All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation Read online

  “I was just wondering if you were maybe doing genealogical research,” she continued, undaunted by his inattentive demeanor. “You know, investigating your roots. That sort of thing.”

  “Yeah,” he glanced back at her and replied with a tired nod. “Yeah, I guess you could say it’s something like that.”

  He returned his gaze to the front and pressed the plastic spool inward until he felt it snap into place then tugged at the free end of the celluloid. He could literally feel that the young woman was still standing behind him for some unknown reason. He briefly wondered if he should reach back and check for his wallet, however, what she was exuding definitely didn’t feel malicious. In fact, unless he missed his guess, it felt like a strange mix of curiosity and arousal. At any rate, since no hairs were rising on his neck and no alarms were going off inside his head, he mentally shook it off and tried to ignore her.

  She didn’t let him.

  “Yeah, I figured as much,” she finally said. “I’ve been watching you.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her again. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Well, I mean…” she paused and shrugged. “You look kinda old to be a student.”

  “Thanks,” he replied flatly, a complete lack of sincerity haloing the word.

  He turned back to the machine and continued on with the task at hand, threading the film under the glass and hooking it carefully into the take-up reel.

  “Oh, that wasn’t meant as an insult,” she offered.

  “No big deal. I wasn’t offended. I realize I’m old as compared to you. That part of my brain still works.”

  Though their voices were already held low, she dropped her own down a notch and infused it with a cloying sweetness that bordered on an attempt at sultry. Shifting her stance, she leaned in toward the man and cocked her head as if sharing a secret with him. “The truth is, I really like older men…a lot…know what I mean?”

  Now the hairs on his neck actually were starting to pivot upward. There certainly wasn’t what you would call a sense of physical danger by any means, but he knew the conversation was taking a turn down a path he didn’t want to follow.

  He stopped what he was doing and hung his head. With a sigh he finally said, “Please tell me you aren’t trying to pick me up.”

  There was an audible shrug in her voice. “Well, hey… You’re kind of cute. I was thinking maybe we could go get a cup of coffee or something and see where things go from there?”

  He turned to face her. “I’m betting I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “Yeah, probably. So what? That’s the point.”

  He started to reply to the last statement but thinking it better left alone simply objected with, “I’m also happily married.”

  “Yeah. Okay. But, she isn’t with you right now is she? You’ve been alone since I’ve been here.”

  “Actually, she’s the entire reason I’m here at the moment, but that’s not the point…”

  “Hey, I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  “Look, young lady…”

  “Erika,” she interrupted, holding out her hand. “And you are?”

  He ignored the gesture but returned with a sigh, “Rowan.”

  “Rowan. That’s an interesting name. I like it.” She continued to hold her hand thrust forward.

  “Thanks,” he replied, still avoiding the offered appendage. “So listen, Erika, you’ve got to know that you’re playing a dangerous game here. You have absolutely no idea who I am.”

  After a thick silence she finally pulled her hand back. “Yeah. Well, that’s part of the turn-on too.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I could be some kind of sicko for all you know.”

  “You look pretty safe to me.”

  “Most sociopaths do,” he said. “And, I’ve actually got some experience in that area.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Trust me, you really don’t want to know.”

  She paused for a moment, giving him a once over, then said, “Okay. So, tell me. Are you a ‘sicko’?”

  “Again, that’s not the point.”

  She stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. “So what is it then? Are you just not into blondes?”

  “Listen, Erika, is this some kind of game show? Is there a hidden camera somewhere? Because, honestly, I don’t have time for this.”

  She chuckled. “You’re funny too.”

  He let out another heavy sigh and held up his hands. “All right, look, I’m flattered…At least I think I am…Anyway, this just isn’t going to happen. Understand?”

  She blinked and gave her head a quick shake as if reality had just rapped her on the back of the skull. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “You really don’t want to…”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Well…Okay. It’s your loss.”

  “I’ll just have to take your word for that.”

  “Well, you know…” she started as she opened her notebook to a fresh page and began fishing a pen from the spiral binding. “I could give you my number in case you change your mind…”

  This time he did the interrupting. “That isn’t necessary. I won’t.”

  She paused then shoved the pen back down and closed the notebook. “Okay. Well, never know until you try.” She shrugged and added, “Good luck with whatever you’re doing there, I guess.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. You too.”

  After staring at him curiously for a moment, she shook her head then turned and walked away.

  This was the second time he’d been propositioned in as many days, and it was something he wasn’t particularly used to having happen. He wasn’t sure if it was his obvious emotional state or what. Vulnerability was exuding from every one of his pores and he knew it; he had just hoped that the rest of the world wouldn’t notice. Of course, maybe it was something in the water, so to speak, and women here just had a thing for worn-out, middle-aged men with greying hair and ponytails. Whatever it was, he could certainly do without the aggravation right now.

