the mess,” the woman apologized while shifting a basket of clothing from a chair and onto the floor beside it. “I wasn’t really expecting company today.”
“No problem, Miz Burke,” Charlee told her. “We really appreciate you talking to us. Especially with it being Christmas Eve and all.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She shrugged. “I don’t have any family left, and I’m taking a bit of a hiatus from the dating scene if you get my drift.”
Heather Burke was a perfect example of the quintessential “perky blonde.” Large, bright eyes peering out from a soft face framed by a feathery shag of yellow hair. Five foot four, slim, and blessed with what some would call “eyeball measurements.” She was literally a textbook victim for this particular predator. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but think she bore a close resemblance to my wife, except of course for the hair.
She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that sported a faded but still readable iron-on transfer which announced, “Don’t let the hair fool you, I belong to MENSA.”
“Nice shirt,” I observed, thinking to myself that she even had Felicity’s headstrong attitude.
“You like it?” she asked rhetorically, looking down at the lettering then back at me. “Made it myself. It tends to stop the blonde jokes cold.”
“I can imagine.” I nodded.
“Have a seat.” She motioned to us. “Can I get anyone anything? I’ve got coffee on. Soda? Water?”
We all declined the offer, and she simply shrugged then dropped herself onto the couch and crossed her legs in something close to a relaxed lotus position. “I’m not sure what I’m going to be able to tell you,” she began, shaking her head. “It’s been three weeks and I haven’t really remembered anything yet.” She directed her attention to Charlee. “I mean, other than what I originally told you at the hospital.”
“I understand,” McLaughlin told her with a nod. “That’s actually why Mister Gant is here with us. Like I said on the phone, we’d like to try some things to help jog your memory.”
Heather wrinkled her face in concentration, lifting one eyebrow and cocking her head to the side as she muttered, “Gant… Gant… Wait… Now I remember…” She focused her gaze directly on me. “I thought I recognized the name. You’re the Witch, aren’t you?”
From the corner of my eye I saw Ben shoot an almost startled glance at me. I suppose her recognition caught him by surprise, but I’d been expecting something like this all along. In recent days a file photo of me had been flashed across local TV screens as the media speculated about my involvement in the Debbie Schaeffer murder investigation. There had even been a few column inches devoted to me in the local paper, so someone had been bound to recognize my face, my name, or both. It was only a matter of time.
“I don’t know about being the Witch,” I nodded with a slight smile, “but, yes, I’m the guy that’s been in the newspaper.”
“How cool is that,” she nodded in return then continued in a matter-of-fact tone, “So that would mean that Detective Storm here is the same Detective Storm from Homicide who is investigating the case with the murdered cheerleader. And if that is so, it stands to reason that since you are here talking to me, you think that murder is somehow connected with this rapist.”
Ben answered with a tentative note in his voice as he slowly nodded, “That’s the going theory.”
“Don’t look so surprised,” she told him.
“I know,” he said. “You’re a member of MENSA.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together,” she returned with a quick shake of her head. “I watch the news.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Miz Burke,” I dove back into the conversation to save my friend from the embarrassment of his misconceptions, “given that it has only been three weeks, you seem to be handling the attack very well.”
“I have my moments,” she half shrugged as she spoke. “Luckily you happened to catch me on a good day.”
“Are you certain that you’re up to talking about it?” Charlee chimed in.
“This is as good a time as any,” she nodded. “The sooner I can put this behind me the sooner I can get on with my life. That’s what they say anyway.”
“How do you feel about hypnosis?” I asked.
“Do you mean, am I willing to be hypnotized?”
I wasn’t surprised by her directness. “Yes.”
She shrugged. “Where and when?”
“I should warn you that if this works you will for all intents and purposes be re-living the incident.”
“Okay, fair enough. So answer me this: If it works will it help catch the prick who raped me?”
“I can’t say for sure,” I told her. “But it’s a good possibility, depending upon what you remember, of course.”
