In the Air Tonight

by Lori Handeland

  “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

  He undressed me like an overtired toddler, and I did the same for him. We crawled beneath the covers, and I laid my head on his shoulder, pressing my hip, my leg, my foot against his.

  “I don’t want you to go to work tomorrow.”

  “I have to. It’s a small town. There aren’t very many subs.” And the ones there were didn’t sign on for a return engagement to my room. Freaky things happened in Miss Larsen’s kindergarten class all the time, but when there was a substitute, they happened worse. For some reason, Stafford took my absence as a personal affront.

  “Everyone deserves a day off.”

  “I just had two.” Though they hadn’t been very restful.

  “Raye.”

  I kissed him. It was the best way to stop an argument. With Bobby, sometimes it was the only way.

  I worshipped his mouth—kissing, nipping, suckling, licking. I hadn’t made out like this in … ever. Because I’d never done so naked, in my own bed, with a man who knew what he was doing.

  He took possession of the embrace, slowing me down, revving me up. By the time he touched my breasts, I was so aroused just by the play of our mouths, the brush of his toe along my instep, the tickle of the hair on his legs against mine, I cried out and arched into his hand. One tweak of my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and I came, gasping.

  He slid into me while I shuddered. His mouth played over my eyelids, my cheeks as he thrust—over and over—deeper, harder, and somehow my orgasm continued, or perhaps the first just ran into the second. Who knew? Who cared?

  I opened my eyes as his breath caught, our gazes met, and he shuddered too. Eventually he lowered his forehead to mine.

  “I can’t lose you.”

  “You won’t.”

  “That’s right.” He rolled to the side, stared at the ceiling. “Because I’m not going to let you out of my sight.”

  *

  “Are you a grown-up?” Genevieve asked.

  She and Henry stood outside Raye’s apartment. Sunday night in New Bergin and they were the only souls on the street.

  “I’m a ghost,” Henry said. He wasn’t sure if that made him a grown-up or not.

  The child studied him, lower lip caught between her tiny, slightly crooked teeth. “I don’t think he meant you.”

  “Who?”

  “Stafford.”

  That beastly ghost child who had been tormenting his daughter for years. Henry had tried to get rid of the fiend, but Stafford wasn’t a fool. He knew if he told Henry why he was still here, Henry would make certain he soon wasn’t. The child had avoided him of late, and Henry had been too overburdened with the Venatores Mali to notice. Or perhaps he’d just been so glad not to see the imp he hadn’t wanted to.

  “What did he say?” Henry asked. If the urchin had upset her he would—

  “He told me something that no grown-up is supposed to know.” She worried her teeth harder. If she’d had blood, she might have bloodied them. “But I think someone should.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “It’s bad.”

  Henry sighed. When wasn’t it?

  *

  Morning came and with it the usual rush, made even more so because I wasn’t used to sharing my space. Everywhere I turned, there Bobby was. At the sink, in the shower, on my way to the coffeepot. But we managed.

  Bobby insisted on driving me to school rather than walking, which helped me to be more on time than when I had to wait for—

  “Jenn!” I shouted as we rolled down Main Street.

  “Where?” He glanced around, frowning when he saw no sign of her.

  “I’m sure she’s still putting on her ankle breakers or searching for her most expensive, inappropriately tight shirt.”

  His frown deepened. “She works at an elementary school.”

  “Preaching to the choir.” I pointed in the direction of her cottage. “Pull over and I’ll—” I had my finger poised above her number on my cell when the front door opened, and Brad Hunstadt stepped out.

  “Oh, that’s not good.” It got worse when Jenn followed, and they proceeded to play tonsil hockey on the front porch. I winced. “No one wants to see that.”

  “I think you’re wrong.” Bobby indicated several passersby that had stopped to watch.

  “They’ll be married by sundown.”

  “Really?”

  “If they aren’t she may as well buy her scarlet letter today.”

  “She’s a big girl.” He eyed Jenn once more. “Figuratively speaking.”

  “He spent the night. She’s toast.”

  “I spent the night.”

  My eyes met his, and my heart skittered. Hell.

  I was toast too.

  Chapter 22

  When had he fallen in love with her?

  First kiss? First touch? More likely first sight.

  Since Bobby had driven into town and almost driven over her, he’d been tumbling head over heels in this direction.

  What was he going to do about it? He couldn’t stay here forever. Or could he?

  She muttered something that sounded like a curse as Jenn followed blond beauty around the corner of the house. Seconds later a boxy blue Ford four-door with Brad at the wheel and Jenn in the passenger seat turned onto First Street.

  “She didn’t even text,” Raye murmured.

  “Must be love.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Must be.”

  They were both in big trouble, even without the crazies that were trying to kill her.

  Bobby followed Brad’s car to the school, pulled into the lot just behind but lost sight of it in the traffic. Seemingly every teacher in the place had arrived at precisely the same time. As they climbed out, Bobby leveled his cop stare at several gawkers.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Trying to keep you from earning a scarlet letter.”

  “That ship has sailed.”

  He came around the car and took her arm, planning to escort her through the front doors and to her classroom, but she held back. “You don’t have to stand right next to me all day.”

