Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (20 page)

While I still fought with the issue myself, I
was getting better at overcoming it. She, however, had yet to
achieve that goal. Considering that I had already slipped once
since we’d arrived, I couldn’t imagine her doing any better.

“You want me to come back later?” the
photographer asked.

“Jeez… Marty… Awww, crap, just get finished,
will ya’.”

“Okay. Give me about ten minutes, and I can
probably have it wrapped up.”

I was hearing the words, but the meanings
weren’t fully registering because the bulk of my attention was
focused on the centerpiece of this scene. Their banter had simply
become background noise as my brain shifted into high gear, trying
desperately to wrap itself around the enormity of this unexpected
sensory input.

I was already feeling like I had gone into
overload as I tried to process the whole of what lay before me in a
single pass. I blinked slowly then opened my eyes. Then, I did it
again. But even after reopening my eyes the second time, nothing
had changed. Out of respect for my sanity, I tried to force myself
to focus on a single aspect at a time. I didn’t have much luck as
my eyes continued to roam while I mentally ticked off the
facts.

The victim was an African-American male,
roughly in his mid to late forties as near as I could tell. They
hadn’t yet told me his age, so this was merely a guess on my part.
Considering the deeply contorted mix of pain and fear frozen on his
face, I could have been way off.

It was impossible to ignore that he was all
but completely nude, the only exception to that fact being what was
probably a small fortune in leather gear. Of course, none of it
really covered much since it primarily took the form of harnesses
and restraints. It also couldn’t escape notice that all of these
items had been well put to their intended uses.

The victim was bound securely to the bed,
spread eagle and on his back. From my present angle, I could see
what appeared to be a taut nylon rope looping through a metal
D-ring on one of the ankle cuffs. I would later find out that this
is exactly what it was and that it had been criss-crossed beneath
and through the bed frame before being threaded into similar rings
on the other ankle cuff and both wrist restraints. It had been
pulled tight enough to place visible stress on the man’s muscles,
almost to the point of overextension.

Whoever had done this was obviously well
versed in extreme bondage techniques. Just as important, in my mind
at least, was that the victim had either been unconscious or had
allowed this to be done to him voluntarily. Given the nature of the
restraints, I think we were all betting on the latter.

I forced my wandering gaze to return to his
twisted face and tried desperately to ward myself against reliving
his pain. I could feel it pressing against me, and I wanted no part
of it.

Standing out amid his pained features was the
apple. As Ben had emphasized earlier, it couldn’t be missed,
primarily because it was protruding from the corpse’s mouth. Even
at first glance, it was obvious that the fruit had been jammed well
into his oral cavity, so far in fact that I doubted it could be
removed in one piece without first dislocating his jaw.

I absently reached up and massaged that same
joint on my own face. It was still throbbing with a dull ache from
the earlier episode, and I suspected that I now knew why.

Below that, the man’s neck and chest were
bathed in his own blood; some of it was still damp enough to
glisten in the incandescent light of the overhead fixture. A
spatter of arterial spray left a telltale pattern across the
headboard and wall. The source of the rusting crimson was the
puckered wound that sliced deeply into his throat, literally from
ear to ear.

For some reason there was a pillow shoved
beneath the back of his head. I doubted that it was intended for
his comfort, but I couldn’t be sure for what purpose it had been
tucked there. I had a feeling, however, that something deeper and
far more selfish was behind its placement.

Had I not known better, I would have sworn I
was standing on the set of a horror movie and that the dead body in
front of me was an incredible endeavor in special effects makeup. I
might have been able to convince myself of it if it weren’t for the
intensity of the fear that still lingered within these walls and
was desperately trying to reach its gelid tendrils through my
defenses.

The sharp noise of a blaring horn out on
Lindbergh Boulevard briefly snapped me from my trance, and I
noticed that a stunned hush had fallen over us all. Be it the
feeling of fear or simply the visual horror, we were each being
deeply affected by the scene. I continued to stare, not knowing
what else to do. I struggled to understand the full magnitude of
what had happened here, and as each moment passed, yet another
disturbing layer of the crime revealed itself to me.

