The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation (27 page)

“Gods… Well, let’s hope he really means
goodbye,” I returned. “So what would you like to…”

I never got the chance to complete the
question as it was unceremoniously cut off by a horrified scream. I
started immediately, and the spatula I had been holding fell from
my hand and clattered loudly on the floor. For the second time in
as many days, I found myself racing from the kitchen with the acrid
burn of fear churning through my stomach.

This time, however, I somehow knew it wasn’t
going to go away.

* * * * *

“S
o, you just found it on
the front porch?” Ben asked, staring at me intently, his pencil
poised over his notebook.

We had positioned ourselves in the kitchen,
keeping out of the way of the crime scene technician as she worked.
While the smoky haze had finally settled, the funk of our burned
lunch still hung in the air. Felicity had taken the blackened
remnants out to the trashcan a bit earlier, and she still hadn’t
come back into the house.

At the moment, she was standing on the back
deck staring out across the yard, the skillet resting atop the
railing next to her. I’d been keeping an eye on her through the
window, and she hadn’t moved for several minutes. I knew I really
needed to be out there with her, but I also wanted to keep as much
distance between her and the current situation as possible. Since
Ben needed answers, here I was, caught square in the middle.
Unfortunately, it was probably an exercise in futility because he
had already said he would need to talk to her as well.

My mind flashed on the dish of soup still
sitting in the microwave. A defense mechanism, I’m sure. Our brains
have a way of seeking out the mundane and normal in the face of
horror. Of course, anything resembling hunger was long gone, so my
thought was that I really needed to get it out of there and put it
in the refrigerator before I forgot about it.

An explosion of light diverted my attention
yet again. At random intervals a bright flash would illuminate the
dining room as the tech took photos of the atrocity resting on the
table. I glanced over out of reflex then looked back to my
friend.

“So?” he pressed.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Ya’ said ya’ found the box on the front
porch? Is that right?”

“Yeah,” I said with a nod. “It was there when
I went out to get the mail.”

“Did ya’ see anybody hangin’ around? Strange
car? Anything like that?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Okay, so what time was it that ya’ found
it?”

“Right at twelve thirty.”

“Had ya’ been outside before that?”

I shook my head. “No. Not since last night
around ten.”

He jotted a quick note then glanced into the
dining room before looking back to me.

“Well, there’s no postage on it, so I doubt
the mail carrier delivered it.”

I nodded. “You’re probably right.”

“We’ll check it out anyway. But, I’m guessin’
Devereaux prob’ly put it there ‘erself.” He paused for a second
then huffed, “Jeezus! If I’d just been able ta’ get a unit ta’
watch the house… Shit.”

“She may have paid someone to deliver it,
Ben.”

“Yeah, maybe, but somethin’ in my gut says
no. Either way I’ll get the locals to canvass and try to find out
if anybody saw anything.”

“Yeah,” I solemnly agreed. “You might want to
check over the yard as well.”

“For what?”

“Bone fragments.”

“You mean from the victim in Baton
Rouge?”

I nodded. “If she actually came here, she
probably spread them around. That would be a typical use in a
cross. Why not kill two birds so to speak.”

“You got one of those headaches again?”

“You could say that.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“As okay as I can be given the
circumstances.”

“Yeah… Lovely. I’ll get someone on it.”

A fresh burst of light flickered through the
room, and I found my eyes wandering back in the direction of the
table. The shoebox was still sitting there on the corner, resting
atop the torn remnants of the craft paper in which it had been
wrapped. The lid was lying on the floor exactly where Felicity had
dropped it.

Under different circumstances, the contents,
a pair of white, stiletto-heeled pumps, wouldn’t have elicited such
a terror-stricken response from my wife. However, in this case,
they weren’t simply a pair of white shoes. They were haphazardly
smeared with rusted red. It didn’t take a close up inspection to
know that the foreign substance streaking the patent leather was
blood. But, even as disturbing as that was, it wasn’t the worst
part. Skewered onto the heel of the right shoe was a limp hunk of
pallid flesh that bore more than just a passing resemblance to a
human tongue.