  He shook his head then tried to forget about it. If the rest of this day continued along the same fruitless vein, as had the morning, he still had quite a bit of searching to do. And, even then, he knew he might not find what he was looking for because, to be honest, even he didn’t know quite exactly what that was.

  Cocking his head over against his shoulder and staring at the image on the marred base, he wound the film a few frames forward and found a reference point. Quickly glancing to the side, he checked a note he had scrawled on the steno pad then looked back to the dimly luminous image. He started to crank the winding lever, stopping and giving it a hard rap to engage the slipping gears once again before continuing. After a moment he slowed, advancing frame by frame until he found the date he sought.

  Twisting the projection head, he turned the glowing reproduction of the over one hundred-fifty year old newspaper so that he no longer had to hold his own head at such an odd angle. Seating himself, he adjusted the magnification and fiddled with the focus until it was as good as it was ever going to get, which wasn’t exactly sharp by any stretch of the imagination.

  With determination he scanned the hard to read blobs, picking his way between scratches, dropout, and the just plain low quality print of the day. He was on the verge of giving up and moving on when his eye caught something familiar. He pulled on the positioning bar and moved the frame in enough to center it and then drew a bead on the type that had commandeered his attention.

  Tilting his head up and gazing through the lower half of his bifocals, he focused on the words. Then, with one finger he slowly traced along beneath the lines of text, his lips slowly but silently moving as he read to himself.

  Then, he read the lines again.

  And, again…

  After the third time, he sat back in the seat and let out the hot breath he had unconsciously been holding within for the duration. Slowly he ran the palm of his hand acr
oss the lower half of his face then pushed his glasses up and closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. After a moment, the man let out a quiet chuckle that could have been born of subdued elation or exhaustion-induced insanity, even he didn’t know which.

  When he finally opened his eyes again, he looked at the page just to make sure the words were really there then muttered aloud to no one in particular, “Miranda, you bitch.”

  Two Weeks Earlier

  Thursday, November 17

  12:16 P.M.

  Saint Louis, Missouri

  CHAPTER 1:

  “My heart is pounding in my chest so hard that I can hear it… And I don’t mean like that thudding rush of blood you get in your ears when your heart is racing. I mean I can literally hear this frantic thump echoing in the darkness.

  “Then, just all of a sudden I gasp for breath. I guess it’s the panic that makes me do it, I don’t know. Anyway, the air is foul. There’s this…I don’t know…something like a stench of death, rotting meat, and maybe even excrement all mixed together. It’s so thick it seems to coat the back of my tongue. You know what I mean? And then I feel this sudden need to vomit…”

  I paused for a moment to gather myself, staring off into space as the steam from my breath quickly dissipated before me. The temperature was hovering right around freezing, several degrees below normal for Saint Louis in late November, but then the weather here was always an enigma. However, ruminating on the offbeat weather patterns was something I didn’t have time to do. I had something much more important, and unfortunately, far more horrifying to contend with. I was already beginning to think the latter was an understatement.

  Thus far, the retelling of my recurring nightmare had been just as bad as living it each night. I had hoped that voicing it to a sympathetic ear might be liberating, which is why I was here, now, putting myself through this. However, instead of manifesting as a freeing experience, it was just serving to make my head hurt and my stomach churn.

  Next to me, Helen Storm shifted against the balcony rail and lit another cigarette. “So, is that when you wake up, Rowan?”

  What the outside observer might see as a casual conversation was in actuality an impromptu therapy session. Helen was a psychiatrist, and odd as it may seem, this was pretty much how all of our sessions happened. Outside, rain or shine. Whether it was frigid and windy, as it was now, or hot and muggy in the dead of summer, it didn’t matter. We would always be outdoors, with her chain smoking and me nursing a cigar.

  Whenever we were in the building where her office was located, as we were today, this particular spot was exactly where we could be found. Standing out here on the large, partially covered corner balcony that had been set up as a smoking lounge for several of the upper floors.

  Unusual, yes, but there was a familiarity between us that allowed for the less than formal setting; in fact, it all but demanded it.

  Helen had come into my life during a period when I truly thought I was going insane. In fact, at the time, I was fairly sure that I had already been delivered to madness’ doorstep. Of course, discovering that you can communicate with the dead can tend to do that to a person, and at that point I had already been living with that very affliction for quite some time.

  To be truthful, I hadn’t been falling all over myself to talk to a psychiatrist when it was suggested. My immediate assumption was that I would be labeled insane, instantly medicated, and carted off to the land of straightjackets and padded rooms. However, considering that the deceased individuals with whom I had been having conversations were all murder victims, and I’d been spending an inordinate amount of time helping the police track down their killers, I needed to vent to someone. I had been seeing things that seasoned cops had trouble dealing with, and I had been experiencing them on a far grander scale than photographs or even the physical crime scene. I saw through the eyes, and felt through the bodies, of the victims.

  No, these were things that truly didn’t need to remain shuttered away in my subconscious.

