by S. E. Harmon
Bang, bang, crash!
The next morning, I woke to the sound of the garbage truck picking up our cans. I listened with my eyes closed, amazed that one vehicle could make so much fucking noise. The truck made an exhausted robot sound as the arm slammed the trash can back to the ground. I yawned as the truck finally lumbered off.
For once, I slept pretty well. I wasn’t sure if it was contentment or exhaustion, but either way I was grateful. The only thing that would make the morning better would be an incredible fuck, followed immediately by a brisk shower and some strong coffee.
I could only make two of those come true. The sheets beside me were cool to the touch. Danny probably decided to do me a favor and let me sleep, rather than wake me up for a dirty fuck. My morning wood thought that was an idiotic call to make.
Even without opening my eyes, I knew his earbuds and phone would be missing from the nightstand. He was probably out for an early morning run in the fresh air… all poisonous things to my system. Despite my best efforts, he didn’t seem to get the joys of sleeping in. At this point, I wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t learn, or couldn’t learn.
I opened my eyes only to see a circle of faces peering down at me. Ghost faces. I groaned. “God, I just got rid of the last one. Don’t you guys have hobbies?” They exchanged curious glances with one another as they contemplated my question. “Some ghostly canasta league or something?”
An older man with a white mustache that reminded me of the Monopoly man tapped the frame of my bed with his cane. “The name is Maurice. I have business, young man,” he said crisply. “Now let’s get to it, lazy bones.”
Lazy bones? I glanced at my phone and sent him an imperious look. “It’s only eight a.m.”
“I’ve been here since six. When that fella… um, yer man there, woke up.” He gave me a scandalized look. “Quite naked, he was.”
“Look, it’s all right for you to get up at six. You’re dead,” I informed him. “I need my beauty rest.”
He eyed me critically. “Maybe you have a point.”
“Cheeky ghosts go to the back of the line. I’ll be starting office hours today. Outside of those hours, you don’t exist.” I waited for a few moments while they protested before I cut in. “Those are the rules, guys. Deal with it.”
Maurice huffed. “That’s an idiotic system.”
“Then maybe another medium would be more to your liking.”
“I don’t know another medium.”
I smiled as that sunk in to all my morning visitors. My point exactly.
I threw back the covers and got out of bed, suddenly feeling energized. I decided to get dressed, and I padded to the dresser, the new area rug soft and cozy under my feet. I threw on some wrinkled khaki shorts, an equally wrinkled shirt, and stuck my feet in some sandals. Then I headed down the hallway, my mind occupied with my to-do list.
First on that list was making some headway on organizing my new office. I had to get the rest of the junk out of there and into the attic. Also on the list was getting my desk assembled and scrounging up a desk chair. Thanks to Tate, I had the time to work on it. She’d given me the rest of the week off—my unspoken reward for preventing our suspect from taking a header off a high-rise, I guess. I didn’t really need all the particulars. A week off was a week off. And so went the book of Rain.
The door to the guest room was ajar, which made me stop short. I pushed the door open farther, blinking in surprise. All the junk was gone. My desk was also assembled and a plush desk chair was sitting behind it. Someone had also ferried all my belongings from the dining room table and put them on my desk, including my laptop and all my files.
Captain Neat Freak strikes again.
I had a feeling he hadn’t stuffed all the junk in the attic. Maybe he was feeling a little more sure about our relationship too.
A small smile curved my mouth. My whiteboard was against the wall, a heart drawn in the center. It made me melt and shake my head all at the same time. I loved that man to pieces, but he really needed to stop writing on my whiteboards.
I padded over to the desk chair and plopped in it. It was ten times better than that old rickety thing I had at work. And frankly, after the wedgie my poor rump had gotten the day before, it needed a little TLC.
As my laptop booted up, I checked a few messages. There was one from my mother saying she had a surprise for me, which was concerning to say the least. I listened to one from Dakota, who requested I bring some gardening gloves for our next appointment. Then there was one from Graycie, demanding that I call him back ASAP. I was tempted to ignore him, but I was a slave to curiosity. One of these days, my peculiar brand of curiosity was going to get me quite dead, but for now, it just made me pick up the phone.
I spun in my chair absently as it rang, wondering if there would ever come a time when the FBI said jump and I didn’t ask how high.
“Where’ve you been?” he demanded instead of saying hello.
“Minding my own business,” I said. “What the hell do you want?”
“I need a favor.”
“Hmm. Do you hear that ominous music playing?” I asked. “Or is that just on my end?”
He made an irritated noise. “I’m serious, Christiansen. You remember Thomas Kane, don’t you?”
There were many reasons that answer was yes. Kane was an infamous serial killer for starters. Graycie had been instrumental in Kane’s eventual capture almost twenty years prior, and it took very little to set him off about the topic. He’d also been stymied by Kane’s silence regarding his crimes—stymied and infuriated, which was something I understood perfectly. It was the hallmark of a good profiler to want answers for the unanswerable. To see order where everyone else only saw chaos. I knew all that. What I didn’t know was why Kane would be on Graycie’s radar at all because he’d been locked up for decades.
I didn’t answer what was obviously a rhetorical question. “What about him?”
