All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  I was actually starting to consider making an attempt at lucid dreaming. Programming myself to remain aware and in control of the subconscious vision. Not so much for the purpose of directing the events as was the usual reason for the exercise but more to keep myself at the center of them. Or, even on the periphery for that matter. I simply wanted to watch from one point of view or the other. It really didn’t matter which it was, just as long as I could stay immersed enough to once again take a cue from Helen, and “face my fear.” I needed to see who this mystery woman was, if that was even possible.

  Unfortunately, I’d have to dwell on that exercise a bit later because right now there was very little room for it inside my skull. I had plenty of things to deal with at the moment, and the list didn’t seem to be getting any shorter. But, that was only one of the reasons for my lack of focus. The biggie was the fact that at this given moment in time my head felt like it was about to split open and spill its contents unceremoniously onto the desk before me.

  I had already tossed down a handful of aspirin in an attempt to dull the throb. That had been almost an hour ago, and I was now considering adding some more to the mix. The problem was that while the first dose hadn’t touched the pain in my skull, it had done an excellent job of making my stomach churn. Of course, my stomach had already been twisted into a knot to begin with, most likely because I knew this type of headache all too well.

  It wasn’t normal. It went far beyond off-kilter brain chemistry, sinuses, or even the immobilizing cranial thud of a bad hangover. In fact, I was pretty sure that even a deeply sickening, hangover-induced headache might have felt better right about now.

  Like a fool in denial, however, I still kept trying to convince myself that it was nothing more than lack of sleep and eyestrain brought about by the numerous hours I’d been spending in front of my computer. The cold truth was, I knew better. The constant ache was just as ethereal in nature as the recurring nightmare, and it was another prime indicator that something unpleasant was going to happen. I just didn’t know what or when, and no one on the other side was talking.

  I shook my head gently, regretted the action, and then wondered for a moment at my own thoughts. Whenever they were talking, I wanted nothing more than for them to go away. But, when they fell silent, I practically begged them to say something, anything—especially at times such as this. It was a typical love-hate relationship between not so typical partners.

  Of course, I often thought that what would make the most sense was for me to have never heard their tortured voices at all. To have never pierced the veil between the worlds, effectively becoming a conduit for the dead. It’s not like it had ever brought me anything but grief.

  But, there was nothing I could do about that now. I’d tried shutting the imaginary door several times, but its latch was broken and it wouldn’t stay closed. Apparently, the dead were going to be waltzing in and out of my head right up until I permanently joined them on their darkened side of the threshold. Maybe then I would get some peace. Who knows? Maybe once I died it would be my turn to annoy some poor bastard back here in the land of the living who also happened to share my particular vexation. Of course, if that happened it would pretty much mean I had met a violent end, just like all of the spirits who chose to speak to me. I really couldn’t say I was able to find any sort of positive spin hidden anywhere in that thought.

  I pushed the unsavory musing aside and struggled to bring my attentions fully upon the task at hand, that being research. Running the computer cursor down a list of menu items, I settled upon the one I was looking for and clicked. After a moment I sat back and waited, as even though I had a fast Internet connection, the remote server doling out the requested page didn’t seem to be in a particular hurry to comply.

  Ever since Felicity’s episode with the Lwa possession, I had been trying to find out everything I could about Voodoo—as well as anything related to it—and there were still a good number of questions for which I needed answers. I suppose for that reason the process had actually become more than mere research. In its own way it was a ruthless obsession. If I wasn’t working or taking care of some chore around the house, I could be found reading, searching the web, or making calls to purported authorities on the subject in hopes of gathering more information. With both Felicity and me cut out of the loop on the Wentworth and Hobbes homicide cases, as well as her being a subject of that ongoing investigation, it was all I had left that I could do.

  I certainly understood why we had been shut out, but that didn’t mean I had to like it or like that my friend was now ignoring my calls. In fact, even though Helen had reassured me on that point, I still found it very disturbing.

  Of course, it only stood to reason that we would be more or less disavowed given that the microscope was now aimed at my wife. They couldn’t very well have us being privy to what they might be looking for to use as evidence against her. Not that I believed there really was anything for them to find, mind you, and I was certain their legwork would soon prove that out. Still, I simply couldn’t sit idly by and wait for them to finish because I also wasn’t necessarily willing to trust the police in this specific endeavor.

  The fact is, there were some serious underlying issues at play. I had begun consulting for the Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad somewhere around five years ago. Ever since the first time the tortured spirit of a murdered young woman had chosen to slap me across the back of the head with an ethereal two-by-four and beg my help. It hadn’t been easy getting someone to listen, even my close friend, Ben. But, eventually he had come around, as well as a few others within the local law enforcement community. Since then, I’d racked up more than my share of unwanted press clippings, but that was something that came with the territory. Headlines like “Self-Proclaimed Witch Solves Serial Murder Case” tend to sell papers. Unfortunately, it got to be my not-so-smiling face displayed beneath the bold type.

