M Sellars - The End Of Desire

“So, I’ll talk to you later?” I asked.

“Yeah. Later.”

He started to leave, but before he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned and looked back up at me. “Oh, by the way. Speakin’ of Constance, she’s been checkin’ on that thing for ya’. You know, the secret Feeb call to the NOLA PD.”

“Did she find anything?”

“Nada. Whoever called ‘em from the bureau ta’ get you released ain’t talkin’.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it don’t. She’s gonna keep on it, but it pretty much looks like she’s at a dead end. Apparently you got another mystery on your hands.”

“I think I’ll just call it good and leave it alone.”

“Yeah, well let’s hope it has the same plan about you.”

Wednesday, December 7

11:46 P.M.

Room 3

Continental Motel

Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Annalise stared at the limp body. She was on her knees, straddling the man’s stomach where he lay on the floor.

“I hate you, Rowan Gant,” she growled, her voice thick with anger.

He had started twitching uncontrollably after the first blow. Following the second, all movement stopped, and she felt his chest lower slowly as the air sighed from his lungs. She raised her arm over her head again, feeling the cold derision knotting into a ball at the pit of her stomach.

“I HATE YOU,” she repeated, as she swung the tenderizing mallet down hard for the third and final time.

She heard a mushy thump and the splintering of bone.

Blood was now soaking through the black fabric of the hood wherever the pulpy remnants of his face came into contact with it. The sticky wetness made the cloth glisten in the harsh, overhead light of the small room. She sat back and allowed herself to smile as she watched it spread.

There was no impending reward behind this kill. No tickle, no itch, no physical gratification. She didn’t love this man as she did the others. He was a tool for her to use. He was nothing more than an object. And now, the object had fulfilled a purpose.

Annalise pulled herself up to her feet and stepped over to the bed. She could still feel the anger coursing through her body as she reached into her bag then withdrew the brand new twelve-inch butcher’s saw. She tore off the paperboard sleeve and carefully removed the blade guard before turning back to the body on the floor.

One cross wouldn’t be enough, and there was still much to do.

Thursday, December 8

2:46 P.M.

St. Louis, Missouri

The headache had come on me in the middle of the night, which meant I had been wide-awake since a little after one in the morning. The cause of the pain, however, was a mystery to me. I had become so accustomed to the ethereal pounding in my skull that I couldn’t always distinguish between it and a plain old migraine, but this one was definitely bizarre. It had some of the same hallmarks as the chronic ache I experienced when someone or something from the other side wanted to have a sit down with me. However, those had a tendency to come at me from the back. This one was a full-bore frontal assault. In fact, my entire face hurt.

I glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was pushing three o’clock in the afternoon, and the vexation had been coming and going all day. I’d barely managed to get any work done at all, and I had a client who was starting to get more than just a little anxious.

“Screw it,” I muttered to myself, then reached out and snatched a bottle from the counter.

After removing the lid, I poured a pile of aspirin into my hand and stared at them. I started to pop the analgesics into my mouth but stopped in the middle of the motion then lowered my hand and stared at them again. With a sigh I scooped the pills back into the bottle and replaced the cap. I had poisoned myself once already, so I didn’t need to get back into the habit of eating these things like candy.

I glanced at the clock again. It hadn’t changed.

I tried to manage a quick mental calculation and failed miserably. Felicity had called earlier to tell me she wasn’t going to be home until after seven because she was stuck on a photo shoot, and apparently a foul-up had them running behind schedule.

I tried to do the calculation again and came up with a different answer. I gave it a third go, using my fingers this time and came up with four hours before she would possibly be home. I didn’t guess there was any need for me to do anything about starting dinner just yet. I sighed, mulled over my options for a moment, then reached over and yanked open the freezer door. I rummaged around for a bit then pulled out an icepack. I figured my best bet was to lie down for a while and hope the ache would subside.

I was a half dozen steps from the couch when the telephone rang. I paused for a second then continued toward the sofa. The answering machine was on; it could get it.

The telephone pealed again, demanding to be answered. As much as I wanted to simply sprawl out on the couch and ignore the thing, I knew it was entirely possible Felicity was calling to check on me or to give me a schedule update. Maybe they had made up some time, and she was going to be home earlier than expected. I gave the sofa a longing glance then turned and headed for the phone. For good measure I went ahead and stuck the icepack against my forehead. Continuing across the room, I stepped around both dogs who were stretched out for an afternoon nap in the most inconvenient locations they could manage.

I glanced at the caller ID through bleary eyes and saw that it wasn’t Felicity after all. It was Ben. I considered just turning around and heading back for the couch, but I was already standing here, so I figured I might as well answer it.

“Hello?” I grunted into the handset after settling it against my ear.

“Hey, White Man,” Ben returned. “You sound like shit.”

“I feel like it,” I replied. “Headache.”

“Which kind?”

“That’s the question of the day. Actually, I don’t know.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“That sucks.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” I said. “Look, no offense, but I was just about to sack out for a bit.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he replied then fell silent.

“Well? Was there something you needed?”

“Yeah, for one I wanted ta’ let ya’ know Constance and I are good for dinner on the seventeenth. Need us ta’ bring anything?”

“Not really,” I replied. “We weren’t going to do anything too elaborate.”

“Ain’t it time for that Witch Christmas thing or somethin’?”

“Winter Solstice. Yule,” I agreed. “Middle of the following week. Normally we’d celebrate the weekend before, but Felicity’s coveners had a hell of a time getting their schedules to jive this year, so they’re all doing individual celebrations.”

“Oh, okay. Makes sense,” he replied.

There was an overwhelming aura of preoccupation surrounding his voice, and that told me he had something else on his mind. The question about Yule had really been little more than a stall tactic while he decided how to work whatever that something else was into the mix.

I decided to give him a hand.

“What’s going on, Ben?” I asked. “I have a feeling you didn’t call just to RSVP.”

“No, I didn’t,” he replied. “Actually, this is kinda an official call.”

“Official how?”

“I need ta’ talk to ya’ about Annalise Devereaux.”

“Unless you’re calling to tell me she’s in custody, I don’t really have anything to say. You already know that.”

“Unfortunately, no. She went completely off radar after your little run in with her. Up until now.”