The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation (2 page)

She could see a newfound sobriety in his
watery eyes as he peered back at her, silently pleading. She could
barely hear his hoarse moans and squeals through the several loops
of duct tape encircling the lower half of his head, securing the
washcloths she had stuffed into his mouth.

At the moment, she was kneeling astride his
chest, resting her weight primarily on her knees, which pressed
down hard upon his upper arms. It wasn’t so much that she needed to
do so for a practical purpose. There was no way he could escape the
ropes with which he’d been tied. But, the position made her feel
even more in control, and she was certain that it brought him pain.
It was a demonstration of her power over him, for her own benefit
as much as his.

Leaning slightly, she reached to the side
table and picked up a cigarette then placed it in her mouth. With a
flick of her thumb, she sparked a butane lighter to life and
carefully touched the flame to the tobacco. After taking a shallow
drag, she allowed the smoke to slowly roll from her mouth between
crimson glossed lips and inhaled it deeply through her nose.
Regarding her victim with little concern, she exhaled slowly, took
a second drag, and then repeated the process.

She felt him relax slightly, and so she
allowed herself to smile. She didn’t take a third drag from the
cigarette. Instead she put it out.

Annalise caught her breath, feeling her
arousal as she slowly twisted the smoldering butt against the man’s
cheek. His muffled screams were music, and as he arched between her
thighs, it made the wave of pleasure intensify, causing her to emit
her own involuntary moan.

By the time she crushed out a second
cigarette against his flesh, and then a third, Annalise was no
longer in control of her own actions.

It was all
Her
. It was all Miranda.

Her face spread into a wicked grin as she
shifted backwards and settled her weight onto his belly so that his
chest was now fully exposed. A haunting, almost ethereal tone
surrounded her words as she spoke to him.

“Now, little man. Let’s see how much you love
me.”

As she spoke, she flicked the lighter to life
and adjusted the flame to full. Before she had finished the
sentence, she was holding the bright yellow fire against his bare
nipple, reveling in the scent and sound of his crisping flesh and
smiling as he squirmed between her thighs.

So the sacrifice began—as did payment of her
reward.

Unfortunately, someone else, somewhere else,
was receiving half of it.

Half that she wanted back.

Saturday, November 26

4:17 P.M.

Room 7

Southern Hospitality Motor Lodge

Metairie, Louisiana

“M
anager said da’
do-not-disturb sign was on da’ door all day yestuhday, an’ t’day,”
the uniformed cop said. “Room was only paid up ta’ t’day though, so
dey came in ta’ clean it an’ dat’s when dey found ‘im.”

The older homicide detective to whom he had
been speaking jotted a note then gave him a nod and asked, “Did the
manager say who paid for the room?”

His words were structured with the generic
speech pattern of any randomly selected Midwestern location,
audibly setting him apart from the natives of the Crescent
City.

“He said da’ podna paid for it, cash
money.”

“Partner?” the detective asked. Just as his
lack of accent set him apart, his question marked him as a very
recent transplant. “Did you get a description?”

The uniformed cop raised an eyebrow and gave
the detective a confused stare. After a brief pause he nodded
toward the victim on the bed and repeated, “Da’ podna. Cap over
dere paid for it.”

“Who?”

“Da’ victim,” a slightly younger detective
interjected as he entered through the motel room door. Obviously he
had heard at least some of the exchange. “Ya’ gotta excuse Country
dere. He never learnt a secon’ language.”

The older man turned, peering over his
glasses at the source of the new voice and said, “The victim?”

“Yeah, you rite,” the younger man replied
with a nod.

The uniformed cop glanced over at him and
grinned, “Hey, cap. How’s yamamma’n’dem?”

“Dey good,” he replied, giving the other man
a slap on the shoulder. “Ya’ gonna be home later? I’ll pass by ya’
house.”

“Naw, I prahmis’ Jawn ah’d he’p out wit ‘is
maw-maw house.”

“Yeah? It bad?”

The uniformed man gave his head a sad shake.
“Ya’ you rite, it’s bad. She still waitin’ on da bastuhds ta’ bring
da’ trailuh.”

