Hard Proof

by Rachel Lee

  “Yeah. Anyway, I searched the entire house for intruders. Top to bottom, including a dusty attic. Windows all locked, no sign of forced entry. I had to go back and tell her there was no one in her house. Then my partner came in and said he hadn’t been able to find signs of anyone outside, although he did say kids might have run away too quick to be seen.”

  “That didn’t help, did it?”

  Steve sighed. “Not on two levels. First, she hadn’t complained about anyone being outside. Second, even though everything that was troubling her was indoors, I couldn’t find a damn thing. I told her if she heard or saw anything more, she must definitely call the emergency line. I told her I’d make sure someone came right away. I made her promise to call.”

  His gaze grew distant. “I left feeling like crap, feeling helpless. I got annoyed with my partner for dismissing it as an old lady all alone and wanting attention. He even called her batty. I couldn’t dismiss it.”

  He drank some of his beer, then focused on her again. “I couldn’t just toss it for a lot of reasons, and one of them was I’d been hearing other complaints just like it. This whole haunting thing was beginning to trouble me. And that’s when it really began.”

  She remembered her hot chocolate and lifted the mug. Mahoney’s made the best. Rich and creamy. “Did the woman call again?”

  “Two days later. A patrol headed out there as quickly as they could and found nothing. Again. When I heard some officers talking about it being a waste of time and that the woman needed an ambulance, not a cop, I made up my mind I was going out there.”

  “I would have, too,” Candy agreed. “Good for you.”

  He smiled faintly. “Not within my purview as a cop, but within it off duty. She recognized me and we got going on a complete investigation.”

  Dang, Candy thought, it was becoming increasingly difficult to distrust this man. He was really too handsome for one thing. Not storybook handsome, but appealing. Now she had to deal with her hormones, as well. Great. Just great.

  She thought about the scene he had painted so effectively, mostly thinking about that poor old woman stubbornly living in a house she had loved for many decades, only to find herself terrified inside it. “Did you help her?”

  “I don’t think so. I went out at night to her house to investigate. I stayed all night as often as my schedule would allow. Several times a week for a few weeks. Never heard anything, never saw anything. Nor did she.”

  Candy nodded. “So you had to give up?”

  “Sort of.” He shook his head, looking sad. “I installed cameras in every place she’d had an experience. I put sound-activated recorders in every room. I think they made her feel better, knowing I’d be watching and listening by long distance.”

  He sighed and put his beer bottle to one side. “Never recorded anything. Then she died a few months later. It’ll always be a mystery.”

  “You don’t like that.”

  “Hell no. Sometimes there’s a rational explanation. Sometimes I can at least provide comfort, and sometimes I doubt I give people anything at all. I can only try.”

  He leaned toward her. “You know what a psychologist told me?”

  “What?” She wanted to hear this.

  “A lot of his colleagues are seeing a large uptick in patients who come to them with complaints of anxiety, fear and depression. The patients are blaming it on the paranormal. The psychologists are blaming it on the huge number of ghost-hunting shows, and say they spend a lot of time trying to deprogram people.”

  She felt her eyes widen. “My God. How did that make you feel?”

  “Not good. On the other hand, I try to find reasonable explanations, and failing that I try to make people comfortable with what they’re experiencing. It’s all I can do. Considering the number of people who call for help, I can’t ignore the problem.”

  Candy experienced her first sympathy for him. “Have you ever sent anyone to a psychologist?”

  “Hell yeah. I just don’t usually do it on screen. Some things need to be kept private. Can we go?”

  * * *

  BEN WITTES WALKED into Mahoney’s in time to see that deputy and the ghost hunter leaving. Interesting combination.

  One of the damn spirit voices emerged loudly into his head.

  Get on with it!

  Sure, as if he could just insert himself into that investigation. Just walk up and demand it.

  Shut up! he shouted inside his head. Damn it, just shut up. He ought to be able to enjoy a sandwich and a beer without being pummeled by annoying spirits.

  The voice that had been growing louder and more demanding quieted down, but the voices in the background became annoying mumbles, mainly because he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  He ignored them as best he could. There were a couple of empty stools at the bar and he slid into one. Nobody greeted him, but he was used to that. His entire life in this town people had ignored him. Except for the bullies in school, but even then he’d realized he wasn’t the only one being bullied. Nothing personal in it, his mother had always said.

  However, that one spirit was right. If he could get himself on that ghost-hunting show, he wouldn’t be ignored any longer. He had to manage it.

  For a while it would even make him a big man around here.

  That thought was satisfying enough that he smiled at his tuna salad sandwich and tried to figure it out. If the show’s producers didn’t call him back soon, he’d find another way.

  Chapter Six

  Candy had plenty to think about that evening. Outside, Halloween was approaching with snow flurries and more carved and lighted pumpkins.

  Inside her snug little rental house—snug being another word for tiny—bright colors greeted her. Given her heritage, she preferred them to the understated, and she wasn’t afraid to splash around reds, yellows, greens and electric blues.

