Walk of the Spirits

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “I don’t care about Parker more than I care about you.”

  “I know,” Roo said, without looking up. “I just don’t want you riding in Parker’s car when he’s been drinking.”

  “I know.”

  “Hey!” Etienne called sharply. “They’re here—they’re coming!”

  Even then, Miranda could hardly believe it. Even then, as she and Roo and Ashley jumped to their feet and saw Etienne signal with the flashlight. To her amazement, other lights were signaling back to them—flashing lights from police cars and ambulances, spinning lights from fire trucks—and there were sirens, and shouts, men running, confusion and chaos—

  "Parker!” Ashley cried.

  He grabbed her into his arms and held her, burying his face in her hair. His sides were heaving, his voice was hoarse. He looked completely drained. “I told you I’d come back.”

  “Yes—yes—you did. And don’t you ever leave me again!”

  “How’s Gage? Is he—”

  “He’s alive, but it’s bad, Parker; it’s much worse. He hasn’t woken up, and he’s hardly breathing and—”

  “It’s okay, Ash, they’ll take care of him now.”

  Releasing Ashley, Parker turned to Etienne. A look passed between them... a nod...a thousand silent words. As emergency teams swarmed around them, Parker spotted Miranda and caught her in a hug.

  “God, Parker.” Miranda’s voice broke. “Are we glad to see you.”

  “Likewise. And you don’t have to call me God. Saint Parker’s good enough. Where’s Roo?”

  “Back there with—”

  “Gage. Yeah, I see her.”

  The relief was overwhelming. Miranda had been so terrified, so determined not to cry, so intent on holding it together—at least till she could get home. Now suddenly there were paramedics wrapping her in blankets, examining her cuts and scrapes and bruises, asking her questions, passing her hot chocolate, and she felt so grateful and so relieved and just so glad to be alive . . .

  “Oh, Roo,” she whispered.

  Because all at once she had a straight, clear view of Roo, and the view was heartbreaking. Roo, who was being quickly and efficiently forced out of the way as rescuers honed in on Gage’s critical injuries. Roo, who was standing there alone, looking lost and scared and pathetically childlike . . .

  “Roo!” Miranda called and started toward her.

  But she realized then that the others had noticed, too. Ashley and Parker and Etienne, all of them hurrying in Roo’s direction, though it was Parker who reached her first.

  “So what’d you do?” he teased gently. “Take bets I wouldn’t make it back?”

  Despite her best attempt at annoyance, Roo’s voice was shaking. “A girl can hope, can’t she?”

  “Hey, I came back to save you.”

  “Hey, you came back to spite me.”

  Parker ruffled her hair. Roo punched him in the abs. While the five of them watched Gage being carried away on a stretcher, Parker slid his arm around Roo’s shoulders. And Roo didn’t pull away.

  Dangerously close to tears again, Miranda sagged back against the wall and tried to collect herself. In all the commotion, she hadn’t even noticed the woman running over to Etienne, but it was quickly apparent that the rest of the group knew her. They crowded in close, everyone talking at once, while the woman listened attentively, scrutinizing each bedraggled appearance, feeling every forehead, stroking every cheek.

  “Miranda.” Ashley motioned her over. “Come meet Etienne’s mom.”

  She was small and delicate—almost frail in her oversize jacket, floppy wide-brimmed hat, and wading boots that reached up to her knees. She had Etienne’s nose and Etienne’s hair, and a knowing half-smile that was currently being leveled at her son. Catching his face between her hands, she held Etienne’s gaze with her own. Her wide dark eyes caressed and scolded him. His eyes teased back and adored her.

  “—want all y’all to get checked out, just in case,” Etienne’s mom was saying. “Your aunt Jules and uncle Frank will meet us at the hospital. Gage . . . our baby . . .”

  Etienne whispered something that seemed to reassure her. She stepped back from him as Ashley touched her arm.

  “Miss Nell,” Ashley said, pulling Miranda over. “This is Miranda.”

  Miranda felt the instant appraisal of those coal-black eyes. When Nell Boucher took her hand, Miranda sensed strength, survival, and a heart of immense kindness.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Boucher,” she answered shyly.

