Out Of The Dark

by Phaedra Weldon

  "I fixed it," she said.

  I felt a little apprehensive.

  "Fixed what?" Rhonda said.

  Thank you, Rhonda.

  "We're not going to mention the boy in the bathroom, are we?" Mom looked at me and then at Rhonda. Rhonda gave her a very good shrug and continued to look at the computer.

  I pulled up my board. WHY? NOT THAT I CARE.

  Nona went back to her chair and sat down before retrieving her biscuit from the sliding table. She slathered some butter on it--even though she'd already done that. Double butter.

  Something was bothering her.

  I stood and moved closer. She looked up at me and I held out my hands, palms out in a look of WTF?

  "Well, apparently the young lady you saw in the bathroom with this bartender is the Chief of Surgery's granddaughter."

  Oh.

  Blink.

  OH!

  Mom took a bite of the biscuit and chewed. I waited. I knew there was more. Mom was taking a dramatic license with this.

  "And apparently he didn't pass out because of you, but because he was terrified her grandfather would find out."

  "So?" Rhonda said. "I don't think the Chief of Surgery could actually have him fired, could he? I'm not savvy on hospital hierarchy."

  "I'm not sure it's his job he's worried about. Tiarra said it was his life he was more concerned for. Even Tiarra seemed a little--distraught. Apparently the Chief of Surgery has a reputation of being cursed."

  Cursed?

  Mom shrugged. "Well she said he was a magician but I say it's cursed."

  I got the sudden image of guy in scrubs and a mask, wielding a blood covered scalpel and pulling bloody bunnies out of a top hat.

  Ew. What the hell is wrong with me?

  "I'm thinking you don't mean like, stage magician?" Rhonda clarified.

  "No, not hardly." Nona set the biscuit down and looked at me. "And since Tiarra didn't actually see Nancy in the bathroom--just you--and as long as you keep your mouth--well--you don't write it down anywhere," she shrugged. "He'll never have to know."

  I looked at Rhonda. She looked at me. Then we both bore our gazes into mom. "Nona," Rhonda said since she had the voice but we were thinking as one. "Why'd you blow right past the part about him being a magician? You care to elaborate on what exactly that means?"

  But Nona was already packing up the picnic basket. I grabbed up the board and scribbled before shoving the board in her face.

  CHICKEN SHIT.

  "Nona," Rhonda said in a very calm voice. "I'll just go consult the Big Book once we get home. What do you mean by magician--because I get the feeling this isn't the usual Houdini routine."

  Nona looked from me, to Rhonda, and back to me. I think she used her really good 'I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too' stare on me. "The word Magician was at one time, a basic generic term for magic worker. Or Magi. A term of respect."

  "You got this out of the book," Rhonda looked excited. "I read this. But over the centuries it sort of de-vovled."

  Nona nodded.

  I continued to look confused.

  Rhonda looked at me with a look that said I'll use small words. "Think about the word Xerox. You think of copiers, right? But Xerox is a brand--hell it's a whole corporation. And because it was so synonymous with copier, people started using it generically. Instead of making a copy of something, you say I'll xerox this."

  Okay...I got it.

  "Xerox mounted a huge campaign to stop the generification of their name. If it became a common term, they'd lose the use of it. It would be diluted."

  I pursed my lips. Was genericfication a real word? I doubted it. But I nodded, yeah I got it. Magician got turned into a generic term.

  "In the past decade or so the term magician died away, pretty much tumbled back to mean stage magician, which indicates a trickster. Or say, a false individual."

  I thought that one came really far out of the hat and I was ready to go with it. Sure.

  Nona took up the lesson. "One of the uses of magicians, especially here in the South, is a conjurer, or one who refutes or creates hexes." She shrugged. "And the Chief of Surgery here at the hospital has that reputation. Though apparently not all the staff believe it--there was apparently some sort of soirée at his house a few months ago and everyone that attended has disappeared. No one wants to get on his bad side."

  Rhonda frowned and shifted her weight in the chair, the iBook still resting on her knees. "So anyone that's ever made him mad--"

  "Vanished," Nona reached into the basket and pulled out a plastic half-pint milk jug. "Tea?"

