The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  But opinions weren’t important right now. What was, however, was the fact that whatever she had unleashed was no longer using her alone as a vehicle to inflict pain and death, it had been trying its damnedest to use my wife as well.

  I even had the freshly healing wounds to prove it.

  Still, why Felicity had been sucked into this, other than a familial connection we didn’t even know she had, was something of a perverse mystery in its own right. And, solving that mystery was what brought me here, now, to this seedy motel room in the burbs of New Orleans, with nothing more in my possession than what I could quickly stuff into a single overnight bag and my carryon backpack.

  “Row? You still there?” Ben’s voice drifted into my ear, breaking me out of the semi-dream state into which I’d managed to sink.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I mumbled. “Drifted for a minute there.”

  “Twilight Zone?” he asked.

  That was his personal catch phrase to describe any time that I would experience an ethereal event, especially one that would push me into a trance or something even worse, such as a seizure. The first few times he had witnessed it happening to me he had been frantic, not that I had reacted much better. These days, however, he just took it in stride—as much as one could with that sort of thing, anyway.

  “No… Just tired,” I told him. “So, did you just call to chew me out for not calling you first, or was there something else on your mind?”

  “Little of both, I guess,” he grunted.

  “Okay, if you’re finished with your lecture, are you ready to move on to the other?”

  “What the hell is that?” he asked, confusion in his voice.

  “Ummm…I don’t know. You called me, remember?”

  “No, White Man. I mean what’s that fuckin’ noise?”

  Apparently my next-door neighbor had another transaction waiting in the wings, either that or one of her co-workers had been in the queue. I’d already identified the voices of two separate bad actresses operating out of the same room. At any rate, it appeared my hoped for fifteen minutes of peace wasn’t going to happen, at least not during this particular hour.

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly what?”

  “Just like you said, it’s fuckin’ noise, Ben,” I told him, echoing his raw terminology. “Let’s just say there is a lot of nightshift work here at the Inn.”

  “Jeezus, Row… You aren’t gonna…you know…”

  “Come on, I think you know me better than that.”

  “Well couldn’t ya’ get a decent room somewhere else?”

  “Believe me, I wish I could. Right now I just need to be happy it has a roof and electricity.”

  “So you at least got a TV?” he asked.

  “Actually, no. I don’t think the people who normally use these rooms are all that interested in TV. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wonderin’ what you’re doin’ for entertainment?”

  The non sequitur queries were really starting to aggravate me, so I snapped, “I’m not here for entertainment, Ben, and you know that. Now, are you going to tell me whatever it is you had on your mind or not?”

  “You sittin’ down?”

  “No. There isn’t a chair, and I’m not so sure I want to use the bed from the looks of it. I’m not even sure where I plan to sleep in here now that I think of it.”

  “Yeah, great. Well hold on ta’ somethin’ anyway.”

  “Come on, Ben. What’s with the melodrama?”

  “Payback’s a bitch.”

  “What?”

  “You kept me waitin’, I’m just returnin’ the favor.”

  I shook my head and let out a heavy sigh. “I already said I’m sorry. What more do you want?”

  “You gettin’ pissed at me yet?”

  “I think you can safely say that I am, yeah. Why?”

  “‘Cause that’s what I wanted. Like I said, payback.”

  “Then I think you can consider the debt cleared,” I told him. “Now do you actually have something to tell me, or is this all just part of your grand plan?”

  “Actually, I do have somethin’. Figured you mighta heard it on the news, but I guess not…”

  “I haven’t seen any news since I left Saint Louis, so you guess correctly.”

  “Yeah, well like I said, brace yourself. It looks like your evil sis-in-law is at it again.”

  CHAPTER 2:

  I was suddenly feeling very ill. Under different circumstances I would have blamed the acidic churn in my gut on the healthy dose of aspirin I’d swallowed only a few minutes before. However, the sour nausea was accompanied by hollowness in the pit of my stomach that told me this was a different kind of sick. It was the queasiness that bore its way into your intestines at right about the moment you realized you had seriously screwed up.

  Whether I wanted to admit it or not, my impromptu trip here to New Orleans had been born only partly of logic and reason. The majority of the impetus was pure emotion that I had been all too willing to ascribe to gut instinct without really giving it any serious thought. What I realized now was that any of the calculating and planning I had done was probably nothing more than the inner ramblings of someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The truth is, I probably belonged in a hospital bed in the psych ward right next to my wife’s.

  Of course, this was nothing new. I had always acted on impulse, and even when I was wrong, fate somehow allowed me to come out on top. But, my luck in that arena couldn’t last forever. It was bound to change at some point, and I feared that time had now arrived. I’d let haste guide my actions and doing so led me here, almost 700 miles due south of where I apparently needed to be, with no one to blame but myself—which is exactly what I was doing at this very moment.

  “Okay…” I finally said as I let out a heavy sigh and desperately tried to process everything that was bouncing around inside my skull. “Let me get off here and see if I can find a flight back right away. I’ll call you back as soon as I know when I can be in Saint Louis.”