“Gawd. Well you tell ‘em hey from me.”

“F’sure.”

A lull fell in the conversation, and the
newly arrived detective turned his attention to the older man.
“Well… Dere ya’ go.”

“Uh-hmmm…Okay,” the transplant muttered then
glanced back to the patrolman. “Sorry about the miscommunication
there.”

“So’kay, cap,” he replied.

“Okay, well thanks. I guess I’ll catch up
with you if I need anything else.”

The cop simply nodded then turned and made
his way out of the room, which was quickly becoming crowded, even
though there were only two crime scene technicians, the victim, and
the two detectives occupying the space.

The younger detective offered his hand and
said, “Bailey. Joe Bailey.”

The older man took it and answered, “Tim
Fairbanks. But, everybody just calls me Banks.”

“You got it, Banks,” the younger man replied.
“Everybody jus’ calls me Joe. Where ya’ stay at?”

“I’ve got a hotel room over at…”

“No…I mean where da’ ya’ live? Where are ya’
from?”

“Oh. Kansas City. Homicide division. I had
some vacation time coming and not much to do, so I volunteered
through the FOP to come down here.”

“We can use da’ help. Glad ya’ here.”

“Thanks. Just got here a couple days ago.
That’s kind of obvious, I guess.”

“F’true. Doin’ okay so far?”

“Pretty much. Although, there have been a few
times when I thought I was going to need a translator,” Fairbanks
sighed.

“Like jus’ now?” Bailey replied. His own
voice had the clipped affectations of the region but was nowhere
near as thick as the uniformed officer where his dialect was
concerned. He grinned at Fairbanks then momentarily poured it on
for effect. “Ya’ get used ta’ it. Ya’ jus’ stick ‘round awhile
dere, cap, an’ ya’ learn how ta’ tawk rite like us.”

“Yeah,” Detective Fairbanks chuckled. “So
I’ve been told.”

The two men shuffled around to get out of the
way as a crime scene technician excused himself with a grunt and
skirted past them. After a moment, Detective Bailey shook his head
and let out a low whistle as he inspected the scene.

“Gawd. Ya’ evuh seen such a thing,
cheef?”

The question hung waiting in the thick air.
It almost seemed as if it was held aloft by the cloying odor of
sweet watermelon, cigarette smoke, and burnt flesh that still
permeated the motel room even though the door had been wide open
for some time. While Bailey’s tone was more rhetorical than
anything, the query still seemed to beg an answer.

Fairbanks grunted, “You mean this week, or
ever?”

Detective Bailey chuckled.

“Actually, I was serious,” Fairbanks
offered.

“F’true?”

“Yeah,” he continued with a nod. “I’ve seen
something a lot like it. Of course, there wasn’t any blood and the
guy wasn’t dead.”

“Ya’ lyin’?”

“No.” He gave his head a shake. “True
story.”

Bailey whistled again. “Where ya’ see
dat?”

“A few years back when I worked a vice
detail, we raided a sex club. I hit my assigned door, and when I
came through it, this hooker had a buck-naked john all trussed up
to the bed. Pretty much just like this guy is.” He dipped his head
toward the scene in front of them. “The pro was all dolled up like
a Catholic schoolgirl, and she was beatin’ the hell out of him with
a yardstick.”

“No way. F’true?”

“Yeah,” he nodded again. “Trust me, I’m
pretty vanilla. I couldn’t even begin to make up something like
that. I have to say, it appeared that they were havin’ a pretty
good time of it too—before I interrupted them, of course.
Especially him, from the looks of things, if you know what I
mean.”

The younger cop shook his head slowly and
grinned. “Gawd! Dressed like a Catlick schoolgirl, huh? Sick
bastuhd liked dat did ‘e?” After a short pause he nodded toward the
victim. “F’sure, I don’t think dis one here enjoyed it so
much.”

Fairbanks bobbed his head. “Yeah, I’m
inclined to agree with you.”

“Well,” Bailey began, “I sure don’t think
we’re talkin’ about jus’ your av’rage hooker did dis though.”

“That was my thought too, what with the level
of torture and all. Are you thinking maybe gang retribution or
something on that order?”