The flash unit strobed again, and this time
the photographer lowered the camera and shuddered as he nodded
toward the corpse. “You know, I hurt just thinking about it, much
less taking pictures of it.”

I followed his nod toward what was most
likely the object of my friend’s frustrated embarrassment. It was
something I knew I had noticed initially, but somehow my
subconscious had kicked in, forcing me to avoid seeing again until
now.

Among the restraints gracing the dead man’s
body was a device that appeared to be constructed of metal rings
held together by some type of adjustable straps. Had I seen it
lying on a table instead of where it was currently attached, I
probably wouldn’t have had any idea what it was. However, since it
ensconced his penis, the purpose of the apparatus was painfully
clear. In fact, the severe constriction of its design and the
almost tourniquet-like firmness with which it was applied was in
all likelihood why the organ had not fallen completely flaccid even
after the victim had taken his final breath.

However, as disconcerting a sight as it was,
a far more horrifying vision lay just below, near the base of the
torture implement. In fact, it was so downright obscene that I had
to blink once again just to make sure it wasn’t my imagination.

It wasn’t.

A ragged flap of bloody flesh hung loosely
between his legs. Dried blood was smeared across his inner thighs,
and a large crimson stain on the dingy linens was rusting into
darker shades.

He had been castrated.

My mind flashed on something I had happened
to notice upon first entering the room. While I had wondered about
it briefly at the time, the imagery of the scene was so intense
that I had mentally set it aside. Now, a sickening thought forced
me to bring my gaze to bear on it once again.

There it was, just as I remembered, sitting
on the side table near the headboard. A blood smeared drinking
glass. And, even at this distance, it was quite obvious that this
was where the victim’s testicles now resided.

It also didn’t escape my notice that the
glass had been positioned well within his field of vision. The
deliberate placement along with the amount of blood staining the
sheets between his legs told me that he had most likely been alive
when the castration had been performed. I suspected he had been
conscious as well because it appeared to me that they were being
displayed to him in order to increase his personal horror.

I closed my eyes and winced with sympathetic
pain. “Damn” was all I could manage to say, and even that came out
as a low mumble.

Apparently, it only took one of us to break
the silence. I heard Constance gasp behind me as she finally
allowed herself to breathe.

A split second later she whispered, “Oh my
God…”

Agent Drew followed immediately with his own
“Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

“Yeah,” Ben added. “Un-fucking-believable,
ain’t it?”

What the three of them couldn’t know,
however, was that there was something more than just the physical
spectacle driving my own quiet exclamation. If what my eyes were
seeing weren’t enough, I was also faced with the bane of being
aware—the inescapable burden of feeling the emotions that were
still running rampant throughout the room. And, what I was feeling
now was frightening, in and of itself.

The charge in the atmosphere was the same as
it had been in the room where Wentworth was murdered. In actuality,
it was even stronger here than it had been there.

Sex.

Arousal.

Animal passion.

The carnal intensity that had recently filled
the room was still so thick in the air that it was almost as
cloying as the sweet watermelon aroma sharing its space. In fact,
so fervid was the aura that it sought to overpower everything else
to the point that it even managed to ignite more than just a tickle
deep within my own body.

Moreover, the feeling was distinctly
feminine.

But, this rapturous energy wasn’t all.
Through it, beneath it, and around it ran a thread of abject fear.
And that emotion, I knew without a doubt, had come directly from
the victim.

What I also knew, simply by standing in this
room and fending off this ethereal squall, was that the killer had
fed on that fear. It was what enabled her, drove her, and
ultimately gratified her.

Knowing that the tickle I was now feeling had
been born of and fueled by the victim’s torture made my stomach
continue to churn. But, even that wasn’t enough to stop it.

