The End Of Desire argi-8

by M. R. Sellars

“Only if they were living under a rock.”

  She frowned hard. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Seriously, Felicity. I really think this is a non-issue.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I know I am.”

  “I hope so.”

  She took a sip of her coffee while staring thoughtfully into the space just over my shoulder. I watched her for a moment then picked up the paper again and unfolded it.

  “Black, maybe?” I offered as I began to scan the cartoons.

  “Black what?” she asked.

  “Black skirt,” I replied. “Understated, professional. And, black goes with everything, right?”

  “So you think I should change, then?”

  “No, but you do. I can tell by the way you’re staring off into space.”

  “I’m going to go change.”

  “What a surprise,” I mumbled.

  She didn’t reply to my last comment. Instead, she simply placed her coffee cup on the counter then turned and headed out of the kitchen. Her footsteps hadn’t even faded around the corner when the dogs began barking in the back yard. The chime of the doorbell followed quickly, as if to add urgent punctuation to their ruckus.

  “I’ll get it,” Felicity called out.

  I heard her as she shuffled quickly to change direction, and that was soon followed by a click when she unlatched the deadbolt on the door. Before I had a chance to find where I had left off on the comics page, however, a somewhat disturbing noise hit my ears, and it took the form of my wife’s voice wrapped in an altogether annoyed tone.

  “Damnu!” she exclaimed. “I thought I told you to leave me alone!”

  I had already tossed the paper onto the counter and was out of my seat when I called out to her. “Felicity? What’s wrong?”

  I hadn’t even taken my first step when I heard a heavy thud on the floor along with a muffled male voice. Both of these new sounds caused my heart to jump in my chest, and I darted out of the kitchen. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find, but my brain was so conditioned to the horrific that a sense of semi-contained panic had already set in. In a fraction of a second, it had taken it upon itself to fill in the blanks with all manner of possible unpleasantness.

  What I did see when I rounded the corner, however, was the last thing I had imagined, and it gave me enough pause to stop me dead in my tracks. My wife was still fully upright and was trying to back away from the now open door. Unfortunately, her ability to affect the maneuver was being severely hindered by an altogether familiar looking man who was bowed down in front of her, arms locked around her ankles as he murmured half intelligible praises in between each fervent kiss he bestowed upon her feet and shoes.

  “What are you doing?!” Felicity barked as she tried to pull her foot out of his grasp. “Stop it!”

  My initial fear for her safety immediately shifted to annoyance. Brad Lewis, the man currently molesting my wife’s feet, was the same individual she had almost trampled to death while under Miranda’s control. Fortunately, he hadn’t pressed charges over his injuries, primarily because he was beyond just your average submissive fetishist who got a thrill from the abuse. So far beyond in fact, that by all indications, he was psychologically addicted to it.

  Unfortunately, however, that which saved Felicity from both criminal charges and a civil lawsuit had quickly turned into a very different sort of problem. Lewis had fixated on her, and for a period of several days made a major nuisance of himself with repeated telephone calls. She had finally stopped trying to reason with him and took advantage of her repressed persona along with his desire to serve a Domme by literally ordering him to stop calling. The tactic had seemed to work, as the unwanted contact stopped cold following that one-sided conversation.

  Until now, that is.

  Calls were one thing, but this was a whole new dimension. Prior to this point, he hadn’t been bold enough to actually come to the house-at least not that we knew of. Now, not only was this frightening in a sense, it made me angry.

  My momentary bewilderment wore off, and I started forward, but Felicity was already taking her own measures to deal with the groveling stalker.

  “Damnu! Get… Off… Me!” she shrieked, yanking one foot free as he was focusing his attention on the other.

  Squatting quickly, she grabbed a handful of his hair and began pulling his head upward as she stood. Given the burning glare in her eyes, if I hadn’t been as angry about his intrusion as was she, I would have almost felt sorry for him.

