Soul Scent: A Zackie Story (The Zackie Stories Book 2)

by Reyna Favis

  When Angela returned with the drinks, she asked if we were ready to order. I requested the salmon, Lucas ordered the seafood fra diavolo and Cam went with beef sirloin tips au jus. Once the waitress left with our orders, the conversation ambled along at a comfortable pace. We talked about the weather, sports and the radical departure from our normal diet that this meal presented, thanking Lucas for his generosity. He brushed it off and said his production company was footing the bill. Officially, this was a business dinner, so as long as we spoke about ghost hunting at some point during the meal, all was copacetic. The conversation reached a lull and Lucas turned to me and touched my hand.

  “So, how have you been?” His eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep and he looked like he might have lost a little weight. I should have been asking him this question.

  “I’m doing okay. The new job is interesting.” I made no effort to move my hand as I continued to study his face, holding his eyes and trying to freeze this moment. In the past, I would have found some excuse to get up and move away, but things were different now that Hannah was dead. To lessen any residual guilt I felt about touching a deceased woman’s husband, I reminded myself that he was the one who initiated contact. I was merely doing everything in my power to sustain it.

  Trying to get our attention, Cam interrupted. “I am also doing well.” At least, I think that’s what he said. I confess that I wasn’t paying much attention. Something else besides Cam was niggling at the edges of my conscious mind, but my full attention was on Lucas and nothing beyond his touch was really breaking through. Until it did. The scent of ammonia became overpowering and my eyes started to water. In that instant, Angela showed up with a large tray laden with our meals. As she used one hand to open a small support table to receive her burden, two bloodless, white hands grasped the edge of the tray and flipped it towards me. The entire contents of each dish poured over my chest and landed in my lap. I was coated in tomato sauce, au jus and lemony butter, as well as the more solid components of each meal. All conversation in the dining room ceased and I felt the hot glare of attention. Grinding my teeth, I thought that the club soda I ordered wasn’t going to cut it.

  Angela’s eyes filled with tears and she began apologizing up and down for dumping the food on me. Conversation hummed back to life as the maitre d’ rushed over and handed me several napkins to mop up the worst of it. I was certain Angela would be afraid of losing her job, so grinning, I tried to make light of the accident. “Okay, pressure’s off. I don’t have to worry about staining my shirt anymore.” As I stood to make my way to the lady’s room, I tried to do some damage control with the maitre d’ to help poor Angela. “It wasn’t her fault. Someone brushed by her as she was setting the tray down.”

  On the way to the ladies’ room, I thought better of it and headed out to my car instead. Rummaging through the search and rescue equipment in my trunk, I came up with a bright orange tactical shirt. Back in the restaurant, I found the ladies’ room, took a look at myself in the mirror and decided it was a good thing I was already in a mindset to brazen it out. Removing the shirt that used to be white, I chucked it in the garbage. It was never going to come clean. I did a quick wipe down of my arms and torso with some wet paper towels and then slipped on the tactical shirt. Surveying my slacks for damage, I found that they were better off than the shirt. The napkin had caught a good deal of the mess and the black fabric hid a lot of the stains. Still, I left the tails of the shirt out. As I ran my hands through my hair to make sure nothing needed cleaning there, I caught the odor of ammonia and then the image of Hannah in the mirror. She stood behind me, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Hannah looked every inch the cancer fatality and I felt a surge of pity for her. Still dressed in a hospital gown, her head was denuded of hair, including eyebrows and eyelashes, and it made her face appear washed out and vaguely reptilian. Black streaks traced the veins in her arms where the chemo had been injected and she was painfully thin. Despite all this, her grin had more mischief than malice.

  I met her eyes in the reflection and let her have her moment. “Ha, ha. Very funny.” Doubling over with laughter, Hannah’s guffaws echoed in the bathroom as she disappeared. Determined not to let her have her way completely, I marched to our table, resplendent in my ridiculous, high visibility orange shirt. If I thought that I was under-dressed before, this look sealed the deal.

