by J. B. Lynn
"An on the job accident," I said dismissively, hurrying toward the Mary Clark Women and Childrens' Outreach Center. "Are they here yet?"
He stepped into my path.
"Really," I said. "It happened at work." I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping it wasn't also a sin to tell a half-truth.
"You know if you have a problem you can talk to me, Vicky."
"Of course." But I couldn't. The irony that I'd met this spiritual advisor because of a ghost was never lost on me. A few times over the past three years I'd been tempted to confess my secret to him, but I wasn't sure that even he, a man of faith, would be able to believe me. I sighed. "I promise, Father, I've learned from my mistakes. This," I pointed to my eye, "really did happen at work."
Nodding, he said, "Time to get to work."
Together we walked into the center. At least once a week, I covered a shift of the center's hotline that provided counseling and shelter to abused women and children. The center had saved Mary Clark's daughter, Chloe, from her abusive husband. Unfortunately Chloe had died a few years later, a victim of a car accident, but Mary had not forgotten what Father Acevedo and the center had done for her only child. That was why she'd been so determined that I bring her Last Will and Testament to him.
It hadn't been too difficult for the handsome Father to convince me to volunteer.
"With all the death you encounter every day," he'd said. "Wouldn't you like to do something life-affirming in your spare time?"
I'd let him think that it was his argument that had convinced me to lend a helping hand…or in my case, ear, but I had my own reasons for wanting to help.
* * *
Hours later the man born with a mysterious birth name was sitting on the steps of the frat boy house, reading a newspaper, when I parked the Spring Cleaning van across the street. The ghost missing his lower jaw hovered behind Smoke, reading over his shoulder.
"How's the eye?" Smoke called out the moment I was on the street.
"Fine." Actually it felt like someone had taken a meat tenderizer to my face, but I saw no point in complaining about it. "Thanks for not telling my parents how it happened." As I'd anticipated, Mom had asked me about the bruise…right before she brought out the leftover cannoli I'm sure Dad wasn't supposed to eat.
"We had a deal. I keep my promises." Reaching my side, Smoke leaned in close to get a good look at the shiner. "Looks painful."
"I've had worse."
His gaze narrowed at that statement, and he looked into my eyes with an intensity I couldn't understand. I fought the urge to look away but couldn't help clearing my throat nervously.
"Give me the key to the house." He held out his hand, palm up. "I want to check it out and make sure there's no one inside."
I dropped the key into Smoke's hand and watched him walk right through the ghost to unlock the front door. He rubbed the back of his neck as though he'd felt a chill.
Crooking my finger, I indicated that the ghost should join me by the van. As soon as he began gliding across the street, I ducked behind it so that Smoke wouldn't be able to see me.
The ghost materialized on my side of the van.
"You're Martin Nottoway, right?" The reason I'd overslept was I'd spent a good portion of the previous night online, researching the frat boys and what had happened to them.
The ghost nodded excitedly.
I swallowed hard. Martin Nottoway, son of Joann and Bob Nottoway, younger brother of Lawrence Nottoway. Communications major. Chemistry minor. According to my research, Marty here was the one who'd flipped out and killed his friends before turning his gun on himself.
I'd never helped a murderer before. I wasn't even sure he deserved my help, but I didn't relish the idea of another ghost haunting me.
"You want me to help you, right?" I asked.
He nodded again.
"Okay, so in order for me to do that, I've got to figure out what your unfinished business is, so that you can move on. Can you help me with that?"
He gave me a thumbs-up with those smudged fingertips. I'd been up half the night coming up with a plan to deal with the frat boys, and asking a question that required more than a simple yes or no answer of a guy who couldn't speak wasn't part of it.
"Okay, Martin, I—"
He held up one finger.
I looked around trying to figure out what he was signaling. The street was quiet, and I didn't see anyone else around. "I'm sorry. I don't understand…"
He held up two fingers and made a pinching motion.
