Night's Edge

by Maggie Shayne, Charlaine Harris, Barbara Hambly

  “And?”

  “Oh, hell, you should have seen it. It was the performance of a lifetime, Barb. The hint of worry in his eyes. The concerned knit in his brow. The hand on my shoulder. It was perfect. He almost had me believing he was worried about me.”

  “You…you don’t really think he did it?”

  Kiley lowered her head. “No, it’s not his style.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because Jack McCain doesn’t worry about anybody or anything, other than himself and his financial wellbeing. If he’s concerned at all, it’s that I’ll try to pin this on him and disrupt his livelihood in the process. No, Jack is a con man. I’ve dealt with men like him before. I know ’em when I see ’em.”

  Barbara tipped her head to one side. “You talking about your ex now?”

  “They’re so much alike it’s tough not to compare.”

  “What did that guy do to you, anyway? You haven’t talked about it since you moved out here, and you have to know I’m dying of curiosity.”

  Kiley pushed her hair behind one ear, rising from her chair and grabbing her shoulder bag from the desk. “I gotta go find a subject for this week’s column. I’ve got a bear for a boss and she’ll skin me alive if I don’t.” She sent Barbara a wink, then moved past her and out of the office.

  Kiley walked out through the parking lot, trying to let the slanting October sunshine lift her spirits. She inhaled the scent of dying leaves, tasted late autumn on the breeze, told herself the alarm system would be all installed by the time she went to bed tonight, and that all was right with the world. But it wasn’t easy to shake off the chill that had settled into her bones last night.

  At her car, she ran a hand over the warm fender. “You up for a ride, Lana?”

  The car sat there, silent, ready. Her trusty steed. It was way better than the Porsche she used to drive. Lana had character. She unlocked the driver’s door, checked the back seat and got in. Then she drove into town to have her lunch in the park, as she did every day, weather permitting. People knew where to find her. Up to now, she’d always considered that a good thing.

  Now, though, maybe she should reconsider.

  Still, she needed a tip, and this was her best shot at landing one. She walked to the corner hot dog stand. “Hey, Bernie. Gimme the usual.”

  Smiling, the compact, muscular, utterly bald vendor began putting her foot-long-with-the-works together. “Heard you had a break-in last night,” he said as he heaped on the sauerkraut.

  Her brows rose. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Around.”

  Bernie’s son was on the town’s police force. But she wouldn’t rat him out for spreading gossip. It was a small town. Everyone knew everyone’s business.

  “So you okay?”

  “Yeah. Got a whole new security system being installed tonight.”

  “Smart.” He put her dog in a cardboard boat, set it aside and fished an icy diet cola from his cooler. “Three ninety-five, same as always.”

  She slid a five dollar bill across the top of his shiny stand. “Keep the change, same as always.” She took her dog and drink and started to turn away.

  “So you sure it was someone that broke in, not someone who was already there?”

  She turned back to face the hot dog vendor again. “What do you mean, Bernie? There was no one there but me.”

  “Well, yeah, but you know the stories about that place. It’s got a history.”

  She blinked three times. “What kind of history?”

  His face changed; he looked suddenly…different. Worried, and maybe regretting his words. “I, uh—I figured you knew. Then again, it’s old stuff. You’ve only been in town a year.”

  “Two years,” she corrected him. “And I’ve only been in the house for a few days, Bernie. So if there’s something I should know, then I’d appreciate you telling me.”

  He grinned at her suddenly and waved a hand. “I’m just picking on you, kid. You know this town, it’s full of ghost stories.”

  “My house has ghost stories attached to it?”

  “I told you, I was kidding. Go on, get outta here.”

  She wasn’t going to get anything out of Bernie. Not that a ghost had anything to do with what had happened in her house last night. Even if her stomach did tighten up at the word, and even if it was the same theory her imagination kept posing. But if there were things she hadn’t known about the place, things the real estate folks had failed to disclose, they were liable to find themselves the next topic of one of her columns.