“He’s going to be executed. His last appeal is in the courts, but it doesn’t look good.”
“And this is an invite to his Surprise, The Cake is Actually Made of Midazolam party?” I tsked. “You should’ve given me more notice. I’m quite busy.”
“This is our last crack at finding the victims,” he snapped.
“Still not understanding what this has to do with me.”
“He wants to speak with you.”
I blinked. “What?”
“He wants to speak with you,” Graycie said again. It was clear from his tone how excited that made him. He sounded two heartbeats away from needing a bypass. Triple. “And I told him you would. I already got special permissions from the warden.”
“Well, you can call him right back and tell him you made a regrettable mistake.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Then I will. What’s the warden’s contact information?”
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear from Thomas Kane? Any idea what kind of addition his interview would be to our database?” Graycie pressed his point when I didn’t respond. “He could finally be ready to give up their graves.”
“Or he could be playing some sort of sick game.”
“Possibly. He very well could be dangling something under our noses just because he’s bored,” Graycie continued. “Or because he doesn’t have any visitors. Or because he’s read all his books. Or because—”
“He’s tired of jerking off in solitary?”
“My point is that we won’t know unless you talk to him.”
When the bastard had a point, he usually had a good one.
“Christiansen? You still with me?”
“Yeah. I just wonder what Kane’s end game is. And why me?”
“Because he asked for you.”
Simple enough. Not a real answer, but it was going to have to do. Hell, Graycie didn’t have the answer to give. Only Kane knew that.
Graycie wasn’t quite done pressing his agenda. “Did I mention th
at we picked up Jon Gable on federal charges?”
“What kind of federal charges?”
“Don’t worry about that. He’s going away for at least forty years. Lottie Hereford finally gets her justice, even though the PTU fumbled the ball.”
I snorted. “Is this the part of the conversation where you act like a manipulative fuck?”
“Yes,” he admitted without shame. “Is this the part of the conversation where you stop making me beg and do what I ask?”
“Why should I care that Thomas Kane wants to talk to me?”
“Because once a profiler, always a profiler. You want to know what he has to say.” He waited patiently, daring me to deny it. “And you’re going to want to solve the three copycat murders.”
“Not interested.”
If I was any more interested, I’d need a cup for my drool.
“Lying is beneath you, Christiansen.” I could hear the smile in his voice. Whether he was more amused at my feigned disinterest, or that he had me over a barrel, was anyone’s guess. “When you finally come around, you have my number.”
“I certainly do,” I agreed. “Now refresh my memory. Do I need to dial one before the six-six-six, or no?”
He chuckled. “Good to know domesticity hasn’t changed you a bit. You’re still a mouthy little bastard.”
“I do try.”
“The file is already in your inbox.”
I hung up without saying goodbye even as I made a note in my calendar. When I was done, I tossed my pen on the desk and gave my chair a little spin. I could’ve stalled Graycie some more, but we both knew I would comply in the end. When a profiler—former or not—got a request to chat with a serial killer, he got his butt on a plane.
Well, first he updated his will, and then he got his butt on a plane.
A ghost popped up in my wing chair, and startled me into leaning back so far, I nearly tipped over. He anxiously wrung his hands. “Is it office hours yet?”
“Um, I suppose—”
“For God’s sakes, Doc, what the hell took you so long? If my daughter doesn't find my revised will, my good-for-nothing son is going to inherit my business, and then the whole damn thing is going to fail.”
Nothing like jumping in feet first.
“Alright, alright. Calm down.” I looked around absently for the pen I was sure I had. Somewhere. “Just let me find something to write with, and we can—”
A pen came rolling across my desk, stopping right in front of me. I glanced down at my fancy Montblanc, and then back up at the ghost. At my upraised brow, he sent me a smile that I didn’t return. His smile turned into a wince. “Sorry.”
I didn’t respond to that. I couldn’t say, “That’s okay,” because it wasn’t. His action only reminded me that I still had to talk to Dakota about that particular problem. Ghosts freely using my energy rated a ten on my what the actual fuck scale.
I sighed and picked up the pen, doing my best to shove aside my worry. “So where is your will located?”
Hours later, I tossed my pen on the desk. I had at least four tasks for as many ghosts. I knew if I completed the tasks properly, I wouldn’t see them again. Talk about motivation.
I spun around in my chair, a bemused look on my face. I wondered if it would ever not feel strange, incorporating both sides of myself into one tidy package. In time, I hoped I’d learn to embrace the weirdness. It was part of who I was. Who I’d always been.
A voice interrupted my ruminating about life in general. “Rain?”
“What?” I called back.
“Can you come in here, please?”
Danny’s voice sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. That was too damned far to mosey on a day off—he should know that. Lazily, I gave my chair another spin that sent me rotating slowly, like a human ceiling fan. “I’m busy.”
“Where are you?” That time he sounded a bit closer. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The big kind.” He appeared in the doorway so suddenly that I nearly upset my chair. “The kind where you get off your rump and come look out the window.”
I got up with a groan and followed him out of the room and down the hall. Apparently, I wasn’t moving fast enough because halfway there, he took my hand and started towing me behind him. “What’s the fucking emergency?” I groused.
