The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation (24 page)

Tuesday, December 13

8:19 A.M.

Saint Louis, Missouri

N
ormalcy had returned.
Well, normalcy so far as I could consider my life normal. Several
days had passed since Ben’s call about the homicide in Baton Rouge,
and I’d heard nothing about it since. In addition, other than my
painfully lucid nightmares, which had greatly lessened in
frequency, my afflictions were keeping a low profile. I still had a
bit of the chronic ache in the back of my skull but nothing like
the blinding migraine I had faced before. Since I’d rarely been
without the twinge for several years now, it was easy to
ignore.

At any rate, Felicity and I had fallen back
into our routines, and though we were unable to ignore everything
that had happened or that a killer was still at large, we decided
not to let it consume our lives as it had in the past. For the time
being at least, we were making a go at being just plain average,
even if it was in large part a lie. So far, we seemed to be having
a relative amount of success on that front, at least as far as the
outside world was concerned.

I took a drink of my coffee then glanced up
at the clock on the microwave before bringing my gaze back down to
my wife. As usual, she was in the middle of dumping what had to be
the fourth or fifth heaping spoonful of sugar into her own cup.

“What time is your meeting?” I asked.

“Ten thirty,” she replied. “Why?”

I shrugged. “Well, for one thing, you were
out of bed before me, and you’re already dressed. It’s not even
half past eight yet.”

“That a problem?” she quipped with a smile,
rattling the spoon around the inside of the ceramic mug as she
added hazelnut-flavored creamer to the already overly sweetened
brew.

“Can’t say that it is. I’m just not used to
you being on time, much less early.”

I dropped my eyes back to the newspaper. Most
everything on the front page had fallen into the category of
depressing, so I was perusing the daily comics in hopes of finding
a chuckle or two instead.

“Aye, well I’m not actually there yet,” she
said.

“You have a point,” I agreed without looking
up.

“By the way, do I look okay?”

“You look great, as usual.”

“Rowan,” she admonished. “You aren’t even
looking at me.”

I lowered the paper and gave her a quick
glance. She was clad in a dark grey, pinstripe business suit. Her
hair was swept up off her shoulders and pinned in place, cascading
into a neat fall down her back. It also didn’t escape my notice
that she’d seen more than just a cursory visit with her makeup
table.

“You look great. Just like you did five
minutes ago when you asked me the same thing.”

“I already asked?”

“Uh-huh. Twice actually… This time makes
three.”

“But, you’re sure I look okay?”

“Yes,” I told her with a nod then looked back
down at the comics. “You look wonderful.”

“I was thinking maybe I should wear a skirt
instead of slacks. What do you think?”

“Okay.”

“Well, do you think that would be too
much?”

“I don’t know. I guess that would depend on
who you’re meeting with and how short the skirt is,” I
chuckled.

“I’m serious, Rowan.” She offered the words
with a heavy note of exasperation in her voice.

I folded the paper and laid it aside then
brought my eyes up to meet hers, giving her my full attention. “All
right… What’s up? I’ve never seen you this nervous about work
before.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Okay, fine. I’m a little nervous.”

“Why?”

“I’m not usually dealing with the stigma of
an arrest and a stay in a psych ward.”

“I don’t understand. You’ve done several jobs
since you got home. Why is there a problem now?”

“Those were established accounts who already
knew me. This is the first meeting I’ve had to pitch to a potential
client since all that happened, you know. It’s different.”

“Yeah, okay. But, I really think you’re
getting yourself worked up over nothing, sweetheart,” I reassured
her. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

“I wish I had your confidence about
that.”

“Okay, let me ask you this—Did you approach
them looking for work or did they call you?”

“They called me.”

“There you go.”

“There I go what?”

“If anything that was in the news about your
bogus arrest was going to affect their decision, I doubt they would
have even called you in the first place. Obviously it isn’t a
factor.”

“Maybe they just haven’t heard about it
yet.”

“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.

“Damnú!”
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.

“Damnú!
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.

“Dún 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.

“Tá tú 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.”

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