"He says he loved you and that was the worst day of his life," I told Sandra. She looked up, and there were tears in her eyes.
"I love you, too, Andy," Sandra said before rushing from the room. Cheatin' Steve followed close behind. Andy stood there with his ghostly mouth hanging open for a moment before phasing out. He'd found his way over, at least. Suicide was now looking at me with interest.
"Don't you be getting any ideas," I told him, looking down to see the intern dragging sutures through my skin. I shouldn't have looked. I turned my head and almost bumped into Shrinkman, he was standing so close.
"You can speak with spirits," he said. I had a vision of him rubbing his hands together, anxious to start a battery of tests that no normal person would ever want to undergo. Well, no abnormal person either, and I was sure I fell somewhere in the latter category.
"Look," I said. "You and I don't need to have quiet bedside chats while I attempt to escape my restraints. Run along, now. I hear your mother calling."
Shrinkman almost jumped when I said that. "She's here?" He asked, turning frantically and looking about him. All right, that was downright spooky. Fortuitous, but spooky.
"Hey, maybe I should buy the doc here a cup of coffee." Shane attempted to rescue me from my current predicament. I didn't know if it would work—not this late in the game. Shane steered Shrinkman out of the room. Suicide came back and stood in his place. Both cops were still there and still listening. "What's your name?" I asked Suicide. What the hell? I was already getting a reservation for a rubber room.
"Sam Melton," he replied with an embarrassed shrug.
"Sam Melton? Mayor's son Sam Melton?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"Yeah. The old man doesn't know yet," Sam grinned sheepishly.
"Oh, good grief," I said. Both cops had come to stand beside my exam table, and they were almost melding with Sam. Intern stitched up the last of my bullet wound.
"What's this about Sam Melton?" Cop One asked.
"He's dead, self-inflicted bullet wound," I told them.
"Nobody knows that; we're keeping it under wraps until the Mayor gets here," Cop Two informed me.
"Sam knows," I said. "He tells me he fired the gun into his left temple, and the bullet exited from the right."
"Tell them I was in the basement, not far from the water heater," Sam grinned. I had never seen anyone so happy about the circumstances of their death before.
"He says he was in the basement, near the water heater," I told both officers.
"Uncle Ed was there, too. I shot him, first," Sam smiled.
"Oh my gosh, he says he shot his Uncle Ed, first," I told the cops. They were now gaping at each other.
"That bastard won't ever touch me or my sister again," Sam said happily. "He threatened us. He said he had something on Dad, and he'd tell and ruin him if we said anything."
"Officers, you'd better interview Sam's sister. Sam says that they were both molested by Uncle Ed." I looked down at the intern, who was now staring—hard—at me. He'd finished sewing and now held my foot in his hand. The nurse, who also had a stunned look on her face, absently handed a roll of gauze to the intern. He shook himself out of his temporary shock and started wrapping my foot. One of the officers got on his radio and relayed the message.
"I'd appreciate it if you boys would leave my name out of all this," I said. "I promise not to come near the hospital again, ever, if I can help it."
Cop One nodded, said something else into his radio when it squawked back and he and Cop Two took off at a run out the door. Intern finished bandaging my foot, wrote a prescription for pain meds and left, shaking his head. The nurse was afraid to leave but she had to; she needed a wheelchair to get me down the hall so I could check out and go home.
"Very nice," a tall, blue man appeared at my side. I looked up, then looked up some more. "I'll be taking this information back with me," he said. "And you won't be able to mention me to anyone."
"Why in heaven's name would I want to?" I asked, staring rudely. I mean, how many times can you say, "a tall blue man visited me in the hospital emergency room," before everybody thinks you're certifiable?
"You think I want them to know I'm crazy?" I squeaked
"You're not crazy," he informed me, crossing long, blue arms over his chest. He looked like a hippie, if hippies were nine feet tall and blue-skinned. Loose weave natural fabrics, sewn into a hip-length tunic and loose pants were what he wore, and he had sandals on large, blue feet. "I'm sorry I startled you this morning. I allowed the cat inside. I didn't realize you might drop the weapon. The animal was hungry and I was only watching you, I promise. My kind means no harm."
