To be painfully honest, the real reason I was keeping my hands to myself was self-preservation because I feared my inherent predisposition for uncontrolled psychometry. Simply being in this room had already bombarded me with more than I was sure I could handle, the most recent sensation being a case in point. Actually touching something could put me into a spiral, sending me through an ethereal event from which I might not recover.
It’s not like it hadn’t happened before. Over the years I’d almost died more than once while channeling homicide victims. I wasn’t too keen on it then, and I definitely wasn’t interested in becoming one of Miranda’s fatalities by proxy now.
Squatting down, I brought myself to eye level with the bed. I don’t know what I thought I was going to see from that angle, but one never knows until he tries, so I did. I panned my gaze across the tableau and tried to visualize what had gone on here one short week ago. Having had what amounted to my own firsthand experience, I expected it would be relatively easy to do. What I didn’t expect, however, was the visualization coming upon me with a vengeance.
In front of me, there is a nude man tied to the bed, a standard clothesline rope criss-crossing beneath the metal frame and securing tightly to his wrists and ankles. An extra loop of the rope is visible around his neck. The reason for it becomes clear as I watch him struggling against the bonds. Each time he pulls against them, the noose tightens and he begins to choke. I can actually hear the distant echoes of him gagging, muffled though they are, as his mouth is covered with a wide swath of duct tape which is wound about his head and lower face.
I watch as, with each desperate twist or pull, the rope bites deeper into his throat, forcing him to cease his fight. A look of suddenly realized terror is filling his eyes, and between each bout of choking himself, he lets out a nasal whine.
I know that seeing this should disturb me, but it doesn’t. Not in the way that it should.
What actually does disturb me is that I feel no compassion as I watch him. No empathy. But, even that isn’t the worst of it. If I was feeling nothing at all, perhaps I could make sense of my uncharacteristic disregard by attributing it to a forced clinical detachment.
But, unfortunately, that isn’t the case.
I am feeling something.
I am amused.
Worse than that, the tickle has returned, and I am becoming increasingly aroused by his plight.
Though the immediate feelings I had sensed upon entering the room had been a combination of both killer and victim, my primary concern for my own safety had been in regard to him. Not her. While I’d had my brushes with channeling killers, they were always alive when I had done so. Though I knew that this one, or at least part of her, wasn’t, I hadn’t considered it as fully as I should have, and now that changed everything.
The dead were the ones who spoke loudest in my head, and they were the ones who most often tried to pull me deeper into their world in an effort to make me understand. I suppose I couldn’t blame them for trying to get their points across any way they could. Dead or not, everyone has a story to tell, and it helps if someone will listen.
But, this one didn’t just want someone to listen. She wanted someone to control. Though I could feel the victim and hear his anguish, he was a bit player on this mental stage. Miranda had a far stronger presence, and she intended to dominate the scene now—just as she had done then.
That was one of the problems with channeling. It didn’t really matter what you as the channeler wanted or even what you personally found to be distasteful. You were simply a conduit, and it was all about the likes and dislikes of the one flowing through you.
I definitely didn’t want Miranda this close to me, but it was too late. She was already inside my head, or I obviously wouldn’t be feeling the things I did. It was this realization that I clung to, using it as a shield against her onslaught and denying her control over me. My gut feeling was that I needed to cut and run right away because I no longer feared becoming her victim, I was afraid of becoming her. Given the pure insanity of that very thought, I was starting to believe all of this wasn’t just a risky move—it was a flat out mistake.
But, I also knew that if I left now, I would leave empty-handed. All the deception and trespassing I had engaged in so far were only worth the gamble if I was going to have something to show for them in the end. I had to keep going until I found something tangible that would help me locate—and stop—both of these killers.
Of course, a raging psychosexual event that might possibly leave me blithering in ethereal bliss was definitely not the result I needed, especially when one considered the imagery that would bring it about. Unfortunately, that seemed to be where this was all heading, and very quickly at that.
Since running wasn’t an option, I decided maybe I should find a different way to approach all of this. But, before I could do that, I was going to have to back out of the path I had already taken.
I started to stand up but found I was once again frozen in place, unable to make myself move. I chose to try the same thing I had done earlier—I blinked hard and willed the image to go away
But, when my eyes fluttered open, it remained. In fact, it seemed even more tangible than it had before. It looked real enough to reach out and touch, and I even found that I had to stop myself from doing just that.
Trying again, I drew in a deep breath, shut my eyes, then slipped my thumb and forefinger beneath the rim of my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose. After a moment, I let the breath slowly out through my mouth and allowed my hand to fall. With trepidation, I opened my eyes once again.
He still hadn’t gone away, and now it was even worse—because he had company.
