All Acts Of Pleasure Part 16

"Yeah, I guess they do."

"So, if we are to a.s.sume that your theory about the Lwa is correct, then we have to find the reason it chose your wife as a horse, especially given your contention that it already had one with a far stronger, and completely willing, connection. Knowing that may well provide a clue that will lead back to either the ident.i.ty of the Lwa or even the original horse, which is the ultimate goal. Correct?"

"Correct. Any ideas on that front?"

"Like I said, it has to be a latent connection that superseded the connection with the other pract.i.tioner."

"Okay, but what could that be? Felicity doesn't practice Voodoo."

"She doesn't? I'm sorry. I just a.s.sumed she must because this would all make more sense if she did."

"I'm sure, but that's why I called you."

"Well, then that's the big question, isn't it?" she replied with a healthy sigh. "Still, there must be something connecting the two, and it could be almost anything. For instance, does your wife own any antique jewelry she purchased second hand? Especially recently? Something she might have been wearing at the time of the possession?"

"I'm sure she does. Own jewelry like that, I mean. But, I don't recall her making any recent purchases. I also don't remember her wearing any of it at the time, although I could be wrong," I said and then added, "At the point when she had the guy in the motel room, she wasn't wearing much at all, actually."

"Second hand clothing that may have belonged to the killer, perhaps?"

"Maybe. She's been known to visit resale shops. Again, I can't be certain."

"Okay, you said she doesn't practice Vodoun, but has she by any chance dabbled with it at all?"

"No. At least not that I am aware of, and I think that's something she would tell me. She's a degreed Wiccan with some strong ties to British Traditional WitchCraft, but no real dealings in any of the Afro-Caribbean practices other than a pa.s.sing knowledge of them."

"So, she's a Witch too?"

"Yes, but that wouldn't be it, would it?"

"Just speculating. That would definitely make her far more open than your average bystander. Magick begetting magick, maybe?"

"She would almost have needed to work magick that somehow related to Voodoo though, wouldn't she?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Like I said, I'm just speculating."

"So, should I a.s.sume by the direction this conversation has taken that you are willing to help me?"

"I suppose that's pretty much how it looks, isn't it, Mister Gant?"

"Well, if that's the case, you might want to start calling me Rowan, Doctor Rieth."

"Then you should probably start calling me, Velvet."

"Mind if I ask..."

"Burlesque performer. My mother thought it was pretty."

"I see."

"No wise cracks."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

CHAPTER 15:.

The reflection staring back at me from the two-way mirror on the opposite wall didn't look much better than the one I'd seen at home. I'd actually taken a few minutes to shave before getting into the shower and then tried to at least make myself presentable. None of those things, however, could mask my exhaustion or my foul mood, and it showed.

I turned my face away from the mirror. I knew someone was watching; they'd told me they would be. I suppose it was better than having a stranger parked in the room with us, which was the normal procedure as I understood it. But even so, it was more than a little disconcerting. I tried to push it out of my mind because I needed to deal with what I had at hand and not unseen distractions. But, I still found it hard to keep the invasion of privacy out of my thoughts. Of course, within these walls, privacy was a luxury that simply didn't exist.

s.h.i.+fting nervously in my seat, I returned my focus to the redhead on the other side of the table.

Small talk seemed to have become the order of the moment. Twenty minutes had pa.s.sed, and thus far we'd been engaged in short bursts of trivial banter. Things of no real import, such as the weather, what bills might have shown up in the day's mail, or any number of other equally unimportant distractions. The whole of it was making me crazy, and I suppose it was for that reason my mouth began to blurt out something my brain knew would be best left unmentioned. I didn't do it out of spite. I just needed to get something other than a flat, one word response from my wife.

"I probably shouldn't even tell you this..." I started but then caught myself before continuing. Getting a response was one thing. Triggering it this way definitely wasn't a smart move, and I knew it. I shook my head as much out of chastising myself as anything else then said, "No...just forget it."

"What is it?" Felicity asked. "Tell me."

At least this time the reply was something besides, "Yes", "No", or "Fine", even if I hadn't followed through with the statement.

