Not My Spook!

by Tinnean

  I sank lower and lower, twenty-five feet, fifty feet, into some kind of shaft.

  With a low rumble, the bunk shuddered to an unexpected halt. My breath was coming in fits and starts, and I knew if I didn’t bring it under control soon, I’d use up all the oxygen in the enclosed space. The bunk began moving again, this time sliding sideways, into a crypt. The light dimmed, vanished, and a door slammed shut, sealing me in. I was left in the dark—unable to see; gasping wretchedly—unable to breathe; bound not only by physical restraints, but by unadulterated horror—unable to move; until finally, with a violent, muscle-shattering wrench, I…

  …Shot up in bed, gasping for breath. Oh, fuck. I really should have deep-sixed the meditation bullshit. That was the worst! I couldn’t stop shaking. Each time I closed my eyes, I felt as if I couldn’t breathe.

  I scrubbed my face, which was damp with sweat. What I really wanted was to go out for a drink. A glance at the clock told me it was two thirty. Shit. The bars had closed half an hour ago.

  It was just as well. The last thing I wanted was to wind up like my old lady.

  I reached for the remote and turned on the television. An infomercial for ExtenZe male enhancement pills was on.

  No way was I going to fall asleep to Chantz Fortune chatting with Ron Jeremy and Kim Chambers.

  Jesus. This was gonna be a long fucking night.

  And then I had an idea. Suppose I called and had a supply sent to the director of PR? I could just picture the look on Davies’s face.

  With that sweet image in mind, I finally dozed off, and this time no nightmares interrupted my sleep.

  XX

  THE next morning, I woke at my usual time, and reached for Quinn. The bed was empty. Well, except for me. Shit; we’d broken up.

  Okay, I’d broken up with him; semantics. It still put me in a pissy mood.

  To put the icing on the cake, my mouth tasted like a horde of dung beetles had taken up residence in it and then died. A headache that bypassed nagging and escalated to major proportions behind my eyes was beating out something that would do the drummer of any heavy metal band proud. I cursed in a dull monotone as I searched my kit for a bottle of aspirin.

  I swallowed a double dose of the aspirin, washing them down with the coffee I made in the small pot that was in the bathroom. It was stale, nothing like the brew Quinn had served me Sunday morning, but I needed the caffeine, and whether it was the coffee or the aspirin, within fifteen or twenty minutes it kicked in, and I began to feel more human.

  Before I even showered and dressed, I called Proven House in Chatham and reserved a room at the little bed-and-breakfast. As soon as the burial service was over, I intended to drive back to Cape Cod and spend the next few days getting my head sorted out.

  I knotted my tie, placed my Glock in its shoulder holster, and slid my arms into my suit jacket. The weapon’s bulge was satisfactorily concealed under my arm. I smoothed my hair, made sure I was leaving nothing behind, and left the motel.

  A cool wind carried the scent of spring through the parking lot. Clouds speckled the sky. For a day that was going to start with a funeral, it was beautiful.

  I stowed my duffel in the trunk of the rental and went to the lobby, where a Continental breakfast was offered. I helped myself to more coffee, which this time was at least fresh, and had a blueberry cheese Danish.

  Then I had to worry that my teeth were stained blue. A quick trip to the men’s room relieved me of that anxiety.

  It was almost nine when I arrived at the funeral home. The parking lot was empty—I hadn’t really expected anyone else to show up there. The woman who I would see buried might have technically still been a Vincent, but she was the worst thing that had ever happened to that family.

  I wanted a drink, and I killed that desire.

  The funeral director offered me a cup of coffee. I took it and sat down in the Queen Anne chair I’d sat in the night before, crossing my legs and gazing off into space.

  The outer door opened, and Uncle Steve walked into the small room, his wife beside him. I rose to my feet to greet them. “Good morning, Steve, Lilly. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “You’re a Vincent, Mark. You may not want to accept it, but we’re as much a part of you as you are part of us.”

