Free Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars

Gant,” the harried MD told me as she headed out after the
nurse. “Someone will check back with you in a few minutes.”
    As the door swung shut behind her, I knew
better than to open my mouth. Felicity and Ben were looking at me
with steeled expressions, and it was immediately plain that they
were on her side. Effectively it had become three against one. I
never even stood a chance.
     
    * * * * *
     
    It was just past 6:30 in the morning.
Felicity had headed out in search of coffee, and I was all but
imprisoned in a hospital room against my wishes. Ben had headed
back to his crime scene as soon as he was convinced that I would
stay put without drastic measures. He had even gone so far as to
offer Felicity his handcuffs. Something told me she gave it serious
consideration; even though when she declined the offer her comment
included a pointed joke, saying that she just might be interested
in borrowing them when I was feeling better. At least I think it
was a joke. I didn’t always know where she was concerned.
    I was hoping the doctor would get the results
of her test back soon or at least see fit to release me so that I
would be able to head home, but so far it wasn’t looking very
promising. I had been trying to squeeze in a nap ever since she had
okayed it, but all I’d really managed to do was doze in and out for
the past 45 minutes.
    My head was resting in the deep depression of
a too soft pillow, and I was settled uncomfortably on the inclined
bed. I was just taking another run at getting some sleep when I
heard the doctor’s voice.
    “How are you doing, Mister Gant?”
    I opened my eyes and found her standing at
the end of the bed. She appeared just as tired as she had a few
hours ago.
    “As well as can be expected I suppose.”
    “Good,” she answered succinctly as she jotted
something on a clipboard, then without looking up she added,
“Interesting talent you have there. Is it legible or are you just
doodling?”
    “Excuse me?” I asked.
    “The writing without looking.” She gestured
to the adjustable table that was positioned over the bed in front
of me. “You were even doing it with your eyes closed when I walked
in.”
    I tilted my head forward to gaze in the
direction she indicated and watched in astonishment as my left
hand, gripping a pencil, moved swiftly back and forth across a
small notepad. Several pages had already been filled and flipped
upward.
    The fact that I was right-handed isn’t even
what bothered me most. Or even the fact that I was writing both
forwards and backwards. No…it was the realization that I’d had no
idea what my left hand was doing until it had been pointed out to
me that really got under my skin.
    As I watched, my hand automatically flipped
the newly filled page up and set the tip of the pencil against an
empty sheet. I stared on as it continued of its own accord to
scribe in smooth, clear, and wholly unfamiliar handwriting,
repeating over and over the same line of text as it had on all the
previous pages.
     
    Dead I am. Dead I am. I do
not like that dead I am .
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    “So what’re ya’ doin’ now?” Ben asked as he
stared at the pad of paper. “Tryin’ ta’ be some kinda morbid Doctor
Seuss?”
    I’d expected that. I didn’t necessarily like
it, but it was bound to come out of someone sooner or later. And
the more I thought about it, the more I suspected it would end up
being not just sooner or later, but both. Even I had no choice but
to admit that the similarity between what I’d written and one of
the most memorable lines from a beloved children’s book was
uncanny. I was certain to be hearing about it from anyone who
became privy to the product of my unconscious scribbling. Under
wholly different circumstances the parallel might even have been
amusing.
    But it was under these circumstances, not different ones, and the
word “dead” played a prominent role in the repetitious line of
text. Couple that with the fact that