  As I made my way through the dining room, I felt countless eyes boring through me. I’ve been stared at many times in my life after experiencing worse episodes involving unruly spirits, so I was practiced at feigning nonchalance. Squaring my shoulders, I set my face into a neutral expression and began another Oscar-winning performance. I froze when the diners broke out in a spontaneous round of applause. Scanning the room, there was no sign of derision or mockery. The diners’ faces were open and approving and some even smiled. Playing along, I forced a smile and acknowledged my new fans with an improvised curtsy before continuing my progress towards Cam and Lucas. Both men stood as I reached the table and I resisted the urge to say something sarcastic to cut the formality.

  Whether or not he intended to, Cam took the white hot spotlight of attention away by raising his wine glass in a toast and congratulating me. “Well done, Fia. They comped the meal.” He took a sip and then bowed his head in mock sadness. “I only wish now that I had been paying.”

  Lucas rolled his eyes and held out my seat. “Are you all right? You didn’t get burned or anything?”

  I sat down quickly to make myself a smaller target. “I’m fine. Just starving. Are they bringing the food out soon?”

  Cam raised an eyebrow at Lucas. “Obviously, she’s not too traUmatized to eat.”

  Lucas nodded back solemnly. “We’ll know for sure something’s wrong if she doesn’t eat.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Lucas. “That’s it, Tremaine. Just for that, I get your dessert.” There was no point in telling him Hannah was behind the spill. He wouldn’t believe it. Grabbing a freshly folded napkin from the new table setting, I unfurled it with a flourish and placed it on my lap as I considered conversational topics that would take the focus from me. “So, what’s going on in Scotland that needs our attention?”

  Folding his hands on the table, Lucas became serious. “Well, it’s only hearsay at this point. I haven’t gone to investigate the reports, so I can’t vouch for their credibility.”

  Cam waved his hand, circumventing the coming lecture. “Yes, yes, rationale explanations and logical interpretations. Yada, yada, yada. We understand.”

  “You know me so well.” Cracking a grin, Lucas accepted the conversational redirect.

  I shook my head and had to ask. “So, you’ve never experienced anything that would lead you to a supernatural explanation?” Would he have something new to say now that Hannah was always near? He must have gotten a faint whiff of ammonia or felt a chill in an otherwise warm room, or maybe even seen something out of the corner of his eye.

  Lucas didn’t even blink. “I see what you’re getting at.” But he didn’t see what I was getting at. He responded as if it were a philosophical question. “I admit that what happened to us at the Changewater house and in North Carolina are still open questions. Something very unusual happened in these places, but I’m still not convinced the events can’t be explained by natural phenomena. It’s just going to take someone smarter than me to come up with these explanations.” Lucas shrugged his shoulders and sipped some wine before continuing. “Granted, the underlying reasons we get from experts might be weird and out of the ordinary, but I’ll bet they would still conform to natural laws.” He paused again and his eyes squinted as he thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Aside from the Changewater case, there’s been nothing else in my experience before or since that couldn’t be readily explained by either psychological predisposition or environmental conditions.”

  Hannah let loose with a distinctly frustrated sigh. Shaking his head, Cam gave me a look of bemusement. The depths of psychic insensiti
vity that one person could display took my breath away. Like Cam and me, Lucas was definitely out on the farthest reach of the bell curve for this trait. The difference was that we were on one end of the curve and he was on the other.

  Cam brought us back on topic. “So, what was the nature of the reports out of Scotland?”

  Leaning forward, Lucas continued his update, unaware that something tugged on the tablecloth next to him. “The gist of it is that a man was savaged by an unseen force while jogging along a country lane. A passing cyclist used his phone to record the attack. At first blush, it appears to be legitimate.”

  Ignoring Hannah’s antics, I turned my thoughts to the story emerging from Scotland. “No history of attacks at this site or on the individual?” As my mind began to draw the inevitable connections, I took a sip of my club soda and started wishing I had ordered something stronger. What had tipped the balance into violence in Scotland? Did this foreshadow future behavior for our angry Native American?

