She was still talking to me when I hung up the phone.
Twisting left then right, I located the control pendant on the bed and stabbed the call button with my thumb. I was already up out of the bed when Adrienne came through the door.
“What can I do for ya’ Mistuh Gant?” she asked.
“I need to speak with Doctor Miller.”
“She’s not on duty this evenin’. I can get the physician on call. Are you feelin’ okay?”
“Get her on the phone then,” I instructed, ignoring her question. “And, tell her she needs to get Detective Fairbanks over here right away too.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes, there is,” I replied, my voice rushed. “Very wrong. But it’s something I can’t fix here. I have to get back to Saint Louis right now.”
CHAPTER 17:
I was escorted directly to my gate at New Orleans Louis Armstrong International Airport. The only problem I had with that fact was that it happened ten hours later than I wanted. The delay, however, wasn’t for a lack of me trying to get out of town; that much was certain.
As I suspected would be the case, Detective Fairbanks turned out to be the least of my problems. He was in as big a hurry to be rid of me as I was to go, so he took next to no convincing where my being allowed to leave was concerned. He didn’t even ask why I was in such a rush. Of course, I had a feeling he knew the answer I was likely to give and simply didn’t want to hear it again.
Still, he insisted Doctor Miller make the final call, and she was definitely the hard sell, especially since I was doing this all by phone. Unfortunately, by the time she grudgingly agreed to my release, it was too late. There wasn’t a single Saint Louis bound flight to be had, no matter what I was willing to pay, where I was prepared to sit, or how many connections I was content to make.
Once again time was presenting itself as my enemy; but for this skirmish my luck no longer held, and I was unable to beat the clock. The best I could manage was to change my existing reservation, and since the airline with the earliest departure time happened to be the one for which I already held a ticket, that was easy enough done. Beyond that, I was still stuck in New Orleans for the rest of the night, which didn’t sit well with me at all, a fact I was all too happy to share.
In response to my severe agitation, the physician on duty insisted on prescribing a sedative. I didn’t want it; however I was told that my wants weren’t the issue, but my obvious needs were. I suspect the needs to which he referred were less mine and more theirs, as I wasn’t being shy when it came to making my displeasure with the entire situation somewhat vociferously known.
Therefore, much to my chagrin, whether I liked the idea or not, I ended up sedated. The only choice I was given was whether I wanted to take it orally of my own volition or be held down for an injection. I opted for the pill. I’ll admit it was probably a good thing he forced the issue because the fact that I was trapped here wasn’t helping me cope with the personal demon I had only recently loosed upon myself. I sincerely doubt it would have allowed me to sleep otherwise. What little I did manage, however, certainly wasn’t restful. Even a drug-induced slumber couldn’t stave off the all too real nightmare that was now raging inside my head.
The next morning, true to his word, Detective Fairbanks intended to see me off personally, so he showed up at the hospital early. I was already showered and having fresh dressings applied when he arrived. As it was, the paperwork for my release took longer than anything else.
Our ride to the airport was conspicuously silent, and it really didn’t change much after reaching our destination, save for an occasional grunt to direct me here or there. Fairbanks saw me through the check-in process step by step. He didn’t physically turn over the bulk of my personal effects until my bags were checked and he had my boarding pass in hand. I don’t know if he did it for dramatic effect or if he really believed I might bolt and wreak more havoc in the city. I decided knowing the answer wouldn’t accomplish anything for either of us, so I didn’t bother to ask.
At the security gate, he handed me off to a uniformed officer and instructed him that I was to be his sole duty until I was in the air and heading north. Then, with only a scowl in my direction to serve as a farewell, he was gone.
The officer walked me through security and dutifully waited until I was on board the aircraft. If he followed his orders, he probably also continued to stand there until the airplane had taxied out to the runway at the very least. I’m betting he did-because the instruction hadn’t sounded at all like a joke.
According to my watch, we were wheels up right on time at 7:40 A.M. I still had a little over two hours ahead of me before I was going to have my chance to grapple directly with a monster of my own making.
I just hoped that it wouldn’t be too late.
Saturday, December 3
9:43 A.M.
Lambert Saint Louis International Airport
Concourse C, Security Gate
Saint Louis, Missouri
CHAPTER 18:
Impatience had ruled over me for the entire trip, and it was only getting worse now that I was on the ground. Since my flight had arrived at one of the farthest gates it possibly could, I had been faced with plenty of distance to cover on foot. Any other time that wouldn’t have bothered me a bit, but in this instance I viewed the walk with nothing but disdain. Of course, it wasn’t so much the walk itself as the added delay because it had taken almost fifteen minutes for me to jog up the crowded concourse. I was absolutely certain I could have made it in half that time had it not been for constantly becoming stuck behind people who were more interested in window shopping and visiting than actually moving.