  “I’m protecting you.”

  “Is that what you call it?” She lowered her voice and wiggled her eyebrows. “Protect me again.”

  Now he was the one whose cheeks warmed.

  “We have top-of-the-line security,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I—” He swallowed and straightened. “So will I.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be?”

  That was a conversation he didn’t plan on having.

  “I—uh—I meant I wouldn’t interfere with your day. Do you have a computer in your room? There are things I can work on.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her gaze went to his holster. “You’re going to have to lose the gun.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You aren’t getting that through the metal detector.”

  “I’m one of the good guys.”

  “A metal detector can’t tell good from bad. It only knows metal.”

  “What if the Venatores Mali come? They have guns.”

  “So far, they don’t.” She held up her hand before he could protest. “They won’t get a knife through security either.” She set her fingertips on his arm. “Put it away, please. It makes me nervous to have a gun in a kindergarten class.” Her lips tightened. “In any class.”

  “I could be a guest speaker. Cop for a day. The kids will love it. I’ll answer questions.”

  A bead of sweat ran down his cheek. He felt a little ill. The idea of going inside was bad enough. But talking to them, listening to them, learning their names, seeing their faces—

  “What’s wrong?”

  He swallowed or tried to. His throat was so tight he coughed instead. Her expression told him that this was a fight he wasn’t going to win. In truth, he was afraid he’d be so distracted by the kids, he might not keep as sharp an eye as he needed to on his weapon.

  Bobby withdrew his gun, po
pped the trunk, and stowed it.

  “Thank you.” She began to reach for his hand, glanced about, thought better of it and led the way inside.

  By the time they reached her classroom, Bobby had broken out in a cold sweat all over, and the tightness in his throat had spread to his chest. If he hadn’t felt this way before—every time he saw kids the age of his daughter when she died—he’d think he was having a heart attack.

  “Miss Larsen!”

  Several of the children ran to her, all talking at once. Bobby backed up, bumping into the doorjamb, then sidestepping quickly to avoid the brush of the bodies still flowing into the room.

  Raye cast him a concerned glance before she was enveloped. A redheaded boy grabbed her hand; a girl with huge, brown eyes wrapped her fingers in Raye’s belt loop. One chattered about what his dog had done; the other shared how she had finally learned to ride her bike without the little wheels. Raye miraculously carried on a conversation with both of them.

  He could tell by the way they touched her that they adored her. Her smile blossomed as she spoke to them. She looked so right, standing there in the sun with all the little children around her, that Bobby’s chest hurt even worse at a sudden realization.

  They could never have a future together.

  A woman like Raye, with a gift like that, should have a passel of kids. Not only did she deserve them, but the as-yet-to-be-born children deserved her. What they didn’t deserve, what she didn’t, was to be saddled with a man who’d squandered the gift of his own child and was so weakened by the sight of any others that he could barely function.

  Right now the joyous sound of their voices, the scent of peanut butter and juice, the whirl of their little bodies made Bobby want to run as fast and as far away as he could. Instead he remained pressed against the wall just inside the door until one little girl saw him and stopped.

  Her face lit up. “Hi!”

  Bobby’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. The kid didn’t mind.

  “Whose daddy are you?” she asked.

  He ran like the coward he was.

  In the hall the cacophony became louder and his ears rang. Several kids bumped into him as he made his way toward the nearest exit and burst outside. He had the sense to check the door, make sure it locked behind him. Then he walked around the entire school and did the same with every single door that he found. He had to say the security was excellent, which made him feel better about wandering to the empty playground and taking a seat on a bench that faced the school.

  Bobby was breathing faster than if he’d sprinted five miles. He tried to calm himself, but he didn’t have much luck. He could still see the tops of little heads through the windows. He wanted to close his eyes, turn away, but he had promised to keep Raye safe.

  He already had the death of one person he loved on his conscience; he didn’t need two. So he forced his gaze forward, even though his stomach continued to roil and his eyes began to ache. He should probably blink a few times—maybe throw up.

  He did the first, managed to avoid the second. The wind kicked up and tumbled leaves over his shoes. Strangely it smelled like rain despite the lack of a single cloud in the sky. He sniffed again, and his skin prickled.

  Who was making cinnamon toast?

  For an instant the world shimmered behind a veil of tears. Then, oddly, the chill that had washed over him fled. He could still smell rain and cinnamon and sunshine, but his stomach settled, his breathing evened out, and as his gaze touched Raye, who stood at the window of her class, an odd sense of peace came over him.

  *

  As always, after a weekend apart, the children surrounded me and began to share what they had done. I listened, commented, let them ramble until I heard Carrie’s voice.

  Whose daddy are you?

  By the time I turned, Bobby was gone.

  I went back to what I’d been doing. I didn’t have much choice. I knew better than to leave the kids alone. Even without Stafford—though where he was this morning, I had no idea—there’d be trouble if I went in search of Bobby.

  I should have known he wouldn’t go far. Something might be wrong—and I had a pretty good idea what—but nothing could be wrong enough for him to break his promise to keep me safe. Within minutes I saw him sitting alone on the playground. He appeared so wan and sad I wanted to ply him with ginger ale and kisses.

