Waking Up Dead

by Margo Bond Collins

  “It’s him,” I whispered, even though I knew the man wasn’t sensitive enough to hear me. “The one who killed Molly.”

  Ashara shrank down even further, squeezing her eyes shut.

  The man moved into the workroom, looking around, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

  A tiny whimper escaped Ashara, and the man froze, his eyes riveted toward the front of the store.

  Chapter Six

  I spun around in search of something to distract him. There. On the top of the front entrance to the store--one of those old-fashioned bells that rings every time someone comes in. I hastened to the front of the store, reached up, closed my eyes and focused on just barely, barely tapping it, as if a breeze had floated by. The man looked around again, searching for the source of the sound. I let him look for a moment before making the bell chime lightly again.

  This time he found the sound. Moving to the front of the store, he examined the bell. Satisfied, he headed back toward the workroom. I stood in front of the counter, willing him not to see Ashara crouched in her dark corner.

  He kept walking.

  I let out a sigh of relief and followed him into the workroom.

  He walked directly to one of the workbenches, shuffling through the pile of tools and parts that lay scattered across it. He picked something up and put it in his pocket. I couldn’t tell what it was.

  He moved to the door again and took a last look around. He nodded, apparently satisfied with something, then left. I heard him lock the door behind him.

  “He’s gone,” I called out to Ashara. “You can come out now.”

  Ashara didn’t answer.

  I floated over the top of the counter and peered down at her. She was still huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees and rocking back and forth.

  “It’s okay, Ashara. He’s gone. You can come out now.”

  She shook her head back and forth several times. “It is not okay. That man is a murderer and he was in here with us. There is nothing okay about that.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Get up. We’ve got to follow him.”

  “Follow him?” she said. She stopped rocking and stared up at me. “Are you out of your mind? There is no way I am going to follow a man who cuts up white ladies for fun. No. No way.”

  “Come on,” I said, my voice urgent. “We’re going to lose him if you don’t hurry up.”

  “Did you not hear what I just said? I said I am not following no murdering crazy man. No.”

  “If you don’t come with me, I’m going straight to your Maw-Maw’s house and tell her that you have stopped helping me.”

  “You think my Maw-Maw wants me following crazy killer men?”

  “I think she wants you to help me.”

  Ashara whooshed out an angry breath. “Dammit. Now you got me mad enough that I ain’t even scared.”

  “Good. Come on.”

  She stood up, shaking her head and brushing off her pants, and followed me to the back door.

  “Now wait here while I check it out,” I said. I stuck my head out through the door and looked up and down the alleyway. The man was just now finishing his own inspection of the street and stepping out of the alley. I slipped back into the room.

  “You have got to quit doing that,” Ashara said. “It’s downright unnerving.”

  I ignored her comment. “He just walked out to the street. We can go now.”

  Ashara unlocked and opened the door slowly so as to make no sound. I preceded her into the alley and motioned her out behind me. We moved quickly down the alley. When we got to the corner, I motioned her back against the wall while I looked around the corner in the direction the man had gone.

  I was just in time to see him get into a white SUV and pull away from the curb. He hadn’t parked far from where Ashara’s car was.

  I waited until he turned a corner, and then said, “Okay. Now. Move quickly.”

  We ran to Ashara’s car and got in. As we pulled up to the corner, I said, “He turned right here.”

  “Tell me again why I’m doing this,” Ashara said, turning the corner.

  “Because your Maw-Maw would have your hide if you didn’t,” I said.

  She shook her head and started the car. “Not that. The part where I’m driving a ghost lady around.”

  “There he is,” I said. “Up ahead. In that white SUV.”

  “I mean,” Ashara continued, “you're a ghost. Can't you just, I don't know, teleport yourself over there or something?”

  “Get up closer to him,” I said. “I want to get the license plate.”

