In the Air Tonight

by Lori Handeland

  Christiansen glanced up. “Excuse me?”

  Bobby lowered his voice. “I didn’t clear the place.”

  The doctor frowned, his gaze darting to the basement door, then the bedrooms down the hall, before returning to Bobby’s.

  “She was still awake. She spoke to me.” Gibberish, but he hadn’t known that at the time.

  The EMTs crowded in the back door. Their steps faltered. Bobby jerked his head at Christiansen. “Take them with you.” He glanced toward Brad, who still hovered near the sink looking peaked. “Keep everyone out until I say they can come back in. Can you manage that?”

  The kid drew himself up, nodded, then herded everyone ahead of him and closed the door.

  Bobby drew his weapon and crept down the hall.

  Chapter 12

  For the first time ever, I was glad for Jenn’s need for speed. She got us to the witch’s house in record time, even for her.

  Unfortunately everyone else in the universe—or at least in New Bergin—was there ahead of us. Everyone except the man I was searching for.

  “Where’s Bobby?”

  “Don’t see him,” Jenn answered, at the same time Genevieve—who’d accompanied us in the back seat; it hadn’t been easy not to talk to her, let alone look at her—said, “In the basement. You have to hurry.”

  I tried, but Brad stopped me. Why did it have to be him?

  He’d treated Jenn badly; she’d responded in kind. I hadn’t been friendly either. As a result, I didn’t expect much help from him, and I was right.

  “No one in until the all clear.” His voice and his face were far too smug.

  “I need to talk to Detective Doucet.”

  “When he comes out.”

  “Now.”

  “Why?”

  I couldn’t mention the dead kid, who thought the house was going to self-combust.

  “Isn’t it dangerous for him to be in there alone?”

  “He’s a cop, Raye. One who deals with a lot more dangerous things where he’s from than we’ve ever seen here. He’ll be fine.”

  I could try and scoot around Brad, make a run for it, but he’d won a medal at State in the two-hundred-meter dash. He’d catch me, and then I’d never get inside.

  I hurried to Jenn, who sat on the hood of her car, playing with her phone. “Distract him.”

  “Who?” She didn’t even glance up.

  “Brad.”

  “No.” Still no eye contact.

  “Now, Jenn, or someone’s going to die.”

  That got her attention. She lifted her gaze, saw I was serious, and put away her phone. She’d known me long enough to believe what I said. She was Jenn enough not to ask questions.

  She slithered off the car with a long-suffering sigh, fluffed her hair, hiked up the girls, and moved off. Unfortunately, Brad was familiar with Jenn. The instant she came near him, his gaze went to me and stuck there.

  “Son of a bitch.” Brad had never been as dumb as he looked. He knew that Jenn would not have come near him unless I sent her.

  Genevieve gasped. I’d forgotten about her.

  “Sorry!” I needed to watch my language around kids—both dead and alive.

  She cast me a disgusted glance. “Run,” she said, then she ran straight at Jenn.

  My mouth fell open. I had no idea what she was going to do. Possess her? The idea made me squeamish for more than one reason. A child in Jenn’s head—talk about trauma. For both of them.

  “Wait!” I shouted.

  Jenn turned to scowl in my direction, and Genevieve shoved her in the chest. The child was spirit not form, that shouldn’t have worked. Although Stafford had been around long enough to learn how to do a lot more than any other ghost I’d ever encountered. Why was it that the good children never managed to teach the bad ones their behavior, it was always the other way around?

  Jenn tumbled backward; Brad caught her; I scooted around the side of the house and ran.

  The back door gaped. Mrs. Noita hunkered beside her own body. I hated when that happened. Not only was it creepy to see the dead and the living right next to each other, but the ghosts were always confused and as upset about seeing their own dead selves as I was. However, I didn’t have time to soothe or explain. I stepped over one and through the other, ignoring both the chill and the scent of too much blood.

  “Bobby!” I shouted from the top of the steps.

  My response was a muffled curse and a faint: “Stay there.”