“Then I’ll ask you again,” she said, casting a confident gaze directly into my eyes. “Where and when?”
I turned slowly in place, first twisting my head to look over my shoulder and then following with the rest of my body. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and immediately noticed the puzzled expression that my brain had already told me I was wearing. Still, the sudden tickle that had sent me into this physical spiral didn’t subside. If anything, it just grew worse-nagging and clawing at the back of my psyche and sending a wave of gooseflesh across my scalp.
“Somethin’ wrong?” Ben asked, staring at the befuddled mask that was my face.
Heather had excused herself to use the bathroom before we began, leaving the three of us alone in her living room, so at least she wasn’t seeing this display. I had serious doubt that it would have done anything to bolster her confidence in what we were about to do.
“Are you okay, Rowan?” Charlee added her concerned voice to the mix.
“I don’t know,” I muttered at first then reeled my wandering thoughts back in. “I mean, yes, I’m okay… That was just weird.”
“What was weird?” McLaughlin queried.
“We’re talkin’ ‘bout Rowan here. Everything’s weird with him,” Ben interjected. “Ya’know, don’t adjust your television set, yadda yadda. So what’s up, white man? You already goin’ Twilight Zone on us?”
“It felt like…” I began, then frowned and shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably just nerves.”
“See what I mean?” Ben jibed.
“Are you positive, Rowan?” Charlee asked.
“Ya’ just haven’t been around ‘im enough yet, Chuck,” Ben told her. “He does this kinda shit when he starts doin’ the hocus-pocus stuff.”
“Really, Charlee,” I said, “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Too bad I didn’t actually believe that. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, and the sensation was extremely disconcerting. My first instinct was to think that Debbie Schaeffer might be waiting in the ethereal wings for me to pinpoint a target for her. But the more I dwelled on it, the more the presence felt nothing like her. It was familiar, yes, but not her. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t pin it down to an individual or even a place, and as I continued to mull it over the feeling just got worse.
A thin lance of pain stabbed through my bad shoulder, and I winced inwardly. I was starting to feel jumpy, and my hands began to clench and unclench with the nervous energy. I was still wearing my jacket, so I shoved them into my pockets to hide the fidgeting from outside notice. In doing so, I immediately felt the wad of salt packets Ben had given me.
“Are we ready?” Heather asked as she came back into the room.
“Row?” Ben raised an eyebrow at me.
“What? Oh, yeah.” I was still contemplating the phantom invasion of my privacy and hadn’t even noticed her return. “One question though, Miz Burke?”
“Yes?”
“This may sound odd, but as hypnosis goes this isn’t going to be typical. So I was wondering, would you mind terribly if I sprinkled a bit of salt around? Just for…”
“…purification and protection?” she finished for me, nodding as she spoke.
“You’re familiar with the ritual practices of The Craft?” It was my turn to be surprised, and ultimately chagrined.
She stretched the baggy t-shirt out with her hands to display the iron-on more prominently. “I read quite a bit, Mister Gant.”
I had never been much for the poetic showmanship of spell casting. While I certainly wasn’t opposed to the process, I tended to get tongue-tied whenever I set about reciting a series of couplets. Stumbling over rhymes did little for the actual effectiveness of the spell and in turn served only to destroy my concentration, which in reality was the true driving force behind working Magick.
By the time I would reach the end of the poem, I would have spent so much energy trying not to make a fool of myself that I usually forgot what it was that I set out to do in the first place. So out of a sense of self-preservation, I usually opted for the silent approach. I would gather myself, steel my energies, and project them outward on the task to which I’d set my mind-all without uttering a sound. It worked well for me, so I had never really seen a need to change it.
Something told me that this time, however, a word or two might be in order. Unfortunately, I was drawing a blank. I stood there silently for a moment with an open packet of salt poured into the palm of my hand and feeling incredibly self-conscious. I heard Ben clear his throat and felt my heart skip a beat.
