In the Air Tonight

by Lori Handeland

  And I really, really, didn’t want to be the one to tell him.

  I considered that ghost bruises weren’t something reserved just for those who saw ghosts. People got bruises all the time that they didn’t know the origin of. They passed them off as a bump they’d been too busy to register at the time, a thump in the night on the way to the toilet, forgotten by the light of day, even acute leukemia. In most cases, they were right—hopefully not about the leukemia. It helped that most mystery bruises were not shaped like fingers.

  So why were his? Why were mine? Another question or two for Henry.

  I poured some red wine, drank a healthy swallow, then took both it and the beer to the kitchen table, set them down, glanced at the door again, and picked up the clothes I’d promised to wash.

  I removed Bobby’s keys, his wallet, and his cell phone from the jeans, tossed them next to the beer and strode to the stacked washer and dryer in the corner of my rarely used kitchen. When I returned to my wine, I saw that his wallet had fallen open. I forgot all about the mystery of the ghostly bruises.

  A photo of Genevieve occupied the space meant for a driver’s license. Not a surprise. The surprise was the gorgeous redhead in the photo next to her.

  Obviously Genevieve’s mom—they had the same nose, a similar smile. But the woman’s presence in the wallet brought up a question: Was Bobby married?

  That would have been a good question to ask before now.

  The bathroom door opened. So did my fingers. The wallet dropped onto the table. The leather folded closed on contact. Thank God.

  Bobby wore nothing but a towel. Num. He picked up his beer, took a sip, smiled. He must not have seen me going through his wallet.

  “I put your clothes in the wash.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I took the stuff out of your pockets.”

  “Thanks,” he repeated.

  “I…” I had no idea how to broach this subject. I’d never had to. The thing that annoyed me the most about dating in New Bergin, that everyone knew everyone else’s business, meant I did too. No embarrassing surprises in the aftermath. All the embarrassing surprises were out in the open as soon as they embarrassingly happened.

  “Remember that cold case?” Bobby sipped his beer. “We talked about it at Thore’s Farm. Locked-room mystery. You suggested we check the floor in the locker.”

  “Okay.” I remembered. How could I forget?

  “Someone cut a hole in the floor through the ceiling of the room below, threw back the carpet and shot the guy.”

  Which explained why the ghost was gone from here. I hadn’t seen that particular spook trailing in Bobby’s wake since that night. Mystery solved. Case closed. The spirit had gone on to … wherever.

  “How did you know that?” Bobby asked.

  “I didn’t.” And because I hadn’t—I’d only known that the dead man wanted him to look in the locker, not why—I even sounded convincing.

  “You knew about the bomb in the basement too.”

  “Did not,” I said quickly. Too quickly but it was the truth.

  He drained the beer. I got him another. It gave me something to do other than panic.

  “You walked right to it, Raye.”

  “It isn’t as if the basement was huge, and you said that you’d searched everywhere else.”

  “I said that as you were walking over there, not before.”

  My mind scrambled for an excuse—anything other than that a seventeenth-century ghost-witch had been pointing to it. Amazingly, I found one.

  “The other bodies were burned and Mrs. Noita wasn’t. I figured there was a fire coming, and what better way than an explosion?”

  “You jump to that conclusion rather than that I interrupted the guy before he struck a match?”

  According to Mrs. Noita, it hadn’t been a guy, but that was another bit of information I was going to have to keep to myself. At least until I figured out how to tell it without buying myself an express ticket to loony land.

  “Don’t you ever have hunches?”

  From his frown, I figured he did, but he didn’t like them any more than I liked some of mine.

  “How did you get in?” he asked. “That cop-kid was supposed to keep everyone out.”

  I shrugged, not wanting to point fingers and tell tales. I didn’t have to.

  “He’s gotta be the worst cop ever.”

  “Probably not the worst.”

  Bobby cast me a disgusted glance. I wouldn’t want to be Brad the next time Bobby saw him.

