New Voices Volume 010

by S. H. Marpel

  First my heart went a-pattering, then it sank.

  This one was do – or die.

  A funny thing to say to a spirit-guide. Funny in a tragic sense.

  Things had been happening that weren’t good. Our own staff gone missing. Cases being un-solved. The Library missing materials – whole shelves-full at once.

  Then I saw the one picture that almost made my own heart stop.

  It was a picture of my old ship, the U.S.S. Sea Quest. But the caption said it was taken just before that ship was towed to salvage.

  And that date was before John, Sal, and Jude ever came to rescue me.

  Meaning: I’d never become a spirit guide, gotten this training, joined the Ghost Hunters – and was probably now doomed to haunt a salvage yard as a ghost.

  I closed the folder with a slap. Angry – just a bit.

  No. I wasn’t going out that way.

  I slipped my hand in without opening that folder again, and tore the top sheet off the inside cover.

  That was the mission statement. And I read it closely.

  Then looked up.

  Someone familiar was phasing into place in front of me.

  “CAROL! GOOD TO SEE you!”

  She was the second person I’d seen that day with a dour look.

  “Sorry, Mary. Wish I could come with better news. Or time to talk. I’ve come to fetch you. And drop you off where I can, while I can.”

  “Do I have time to change?”

  “On our way – pick something West Coast, white collar clerical, mid-80’s or 90’s.”

  I knew Carol and how much she liked to talk, even with her time-disjointed grammar. And she wasn’t. Every sentence clipped.

  Something very serious was up.

  She held out her hand. I stood, took that hand and held on for dear life.

  Because both of our lives probably did depend on that grip, from what I read and how we were both reacting.

  Then the library shelves, the couch and table and chairs, everything simply dissolved around us...

  II

  WE SHIMMERED INTO PLACE right outside a diner. Looked like L.A. because of all the asphalt, cement, and palm trees. The diner had a lot of glass and chrome. And it was decorated for Christmas with plastic wreaths and synthetic ribbons.

  The sky overhead was clear, with a tinge of smog between us, the sun, and the cloudless sky. Still a West Coast idea of what passed for morning out here.

  Carol turned to me and smiled, then wrapped her arms around me to hug me in a bear grip that showed her relief and thankfulness.

  Not uncomfortable, though. This was the old Carol I knew better.

  She let up and pushed back to look at me, her arms on my shoulders.

  “It’s been so long, Mary. You look great.” Carol’s smile was back, and the tenseness had dropped out of her voice.

  I had to smile in return. “It’s good to see you, too. And thanks. Now, what is going on? What’s this all about?”

  A slight frown crossed her forehead. “Now you and I are safe here. The others, well, not so much. Did you get through those books and the briefing file?”

  I nodded. “Just barely.”

  “I wish you’d had more time, but no one has that luxury anymore. Thing’s are unraveling.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You saw your old ship?”

  “Sent to salvage, it said, Before John could rescue me.”

  Carol nodded. “That’s the problem with most of the Ghost Hunter network. Every since John decided not to join. In fact, he never moved to that farm we all know and love.”

  I was speechless, even though my jaw was open – nothing was coming out. So I closed it.

  “Wait – how did that happen?”

  Carol hiked a thumb over her shoulder at that diner. “Since he was trapped in there.”

  “DOESN’T LOOK LIKE ANY trap.”

  “No, and if I weren’t busy on another assignment, I’d be going in there instead of you.”

  “Why do I rate this ‘honor’?”

  “Because they trained you up even more than me. All the latest Ghost Hunter tricks and strategies, self-defense, and added a round of Rochelle’s Lazurai emergency first aid training at her nursing school-clinic.”

  “Yea, I couldn’t figure why me for that – at best, I’m a spirit-guide...”

  “But when you’re corporeal, the virus piggybacks on you to reach more beings.”

  “So I can kill more unsuspecting people?”

  “That’s a bit dramatic. The current generation of virus is completely benign. It just helps people achieve what they really want.”

  “Only they have to really want it, like how many psychiatrists it takes to change a light bulb...”

  Carol smiled at my old joke. “You got it, sis.”

  “What’s the deal then – time loop and all?”

  “This place used to be a middle-ground, a sanctuary between the two warring forces – us and the criminals who want to drag down any and all sentients back into slavery. Where we could do arbitrations, exchange prisoners, and the like.”

  “But now it’s a time trap for John...”

  “... and anyone who goes in there to help him from either side.”

  “The criminals want to help him...”

  “...decide not to become a Ghost Hunter.”

  “So I’m our little representative to save that gorgeous hunk’s butt.”

  Carol grinned. “Along with the rest of his gorgeous self.”

  I grinned back. “So I’m doing this because why?”

  “You have a grand-niece that met him once – just before he decided to get rid of city living and take up cattle-farming part-time. So he could follow his passion of fiction writing. Mysteries and such.”

  She took my arm in hers and started walking us slowly toward the diner’s front door.

  “You’re going to replace your grand-niece as she’s a doppelganger for you. Cute, beautiful, smart.”

  I stopped us. “That’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t it?”

