"He seemed pretty fixated on her, so, no, I'm not going to rule it out."

"Does this bother you?"

"Well yeah, stalkers are not something you take lightly. And, even if he isn't dangerous it's just plain annoying."

"No, Rowan. What I mean is are you jealous?"

I thought about that for a moment. I hadn't really considered jealousy as a possibility, consciously anyway, so I weighed it carefully before responding.

"I don't know, to be honest. I don't think I am. I mean, she was being ridden by a Lwa when the encounter happened, so it's not like she was cheating on me. However, she did tell me that when she snapped back to reality, she was so aroused that she didn't exactly stop right away."

"And, naturally, that concerns you," she remarked.

"Maybe a little. But, the sudden exit of a Lwa tends to leave the horse disoriented. Even if she thinks she knew what she was doing, she didn't really know what she was doing. Does that make sense?"

"Of course. However, that was not the aspect of jealousy I was asking about."

"Okay, so why else would I be jealous?'

"Because, in a sense this man is fulfilling your wife's s.e.xual fantasies and you are not."

"Feeling a little direct today, Helen?"

"Am I not always direct?"

"Yeah, I suppose you are. For the most part."

"So?"

"So, I really haven't given it that much thought."

"Yes, Rowan, you have."

"Okay, so yeah. I have."

"And?"

"And, yeah," I shrugged. "Maybe I am a little jealous."

"Have you spoken to Felicity about it?"

"No."

"You need to."

"Yeah, you're probably right. I will when things calm down a bit."

"Good," she offered with a nod then extracted a fresh cigarette and lit it before changing the subject. "So, what about Constance? Is she well? She seemed to be fine when she attended the funeral service with Benjamin."

I hadn't even given thought to calling Agent Mandalay, Constance, when I had spoken of her earlier, even though we certainly knew one another well enough. I suppose I was so caught up in the story that the informality hadn't had a chance to creep in. Of course, it stood to reason that Helen would use her first name since the pet.i.te federal agent had been in an on-again, off-again relationship with her brother for more than a year.

"She's fine. Felicity mainly just managed to stun her enough that she could get her own handcuffs on her," I explained then quickly added, "Don't spread that around."

"Of course not. Are there going to be any repercussions?"

"I don't think so. Constance actually pulled some strings and so did Ben, so there weren't any charges filed. However..."

I felt, as much as heard my own voice trail off into silence.

"However, what, Rowan?"

"Your brother told me something when we were out looking for Felicity that night. Apparently, they found long red hairs at both crime scenes. The Wentworth scene could have been a fluke since she was physically there taking the photos, but she was never actually inside the room at the Hobbes scene, and they were there too."

"Did he tell you they were definitely from Felicity?"

"No, but they took a few samples from her for comparison when they had her in custody, and we haven't heard anything yet. In fact, ever since that day we've been persona non grata as far as the investigation goes. They've made no secret of the fact that they consider Felicity a "person of interest", but they haven't gone so far as to call her a suspect. At least not yet."

"I see," Helen said with a nod then turned her head and proceeded to look out at the broken cloud cover.

"Anyway, that's the story. And, that's when the nightmare started. And, like I said, it's just been getting worse since."

"So," she said after an uncomfortable pause. "Now, you believe Felicity is leading a double life and actually killed those two men."

I looked back at her with complete incredulity twisting my features. "h.e.l.l no! Where in the world did you get that?"

"So, then why is it you told me you think Felicity is the woman in your nightmare?"

I opened my mouth to reply but closed it quickly. I felt my face relax into a chagrined half smile as the realization dawned on me that I had just been the victim of a carefully guided psychological play. The truly embarra.s.sing part was that I had cast myself in the lead role without realizing it, and all Helen had done was sit back and direct.

"Face my fear, huh?" I grunted.

"Sometimes we use swords, sometimes we use words," she replied with a shrug. "So, I take this to mean you have managed to reason yourself out of the silly notion that the cruel specter you have been battling nightly is in reality your wife?"

"Yeah," I replied with a nod.

"She may have a proclivity toward s.e.xual dominance and mildly s.a.d.i.s.tic play, Rowan, but certainly within limits. She is no monster. You know that."

"But, the nightmare does mean something..." I ventured.

"I am certain it does. For you, they always do. You simply need to listen to what it is saying and not what you were afraid it might be inferring."

"There's just a bit of a language barrier, Helen. Dead people don't always use words quite the same way you or I do. They like to tell their tales with strange imagery and convoluted verbal references that come across as bizarre parodies of reality."

"Yes, I know."

"Yeah, well you wouldn't happen to have a dead-to-living dictionary laying around would you?"

"No, but given your wealth of experience in that realm, perhaps you should consider writing one."

"I doubt if it would sell."

"You might be surprised."

"Yeah, maybe. So, let me ask you something. Why didn't you just tell me I was being paranoid like I asked you to do in the beginning?"

"Because, Rowan, you would not have believed me if I had. You did, however, need someone to listen so that you could figure out for yourself that which you knew all along."

"Yeah. I guess you're right," I said. "Even so, I still have this nightmare to contend with."