"All right, maybe I need that rubber room after all," I muttered. "Or I'm hallucinating."
"Neither," he assured me. "Would you like for me to follow you home?"
"Can you drive?" I asked. "My car is in the parking lot."
"I have never attempted to operate a vehicle, before. It would be a new experience." He looked as if that might be something he'd enjoy trying.
"Look," I said, "If you don't have a license, you won't be driving. That voids my insurance." I deliberately didn't mention that he'd never fit inside my car, as tall as he was.
"I have no need for a license," he said, and watched as the nurse rolled a wheelchair into the room. She acted as if she didn't see the blue man, and I sure as hell wasn't about to draw her attention to his presence. I wanted to go home, take my pain medication and crawl into bed. Maybe Shane's sympathy would kick in and he'd bring me soup.
The nurse took me down to the desk after handing me a pile of papers explaining how to take care of my wound and not to get it wet when I bathed. I blew out a sigh and resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't be getting in the hot tub for a while.
Blue man strolled casually beside me, as if he did that sort of thing every day, I got copies of the release forms, paid my co-pay and the nurse pushed me toward the sliding doors that led into the emergency room. I started to ask the nurse where she thought she was taking me; they'd already told me I shouldn't be driving, but she just went right along, left the wheelchair outside the doors, then turned and went back inside. I looked up at my tall blue escort. "Now what?" I asked.
"I will drive you home," he said, and did something, I'm not sure what, that made him around three feet shorter and human looking. He still had blond hair, which looked nice, actually.
"You just told me you didn't drive and don't have a license," I reminded him. He grinned at me, lifted me from the wheelchair like I weighed five pounds and carried me to my car. It was then I realized that I'd locked my keys inside. I said a few of my choicest cuss words then, but formerly blue and tall didn't seem to mind.
It also didn't matter that I'd locked myself out of the car. He just put a finger to the handle, I heard the lock click and he opened the door. He deposited me on the passenger seat, then climbed in on the driver's side. I briefly wondered where Shane was and if he were still trying to pull Shrinkman's focus away from me.
"Do not fear, all will be well," my unlicensed companion informed me and turned the key in the ignition, starting the car. He put it in gear, backed out of the space carefully and pointed it in the right direction to go home. I leaned back and kept my mouth shut. He drove quite well and never exceeded the speed limit. I heaved a big sigh when we pulled into the driveway and parked.
"You have so driven before," I accused as he came around and opened my door, again lifting and carrying me. We got inside the house and he turned back to his natural blue self once we were there.
"That was excellent, I may have to attempt driving again," he informed me with a satisfied grin and set me down on the kitchen island. I watched as he rummaged through the refrigerator for something, eventually coming out with a premixed protein drink. I usually kept some on hand, for emergencies. "Here," he handed it to me. I must have been giving him a puzzled look because he took it back, popped it open without touching the lid and handed it back to me. "
Drink," he commanded. I drank.
"I need my pain medication," I told him as I sucked up my drink. He snorted at my announcement and took my foot in his hands. Light shone around his fingers and the pain disappeared, just like that.
"What did you do?" I asked breathlessly.
"That is simple to fix," he said.
"Hi." Sam Melton appeared in my kitchen.
"Sam, I thought you'd gone on," my voice sounded whiny, even to my own ears. Here was trouble, back again. I don't do well with spirits if I'm sick.
"Nope. I went to check on those officers. They were telling somebody to go question Sis," he went to the fridge and attempted to open the door. Finding that his hand went right through it, he stuck his head inside it instead, to check out the contents. "Why don't you have any soda?" he asked, pulling his head out again and handing me a disappointed look.
"Sam, you gave up sodas when you picked up that gun," I said. "Why didn't you talk to your father about what was going on? I think you loved him, maybe."
"Dad was always so busy," Sam said. "Are you sure I can't eat or drink anything?" I looked over at blue man and rolled my eyes.
"I can't see him or hear him," blue man said.
