The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page B

replied.
    “Well…” she began hesitantly. “I suppose I
should let you go.”
    “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I still need to
figure out how to get to the library from here.”
    “Call me later? When you wake up from your
nap…”
    “Absolutely.”
    “I love you.”
    “I love you too, sweetheart.”
    I waited to fold the cell phone in half until
I heard the click at her end. I hated to end the call just as much
as she, but I really did need to figure out where I was going, and
get there.
    It took a moment for me to realize I was
still staring in the direction of room 7 as the maid and a man who
could have been a maintenance worker went in and out the door at
random intervals. I absently wondered how soon they might have the
room ready for rental and even considered going over to the office
to ask. Of course, the lady behind the desk probably wouldn’t be
particularly interested in renting it to me after what had happened
a few hours ago.
    Besides, I also remembered what Detective
Fairbanks had said. While I’m sure he was well aware I had no
intention of leaving New Orleans just yet, I suspected another
run-in with the local constabulary wouldn’t go nearly as well as
the first. I knew I was going to need to fly beneath their radar
for the rest of my visit. Occupying a room at a motel run by the
person who had turned me in didn’t strike me as falling into that
category.
    But, even if that hadn’t been the case,
staying here would probably be a very bad idea. Even though my
current digs were far less than desirable, I had to take another
important point into consideration. They could replace everything
in that room except the ghosts. They were there to stay, and I
wasn’t all that keen on spending any more time with them than I
already had.
    I shook my head and started to get into the
car. As I slid into the seat and closed the door, I noticed a
figure standing in the doorway of the office. It was the owner,
sans housecoat this time, although I’m betting she was probably
still well armed. She stood sipping from a cup and watching me
through the window with a determined stare.
    I decided to check my map when I was a little
farther down the road.
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 9:
     
     
    I t had been heavily
overcast when the police turned me out, but any precipitation was
sporadic. Now, however, it was falling steadily. Not pounding, by
any means, just a steady rain. At least it waited until I was
indoors.
    I had just finished yet another perusal of
the microfilm drawers in the archives division of the New Orleans
Public Library. Now, I found myself gazing out the window at the
small third floor courtyard, watching the water spatter against the
windows. Even up here, the sharp smells of mold and mildewed carpet
were prominent as they jetted out through the ventilation
system.
    The condition of the library itself was
enough to make a person heartsick. The flood that had come in the
wake of Katrina had inflicted more than its share of damage on the
building and its contents. The signs were everywhere, including the
water level marks on the walls.
    But, it wasn’t merely the physical toll that
evoked painful emotions. This repository of the written word was
now only a part-time library. The rest of the time, it was a
temporary federal office housing the FEMA response teams.
    Armed officers waited at the entrance,
bringing you in single file through metal detectors as if you were
entering an airport concourse. The main floor now housed very few
books. Instead, harried people with government ID’s occupied the
better part of it, each of them systematically interviewing
survivors of the disaster, cataloging their losses and shuffling
paperwork—but providing little or no relief. The overwhelming sense
of despair I could feel from the people I had seen waiting,
government forms clutched in their hands, was almost more than I
could bear at the moment. Had I not been focused on my own task, I
firmly believe I would