  “He just let you come in without trying to stop you?”

  “He tried. I sicced Jenn on him and ran.”

  “Don’t ever do that again.” He opened the second beer. “You took ten years off my life when you walked down those stairs, and that was before I saw the bomb.”

  Silence descended. I wasn’t sure how to bring the conversation around to the woman in the photograph.

  “Are you married?” I blurted. Considering his face, that probably wasn’t the best way.

  “You think I’d…”—he waved at the table, causing me to blush—“if I were? Thanks.” He sat on the couch.

  “I said that wrong.” I followed, perching on the arm. Near but yet so far. “I meant to ask if you’d ever been married.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t that what people ask…” My gaze drifted to the table. “After?”

  “Usually it’s before, Raye.”

  A point I’d already made to myself. “I’m not good at this.”

  “You’re wrong. You’re very good at this.”

  I blushed again, and he touched my knee. I felt that touch everywhere.

  “I’ve never been married,” he said.

  Was that good news or bad? Truth or another lie?

  “Do you have kids?” My voice was too bright. He snatched his hand back as if I’d let off an electric shock.

  “No.” His voice was hoarse. He slugged more beer.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? Do I seem like the kind of guy who should have kids?”

  As a kindergarten teacher I’d learned that, for most people, “should” had very little to do with having them.

  Luckily he didn’t require an answer. He stood, and for a second I feared he’d leave. Instead, he took my hand. “How long until my clothes are done?”

  “An hour.”

  “That might just be enough time.” He drew me toward the bedroom.

  I glanced at the wallet, now closed over the photo. If I hadn’t met Genevieve, I could brush off the picture as a niece and a sister.

  But I had met her, and I was pretty sure I would again.

  Really, Genevieve wasn’t the issue, and wasn’t that a surprise? The ghost wasn’t the problem. The problem was her mother. Where was she? Who was she? Was she?

  Bobby had denied the mother and the child. I didn’t blame him. At least one of them, maybe both, was the source of great pain.

  He closed the bedroom door and took me into his arms.

  How did one bring up dead children?

  One didn’t. Especially if one had been talking to them.

  *

  Henry stood on the landing outside Raye’s apartment. He couldn’t get in. Every time he tried, he wound up right here. Raye had warded the door. He wondered who had told her how.

  “Daddy!”

  Henry jumped. A child stood next to him. Her shirt identified her as a princess. Strange. He’d thought there was no royalty in America. Perhaps she wasn’t from here. However, it was best to be safe and not sorry.

  “Your Royal Highness.” Henry bowed.

  The child wrinkled her nose. “Who are you?”

  “Henry Taggart at your service, ma’am.”

  “You talk funny.”

  “No doubt.” He had a Scottish accent. He hadn’t heard too many in this area.

  The child had an accent too. Definitely not Scottish.

  “Where are you from, ma’am?”

&nb
sp; “Ma’am.” She giggled. “I’m not a ma’am.”

  “You are a princess.” He indicated her shirt. “Yes?”

  Her giggle faded. She glanced at the door again. “My daddy says I am.”

  “Then you are royal and must be addressed as ‘ma’am.’” After he’d first addressed her as “your royal highness.” Henry might be a Scottish witch, but he knew what was right.

  “Okay,” she said, still more interested in the door than him. “Why can’t I get in?”

  “The door has been warded against ghosts.”

  “What’s warded?”

  “A way to keep us out.”

  She turned wide blue eyes in Henry’s direction. “How?”

  “Herbs. Perhaps a spell.”

  “Like A-B-C?”

  “Not that kind of spell, child.” He cleared his throat. “Ma’am.”

  She nodded, as regal as any Stuart, and flicked her hand. “Make it stop.”

  “If I could, I would.”

  “But you can’t, so you won’t,” she recited.

  She really was adorable. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d been able to see all his daughters grow up.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Genevieve.” She lifted her chin. “Princess Genevieve.”

