Forbidden Highway (Peri Jean Mace Ghost Thrillers Book 5)

by Catie Rhodes

  Nothing had changed since my last visit. The door to the dilapidated cabin hung open, just the way I left it. I hoisted myself inside and sat on the plank floor.

  I closed my eyes and cleared my mind. From somewhere nearby came the sound of small feet scurrying. Probably rats. I tightened at the thought of one of the nasty little beasts biting me. One deep breath in. I let the rats go. Slow breath out. I let go of the world around me. Another breath in. The black opal heated on my chest. Long breath out. I reached out to Priscilla Herrera.

  I’m ready to accept your mantle. I pushed the thought out into the spirit world, imagining Priscilla Herrera as a way of directing it. My mind and body grew still. I sent the message again. And again.

  A raven cawed from somewhere outside. Maybe this is it. I got to my feet and stood in the open cabin door. A raven perched on the fallen log where I’d bonked my head a few days earlier.

  “Rack-rack-rack,” it said.

  I hopped out of the cabin and took a step toward the raven. It faded and disappeared.

  Several more minutes passed. Nothing else happened.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I yelled. “This is what you wanted.”

  I waited for thunder to clap, for lightning to flash down. The only sound in the clearing was the whisper of the wind in the pines, and the rough disturbance of bird wings flapping. I looked for the bird but saw nothing.

  “Fine then.” I stomped back out to my car and got inside, slamming the door way harder than necessary. I cranked the engine and drove with no idea where to go or how to make things work.

  GASLIGHT CITY’S LONE DAIRY QUEEN sat in an area populated mostly with new businesses. Separated from the old downtown by Piney Hill Cemetery and a copse of mature forest, the stretch housed strip malls, storage units, and fast food franchises. Dairy Queen, which came to town when I was in grade school, outdated them all.

  I parked in the parking lot and sat in the car, chain smoking. Golden-hued memories of Memaw and I coming here after Sunday night church and eating banana splits led me to DQ. Now, the idea of an ice cream cone turned my stomach.

  How could I eat ice cream when Michael Gage had my best friend hidden away somewhere, doing awful things to her. Her scream echoed in my memory. No matter what I did, or how I did it, it was too little, too late.

  I doubled up one fist and hit it against my thigh. The pain welled up but not as much as I thought I deserved. I did it again, harder. I grunted with the impact, but the pain faded after a few seconds. I wound up for the third one, but a car with two teenagers in it pulled in next to me, blasting awful music.

  The boy waited for the girl on the sidewalk, speaking loudly enough for me to hear him clearly in the Nova. “I can’t believe you didn’t want to stop and watch the protest.”

  I loosened my fist and paid closer attention.

  “They’re calling that woman a Satanist, and she isn’t.” The girl, stringy blonde hair tucked behind one ear, was so busy tapping on her cellphone she barely glanced at her companion.

  “That shop’s weird. Full of witchy stuff.” The boy waited while the girl finished whatever she was doing on her cellphone. She shoved it in her pocket, and they strolled into the Dairy Queen, arms around each other’s waists.

  I forgot about beating my legs up and mulled over the teenagers’ conversation. I only knew one shop some might consider full of witchy stuff. Enchantment Emporium. The shop opened last week. Wade mentioned he’d gone inside and looked around. He called the selection impressive, if one knew what to ask for. I left the Dairy Queen and drove past the shopping center where Enchanted Emporium was.

  People milled out front of the strip mall. Didn’t look like much of a protest to me. Then I saw the first sign. The person carrying it pumped it up and down like they’d invented some kind of new boogie-woogie. I couldn’t make out all the words on the sign, but I saw SATAN. I let off the accelerator so I could get a good look at the action.

  The store owner, a thin woman maybe ten years my senior, stood on the sidewalk in front of her store, one arm across her middle and one hand over her mouth. Ex-sheriff Joey Holze stood a foot from her, hollering in her face.

  For some reason, seeing Joey Holze all red faced and shouting, jowls flapping, felt like the culmination of everything awful in my life. Those protesters, in my mind, represented the lynch mob who hanged Priscilla Herrera. They represented Michael Gage singling me out and treating me like I was his own personal cash cow. Bullies, all of them. Someone needed to stop them.

