The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “This way,” he finally said, giving my arm a tug. “I’m parked on the upper level of the garage.”

  * * * * *

  Ben’s driving didn’t bother me for a change. In fact, given that speed limits, in his way of thinking, were more a suggestion than anything else, I actually welcomed it because we arrived at my house quicker than I would have by taking a cab.

  I was out of the van before he even had it in park, intent on my single-minded task. It had been cold when I left Saint Louis, and that hadn’t changed a bit. Snow had even visited the city, leaving an inch or so of white covering the landscape. My coat was hanging open, and a stiff wind was snaking into it as I strode up the driveway, but I ignored the chill.

  I could hear footsteps behind me as Ben broke into a short jog to catch up.

  “Yo! White Man… Where’re ya’ goin’?” he called out.

  I didn’t respond. I simply unlatched the gate and continued on, first passing by the back deck then the detached garage with a determined stride. Ben was alongside me now, but other than the fact I was aware of his presence and could feel his concern, I wasn’t paying any attention to him whatsoever.

  Pressing on, I stalked across the pristine blanket of my back yard, my breath condensing in opaque clouds as I huffed the cold air quickly in and out. The dull thud in my head had never left, but it now morphed beyond the chronic throb and burst into acute stabs at the base of my skull. The sickening ache increased with each step and began spreading through my body like electricity seeking ground. My stomach was starting to churn, and I fought back a wave of nausea that was creating a bitter tickle in the back of my throat.

  The onslaught continued, and by the time I made it three-quarters of the way across the yard, it had grown so intense that I literally stumbled. Unable to maintain my balance, I fell to my hands and knees. A sharp lance of pain shot up my wounded arm, and it buckled, sending me face first into the snow.

  “Jeezus, Row… Are you okay?” Ben asked, fresh concern rimming his voice as he reached down to help me up.

  Though I knew he was right next to me, his voice sounded hollow and distant. I started pushing myself up, but as the pain phased through my body, the nausea took hold, and I pitched forward again, expelling the remnants of my hospital breakfast in a steaming lump. I gagged a second time but only vomited a small stream of bile for my trouble. I could feel myself hovering dangerously close to slipping across into the world of the dead, and I knew Miranda was standing on the other side waiting for me with ill intent. The worst part, however, was that I knew for certain this whole thing was my fault and no one else’s.

  I steeled myself and sucked in a deep breath, holding it for a moment as I sought my mental footing once again in the corporeal plane.

  “Holy shit…” Ben exclaimed. “Rowan… What’s wrong?”

  His voice sounded normal once again, but the pain wasn’t letting up. I pushed against the ground and lifted myself to my knees. I felt my friend slip a hand under my arm to help as I climbed to my feet and began my march toward the back of the yard once again.

  “Dammit, Row! Talk to me,” Ben demanded.

  I still didn’t respond. I had to remain focused; otherwise, I feared I would succumb to the force that was now attempting to stop me. I picked up my pace and covered the last several yards with Ben still holding my arm as if he feared I was going to fall again. Arriving at the door of Felicity’s potting shed, I shrugged away from him and grasped the handle with my good hand. I gave it a quick tug, but it only moved outward a pair of inches before resisting my attack. Looking down, I saw the padlock seated firmly in place.

  I knew the key was inside the house, but I didn’t feel as though I had time to go in after it. I needed to do this now. I pushed the door inward then yanked it hard, leaning all of my weight back with the motion. I heard the sound of the wood beginning to splinter as stress took hold of the screws anchoring the hasp. The door came out another couple of inches and stopped. I pushed it in and yanked again, and then a third time. On the fourth try, the aging boards splintered and the door swung open wide with a loud crack.

  Stepping in through the doorway, I grabbed a shovel then immediately turned and came back out. Continuing around my dismayed friend, I waded out into the decorative garden at the very back of the yard and set my sights on a large mound of snow-covered rocks.

  I was just slipping the point of the shovel beneath one corner of the largest of the sponge rocks when Ben grabbed my arm. I looked up at him and could see the concern in his eyes had turned to something almost resembling fear.

  “Are you gonna tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on here?!” he demanded.

  “When I’m done,” I managed to croak. I could feel hot tears beginning to stream down my face.

  “Dammit! You’re actin’ like ya’ lost your friggin’ mind, White Man,” he pressed.

  “I’m trying to save my wife, okay?!” I shouted. “Now, either help me or get the fuck out of my way!”

  Before I finished the sentence, I was already looking back down and shoving the business end of the garden implement deeper under the large rock then lifting. The decorative stone broke loose as I leaned my weight into the improvised lever, then it rose slowly upward, teetered for a second and rolled away with a heavy thump. I instantly began driving the point of the shovel against the frozen ground, breaking up the hard soil and scooping it away as fast as I could with only one good arm.

  “Jeezus, I must be nuts,” Ben grumbled as he reached out and yanked the shovel from my hand and started about the process of digging. “What’re we lookin’ for? A quicker way ta’ hell?”

  “A metal box,” I replied. “About a foot down.”