  She walked to her favorite bench, the one near the fountain, sat down and proceeded to share scraps of hot dog bun with the pigeons while she opened a notebook and dashed a note to herself to do some research on her house.

  Someone sat down, right beside her. And she knew just by the way her skin prickled who it was. Without looking up, she said, “Hello, McCain. What, you didn’t get enough of me this morning?”

  “Don’t be nasty, Brigham. I come bearing gifts.”

  She finally looked up at him. He had a foot-long hot dog with the works, and a diet cola. She said, “You’re going to give me your lunch?”

  “You telling me you could eat two of these pups?”

  “I could eat three. And still have room for dessert.”

  He smiled. “I like a woman with an appetite.”

  “You like a woman with a pulse.”

  “Well, yeah. A pulse is good, too.” He leaned back on the bench and took a big bite of the hot dog, giving her the perfect opportunity to do the same. God, she loved them. Probably unhealthy as all hell, but damn, so worth it.

  He washed his bite down with a gulp of the cola. “I felt sorry for getting the best of you yet again this morning.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “Hated leaving you without a column this week.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She kept eating, pretending to be only barely listening, but in truth, she was rapt. Was her arch rival going to give her a tip? It sure seemed to be what he was getting around to.

  “Anyway, I’m no more fond of frauds who cause more harm than good than you are.”

  “So how do you sleep at night?”

  “Hell, Brigham, you wanna shut up and listen, or should I take my information and go home?”

  She faced him, a serene smile on her lips, batting her eyes in mock innocence.

  He rolled his in response, then brought his napkin to the corner of her mouth to dab something away. Ketchup or relish, she guessed. “There’s a new player in town. He’s rented out that little brick box on Main and Oak that’s been vacant for so long.”

  “The one that used to be the barber shop?”

  He nodded.

  “So what’s his game?”

  “Oh, he starts out small. Tells people he had a dream about them, specifically, and that he has information for them. Then he gives them some cock-and-bull story about staying out of traffic on a certain day, and asks them to make an appointment for a more in-depth session. That first bit is free, but when they come back he starts really soaking them.”

  “How badly?”

  “Fifty bucks for the first session. Then there end up being all these charms and talismans they have to buy in order to avoid disaster, and those start at a hundred and go up from there. He’s calling these people at home, claiming to have urgent messages that they have to hear, convincing them to come back for another fifty-dollar session. It’s all older folks. One of my regulars said her mother had laid out more than a thousand dollars in the past month. The guy’s ruthless.”

  “The guy’s a bastard.” She nodded. “Okay, I’ll get on it. Thanks for the tip.”

  He smiled. “Can’t have people like him giving us legitimate psychic counselors a bad name.”

  “You’re as legitimate as this hot dog is health food, McCain.”

  “Hey, if I were a fake, you’d have had me by now. You’re too good not to.”

  “Yeah, and flattery will win me right o
ver.”

  He shrugged. “Have it your way.” He got to his feet, popped the last bite of his hot dog into his mouth.

  “McCain?”

  Still chewing, he looked at her.

  “You know anything about my house?” Her brows bent together.

  He swallowed, swiped his mouth with the napkin. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I heard it had…a history.”

  His brows rose. “What kind of history?”

  “I got the feeling it was the kind that was right up your alley.”

  “You mean it’s haunted or something?” He covered the stunned expression he wore with a grin. “Hell, I didn’t think you believed in any of that stuff, Brigham.”

  “Oh, I haven’t given up on the possibility. Just my faith in my fellow humans, and my chances of ever finding proof that there’s…something more out there.” She watched his face, because frankly, she had trouble swallowing that he really believed in the nonsense he was selling.

  He swallowed hard. “Tell you the truth, Brigham, I only came to this town about six months before you did. I wouldn’t know much of its history.”

  “I figured you probably would have mentioned it if you had.”

