Miranda argi-10, page 1
part #10 of A Rowan Gant investigation Series
Miranda
( A Rowan GAnt investigation - 10 )
M R Sellars
Miranda
M. R. Sellars
Mi•ran•da [mi-ran-duh] – noun: Invented by Shakespeare for the heroine of The Tempest (1611). It represents the feminine form of the Latin gerundive mirandus 'admirable', 'lovely', from mirari 'to wonder at', 'admire'; cf. Amanda.
- Oxford Concise Dictionary of First Names
Blanque, MIRANDA: A perverse and sadistic murderess of early and middle 1800’s New Orleans, Louisiana, who is rumored to have derived autoerotic gratification from the intense suffering of her victims. Sister of Delphine LaLaurie, it has been theorized that the siblings were jointly responsible for the torture and subsequent deaths of numerous household slaves as reported in the New Orleans Bee, 1834. [See also Mistress Miranda; Devereaux, Annalise; LaLaurie, Delphine; paraphilia; sexual homicide; sadism; spirit possession, Voodoo]
– Excerpted from Hell Hath No Fury: A Comprehensive Study of Women Who Kill
Luettecke, Seitz, amp; Witt – BCM Press
Revised Third Edition, March 2006
PROLOGUE
Excerpted from Rowan Gant’s Personal Book of Shadows:
7/13 – 3:30 AM:
I can’t sleep. I need to but I can’t.
We have a really long day tomorrow. Almost 20 hours of sitting in airports and on airplanes, not to mention Ireland is 6 hours ahead of us, so that’s going to screw me up too.
But, here I am wide-awake. I suppose I could blame it on excitement, but I know damn well that’s not why. It’s that time of the year. The anniversary of Ariel’s murder is coming back around soon, and this is just par for the course. Hard to believe it’s been less than a decade now. Not even a full ten years since her death turned my life into this unending nightmare. But, knowing that doesn’t change a thing. It still seems like it all happened forever ago. Maybe it’s because of this surreal existence of mine. Maybe it’s because I wish it would just go away. I want to forget all of it. The horror, the pain, the images… But I can’t. The nightmares never fade, and it doesn’t matter if I’m asleep or awake. They’re always there. I have a feeling they will be until I die. I guess that’s what I get for being a Witch.
Of course, I’m not really a normal Witch now, am I? Hell, even other neo-Pagans think I’m more than a little out there. They go bang on drums and dance around a fire. Me, I have conversations with dead people. All things being equal, I’d much rather join them around the fire.
In retrospect I don’t suppose I should have been shocked when the dead started talking to me. After all, I really brought it all upon myself when I purposely used WitchCraft to make a connection with their world in order to help solve Ariel’s murder. Although, lately I’ve found myself wondering if my ethereal insight is truly borne of my practice of The Craft or if this would be happening to me even if I weren’t a Witch. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Like that movie about the guy who turned into a supergenius because of a brain tumor. Maybe I’ve got one too. Who the hell knows? Maybe I’m just plain abnormal. Of course, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. WitchCraft is where it all started, so it’s what got me here in the first place. Whether I’m abnormal or not, the rest is really just a moot point I guess.
If only Ben hadn’t noticed that I was wearing a pentacle around my neck. If only he hadn’t asked for my help. If only, if only… It just never ends. I guess what it comes down to is that I should have stayed out of it. Just answered his questions and left it at that. If I’d been smart, that’s what I would’ve done. Then I would never have opened the door that led me down this path. But I couldn’t stay out of it. The victim was Ariel. She was my friend. In my mind I didn’t have a choice.
Of course, like they say, hindsight is 20/20. There’s nothing I can do about it now, other than drive myself crazy with all of the “if onlys” and second-guessing. The door between the world of the living and the realm of the dead is open for me now, whether I like it or not.
Live and learn, I guess… That’s something else they say, whoever the hell “they” is.
I guess I’m just cursed. The dead are my personal bad pennies that keep turning up. I close my eyes and they’re there. I open my eyes and they’re there. Day, night, sleep, wake… It doesn’t matter, they just won’t go away. Ignoring them doesn’t work either. I’ve tried. Gods how I’ve tried. And listening to them… Well, that just gets me into trouble. Everyone around me too. That’s the worst part. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Why Felicity puts up with it I don’t know. Her life would be so much easier if she’d never even met me. But, if we’d never met I’d probably already be dead. Morbid, I know, but somehow she keeps me sane and alive. Somebody has to.
I’m just rambling now. I guess that’s no surprise either. I really need to get some sleep.
Sunday, December 24
5:22 P.M.
Saint Louis, Missouri
“C’mere and tell me what ya’ think.” Ben called out over his shoulder then stood back and cocked his head to the side in order to inspect his handiwork.
Constance wandered in from the kitchen and stood next to him, hands resting on her hips. “What I think about what?”
At six-foot-six, Ben stood at least a head taller than her, so as she spoke, she glanced up at him then followed his obviously preoccupied gaze to the end of the living room.
“Whaddaya mean, about what?” he said as he gestured. “About that. So does it look better or not?”