  “A foot? Is that all?” he replied, heavy sarcasm in his words.

  He continued to dig, ramming the shovel down hard and tearing at the earth. After several minutes, we both heard a hollow clunk as the spade struck home. He worked the point in beneath the box and pried one end up from the depths.

  I was already kneeling next to the hole, tearing at the surrounding dirt with my hand. As soon as I could get a grasp on the unearthed rectangle, I wrenched it from the ground and fumbled with the clasp. Popping the latch on the small toolbox, I yanked it open.

  There, just as it had been when I placed it there several weeks ago, was a fashion doll. Its ivory complexion and fiery red hair were visible through the clear cellophane that enveloped it. A dark purple ribbon criss-crossed around the poppet holding the plastic wrapping securely in place.

  “You buried a fuckin’ doll in your back yard?” Ben asked, a mix of confusion and incredulity in his voice.

  Looking up at Ben, I said, “It’s her.”

  “Her who?”

  I could already hear an angry wail screeching in my ears, getting louder with each heartbeat.

  “I’ll explain in a minute,” I told him, rushing the sentence from my mouth as fast as I could speak. I held my hand out toward him and asked, “Do you have a pocketknife?”

  He dug his hand in his pocket and withdrew a lock blade, but before opening it he peered at me with curious concern.

  “Just give it to me, Ben!” I shouted. “Now!”

  The banshee scream was deafening now, and I was starting to lose my grasp on reality once again.

  My friend opened the pocketknife then handed it to me, though I could still see reluctance in his eyes. I snatched the doll from the box and flipped it over. Holding it against the ground with my wounded hand, I slid the sharp blade beneath the ribbon with my other and then drew it upward. The sharp edge sliced cleanly through the criss-crossing purple bands, and they fell away.

  The world bloomed in front of me and settled to a muted shade of reality. The scream was fading from my ears, echoing the word “no” as it disappeared into nothingness. I let go of the poppet then slowly twisted around from my kneeling position and sat back in the snow. Pressing the blade lock with my thumb, I slid the back side of it across my thigh and snap
ped the knife closed. Holding it out toward my friend, I let out a heavy sigh.

  “That’s it?” he said as he took it from me.

  “That’s it,” I replied.

  “Okay… So whaddid you just do?”

  “I broke a binding.”

  “Broke a binding…” he repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  “That some kinda Witch thing?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Shouldn’t there’ve been sparks, or flyin’ monkeys or somethin’?”

  “Only in the movies, Ben…I’ve told you that a…”

  He cut me off. “I was kidding.”

  “Sorry,” I breathed. “I’m just not in a very humorous mood right now.”

  “Yeah, no shit… Okay… So, what happens now?”

  “I get cleaned up and go see my wife. Maybe even bring her home.”

  “Good plan, but I was talkin’ about with the Witch thing.”

  “Nothing, Ben. It’s over. I’m done.”

  He let out a harrumph and shook his head. “Ya’know, the way you were actin’ I woulda thought you were disarmin’ a bomb or somethin’.”

  I hung my head and sighed again. “That’s closer to the truth than you can possibly know.”

  CHAPTER 19:

  Soft light was filtering into the room when I awoke.

  I hadn’t yet opened my eyes, but I could definitely tell it was no longer dark. My brain was shrouded in the warm fog that hovers in the void between wakefulness and deep slumber. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew the pleasant confusion would be wearing off soon, even if I would rather it did not. I tried to embrace the sensation, but as always it was fleeting, and my grey matter was already telling me it was time to get on with the day.

  A momentary panic gripped me as flashes of memory were revealed through the rapidly dissipating haze. My heart fluttered, and although I feared what I might see, I slowly opened my eyes. The sudden palpitations began to settle as soon as I focused on my surroundings and saw the familiar trappings of my bedroom at home. I felt myself relaxing the moment I realized I wasn’t in a hospital room or even a sleazy motel hundreds of miles away.

  However, no sooner had it faded than it flared in a second attack when I rolled over and found myself alone in the bed. It dawned on me that there was a huge gap missing in my memory. I had absolutely no recollection of getting into the bed in the first place. I concentrated on what I could remember. In the forefront was the fact that I had checked Felicity out of the hospital and brought her home.

  Fortunately, that thought, combined with my nose, caused the burgeoning wave of anxiety to die out before it ever managed to fully take hold. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was drifting through the house, locked in a battle with the smell of frying bacon as they both fought to overtake one another. That was all it took to remind me the month long nightmare was over.

  My stomach rumbled, expressing its displeasure regarding the fact that I still hadn’t eaten since the previous morning. Given that I hadn’t even managed to keep that particular meal down long enough to digest, the growling was not at all unexpected. It wasn’t that I hadn’t had an opportunity to eat; I just hadn’t been especially interested in food, until now that is.

  Throwing back the covers, I rolled up to sit on the edge of the bed. I rubbed my eyes then fumbled around on the nightstand for my glasses. Once I had them seated on my face, I stood and trudged into the bathroom before heading out to the kitchen.

