by Aiden James
“Where did you see him, honey?” asked Miriam, her voice soothing, though David could tell she barely restrained her fear.
“Only in the living room,” said Christopher. “Most of the time he just sits in the sofa staring straight ahead, like he’s daydreaming. But, the other night I watched him follow Daddy from the kitchen over to the fireplace. The night you made me sit at the table until I finished my peas and cauliflower, Mommy.”
The minivan had just reached the entrance to the short-term parking area nearest the baggage claim where Ruth’s flight was scheduled to arrive. Anxious to ask more questions, David focused instead on finding a parking space.
“Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier, like that night?” Miriam kneaded her knuckles, but her tone remained calm.
“I wanted to,” he told her, after another hesitation. “The man looked like he might hurt Daddy.”
David shot a concerned look at Miriam, who gasped, but muted her reaction when Christopher gazed down at his lap again.
“Then he looked at me and smiled a little, and acted like he wanted to tell Daddy he was sorry, right before he disappeared. Didn’t you see him? You looked right at him, Daddy. More than once that night….”
His voice trailed off and his eyes turned misty. Miriam reached back to give him a hug. When he started bawling in her arms, Jillian and Tyler turned off their IPods. David assured them everything would be all right. If only he believed it.... Instead, he pictured the chilled presence in the living room, leering at him as some grotesque ancient man.
How in the hell is this even possible...another haunting just two months after the first one??
It wasn’t going to be easy to keep this shit away from Auntie’s awareness.
“Merry friggin’ Christmas, everyone,” he muttered, cynical, after pulling into a vacant parking spot not far from where Aunt Ruth’s luggage would be waiting.
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DEADLY NIGHT
A Novel of Suspense
by
Aiden James
(read on for an excerpt)
Chapter One
I’d never seen a fresh corpse before. At least not human.
Blood dripped below her face, spreading across the chipped linoleum kitchen floor of our host, Johnny Rush. Candi Starr stared back at me, a red grotesque halo framing her tussled golden hair, still wrapped in foil strips. Her stone gaze facing us all as we stood in shocked silence.
Her head barely attached at the neck, a deep jagged wound traversed from ear to ear beneath her chin. Sprawled upon the floor, the expression in Candi’s lifeless steel blue eyes was one of sudden surprise.
Johnny sat at the kitchen table, across from Brenda Wright. Rope-bound to a pair of high back vinyl chairs, one olive green, and the other merlot. Both wore matching black t-shirts and jeans. Intense terror visible in their eyes, both mouths lay open, slack-jawed, and emotionless in contradiction. Their single fatal shots to the forehead announced assassination. Not intended victims, but here just the same. In all likelihood the pair not only witnessed the murder of their famous companion, but also had plenty of time to anticipate their own demise.
So...correction: I’d never seen three dead human beings before.
When I was finally able to tear my eyes away from the scene, my attention was drawn to Fiona. The loveliest, smartest and bravest woman I’ve ever known didn’t seem so at the moment. Being grilled by a pair of cops in the dining room, one dressed in uniform and the other plainclothes. Her gorgeous hazel eyes which often morphed to amber and pure gold depending on her attire and mood were now swollen. Red puffiness from a deluge of tears. Her grief genuine, as these were real friends, she struggled to answer their questions—despite the pained looks each man wore, nodding quietly in response to her clipped answers.
What questions did they ask? I could only imagine, but I managed to hear a few. Basic things like ‘how long have you known the victims?’ and ‘can you think of anyone who might hold a grudge, one bad enough to do something like this?’ No doubt they also want to know what she and the rest of us are doing here, anyway.
Meanwhile, two forensic techs just brushed past me and the others on their way to begin the painstaking task of moving from the stiffening corpses in the kitchen to the living room to look for more evidence. It makes me feel awkward, standing here near the entrance to the living room. I fidget, unsure of what to do…or where to go, half horror movie, half feeling five years old and told to stand in the corner.