  Luckily for us, he had chosen to take the main street through Abramsville. It’s a small enough town that it pretty much shuts down at night, with the exception of the main drag--the street that hosts all of the fast-food chains, restaurants, pharmacies, and, of course, the twenty-four hour Wal-Mart. There were enough people still out that we were able to stay a couple of cars behind the SUV.

  “Are you listening to me at all?” Ashara asked. “Why don’t you just teleport your ass over there and let me go home?”

  “Teleport?”

  “Yeah. You know. Like they do on Star Wars.”

  “I think that was Star Trek.”

  “Whatever. You're here, then you're there. Then you ride with him and you see where he’s going.”

  “I don't know, Ashara. I don't know what I can do.”

  “Seems to me like maybe you haven't been practicing all your ghosting stuff.”

  “I don't even know what 'ghosting stuff' is,” I said, throwing my hands up into the air and shaking my head.

  Ashara shook her head. “You get me killed and my Maw-Maw’s gonna have both our hides.”

  “Just get closer to him, okay?”

  She pulled up directly behind the SUV and I repeated the license plate to myself several times until I was sure I’d remember it.

  “Okay,” I said. “You can fall back some more now.”

  “What was he doing in there?” Ashara asked.

  “I don't know. He picked up something from the bench and put it in his pocket.”

  “Didn't you look to see what it was?”

  “I didn't have time to get over there.”

  “’Cause you don’t know if you can teleport ‘cause you ain’t bothered practicing being a ghost,” Ashara said sarcastically.

  That's when I realized where we were. The SUV was still two or three cars ahead of us, and he was just passing the city limits sign.

  “Oh, hell,” I said.

  “What?” Ashara asked, sudden panic in her voice.

  “Just keep following him, okay? Don't let him see you. Don't get caught. Just follow him as far as you. . . .”

  And then--pop! I was standing in the middle of downtown Abramsville, Alabama. I paced back and forth, sometimes floating, sometimes walking, trying to figure out how to get back in touch with Ashara. The courthouse has a statue of some Civil War general in front of it--I think it's a requisite item in downtown squares in the Deep South. In the end, I got bored with pacing and floated up to rest on top of it.

  So there I was, sitting on the shoulders of General Whosit, waiting for the only sane psychic in Abramsville, Alabama to figure out what had happened and come get me.

  To be honest, I was worried about her--she was out there chasing some murdering freak and no one knew where she was--but I couldn't figure out what to do about it.

  Then I remembered Maw-Maw. I might not know where Ashara was, but I would bet that Maw-Maw hadn't left her house since the last time I'd seen her.

  Yeah. I know. I'm a little slow sometimes.

  I made my way as quickly as possible back over to Maw-Maw's. And in the process, I discovered something new about all that “ghosting stuff.” Ashara was right. I couldn't exactly teleport, but I could cover ground pretty damn quickly. It was a lot like flying. Guess I could have ridden along in the SUV after all--at least to the city limits.

  I flew right on in to Maw-Maw'
s living room. She was there; fast asleep in her reclining chair, television still on.

  “Mrs. Jones?” I whispered. Maw-Maw didn't move. “Mrs. Jones,” I said more loudly. I waited a minute. No response. “Mrs. Jones!” This time I virtually shouted.

  “I heard you the first time,” she said, opening her eyes. “But I ain't no Mrs. Jones.” I started to apologize, but she held her hand up to stop me.

  “Jones was my daughter's husband,” she said. “And let me tell you something. He wasn't no good at all. Couldn't keep a job to save his life. So don’t you go calling me no ‘Mrs. Jones.’ My name is Adelaide Thompkins.”

  I nodded. “Okay, then, Mrs. Thompkins. I need to know if your granddaughter has a cell phone.”

  Maw-Maw looked thoughtful. “I don't know about that, but she got one of them phones she can carry with her.”

  “Thank God,” I sighed. “Could you call her on it for me?”

  Maw-Maw looked at me suspiciously. “You get my baby in trouble?”

  By this time, I was hopping from foot to ethereal foot. “I sure hope not.”