  “What are you doing up, then?” Felicity asked when I finally came around the corner a few minutes later. The background Celtic lilt in her voice was a welcome sound in my ears.

  “Am I not supposed to be?” I asked.

  “I was trying not to wake you,” she replied, walking over then slipping her arms in around my waist and laying her head against my shoulder.

  I wrapped my arms around her and hugged tightly. “Pinch me so I know I’m not just dreaming this.”

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You aren’t.”

  “That’s good. I don’t think I could handle it if I was.”

  “How did you sleep?” she asked.

  “Good,” I said, pausing a moment before adding, “I think.”

  She pulled back and looked into my face. “You think?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I don’t remember much after… Well, much after sitting down on the couch last night to be honest.”

  “That’s because you fell asleep while we were talking.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “So, if I fell asleep on the couch then how did I end up…”

  “In the bedroom? I managed to get you up and guide you in there. You know, you actually follow orders very well when you’re asleep.”

  I let out a half chuckle. “Yeah. I bet you enjoyed that.”

  “It was amusing.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Aye, well it’s probably a good thing you don’t,” she said with a small grin. “Like I said, you follow orders very well.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m joking.”

  “Yeah, so you say.”

  She grinned again.

  “I really am sorry. I finally get you home, and then I pass out on you. Not exactly a homecoming to remember I don’t suppose.”

  “It’s okay. You needed the rest.”

  “Bacon’s burning,” I told her.

  “Ooops!” she said, slipping out of the embrace and hurrying over to the stove.

  I stepped over and pulled a mug from the cabinet then filled it with coffee. After a swig I leaned against the counter and offered, “I still shouldn’t have fallen asleep on you.”

  “Aye, it was obvious you needed it, Row. You were snoring loud enough to wake the dead.”

  “Trust me, they don’t need my help for that.” I took another swallow of coffee then topped off my mug and slid hers across the counter so she could reach it.

  “Thanks,” she said with a smile.

  “So, what about you?” I asked. “You’re the one we need to be worried about here. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  There was something in the way she answered that told me otherwise.

  “I’m not convinced.”

  She didn’t respond. Instead, she focused on placing the finished bacon on a paper towel covered plate and then laying fresh strips into the skillet. When she was finished with that task, she simply continued staring at the pan, occasionally nudging the sizzling meat with a pair of tongs.

  “Felicity?” I pressed.

  She let out a sigh then looked up at me. “Aye, I’m fine. I really am.”

  “Honey, you’re sounding less convincing every time you say it.”

  Her shoulders drooped, and she gave her head a barely perceptible shake. “I know.”

  “So… Would you like to tell me the truth?”

  “I’m not sure what that is, Rowan.”

  “Well, what do you think it is?”

  “That’s the problem. I’m not even sure what to think, either.”

  I silently digested the comment for a short span then asked, “Is it because I did the binding on you?”

  “No,” she shook her head to punctuate the reply.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure about that at least. I’ll admit I’m not happy you did it, but I do understand why. The truth is I don’t have the right to be angry with you over that. If you recall, I once did the same thing to you for the very same reasons.”

  “That didn’t give me license to do it though.”

  “No, it didn’t. But, I would be a hypocrite if I held it against you.”

  “Okay… Then, is it something else I did?”

  “No. I think it’s probably more the things that I did.”

  I shook my head as I said, “You didn’t do those things. M
iranda did. You had nothing to do with it. If anyone is to blame for that, it’s me. This never would have happened if I hadn’t done that binding.”

  “A binding shouldn’t have caused that, Rowan. Unless you were intentionally binding her to me, which I would find hard to believe.”

  “I agree. And, no, I certainly wouldn’t have done it intentionally. But, it still happened, so that means I fucked it up somehow.”

  “How?”

  “I have no idea. But I must have, otherwise we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation.”

  She took a moment to flip over the bacon strips and nudge them about the pan again. Finally, she looked up and said, “It’s not just the things I did, Rowan. It’s everything.”

  “Everything covers a lot of area, honey.”

  “Aye, it does,” she agreed. “What I mean is, everything that’s happened. The arrest… The time in the hospital… The fact that I suddenly have a half-sister-cousin or whatever who just happens to be a twisted killer. Who, by the way, is the product of my father screwing around on my mother with my aunt, which isn’t something a daughter really needs to find out about her dad. How do I reconcile that?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But, we find a way, and we do it together. And, if we can’t do it alone, we have Helen to help out.”

  “I’m… I’m just a little overwhelmed right now.”

  “I pretty much got that,” I soothed.

  “Aye,” she sighed. “Maybe I should just get us all booked on one of those stupid tabloid talk shows.”

  “They’d never go for it,” I told her, trying to interject a bit of humor. “You aren’t nearly strange enough for them.”

  “You don’t think so?” she quipped, her voice suddenly taking on a demanding edge. “How about if after we tell them all that, we clue them in that I’m a repressed, closeted dominatrix Witch whose husband has only just discovered after almost fifteen years of marriage that she’d really like to put a dog collar around his neck and explore a few sexual fetishes with him in the bedroom? Do you think maybe that would pique their interest?”