Kindred Spirits

by Jean Marie Bauhaus

  He gave her a look that said she should know better and she felt bad for teasing him. “It’s not myself I’m scared for,” he said.

  “I know. We’ll be fine.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks for coming with me.”

  He squeezed it back and nodded toward the window. “Let’s get it done, then.”

  Together, they passed through the outer wall into Scott’s bedroom. Once inside, they heard the sound of water running through pipes. Mrs. Tucker hummed a tune from somewhere in the house.

  “Scott?” Ron called. “Are you here?”

  “What are you doing here?” He appeared suddenly, startling Ron and making her take a step back into Joe, who caught and steadied her. “I thought I made it clear I didn’t want you here.”

  Joe stepped forward, putting himself between Ron and the angry young ghost. “Simmer down, son. We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come.”

  Ron leaned around Joe. “We brought news.”

  “I don’t care. Just get out.”

  Joe turned around. “Maybe we should just—”

  “Hanson’s dead!” Ron blurted as she darted around him.

  Scott’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

  “Detective Hanson. We know he’s the one who killed Jimmy.” Her face softened. “He killed you, too, didn’t he? He left you in that water tank at that construction site?”

  He nodded distractedly as he looked around. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. I gotta—my mom. She’s… She’s not safe.”

  “Yes, she is,” said Ron. “You both are. He’s gone, Scott. He can’t hurt her, or you.”

  “What—what do you mean, gone?”

  “I mean he’s…” Her voice failed her as she grasped for words to describe what had happened to Hanson.

  Joe spoke up, supplying them for her. “He’s in hell.”

  Ron considered this, then nodded. “Or something like it. He won’t ever hurt anyone again.”

  The news clearly came as a shock. Scott went to the bed and sat down. He stared at a spot on the floor for a long time. When he finally looked up again, he was transformed. He looked younger, lighter somehow. “Your sister. You can talk to her, right? She can pass on a message for me?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He nodded, then stomped his foot. The floorboard underneath shifted. “There’s a hole under this board. I used to hide things in it. There’s money in there. Enough…enough to help my mom out for a good, long while.”

  Ron couldn’t help wondering whether any of it was blood money for his part in Jimmy’s murder. Even if he’d only signed on to rough Jimmy up, she still didn’t know how she felt about this.

  “Money?” she asked. “Where did—”

  “Never mind where it came from. Just make sure she gets it, okay?”

  The water shut off. Mrs. Tucker’s humming became full-fledged singing as she moved through the hallway to another room. Whether the money had come from hurting Jimmy or not, Mrs. Tucker had suffered enough because of her son’s lifestyle. Ron felt pretty certain that Jimmy would be glad to see the money being used for a good cause.

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  His eyes darted from her to Joe and back again. Then he nodded. “Thanks. And thanks for letting me know. About Hanson, I mean.” He had the decency to look chagrined. “I’m sorry I wasn’t any help. I just…it wasn’t safe for her, you know?”

  “Yeah. I get it.”

  “And Jimmy? Is he…”

  “He’s at peace. He moved on.”

  “Good.” He started to say something else but hesitated, apparently thinking. Then he forged ahead. “I always liked him, you know. He was always nice to me. I only agreed to… My dad left, and my mom was afraid we were gonna lose the house. Coach Lansing said he’d make sure that didn’t happen.”

  He looked around at his room. “I guess at least he kept his end of things.” He looked back down at his hands and shook his head. “But Jimmy wasn’t supposed to die. I guess I…I kinda lost my head after that. Got into drugs… I just wanted to forget it happened.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Not that I could.”

  Ron didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what she could say. Joe, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly the right words. “It’s a hard thing, knowing you had a hand in killing someone you only meant to scare. It’s enough to put a man out of his senses, make bad choices.”

  “Yeah,” said Scott. “Bad choices.”

  “You could’ve done worse, son. Believe me.”

  Scott glanced up at him and seemed to consider his words. Then he nodded and stood up. “I need to go see my mom. Thanks again.” He vanished.

  “Well, that’s that, then.” Joe turned back toward the wall they’d entered through. Ron grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

  “I’m glad you were here.”

  “Seem to recall you mentioning that already.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. Ron returned it.

  They stood like that a moment, just gazing at each other and grinning like fools. It gutted Ron to think about the circumstances that had led to Joe’s being in her afterlife, but she was so, so grateful for his presence. She was just about to tell him so when a brilliant glow filled the room. They both turned toward the door. The light seemed to fill the whole house.

  “Guess we helped Scottie finish his business,” said Joe.

  “I guess so. Gotta admit, I kinda expected him to go the other way, considering the things he’d gotten caught up in.”

  “Seems to me it’s not so much your actions as the condition of your heart that determines which way you go. It wasn’t hard to see that Hanson’s heart was as black as they come.”

  “Yeah. Makes sense.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and basked in the glow of the light, wrapping her arms around his to keep herself anchored against the pull it had on her.

  Joe seemed to notice. Quietly, he said, “You want to go into it, don’t you?”

  “What?” She looked up at him. “No. Why would you say that?”

  “I can see it on your face. The longing.”

