All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation (19 page)

“Why not? What is it?”

“Well…” I knew what her reaction was going to
be, but I couldn’t lie because if she found out, it would do
nothing but destroy the re-establishment of trust I’d started to
develop with her. “They say they have DNA linking her to the
crimes.”

“Remember when I asked about a ‘compelling
reason’, Mister Gant? I’d say DNA evidence definitely qualifies as
one of those.”

“I realize that, but I have cause to believe
it’s bogus.”

“You mean a lab error? Did they re-run
it?”

“Three times, actually. But, my contention is
that it was planted or purposely tampered with. Long story short, I
have enemies who would like nothing better than to discredit me in
any way possible. I sincerely believe that they wouldn’t stop at
framing my wife for murder in order to get to me, especially given
that both of us are, or were, involved in the investigation. This
is a perfect opportunity for something like that.”

“You mean you have enemies within the police
department?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“So you think it’s a conspiracy? I’m sorry,
but now you’re sounding like a television show.”

“Trust me, I know that. And, if it wasn’t
happening to me, I’m sure I would say the same thing. But, given
some of the events that have taken place in my life over the past
few years, it’s actually nowhere near as crazy as it sounds.
Besides, it’s the only logical explanation I can imagine right now
because I know for certain that my wife isn’t a killer.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“She’s my wife, Doctor Rieth.”

“No offense, Mister Gant, but I assume you
are familiar with the BTK killer?”

Of course I was. How could I not be? The only
way anyone could have remained oblivious to Dennis Rader,
self-dubbed BTK for his threefold methodology of binding,
torturing, and then killing his victims, would be if they had been
living in a total information vacuum. The history of his brutal
crimes, his eventual capture and remorseless courtroom confession
had held the attention of the nation, off and on, for the better
part of the year. But, I knew that his sadistic legacy wasn’t her
point. What she was driving at was the fact that in everyday life
the man had been a pillar of the community, and that his
unthinkable activities had been hidden from his family for nearly
two decades.

“Since you mentioned it, let’s not stop
there, Doctor Rieth,” I replied. “It’s not at all uncommon for the
families of serial offenders to be clueless about the secret life
their loved one is leading. You can lump John Wayne Gacy and a
whole host of others right in with Rader.

“But, the fact remains that I am not a
typical spouse wallowing in denial and disbelief as statistics
would lead you to believe. Felicity is innocent, and I’ll do
whatever it takes to prove it.”

She paused thoughtfully, but this time the
silence didn’t have the same hollow feeling as before.

“I guess right about now you’re having
trouble finding anyone to believe you,” she finally said.

“You have no idea,” I answered. “There are a
couple of people in our corner, but at the moment it’s pretty
lonely where I’m standing.”

“Okay then, so your wife is innocent,
and it’s up to you to prove it. I suppose we should get back to the
part about the
Lwa
…” she
verbally returned us to the impetus for the conversation. “You
mentioned that your wife exhibited odd behavior, and this is what
leads you to believe she was being ridden. Tell me about
it.”

Doctor Rieth listened attentively while I
relayed the story of Felicity’s out-of-character actions, including
her missing memories and assault on agent Mandalay as well as her
violent tryst with the man she had picked up in the fetish club. It
occurred to me as I went over the events for what seemed like the
thousandth time, just exactly how insane it all really sounded. Of
course, I had assumed from the beginning that it probably came off
as ludicrous to outsiders unfamiliar with the true nature of the
supernatural. But, as for me, I had been there. I had seen it first
hand and knew what was happening. The problem was that, even given
my own knowledge and experiences, the whole thing was now starting
to sound ludicrous to me too.

When I reached the end of the tale, I simply
stopped. I had to admit, given my own wavering faith in the story
I’d just told, I was fully expecting to hear little more than
silence followed by a dull click as the phone was hung up in my
ear. However, what greeted me couldn’t have been much further from
that if it had tried.

“Just for my own edification, your wife
doesn’t suffer from D-I-D, does she?”

“D-I-D?”

“Dissociative Identity Disorder. They used to
call it Multiple Personality Disorder.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Has she ever displayed odd changes in
personality before this recent incident. Most especially childlike
tendencies?”

“No,” I said again. “No offense, Doctor, but
I thought you were a sociologist who specialized in world
religions, not a shrink.”

“I am a sociologist, but as it happens I once
had a teaching assistant with D-I-D, so I ended up learning quite a
bit about it. I’m simply trying to cover all the possible
explanations for your wife’s behavior.”

Her queries reminded me that Ben had
used that very ailment as an excuse to defuse a situation with one
of the local police departments when Felicity had first fallen
under the influence of the
Lwa
. That was before we knew what was going on,
and it had seemed like a reasonable course of action at the time.
However, now I feared it was going to become ammunition for the
other side even though it was entirely untrue.

“She’s not a multiple.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she
prodded.

“I understand, and I agree, but I assure you
we can rule it out,” I told her.

“Well then, if we assume that she was
truly being ridden, the way I see it is that there has to be some
kind of latent connection between your wife and the
Lwa.
Or, maybe even her and the
killer.” Doctor Rieth’s reply was immediate and succinct. In fact,
she hadn’t even paused before offering the analysis.

“So, you don’t think this all sounds crazy?”
I asked.

“Oh yes, it sounds crazy all right, but
that’s not the point,” she answered. “Remember, many of the things
I’ve written about in my book sound crazy to the uninitiated.”

“Yeah, I guess they do.”

“So, if we are to assume that your
theory about the
Lwa
is
correct, then we have to find the reason it chose your wife as
a
horse
, especially given your
contention that it already had one with a far stronger, and
completely willing, connection. Knowing that may well provide a
clue that will lead back to either the identity of the
Lwa
or even the original
horse
, which is the ultimate goal.
Correct?”