The plainclothes cop keeps eyeing the rest of us. He glares a bit while the other continues questioning Fiona. I’m sure my face is turning red, thinking of what I’m about to have to explain.
My name is Jimmy Alea, and I’m a paranormal investigator. Spook chaser, ghost hunter, or a supernatural whack-job, whatever euphemism makes normal folks feel any better. Hell, that’s what my pop thinks back in Denver, my hometown. I came to Nashville, or as we serious musicians like to refer to it—‘Nash-Vegas’, nine years ago. But like 99.99% of the more than 80,000 music hopefuls who call this place home, I haven’t made it yet. Maybe I never will, but I try not to think about that.
Yeah, the cop will probably pass judgment just the same. I can already picture him saying something smartass like, “Did Casper call and tell you there are three brand new ones?”, and then laugh at his own lame joke. But this is what I do. I don’t try to see dead people. Rather, I attempt to catch evidence of their spiritual essence, whether ethereal or physically tangible. It’s somewhat like TAPS and the other ‘hauntings’ shit on TV.
But that ain’t the story here…not exactly. Me and my gang were just stopping by to drop something off at Johnny’s. A little something to welcome him and Brenda to their new digs. Fiona planned a quick psychic reading for Candi before she set off on her first international tour. Afterward, the plan was to investigate another home where supposedly a lot of weird shit’s happening. A ‘paranormal event’ is what we call this sort of thing. Apparently stuff’s been going on for several years in that particular locale along the Cumberland, but getting worse…more aggressive lately.
It’s probably best to stop thinking about the cop and my imagined exchange, and instead focus again on Fiona. She’s still talking to both him and the uniform right now. Wish I could take her and wrap my arms around her, to somehow ease her profound pain. She is my wife, and I always feel the need to protect her. I won’t be able to erase this from her memory and I can’t make the cops shut up.
The uniformed cop is really trying to flirt with her. Granted, Fiona’s a tall, gorgeous blond with a smile that lights up any room, and a statuesque build that spells trouble for any male with a pulse. She’s the only thing that’s ever distracted me long enough to make me reconsider my life’s direction. Fiona literally saved me from the destructive course I once was on. I truly pity the dudes who wish they’re me.
But right now I could use a new diversion—anything to take my attention away from the bodies and some dude smiling at my wife at such an inappropriate time. There’s a female uniform staring at me from near Johnny’s bedroom. I’ve often wondered about homicide cops and how they deal with it. As I look at her again she’s now smiling. Maybe for some cops...the aggressive ones...it’s a type of foreplay. Kind of like people who go home with a complete stranger and screw their brains out.
As she looks at me her smile is getting wider. I’m pretty sure I know what she sees.... My wife, among others, tells me it’s a six foot two, one-ninety pound man, with very little body fat. Hard and lean, with chiseled features inherited from a handsome Cuban/Italian line, I possess an easy smile, and piercing blue eyes that become deep cobalt pools if I’m pissed. And, I’m lucky to have a full head of dark wavy hair hanging down to my shoulders.
Nobody will ever find me wearing a suit—not unless somebody’s getting married or buried. T-shirts, jeans, and boots—I’m either biker or cowboy, depending on my mood and the weather. Thank God the dudes I roll wi
th share my taste in threads, and my daytime employer can hang with the way I am too. As long as I occasionally wear a polo shirt and slacks. It sucks, but I’ve gotta have something steady to pay the bills.
Fiona’s now motioning to me, and to be polite the two cops nodded. I wonder if they’ve heard of her, since she’s helped Metro’s finest solve nearly a dozen crimes over the past few years. Clairvoyant, clairaudient, and clairsentient. They are valued commodities among a few detectives these days, though most won’t admit it. Regardless, I can tell these guys don’t think much of the thirtyish biker-looking dude and his cronies blocking the doorway to the living room. At least they like her…certainly looks like her tear-streaked face hasn’t diminished her charm. Not in the least.