  Before I covered the few steps between us, she had him back up into a kneeling position in front of her with his head held back so that his face was upturned. In a flash the open palm of her free hand struck his cheek with a loud crack. I was just grabbing him by the shirt collar when she slapped him hard again.

  “Felicity!” I barked. “Don’t you think that might just be encouraging him?!”

  “Is cuma liom sa diabhal! ” she shouted. “I’m pissed off!”

  The spate of Gaelic was a new one on me, so I wasn’t entirely sure what she had said. However, the English portion of the sentence left nothing to the imagination, not that her actions hadn’t already spoken volumes.

  “All right, get out!” I demanded as I hooked one hand under his arm while keeping the other twisted into the back of his collar. I was trying to pull him toward the door, but Felicity still hadn’t let go of his hair.

  “But, Mistress…” he whined.

  “Dun do bheal! ”

  He was obviously completely unfamiliar with Gaelic as he half whimpered again, “But, Mistress…”

  “I am not your Top!” my wife shouted back into his face. “I thought I made that clear!”

  “B…b…but, last night…” he stammered.

  “Ta tu glan as do mheabhair! ”

  That one I knew, and it roughly translated into something about him being crazy.

  “She’s right. You’re delusional,” I growled then glanced at Felicity. “I think it might be time for a restraining order. I’ll hold him. You call the police.”

  “But… Last night… At The Whine Cellar… Where we met… You were there. Don’t you remember?”

  “Aye, now I know you’ve lost your mind,” she harrumphed, finally letting go of his hair and stepping back.

  “But you were!” he insisted. The whimper in his voice was starting to fade and now even seemed to be taking on a bit of agitation.

  “She was here all night,” I countered. “She never left the house.”

  I quickly repositioned my grip on him for a better hold. I was beginning to worry that his mental state was going to make this a bigger problem than it already was, and I wanted to be prepared if this became any more physical than it already had.

  I shot Felicity a firm glance and said with emphasis, “Honey, I really think you’d better call the police now.”

  “You marked me!” Lewis contended. “You said I was yours… That I could serve you… You said that you loved me!”

  “I did what?”

  His free hand started to move, so I immediately let go of his collar and did the only thing I could think to do. I slipped my arm around his neck, placing him in a headlock. From looking at him, he definitely appeared to be in better shape than me, so I felt I needed every advantage I could get where leverage was concerned.

  Even with my tightening grip, however, he didn’t stop. But, instead of reaching for my wife, as I had feared he was about to do, he grasped the front of his own shirt through the wide opening in his jacket and ripped hard.

  Buttons bounced across the floor with a sharp, plastic clatter, and I heard Felicity gasp. From my present angle I couldn’t see what she was staring at, but the look on her face told me it couldn’t be good.

  “What?” I asked her. “What?”

  Instead of answering, she brought her hand up to her mouth and closed her eyes as she took another step backward. Since he was no longer struggling against me, I loosened my grip just enough to
peer over his shoulder.

  Even though it was upside down and less than perfectly scribed, the design was unmistakable. The welts were an angry red and were scabbed over in the places where blood had seeped out of the deeper scrapes. The wounds were obviously recent, and that supported the time frame of his story to some extent.

  I felt a familiar hollowness well in the pit of my stomach as I stared at the pattern. Among the bruises and fresh high heel marks covering his chest, scraped deeply into his skin was a checkerboard heart pierced by what could only be meant as a dagger.

  “Felicity,” I breathed carefully. “Call the police, then get Ben on the phone.”

  CHAPTER 26:

  “This is seriously fucked up,” Ben said. The tone of his voice was flat and more than just a little introspective.

  My friend had arrived while the local police were still taking our statements. After he spoke with them for a few minutes, then made a quick phone call, they left, taking Lewis with them. As usual, the neighbors got an eye full of the goings on. I was beginning to think we might need to move, but who was I to take away their source of entertainment?