  I drove on past the strip mall, pulled into the self-serve car wash next to it, and turned off the Nova. In the quiet, the shouts of the protests wormed their way inside my car, opening up old wounds and rubbing new raw places. Rage, my old friend, spread its thick tendrils and stretched the way a cat will, sinuous and unhurried. It crowded out any sensible thoughts and left behind a simmering pit of acid.

  I twisted the heavy silver rings the Six Guns gave me on my fingers so the rough edges would face outward and put a roll of quarters in each pocket. If I was going to go down fighting, I wanted to do all the damage I could. I climbed out of the Nova and jumped the drainage ditch separating the two businesses.

  The unmarked doors at the back of building didn’t offer much hint to which one belonged to Enchantment Emporium. I tried them all. The third knob turned, and I stuck my head inside. The sound of a woman sobbing came from the front of the store. Must be the right place. I walked inside.

  Unpacked boxes with the manufacturer’s labels still attached filled the tiny storeroom. Light from the shop filtered through long strands of beads hanging over a doorway. I followed the sound of the sobs, brushing the beads out of my face. A baseball bat arced toward my face. I raised one hand and caught it. My silver rings clunked against it, and the impact jarred me down to the soles of my shoes. I let go of the bat and rubbed my hand on my jeans.

  “Hold on now,” I said.

  “You may have the right to assemble outside my shop and protest my very existence, but you do not have the right to come in here.” Enchantment Emporium’s owner wasn’t ten years my senior. We were probably within two years of the same age. The anxiety on her face created worry lines and a listlessness that aged her far more than years alone could have.

  “I’m not a protester.” Standing in front of this woman, I found no words to express why I wanted to help her, and I had no clue how to do it. “I saw you were having trouble, so—”

  “You thought you’d sneak in the back door?” She bared her teeth, turning her otherwise pleasant face into something feral. “Do you know how many people have come in my back door since I’ve been open? Do you know how many of my former customers are outside right now? What’s wrong with the people in this town?”

  “I dunno. They hate me too.” I crossed my arms over my chest and stared out the plate glass window at the red, contorted faces, and the hateful signs.

  Up close, I could read them. The words on the signs made me embarrassed to share humanity with these dolts. They bore intelligent slogans like “Satanists Get Out” and “God Said Burn The Witches.” My personal favorite was “New Age really means New SATAN.” This must have been the sign I saw from across the street.

  The shop’s owner put her hands over her face and let out a few dry sobs.

  “Won’t help to cry now.” I racked my brain for a plan. “We gotta fight ‘em. Make ‘em see they can’t do you this way.”

  Outside, Joey Holze led a chant, which included the words “Burn, witch, burn.”

  “The chubby guy with the cane and the comb-over. Is he their ringleader?” I pointed at Joey through the plate glass.

  “Him and two women. One of them is old enough to be his wife. The other one’s probably his daughter.”

  “She’s his daughter-in-law.” I gazed out at the mob, watching the pulse of their signs, the fervor in their faces. I didn’t see Felicia yet but had faith she’d put double the ugly into this experience.

  A w
ave of cold wafted through the little shop, tearing my attention from the window. The smell of White Shoulders filled my senses. I glanced around to see who had joined us. The ghost I saw gave me an idea how to throw a shit sandwich into the works. I took out my cellphone and copied a number from my contacts onto a slip of paper next to the cash register.

  “Call this number. Tell the guy who you are, where we are, and tell him a demonstration at your place of business has gotten out of hand. Tell him Peri Jean Mace is outside confronting them.”

  “But I’ve called the sheriff’s office about this. The woman who answered the phone told me—”

  “If you want my help, do what I’ve told you. Nod if you understand.”

  The woman nodded and closed the distance between us. “I’m Jessica Wilcox. Thanks for helping me.”

  I gave her hand quick squeeze and went out the front door. The hate hit me like a hot wave out of the oven.