  Maw-Maw nodded at me. “Yep. She's in some kind of trouble, ain't she?”

  She put her hands on the arms of her chair and pushed herself up. I placed my hand against her back to help steady her before realizing that it wouldn't do any good, anyway.

  “Now where is that telephone?” she muttered to herself, peering through her thick glasses around the room.

  “It's there,” I said, pointing at an end-table beside the couch.

  “Ah. So it is.” She made her slow, arthritic way over to the phone and picked it up. “Now,” she said. “You're going to have to tell me which number it is, honey.” She held out the phone for me to look at. The electronic display was oversized, but apparently still too small for Maw-Maw to see clearly.

  “Okay,” I said, examining the phone. “Push the asterisk key down there at the bottom, then push number two.”

  “You mean the star?”

  “Yes. The star.” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. I knew that the longer Ashara followed the killer, the more likely he was to catch on to her.

  Maw-Maw put the phone up to her ear. I waited impatiently as it rang once, twice. And then I blew out a breath of relief when Ashara answered. I leaned in close to hear what she was saying.

  “Maw-Maw,” she said, her voice worried. “Why are you calling me this late? What's wrong?”

  “It's your white ghost lady,” Maw-Maw said. “She wants to talk to you.” She tried to pass me the phone, but it moved through my outstretched hand without even a pause.

  “Oh,” said Maw-Maw. “I guess she can't, though.”

  “What's she doing there?” Ashara asked.

  “I don't know,” Maw-Maw said. She looked up at me.

  “I was worried about you and didn't know where else to go,” I said.

  “If you're so worried, why'd you leave?” Ashara asked, her voice acerbic.

  “I didn't mean to. I just can't go outside the city limits.”

  “Well. That would have been nice to know,” Ashara said.

  “Where are you now?”

  “I'm at home, getting ready for bed.”

  “Did you find anything out?”

  “Yep. I followed him all the way to a dirt road, and then I quit, 'cause it was just me and him and I wasn't about to let him cut me up.”

  “That's good,” I said. “Why don't I come over and we can--”

  Ashara cut me off. “Nope. I've got to work tomorrow and I am going to bed. We can talk about it later.”

  “But . . .” I said.

  “You still there, Maw-Maw?” Ashara asked.

  “Yeah, baby, I'm still here.”

  “You go on back to bed. I'll be over tomorrow to check on you.”

  “Okay, baby,” Maw-Maw said. “Goodnight.” And then she hung up the phone.

  I heaved a huge sigh.

  “You might as well just go on, now,” Maw-Maw said. “Looks like there ain't no more time for ghosty things tonight.”

  I stared at her.

  “Go on. Get.”

  Shaking my head, I walked out of the house. Through the wall.

  Ghosty things, indeed.

  Chapter Seven

  Ashara jumped and nearly screamed the next morning when I popped in beside her at her teller’s window. She suppressed the scream, though, managing to hold it down to a gasping squeak.

  “You okay?” the teller next to her asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I just almost dropped this.” She waved the wad of paper in her hand. The other teller nodded and went back to her own work. Ashara’s cash drawer was open and she was counting money, her fingers flying over the ten-key pad to her right, then clicking across the keyboard in front of her. She moved so quickly I could hardly follow what she was doing. Numbers scrolled across the screen of the computer monitor to her right.

  “So where did he turn off the main road last night?” I asked Ashara. She studiously ignored me. Not that she could answer me directly, what with the other teller standing right next to her.

  Time for Twenty Questions.

  “Did he stay on the main highway?”

  Ashara nodded, as if bobbing her head to some internal music.

  “Doesn’t I-20 cross that highway?” I asked. She kept bobbing her head, fingers dancing across the two keyboards, numbers running down the monitor.

  “Did he go past the interstate, then?” I asked. Her head-bob turned into a shake. No, then.

  “Did he turn left or right?”

