In the Air Tonight

by Lori Handeland

  “It was.”

  They reached the landing. She opened the second door on the right and flicked on the light. Every shade in the green spectrum appeared to live within—lime, pine, grass—there were more but Bobby had exhausted his color vocabulary.

  “Let me guess.” He shaded his eyes. “The green room?”

  “There’s also a blue room and a yellow room.”

  “No red room?” He ran the words together so they sounded like redrum, and she smiled. A Stephen King fan. He liked her even more.

  “They considered it. Then I showed them the movie. My father’s still traumatized.”

  “About your father … I’m not sure what he was trying to ask me.”

  “He didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “He was being rude?” Now Bobby was really confused.

  She bit her lip. “He might ask again.”

  “Whatever the hell he asked in the first place,” Bobby muttered. “What am I?”

  “He was asking where your ancestors came from.”

  The light dawned. “As in Africa?”

  “Around here, the only nonwhite people are Indians.”

  He waited for her to laugh but she didn’t.

  In New Orleans a lot of folks were something as well as a little something else. The shades of skin varied widely and no one cared, or if they did, they didn’t mention it.

  “In New Bergin, most of the names end with some variation of son or man,” she continued.

  Bobby spread his hands, clueless.

  “Our ancestors are from Norway. Sweden. Germany.”

  “And Larsen?”

  “Norwegian.”

  “You don’t look Norwegian.”

  “I get that a lot.” She didn’t seem to care for it either. “As I’m adopted, I have no idea where I’m really from.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Seems to.”

  “Did you ever try to find out?”

  She shook her head. He would have asked more but something in the way her lips tightened made him not.

  “I’m Creole,” he said.

  Now she spread her hands and shrugged.

  “Descendants of the French and Spanish, born in this country.”

  “No one’s French around here. Or Spanish.”

  “Probably not Haitian either.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Not where I come from.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met someone who wasn’t one, the other, or all three—unless it was Sullivan.

  “The most exotic mixture in New Bergin is German and Norwegian, which isn’t very exotic at all.”

  “There’s something to be said for the nonexotic.”

  “That would be boring.”

  “You aren’t.”

  For an instant he wished the words back. Then, her obvious surprise, followed by her equally obvious pleasure, made him glad they’d slipped out.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Everyone in New Bergin was born in New Bergin or near enough. People who move here from away are always from away. Once they figure that out, they don’t stay.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  He couldn’t help it; he reached out and rubbed a piece of her inky black hair between his fingers. It was exactly as soft as it looked. “You stayed.”

  “Where would I go?”

  “Anywhere that you wanted.”

  Interest sparked in her deep dark eyes. Maybe she’d like to—

  “Raye?” Mr. Larsen called.

  They stepped away from each other as if they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “You in his room?”

  She stepped into the hall. “No.”

  Bobby snorted, and she cast him a wicked glance. Suddenly he wished they’d been caught doing everything.

  His thoughts must have shown because she ducked her head and moved out of his sight.

  “I’m getting his towels.” She returned with an armload the shade of moss. “Bathroom is the first door at the top of the stairs.”

  “Tell me it isn’t orange.”

  “All right.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “You said not to tell you.”

  He wasn’t sure if she was kidding or not and that only intrigued him more.

  “Breakfast is included,” she continued. “Hence the name bed-and-breakfast.”

  “I’ll be gone long before anyone’s made breakfast.”

  “My father comes from a long line of farmers. Early to bed, early to rise. He’ll be up before you are. And he cooks for threshers just like his mother did before him.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “There’ll be more than doughnuts.”

  “I’m pretty much a coffee-for-breakfast man.”

  “Once you smell my father’s food, you won’t be.”

  “I’m from New Orleans.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  They weren’t communicating well, seemingly had nothing in common. And instead of being bored, annoyed, and frustrated, Bobby was intrigued and fascinated.

  “The food in New Orleans is pretty hard to beat.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He certainly wanted to. He made a valiant attempt not to let his gaze drop to her breasts, which were almost invisible now beneath a bulky, faded sweatshirt with a dancing cartoon Badger. The thing had a huge head. Didn’t badgers have small heads? He wasn’t sure. He’d never actually seen one. After seeing this one, he didn’t think he wanted to.

  “Will your father take you home, or should I?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not walking.”

  “I’m not?”

  The idea of her strolling through the dark, looming forest back to a town devoid of streetlights, even without the lurking murderer, gave him a twitch.

  “You should stay here.”

  “Here?” She glanced pointedly around the room.

  Yes, please, he thought.

  “If only,” he said.

  She lifted her eyebrows. For a small-town girl who didn’t even own a car, his suggestive banter didn’t fluster her. He liked that about her too.

  “Raye?” her father called again.

  “Coming.” She didn’t move.

  “Is Raye short for something?”

  “Raymond.”

  “Your name is Raymond.”

  “My father’s father’s name was Raymond.”

  He found it interesting that she didn’t use the word grandfather. But then he found everything about her interesting, which was … interesting.

  “As I’m an only child they thought it would be nice to name me after him.”

