Free Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars

looked quietly out his side window and
then turned his eyes back to the front. It was apparent that he was
wrestling with something other than my whereabouts Wednesday night.
“Ya’know, I’m still kinda weirded out about this stuff,” he finally
admitted.
    “I know.”
    He looked over at me. “For your own sake,
keep this between us.”
    “I will,” I told him.
    The dull background noise of the city was
sharpened momentarily as a horn blared to our rear, angrily
alerting us to the fact that the traffic light had changed. Ben
pushed the van into motion, and we rolled on through the
intersection and down the street in the general direction of my
suburb.
    “Mind if I use this?” I asked, picking up his
cell phone.
    “Go ahead. Gotta call the little woman?”
    “Yeah,” I replied, punching in my number.
“She should be home by now.”
    After a pair of trilling rings, the phone was
answered by my wife’s tranquil voice. The evenly spaced, rattling
noises in the background told me she was in the darkroom, probably
processing the film she had shot on her outing. We exchanged
greetings, and then I relayed a sketchy outline of the morning’s
events before filling her in on the plans for the evening. I had
gingerly talked around the incident involving the table lamp and my
forehead but knew that I had better warn her before she saw me. I
had to pull the phone away from my ear quickly to protect my
hearing as soon as I uttered the words x-ray and stitches. A moment
or two later, I held out the handset to Ben.
    “She wants to talk to you,” I told him.
     
     

CHAPTER 4
     
    F ortunately, Ben knew Felicity well, and as a cop, had dealt
with distraught individuals a number of times before. He allowed
her to decompress and simply listened as she vented her feelings
regarding the circumstances of my injury. Just as fortuitous was
the fact that Felicity was not one to hold a grudge and worked
through her anger very quickly. By the time we pulled into the
driveway of my Briarwood home, they had both apologized to one
another, and the entire incident had somehow become my fault for
having my face in the wrong place at the wrong time.
    Ben dropped me off and headed, I assumed, to
his own home in order to spend what little time he could with his
family. He planned to return for the meeting somewhat earlier than
the rest and had told me he was still trying to figure out how to
make it up to his wife and son. Something told me he would be
taking time out to visit my father along the way. After a quick
wave, I ambled up the stairs to my front porch and was greeted by
Emily, our calico cat, who leapt lithely down from the window ledge
and began weaving herself about my legs, purring madly.
    “Yes, I missed you too,” I told her as I
stooped to pick her up.
    Emily continued her throaty trill as I
allowed her to drape herself across my shoulder, then lifted the
lid on the mailbox and retrieved the contents. There was the usual
mix of bills and junk mail, as well as a yellow pickup slip for a
package that had needed a signature—most likely one of my client’s
software in need of modification or repair. Felicity had probably
been in the darkroom ever since returning from her photo expedition
and had missed the postal carrier. I resigned myself to picking it
up at the branch office on Monday since it was already after noon.
Besides, my evening was already booked, so working was out of the
question anyway.
    I twisted my key in the deadbolt lock of the
heavy, oak front door and pushed it open, following it inside then
closing it behind me. I lifted the rumbling ball of fur from my
shoulder and gently placed her on the arm of the couch then tossed
the mail in the small wicker basket Felicity kept by the door for
just such a purpose. Fatigue washed over me, and the sofa was all
but screaming my name. I sat down and within moments became
horizontal on the soft cushions. Emily remained perched on the arm,
near motionless, her ears at