  “Nell,” the woman corrected, a dimple showing at each corner of her mouth. She cocked an eyebrow at Etienne. “Okay, I guess you win the bet. She’s just as cute as you said she was.”

  Blushing, Miranda was all too conscious of the others’ amused stares. As she had with the rest of them, Miss Nell put one hand to Miranda’s cheek and leaned in close.

  “I’m glad we’re finally meeting,” she murmured. “Because I’ve certainly heard a lot of wonderful things about you.”

  Miranda was at a loss for words, but Miss Nell didn’t seem to mind. Instead, the woman calmly herded the five of them together, then led them out through the storm to safety.

  33

  “OKAY, Y’ALL,” ASHLEY ANNOUNCED. “This is our dress rehearsal. Our last chance to get everything perfect before the big night tomorrow. Any questions? Ideas? Opinions?”

  “Yeah, I have an idea.” Slumped on the front steps of the Battlefield Inn, Parker choked down a mouthful of cough syrup and tried not to speak above a whisper. “Let’s call it off. That would really make it perfect. No more ghost tour.”

  “Walk of the Spirits,” Ashley corrected him, irritated. “Walk of the Spirits. And we’re not calling it off. After all this time? All this work?”

  “All this suffering?” Roo added. She was perched one step below Parker, and was digging through her pockets for a cigarette. Her face still bore some major bruises from the storm, and a wide gash zigzagged across her forehead, not quite healed. She’d taken great pains to highlight this zigzag with dark, red lipstick.

  “You like suffering,” Parker reminded her. “And, excuse me, but you’re not the one with pneumonia.”

  “You don’t have pneumonia. You’re just jealous because Gage was in worse shape than you, and he got more attention.”

  “Well, it’s almost pneumonia. It’s turning into pneumonia.” Tensing, Parker let out a gigantic sneeze. “Shit, I hate this. I feel like my brain’s ten times its normal size.”

  Roo gave him a bland stare. “You know, when people lose a leg or an arm, they think they still feel it, even though it’s not really there.”

  “Will you two behave?” Ashley scolded. “And, Parker, where’s that newspaper article your mom was going to give us?”

  “Somewhere.” Parker thought a moment, then shrugged. “In my car, I think.”

  “Well, will you please go get it? The sooner we start, the sooner we can all go home.”

  “She’s right.” Though unable to hold back a laugh, Miranda came loyally to Ashley’s rescue. “Let’s just walk it through, and read the script, and make sure we’ve covered all the basic information. Ashley, what about your costume?”

  “I’ve got the final fitting after I leave here.” Ashley’s eyes shone with excitement. “Can you believe Mrs. Wilmington went to all that trouble to make it for me?”

  “She didn’t.” Parker scowled. “She got her dressmaker, or designer, or whoever the hell she calls him, to make it for you.”

  “Parker, that doesn’t matter—it was still really nice of your mother to do that.”

  “You’re a southern belle—how could she resist that?”

  Ashley shot Miranda a grateful smile. “That was Miranda’s idea.”

  “It made sense,” Miranda explained. “A costume sets the mood. It’s all about southern history and heritage, so our tour guide should be a southern hostess—hoopskirt and all.”

  “And I’m the only one who gets to dr
ess up! And I can’t wait to wear it! It’s like cotton candy!”

  Roo arched an eyebrow. “Sticky?”

  “No! All pink and fluffy and . . . sweet. I love the way I feel in it.”

  “I agree,” Parker said hoarsely. “I love the way you feel in it, too. And I love the way you feel out of it even better.”

  Roo stared at him. “Wow. You should write greeting cards.”

  But before he could manage a comeback, Ashley stood on her tiptoes and started waving frantically toward the curb.

  “There’s Gage and Etienne! Hey, y’all! We weren’t sure you were coming tonight! Gage, you are just looking better and better!”

  Miranda watched the two guys climb from Etienne’s truck and start up the sidewalk. Nearly three weeks had passed since that awful night of the storm, and though Gage wasn’t fully recovered yet—his left leg was still in a cast—he could hobble unsteadily on crutches. And, Miranda noted, despite his lingering cuts, scrapes, and bruises, his eyes and his smile were just as irresistible as before.