  She lit her fireplace for the first time since she’d moved here. She didn’t want to use it much, being conscious of its inefficiency and the pollutants it emitted, but this one night it didn’t seem like a major sin.

  And tonight it was comforting, the dance of flickering orange-and-yellow light around her small living room. The warmth, unregulated, sometimes made her hot. Right then, hot felt good.

  Steve had given her much to consider, especially that part about what the psychologist told him. She sipped hot cider spiced with a cinnamon stick and turned everything around in her head.

  The statement from the psychologist had surprised her, although in retrospect it shouldn’t have. Even though she wasn’t a fan, she’d been aware of the increasing number of ghost shows on cable channels. Sometimes she had to look hard for something else.

  There did seem to be a growing interest in conspiracy theories, too. She wondered if the inclination had always been there and was now coming to the forefront. Probably.

  She was no fun, she supposed, but she didn’t buy into ghosts, aliens, or UFOs. There were enough real threats to worry about. On the other hand, she guessed it might be enjoyable to fall in with a group of similar believers and carry imagination to its wild conclusions.

  But ghosts and the paranormal were different. Those ideas actually scared people, and anxiety and fear could make them sick, whether physically or emotionally.

  Cripes, there was no real way to think herself through this. She’d simply have to watch and wait for whatever Steve came up with. She just hoped it helped the Castelles.

  Sighing, she got herself another mug of hot cider, then settled in to enjoy the fire, the chilly evening and the comforts of home.

  For a long time, her only home had been the people in her squad. Friends. Closer than friends, like family. Except nothing could ever enfold her the way her large family’s love had. A boisterous crew of immediate family and extended family, aunts, uncles, cousins.

  She ha
d walked away to join the Army, an attempt to find herself. A youthful notion, an identity crisis, maybe a need to follow in her deceased father’s footsteps. Whatever. But that had carried her to places that had made her unwilling to go home. Changed forever, not wanting her family to know this new person. Maybe not wise, but the feeling ran deep anyway.

  Worse, her younger brother had followed her into the Army, and he’d been killed in action. The guilt dogged her constantly. She felt responsible, and she couldn’t believe the rest of her family didn’t feel the same, at some level. They’d deny it, but she would still know it was true.

  With difficulty, she yanked herself away from that yawning cavern before it consumed her. These days it was easy to trip into places inside herself that were hideous.

  She sighed again and began listening to some of her favorite songs in her head. It was a skill she’d chosen to develop during many long, tense nights. It was almost as good as having a CD player in her pocket, except it didn’t get in the way of her hearing.

  Part of her wanted to close her eyes and just let the warmth flow over her. Another part wanted to enjoy the dancing of the firelight.

  She kept her eyes open as long as she could and thought about the coming day. This might get exciting.

  * * *

  ON THE OTHER side of town, Steve made some calls to his production crew from his motel room. They’d found a psychic for him, he was told. One right there in Conard City.

  Great, he thought, but held his tongue. He’d argued with them about this before and was always told that the fans liked it.

  Just because the fans liked it didn’t mean he had to. They’d probably like it even more if he ever found proof of a ghost, but it sure as hell was going to take more to convince him than a psychic wandering around claiming to feel things. From his perspective, his clients were already feeling enough.

  They could do the job themselves. In this room we feel like something evil is watching. Over there we’ve seen a black shadow figure. This is horrifying. I believe he wants to hurt my family.

  Well, all the psychic usually did was say the same thing from a different perspective. Which was not to say he was convinced real psychics didn’t exist. There’d been a few who’d made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  But most of them just made him want to roll his eyes.

  Having a psychic from right around here was especially problematic. They’d be clued in to the local history, able to repeat stories and anecdotes that would appear to stand up under scrutiny. Except because of Steve’s investigation, they rarely would.

  He’d seen a few, though, who came in from elsewhere and had no obvious connections with the things they told him, things he had found out independently, and only with a great deal of research. Some of those things weren’t available by any means except talking to a local historian. Like Miss Emma.

  Come to think of it, he needed to get back to her. Memories might have been spurred by his questions. She might even have done some research of her own to see if she could find something useful.

  She’d definitely impressed him. There was an air about her that made her seem both wise and intelligent. He suspected her dismissal of her knowledge of local history had been self-deprecating. She hadn’t learned it from growing up surrounded by it. Saying it was her avocation had probably been closer to the truth. A woman like that had to be doing more with her days than simply entering books in a card catalog or checking books out.

  Which inevitably led him back to Candy Serrano. She must be bored with this assignment. She was, after all, a woman who’d joined the Army, evidently had seen combat, then had joined a police department. Being a babysitter probably chafed the hell out of her.

  He’d heard from a guy at the gas station that Candy’s predecessor had been tasked to keep an eye on an angry special ops guy. A paratrooper who was after his brother’s killer.

  Now here was Candy essentially tasked with the same type of job, only with a much less interesting character. Hell, he was far from being a time bomb ready to blow up.

