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

affirmed, ignoring his
sardonic addition. “It is nice handwriting. But it’s not my handwriting.”
    “Whaddaya mean? I thought ya’ said you wrote
it.”
    “I did, but not of my own volition.”
    “You wanna explain that?”
    I sighed. I’d been through this with him
already when I’d called, but obviously either I hadn’t made myself
clear or he’d been ignoring me. I suspected it was the latter, but
considering the altered states I’d been in recently, I couldn’t say
for sure.
    “It’s called automatic writing, Ben,” I
explained. “It’s a psychic event that occurs when a spirit or
entity channels through someone on this plane of existence. The
person doing the channeling simply acts as the conduit for the
spirit who then communicates by writing.”
    “Okay…” my friend said as he tilted his
chair back forward and picked up the notepad once again. “So what
you’re sayin’ is that this is one of those Twilight Zone things?”
    “It has to be.” I nodded. “I was completely
unaware of the fact that I was writing any of that until it was
pointed out to me. Also, I was writing with my left hand. I’m
right-handed.”
    He picked up a large mug and took a swig then
set it back on the stained blotter. “So if I’m connectin’ all the
dots here, you think maybe Paige Lawson is tryin’ to communicate
with ya’.”
    “That’s my guess.”
    “Okay.”
    I was dumbfounded by the matter of fact tone
in his voice and his apparent lack of interest. I know I had at
least one false start before I managed to stutter, “What do you
mean, ‘okay’?”
    “I mean, okay.” He shook his head and
shrugged. “I’ve seen some weirder shit than this since I’ve been
hangin’ around with ya’, so I’m willing to believe what you’re
tellin’ me here.”
    “So? Are you going to do anything about it?”
I asked.
    “Whaddaya want me ta’ do, Rowan?” he asked.
“I’ve got a pad of paper here that has a little rhyme written on it
about five jillion times.”
    “Well shouldn’t you look into it? It’s a
message from a dead woman.”
    “You don’t know that for a fact, but just for
the sake of argument, okay… Let’s say Paige Lawson is communicatin’
with ya’. I gotta admit I can see where she’s comin’ from. I expect
that if I was dead I wouldn’t be all that happy about it
either.”
    “What?” I couldn’t believe what he was
saying.
    “Look, it’s not like this is some kind of hot
clue you’re handin’ me here. It’s a piece of paper that says
someone is dead and ain’t happy about it. News flash, Kemosabe, we
already knew the first part… The second part’s just kinda obvious,
don’t ya’ think?”
    “But…”
    “But nothin’, Row.” He cut me off before I
could even form the objection and then ran his hand up to smooth
his hair. “Look, here’s the real deal, between you and me. It’s
lookin’ like this might not even be a murder. We’re still waitin’
on the autopsy, but there were no signs of a struggle. No forced
entry. The place wasn’t trashed. She wasn’t shot, stabbed, or
beaten. The only thing out of place is a small welt on the side of
her neck…”
    “Which side?” I interrupted quickly.
    “Left, I think. Why?”
    “Because I had a burning sensation on my neck
last night.” I indicated the area with my hand. “It was on the left
side too.”
    “Okay,” he shrugged, “but if you’d let me
finish what I was sayin’, you’d know that didn’t kill ‘er. It could
be from a thousand different things, so even though we haven’t
discounted it, it’s prob’ly nothing. The preliminary report I got
from the coroner says she has a blunt force trauma to the side of
her head that could be consistent with the corner of the end table
just inside ‘er doorway. It looks like she prob’ly just slipped,
fell, an’ clocked ‘erself. Damn shame for a young, good lookin’
woman like her, but it happens.”
    “But why was I there, Ben?” I