  Felicia Brent Fisher Holze stood on the other side of her father-in-law. She tapped him and motioned to me. Joey spun to face me.

  “There she is,” someone screamed.

  “Naw. It’s just Peri Jean Mace,” someone else answered.

  “This proves my point, ladies and gentlemen,” a voice said over a megaphone. “We’ve got one witch supporting another witch.” I squinted into the daylight until I spotted Sheriff Joey’s wife, Carly, standing in the bed of someone’s truck. I climbed onto the hood of someone’s car so we could see each other good, kicking at the hands trying to pull me off.

  “Carly, you are just the person I wanted to talk to about all this.”

  “You can call me Mrs. Holze,” she boomed back.

  “Okay, Mrs. Holze. Your mother is real upset you’re showing your ass in public like this.”

  “Don’t you talk about my mother. You don’t know anything about me or my family.” She tried the voice she always used in the hallways at school when she was a principal who hated me, and I was a lonely kid nobody liked.

  “Maybe not. But I do know your mother is here, and boy is she embarrassed.”

  “You’re lying.” Her gaze darted around, searching the faces of the mob for support. A few of them yelled insults at me. “Some people in this town think you’ve got magical power, but I know the truth.”

  “What’s the truth?” I yelled back.

  “That you’re a lonely little girl trapped in a woman’s body looking for attention any way she can get it.”

  Her words stung, and I wanted to curl up to protect myself from further stings, especially when the hoots and catcalls started up. But I glanced again at the ghost who’d followed me out of the shop, the one from whom disappointment radiated like a neon sign. Even with the black opal hanging around my neck, I only caught snatches of the ghost’s words, but I had enough sense to fill in the blanks.

  Didn’t teach her this. Supposed to love others. Her daddy always knew things.

  “Your mother has a message for you.” My vocal cords smarted from all the yelling. I cleared my throat.

  “I don’t believe you can see her or any other ghost.” The color drained out of Carly’s face, leaving only clown spots of blush and a slash of orange lipstick.

  “Was your mother buried in a blue suit with really small dots on it? With a pearl brooch at the neck?”

  Carly’s mouth fell open. The megaphone hung at her side. This was my chance. I’d have to talk fast.

  “Your mother said she didn’t raise you to treat other people this way. She said your daddy always knew things. Does she mean the future? Or did he commune with the dead like me?”

  Carly dropped the megaphone. Without giving me or anybody else in the crowd a single glance, she climbed out of the back of the truck and got in the cab. A few seconds later the engine turned over. Carly laid on the horn, and protesters parted like the Red Sea. She blasted out of the parking lot, squalling the tires. I searched out her husband in the crowd and found him standing gape mouthed.

  Myrtle Gaudet, whom I’d last seen hurrying out of the museum to spread the gossip of Hannah’s disappearance, pushed her way out of the crowd.

  “I bet she had something to do with Hannah Kessler’s kidnapping.” She pointed one stubby finger at me. The ghost standing next to her, the little girl wearing the pinafore and fingering her blonde ringlets, the one who had one side of her head caved in, told me all I needed to know.

  “The same way you left Rose Ellen Schmidt to die by herself after she fell out of the tree house when y’all were—”

  “Shut up!” Myrtle screamed. “You’re evil. She was already—I didn’t leave—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You sure you didn’t push Rose?” The more I listened to the ghosts, really listened, the easier hearing them got. “She says she didn’t think she was off balance, but you were arguing and—”

  Myrtle clapped her hands over her hears. “Make her stop.”

  Felicia left her father-in-law’s side and stormed toward me. I braced myself for her verbal assault, but she surprised me. Moving faster than her sedentary softness implied her capable, she lashed out one arm and grabbed my ankle, yanking me off balance. I went down hard on my ass. My teeth snapped together and lacerated my tongue. I reared back my foot and slammed it into her chest. She went down on her ass, and I scrambled to my feet.

  “Is there anybody else who wants to act like their shit don’t stink?” My voice echoed over the parking lot. The air crackled with energy. At the back of the crowd I spotted a familiar, square-jawed face. Priscilla Herrera wore a huge, floppy hat and a Victorian era dress. She tipped a nod at me, and winked.