  Ron sighed. “I miss my mom. And I miss Lilly and the gang.” She tightened her hold on him. “But not as much as I’d miss you if I went in there. So do me a favor and stop trying to make me go?”

  She’d meant to make him smile, but he only frowned more deeply and shook his head. “I’ll not be the thing that keeps you from your rightful reward.”

  Ron released him and moved in front of him. Looking up into his eyes, she gave him a hard look. “You are my rightful reward, you big dumb lug. Don’t you get that?”

  He opened his mouth as if to argue, but then closed it and nodded.

  “Good. Because if we’re going to be helping more people like Scott and Jimmy, we’re going to be seeing this light a lot from now on, and I don’t want you getting all maudlin and wracked with guilt every time it happens. It’s a total downer.”

  That, at last, made him laugh. He put his arms around her. “So we’re going to be doing this sort of thing a lot from now on, are we?”

  Ron shrugged. “We seem to be getting good at it. Chris can’t run interference with all the spirits in this town. Anyway, just because we’re dead doesn’t mean our lives can’t have purpose.”

  “No, I suppose it don’t.” He lowered his head and caressed her lips with his own. By the time they came up for air, the light was gone and they stood in darkness. “Well then,” said Joe, “are you and your sense of purpose ready to go home?”

  Ron snuggled closer, laying her head on his chest and hugging him tightly. “I’m already home.”

  Five days, Chris thought as she opened her laptop and checked the date. That’s how long it had been since that crazy night. That’s how old her bullet wound was, and her nightmares.

  That’s how long it had been since she’d last seen Derek.

  He had driven her to the hospital, where they had rushed her into surgery and hi
m away for questioning. The next couple of days were a drug-addled haze, but she knew he hadn’t been there when she’d woken up, and he never came to visit her afterward.

  Steve did, funnily enough. He had assured her that Derek wouldn’t face criminal charges for shooting Detective Hanson. But when she asked him where Derek was, all he could—or would—tell her was that he was “dealing with some stuff.”

  Of course, she realized he had a lot to process. They both did. Jimmy’s departure was bound to leave him with some grief. So was the truth about the man he’d revered as a second father. Still, she couldn’t help wondering how much of that “stuff” included having his fill of the supernatural. And of her.

  Chris shifted in her seat and winced as a bolt of pain shot through her leg. The wound wasn’t that bad, all things considered. The bullet didn’t hit anything that wouldn’t heal, and there was no infection.

  The hospital had kept her a few days, waiting to release her until the hole had scabbed over and she could get around okay on crutches. There had been talk of calling her dad to come up and take care of her, but Chris feared that Marsha might be part of the bargain. She was in no mood to deal with that much perkiness just yet. If ever.

  Ron, however, proved to be a surprisingly competent nurse in spite of her limitations. Between her and Joe, Chris had been able to spend most of her time since she’d gotten home off of her feet, much of it sleeping under the influence of pain pills.

  She had woken a short while ago to find herself alone for the first time in days. She felt somewhat clearheaded. Ron had left a bottle of water, some snacks, and Chris’s medication on the coffee table in easy reach, along with her laptop and the TV remote.

  After helping herself to a snack, she considered taking another pill but felt it was too soon. Her leg hurt, but it was bearable. She was a little paranoid about developing an addiction to the meds and decided to tough it out.

  Besides, the pills didn’t always put her to sleep. Sometimes, they just left her loopy enough that all she could do was lie there and let her thoughts drift—and they mostly drifted to Derek. Why hadn’t he at least called? Should she call him? Was he avoiding her? Did he no longer need her, now that Jimmy was taken care of?

  The throb in her leg was more bearable than that train of thought.

  So, with her mind relatively clear and nobody around to distract her, she’d decided to occupy herself with her work to keep her mind off of things. Apprehension filled her as she opened her e-mail, knowing she hadn’t checked it in a week. Sure enough, she found hundreds of unread messages waiting, enough to keep her busy for hours—or maybe days.

  She scrolled down and scanned subject lines, deleting spam and subscription e-mails as she went. A lot of the messages were simply to wish her a speedy recovery.

  A message from Gus caught her eye. The subject line read, “Have you seen this???!!!!” Excessive punctuation was Gus’s way of marking something urgent. He’d probably discovered a new haunting. Chris clicked open the e-mail, but instead of a typed message, she found only an embedded YouTube video.

  Her mouth fell open and her heart sped up as she recognized Derek’s face in the video thumbnail. Taking a deep breath to slow her heart, she braced herself and clicked to play.

  Derek sat on his living room sofa. “My name is Derek Brandt,” he said. “I’m an investigative reporter for Channel 24 News here in Tulsa.”

  He paused and seemed to consider this. “At least, I was. Once this video goes public, that may no longer be the case.”

  He laughed, but his nervousness was plain to see. He took a deep breath and continued. “A few weeks ago, I did a story debunking a haunted convertible. In that story, I ambushed a paranormal investigator named Christine Wilson, and I’m afraid neither the tactics I used nor the editing done by myself and my producers made her look very good. I’ve since come to know Ms. Wilson personally, and am absolutely convinced that she is a consummate professional who has nothing but her clients’ best interests at heart.”

