He looked surprised. “I… uh… how’d you know?”
“I’ve seen her too. Her name is Joy.” Mira told him what had happened in his room at home when she’d read it—the way the furniture moved crazily through the room, even what she had seen after his mother had fled.
“What’d my mom say after all this happened?” he asked.
“She understands now that what you call Friend is a ghost.” Mira now sat at the edge of the bed She ran her hand over the right side of her face. The skin felt hot, swollen. She drank from the bottle of water again.
“Mom never believed me before. She just thought I had an active imagination. And my father… well, he wanted to take me to a shrink.” He sat beside Mira. “So Friend is a poltergeist?”
“No. Not really. She…” Mira hesitated, uncertain of how much to say now, how much to tell him. “Died in your house in 1975. Now she watches over you. When did you first see her?”
“I… I think I first dreamed about her a long time ago, like when I was seven or eight. I had just gone into the gifted program at a new school in New York and I hated the teacher. She didn’t like me because my parents were in the movie business. Or maybe she just didn’t like the movies my parents did. I don’t know. Anyway, Friend used to come to me in dreams and advise me on how to deal with the teacher.”
Interesting, Mira thought. Spirits often appeared to children in the dream state. Sometimes they just conveyed messages or comforted; other times they seemed to pave the way for physical manifestations. Occasionally, both purposes were served and the spirit’s presence in the child’s life hinted at some deeper connection at a future time. That seemed to be the case with Adam.
“Then, not long after we moved into the Mango Hill house, I started seeing her. In the beginning, I thought I was imagining her, like I was asleep and dreaming or something. But then I would wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare and she… she would suddenly be there. And the room would be colder.”
“Can you hear her?” Mira’s eyes moved quickly around the room now, taking in the details, looking for possible exits, weaknesses, weapons. “Can you carry on a conversation like we’re doing now?”
“Yeah, most of the time.” He rubbed his hands over his bare thighs. “Shouldn’t we be coming up with a plan or something?”
“Yes.” Mira forced herself to get up, to move around the room and inspect everything closely. But she didn’t touch anything, not yet. She wasn’t ready for any tactile impressions. Adam hurried alongside her, as though he were terrified she might get too far from him and vanish. “What do you talk about with her?” Mira asked.
“Music, books, movies. She’s really interested in computers, so I show her stuff on the computer sometimes.”
“So you understood all along that she was dead?”
“Yeah. Sure. I didn’t like thinking about it, though, because it made me feel like the kid in The Sixth Sense and the whole thing spooked me too much to even try to talk about it with anyone.” He paused. “Gladys knew. She saw me talking to Friend one day. I mean, all she saw was me talking to myself, right? Anyway, she asked who I was talking to and I told her the whole thing.”
“What’d she say?”
“That I should, like, tell Mom. Or Dad. I didn’t want her blabbing about it to them. I was afraid Dad would send me to a shrink and that my mom would be freaked. So I lied and promised Gladys that I’d tell them.”
Mira paused in the bathroom door, eyed the rain-smeared skylight. She thought Adam was probably right, that there wasn’t any exit from the room. That would have to try something else. She turned and looked at Adam, who now leaned against the wall, rubbing a pair of apples against his shirt. “You know who she is?” Mira asked.
He met her gaze, held out one of the apples. “This is the last of the fruit. We could starve to death in here before he comes to.”
“We’ll be outta here long before we starve to death?” She sounded more certain than she felt. But more to the point, was he avoiding the question? “Are there any dry clothes in here?”
“There’s stuff in the drawers. What do you need?”
“Just a T-shirt. My shorts are almost dry.”
“I’ll see what there is.”
Assigned a task, he got right to it. Mira turned on the water in the sink and avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She knew it would be bad. The throbbing ache on the right side of her face had spread down through her jaw and up toward her ear. The skin there now felt as if she had lain in the sun for eight hours.
She splashed cold water on her face, jerked a towel from the rack. She soaked it in the stream of water and held it against her face. When she finally raised her eyes, her reflection exceeded Adam’s description of nasty. She looked as if she had been beaten up and discarded as trash. The skin from her temple to her jaw was as purple as a grape. Dried blood bloomed in the corner of her mouth like a rosebud. It seemed miraculous that Spenser hadn’t broken her jaw. Or bones in her cheek. Or her chin.
My arm’s a club, boy, and don’t you forget it.
She heard the voice, felt the fury and wrenched herself out of the flow of Spenser’s childhood by dropping the towel. She used toilet paper to blot her face dry. No images surfaced. Why had she picked up something from the towel but not from the metal faucets when she’d touched them? Metal was generally a better psychic conductor than cotton.
Frowning, she brought her hands to the faucets again. Nothing. Maybe their captor used the towel more often than he did this bathroom.
“Mira, I found some clothes.” Adam hurried into the bathroom with several T-shirts draped over his arm. “One of these should fit you.”
“Thanks.” She ran her fingers over the fabric first, testing it for any emotional residue. But the shirts apparently hadn’t been worn for some time. She took them. “Let me change and I’ll be out in a jiffy. Any noise in the hall?”
“Not in the last sixty seconds. But I’ll check again.”
