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  The End Of Desire

  ( A Rowan Gant investigation - 8 )

  M R Sellars

  The End Of Desire

  M. R. Sellars

  For behold, I have been with you from the beginning, and I am that which is attained at the end of desire.

  From

  The Charge of the Goddess

  As attributed to Doreen Valiente

  Thursday, November 24

  3:09 A.M.

  Room 7

  Southern Hospitality Motor Lodge

  Metairie, Louisiana

  PROLOGUE:

  Annalise Devereaux felt like she was suffocating.

  Not the literal asphyxiation one experiences from lack of oxygen, but a metaphorical suffocation brought about by the absence of something else entirely. A something else that was just as important to her as the air she was now breathing.

  And, metaphorical or not, the agony she suffered because of the void it left was no less real.

  At the root was the feeling she harbored deep inside. It was the unquenchable thirst that drove her to do unspeakable things for no other purpose than self-gratification. It was the force that made her no longer Annalise, but Miranda.

  It was also the thing that now brought her pain.

  The inner sensation was no longer a mere tickle; nor was it the insatiable itch she had grown to know so well. It wasn’t even a mere compulsion. In fact, it had surpassed her very need to breathe in order of importance, making itself the top rung on her ladder of survival. And, with that, it had turned to a raging fire that could not be quelled.

  Still, that didn’t stop her from trying to snuff out the flame.

  But, for everything she did to feed the hunger, to douse the burning, to satiate the desire-simply to breathe-she still felt as if she was gasping. As though she was barely clinging to life in the face of that which had become all consuming.

  The truth is, it felt as if someone was actually taking it from her, breath by breath. Literally stealing the force that fueled her will to live; and in her mind it belonged only to her, and her alone.

  She knew all too well that her current situation had everything to do with Saint Louis. Everything that had happened there had been wrong, and although the reward had been sweet for a time, the price paid was too high. Two sacrifices so close together, both of whom would be missed. Doing that had been beyond dangerous; it had been reckless. She knew when it was happening that it was a mistake, but she’d had no choice.

  She had demanded it, and Annalise had to do as She said.

  But, She would also never take responsibility for the mistake. The blame would fall to Her servant, to Annalise. With blame came penance, which must be paid by the servant. It now seemed that penance was sharing her reward with another-the reward that kept her from suffocating as she was right now.

  The identity of the other remained a mystery. And perhaps it always would. But the fact remained that she hated her for taking what didn’t belong to her. Even though She was giving it to the other freely, in Annalise’s mind, the other was still stealing.

  Call it greed, but she had already tasted it all, and for her, half simply would not do. She intended to take it back.

  Annalise allowed her anger to feed her lust as she looked down at the man beneath her. He had been easy enough to coax here to the small motel room. All it had taken were some kind words, a cheap bottle of rum, and the promise of a bed for the night. It was a better deal than he would have had otherwise.

  In the end, the hardest part had been getting him to shower.

  He was still struggling against the bonds that held him securely to the bed. He pretty much had been ever since he’d realized this wasn’t just a game.

  It had been nothing to get him into this position. She’d started him on the pint of rum as soon as she had picked him up. Of course, as always the bottle contained more than mere alcohol. So, by the time he’d had several healthy swigs, followed by the shower, he was “medicated” enough to be pliable. But then, they always were.

  The vagrants along Airline Highway were easy prey. Even better, they were rarely, if ever, missed. When they disappeared no one asked questions. No one wondered where they might be. No one, except maybe the others like them with whom they spent their pathetic lives each day and night. But, no one listened to them. And, just like her chosen sacrifice, none of them even mattered. Like all men, they were there for her amusement, and because these wretches led such an unremarkable existence, they were perfect for those times when the need arrived unannounced.

  She just had to be careful which ones she chose. But then, Miranda did the choosing, and She was always careful.

  Except for Saint Louis.

