“You’re gonna get your ass in deep shit again, Row, and I ain’t gonna be able ta’ get ya’ out of it.”
“I’ll be fine if I’m careful.”
“Like ya’ were this mornin’?”
“More careful.”
“Jeezus…” he muttered. “You’re a fuckin’ piece’a work, ya’ know that?”
“So you’ve told me several times.”
“Well? Was it worth almost gettin’ locked up?”
“I don’t know for sure just yet, but I think so.”
“Did’ja end up goin’ all Twilight Zone?”
“Back to back episodes with no commercials,” I replied.
“Jeezus…” His tone switched to one of concern. “So, you okay?”
“Other than a lingering gender dysphoric psychological issue, just fine.”
“Gender what, psycho who?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, I think ya’ had lingerin’ psych issues before ya’ ever went down there.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “So spill it. Whaddid ya’ see?”
“A seriously twisted mirror image of my wife named Annalise.”
“You saw ‘er?”
“Hell, I did more than that. I talked to her.”
“Was it la-la land talked to, or like for real?”
“In the vision,” I explained.
“How the fuck did ya’ talk to ‘er?”
“I think it has something to do with the fact that the Lwa is a spirit, so we’re obviously dealing with a dead person here. And, as we know, I tend to have conversations with dead people.”
“So ya’ didn’t talk ta’ evil sis, ya’ talked ta’ the ghost.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I talked to both of them.”
“See, now that’s just even more fucked up than usual, Row.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Well? Whaddid she…they say?”
“She told me she wants it back. All of it.”
“It?”
“Unless I missed my guess, I think she was talking about sexual gratification.”
“You wanna explain that one? You ain’t sayin’ you had some kinda la-la land sex with ‘er are ya’?”
“No,” I replied, shaking my head out of pure reflex. “Of course not. I’m pretty sure she means the sexual gratification she gets from torturing and killing her victims.”
“Okay. So does she think you have it or somethin’?”
“No, but she definitely thinks I know who does.”
“Felicity,” he grunted.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“At the risk of sounding glib, she didn’t say. In fact, I got the impression she doesn’t even know who Felicity actually is, but unfortunately she knows her name. And, mine too.”
“Whaddaya mean? How?”
“Long story short, I was talking to myself…”
He interrupted me. “I thought you were talkin’ ta’ her?”
“This was before I was talking to her,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “Just let me finish. So, I happened to say my own name aloud, and she came back with something like, ‘oh, that’s who you are.’”
“Fuck me… How much weirder is this gonna get, Row?”
“Weirder, I don’t know. Clearer, that’s a different story.”
“How so?”
“You sitting down?”
“Awww, Jeeeezzzz… Yeah. What?”
“Listen to what I found at the library…”
I reached over into the passenger seat and pulled the printouts from my backpack. Unfolding them, I shuffled through in search of the largest image. While I did so I asked, “First off, have you ever heard the story about the Lalaurie family in New Orleans?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“Okay, then let me give you a little background. Back in the early eighteen-thirties, Doctor Louis Lalaurie, his wife, Delphine, and their daughters moved into a mansion on Royal Street in the French Quarter. They quickly became prominent in the community and were soon very well known for their social gatherings.
“Now, remember, this was during a time of slavery, and they definitely owned their share. More than their share, actually. They had a house staff consisting of dozens. But, before too long people started noticing that slaves seemed to come and go a bit more often than normal, and that raised some suspicion.
“Then, in April of eighteen thirty-four, the reality behind those suspicions came to light when a fire broke out in the kitchen and swept through a good portion of the mansion. After the blaze was put out, the people who had been fighting the fire discovered a secret room behind a barred and locked door in the attic. When they entered, they found more than a dozen slaves, both male and female, in various horrific states. They were all either chained to walls or to makeshift operating tables. Many had open, festering wounds where limbs had been amputated or organs removed. Several of the men had been castrated, and it is said that one man even had a hole bored into his skull and a stick protruding from it.”
“Jeezus, Row…” Ben groaned. “Are you sure you ain’t talkin’ about a friggin’ horror movie or somethin’?”
“I know. It sounds like one, doesn’t it? But, here’s the rub. One of the initial theories was that Doctor Lalaurie had been conducting medical experiments on the slaves. However, according to the story printed in the New Orleans Bee, it was determined via witnessed accounts that the wife, Delphine, was insane and that it was she who was responsible for inflicting the tortures on them.”
“Damn. So did they hang ‘er sorry ass?”
“No. Following the discovery, she fled New Orleans in a somewhat spectacular escape, and where she ended up is a bit of a mystery.”
“So you think maybe the ghost of this Delphine woman is really Miranda?” he asked.
“No, but close. Listen to this,” I replied then shifted the papers so I could read him the notice. “Found Drowned. The coroner held an inquest yesterday on the body of a woman named, Miranda Blanque, sister of Delphine Lalaurie, aged forty-three years, who was found floating in the Mississippi opposite the third municipality. It appears that on Sunday night last, she was seen to have jumped into the river. Verdict accordingly.