"Oh good gosh," I said. "And what's your name, anyway, so I don't have to think of you as blue guy all the time."
Sam was now staring at the blue guy, as if he hadn't noticed him until that moment. "My name is Garegar," blue guy said. He'd pronounced it Gary-gar. "I am Larentii," he added, as if that meant anything to me.
"Well, Garegar, my husband will be home in about an hour. If he finds you here, he may have an aneurysm. Not that it's a bad thing," I told him, holding out a hand. "I'm just warning you."
"He will not be able to see me unless I wish it, and I will not wish it," Garegar informed me.
"From what you said earlier, sounds like your husband's lyin' and cheatin'," Sam observed, walking around my kitchen to check everything out.
"Oh, he's cheatin', all right," I said. "But he doesn't lie about it. He'd tell me right to my face if I asked him. He'd probably laugh about it, too, while he was at it."
"Then why do you stay with him? Is it this fancy house and the money?" Sam asked, looking around my kitchen in appreciation.
"Well, not because it's his fancy house and money," I grumbled. "It's all mine, I inherited it from my mother," I said. "We didn't sign a pre-nup when we married, and we married young. Now, we don't sleep in the same bedroom, he only speaks when he wants something and he's threatened to ruin me if I ask for a divorce."
"How can he ruin you?" Sam blinked at me.
"Sam, not everybody can see ghosts," I muttered. Steven could ruin me and my career if he wanted. All he'd have to do is talk to a few reporters and Conner Francis would be virtual toast.
We all whirled at the sound of the key turning in the back door, but it was only Shane. Rain was falling now; Shane shook water from his curly brown hair when he came through the door. Shane has had a key to the house since day one, almost, and he knows if anything ever happens to me to have Steven investigated first.
"Conner, how the hell did you get home?" he asked. "Your car's parked out front. Tell me you didn't drive."
"I didn't drive," I said.
"Then how did you get home?" he demanded. I swear, sometimes he was worse than a mother hen. A gay mother hen, but still.
"Someone drove me," I said.
"Someone I know?" he was giving me the eye, telling me silently that I better not have let a stranger drive me home. I didn't want to get into it with Shane; not with Sam and Garegar there to watch.
"We have visitors," I nodded toward Sam and Garegar.
"So what?" Shane was about to get warmed up. "You did, didn't you. You let a stranger drive you home. Conner, do you understand how dangerous that is? I swear, those cupcakes you hide in your desk drawer are warping your brain. That, and the fact that you stay up all night writing."
I didn't have a defense against anything he said. I didn't know why I'd gone with Garegar and let him drive. I couldn't explain it. He just seemed safe, somehow. And I did stay up writing until all hours of the night. I'd been publishing books under a pen name for years; mysteries with a Southern female sleuth. Cozies, they called them. That didn't mean I was just going to sit there and take the truth lying down.
"Shane Patrick Taylor, get off my ass," I said. "I've had an awful day, that shrink probably still wants to lock me up, Sam's still here and Steven will likely be here any minute, wondering where his dinner is."
"Where's that gun? I may shoot Steven myself," Shane declared.
"Come on," I said, sliding off the island. "Help me throw something together." Shane could cook as well as I could; better at times. He made the best barbecue in Atlanta, and when he had a cookout, everybody came, including people he didn't invite. Even our homophobic neighbors forgave Shane for his transgressions, as they called them, on the days he served up ribs and brisket.
Steven had stuffed pork chops waiting on him when he arrived, and he didn't say a word to me or notice my wrapped foot (which I preferred, by the way), stuffed himself, then went to his study. Garegar and Sam watched Shane and me the whole time we put the meal together, then watched as Steven consumed it. Shane helped me get the dishes into the dishwasher afterward, then went out the back door and through the connecting gate in our mutual fence to go home.
I sighed and went toward my study. It's on the second floor of my home, just down the hall from my bedroom. Steven sleeps in the master suite downstairs. I don't mind. I don't have to see him after dinner, most days. Garegar and Sam followed along behind me. Garegar must have gotten impatient while I hobbled up the stairs one step at a time, because he picked me up again and carried me to my bedroom. We went right past my study, even though I protested when he walked by.