  I received no response. I waited a moment and wondered if I’d lost connection due to problems with cell towers in the area. I even pulled the phone from my ear and glanced at the LCD to check the signal strength. Finding it well within limits, I spoke again, “Ben? Are you still there?”

  “Ya’know,” he finally replied, “I could be a total ass and just let ya’ do that.” He let out a heavy breath, which told me he’d been at the other end all along. He’d just been thinking, most likely rocked back in his chair with his free hand massaging his neck as he had a tendency to do whenever pondering something serious. After another brief pause he added, “Hell, I should let ya’ do it ‘cause ya’ had no business goin’ down there anyway.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Ben?” I asked.

  “Simple, White Man. Much as I’d prefer your happy ass was in Saint Louis where I can keep an eye on ya’, the murder didn’t happen here. It happened there.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah, there. In New Orleans.”

  “Where here?” I demanded.

  “Ain’t important, Row. It’s bein’ investigated and they’re keepin’ us in the loop.”

  “Fine. That’s lovely. I’d expect nothing less. Now, where did it happen?”

  “I’m not tellin’ ya’.”

  “Why not?”

  “‘Cause if I do, you’ll try ta’ find a way ta’ get into it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He half chuckled. “How? ‘Cause I know you, that’s how. Besides, if that ain’t your plan, whaddaya need to know the particulars for?”

  I couldn’t dispute either point, so I asked, “Yeah, so what if I do? Maybe if I check out the crime scene, I can pick up on something they can’t see. You know how that tends to happen with me.”

  “Yeah, I do. But, the scene’s a week old.”

  “A week?!” I exclaimed. “Why in the hell are we just now hearing about it?”

  “NC
IC backlog, Row,” he explained. “Not to mention a hurricane and a flood which I’m sure you noticed. NOLA PD is swamped. Too much crime, not enough time or coppers for that matter. It just got entered, and that’s only ‘cause a fresh volunteer from KC is down there, and he remembered somethin’ about one of our bulletins that made ‘im do a little diggin’.”

  “Well, I’ve pulled impressions from old crime scenes before. So that’s not really an issue.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  His stonewalling was really pushing me to the edge, but I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere with the direct approach, so I changed my plan of attack, “Well, are you certain it’s her?”

  “Until they finish processin’ evidence, no. And with things the way they are down there, that could take awhile. But I did talk ta’ the copper workin’ the case myself. The victim was male, found in a room at a no-tell motel just like the two here, and he was tied ta’ the bed kinky-sex style. From all indications, he was tortured ta’ death, which we know is ‘er favorite pastime. Still waitin’ on autopsy results, somethin’ else that could take awhile, but from what I understand she worked ‘im over good. He also said they found hair that sounds like it could be a match. And, if that ain’t enough, she carved one of ‘er pictures inta’ his chest.”

  “A veve?”

  “Yeah. The heart-shaped one.”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled at the mention of the symbol. It was definitely one of her calling cards.

  “It figures,” I mumbled, and then launched into an appeal, “Listen, Ben, even if the scene is a week old, maybe if I just had a look?”

  “Uh-huh, how ‘bout no.”

  “Dammit, Ben.”

  “Jeezus, Row, just give it a rest. Hell, what makes ya’ think they’d even let ya’ into the scene anyway?”

  “Easy. You could call them back. I mean I’m already here after all. Don’t you cops have some kind of fraternal code about helping one another out?”

  “That’s just for speedin’ tickets.”

  “I’m serious, Ben.”

  “I know ya’ are, but even if I did call, I’m gonna tell ‘em what? My buddy the Witch is in town and wants ta’ come by and look at the gore fest? It don’t work that way and you know it,” he told me. “On top of that, what you do in Saint Louis doesn’t necessarily fly elsewhere. Shit, it doesn’t always fly here and you know that too, in spades.”

  “Then what about Constance?” I pressed, “She’s federal. What if she made the call?”

  I was talking about Special Agent Constance Mandalay of the FBI. She was also a good friend, not to mention that she and Ben had been in an on again, off again relationship ever since his divorce. Even so, I didn’t feel guilty about asking him to get her involved in this because she was already in it up to her neck anyway. It wasn’t as if I was asking him to use his personal influence over her, not that he really had any based on what I’d witnessed of their relationship.

  “Not happenin’,” he replied. In my mind’s eye I could see him shaking his head as he spoke. He continued before I could object again, “Look, Row, like I said. It’s bein’ investigated. The MCS and the Feebs are in the loop. There ain’t shit you or I can do about it, and so there’s no need in you tryin’ ta’ get in somewhere that you’re not welcome.”

  “So what’s to keep me from checking the newspaper and finding the location?”

  “Nothin’,” he grunted. “Except maybe the fact that they didn’t run a story on it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I asked.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted ta’ know how easy it was gonna be for you ta’ get inta’ trouble.”

  “Well, why didn’t it make the papers?”

  “Victim was a street person, and there’s plenty of other shit goin’ on down there right now. It just wasn’t considered newsworthy.”

  “Okay, so what if I just go to the local police myself?” I countered.