  Nah, he hadn’t even been exciting as a detective. Some of his cases, yeah, but not him. It still astonished him to be recognized on the street or in an airport. The low profile he’d once nurtured was in the distant past now.

  Well, there didn’t seem to be anything to do except embrace it. He’d stepped into this job to help people. He was even able to help people who were never on the show. That was what his spare time was for.

  But Candy must be wondering why she’d ever wanted to be a police officer. That was another question he would like her to answer. After a life of such extreme excitement, what was she doing here? A charming town to be sure, but maybe too peaceful?

  Damn, he wished he could get her to talk about herself. In that regard, she was totally buttoned up.

  Then he had a thought. This local psychic. Maybe she’d have some information about him. Scuttlebutt if nothing else.

  He reached for his cell phone and dialed her, wondering if he was going to ruin her evening the way he seemed to be ruining her days.

  But he couldn’t tolerate inactivity and so far he hadn’t accomplished very much. Anything that felt like forward movement would be good.

  * * *

  CANDY HAD DOZED off in her chair but awoke immediately when her phone rang. The fire had died down quite a bit, the room was slowly cooling, but it still felt good. The dancing light had settled to a dull red glow. Nice.

  But maybe the phone brought some excitement. She could still use that.

  It was Steve, wanting to talk to her about some psychic. She seemed to have a vague memory that there was a guy in town, but she’d had no reason to pursue it. Was he actually going to use a psychic? Her impression of him sank a notch.

  She told him to come over and gave him her address. “I’ve got a fire on the hearth and I don’t want to leave it unattended.”

  “I’ll be there shortly.”

  Whatever it was, she doubted it would be boring. She shook herself out, working out some of the stiffness from sleeping on a recliner, and went to her kitchen to warm up the cider. No beer here. She hoped he’d survive.

  * * *

  BEN WITTES AWOKE in the middle of the night with dirt on his clothes and pine tar sticky on his hands.

  What the hell?

  He searched his memory and had only a few snatches of having been in the forest. Late evening? He didn’t have enough memory to know. Why would he have gone onto the mountainside anyway?

  You’ve got to make it real.

  There was that one voice again, louder than the rest. He wished he could silence it by putting the pillow over his ears, but spirits couldn’t be shut out by such things.

  Staggering wearily, he went to his bathroom and stripped off his dirty clothes. He knew the shower wouldn’t get rid of the pine tar, but it would get rid of the dirt he seemed to be wearing all over his hands, and even his legs. Had he been crawling?

  As he scrubbed, he noticed pine needles were already beginning to clog the drain. Damn. He wished he knew what was going on.

  Stop the deputy.

  Stop the deputy from what? Which deputy? The one who was babysitting that ghost hunter? Why would he do that?

  Fear had begun to stalk him as he slowly lost control of his nights. What might happen to his days as well if this kept occurring?

  Why did he have holes in his memory?

  Was he possessed?

  The idea of going to the church to ask to be exorcised floated into his brain.

  Don’t be stupid. The pastor will never believe you. He’ll think you’re mad.

  Ben scraped the pine tar off his hands as best he could, but stronger steps would be needed. He didn’t reach for a towel, for fear of ruining it. Instead he padded naked and dripping toward his garage.

  You’re not possessed.<
br />
  Maybe not yet. And maybe he was well on his way.

  His fear deepened. He’d never imagined this.

  Possessed.

  * * *

  IT WAS NEARLY midnight when Steve arrived. Candy smothered a yawn and went to invite him in. Cold arrived with him, and she regretted not wearing her sweater.

  “Hot cider with cinnamon?” she asked him as he closed the door behind him.

  “You have no idea how good that sounds.”

  Yeah, she did. That’s why she’d been drinking it herself. “I’ll go get it. Have a seat in the living room. What’s left of the fire is warming the space.”

  “Gladly.”

  She listened to him walk away as she turned into her kitchen. Like everything in this house, it was small. She often wished for more counter space when she got into a baking or cooking mood. It was, however, bright with sunflower-yellow paint and blue canisters.

  A copper-clad pot on the stove still held warm cider, and she turned on the gas to heat it up to a better temperature. She wasn’t going to look for anything to eat, though. This wasn’t a social visit and Steve wasn’t an invited guest.

  It wasn’t her mother’s way, nor the one she’d been taught, but Steve didn’t qualify even as a friend dropping in. Nope. Her spine had stiffened since leaving home.

  She carried a mug for him and a fresh one for herself back to the living room. He’d chosen to sit on the sofa rather than her recliner. Maybe because all the stuff on the table beside the recliner labeled it “her” chair.

  Mildly amused, she handed him his mug, then sat facing him. “What’s up?”

  “This cider is really good. And you don’t have a TV?”

  Strange question. “Not in here. If I watch, it’s usually in my bedroom while I’m falling asleep.”

  “That’s so flattering.”

  She had to grin, deciding she might even enjoy this visit. “Hey, you’re not the only one I’m boycotting.”