The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation (8 page)

I watch as, with each desperate twist or
pull, the rope bites deeper into his throat, forcing him to cease
his fight. A look of suddenly realized terror is filling his eyes,
and between each bout of choking himself, he lets out a nasal
whine.

I know that seeing this should disturb me,
but it doesn’t. Not in the way that it should.

What actually does disturb me is that I feel
no compassion as I watch him. No empathy. But, even that isn’t the
worst of it. If I was feeling nothing at all, perhaps I could make
sense of my uncharacteristic disregard by attributing it to a
forced clinical detachment.

But, unfortunately, that isn’t the case.

I am feeling something.

I am amused.

Worse than that, the tickle has returned,
and I am becoming increasingly aroused by his plight.

Though the immediate feelings I had
sensed upon entering the room had been a combination of both killer
and victim, my primary concern for my own safety had been in regard
to him. Not
her
. While I’d had
my brushes with channeling killers, they were always alive when I
had done so. Though I knew that this one, or at least part of her,
wasn’t, I hadn’t considered it as fully as I should have, and now
that changed everything.

The dead were the ones who spoke loudest in
my head, and they were the ones who most often tried to pull me
deeper into their world in an effort to make me understand. I
suppose I couldn’t blame them for trying to get their points across
any way they could. Dead or not, everyone has a story to tell, and
it helps if someone will listen.

But, this one didn’t just want someone to
listen. She wanted someone to control. Though I could feel the
victim and hear his anguish, he was a bit player on this mental
stage. Miranda had a far stronger presence, and she intended to
dominate the scene now—just as she had done then.

That was one of the problems with channeling.
It didn’t really matter what you as the channeler wanted or even
what you personally found to be distasteful. You were simply a
conduit, and it was all about the likes and dislikes of the one
flowing through you.

I definitely didn’t want Miranda this
close to me, but it was too late. She was already inside my head,
or I obviously wouldn’t be feeling the things I did. It was this
realization that I clung to, using it as a shield against her
onslaught and denying her control over me. My gut feeling was that
I needed to cut and run right away because I no longer feared
becoming her victim, I was afraid of becoming
her
. Given the pure insanity of that very
thought, I was starting to believe all of this wasn’t just a risky
move—it was a flat out mistake.

But, I also knew that if I left now, I would
leave empty-handed. All the deception and trespassing I had engaged
in so far were only worth the gamble if I was going to have
something to show for them in the end. I had to keep going until I
found something tangible that would help me locate—and stop—both of
these killers.

Of course, a raging psychosexual event that
might possibly leave me blithering in ethereal bliss was definitely
not the result I needed, especially when one considered the imagery
that would bring it about. Unfortunately, that seemed to be where
this was all heading, and very quickly at that.

Since running wasn’t an option, I decided
maybe I should find a different way to approach all of this. But,
before I could do that, I was going to have to back out of the path
I had already taken.

I started to stand up but found I was once
again frozen in place, unable to make myself move. I chose to try
the same thing I had done earlier—I blinked hard and willed the
image to go away

But, when my eyes fluttered open, it
remained. In fact, it seemed even more tangible than it had before.
It looked real enough to reach out and touch, and I even found that
I had to stop myself from doing just that.

Trying again, I drew in a deep breath, shut
my eyes, then slipped my thumb and forefinger beneath the rim of my
glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose. After a moment, I let
the breath slowly out through my mouth and allowed my hand to fall.
With trepidation, I opened my eyes once again.

He still hadn’t gone away, and now it
was even worse—
because he had
company.

T
he new arrival in
question was a petite redhead, and it was visibly obvious from what
I saw happening in front of me that she was this poor man’s worst
nightmare. Unfortunately, he was not alone in that, as she was mine
too.

I had a sense, within the vision at least,
that a good deal of time had passed between what I had been
witnessing moments ago and what I was seeing now. It appeared that
the man was still alive, but judging from the visible wounds,
blood, and burn marks on his face, I could only surmise that
Miranda was well into his torture at this point.

As I watched, conflict stormed through my
brain in the form of internal voices locked in a heated debate. One
of them was demanding in no uncertain terms that I close my eyes or
look away immediately. It was telling me I should do whatever it
takes to break this connection. I knew in my gut this was the voice
I should be listening to, but it was only one of the three
bickering inside my skull; and, the other two were ganging up on
it.

The second voice was countering that if I
didn’t watch what was being offered, everything I had risked would
be for naught. It was telling me I might miss a vital clue that
would allow me to stop her. While that had once been a valid point,
I wasn’t so sure if I believed it anymore.

The real problem was the second voice’s
partner in all this. It was the one that worried me most. It came
to me as little more than a murmur of support for the heretofore
failing argument; however, I wasn’t completely fooled. I could
sense that it had its own agenda with a horribly dark intent. But,
even more frightening than its intent was the power it seemed to
carry with it. I only wished that I had recognized that fact a bit
sooner because it wasn’t until it had all but assumed control that
I realized the source—it had joined forces with the sickeningly
pleasant tickle that had been set loose in my body, and together
they were drowning out all good sense and reason. As I had feared,
Miranda was trying me on for size.

Even as I fought to maintain control, my
tenuous grip on my perceived reality faltered, and the vision
stepped in to take its place.

Though I can see her only in profile, I
swear that my wife is in front of me at this very moment, sitting
astride the bound man. She is positioned such that she is pitched
backward; her arms are outstretched behind her, straining and
rigid. Her hands are clamped firmly to his thighs as she supports
herself. Her back is arched, and her chest is rising and falling at
a quickened pace. I can hear her panting just as I can hear the
man’s muffled squeals of agony.