“You’ll see.” When we got to the kitchen, he stopped in front of the window and spun me around. “There.”
I looked out the window and came to a complete standstill. Well, now that just can’t be right. I blinked and rubbed at my eyes—hard—but when I looked out the window again, the vision was still there. “Tell me I’m having a paranoid delusion.”
“If you’re having it, I’m having it too.”
“I thought that was conservation land.”
“Nope.”
“Why didn’t you buy it?” I demanded.
“I already had more than enough space for one person.” He shrugged. “Besides, I never really thought anyone would do anything with it.”
“Well, that certainly turned out to be a risky bet.”
“Don’t look at me that way,” he said holding up his hands. “They’re your parents. My mother lives a half hour away, where she belongs.”
My flip-flops slapped against the hardwood floor as I marched out of the kitchen and down the porch steps to greet our new neighbors. Danny was close behind. A tiny house on a trailer was being backed in by a pickup truck. My brother-in-law, Rick, stuck his head out the window and my father waved him back some more. “You got it,” he shouted.
“Rainstorm!” My mother had three flamingos clutched to her chest as she waved and smiled at me. Her blonde hair was in a long, loose braid that swung over her shoulder as she leaned forward and stuck one of the fake birds in the grass, which apparently was her new front yard.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I told you I had a surprise for you.” She stuck another flamingo in the ground. He wobbled dangerously. “Our lease was up and we decided to buy.”
“Buy what?” I looked at the tiny building as my dad frantically waved at Rick like he was trying to land a jumbo jet. “Is that some sort of dollhouse?”
She shook the last flamingo at me before she stuck it in the ground. “Hardly that. Plenty enough room for the two of us.”
“It’s… it’s….” I was at a loss for words, and Danny smacked me on the back helpfully. “It’s certainly efficient.”
“One bedroom, two lofts, and a bathroom big enough for a small copper tub, thank you very much. Isn’t it a scream?”
“I’m gonna scream alright.”
At my mutter, Danny cleared his throat. “It’s lovely, Robyn.”
She smiled. “Now don’t worry, we’re not going to cramp you boys’ style. But we’ve had an eye on that empty lot next to you for some time now. I figured it was just a matter of time before you two finally stopped dancing around the topic of living together.”
She shook her head as if it was too much just contemplating how dense we’d been. I opened my mouth to defend our honor, and then shut it because I knew she was absolutely correct. “I’m still wondering how that brings us to you and this tiny building right outside our windows.”
“Well, it was so nice having you for a neighbor and Leo and I thought, why not?”
I sighed with resignation even as a smile tugged at my lips. I may bitch and moan, but my parents were such good people that it was hard to complain in earnest. And someone had to keep an eye on their craziness.
“Besides,” she added brightly, “It’s such a good space—private space—to set up a greenhouse. Maybe a bigger one this time.”
My smile disappeared. “Mother.”
“For our personal use only. Not distribution. Don’t be such a square, dear.” She made Ls with her thumbs and forefingers and fit them together. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe I gave birth to such a square child.”
&nbs
p; “I’m a cop,” I said dryly. “I think the job description demands that I be a square.”
“Well, be a square with round corners, darling.”
“Isn’t that just a circl—”
“Now which way do you think we should turn it?” She stepped back and squinted at the dollhouse for people.
“Maybe that way,” my dad mused, pointing. “It’d probably be nice to have breakfast on the porch in the mornings. I mean, look at that view.”
To the east? I squinted. That would put their front yard directly in the living room’s line of sight. Since the wall was mostly glass, we’d also have an unobstructed view… of my parents doing early morning yoga. They were often joined by their equally spry friends, who’d never met a piece of spandex they didn’t like.
He turned to us. “What do you guys think?”
“To the west,” Danny and I said simultaneously. We tried not to look at one another to keep from laughing.
My father beamed. “Capital idea, boys.”
Dusk was approaching when my rumbling stomach forced me back out of my office. Like we’d communicated telepathically, Danny was already putting together sandwiches. We didn’t bother with plates, eating them off the cutting board and fishing pickles right out of the jar. After we finished, I volunteered for dishes quickly.
Danny squinted at me. “This doesn’t count,” he said. “You still have to do dishes tomorrow.”
“You’d better not use any fucking roasting pans,” I grumped as I washed the cutting board in the sudsy water. “That’s all I have to say about it.”
He held up his hands as if the thought never occurred to him, as though he’d never slow roasted a pork butt in the oven for four hours and left the pan soaking in the sink for days. “Deal.”
He was a little anal about his dishes, so I took extra time with the cutting board, long after I would’ve slung it in the drying rack. At least I had a show to watch to keep me entertained—a spectacle right outside our kitchen window. My father was trying to set up a giant, green, pop-up tent, but he couldn’t seem to get it to stand. He’d been at it for two hours at least.
Just when I thought he might actually get it to stand, he lost his grip on the tent. The wind lifted the green fabric and sent it across the yard, where it ended up against Danny’s car. I winced. If I recalled correctly, that tent had some metal clips among all that nylon. Danny swore loudly.