  “Still, it wasn’t necessary for you to come.”

  “Did you think we’d let you bury Ginny without family support?”

  Truthfully? Yes. He must have seen that in my face. His mouth took a sorrowful turn.

  “Mark, can’t we just—”

  “If you say get along,” I snapped, “I’ll hurt you.” My headache was back in full force.

  The door opened again, and the rest of the family entered.

  “What are you all doing here?”

  The oldest son—Jesus, what was his name, Jason? Jason stood toe to toe with me. “We’re doing this for Dad. Do you think we care one way or the other? He doesn’t think you should have to be alone at a time like this.”

  “And I should be thankful?” I’d done harder things than bury a woman who wouldn’t know how to raise a kid with a roadmap and personal advice from Dr. Spock. I made myself relax, but there must have been something in my eyes that warned him to back off.

  “You really are a cold-hearted son of a bitch, aren’t you, cousin?”

  He said that like it was a bad thing. “Look, there’s no reason for any of you to be here. Why don’t you go mow the lawn or hang the screens or whatever it is you do in suburbia?”

  “Mark.” Steve motioned for his family to leave us alone for a moment. I watched him stonily. “You’re my brother’s only son. He failed you, and it looks like you think I did as well. I’m sorry for that.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t get it. I never expected anyone to show up and save my ass.” It was nice when someone had, but—

  “I don’t understand, Mark. If you aren’t angry because we didn’t take you away from Ginny, then why are you angry?”

  I gestured toward the body in the casket. “She was a drunk. She abused me and cheated on my father. She had nothing good to say about any Vincent, living or dead. You’ve claimed her body from the morgue, and you were going to pay for this funeral if I didn’t return your phone call. Are you burying her in the Vincent plot in the Memorial Park?”

  He nodded dumbly, stunned by my attack. I wasn’t going to ask why he did that for her, a woman related to him only by marriage, and yet me, his blood and kin, he’d ignored for more years than I wanted to think about.

  And then I heard those words coming out of my mouth, ending with, “Why, Steve?”

  He looked away. “I loved you, Mark. You were the sharpest little kid. You used to love that story I’d tell you about the iron dog, do you remember? No, of course you wouldn’t remember, you were so small then. Ginny told us she had a job offer out in California. I thought she was getting her act together. And she promised she’d bring you back for a visit.”

  “And you believed her.”

  “I—yes. Did she even go to California?” I shook my head, and he sighed. “I’m sorry. When I finally learned you were working in Boston, I wanted to go see you, but such a long time had passed, Mark, and you were very successful. I didn’t want you to think I was contacting you because I wanted something from you. As for the funeral, I’d do this because it’s the least I could do for my only nephew. I love you.”

  This time he did hug me, and for one brief second I let him. Then the funeral director came in to begin the service, and I stepped back. The rest of the family followed him into the small room.

  This didn’t mean we were going to have a warm, meaningful relationship. When I left Fall River, they wouldn’t see me again. Ever.

  Even though I was no longer in the field, it would be safer all around.

  XXI

  PROVEN HOUSE was a nice bed-and-breakfast in the historic town of Chatham. A remarkable example of Greek Revival—it said so in the pamphlet on the front desk—it had
been built during the early decades of the 1800s, a time when whaling was a flourishing business on Cape Cod. It had never left the family of the original owners and had never needed to be restored because it had always been kept in excellent condition. Two stories, with a gabled roof and fireplaces, one in each of the five bedrooms on the second floor, it offered peace and quiet and individual baths as well as excellent meals.

  I could have taken a room at any of the large hotels on the Cape, but I wanted a place that no one would think Mark Vincent would be caught dead in. Proven House was perfect. I pulled into the small parking lot at the rear of the quaint white building, retrieved my duffel, and entered through the French doors.

