The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “Did she find anything?”

  “Nada. Whoever called ‘em from the bureau ta’ get you released ain’t talkin’.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it don’t. She’s gonna keep on it, but it pretty much looks like she’s at a dead end. Apparently you got another mystery on your hands.”

  “I think I’ll just call it good and leave it alone.”

  “Yeah, well let’s hope it has the same plan about you.”

  Wednesday, December 7

  11:46 P.M.

  Room 3

  Continental Motel

  Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  CHAPTER 22:

  Annalise stared at the limp body. She was on her knees, straddling the man’s stomach where he lay on the floor.

  “I hate you, Rowan Gant,” she growled, her voice thick with anger.

  He had started twitching uncontrollably after the first blow. Following the second, all movement stopped, and she felt his chest lower slowly as the air sighed from his lungs. She raised her arm over her head again, feeling the cold derision knotting into a ball at the pit of her stomach.

  “I HATE YOU,” she repeated, as she swung the tenderizing mallet down hard for the third and final time.

  She heard a mushy thump and the splintering of bone.

  Blood was now soaking through the black fabric of the hood wherever the pulpy remnants of his face came into contact with it. The sticky wetness made the cloth glisten in the harsh, overhead light of the small room. She sat back and allowed herself to smile as she watched it spread.

  There was no impending reward behind this kill. No tickle, no itch, no physical gratification. She didn’t love this man as she did the others. He was a tool for her to use. He was nothing more than an object. And now, the object had fulfilled a purpose.

  Annalise pulled herself up to her feet and stepped over to the bed. She could still feel the anger coursing through her body as she reached into her bag then withdrew the brand new twelve-inch butcher’s saw. She tore off the paperboard sleeve and carefully removed the blade guard before turning back to the body on the floor.

  One cross wouldn’t be enough, and there was still much to do.

  Thursday, December 8

  2:46 P.M.

  St. Louis, Missouri

  CHAPTER 23:

  The headache had come on me in the middle of the night, which meant I had been wide-awake since a little after one in the morning. The cause of the pain, however, was a mystery to me. I had become so accustomed to the ethereal pounding in my skull that I couldn’t always distinguish between it and a plain old migraine, but this one was definitely bizarre. It had some of the same hallmarks as the chronic ache I experienced when someone or something from the other side wanted to have a sit down with me. However, those had a tendency to come at me from the back. This one was a full-bore frontal assault. In fact, my entire face hurt.

  I glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was pushing three o’clock in the afternoon, and the vexation had been coming and going all day. I’d barely managed to get any work done at all, and I had a client who was starting to get more than just a little anxious.

  “Screw it,” I muttered to myself, then reached out and snatched a bottle from the counter.

  After removing the lid, I poured a pile of aspirin into my hand and stared at them. I started to pop the analgesics into my mouth but stopped in the middle of the motion then lowered my hand and stared at them again. With a sigh I scooped the pills back into the bottle and replaced the cap. I had poisoned myself once already, so I didn’t need to get back into the habit of eating these things like candy.

  I glanced at the clock again. It hadn’t changed.

  I tried to manage a quick mental calculation and failed miserably. Felicity had called earlier to tell me she wasn’t going to be home until after seven because she was stuck on a photo shoot, and apparently a foul-up had them running behind schedule.

  I tried to do the calculation again and came up with a different answer. I gave it a third go, using my fingers this time and came up with four hours before she would possibly be home. I didn’t guess there was any need for me to do anything about starting dinner just yet. I sighed, mulled over my options for a moment, then reached over and yanked open the freezer door. I rummaged around for a bit then pulled out an icepack. I figured my best bet was to lie down for a while and hope the ache would subside.

  I was a half dozen steps from the couch when the telephone rang. I paused for a second then continued toward the sofa. The answering machine was on; it could get it.

  The telephone pealed again, demanding to be answered. As much as I wanted to simply sprawl out on the couch and ignore the thing, I knew it was entirely possible Felicity was calling to check on me or to give me a schedule update. Maybe they had made up some time, and she was going to be home earlier than expected. I gave the sofa a longing glance then turned and headed for the phone. For good measure I went ahead and stuck the icepack against my forehead. Continuing across the room, I stepped around both dogs who were stretched out for an afternoon nap in the most inconvenient locations they could manage.

  I glanced at the caller ID through bleary eyes and saw that it wasn’t Felicity after all. It was Ben. I considered just turning around and heading back for the couch, but I was already standing here, so I figured I might as well answer it.

  “Hello?” I grunted into the handset after settling it against my ear.

  “Hey, White Man,” Ben returned. “You sound like shit.”

  “I feel like it,” I replied. “Headache.”

  “Which kind?”

  “That’s the question of the day. Actually, I don’t know.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Can’t argue with you there,” I said. “Look, no offense, but I was just about to sack out for a bit.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” he replied then fell silent.

  “Well? Was there something you needed?”