"Yes, but now you can meet it on your own terms."

The relief began to fade as I felt murky shadows folding around me once again. That seemed to be the way of my life most of the time, gloomy and overcast with occasional brief periods of warmth and light. I just wished those periods of brightness would last a little longer.

"You know, Helen," I said as the weight of the ethereal darkness pressed in on me. "I have a terrible feeling that things are going to get a lot worse before they even think about getting better."

"Is that a feeling, or an intuition, Rowan?"

"A lot of both."

"I hate to say this, but I fear you are correct."

"That's not exactly comforting, Helen."

"It was not meant to be."

Friday, November 18.

1:27 P.M.

Saint Louis, Missouri.

CHAPTER 3:.

I suppose having only three repet.i.tions of the horrifying night terror was better than the quintuplet I had experienced the night before I visited with Helen. I'll admit I would have preferred none at all, but I wasn't going to complain. I'd take what I could get, and a reduction in frequency was as good a place as any to start.

The lower rate of recurrence wasn't the only positive note either. While the panic that always accompanied the nightmare didn't dissipate one iota, at least I didn't wake up imagining that it was my red-haired wife standing just out of my sight while harboring cruel intentions. And, even though I supposedly reasoned that out on my own, I definitely credited Helen with getting me there with my sanity intact. Or, what there was of it I suppose; because I wasn't always sure I qualified as fully compos mentis.

However, even though I no longer envisioned Felicity as the physical embodiment of my fear, the fact remained that the presence I felt was still undeniably female, and she was disturbingly familiar.

I was actually starting to consider making an attempt at lucid dreaming. Programming myself to remain aware and in control of the subconscious vision. Not so much for the purpose of directing the events as was the usual reason for the exercise but more to keep myself at the center of them. Or, even on the periphery for that matter. I simply wanted to watch from one point of view or the other. It really didn't matter which it was, just as long as I could stay immersed enough to once again take a cue from Helen, and "face my fear." I needed to see who this mystery woman was, if that was even possible.

Unfortunately, I'd have to dwell on that exercise a bit later because right now there was very little room for it inside my skull. I had plenty of things to deal with at the moment, and the list didn't seem to be getting any shorter. But, that was only one of the reasons for my lack of focus. The biggie was the fact that at this given moment in time my head felt like it was about to split open and spill its contents unceremoniously onto the desk before me.

I had already tossed down a handful of aspirin in an attempt to dull the throb. That had been almost an hour ago, and I was now considering adding some more to the mix. The problem was that while the first dose hadn't touched the pain in my skull, it had done an excellent job of making my stomach churn. Of course, my stomach had already been twisted into a knot to begin with, most likely because I knew this type of headache all too well.

It wasn't normal. It went far beyond off-kilter brain chemistry, sinuses, or even the immobilizing cranial thud of a bad hangover. In fact, I was pretty sure that even a deeply sickening, hangover-induced headache might have felt better right about now.

Like a fool in denial, however, I still kept trying to convince myself that it was nothing more than lack of sleep and eyestrain brought about by the numerous hours I'd been spending in front of my computer. The cold truth was, I knew better. The constant ache was just as ethereal in nature as the recurring nightmare, and it was another prime indicator that something unpleasant was going to happen. I just didn't know what or when, and no one on the other side was talking.

I shook my head gently, regretted the action, and then wondered for a moment at my own thoughts. Whenever they were talking, I wanted nothing more than for them to go away. But, when they fell silent, I practically begged them to say something, anything-especially at times such as this. It was a typical love-hate relationship between not so typical partners.

Of course, I often thought that what would make the most sense was for me to have never heard their tortured voices at all. To have never pierced the veil between the worlds, effectively becoming a conduit for the dead. It's not like it had ever brought me anything but grief.

But, there was nothing I could do about that now. I'd tried shutting the imaginary door several times, but its latch was broken and it wouldn't stay closed. Apparently, the dead were going to be waltzing in and out of my head right up until I permanently joined them on their darkened side of the threshold. Maybe then I would get some peace. Who knows? Maybe once I died it would be my turn to annoy some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d back here in the land of the living who also happened to share my particular vexation. Of course, if that happened it would pretty much mean I had met a violent end, just like all of the spirits who chose to speak to me. I really couldn't say I was able to find any sort of positive spin hidden anywhere in that thought.

I pushed the unsavory musing aside and struggled to bring my attentions fully upon the task at hand, that being research. Running the computer cursor down a list of menu items, I settled upon the one I was looking for and clicked. After a moment I sat back and waited, as even though I had a fast Internet connection, the remote server doling out the requested page didn't seem to be in a particular hurry to comply.

Ever since Felicity's episode with the Lwa possession, I had been trying to find out everything I could about Voodoo-as well as anything related to it-and there were still a good number of questions for which I needed answers. I suppose for that reason the process had actually become more than mere research. In its own way it was a ruthless obsession. If I wasn't working or taking care of some ch.o.r.e around the house, I could be found reading, searching the web, or making calls to purported authorities on the subject in hopes of gathering more information. With both Felicity and me cut out of the loop on the Wentworth and Hobbes homicide cases, as well as her being a subject of that ongoing investigation, it was all I had left that I could do.