“Naw, I doubt dat. Not da’ kinda gang you
mean, anyway. Dere’s more goin’ on here than ya’ think.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Lookit ‘is chest,” he offered, pointing.

Detective Fairbanks pushed his glasses up on
his nose and leaned in to look. After a moment of inspection, an
intricate pattern became obvious even through the wide swath of
dried blood and random burn marks covering the dead man’s skin. The
longer he looked, the more it revealed itself, until it formed what
appeared to be a crosshatched heart pierced by a long dagger or
sword.

“So our killer is a bit of an artist,
then?”

Bailey let out another of his trademark
whistles. “Cheef, dat’s not jus’ art. Dat dere is a
veve
. Air-zoo-LEE Don-toe. Whoever
done dis did more than jus’ kill dis guy. Dey put a
gris-gris
on ‘im.”

Fairbanks looked closer at the intricate
incisions then leaned back and sighed. Shaking his head he
muttered, “Yeah. Okay. I’m definitely gonna need a translator.”

Thursday, December 1

1:12 A.M.

Room 16

Airline Courts Motel

Metairie, Louisiana

T
he last time I had been
to New Orleans I was with Felicity, and we had come here on
vacation… Well, it was actually a working vacation on her part, as
she had been hired by an architectural magazine to shoot pictures
for an upcoming layout featuring several of the more artful
buildings in the city. Still, there had been plenty of time for
relaxation, which was more than I could say for my current
visit.

Back then, we had stayed at a plush hotel in
the French Quarter on someone else’s tab and spent our days doing
what amounted to sightseeing, even though my wife had a camera to
her eye most of the time. Of course, that wasn’t particularly
unusual for her whether she was working or not. It was more or less
a by-product of her reputation as one of the top freelance
photographers in the country. But, in the end the only real
difference between us and the other tourists snapping pictures was
that Felicity knew what she was doing and was being well paid to do
it.

Me, on the other hand, I was just along for
the ride. Still, she didn’t let me off the hook too easily. This
meant that I spent a good part of the time playing the role of her
pack mule—tirelessly plodding through the streets behind her,
toting her padded, lens-laden bags, and at her demand, handing over
a freshly loaded camera body or switching out the optics. But, I
didn’t mind. We were together, which was the most important thing
to me; and besides, I was getting to see the sights with both
eyes.

Just as our days were spent wearing down the
soles on our walking shoes, our evenings generally consisted of
tossing back hurricanes of all varieties. Frozen, on the rocks, in
fishbowls…pretty much any way the restaurants and bars served them.
Okay, to be honest the hurricanes actually started around midday
with a trip to a random bar, but who was watching a clock? This was
New Orleans, and that is how things were done in The Quarter.

But, like I said. That was then. This was
now, and now was very different—on many levels.

I shook off the memory and gave myself a
mental shove back into the here and now, a process easier imagined
than done. My brain stumbled a bit, regained its footing in the
present but refused to fully surface from the pleasant remembrance.
Of course, I’m sure that as much as I needed the normalcy of the
thought, it was also being fueled by a simple mnemonic.

Hurricanes.

Hurricanes in a glass…

Hurricanes on the gulf…

I’m certain the residents of the area would
agree that the former were certainly preferred to the latter.
Especially after the three seemingly back-to-back storms that had
so recently rained destruction down upon this magickal city,
Katrina being the worst of all.

Even though the sun had already set, gazing
out the windows of my rental car as I drove from the airport to my
motel in Metairie a few miles outside the city proper, the
aftermath had been evident. In fact, the motel itself might have
even seen its own share of damage. Looking around, I couldn’t be
entirely sure if that was the case or if the Airline Courts had
always been in such sad shape.

Storm damage or not, the accommodations
certainly wouldn’t garner a rating in the Michelin guide. In fact,
I can pretty much guarantee that a large amount of work would have
been required to simply bring them up to standard with the most
basic building codes. However, under the circumstances, I suppose I
had no right to complain. The room was mine, and there didn’t
appear to be any leaks over the bed. The bathroom was a different
story, but I could work around that. I hoped.