“Do you want me to call ahead to Charlain and tell her we’re going to be late?” said Jackie Holland to Fiona from behind me. “Or, should we try and reschedule?”
One of Fiona’s best friends since childhood, Jackie’s usual gruffness was muted. They grew up together in east Nashville. Her dark brown hair is almost kinky, but it fits well with her eyes. Almond shaped and light blue in color. And her athletic build is heavier than Fiona’s.
A little on the short side, Jackie makes up for it with her commanding, almost abrasive presence. A no-nonsense girl with a dry sense of humor, she has a keen passion about all things paranormal. In fact, she’s the reason Fiona became interested in exploring haunted locales back when they were in high school.
“I’m not sure if I’ll be up for it,” Fiona told her, and then looked back at me. “Unless ya’ll want to still do this. Jimmy knows how to get there.”
The plainclothes policeman says he’s only got a few more questions for Fiona and then we can all leave. That sounds like a great idea, as the coroner just arrived and the red flashing lights from an ambulance has announced the dead will soon be leaving Johnny’s house. I can see a “News Channel Five” van pulling up beside the ambulance. I’m sure they sped over here recklessly once they heard about Candi.
Shit!
I’ve always dreamed of being on TV someday, but this ain’t exactly what I had in mind. If Fiona didn’t need me, I’d find a way to sneak out of here. I briefly glanced back at the carnage in the kitchen. Poor Johnny and Brenda. They barely got settled in their latest pad, and their dream, before friends could even throw them a nice house-warming party. And they have, or had I suppose, an eclectic set of friends. Gay, straight, democrat, republican, and then...there’s us.
It sucks that Johnny will never finish the restoration of this house. They got a great deal on a beige brick one-story he and his gal pal Brenda bought to set up for their west end neighborhood salon. When we walked in the front door, the scent of perm solution overpowered the onset of death. They were just getting a small taste of what could’ve grown into something great. All of this made the scene of what awaited us in the kitchen so much worse, since we had no warning other than the steady dripping from spilled bottles of color, acetate, and of course, blood.
Thank God. The interrogation has finally ended, and Fiona’s on her way over here. But it looks like my plan to mosey up to her side and comfort her ain’t going to happen. Jackie and another female in our group, Angela Meyers, beat me to it.
Damn it, Angie!
Jackie’s roommate is strikingly pretty, with long hair that’s platinum blond. If you ask me, Angie’s beauty seems more ‘made up’ than natural, and we’re all still trying to decide what her real hair color is. But I’d never tell her this. Hell, she might beat me up, or try to incinerate me with her big green eyes. The girl’s incredibly strong, man, so I won’t mess with her, especially when we’re all tense. Not to mention she carries a third-degree black belt in karate.
“Okay, let’s go,” said Fiona between sobs. “I guess we should take the wine with us, since I need a damn drink and soon.”
She motioned to the good luck gift she brought with her, still sitting unopened on the coffee table, which had been ignored by the forensic team. Angie stepped over and picked it up, her eyebrows raised in admiration as she read the Frogs Leap label, which is the vineyard of our gang’s favorite merlot.
“Babe, if you don’t feel up to going to the Thompson house, we can postpone tonight’s investigation to some other time,” I suggested.
Really, I thought it crass to even consider doing anything but mourn with Fiona over her loss. And it’s not like the rest of us were strangers to Fiona’s pals. Jackie and Angie were friends of Johnny and Brenda too. The rest of NVP, short for Nash-Vegas Paranormal, had met them and Candi before, even though just in passing for Ms. Starr. I’d gotten to know Johnny a little, and he’d been to our home down in Arrington a few times. I probably would’ve spent time with Candi, too, but the only time she made it to Arrington was on a weekend night when I had to work late. Any other time she and Fiona hung out was either at Candi’s posh home or at other celebrities’ estates in the area.
My wife shook her head sadly, as if unsure what’d be best.
