Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (12 page)

“Black ‘n blue,” my friend grunted. “Go
figure.”

“Aye, it’s not what you think. Black
represents leather and blue represents denim.”

Ben finished scribbling a note then stared
back at my wife silently for a moment, then finally said, “You
really kinda got into that whole deal, didn’t ya’?”

“Yes, very much so, as long as I was
the
top
,” she replied. “But, I
already told you I did.”

He made a quick huffing noise as he closed
his eyes, tightened his shoulders, and then feigned a shiver.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He looked over to me. “This shit doesn’t
bother you?”

“What? The bondage stuff?”

“Well yeah.”

I shrugged. “Not particularly, if it’s
between consenting adults.”

“But…” his voice faded away and he fell
silent.

“But what?” I asked.

He pointed to Felicity. “But it’s her we’re
talkin’ about here, white man. And you knew nothin’ about
this?”

I simply shrugged again in reply.

“I have to keep him guessing, don’t I?” my
wife offered. “A little mystery is good for a relationship.”

He shook his head at me and then looked back
to her. “Man, I’m just not sure I needed to know this shit about
you, Felicity.”

“Well don’t dwell on it,” she told him. “It
will just get you all hot and bothered, then.”

“Yeah, right,” he snorted. “So anyway, let’s
get back ta’ business. You’re thinking maybe the killer carved a
Leather Pride symbol into Wentworth?”

Felicity shrugged. “Maybe. Right now I’m
merely speculating just like you. All that’s really there is a
heart, but if the killer was a dominatrix, it might make some
sense.”

“Whadda you think, Row?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Sounds like
as good an explanation as any, for the moment. All I can tell you
for sure is that you’re right. It means
something
.”

“So Wentworth’s not talkin’ to ya’, huh?”

I knew immediately what he meant. “No. Not a
word. Not yet, anyway. Why?”

“Dunno. Just got a hinky feelin’ about this
one.”

I pointed to the pile of photographs. “So is
that feeling why you came all the way out to the county to show us
these?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” he said with a nod.
“Just can’t shake the notion that there’s somethin’ more to
this.”

“Me too,” I agreed. “I just don’t know what
it is. You know, maybe I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Jeezus, I hope not.”

“Aye, it could be worse,” Felicity said.

“How’s that?”

She shot him yet another wicked grin, but as
she opened her mouth to speak, the relative quiet of the room was
pierced by a sudden electronic trill that grew louder and more
obnoxious with each consecutive chirp.

Ben reached beneath the table, and when his
hand came back up, it was wrapped around his pager. He thumbed the
device into silence then scanned the liquid crystal display.

“I’m gonna hafta make a call,” he finally
muttered before shoving the pager back onto his belt.

“Something important?” I asked.

“You could say that,” he replied.

His demeanor had seemed to change suddenly.
It had become muted and almost preoccupied. The switch seemed out
of character, and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“Albright?” I asked, grabbing at the first
thing that came to my mind that might elicit such a reaction from
him.

“No, actually it’s kinda personal,” he
replied, his tone flat. “Listen, can I use your phone? Battery on
my cell’s close ta’ dead.”

“Help yourself. There’s one behind you, or if
you need privacy, take your pick. You know where they all are.”

When he had left the room, I looked over at
my wife and raised an eyebrow. “That was weird.”

“Maybe he’s just tired.”

“Maybe,” I agreed with a nod even though I
didn’t really believe it. Still, I tried to let it rest and changed
the subject. “So… What were you about to say to him?”

“Oh, nothing really,” she replied.

“Uh-huh,” I grunted. “Like I’m going to
believe that. You know, you really ought to stop antagonizing him.
Maybe he’s not tired at all. Maybe it was you.”

“But it’s so much fun,” she returned with
exaggerated sweetness. “Besides. He deserves it.”

“Yeah, well just be glad he likes you,” I
told her.

“Actually,” she replied. “He needs to
be glad that
I
like
him
.”

I didn’t offer a comeback. Instead, I looked
down at the photograph on the table and stared at it for what
seemed like a very long time. The aggravation in the back of my
skull began creeping forward as my scalp tightened, and I felt the
first throbbing twinges as it started the short metamorphosis into
full-scale pain.

Felicity’s concerned voice filtered into my
ears. “Row? What’s wrong?”

The first stabs of real discomfort lanced
through my grey matter, and I knew then that the storm I’d sensed
earlier was almost upon us. I looked back at my wife and shot her a
thin smile then ignoring her question simply said, “Well, I guess
you might as well get your fun in while you can then.”

She frowned in return. “It’s starting again,
isn’t it?”

I closed my eyes as I reached up to begin
massaging my temple. There was no way I could hide it from her. Not
anymore. Still, there was one saving grace in all of this. If she
had to ask, then that meant she wasn’t feeling it herself, and that
told me my spell was still doing its job. That, in and of itself,
made the growing pain just a little more bearable.

After a moment I opened my eyes and looked
back at her troubled gaze once again. I opened my mouth to speak
but was cut short by Ben as he came through the kitchen
doorway.

“Listen,” he said as he strode through, came
to a halt at the table, and started gathering up the evidentiary
photographs. “I gotta go take care of somethin’. You two gonna be
around awhile?”

I had glanced up at the sound of his voice,
so I looked to Felicity.

“I’ve got to go out for a bit,” she said.
“But, I can be here later if you need me to be.”

I looked back to him. “I’ll be here all day.
Something wrong?”

“Just somethin’ I gotta do,” he replied,
hurriedly stuffing the photos back into the envelope.

“Is there anything we can do to help, then?”
my wife asked.

“No,” he returned, shaking his head. “No.
It’s just somethin’ I gotta take care of.”