  Instead, I hurried downstairs.

  “I’m going to kill that pretty blond kid,” Bobby muttered. “Get out.”

  “Only if you come too.” My gaze flitted around the basement, which was remarkably empty, dry, and clean for a basement. It still had nooks and crannies where all sorts of nasty things might hide.

  “I have to make sure whoever killed Mrs. Noita isn’t still down here.” He held his gun pointed toward the ground, but his body was tense, and he appeared ready to lift it at any time.

  “She isn’t.” Mrs. Noita no longer hunkered next to Mrs. Noita but stood in her own basement.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Never saw her before in my life,” she said.

  “If I knew that,” Bobby answered, “I wouldn’t even be here.”

  “You shouldn’t be.”

  Genevieve appeared at his side. She tugged on his belt. “Daddy, come on! Daddy!”

  He frowned and glanced down. When he stepped forward her fingers went through his side, and he shuddered.

  “Raye.” Henry stood next to the furnace. It was a convention down here.

  I scowled at him. Now he showed up? He pointed at something on the side that I couldn’t see.

  “You need to get out.” His gaze followed his own finger. “Quickly.”

  I hurried over, ignoring another curse from Bobby, as well as Henry.

  “Goddammit, Raye. Anyone could be—”

  “Shit,” I said, when I saw what Henry was pointing at.

  Bobby’s gun came up, and he joined us, hesitating when he walked through Henry. Bobby Doucet might not believe in ghosts, but he felt them, and I had to wonder why.

  His gaze lit on the timer, ticking down to doomsday. We had about a minute left.

  “Shit,” he echoed. “Run.”

  I wished people would stop saying that to me. I wished even harder that I didn’t have to listen,

  Our footsteps thundered up the stairs. I leaped over Mrs. Noita a second time.

  “Front door,” Bobby shouted, and I cut in that direction. It was closer.

  I glanced back, saw him hesitate near the body, knew exactly what he was thinking: He shouldn’t leave her behind. But the clock in my head was thumping to the same beat as the one downstairs.

  “No.” I snatched his hand, and after a sharp yank on my part, and a shove from Genevieve, he followed.

  We tumbled out the front door. Everyone in the yard faced us, eyes widening as he shouted, “Get back!” and I added, “It’s gonna blow!”

  The crowd scattered; the house erupted upward and outward. I don’t know if Bobby dived and landed on top of me on purpose, or if he was propelled by the blast. Nevertheless, every last bit of air was driven from my lungs as his weight slammed me to the ground.

  Silence blanketed the world, along with a fiery heat. Bobby rolled free. Only when he kept rolling did I realize he was trying to put out the tiny flames in his clothes.

  He sat up, his gaze first going to me then the house. I was pretty sure it looked worse than I did.

  “He will burn us all.”

  Mrs. Noita stared at what was left of her place. I opened my mouth to ask about her pronoun confusion—she’d identified her attacker as a she, but he was going to burn us? Before I could say anything—and considering Bobby’s gaze had already returned to me that was probably for the best—Mrs. Noita behaved just like her niece. Her pure black eyes had a hint of flame at the center, smoke poured from her mouth in a stream, and then she was gone.


  Bobby got to his feet, held out a hand. All around us, ash swirled like dirty snow, and the heat of the still-blazing house made my face feel as if I’d gotten my first sunburn of the summer. He helped me up, kept hold of my hand. “How did you know about this?”

  “It’s New Bergin.” I indicated the crowd, which had swelled considerably since I’d gone inside. “The instant the sirens went off, everyone knew.”

  He was still a little dazed; so was I. “I meant the bomb.” Suspicion flickered in his eyes. “You knew.”

  “Did not.” My denial was automatic, and actually the truth for a change. I hadn’t known about the bomb until Henry had pointed to it.

  Bobby rubbed his head. It probably hurt as badly as mine did. He was just about to question me further, and make both our heads ache even more, when Chief Johnson pulled up—where had he been before now?—and beckoned him.

  “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it,” he said, but he was already moving off to join the chief.