I heard some unintelligible mumbling in my
ears as I continued to stare. A moment later, I felt a hard poke on
my shoulder and heard my friend calling my name.

“Yo… Earth ta’ Rowan…”

“What?” I stammered, turning back to him.
“I’m sorry.”

“Look right here,” Ben said, holding two
fingers forked and waving them at his own face. “Look at me. Forget
about that in there.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Yeah, I know, but stay with me on this. I
need ta’ know if you touched any of it, or just Firehair?” he
asked.

I shook my head. “Just Felicity. Well, except
that I’m the one who brought the package inside.”

“Was it still wrapped when you touched
it?”

“Yeah,” I replied with a nod.

“Did you touch it after it was
unwrapped?”

“No.”

“How about the card? You pick that up?”

“No. I was more concerned with calming
Felicity.”

“Yeah. I can understan’ that.”

His cell phone let out a muted warble, so he
dug it out of his pocket and looked at the display. Flipping it
open, he pressed it to his ear. “Yeah, this is Detective Storm.
Whaddaya got?”

While he was talking, I turned to watch
Felicity. She had finally taken a couple of steps forward and was
leaning against the railing, but other than what was obvious from
her dejected posture, I couldn’t tell her current state of mind. Of
course, even at a distance, I could feel the anxiety flowing around
her. I heard my friend snap the cell phone shut, so I brought my
attention back to him.

“Had a unit from County go by and check on
Lewis at his apartment,” he offered, his tone crisp and
official.

“He’s dead, isn’t he,” I remarked as much as
asked.

“Yeah,” he replied with a nod. “The copper
that just called sounded pretty green around the gills. From the
bloody shoeprints around the body and what’s sittin’ on your table,
looks like she might’ve stomped ‘im ta’ death. Apparently, she made
the job Firehair did on ‘im look like a minor scratch.”

“Don’t say that around Felicity,” I replied.
“I don’t know quite how she’d handle the comparison right now.”

“I won’t,” he said. “Martin’s on ‘is the way
over with a crew right now ta’ work it. Sounds like a real
mess.”

“She used him to find us,” I offered. “Now
she’s using him to send a message.”

“Yeah, I’m inclined ta’ agree with ya’.
Yesterday coulda been a big coincidence, but this sure’s fuck
ain’t. Brings it all inta’ perspective… Question is how’d she know
ta’ go after him in particular, and that he could lead ‘er to
ya’?

“Miranda.”

“The ghost bitch. Okay, how?”

“Felicity’s connection to Lewis. The
incident in the motel room. Everything that happened when Miranda
was possessing her is a part of the
Lwa’s
memory now.”

“So ghosts got memories?”

“Of course they do.”

“That’s some screwed up shit, Row.”

“It always is, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. Yeah… That’s a fact… Problem is, I
can’t arrest a ghost.”

“So you’ve said numerous times.”

“Yeah, I have because it’s true. So…” he
paused as he smoothed his hair back. “You still feel like you’re
safe stayin’ here?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Okay, so now I’m not askin’ anymore, I’m
tellin’. Get Firehair in here, pack a coupl’a bags, an’ come crash
at my place. I’ll wait and you can follow me over.”

“It doesn’t really matter where we go, Ben,”
I told him. “As long as we’re dealing with Miranda, we’re not safe
anywhere.”

I
draped Felicity’s coat
over her shoulders then slowly stepped around beside her. I had
been standing at the door for better than a minute, watching her at
the deck railing while trying to decide if I should intrude or
simply leave her alone.

“I thought you might be getting cold,” I said
softly.

She looked over at me with a weak smile as
she pulled the garment tight around herself and held it clasped
together at her neck. She didn’t say a word. Her gaze simply
wandered back to some distant point in the patchy snow-covered
yard.

