M Sellars - The End Of Desire

I ignored the sardonic remark and told him, “I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

“Right,” he nodded emphatically. “We need to worry about the mystery woman you chased through traffic.”

“Annalise Devereaux.”

“So you say.”

“She hasn’t come forward and pressed charges, has she?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“She won’t.”

“Statistically, you might be correct. Whoever she is, she’s probably scared shitless to even come out of her house after what you did.”

“That’s not the reason. She won’t come forward because she’s…”

“…Annalise Devereaux, evil killer woman. I know. You’ve told me. So what? You still assaulted her.”

“What I was going to say is that she knows you’re looking for her.”

“How?”

“I told her.”

“You told her we’re looking for her?” he asked calmly, although his expression didn’t fit his tone.

“Yes.”

“Mind if I ask why? And, don’t tell me I wouldn’t believe it if you told me.”

“I don’t know,” I told him.

“Well that’s new and different,” he hmmphed. “Assuming that you are correct, and this woman actually is Miz Devereaux, did it cross your mind that telling her we’re looking for her might make her harder to find?”

“Not at the time, no. Besides, don’t you give that sort of info to the media so it can be broadcast on the news?”

“Not always. And, definitely not right away,” he replied. “This time was one of those definite not yet situations.”

“Well…I guess I screwed up then.”

“You guess? Holy crap, Gant, you’re just a goddamned joy to have around, aren’t you?” he said, his sarcasm expanding to fill the room. “Do you do this sort of shit to Detective Storm too? Because if you do I’m surprised he hasn’t killed you yet.”

“Ben and I work together a little better than you and I seem to.”

“We aren’t working together, Gant. You’re just getting in the way and being a huge pain in my ass.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Really? How’s that? What did I ever do to you?”

“I’m trying to help my wife. You already know that.”

“Yeah, I do. I’m just not entirely clear on how chasing after a person of interest in a murder investigation you have nothing to do with is helping your wife.”

“I can’t really explain it.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess-I wouldn’t believe you if you told me.”

Instead of responding to his sarcasm, I simply replied, “You’re just going to have to trust me on this.”

“I did that once already, and look what it got me.”

“Listen, Detective Fairbanks…”

“No, Gant, you listen. You’ve been in town less than forty-eight hours and you’re already vying for your own position next to Katrina as the worst natural disaster ever to hit this city. You rank somewhere on the order of an empty-handed FEMA bureaucrat at this point, so nobody is really interested in what you have to say.”

“Fine,” I spat. “So what now? Am I under arrest?”

“If I had my way, you sure as hell would be,” he barked in return. “But apparently Storm isn’t the only friend you have in high places, so technically you’re in protective custody.”

“Constance?” I asked.

“I have no idea who,” he replied with a shake of his head. “But, based on the call we received, somebody at the FBI has a vested interest in you for some unknown reason. Hell, we’ve actually been looking for you for them since this morning.”

“Looking for me?”

“That’s right. Apparently, the feds would like for you to come home.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, as much as we’d like to bury you under the jail right now, we aren’t going to. But, as soon as the doctor cuts you loose, I’m personally sticking your ass on a plane back to Saint Louis and letting them deal with you.”

Initially, I was adamant that I had no intention of allowing them to admit me to the hospital. However, my argument didn’t last long. To his credit, Detective Fairbanks did give me a choice, limited as it was. The way he explained it, my options were to get on the first airplane bound for Saint Louis, to stay at the hospital until the doctor released me, or to spend the remainder of my time here in New Orleans inspecting the inside of their lockup. Since I was already dwelling on his bad side, I had no doubt he was serious.

Unfortunately, after a short exchange with Doctor Miller, he retracted the option of immediate travel home, which had been my preferred choice. And, since I was technically in police custody, there was no room for me to negotiate that point. Apparently, disliked as I was, they were still intent on me not dying until they were in the clear. I had no doubt this was based solely on an issue of liability rather than any true concern for my continued well-being.

So, while I was no fan of hospitals, the idea of spending the night in jail was even less appealing; therefore, the decision became an instantaneous no-brainer. At least I was going to have a clean bed in which to sleep for a change.

I was also told that my rental car had been impounded, which I’m certain wasn’t going to sit well with the company that owned it, but there wasn’t much I could do. And, of course, it didn’t stop there. They took the key to my room at the Airline Courts in order to collect my luggage and anything else I had felt comfortable with leaving there unattended. I was, however, assured they would be returned to me, as well as the rest of my personal effects, upon my release and once I had been escorted to the airport.

Since the police had already taken Velvet’s statement, and they didn’t see her as the threat they saw me, she was free to leave. She had graciously offered to hang loose for a while once I was settled in, however I was well aware she still had an hour or so drive ahead of her to get back to Baton Rouge. As much as I would have appreciated the company, I felt as though I had disrupted her life more than enough already, so I urged her to go home. Eventually, she gave in, though only after I promised to contact her if I needed any further help. It seemed I had made at least one friend while I was here.

Now, to occupy the void, I had been trying to watch TV. I managed to catch the last half of a re-broadcast episode of Firefly on a cable station, but after that, all I seemed to be able to find were so-called “reality shows” that were worse than a waste of time. After running up and down the gamut of channels, I switched it off. Dragging myself out of the bed for the third time since arriving in the room, I made my way to the bathroom to empty my bladder. They were still running IV’s into me at full bore. While I had insisted after my second trip to the toilet that I must be fully re-hydrated by now, I was informed that I was being flushed out. A catheter was offered if I felt the repeated trips were too annoying, but I declined, promising instead to fill the sample cups each time I went. Fortunately, that seemed to satisfy them.

I finished executing my duty and had just rolled the IV stand back into place next to the bed before sitting down when a nurse came into the room.

“How are you feelin’, Mistuh Gant?” she asked.

“About as good as can be expected,” I grumbled. “By the way, I just left you a present in the bathroom.”

“For me? Why, thank you. Ya’ shouldn’t have,” she replied in a bubbly voice.

“You’re way too cheerful,” I told her.

She ignored the statement and went about checking my IV then my pulse and blood pressure. When she was finished, she asked, “Do ya’ need anythin’?”