  <><><>

  I drove back to Mom's behind the two of them, with Mom at the wheel of her antique Volvo, Elizabeth. I'd recently gotten that car impounded, after having left it at the bank behind Story Teller Park.

  Long story, build a bridge.

  I had a car again. A rental POS. First off, the heat didn't work, the right door wouldn't open and the driver's door didn't have a working door handle on the inside. I had to roll the window down and open the door from the outside to get in and out.

  I was waiting on the insurance to replace my Mustang. But I wasn't holding my breath. It was Christmas, and there wasn't anything getting done very quickly. Period.

  It was cold. It was rainy. And I was just--depressed. Once back at the Tea and Botanica, Nona went to the kitchen while I started a fire and Rhonda set up her computer and mine in the Botanica where the fireplace was.

  A stone dragon glared down at me from the mantel. A Soul Cage. I stuck my tongue out at it. I'd spent a little time in that thing, so I had a real special kinda hatred for it. Foul beast.

  After the fire came to life, Rhonda announced there were about fifty emails again!

  When Nona brought in three cups of tea that smelled of oranges and spice and settled down in her usual straight back chair, I pulled my dry erase board from Rhonda's backpack and scribbled on it.

  YOU KNOW THIS SURGERY GUY?

  Mom nodded. "I have heard of him. But only on the news and not because of any magical relationship." She sipped tea and looked at me. "He's going to trial for murder in a week. His wife mysteriously disappeared a few months ago--and then another girl disappeared. They found remains near his house and though no one’s positively I.D.’d the body--suspicion is that it’s the wife. The D.A. apparently smells a way to gain public support, so he’s reopening the dead wife's case."

  To me it didn’t really make this guy guilty.

  "Oh yeah," Tim said as he appeared near the fireplace. Steve also made a showing, seated in the matching wicker chair beside Nona. "She was a bar and restaurant owner, wasn't she? His wife?"

  Nona nodded.

  Rhonda and I looked at each other. She looked back at the computer and then said, "She own just one?"

  "Yeah," Tim said. "Real nice place, up in Roswell. Sitting in the square. It used to be a funeral parlor at one time, and a general store during the Civil War. The restaurant's said to be haunted with little Shadow People."

  The dead wife of a spooky chief of surgery owns a restaurant with Shadow People? Oh say it ain't so. I could see this coming a mile away.

  So could Rhonda as she glanced down at the screen. "And the name of this restaurant?"

  "The Livery Bar and Restaurant," Tim said. "Steve took me there for our second anniversary. You can have drinks and deserts in the bar upstairs and there's usually live music."

  I heard the email package ding on my computer.

  I waited patiently for Rhonda to acknowledge what I already knew. This was the same restaurant with the Shadow People I'd gotten the email from today. She read something and looked up at me. "Yeah, same restaurant."

  This wasn't a coincidence.

  "And it gets worse." Rhonda glanced down. "I just heard back from the restaurant's bartender. Said Maureen Lafferty was one of the now missing girls--that would put it a week before she sent that client request to us about the Shadow People."

  Non
a was looking from me to Rhonda. "What Shadow People? Is this a band?"

  Mental note: Mother--

  "And the bartender's name is Darren "Dags" McConnell."

  --Guppy.

  *****

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mornings suck.

  And let me say that again with emphasis. Mornings suck. Not so much mornings at Mom's house. Those I wake up to the smells of bacon, eggs, buttery biscuits (mmmmmmm), fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee.

  Just mornings in general--especially the ones where I'm not at the hospital and expected to do something I really didn't want to do. I did not want to look for Shadow People, mean people or even imaginary people. So I lay there in the bed with the missing-head-Mary and the over-stuffed bear in the chair with the pillow over my head.

  You know how hard it is to try and ignore bacon and eggs? Unless you're a vegetarian, it's next to impossible.

  Especially when your friend/manager/magical MacGyver shows up with hot chocolate.

  "Oh, come on, Zoë," she finally said after I kept the pillow tight over my head. "The restaurant doesn't open for another four hours. If you don't get in there now you'll miss your opportunity."

  No.

  "Chicken shit."

  Bock. Bock.

