All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation (6 page)

“And, naturally, that concerns you,” she
remarked.

“Maybe a little. But, the sudden exit
of a
Lwa
tends to leave
the
horse
disoriented. Even if
she thinks she knew what she was doing, she didn’t really know what
she was doing. Does that make sense?”

“Of course. However, that was not the aspect
of jealousy I was asking about.”

“Okay, so why else would I be jealous?’

“Because, in a sense this man is fulfilling
your wife’s sexual fantasies and you are not.”

“Feeling a little direct today, Helen?”

“Am I not always direct?”

“Yeah, I suppose you are. For the most
part.”

“So?”

“So, I really haven’t given it that much
thought.”

“Yes, Rowan, you have.”

“Okay, so yeah. I have.”

“And?”

“And, yeah,” I shrugged. “Maybe I am a little
jealous.”

“Have you spoken to Felicity about it?”

“No.”

“You need to.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I will when
things calm down a bit.”

“Good,” she offered with a nod then extracted
a fresh cigarette and lit it before changing the subject. “So, what
about Constance? Is she well? She seemed to be fine when she
attended the funeral service with Benjamin.”

I hadn’t even given thought to calling Agent
Mandalay, Constance, when I had spoken of her earlier, even though
we certainly knew one another well enough. I suppose I was so
caught up in the story that the informality hadn’t had a chance to
creep in. Of course, it stood to reason that Helen would use her
first name since the petite federal agent had been in an on-again,
off-again relationship with her brother for more than a year.

“She’s fine. Felicity mainly just managed to
stun her enough that she could get her own handcuffs on her,” I
explained then quickly added, “Don’t spread that around.”

“Of course not. Are there going to be any
repercussions?”

“I don’t think so. Constance actually pulled
some strings and so did Ben, so there weren’t any charges filed.
However…”

I felt, as much as heard my own voice trail
off into silence.

“However, what, Rowan?”

“Your brother told me something when we were
out looking for Felicity that night. Apparently, they found long
red hairs at both crime scenes. The Wentworth scene could have been
a fluke since she was physically there taking the photos, but she
was never actually inside the room at the Hobbes scene, and they
were there too.”

“Did he tell you they were definitely from
Felicity?”

“No, but they took a few samples from
her for comparison when they had her in custody, and we haven’t
heard anything yet. In fact, ever since that day we’ve been
persona non grata
as far as the
investigation goes. They’ve made no secret of the fact that they
consider Felicity a “person of interest”, but they haven’t gone so
far as to call her a suspect. At least not yet.”

“I see,” Helen said with a nod then turned
her head and proceeded to look out at the broken cloud cover.

“Anyway, that’s the story. And, that’s when
the nightmare started. And, like I said, it’s just been getting
worse since.”

“So,” she said after an uncomfortable pause.
“Now, you believe Felicity is leading a double life and actually
killed those two men.”

I looked back at her with complete
incredulity twisting my features. “Hell no! Where in the world did
you get that?”

“So, then why is it you told me you think
Felicity is the woman in your nightmare?”

I opened my mouth to reply but closed it
quickly. I felt my face relax into a chagrined half smile as the
realization dawned on me that I had just been the victim of a
carefully guided psychological play. The truly embarrassing part
was that I had cast myself in the lead role without realizing it,
and all Helen had done was sit back and direct.

“Face my fear, huh?” I grunted.

“Sometimes we use swords, sometimes we use
words,” she replied with a shrug. “So, I take this to mean you have
managed to reason yourself out of the silly notion that the cruel
specter you have been battling nightly is in reality your
wife?”

“Yeah,” I replied with a nod.

“She may have a proclivity toward sexual
dominance and mildly sadistic play, Rowan, but certainly within
limits. She is no monster. You know that.”

“But, the nightmare does mean something…” I
ventured.

“I am certain it does. For you, they always
do. You simply need to listen to what it is saying and not what you
were afraid it might be inferring.”

“There’s just a bit of a language barrier,
Helen. Dead people don’t always use words quite the same way you or
I do. They like to tell their tales with strange imagery and
convoluted verbal references that come across as bizarre parodies
of reality.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Yeah, well you wouldn’t happen to have
a
dead-to-living
dictionary
laying around would you?”

“No, but given your wealth of experience in
that realm, perhaps you should consider writing one.”

“I doubt if it would sell.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Yeah, maybe. So, let me ask you something.
Why didn’t you just tell me I was being paranoid like I asked you
to do in the beginning?”

“Because, Rowan, you would not have believed
me if I had. You did, however, need someone to listen so that you
could figure out for yourself that which you knew all along.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” I said. “Even
so, I still have this nightmare to contend with.”

“Yes, but now you can meet it on your own
terms.”

The relief began to fade as I felt murky
shadows folding around me once again. That seemed to be the way of
my life most of the time, gloomy and overcast with occasional brief
periods of warmth and light. I just wished those periods of
brightness would last a little longer.

“You know, Helen,” I said as the weight of
the ethereal darkness pressed in on me. “I have a terrible feeling
that things are going to get a lot worse before they even think
about getting better.”

“Is that a feeling, or an intuition,
Rowan?”

“A lot of both.”

“I hate to say this, but I fear you are
correct.”

“That’s not exactly comforting, Helen.”

“It was not meant to be.”

Friday, November 18

1:27 P.M.

Saint Louis, Missouri

I suppose having only three repetitions of
the horrifying night terror was better than the quintuplet I had
experienced the night before I visited with Helen. I’ll admit I
would have preferred none at all, but I wasn’t going to complain.
I’d take what I could get, and a reduction in frequency was as good
a place as any to start.

The lower rate of recurrence wasn’t the
only positive note either. While the panic that always accompanied
the nightmare didn’t dissipate one iota, at least I didn’t wake up
imagining that it was my red-haired wife standing just out of my
sight while harboring cruel intentions. And, even though I
supposedly reasoned that out on my own, I definitely credited Helen
with getting me there with my sanity intact. Or, what there was of
it I suppose; because I wasn’t always sure I qualified as
fully
compos
mentis
.

However, even though I no longer envisioned
Felicity as the physical embodiment of my fear, the fact remained
that the presence I felt was still undeniably female, and she was
disturbingly familiar.

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.