"You will sleep," he said, laying me on the bed. I started to climb right off again to walk down the hall to my study, but he poked my forehead with a long blue finger and I didn't remember anything else after that.
* * *
I woke on New Year's Eve to the doorbell ringing, so I slid off the bed and hobbled around looking for my robe. I wouldn't have bothered, normally; Shane would let himself in and Gayle, my neighbor on the other side, knew to call first. I was expecting a last minute delivery—advance copies of my latest novel from the publisher and I was afraid it was Fed-Ex at the door.
I stubbed the toe of my bullet-hole-riddled foot on the corner of the bed, howled in pain and dropped to the floor trying to hug my foot to me. Trust me, when you get to be fifty-three (unless you're a yoga instructor), that's easier said than done. I had tears of pain in my eyes and felt truly sorry for myself when Garegar appeared in the bedroom with my package in his hand.
"Thanks," I sniffled as he handed the box to me. I blinked up at him. Frankly, I was hoping he'd been a hallucination and would be gone today. I forgave him for being an uninvited houseguest, however, since he'd answered the door for me. And he knelt in the floor and fixed my foot again. Anybody who could do that was welcome in my home for at least a one-week stay and regular meals.
That brought back my Southern manners, which had been noticeable absent the day before. "Are you hungry?" I asked, staring into his bright-blue eyes. I figured I could at least cook breakfast for him.
"I do not consume food as the humanoid races do," he informed me. He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. "We feed directly from a source of energy. Sunlight is our usual sustenance."
"Well, that might cut out a few trips to the store," I muttered, staring down at the foot he'd just fixed. I discovered I was dressed in an old blue nightgown I hadn't worn for months. I didn't remember putting it on, either. Casting an accusing glare at my guest, I gave an indignant "What the hell?" Garegar realized his welcome had just evaporated.
"My apologies," he sighed. "I felt obligated to determine which sleeping garment you might wish to be dressed in, and since that one showed the most signs of wear, I assumed
it must be your favorite."
I stared up at my houseguest and blew a stray strand of hair off my face. "It isn't your logic I have a problem with," I snapped.
"I know your race has an irrational fear of nudity," he replied, rubbing my shoulders gently with a large blue hand. "We Larentii regard nudity as perfectly natural. Clothing should be worn for protective purposes only, or to prevent offense."
"Well, let's discuss that offense thing, then," I shook a finger at him. I didn't get a chance to tell him what else was on my mind because the doorbell rang again. I looked around for the robe I hadn't found the first time. I cursed creatively when I didn't find it. Garegar did something with his hand, and the robe was just there.
"Thanks," I said ungratefully and hobbled out the door. I was heading toward the stairs and shrugging into my robe as I did so. Who says I can't multitask? Garegar must have sensed that I wasn't in the mood for any more of his help right then and merely watched me struggle down the stairs, following along behind patiently. I flung the front door open when I finally reached it, and wished I hadn't bothered once I saw who it was. It was Shrinkman, whose name I hadn't gotten the day before.
"Go away," I snapped unkindly. I know, that's exactly the opposite of what my Southern upbringing had taught me to do, but there wasn't any way I wanted to see this guy, much less offer him sweet iced tea and cookies. I thought about slamming the door in his face, but my mother would have wept to see me behave that way, so I didn't.
"Mrs. Francis, please," Shrinkman begged me to allow him inside the house.
"Look, I'm not sitting on your couch and answering a bunch of questions. I don't have time for that." He was disappointed; his watery, hazel eyes stared at me mournfully through designer spectacles.
Garegar was still standing beside me, but Shrinkman had no clue. "I'm begging you, Mrs. Francis," Shrinkman said. He really was begging. He sounded desperate. "I don't want you to answer questions, exactly. I want you to ask my mother to go on and stop haunting me."
"Your mother? Where is she?" I asked, looking around him. There weren't any spirits visible.
The Stroke of Midnight: A Supernatural New Year's Anthology Page 13