“Rowan!”
The voice issuing the call was unmistakable. Ben was only a few feet ahead as I started through the exit on the security checkpoint, and while I really hadn’t expected to see him here, I also couldn’t say I was terribly surprised. I’m sure he wanted his turn at chewing me out and simply couldn’t wait to get started.
I had actually caught sight of him even before he called my name over the flow of moving bodies. He was hard to miss. Standing six-foot-six tends to make you stick out in the crowd. Being an exceptionally tall Native American even more so. Throw in the fact that he had his badge displayed on a cord around his neck, he may as well have been waving a flag. My intention had been to slip through with the rest of the crowd, hoping to pass by unnoticed. Unfortunately, he saw me before that could happen. What’s worse, my reflexes betrayed me by making me look up in his direction at the sound of my name.
Now, I really had no way to avoid him. I was just going to have to keep moving so that he couldn’t derail me.
When I neared, he let out a quiet exclamation. “Holy fuck…”
As his voice trailed off, he reached up with a large hand and smoothed his salt and pepper hair, sliding the paw down to the back of his neck where he allowed it to rest. His dark eyes were wide as he stared at me, and I had a feeling whatever admonishment he had originally intended to hurl my direction was momentarily on hold.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, switching my backpack to the opposite shoulder as I continued walking past him at a brisk pace while veering to the left.
“Fairbanks called an’ said you were on your way,” he replied, catching up in a single, long-legged stride and falling in step with me.
“Figures,” I said with a shake of my head then glanced over and added, “I guess he was afraid I’d turn around and come right back, so he’d better send a welcoming committee.”
“What the fuck happened to ya’?” my friend asked, ignoring the comment.
“What? Didn’t he fill you in?”
“He had plenty ta’ say about ya’, yeah. Other than the stuff I won’t repeat, he said ya’ went a couple rounds with some woman then chased ‘er across traffic and caused a coupl’a friggin’ wrecks… But he didn’t tell me ya’ actually got hit by one of the cars.”
“I d
idn’t,” I told him. “And, it wasn’t just some woman. It was Annalise.”
“Wait a minute… Are you sayin’ Devereaux did this to ya’?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean a five-foot-nothin’ woman kicked your ass?”
“Yeah, Ben, she did,” I replied, voice cold. “Then she got away, and your buddy down there didn’t seem all that interested in finding her. So, do me a favor and save the jokes. I’ve got something kind of pressing I need to take care of right now.”
I was angling toward the exit, so he grabbed my arm and tried to guide me to the right. “She kick ya’ in the head too? Baggage claim is this way.”
I pulled away and continued toward the far exit, which led out to the taxi stands. Without looking back I said, “I’ll get it later.”
I hadn’t made it a full step before his hand clamped down on my shoulder, and he stopped me dead in my tracks. “Whoa… What the fuck? Where’s the fire?”
“You wouldn’t believe…” I started immediately but caught myself before I could finish the sentence.
I suppose Detective Fairbanks was correct. The phrase really had become my personal mantra while I was in New Orleans. In the matter of only two days, I had become accustomed to hiding what I knew and, more importantly, how I knew it. All for fear of being seen as a lunatic, and now, because of that fact, the sentence seemed to tumble from my mouth at the slightest provocation.
And, apparently my brain was too occupied at the moment to adjust to the fact that I was back on familiar ground, talking to someone who wouldn’t think I was completely nuts. Of course, standing here now and forcing myself to consider this new reality didn’t necessarily change my mode of thinking. I wasn’t so sure this was something I was ready to tell Ben either. Even if he wouldn’t think I was insane, I wasn’t certain I wanted to waste time explaining right now.
I sighed, “Look, Ben, I just need to get home. There’s something very important I have to take care of.”
“What?”
“I’d really rather not say.”
“Rather not, because it’s somethin’ stupid and ya’ think I’ll stop ya’, or rather not somethin’ else?”
“Something else.”
“So ya’ aren’t about to go get yourself inta’ some more shit?”
“No,” I replied with a shake of my head. “If anything I’m planning to get out of some.”
He stared at me for a moment, searching my face. I’m sure he was looking for some physical indication as to whether or not I was lying.
“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 End Of Desire argi-8 Page 14