It was at that moment, just before I was sure to break out into a cold sweat, that a not so random thought crawled out of its hiding place and announced itself.
I had once attended a workshop on Magick and SpellCraft given by a noted Pagan author. After the lecture I had had the opportunity to discuss with her the method by which I practiced the art. While she found no fault with my methodology, she told me to always keep in mind that the Lord and Lady loved to be entertained, and that to them, poetry was a joy. Therefore, if one’s intent was truly focused on the task, it didn’t always matter what was said but how one said it. I seized on that memory and began to mumble the first thing that entered my brain.
“Tis the night before Christmas, and this I do fear, someone is watching, with intentions unclear. My back is wide open and there’s a pain in my head, could you please watch out for me so I don’t wind up dead.”
It wasn’t the most eloquent spell imaginable, but I kept my voice low as I walked a small circle, sprinkling salt in my wake. I doubted that anyone could actually make out the words, but the cadence was probably crystal clear. For all they knew, I might very well have actually been reciting “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” If that is what they thought, however, none of them voiced it, and for that I was grateful.
When I completed the circuit and looked up, Ben was staring at me with one eyebrow arched. He’d never before seen me take it upon myself to engage directly in the ritualistic trappings of The Craft, save for the recent Yule circle he’d witnessed. This was something that was Felicity’s forte, not mine, so I knew he was going to have some questions. But they would simply have to wait.
“Go ahead and sit down,” I told Heather as I turned and then took a seat opposite her.
“You’ve done this before, correct?” she asked.
I nodded in response. “Yes, several times. Why?”
“You seem a bit nervous to me.”
“That’s because I am.”
“Why?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“Because I’m not entirely certain I really want to see what you’re about to show me.”
“Oh,” she said quietly.
“So with that said, are you sure you want to go ahead with this?” I gave her one last chance to back out before we started down the path.
“You really think this asshole might have killed that cheerleader?”
“There’s a strong possibility, yes,” Ben interjected.
She looked down and briefly pursed her lips, but her quiet rumination didn’t last long. Bringing her face back up she looked at me and said, “Then let’s see what I can remember.”
“Okay, everyone quiet please,” I announced to the room, glancing around then focusing my gaze back on Heather Burke.
As our eyes met, I willed a connection to form between us. My respirations evened out and slowed, and I felt a solid bond between the earth and myself. This was the strongest ground I’d accomplished on my own in some time, and I took a moment to revel in it. My confidence was steadily returning, and the light at the end of this long tunnel seemed to be growing brighter by the moment.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her in an unwavering monotone.
“Fine,” she answered, her voice betraying the calm that had begun to permeate her being. “Very relaxed.”
“Good.”
“So,” she asked. “Is this the part where you tell me to visualize nothingness?”
“Do you know what nothingness looks like?”
“Actually, no.”
“Neither do I,” I said with a slight smile in my voice.
I was lying. Unfortunately, I had faced the horror of nothingness on more than one occasion since my bane had made itself know. However, it was something that defied description.
I brought my voice back to the emotionless baseline I’d set with my original words. “Let’s try something else. I want you to imagine nothing but a blank sheet of paper-white, clean and unblemished. Allow it to fill your field of vision. Let it grow and fill your mind until there is nothing else. Just pure white from top to bottom, side to side, corner to corner, above and below, before and behind.”
This visualization was simply a place to start. I had no idea if it would work for her or if we would need to try something else. Some people are like resistors in an electronic circuit, impeding the flow of energy. Others are like capacitors in the same circuit, grabbing that energy and hoarding it, unwilling to share. Still others are simply conductors of energy like the wires that complete the connections between the components in that circuit. Heather Burke was an excellent conductor.
I watched her face as I spoke, feeling the rhythmic ebb and flow of an ethereal plasma moving between us. Her eyes slowly took on a glassy quality, remaining locked with mine, unblinking. The trance met no resistance and overtook her quietly and comfortably.
