The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation (26 page)

“So you’re pissin’ em both off.”

“Essentially, yes. That would be my guess.
Therefore, I’m expendable as far as both of them are
concerned.”

“So, ain’t you worried about Firehair out
runnin’ around by herself?”

“At the moment, no.” I shook my head.
“Miranda exercises too much control over Annalise. She isn’t going
to let Annalise come after Felicity. If anything, she’ll probably
attempt something magickal again. I’m just not sure what.”

“Somethin’ with the bones?”

“Possibly, although that would be more curse
oriented and more likely directed at me. If I had to speculate, I’d
say she’ll probably try to re-establish the bond between them.”

“How?”

“At this point your guess is as good as
mine.”

“Well, I hate ta’ say it, but there
ain’t much I can do about the
Twilight
Zone
shit, Row.”

“I know.”

He sat staring off into space for a moment
then exhaled heavily. “Okay. I’m gonna call and see if we can put
somebody on the house. Then I’ll check with Constance and see if
the Feebs can put you two up in a safe house.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Ben,” I
said. “Besides, we tried that before, and if you recall it didn’t
end very well.”

“That was a different situation.”

“Maybe. But I still don’t think it’s
necessary, and even if it is, I’m not willing to take that chance.
I need to stand my ground.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m not going to argue the point, Ben.”

“Jeezus… Well, why don’t you an’ Felicity at
least come crash at my place ‘till we can get a handle on
this.”

“I need to stay put. But, maybe I can talk
Felicity into getting out of harm’s way.”

“Yeah, right. Like she’s gonna go for
that.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Ain’t no prob’ly to it. I’ve been down this
road with you two before. She’s more stubborn than you if that’s
possible.”

“Believe me, that’s already on my mind.”

Ben’s cell phone began trilling, so he fished
it out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Yeah. Storm… Uh-huh…
Yeah… Hold on, he’s sittin’ right here. I’ll ask ‘im…”

“What?” I asked as he cupped his hand over
the mouthpiece.

“Has Felicity got a necklace with a half a
coin or somethin’ like that on it?”

“Yeah,” I replied with a nod. “It’s an
heirloom she got from her mother.”

“Was she wearin’ it today?”

“Probably. She almost always is.”

“Yeah. That’s what Lewis just told ‘em.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“He’s still insistin’ it was Felicity he was
with. Swears he can’t be makin’ a mistake ‘cause she was wearin’
the same necklace last night when he hooked up with ‘er.”

“Dammit, Ben, we aren’t going there again,
are we? Felicity didn’t…”

He cut me off. “Calm down, Row. It’s all
good. I just had ta’ ask. We know the guy’s a wingnut.”

He removed his hand and returned his
attention to the phone. “Yeah, Row says ‘e thinks she wears it all
the time, so she prob’ly had it on this mornin’ when the fruitloop
showed up… Yeah, that’s my thought too… Wait, hold on… What, White
Man?”

I had been waving at him to get his
attention.

“If you’re looking for something to
distinguish them from one another, ask him if the woman last night
had any tattoos. Annalise has a triskele on her back, near her left
shoulder.”

“How do ya’ know that? Wait… Forget I asked…”
He moved the phone back up to his mouth. “Ya’ catch that? Yeah,
left shoulder. Yeah… I’ll hold…”

“So?”

“So cool your jets,” he told me. “We ain’t
comin’ after Felicity. The guy’s certifiable and we know it.
Ackman’s gonna ask ‘im about the tatt.”

After a moment he repositioned the phone and
said, “What’s that? Yeah. Thought so… Okay, I’ll be over in a few.
Later.”

I watched him as he folded the phone and
stuffed it back into his pocket.

“You were right. Lewis says she had the
BDSM tatt on ‘er shoulder. That somethin’ you got from a visit to
the
Twilight Zone
?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, odds are he’s just so fixated on
Firehair that he’s sayin’ anything ‘e can to make us believe
there’s a relationship there, so I wouldn’t worry about it. So,
look… I gotta run. I need ta’ hook up with Ackman ta’ go check out
that club.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “What I want is for
ya’ ta’ pack a bag, grab your wife, and hightail it over ta’ my
place. I can give ya’ my spare key.”

“I wouldn’t count on that happening.”

“Yeah, I know. So, we go for number two on my
wish list instead. You stay right here with the door locked, and
call me if any ooga-boogas pop in and give ya’ a message.”

Other than a particularly angry resurgence of
my chronic headache, the rest of the day passed without incident.
But, as they say, all good things must come to an end.
Unfortunately, for me, the good things always seemed to reach that
end far too quickly.

Wednesday, December 14

1:17 A.M.

Unit 103

Blue Moon Apartments

Saint Louis, Missouri

“W
hy?” Annalise asked
aloud.

“It is not for you to ask…” Miranda told
her.

“But, I’ve had this all my life.”

“And, that is why you must use it now…”

“But…”

“Do not argue, Annalise… Do as you have been
told…”

Annalise stared at the necklace in her hand.
It was a small half-coin suspended from a delicate gold chain. She
fingered it gently, feeling the uneven edge where it had been cut
like a puzzle piece. This was all she had of her true history. A
gift from a mother she had never known. She had always imagined
that somewhere the woman who had given birth to her was wearing the
other half around her neck and thinking of the daughter she had
given up.

There was a time in her life when she had
felt nothing but animosity for that woman. But, in recent years her
feelings had changed. She knew there had to have been a reason for
her mother to make the choice she did, right or wrong. She wanted
desperately to believe that she regretted that decision each and
every day and was somewhere out there looking for her.

“But, my mother…” she objected again.

“Ezili is your mother, Annalise…”

“Yes, I know that, but…”

“Annalise!” Miranda’s voice scolded. “Do as
you have been told!”