  Annalise stared into the man’s face. His fear was making the rum and Diazepam cocktail wear off quickly, which was exactly what she wanted. She needed his fear and his pain, for with them came his undying love. And, these were the currency that brought the reward.

  She could see a newfound sobriety in his watery eyes as he peered back at her, silently pleading. She could barely hear his hoarse moans and squeals through the several loops of duct tape encircling the lower half of his head, securing the washcloths she had stuffed into his mouth.

  At the moment, she was kneeling astride his chest, resting her weight primarily on her knees, which pressed down hard upon his upper arms. It wasn’t so much that she needed to do so for a practical purpose. There was no way he could escape the ropes with which he’d been tied. But, the position made her feel even more in control, and she was certain that it brought him pain. It was a demonstration of her power over him, for her own benefit as much as his.

  Leaning slightly, she reached to the side table and picked up a cigarette then placed it in her mouth. With a flick of her thumb, she sparked a butane lighter to life and carefully touched the flame to the tobacco. After taking a shallow drag, she allowed the smoke to slowly roll from her mouth between crimson glossed lips and inhaled it deeply through her nose. Regarding her victim with little concern, she exhaled slowly, took a second drag, and then repeated the process.

  She felt him relax slightly, and so she allowed herself to smile. She didn’t take a third drag from the cigarette. Instead she put it out.

  Annalise caught her breath, feeling her arousal as she slowly twisted the smoldering butt against the man’s cheek. His muffled screams were music, and as he arched between her thighs, it made the wave of pleasure intensify, causing her to emit her own involuntary moan.

  By the time she crushed out a second cigarette against his flesh, and then a third, Annalise was no longer in control of her own actions.

  It was all Her. It was all Miranda.

  Her face spread into a wicked grin as she shifted backwards and settled her weight onto his belly so that his chest was now fully exposed. A haunting, almost ethereal tone surrounded her words as she spoke to him.

  “Now, little man. Let’s see how much you love me.”

  As she spoke, she flicked the lighter to life and adjusted the flame to full. Before she had finished the sentence, she was holding the bright yellow fire against his bare nipple, reveling in the scent and sound of his crisping flesh and smiling as he squirmed between her thighs.

  So the sacrifice began-as did payment of her reward.

  Unfortunately, someone else, somewhere else, was receiving half of it.

  Half that she wanted back.

  Saturday, November 26

  4:17 P.M.

  Room 7

  Southern Hospitality Motor Lodge

  Metairie, Louisiana

  “Manager said da’ do-not-disturb sign was on da’ door all day yestuhday, an’ t’day,” the uniformed cop said. “Room was only paid up ta’
t’day though, so dey came in ta’ clean it an’ dat’s when dey found ‘im.”

  The older homicide detective to whom he had been speaking jotted a note then gave him a nod and asked, “Did the manager say who paid for the room?”

  His words were structured with the generic speech pattern of any randomly selected Midwestern location, audibly setting him apart from the natives of the Crescent City.

  “He said da’ podna paid for it, cash money.”

  “Partner?” the detective asked. Just as his lack of accent set him apart, his question marked him as a very recent transplant. “Did you get a description?”

  The uniformed cop raised an eyebrow and gave the detective a confused stare. After a brief pause he nodded toward the victim on the bed and repeated, “Da’ podna. Cap over dere paid for it.”

  “Who?”

  “Da’ victim,” a slightly younger detective interjected as he entered through the motel room door. Obviously he had heard at least some of the exchange. “Ya’ gotta excuse Country dere. He never learnt a secon’ language.”

  The older man turned, peering over his glasses at the source of the new voice and said, “The victim?”

  “Yeah, you rite,” the younger man replied with a nod.

  The uniformed cop glanced over at him and grinned, “Hey, cap. How’s yamamma’n’dem?”

  “Dey good,” he replied, giving the other man a slap on the shoulder. “Ya’ gonna be home later? I’ll pass by ya’ house.”

  “Naw, I prahmis’ Jawn ah’d he’p out wit ‘is maw-maw house.”

