In the Air Tonight

by Lori Handeland

  “’Tis a very Catholic view yer spoutin’, Conner.” Bobby’s use of a thick Irish brogue brought a rare smile to his partner’s face. “But then we are in the city of Saints.”

  Which made the man’s annoying habit of rooting for the Patriots even more so. Bobby liked him anyway. They both had secrets in their pasts, shadows in their eyes, and chips on their shoulders.

  Sullivan’s was much wider than Bobby’s but only because his shoulders were. The detective stood six five without shoes and ran about two fifty. He possessed sandy blond hair and oddly dark eyes considering the epic paleness of his skin and the potato-famine memories inherent in his last name. His habit of wearing amusing ties with his pristine dark suits—today’s offering featured Fred Flintstone in full “yabba dabba doo” mode—had clued Bobby in to a lighter side of Sullivan that few bothered to uncover.

  In contrast, Robert Alan Doucet came from a long line of Creoles—both French and Spanish, with a little Haitian thrown in. He topped out just above six feet and he weighed one seventy only after he’d fallen into the river fully clothed. His hair was black; his eyes were blue, and his skin appeared tan year round.

  “Why are you staring at those?” The wave of Sullivan’s huge hand created such a backwash of air that Bobby had to slap his palm atop two of the photos to keep them from sailing off the desk and across the floor. “Keep it up and they’re gonna call you obsessed.”

  Sullivan should know. One of the reasons he’d been on leave was a tiny obsession of his own.

  With another serial killer.

  New Orleans seemed to attract them. Go figure. Large service population that worked on a cash basis meant very few records. The huge tourism industry caused folks to wander in and out hourly. Rampant alcohol—explanation unnecessary.

  Costumes. Masks. Voodoo.

  Then there was the fact that the city was surrounded on three sides by water, and water was a great place to hide bodies—or at the least make them damn hard to recover evidence from. In truth, Bobby was surprised New Orleans wasn’t the serial-killer capital of the world. Although …

  His gaze drifted over the photos on his desk. Maybe it was.

  The killer Sullivan had been after had never been caught. Most folks in the department didn’t believe there’d ever been one. The manner of death for each victim had been as different as the victims themselves. Which wasn’t the usual serial killer MO.

  Kind of like the case in front of Bobby now. Not only had his killer stopped killing—at least in New Orleans—but when he’d been doing so he’d offed his victims in all manner of ways. However, there was one thing they all had in common.

  Bobby lifted the latest photo, a close up of a dead woman, where the brand of a snarling wolf was visible on her neck, despite all the blood. He offered it to Sullivan.

  The big man accepted the picture, eyes narrowing on the image. “I never saw this one before.”

  “Just came in.”

  Sullivan stood. “Why aren’t we at the crime scene?”

  “Because it’s in Podunk.”

  “Where?”

  “Wisconsin.”

  “There’s actually a Podunk, Wisconsin?”

  “No.” But Bobby thought that there should be. “It’s…” He shuffled through the crap on his desk and found the information. “New Bergin.”

  Sullivan spread his hands. “Never heard of it.”

  “You are not alone.”

  The chair creaked a little closer to the floor when Sullivan sat back down. “When did it happen?”

  “This morning.”

  “How’d you find out about it so fast?”

  “FBI.”

  The detective’s lips twisted. When he’d contacted the FBI about his case, they had been less than helpful. They hadn’t been any more helpful when Bobby contacted them. However—

  “The agent I spoke with about our cases was conveniently the one that…” Bobby glanced again at his cheat sheet. “Chief Johnson spoke with this morning.”

  “How many dead, branded bodies do they have in Podunk?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Then why would they call the FBI?”

  “Place hasn’t had a murder since 1867.”

  “Good for them. Still don’t see why they called the feds.”

  “They wanted help.”

  Sullivan rubbed his forehead. “Murder isn’t a federal offense.”

  “This one might be.”

  The detective dropped his hand. “How?”

  “The woman in that picture is the sister of a U.S. Marshal.”

  Understanding blossomed across Sullivan’s face. “And the murder of an immediate family member of a law enforcement official jacks the charge into the big leagues.”

  “Retaliatory murder,” Bobby corrected. “And this looks pretty retaliatory to me.”

  He tossed the rest of the crime scene photos—which weren’t very good and made Bobby think they’d been taken with someone’s outdated cell phone—to Sullivan. Despite his having seen the same, or worse, before, the man grimaced.

  “Missing body parts are usually a good clue,” Sullivan agreed.

  Bobby had no idea why but gangsters—both the mob and the gangs—liked to hack people into pieces as a message. Usually they hacked them into more pieces than two, but the missing arm was both weird and worrisome.

  “The police chief called the feds,” Bobby continued, “and the feds forwarded his pictures to me to compare the brand on the Wisconsin victim to the brands on ours.”

  “And?”

  “I think they match, but I want to take a closer look.”

  “Me too. When do we leave?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Goddamn budget cuts.”

  “Redundant,” Bobby murmured, gathering the photos and information then stuffing them into the file. He had just enough time to pack a bag and catch his plane.