  Bobby wasn’t sure he’d call it nice. Maybe interesting.

  He had to stifle a burst of derisive laughter. He appeared to have lost his mind.

  She moved to the door, and he got a little panicked. What if he never saw her again? “You shouldn’t stay alone.”

  “I won’t.” She smiled. “Don’t leave town without saying good-bye. If I’m not at my apartment, I’ll be at the elementary school.”

  His own smile froze.

  One place he could never go.

  *

  A trapped expression shrouded the detective’s face before he turned away. Why had I thought he was interested in me?

  I’d never been good with men. Considering I’d known all the males in town from the cradle, you’d think I would be. But I fit in with them no better than I fit in with anyone. In New Bergin each kiss was cause for a bulletin. Which made me self-conscious on every date that I’d had. Not that there’d been all that many.

  I’d had sex. Once. He who shall not be named—at least the ass had gone off to college and never come back—had told everyone my breasts were even bigger than they looked. No one else got to discuss—or touch them—again. Except me.

  I texted Jenn. Need a ride
from my parents’ place.

  My phone buzzed with a return text before I’d reached the ground floor. On my way.

  What would I do without her?

  My father stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window into the night. “Why would Chief Johnson bring in a homicide detective from New Orleans?”

  A good question. One I hadn’t thought to ask.

  Bobby was a murder cop, and we’d had a murder, but why him? Just from the questions he’d asked he was unfamiliar with the area, its people. What possible help could he be?

  Beyond improving the scenery.

  “You’ll have to ask Chief Johnson.”

  My father’s lips pursed. “It’s disturbing.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was referring to, but since there was plenty to choose from I decided to nod.

  Headlights flashed across the ceiling as Jenn arrived. My father reached for the pistol he kept in the cupboard. The back of my neck prickled. I’d never known him to be jumpy before.

  “It’s Jenn.” I headed for the front door.

  He followed, reaching for my hand. Surprised—my father wasn’t much for PDAs—I reached for his too. He pressed the pistol into my palm. I tried to draw back, but he folded my fingers around the grip. “Take this.”

  “No, thanks.” Guns gave me the wiggies.

  “I’ve got another one.”

  Since when? Certainly firearms were commonplace in the Big Woods, but as far as I knew he only owned the pistol in my hand and a shotgun for hunting. Maybe that’s what he meant. If I had the pistol, he had the shotgun. Except I didn’t want the pistol.

  “I don’t have anywhere to put it.” I’d left with my keys not my purse. Although I wasn’t sure the weapon—a forty-four Magnum—would fit in any handbag I had, and the idea of walking around with a gun in my handbag was so ludicrous I nearly dropped it.

  “This is New Bergin,” I said. “We have no streetlights and three cops for a reason.”

  “Which is probably the reason we also have a murderer.” At my frown he continued. “It’s dark and no one’s watching.”

  Was he trying to be funny? He never had before.

  “I’ll be careful,” I said, and tried to give back the pistol. He ignored me and went into the hall. Anyone who picked me up, girlfriend or boyfriend, came to the door. My father insisted.

  He was probably right. He always knew that whomever I said I was leaving with was actually who I left with. In this town that went a long way toward avoiding trouble. If I left with Brandon Jensen, Brandon Jensen had damn straight better bring me back without a scratch, or John Larsen would be speaking to every Jensen he knew.

  Jenn had just lifted her hand to knock when my father opened the door.

  “How you be, Mr. Larsen?” She stepped inside, glanced up. “Holy fricking crap,” she said.

  Bobby Doucet stood at the top of the steps, shirt unbuttoned, hair a bit mussed, feet bare.

  Holy, fricking crap indeed.

  Chapter 4

  Bobby had been getting undressed when he heard Raye and her father talking. Curious, he’d stepped into the hall. When the door opened, he’d moved closer to see who had come to pick her up, hoping more than he had any right to that it wasn’t a guy.

  Not a guy, but a tiny blond woman who looked right at him and smiled a smile that would launch a thousand ships. He was more interested in the gun in Raye’s hand. The sight was so baffling he blinked a few times, but the weapon stayed right where it was.

  “Button your shirt, Detective,” Mr. Larsen snapped.

  “Not on my account,” Blondie murmured.

  “Why do you have a gun?” Bobby descended to the foyer as he did what John Larsen had ordered.

  Raye glanced down, frowning as if she’d forgotten she held the weapon, a forty-four Magnum revolver, which had to weigh two or three pounds. She shoved it at her father. “Take this.”

  The man pushed it back in her direction. “No.”

  Bobby took the Magnum away from both of them. “Whose is it?”

  Raye pointed at her father.

  “She’s not going back to that apartment without protection,” Larsen said.

  “I’ll stay with Jenn.”

  Bobby assumed the itty-bitty blond committee was Jenn. When he glanced at her she winked. He shifted his attention to Raye. “Do you know how to use a gun?”

  “Nope.”

  Why did people think using a firearm was as simple as pointing and pulling? If you wanted to hit a can that wasn’t moving, shouting, running toward you—often with a gun of its own—maybe it would be. However, that so rarely happened.