  The real problem, however, was that while there were those who realized I could be a benefit, I also had some extremely vocal detractors. There were more than a few who felt my ethereal visions were just parlor tricks and bids for attention. Others literally claimed it to be the work of Satan. Those were the ones who even went so far as to publicly denounce me purely because of my chosen religious path.

  Under different circumstances I would have just tried to ignore them like I usually did, but this was a completely different situation. It was largely because of the fact that some of these individuals held fairly high-ranking positions that I wasn’t convinced of a fair and impartial investigation. In my mind, finding the real killer was the best way to be sure Felicity wouldn’t get railroaded as a way of getting to me. I tended not to voice that too much because I knew that it sounded like the convoluted plot of a Hollywood conspiracy thriller, but the truth is that it was pretty much my life in a nutshell.

  On top of it all, my need to clear Felicity hadn’t completely overshadowed the fact that a terribly sick sociopath was still out there. A sexual sadist none of whose games were safe, sane, or consensual. It didn’t take an advanced degree to surmise that she was going to kill again. Since I knew for a fact the police were looking in the wrong place and were showing all the signs of continuing to do so, it fell to me to do something about it before she produced another victim.

  Adding up everything I already knew, it seemed that finding out all I could about Voodoo would be the best course of action under the circumstances. I hoped that the knowledge would provide the clues necessary to track down the person responsible, and some of the primary leads I was following were the symbols, called veve, which were left behind at the second scene.

  I’d had no trouble identifying two of them as belonging to generally accepted figures within Voodoo practice, those being Papa Legba and Ezili Dantò. The third, however, remained as elusive as a real steak in a vegetarian restaurant. The best I’d been able to determine was that it had been patterned after a symbol widely used within the bondage community. Not surpr
ising, I suppose, given the mind-set of the killer, even though her version of the lifestyle was twisted and grotesque. Still, that didn’t give me the name of a Lwa, and that missing bit of information just fueled my need to know. If the veve didn’t belong to a generally accepted spirit, then there had to be more to it. There had to be something special about that ancestor that might lead me to the killer.

  Certainly, something else I wanted to know was whether or not Felicity’s preternatural incident had actually been her body being used as a horse by the Lwa. I was almost certain that it was, but there was still a small, nagging doubt. What if it was something else entirely? I couldn’t imagine what that might be; however, I couldn’t deny that she had been known to channel both the dead and the living herself, just like me. Her brush with that affliction was something for which I blamed myself because she had opened herself up to the other side of the veil when trying to protect me. And, as I had discovered, once they had their foot in the door, it was all over. They were unwanted houseguests with no intention of ever leaving.

  Still, channeling was one thing. In this case what she had done was completely out of the park, at least in my experience. Either way, the thing that troubled me even more was whether or not it was going to happen again, whatever the cause turned out to be.

  Therefore, it was for those reasons, and a number of others, that I once again found myself sitting in front of my computer, books piled about me, and the contact page of a university’s website glowing on my screen.

  I suddenly noticed that the page was now finished loading, and the screen had been refreshed. In fact, it probably had been for several minutes because, in truth, I had just caught myself staring off into space. I rocked forward in my desk chair and looked at the blurry lines of type displayed against a muted background.

  I rubbed my eyes then pushed my glasses back up onto the bridge of my nose. I blinked hard, trying not only to focus but also to forget the headache that was still raging inside my skull. Finding what I was after, I picked up the telephone handset and put it against my ear. Glancing between the phone and my monitor, I punched in the number listed on the web page before me. Before it even began to ring at the other end, I rocked back in my chair and began idly moving the mouse across the surface of my desk as if doodling on a notepad. A moment later, the buzzing tones abated and were followed by the sound of the phone being taken off-hook.

  “Louisiana State University Department of Sociology,” a woman’s voice eventually drawled into my ear. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Doctor Rieth’s office, please,” I replied.

  “Please hold.”

  I continued watching the pointer as I nudged it around the screen. My real attention, however, remained focused on the hollow sound of the phone as I waited for the transfer to occur.

  A minute or so passed before there was a dull click at the other end and a new voice issued from the handset. “Doctor Rieth’s office, this is Kathy, may I help you?”

  “Good afternoon, Kathy,” I said as I rocked back forward and straightened my posture. “Is Doctor Rieth in by any chance?”

  “No sir, I’m afraid she’s gone for the holiday break. I’m her assistant, can I help you?”

  It hadn’t even dawned on me that Thanksgiving was less than one week away at this point. Considering that, I was probably fortunate to have reached anyone at the university at all.

  “No offense, but probably not,” I replied. “I’m calling from Saint Louis, and I need to speak with the doctor about something in her book, Voodoo Practice in American Culture.”