  “Why do you want to get inside?”

  “My daddy’s in there.” She stomped her foot. “Daddy, come out!”

  Henry blinked. He’d been startled, then distracted, then charmed by the girl, which was his only excuse for being so slow. The child and the detective from out of town shared not only an accent but similar blue eyes. Best, still, to be sure.

  “And who is your daddy?” he asked.

  “Bobby Doucet.”

  Henry suddenly understood the reason for the ward. He didn’t much like it. Certainly, his daughter was old enough to do what he strongly suspected she was doing with the detective—though they weren’t married and he should probably take umbrage with that. However, he had learned that in this time many did not marry before having knowledge of one another. He didn’t like that either, but no one had asked him, and he doubted they would.

  Presently he had more pressing concerns than his daughter’s honor. Whatever Raye had used would keep him out, but it would allow those with a pulse in. And those with a pulse, and a weapon, were the ones that needed to be kept out. He just wasn’t sure how.

  A car drove past slowly on the street below. For an instant Henry thought the driver was looking at him. No matter how many centuries passed, he couldn’t get used to being invisible to the majority of the world.

  Considering that he was invisible, the woman wasn’t staring at him but at Raye’s apartment. The place appeared deserted. The car sped up and disappeared around the corner.

  The woman might have been an acquaintance of Raye’s, but Henry doubted it. He’d been at his daughter’s side since birth, and he’d never seen that face before in his life.

  *

  Bobby’s phone rang. He reached for his nightstand, where he usually kept the thing, and instead encountered a woman.

  He opened his eyes; his fingers were tangled in Raye’s hair. He wanted to tangle other parts of himself with other parts of her all over again.

  Except the damn phone was still ringing. Where was it?

  He sat up. The bedside clock read midnight. They hadn’t been asleep that long, though it felt like it. Sexual satisfaction and exhaustion will do that to a man.

  Apparently it did the same to a woman. Raye muttered, “Shhh,” and turned over.

  Bobby followed the distant sound of his phone, which lay on the kitchen table next to his keys and wallet. He picked it up. “Yeah?”

  “We got a problem.”

  “Johnson?” Bobby asked. He hadn’t bothered to glance at his caller ID. His eyes were still fuzzy.

  The chief grunted. “Someone broke into Larsen’s Bed-and-Breakfast.”

  A jolt of adrenaline rushed through Bobby, and his eyes focused just fine. “Who?”

  “All John saw was a woman running out the door. Very tall, brown hair that reached past her butt. She jumped in her car and drove away. She had a weird knife.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Long, two sided. He said the blade was ripply.”

  “No idea what that means.”

  “Squiggly?”

  “Not helping.”

  “How about this … the description of the knife matches the description Christiansen gave of the weapon probably used on Mrs. Noita.”

  “Fantastic.” It appeared that the killer, this time, was a woman.

  “It gets better.”

  “How can it get better than that?”

  “Sarcasm. Thank you.” The chief’s voice was dry.

  Bobby couldn’t blame him. He needed to zip his lip. The guy was doing his best, and in truth the man’s best wasn’t half bad. Bobby wouldn’t mind working with him again. But he’d prefer it if he didn’t have to.

  “The woman had been in Raye’s room. The pillow and the mattress were hacked to pieces.”

  “At least Raye wasn’t.”

  “True. But John doesn’t know where Raye is.”

  Bobby’s gaze flicked to the bedroom doorway. She lay in the middle of her bed, hair tousled from his hands, mouth swollen from his lips, her body lethargic from his—

  “She’s at her apartment.”

  The chief cursed. “I’ll get someone over there.”

  “No,” Bobby said.

  “Doucet, the first guy tried to kill her. Now this woman did too. She needs to be protected.”

  “She is.”

  “Oh.” Silence settled over the line.

