All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation (17 page)

I sighed and bent to the bathroom basin then
cupped my hands beneath the running faucet. Once they started to
overflow, I pressed the handfuls of cold water against my face. Of
course, most of it either ran between my fingers or dribbled along
my arms to turn my shirtsleeves into a soggy mess, but I didn’t
care. Wet clothing was the least of my worries right now.

Looking back up, I stared into the
mirror at the dampened, haggard visage now living in the silvery,
reflected world. Its eyes were sunken and bloodshot, stubble
shadowed its cheeks and neck, and its face sagged with exhaustion.
I kept telling myself that all of those properties applied only
to
it
and not to
me
, because I simply didn’t have time
to feel like
it
looked. Of
course, I had learned long ago that denial would only get you so
far; but, that wasn’t going to stop me from riding it all the way
to the last stop.

The peal of the pendulum clock in the dining
room had died away several minutes ago, but using the memory of the
evenly spaced tones as reference, I did some quick math. The
product of the equation was a number which told me I hadn’t slept
in better than twenty-four hours, a fact that readily explained at
least part of my current state of being.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried, mind you. I
knew I needed rest, and I had actually set out to get some. The
problem was, every time I closed my eyes I saw Felicity. While that
was something I would normally consider a pleasant thought, the
countenance that filled my waking nightmare was the one that had
been burned into my mind when last I saw her being led out of the
house.

What painted the inside of my eyelids was her
face contorted into a mask of fear, paler than her ivory skin could
possibly be. Her eyes were wide and imploring. Her lips were
trembling as she called to me. As an added bonus, the visions came
complete with an endlessly looping soundtrack of handcuffs snapping
tight around her dainty wrists.

I could still hear her voice echoing in my
ears as she pled for me to stop this from happening. And now…well,
now for some reason, she was shutting me out, and that certainly
didn’t help the pain at all.

I let out another sigh as I felt the emotion
well deep inside me once again. The sadness was so overwhelming, I
felt like sitting down on the floor right where I was and crying
until I couldn’t cry anymore. But, that simply wasn’t going to
happen. I knew it wouldn’t do any good because sometime around
midnight I had given it a try, and now, I just didn’t have any
tears left to give.

An even hiss filled my ears, beckoning me
once again into the land of lucidity. I looked down and noticed the
water was still running, so I twisted the handle to shut it off
then reached for something to dry my face. Exiting the bathroom, I
trudged through the bedroom while blotting my damp skin with a hand
towel. I had to pick my way around various obstacles, as I hadn’t
yet cleaned up the mess left in the wake of the search. That is,
other than to push the pile of clothing on the bed off to the side
when I tried to lie down and sleep. I was just stepping into the
hallway when the telephone began to ring once again.

Only a few minutes had passed since Shamus’
last screaming fit, but he’d had a tendency to deliver them in
clusters, so I was sure it was probably him for the
who-knows-how-manyeth time today. I was so sure, in fact, that I
didn’t even bother to head for the bookshelves to look at the
caller ID box, electing instead to finish drying my face and then
simply stand at the end of the hallway surveying the carnage that
still graced my living room.

Following the third ring, the answering
machine kicked on, burping its greeting into the room once
again.

“You have reached the Gant and O’Brien
household, please leave a message…” The voice was followed by a
shrill tone then a staticky pause.

Finally, in the wake of the beep, an
authoritative voice issued from the speaker. This time, however, it
was distinctly feminine and possessed of a heavy Southern
accent.

“I am calling for a Mister Rowan Gant,” the
woman announced. “I picked up a message from my office that he was
trying to reach me. My name is Doctor Velvet Rieth, and I can…”

Midway through her first sentence I was
already in motion, stumbling frantically through the room as the
dogs and cats scattered before me. I hadn’t even needed to hear her
name to have guessed exactly who she was, and this was a call I had
not only been waiting for but desperately needed.

Something told me this woman was holding a
vital clue that would help me clear Felicity. What it was and why I
believed it to be so, I couldn’t say. It was just one of those
feelings, and I knew better than to ignore them.

“Yes, yes, I’m here…” I yelped into the
handset, cutting her off before she could finish the message and
hang up. “Hold on just a second…”

For some reason the answering machine hadn’t
cut off as it normally should, and a loud squeal had burst from the
speaker the moment I lifted the receiver. I was now fumbling with
the buttons to switch it off but meeting with no success
whatsoever. Frustrated by my frenzy-induced klutziness, I quickly
gave up and yanked the power plug from its base with a violent
jerk.

Quiet fell in behind the sudden termination
of the racket, and I returned my attention instantly to the
handset.

“Doctor Rieth? Are you still there?”

“Mister Gant?” she replied.

“Yes, I’m Rowan Gant. Sorry about the
feedback there. It’s kind of an old answering machine.”

“That’s okay,” she said and then added. “I’m
sorry, but do I know you? There’s something very familiar about
your name.”

“No, Doctor, I’m fairly certain we’ve never
met.”

Considering that I had recently heard my name
mentioned on the national news in conjunction with Felicity’s
arrest, I was trying to tread cautiously. I desperately needed
information from this woman, and I didn’t think it would help if
she knew my wife was an accused serial killer.

“Hmmm. Are you sure? I’d swear I’ve heard
your name before.”

“There’s a British comedian named Rowan who’s
fairly popular,” I offered. “Maybe that’s where there’s some
confusion.”

“Maybe so…” she allowed her voice to fade
thoughtfully.

