M Sellars - All acts of pleasure

“I think you are correct. She seemed far more interested in talking than anything else.”

“So exactly what did you talk about?”

“Whatever she wanted, unfortunately.”

“What do you mean?”

“As you may guess, her favorite topic is torture, Rowan.”

“Yeah, again I’m not surprised.”

“Oh, I think perhaps you would be.”

“That bad?” I asked. “I mean I know what she did to Wentworth and Hobbes and that was…well, she…”

“Yes, that bad,” she replied, saving me from my attempt to relay the harshness without actually giving her a description. “ Miranda spent the better part of two hours regaling me with extremely graphic details about what she had done to several of her victims. Details that, I dare say, would turn the stomach of a horror movie fanatic.”

“Okay, so that’s what has you so nonplussed.”

“Yes, she is actually a very eloquent speaker with an excellent command of the language. She paints intricate pictures with words, Rowan. They just are not very pretty to the rest of us.”

“I can imagine.”

“I doubt it,” she huffed as she visibly shuddered. She was obviously still dealing with the imagery in her own head. “Of course, it did not help that the more violent or cruel the story she was telling, the more her eyes would light up. She was literally becoming aroused by reliving the horrors she had exacted upon those men. And, to make matters worse, she found my level of disgust amusing.”

“Yeah, again I’m not surprised.” I gave her a quick nod. “She really got to you, didn’t she?”

“Yes. I hate to admit it, but yes. She did.”

“That’s not an easy task.”

“I used to think so, but now I am not so sure.”

“Well, remember Helen, you weren’t just dealing with a disturbed individual. You were dealing with an incorporeal entity. They don’t necessarily respond to the type of finesse you shrinks use.”

“Perhaps you are correct, however, I would almost suspect that she has a background in psychology herself. She was quite adept at that ‘finesse we shrinks use’. Unfortunately, it does not make this any less embarrassing for me.”

“Anyone else know how you were affected?”

“No, not that I am aware.”

“Then it stays between us. The whole patient-doctor confidentiality thing.”

“I would say thank you if I did not suspect you were making a joke.”

“Maybe just a little one,” I replied. “So, anyway, do you believe me about the Lwa now?”

“I have never doubted you on that point, Rowan.” She shook her head to punctuate the statement. “Another doctor, however, would most likely diagnose Felicity with an unidentified psychosis and more than likely, Disassociative Identity Disorder. To be truthful, if I did not know the things that I do, I would be inclined to agree with such an assessment.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re her doctor.”

“That statement is more accurate than you know, Rowan. If the latent details she was giving me were accurate, what I listened to would easily qualify as a confession to several premeditated murders. It is a very good thing she did not do this while in police custody.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, thinking exactly the same thing. “Okay, so then what? If she’s resting now then Miranda must be gone.”

“Yes, she is. She simply stopped speaking mid-sentence and a moment later Felicity was in her place. As soon as she realized what had happened, she began to cry hysterically and beg for you. I was left with no choice but to sedate her.”

“But, she’s okay?”

“Physically, she is fine. Emotionally, however, any progress we have made in the past few days is a complete wash.”

I remained quiet, considering what she had just said.

Before I could form any sort of comment, she suddenly offered up a new subject. “I have not spoken to Benjamin lately. Do you know if they have had any luck locating the half-sister?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. Last I heard they were still sifting through the paperwork Maggie handed over, looking for leads.”

“Well, they need to find her very soon. The last two episodes have taken a severe toll on Felicity. She is very strong willed, but she is beginning to break down.”

“I agree that they need to find her, Helen,” I replied. “But my worry is that even if they do, this isn’t going to stop. The Lwa has obviously formed a bond with Felicity as well as Miranda, or whatever her name really is.”

“How do you propose to address that?”

“Figure out who the Lwa is, and go at it from an ethereal angle.”

“How will you find her?”

“I’ve been working on it with an expert on Voodoo. She’s a college professor out of Baton Rouge who’s written some fairly definitive books on the subject. She has some ideas.”

“Anything promising?”

“Some, but nothing solid just yet. She’s been running down some leads for me. In fact, I’m expecting a call from her today. The big problem is we’re chasing after someone who’s already dead. Sounds like it shouldn’t be a big deal, but when you don’t know who the dead person is, or even when they died, it gets a little tricky.”

Helen lit her third fresh cigarette and again offered me another. This time I took it. Once she had taken a long drag and slowly exhaled the smoke, she turned her face to me. Her expression was hard and serious, which made the next words to come from her mouth even more of a contrast against her normally proper exterior.

“I would suggest that you chase faster, Rowan. This Miranda is a sick fucking bitch, and I do not like her.”

“Hey there,” I said, my voice soft.

The hard sound of a deadbolt snapping shut followed my words as the door behind me was locked. I had been warned that it would happen, as it was standard procedure for this section of the hospital. That didn’t make the sound any less jarring. Of course, the entire feel of this floor was oppressive to begin with, so my nerves were feeling more than just a bit raw and exposed. Not to mention that since I wasn’t hospital staff, I was violating policy by being in the room, but Helen had given the okay. Still, it all added up, and the sharp finality of the noise actually made me flinch.

Across the room, Felicity was sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, her back to me. She was still clad in one of the pairs of flannel pajamas I’d packed for her days before.

She didn’t reply.

My wife’s original accommodations had seemed more like a small hotel room than something you would find at a hospital-sparse, but comfortable, furnished with a bed, dresser, some chairs and a small table. The bathroom was utilitarian but fairly spacious. She’d even had a television and large windows looking out onto a garden courtyard.

This room, however, made that look like a plush suite. Her furnishings consisted of little more than the hospital bed upon which she was now perched and a basic, straight-backed chair in the far corner. Gone was everything else, with the exception of the view. Of course, we were several stories up, and the thick windows were sandwiching heavy-duty safety wire, ostensibly to prevent suicide attempts. At least the walls were a calming, pale blue instead of the stark white so often depicted in movies. Still, that was of little comfort.

I stepped a little farther into the room and spoke a bit louder, “Knock knock.”

“So, what do you think of the new place?” she asked. “I just moved in, so I haven’t had time to do much with it.”

Her voice was flat, emotionless, with more than just her usual Celtic lilt accenting the words, probably because she was tired-a lingering effect of the sedative. Her attempt at humor was even cliche, which was just more evidence of that fact.