Ben was already heading for the front door,
the seemingly anxious funk that had suddenly befallen him palpable
in his wake. I set my coffee aside on the counter and headed after
him with Felicity less than a half step behind me.

Our friend wasn’t wasting any time. He had
the front door open and was on his way through when we caught up to
him.

“Listen, Ben, you’re family. You know that.
If there’s anything we can do…” I offered.

He hesitated for a moment and looked back
over his shoulder.“Yeah, I know. Thanks,” he replied, and with that
he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him.

My headache ratcheted upward yet another
factor, and I wondered if my friend’s sudden change in demeanor had
anything to do with it or if it was merely the natural progression
of an unnatural pain.

“Weirder still,” I finally muttered.

“Aye,” Felicity voiced from behind me.

I turned back to her, and she peered into my
eyes, the mask of concern still drawn across her usually soft
features.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked.

“I hope so,” I replied. “I just wish I knew
what was up.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You never answered my question,” she nudged.
She looked to the floor then back to my face. “It is, isn’t it?
Happening again.”

I closed my eyes and nodded. “Yeah” was all I
said.

Tuesday, November 8

2:32 P.M.

Suite 1233, Concourse Suites

St. Louis, Missouri

Reaching out to the desk, she extracted yet
another unfiltered cigarette from the rapidly depleting pack. As
with each one before this, she slipped the end between her lips and
then set it alight with the expiring ember of its predecessor.

Crushing out the spent butt in an overflowing
ashtray, she took a drag from the fresh one then curled the end of
her tongue, allowing the nicotine-laden smoke to waft slowly upward
as she French inhaled. Her throat was already becoming raw, and in
the back of her mind, she knew she would be paying for this.

After all, she didn’t actually
smoke.
She
did.

It was
her
doing the smoking, and there was nothing she
could do to stop it
.

And, of course, whenever
she
did anything, it was to excess.
The stronger the cigarette, the better; the more cigarettes, the
better; and as always, when
she
was here, things had to be done
her
way.

Following the cloudy exhale, she lifted a
tumbler and took a swig of expensive rum. This, also, had been
going on to excess ever since she’d returned to the room forty-five
minutes ago. Considering what she’d already imbibed and how little
sleep she’d had, she should be passed out where she sat. But no, as
amazing as it seemed, she was sober. Stone cold sober.

She took another drink. The rum was
good. It wasn’t the best, but it was good nonetheless. Of course,
there was still a bottle of
Barbancourt
in her luggage, but it would remain
sealed for the time being. It would be a luxury now, but it was
going to be an absolute necessity later.

Setting the tumbler aside, she dropped her
hand down to a computer mouse and then absently slid it across the
surface of the desk. With a click, she opened a window on the
notebook computer’s liquid crystal display. It was plain and stark,
displaying as nothing more than a simple, black rectangle with a
grey-white border and a cursor winking rhythmically in the upper
left-hand corner.

However, as simplistic as it appeared, it was
actually a somewhat sophisticated bit of code. It was, for her and
the ones she accepted into her service, a hidden chat room. A
private and secure slice of cyberspace, residing on an innocuous
server, behind spoofed addresses and randomly forwarded routers. It
was for the most part untraceable and accessible only by a chosen
few.

She glanced at the clock in the corner of the
screen and did a mental calculation. She had paged him quite some
time ago, and she was beginning to grow impatient.

Logically, she knew the wait was to be
expected. It was the middle of the day, in the middle of the week,
and surely he was at work, which was probably why he had not
answered yet. He was, after all, a cop, albeit a cop with a fetish
for leggy, dominant women and stiletto heels.

It was too bad for him that his wife had
insisted on a divorce because of it. She knew the whole story.
Those in her service never failed to confess what brought them to
her in the first place, and he had been no different. Imagine,
after years together, finally getting up the courage to confess
your kink to the woman you love, and to have her crush you like
that. It had been painful for him.

She felt the tickle begin to rise in her
belly even as she thought about it. What delicious pain it must
have been. Not for him, of course, but for his wife. To have him
broken and groveling before her like that, she had to have relished
it. How could she not?

That was the only explanation that made
sense. All she had to do was loosen up a bit, and it would have
saved their marriage. But, she didn’t take that path. No, that must
not have been what she knew would fulfill her. How she must have
truly gotten off by destroying his world that way!

She must have.

She
would
have.

The tickle continued to grow, and she
closed her eyes as she imagined the scene. Her earlier anger was
gone, and even her fleeting remorse over her personal servitude to
a greater power was a distant memory.
She
was in control now, and that was all that
mattered.

A soft “ding” emitted from the computer’s
speakers, and she opened her eyes, looking upward across the screen
to the formerly blank chat window. The cursor was continuing to
blink at her from the darkness but was now positioned below a short
string of text. The glowing words reading simply, “Sorry i am late,
Mistress.”

He had taken great care not to capitalize the
pronoun describing himself, as he understood his station beneath
her.

Leaning forward, she carefully tapped out a
reply on the keyboard. “You will need to be punished for that,
little man.”

A third line of text instantly appeared.
“Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

She began typing again. “What is your fondest
dream, slave?”

“To serve you, Mistress” the words
appeared.

“To serve me how?”

“How, Mistress?”

“As mere words on a screen, or…” She left the
rest untyped but for the periods of the ellipsis.

“IRL, Mistress.”

She knew the abbreviated jargon well. IRL: in
real life. She’d seen it more than once and from every slave with
whom she chatted. And, in this case, it was exactly what she
sought.

She paused a moment before typing her reply.
A wave of delightful anticipation rolling through her stomach as
she gently caressed the keyboard.