M Sellars - The End Of Desire

“Jeezus…” His tone switched to one of concern. “So, you okay?”

“Other than a lingering gender dysphoric psychological issue, just fine.”

“Gender what, psycho who?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, I think ya’ had lingerin’ psych issues before ya’ ever went down there.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “So spill it. Whaddid ya’ see?”

“A seriously twisted mirror image of my wife named Annalise.”

“You saw ‘er?”

“Hell, I did more than that. I talked to her.”

“Was it la-la land talked to, or like for real?”

“In the vision,” I explained.

“How the fuck did ya’ talk to ‘er?”

“I think it has something to do with the fact that the Lwa is a spirit, so we’re obviously dealing with a dead person here. And, as we know, I tend to have conversations with dead people.”

“So ya’ didn’t talk ta’ evil sis, ya’ talked ta’ the ghost.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I talked to both of them.”

“See, now that’s just even more fucked up than usual, Row.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Well? Whaddid she…they say?”

“She told me she wants it back. All of it.”

“It?”

“Unless I missed my guess, I think she was talking about sexual gratification.”

“You wanna explain that one? You ain’t sayin’ you had some kinda la-la land sex with ‘er are ya’?”

“No,” I replied, shaking my head out of pure reflex. “Of course not. I’m pretty sure she means the sexual gratification she gets from torturing and killing her victims.”

“Okay. So does she think you have it or somethin’?”

“No, but she definitely thinks I know who does.”

“Felicity,” he grunted.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“At the risk of sounding glib, she didn’t say. In fact, I got the impression she doesn’t even know who Felicity actually is, but unfortunately she knows her name. And, mine too.”

“Whaddaya mean? How?”

“Long story short, I was talking to myself…”

He interrupted me. “I thought you were talkin’ ta’ her?”

“This was before I was talking to her,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “Just let me finish. So, I happened to say my own name aloud, and she came back with something like, ‘oh, that’s who you are.’”

“Fuck me… How much weirder is this gonna get, Row?”

“Weirder, I don’t know. Clearer, that’s a different story.”

“How so?”

“You sitting down?”

“Awww, Jeeeezzzz… Yeah. What?”

“Listen to what I found at the library…”

I reached over into the passenger seat and pulled the printouts from my backpack. Unfolding them, I shuffled through in search of the largest image. While I did so I asked, “First off, have you ever heard the story about the Lalaurie family in New Orleans?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“Okay, then let me give you a little background. Back in the early eighteen-thirties, Doctor Louis Lalaurie, his wife, Delphine, and their daughters moved into a mansion on Royal Street in the French Quarter. They quickly became prominent in the community and were soon very well known for their social gatherings.

“Now, remember, this was during a time of slavery, and they definitely owned their share. More than their share, actually. They had a house staff consisting of dozens. But, before too long people started noticing that slaves seemed to come and go a bit more often than normal, and that raised some suspicion.

“Then, in April of eighteen thirty-four, the reality behind those suspicions came to light when a fire broke out in the kitchen and swept through a good portion of the mansion. After the blaze was put out, the people who had been fighting the fire discovered a secret room behind a barred and locked door in the attic. When they entered, they found more than a dozen slaves, both male and female, in various horrific states. They were all either chained to walls or to makeshift operating tables. Many had open, festering wounds where limbs had been amputated or organs removed. Several of the men had been castrated, and it is said that one man even had a hole bored into his skull and a stick protruding from it.”

“Jeezus, Row…” Ben groaned. “Are you sure you ain’t talkin’ about a friggin’ horror movie or somethin’?”

“I know. It sounds like one, doesn’t it? But, here’s the rub. One of the initial theories was that Doctor Lalaurie had been conducting medical experiments on the slaves. However, according to the story printed in the New Orleans Bee, it was determined via witnessed accounts that the wife, Delphine, was insane and that it was she who was responsible for inflicting the tortures on them.”

“Damn. So did they hang ‘er sorry ass?”

“No. Following the discovery, she fled New Orleans in a somewhat spectacular escape, and where she ended up is a bit of a mystery.”

“So you think maybe the ghost of this Delphine woman is really Miranda?” he asked.

“No, but close. Listen to this,” I replied then shifted the papers so I could read him the notice. “ Found Drowned. The coroner held an inquest yesterday on the body of a woman named, Miranda Blanque, sister of Delphine Lalaurie, aged forty-three years, who was found floating in the Mississippi opposite the third municipality. It appears that on Sunday night last, she was seen to have jumped into the river. Verdict accordingly.

“That was from the front page of the New Orleans Bee, September eighteenth, eighteen fifty-one. The tomb that Doctor Rieth is taking me to see is that of one Miranda Blanque, date of death, on or around September fourteenth, eighteen fifty-one, which would have been that Sunday.”

“Jeezus, Row…”

“Yeah, Ben. I think maybe insanity runs in that family.”

“No shit,” Ben muttered, then spoke up and huffed, “Okay… I hate ta’ rain on your parade, but where does all that get ya’?”

“It gives us a pretty good idea why Annalise has been doing the things she has,” I explained.

“Yeah, but we’re still talkin’ about a dead person here, Row. I can’t arrest a dead person. Besides, what it all comes down to is that Felicity’s evil sis is the one that’s really doin’ the killin’.”

“I know that. But, Miranda is the one driving her to do it.”

“Yeah, so? Miranda’s still dead. We need ta’ be lookin’ for a live homicidal bitch.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean Annalise is your problem, not mine.”

“Come again?”

“Look, Ben, I’ve been told at every turn to stay out of this. By your superiors, by Detective Fairbanks this morning, and at least a dozen times by you over the past few weeks. So, that’s what I’m doing.”

“I thought ya’ said you’d been at the library?”

“I have.”

“Well, the way you’re talkin’, it sounds more like ya’ been hangin’ out in a bar gettin’ trashed. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re up ta’ your ass in all of this no matter what anyone has said.”

“I can’t help it if our investigations overlap.”

“Now you’re just bein’ an asshole again, White Man.”

“Call it what you want, but I’m not here looking for Annalise. I’m looking for Miranda.”

“Oh, so now you’re a friggin’ ghost cop, are ya?”

“Sure. Why not? Obviously somebody has to do it; I guess it might as well be me. Look at it this way-I’m giving you what you want. I’m staying out of your way.”

“Fuck me,” he spat then paused. A second later he added, “Like I said before, I think you’ve lost your goddamned mind. When’s the last time you got some sleep?”