The speakers in Ben’s van were vibrating with the instrumental interlude of Del Shannon’s Runaway as we cruised across the Poplar Street Bridge into Illinois. In just a moment, Del was going to be wondering why she ran away and where she would stay. I suppose the music was apropos because I was finding myself wondering the same thing about Felicity. The part about where she would stay, at least.
As I had suspected would be the case, the Briarwood officer stationed outside my house hadn’t been particularly excited about me leaving. But, since I wasn’t actually under arrest, there wasn’t much she could do other than verbally object-which she did, strenuously and repeatedly. Of course, I suppose there would have been quite a bit more intimidation aimed my way had it not been for the fact that I was accompanied by a better than six-foot-tall Native American who also happened to be a cop. Yet another reason that having Ben on my side was a good thing.
My friend veered onto the off ramp without slowing and literally leaned his van through the loop then took us onto Route 3 toward the small city of Bridge, Illinois. After a short discussion, he had made a few calls then suggested that we start looking for Felicity at the club where Officer Hobbes had been known to frequent. He assured me that this wasn’t because he believed Albright’s theory, but that if Felicity was truly possessed by the killer in some way, and if that was where the killer had connected with Hobbes, then it stood to reason that she might return there. Given the present lack of tangible leads, I was willing to accept the logic even if I was still somewhat suspicious.
It was for that reason that I now found myself smack in the middle of what Saint Louisans commonly referred to as the “east side”. While that moniker easily encompassed many points immediately east of downtown Saint Louis proper, it had actually taken on an almost slang-like meaning. In fact, for most locals the term was almost exclusively used to describe the handful of clubs that dotted the landscape over a several mile radius and specialized in adult entertainment.
The nightclubs were exactly what their subtitles of “show palace”, “cabaret” and the like implied. They were the kind of place you took your buddy for his bachelor party if you really wanted to get him into trouble with his bride. Or, where businessmen went to blow their expense accounts on “lap dances” from scantily clad young women. Twenty bucks for a quick bump and grind to fuel their one-handed fantasies, if they even made it that far.
No matter how upscale and polished the names were that they placed on the marquee, most of them were little more than dimly lit strip joints, which were permeated with sickly sweet odors and had a so-called restaurant attached.
Having had what I personally considered to be the misfortune of being goaded into “entertaining” very insistent but important prospective clients at some of them from time to time, I was more familiar with their lunch fare than I would have liked. While I usually managed to smile and land the account, I also ended up pushing my meal selection around on the plate for some thirty-odd minutes and then making an excuse about not really being hungry.
Without fail, those particular business meetings would end with me grabbing something at a local diner when I was closer to home.
Of course, I certainly harbored no ill will toward the east side establishments nor their clientele. They simply weren’t my kind of place and their food… Well, that was just something I didn’t even want to think about.
Of course, we hadn’t come over here for entertainment or dinner.
Our destination this evening was actually somewhat of an anomaly among the gentleman’s cabarets, in that this one was a semi-private club catering to the bondage and domination fetish crowd. In fact, it was the only one of its kind in the area. Most everyone knew about it, but if it wasn’t your kink, it certainly wasn’t where you went. Still, they did more than enough business to keep the doors open, and had done so for several years now.
“I talked to one of the coppers who was over to this place earlier today,” Ben told me as we continued northward on Route 3. “He said they got a fuckin’ real life dungeon thing goin’ on in the basement. Got all kinds of torture shit down there almost like right outta the middle ages.”
“That’s what does it for some people,” I replied.
“Too weird for me,” he answered.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never had any fantasies.”
“Not that kinda shit,” he said immediately then paused before asking, “You haven’t have you… About this kinda crap, I mean?”
Were the situation different, I would have told him “yes” just to see what kind of reaction I could get, but my heart just wasn’t in it tonight. All I wanted to do was find my wife, but for some reason, I found myself unable to get worked up about that either. It certainly wasn’t that I didn’t care. I was still worried and that hadn’t changed. However, my brain had apparently settled into a subdued state. It seemed that even adrenalin had abandoned me at this point.
My head was still pounding with the loitering ethereal ache that couldn’t make up its mind, but at the same time, a bizarre sense of calm had settled over me. I didn’t know why I felt this way, but even concentrating on my earlier rampant fears couldn’t usurp it. I shifted my attention toward maintaining my earthly ground, worried that I had allowed myself to slip between the planes, but even that didn’t make a difference.
“Not really,” I finally replied. “But, I’ve got an open mind.”
“But it’s weird.”
“Consenting adults, Ben.”
“So doesn’t it freak you out that Firehair was all about this stuff?”
“No,” I said with a shake of my head, and it was the truth.
“Not even just a little?”
“No,” I said again.
“So, like, what if she wanted to tie you up and do shit to ya’?”
“I guess I’d let her.”
“Yo, white man, are you feelin’ okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“‘Cause that didn’t sound like you at all. And, you’re actin’ a little weird. You ain’t goin’ Twilight Zone, are ya’?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, like you’re gettin’ ready ta’ zone out on me, or maybe you’re not sure?”
