Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (31 page)

As he finally realized that, to her, this
was no game, it was real and forever…

His pain was a savory main course, taking her
to the brink and holding her there.

As she placed the cold steel against his
genitals…

As she castrated him like the farm animal he
had become…

As she held open his eyes so that he was
sure to see the bloody jewels she was displaying for his
benefit…

And finally, his soul… Oh yes, his soul had
been dessert, filling her with heavenly pleasure.

As she sat astride the black pig and told
him that they loved him…

As his eyes begged her to let him live…

As she drew the knife across his throat and
offered him to Ezili…

She could still taste the sweetness on the
back of her tongue, and she wanted to savor it forever. She let out
an involuntary whimper as the latest orgasm took hold, and she
shuddered as it drove through her abdomen and up her spine.

After a few moments passed, the wave of
pleasure began to subside, and she sucked in a deep breath then let
it out in a contented sigh. The tickle was still there but no
longer pushing her toward the brink, as it had been earlier. Still,
she had a distinct feeling that she wasn’t finished with it yet.
She just hoped that it would at least be a little while before the
next demanding itch made itself known.

She pulled herself upright and trudged naked
through the room, stopping only to pour a measure of rum into a
tumbler. Picking up the drink, she took a sip as she wandered into
the bathroom, then she perched the glass on the edge of the
tub.

Standing before the mirror, she gathered her
waist-length, fiery auburn hair atop her head and carefully pinned
it in place. Once the loose Gibson-girlish coif was secure, she
grabbed a towel and rolled it into a cylinder as she stepped over
to the tub. She gently lowered herself into the milky water then
adjusted the force of the whirlpool jets to suit her liking.

She took another sip of the rum and tried
again to relax.

Yes, now
Ezili
should be pacified.

She had sacrificed a black pig just as she
had been asked.

Of course,
Ezili
had no tongue and therefore, no voice, so
it had actually been
Miranda
who told her of the demand. It wasn’t unusual for
Miranda
to speak for
Ezili
. That was how it had always
been.

She let out a resigned sigh.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew full well
that
Miranda
wanted the
sacrifice as much as
Ezili
.
Probably even more.
Miranda
always wanted a sacrifice, she just wasn’t usually
picky.

But then,
Miranda
always gave the sweetest rewards in
return.

She bent her knees slightly and slid lower
into the tub, letting the water climb over her chest as she slipped
the rolled bath towel behind her neck. She closed her eyes and
tried to relax again, but this time a perplexing thought crossed
her mind.

It was something, much like the tickle, that
had been nagging her all afternoon.

The pig’s public name had been Calvin Hobbes.
She knew this beyond any doubt.

She just couldn’t figure out why the name
Rowan kept running through her brain.

Wednesday, November 9

9:53 P.M.

The speakers in Ben’s van were
vibrating with the instrumental interlude of Del Shannon’s
Runaway
as we cruised across the
Poplar Street Bridge into Illinois. In just a moment, Del was going
to be wondering why she ran away and where she would stay. I
suppose the music was apropos because I was finding myself
wondering the same thing about Felicity. The part about where she
would stay, at least.

As I had suspected would be the case, the
Briarwood officer stationed outside my house hadn’t been
particularly excited about me leaving. But, since I wasn’t actually
under arrest, there wasn’t much she could do other than verbally
object—which she did, strenuously and repeatedly. Of course, I
suppose there would have been quite a bit more intimidation aimed
my way had it not been for the fact that I was accompanied by a
better than six-foot-tall Native American who also happened to be a
cop. Yet another reason that having Ben on my side was a good
thing.

My friend veered onto the off ramp without
slowing and literally leaned his van through the loop then took us
onto Route 3 toward the small city of Bridge, Illinois. After a
short discussion, he had made a few calls then suggested that we
start looking for Felicity at the club where Officer Hobbes had
been known to frequent. He assured me that this wasn’t because he
believed Albright’s theory, but that if Felicity was truly
possessed by the killer in some way, and if that was where the
killer had connected with Hobbes, then it stood to reason that she
might return there. Given the present lack of tangible leads, I was
willing to accept the logic even if I was still somewhat
suspicious.

It was for that reason that I now found
myself smack in the middle of what Saint Louisans commonly referred
to as the “east side”. While that moniker easily encompassed many
points immediately east of downtown Saint Louis proper, it had
actually taken on an almost slang-like meaning. In fact, for most
locals the term was almost exclusively used to describe the handful
of clubs that dotted the landscape over a several mile radius and
specialized in adult entertainment.

The nightclubs were exactly what their
subtitles of “show palace”, “cabaret” and the like implied. They
were the kind of place you took your buddy for his bachelor party
if you really wanted to get him into trouble with his bride. Or,
where businessmen went to blow their expense accounts on “lap
dances” from scantily clad young women. Twenty bucks for a quick
bump and grind to fuel their one-handed fantasies, if they even
made it that far.

No matter how upscale and polished the names
were that they placed on the marquee, most of them were little more
than dimly lit strip joints, which were permeated with sickly sweet
odors and had a so-called restaurant attached.

Having had what I personally considered to be
the misfortune of being goaded into “entertaining” very insistent
but important prospective clients at some of them from time to
time, I was more familiar with their lunch fare than I would have
liked. While I usually managed to smile and land the account, I
also ended up pushing my meal selection around on the plate for
some thirty-odd minutes and then making an excuse about not really
being hungry.

Without fail, those particular business
meetings would end with me grabbing something at a local diner when
I was closer to home.

Of course, I certainly harbored no ill will
toward the east side establishments nor their clientele. They
simply weren’t my kind of place and their food… Well, that was just
something I didn’t even want to think about.