“That was from the front page of the New Orleans Bee, September eighteenth, eighteen fifty-one. The tomb that Doctor Rieth is taking me to see is that of one Miranda Blanque, date of death, on or around September fourteenth, eighteen fifty-one, which would have been that Sunday.”
“Jeezus, Row…”
“Yeah, Ben. I think maybe insanity runs in that family.”
“No shit,” Ben muttered, then spoke up and huffed, “Okay… I hate ta’ rain on your parade, but where does all that get ya’?”
“It gives us a pretty good idea why Annalise has been doing the things she has,” I explained.
“Yeah, but we’re still talkin’ about a dead person here, Row. I can’t arrest a dead person. Besides, what it all comes down to is that Felicity’s evil sis is the one that’s really doin’ the killin’.”
“I know that. But, Miranda is the one driving her to do it.”
“Yeah, so? Miranda’s still dead. We need ta’ be lookin’ for a live homicidal bitch.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“I mean Annalise is your problem, not mine.”
“Come again?”
“Look, Ben, I’ve been told at every turn to stay out of this. By your superiors, by Detective Fairbanks this morning, and at least a dozen times by you over the past few weeks. So, that’s what I’m doing.”
“I thought ya’ said you’d been at the library?”
“I have.”
“Well, the way you’re talkin’, it sounds more like ya’ been hangin’ out in a bar gettin’ trashed. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re up ta’ your ass in all of this no matter what anyone ha
s said.”
“I can’t help it if our investigations overlap.”
“Now you’re just bein’ an asshole again, White Man.”
“Call it what you want, but I’m not here looking for Annalise. I’m looking for Miranda.”
“Oh, so now you’re a friggin’ ghost cop, are ya?”
“Sure. Why not? Obviously somebody has to do it; I guess it might as well be me. Look at it this way—I’m giving you what you want. I’m staying out of your way.”
“Fuck me,” he spat then paused. A second later he added, “Like I said before, I think you’ve lost your goddamned mind. When’s the last time you got some sleep?”
“You’re the third person to ask me that today,” I said. “It’s starting to get a little old.”
“Been awhile, huh?”
“That’s irrelevant, Ben. This whole thing got personal the minute Miranda decided to use Felicity as a horse. You don’t really think that’s going to stop just by finding Annalise and locking her up do you?”
“Shit, I don’t know,” he huffed. “I ain’t mister Voodoo guy. It’s all just one big freak show as far as I’m concerned. Hell, I sometimes wonder if I’m a half bubble off for believin’ any of it.”
“You’ve seen too much not to believe, Ben.”
“Yeah, and that’s the problem…” he sighed. “So, tell me… What’re ya’ gonna do now that ya’ think you’ve found ‘er?
I puffed my cheeks then blew out a heavy breath before answering. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
CHAPTER 11:
Their reprieve had been too long, and I was growing impatient. I needed to be satisfied and these constant interruptions were making that need even harder to bear. If that little bitch in the kitchen knew what was good for her, she would get on with her work and stop pestering me.
I started back up the stairs, pausing only for a moment when I thought I heard my name being called yet again. The tickle deep inside was growing, and it was all I could do to stand there in silence, waiting. But, I heard nothing other than the sound of my own heart as it began to race faster with anticipation. Turning, I gathered my dress in front of me and started back upward, my shoes striking with a deliberate thump against the wooden planks. Before I was even halfway through my climb, I could hear their muted sobbing filling the short voids between my footfalls.
My excitement welled in a warm rush that traveled all the way into my stomach, forcing me to catch my breath in a sudden gasp.
They feared me. I could feel it. I could even taste it on the air as I began to take shallow breaths through my parted lips. This was how it should be. Their fear and their pain were my pleasure. It was how they showed their love for me. And, it belonged to me—as did they.
I stopped at the top of the stairs, standing perfectly still for a short moment. The tickle was becoming the itch that would soon be exploding through me, making my knees go weak and my passions flare; but I knew that at this moment it was only the beginning. Very soon that itch would be everything. And, all that I needed to make it happen was just on the other side of the door.
I unlocked the barrier and pushed it open. A small swath of dim light fell across the room. The door creaked on the un-oiled hinges as it swung wider. I entered slowly, savoring the promise of what was to come before turning and pressing the door closed in my wake.
They were moaning, at least those who could. Some of them were even sobbing quietly. Their misery fueled my desire. I stepped with determination across the room, the soles of my shoes clacking lightly against the floorboards.
I stood near him in the darkness. I could hear him mumbling, and it sounded as if he was praying. I smiled to myself at the very thought, imagining that his prayers were not to God, but to me as his Goddess.
I started to step away, but my foot hit something soft that made me almost lose my balance. I felt it move as I shuffled then heard it whimper as I thudded against it again. One of them was on the floor. I couldn’t tell if it was a woman or a man, but that mattered little. I gathered my dress up and stepped on it. The thing let out an animal-like wail, but I ignored its pleas, and instead I reveled in its misery. After a moment I continued across the room.