  "Zo-eeeeeeeee."

  Wow. She whines better than me.

  "Wow--she's not so tough looking from this angle."

  Blink.

  Wait. Hold the phone. That wasn't Rhonda's voice. That was a man's voice.

  MAN!! In my room!!

  I spun around on the bed--and let me tell you, John Woo would have been proud 'cause I nearly came up off the bed in slow motion as I turned--and landed with my elbows behind me to see Dags McConnell standing just behind Rhonda.

  I was suddenly very glad I'd gone to sleep in my plaid loungers and not commando. I mean--a few seconds ago I'd had my bare ass in Rhonda's face with my head buried, ostridge style.

  Wait--is that how you spell that?

  Looks weird.

  Rhonda had her arms crossed over her chest. She also had her hair back in a pony-tail and wore dark jeans (duh) and a black sweater with a high collar. Looked kinda fuzzy and soft.

  I reached out to touch it.

  She pulled back--and not from anger--but from actual fear.

  We both realized what had just happened at the same time and looked at each other. She'd been afraid I would suck on her soul again--and all I'd wanted was to touch the fuzzy.

  "Zoë--I--"

  I shook my head and waved my hand, hoping she caught the It's all right I meant in the gesture. Man, being voiceless sucked. Because at that moment Mr. Bartender-man was over near the big bear and bent over it, his hand reaching out to my dry-erase board I'd propped there before turning in.

  I pointed to him and glared at Rhonda with my eyebrows up. Why is he here? I demanded with my eyes.

  "Nona," Rhonda said.

  Okay. That explained a whole lot. Well--not really. I knitted by eyebrows together and made the very obvious, universal gesture for what the hell for?

  Mr. Bartender-man was back at the bed. "Your mom left a message on my voice-mail. She was apologizing for you--for what happened--"

  I pursed my lips at him. Rhonda moved past him and grabbed my board. She tossed it at me and I caught it one-handed. Not on purpose, but it looked cool. I scribbled on it.

  APOLOGIZE 4 WHAT? UR THE PERV

  He looked down. His hair wasn't in a pony-tail today and was loose about his shoulders. He was dressed in a black leather pea-coat and jeans, a silver bracelet on his left wrist. "I explained to her that it wasn't your fault. We didn't exactly have the stall locked."

  "Did you realize who you were shagging in the bathroom?" Rhonda piped up.

  "I knew about her grandfather, yeah. But that's what I'm paid to do--dig up intel on what I refer to as the unconventional conventional."

  Rhonda and I looked at each other and she looked back at him with the biggest, dumbest grin I'd ever seen on her face. Oh good grief. Was that a crush I saw coming? "We thought you were a bartender and part-time orderly."

  "That too," he looked at me. "I honestly thought you were dead. That's a very--unusual--ability you have there. You always had it?"

  Erase. Scribble. LONG STORY. NEVERMIND.

  Rhonda spoke up. "Have you always had the ability to see spirits? I mean, you saw Zoë at the bar that day, right?"

  He looked at me and then back to Rhonda. I wasn't sure if he was excited or frightened. His eyes looked darker though--I could have sworn they were gray? "I saw her the moment she came in. I also knew Daniel couldn't see her. He comes in once or twice a week, has a coffee or a beer. We talk. Normal stuff, really. I was working at the bar because of a report of ghosts," he smiled. "I thought Zoë was that ghost until I realized she was paying close attention to the cop. And then I realized she came in with him."

  I erased and scribbled. WHY R U AT HOSPITAL?

  "I was hired to keep an eye on the Chief of Surgery, Dr. Allard Bonville."

  I erased my board and scribbled. BY WHO?

  "You mean whom?"

  Scribble. ASS WIPE.

  He smiled, undeterred. And then he shrugged. "I don't know. I get all my freelance work through a secured site I set up a few months back when I moved here from Savannah."

  Rhonda looked back at me again and then took a step toward him. "You set up a secured ftp for jobs? How did you do that? Did you use standard applications or was this something you wrote on your own? How do your clients contact you--or how do they pay you?"

