Crone's Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page B

because
she was already stalking away toward Ben. While I couldn’t see her
face, I had the distinct impression she was no happier to see him
than she had been me.
     
    * * * * *
     
    “That was pleasant,” Ben muttered the
sarcastic remark as he cranked the steering wheel of his van and
backed it out of the parking space.
    I didn’t wait for the follow-up I knew he was
going to utter, “Don’t say ‘like a root canal’, Ben.”
    “How’d you know I was gonna say that?”
    “Experience,” I replied.
    “Hmmph,” he grunted. “So what’d she say to
you?”
    “She demanded to know why I was here, so I
referred her to you.”
    “Thanks a lot,” he told me with no sincerity
whatsoever.
    “What about you?” I asked. “From where I was,
it looked like she was having a meltdown.”
    “Yeah, pretty much,” he answered. “She was
just her normal pissy self up ‘til she found out I discharged a
coupl’a rounds into the vehicle. That’s when she lost it.”
    “What did she expect you to do?”
    “Hell, I dunno.” He shrugged then cranked the
steering wheel to guide us into the downward exit spiral. “Throw
myself in front of the fuckin’ car I guess.”
    “You pretty much did,” I observed.
    “Yeah, well I guess I didn’t get run over
enough for her liking.”
    It was just before 2:30 in the afternoon, and
the scene had officially been cleared. Skid marks had been
measured, paint scrapings had been taken, and photographs snapped
from every imaginable angle. None of it seemed to me like it would
do any good, but there were procedures to be followed, and my
opinion of them amounted to very little— in fact, nothing.
    “So what happens now?” I asked.
    “You’re in for a treat,” he returned. “We get
to go back to headquarters and tell our stories to some more
coppers.”
    “I was afraid you were going to say
that.”
    The syncopated tone of a cell phone began its
rising chirp. I didn’t recognize the tone, so I knew it wasn’t
mine. Ben reached to his side and fumbled the warbling device from
his belt, swallowing it in his large hand.
    “Storm,” he huffed when he got it up to his
ear.
    As if the mood in the vehicle needed any
further darkening, I felt it grow just that much colder in that
very instant. A swirling turmoil of pain, anger, and confusion was
emanating from my friend, and as I watched him listening to the
cell, I saw his shoulders physically droop.
    “I know, I know,” he finally said. “But have
you noticed the news?”
    He fell silent for a moment, and his
tumultuous emotions became even more tangible.
    “Listen, I can’t do this right now…” he said
into the phone, voice rising slightly. “No… No, I’m not… Look,
we’ll have to talk about this later… I can’t…”
    He stopped mid-sentence, pulled the device
away from his ear and regarded it with an angered glance. He
stabbed the off button with his thumb then threw it into the
console between us as he muttered, “Shit.”
    We had just rounded the last turn of the
spiral and now sped down the exit ramp, finally coming to a halt at
the booth. Ben flashed his badge, and the attendant nodded as he
waved us through.
    Remnants of the splintered
black-and-white-striped barrier gate were piled off to the side of
the concrete island. The metal portion of the lift arm protruded as
a twisted stub from the mechanism rendering it totally useless, all
of it the visual evidence of the kidnapper’s hasty exit.
    My friend edged the van forward and after a
quick glance in either direction, pulled into the afternoon
traffic. I had always made a rule of staying out of Ben’s business.
If there were something going on in his life he wanted you to know
about, he would tell you in his own due time. Asking him before he
was ready only served to drive him away and make him bury the
subject even deeper.
    However, in extreme cases I was known to
break my own rules, and this was one of them. I watched him in
silence as we navigated