  Then he lifted his head. The breeze stirred his hair, and Genevieve appeared on the bench at his side. He drew in a deep breath; his forehead crinkled. For an instant I thought he might cry. Then she leaned her head on his shoulder; his breath rushed out and some of his color returned.

  He might say he didn’t believe in ghosts, but he felt them. Or at least he felt her.

  “You’re going to have to tell him.”

  Both my own and Henry’s reflection appeared in the glass.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I checked on the kids. Everyone was doing as I’d asked—writing and/or drawing the story of their weekend to share with one another. I had a few minutes, maybe less.

  “Tell him what?” There was so much Bobby didn’t know.

  “Her presence has soothed him, and he doesn’t know she’s there. If he did, it might help.”

  “Him or her?”

  “Both. Maybe if he knew she was all right, he’d be all right too.”

  “Then she could move on.”

  Henry’s black-clad shoulder lifted and lowered. “She doesn’t belong here.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “We aren’t talking about me.”

  “We will.”

  “You aren’t gonna take her away from me.”

  Stafford stood on my other side. From his expression he’d heard the whole exchange—or at least enough of it to worry.

  I jabbed my finger in his direction. “You will not pull the fire alarm, young man.”

  His expression went canny. “You promise not to send Genevieve away?”

  I hesitated, but in the end I couldn’t lie to the child, though I probably should have. “I can’t do that.”

  Stafford disappeared. I waited for the alarm to shrill. Instead, one of the windows shattered.

  The kids started screaming.

  Bobby shouted, “Get down, Raye!” and sprinted for the front door.

  I’m sure he thought someone was shooting at me. I’d have thought the same thing if the glass hadn’t shattered outward—and I didn’t know about Stafford.

  “Stop that,” I said.

  The children listened. Stafford did not. A second window went sploosh.

  “That’s it,” Henry snapped.

  Spink. A third window cracked, tiny tributaries spreading outward from the center, the sound similar to ice during the spring thaw. Pieces fell away like the parts of a puzzle. Tink, tink, tink. They bounced onto the blacktop outside.

  “Everyone in the coat room,” I ordered.

  Just because Stafford was sending the glass outward at the moment, didn’t mean he couldn’t change directions.

  “You need to go to the apple tree.”

  “Not now, Henry.” I was busy herding the stragglers.

  “I don’t care when, though the way he’s behaving, it should be now.”

  “He?”

  “The horrid little imp. His bones are buried beneath the apple tree.”

  People started appearing in the doorway—Mr. Jorgensen, the janitor, the principal, Mrs. Hansen, and Jenn.

  “What the hell?” my friend asked as Mrs. Hansen went straight to the children and began to usher them out the door. Mr. Jorgensen stood over the broken glass shaking his head.

  I ignored them, my attention on Henry. “You’re sure?”

  “Genevieve told me what happened to the child.” He glanced through the hole where a window should have been and then back. The concern in his eyes made my heart tumble toward my feet. “Perhaps once it is known, he will be on his way.”

  I nodded, not wanting to continue my conversation with air now t
hat there were more adults in the room than myself.

  Bobby burst in. “Why didn’t you get down? You could have been shot.”

  “No one’s shooting.” I lifted my chin in the direction of the windows. At least Stafford had stopped at three. “Look for yourself. The glass shattered outward.”

  His scowl deepened. “How?”

  “That’s your department.” And I couldn’t exactly explain about the ghost child having a temper tantrum any more now than the two dozen times it had happened before.

  I spent the rest of the day trying to calm my now wired class enough to teach them something, as well as ignore Mr. J as he taped cardboard to the window holes.

  “Had to order the glass,” he said. “Won’t be in for a week.”

  The glance he gave me made me want to apologize. The man spent more time in my room than almost all the others combined.

  Then there was Bobby, who tried very hard to discover why my windows had exploded at all, never mind in which direction.

  “Kindergarten classes always seem to have a lot of stuff go bad,” Mr. Jorgensen said.

  He’d been the janitor at this school since I’d attended kindergarten.

  “Though I ain’t never seen three windows crack like that without somethin’ hittin’ ’em first.”

  Something had hit them—though I wasn’t sure if it were Stafford’s fists, feet, or the power of his ghostly mind. Did it matter?

  Bobby spent a few hours after lunch surfing the office computer. I’d offered him the one in my classroom, but he’d studiously avoided looking at the children, shaken his head, and fled.

  I was going to have to tell him about Genevieve. Not telling him certainly wasn’t helping.

  First I had to deal with Stafford. And to do that, I needed to be alone.

  After story time, I texted Jenn: Is Bobby still at the computer?

  No. He’s in with Mrs. Hansen.

  Excellent. Mrs. Hansen would talk his ear off for at least a half hour. It was what she did.

  Can you come and sit with my class for a few?

  Her answer was quick and brief. No.

  They’re asleep.

  You told me that last time. Then they woke up.

  It hadn’t been pretty. I’d have to make sure I was back before that happened again.