  “Knock yourself out,” he harrumphed. “But I can tell ya’ right now you’ll just be wastin’ your breath ‘cause I already told ‘em ya’ might try that. Look, Row, you ain’t packin’ a badge, so you’re just another civilian ta’ them. The coppers down there are short-staffed and under siege for fuck’s sake. They ain’t got time ta’ deal with ya’.” He paused briefly to allow the comment to sink in, then continued, “Besides, I thought you were s’posed ta’ be down there chasin’ a ghost, right?”

  “A Lwa,” I corrected. “They’re deified spirits within Vodoun religious practice.”

  “Yeah, well that’s just another friggin’ word for ghost in my book.”

  “Uh-huh. And I also wouldn’t exactly call it chasing. I’m just looking for her history. It’s really more like genealogical research if you want to know the truth.”

  “Chasin’ or not, it’s what ya’ went down there for, right?”

  I drew in a deep breath. I really couldn’t argue with him too much because it really was the reason I’d come here. After a bloated silence, I huffed out my agreement almost as one word, “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Then that’s what ya’ need ta’ concentrate on. You do the Witch stuff, and let us do the cop stuff.”

  Even though I knew continuing to argue with him was futile, I decided to press my friend just a bit further on the subject. “So, tell me something. If I can’t help then why did you even bother telling me about this, Ben?”

  “Figured since you were there, ya’ had an off chance of hearin’ about it anyway. Thought I’d see if I could get to ya’ first.”

  “But…”

  He cut me off. “No but’s, Row. It was a judgment call.”

  “So how’d you make that call?”

  “How else? I flipped a friggin’ coin.”

  “What a novel approach.”

  “Like I said. Judgment call. Heads I tell ya’ what I can and deal with ya’ bein’ pissed, or tails I don’t tell ya’ and still deal with ya’ bein’ pissed ‘cause I didn’t. For me it was lose-lose no matter what I did.”

  “Glad to know I’m worth so much consideration,” I grumbled.

  “It was a no-brainer, Row. I got bad guys ta’ catch. Better I spend my time thinkin’ about that instead of whether I want ya’ torqued at me now or torqued at me later.”

  “Yeah, I know you’re right,” I conceded.

  “If you wanna know the truth,” he offered. “I didn’t actually flip a coin. I was gonna tell ya’ anyway.”

  “Why, because you figured I’d probably already heard about it?”

  “No… Actually, ‘cause I’m a bit worried about ya’.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Because you’re afraid I’m going to go looking for her?”

  “Jeezus, White Man, I keep tryin’ ta’ tell ya’ I ain’t stupid. Hell, I know you’re gonna go lookin’ for her. What I’m afraid of is that you’re actually gonna find ‘er.”

  * * * * *

  I had to give Ben credit; he definitely knew me as well as anyone could—except for my wife, of course. I was definitely going to look for Annalise, and finding her was my ultimate goal. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to accomplish this, but I knew where I was going to start. Therefore, I had no more hung up with him than I was heading out the door in search of a way to get into the local crime scene. What I was going to be able to do at almost 2:30 in the morning was yet another mystery, especially considering the fact that I didn’t even know exactly where the crime scene was located. However, I had an idea, and since I wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a variety of reasons, I decided I might as well get started.

  I had no doubt my friend was correct in his assessment that I wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms, so the head-on approach wasn’t even an option. Especially since I wasn’t going to get any support from him or Constance where that was concerned. This was something I would have to do on my own, with subterfuge. As my wife had recently pointed out, I wasn’t a very good liar, so
that was yet another hurdle I would need to face. Unfortunately, deceit was going to be necessary because the truth was simply too insane to be believed.

  I had just pulled my door shut when my next-door neighbor stepped out of her room and, not paying attention to where she was going, stumbled directly into me. She jumped back with a yelp, teetering on a pair of platform heels that looked a half-size too big. Regaining her composure, she shuffled then leaned against the doorjamb. I wasn’t sure if she was doing it for balance, or if she was trying to look alluring. Maybe it was both, although she wasn’t accomplishing the latter—in my eyes at least. Either way, she simply looked me over and smiled.

  I muttered, “Sorry,” then gave her a nod and started for my car.

  “Gotta light, Mistuh?” she asked before I’d made it two steps.

  Even though it was against my better judgment, I stopped and looked back at her. In the dim swath of yellow spilling from the overhead light, I could see enough of her face to tell that her vacant eyes were fixed with a substance-induced glaze. I didn’t really want to know which substance. Her vinyl skirt was too short, her top too tight, and her makeup too thick. She looked like she was in her late forties, but something about her felt like she was maybe all of fifteen.

  I rummaged quickly in my pocket, withdrew a book of matches and tossed them the short distance to her. She missed the catch even though my aim was dead on, so she stooped to pick them up. While she was doing so, I took a quick glance around to make sure I wasn’t being set up for a mugging or some such and then hurried on to my vehicle.

  As she stood again, she let out a hoarse giggle and called after me, “Ah won’t bite, shuga. Unless tha’s what ya’ wan’ me ta’ do.”

  By now I had the car door open and since I had originally backed in was just getting ready to turn and slip into the driver’s seat. Out of reflex, I shook my head while saying across the top of the sedan, “No thanks.”

  I heard her reply as I was pulling the door shut.