“Correct. Any ideas on that front?”

“Like I said, it has to be a latent
connection that superseded the connection with the other
practitioner.”

“Okay, but what could that be? Felicity
doesn’t practice Voodoo.”

“She doesn’t? I’m sorry. I just assumed she
must because this would all make more sense if she did.”

“I’m sure, but that’s why I called you.”

“Well, then that’s the big question, isn’t
it?” she replied with a healthy sigh. “Still, there must be
something connecting the two, and it could be almost anything. For
instance, does your wife own any antique jewelry she purchased
second hand? Especially recently? Something she might have been
wearing at the time of the possession?”

“I’m sure she does. Own jewelry like that, I
mean. But, I don’t recall her making any recent purchases. I also
don’t remember her wearing any of it at the time, although I could
be wrong,” I said and then added, “At the point when she had the
guy in the motel room, she wasn’t wearing much at all,
actually.”

“Second hand clothing that may have belonged
to the killer, perhaps?”

“Maybe. She’s been known to visit resale
shops. Again, I can’t be certain.”

“Okay, you said she doesn’t
practice
Vodoun
, but has she
by any chance dabbled with it at all?”

“No. At least not that I am aware of, and I
think that’s something she would tell me. She’s a degreed Wiccan
with some strong ties to British Traditional WitchCraft, but no
real dealings in any of the Afro-Caribbean practices other than a
passing knowledge of them.”

“So, she’s a Witch too?”

“Yes, but that wouldn’t be it, would it?”

“Just speculating. That would definitely make
her far more open than your average bystander. Magick begetting
magick, maybe?”

“She would almost have needed to work magick
that somehow related to Voodoo though, wouldn’t she?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Like I said, I’m just
speculating.”

“So, should I assume by the direction this
conversation has taken that you are willing to help me?”

“I suppose that’s pretty much how it looks,
isn’t it, Mister Gant?”

“Well, if that’s the case, you might want to
start calling me Rowan, Doctor Rieth.”

“Then you should probably start calling me,
Velvet.”

“Mind if I ask…”

“Burlesque performer. My mother thought it
was pretty.”

“I see.”

“No wise cracks.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The reflection staring back at me from the
two-way mirror on the opposite wall didn’t look much better than
the one I’d seen at home. I’d actually taken a few minutes to shave
before getting into the shower and then tried to at least make
myself presentable. None of those things, however, could mask my
exhaustion or my foul mood, and it showed.

I turned my face away from the mirror. I knew
someone was watching; they’d told me they would be. I suppose it
was better than having a stranger parked in the room with us, which
was the normal procedure as I understood it. But even so, it was
more than a little disconcerting. I tried to push it out of my mind
because I needed to deal with what I had at hand and not unseen
distractions. But, I still found it hard to keep the invasion of
privacy out of my thoughts. Of course, within these walls, privacy
was a luxury that simply didn’t exist.

Shifting nervously in my seat, I returned my
focus to the redhead on the other side of the table.

Small talk seemed to have become the order of
the moment. Twenty minutes had passed, and thus far we’d been
engaged in short bursts of trivial banter. Things of no real
import, such as the weather, what bills might have shown up in the
day’s mail, or any number of other equally unimportant
distractions. The whole of it was making me crazy, and I suppose it
was for that reason my mouth began to blurt out something my brain
knew would be best left unmentioned. I didn’t do it out of spite. I
just needed to get something other than a flat, one word response
from my wife.

“I probably shouldn’t even tell you this…” I
started but then caught myself before continuing. Getting a
response was one thing. Triggering it this way definitely wasn’t a
smart move, and I knew it. I shook my head as much out of
chastising myself as anything else then said, “No…just forget
it.”

“What is it?” Felicity asked. “Tell me.”

At least this time the reply was something
besides, “Yes”, “No”, or “Fine”, even if I hadn’t followed through
with the statement.

Her voice was still emotionless but heavily
saturated with her inherent Celtic lilt. The accent was an
omnipresent feature but one that usually resided in the background,
noticeable but not overwhelming. It always became more pronounced,
however, when she was stressed, tired, or had spent more than a few
hours with her family. In some instances, thick was even too weak a
word to describe it.

It wasn’t hard to guess that the first two
factors were what were driving it at the moment, and they were
driving it hard. In fact, if she became any more stressed than she
was now, I might well have trouble understanding her; for the
brogue would not only start to be peppered with Gaelic, it would
become so deeply accented as to almost obscure any English she
might continue to use. In other words, we had more or less already
arrived at thick and were definitely on our way toward a stronger
adjective.

I dismissed her question with only a cursory
explanation. “It’s not important. Not right now, anyway.”

“So tell me then,” she pressed. “If it’s not
important, it shouldn’t matter.”

I let out a heavy breath and shifted in my
seat. Everything mattered, especially now. I knew that for a fact,
even if she didn’t. I looked down at the table then reached up to
massage my temple. My headache was coming back, not that it had
ever completely gone away, but the dull ache had been something I
could live with. I definitely didn’t need seriously stabbing pains
on top of everything else right now.

Little more than three hours had passed since
my conversation with Doctor Rieth. The thread of positive luck—if
you could really call it that—which had begun during the phone
call, had seemed to continue in its wake. For a little while at
least, as only a few moments after I had hung up, the phone began
to ring again. That time it had been Jackie calling to let me know
that she’d managed to arrange a court-ordered visit with
Felicity.

The fact was, under normal circumstances,
prisoners detained at the Saint Louis City Justice Center had to
schedule visitors in advance, and each particular “dorm” had
specific days set aside for those visits to take place. By
obtaining an impromptu judicial order, our—or given the events of
last evening I should say Felicity’s—attorney had succeeded in
circumventing the system, getting me in to see her early this
afternoon.