“You and the guys should go on, and we’ll stay with Fiona,” said Jackie, with enough force to encourage us to follow her suggestion. She wrapped her arms around Fiona’s shoulders protectively. Angie gave an over-enthusiastic nod to support Jackie’s ‘directive’.
“That sounds like the best idea,” Tom chimed in, before I could offer another rebuttal.
I turned to look at him and the rest of the guys, and could clearly read the desire to get something productive done tonight. I might’ve resisted more, but since this genuinely seemed to be what Fiona wanted, I nodded my compliance. I knew she’d save the wine until after, but for now she wanted something else upon which to focus.
“Ya’ll should leave now,” the uniformed policeman advised, stepping over to our group while motioning to the front door. Already, three more news vehicles were crowding the curved driveway.
Flanked by Jackie and Angie, Fiona led the way out. She paused to give me a hug and kiss before we all stepped outside, squinting from camera flashes and the video lamps’ searing brightness.
Chapter Two
Charlain Thompson has few redeeming qualities in my opinion. Attractive at least on the outside, she’s always decked out in high-society apparel. But it’s hard to ignore that cold, self-centered, spoiled little girl who fuels the abrasive, nouveau riche ‘diva’ with which the world must deal. In other words, she comes across as a real bitch.
None of us were pleased tonight when neither Jackie nor Angie came along for the trip back into Nashville’s city limits. Fiona’s pain and need for comfort is more than reason enough. Hell, I’d be there now if she hadn’t insisted on me keeping our appointment with the ‘Dragon Lady’.
By the time we arrived at Ms. Thompson’s 1860s spacious Italianate Victorian overlooking the Cumberland River, we were nearly two hours late that Wednesday evening. At least the oppressive July heat had subsided, though the air was still thick and sticky. Honeysuckle vine, that sweet Tennessee perfume, hung in the air.
Before we’d even stepped out of the van, after parking on the cobblestone circular drive in front of her mansion, she stood waiting for us. Waiting impatiently, I should say, with both hands on her hips, long red nails tapping away. She stood near the edge of the steps that led up to the front door, announcing as usual it was her turf. Lady—and I use that loosely—of the manor.
“Where’s Fiona?” she asked, her snappy tone laced with ice, the hallmark of any woman in need of a good lay, made worse since it’s her. “You were supposed to be here at six-thirty at the latest, and my little ones will be getting ready for bed soon. Don’t even think about bringing your equipment in here tonight!” she finished, pointing toward our van where Tony and Tom had begun unloading.
I just glared at her, wishing I could assault her ears with the grotesque details of our evening up until now. I managed to tune out her lecture, her face pinched by her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. All I really heard from her was ‘wah,wah, wah’ like an
adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon. The fabric in her dark gray tailored jacket made a whipping sound as she waved her arm around in exaggerated fashion, her skinny forefinger pointed out like a witch’s wand.
Before Tom went to the trouble of putting everything back inside the van I snapped out of my self-preserving stupor and motioned for him to wait as I worked to apply my charm on our dissatisfied client. I do it every day for a paycheck working as a supervisor for one of the nation’s largest ‘bargain’ wireless providers.
“I am so very sorry, Charlain,” I told her, in the most sincere tone I could muster. I closed the passenger door gently before taking a step toward her.
Her menacing finger disappeared into a fist that quickly flew down to her hip, like a gunslinger standing down. She didn’t need to do anything else for me to know I had just a moment to try and fix this situation. So I decided to be blunt.
“Three of Fiona’s dear friends were murdered, and she was the first one to discover their bodies this evening.” There it was...brutal truth. It even caused her face to soften a bit.
That’s always been the problem with me…. I’m sure my wife would’ve cringed and shot me her own evil eye if she’d been witness to the way I addressed Ms. Thompson. Fiona’s way of dealing with delicate matters is to ease her way into figuring out the best way to word it. Though at times, she’ll keep things completely to herself. As for me, I fail to see the need for evasiveness, especially when being honest and laying out the facts can defuse a volatile situation. I’m a complete ‘straight shooter’. Always have been and always will be.