  “So we haven’t missed anything?” Etienne greeted them. Leaving Gage at the bottom of the steps, he couldn’t resist sprinting up and tapping Roo on her forehead. “Hey, love the scar. Very Bride of Frankenstein.”

  Roo looked pleased. Ashley was still focused intently on Gage.

  “You’re still kind of pale though,” she worried, gazing at his face, running her finger along one of his cheekbones. “And your face is still pretty thin.”

  Gage glanced sideways, trying to avoid the attention. “I’m fine. My leg looks worse than it feels.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Etienne teased him. “You’re just being brave.”

  “No, I’m not. It really doesn’t feel that bad.”

  “Well, at least you can feel something now,” Parker remarked offhandedly. “The night you got hurt, you couldn’t feel much of anything.”

  “I couldn’t?”

  “You mean, the girls didn’t tell you?” Feigning concern, Parker shook his head. “Well, they had to . . . you know . . . test a lot of places on you. Just to see if you could still feel.”

  The flush had already started up Gage’s cheeks.

  “That’s true,” Roo agreed. “Of course . . . some places were a lot more fun to test than others.”

  “A whole lot more fun to test than others,” Ashley insisted.

  Gage’s embarrassment reached full blush. Hiding a smile, Ashley pressed her palm to his forehead.

  “But you’re sure you feel fine now? Because you look a little hot.”

  “He is hot,” Roo answered. “Oh. Oh, you meant his temperature.”

  “Stop,” poor Gage mumbled. “I’m fine.”

  Etienne motioned to Ashley, his expression perfectly serious. “Come on. Y’all know how Gage is—he’s suffering in silence ’cause he doesn’t want to look weak in front of you women.”

  “Cut it out,” Gage said.

  “No, really. We all know you’re just being modest.”

  “Shut up.”

  Roo fixed Gage with an owlish stare. “You cried when you broke your leg.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, you did. You cried. You’re a crybaby.”

  The best Parker could offer was a sympathetic shrug. “Sorry, little soldier. You cried.”

  Gage looked longingly at the truck. Taking pity on him at last, the others stopped teasing and turned their attention back to their project.

  In the days since the storm, they’d held many discussions about Nathan and Ellena Rose. Miranda had finally been able to offer them the insights she’d shared with Etienne that day—about the boardinghouse and the secret meetings, Nathan’s and Ellena’s work as spies and their passionate love, their promise made with the watch and chain, and finally—most important—the tragic truth of the betrayal. Everyone except Parker had been captivated by her story. Everyone except Parker had insisted Hayes House be added to their tour. All of them had speculated as to where Jonas might have put the watch, but none of their guesses had panned out. And though the whereabouts of Nathan’s watch remained a mystery, Miranda was still determined to find it and reunite it with the braid of Ellena’s hair.

  Now, preparing to rehearse their ghostly tour, Miranda was still thinking about her grandpa and the long-ago tragedy he’d passed on to her. She’d hoped to have all the questions answered by now . . . the puzzle pieces together . . . the spirits at peace. So close . . . but not there yet . . .

  “I wish we could put Nathan and Ellena and Travis on our walk.” Ashley sighed. “It just doesn’t seem complete without them.”

  “They’re on our walk.” Taking Ashley’s notebook, Roo calmly pointed to the neatly lettered, neatly organized tour script. “See? Right here. Magnolia Gallery. Opera house fire.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Each of them really, really loved somebody very much. That’s what I want people to remember.” Ashley put a hand over her heart. “The loves that never die.”

  “The loves that made people die.” Parker downed another swig of cough medicine, capped the bottle, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Sorry, Ash, but that’s not the way of the world. If you tell their real stories, people will only remember all the dumb mistakes they made. Like . . . oh, you know . . . torture and murder and arson and treason and—”

  “Ah, yes,” Roo acknowledged coolly. “Parker Wilmington, the last of the true romantics.”