I shrugged.
He pinched again.
"This is going to be the longest game of charades ever because I don't even know what the category is," I told the ghost.
He spread his fingers wide and slowly drew them closer together.
"I suck at this game."
"What game?" Smoke asked from behind me.
I gasped and whirled around. "What's with sneaking up on me?"
"I wasn't sneaking up on you," he said slowly. "I was coming to carry the supplies in. Everything okay?"
I did my best to ignore the chinless ghost standing beside him, despite the fact he continued to make his stupid pinching movement like he was a rabid crab or something. "Of course everything's okay. Why wouldn't it be okay?"
"It looked like you were talking to yourself."
Walking around him, I yanked the back doors of the van open. "That's the boss's prerogative."
"I thought you didn't like being called boss."
Arms loaded, we crossed the street, climbed the stairs, and entered the house. Since Martin had preceded us inside, I wasn't surprised it was freezing. The ozone box had done its job overnight. The scent of spilled blood was no longer overwhelming.
"I ramped up the heat." Smoke put his pile down on the floor of the foyer. "Nothing looks like it's been disturbed, except the doors upstairs are all closed again. There's some sort of wicked draft in here."
"Uh-huh." I was only half-listening to him since Martin was leading the ghost I'd originally bumped into, down the stairs. I realized I'd been wrong when I'd thought he was missing the top of his head. The gunshot had blasted through his eye sockets. The top of his skull was still intact.
"Did I do something wrong?" Smoke asked, oblivious to the two ghosts about to walk right through him if he continued to block the bottom of the stairway.
"Who is that?" the blind ghost asked.
"No," I reached out, grabbed Smoke's elbow and tugged him toward me, removing him from their path. "Why would you think that?"
"Because you're acting strangely." He looked down to where my fingers were still curled around his arm.
I released him as though he were as cold as the ghosts. "I'm just tired."
"Who's there?" the blind ghost wanted to know.
"How about you finish the bedroom you were working on yesterday, and I'll get started down here?" I suggested to Smoke.
"Without finishing the bathroom first?"
"It's not going anywhere, and I'd prefer to give my back a break today." Really I wanted to be in another part of the house so I could try to get some answers out of Martin and his sightless friendly ghost.
Smoke frowned. "I don't like the idea of you being down here alone. Anyone could waltz right in."
"Like your stalker?"
"Like your assailant."
I couldn't argue with him there. The idea of running into the Man in Black again definitely made me nervous. "Fine. You work down here, I'll work upstairs."
Martin watched our exchange as avidly as though it were a Wimbledon match. The blind ghost flailed around trying to touch something…anything, but he couldn't in his non-corporeal form.
Smoke crossed his arms over his chest. "Why don't we both work upstairs? There are two bedrooms that need work."
"Because this is not Let's Make A Deal." I grabbed a set of supplies and trudged up the stairs. I knew from the chill that skittered down my spine that the ghosts followed closely behind. I didn't look
back because I didn't want to see Smoke's disapproval. I'd had difficult employees before but never one who'd tried to tell me how to do my job.
Getting all of my gear on in the upstairs hallway was way more challenging than it would have been in the downstairs foyer. I looked as though I was playing Twister on Acid as I contorted myself into positions my body had never occupied before, but I finally got my suit, kneepads, and respirator in place.
Once I was done performing the world's most awkward Downward Dog, I turned my attention to the dead frat boys. Blind Guy had discovered the only thing he could feel was his friend Martin, and he was pressing on the other ghost's chest like a demented kneading cat. Martin kept trying to swat him away, but because he had no voice, he couldn't tell him to stop. He looked at me beseechingly and drew his finger across his throat. I might suck at charades, but even I knew what that meant.
I stepped over to them and leaned in close to whisper in the sightless guy's ear so that Smoke wouldn't hear. "He wants you to stop that."
"Aaaaahhhhh!" Blind Guy wailed and jumped back, which caused him to disappear through the wall.
