All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation (3 page)

Cocking his head over against his shoulder
and staring at the image on the marred base, he wound the film a
few frames forward and found a reference point. Quickly glancing to
the side, he checked a note he had scrawled on the steno pad then
looked back to the dimly luminous image. He started to crank the
winding lever, stopping and giving it a hard rap to engage the
slipping gears once again before continuing. After a moment he
slowed, advancing frame by frame until he found the date he
sought.

Twisting the projection head, he turned the
glowing reproduction of the over one hundred-fifty year old
newspaper so that he no longer had to hold his own head at such an
odd angle. Seating himself, he adjusted the magnification and
fiddled with the focus until it was as good as it was ever going to
get, which wasn’t exactly sharp by any stretch of the
imagination.

With determination he scanned the hard to
read blobs, picking his way between scratches, dropout, and the
just plain low quality print of the day. He was on the verge of
giving up and moving on when his eye caught something familiar. He
pulled on the positioning bar and moved the frame in enough to
center it and then drew a bead on the type that had commandeered
his attention.

Tilting his head up and gazing through the
lower half of his bifocals, he focused on the words. Then, with one
finger he slowly traced along beneath the lines of text, his lips
slowly but silently moving as he read to himself.

Then, he read the lines again.

And, again…

After the third time, he sat back in the seat
and let out the hot breath he had unconsciously been holding within
for the duration. Slowly he ran the palm of his hand across the
lower half of his face then pushed his glasses up and closed his
eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and
forefinger. After a moment, the man let out a quiet chuckle that
could have been born of subdued elation or exhaustion-induced
insanity, even he didn’t know which.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he
looked at the page just to make sure the words were really there
then muttered aloud to no one in particular, “Miranda, you
bitch.”

Two Weeks Earlier

Thursday, November 17

12:16 P.M.

Saint Louis, Missouri

“My heart is pounding in my chest so hard
that I can hear it… And I don’t mean like that thudding rush of
blood you get in your ears when your heart is racing. I mean I can
literally hear this frantic thump echoing in the darkness.

“Then, just all of a sudden I gasp for
breath. I guess it’s the panic that makes me do it, I don’t know.
Anyway, the air is foul. There’s this…I don’t know…something like a
stench of death, rotting meat, and maybe even excrement all mixed
together. It’s so thick it seems to coat the back of my tongue. You
know what I mean? And then I feel this sudden need to vomit…”

I paused for a moment to gather myself,
staring off into space as the steam from my breath quickly
dissipated before me. The temperature was hovering right around
freezing, several degrees below normal for Saint Louis in late
November, but then the weather here was always an enigma. However,
ruminating on the offbeat weather patterns was something I didn’t
have time to do. I had something much more important, and
unfortunately, far more horrifying to contend with. I was already
beginning to think the latter was an understatement.

Thus far, the retelling of my recurring
nightmare had been just as bad as living it each night. I had hoped
that voicing it to a sympathetic ear might be liberating, which is
why I was here, now, putting myself through this. However, instead
of manifesting as a freeing experience, it was just serving to make
my head hurt and my stomach churn.

Next to me, Helen Storm shifted against the
balcony rail and lit another cigarette. “So, is that when you wake
up, Rowan?”

What the outside observer might see as a
casual conversation was in actuality an impromptu therapy session.
Helen was a psychiatrist, and odd as it may seem, this was pretty
much how all of our sessions happened. Outside, rain or shine.
Whether it was frigid and windy, as it was now, or hot and muggy in
the dead of summer, it didn’t matter. We would always be outdoors,
with her chain smoking and me nursing a cigar.

Whenever we were in the building where her
office was located, as we were today, this particular spot was
exactly where we could be found. Standing out here on the large,
partially covered corner balcony that had been set up as a smoking
lounge for several of the upper floors.

Unusual, yes, but there was a familiarity
between us that allowed for the less than formal setting; in fact,
it all but demanded it.

Helen had come into my life during a period
when I truly thought I was going insane. In fact, at the time, I
was fairly sure that I had already been delivered to madness’
doorstep. Of course, discovering that you can communicate with the
dead can tend to do that to a person, and at that point I had
already been living with that very affliction for quite some
time.

To be truthful, I hadn’t been falling all
over myself to talk to a psychiatrist when it was suggested. My
immediate assumption was that I would be labeled insane, instantly
medicated, and carted off to the land of straightjackets and padded
rooms. However, considering that the deceased individuals with whom
I had been having conversations were all murder victims, and I’d
been spending an inordinate amount of time helping the police track
down their killers, I needed to vent to someone. I had been seeing
things that seasoned cops had trouble dealing with, and I had been
experiencing them on a far grander scale than photographs or even
the physical crime scene. I saw through the eyes, and felt through
the bodies, of the victims.

No, these were things that truly didn’t need
to remain shuttered away in my subconscious.

In the end, a good friend of mine who was a
Saint Louis city homicide detective, and also happened to be
Helen’s brother, had argued that I needed to at least give her a
chance. Of course, my wife had been directly involved in the
“intervention” as well. Between the two of them, the pressure on me
to seek outside help dealing with my “gift” had been
relentless.

Fortunately, they had won the skirmish
because Helen’s counsel had seen me through some very pitch
darkness, both then and countless times since. In fact, her
understanding ear and uncanny ability to guide one through his or
her own psyche had developed into an invaluable resource.

On top of that, she had also become a very
good friend.

“Rowan?” she repeated, somewhat louder than
before.

The tone of her voice, rather than the
volume, managed to prod me back from the edge of introspection, and
I gave her an apologetic glance. “Sorry…it’s all just a little
intense.”

“I understand,” she replied. “Take your
time.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“All right then…is this the point in the
nightmare when you wake up?”