  “You’re not thinking your little break-in and that death threat were the actions of some kind of ghost or demon or something, are you? Because that kind of thinking could make you careless. It could get you killed.”

  She licked her lips, thought about how icy cold it had become in the bathroom just before the message had appeared on her mirror. She thought about the clothes moving in the closet and the shadowy shape in her window. She almost told him about all of that. But then she pursed her lips, shook her had. “Nah. I don’t think any such thing. See you later, McCain.”

  “Yeah. See you.”

  Kiley watched him walk away as she finished her hot dog and her cola. Then she headed to the library and asked for help from the librarian. The woman promptly produced a book titled The Haunted History of Burnt Hills. It was a local author, self-published, but amazingly, exactly what she needed.

  She took the volume with her when she went to stake out the little brick building on the corner of Main and Oak Streets.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JACK SAT IN HIS TEENAGE employee’s rusted-out pickup truck around the corner from where Kiley Brigham’s car was parked. She wasn’t in it, not now, anyway. She’d sat there for a long time, with the overhead light on, reading something and smoking. Then, when Randeaux de Loup, as he called himself, had left his little brick shop, she’d gone over there.

  “You think she’s going to break in?” Chris asked, pushing his mop of yellow hair off his forehead.

  “I imagine she’s going through the garbage.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because it’s what I would do. Scoot over to her car, Chris, and see if you can get a look at what she’s been reading.”

  Chris licked his lips and sent Jack a scared look. Sighing, Jack pulled a twenty out of his pocket and handed it to him. Chris snatched it and was out of the car a heartbeat later. The kid kept to the shadows, crouching low as he ran. Moments later he was back, getting into his pickup and handing Jack a book.

  “Jesus, kid, I said see what it was, not steal it!”

  “Oh. Uh. Sorry. You want me to put it back?”

  Jack looked up, didn’t see any sign of Kiley returning to her car. “In a minute.” The book had a page folded over. He flipped it open to see what Kiley had been reading.

  “Why are you following her, anyway, boss?”

  “To make sure no one murders her,” he said.

  “You like her. I knew it.”

  “I can’t stand her. I just know damn well I’d be on top of the list of suspects if something should happen to the irritating little—hell, this is what I was afraid of.”

  “What?” Chris leaned over, trying to get a look at the pages Jack was reading.

  Jack turned the book so the kid could see the black-and-white snapshot of the house, looking slightly newer than it did now.

  “Hey, isn’t that where Miss Brigham lives?”

  “Yeah, and according to this, it’s haunted.”

  “Well, yeah. Everyone knows that.”

  Jack just sat there staring at the kid in disbelief. “You knew she was living in a haunted house and you didn’t tell me?”

  “Didn’t know why you’d be interested.” He shrugged. “I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”

  “I don’t. But if you haven’t learned another thing from me after all this time, Chris, you should have learned that it’s not what I believe that matters.” Something moved over by the brick building. Jack shoved the book back into Chris’s hands. “Go put it back. Right where you found it. And don’t let her see you.”

  “Right.” Chris slid out of the vehicle again and managed to get the job done.

  It was as he was heading back to the pickup that Jack heard the tap on his window and turned to see Brigham standing there, looking at him. Telling himself to think fast, he rolled the window down.

  “You following me, McCain?”

  “Saw your car. Thought I’d pull over for a sec. Just to watch your back.”

  “So you’re my bodyguard now?”

  “Hell, you wish, Brigham.” She rolled her eyes, but he kept speaking. “Find anything?”

  “Client list,” she said with a smile. “Jackpot.”

  “Yeah? What are you going to do with it?”

  “You really wanna know? Then buy the Sunday paper and find out with the rest of Burnt Hills.”

  “That’s gratitude for you. See if I ever give you another scoop.”

  “Hey, did I say I wasn’t grateful?”

  He shrugged, glanced around. “It’s getting dark earlier, isn’t it?”

