Perfect Trust argi-3 Read online

  Other than the sensation of debasement, there was one constant in all this I was able to grasp, that being no matter where I awoke it was always with a very particular sort of pain. It was always localized, though not always in the same place. Sometimes it would be in my side, sometimes my back. Another time it had been on my shoulder. Wherever it occurred on my body though, it was always the same savage burning sensation. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on your point of view, it would always fade away within a handful of minutes and there would be no visible evidence with which to identify its cause.

  The fear and panic brought on by all these constants was a different story. They took quite a bit longer to subside.

  So far, I’d managed to keep these incidents to myself while I tried to figure out just what they were all about. However, the increased frequency was making them much harder to keep a secret. Unfortunately, my wife was bound to find out soon, and she wouldn’t be happy about it. She knew as well as I that when these kinds of things started happening to a Witch- especially me -something beyond terrible was about to make itself known in spades.

  And as usual, I was going to be right in the middle of it.

  Either that or I was finally going completely insane. Given my recent history, I had to wonder if that might be the preferable option.

  *****

  As neighborhood diners go, Charlie’s Eats at the corner of Seventh and Chouteau was just about as boilerplate as you could get. Housed in the renovated and whitewashed cinder block remnants of a long-closed gasoline station, Chuck’s, as it was affectionately labeled by the regular patrons, was busy 24/7. Being located well within the Saint Louis city limits and not terribly far from police headquarters, it was also a regular hangout for cops. There were two favorites, Chuck’s, and Forty, which was directly across the street from headquarters. Word among the cops I knew was that Forty was the place for a quick sandwich or greasy burger. Chuck’s was where you wanted to go for something served on a plate-and to flirt with the waitress.

  Whatever the case, time of day wasn’t even a factor, as the greasy spoon never seemed to be at a lack for a uniform at the counter or occupying a booth. Whether it was one officer or several coming off duty or just taking a meal break, there was always a blue shirt nearby. The small parking lot even had a pair of spaces reserved just for city police cruisers.

  I took a quick right from Seventh Avenue into the entrance of the lot and then slowly cajoled my truck between the rear end of an old station wagon and a slightly canted utility pole. As I tucked my vehicle into the first available space, the sun was just beginning to peek up over the jagged horizon that was East Saint Louis, Illinois. Now that it was filtering across the Mississippi river in a glittery band, it momentarily bathed the city in that indefinable yellow-orange glow that immediately precedes the actual dawn of the day. The eerie kind of color that occurs only in nature, and then, fleetingly-a shade of the light spectrum that will never be found in a box of crayons nor be captured in exactness by any artist, no matter how talented.

  As it always did, the glow rose quickly in intensity to become a full-fledged sunrise, raising several visual octaves from the chalky orange to bright yellow-white. I gave a quick glance around the parking lot and spotted a tired-looking Chevrolet van which I knew from first hand experience was nowhere near as decrepit as it appeared. The vehicle’s owner was the reason I had made this early morning trek into the city from the outlying suburbs where I lived, and since I couldn’t see him through the windshield, it was a safe bet that he was already inside the diner.

  I switched off the truck and levered the door open, tucking my keys into my pocket as I got out. A crisp breeze was blowing and the temperature was holding steady for the moment at a brisk 42 degrees Fahrenheit. According to the radio, the high for the day was expected to be somewhere around 65. Considering that it had been in the mid 20’s on Thanksgiving day with snow flurries, this was about par for the course. It was December in Saint Louis, and it was as unseasonably unpredictable as it could get.

  I locked my vehicle, even though it was probably unnecessary considering that there were two police cruisers on the lot, not to mention that the person I was here to meet was a city homicide detective. Security around here definitely wasn’t much of an issue, but locking up was a habit, and a good one at that.

  I yawned as I started around toward the front of the building. Even though for all intents and purposes I was a morning person, I had been dragging a bit when I climbed out of bed on this particular day. I had been up late working on a piece of software for a client of my home-based computer consulting business. I couldn’t complain, really. I got to work from home and set my own hours. No neckties, no suits, and I did fairly well pulling down a decent enough living for my wife and me. And with her being an in-demand freelance photographer, we were actually living fairly comfortably. Still, I’d be forced to pull a late night every now and then, and last night happened to be one of the thens.

  I’ll admit though, in this instance it had been less by absolute need and more by choice. With what had been happening to me lately, I wasn’t in any real hurry to go to bed. Don’t get me wrong, sleep was definitely something I had a strong desire to embrace, but I preferred to wake up in the same place I started, sans the pain, panic, and profanation. These days that was a game of chance with the odds stacked in someone-or something-else’s favor.

  I stifled another yawn as I rounded the corner of the building and dodged an exiting patron with a mumbled “Sorry, excuse me.” Coffee, bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, and a host of other breakfasty smells enveloped me in a warm, olfactory hug as I grabbed the handle of the glass-fronted door before it could fully close, then tugged it open, and stepped inside the small diner. My ears were filled with the murmurs of ongoing conversations between patrons, liberally punctuated with throaty chuckles, clanging utensils, and barked food orders-all of which were underscored by the sizzle and pop of items on the hot griddle.

