by Kris Starr
Murray toyed with his fork, refusing to meet Nicholas’ gaze. A terrible thought suddenly popped into his brain.
“She didn’t make Jessie come on to you, did she?” A cold sweat had broken out over Nicholas’ body. The thought of Jessie climbing all over just anybody, not least of all this guy, made him feel rather nauseous.
A flash of contrition flickered over Peter’s ruddy face, and he shook his head rapidly. “No, no, kid. Despite what Gram might do to her, Jessie’s still got some self-control. She doesn’t go around banging just anybody.”
A surprising wave of relief flooded through Nicholas, making him feel just a touch dizzy. “Thank God.”
“In fact,” Peter continued, “I think Jessie goes out of her way to avoid physical relationships because of Gram.”
“Well, I guess that’s a good thing, isn’t it? So if Gram didn’t push Jessie on to you, what did she do?”
Peter glanced around the diner. The patrons at the surrounding tables were all absorbed in their own meals and conversations.
“Look,” he said, dropping his voice to a low mutter, “I’m only telling you this to try to make you believe. This is between you and me, kid.” He paused and took a deep breath. “The invisible woman gave me a hand job in my cab the other night.”
Of all the things Nicholas had imagined Peter might say, that certainly wasn’t one of them. He held back a bark of disbelieving laughter, mindful of the serious expression on the man’s face.
“You’re kidding… Aren’t you?” Nicholas asked, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline.
Peter gave him a sardonic stare. “Would I make this kind of shit up? If you really want proof, I can pull a Monica Lewinsky—I’ve got the shirt in the hamper. I haven’t made it to the laundromat yet.”
Nicholas’ lips twitched and a chuckle escaped him. Seeing Peter’s cloudy expression, Nicholas held up his hands in a gesture of compliance. “Okay. I believe you. But what does that mean?”
Peter shrugged, his easygoing mask firmly back in place. “It means that Gram was a pretty damned good hooker back in her day. But the point is, she’s the key. If you don’t find out why Gram’s here, there’s no way in hell you can even think of helping Jessie.”
Nicholas scratched his head in confusion. “But how the hell do I get in touch with Gram? I can’t see her or talk to her…” He narrowed his gaze at the doctor. “But you can talk to her, can’t you? Will you do it for me, Peter? Please?”
The doctor appeared to be mulling something over in his head. After a moment, he nodded sharply. “Fine. Realize, though, that I’m doing this for me. Not for you. I’ve got my own agenda to work by, you know.”
“Of course.”
Peter’s gaze narrowed. “Do Marla Garrett and the others know about this rampant skepticism of yours, kid?”
Nicholas swallowed. Time to take a risk and play his cards. “No. No, Peter, the other doctors at New Perceptions don’t know.”
Peter rested his elbows on the tabletop, his long fingers steepled together. “And that woman—the one who took away everything you believed in—how long are you going to let her control you? When are you going to start fighting to get yourself back?”
Dumbstruck, Nicholas fought for speech. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. You’re not being honest with yourself either, kid. And sooner or later that problem’s going to kick you in the ass. Personally, I’m thinking sooner, if you plan to stay at the clinic much longer.”
The words stuck in his throat and he had to cough quietly to loosen them. “You—you won’t tell them, will you? The others at the clinic, I mean.”
Peter looked at him silently, his face expressionless, and for a terrifying moment Nicholas saw his career going up in smoke. Then Peter ended his misery.
“No. If I didn’t have something to gain out of this partnership, I would, but you’re lucky. Believe it or not, I need to help Jessie as much as you do.” Rising, he placed his cap back on his head and pushed the chair back in underneath the table. “But if I were you, I’d think long and hard about what you’ve gotten yourself into. There’s more to this world than meets the eye, and you damned well know it. Sometimes you’ve just got to believe it in order to see it. Thanks for the grub, kid. Stay close to your cell phone. I’ll call you when I know something.”
Nicholas inclined his head. “Will do. And Doctor Murray—thanks.”
With an abrupt nod of his head, Peter turned and exited the diner.