I certainly understood why we had been shut out, but that didn't mean I had to like it or like that my friend was now ignoring my calls. In fact, even though Helen had rea.s.sured me on that point, I still found it very disturbing.

Of course, it only stood to reason that we would be more or less disavowed given that the microscope was now aimed at my wife. They couldn't very well have us being privy to what they might be looking for to use as evidence against her. Not that I believed there really was anything for them to find, mind you, and I was certain their legwork would soon prove that out. Still, I simply couldn't sit idly by and wait for them to finish because I also wasn't necessarily willing to trust the police in this specific endeavor.

The fact is, there were some serious underlying issues at play. I had begun consulting for the Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad somewhere around five years ago. Ever since the first time the tortured spirit of a murdered young woman had chosen to slap me across the back of the head with an ethereal two-by-four and beg my help. It hadn't been easy getting someone to listen, even my close friend, Ben. But, eventually he had come around, as well as a few others within the local law enforcement community. Since then, I'd racked up more than my share of unwanted press clippings, but that was something that came with the territory. Headlines like "Self-Proclaimed Witch Solves Serial Murder Case" tend to sell papers. Unfortunately, it got to be my not-so-smiling face displayed beneath the bold type.

The real problem, however, was that while there were those who realized I could be a benefit, I also had some extremely vocal detractors. There were more than a few who felt my ethereal visions were just parlor tricks and bids for attention. Others literally claimed it to be the work of Satan. Those were the ones who even went so far as to publicly denounce me purely because of my chosen religious path.

Under different circ.u.mstances I would have just tried to ignore them like I usually did, but this was a completely different situation. It was largely because of the fact that some of these individuals held fairly high-ranking positions that I wasn't convinced of a fair and impartial investigation. In my mind, finding the real killer was the best way to be sure Felicity wouldn't get railroaded as a way of getting to me. I tended not to voice that too much because I knew that it sounded like the convoluted plot of a Hollywood conspiracy thriller, but the truth is that it was pretty much my life in a nutsh.e.l.l.

On top of it all, my need to clear Felicity hadn't completely overshadowed the fact that a terribly sick sociopath was still out there. A s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.t none of whose games were safe, sane, or consensual. It didn't take an advanced degree to surmise that she was going to kill again. Since I knew for a fact the police were looking in the wrong place and were showing all the signs of continuing to do so, it fell to me to do something about it before she produced another victim.

Adding up everything I already knew, it seemed that finding out all I could about Voodoo would be the best course of action under the circ.u.mstances. I hoped that the knowledge would provide the clues necessary to track down the person responsible, and some of the primary leads I was following were the symbols, called veve, which were left behind at the second scene.

I'd had no trouble identifying two of them as belonging to generally accepted figures within Voodoo practice, those being Papa Legba and Ezili Dant. The third, however, remained as elusive as a real steak in a vegetarian restaurant. The best I'd been able to determine was that it had been patterned after a symbol widely used within the bondage community. Not surprising, I suppose, given the mind-set of the killer, even though her version of the lifestyle was twisted and grotesque. Still, that didn't give me the name of a Lwa, and that missing bit of information just fueled my need to know. If the veve didn't belong to a generally accepted spirit, then there had to be more to it. There had to be something special about that ancestor that might lead me to the killer.

Certainly, something else I wanted to know was whether or not Felicity's preternatural incident had actually been her body being used as a horse by the Lwa. I was almost certain that it was, but there was still a small, nagging doubt. What if it was something else entirely? I couldn't imagine what that might be; however, I couldn't deny that she had been known to channel both the dead and the living herself, just like me. Her brush with that affliction was something for which I blamed myself because she had opened herself up to the other side of the veil when trying to protect me. And, as I had discovered, once they had their foot in the door, it was all over. They were unwanted houseguests with no intention of ever leaving.

Still, channeling was one thing. In this case what she had done was completely out of the park, at least in my experience. Either way, the thing that troubled me even more was whether or not it was going to happen again, whatever the cause turned out to be.

Therefore, it was for those reasons, and a number of others, that I once again found myself sitting in front of my computer, books piled about me, and the contact page of a university's website glowing on my screen.

I suddenly noticed that the page was now finished loading, and the screen had been refreshed. In fact, it probably had been for several minutes because, in truth, I had just caught myself staring off into s.p.a.ce. I rocked forward in my desk chair and looked at the blurry lines of type displayed against a muted background.

I rubbed my eyes then pushed my gla.s.ses back up onto the bridge of my nose. I blinked hard, trying not only to focus but also to forget the headache that was still raging inside my skull. Finding what I was after, I picked up the telephone handset and put it against my ear. Glancing between the phone and my monitor, I punched in the number listed on the web page before me. Before it even began to ring at the other end, I rocked back in my chair and began idly moving the mouse across the surface of my desk as if doodling on a notepad. A moment later, the buzzing tones abated and were followed by the sound of the phone being taken off-hook.

"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.