Her voice was still emotionless but heavily saturated with her inherent Celtic lilt. The accent was an omnipresent feature but one that usually resided in the background, noticeable but not overwhelming. It always became more p.r.o.nounced, however, when she was stressed, tired, or had spent more than a few hours with her family. In some instances, thick was even too weak a word to describe it.

It wasn't hard to guess that the first two factors were what were driving it at the moment, and they were driving it hard. In fact, if she became any more stressed than she was now, I might well have trouble understanding her; for the brogue would not only start to be peppered with Gaelic, it would become so deeply accented as to almost obscure any English she might continue to use. In other words, we had more or less already arrived at thick and were definitely on our way toward a stronger adjective.

I dismissed her question with only a cursory explanation. "It's not important. Not right now, anyway."

"So tell me then," she pressed. "If it's not important, it shouldn't matter."

I let out a heavy breath and s.h.i.+fted in my seat. Everything mattered, especially now. I knew that for a fact, even if she didn't. I looked down at the table then reached up to ma.s.sage my temple. My headache was coming back, not that it had ever completely gone away, but the dull ache had been something I could live with. I definitely didn't need seriously stabbing pains on top of everything else right now.

Little more than three hours had pa.s.sed since my conversation with Doctor Rieth. The thread of positive luck-if you could really call it that-which had begun during the phone call, had seemed to continue in its wake. For a little while at least, as only a few moments after I had hung up, the phone began to ring again. That time it had been Jackie calling to let me know that she'd managed to arrange a court-ordered visit with Felicity.

The fact was, under normal circ.u.mstances, prisoners detained at the Saint Louis City Justice Center had to schedule visitors in advance, and each particular "dorm" had specific days set aside for those visits to take place. By obtaining an impromptu judicial order, our-or given the events of last evening I should say Felicity's-attorney had succeeded in circ.u.mventing the system, getting me in to see her early this afternoon.

What I was going to end up owing Jackie for this bit of legal sorcery, I had no idea, but the truth is I didn't really care. I had to see my wife. I needed to know that she was okay. Moreover, I needed her to know that I had not forsaken her. That I was going to do everything in my power to stop this from happening.

And, now, here I was, downtown and just around the corner from where I had been the night before while waiting to wake up from this nightmare. From the looks of things, it appeared I still hadn't accomplished that task.

At this particular moment, I couldn't even remember which floor of the building I was on. In fact, I was lucky that I could even recall that the address was on Tucker. All that really stood out in my mind right now is that we had gone up after being patted down, wanded, and generally scrutinized by uniformed corrections officers. However, I don't think it was the frisking that was responsible for my sudden attack of geographical amnesia. More than likely it was the initial shock of seeing Felicity in her present state.

Her red hair, which usually spiraled about her soft face with fiery brilliance, was dull and limp. Down, it would hang past her waist, but at the moment it was twisted, wrapped, and tucked-sitting in a lifeless pile atop her head. While it wasn't that unusual for her to wear it in a Gibson-girlish coif, I had to admit I was a bit surprised since she wasn't allowed anything with which to affix it in place. I suppose it was staying up only by the grace of some bit of woman magick men can never understand, let alone duplicate.

Her smooth ivory skin was blotchy and beyond any definition of pale that came to my mind. Even ashen was too delicate a word to describe the greyness that seemed to envelope her.

Jade green irises, normally bright, were no more than flat disks swimming in the centers of bloodshot whites. They both stood out in contrast to the dark rings encircling her sunken eyes.

She was totally devoid of makeup, and it showed. It wasn't as if she really ever wore that much to begin with, but right now, unlike any other time, its absence was beyond glaring.

Her pet.i.te frame was clad in a loose fitting, sherbet orange jumpsuit, which was standard issue for inmates at the facility. The unnaturally brilliant color did little to help her altogether stark and sickly appearance.

Everything about the way she looked, right down to the way she carried herself, told me she'd managed to get no more rest than I had eked out of the long night. She looked absolutely horrible, and I'm certain the expression on my face upon first seeing her had betrayed at least that much.

Even so, to me, she still couldn't be more beautiful.