He shut the bathroom door as he left and Mira stripped off her soggy T-shirt and draped it over the towel rack. She selected the smallest of the T-shirts Adam had found, plain white with COMPUTER NERD written across the front in vivid blue letters.
As she pulled it over her head and the fabric settled against her skin, a terrible weight and sadness came with it that had nothing to do with her and Adam’s present situation. These feelings were linked directly to Spenser Longwood, to who he had been and who he was now. The emotions were so vast and deep they nearly overpowered her. She started to pull the shirt off, but suddenly found herself in complete darkness, surrounded by loud, clanking pipes in an enclosed room. It hurt to breathe.
A cool autumn night. The flicker of lights inside the trailer TV lights. His old man is probably six sheets to the wind, passed out in front of the television. Good. He can get in and out with the rest of his things and his old man won’t know the difference until he’s sober enough to see that the smaller bedroom has been cleaned out.
He raps softly at the door; no one answers, so he slips inside. The TV volume is soft, some old movie playing. He sees his old man slumped low on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table. The air here stinks of smoke, booze, burned food, an undercurrent of violence. His throat tightens, a chill licks its way up his spine. His body remembers what it was like to live here.
Quick now. Up the hall. Into the smaller bedroom. His old room. He turns on the bedside lamp, the buttery circles of light spilling across the worn quilt, the ugly throw rug, the bureau from some thrift store way back when. Over the bed hangs the huge crucifix that haunted his childhood.
His boxes are still pushed up against the east wall, but they are no longer sealed. The masking tape has been slit, the contents dug through as though rats had been released inside. The fucker prick has violated his personal things, picked out whatever he thought he could sell, and put it all in several other boxes against the closet door But because he’s such a hopeless drunk, the box
es are still unsealed, unlabeled, the items just stuffed inside.
He stares. His hands curl into fists. The light seems to ebb until he stands in darkness. He blinks against it, struggling to detect light, any light at all, but the blackness is complete, a lunar eclipse, no stars, no moon, nothing at all. And then the rage seizes him.
He jerks the crucifix off the wall and marches into the kitchen. He flings open the door under the sink; grabs the huge container of lighter fluid, a box of kitchen matches. He squirts the lighter fluid over the stove, the tacky throw rug in front of it, and backs slowly and carefully into the living room, saturating everything in his path until he reaches the shoddy living room.
His old man’s body has slipped to the side, shoulders resting on some pillows, mouth open, his snores loud, erratic. An empty bottle of rotgut wine sits on the coffee table. Next to it is an ashtray heaped with cigarette butts. A pack of Kools sits next to it, a lighter on top of it.
Yeah, Mr Fucking Kool.
He squirts lighter fluid over the crucifix, saturating the ancient wood, and squirts it over his old man’s slippers and up his hairy legs and gym shorts and shirt and into his hair; over his skin. He strikes a match, touches the flame to the crucifix, and sets his father’s slippers on fire. The flames race up his legs, his shorts catch fire, and suddenly he leaps up, awake, sober; shrieking, and slapping his hands against the flames that are consuming him.
Spenser lurches back, emptying the can on the coffee table, the rug, and lighting more matches. When the can is empty, he jams it into his pocket and spins around, lurching for the door He explodes through it and races for his car
Good-bye, fucker; good-bye, and good riddance.
Mira tore the shirt off over her head and threw it across the bathroom, ending the vision. Doubled over on her knees, she gasped for breath, her body slippery with sweat, stomach churning, bile surging in her throat. She yanked her own shirt off the towel rack, wrung it out, pulled it over her head.
Soft, urgent raps at the door. “Mira? His cell’s ringing.”
Cell, ringing.
Trailer, burning.
Old man, burned to death.
Focus, focus.
She threw open the bathroom door, stumbled out. Adam caught her. Supported her. “Dear God,” she whispered, and clutched at the boy as if he could save her.
The cell abruptly stopped ringing. She heard groaning outside the door. Stumbling, then silence.
How much time do we have before he comes to?
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Chapter 20
Persons of Interest
By four that afternoon, the sketch of the redhead that Mira had made last night and the image of Spenser as he might look now had been circulating in the media for roughly three hours. Sheppard was pleased with the results. Calls and e-mails had been pouring in at a frantic rate, mostly from places north of the Keys, where there was power.
Fortunately, he and Goot had plenty of help to field both—Kartauk, Blake, Suki, Lydia, and a couple of her trusted cronies from the artist colony. He suspected that Charlie Cordoba would show up sooner or later, demanding to be included, but for the moment, his absence was a blessing.
Shepard, Goot, and Kartauk had put together a guideline sheet that helped to cull additional information and details from the calls and e-mails. This enabled them to sift genuine tips from the nutcases. But at the moment, the nutcases outweighed everything else. Sightings came from as far away as Hawaii and Alaska, from religious and conspiracy freaks, and even from alleged alien abductees who claimed that Adam Nichols had been snatched for hybridization experiments by reptilians from the Pleiades.
Sheppard’s head ached and all he could think of was Mira, deliberately placing her pearl earring on an empty bookshelf. He pushed away from the conference table and went into the staff room in search of Advil. Moments later, Suki joined him.
