“Like what?”
I explained the incident I had only partially witnessed as well as Ben’s abnormally introspective demeanor that followed. Felicity agreed with my theory that Ben’s dedication to his job, combined with the extra hours he had been working, might be putting a strain on his relationship with Allison. Since she knew Ben as well as I did, she also agreed that we would have to wait for him to come to us.
We exited the highway and continued up the tree-lined streets toward our home.
“They’re going to charge R.J. with the murders,” Felicity finally announced in a depressed tone.
“We don’t know that,” I responded. “Like I told you last night, a lot depends on what they find in his apartment.”
“No. I can feel it,” she insisted. “They’re going to charge him, and he’s not the one.”
“I know,” I told her. “But the police can’t make their decisions based on the ethereal feelings and gut reactions of a couple of Witches.”
“Then we need to find something that they CAN base their decisions on.”
I looked over at her. She wore a determined expression combined with a creased brow, which told me the wheels were already turning beneath her auburn mane. I had kept the second nightmare a secret from her, as I didn’t want her to worry. Now that the third one had forced its way into my life, I suspected it might be time to fill her in. I thought maybe, if we worked on it together, we could decipher the clues I felt Ariel was attempting to give me.
“So, I think I could use your help with…” I looked back to the road as I turned down our street and quickly changed my train of thought. “What the hell?!”
The street in front of our home had become a small circus of news vans and media personalities. Tall telescoping booms extended from the vehicles, pushing dish antennas skyward in competition for the best angle and location. Camera-toting video technicians, burdened with battery belts and miles of cable, lounged against the vans in a state of detached boredom while nearly half a dozen on-air talents milled about expectantly.
“We really don’t need this,” I expressed my thought aloud as we approached.
“Tell me about it,” Felicity agreed. “You think they’ll go away if we just ignore them?”
“I doubt it,” I mused sardonically. “They’re television reporters. They don’t pick up on things as fast as your average household pets do.”
Intent on not being driven from my home by the tenacious reporters, I swung the truck into our driveway and sped past them around to our garage in back of the house. They sprang immediately into frenetic activity, adjusting neckties or primping coiffed hair, as they motioned testily for their apathetic cameramen to follow them.
“So what do we do now?” Felicity asked as the garage door automatically slid shut behind us. “We can’t sit in here forever.”
“No, we can’t,” I agreed. “Why don’t you go in and call Ben. Let him know what’s going on. While you’re doing that, I’ll go out front and ask them to leave.”
“Ask them to leave?” she echoed. “You don’t really think that’s going to do any good do you?”
“Of course not, but it can’t hurt.”
She answered me with a familiar roll of her eyes before opening her door and stepping out of the cab. “Whatever.”
The throng of TV journalists was shuffling about in my driveway like a directionless herd of cattle. Some of them focused their attention on the front of the house while others craned their necks in an attempt to see where Felicity and I might have disappeared. When I rounded the corner however, the division of observation ended and all eyes, including cameras, were brought to bear on me.
“Mister Gant, can I ask you a few questions?”
“Dirk White, Channel Four News, Mister Gant, has there been any progress in the investigation?”
“Rumor has it that a suspect is in custody. Is that true, Mister Gant?”
“Mister Gant, Mister Gant. Brandee Street, Eyewitness News. Is it true that your wife was directly involved in the capture of a suspect?”
They shouted their questions, assaulting me from all sides as they attempted to make themselves heard over their rivals. I remained calm and continued to amble easily up the drive toward them, making it a point to be in no particular hurry. Inevitably, I reached the small crowd and came to a halt a few feet away.
Brandee Street burst forth, her honey-blonde mane moussed into immobility. “Mister Gant, sources close to the investigation say that your wife was injured while aiding in the apprehension of a suspect in the Satanic Serial Killer case. Would you like to comment?”
Ignoring the question, I held up my hands in a quieting gesture and waited for the huddled group to settle down. Much to my surprise, it didn’t take long for them to comply. Apparently, they assumed I was about to make some type of statement as they all held their microphones forward and stared at me expectantly. What I did tell them, however, was not what they wanted to hear.
“I just came out here to let you know that you’re wasting your time,” I announced. “My wife and I have no intention of making any statements about the case or answering any questions. So, we would appreciate it greatly if you would please leave us alone.”
Brandee Street was the first to ignore my speech. “Was that your wife with you in the truck, Mister Gant?”
“Was her injury serious?” another reporter interposed.
As I mutely waved off the questions, I noticed a dark grey station wagon as it slipped up next to the curb on the side street across from my house. The thought of another reporter joining the crowd that was currently assaulting me was less than pleasant.
“I told you we aren’t going to answer any questions,” I repeated. “Now can you please leave us alone?”
I cast a glance in the direction of the station wagon and noticed that the driver was still positioned behind the wheel. The sun visor blocked the upper half of his face, and his hand obscured the lower half, as he appeared to be speaking into what I assumed to be a hand-held tape recorder. I wondered to myself if Felicity had managed to contact Ben.
“Mister Gant, is there any truth to the rumor that there is a suspect in custody?” Another reporter, Dirk White, quickly rattled off the question then pushed his microphone at me.
“Are you people deaf?” I appealed. “How many times do I have to tell you we aren’t going to answer any questions?”
I was only seconds away from throwing my hands up in utter exasperation and retreating to the interior of my home. Now, more than ever, I understood why Ben always referred to the media as vultures. Mere moments before I sought an escape, a patrol car from the Briarwood police department rolled to a halt on the opposite side of the street. The light bar adorning the top of the marked sedan flickered to life, and a thick, uniformed officer complete with mirrored aviators emerged, citation book in hand. With a sly grin, the cop nodded and gave me a silent wave. He opened his trunk and rummaged around for a moment, then finding what he was after, set about the task at hand. I almost couldn’t contain my amusement when I noticed that he was adeptly attaching boots to the front tires of the news vans, rendering them immobile, presumably until a towing service arrived.
“Do your stations cover towing expenses?” I asked the swarm of reporters.
“Excuse me?” one of them returned.
“I was just curious,” I continued. “Getting a vehicle out of the impound lot can be a little pricey, especially when you add in the towing costs.”
One by one at first, then almost as a collective, realization set in, and they turned in their tracks. Various muttered expletives filtered to my ears, and I noticed that Brandee Street let out a small, angry shriek and stamped her foot as I had seen her do two nights before. I was momentarily forgotten as they all began to stride purposefully to their vans. A cameraman I recognized as Ed, the collector of Brandee’s temper tantrums, hung back from the group. He grinned widely and flashed me a quick thumbs up.