  At the end of the hall was a Cuban mahogany Carlton House desk. I let out a silent whistle. I’d seen one of those, offered as an investment piece, valued at almost twenty-eight thousand dollars. The security in this place was below even CIA standards. If I ever needed the dough, this would be the place to go. I’d have no trouble breaking and entering. Not that I would, of course.

  The woman behind the desk looked up, smiled politely, and inquired, “May I help you?”

  I returned her smile and dropped my duffel at my feet. “You’re holding a reservation for me. Joseph Wells.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Wells. I took your call earlier. I’m Mary Proven. My husband, Sam, and I are the proprietors of Proven House.” She slid a registration card toward me. “If you’d be so kind as to fill this out?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Proven.” I carefully printed the information that belonged to Joseph Wells, the identity that I used when I was away from the WBIS for personal reasons, rather than professional. Then I handed her the credit card and waited while she punched in the string of numbers and the expiration date.

  “Have you been to Chatham before, Mr. Wells? Would you care for any brochures on the local activities?”

  “No, I haven’t, and I’d like that very much. Thank you.” I’d been in Chatham a couple of times—I was a Massachusetts boy, after all—but I felt it always paid to cover my tracks. “It seems very nice in Chatham this time of year.”

  “Yes, it is.” She returned my credit card and presented me with a handful of the colorful pamphlets. “We’ve given you the St. Andrew, Mr. Wells, although you could really have your choice of rooms. We only have a young couple with us right now, the Hirsts. They’re honeymooning in the King George Suite, so it isn’t too likely that you’ll be seeing too much of them.”

  “Really?” Didn’t most people get married in June? The hairs on the back of my neck tightened.

  “I know most people don’t think of March as much of a wedding month, but—” She leaned closer and whispered, “—sometimes they have to get married.”

  “I see.” Did people still feel compelled to get married if they jumped the gun and had a baby on the way? It was nice to know I’d have the place basically to myself, but I’d stay frosty, and I’d keep an eye out for the newlyweds. Just in case.

  “Were you aware that each of our rooms is named for a whaling ship?”

  I murmured something noncommittal, but I was aware. A great-granddaddy of mine had been first mate on a whaling ship, the Lynx, which was captained by Myles Palmer.

  “Oh, yes. The St. Andrew was lost in 1861, with all hands. So was the King George, in 1822.” That was… bizarre. Smoothly she changed the subject. “Will you be staying with us long, Mr. Wells?”

  “At least a few days, Mrs. Proven; Friday at the latest.” It shouldn’t take me longer than that to get that CIA spook out of my head.

  “Excellent! We’re delighted to have you with us. These stairs will take you to the second floor. Your room is at the back of the house. Dinner is at seven thirty. Tonight we’re having Yankee pot roast with a salad, mashed potatoes, and spring vegetables. Breakfast is nice and substantial, and it’s from seven until ten in the morning.”

  “Thank you.” I gave her a brief nod and took the key she extended to me, then picked up my duffel and went toward stairs, carefully observing the logistics of the place. “Oh, are these stairs the only way to get to the second floor?”

  “Why, no. There are what used to be the servants’ stairs.” I kept my expression politely interested, but I was not happy to hear that. “They’re only used by our cleaning staff, I assure you, and your privacy will not be disturbed in any way.”

  “I appreciate that, thank you.” I turned and went up to my room. Fuck. I’d have to check this place out.

  XXII

  THE St. Andrew Room was amazing. Aside from the fireplace and its own bathroom, there was a small alcove that acted as a closet. Lamps on either side of the king-size bed provided light, and where a fixture might normally hang from the ceiling, there was a plaster cast medallion. The comforter and bed linens were an off-white, and scattered around the room were a number of potted plants, as well as a vase of tulips and some other yellow flowers on a small table in front of the window, adding some color to the room.

  Jesus. It looked like someone had died and made Martha Stewart queen.