There was a brief pause, but from the tone of
our exchange, even given the pleasantries, I got the overwhelming
feeling that she was somewhat dispirited that I had actually
answered the phone. Still, that could simply have been my own mood
overshadowing my judgment. After all, she did call back on a
Saturday, so surely she was expecting someone to answer. That was
unless, of course, she thought she was calling a business number
and was hoping for voicemail.

As my sluggish brain was trying to make sense
of what were probably exhaustion-blunted perceptions, she spoke
again.

“Are you there?”

“Yes. I’m here. Sorry.”

“Well, I picked up a message from my office
saying you had some questions regarding my book and a murder
investigation?”

“Yes, that’s correct, I am…”

She cut me off before I could continue.
“Okay, first off, if you found my book at a murder scene, I don’t
know what to tell you. It wasn’t me. Second, there are no human
sacrifices in Voodoo practice. And, third, if you found a doll with
pins in it at a murder scene, you’re barking at an empty tree, and
you need to call someone else.”

I wasn’t sure if she was testing me, or just
looking for a quick out to end the phone call, but I definitely no
longer thought I was just being paranoid about her humor. She
actually sounded exasperated, as if she’d had those very questions
posed to her countless times before. Whichever it was, or even if
it was both, I met the commentary with a firm reply.

“Of course, Doctor Rieth. First, no, your
book wasn’t found at a crime scene, at least, not that I am aware
of. Second, if I thought I was dealing strictly with a human
sacrifice, I would be contacting a Hindu mystic, not that I would
expect him to condone it, of course.

“And, finally, as to dolls and pins, if
that were the case, I would want to talk to a Witch since poppets
are actually a product of traditional WitchCraft and not
Vodoun
.”

I definitely wasn’t going to tell her that
the Witch I would be consulting would be me. At least, not quite
yet.

This time, once I finished speaking, there
was a much weightier pause at the other end of the line. Still, I
made no move to fill its void, instead remaining silent and waiting
for her to respond.

“Obviously you’ve done some homework,” she
finally replied.

“I try to stick to the facts whenever
possible.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she offered.
“When it comes to the subject of Voodoo, I’m not used to dealing
with well informed cops much farther north than Baton Rouge.”

“Actually, I’m only a consultant,” I said,
sticking to the twisted version of the truth I’d given her
assistant just in case she was still feeling me out.

“Close enough when it comes to this sort of
thing.” There was an audible shrug in her voice. “So what makes you
think Voodoo is involved in your case, Mister Gant?”

“Several things, actually,” I replied.
“A couple of
veve
for one. A
victim profile and method of killing for another.”

Her standoffish air had dissipated
quickly once I had proven my acumen on the subject of alternative
religions, but she had remained staunchly businesslike. Now, her
demeanor abruptly cascaded into one of urgent and uneasy curiosity.
“Which
veve
?”

“Ezili Dantó, Papa
Legba,
and one which has yet to be
identified.”

There was no mistaking the note of
trepidation in her voice when she spoke. “What does that one look
like? The unidentified
veve
.”

Her reaction, combined with what Ben had said
the night before, all but confirmed my suspicions. Out of a mild
sense of paranoia, I decided to test the theory.

“What do you think it looked like, Doctor
Rieth?” I asked.

“Why?” she asked, a startled note in her
voice.

“I just get the feeling you might have seen
it before.”

“Look, I don’t have anything to do with…”

“Calm down, Doctor. I never said you
did. Please, just indulge me for a second. What do you think this
third
veve
looks
like?”

“Well, I’m really afraid it might look very
similar to a stripped down, simplified Celtic triskele. Basically,
a circle with three centrally joined arcs radiating from the center
out to the circumference, and a dot located within each third.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “That’s pretty much exactly
it.”

“The bondo-
veve
,” she muttered, almost too quiet for me to
hear.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” she replied. “It’s just a
nickname. Bondo-
veve
. I call
it that
primarily because the symbol
itself…”

“…
Is used by the bondage and S and M
community.” I finished the sentence for her then added, “So, I was
right. You’ve seen it before.” The last sentence was spoken as both
a statement and a question.

“Yes, I’m afraid I have.”

I went out on a limb. “From a homicide in
Myrtle Beach?”

“Yes, and from one in New York as well.
At both of them the police found the three
veve’s
you’ve mentioned as well as obvious signs
of some sort of sadomasochistic sex play. But I suppose you already
knew that.”

The reference to New York only took me
slightly by surprise since Ben had mentioned that there were
several other states with unsolved homicides that were possibly
linked. He just hadn’t told me actual names or any real details.
Now I had a line on at least one more. Still, I decided not to let
on to Doctor Rieth that I hadn’t known about it until now.

“Pretty much. So, can you tell me
which
Lwa
belongs to
this
veve
?” I asked, voice
hopeful.

“I’m afraid not. That’s the reason for the
nickname. The only time I’ve ever seen it is in connection with
those two murders…and, now apparently this one.”

“Actually we have two homicides here we
believe to be connected, but the
veve
was only found at one of the
scenes.”

“Good God,” she mumbled again. “So I suppose
this really is what the FBI types call a serial killer.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well,” she said, seeming to regain
some of her composure. “I’m not sure what it is I can do for you.
Even if I could identify the
veve,
I don’t know that it would be any help.”

“Actually, it might. From what I’ve
researched, I would have to guess that this symbol is being used to
represent a personal ancestor.”

“I’d be inclined to agree with you, and
that’s what I told the other departments. Not that they seemed
particularly interested in the arcane facts at the time. They just
kept calling it a cult crime.”

“That’s an easy out for things they
don’t understand. Trust me, I’ve dealt with that very same attitude
here myself. But, back to the
veve
…I would think that if we could track down
that particular ancestor, perhaps we could find the person who has
it on her altar.”