  Retrieving her notebook, Ashley hugged it to her chest. Her sigh was more wistful this time. “I know you’re right. I mean, we can’t ever give away their real secrets. Not on the Walk of the Spirits . . . not to anybody . . . not ever. I mean, Nathan and Ellena and Travis lived and sacrificed and died, protecting those secrets about themselves. If we told their secrets, it would be like betraying them all over again.”

  “Or we could call the tabloids and paparazzi,” Parker deadpanned. “They pay big money for secrets and betrayals.”

  “Parker Wilmington, if I told even half your secrets and betrayals, I’d be a very rich woman!”

  Even Parker looked amused as the group broke into raucous applause. Looking entirely pleased with herself, Ashley curtsied, then motioned them all toward the Brickway.

  “I’m going to be so nervous tomorrow,” Ashley confessed, linking her arm through Miranda’s. “What if our whole class hates it?”

  “Then I’ll say I told you so,” Parker replied. Roo, Gage, and Etienne had moved several feet ahead to argue something about the script. Hanging back, Parker tried to swallow, but winced at the effort. “Anybody got anything stronger than cough syrup?”

  When no one responded, he pointed to his BMW parked along the opposite curb. “You know what? As sad as I know this will make you, ladies, I’m going home and to bed. Alone.”

  “Parker—”

  “Oh, yeah, right—I’ve got that stupid article in my car. Go on ahead. I’ll give it to Miranda.”

  “Parker, do you really feel that terrible?”

  “Christ, Ashley, my throat’s like raw hamburger. Is that terrible enough for you believe me?”

  The suspicion on Ashley’s face turned to guilt, and Miranda felt just as bad. They both knew Parker had gotten sick trying to save them. Maybe he wasn’t faking so much after all.

  As Ashley caught up to the others, Miranda followed Parker across the street.

  Dusk had fallen, and shadows lay deep. While Parker grabbed an envelope from the glove box, Miranda watched Ashley and the others talking beneath a lamppost on the corner . . . heard their muffled laughter and conversation.

  “Miranda?” Parker said suddenly.

  Startled, Miranda saw him turn around. In the dim light, something in his face caught her attention. Something like bewilderment . . . or even fear . . .

  “Parker, what is it?”

  He handed her the envelope. After a brief hesitation, he leaned slowly against the side of his car. “Miranda, I just wanted . . . needed to tell you.”


  “Tell me what”

  “Damn. This is . . . really hard.”

  A spark of worry flared inside her. “Parker, tell me. What’s wrong?”

  “Something happened that night, Miranda.” Another short pause before he spoke again. “In the storm.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I left y’all there at the shelter, and I tried to get to Etienne’s house.”

  “But you did get there. You brought back help, and you saved us.”

  “I didn’t.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t.”

  “Parker—”

  “I mean, I did. But not like everybody thinks.”

  She realized she was shaking. She realized Parker was shaking, too, and there was something unnerving about his stare.

  “I got lost,” he mumbled. “I got so lost, I didn’t have a clue where I was or what direction I was headed. And it was shit-awful scary out there.”

  As though the memory were too much for him, he sank to the curb and squatted back on his heels.

  “The flashlight was like nothing. Nothing. And suddenly I just stepped off—tripped—I don’t know, the ground just disappeared, and I went down. And I thought, This is it: I’m drowning; I’m going to die.”

  She gazed at him sympathetically, but he avoided her eyes. His words were tight with emotion. “And then . . . something happened. I . . .”

  “Parker?”

  “I swear to God, Miranda, there was this light. Like a flashlight, only . . . only not a flashlight. More like a lantern, I guess . . . and this . . . I don’t know . . . something just sort of floated out of the rain, floated right out of the storm toward me. I could feel it on the back of my neck, and on my shoulders—and it grabbed me under my arms and pulled me out.”

  Parker’s hands clenched into fists. He pressed them hard against his temples. “I heard this voice...this voice sort of talking, sort of singing. And it sounded . . . like a woman’s voice.”

  “Was the voice familiar? Did you recognize her?”

  "No.” Adamantly, Parker shook his head. “But she called me Nathan.”

  34

  MIRANDA WENT ICE COLD. As she and Parker locked eyes, time seemed to halt around them.