“No,” I answered, staring at the ash on the
end of the cigar hooked beneath my index finger. I consciously
tucked the double Maduro roll of tobacco into the corner of my
mouth and slowly drew, only to discover that it had gone out.

“Please continue,” Helen urged. “If you are
ready to do so, that is.”

I let out a heavy sigh. Truth be told, I
wasn’t really fine, and I was far from ready. Moreover, I
definitely wasn’t excited about revisiting this terror, but I was
already right in the middle of the tale, so it was a little late to
turn back. Besides, this was the whole reason I had come to her to
begin with, so holding it all inside was the last thing I needed to
do.

“So…anyway…I try to force the feeling away,”
I continued, hesitantly at first. After a deep breath I made myself
dive straight into the rest of the story. “So, I try, but I’m too
weak, apparently, even to do that. I feel myself heave, but it’s
not like I double over. I’m lying on my back, and I kind of just
jerk in place because I can’t really move. I’m restrained somehow.
Anyway, nothing comes up, except bile. I guess that’s what it is
because I feel a burning in my throat, and then I start to gag.

“At this point I start to notice that all of
my muscles are pretty much screaming. It’s like I’m stretched
beyond my limits, and now they’re all starting to cramp. I know
that if I can just get up and move it will stop. But, like I said,
I’m restrained and I can’t. It’s at that moment of realization that
I always hear them. And then, the panic just starts all over
again.”

“Them?”

“The footsteps. At first they sound like
they’re in the distance…almost like they’re below me…but somehow I
know they aren’t going to stay there. I know they’re going to come
closer. I don’t know why I know, but I just do. And, here’s
something odd—they aren’t new to me. It’s as if I’ve heard these
very footsteps countless times before. So, you would almost think
that I’d be used to them, but I’m not. Either way, as soon as they
start, my heart jumps and begins pounding even faster.”

Helen cocked her head to the side in a
thoughtful pose then interjected, “Perhaps it is your familiarity
with them that triggers your panic.”

“Makes sense. You’re probably right.”

“However, I suspect you have already thought
of that.”

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

“All right. Go on.”

“Anyway, the footsteps start, and I force
myself to listen. Before long they do start coming closer, just
like I knew they would. What’s weird is that they sound excited and
cruel at the same time. I don’t know if that makes sense…I mean, I
know they’re just footsteps and all, but there seems to be this
whole mix of depravity and even arousal in the sound…”

“It is not unusual to apply emotions to
ambient noises, Rowan,” Helen offered. “It is a normal function of
the subconscious. Sound will easily evoke an emotional response. If
it did not we would have no need for music and sound effects in
movies. Of course, the particular pairing you mention is most
assuredly…shall we say, different.”

“Yeah, exactly. It definitely seemed odd to
me except that what I’ve been dealing with recently… Well, the
circumstances make them fit together in a way.”

“I see. So, is there more?”

“A little,” I said with a nod. “This is
when I realize…no…actually it’s more like I
remember
that there are others here with me…I
guess I’m just suddenly reminded of it when I hear them because
they hear the footsteps too. But, when they hear them, they start
whimpering and crying.”

I felt myself shudder physically as the words
spilled out. Out of reflex I thumped the heel of my palm against
the top of the railing as if the gesture could make it all go away.
With a quick snap of my head I exclaimed, “Gods! They always sound
so terrified that it…I don’t know…I really can’t describe
it…I…I…Dammit!”

“Calm down, Rowan,” Helen instructed. “Take a
breath and relax.”

I did as she told me and forced myself to
settle. Finally I said, “All I can say is that their terror just
fuels mine, and that just makes my panic grow.”

“A natural response.”

“Doesn’t make it any more pleasant…anyway,
then, of all things, I start praying. As frightened—and I mean flat
out petrified—as I am, I don’t cry like the others. I don’t moan. I
don’t whimper…I just start to pray.”

“To whom are you praying?”

I knew exactly why she asked the question.
She was fully aware that my personal leanings didn’t fit with the
generally accepted concept of prayer. The fact of the matter being
very simply that I was a Witch, a card carrying Pagan. I was a
practitioner of magick and follower of an alternative religious
path commonly known as Wicca. The idea of me praying was about as
far left of center as it could get.

I shook my head. “I don’t know. God I guess,
believe it or not…Yeah…I know…doesn’t make much sense, does it? Me,
a devout Pagan praying to God.”

“It is not as if you do not believe in a
duality of Godhead, Rowan. As I understand it, in your path you
have both a God and a Goddess.”

“Yeah, but I get the feeling it’s
not
that
God I’m praying
to.”

“Perhaps in this nightmare you are not
yourself, but rather someone else.”

“I gave that some thought,” I replied.“But,
usually in the dreams I’m myself. It’s when I have a waking vision
that I actually channel the dead and take on their memories and
such.”

“However, I recall that you have spoken to
the dead in your dreams. Correct?”

Helen was truly one of the few individuals
with whom I could discuss these things without being looked upon
with a jaundiced eye, as evidenced by what she had just said to me.
I suppose it was her Native American heritage that made her so open
to the idea that I really did communicate with those who had
departed this realm.

The truth is, I sometimes had trouble
believing it myself. Witches aren’t what you read about in fairy
tales or Shakespearean plays. Practicing magick and following a
Pagan religious path, while an alternative to the societal norm,
didn’t automatically make you some kind of psychic medium. In fact
just about any other Pagan could tell you that I, and those like
me, were an anomaly. While the mental exercises that come with the
territory may have enhanced some type of latent ability I had
always possessed, Witches, in general, simply didn’t go around
talking to dead people.

Why did I get to be so lucky? Who knows? All
I can say is that “why me” had become a personal mantra over the
past few years.