  “Yeah? It bad?”

  The uniformed man gave his head a sad shake. “Ya’ you rite, it’s bad. She still waitin’ on da bastuhds ta’ bring da’ trailuh.”

  “Gawd. Well you tell ‘em hey from me.”

  “F’sure.”

  A lull fell in the conversation, and the newly arrived detective turned his attention to the older man. “Well… Dere ya’ go.”

  “Uh-hmmm…Okay,” the transplant muttered then glanced back to the patrolman. “Sorry about the miscommunication there.”

  “So’kay, cap,” he replied.

  “Okay, well thanks. I guess I’ll catch up with you if I need anything else.”

  The cop simply nodded then turned and made his way out of the room, which was quickly becoming crowded, even though there were only two crime scene technicians, the victim, and the two detectives occupying the space.

  The younger detective offered his hand and said, “Bailey. Joe Bailey.”

  The older man took it and answered, “Tim Fairbanks. But, everybody just calls me Banks.”

  “You got it, Banks,” the younger man replied. “Everybody jus’ calls me Joe. Where ya’ stay at?”

  “I’ve got a hotel room over at…”

  “No…I mean where da’ ya’ live? Where are ya’ from?”

  “Oh. Kansas City. Homicide division. I had some vacation time coming and not much to do, so I volunteered through the FOP to come down here.”

  “We can use da’ help. Glad ya’ here.”

  “Thanks. Just got here a couple days ago. That’s kind of obvious, I guess.”

  “F’true. Doin’ okay so far?”

  “Pretty much. Although, there have been a few times when I thought I was going to need a translator,” Fairbanks sighed.

  “Like jus’ now?” Bailey replied. His own voice had the clipped affectations of the region but was nowhere near as thick as the uniformed officer where his dialect was concerned. He grinned at Fairbanks then momentarily poured it on for effect. “Ya’ get used ta’ it. Ya’ jus’ stick ‘round awhile dere, cap, an’ ya’ learn how ta’ tawk rite like us.”

  “Yeah,” Detective Fairbanks chuckled. “So I’ve been told.”

  The two men shuffled around to get out of the way as a crime scene technician excused himself with a grunt and skirted past them. After a moment, Detective Bailey shook his head and let out a low whistle as he inspected the scene.

  “Gawd. Ya’ evuh seen such a thing, cheef?”

  The question hung waiting in the thick air. It almost seemed as if it was held aloft by the cloying odor of sweet watermelon, cigarette smoke, and burnt flesh that still permeated the motel room even though the door had been wide open for some time. While Bailey’s tone was more rhetorical than anything, the query still seemed to beg an answer.

  Fairbanks grunted, “You mean this week, or ever?”

  Detective Bailey chuckled.

  “Actually, I was serious,” Fairbanks offered.

  “F’true?”

  “Yeah,” he continued with a nod. “I’ve seen something a lot like it. Of course, there wasn’t any blood and the guy wasn’t dead.”

  “Ya’ lyin’?”

  “No.” He gave his head a shake. “True story.”

  Bailey whistled again. “Where ya’ see dat?”

  “A few years back when I worked a vice detail, we raided a sex club. I hit my assigned door, and when I came through it, this hooker had a buck-naked john all trussed up to the bed. Pretty much just like this guy is.” He dipped his head toward the scene in front of them. “The pro was all dolled up like a Catholic schoolgirl, and she was beatin’ the hell out of him with a yardstick.”

  “No way. F’true?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded again. “Trust me, I’m pretty vanilla. I couldn’t even begin to make up something like that. I have to say, it appeared that they were havin’ a pretty good time of it too-before I interrupted them, of course. Especially him, from the looks of things, if you know what I mean.”

  The younger cop shook his head slowly and grinned. “Gawd! Dressed like a Catlick schoolgirl, huh? Sick bastuhd liked dat did ‘e?” After a short pause he nodded toward the victim. “F’sure, I don’t think dis one here enjoyed it so much.”