Nicholas watched him go, the knot of tension tightening in his stomach. Far from making him feel better, this meeting had actually compounded the stress. Hurry up and wait. The phrase jumped, unbidden, into his mind. Well, he was waiting all right. Hopefully it wasn’t going to be for too much longer.
* * * * *
The alleyway behind Jessie’s apartment building was narrow and dimly lit. At this late hour, no one seemed to raise any sort of alarm about a taxi parked in the shadows, and for that, Peter was relieved. He grunted softly. What in hell was he doing here? He could be sleepless in the relative comfort of his own bed rather than the front bench of his cab. He stared at the stunted oak trees standing guard over the backyard of the house across the lane, watching the flicker and play of gold-tinged lamplight through the swaying branches.
I know exactly why I’m here, he thought. I wish I didn’t have to be. He drummed his fingers idly on the steering wheel, his racing pulse belying the falsehood.
This is important, he reminded himself. Beyond important. Like, I’m-never-gonna-get-my-life-back-if-I-don’t-do-this important. So suck it up, Murray.
The sound of a throat clearing brought him instantly back to the conversation at hand.
“Peter? Peter, darlin’, you’re not listenin’ to me.”
Peter shook his head quickly, turning his head to look at the figure seated next to him. “Of course I’m listening, Prunella. How could I not?”
Gooseflesh rippled on his arm in the spot where the ghost gave him a playful tap. “You didn’t answer me. I was telling you about the speakeasy in Chicago. Hell, what I would have given to have been alive in the Roaring Twenties. Seems to me that was a time when a girl like me could have had all kinds of fun. I suppose that’s what I got for always wanting to be a good-time girl. I couldn’t help myself, you know, darlin’. I’ve always enjoyed my men and my liquor.”
Peter’s lips quirked into a brief smile. “I’d love to hear more next time, all right? Actually, I came here to see if you could help me out with something.”
Prunella sidled up closer to him, the cool mist that accompanied her chilling his bare arm, but not uncomfortably so. She lay one transparent hand on top of his crotch. “Oh my, yes. I can tell you do have a problem here.” She cackled wickedly. “And you came to see me! Well, hot damn! I just knew old Prunella still had it.”
Peter glanced down at his fly and shivered at the mingled sense of fire tangling with ice, the sensation penetrating each layer of clothing. He let out a strangled laugh as his cock stirred. Did this mean he really was one twisted bastard, or could he write it off as some kind of weird fetish?
“Uh, no, sweetheart, that’s not quite what I meant. Although— Whoa!” As he watched, the tongue of his belt slid back by itself through the buckle until both ends fell apart. The button on his jeans popped open, and his zipper began to struggle downward. Despite himself, he felt his cock harden further.
“Oh hell.”
Helplessly, Peter’s toes began to curl, and he clenched his buttocks in an attempt to maintain some semblance of control. Maybe if he could get her to talk some more, she might forget about this thoroughly freaky blowjob.
“Prunella, doll, listen. That’s not—oh Jesus—that’s not why I wanted to see you. Although,” he backpedaled briefly, remembering belatedly how unwise it could be to anger the non-corporeal, “you’re doing a fantastic job, really, but I needed to ask you some questions.”
The specter continued her ministra
tions, even as her voice came floating clearly to him. “Ask what you’d like, darlin’.”
Peter scrunched his eyes closed and exhaled short puffs of air. Control, man. Control. “Why are you here, Prunella? What’s keeping you with Jessie?”
The bobbing head stilled momentarily, although the feather in Prunella’s headdress continued to bounce in rhythm.
“That’s the one thing I can’t tell you, darlin’.” Prunella sat upright, her expression one of concern tinged with sadness. One hand took up where her mouth had left off. “Much as it pains me to say this, the reasons for my current state of, shall we say, homelessness can’t be revealed. I’m here to help Jessie so that she doesn’t make the same mistake I did. That’s all I can say.”
Peter frowned and clutched the door handle as a random expert stroke caught him off guard. “Uh… Okay, then. But isn’t there anything we can do?”