  Lucas shrugged. “I don’t have any background about the site or the individual, so I can’t answer these questions. We’re too early in this investigation to have interviews or even any research done.” Lucas raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. “But I can give you details on the location if you want to get a jump on this and start looking into the case.”

  Cam shook his head. “Much as I’d like to give it a go, you’ve got people for that and we’ve got our hands full at the moment.”

  “So you’ve mentioned.” Lucas sat back and sipped his wine. “Can you tell me anything about it? Maybe it would make a few good episodes for the show.”

  Cam and I filled Lucas in, describing Maggie’s case, but being careful not to make this sound like an invitation to film. We did not bring up Peyton’s problem, since it was still possible that we could resolve the situation without anyone, especially Peyton, being the wiser. Bringing in a film crew just might tip her off.

  Lucas cast his eyes down and fiddled with his silverware. “Yeah, no. I can’t and won’t do anything with Maggie’s case. It’s too fresh and it’s a suicide. We’d only do a story like this if the family called us in or if the event were years old. We don’t want to compound the tragedy for the family.”

  I nodded my approval. Say what you want about how Lucas reconciled his staunch disbelief in the supernatural with being the front man on a ghost show – he was unwilling to engage in exploitation of others just to earn a buck or get attention. That was all right in my book.

  My thoughts must have been too plain on my face. The scent of ammonia was again violating my airspace. Whispering in my ear, Hannah let me know her thoughts on the matter. “And that’s why I fell for him.” In the next breath, the smell was gone and I was left pondering the implications of a relationship with someone still in a relationship, despite the fulfillment of the ‘until death do us part’ vow.

  The food arrived just in time to spare me any deeper thinking. Instead of a tray, several of the wait staff carried out each of the dishes and presented them to us. Better safe than sorry, I guess. Angela blushed and fussed with the place settings and would not make eye contact with anyone at the table.

  I tried to get her attention. “Psst…” When Angela finally looked up, I attempted to reassure her. “I’ve also waited tables. I know what it’s like. No harm done, okay?”

  Angela flashed me a shy smile and whispered back. “Thanks. I’m still really sorry.” Busy with her other tables, she dashed off after making sure everyone was content with their food and drink. All was well in my corner and I tucked into my food with gusto, no longer inhibited by a white shirt, and convinced that it would be impossible for my normal eating habits to bring me to a state as bad as the initial food avalanche.

  I came out looking okay by the time dessert rolled around, aided by the properties of the tactical shirt. Aside from being made of rip-stop material, the tactical shirt was like Teflon, leaving no trace of water and food stains after a quick wipe. Surprising myself, I did not order dessert. Between the complimentary appetizers, the fresh baked bread, soup, salad, the main course, and my meal before coming to the restaurant, I was feeling uncomfortably full. This did not stop Lucas from requesting two dessert forks and offering to share his death-by-chocolate cake.

  “You don’t get my dessert without a fight, but I am willing to share.” His eyes twinkled with amusement when he saw my dilemma. My eyes bulged from the pressure of all the food in my belly, but he held up the fork, daring me to eat more. And sharing food seemed like such an intimate gesture. Maybe this was just playfulness and I was reading more into it than was warranted, but I couldn’t pass up this chance to get closer to Lucas. Besides, the sweet decadence of the cake’s dark chocolate mousse filling called to me. In the immortal words of Oscar Wilde, ‘the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.’

  Cam pulled his strawberry cheesecake closer. “Do what you want, this is mine.”

  When the meal was finally done, I resisted the urge to put my head down on the table. A food coma was coming for me and I needed to end the evening. Lucas left a substantial tip and we thanked the maitre d’ for a wonderful evening, assuring him that we would return. He looked relieved and offered to pay for my dry cleaning, which I declined. The white shirt was no longer my problem.