  “Yeah, for one I wanted ta’ let ya’ know Constance and I are good for dinner on the seventeenth. Need us ta’ bring anything?”

  “Not really,” I replied. “We weren’t going to do anything too elaborate.”

  “Ain’t it time for that Witch Christmas thing or somethin’?”

  “Winter Solstice. Yule,” I agreed. “Middle of the following week. Normally we’d celebrate the weekend before, but Felicity’s coveners had a hell of a time getting their schedules to jive this year, so they’re all doing individual celebrations.”

  “Oh, okay. Makes sense,” he replied.

  There was an overwhelming aura of preoccupation surrounding his voice, and that told me he had something else on his mind. The question about Yule had really been little more than a stall tactic while he decided how to work whatever that something else was into the mix.

  I decided to give him a hand.

  “What’s going on, Ben?” I asked. “I have a feeling you didn’t call just to RSVP.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he replied. “Actually, this is kinda an official call.”

  “Official how?”

  “I need ta’ talk to ya’ about Annalise Devereaux.”

  “Unless you’re calling to tell me she’s in custody, I don’t really have anything to say. You already know that.”

  “Unfortunately, no. She went completely off radar after your little run in with her. Up until now.”

  “That’s not what I wanted to hear, Ben,” I replied.

  “Yeah, I figured ya’ wouldn’t be too excited ‘bout that.”

  “Why do I get the feeling the ‘up until now’ part has something to do with this call?”

  “Because you’re psychic?”

  “No, actually I’m not,” I replied.

  “Yeah, I know. Look, Kemosabe, I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.”

  My voice went flat as I spoke, “Important how? Because I seem to rec
all telling you I was done, Ben. More than once.”

  “Yeah, but I still don’t think ya’ meant it,” he replied.

  “Yes, Ben, I did, and I’m not going to bother giving you all the reasons again.”

  “Yeah, well ya’ need ta’ talk ta’ me about this anyway.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m staying out of this.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t. That’s why I called.”

  “What do you mean I can’t? Listen closely, this is me hanging up.”

  I had the phone halfway to the cradle when I heard him bark, “Don’t be an asshole, White Man! I really need ya’ ta’ listen to this.”

  Ignoring the insult, I put the phone back to my ear and demanded, “Why, Ben? Why do you want to drag me back into this?”

  “Did I say I wanted ta’ do it?”

  “Well, why else would you be making this call?”

  “You ready ta’ shut up and listen?”

  “Fine. What about her?”

  “She killed again…”

  “I can’t say that surprises me,” I told him.

  “Yeah, didn’t figure it would,” he replied. “But, she added a new twist you need ta’ know about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She carved your name in the victim’s chest. Accordin’ to the M.E., it appears she did it before she killed ‘im.”

  “My name?”

  “Yeah, Row. Your name… And, there’s more.”

  “What?”

  “The victim’s head was covered with a black cloth bag that was filled with dirt and some kinda dried leaves.”

  Before Ben could continue I interjected, “And, the torture was only cursory, nothing to the extent of her other victims. But, when she killed him she did it by bashing his head in with a hammer or something similar.”

  Ben fell silent at the other end, but I could hear him breathing. I had thought my ability to surprise him had run out long ago, but in this case it seemed to be operating full force.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” I asked.

  “Think maybe that’s why ya’ got the headache?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Okay, so what’s it mean, Row?” he asked. “It some kinda Voodoo curse?”

  “Hoodoo actually, but yeah. It’s a cross,” I explained, recalling the particulars of the magickal working from my recent research. “It’s old folk magick. She’s seeking revenge against me for something. Everything that happened in the graveyard maybe. I don’t know. Normally the person hexing would use a black china figurine instead of a living human, but we already know she doesn’t operate within normal parameters.”

  “That fits. Victim was an African-American male,” he offered.

  “I think you’ll find the leaves are from a blackberry bush. The dirt most likely came from the graveyard. She probably has bags of it sitting around.”

  “She tryin’ ta’ kill ya’ with Voodoo?”

  “More or less,” I replied. “When did this happen?”

  “Last night. Medical examiner estimated the time of death at sometime Wednesday evening. The records at the motel where he was found pretty much back that up, although no one saw Annalise, as usual.”

  I grunted, “Middle of the week. I guess that would make sense.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing really. I’d have to look up the actual cross to be certain, but I remember something about executing it over a seven-day period, starting on a Saturday. I was just speculating that she might have chosen Wednesday since it’s basically in the middle. I’m guessing she didn’t want to sit in one place for seven days taking a hammer to a decomposing corpse.”

  “Okay, so tell me what ya’ make of this part then. She amputated both his hands. Both of ‘em were still at the scene… Well, kinda… They were missin’ all the bones.”

  “Hold on a sec…” I told him.