“Shep, I need to show you something.” She set her laptop on the table, brought a memory stick out of the pocket of her shorts, slipped it into a USB port. “Paul was with his girlfriend the night Adam was taken. That’s why he never made it home. I’m sure Mira told you that much.”
He nodded.
“Well, here’s the proof,” she went on. “And while I’ve been out there, taking calls and answering e-mails, I keep thinking suppose. Suppose Paul’s girlfriend knows something about Adam’s disappearance.”
“Knows because she was involved?”
“Yes?”
“So she and Spenser are partners?”
“Right?”
Goddamn. “So go on.”
“I was trying to look at all the angles and it occurred to me that maybe she’s working with Spenser and her job was to act as a decoy, to keep Paul from getting home that night, so it would be just Adam and Gladys at the house.”
Sheppard felt a sudden excitement about the possibility. “But how did she and Spenser meet? And what’s their motive?”
“I don’t know. We’re working on assumptions. Okay, now take a look.” When the files had copied, she clicked on a folder called e-mails from paradise.
Sheppard’s headache abruptly backed off as he scrolled through the e-mails. Was this woman who called herself paradise the Eden that Nadine had picked up? Or was Eden a place, street, or just a word that would lead to some other, deeper layer? Regardless, he now had sufficient cause to bring Nichols in for questioning. One way or another, he would get the woman’s name, address, everything Nichols knew.
“Why do you think she refers to herself as paradise?” he asked. “Is it some private little nickname? An inside joke?”
Suki glanced him. “Maybe it’s a subtle way of reminding him that she’s paradise. Or it’s what he claims he feels when he’s with her? Jesus, who the hell knows?”
Sheppard thought about it. “How far back in time do the e-mails go, Suki?”
“Fourteen or fifteen months.”
“Then consider this. In all the time that Spenser watched you and your family, Paul was involved with this paradise woman. Suppose Spenser discovered it and decided that he could use paradise to keep tabs on the family? So he met her. Got involved with her.”
She looked stricken and when she spoke, her voice seemed riddled with pain. “It’s as possible as anything else.”
Sheppard gave her arm a quick squeeze. “We’re closer,” he said softly. “You have to believe that.”
She bit at her lower lip, looked away from him.
“Is Paul at the house now, Suki?”
“He better not be.” She told him what had happened earlier, when Agent Ellis had to restrain Nichols so that she could leave the house. “I told him I wanted him gone by the time I got back.”
Sheppard punched out the Nichols house number and reached a recording. “Agent Ellis, this is Agent Sheppard.”
A click on the line. Ellis immediately picked up. “Yes, sir.”
“Is Mr. Nichols in the house?”
“Downstairs. He left for several hours after there was a, uh, domestic disturbance. He returned a while ago, pulled his car around to the back of the house, and now appears to be loading things into it. I’m watching him from an upstairs window, sir.”
“I’d like you to bring Nichols in for questioning. Bring him here to the office.”
“It could get ugly, sir.”
“Then you arrest the prick. Do whatever you have to do.”
“You got it.”
“Any activity on the phones there?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, call me when you’re headed this way with Nichols.” Sheppard disconnected from the call. “Would you mind if I put these e-mails on my laptop?”
“Put them on and keep the memory stick.”
“Once Paul is brought in, Suki, there’s going to be a media circus in front of your house again. So while Paul’s being questioned, I think it’d be a good idea if you went home and packed whatever you need for a few days. I’m sure Glen Kartauk w
ould be delighted to put you up. The press doesn’t know about him. You won’t be bothered there. What do you think?”
“You think he’d mind if I brought Dolittle with me?”
“Dolittle?” Who the hell was Dolittle?
“Our cat.”
Sheppard suspected that as far as Kartauk was concerned, Suki could move into his place and bring everything she owned. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Just then, his cell beeped, signaling that a text message was coming through. When he saw the number in the window, his heart seized up. A text message from Mira’s cell. He opened it.
Tough luck, Sherlock. She’s one gorgeous babe. Over & out.
Sheppard felt as if his insides had been shoved through a meat grinder.
Suki, reading the message over his shoulder, asked: “Are you going to answer him?”
He shook his head. “That’s what he wants. So he can gloat. I’m going to come down hard on Paul, Suki.”
“He isn’t easily intimidated.”
“We’ll see.”
And just in case he changed his mind about answering Spenser’s text message, he quickly wrote Fuck u but didn’t send it. Pointless, but it made him feel better.
That feeling lasted only until he went out into the front lobby to wait for Agent Ellis—and Charlie Cordoha barreled through the front door. John Wayne on the warpath. Sheppard figured he’d seen the photos on the Internet and had come here to demand that he be included in whatever would go down. Either that or Nichols had called him. Sheppard leaned against the counter as Cordoba made a beeline toward him.
“What’s up, Charlie?”
“What’s up? What’s fucking up? You know damn well what’s up, Sheppard. You’re trying to cut me outta the loop again. Those photos on the Internet… the phone banks… The homicide is mine. I’ve got a right to know what’s going on.”
Cold As Death (The Mira Morales Series Book 5) Page 23