  He paused, apparently trying to decide what to say next. He ran his fingers through his hair and pressed on. “The station manager at Channel 24 refused to let me run a retraction or a clarification on the story. So I’m doing that here.” He stopped and took a deep breath, gazing into the camera. He looked like he was gazing right at Chris.

  “I’m here to tell you that Christine Wilson is the real deal. What she does…what she deals with…it’s all real. She helps people. She’s helping me. Fifteen years ago, my brother, Jimmy Brandt, was murdered in our home. This home,” he added, pointing at the ground beneath him. “My brother is still here. His spirit never left.”

  He turned the camera around to face the kitchen. Suddenly, a coffee mug sitting on the bar flew into the air and hovered there. The camera moved closer to the mug and Derek’s hand appeared in the frame, moving over, under, and around it. “As you can see, there are no wires.”

  The camera turned back on his face. “I’ve been living with this sort of thing for weeks now. I know I’m going to take a lot of flack for this, and a lot of you who watch this won’t believe me. You probably wouldn’t believe, no matter what. But I know some of you out there do believe, or at least want to, and I’m here to tell you that it’s real. And Christine Wilson is the genuine article. I wouldn’t be risking my career—my livelihood—to tell you this if I had a shadow of a doubt.”

  He paused and seemed to consider something. Then he simply nodded to the camera. “Thanks for hearing me out.”

  The video ended. Chris sat there a while, stunned. Then she clicked through to visit the video’s YouTube page. It had been uploaded two days ago, and already had hundreds of views.

  Was this some of the “stuff” he’d needed to take care of? It didn’t make a lot of sense that a guy would deliberately tank his career for a girl he’d decided he never wanted to see again. So, then, why hadn’t he stopped by? Or at least called?

  Chris looked over at her phone. After another minute or so of deliberation, she decided to put them both out of their misery. She leaned over to pick it up, wincing as she did. But just as she finished entering his number, the doorbell rang.

  With a groan of frustration, she set the phone back down. She found her crutches propped next to the couch and used them to pull herself to her feet. It seemed to take her twenty minutes to make the journey to the front door.

  By the time she got there, her heart was pounding again, and not merely from the exertion. Through the cracks in the curtains, she could see Derek standing there, waiting patiently.

  She paused by the entry table and took a look in the mirror. She was a mess in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, with her unkempt hair hanging loose and wild over her shoulders. Her face was pale and colorless, and she could barely remember the last time she’d put on makeup. She sighed.

  If he’d come to officially put an end to this thing between them, she’d prefer to at least look put together enough to make him have second thoughts. As it was, she didn’t even look like she’d showered recently. She only hoped she didn’t smell as bad as she looked.

  Nothing to be done about it, though. She took a deep, bracing breath, then hobbled over to the door and pulled it open. “Hey,” she said, doing her best to sound casual.

  “Hey.” He smiled, but his face grew concerned as he took in her appearance. “Should you be up?”

  “Probably not, but the butler has the day off.”

  “Ah. I thought maybe one of your house mates would be able to get the door.”

  “They’re not here right now.”

  “Oh. Well, then.” He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. She noticed for the first time that he held the ghost box. “I thought I’d return this,” he said, setting it on the entry table. “I guess I wont be needing it anymore.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He made an ambivalent gesture, somewhere between a shrug and a nod. “I miss him. I wish we could’ve had more time. But he’s in a
better place. That was kind of the whole point, right?”

  Chris smiled. “Right.”

  “Here. Hold still.” He took her crutches and propped them next to the table. Then he literally swept her off her feet. Chris suppressed a grin, not sure whether he meant to be romantic or just gentlemanly. “Are you upstairs, or…”

  “Living room,” she told him. As he headed that way, she closed her eyes and inhaled. He had definitely showered recently. He smelled like Ivory soap and some musky men’s shampoo. A good combo. After settling her gently on the couch, he stood up and surveyed all the paraphernalia on the coffee table. “Is there anything you need?”

  “An explanation would be nice.” Only when he winced did she realize she’d said it out loud. “Sorry. The meds are kind of interfering with my social filters.”

  “No, it’s okay. I guess I owe you one.” He sighed and seated himself on the edge of the couch. “After everything that happened, I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”

  She stared at him a minute, stunned into silence, as he looked at his hands. Finally, she said, “Seriously? That’s why you haven’t been around?”

  He glanced at her, the indignation in her tone actually seeming to relax him a little.

  “Well, I mean, there’s been a lot to deal with. The police kept me in the interrogation room for hours, until finally, Steve sent a lawyer in to rescue me. They’re not going to press any charges, by the way.”

  She nodded. “Steve told me.”

  “Oh.” He nodded, seeming to let this silent indictment of his absence sink in. “Anyway, after I got out, I went by the hospital. You were out of surgery but you hadn’t woken up yet, and they told me you were likely to sleep for hours. So I went home to get some sleep myself. I only planned on napping for a few hours and then heading back to the hospital, but I guess I was more tired than I thought. I ended up sleeping about fourteen hours.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, by the time I woke up I had a ton of messages to deal with. Most of which were from my boss.” He paused and glanced at her. “Former boss.”