  Directly in front of me was a Formica-sheathed counter complete with vinyl-capped stools bolted to the floor before it and the busy grill behind. Around the perimeter were small booths, the cushioned seats of which were covered with the same obnoxious red vinyl as the stools. A clear Plexiglas enclosure occupied one end of the lunch counter, and its shelves were piled with donuts on their way to being stale. A squat cash register took up residence at the opposite end.

  Aged but carefully lettered signs posted on the wall offered such things as “Bottomless Cups of Coffee” and “Slingers” to go-a local indulgence involving among other things, hash browns, eggs, and chili. A sheet of paper was laminated to the back of the cash register with strips of once clear, but now severely yellowed, packing tape. Judging from the fuzzy edges and lack of clarity, it was obviously a photocopy of a photocopy to the power of ten at least. But it was still readable, and posted in plain sight it boasted: These Premises Protected by Smith and Wesson.

  It took only a quick survey of the scene to spot my friend in a booth at the back corner. Of course, it would have been hard to miss him, considering that he was most likely the tallest individual in the room with the possible exception of the cook manning the grill. At the moment, however, he was certainly the only full-blooded Native American present. Shrugging off my jacket, I made my way toward him, my progress impeded for a short time as I did a quick box step in the narrow aisle with a young coffeepot-wielding waitress. With the dance and a quick apology out of the way, I hooked around the end of the counter and traversed the scuffed tile floor to the corner booth.

  “Heya, Kemosabe,” Detective Benjamin Storm greeted me as I slid into the seat opposite him.

  “Yo, Tonto,” I returned before stifling yet another yawn.

  “Long night? Ain’t you usually the early bird.”

  “Yeah, usually.” I nodded then explained. “I picked up a new client, so I had quite a bit of customizing and data conversion to do for them, so I was up pretty late.”

&nb
sp; I wasn’t about to tell him that the project was something I could have easily done during regular business hours. He had a tendency to worry about me just as much as my wife, and if I told him what had been happening lately, I would end up having both of them to deal with. Besides, something told me that it was all going to come to the surface soon enough, so I was going to make the best of what peace I had left.

  “Decent cash?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it’s a pretty good account,” I answered.

  “Good deal.”

  “Coffee, sir?” The young woman who’d done the two-step with me moments ago appeared stealthily at our table, a Pyrex globe of the black liquid in each hand. They were distinguished, as usual, only by the green or orange pour spout.

  “Don’t call ‘im sir,” Ben quipped with a chuckle. “He’ll get a big head.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you jealous?” she asked him before returning her attention to me. “Sir? Coffee?”

  “Absolutely,” I answered, instantly turning the heavy mug in front of me upright and sliding it toward her. “Regular, please.”

  She deftly filled the mug, pouring expertly from the side of the pot, then topped off Ben’s in the same fashion. “You guys ready to order, or do you want a few minutes?”

  “I’m ready.” Ben looked over at me and raised a questioning eyebrow. “How ‘bout you, Row?”

  “Uhmm,” I muttered as I pulled a single page menu encased in well-worn laminate from behind the napkin holder and gave it a quick once over. “How about…a number three, over-easy, wheat, and a side of biscuits with sausage gravy.”

  “Ewwww, runny eggs? Don’t you know you can get sick from those,” she said as she wrinkled her nose.

  “Wendy ain’t ‘zactly the most tactful person when it comes to ‘er opinions,” my friend expressed.

  “Oh, shut up, Storm,” she chastised him with the same good-natured familiarity of her earlier jab, which told me he was a regular here just as I’d suspected. Then turning back to me, she offered, “How about you have scrambled instead?”

  “Would that make you feel better?” I asked with a grin.

  “Yes. Yes it would.”

  “Okay, scrambled is fine.”

  “You want cheese on those?”

  “Sure.”

  “Cheddar, American, or Monterey Jack?”

  “Hmmmm, do I want cheddar?” I asked her with a bit of hesitation.

  “Yes, you do. Good choice.” She smiled. “Now, what about you, Storm? I guess you want your usual?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded and flashed a quick grin her way.

  “You’re in a rut, Storm,” she told him with a grin of her own as she turned and headed back up the short aisle.

  “Hey, Wendy,” Ben called after her, a good-natured tone underscoring his words. “Tell Chuck I said don’t be so friggin’ stingy with the onions this time.”

  He had purposely spoken loud enough to be heard by virtually anyone in the diner but most especially the fry-cook. His answer came as a grumble and a mock threatening wave of a spatula from the large man behind the grill. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Storm. Yer always complainin’ about somethin’.”

  The exchange was met with a few lighthearted chuckles from some of the other regulars in the diner, along with some additional friendly jibes. Chuck finally laughed then threw up his hands in an imitation of surrender, announcing in the process, “Hey, if youse don’t like it, go eat somewheres else.”

  The restaurant settled quickly back into its morning routine, leaving our booth in a quiet wake.

  “Okay,” I finally said after taking a healthy swig of coffee and giving Ben a solemn look. “So what’s up? It’s been my experience that when you offer to buy me a meal, something is going on, and it’s usually not good.”