“Maybe like I’m not sure,” I said then pointed at a sign in the distance. “That’s your turn right up here.”
“How d’you know that?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do.”
“Jeezus, you ain’t gettin’ ready ta’ do cornmeal art or somethin’ are ya’?”
“No,” I replied, screwing up my face. “Why would you think that?”
“Look, Kemosabe, somethin’ ain’t right with you. Maybe you’re all la-la’d with that Zili thing too.”
“I know I’m not right, Ben, but it’s something else,” I returned, not bothering to correct him. “I just don’t know what yet. Now don’t miss your turn.”
“Dammit. You tell me if you’re gonna go all freakazoid or somethin’. Okay?”
“I’ll try.”
As he made the turn, he shot me a glance and muttered, “Jeezus H…”
I couldn’t give him the answer he wanted, and he knew that. But, as always, knowing that fact didn’t stop him from asking me anyway. I could feel him staring at me off and on, but he didn’t utter another syllable after the mumbled complaint.
We continued wordlessly for the next few minutes, the only sound being that of the engine competing with the radio, which was set to low volume and serenading us with yet another tune from the sixties. A little over five blocks and a single left hand turn later, we arrived at our destination.
We were at the end of a cul-de-sac where a large building sat back from the street. Near the curb, a lighted marquee sat atop a substantial signpost. Across it was emblazoned the name of the establishment- The Whine Cellar. Beyond the curb was a large gravel parking lot.
Ben pulled the van in through the entrance and slowly urged it along the rows of vehicles. The expanse was fairly well lit overall, and we both scanned either side of the aisle for Felicity’s Jeep. We had just made a turn at the end and were coming back up the other side when my friend broke his silence.
“What’s that up there?”
I abandoned my own search and looked over to where he was pointing. A few spaces from the end of the row sat a familiar looking boxy shape.
“Yeah. Could be,” I agreed.
My friend sped up slightly and came to a halt behind the black Jeep Wrangler. I didn’t even need to see the license plate. The pentacle on the spare tire cover and the “Magick Happens” bumper sticker told me all that I needed to know.
For the first time since we’d left the house, I felt like I was breaking out of the calm daze. My heart jumped in my chest, and I let out a relieved breath.
“It’s hers,” I said aloud.
“I’m gonna call this in,” Ben announced as he reached into a pocket and withdrew his cell phone.
I objected immediately, snatching up the device out of his hand before he even flipped it open. “No, don’t!”
“What the! Whaddaya mean don’t?”
“Let’s just go in and get her.”
“Wake up, Rowan, she might be packin’.”
“I doubt it.”
“Hey, no offense, but Constance said she took her sidearm. I gotta take that into account. There’re civilians in there and we don’t need anyone gettin’ hurt. You, me, her, or them. Now gimme my phone.”
“Let’s try it my way first,” I pressed. “I don’t want a bunch of trigger happy cops shooting my wife.”
“You been watchin’ too much TV again,” he returned and reached for the phone in my hand.
I jerked it out of the way and replied, “I’ve been watching the news.”
Ben snorted angrily and made another grab for me as he barked, “Gimme the goddamned phone, Rowan!”
He had long arms, but I’d been expecting him to do exactly this, and I already had my hand on the door handle. I popped the release and rolled out of the vehicle narrowly escaping his lunge. I backpedaled away from the van then turned and started walking as briskly as I could toward the entrance.
Behind me I heard the sound of gravel spitting as Ben gunned the engine and spun the tires. The angry sound was followed immediately by the thump of the passenger door as the effect of Newton’s third law caused it to pivot in the opposite direction and slam shut. I picked up the pace, but a moment later he swung the van around the opposite end of the aisle and barreled toward me.
For a split second, I thought he was going to run me down, and I ducked quickly between two vehicles. I looked back and saw him suddenly brake then whip the Chevy hard to the left and pull it into an empty parking space. I told myself I needed to keep moving, but for some reason my legs wouldn’t respond. I simply stood there and waited.
The vehicle’s lights went out, and the engine sputtered as he switched it off. His own door was already creaking open before the last cough from the exhaust had died away. I heard my friend slam his door hard then watched as he stomped around and re-secured the passenger side which had not completely shut. That done, he turned around and simply stared at me across the top of the parked cars, then after a heartbeat or two, he shook his head and walked purposefully toward where I was standing.
Still, I didn’t move. I simply waited. I knew I couldn’t outrun him at this point even with a head start. I did, however, slip the cell phone into my jacket and zip the pocket shut.
When Ben came to a halt in front of me, he didn’t look happy. The harsh shadows from the overhead light weren’t helping, that was for sure, but I knew he was definitely pissed off. He sighed then opened his mouth and thrust his index finger at me. Whatever he was about to say apparently stuck somewhere between his brain and his throat, so he just closed his mouth and shook his head again.
Finally, he muttered, “Fuckit,” and started toward the entrance. As he walked he called over his shoulder to me, “Just keep your damn mouth shut and let me handle this.”