The End Of Desire argi-8

by M. R. Sellars

  We stood in silence for a moment. The frosty air moved around us on a gentle breeze, making the wind chimes in front of me tinkle lightly. I reached out and gently grasped the cold metal tubes, causing them to fall silent once again.

  “The Feebs coordinated with NOLA PD on that homicide. Got a definite match on the hair found at the scene,” he offered.

  “That’s good,” I said, as I carefully let go of the chimes.

  “They’ve been watchin’ the cemetery, but so far she hasn’t showed.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Theory is she’s too spooked to go back right now.”

  I still kept my mouth shut. I heard my friend sigh hard then shuffle in place. After a long pause he spoke again. “They think maybe they’ve connected a couple of unsolved homicides from last year too. All homeless types. Jury’s still out on ‘em though, ‘cause they don’t have the exact signature she’s usin’ with her victims now. But, enough shit matched up ta’ make ‘em wonder. The behavioral guys at Feeb central are checkin’ it out.”

  I remained shrouded in my self-imposed reticence, simply staring out across the yard.

  “You even listenin’ to me?” Ben finally asked.

  “Yeah. I’m listening,” I replied.

  “But ya’ ain’t talkin’.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Look, Row, I’m tryin’ ta’ tell ya’ she’s gone completely off radar.”

  “I pretty much got that, Ben.”

  “Okay. So, I’m lookin’ for help. Got any la-la land happenin’? You wanna throw me a bone here?”

  I glanced in his direction. “I think you already know the answer to that question.”

  He huffed out an exasperated breath then stared into the yard for a moment. Eventually, his hand moved up to smooth back his hair then slide down to rest on his neck.

  “C’mon Row… You seen anything at all? A nightmare? Ya’know, any kinda spooky shit that might give us some insight on this?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe ya’.”

  “That’s your prerogative.”

  “Jeezus…” he muttered. “This ain’t some kinda game, White Man.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that, Ben. I know it isn’t.”

  “Well, would ya’ tell me if ya’ did see somethin’?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What kinda answer is that?”

  “The best I can give you right now.”

  “Okay. So the Feebs dug up some background on ‘er,” he said, as he dropped his hand down and sent it inside the folds of his coat to retrieve his notebook. “Think that might help jog some Twilight Zone stuff?”

  “Don’t bother, Ben. I don’t want to hear it.”

  He stopped with the notebook halfway out of the inner pocket, stood there for a moment, and then stuffed it back in with a heavy breath to punctuate his frustration.

  “What’s gotten inta’ you?”

  “A little bit of sense maybe.”

  “Come on, Row…” he eventually mumbled.

  “Besides, the way I understand it I’ve been banned from this case… And, any other investigations for that matter.”

  “Technically, yeah, but I’m just tryin’ ta’ keep ya’ in the loop. What they don’t know ain’t gonna hurt ‘em.”

  “It’s not them I’m worried about.”

  “You really aren’t gonna talk about it, are ya’?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the real reason?”

  “In case you don’t recall, I quit.”

  “Bullshit. That’s what you said, but you didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I’m not going to have this argument with you.” I shook my head for emphasis. “Shouldn’t you be happy about this, Chief? For years you’ve been telling me to stay out of everything. Let the cops do the cop stuff, I believe is what you said. Well, you’ve convinced me. I’m letting you cops do your jobs. I’m not getting involved.”

  “You already are, Row.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “So you’re sayin’ you’ve just switched off the Twilight Zone shit, and that’s the end of it? I thought you said it doesn’t work like that.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I muttered.

  “So then you do still see shit, don’tcha?”

  “Only if I look,” I said then paused before adding, “And, I try not to.”

  “Yeah, but you do anyway. I know you.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Not what. More like, who.”

  “Felicity?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, Firehair wants you to quit?”

  “She didn’t come right out and say it. Not lately anyway. But, she’s good with the decision, and that’s really all that matters.”

  He exhaled a long, slow breath. “You blame me, don’t ya’? Both of ya’ do.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “You gotta. I got ya’ into all this when I came to ya’ about the Tanner homicide.”

  “No.” I shook my head, again using the exaggerated motion to punctuate my answer. “What you did was ask me some simple questions about WitchCraft and Wicca. I’m the one who got myself in too deep. I’m the one who let it take over my life.”

  “So, what’re ya’ gonna do?”

  “Take my life back.”