  Sullivan shifted his linebacker shoulders. “I’d hoped this guy was gone for good.”

  They hadn’t found a body in nearly a year. Bobby’d kind of hoped the guy was gone for good too. In prison. Dead. Lobotomized. He wasn’t picky.

  “I think he’s back,” Bobby said.

  The spark of worry in his partner’s gaze deepened. “I think you’re right.”

  Chapter 2

  I reached my classroom only a minute or two after my class did. Still, David had already painted himself turquoise and Susan had picked the lock on the scissors drawer.

  I was really going to have to keep my eye on Susan.

  Their excuse?

  “Stafford told us to.”

  As Stafford was laughing his forever five-year-old butt off right behind them I believed it.

  I’d hoped that working with children would lessen my exposure to ghosts, and it had, but not completely. Stafford was a case in point. The towheaded, blue-eyed imp was as dead as the scary lady on Avenue B. He liked to whisper naughty suggestions into the ears of my students then laugh and laugh at the chaos he caused.

  When I was four, I stopped talking about the people no one saw but me. However, I never stopped seeing them. Most children do—right around the time they start to speak—but not all of them. Some see and hear spirits for a little while longer. These were the ones Stafford haunted.

  I’d tried to discover how long the child had been walking through the walls of my school, but, predictably, no adult had ever seen him but me. The previous kindergarten teacher only stared at me blankly when I asked if any of her students had spoken of an invisible friend. Which made me think Stafford was newly dead. Except there was no record of a child of that name dying in New Bergin or anywhere close enough to warrant his presence.

  Regardless of how devious my queries or how long I cajoled, he never gave me any information on himself whatsoever. No matter what I said, Stafford would not cross over. He liked causing trouble too much.

  Today was no different. The kids behaved as if someone had slipped them chocolate-cover
ed circus peanuts for breakfast. I felt like I was taming lions. When the last bell rang, I ushered them out, hoping for better tomorrows; then I locked my classroom door and had a conversation with Stafford.

  “I’m starting to think you want to get someone killed so you won’t be lonely.”

  Confusion flickered across his deceptively sweet face. “I’m not lonely. I have you.”

  “What about your mother?”

  Wariness replaced the confusion. “What about her?”

  “Is she still alive?”

  It wasn’t very nice of me to sic Stafford on his mother, but seriously, why me?

  “If she is,” I continued, “you could visit.”

  I doubted this would work—Stafford seemed attached to the school and therefore he probably couldn’t leave to haunt—I mean “visit”—his mother. But I was desperate.

  “If she isn’t, you could still visit.”

  Once he was on the other side, I didn’t think he could come back. At least none of the other ghosts I’d convinced to go into the light ever had.

  “Stafford?” His eyes met mine. “Your mother?”

  He looked away and didn’t answer.

  “How about your father?”

  One of the fluorescent bulbs flickered.

  “Stop that,” I said.

  “You stop that,” he returned.

  I had to bite my lip to keep myself from continuing the childish exchange. “I just want you to—”

  The ghost child disappeared.

  “Come back here!”

  All the lights in the room went out. I didn’t bother to check the fuse or the switch. Been there, done that. The only way they would go back on was if Stafford wanted them to. Which was usually after I’d called Mr. Jorgenson, head of maintenance—i.e., the janitor. He would arrive to investigate thirty seconds after all the lights went back on. Then he would point out that every bulb was fully functioning and shake his head at the foolish female who’d probably neglected to flip the switch in the first place. As he was unable to hear Stafford’s laughter, I could hardly blame him.

  I gathered my things and left. On the street, I glanced back. Every light in my room blazed, throwing Stafford’s shape into stark relief beyond the window. Another one of his tricks. I could count on a note in my mailbox tomorrow from the principal admonishing me about wasting energy.

  Stafford waved. I gave up and waved back.

  I could have avoided the crime scene on the way home. New Bergin was small but not so small there wasn’t an alternate route. However, I felt drawn there. Though I didn’t want to see the dead woman again, I probably would. Ghosts revealed themselves to me for a reason, and until I knew that reason, she might turn up anywhere. There was no avoiding it, or her.

  Yellow tape cordoned off the alleyway where she had died. The body was gone, but the asphalt still sported bloodstains and burn marks. I wasn’t sure how they’d make those disappear beyond repaving the street. Until the murder was solved that was probably off the table.

  I was surprised there weren’t a few stragglers ogling the crime scene. Horrific as the murder was, it was the most excitement we’d seen in New Bergin since a deer had jumped through the front window of the Norseman Café during rut. He’d trashed the place pretty good before he’d rammed his rack into the drywall.

  The sun was falling fast; the Indian summer warmth would disappear as quickly as Stafford had. The idea of standing on a dinnertime deserted street in the approaching twilight and coming face-to-face again with that ink-eyed specter had me hurrying in the direction of my apartment at the same pace I’d left it that morning.

  Inside I slipped into my favorite yoga pants and a ratty tank top then studied the finger-shaped bruises on my arm. I was rarely without a bruise of some kind—shin, hip, thigh, chin—kids were rough.