  Bobby drew his hand over his jaw, the rasp of his beard so loud the chief had to have heard it. Bobby hadn’t wanted to announce his business. Then again, in a town of this size, his car parked on the street out front already had. He was surprised the chief hadn’t heard about it before now.

  “I won’t let her out of my sight,” Bobby promised.

  Johnson sighed. “I suppose I have to be the one to tell her father.”

  Bobby remembered the Magnum. He wished he hadn’t given it back.

  “Maybe you could just say she’s safe at home.”

  “Not a chance, hotshot.” Johnson hung up.

  “Dammit.” While he wouldn’t wish away the hours he’d just spent, he did find himself wishing away this town and everyone in it but them. Perhaps when this was over he’d take Raye … where? New Orleans?

  Why not?

  She lay crosswise on the bed, one bare, smooth, pale shoulder gleaming in the faint silver light of the moon. The thought of her anywhere, looking like that, was nearly impossible to resist. Considering the danger here he should take her anywhere. Immediately.

  He spotted her laptop on the table. The “sleep” light pulsed, and he opened the top, clicked a key, waited while the machine sprang to life. It wouldn’t hurt to check airline reservations, just for the fun of it.

  He never got that far. When the screen went live, so did the last thing Raye had been searching for.

  “Venatores Mali,” he murmured.

  How in hell did she know about that?

  Chapter 16

  I awoke confused.

  Where was I? Who was I? What day was it?

  I didn’t care for the feeling. I couldn’t recall ever having it, except for the never-voiced concern over the second question—would I ever truly know who I was?—I was always in New Bergin and every day was similar enough to the last so as not to matter. Unless it was a weekend.

  I opened my eyes. My apartment. Nine A.M. I certainly hoped it was the weekend. Had to be. If I weren’t in class by now, the phone would have rung. Someone would probably have pounded on the door too.

  I sat up, realized I was naked at the same time I saw Bobby Doucet sipping coffee in my living room. Everything came back—the good along with the bad. But the best realization …

  It wa
s Sunday.

  My robe lay on the floor. The sight of it there explained my confusion upon waking and the—for me—late hour of doing so. Every synapse in my body and my mind had been fried by a plurality of orgasms. I retrieved the robe and put it on.

  Bobby wore jeans and nothing else. My lips curved. Perhaps one more wouldn’t kill me.

  He must have sensed my stare, or heard me move, because he looked up. “Morning.”

  Something was wrong. Had there been another murder? Was my father all right? Had Bobby seen or sensed Genevieve or one of the others?

  My eyes cut to the door, but the rosemary still lay across the floor at the base, undisturbed. I should probably disturb it. Lately, the ghosts had been all that stood between me and death. I shouldn’t bar them for long.

  Bobby sipped his coffee, staring at me over the rim with a strange expression in his eyes. As if he didn’t know me, or, maybe, he just didn’t trust me.

  After last night, I thought he knew me pretty well. But trust? That was a different ball game.

  “Morning,” I returned, my voice cooler than it should be, considering, but so was his. Was that normal? I had no idea. I’d never had a morning-after experience. My single time sleeping with someone had not involved sleeping, or the morning. Still, I’d thought it would be better. Cuddling, coffee, reading the paper in bed.

  The paper! I crossed to the door, opened it. The day was cool and clear, a glorious autumn morning. One of the reasons—perhaps the only reason—to live in Wisconsin at all was autumn. Summers were short and often shitty. Winters were long and always so. Spring? Never saw one. But autumn in the Badger State was as close to bliss as it got.

  A crisp breeze blew the rosemary away as I snatched the paper off the landing.

  New Bergin still published a newspaper, which was delivered to everyone’s doorstep. It only came out on Sundays, but that was enough most of the time. I glanced at the headline, which blared MURDER! What had I expected? The usual rehash of the town council meeting and the high school football score?

  As I set the paper on the kitchen table I noticed my laptop. Open, running, and revealing the last thing I had Googled.

  Venatores Mali.