Martin rolled his eyes.
"Sorry about that," I whispered. "Aren't you going to go get him?"
He shook his head, happy for the respite from being pawed more times than a stripper on a Saturday night. I waved for him to follow me into the bedroom so that Smoke wouldn't hear my one-sided conversation.
"Holy crap," I muttered when I stepped into the bedroom. Smoke had gotten an amazing amount of work done in there the day before, removing all of the blood-spattered belongings and tearing up most of the blood-soaked carpet. No wonder the trash bags had been so heavy.
I turned my attention back to Martin who was hovering…literally hovering…in the doorway. "Okay, now that we're alone, let's get started. Wait, first, just because I'm confused, that was Buck, right?"
He nodded.
Buck Hopkins, son of single mother Valerie Hopkins. Visual Arts major. Chemistry minor.
"I'm guessing you want to make amends?"
Martin tilted what was left of his head to the side.
"You want to help your friends move on?"
He shrugged.
I frowned wondering how I was supposed to help someone who'd had no regard for human life while he was still kicking and had even less for the well-being of those he'd called friends now. "You don't want to help them?"
Before he could respond, Buck came silently crashing through the wall again, his arms outstretched. If I didn't help him, the guy could be stuck playing an eternal game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.
Martin reached out and grabbed Buck by the arm before he could walk through another wall and disappear from our sight again.
"Don't be scared," I whispered.
He jumped a little, but this time he didn't scream or fall away.
"Who's there?" he whispered.
"My name is Vicky, and I'd like to help you."
"Am I dead?"
"Yes."
"Are you dead?"
"No."
"But you can hear me? See me?"
"Yes. I want to help you, Buck."
"How do you know my name?"
"I read about you. That's Martin you're standing next to." I half-expected poor Buck to jump away screaming. I mean, if I found out that I was beside the guy who'd sent me to the afterlife I would have freaked. Buck didn't even flinch.
"What happened to me?" he asked.
I looked at Martin who was watching me expectantly.
"I'm sorry, Buck. There's no easy way to say this…you were murdered."
He gasped. "Murdered? The last thing I remember was watching The Princess Bride."
Martin rolled his eyes again, signaling his disdain for Buck's viewing preferences.
"That's a good movie," I said, feeling the need to defend him.
"But how? Who?"
The helpless confusion in Buck's voice brought tears to my eyes. "You were shot."
"Why? Who?"
"I don't know why." I looked to Martin to see if he was pantomiming an answer, but he was standing very still, listening intently.
"Who would want to kill me? Was it Rodney? He was really pissed when he found out I'd won that grant…"
His murderer stood beside him. Cold. Heartless. Remorseless.
"Martin killed you."
Martin looked at me like I was the crazy one.
"You're wrong," Buck said.
"No. He killed you and Donny and then shot himself."
Martin shook his head, vehemently denying the accusation.
"It's true," I argued. "It's what the newspaper and police both say. You cold-bloodedly murdered your unsuspecting friends!"
Martin came at me.
For the first time, I was afraid of a ghost. I screamed.
Like a blast of liquid nitrogen he barreled right through me, stealing my breath, my body heat, and my equilibrium. I fell to the floor wondering if this was what death felt like.
CHAPTER NINE
I made a hell of a thud when I hit the floor.
"I should lay off the pizza," I thought as the world fuzzed grey.
"What was that?" Buck asked.
I couldn't answer him. I couldn't breathe, let alone form words.
"Vic? Victoria?" I heard someone yelling from a distance, and then there was a thundering, like a stampede coming toward me. I wanted to roll out of its way, but I couldn't move.
"What's happening?" This time Buck was panicked.
The grey fuzzies lightened a bit, and the world came back into shadowy focus. I could see Buck, arms outstretched fumbling around. Thankfully Martin was nowhere to be seen. I started to shiver uncontrollably.