  I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder then tossed the icepack over onto the coffee table. It wasn’t doing much good; besides, my brain was now far too occupied to focus on the pain. I hated to admit it but Ben was correct. I was never going to be able to distance myself from this sort of thing, no matter how much I tried.

  Stretching the cord out, I stepped over and scanned the next set of shelves, systematically moving stacks of books which were two and three deep until I found the volume I was searching for.

  “You still there?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah, hang on,” I told him as I flipped to the index of the selected text, noted the page number for crossings, and began thumbing back through. “Okay…here it is. My guess would be she’s going to use them for some more gris-gris. There’s a crossing here that calls for drying chicken bones, crushing them up, then using them as a component for a curse.”

  “I’ll let Baton Rouge PD know that,” Ben replied.

  “So, is that where the body was found?” I asked.

  “Yeah… Motel just like all the others, ‘cept it was room three instead of seven.”

  “Sacred space.”

  “Come again?”

  “Three would be a number equated with protection. She wanted a safe place to do the cross.”

  “Stickler for detail, ain’t she?”

  “It’s all part of working magick.”

  “‘Kay, we’re back ta’ that. So if she’s tryin’ ta’ kill ya’ with magic, what happens when it doesn’t work? I mean, it ain’t gonna, is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean you don’t know what she’ll do if it doesn’t work, right?”

  “I mean I don’t know on either one, Ben.”

  Monday, December 12

  10:02 P.M.

  The Whine Cellar Bondage Club

  Private Playroom C

  Bridge, Illinois

  CHAPTER 24:

  Annalise reached over her head and grasped the suspension cuffs, which were securely attached to an overhead beam, then gave them a tug. You never knew what the state of the equipment might be in some of these clubs. Not all of them were maintained as well as they should be. But, this place actually appeared to be properly cared for. In some ways it even reminded her of her own.

  She gave the hardware a second tug, and the shiny chains rattled against one another. The metallic clinking noise made her heart race with anticipation.

  Steadying herself, she looked down at the mostly nude man lying spread-eagle in front of her. She had only just finished locking him into the floor-mounted restraints moments before. He stared back up at her, adoration in his eyes.

  “Did I say you could look at me?” she demanded.

  “No, Mistress,” the man whispered.

  His display of subservience ignited the tickle deep inside. This was the first time she had felt the desire in several days, and to her relief, it was actually pleasurable. Not like it had been before, when she was being punished. Still, the sensation gave her a moment’s pause. Those days of torment had been almost more than she could bear, and the thought of facing it again frightened her more than anything.

  But, this time it would be different. Miranda promised release. She had promised the reward.

  Using the suspension cuffs to maintain her balance, Annalise stepped up onto the man’s bare chest and twisted slowly, rocking back on her stiletto heels and digging them into his flesh. He groaned as she swayed back and forth, walking in place on his prone body.

  And, the tickle continued to flare. She knew the itch wouldn’t be very far behind.

  This particular sub was a trample fetishist whose kink was being used as a woman’s doormat. In fact, he even went by the name “mat.” Annalise had always found this particular display of dominance enjoyable, just as she did now. However, truth be told, tonight she had been more in the mood to mete out a good flogging. There was certainly no shortage of bare backs here that she would have relished marking with the sting of braided leather. From what she had seen in the club proper, it was obvious that there were several who would have gla
dly submitted to that torture as well. However, Miranda had said no. She had a specific purpose for Annalise being here, and “mat” was it. She had yet to tell her why. Only that for the moment, she was to seek him out, and him alone.

  It had been a long drive to get here from Baton Rouge. With restroom breaks and fuel stops, almost eleven hours to be exact. Annalise had been up and on the road several hours before dawn. She knew full well she should be exhausted, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t even napped after checking into her hotel. She had merely freshened up, changed into suitable attire, and brought herself here to do Miranda’s bidding, though she was still at some loss as to what that bidding was.

  Stepping hard, she continued grinding her heels into the man beneath her, reveling in the way his soft flesh gave way to her weight. He moaned as he tensed against his bonds. She wasn’t far behind him in the endorphin rush. The tickle had become the itch, and her breaths were now coming in shallow pants.

  “Thank you,” the man gasped. “Thank you for coming back, Mistress Felicity…”

  Annalise stopped moving.

  She stood there, frozen in place at the sound of the name—the name of the other.

  After a moment she shifted her weight then slipped the toe of her shoe beneath his chin and lifted, rolling his head so that she could look directly into his face.

  “What did you call me?” she asked, her tone this time far more inquisitive than demanding.

  “I’m sorry, Mistress…” the man apologized meekly. “Mistress Miranda.”

  “No,” Annalise said firmly. “Tell me what you called me.”

  He continued looking up at her but didn’t answer.

  She carefully stepped down from his chest then lowered herself until she was seated on his stomach. Smiling sweetly, she reached out and grasped one of his nipples between her thumb and forefinger. Pinching hard, she began to twist and pull the tender flesh.