  Carol just looked direct into my eyes. “Mary, when have I ever laid anything on thick – but don’t bring up how I schmooze John to make myself the exception to his born-and-bred gentlemanliness.”

  I had to grin again. “Like that’s unique to any of us females who have had him alone in private for even a single moment.”

  She looked up in the sky to consider, then back into mine. “You may have a point there.”

  “OK, now I just need to set him up to decide to join the good guys.”

  Carol nodded. Some sadness crept into her eyes again.

  “So, you’re busy, huh?”

  “Yeah, I’m in a time loop of my own – well, I didn’t create it, I just have to solve it. And save a couple of people who were trapped in there. Typical government experiment gone wrong. And Tess is off on the moon still cleaning up after that mess. At least their time-space-line isn’t affected, yet.”

  There was the simplicity of it. Anyone John had helped rescue was at risk. I’d already seen my own future that would come back at me if I failed here.

  No pressure.

  Of course, it would be better to get a time-bender to work on this. Short of that, at least someone who had nothing to lose and couldn’t be killed.

  So I put a smile on my face. “Well, girl, any other tips I should know before I jump into the deep end?”

  “The loop resets depending on John. If he dies in there, it starts over. If he decides before he leaves there to join the dark side, it quits. The baddies are maintaining it.”

  “And how do we end the loop after he’s decided to go ahead and return to his normal time line decision?”

  “Probably when you figure out who in there has the controls and get their gizmo turned off. Hopefully, you’ll have him making the decision we want by then.”

  “That’s a funny phrase – ‘the decision we want’.”

  Carol shrugged. “Hey, time isn’t c
ast in stone. People decide all the time. Free will and all that. What you can take away from this is that as long as that loop keeps resetting, then he still plans to make the right choice.”

  “Unless he gets killed in the process.”

  “Well, there’s that. But he’ll be right back there in the next iteration of that loop. It’s you that will have the memory of him dying – and nothing you could do to stop it.”

  There it was again. No pressure. But no in-flight movies, either – unless they were tragic ones.

  We were just outside. All I had to do was to grab the door handle and walk in.

  Carol hugged me once more. Then stepped back from me. “Just remember all you’ve learned. I’ll be back when I can. So – good luck.”

  And she faded away with a confident smile on her lips, but a concern in her eyes.

  I just turned and pulled the diner door open.

  III

  TWO ADJACENT SEATS were still available in that crowded diner, all others were taken. One was mine, the other – John’s. Those counter stools sported black leatherette seats with chrome edges. Dark blue and white tiles decorated the front of the counter, red Formica on it’s long top. Sugar, salt, pepper, ketchup, mustard containers all positioned in periodic racks within reach of the stool customers.

  Smallish jukebox at one end, playing softly in the background. 80’s hits.

  Good thing I’d read John’s story about my grand-niece. So I knew a few more details about that conversation they’d had. Probably required reading for everyone here, bad or good. Well, I could assume so, anyway.

  Maybe twenty or thirty seats in here, about half around the counter, the others in booths with benches, spaced out opposite the main counter, and turning around one end.

  Typical noises of hungry people eating their lunches. Orders being taken, filled, served. Bottomless cups of coffee keeping the waitress moving.

  So I took my seat, leaving the other stool open to my left.

  Then looked up at the chalkboard for the daily specials.

  A middle-aged full-bodied woman with curly black hair came up, an order pad in one hand, coffee carafe in the other. “Need a menu?”

  I returned her honest smile. “No, thanks. I’ve heard about your pie. Ala mode, please. And a coffee.”

  “Coming right up.” She turned on a dime, and filled another cup on her way back, chatting up that customer and making him smile. You could tell she loved her job, and dressed to fit. Several male eyes followed her tight outfit, but they all knew she had a hot pot of coffee and knew how to use it if they got improper with their looks or comments, much less their hands.

  Molly was soon back with my pie, steaming hot and melting the cinnamon-vanilla ice cream like a five-alarm fire.

  The coffee arrived next, as soon as she had a free hand to slide a china mug onto the counter.

  All with her warm smile.

  Now the stage was set. All that was left was just the waiting for John to show up.

  “STILL WAITING FOR HIM to show up?” Molly refilled my coffee without asking.

  “How do you figure I’m waiting for anyone?” I frowned, puzzled how she knew.

  “Because the way you’re nursing that pie ala mode says you care more for what’s coming in that door than you do for how that ice cream melts your pie to slush.”

  I smiled at this and tried to spoon up some of the now-gooey mess to my mouth. “That obvious, Molly?”

  “As obvious as my name tag. There’s just your one seat in here where you can see who’s coming in without them noticing you right off. So you can drop your eyeballs back to that pie real quick if they do.”

  Molly pulled out a cloth from under the counter and pretended to clean a phantom spill. “Besides, I’ve seen other gals like you in that seat before. Every week. Same place, same time. Hoping when you come in, disappointed when you leave.”

  She then looked me in the eye.

  “But don’t worry none. He’ll be along presently. Comes every week, just about now.”

  The front diner door then opened. I recognized a younger John as he came in, but quickly returned my eyes to my pie, as Molly recommended.

