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.”
There was no reply from the other end, but I could still hear background noise, so I knew she hadn’t hung up.
“Hello?” I said.
“Yes, I’m here,” the assistant replied. “I’m sorry. Where did you say you were calling from again?”
“Saint Louis, Missouri, why?”
“Just curious. Doctor Rieth received a call a year or so back from a police officer in South Carolina regarding a murder investigation.”
My curiosity was immediately piqued. “Really? Do you remember any of the details?”
“No,” she replied. “And, honestly, I really shouldn’t have said anything.”
“That’s okay, I won’t tell,” I replied half jokingly then moved on rather than risk alienating her. “Is there any way I can reach Doctor Rieth? It’s very important.”
“I’m afraid not,” she replied. “She is scheduled to return the Monday after the holiday however.”
I wasn’t excited about the wait, but it was just that time of year, so there was little I could do. I went ahead and asked, “Do you think it would be possible for me to leave a message for the doctor then?”
“Yes sir, I can certainly do that,” she answered. “Which police department are you with again?”
“I’m actually an independent consultant,” I explained then took the truth and wrapped it into an interwoven pretzel before relaying it to her. “I’m currently working with the Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad.”
It wasn’t a complete lie, but I hoped that the doctor didn’t elect to verify my story because I was betting no one would be willing to back me up. Right now I was apparently persona non grata, but even when I was actually working with them, my capacity wasn’t exactly what one could call official.
I finished giving her my contact information and bid her a pleasant afternoon before hanging up and pondering what the young woman had just let slip. Hopefully, if and when Doctor Rieth returned my call, she would be willing to share a bit more about what she had consulted on in South Carolina.
I picked up a pen and jotted a quick note about it in a steno pad I had been using for keeping track of my research. I heard the dogs barking outside and wondered for a moment if they were wanting back in the house. I started to get up, but they quieted down before I could get completely out of my seat, so I figured it must be a taunting squirrel or simply a passerby. When I settled back into the chair, however, a familiar prickling sensation crawled across the back of my neck as I felt my hair pivoting at the roots.
I reached up and rubbed the offending spot as I looked around the room. I couldn’t imagine a reason for the brief attack of shivers. It faded quickly so I tried to put it out of my mind.
Returning to the materials I had at hand, I shuffled through the stack of books on my desk and withdrew another one, heavily laden with bookmarks protruding from the end, and flipped it open to the copyright page. I was just about to begin typing in the publisher’s website address in search of contact information for the author when I heard the doorbell ring.
Now I had my answer as to why the dogs had been barking.
I knew Felicity was downstairs in her darkroom and probably wouldn’t be able to answer it. In reality, most of her work these days was digital and didn’t require the somewhat antiquated processes of chemicals and light sensitive papers. However, I had the impression that my wife was finding the familiarity and closeness of her analog workspace a comfort in the wake of her recent experience. Put simply, she was hiding from the world, and while I was willing to condone it for a brief period, I wasn’t going to allow her to do it forever. But, at this particular moment, I wasn’t going to press the issue.
I tossed the book back onto the pile and pushed away from my desk. I found that I had to skirt around Dickens, our black domestic feline, who had elected to take a nap almost immediately in front of the office door. He opened one yellow eye and regarded me silently as I stepped over him, but other than that he didn’t even twitch.
I was making my way down the stairs when the doorbell pealed once again in a rapid staccato.
“Hold on!” I yelled, not that I really expected anyone outside to hear me. “I’m coming, I’m coming…”
I skipped the last couple of stairs near the bottom, making the turn at the landing and almost jogged across the living room. With a quick turn of my wrist, I unlocked the door and swung it open.
Ben Storm was standing on my front porch, along with someone else I thought I recognized as a detective with the MCS but to whom I couldn’t place a name. Neither of them looked particularly happy, but I didn’t need to see their expressions to know something was wrong. I had been feeling the warning signs for a while now. I had just been too absorbed, and even more unwilling, to pay attention to them.
I had pretty much forgiven my friend for the incident involving the gun pointed at my wife, but there was still a bit of tension between us. Whether it was because of something yet unresolved regarding that, or if it was simply because Felicity was still considered a suspect in the eyes of the Major Case Squad, I wasn’t sure. Either way, I had no choice but to feel it flowing between us right now as our eyes met.
Ben reached out and pulled the storm door open and looked at me quietly for a heartbeat or two before saying, “Do you mind if we come in, Row?”
I definitely didn’t like the sound of his voice, and my skin started prickling once again.
“That depends, Ben,” I replied evenly. “Do I have any choice in the matter?”
He reached up and smoothed his hair back, looked down at the porch briefly, then back up to my face. “Actually… No.”
“Do I need to call our attorney?” I asked.
He returned a shallow nod. “It’d be a good idea, Row.”
Ten minutes later I was standing in the middle of my living room, a copy of an arrest warrant clenched in my fist and quiet rage boiling in my chest as my friend applied a pair of handcuffs to my wife.
As he was snapping them shut, I heard him quietly say to her, “Felicity, listen ta’ me carefully, and do exactly what I tell ya’. Just acknowledge your rights, and then don’t say another word. Do ya’ hear me?”
“Detective Storm!” the other man said.
“Fuck off,” my friend barked, shooting a hard stare at the other cop.
Thick silence filled in behind the outburst, and he turned back to Felicity. His voice slipped into an official tenor, droning through a flat monotone.
As he spoke, his words bit into my skull, raping my ears with the vile reason for their existence.
“You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Do you understand?…”
Saturday, November 19
10:05 A.M.
Saint Louis, Missouri