  I stiffened, and all the spit in my mouth dried up. What’s she up to? She can make this a thousand times worse in about three seconds.

  Her voice filled my head. To accept my gift, little witch, prove yourself.

  This wasn’t a thousand times worse. It was six thousand times worse. How would I ever please Priscilla Herrera? I wouldn’t. Gage would kill Hannah, and that would be that. Why didn’t I just throw myself into this crowd of assholes and die fighting?

  The blip of a siren nearby jerked my gaze off my dead ancestor. A sheriff’s cruiser pulled into the parking lot. I spotted Dean inside. He put it in park, opened the door, and stood up.

  “Every last one of you needs to go home and let this business owner get to work.” His voice carried over the noise of the mob.

  “We got a right to peaceable assembly, you twit,” Felicia screamed at Dean.

  “Don’t push me, Miz Holze.” Dean’s voice barely raised.

  Felicia turned the color of beets. “Peri Jean kicked me.”

  “Go home. Now.” Dean’s lips thinned and he raised one finger to point at her.

  Mouth hanging open, Felicia scampered to stand next to her husband.

  People scattered like a rack of balls on a pool table. Most went to their cars and left. A small group stood off to my right, staring at me with a mix of curiosity and embarrassment. I climbed off the car and put distance between them and me. A rough hand grabbed my arm. I let out a little yelp.

  “You and me ain’t done, Miz Peri Jean. Not by a long damn shot.” Joey’s breath smelled like hot garbage. The hate glowing in his eyes made my heart skitter away in fear.

  “Mr. Holze?” Dean appeared at my side, his hand on his belt. “Don’t touch her. It’ll save us both a lot of trouble.”

  Joey dropped my arm and stormed off. Felicia stomped along behind him. Joey’s son, Scott, lumbered behind them, red faced and stoop shouldered.

  “You found Hannah yet?” I approached Dean.

  “Feds have taken over the investigation. They don’t want a local sheriff involved.” He walked to his car and turned back to me. “You don’t need to be wandering around alone. Find someone to stay with you until we get this settled.” He got into his car and shut the door.

  “Peri Jean?” A woman from the crowd of lookie-loos approached me. I tried to remember her name and couldn’t. She
’d been several years ahead of me in school. “Can you contact my brother, Colby? He got killed in Afghanistan several years ago. Remember?”

  My head spun in confusion. How had I gone from almost getting my ass kicked to someone wanting me to contact the dead for them? I didn’t want to spend valuable time farting around with this woman.

  “I’d pay you.” Her fingers tightened on her leather purse.

  “I—uh—okay.” I nodded.

  “I have a room set aside for séances.” Jessica Wilcox stood at the door of her shop. “I take credit cards.”

  A rumble went through the small group of people. The woman who’d asked me to contact her brother Colby walked into Enchantment Emporium, head down. I followed.

  11

  A half-hour later, I emerged from Enchantment Emporium’s séance room, Faith Minton on my heels. She went straight for the glass counter and handed her credit card to Jessica Wilcox. The price Jessica quoted for my services made me do a double take. I pretended interest in a rack of books to cover it.

  “Thank you, Peri Jean.” Faith came to stand next to me. “I had so many questions about Colby’s passing. It feels good to know what really happened.”

  I still felt sick to my stomach. Colby had been captured by the enemy and had his head hacked off with a machete. Bad way to go. He revealed the existence of a child he’d fathered and gave Faith enough information to contact the mother. I managed to give Faith a nod. “Thanks for the business.”

  She gave me a B.O.-scented hug and left the shop.

  Jessica rang up a sale on the cash register and held out several bills to me. “Your cut.”

  I hesitated in front of the register. Doing paranormal investigations for Mysti Whitebyrd and Griffin Reed out of town was one thing. Shitting where I ate, so to speak, was quite another. A cold hand pressed the center of my back, pushing me forward. I knew the feel of that hand by now and didn’t have to turn to see Priscilla Herrera behind me, that proud haughtiness burning in her dark eyes.