All acts of pleasure argi-7

by M. R. Sellars

  I’d already told him once that as far as I was concerned, I was already there, and the past twenty-four hours had definitely seemed endless. I didn’t bother to repeat it.

  After that second round, I’d learned my lesson and just started screening the calls, allowing the machine to handle his ongoing tirades. There was nothing I could tell him that he didn’t already know, and I was just as frustrated as he could ever be. Probably more so when you considered that last evening Jackie hadn’t even waited to get out of the diner before breaking the news to me that I wasn’t going to be able to see Felicity until today; and that would only happen if she could call in a favor or two and get a judge to sign off on it. Needless to say, I hadn’t taken the news well at all. Of course, I’m sure she had expected that fact, and it probably had quite a bit to do with her decision to tell me while standing in a diner full of cops. Still, even then I made a scene, but in the end there was nothing I could do to change the harsh reality, and all that I accomplished was to get us kicked out.

  After that, things took a turn for the worse, which was something I hadn’t really thought possible. As if the first piece of painful information wasn’t enough, Jackie was now completely unwilling to discuss any further details of the case with me. My own wife, it seems, had requested that everything remain under the umbrella of attorney client privilege for the time being, and since I was neither attorney nor client, I was completely removed from the loop. Had she dropped that bomb on me prior to us getting kicked out of the diner, my explosive response probably would have ended up getting me arrested.

  The insult topping it all was that I wasn’t even privy to her reasoning behind subjecting me to the information blackout. Each of these things, in turn, had dumped their own load of distress onto my already strained emotional state. Adding all of them together was just about to put me over the edge, and I still honestly don’t know how I managed to avoid having a bigger meltdown than I actually did.

  I was momentarily snapped out of my introspective haze by an angry click popping loudly from the speaker in the front room. Shamus had once again ended his call by slamming down the phone. If I was lucky, maybe this time he had broken it and wouldn’t be able to call back for a while.

  Of course, that wouldn’t necessarily bode well either. At this point, I had lost track of how many times the man had phoned just this morning. He had pretty much reached critical mass, and I had a bad feeling he actually might be ceasing the relentless calls very soon anyway. I say a bad feeling because I figured once he stopped, it wouldn’t be long before he replaced phone calls with a face-to-face attack. I feared he would soon be knocking on my door, and a physical confrontation with my wife’s hot-tempered father was something I really didn’t want to deal with right now.

  I didn’t actually fear him; it was the situation itself I wanted to avoid. He was nowhere near as big as Ben, so I could pretty much guarantee that we would both end up going to the hospital, and that wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all, Felicity. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly wasn’t looking for another fight, but if it came in search of me, I wasn’t about to turn and run from it either.

  The thought prompted me to look down at the back of my right hand. It was slightly swollen and had already started taking on a reddish-purple cast. I ran the fingers of my left hand over the bruised knuckles and noticed that it was definitely sore. Still, I suspected I would be able to ignore that if the need presented itself.

  I sighed and bent to the bathroom basin then cupped my hands beneath the running faucet. Once they started to overflow, I pressed the handfuls of cold water against my face. Of course, most of it either ran between my fingers or dribbled along my arms to turn my shirtsleeves into a soggy mess, but I didn’t care. Wet clothing was the least of my worries right now.

  Looking back up, I stared into the mirror at the dampened, haggard visage now living in the silvery, reflected world. Its eyes were sunken and bloodshot, stubble shadowed its cheeks and neck, and its face sagged with exhaustion. I kept telling myself that all of those properties applied only to it and not to me, because I simply didn’t have time to feel like it looked. Of course, I had learned long ago that denial would only get you so far; but, that wasn’t going to stop me from riding it all the way to the last stop.

  The peal of the pendulum clock in the dining room had died away several minutes ago, but using the memory of the evenly spaced tones as reference, I did some quick math. The product of the equation was a number which told me I hadn’t slept in better than twenty-four hours, a fact that readily explained at least part of my current state of being.

  It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried, mind you. I knew I needed rest, and I had actually set out to get some. The problem was, every time I closed my eyes I saw Felicity. While that was something I would normally consider a pleasant thought, the countenance that filled my waking nightmare was the one that had been burned into my mind when last I saw her being led out of the house.

  What painted the inside of my eyelids was her face contorted into a mask of fear, paler than her ivory skin could possibly be. Her eyes were wide and imploring. Her lips were trembling as she called to me. As an added bonus, the visions came complete with an endlessly looping soundtrack of handcuffs snapping tight around her dainty wrists.

  I could still hear her voice echoing in my ears as she pled for me to stop this from happening. And now…well, now for some reason, she was shutting me out, and that certainly didn’t help the pain at all.

  I let out another sigh as I felt the emotion well deep inside me once again. The sadness was so overwhelming, I felt like sitting down on the floor right where I was and crying until I couldn’t cry anymore. But, that simply wasn’t going to happen. I knew it wouldn’t do any good because sometime around midnight I had given it a try, and now, I just didn’t have any tears left to give.