I probably looked like I was having some sort of seizure by the time Smoke reached me. Dropping to his knees, he knelt over me so that he could look at my eyes through my goggles.
"Victoria? Victoria can you hear me?"
"I…I'm okay," I told him breathlessly through teeth chattering like falling dominoes.
No wonder he gave me a dubious look.
I waved him away. "No…(clickety-click-click-click)…really."
He rocked back onto his heels. "You yelled something, and then I heard a humongous crash."
I really needed to stop eating so much pizza.
I managed to sit up just in time to watch Buck stumble through a wall.
"Let's get you out of here." Before I grasped what was happening, Smoke was behind me, hooking his arms under my armpits and hauling me to my feet. I was still shivering and would have fallen if he hadn't looped an arm around my waist.
"What happened?" Smoke asked.
I couldn't very well tell him that a ghost had charged right through me and knocked me on my pizza-heavy ass. "I…I saw a spider."
"Hello?" A disembodied voice floated up the stairs.
It wasn't Buck. Maybe it was the other frat boy Donny.
"Hello?" There it was again.
"Just a sec!" Smoke shouted.
Since he was standing about an inch away from my ear, I instinctively ducked away. Spinning around I stared at him in amazement. "You can hear that?"
I'd never known anyone else who could hear ghosts.
"Someone's at the door," Smoke bounded away, calling over his shoulder. "Stay here." He rushed down the steps.
Sighing my disappointment that all he could hear were the living, I slowly followed him. Holding onto the railing with both hands I shuffled downstairs like an octogenarian on oxygen. By the time I reached the bottom of the flight, he had the door open and was talking to a real, live man. Smoke stood in a way that effectively denied our visitor entrance and me the chance to see who was there.
"I'm Buck's brother, Sal Hopkins. I was told you'd be expecting me."
Smoke twisted his head in my direction, looking for confirmation.
I nodded. "Of course, Mr. Hopkins. Detective Reed mentioned you'd be stopping by."
Smoke stepped to the side
a bit, so that I could join him in the doorway, but still didn't allow the sibling of the deceased entrance. I was grateful. There's nothing worse than having a family member witness the gruesome details of their loved one's violent death.
"Why don't we talk outside?" I suggested, taking a step forward.
Sal Hopkins tried to peer over my head as he stepped back to allow me onto the stoop. Smoke followed closely behind and closed the door. I propped my goggles on top of my head so that I had a clearer view of Buck's brother.
He was considerably older than Buck, closer to forty than thirty, with a thick scar that snaked from his ear to his chin.
"My condolences on your loss, Mr. Hopkins. What can I do for you?" I used my most professionally caring voice despite the fact I desperately wanted him to go away so that we could finish the job and get away from murderous Martin as quickly as possible.
"I'd like my brother's things."
"Was there something specific…?" It wasn't unusual for a surviving family member to request a specific object; a piece of jewelry, a framed photograph, a favorite shirt.
"All of it," Sal Hopkins said.
"Well…" I hated these conversations. Saying one wrong word could send the requestor into a full-on breakdown, leaving me to pat them on the shoulder and spout useless platitudes. "Well, the police have some of it, but if there's something special you want, I'd be happy to look for it."
"I want everything that belonged to him."
"I'm sorry Mr. Hopkins, but that's just not possible."
"The detective said—"
"The detective was misinformed," Smoke interrupted.
Sal Hopkins frowned at him, his hands curling into fists.
I imagined my employee and the bereaved getting into a fight on the stoop. I was pretty sure that didn't meet the criteria of "compassion" that Jerry had always stressed was such an important part of the business.
"Some things are…beyond repair," I said quickly, praying Hopkins wouldn't ask for specifics.
"What the hell does that mean?"
I sucked in a breath and counted to ten before explaining as gently as I could, "I'm sorry. There was quite a bit of blood. It destroyed a number of items. But if there's something in particular you're looking for…"