“Well, try readin’ ‘em again!”
Ben stared back at me, grimly silent on the heels of the shouted order. I had to keep my head tilted back to meet his gaze, as he stood six-foot-six and was, therefore, better than a head taller than me. He carried himself on an overtly muscular frame that often made him seem larger than life, and in a sense, almost heroic.
His classic, angular features, which not only broadcast his pure Native American heritage but also served him well in forming his handsome visage, were now creased into a hard scowl. The deep lines made him look less like my friend and more like the stoic “Injun on the warpath” from an old Western. All he needed were some feathers and face paint to make the caricature complete.
In fact, a travesty is all that was left of him in my mind, for at this particular moment, even though his dark eyes were betraying his own turbulent mix of emotions, any sense of heroism I envisioned in him had long since fled. To me, he had become no more than a threatening obstacle standing dead in the middle of my path.
He sighed heavily then shook his head and cast his eyes toward the floor. Out of reflex he reached up with a large hand to smooth his jet-black hair. This was a mannerism I’d seen countless times, and it was something he always did whenever he was thinking hard on a subject. I stood watching him, and in the wake of the motion, I could see salty flecks of grey that I knew for certain had been there for quite some time but now seemed to be appearing right before my eyes. It was as if he was visibly aging as he stood there.
Under the circumstances, I think perhaps we both were.
I waited for a healthy measure, or at least I think I did. I know I tried. Unfortunately, my patience was as thin as the dry, paper-like skin of an onion right now and even more brittle. I wasn’t interested in giving him time to think about anything. I wanted answers and I wanted them ten minutes ago.
“Tell me what’s going on, Ben!” I repeated my demand for the umpteenth time.
“GODDAMMIT, ROWAN! I CAN’T!” he shouted then suddenly slammed the heel of his fist hard against the doorframe before repeating in a near whisper, “I just…can’t.”
Whether we were getting somewhere or not, I couldn’t say, but this was the first time he had given me a response other than “you know” or “read the warrants.”
My friend looked over his shoulder through the glass of the storm door as it slowly worked its way toward obscuring the view by fogging over with condensation. After a second he looked back at me and muttered, “Jeezus fuckin’ Christ, Row…don’tcha think I wanna tell ya’?”
I didn’t let up. “You sure as hell aren’t acting like it.”
“Sonofabitch! Dammit…I…Jeez…I…It’s…Shit! Fuck me! Dammit, Row, I just can’t!” He stuttered through the sentence as his morose tone ramped back into anger.
Mine, however, had never ramped down. “That’s not good enough!”
“Well it’s gonna hafta be for now!”
Ben Storm was probably my second best friend walking the face of the planet-period, end of story. However, at this instant I was within a hair’s breadth of planting my fist square on his chin replete with every last speck of strength, anger, and unfettered malice I could muster. Never mind the fact that it would probably be the one and only shot I would get before he pummeled me into the middle of next month, or even that he was a cop with a gun and a similarly armed partner sitting in a vehicle in my driveway. Right now, none of that mattered to me.
What did matter, more than anything, was what had brought the two of us to the brink of a violent, physical confrontation such as this. And, that, beyond any shadow of a doubt, would be my best friend. Not my second best friend, but my first, and absolute, best friend-a petite, redheaded, Irish-American woman whose name was typed prominently upon the warrants.
And, the thing about my dear and lovely wife that had me on the edge of committing assault against Ben was the fact that I had just stood here in my living room and watched him place her in handcuffs then recite to her the Miranda rights of silence.
Miranda.
Now there was irony in all its glory considering that one simple word, the name “Miranda”, had everything to do with the head-on collision my life, my friend’s life, and moreover, my wife’s life had just become.
Our screaming match was far from over, and since it was my turn I shouted back, “Something, Ben! You’ve got to be able to tell me something! ”
“I told you, I CAN’T!”
“Fuck that! What you mean is you WON’T!”
“Goddammit, Rowan! What I mean is I CAN’T! Do ya’ really think I like this any more than you do?”
“Ben, you just arrested my wife for murder! You can’t just do that then walk out like nothing’s happened! You’ve got to give me some answers here!”
He huffed out a breath then dropped his forehead into his hand and allowed it to rest there for a moment before pushing his palm back through his hair once again. This time, he left the large paw clamped onto his neck and began working his fingers against the muscles.
“I wish I could.”
“Well, answer me this: Why aren’t you arresting me too?”
“We ain’t got a reason. But trust me, it was mentioned.”
“Dammit, you don’t have a reason to arrest her either!”
“I’m afraid we do, Row.”
“What is it? Tell me.”
“Look,” he offered. “I’m not even s’posed to say this, but all I can tell ya’ is there’s hard evidence that Firehair might be the one that killed Hammond Wentworth and Officer Hobbes.”
I found myself offended by the fact that he called her Firehair. The use of the friendly moniker he had long ago dubbed Felicity with seemed inappropriately familiar under the circumstances. Considering what he had just done, I didn’t feel he had that right. I started to say something but decided against it before the words could leave my throat. No matter what my visceral response to it, the truth is, the hypocrisy I saw in his use of the nickname really wasn’t what was important right now.
Instead, I focused on the crux of what he had just said and made a demand. “What kind of evidence? Surely not the hairs you said they found at the Wentworth scene.”
“I can’t say, Row.”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s bullshit and you know it. She didn’t kill anyone.”
“I…she…crap…” he muttered.
“Dammit, Ben, think about it! If she killed Wentworth and Hobbes, then why didn’t she kill that character she picked up at the club?”
“I dunno. You tell me. For all you know she might’ve if things had gone different.”
“No, she wouldn’t have and here’s why-because she didn’t kill any of them. I told you what was going on. She was possessed by a Lwa that night.”
“Dammit, Row, that’s not gonna fly an’ you know it. Not with my superiors and sure as fuck not with a court.”
“It’s still the truth.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I snipped. “So now you don’t believe me either?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, well from where I’m standing you haven’t said much, period.”
He didn’t reply. He just kept working on the knotted muscle in his shoulder.
“So, what’s this hard evidence?” I pressed, returning to my original query. “Tell me.”
“I’ve already said more than I should.”
“Damn you, Ben,” I growled.
He sucked in a quick breath and pulled his hand from his shoulder, stiffly jabbing his index finger toward me. His eyes glowered as his face hardened once again, and his mouth opened in preparation to deliver some manner of angry ripost. However, no sound issued from him even though his jaw slowly worked at forming the words.
After a tense exhale he lowered his hand and shook his head. With a sad note underscoring his words, he mumbled, “Yeah, Row. Damn me. That’s fine. If it makes ya’ feel better, go ahead an’ damn me all ya’ want.”
We stared at one another in almost total silence for a handful of heartbeats. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I wanted answers I wasn’t going to get, even from my friend. With that avenue closed to me, I was suddenly feeling very flustered. I suspected the only thing keeping me from losing any semblance of rationality I still maintained was the seething anger that filled my very being.