  “It’s fall, Jack. That’s what happens.”

  “You get your locks changed yet?”

  She glanced at her watch. “The workers arrived a half hour ago. They’re probably still there. I really have to get home.”

  Something changed in her voice when she said that.

  He cleared his throat, told himself to shut the hell up, but the words came tumbling out, anyway. “You want me to come along? Just to…you know, take a look around?”

  She fixed her eyes on him, brows pulling together as her head tipped slowly to one side. “You really are playing bodyguard, aren’t you.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not a bad body. It’d be a shame if something happened to it.”

  “I didn’t think you liked me, McCain.”

  “I never said I liked you, Brigham.”

  She smiled at him. “Actually, I would like you to come with me. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  His throat went a little dry, because he thought he knew what it was. And he’d walked right into it, hadn’t he?

  “You wanna ride with me?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He glanced up, saw Chris frozen on the sidewalk, looking panicky. But Jack was certain Kiley hadn’t seen the kid messing around near her car. He got out of the truck, waved at the kid.

  “What’s he doing wandering around?” Kiley asked.

  “Had to take a leak,” Jack said. “I’m riding with Ms. Brigham, kid. See you at the store tomorrow.”

  Chris said something that emerged as an indecipherable squeak and hurried to his pickup, passing them on the sidewalk as they walked to Kiley’s car. Jack smiled down at Kiley. “We go for pie sometimes after work. I let him drive once in a while.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  He shrugged. As explanations went, it was full of holes, but he wasn’t sure it mattered at this point. He slid into the passenger side of her car. She got behind the wheel. “Lana, this is Jack. Jack, Lana.”

  Frowning, Jack swung his head around, half expecting to see someone in the back seat. But no one was there. “Uh, I’m not following you, Brigham.”

  “What, your car doesn’t
have a name?”

  “Oh. The car. Right. Funny.”

  She shrugged, started the motor and drove them through the curving lanes of Burnt Hills, beneath the canopy of autumn colors, fallen leaves stirring on the roadsides as they passed.

  “So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” Jack asked. “Finally ready to admit I’m the only legitimate psychic in town and call a truce?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  He gaped in surprise. She only blinked at him, then glanced down at the book that lay on the seat in between them. “Have you read this book?”

  He looked at it. “No.”

  “Well, according to it, my house has been considered one of the most haunted in the county for the past thirty years.”

  He closed his eyes. God, he’d had no idea it was that bad.

  “I need a ghost buster, Jack. I need one that even I can’t prove is a fraud. And the only one I’ve tried and tried to discredit, and failed to discredit…is you.”

  Jack swallowed the huge lump in his throat. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

  “So,” she went on, “I’m forced to admit the faint, extremely small possibility that you might actually be legitimate. And even more distasteful, I’m forced to ask for your help.”

  “My…help?” It was happening.

  She was turning the car into the driveway now. There was a white minivan parked there with Gates Security Systems painted on the side. The old house rose up before him like a guardian at the gate of a treasure, daring him to bring it on. He could almost hear it laughing, asking him, “Just what are you gonna do now, Slick?”

  He licked his lips, wished for something to drink.

  “I know there’s no love lost between the two of us, Jack. But do you think you could put that aside for a little while?”

  He met her eyes, saw the hope in them, and the fear. “Yeah, I could do that. What do you want me to do?”

  “Just come inside. Feel the place. See if you…pick up on anything.”

  Jack nodded, as if he’d be more than happy to help her out. But he’d already made up his mind what his diagnosis would be. He was not going to find any hint of any “presence” in Kiley Brigham’s house. Not even if Casper himself performed an Irish jig in the living room. No way. Because if she thought there were ghosts in her house, she would ask him to get rid of them. And if she asked him to get rid of them, he would have to fake his way through it. Otherwise, she would have exactly what she had always wanted—proof that he was a fraud. Far easier not to find anything at all.