She has one stocking-clad leg extended in
front of her, bent slightly at the knee, and I see the muscles of
her calf flexing as they keep a tight rhythm with her panting
breaths. Her foot is pressed against the man’s upper arm, pinning
it against the headboard. Her calf is flexing because she is slowly
twisting her stiletto heel into the flesh of his bicep. The end of
the spike disappears into the deep depression it has created, and
blood is oozing from the wound.

Colors bloomed as realities once again
shifted, and I found myself back in the motel room alone. The
roller coaster ride of channeled visions was tossing me haphazardly
about and depositing me wherever its whim desired. Not particularly
unusual as such ethereal events go, but I didn’t think I would ever
get used to it.

I blinked.

I remembered Ben telling me before I ever
boarded the plane to come here that he was looking at a picture of
Annalise and that she was a dead ringer for Felicity. I suppose,
however, that simply hearing someone say something like that makes
it easy to discount their opinion. Even though I hadn’t seen the
picture myself, I was positive that I, of all people, would have no
trouble telling the two women apart. After all, I had been married
to one of them for almost fifteen years, so surely I would know my
own wife.

However, at this moment my personal
perception was no longer crystal clear on that point.

Without thinking, I muttered aloud,
“Felicity?”

Her name tumbled into the room wrapped in a
question. I knew the woman I had just seen in front of me couldn’t
possibly be my wife, but the image was truly beyond uncanny.

As if triggered by my question, the light
overhead bloomed, and I once again found myself with at least one
foot in a different plane of existence.

I can hear my own voice echoing in the room
as I utter my wife’s name.

Though her breathing never alters from its
frantic pace, the woman suddenly jerks as if startled. Pushing
herself forward, she sits up, still straddling the man. She stops
twisting her heel then drops her foot down to the bed, and her
victim is given a momentary reprieve from his agony. Cocking her
head to one side, she appears to be listening intently, as if she
hears my voice as well.

Slowly she turns toward me.

I study her face as she looks through me,
creasing her brow. I can begin to see the differences in her
features, but not at first glance, or even the second for that
matter. I takes a long moment before I am certain that I am not
looking at my wife.

I remember hearing it said that everyone has
a doppelganger somewhere on the planet. Whether or not that is a
scientific fact I cannot begin to say, but given the vision now
staring me in the face, I am inclined to believe it. This woman can
almost pass as Felicity Caitlin O’Brien’s twin.

She turns, and showing little concern for
her victim, she drags her now bloody heel across him as she climbs
from the bed. She slowly saunters toward the window at the front of
the room and stands there, still listening for a repeat of the
sound.

Though not fully nude as is her victim, she
is scantily dressed. What little of her wardrobe there is consists
of black lace and patent leather. Her red hair cascades in a loose
spiraling fall down her back. It feels hot in the room, and I can
see that her exposed ivory skin is damp with sweat. It glistens in
dim light as she remains still except for the rise and fall of her
shoulders as she breathes. On her left shoulder, I can see what
appears to be a tattoo of a stylized triskele.

I have seen it before. It is
the mystery
veve
from the
previous crime scenes.

After several minutes she reaches out and
slips a finger between the slats of the blinds. Slowly, she presses
down, opening a small gap through which she carefully peers.

I watch her as she tilts her head from side
to side until finally she is satisfied that no one is there.
Turning, she saunters back to the bed and looks down at the bound
victim.

“Don’t worry, little man. It
was nothing,” she says to him in a sweet drawl. She takes a moment
to flip an errant shock of hair back over her shoulder then adds
with a feigned pout, “Of course, that
nothing
interrupted me, so I guess we’ll just have to
start over.”

Sliding one knee onto the bed, she dips
forward and scoops something into her hand before bringing the
other leg up. Kneeling next to him, she smiles sweetly and holds up
a stun gun.

“Ready?” she asks.

He begins to buck against the bonds, a
scream caught behind the duct tape gag and diverting to exit in the
form of a short, nasally whine through his nose before being
unceremoniously cut off as he chokes.

“Good,” she giggles. “So am I. Just
remember, I love you.”

With a wicked grin, she leans forward and
presses the business end of the device against his bare genitals
and squeezes the trigger.

I buckle and begin falling backward as I
feel his pain.

But what’s worse is that I also feel her
pleasure.

In that moment everything shifted, and the
three-dimensional quality of the vision flattened then faded in a
bloom of light. I could instantly sense that I had stepped back
into my own world, but both the sensation of pain and arousal
remained.

Though I had felt myself falling, I found
that in reality I hadn’t moved at all. I was still squatting next
to the bed, staring directly ahead, just as I had been at the
beginning. I did notice, however, that I was holding my breath. I
let it out with a heavy sigh. My eyes were itching and dry, so I
closed them, but the moment I did so I feared I would regret the
action. It seemed that blinking was getting me into a lot of
trouble right now. Still, I knew that sitting here forever with my
eyes closed wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I steeled myself in
preparation for the onslaught of another round and allowed them to
flutter open.

This time, the vision was still gone.

Letting out another sigh, this one of a
semi-relieved nature, I rocked back on my heels and stood upright.
Reaching to my face, I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes.
Slipping the spectacles back on, I gazed around the room.
Everything was just as it had been when I entered. Nothing had
changed, no matter how real the things I had just witnessed may
have felt.

Making a slow half turn exactly where I
stood, I finally wandered back to the small room housing the
vanity. Removing my glasses once again, I twisted on the faucet and
cupped my hands beneath it. Bending over the sink, I first pressed
one handful of water against my face and then another. After a
third, I turned the water off and leaned forward with my knuckles
on the vanity as I stood there dripping into the basin.