  I glanced at the corner of my desk where the tome was resting atop a pile of other books, all with the same general subject matter, Afro-Cuban religion and mysticism.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but all queries regarding Doctor Rieth’s books should be made via the University Press,” Kathy replied, launching into a decidedly prepared sounding spiel. “The address can be found…”

  “I understand that,” I spoke up, truncating her instructions. “Please understand that I’m not looking for an autograph or trying to dispute her or anything like that. I’m doing some research regarding a murder investigation here, and I think she might be able to help me.”

  There was no reply from the other end, but I could still hear background noise, so I knew she hadn’t hung up.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Yes, I’m here,” the assistant replied. “I’m sorry. Where did you say you were calling from again?”

  “Saint Louis, Missouri, why?”

  “Just curious. Doctor Rieth received a call a year or so back from a police officer in South Carolina regarding a murder investigation.”

  My curiosity was immediately piqued. “Really? Do you remember any of the details?”

  “No,” she replied. “And, honestly, I really shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “That’s okay, I won’t tell,” I replied half jokingly then moved on rather than risk alienating her. “Is there any way I can reach Doctor Rieth? It’s very important.”

  “I’m afraid not,” she replied. “She is scheduled to return the Monday after the holiday however.”

  I wasn’t excited about the wait, but it was just that time of year, so there was little I could do. I went ahead and asked, “Do you think it would be possible for me to leave a message for the doctor then?”

  “Yes sir, I can certainly do that,” she answered. “Which police department are you with again?”

  “I’m actually an independent consultant,” I explained then took the truth and wrapped it into an interwoven pretzel before relaying it to her. “I’m currently working with the Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie, but I hoped that the doctor didn’t elect to verify my story because under the current circumstances, I was betting no one would be willing to back me up.

  I finished giving her my contact information and bid her a pleasant afternoon before hanging up and pondering what the young woman had just let slip. Hopefully, if and when Doctor Rieth returned my call, she would be willing to share a bit more about what she had consulted on in South Carolina.

  I picked up a pen and jotted a quick note about it in a steno pad I had been using for keeping track of my research. I heard the dogs barking outside and wondered for a moment if they were wanting back in the house. I started to get up, but they quieted down before I could get completely out of my seat, so I figured it must be a taunting squirrel or simply a passerby. When I settled back into the chair, however, a familiar prickling sensation crawled across the back of my neck as I felt my hair pivoting at the roots.

  I reached up and rubbed the offending spot as I looked around the room. I couldn’t imagine a reason for the brief attack of shivers. It faded quickly so I tried to put it out of my mind.

  Returning to the materials I had at hand, I shuffled through the stack of books on my desk and withdrew another one, heavily laden with bookmarks protruding from the end, and flipped it open to the copyright page. I was just about to begin typing in the publisher’s website address in search of contact information for the author when I heard the doorbell ring.

  Now I had my answer as to why the dogs had been barking.

  I knew Felicity was downstairs in her darkroom and probably wouldn’t be able to answer it. In reality, most of her work these days was digital and didn’t require the somewhat antiquated processes of chemicals and light sensitive papers. However, I had the impression that my wife was finding the familiarity and closeness of her analog workspace a comfort in the wake of her recent experience. Put simply, she was hiding from the world, and while I was willing to condone it for a brief period, I wasn’t going to allow her to do it forever. But, at this particular moment, I wasn’t going to press the issue.

  I tossed the book back onto the pile and pushed away from my desk. I found that I had to skirt around Dickens, our black feline, who had elected to take a nap almost immediately in front of the office door. He
opened one yellow eye and regarded me silently as I stepped over him, but other than that he didn’t even twitch.

  I was making my way down the stairs when the doorbell pealed once again in a rapid staccato.

  “Hold on!” I yelled, not that I really expected anyone outside to hear me. “I’m coming, I’m coming…”

  I skipped the last couple of stairs near the bottom, making the turn at the landing, and almost jogged across the living room. With a quick turn of my wrist, I unlocked the door and swung it open.

  My friend, homicide detective Benjamin Storm was standing on my front porch, along with someone else I thought I recognized as a member of the MCS but to whom I couldn’t place a name. Neither of them looked particularly happy, but I didn’t need to see their expressions to know something was wrong. The warning signs had been there for a while now. I had just been too absorbed, and even more unwilling, to pay attention to them.

  Ben reached out and pulled the storm door open, looking at me quietly for a heartbeat or two before saying, “Do you mind if we come in, Row?”

  I definitely didn’t like the sound of his voice, and my skin started prickling once again.

  “That depends, Ben,” I replied evenly. “Do I have any choice in the matter?”

  He reached up and smoothed his hair back, looked down at the porch briefly, then back up to my face. “Actually… No.”

  “Do I need to call our attorney?” I asked.

  He returned a shallow nod. “It’d be a good idea, Row.”

  What transpired in the fifteen minutes following that simple statement set a series of events into motion that, if they didn’t kill me, would undoubtedly leave an indelible scar upon my life, and the lives of those I loved.

  CHAPTER 4:

  “Dammit, Ben!” I screamed. “Talk to me! Why won’t you tell me what the hell is happening here!”