The shutters clunked as I swung them open, allowing the afternoon light to spill in. It was growing late, but the illumination seemed bright in the shadowy room. I glanced around at the others. Most had provided me with fruitful entertainment. Those that did not were no longer here. But, my sights this day were not set on them. I was here for the new arrival.
I moved deliberately back across the plank floor, returning to my station near his head. He was chained to a low table—nude and bound at the wrists and ankles. He was pristine but for a few telltale signs of the lash. Looking at him, prone and helpless, I felt the itch ignite my entire body.
It was time.
I shuffled over to a small table and wrapped one hand around the handle of a bone saw then gathered a cloth rag into the other. With excitement welling in the pit of my stomach, I stepped quickly back and stood over him. Forcing his mouth open, I stuffed the filthy cloth into it then took hold of his hand and pressed the serrated edge of the saw against his wrist just below the shackle.
“Now,” I said, my voice dripping with sweetness. “Let us see how much you love me, little man.”
I was just preparing to draw the toothed blade through the first layer of his flesh when the door opened. I looked up to see my sister standing there, a frown creasing her face.
“Miranda,” she admonished. “I should have known I would find you here.”
“I need it, Delphine,” I told her between short, panting breaths. “I need it now.”
“Our guests will be here in less than two hours.”
“I know,” I appealed. “I promise this will not take long.”
She stood staring at me, and I at her. The itch had overwhelmed me now, and I could feel myself trembling. I needed release, and I was certain she knew it. I had seen her in this very same state more than once.
“Delphine, please…” I begged.
She slowly pressed the door shut then turned and walked toward the table. The corners of her mouth twisted into a knowing smile as she knelt and took his hand from me.
“Get some rope to tie it off first,” she said softly. “We would not want him to die just yet.”
I awoke to the sound of my travel alarm chirping from its position atop the rickety nightstand.
I was sprawled out on the bed in my room at the Airline Courts. Contrary to what I had told Ben earlier, I had actually chosen to sleep on it. Although, I hadn’t bothered to turn it down, nor did I get undressed. I suppose that somewhere in my exhaustion, I had come to the conclusion that as long as I had a few layers between me and it, the creeping crud wouldn’t be able to get to me.
My mouth was dry, and my heart was thumping hard in my chest. I felt more like I had been running laps than sleeping. My head was killing me, not that such was unusual these days, but for some reason, between lances of pain I was seeing an image of a saw. I didn’t know exactly what it meant, but it was seriously disconcerting because each mental flash of the serrated blade left me with that bizarre feeling of feminine arousal deep inside.
I rolled over and stretched out, grabbing the twittering alarm clock and switching it off. I had set it for 6 P.M., and the digits were displaying 6:07. Apparently it had taken several minutes for it to get my attention, which was a testimony to how tired I really was. I placed it back on the nightstand, causing the dilapidated piece of furniture to rock and thump against the wall. Rolling back, I pushed myself up and sat on the edge of the bed.
I needed to call Felicity. Not only had I promised her I would, but I needed to hear her voice again too. Something else I needed to do was eat. The diet of aspirin and coffee was starting to take its toll, and I was actually feeling the need to fill my stomach with something solid. Unfortunately, that bizarre tickle combined with the phantom memory was causing th
e very thought of food to make me nauseous.
After several minutes of holding my head between my hands, I rocked forward and stood. In an almost catatonic stupor, I dug through my overnight bag and pulled out my shaving kit then trudged into the bathroom to make an attempt at washing away the last eighteen or so hours of my life.
Friday, December 2
3:07 P.M.
St. Louis Cemetery #1
New Orleans, Louisiana
CHAPTER 12:
Obeying the blinking signals on the car leading me, I turned right onto Saint Louis Street, continued along the short jog, and then made a quick left and almost immediately pulled to the curb. I shifted my vehicle into park then took a moment to rub my eyes. I was awake, but I still felt like I could use more sack time, several days worth, in fact. That was the problem with sleep. Once you had gone without it for as long as I had, you played hell trying to get caught up. And, it seemed that the more you got, the more your body wanted. Not that I had managed to get all that much, but it had apparently been enough to give my body a taste of what it was like—which wasn’t working in my favor at the moment.
Last night I had tried to crash again after speaking to Felicity and then making a quick run to a drive-thru and tossing down a less than stellar burger. Unfortunately, my slumber was really no more restful than the afternoon nap that had preceded it. I couldn’t even blame the nocturnal activities of my neighbor for that fact either. No matter how hard I tried to program myself with pleasant thoughts, the repetitious nightmare wasn’t about to leave me alone. Without fail it interrupted each cycle before it was even fully started, effectively keeping me from getting any true rest. I don’t suppose I would have minded that so much if I had learned something useful in the process. However, I never actually remembered enough of the details to know if the repeating terror was important or just my subconscious desperately trying to rescue itself by casting out the sick memories.
It wasn’t until the sun was already peeking through the small window of my room that I managed to drift off for any extended period of time. As it turned out, that was only for a few hours before I was jarred awake by Doctor Rieth calling my cell phone. Given the fact that I probably would have slept right through our planned meeting, I suppose it had been for the best.
The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 10