  Ashara’s head stilled completely. Oops. Yes or no questions only, I reminded myself.

  “Left?” No movement.

  “Right?” A bob of the head.

  “Could you get back there?” Another head bob.

  Not that I was sure I wanted her going back out there alone. Really, what I wanted to do was go check the place out myself. But I was stuck in town.

  “So what time do you get off work?” I asked Ashara.

  Her hand stilled, and then her fingers popped up off the keyboard.

  “Four?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  Four o’clock. That was hours and hours away. I practically hummed with frustration. “Can’t you get off work any earlier?”

  Ashara went back to shaking her head.

  So I left Ashara and went to explore the rest of the bank.

  Small-town bank branches are boring. There’s not much to them, really. But I did practice exerting my combo hand-mind tug on physical objects.

  This time when I moved up to Ashara from behind, she didn’t react at all.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she was saying into the microphone. “You have a nice day.” The woman in the car outside the window smiled at her and pulled away.

  “You know,” I said conversationally, “I just figured out how to open safe deposit boxes.”

  Ashara turned to me, her eyes wide. I could see her trying to figure out some way to talk to me without her coworkers overhearing.

  “Oh, don’t worry;” I said cheerfully, “I closed them all up again. But I think I’m getting better at moving things.” I popped open her cash drawer, just to demonstrate. She slammed it shut again.

  “Quit that,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

  “What was that, Ashara?” the other teller asked.

  “Nothing,” Ashara said calmly. “Just a cough.”

  “We could make a fortune,” I said. “Ashara Jones and Callie Taylor, bank robbers. Of course, it would be a short career, since I can’t leave Abramsville. And they’d probably catch us. Or you, anyway.”

  Ashara sighed, tilted her head, and looked at me.

  “Hey, Ann,” she said to the other teller. “I’m going to go grab a quick bathroom break while it’s quiet. Cover for me?”

  “No problem,” said Ann.

  She turned and surreptitiously waved her hand for me to follow her. We walked into the ladies’
restroom and she finally turned to face me head-on.

  “Go away,” she said. “I’m trying to work here.”

  “But we need to figure out what to do next.”

  “Look, Callie,” she said, and then she stopped. “You know what? I think I liked it better before I knew your name. I liked you better as White Ghost Lady.”

  “Yeah, well, I do have a name. Callie Elaine Taylor. I may be a ghost, but I’m a real person, too.”

  Ashara sighed. “Okay, Callie Elaine Taylor,” she said. “Why don’t you go do something useful while I’m working? You’re getting so good at moving things, you ought to go back to the music shop and see if you can find anything.”

  Ooh. The shop. I’d gotten so excited about finding the man that I’d forgotten about the shop. “Okay,” I said, nodding eagerly.

  “Come back at four,” Ashara said. “I’ll talk to you then.”

  * * * *

  The music repair shop was much as I remembered it, except that this time it was full of people. It hadn’t occurred to me that Rick’s shop would continue operating with Rick in jail awaiting trial, but apparently his employees were keeping things running in his absence.

  I moved in through the front door this time, since I didn’t have Ashara with me. A young, blond, bearded man stood at the front counter, bent over the case polishing some piece of metal--it looked like it might belong to a trumpet or something.

  I drifted past him--he never looked up--and into the back room. The workbenches were occupied by three people working on instruments. One young, thin man was carefully sanding a piece of wood. He had a violin propped up in front of him. A second man, this one burly and broad and red in the face, worked a small soldering iron against two pieces of metal. I had no idea what that was for. And finally, an older woman with grey-streaked blonde hair carefully tapped against the dents in a trombone.

  But one bench stood empty. The one the man had taken something from the night before. I stood in front of it, staring down at the array of things in front of me. Some of them were clearly tools. Others were clearly parts of musical instruments. And yet others held no meaning for me, jumbles of metal and wood and glue. I ran my eyes across it again and again, inventorying the items. None of them seemed to have any bearing on Molly’s murder.