Unfortunately, just sitting here looking at her wasn't going to help either of us. We didn't have all that much time, and even less to waste. Court order or not, it wasn't going to be long before I was sent on my way by the guard on the other side of the mirrored gla.s.s.

Jackie's arrangement had specified what was called a "contact visit", something that might have been otherwise impossible considering the severity of the charges against Felicity. And, of course, somehow she had also managed to get them to leave us more or less unchaperoned in the room. However, that was as far as the indulgences went. Contact or not, the court order wasn't going to buy us any more time together than normal inmate visits prescribed.

The charges themselves, although making the arrangements for our visit a bit tricky, were actually working to my wife's advantage. For one thing, I had been told that she was alone in her cell, as they were segregating her from the rest of the "population" due to her alleged crimes. Basically, in order to keep the petty thieves and DWI detainees safe, they weren't about to put an accused serial killer in direct contact with them without close supervision. I was certainly glad of that, but for much the opposite reason.

I continued watching my wife in silence across the small table. I hadn't yet replied to her urging, and I wasn't sure I could get away with the reticence for much longer. Refusing to tell her now would only widen the unexplained rift that seemed to have formed between us. The problem was, right now my brain was just too sluggish to come up with a convincing lie considering how I had started the earlier sentence.

"So, are you going to tell me, then?" she asked again, pus.h.i.+ng the silence aside.

Thus far, she'd had a tendency to stare into s.p.a.ce whenever she spoke, and that hadn't changed. I also noticed that she was still absently rubbing her red, swollen wrists where the handcuffs had chafed and bruised them. I sincerely hoped those marks hadn't been left by Ben because if they had, he wouldn't need to invite the next punch.

I opened my mouth to speak, mumbled through a false start, then offered up what I thought was a logical excuse, as I tried one last shot at disentangling myself from the self-inflicted mess. "I shouldn't have said anything. I really don't want to upset you."

"Too late, Rowan," she replied. "Take a look around. The police beat you to it."

"You still don't need any more to worry about," I told her with a shake of my head.

"And, you do?"

"No..." I replied quietly. "Neither of us do."

"Aye."

"Yeah, but still..."

"Misery loves company. Go ahead. Tell me, then."

"You aren't miserable enough as it is?"

"I think this is about as miserable as it gets, Row."

"Yeah, I suppose it is."

"Go on, then. Quit avoiding the question. Share."

"Well...It's nothing really...I've had a few somewhat unpleasant conversations with your father since yesterday morning."

"Aye, I can't say that I'm surprised by that."

"By the way, speaking of that...any insight on the phrase 'an rabe something-or-other'?"

"An riabhach?" she repeated, filling in the blanks.

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Did he call you that?"

"That's the gist I got. A couple of times for sure. Of course, he'd already called me quite a few things I already knew how to translate."

"It's been bad, then?"

"It hasn't been pleasant. Although, he does have a fairly predictable cycle. He calls, blames me for this, calls me names, demands to know what I'm going to do to fix it but doesn't give me a chance to answer, then I hang up on him. Then he calls back...lather, rinse, repeat."

My attempt at levity didn't provoke a laugh, or even a smile. She simply sighed and slowly shook her head. "Well, that phrase means, the evil one."

I gave her a half shrug. "Go figure."

"Aye."

"So, I guess the fact that he blames me for this isn't any big surprise either."

"No, I don't suppose it is, given the tension between the two of you, then. But, you should just ignore him. He'll get over it."

"Trying to. I've been letting the machine grab the phone lately."

"Good...so, is that what you thought was going to upset me?"

"Yeah."

"Liar."

"Excuse me?"

"You're lying. I can tell."

I'd managed to bluff her in the past, but I guess my acting skills were diminished by my emotional state, or my exhaustion. Actually, it was probably due to both.

"Yeah," I sighed. "Okay, so there was something else."

"What?"

"Well, I guess I should consider it funny, truthfully. Or, I suppose it could be if it weren't so sad... Anyway, what I started to tell you is that once this is all over Shamus wants to have you deprogrammed." I made the statement as calmly as I could, considering that I was unable to find in it any of the humor I had just espoused.

"That's it?"

"That's not enough?"