I let out a small sigh as I felt these
conflicting forces begin to take root within me, and the deep
tickle started to grow. A rush of indescribable pleasure ran
through my body, and every nerve ending I possessed suddenly flared
into a delightful itch. In that instant I understood why Felicity
had given herself over to these energies so easily.

“What’s up, Row?” Ben’s voice filtered into
my ears. “You goin’ la-la again?”

Ben’s voice pierced the rush that had begun
in my ears, and I was nudged back across the line. My conscious
brain instantly realized what was happening, and I reinforced my
ground. Swallowing hard, I pushed back the arousal before the
blissful narcotic haze could take me fully into its fold.

The churning stomach was another story
entirely, but I still managed to keep it at bay. In a way I was
comforted that it remained.

“Yo… Ground control to Rowan,” Ben called
again.

I snapped to and realized I was still
standing exactly where I had stopped, just a few steps inside the
door. My body was rigid, and I was staring at the bizarre tableau
with unearthly intensity.

At some point, Agent Drew had pushed past me
and was now motionless himself, though I am sure for the more
obvious reasons.

“No… Yes…” I murmured after a moment and then
followed with, “Not anymore.”

“Sorry,” my friend apologized. “Guess I
shouldn’t’ve disturbed ya’.”

“No,” I told him. “This time, you should
have. Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he replied in a puzzled
tone. “So ya’ gettin’ somethin’?”

“It’s the same,” I answered.

“The same what?” Mandalay asked.

“The same as Wentworth.”

Agent Drew now turned toward me and objected.
“Wentworth was shot in the head. Execution style.” He swept his arm
out toward the bed as he continued. “This is… Well this is just
sick.”

I couldn’t argue with him there. What we were
looking at was definitely within the scope of unfathomable
deviance, even for a brutal crime scene. Words such as intriguing,
obscene, and even ironic came instantly to mind. You could take
your pick because it was any and all of them.

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “But the feeling is
still the same.”

“You aren’t talking about that WitchCraft BS
again, are you?” he snapped.

I shook my head. “Actually, no. WitchCraft
would imply the working of Magick, Agent Drew.”

“Okay, then what are you talking about?” he
demanded.

I answered with a shrug. “This is just plain
empathic sensitivity.”

“Empathic sensitivity? What’s that, some kind
of psychic crap?”

“Yeah,” I gave him a nod, unwilling to argue.
“It’s psychic crap.”

“Okay, Houdini,” he spat. “Then why don’t you
look into your crystal ball and tell us who killed this guy.”

“Houdini was a fuckin’ escape artist,” Ben
growled before I could open my mouth. “Even I know that, ya’
friggin’ idiot.”

Drew aimed himself at my friend. “Back off,
Detective.”

“Or what, Skippy?”

Agent Drew tensed and started forward as if
he were going to take a shot at him. Ben instantly braced himself,
and I saw his fist begin to clench as his shoulder started to
rotate back. Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Both of you back off!” Mandalay barked as
she quickly nudged me to the side and interposed herself between
the two men.

They both stood their ground and exchanged
hot stares over the top of Mandalay’s petite form but didn’t say
another word.

“Storm,” she continued, looking up at Ben.
“Put the testosterone on hold and stop insulting my agent at every
turn.”

Agent Drew screwed his face into a smirk and
let out a snort. Constance immediately wheeled around to face him
then literally stabbed her index finger into his chest. “As for
you, can it. Right now. You’ve had an attitude ever since you
picked me up at the airport, and I’m not impressed. Like it or not,
you are the junior agent here, and I’m calling the shots, not
you.

“Now, believe me, you don’t want another
letter of censure in your file.” She stared him down for a moment,
and while he kept his mouth shut, it was obvious from his
expression that she had hit a nerve. “Yes,” she added with a curt
nod. “Simpson filled me in on you, and right now I haven’t had
enough sleep to even consider being nice about it.”