Her cheeks were flushed red from the chilly
wind, and that made me even more concerned for her emotional state.
She had been out here far too long without a coat, and given how
much she hated the cold, I knew that could only mean she wasn’t
handling this situation very well.

“So… Want some company?” I asked.

“She killed him, didn’t she?” she answered
with her own question. Her voice was faint and strained. It was as
if she was struggling to contain her emotions.

I knew it wouldn’t do me any good to lie. I
could tell she already knew the answer before she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

Ben was still in the house, and the crime
scene technician had been bagging the evidence just before I came
outside. At least she wasn’t trashing the place like the last crew
when they had been dead set on finding something to implicate my
wife in all this. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to check
on the progress and saw my friend talking to the tech, so I knew
things weren’t cleared out just yet.

“Why, Rowan?” Felicity asked.

“She’s sick, honey.”

“But, why did she send that to me?”

“I don’t have a good answer for that, other
than I think the first one applies here as well. She’s a very sick
person.”

I waited for a moment, continuing to watch
her as she stared out at the yard. Finally, I said, “It will
probably only be another few minutes. The tech should be done in
there shortly, and we can go back in.”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m out
here,” she muttered.

“Oh,” I said, unable to keep a mildly
perplexed tone from attaching itself to the words. “I see.”

“I’m out here because of the way I feel,” she
explained.

“I know, honey. I understand.”

She remained silent for a long while. Even in
profile, I could tell by her expression that she was deep in
thought, wrestling with something she wanted to say but
couldn’t.

Eventually, she whispered, “No. I don’t think
you do.”

“Okay, I can accept that,” I agreed with a
shallow nod. “I really can’t pretend to understand what it is
you’re feeling. I can only imagine that it might be similar to how
I feel.”

“How do you feel?” she asked.

I tried to sum up the swirl of emotions in a
few simple words. “Sickened. Horrified. Mournful.”

“Yes,” she mumbled. “Like you’re supposed
to.”

“Honey, I’m fairly certain there’s no hard
and fast rule with regard to how you’re supposed to react to
something like this.”

“Maybe not, but your reaction is normal.”

“What makes you think yours isn’t?”

“What would you say if I told you I don’t
feel any of those things? None of them at all.”

“If I also consider the fact that you’ve been
standing out here in the cold without a coat for more than a half
hour, I’d say you’re probably in shock.”

“I wish I was.”

“Sweetheart, I’m pretty sure you are.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“If I was in shock then maybe I’d be numb,”
she offered. “I wouldn’t feel anything.”

“So…” I asked. “I assume that means you’re
feeling something?”

“Yes.”

“Anger?”

She nodded. “Maybe a little. But, that’s not
really it.”

“Can you describe it?”

“Aye, unfortunately I can.”

I waited for her to continue, but after
several heartbeats, it became obvious she wasn’t going to do so
without prodding. “Would you like to tell me what you’re
feeling?”

“I’m afraid.”

“That’s perfectly normal, Felicity. So am
I.”

“No, Rowan.” She gave her head a shake then
frowned. “I mean I’m afraid to tell you what I’m feeling.”

“Why?”

“Because… If I do you’ll think I’m
insane.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“You say that now.”

“And, I’ll say it again after you tell
me.”

She stewed for a moment, turning her gaze
toward the activity at the bird feeders nearby. “The grackles have
been eating all the food,” she stated, conspicuously diverting the
subject. “The rest of the birds aren’t getting much.”

“We go through that every year,” I offered in
reply. I wanted to press her for an answer to her earlier cryptic
comment, but I feared she might be too fragile at this point. As
tough as I knew my wife to be, her current demeanor was worrying
me.

“I wish they’d just go away,” she mused.

“We can always take down the feeders,” I
said.

“No,” she shook her head. “That wouldn’t be
fair to the other birds… Besides, I suppose they serve a purpose.
Before you came out, a hawk swooped in and had one of the grackles
for lunch.”

“Nature at work, I suppose.”

Finally, she pivoted her head back toward me
and said, “What if I told you I feel like he got what he
deserved?”