  An even hiss filled my ears, beckoning me once again into the land of lucidity. I looked down and noticed the water was still running, so I twisted the handle to shut it off then reached for something to dry my face. Exiting the bathroom, I trudged through the bedroom while blotting my damp skin with a hand towel. I had to pick my way around various obstacles, as I hadn’t yet cleaned up the mess left in the wake of the search. That is, other than to push the pile of clothing on the bed off to the side when I tried to lie down and sleep. I was just stepping into the hallway when the telephone began to ring once again.

  Only a few minutes had passed since Shamus’ last screaming fit, but he’d had a tendency to deliver them in clusters, so I was sure it was probably him for the who-knows-how-manyeth time today. I was so sure, in fact, that I didn’t even bother to head for the bookshelves to look at the caller ID box, electing instead to finish drying my face and then simply stand at the end of the hallway surveying the carnage that still graced my living room.

  Following the third ring, the answering machine kicked on, burping its greeting into the room once again.

  “You have reached the Gant and O’Brien household, please leave a message…” The voice was followed by a shrill tone then a staticky pause.

  Finally, in the wake of the beep, an authoritative voice issued from the speaker. This time, however, it was distinctly feminine and possessed of a heavy Southern accent.

  “I am calling for a Mister Rowan Gant,” the woman announced. “I picked up a message from my office that he was trying to reach me. My name is Doctor Velvet Rieth, and I can…”

  Midway through her first sentence I was already in motion, stumbling frantically through the room as the dogs and cats scattered before me. I hadn’t even needed to hear her name to have guessed exactly who she was, and this was a call I had not only been waiting for but desperately needed.

  Something told me this woman was holding a vital clue that would help me clear Felicity. What it was and why I believed it to be so, I couldn’t say. It was just one of those feelings, and I knew better than to ignore them.

  “Yes, yes, I’m here…” I
yelped into the handset, cutting her off before she could finish the message and hang up. “Hold on just a second…”

  For some reason the answering machine hadn’t cut off as it normally should, and a loud squeal had burst from the speaker the moment I lifted the receiver. I was now fumbling with the buttons to switch it off but meeting with no success whatsoever. Frustrated by my frenzy-induced klutziness, I quickly gave up and yanked the power plug from its base with a violent jerk.

  Quiet fell in behind the sudden termination of the racket, and I returned my attention instantly to the handset.

  “Doctor Rieth? Are you still there?”

  “Mister Gant?” she replied.

  “Yes, I’m Rowan Gant. Sorry about the feedback there. It’s kind of an old answering machine.”

  “That’s okay,” she said and then added. “I’m sorry, but do I know you? There’s something very familiar about your name.”

  “No, Doctor, I’m fairly certain we’ve never met.”

  Considering that I had recently heard my name mentioned on the national news in conjunction with Felicity’s arrest, I was trying to tread cautiously. I desperately needed information from this woman, and I didn’t think it would help if she knew my wife was an accused serial killer.

  “Hmmm. Are you sure? I’d swear I’ve heard your name before.”

  “There’s a British comedian named Rowan who’s fairly popular,” I offered. “Maybe that’s where there’s some confusion.”

  “Maybe so…” she allowed her voice to fade thoughtfully.

  There was a brief pause, but from the tone of our exchange, even given the pleasantries, I got the overwhelming feeling that she was somewhat dispirited that I had actually answered the phone. Still, that could simply have been my own mood overshadowing my judgment. After all, she did call back on a Saturday, so surely she was expecting someone to answer. That was unless, of course, she thought she was calling a business number and was hoping for voicemail.

  As my sluggish brain was trying to make sense of what were probably exhaustion-blunted perceptions, she spoke again.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes. I’m here. Sorry.”

  “Well, I picked up a message from my office saying you had some questions regarding my book and a murder investigation?”

  “Yes, that’s correct, I am…”

  She cut me off before I could continue. “Okay, first off, if you found my book at a murder scene, I don’t know what to tell you. It wasn’t me. Second, there are no human sacrifices in Voodoo practice. And, third, if you found a doll with pins in it at a murder scene, you’re barking at an empty tree, and you need to call someone else.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was testing me, or just looking for a quick out to end the phone call, but I definitely no longer thought I was just being paranoid about her humor. She actually sounded exasperated, as if she’d had those very questions posed to her countless times before. Whichever it was, or even if it was both, I met the commentary with a firm reply.

  “Of course, Doctor Rieth. First, no, your book wasn’t found at a crime scene, at least, not that I am aware of. Second, if I thought I was dealing strictly with a human sacrifice, I would be contacting a Hindu mystic, not that I would expect him to condone it, of course.

  “And, finally, as to dolls and pins, if that were the case, I would want to talk to a Witch since poppets are actually a product of traditional WitchCraft and not Vodoun.”