“When was she attacked?” I asked aloud, shifting the tenor and lowering the volume of my voice so as not to disturb the young woman in front of me.
I could hear Detective McLaughlin rustling about behind me, flipping through pages of a notebook. After a long moment she whispered, “The call came in to Sex Crimes on five, December.”
“So probably some time on the fourth?”
“Just a second…” I heard some more rustling. “Make it the third. She was last seen leaving work that Monday evening and was a no show for work on the next day.”
“Okay,” I answered then shifted my attention back to the tranced woman across from me. I tuned my voice back into a dull monotone and asked, “Heather, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she returned softly.
“Good. I want you to let your mind drift now. Allow it to float free.”
She giggled and then whispered, “This is fun.”
Through the connection between us, I could feel the giddiness she was experiencing. I allowed it to flow through me but maintained my earthly bond as a counterbalance to its almost overwhelming seductiveness. Moving with her, I struggled to keep a measure of distance between our ethereal selves, for to connect with her fully would draw me far too deeply into her experience.
“Good, Heather. You’re doing great. Now, if for any reason you can no longer feel my presence next to you, I want you to come back to this place. Okay?”
“You aren’t leaving are you?”
I could feel a tremor of fear roll through her voice and begin to well between us.
“Not at all. I’m just letting you know, just in case. I want you to be safe, so if you lose me, just come back to this place and nothing can hurt you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
I breathed a quick sigh of relief. The streak of anguish had come on far more quickly than I’d expected, and I hadn’t been prepared for it. I now realized just how tenuous the connection between us was and knew that I was going to have to effectively disengage some of the safeties I’d put in place for myself.
I didn’t want to do it, but in my mind I could see no other way. On a plane beyond time and space where the two of us now stood, I took a step closer to her in order to tighten the bond. The hazy miasma of energy, visible only to me, thickened and intensified.
“We’re going to allow ourselves to drift back now, Heather.” My voice continued to speak in this reality, though it no longer needed to do so. “Back in time. Back a few weeks to the evening of December third. You’ve just left work. Tell me where you went.”
“Home. I came home.”
“All right,” I answered, “what happened when you came home?”
“I parked my car and got out. It was dark. I dropped my keys and they went under the car. Dammit!”
“What, Heather? What’s wrong?” I almost physically jumped at her exclamation.
“I just put a giant snag in my pantyhose trying to reach my keys.”
“Okay,” I soothed as I settled myself. “Forget about that, it’s not important.”
“Not important?” she returned with a hint of attitude. “Do you know how much a pair of pantyhose costs?”
I was losing control. She was drifting in her own direction and it was completely opposite of the way we needed to go. In the ethereal world I inched myself closer to her, struggling to tighten our bond but still keep enough distance so as to remain an observer only. It was a dangerous dance, and I wasn’t exactly known for my grace.
A voice sounded at my back. It was painfully familiar, and it didn’t belong here. “Salt, Rowan? Get real. It’s only evil that can’t cross a salt line. Now I ask you, do I look evil?”
My otherworldly self spun quickly and came face to face with Debbie Schaeffer.
“Dead I am, dead I am,” she chanted, our faces only inches apart. “I do not like that dead I am!”
I bolstered my defenses and like an underwater swimmer who was running out of breath, aimed myself toward the surface. It was too late. I felt a dainty pair of hands slam open-palmed into my chest and give me a shove. On that distant plane the dance was over. I stumbled backwards, bereft of balance. Unfortunately, Heather Burke broke my fall.
On impact, there was a burst of blinding light, searing deep into my brain, and I let out a silent scream.
When sight returned, all color had fled and I was left in a world of halftone greys.
When sensation and feeling returned I was devoid of warmth and chilled to the bone.
When clarity of thought returned I was in the middle of a gender dysphoric identity crisis.