Prunella’s lips pursed thoughtfully for a moment. “You tell that sexy doctor that it’d serve him well to learn about Jessie’s ancestors. That, and he should think about changing his motto from I’ll believe it when I see it to I’ll see it when I believe it.”
Peter opened his mouth to reply, surprised at Prunella’s echoing of his own words to Nicholas, but Prunella was already at it once again. Feeling the initial tightening in his balls that heralded an orgasm of cross-dimensional proportions, his last coherent thought was, I wonder if the kid would believe this if he saw it…
* * * * *
Nicholas wearily leaned back in his desk chair and allowed his head to loll heavily against the backrest. He closed his eyes, the backlit text from the computer screen etched across his field of vision. Describing himself as exhausted wouldn’t have been even remotely accurate. Cracking one eyelid open, he glanced at the cool green display of the digital clock on his desk. Quarter after ten and he still hadn’t found anything that seemed important. He rehashed Peter Murray’s words in his head.
Something about Jessie’s ancestors that’s important. And some mumbo-jumbo about seeing when I believe…
Dr. Murray had called just as Nicholas had arrived at the office that morning, and he’d relayed the message from Jessie’s ghost. The day’s solidly booked schedule had meant he hadn’t been able to get to the computer until later in the evening, and by the time he’d logged on to the internet from home, Nicholas was acutely aware of every second on the clock ticking by.
Taking a deep breath and an even deeper swallow of warm cola, Nicholas turned his attention back to the screen. At Peter’s suggestion, he’d been surfing for any mention of Prunella Delacroix—Gram’s legal name—but so far hadn’t found anything that might explain her presence here and now. He glanced at the notepad on the desk beside him and ran through the list once more.
Prunella Delacroix
New Orleans—1850s?
Bordello—Madam Mireille’s
He typed a different combination of words into the search engine and skimmed the first page of hits that appeared. No dice. The second page yielded nothing again, but on the third page he found a link to an archive of old society pages from Louisiana newspapers. At the words “society papers” Nicholas perked up. Society papers equated to modern gossip columns, didn’t they? Another link took him to some sort of archive, and a quick skim presented him with yet another subdirectory marked “1850–1855”. He clicked on the folder and groaned at the list of columns that appeared onscreen. This was going to take bloody well forever. He arched his back slightly, stretching tense and tight muscles, and shifted position in the chair before selecting the first item.
Fifteen minutes later, Nicholas silently congratulated himself for striking pay dirt so quickly. The headline of the column read “Prostitution Scandal Shocks Community”. Nicholas skimmed the column, his breath catching with each new paragraph.
The body of Arnold Champlain, 28, son of Councilman Pierre Champlain was discovered Sunday evening at the rear of the family estate by the Champlains’ gardener. The cause of death has been determined to be suicide. A note (transcribed here for the benefit of our readers) was found with the body. It read simply, “Prunella, I adored you more than life itself. Forgive me, darling.”
Further investigation has revealed the identity of the mystery woman, one Prunella Delacroix, 21, of Madam Mireille’s New Orleans establishment. A source has revealed a secret, longtime love affair between Miss Delacroix and Mr. Champlain—one that Miss Delacroix had, as this reporter has learned, recently summarily dismissed…
Nicholas frowned, a niggling sensation in the back of his head. This was important. His gut was telling him it had to be. Hot damn! So Peter had been on to something after all! Now he just—
“I really did love him, you know.”
The voice in his ear sent Nicholas toppling sideways, ass over teakettle, and he landed solidly on his hip with a bruising thud. Scrambling backward, crashing into the small teak bookshelf against the wall, he gaped at the cloud of filmy white mist that hung directly in the air right beside where his desk chair had been. Encouraged by the rattling of the bookcase, an unstable picture frame fell, landing squarely on Nicholas’ head. Stars exploded painfully in his field of vision and he blinked rapidly to dispel them. Astonished, the pain instantly forgotten, he watched as the mist began to swirl and coalesce, the outline of a female figure becoming clearer and more distinct until an elderly woman, still transparent but fully in focus and wearing some sort of old-fashioned costume, sat on his work surface, her expression sorrowful.