  Now, some half hour later, we were sitting at the breakfast nook in the kitchen, contemplating our cups of coffee.

  It was just the two of us at this point. Felicity had been slightly shaken but not enough to keep her from being determined to attend her scheduled business meeting-even though I objected. In a way, I suppose it was a good thing she ignored my protests. She probably needed something to take her mind off the whole situation. The truth is, I wished I had something to divert my own attention from it, but I also wasn’t naive enough to believe it would matter even if I did. My attempt at embracing denial was no longer working. It was painfully apparent that forces beyond my control simply wouldn’t allow it.

  “Believe me. I know that.” I replied after a thick pause. “I guess it could’ve been worse though. It’s not like he actually assaulted her or anything.”

  “Yeah, Row, I’m afraid he did.”

  “Not really. All he actually did was slobber on her shoes.”

  “While she was wearin’ ‘em,” Ben added. “Simple battery is any form of unwanted physical contact, so by law what ‘e did qualifies as common assault, Kemosabe.”

  “Yeah, that’s what the other cops said too.” I shrugged. “What I meant was I just usually think of assault as something a bit more malicious. He didn’t actually attack her with any intent to do harm.”

  “Yeah, a lotta people think like that. Of course, then there’re the ones that think they’ve been assaulted if someone looked at ‘em cross-eyed. But this ain’t one of those situations. It was assault any way you slice it… But, technically you’re right. As assaults go, it was minor. No more than a misdemeanor… You could probably throw trespassing in on ‘im if ya’ wanted. But, anyway… Firehair’s gonna be pressin’ charges I assume?”

  “Under the circumstances, I’d like for her to at least get a restraining order, but it’s a touchy situation since he could still file charges against her for the incident at the motel… And, I think that would qualify as something a bit worse than what you were just talking about.”

  “Yeah. That’d be more like aggravated assault with intent.”

  “Yeah… Exactly… So… There it is…” I let my voice trail off without saying anything further.

  “Uh-huh,” my friend grunted. “I know what ya’ mean. At least they’re gonna hold ‘im for a bit, what with the mark on ‘is chest an’ all. Ackman and Osthoff are on the way over ta’ ask ‘im a few questions.”

  “There is that,” I finally said. After another lengthy pause, I added, “But, I get the feeling that really wasn’t the ‘fucked up’ you were talking about, was it?”

  “No,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Not really.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “That ya’ can’t get away from it.”

  I sighed. “It’s not your fault.”

  “That doesn’t keep me from feelin’ for ya’.”

  “Yeah. I suppose it doesn’t… Thanks.”

  “Not a problem.” He waited for a measured beat then added, “I guess we got our answer.”

  “What answer?”

  “What Annalise was gonna do if she couldn’t off ya’ with the hocus-pocus.”

  “Oh… That.”

  We sat in silence for a minute. I absently spun my coffee mug in place on the table, fiddling with it for no other reason than to expend the nervous energy I had pent up inside. I could feel Ben watching me, and I was fairly certain I knew what he wanted to say. It wasn’t very long before he proved me correct.

  “You wanna talk about it now? The case I mean.”

  “Do I want to? No,” I replied with a shake of my head. “But, obviously she isn’t leaving me much choice in the matter.”

  “Yeah, guess not,” he grunted. “So… Ya’ done any Twilight Zone since we last talked?”

  “No, actually. A few nightmares, but nothing of consequence.”

  “What about that headache ya’ had? That still with ya’?”

  “It pretty much went away.”

  “Ya’ lyin’?”

  “No.”

  “Whatcha do? Burn a candle or somethin’?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So then her kung fu ain’t as good as yours?”

  “I’m reserving judgment on that at the moment.”

  “You’re still here.”

  “The war isn’t over yet.”

  “Yeah. Wunnerful… Okay… So, back to the land of normal people… Ya’ got any theories? Like what she might do next?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Now I know you’re lyin’ on that one, ‘cause I got a theory myself. Since that hocus-pocus didn’t work, she’s gonna try ta’ kill ya’ the way regular fruitcakes do.”