Of course, we hadn’t come over here for
entertainment or dinner.

Our destination this evening was actually
somewhat of an anomaly among the gentleman’s cabarets, in that this
one was a semi-private club catering to the bondage and domination
fetish crowd. In fact, it was the only one of its kind in the area.
Most everyone knew about it, but if it wasn’t your kink, it
certainly wasn’t where you went. Still, they did more than enough
business to keep the doors open, and had done so for several years
now.

“I talked to one of the coppers who was over
to this place earlier today,” Ben told me as we continued northward
on Route 3. “He said they got a fuckin’ real life dungeon thing
goin’ on in the basement. Got all kinds of torture shit down there
almost like right outta the middle ages.”

“That’s what does it for some people,” I
replied.

“Too weird for me,” he answered.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had any
fantasies.”

“Not that kinda shit,” he said immediately
then paused before asking, “You haven’t have you… About this kinda
crap, I mean?”

Were the situation different, I would have
told him “yes” just to see what kind of reaction I could get, but
my heart just wasn’t in it tonight. All I wanted to do was find my
wife, but for some reason, I found myself unable to get worked up
about that either. It certainly wasn’t that I didn’t care. I was
still worried and that hadn’t changed. However, my brain had
apparently settled into a subdued state. It seemed that even
adrenalin had abandoned me at this point.

My head was still pounding with the loitering
ethereal ache that couldn’t make up its mind, but at the same time,
a bizarre sense of calm had settled over me. I didn’t know why I
felt this way, but even concentrating on my earlier rampant fears
couldn’t usurp it. I shifted my attention toward maintaining my
earthly ground, worried that I had allowed myself to slip between
the planes, but even that didn’t make a difference.

“Not really,” I finally replied. “But, I’ve
got an open mind.”

“But it’s weird.”

“Consenting adults, Ben.”

“So doesn’t it freak you out that Firehair
was all about this stuff?”

“No,” I said with a shake of my head, and it
was the truth.

“Not even just a little?”

“No,” I said again.

“So, like, what if she wanted to tie you up
and do shit to ya’?”

“I guess I’d let her.”

“Yo, white man, are you feelin’ okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“‘
Cause that didn’t sound like you at
all. And, you’re actin’ a little weird. You ain’t goin’
Twilight Zone,
are ya’?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, like you’re gettin’ ready ta’ zone
out on me, or maybe you’re not sure?”

“Maybe like I’m not sure,” I said then
pointed at a sign in the distance. “That’s your turn right up
here.”

“How d’you know that?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“Jeezus, you ain’t gettin’ ready ta’ do
cornmeal art or somethin’ are ya’?”

“No,” I replied, screwing up my face. “Why
would you think that?”

“Look, Kemosabe, somethin’ ain’t right
with you. Maybe you’re all la-la’d with that
Zili
thing too.”

“I know I’m not right, Ben, but it’s
something else,” I returned, not bothering to correct him. “I just
don’t know what yet. Now don’t miss your turn.”

“Dammit. You tell me if you’re gonna go all
freakazoid or somethin’. Okay?”

“I’ll try.”

As he made the turn, he shot me a glance and
muttered, “Jeezus H…”

I couldn’t give him the answer he wanted, and
he knew that. But, as always, knowing that fact didn’t stop him
from asking me anyway. I could feel him staring at me off and on,
but he didn’t utter another syllable after the mumbled
complaint.

We continued wordlessly for the next few
minutes, the only sound being that of the engine competing with the
radio, which was set to low volume and serenading us with yet
another tune from the sixties. A little over five blocks and a
single left hand turn later, we arrived at our destination.

We were at the end of a cul-de-sac
where a large building sat back from the street. Near the curb, a
lighted marquee sat atop a substantial signpost. Across it was
emblazoned the name of the establishment—
The Whine Cellar
. Beyond the curb was a large
gravel parking lot.

Ben pulled the van in through the entrance
and slowly urged it along the rows of vehicles. The expanse was
fairly well lit overall, and we both scanned either side of the
aisle for Felicity’s Jeep. We had just made a turn at the end and
were coming back up the other side when my friend broke his
silence.

“What’s that up there?”

I abandoned my own search and looked over to
where he was pointing. A few spaces from the end of the row sat a
familiar looking boxy shape.

“Yeah. Could be,” I agreed.

My friend sped up slightly and came to a halt
behind the black Jeep Wrangler. I didn’t even need to see the
license plate. The pentacle on the spare tire cover and the “Magick
Happens” bumper sticker told me all that I needed to know.

For the first time since we’d left the house,
I felt like I was breaking out of the calm daze. My heart jumped in
my chest, and I let out a relieved breath.

“It’s hers,” I said aloud.

“I’m gonna call this in,” Ben announced as he
reached into a pocket and withdrew his cell phone.

I objected immediately, snatching up the
device out of his hand before he even flipped it open. “No,
don’t!”

“What the! Whaddaya mean don’t?”

“Let’s just go in and get her.”

“Wake up, Rowan, she might be packin’.”

“I doubt it.”

“Hey, no offense, but Constance said she took
her sidearm. I gotta take that into account. There’re civilians in
there and we don’t need anyone gettin’ hurt. You, me, her, or them.
Now gimme my phone.”

“Let’s try it my way first,” I pressed. “I
don’t want a bunch of trigger happy cops shooting my wife.”

“You been watchin’ too much TV again,” he
returned and reached for the phone in my hand.

I jerked it out of the way and replied, “I’ve
been watching the news.”

Ben snorted angrily and made another grab for
me as he barked, “Gimme the goddamned phone, Rowan!”