  By then maybe I’d have a better explanation than …

  I didn’t have an explanation.

  “Raye!” Jenn threw her arms around my waist. Color me surprised; she wasn’t cuddly. Then I felt her shaking.

  I set my hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  She stepped back and punched me in the arm. “You almost got yourself killed.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Not for lack of trying.” She hit me again. “What is wrong with you?”

  More than I could ever say.

  *

  Bobby glanced back just as Raye’s friend punched her in the arm. He agreed with the sentiment if not the execution. What had she been thinking?

  “Holy hell.” The chief stared at the pile of charcoal that had once been a very nice house. Oddly the trees that had spooked Bobby before swayed and jingled, virtually unharmed, despite the grass around them being severely overcooked. “What did you do?”

  “Me?” Bobby asked.

  “Christiansen said you ordered everyone out.”

  “Because I thought the guy was still in there.”

  “Was he?”

  “If he was”—Bobby eyed what was now mostly a crater—“he isn’t anymore.”

  The chief snorted.

  “I’d nearly checked the whole place when Raye—”

  “Raye was in there?” Johnson scowled, first at Bobby, then at Raye, who still had her hands full with her little pal.

  When Jenn wasn’t punching Raye’s arm, and yammering at her like a yappy minidog, she had her arms around Raye’s waist, clinging to her like …

  Bobby rubbed his side, which still ached as if a bullet had glanced off the skin. Genevieve used to cling to him like that when she was really scared.

  Bobby shoved thoughts of his child from his mind the same way he always did whenever they came. He couldn’t function and think of her, so he refused to think of her at all.

  He’d probably have to eventually—the thoughts were coming more often; the memories had invaded his dreams. He could swear he’d even smelled her a few times, and that was just—

  “Doucet!”

  Bobby blinked.

  The chief glared. “Am I keeping you awake? We got a situation here.”

  Bobby ran a hand over his face, grimacing at the soot that crunched between his palm and his skin. “What did you say?”

  “You ordered everyone out?”

  “I did.”

  “But you let Raye stay?”

  “She came in after.”

  “Why?”

  “She found the bomb.”

  “There was a bomb?”

  Bobby indicated the smoldering ruin. “You think that happens without one?”

  “Looks”—the chief sniffed—“and smells, like a gas leak.”

  “Which is no doubt what they wanted it to look and smell like since the bomb was on the furnace. If I hadn’t seen the body and the bomb…” He spread his hands.

  “You didn’t see the perp?”

  “Two out of three ain’t bad,” Bobby said, causing the chief to snort again.

  Dr. Christiansen arrived. “I wish I’d had that body removed right away.”

  “We all do,” Johnson agreed. “What did you find before you ran?”

  Christiansen cast him an evil glare then recited his short list of findings.

  “How did she manage to stay conscious with her throat slit?”

  “Without the body, we’ll never know,” Christiansen said.

  “Swell,” Bobby muttered. They weren’t going to discover much about anything without evidence, which was probably the point.

  “You were here first,” Johnson continued. “What did you see?”

  It seemed so very long ago but … Bobby glanced at his phone—saw he’d missed a summons from Sullivan; he’d have to call his partner back—and figured the entire incident had taken place in under an hour.

  “Doucet,” the chief said again. “Did you hit your head?”

  “Probably.” It hurt enough.

  “You need an EMT?”

  He shook that head, flinched. He’d had concussions before, knew exactly what to do—ibuprofen, rest, go to the hospital if he started to puke or forgot who he was—he did not need anyone poking and prodding him. However … Raye should probably be examined.

  He took a step in her direction and saw that one of the EMTs was doing just that—checking her pupils, asking her questions, in between barks from her still-furious best friend.

  “Hello?” the chief called.

  If Bobby weren’t careful he’d wind up in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Did they have a hospital? He resisted the urge to rub his head again. One of the symptoms of a concussion, as he recalled, was slow thinking, along with inability to recall both what had happened right before the injury as well as after.

  “She didn’t answer the door,” he blurted.