She jumped involuntarily at the harshness
inside her head. Fear gripped her at the thought of punishment, but
this time her defiance was not so easily dismissed.

“I can’t…” she muttered.

“You can, and you will…” Miranda
instructed.

“No.”

The word came from her mouth as no more than
a whisper, but she knew that didn’t matter. It took only a thought
for Miranda to know.

She felt her muscles tense as the odd
euphoria of possession began to overtake her. She tried to repeat
the word, but nothing more than a gasp would exit her lips. She
struggled against the cold embrace of the spirit, but her will had
been broken long ago. It was only a moment before she felt herself
being drawn into darkness as the
Lwa
entered her body.

As her vision tunneled, she watched her hands
moving of their own accord, anointing the necklace with the dead
man’s blood then placing it into a small glass bottle.

The last thing she remembered before
disappearing into the void was the overpowering scent of
cloves.

I
had just finished
spreading butter onto some slices of whole wheat bread before
layering them with Swiss cheese and shaved, smoked ham. I already
had a frying pan resting on the stove waiting patiently for me to
ignite fire under it so that I could go about the business of
grilling the sandwiches for lunch.

Felicity was hard at work in her basement
office. Her meeting had gone well the day before, and it was almost
a foregone conclusion that she would be signing a contract with the
company. However, she still had other obligations to fulfill, so
she was presently involved in applying her own brand of
technological magic to some digital photographs she had taken for a
different client.

It was actually a slow day for me. I had
spent my morning recovering a corrupt database for one of my own
customers, but other than that, I had little to do. The revolution
of more user-friendly software had caused my business to drop off
somewhat. Fortunately, I still served a relatively stable niche
market and wasn’t feeling the effects too severely. In fact, the
additional free time was welcome. Of course, I’m sure I would enjoy
it more if I found something to fill it that didn’t involve serial
killers or talking to the dead.

Emily, our calico, had been doing her best to
trip me up for better than five minutes now. Weaving circuitously
through my legs as I shuffled back and forth between the
refrigerator and the counter where I was preparing lunch. Now and
again she had let out a plaintive “mew” in a bid to get my
attention. Finally, deciding that tactic had failed, she rose up on
her haunches and began pawing at my leg.

“What?” I asked, stopping and looking down
toward her.

She screeched out a fresh meow then dropped
back to all fours and trotted toward the doorway. Stopping, she
looked back at me and squeaked again.

“Here,” I told her as I stepped over to the
back door and swung it open. “You want out?”

Instead of making a dash for the opening, as
was her usual response, she turned and seated herself. Still
staring at me, she issued a vocal demand once again.

“I don’t speak cat,” I told her, swinging the
door shut and returning to the counter. “Here’s the deal. You learn
to speak English, I’ll learn to speak cat.”

It wasn’t long before she was right back at
trying to trip me by weaving through my legs, and this time she was
even more vocal. I switched off the burner with an exasperated sigh
and turned my attention back to her.

“What?!” I demanded.

She immediately turned and trotted toward the
doorway again.

“Did Timmy fall down the well or something?”
I quipped for my own amusement.

She stopped at the threshold and squeaked
impatiently.

I gave up and followed. She cast a quick
glance over her shoulder to make sure I was really trailing behind
her then continued through the dining room and living room before
finally parking herself at the front door and staring up at me
expectantly.

“So, the back door isn’t good enough for
you?” I asked.

She simply pivoted her ears then “mewed”
again.

Rather than continue to deal with her
annoying behavior, I stepped over to the door and unlatched it.
Once I had swung it open and pushed the storm door out a few
inches, she darted onto the porch and scurried down the stairs.

Behind me, the pendulum clock bonged out a
single chime, announcing that it was now half past noon. Since I
was already at the front door, I poked my head out and glanced at
the mailbox. I could see a circular or two peeking up from the top
of the receptacle, so I stepped out and gathered up the mail as
well as a medium-sized parcel that was sitting beneath it.

Before returning to my interrupted culinary
endeavor, I sorted through the pile, separating junk from bills and
arranging them in stacks on the dining room table. The rectangular
box was addressed to Felicity, care of her company, Emerald
Photographic Services, so I placed it beneath her assortment of
business correspondence.

On my way back to the kitchen, I detoured
into the hallway and called down the stairs to my wife, “Felicity…
Lunch in about five minutes.”

Her voice floated back up to me. “Okay.”

“Oh, and the mail is here,” I added. “You got
a package.”

“Who is it from?” she asked.

“Sorry, I didn’t pay any attention. Want me
to check?”

“I bet it’s that effects lens I ordered,” she
called back. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Okay.”

I returned to the stove and set about the
task of turning the cold sandwiches into hot ones while the
microwave hummed along, doing the same for a large dish of tomato
soup. I heard the rhythmic thump of Felicity’s feet against the
stairs followed by the door to the basement opening then
closing.

“Something smells good,” she announced in a
loud voice. “But, since you’re cooking, I guess I’d better reserve
judgment until I actually taste it.”

“Very funny,” I called back.

“Well,
I
thought it was,” she giggled. Her voice was a bit closer this
time, and I could hear her shuffling through the mail in the dining
room. After a brief pause she asked, “So, what are we
having?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Aye, now I’m worried.”

“You’re in rare form today,” I replied.

I heard paper tearing as she opened the
package. Following a half-minute or so of silence, she muttered,
“Oh, dammit.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, still focusing my
attention on flipping the sandwiches in the skillet.

“Well, it’s not my lens,” she replied, a
semi-disgusted tone hugging her voice. “There was a card on top
under the wrapping. Listen to this—‘Merry Christmas. I just wanted
to say goodbye. Hope they fit. Forever at your feet, mat.’”

“Hope they fit?”

“I think the creep sent me a pair of
shoes.”