  I opened the medicine cabinet and took out the arnica cream. People could label the concoction hippy-dippy all they wanted, but it was the only thing I’d ever found that helped the bruises fade more quickly.

  After squirting some onto my arm, I rubbed until the ointment disappeared. The marks still tingled like frozen toes immersed in warm water.

  I watched television for a few hours. A day spent with children turned my brain to oatmeal and until I had some distance, I’d be no good for anything. Eventually I popped the cork on a new bottle of cabernet and took both it and the glass to my kitchen table where I proceeded to correct papers.

  “You must run.”

  In the act of reaching for my wine, the voice nearly made me knock it over. My Puritan hugged the shadows of the living room. He had an accent—Irish? Scottish?—something with a brogue.

  “I … uh … What?”

  Not only had he never spoken, but he’d never come so close. At this range I could see he was nearer to my age than I’d thought—mid-twenties perhaps—and handsome despite the prudish, black clothes.

  “Now, dear girl.”

  I glanced at my cell phone, which had been sitting on the table next to my papers, and it flew onto the floor then skidded toward the front door.

  I stood. “Was that really necess—”

  My Puritan disappeared.

  Something moved within my darkened bedroom, and I took a step in that direction.

  “Hey,” I began.

  The figure started toward me. Though I couldn’t see a face, or even get a sense of male or female amid the swirling shadows, the meat cleaver was unmistakable. I threw open the door and tore down the stairs. “Help!”

  Unfortunately it was ten P.M. In New Bergin. Everyone was safe at home, probably already asleep.

  I was so dead.

  I sprinted into the street, ignoring the chill of the pavement against my bare feet. Where I was going, I had no idea. The police department lay on the other side of town. Not that the town was that big, but it was dark. No streetlights. No need. No one drove around at this time of night, and if they did there was a lovely invention called headlights.

  For an instant I believed my thoughts—or my wishes, hopes, and prayers—had conjured some. Then the car that was moving too fast for First Street hit the brakes and screeched to a halt about a foot from my knees. A man jumped out.

  Talk about wishes, hopes, and prayers. He was the answer to all three.

  Fury brightened his blue gaze. “Are you crazy?”

  Despite the color of his eyes, he wasn’t from around here. The Southern accent would have given him away even if I’d been too blind to register the deeper than sun-kissed shade of his skin.

  “I … No.”

  Maybe, my brain corrected.

  I pointed where I’d been, cringing when I realized the knife-wielding maniac could have caught up to me by now, but we were alone.

  “There was someone in my apartment. With a meat clever.”

  I expected him to laugh and ask if I was high instead of crazy. Instead, those brilliant eyes hardened. “Get in the car.” He reached inside and came out with a gun. “Lock the doors.”

  While I stood there gaping, he hurried toward my apartment. I glanced back and forth, torn between following him and doing as he’d ordered. Then the wind picked up, making the autumn leaves rattle like bones. The headlights blared down the street, creating shadows at the end that might be a dog, a cat, a murderer, or just shadows.

  I got in the car.

  *

  Bobby climbed the steps to the second-story apartment. The door loomed open. No meat-cleaver-wielding maniac burst out. But there was still time.

  On the landing he leaned right and left, able to see nearly the entire living area and kitchen through the open door. Both were empty.

  “Police,” he announced, and stepped inside. “Show yourself.”

  Nothing moved but the papers on the table, which ruffled in the breeze through the door. A few had drifted onto the floor next to a cell phone, which the woman must have dropped when she ran. A cell phone would have been a good item to take along, but people did strange things
when they were frightened.

  The papers appeared to be homework for the very young and proved an intriguing contrast to the nearly full glass of wine glistening like rubies in the lamplight.

  On one side of the sheet were three fish, four cats, two bicycles, and so on. The other side listed the numbers. Wavy crayon lines connected the numbers to the pictures.

  Bobby tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. Looked like Jacob needed some special help as he’d connected the cats to the three and the fish had been counted as two.

  “Focus.” The meat-cleaver maniac might still be through door number one or door number two.

  The first loomed open on a shadowy bedroom. He flicked on the light, peeked behind the door, under the bed, in the closet. Nothing but brightly colored, casual clothes and more dust than she probably wanted anyone to see.

  He backed out, flicked the next doorknob, and sent the closed door flying open.

  Bathroom. Empty.

  He lowered his weapon, stepped to the room’s single window—painted shut—and glanced out. A dense forest began not more than fifty yards from the back of the building.

  Bobby considered holstering the gun and didn’t. Forests gave him the twitchies. Pretty much anything could be in there.

  New Orleans had swamps—thick ones, with dripping Spanish moss and lots of alligators. Creepy in their own way, but also familiar. Bobby knew how to search a swamp. But a forest?

  Not a clue.

  He returned to the street. His car still sat in the center, the shadow of the woman shifted inside. Oddly no one had come out to see what was going on—as if shrieking women and cars idling in the middle of the road were commonplace. Then again, had she shrieked? Maybe not.

  He crossed to the car, flicked his finger, indicating she should get out. Instead, she lowered the window a few inches. “Did you see anything?”

  “No.”