  I definitely wasn’t going to tell her that the Witch I would be consulting would be me. At least, not quite yet.

  This time, once I finished speaking, there was a much weightier pause at the other end of the line. Still, I made no move to fill its void, instead remaining silent and waiting for her to respond.

  “Obviously you’ve done some homework,” she finally replied.

  “I try to stick to the facts whenever possible.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” she offered. “When it comes to the subject of Voodoo, I’m not used to dealing with well informed cops much farther north than Baton Rouge.”

  “Actually, I’m only a consultant,” I said, sticking to the twisted version of the truth I’d given her assistant just in case she was still feeling me out.

  “Close enough when it comes to this sort of thing.” There was an audible shrug in her voice. “So what makes you think Voodoo is involved in your case, Mister Gant?”

  “Several things, actually,” I replied. “A couple of veve for one. A victim profile and method of killing for another.”

  Her standoffish air had dissipated quickly once I had proven my acumen on the subject of alternative religions, but she had remained staunchly businesslike. Now, her demeanor abruptly cascaded into one of urgent and uneasy curiosity. “Which veve?”

  “Ezili Danto, Papa Legba, and one which has yet to be identified.”

  There was no mistaking the note of trepidation in her voice when she spoke. “What does that one look like? The unidentified veve.”

  Her reaction, combined with what Ben had said the night before, all but confirmed my suspicions. Out of a mild sense of paranoia, I decided to test the theory.

  “What do you think it looked like, Doctor Rieth?” I asked.

  “Why?” she asked, a startled note in her voice.

  “I just get the feeling you might have seen it before.”

  “Look, I don’t have anything to do with…”

  “Calm down, Doctor. I never said you did. Please, just indulge me for a second. What do you think this third veve looks like?”

  “Well, I’m really afraid it might look very similar to a stripped down, simplified Celtic triskele. Basically, a circle with three centrally joined arcs radiating from the center out to the circumference, and a dot located within each third.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “That’s pretty much exactly it.”

  “The bondo- veve,” she muttered, almost too quiet for me to hear.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry,” she replied. “It’s just a nickname. Bondo- veve. I call it that primarily because the symbol itself…”

  “…Is used by the bondage and S and M community.” I finished the sentence for her then added, “So, I was right. You’ve seen it before.” The last sentence was spoken as both a statement and a question.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I have.”

  I went out on a limb. “From a homicide in Myrtle Beach?”

  “Yes, and from one in New York as well. At both of them the police found the three veve’s you’ve mentioned as well as obvious signs of some sort of sadomasochistic sex play. But I suppose you already knew that.”

  The reference to New York only took me slightly by surprise since Ben had mentioned that there were several other states with unsolved homicides that were possibly linked. He just hadn’t told me actual names or any real details. Now I had a line on at least one more. Still, I decided not to let on to Doctor Rieth that I hadn’t known about it until now.

  “Pretty much. So, can you tell me which Lwa belongs to this veve ?” I asked, voice hopeful.

  “I’m afraid not. That’s the reason for the nickname. The only time I’ve ever seen it is in connection with those two murders…and, now apparently this one.”

  “Actually we have two homicides here we believe to be connected, but the veve was only found at one of the scenes.”

  “Good God,” she mumbled again. “So I suppose this really is what the FBI types call a serial killer.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Well,” she said, seeming to regain some of her composure. “I’m not sure what it is I can do for you. Even if I could identify the veve, I don’t know that it would be any help.”

  “Actually, it might. From what I’ve researched, I would have to guess that this symbol is being used to represent a personal ancestor.”

  “I’d be inclined to agree with you, and that’s what I told the other departments. Not that they seemed particularly interested in the arcane
facts at the time. They just kept calling it a cult crime.”

  “That’s an easy out for things they don’t understand. Trust me, I’ve dealt with that very same attitude here myself. But, back to the veve…I would think that if we could track down that particular ancestor, perhaps we could find the person who has it on her altar.”

  “So you think the killer is a woman too?”

  “Is that what you were told by the other departments?”

  “They weren’t willing to share that speculation, but the evidence they told me about seemed to indicate such.”

  “Here too. So you’re a bit of an amateur sleuth I take it?”

  “Not really. But, I can put two and two together.”

  “Well, I’m afraid the math gets a bit harder from here on out.”

  “Well, Mister Gant, I’ll count myself lucky that I’m not in your position then. But, as I said before, it seems to me that you’ve done quite a bit of homework on this. I wish my students were as dedicated to their studies.”

  “Let’s just say I’ve got an important motivation. And, yes, the local librarians and occult bookshops know me pretty well right now.”

  “I’m sure…well…I’ll admit you have a good theory. If you could find the ancestor then maybe you could track down a descendent. But, even that could be a dead end because it assumes that the person who has placed this spirit on her altar and elevated it to the status of Lwa is actually a direct descendent. In all likelihood she’s of no relation whatsoever, and that would put you back at square one.”

  “True, but right now I’m more or less at square zero.”