  There. No problem remembering what had happened before the world went boom. All good.

  “Probably a little hard for her to move,” Christiansen said. “Considering.”

  The wind stirred, flinging ash everywhere and causing the tree ornaments to jingle.

  “What’s up with her trees?” Bobby asked.

  Both Christiansen and Johnson frowned. “You sure you’re all right?”

  Bobby narrowed his gaze; it helped with the headache. “I’m fine.”

  The chief jerked his head at the doc, and the latter moved in close enough to peer at Bobby’s pupils. “You know where you are?”

  “Podunk.”

  Christiansen lifted his eyebrows. “Not the time for ha-ha, Detective.”

  The man was right. “New Bergin, Wisconsin. My name is Bobby Doucet. I am twenty-eight years old. I came to this house to talk to Mrs. Noita. Okay?”

  The doctor stared at him for a few seconds, then stepped back and nodded to the chief.

  “The trees?” Bobby repeated.

  “Mrs. Noita was flaky,” Johnson said. “A bit hippie.”

  “She looked pretty skinny to me.”

  “Not big hips.” Christiansen gave the peace sign. “Hippie.”

  “A lot of herbs,” Johnson continued. “Voodoo.”

  Bobby glanced at the trees. “That’s not voodoo.” Voodoo, he knew.

  “Whatever.” The chief’s lip curled. “She was a vegan.”

  “Last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”

  “Around here.” Johnson’s gaze went to a distant but still visible farm to the east. Cows peppered the landscape like black and white polka dots. “It’s damn close.”

  “She practiced herbal medicine,” Christiansen put in, then lifted his hand. “Not a crime, I know. In truth, some of that works pretty good. No clue why.”

  Bobby still wasn’t hearing why she’d decorated her trees. Maybe they didn’t know. Mostly, it didn’t matter.

  “I broke the window on h
er back door,” Bobby continued. He seemed to be having a difficult time staying on point and finishing a thought—definitely mild to moderate concussion. “I called her name. She lifted her hand, and I saw she’d been branded.”

  Johnson cursed. “You’re sure?”

  Bobby nodded, glanced at Christiansen, who nodded too. At least he hadn’t imagined it.

  “Did she say anything?” the chief asked.

  “I asked her who had done it. Her answer was pretty much gibberish. Understandable, considering.”

  “You wanna relate that gibberish, son? One never can tell what might be useful down the road.”

  “She said, ‘Venatores Mali.’” He spread his hands. “I don’t—”

  “That isn’t gibberish,” Christiansen interrupted. “That’s Latin.”

  “You speak Latin?” Johnson asked.

  “No one speaks Latin. Dead language.”

  Bobby’d never understood what that meant. How could a language be dead? But bringing that up would only be another pointless point.

  “I’m a doctor. Latin is a daily pain in my behind.”

  “What does it mean?” Bobby asked.

  “Venatores Mali translates to ‘hunters of evil.’”

  “Evil what?”

  “Unfortunately,” Christiansen murmured, “we aren’t going to be able to ask her.”

  Chapter 13

  I managed to escape before anyone beyond Greg Gustafsson, emergency services, tried to question me. Greg offered me a ride to the clinic in town; I refused.

  I had a few scrapes. I’d live. I just wanted to get out of there.

  The scene was chaos. It wasn’t every day something blew up in New Bergin. That it had blown up after yet another murder …

  Like I said, chaos.

  I wouldn’t be able to escape questioning indefinitely, but for now I took the opportunity and ran with it.

  Jenn was more hysterical than I’d ever seen her—hysteria gave her hives—and that was before a piece of Mrs. Noita fell out of a tree.

  My father arrived on the scene right after Mrs. Noita’s arm. His gaze went to the house, before scanning the crowd. When it reached me, his lips tightened and he strode over.

  I wanted to apologize; I always did. That incessant need to please and appease. He let out a sigh that sounded more like a huff, then ran his finger down my cheek. Not a caress, more of an indictment. His finger came away black. I had been a little close to the action.