  We parted ways in the parking lot, thanking Lucas for the night out and wishing each other a good night. As Lucas walked off to his car with a light step and a smile on his face, Cam murmured, “Mission accomplished. This is what the lad needed - a decent meal and some time away from his work and grief.”

  # # #

  Typical of flagging tape, a lot went a little way. My roll was nearing depletion as we flagged a path to Maggie’s clearing. Zackie was in high spirits, running ahead and then waiting, twitching with impatience for us to catch up. She appeared eager to make contact with Maggie again, perhaps optimistic this would be the encounter that convinces Maggie to go with her to the afterlife. I wondered why she didn’t try harder with Hannah. Success with Hannah would have a huge impact on my life, but I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with Zackie. The last time I attempted two-way communication with her, I think it made my brain bleed. Conversations with an immortal required more synapses than I currently possessed. I was almost sure there was something different about Cam that made it easier for him to endure the information overload. He and Zackie seemed to be in constant casual conversation and never once had I seen evidence of even so much as a headache.

  Maggie lay on her side in the bed of decaying leaves, her shaking fingers moving lightly through her hair, occasionally touching her skull where the bullet entered and then skittering away to feel her distended belly. As before, she murmured to herself, repeating the same words over and over. Zackie lay down near Maggie’s head and urged the fingers away with her muzzle.

  Kneeling on the leaves next to Zackie, Cam whispered to the suffering woman. “We’ve come back, Maggie. We still want to help.”

  Maggie curled into a fetal position. Shutting her eyes, she put her hands over her ears. “You’re not there… not there…not there.”

  I took a long look at Cam and shook my head. She was still locking us out. How could we even begin to speak to her when she refused to listen? I wasn’t sure what to do. If I grabbed her hands away from her ears and forced her to listen, would she disappear on us? As I stood there paralyzed with indecision, Zackie jumped up and planted her front paws on Maggie’s shoulders, forcing her on to her back and exposing her distended belly. Pinning her to the ground with her face inches from Maggie’s, Zackie issued one loud bark that echoed through the woods. Nothing was as loud as a Plott Hound and Maggie’s eyes sprung open, round with fear and surprise. Placing herself between Maggie’s outstretched arm and her torso, Zackie clamped her jaws around Maggie’s shoulder and lay down next to the spirit, keeping her pinned to the ground. Maggie was going nowhere and she knew it. The pain from the psychopomp’s bite made the spirit pant and grit her teeth. I
felt sick for adding to her suffering, but she would flee and be lost to us if we freed her. This was a necessary evil if we were ever going to help her. Swallowing down the nausea, I knew we could not be soft, so I steeled myself to do what was necessary.

  “I’m glad we finally have your attention.” Cam spoke quickly and rotated on his knees to face her. “We need to talk to you about your husband, Gregory.”

  Maggie swallowed hard, her eyes darting from Cam to me and then finally resting on Zackie. When she did not respond, Zackie released her hold long enough to nudged Maggie under the jaw with her muzzle. Maggie whimpered, but then spoke in a thin, broken voice. “I loved him.”

  Kneeling on her other side, I planted my palms on the ground and leaned towards her. “Don’t you want to be with him? Zackie can take you to Gregory.”

  Maggie wailed and shook her head, struggling to get up and away from us. “I can’t! I can’t go! Why won’t you understand?”

  Cam took her hand and held it. “Why can’t you go? Can you help us understand?”

  “The baby…I can’t leave the baby.” She thrashed and struggled, but was making no headway against Zackie.

  Cam tightened his grip on her hand and reached out with his other hand to turn her face towards him. “Maggie…Maggie, look at me. The baby is dead too.”

  Maggie stared glassy-eyed at Cam and stopped struggling. She went limp and whispered to herself. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t strong enough.” She sobbed and then threw her head back and screamed at the sky. “It’s my fault!”

  Crawling forward, I touched her cheek and tried to calm her. “It’s not your fault, Maggie. Were you depressed because your husband died?” She wouldn’t look at me, but I persisted. “Is that why you took the gun?”