  I gave him a barely perceptible shrug. “Maybe.”

  “Ain’t maybe, Row. It doesn’t take a trip inta’ la-la land ta’ figure it out. Why else would she come back here?”

  I just shook my head in response.

  “Ya’ think this is about what happened in New Orleans?”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged again. “That was my first thought, but after mulling it over for a bit I think it’s probably more likely to be about what I did when I got home.”

  “What? Ya’ mean the thing with the doll?”

  I nodded.

  “How the fuck could she know about that?”

  “Miranda. If she’s really here to come after me, it has to be because of her. I don’t think Annalise would chance it on her own. She really doesn’t have a solid reason.”

  “Nutcases don’t need reasons, Row. Do ya’ think she’s got a logical reason for what she’s been doin’ so far?”

  “In her mind, yes. I think that in her view of reality, she sees what she is doing as perfectly logical.”

  “‘Zactly. In her twisted-ass mind. So, what’s ta’ keep ‘er from havin’ some fucked up reasoning tellin’ ‘er ta’ come after you?”

  “I don’t know. I mean… Yes, you could be right, but I really don’t get the feeling Annalise is particularly stupid. She knows it would be dangerous for her to come here looking for me, even if she does have a vendetta. Miranda has to be behind it. Controlling her. Making her do it.”

  “Well, I dunno about that, but you’re right about one thing. She ain’t stupid.”

  “Is that just an opinion, or do you know something I don’t?”

  “Besides the fact she’s got a doctorate in psychology? Yeah, a little.”

  “She has a doctorate?”

  “Yeah,” he grunted, as he reached into his pocket and dug out his notebook then flipped it open. “Got some background on ‘er if ya’ wanna hear it. I’ve had it for a while, and I tried ta’ tell ya’ about it the other day but you said you didn’t wanna talk about the case anymore.”

>   “Mea culpa.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he said as he flipped through the pages then settled on one. “So, anyway, here it is in a nutshell. Near as we can figure from what we’ve been able ta’ piece together, Devereaux started out life as Mary Kathleen O’Brien. But, about two months after birth those records suddenly stop. It’s like she never existed…”

  “But, if the records stop…”

  “Hang on, I’m not finished. Ya’ see, that’s just all part of the big soap opera. Apparently the birth mother had a friend try ta’ adopt ‘er. When they caught on to what was up, they changed ‘er name ta’ Cynthia Anne Smith and shipped ‘er outta state to a different orphanage in Mississippi.”

  “How’d you figure that out?”

  “I didn’t. The Feebs did.”

  “Well, how did they manage to make the connection?”

  “Dunno. Maybe they leaned on a nun or somethin’. So anyway, she bounced around foster homes for about six years, startin’ from when she was just a few months old until she eventually ended up in yet another orphanage.”

  “That had to be rough on a kid. Any idea why she wasn’t adopted out as a baby?”

  Ben shook his head. “No one’s sayin’. Rumor has it that as she got older she was in and outta trouble here and there though. At least, that’s what they managed to pick up from the files, such as they were. Anyhow, she finally got adopted by the Devereaux’s when she was around eight.” He flipped through the pages of the notebook. “Yeah, here it is, Scott and Andrea Devereaux. Older couple from Tupelo, Mississippi. Old enough to be more like grandparents, actually.”

  “That’s odd, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, a little. But, they wanted a kid and they had money. A lot of it… Big numbers followed by lotsa zeros if ya’ know what I mean. An’ apparently they donated quite a bit to the orphanage where she was livin’.”

  “So, after they adopted her, they changed her first name as well as her last? That seems like a cruel thing to do to an eight-year-old kid. That’s had to screw with her sense of self identity.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Guess it’s no wonder she’s so fucked up.”

  “So, have you been able to contact them?”