  In the end, a good friend of mine who was a Saint Louis city homicide detective, and also happened to be Helen’s brother, had argued that I needed to at least give her a chance. Of course, my wife had been directly involved in the “intervention” as well. Between the two of them, the pressure on me to seek outside help dealing with my “gift” had been relentless.

  Fortunately, they had won the skirmish because Helen’s counsel had seen me through some very pitch darkness, both then and countless times since. In fact, her understanding ear and uncanny ability to guide one through his or her own psyche had developed into an invaluable resource.

  On top of that, she had also become a very good friend.

  “Rowan?” she repeated, somewhat louder than before.

  The tone of her voice, rather than the volume, managed to prod me back from the edge of introspection, and I gave her an apologetic glance. “Sorry…it’s all just a little intense.”

  “I understand,” she replied. “Take your time.”

  “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “All right then…is this the point in the nightmare when you wake up?”

  “No,” I answered, staring at the ash on the end of the cigar hooked beneath my index finger. I consciously tucked the double Maduro roll of tobacco into the corner of my mouth and slowly drew, only to discover that it had gone out.

  “Please continue,” Helen urged. “If you are ready to do so, that is.”

  I let out a heavy sigh. Truth be told, I wasn’t really fine, and I was far from ready. Moreover, I definitely wasn’t excited about revisiting this terror, but I was already right in the middle of the tale, so it was a little late to turn back. Besides, this was the whole reason I had come to her to begin with, so holding it all inside was the last thing I needed to do.

  “So…anyway…I try to force the feeling away,” I continued, hesitantly at first. After a deep breath I made myself dive straight into the rest of the story. “So, I try, but I’m too weak, apparently, even to do that. I feel myself heave, but it’s not like I double over. I’m lying on my back, and I kind of just jerk in place because I can’t really move. I’m restrained somehow. Anyway, nothing comes up, except bile. I guess that’s what it is because I feel a burning in my throat, and then I start to gag.

  “At this point I start to notice that all of my muscles are pretty much screaming. It’s like I’m stretched beyond my limits, and now they’re all starting to cramp. I know that if I can just get up and move it will stop. But, like I said, I’m restrained and I can’t. It’s at that moment of realization that I always hear them. And then, the panic just starts all over again.”

  “Them?”

  “The footsteps. At first they sound like they’re in the distance…almost like they’re below me…but somehow I know they aren’t going to stay there. I know they’re going to come closer. I don’t know why I know, but I just do. And, here’s something odd—they aren’t new to me. It’s as if I’ve heard these very footsteps countless times before. So, you would almost think that I’d be used to them, but I’m not. Either way, as soon as they start, my heart jumps and begins pounding even faster.”

  Helen cocked her head to the side in a thoughtful pose then interjected, “Perhaps it is your familiarity with them that triggers your panic.”

  “Makes sense. You’re probably right.”

  “However, I suspect you have already thought of that.”

  “Yeah. I guess I did.”

  “All right. Go on.”

  “Anyway, the footsteps start, and I force myself to listen. Before long they do start coming closer, just like I knew they would. What’s weird is that they sound excited and cruel at the same time. I don’t know if that makes sense…I mean, I know they’re just footsteps and all, but there seems to be this whole mix of depravity and even arousal in the sound…”

  “It is not unusual to apply emotions to ambient noises, Rowan,” Helen offered. “I
t is a normal function of the subconscious. Sound will easily evoke an emotional response. If it did not we would have no need for music and sound effects in movies. Of course, the particular pairing you mention is most assuredly…shall we say, different.”

  “Yeah, exactly. It definitely seemed odd to me except that what I’ve been dealing with recently… Well, the circumstances make them fit together in a way.”

  “I see. So, is there more?”

  “A little,” I said with a nod. “This is when I realize…no…actually it’s more like I remember that there are others here with me…I guess I’m just suddenly reminded of it when I hear them because they hear the footsteps too. But, when they hear them, they start whimpering and crying.”

  I felt myself shudder physically as the words spilled out. Out of reflex I thumped the heel of my palm against the top of the railing as if the gesture could make it all go away. With a quick snap of my head I exclaimed, “Gods! They always sound so terrified that it…I don’t know…I really can’t describe it…I…I…Dammit!”

  “Calm down, Rowan,” Helen instructed. “Take a breath and relax.”

  I did as she told me and forced myself to settle. Finally I said, “All I can say is that their terror just fuels mine, and that just makes my panic grow.”

  “A natural response.”

  “Doesn’t make it any more pleasant…anyway, then, of all things, I start praying. As frightened—and I mean flat out petrified—as I am, I don’t cry like the others. I don’t moan. I don’t whimper…I just start to pray.”

  “To whom are you praying?”

  I knew exactly why she asked the question. She was fully aware that my personal leanings didn’t fit with the generally accepted concept of prayer. The fact of the matter being very simply that I was a Witch, a card carrying Pagan. I was a practitioner of magick and follower of an alternative religious path commonly known as Wicca. The idea of me praying was about as far left of center as it could get.