  People also seemed to think that the bigger the gun the better, never considering how difficult it would be to hold the thing steady at all, let alone if it weighed close to three pounds, like this one. Dirty Harry might fire the weapon accurately, but he doubted anyone else could.

  “I am not taking a gun home,” Raye insisted.

  “Yes you are,” her father said.

  “No I’m not!”

  Bobby’s head was starting to ache. “If you didn’t want your father to worry, you shouldn’t have told him there was someone in your apartment.”

  Silence fell.

  “There was what?” Larsen asked. He didn’t yell, yet still all three of them winced.

  Raye shot Bobby a glare. He was glad he had the gun and she didn’t. He took one step into the kitchen and set the weapon on the counter so it was far, far away from her, then returned to the front hall.

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” Larsen began at the same time Raye said, “There was no one in my apartment.”

  “He just said—”

  “He searched the place,” Raye interrupted. “Tell him what you found.”

  “Nothing.”

  Larsen’s gaze narrowed on his daughter. “What did you see?”

  “A shadow. Something thumped. After this morning who wouldn’t be spooked? But I had a trained detective search the place, and he found no indication of an intruder.”

  “The more important question,” Jenn said, “is why you had a trained detective available to search.”

  Raye blinked. “What?”

  “You saw a shadow, heard a noise, freaked out and…” She spread her perfectly manicured fingernails. “You rubbed a magic lamp and tall, dark, and well-armed swirled out?”

  Raye made a disgusted sound. “Not now, Jenn.”

  “It’s a legitimate question.” Jenn shrugged. “Or close enough.”

  “I had just driven into town when Raye ran outside,” Bobby explained. “She seemed upset; I asked if I could help, and it turned out that I could.”

  “And here I thought there was never a cop around when you needed one.”

  “Never mind her,” Raye said. “She’s always like this.”

  “Like what?” Jenn asked.

  Raye didn’t answer. She seemed a little pale, though it was hard to tell with her Snow White skin, a shade that could have been unappealing, especially with such dark hair and eyes, but instead reminded Bobby of smooth, thick cream. He wondered if it tasted as good as it looked. He wished he had the time to find out, but he doubted he’d be here that long, and considering the size of her dad’s gun, that was probably for the best.

  His neck suddenly felt cold, as if a winter wind had swirled down his collar. But it wasn’t winter, and there was no wind. He rubbed at his neck, shifted his shoulders, but that weird sense of a draft didn’t go away.

  Raye shivered, as if she’d felt it too, but before he could ask what was wrong, she pushed past her friend and out the door.

  Jenn bussed Mr. Larsen on the tip of his chin. She cast Bobby a considering glance then followed Raye into the dark. No one but Bobby appeared to have noticed Raye’s odd behavior or found her departure all that sudden.

  The click of the door seemed loud in the silence they left behind. It felt as if all the light and air and movement had been sucked out of the place.

  �
�She’s always been like that,” Mr. Larsen murmured.

  “That’s what Raye said.”

  “I meant Raye.” Her father turned and walked away.

  *

  The night felt warm after the chill that had come over the house. Usually I was the only one who noticed it. But tonight, I thought Bobby Doucet had too.

  He’d rubbed at his neck, twitched his shoulders, glanced over one with a frown. But he hadn’t seen the man who stood right behind him. Only I had. As usual, I was the only one who heard him too.

  “Tell him to look under the floor,” the fellow had said. “Under the floor in the locker.”

  I’d tried to pretend I hadn’t seen, or heard, him. Maybe then he would go away. It didn’t work any better this time than any of the other times I’d tried it.

  “Tell him!” the specter shouted, and I could have sworn my hair ruffled with the force of his icy breath.

  I’d wanted to ask what floor? Which locker? Where? Why? And what locker has a floor that could be looked under? But I didn’t. Instead, I’d gotten out of there.

  “Sheesh.” Jenn caught up. “Why are you always in such a hurry?”

  “I have to work tomorrow.” I got into her car.

  “You do realize it’s not even eleven o’clock.” She climbed behind the wheel.

  I made the mistake of glancing at the house. In an upstairs window stood a man. I could tell right away from the shape of his silhouette that it wasn’t Bobby Doucet. Both the shoulders and the shape of the head were too narrow to be Bobby, or even the spirit that had followed him downstairs. And it wasn’t one of the few I’d encountered when I lived in the place, or even since. I knew each of them by both name and shadow-shape.

  Ghosts attach themselves—some to a place, like Stafford—others to a person, for instance Bobby Doucet—for reasons known only to the ghosts. At least until they tell them to me.

  I peered at the window again. The silhouette was now a woman’s. How many ghosts did this guy have?

  “Homicide detective,” I said.

  “Really?” Jenn threw her car into gear and drove down the dirt road as if she were Danica at Daytona. “From where?”

  “New Orleans.”

  “Why?”

  “I think he was born there.”

  She didn’t bother with the eye roll. I heard it in her voice. “I got that much from the nummy accent—Southern and a little bit more.” She made a purring, revving sound. “I meant why is he here?”