She gazed quietly at the rank and file for several seconds, scanning back and forth with her eyes. Finally, she replied, “It looks like all you did was move the tall one.”
“That’s Big Ben.”
“Big Ben? You’re kidding, right?”
“Well, why not? He’s as tall as I am, ain’t he?”
“Taller, actually.”
“So there ya’ go.”
“Okay…” She paused then scrunched her brow as incredulity crept into her voice. “But you named them?”
“Not all of ‘em. Just some of ‘em.”
“I worry about you sometimes.”
“Yeah, whatever. Look again. I did more’n just move Big Ben,” he said, pointing at the mantle. “I swapped the two on the ends, and moved Sparky…”
“Sparky?”
“The fireman.”
“Oh.”
“So, anyway, then I rearranged all those small guys in the middle too. See?”
“Oh…” she said, a not quite hidden chuckle in her voice. “Well, I hate to say it, but other than the tall… I mean, Big Ben, it all looks the same to me.”
“The same?” he blurted, disbelief underscoring the words. “I’ve been movin’ ‘em for half an hour. You’re not very observant for a Feeb, are ya’?”
“Give me a break. There must be seventy of them for God’s sake. Any more and we wouldn’t even be able to see the Christmas tree.”
His tone turned momentarily boastful as he pointed at the middle of the front row. “Seventy my ass. There’re a hundred and twenty-two countin’ the new guy there.”
“He have a name?”
“Not yet. Still thinkin’ about it.”
“I see. Well, suffice it to say you just made my case for me.”
“But the same?” he groused. “You’re kiddin’ me, right? It doesn’t look the same.”
She shrugged. “Sorry, but it does to me.”
“Dammit…” Ben muttered then huffed out a heavy sigh as he began to point. “Well, okay… So, what if I put Big Ben over there instead, and then put all the…”
Constance cut him off before he could continue. “Ben, relax, will you? They look just fine the way they are… And they looked fine when you started this… And they even looked fine when you set them up three week ago.”
“To you, maybe,” he grunted. “But they gotta be just right.”
“They’re fine,” she repeated a bit more forcefully, while continuing to stare at the display. After a moment she clucked her tongue and said, “You know, one of these days you’re going to have to explain to me exactly how you became so obsessed with nutcrackers.”
“I’m not obsessed.”
“One hundred twenty-two of them, Ben? And you buy at least one new one every year.”
“I collect ‘em. It’s a hobby.”
Constance shook her head. “Sure, okay. Whatever you say. Now quit playing with your dolls and come show me where you keep your paprika. Rowan and Felicity and your sister are going to be here soon, and I still have to change. I’d really like to have dinner ready on time.”
“Paprika… Ain’t that the red stuff ya’ use ta’ decorate deviled eggs?”
“It’s not for decorating,” she sighed. “It’s for seasoning. You do actually have some, don’t you? Please tell me you do.”
“Hell, I dunno,” he grunted as he followed her toward the kitchen. “I try not ta’ cook unless I absolutely have to.”
“Trust me, I’ve noticed. Well if you don’t have any, then you need to run to the store.”
“Why me?”
“Because I’m cooking, and like I said, I still have to change before our guests arrive. Not very observant for a cop, are you?”
He chuckled. “Funny. Real funny.”
A muted electronic tone sounded and then began to warble into a series of syncopated notes that steadily gained in volume. Ben pulled the chirruping cell phone from his belt and gave the screen a glance before quickly flashing it at Constance.
“Speakin’ of our guests…” he announced and then exclaimed, “Oh, damn! I was s’posed to call Row about Firehair’s present.” He unfolded the phone then placed it against his ear and answered with, “Merry freakin’ ho, ho, ho, Kemosabe…”
At first the only thing to greet him was a muffled thud.
He tried again. “Hello?”
This time the thud was replaced by a loud crash issuing from the small speaker. The noise was sharp enough that Ben jerked the phone away from his ear before bringing it back close enough to listen. A skittering hiss rolled out behind the crash and was punctuated by a hard clatter and thump.
“Rowan?” he barked. “Are you there?”
In answer, a woman’s angry scream bled into his ear, only to be joined a split second later by his friend’s voice calling out to him before it was suddenly choked off in a howl of pain.
Ben all but screamed into the phone, “…ROWAN? ROWAN?! GODDAMMIT! WHAT THE HELL’S HAPPENIN’ OVER THERE?! JEEZUS H CHRIST… ROWAN!”
Eight Months Earlier
Saturday, April 22
9:32 A.M. – Flight 1695
On Final Approach To
Dallas Fort Worth International Airport
CHAPTER 1
“Revelations?” My wife, Felicity, whispered the question.
“Chapter six, verse twelve,” I replied. “And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake… And the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood…”
“I suppose it’s ironic, isn’t it then?”
“That’s one word for it,” I replied. “Not the one I had in mind though.”
“They’re just stories, Rowan,” she said. “You of all people know that. You can even quote them better than most Christians. The Bible is a book of allegorical prose. It’s filled with misunderstood and misinterpreted metaphors and similes from a different age.”
