M Sellars: Love Is The Bond

“I know.”

“So… What is going to happen now?”

“Constance didn’t tell you?” I asked.

“Not really.”

“Well, she’s falling on her sword for you.”

“How so?”

“She’s convinced her superiors to clean your slate and give her a reprimand.”

“How did she manage that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Aye, but she didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, she didn’t.”

Felicity simply sighed and fell against me once again. I slipped my arms around her as she quietly rested her head on my shoulder. She didn’t resume her sobbing, and I took that as a good sign. But, I could easily feel her confusion and fear flowing into me, prickling my skin with a cold wave of gooseflesh.

I stroked her hair as I gently rocked her. After a comfortable silence I said, “If I understood Constance correctly, they should be letting you out of here soon. Then we can go home.”

“And then?”

“And then I figure out what’s going on and why it’s happening to you.”

She didn’t answer me right away, but when she did her voice was a pleading whisper. “Make it stop, Rowan… Please…”

“I’m trying” was all I could think of to say.

Friday, November 18

1:27 P.M.

Saint Louis, Missouri

My head was killing me, and the aspirin I had taken earlier hadn’t even fazed the pain. I knew full well that generally meant there was something more to it than simple brain chemistry or inflamed sinuses. However, I had been putting in far more hours than usual in front of my computer, so it was more than likely eyestrain. At least, that was what I was telling myself.

Ever since bringing Felicity back home just over a week ago, researching Voodoo, as well as its related offshoots and similar religions, had become a near obsession for me. Every waking moment I had free from my business or other daily chores, I spent reading, surfing the net, or even making calls in an attempt to track down information.

It was really all that I could do. I wasn’t being brought into the investigation any longer, and the last time I had spoken to Ben had been at his father’s funeral. Even then the conversation was clipped and stiff. I’d also heard nothing more about the physical evidence that had been mentioned. I wasn’t sure whether to be worried about that or simply consider it a blessing.

Still, I felt I had to do something, and finding out all I could about Voodoo seemed to be the best use of my time. Maybe I could find something that would help track down the actual killer. Unfortunately, while I was now armed with far more knowledge on the subject than I had been several days prior, or had ever wanted to know for that matter, I was just becoming more and more confused.

Certain questions were answered, of course, such as the heretofore-unrealized significance behind the murder of Officer Hobbes. I didn’t actually make the connection right away. Not until I read an in-depth chapter pertaining to Ezili Danto in one of the many books I had obtained. I discovered that this particular Lwa tended to demand of her followers the sacrifice of a black pig. I also found out that such an animal was rare here in the U.S. and was native to Haiti-a bit of trivia I hadn’t known. Suddenly, the choice of Officer Hobbes as a victim made sense, especially for a serial killer who was twisting the religion to fit her purpose. Granted, it was a convoluted and sick kind of sense, but it made sense all the same.

I had also managed very easily to verify my identification of the Papa Legba veve, as well as corroborate the sketchy information given me by the paramedic. The third veve, however, remained slightly elusive. I had been fruitless in my quest to pin it on any widely known Lwa, so I had to assume that it really did signify a personal ancestor or guiding spirit of sorts. Since the offerings left for it were perfume and lipstick, it was a good bet that said spirit was also female. I wasn’t terribly surprised.

After making a sketch of the triskele-like symbol for Felicity, she had informed me that she’d seen it several times before, and she wasn’t referring to the Celtic religious icon. According to her it was yet another emblem of the dom-sub bondage crowd. She explained that each third was meant to signify a facet of the subculture-D/S, B/D, S/M. Each dot residing within the thirds was also important, supposedly holding the individual meanings: safe, sane, and consensual.

Under the circumstances, I found that last set of details to be considerably ironic.

On the flip side of the coin, however, it seemed that more questions were being raised than were being answered. Just as I had suspected, while dealing with my foggy memories of what I’d read on the subject, Lwa didn’t tend to possess non-followers. They also didn’t even make a habit of taking over their followers just for something to do. And, while there were exceptions, spirit possessions did usually occur within the confines of a ritual.

That general idea certainly made sense where the killer was concerned but not necessarily where I was looking to apply it.

One of the primary questions that still remained was whether or not Felicity’s preternatural incident had actually been her body being used as a horse by a Lwa, or if it was something else entirely? And, if it was something else, just exactly what was it? Moreover, why had she been the victim of it in the first place?

It was for all of those reasons, as well as a host of others, that I once again found myself making a long distance call to yet another someone I had never met, nor had any reason to believe would be willing to talk to me, much less answer my questions.

I tilted my head up and peered at my screen through the bottom half of my bifocals as I punched in the phone number listed on the web page before me. Once I entered the string of digits, I rocked back in my chair and began idly moving the mouse across the surface of my desk. I watched the pointer move about the screen in the random patterns I was creating as the phone began to ring several hundred miles away.

“Louisiana State University Department of Sociology,” a woman’s voice eventually drawled into my ear. “How may I direct your call?”

“Doctor Rieth’s office, please,” I replied.

“Please hold.”

I continued watching the pointer as I nudged it around the screen. My real attention, however, remained focused on the hollow sound of the phone as I waited for the transfer to occur.

A minute or so passed before there was a dull click at the other end and a new voice issued from the handset. “Doctor Rieth’s office, this is Kathy, may I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Kathy,” I said as I rocked back forward and straightened my posture. “Is Doctor Rieth in by any chance?”

“No sir, I’m afraid she’s gone for the holiday break. I’m her assistant, can I help you?”

It hadn’t even dawned on me that Thanksgiving was less than one week away at this point. Considering that, I was probably fortunate to have reached anyone at the University at all.

“No offense, but probably not,” I replied. “I’m calling from Saint Louis, and I need to speak with the doctor about something in her book, Voodoo Practice in American Culture.”

I glanced at the corner of my desk where the tome was resting atop a pile of other books, all with the same general subject matter, Afro-Cuban religion and mysticism.

“I’m sorry, sir, but all queries regarding Doctor Rieth’s books should be made via the University Press,” Kathy replied, launching into a decidedly prepared sounding spiel. “The address can be found…”

“I understand that,” I spoke up, truncating her instructions. “Please understand that I’m not looking for an autograph or trying to dispute her or anything like that. I’m doing some research regarding a murder investigation here, and I think she might be able to help me.”