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