Heart thumping as though it might crash through his rib cage, Nicholas attempted to force his jaw to move.
“Wh-wh-who—Prunella? You’re not—are you…Jessie’s ghost?”
“If I’m not, it’d be quite the coincidence, me showing up here right at this moment. Wouldn’t it, darlin’?”
Nicholas’ eyes watered, but he refused to blink, lest the apparition vanish in that instant.
“Jesus Christ in a taxicab.” Nicholas exhaled softly, unable to believe the image in front of his eyes.
Gram’s lips quirked up in a smirk. “There’s only one taxicab I know, darlin’, and it ain’t the Good Lord driving it.”
“But it’s really…you?” Nicholas wondered idly if he’d fallen asleep on his desk—that would be one explanation for this insanity.
Frowning again, Gram studied him as though examining an insect through a magnifying glass.
“A little slow on the uptake, I see. But at least the good looks make up for some of that. She could do worse.”
Nicholas shook his head quickly in an attempt to clear it. “What? What are you talking about?”
She hadn’t moved. Nicholas would have sworn on a stack of any sacred texts on the planet that he had not seen her move. And neither had he, for that matter. But that didn’t explain why Gram’s face was now a mere six inches away from his own. He barely managed to avoid letting out a yelp.
“I’m sorry to do this to you, darlin’, but this conversation will never get anywhere. And you’ve got someplace to be real soon.” Reaching up, Gram grasped Nicholas’ face in her hands.
This time, the cry did escape his lips as a searing sensation that was both hot and cold stung and burned his cheeks. A lightning strike of ice shot simultaneously through the top of his head and the soles of his feet. When Nicholas thought he might not be able to withstand the sensation any longer, it stopped. Trembling, he gaped at the apparition.
“Do you believe now, darlin’?” Gram’s voice was quiet, repentant.
It took a couple of tries, but finally Nicholas was able to force the words out of his throat. “I didn’t believe her. But you’re real. You are. Are there others out there like you? Why can’t we all see you? What—” his voice trailed off as childhood memories assaulted him. “Why did she do that to me?” he muttered.
“Your Grand-mère, you mean? I don’t rightly know, darlin’, but it wasn’t fair of her to try to dictate what you should or shouldn’t believe in.”
Nicholas’ head began to throb. “Then the house I grew up in—her house—it really was haunted, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, darlin’. She refused to acknowledge anything that wasn’t real and tangible. Might’ve been due to all that mental illness on her papa’s side of the family, but I can’t say for sure. I am sure that browbeating your openmindedness out of you was wrong. I’m just truly glad you found your way back. Even if I did have to help you out the rest of the way.”
A wave of dizziness spun Nicholas’ head around, and he grasped at any thought he could to stay afloat. “But did—”
Gram shushed him with a wave of one bony hand. “Nicholas. As much as I’d love to answer your questions, darlin’, we don’t have a whole lot of time.”
Nicholas frowned. “What do you mean, we don’t have time?” His gaze flickered quickly back to the computer monitor. “The newspaper column. It is about you, isn’t it? What happened there, Prunella? You said something earlier—”
“I said I really did love him. My darlin’ Arnold. And yet I pushed him away. We were going to be married, you know. I was going to quit Madam Mireille’s, and Arnold was going to take care of me.” Gram’s expression became sorrowful again. “And then some of the other girls in the bordello started saying that Arnold had no intention of marrying a whore like me.”
“But why would you believe them?”
“Because Arnold kept delaying the wedding. I thought of all sorts of excuses why he might be doing that, each one worse than the last. Finally, he disappeared for a month, without any sort of by-your-leave. Everyone said that he’d gone off and married society girl Cecily Whitfield, the daughter of a plantation owner from Georgia. And each time I asked after him, I was told he was at Whitfield Plantation. Everyone said he only came to see me for the sex—that his heart was with Cecily. After a while, with no word from Arnold, I began to believe them.
“So even though it killed me to do so, after that month, I arranged to have word sent to him that I’d married someone else—one of my regular boys who was fond of me and who would swear to secrecy on the matter.”