  His script was about to commence.

  “ISN’T THIS JUST THE greatest dessert ever?” He asked me, still brash and honest as a Midwestern Spring day. “I’ve heard about this all over town. And once I came to try it, I had to come back for more.”

  I had to nod and smile briefly in agreement.

  “I don’t mean to seem forward, but that smile makes your face look better.” He held his hand out. “Hi, I’m John.”

  “Mary,” I said as I shook his hand. “And thanks for the kind word.”

  “Anything to help a fellow traveler through this wild world we live in.” John replied.

  “I could agree with ‘wild’ world. Even worse than the Old West. It was hard enough back then to find the law and get them to act, so scammers and criminals tended to get away with murder or worse.” I replied.

  “You’re a Western fan?” John asked.

  “Yes, my favorite is L’Amour, but I also go to Max Brand and Zane Grey. The classics generally are better than what’s come since. But I take a break now and then for a good mystery by Doyle or Chesterton.” I warmed to talking about my favorite diversions.

  “It’s just too bad there aren’t more cross-over books. Good western mysteries are so hard to find. I have seen this in some of Brand’s books, and even L’Amour, but the mystery usually plays second-fiddle to the action. That even happens in the Western romances, though.” John replied between mouthfuls.

  “You might want to slow down on that pie - two helpings are just going to add pounds you will have to work off.” I suggested.

  John looked down at the next fork-full of pie, and set it down to halve it. “Thanks. You’ve got the better approach. Treat it as a delicacy, not as a main course. Take time enough to enjoy the simple things.”

  “True. It’s good to take time to sort things out instead of rushing into them all the time.” I sighed.

  John continued on talking about books, “Most of the Western mysteries wound up on TV to get any real series of them. Like ‘Hec Ramsey’ and ‘McCloud’. But there just isn’t the same flavor as reading it in text.”

  “You must like mysteries.” I mused.

  “It’s my living. I do write other genres, and of course the best books have all three story structures in them. Mystery, Romance, and Action. But cozy mysteries and clean romances are my current best sellers. People seem to be looking for more light-hearted entertainment these days.” John replied.

  “That’s what I like about Westerns. You don’t have all this ‘I’m a victim’ stuff out there. It was back in the days where there was still an American Dream that you could do something about.” I took another small bite to savor. I used a spoon instead of a fork, because the sauce was the secret and a fork left too much on the plate.

  “You’re right there. Even when ‘Gunsmoke’ was still on the air, there was some understanding of what is right and wrong.” John replied. He saw my spoon option and tried it himself. The look on his face was priceless as he closed his eyes in delight.

  “And probably goes back to your cozy mysteries and clean romance. Back in the ‘Gunsmoke’ days, you hardly even saw Matt Dillon and Kitty ever kiss. Different times.” I sighed again.

  John noticed my glumness had returned. “What’s your favorite mystery?”

  I had to take my time with that one. So I kept the spoon in my mouth upside down while I looked at the wall where it met the ceiling. “Well, that would be Doyle, I suppose. He wrote so many good ones... Probably ‘The Final Problem’.” I replied at last.

  “What made you choose that one?” John asked me.

  “Of course Doyle always started out well, but what kept me going was how he pulled the idle strings of so many Holmes stories together to wrap up what he thought to be the death of his character.” I replied.

  �
��Only to bring him back to life later.” John added. “Something the subsequent movies all seem to take into account.”

  I smiled slightly at that. John was taking my mind off my other matters. “You aren’t trying to cheer me up with all this talk of favorite books?”

  John smiled. “Well, since it’s so obvious, yes. An odd habit of my old optimistic self. Sorry if that bothers you.”

  “Not at all. It’s about the best I’ve felt in maybe years.” I replied.

  “Years? What has been haunting you all that time?” John asked, then paused. “Oh, you don’t have to answer that. I don’t mean to pry, it’s just my writer’s nature.”

  “What nature does a writer have that is prying?” I asked in return.

  “A writer, or at least this writer, wants to know all about a character. Frequently one that is haunted has an unsolved mystery in their lives. Ghost stories are just another version of mysteries, along with riddles and detective stories. Carolyn Wells laid that out a century ago. Once you can start seeing the mystery, then the story starts writing itself, like any good story.” John explained.

  “How does your prying-optimism solve personal hauntings?” I had to ask.

  John replied,“It’s not the hauntings, but that the technical back end to mysteries, the ones writers use to build their stories. That’s what can be used to solve continuing mysteries and problems...”

  IV

  OF COURSE WE GOT ALONG. Who couldn’t when he was so disarming, and interested only in who he was talking to.

  He was the same as the day I’d first met him aboard-ship, decades later. In front of me was a young John. Only old enough to be fresh out of college, but probably never went. Too interested in making his way in the world instead of being cooped up in a stuffy set of ever-changing classrooms with unlimited homework – studying long-dead Academics with stilted views of how they thought the “real world” worked.

  No, he went out to make it on his own. See what there was outside the small town he’d grown up outside of. Test everything he’d been taught against the laboratory of life itself.