  “Yeah, sounds good in theory, but I mean what about the Twilight Zone stuff. If you still see the crap then what’re ya’ gonna do?”

  “I’ll just have to live with the nightmares.”

  “Do ya’ really think you can?”

  “I already do, Ben. Every single day.”

  “Yeah, but can ya’ live with the thought of not doin’ somethin’ about what ya’ see?”

  Once again, I didn’t answer. Instead I just looked away and stared out across the lawn.

  Ben pressed on. “Okay, so, what about Firehair? She sees shit too.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “But…”

  “There aren’t any but’s,” I interrupted. “Face it. You don’t need me. All I ever do is visualize the horrors that sick, twisted people exact upon others. It’s not like I can make them stop what they’re doing. I wish to hell I could, but I can’t.”

  “That’s not true, Rowan,” he offered with a shake of his head. “You’ve helped stop the bastards more than once. You’ve saved innocent lives.”

  “Tell that to Randy and Starr,” I spat, blatantly naming the two members of Felicity’s coven who had been tortured and murdered by a serial killer bent on my demise. His primary reason for what he did to them was so that he could draw me out into the open, and I’d been living with that guilt ever since.

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  “Your sister keeps telling me the same thing. Maybe someday I’ll fool myself into believing it too.”

  “You’re bein’ too hard on yourself, White Man.”

  I let out a sarcastic chuckle that I simply couldn’t contain. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Come again?”

  “Forget everyone else for a second, and take a good look at me, Ben. I’m a fucking wreck. Felicity isn’t much better. She just hides it better than me. And, the real truth is she’d be just fine if it wasn’t for me.”

  “How do ya’ figure?”

  “Easy. For six years I’ve let magick control me instead of the other way around. And, because of that screw up, I brought all the crap down on her as well. I’m supposed to live by the rule of harm none… Well, I haven’t been doing a very good job of it… It’s time for me to stop. Stop hurting her, and stop hurting myself. End of story.”

  “Ya’ really think any of that’s gonna change if ya’ keep everything bottled up inside?”

  “I don’t know, but I have to try.”

  “You aren’t selfish like that, Row.”

  “Ma
ybe it’s time I started being a little selfish.”

  “It ain’t you… Listen, I…” Before my friend could get the rest of the sentence out of his mouth, his cell phone trilled. “Jeez… Hold on a sec…”

  He dug the device out of his coat pocket, flipped it open, and then pressed it up to his ear. “Yeah, this is Storm… Uh-huh… Yeah… Yeah, I’m gonna be there… Yeah, just talkin’ ta’ Row… Yeah, about work… Dammit, Al, let’s not go there… I’m serious… Yeah, I said I’d be there… Uh-huh… Okay, I will… Later.”

  After folding the phone and stuffing it back into his pocket, he looked over at me with a mildly pained expression. “That was Allison,” he said, referring to his ex-wife.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Other than the fact that she’s still pissed at me for ever draggin’ you inta’ this sorta shit? No, not really. The offspring’s in a school play tonight, and I promised ta’ be there, so I gotta go in just a bit. Oh, and she said ta’ tell you hi.”

  “Tell both of them hi for us.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he replied then paused. “Look, Row… If ya’ happen ta’ do that la-la thing… Ya’know, if ya’ go all Twilight Zone and see somethin’…”

  I cut him off before he could finish the thought. “I wouldn’t wait by the phone, Ben, because I won’t be calling. Not about that. I’m serious. I’m done.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Okay. But, if ya’ change your mind…”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.” I switched the subject before he could press me again. “Before you go, are you and Constance doing anything the seventeenth?”

  “Dunno, why?”

  “Felicity and I were wondering if you two might be up for dinner or something.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I’ll check.”

  “Just dinner with friends. Nice and normal. No shop talk.”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Just let us know.”

  “I will. Okay… Well… Guess I’d better get goin’.”

  “Look, Ben… I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t be,” he breathed. “You’re right. You didn’t sign up for this shit, it just kinda happened to ya’. It ain’t your problem.”

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  I could tell he wasn’t happy with the situation, but at the same time I also knew he didn’t truly fault me for the decision.

  “So, I’ll talk to you later?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Later.”

  He started to leave, but before he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned and looked back up at me. “Oh, by the way. Speakin’ of Constance, she’s been checkin’ on that thing for ya’. You know, the secret Feeb call to the NOLA PD.”

  “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 Felicit
y 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.”