“I know,” I sighed. “But everything has an element of truth to it somewhere… And sometimes…with everything I’ve seen… I just… Well, I just have to wonder if some prophecies are universal… If perhaps we’re driving ourselves headlong into the darkened abyss of our own insanity. Why else would so many people do the horrible things they do?”
“Don’t overanalyze,” she offered. “Just try to forget about it. This is over. You’ve earned a rest.”
I gave my head a slow shake. “Something tells me it isn’t.”
“Why?”
I let out a heavy sigh and pulled her closer as I struggled to find the words to express what I was feeling. “This wasn’t right… I mean, the way it all happened. The killer escalated far too quickly. From a victim who disappeared several months ago, to a sudden spree.”
“I’m sure the serial killer experts have an explanation for that.”
“You’re right, they probably do. But something still feels very wrong about it to me… And, that isn’t the only thing. Ben made a valid point back at the rest area. I just handed him an address for the killer, and here we are. We all know that isn’t how it happens. Everything usually comes to me in cryptic messages I have to decipher. That’s how communication across the veil works. It’s like a language barrier.”
“Maybe you’re just learning the language then,” she replied.
“Maybe…” I said. “But that’s not how it feels. It’s almost as if someone was translating for me.”
“Who?”
I sighed again. “That’s the problem. I have no idea. I feel like I should, but I just don’t…”
“Sir… Excuse me, sir…”
The voice drifted into my ears and floated around inside my skull like a distant whisper. It faintly registered, only in as much as I knew it was there, but nothing more. It seemed my misfiring neurons were still fixated on the endless loop of a perplexing memory that refused to be ignored.
“Maybe you’re just learning the language then,” she replied.
“Maybe…” I said. “But that’s not how it feels. It’s almost as if someone was translating for me.”
“Who?”
I sighed again. “That’s the problem. I have no idea. I feel like I should, but I just don’t…”
“… I feel like I should, but I just don’t…”
“… but I just don’t…”
“… just don’t…”
“Rowan…” A different voice now called me by name. This time however, I had the distinct feeling it belonged to someone familiar. Its tone was far more adamant, not to mention that it was also joined by a not-so-gentle nudge from something that felt curiously like an elbow.
I flinched at the sudden stab of discomfort, which only served to send a much sharper and far more enduring pain radiating up the back of my neck. It was at right about this moment I noticed I was leaning to my left with the side of my face pressed against something hard, effectively cocking my head at an uncomfortable angle. While this realization certainly explained the pain in my neck, it also seemed to have awakened a sore throb in my cheek.
My brain mulled all of this over for a fraction of a second then decided it had best pay attention to the voices now that pain was involved. Against my better judgment I sat up straighter and turned toward their sources.
“Huh?” I grunted as my eyes fluttered open.
The blurred countenance of a blue uniformed flight attendant shot me what appeared to be a quick smile and said, “Sir, I need for you to raise your seatback, please.”
“What? Oh, umm, yeah… Sorry,” I muttered the words through a haze of half sleep as I fumbled with the button on the side of the armrest and slowly leaned my creaking body forward.
I suspect the flight attendant didn’t even hear my answer. By the time I looked up again, she was on the move and already several rows away as she continued toward the front of the MD-80’s passenger cabin. At least that was my assumption-all I knew for certain was that a fuzzy blue shape was rapidly shrinking in the near distance, and it was no longer in my face.
I took in a deep breath and huffed out a heavy sigh. The fresh pains were starting to subside, but unfortunately, I was now becoming reacquainted with the fact that my skull was locked in a dire battle with a headache of questionable origin. I certainly could have done without the pounding inside my head, but I had been here countless times before. I knew simply by the way it felt that the pain had just about everything to do with the paranormal as opposed to earthly causes; and that was something painkillers couldn’t usually make go away, no matter how much I abused them.
I reached up to rub my eyes and discovered my glasses were missing. I groped at my shirt pocket and found nothing, so I muttered a quick “dammit” under my breath and started feeling around in my lap for the fugitive spectacles.
“Here,” Constance Mandalay said, nudging me once again as she held the bi-focals out to me. “I rescued them earlier before they ended up on the floor.”
The petite FBI special agent was parked in the aisle seat next to me. She was my official escort for this emergency trip to FMC Carswell, the Federal Medical Center in Texas that housed female prison inmates in need of treatment, both mental and physical. The individual I was on my way to interview definitely fell into the mental category.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, taking the glasses from her and sliding them onto my face. “Anyone ever tell you that you have sharp elbows?”
“It’s been mentioned a time or two.”
Why I needed an escort was still a mystery to me, but I wasn’t about to complain. Fortunately for me, Constance was more than just a federal officer doing a job. She had been a good friend for several years as well, which made traveling with her far less stressful than it would have been with a stranger.
“Feeling better now?” she asked, augmenting the question with a quick smile.
“I’m not sure just yet,” I replied, rolling my shoulders and turning my head slowly side to side. “But I think the crick in my neck is saying no.”
“I’m not surprised. You really didn’t move the whole time you were asleep.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t out all that long was I?”
“Well over an hour,” she replied. “Pushing two, actually. We’re getting ready to land.”