CHAPTER 6:
The new arrival in question was a petite redhead, and it was visibly obvious from what I saw happening in front of me that she was this poor man’s worst nightmare. Unfortunately, he was not alone in that, as she was mine too.
I had a sense, within the vision at least, that a good deal of time had passed between what I had been witnessing moments ago and what I was seeing now. It appeared that the man was still alive, but judging from the visible wounds, blood, and burn marks on his face, I could only surmise that Miranda was well into his torture at this point.
As I watched, conflict stormed through my brain in the form of internal voices locked in a heated debate. One of them was demanding in no uncertain terms that I close my eyes or look away immediately. It was telling me I should do whatever it takes to break this connection. I knew in my gut this was the voice I should be listening to, but it was only one of the three bickering inside my skull; and, the other two were ganging up on it.
The second voice was countering that if I didn’t watch what was being offered, everything I had risked would be for naught. It was telling me I might miss a vital clue that would allow me to stop her. While that had once been a valid point, I wasn’t so sure if I believed it anymore.
The real problem was the second voice’s partner in all this. It was the one that worried me most. It came to me as little more than a murmur of support for the heretofore failing argument; however, I wasn’t completely fooled. I could sense that it had its own agenda with a horribly dark intent. But, even more frightening than its intent was the power it seemed to carry with it. I only wished that I had recognized that fact a bit sooner because it wasn’t until it had all but assumed control that I realized the source—it had joined forces with the sickeningly pleasant tickle that had been set loose in my body, and together they were drowning out all good sense and reason. As I had feared, Miranda was trying me on for size.
Even as I fought to maintain control, my tenuous grip on my perceived reality faltered, and the vision stepped in to take its place.
Though I can see her only in profile, I swear that my wife is in front of me at this very moment, sitting astride the bound man. She is positioned such that she is pitched backward; her arms are outstretched behind her, straining and rigid. Her hands are clamped
firmly to his thighs as she supports herself. Her back is arched, and her chest is rising and falling at a quickened pace. I can hear her panting just as I can hear the man’s muffled squeals of agony.
She has one stocking-clad leg extended in front of her, bent slightly at the knee, and I see the muscles of her calf flexing as they keep a tight rhythm with her panting breaths. Her foot is pressed against the man’s upper arm, pinning it against the headboard. Her calf is flexing because she is slowly twisting her stiletto heel into the flesh of his bicep. The end of the spike disappears into the deep depression it has created, and blood is oozing from the wound.
Colors bloomed as realities once again shifted, and I found myself back in the motel room alone. The roller coaster ride of channeled visions was tossing me haphazardly about and depositing me wherever its whim desired. Not particularly unusual as such ethereal events go, but I didn’t think I would ever get used to it.
I blinked.
I remembered Ben telling me before I ever boarded the plane to come here that he was looking at a picture of Annalise and that she was a dead ringer for Felicity. I suppose, however, that simply hearing someone say something like that makes it easy to discount their opinion. Even though I hadn’t seen the picture myself, I was positive that I, of all people, would have no trouble telling the two women apart. After all, I had been married to one of them for almost fifteen years, so surely I would know my own wife.
However, at this moment my personal perception was no longer crystal clear on that point.
Without thinking, I muttered aloud, “Felicity?”
Her name tumbled into the room wrapped in a question. I knew the woman I had just seen in front of me couldn’t possibly be my wife, but the image was truly beyond uncanny.
As if triggered by my question, the light overhead bloomed, and I once again found myself with at least one foot in a different plane of existence.
I can hear my own voice echoing in the room as I utter my wife’s name.
Though her breathing never alters from its frantic pace, the woman suddenly jerks as if startled. Pushing herself forward, she sits up, still straddling the man. She stops twisting her heel then drops her foot down to the bed, and her victim is given a momentary reprieve from his agony. Cocking her head to one side, she appears to be listening intently, as if she hears my voice as well.
Slowly she turns toward me.
I study her face as she looks through me, creasing her brow. I can begin to see the differences in her features, but not at first glance, or even the second for that matter. I takes a long moment before I am certain that I am not looking at my wife.
I remember hearing it said that everyone has a doppelganger somewhere on the planet. Whether or not that is a scientific fact I cannot begin to say, but given the vision now staring me in the face, I am inclined to believe it. This woman can almost pass as Felicity Caitlin O’Brien’s twin.
She turns, and showing little concern for her victim, she drags her now bloody heel across him as she climbs from the bed. She slowly saunters toward the window at the front of the room and stands there, still listening for a repeat of the sound.
Though not fully nude as is her victim, she is scantily dressed. What little of her wardrobe there is consists of black lace and patent leather. Her red hair cascades in a loose spiraling fall down her back. It feels hot in the room, and I can see that her exposed ivory skin is damp with sweat. It glistens in dim light as she remains still except for the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. On her left shoulder, I can see what appears to be a tattoo of a stylized triskele.