  Well, it was just for a few days. I could live with it. I unpacked and decided a walk on the beach would be the best thing for me at that moment. I knew that Forest Beach was just a quarter mile away. I changed into casual clothing and pulled a fisherman-knit sweater over my head. It was unseasonably warm, but the breeze from the ocean was cool enough to warrant it.

  I took a stick of gum from a pack I kept in a pocket in my duffel, and while I chewed it thoroughly, I stashed my clutch piece, a Beretta Jetfire that I’d done some modifications on, in my pocket and left my Glock tucked in the springs under the bed.

  When all the taste was gone from the gum, I left my room, locked the door behind me, and hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob. Then I stuck a very thin ribbon of the gum from the lower panel of the door to the doorframe. It was too fine to be readily seen, but it gave me an edge. If anyone entered my room while I was gone, I would know it. I wrapped the rest of the wad of gum in the wrapper to throw away later.

  I went back down the stairs and nosed around. The first floor consisted of a dining room with five tables, and even though there were only me and the newlyweds, each table was set with place mats and place settings, crystal and silverware, and with a centerpiece of fresh flowers.

  Across the hall was a sitting room that had couches, loveseats, and chairs strategically arranged in front of a large-screen TV. Bookcases lined one wall, local and out of town newspapers were on a coffee table, and in a corner was a writing desk stocked with paper and pens.

  The kitchen was equipped with stainless steel appliances. A youngish man was standing in front of the stove, humming something that sounded familiar while he stirred a pot. Then he began to sing about sand dunes and salty air.

  “That smells good.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Hi, there. I’m Sam Proven. You must be Mr. Wells.” He extended his hand, and I accepted it. “I’m making tomato sauce for tomorrow night’s dinner. Were you looking for a snack? I’m sorry, I can’t offer you anything between meals. There’s a little grocery just down the corner, though.”

  “That’s okay. I can wait. I was just familiarizing myself with your… lovely inn.”

  “It’s a honey, isn’t it? Been in my family since 1826. Did Mary tell you all the rooms are named for whaling ships that were lost with all hands?”

  “She mentioned the St. Andrew and the King George.”

  “We also have rooms called the Mary, the Harpooner, and the Lively. They’re just doubles, though. However, those ships were also lost with their entire crew. The story handed down in the family is that after the grandfather who captained the King George was lost, his wife and children immigrated to America. They wound up here in Cape Cod, and she had this place built.”

  “And she named the bedrooms after doomed ships?”

  “Oh, no! That was my idea. We don’t really think of them as doomed. More like just ill-fated; star-crossed, i
f you will. When Mary and I took over, we decided it would be romantic to do that. She did some research, and there you have it!” He smiled happily and went back to stirring what was in the pot.

  “Uh… right. Well, I’ll see you later.” I left him there and resumed exploring the surroundings. Fortunately, there were no stairs to the second floor on the outside of the bed-and-breakfast; I’d just have the inside stairs to worry about. The nearest neighboring buildings were about ten yards away on either side, and the back looked on the parking lot.

  I headed for the beach.

  With the sun beating down on it, the sand above the water line was a pristine white, but where the water washed over it, it darkened to almost charcoal gray. I took off my sneakers and stuffed my socks into them, then tied the laces together and slung them over my shoulder. Once the cuffs of my jeans were rolled up out of the way of the water, I began to walk along the shore. The beach was deserted, but I kept a weather eye out for interlopers.

  I walked for about forty-five minutes, spending most of that time trying to convince myself I’d done the right thing in pushing Quinton Mann out of my life. He’d gotten too freaking close. So okay, he was good in bed, more than good, and yeah, he was an interesting dinner companion, but I’d let him fuck me. Twice. I wasn’t going to let him get any closer.

  I stood there watching as the sun started its slow descent, then dropped my gaze to the gunmetal gray of the ocean. The tiny waves that had been lapping at my toes had grown higher, and spumes of foam soaked my rolled-up cuffs. It was time to head back to Proven House.