  Fairbanks bobbed his head. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree with you.”

  “Well,” Bailey began, “I sure don’t think we’re talkin’ about jus’ your av’rage hooker did dis though.”

  “That was my thought too, what with the level of torture and all. Are you thinking maybe gang retribution or something on that order?”

  “Naw, I doubt dat. Not da’ kinda gang you mean, anyway. Dere’s more goin’ on here than ya’ think.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Lookit ‘is chest,” he offered, pointing.

  Detective Fairbanks pushed his glasses up on his nose and leaned in to look. After a moment of inspection, an intricate pattern became obvious even through the wide swath of dried blood and random burn marks covering the dead man’s skin. The longer he looked, the more it revealed itself, until it formed what appeared to be a crosshatched heart pierced by a long dagger or sword.

  “So our killer is a bit of an artist, then?”

  Bailey let out another of his trademark whistles. “Cheef, dat’s not jus’ art. Dat dere is a veve. Air-zoo-LEE Don-toe. Whoever done dis did more than jus’ kill dis guy. Dey put a gris-gris on ‘im.”

  Fairbanks looked closer at the intricate incisions then leaned back and sighed. Shaking his head he muttered, “Yeah. Okay. I’m definitely gonna need a translator.”

  Thursday, December 1

  1:12 A.M.

  Room 16

  Airline Courts Motel

  Metairie, Louisiana

  CHAPTER 1:

  The last time I had been to New Orleans I was with Felicity, and we had come here on vacation… Well, it was actually a working vacation on her part, as she had been hired by an architectural magazine to shoot pictures for an upcoming layout featuring several of the more artful buildings in the city. Still, there had been plenty of time for relaxation, which was more than I could say for my current visit.

  Back then, we had stayed at a plush hotel in the French Quarter on someone else’s tab and spent our days doing what amounted to sightseeing, even though my wife had a camera to her eye most of the time. Of course, that wasn’t particularly unusual for her whether she was working or not.
It was more or less a by-product of her reputation as one of the top freelance photographers in the country. But, in the end the only real difference between us and the other tourists snapping pictures was that Felicity knew what she was doing and was being well paid to do it.

  Me, on the other hand, I was just along for the ride. Still, she didn’t let me off the hook too easily. This meant that I spent a good part of the time playing the role of her pack mule-tirelessly plodding through the streets behind her, toting her padded, lens-laden bags, and at her demand, handing over a freshly loaded camera body or switching out the optics. But, I didn’t mind. We were together, which was the most important thing to me; and besides, I was getting to see the sights with both eyes.

  Just as our days were spent wearing down the soles on our walking shoes, our evenings generally consisted of tossing back hurricanes of all varieties. Frozen, on the rocks, in fishbowls…pretty much any way the restaurants and bars served them. Okay, to be honest the hurricanes actually started around midday with a trip to a random bar, but who was watching a clock? This was New Orleans, and that is how things were done in The Quarter.

  But, like I said. That was then. This was now, and now was very different-on many levels.

  I shook off the memory and gave myself a mental shove back into the here and now, a process easier imagined than done. My brain stumbled a bit, regained its footing in the present but refused to fully surface from the pleasant remembrance. Of course, I’m sure that as much as I needed the normalcy of the thought, it was also being fueled by a simple mnemonic.

  Hurricanes.

  Hurricanes in a glass…

  Hurricanes on the gulf…

  I’m certain the residents of the area would agree that the former were certainly preferred to the latter. Especially after the three seemingly back-to-back storms that had so recently rained destruction down upon this magickal city, Katrina being the worst of all.

  Even though the sun had already set, gazing out the windows of my rental car as I drove from the airport to my motel in Metairie a few miles outside the city proper, the aftermath had been evident. In fact, the motel itself might have even seen its own share of damage. Looking around, I couldn’t be entirely sure if that was the case or if the Airline Courts had always been in such sad shape.