  “Hey,” he feigned insult. “Did’ya ever think I might just wanna buy ya’ breakfast and visit with ya’?”

  I nodded. “It crossed my mind, but then reality got in the way.”

  “Jeez, white-man.”

  “So, am I wrong?” I asked. “Is this just social? If so, I apologize.”

  He sat mute, took a sip of his coffee, and then stared out the slightly fogged window next to us for a moment before turning back to me. “Well, no, but it ain’t necessarily a bad thing. Maybe.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. “So what is it, maybe?”

  He sent his large hand up to the back of his neck and gave it a quick massage as a mildly troubled expression panned across his features. After a moment he reached down into the seat next to him and brought his hand back up with what looked like an oversized index card in it.

  “Porter, Eldon Andrew,” my friend told me succinctly, tossing the name out as a raw fact for me to digest.

  “Sounds like a beer,” I replied.

  “Just look at the picture,” he returned as he handed over the black and white mug shot.

  I took the card and stared at the muddy grey tones of the photo as I leaned back in my seat, feeling a slight wince of pain in my shoulder in the process. The twinge might very well have been psychological, but the surgery to repair the joint and its associated musculature was still less than a year old. If I could believe the doctor, whom I had no reason to doubt, an occasional pain wouldn’t necessarily be all that unusual for a while yet.

  I suppose that when you consider all the facts, a minor pain should actually be welcome. I mean, first, a madman bent on ushering me across into the world of death rams an ice pick into my left shoulder. Nearly up to the handle… Twice… Planting it firmly into bone on the second plunge I might add. And, if that weren’t enough, I ended up plummeting off the side of a bridge, only to have the very same shoulder forcibly dislocated by the sudden stop at the end of the fall. Of course, I suppose I should be thankful that the rope held, or the sudden stop would have been farther down and more along the line of fatal. And finally, I proceeded to hang from the damaged joint while the crazed serial murderer attempted to finish the job he’d started. I was lucky to even be alive, much less to still have the arm intact and functioning.

  Still, looking at the photo that was officially labeled Texas Department of Corrections brought that night back to the forefront of everything with painful clarity. A finger of acidic fear tickled the pit of my stomach, threatening to invoke nausea. I ignored it and continued to stare at the picture.

  The countenance depicted in the photograph was younger than I recalled and lacking the greasy shag of white hair that had framed it earlier this year. In fact, in the photo his head was shaved. His cheeks were fuller, and though the picture was black and white, one could tell from the grey scale tones that his complexion held a healthy color. The gaunt mask I had faced ten months before had been almost devoid of such pigment, appearing pasty and ghostly white in pallor-the color of death. Even so, his eyes hadn’t changed at all. Dark and sunken, almost hidden in their deeply shadowed sockets, they burned with a furious malevolence. Just as they had done when I stared into them months ago.

  When last I had seen this face, it had been firmly attached to the ice pick wielding lunatic.

  The self-proclaimed Witch hunter…

  The modern day, self-appointed inquisitor with a singular purpose-to eradicate from the world those he perceived as heretics. Being a Witch, and a male one at that, I matched up easily with his set of criteria for those belonging on his hit list.

  He had managed to kill six others before getting to me, two of them not even actual Pagans. Why he had not yet killed again, I was at a loss to explain.

  If you asked the authorities why-even the cop sitting across from me now that I call my best friend-you would be told that it was because he was dead.

  You would be told that I had shot him in self-defense, perhaps mortally, though no one could be sure. And even if the wound was not fatal, it didn’t matter because he had then fallen to his certain death from the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge into the ice-laden Mississippi river.

  That was the official story. But
I knew better.

  Yes, I will admit that I had most definitely shot him. However, I fired the round into the arm he was using to try to choke me to death. And while there was plenty of solid evidence that I had not missed when I pulled the trigger, something told me that the wound wasn’t nearly so grievous as others believed. That same something also told me that he did not in fact fall into the river that night, but instead, escaped.

  How? I couldn’t begin to tell you, but it was a feeling far in the back of my head. One of those sensations that begins as a slight itch that can’t be quelled by any means and then quickly grows into a fearful foreboding. The kind of mysterious intuition you just don’t ignore-especially if you are a Witch.

  I think I might have breathed an inner sigh of relief while I stared at the picture. I had fully expected Ben to produce a case file or crime scene photo from beneath the table that would somehow tie into my current unexplained somnambulistic excursions. On second thought, the sigh might not have been only one of relief but of disappointment as well. I really did need to figure out what was going on, and the sooner the better.

  “I’ve been carryin’ that damn thing around for a week,” my friend told me, gesturing toward the photo. “I wasn’t sure if I should even show it to ya’ or not.”

  I could sense the concern in his voice, and the careful way in which he was watching me was physically palpable. I looked up from the mug shot and noticed that his jaw was held with a grim set. This expression wasn’t a hard one for him to achieve, what with his deeply chiseled features and dusky skin that visually announced his full-blooded Native American heritage. Even sitting, he was better than a full head taller than me. Standing, he measured six-foot-six and was built like an entire defensive line. The nine-millimeter tucked beneath his arm in a shoulder rig and the gold shield clipped to his belt made him appear just that much more formidable.