I have seen it before. It is the mystery veve from the previous crime scenes.
After several minutes she reaches out and slips a finger between the slats of the blinds. Slowly, she presses down, opening a small gap through which she carefully peers.
I watch her as she tilts her head from side to side until finally she is satisfied that no one is there. Turning, she saunters back to the bed and looks down at the bound victim.
“Don’t worry, little man. It was nothing,” she says to him in a sweet drawl. She takes a moment to flip an errant shock of hair back over her shoulder then adds with a feigned pout, “Of course, that nothing interrupted me, so I guess we’ll just have to start over.”
Sliding one knee onto the bed, she dips forward and scoops something into her hand before bringing the other leg up. Kneeling next to him, she smiles sweetly and holds up a stun gun.
“Ready?” she asks.
He begins to buck against the bonds, a scream caught behind the duct tape gag and diverting to exit in the form of a short, nasally whine through his nose before being unceremoniously cut off as he chokes.
“Good,” she giggles. “So am I. Just remember, I love you.”
With a wicked grin, she leans forward and presses the business end of the device against his bare genitals and squeezes the trigger.
I buckle and begin falling backward as I feel his pain.
But what’s worse is that I also feel her pleasure.
In that moment everything shifted, and the three-dimensional quality of the vision flattened then faded in a bloom of light. I could instantly sense that I had stepped back into my own world, but both the sensation of pain and arousal remained.
Though I had felt myself falling, I found that in reality I hadn’t moved at all. I was still squatting next to the bed, staring directly ahead, just as I had been at the beginning. I did notice, however, that I was holding my breath. I let it out with a heavy sigh. My eyes were itching and dry, so I closed them, but the moment I did so I feared I would regret the action. It seemed that blinking was getting me into a lot of trouble right now. Still, I knew that sitting here forever with my eyes closed wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I steeled myself in preparation for the onslaught of another round and allowed them to flutter open.
This time, the vision was still gone.
Letting out another sigh, this one of a semi-relieved nature, I rocked back on my heels and stood upright. Reaching to my face, I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes. Slipping the spectacles back on, I gazed around the room. Everything was just as it had been when I entered. Nothing had changed, no matter how real the things I had just witnessed may have felt.
Making a slow half turn exactly where I stood, I finally wandered back to the small room housing the vanity. Removing my glasses once again, I twisted on the faucet and cupped my hands beneath it. Bending over the sink, I first pressed one handful of water against my face and then another. After a third, I turned the water off and leaned forward with my knuckles on the vanity as I stood there dripping into the basin.
The phantom pain in my groin had faded away, but the sense of arousal had only grown stronger. It was still distinctly feminine, however, and was as odd to me as it was pleasant. Of course, it also made me feel terribly ill.
“Gods, Gant…” I muttered to myself. “Just get the hell out of here while you’re still sane.”
“Gant?” her honey dipped drawl floats into my ears. “So that’s who you are.”
I am still standing at the basin, and I know the voice has come from behind me. Without bothering to dry my face, I pick up my glasses and slip them on then turn to look out into the main room.
She is perched on the edge of the bed, on the side nearest me. But, she has changed. Her hair is dark auburn and piled atop her head in a soft swirl reminiscent of a long ago era, which matches the high-necked Victorian dress she now wears. What I see of her face is stern, and far more oval shaped than before.
She is seated next to the headboard, and I can still see the man sprawled out behind her. He appears the same although there seems to be far more wounds on his body than there had been before.
She flickers like a frame jumping on a movie at the theater.
Her hair is once again fiery red and long. She is back to being a scantily dressed mirror image of my wife. She uncrosses her legs and re-crosses them in the opposite direction
, stretching one out as she does so. She smoothes her stocking carefully then regards it with little emotion.
“Damn,” she says, her voice flat. “A run.”
She still hasn’t looked in my direction, and I begin to think that perhaps I was simply hearing things. I begin to turn away.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
I stop and furrow my brow.
“Yes, I’m talking to you, little man,” she continues, still without looking at me. Instead she seems to be intent on the items she has piled on the small table next to her.
“Me?” I ask calmly.
“Yes, you.”
“How? You aren’t even really here.”
“You tell me,” she counters. “It’s your vision, now isn’t it? Ah, there it is…”
She smiles and holds up a scissors-style cigar cutter.
“Right now I think I would prefer to believe you’re a figment of my imagination,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “If you want to believe that.”
“You left it up to me.”
She counters with a question. “Yes, I did. But you aren’t that stupid, now are you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Unfortunately, I don’t suppose I am.”
The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 6