  He grinned. "Well, first off I don't use FTP, I use MTP, which is Managed File Transfers. I first learned about it through a company called Communication Commerce, and then I learned they were part of a larger conglomerate and I like bailed as fast as I could. But I set up my own secured server using the MTP transfers and then I have my own secure bulletin board."

  It was about that minute my brain tuned out. It was pretty sure it wouldn't understand any of what was said, much of it becoming the standard Charlie Brown adult speak of "wonk, wonk, wonk-wonk" and well--

  But I did watch them for a few seconds. They were almost exactly the same height, their hair was close in color, though Rhonda's had the matt-black look of a spray painted car. His was shiny and healthy. They were both kinda gothy-emo-techno-babbly.

  Hum. Was she crushing?

  Not if I could help it. Did not want my best friend involved with some bathroom-stall-romance-guy. Even if he could see ghosts.

  Grrrr.

  No one noticed as I slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom. I turned the hot on full-blast and turned to face some pale, strange woman in the mirror.

  Gee-zus. I had really let myself go. It was one thing if Daniel saw me like this--I mean--he'd already seen me at some of my worst moments. Even with my teeth un-brushed.

  But some strange man with a ponytail had seen me like this.

  Hell--the whole hospital had.

  Now I was feeling oogie about me. My hair looked absolutely like black straw. Even the damned white stripe that wouldn't go away looked like old lady's hair. My skin was blotchy, and not the smooth olive tone I was used to seeing.

  Half moons hung beneath my eyes. I could see my cheek-bones. And maybe three months ago I would have liked the obvious drop in weight--but not at that moment. I leaned into the mirror and looked closely at myself.

  It was like--

  Well, it was like I was loosing some vital nutrient. Kinda like a plant looks when it doesn't get sun or water.

  Water. Shower maybe?

  Mental Note: need spa treatment. Check cash flow.

  After the shower I looked more like a big wet piece of straw. Wrapped in a bathrobe (the big blue fuzzy one I'd bought myself a few weeks ago), I peeked into my bedroom. Rhonda and Dags weren't there.

  Hunh.

  I moved to the edge of the stairs and listened. I could hear mom, Rhonda, Dags and--

  Holy moly. Mrs. Jemm
y Shultz was downstairs too. They were having a pow-wow without me!

  My stomach took that moment to growl.

  Loudly.

  "Zoë--stop playing spook and get down here and eat!" Mom yelled up at me.

  It really sucks that even at my age my mom can STILL embarrass me. I toweled my hair, braided it, and dressed casually in a black long-sleeve tee-shirt with Kevin Barry's logo (they have the best Irish Coffee evah on River Street in Savannah) on the back and a pair of comfy jeans.

  Once down the stairs with my board I saw that everyone was huddled around one of the tables in the tea-shop, the Great Big Book of Everything in the center. Tim and Steve were even there.

  Mom motioned me to a chair beside her and had a plate all ready. Coffee. Creamer and whip cream already in and on top. Yummy. Whipped cream. And then she handed me my testing kit.

  Smart ass.

  As I opened the zippered pouch the conversation continued.

  "--assigned to the same floor," Dags said. "Which is also part of the reason I was being nice to Nancy because she has a bit of influence on scheduling--because of her grandfather. I've known the detective for some time. So even while I was spying on Nancy's grandfather, I've been periodically checking in on Detective Frasier."

  Dags sipped his coffee. "But I would like to know exactly how he got into the condition he's in. I suspect it's due to unnatural circumstances."

  Ah! Ninety-three. That was a decent morning sugar count. I shoved the read-out in mom's face. That's when I realized everyone was looking at me. I did the equivalent to a voiced-person's "What?"

  I held my arms out, elbow bent and shrugged. Eyebrows high on my forehead. I hate my forehead. Too high.

  "Zoë," Mom grabbed my wrist, the one with the monitor stuck in her face and read the display down her nose. Then she smiled at me and nodded. "That's nice, but I think it's time you shared the circumstances of Daniel's injuries with Dags."

  I lowered my hand with a pout. I thought it was a good enough score to at least warrant an attagirl or something. I turned my morning irritation on Bartender-Boy. Can you hear me? I actually threw my thoughts at him like a dart at a corkboard.