I didn’t actually fear him; it was the situation itself I wanted to avoid. He was nowhere near as big as Ben, so I could pretty much guarantee that we would both end up going to the hospital, and that wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all, Felicity. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly wasn’t looking for another fight, but if it came in search of me, I wasn’t about to turn and run from it either.
The thought prompted me to look down at the back of my right hand. It was slightly swollen and had already started taking on a reddish-purple cast. I ran the fingers of my left hand over the bruised knuckles and noticed that it was definitely sore. Still, I suspected I would be able to ignore that if the need presented itself.
I sighed and bent to the bathroom basin then cupped my hands beneath the running faucet. Once they started to overflow, I pressed the handfuls of cold water against my face. Of course, most of it either ran between my fingers or dribbled along my arms to turn my shirtsleeves into a soggy mess, but I didn’t care. Wet clothing was the least of my worries right now.
Looking back up, I stared into the mirror at the dampened, haggard visage now living in the silvery, reflected world. Its eyes were sunken and bloodshot, stubble shadowed its cheeks and neck, and its face sagged with exhaustion. I kept telling myself that all of those properties applied only to it and not to me, because I simply didn’t have time to feel like it looked. Of course, I had learned long ago that denial would only get you so far; but, that wasn’t going to stop me from riding it all the way to the last stop.
The peal of the pendulum clock in the dining room had died away several minutes ago, but using the memory of the evenly spaced tones as reference, I did some quick math. The product of the equation was a number which told me I hadn’t slept in better than twenty-four hours, a fact that readily explained at least part of my current state of being.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried, mind you. I knew I needed rest, and I had actually set out to get some. The problem was, every time I closed my eyes I saw Felicity. While that was something I would normally consider a pleasant thought, the countenance that filled my waking nightmare was the one that had been burned into my mind when last I saw her being led out of the house.
What painted the inside of my eyelids was her face contorted into a mask of fear, paler than her ivory skin could possibly be. Her eyes were wide and imploring. Her lips were trembling as she called to me. As an added bonus, the visions came complete with an endlessly looping soundtrack of handcuffs snapping tight around her dainty wrists.
I could still hear her voice echoing in my ears as she pled for me to stop this from happening. And now…well, now for some reason, she was shutting me out, and that certainly didn’t help the pain at all.
I let out another sigh as I felt the emotion well deep inside me once again. The sadness was so overwhelming, I felt like sitting down on the floor right where I was and crying until I couldn’t cry anymore. But, that simply wasn’t going to happen. I knew it wouldn’t do any good because sometime around midnight I had given it a try, and now, I just didn’t have any tears left to give.
An even hiss filled my ears, beckoning me once again into the land of lucidity. I looked down and noticed the water was still running, so I twisted the handle to shut it off then reached for something to dry my face. Exiting the bathroom, I trudged through the bedroom while blotting my damp skin with a hand towel. I had to pick my way around various obstacles, as I hadn’t yet cleaned up the mess left in the wake of the search. That is, other than to push the pile of clothing on the bed off to the side when I tried to lie down and sleep. I was just stepping into the hallway when the telephone began to ring once again.
Only a few minutes had passed since Shamus’ last screaming fit, but he’d had a tendency to deliver them in clusters, so I was sure it was probably him for the who-knows-how-manyeth time today. I was so sure, in fact, that I didn’t even bother to head for the bookshelves to look at the caller ID box, electing instead to finish drying my face and then simply stand at the end of the hallway surveying the carnage that still graced my living room.
Following the third ring, the answering machine kicked on, burping its greeting into the room once again.
“You have reached the Gant and O’Brien household, please leave a message…” The voice was followed by a shrill tone then a staticky pause.
Finally, in the wake of the beep, an authoritative voice issued from the speaker. This time, however, it was distinctly feminine and possessed of a heavy Southern accent.
“I am calling for a Mister Rowan Gant,” the woman announced. “I picked up a message from my office that he was trying to reach me. My name is Doctor Velvet Rieth, and I can…”
Midway through her first sentence I was already in motion, stumbling frantically through the room as the dogs and cats scattered before me. I hadn’t even needed to hear her name to have guessed exactly who she was, and this was a call I had not only been waiting for but desperately needed.
Something told me this woman was holding a vital clue that would help me clear Felicity. What it was and why I believed it to be so, I couldn’t say. It was just one of those feelings, and I knew better than to ignore them.
“Yes, yes, I’m here…” I yelped into the handset, cutting her off before she could finish the message and hang up. “Hold on just a second…”
For some reason the answering machine hadn’t cut off as it normally should, and a loud squeal had burst from the speaker the moment I lifted the receiver. I was now fumbling with the buttons to switch it off but meeting with no success whatsoever. Frustrated by my frenzy-induced klutziness, I quickly gave up and yanked the power plug from its base with a violent jerk.
Quiet fell in behind the sudden termination of the racket, and I returned my attention instantly to the handset.
“Doctor Rieth? Are you still there?”
“Mister Gant?” she replied.
“Yes, I’m Rowan Gant. Sorry about the feedback there. It’s kind of an old answering machine.”
“That’s okay,” she said and then added. “I’m sorry, but do I know you? There’s something very familiar about your name.”
“No, Doctor, I’m fairly certain we’ve never met.”
Considering that I had recently heard my name mentioned on the national news in conjunction with Felicity’s arrest, I was trying to tread cautiously. I desperately needed information from this woman, and I didn’t think it would help if she knew my wife was an accused serial killer.
“Hmmm. Are you sure? I’d swear I’ve heard your name before.”
“There’s a British comedian named Rowan who’s fairly popular,” I offered. “Maybe that’s where there’s some confusion.”
“Maybe so…” she allowed her voice to fade thoughtfully.
There was a brief pause, but from the tone of our exchange, even given the pleasantries, I got the overwhelming feeling that she was somewhat dispirited that I had actually answered the phone. Still, that could simply have been my own mood overshadowing my judgment. After all, she did call back on a Saturday, so surely she was expecting someone to answer. That was unless, of course, she thought she was calling a business number and was hoping for voicemail.
As my sluggish brain was trying to make sense of what were probably exhaustion-blunted perceptions, she spoke again.
“Are you there?”
“Yes. I’m here. Sorry.”
“Well, I picked up a message from my office saying you had some questions regarding my book and a murder investigation?”