by Terri Garey
I rummaged around in the box, looking for more flashy evening bags to put in the display case.
Back in work mode, Evan held up a bulky tapestry bag, turning it this way and that as he checked it for snags.
"Ugh. Hideous," I said.
He gave a long-suffering sigh. "Something else is bothering you, Nicki. Spill it." Trust Evan to pick up on the slightest snark.
"Nothing's bothering me," I lied.
"Liar."
"Nag."
"Spill it," Evan repeated.
"Okay, okay." Losing interest in purses for the time being, I spilled it. "Don't freak out, but a woman came in this morning—a spirit. She said her daughter was hurt, that they'd been in a car accident."
"A ghost was here? In our shop?" Evan put down the bag he was holding, glancing around nervously. "I'm going straight over to Crystalline Blue and buy some sage sticks. Butch heard they can be used to purify a place from evil spirits."
I wanted to laugh at the idea that burning herbs would solve the problem, but I didn't.
"You do that," I said, "but don't blame me when they set off the smoke detector."
Evan gave me a look. "Have you got a better idea, Miss Spooky?"
I sighed, picking up my abandoned coffee mug. "No. No, I don't." Finally pouring myself a cup of caffeine, I looked for a place to sit. And there, in the chair behind the counter that Evan and I called the "catbird" seat, sat Lila Boudreaux.
"I remember now," she said to me. Fat tears were streaming down her cheeks. "I remember everything."
"Um… Evan?"
Evan glanced up from his box of purses, totally unaware that there was a ghost in his favorite chair.
"Maybe sage sticks wouldn't be such a bad idea."
He opened his mouth to say something, but the look on my face stopped him cold. Blue eyes widened.
"Here?" The word came out as a squeak.
I nodded.
"Now?"
I nodded again.
"Holy shit," he said. "Here we go again."
"I can't call the police yet, Joe. What am I supposed to tell them? That a dead woman just walked into my store and told me her daughter is missing?" I shot a guilty glance toward Lila, but she was staring blankly out the window of my car, watching the Georgia countryside whiz by.
"She's there with you now? In your car?"
I didn't blame him for being skeptical, though he, of all people, should know better—one dark night in the graveyard had recently proven that the dead don't always rest in peace.
"Yes, she is. Her name is Lila Boudreaux, and she says that she and her daughter were in a car accident."
"It was dark," Lila murmured. "We went off the road, down a hill."
She seemed so distant, as though talking to herself. The empty look in her eyes gave me the heebie-jeebies. My little red Honda was moving fast down I-85, but not fast enough for me.
"I wish you'd wait until my shift is over, Nicki. I could go with you—"
A muted sob came from the woman in the passenger seat. She pressed a chubby hand, red fingernails gleaming, to her mouth.
"Sorry, Joe. This can't wait."
"Nicki." Joe's frustration was evident. "Remember what happened the last time you tried to help a lost soul?"
Poor guy. What had he gotten himself into by getting hooked up with me? When I wasn't dodging voodoo queens and evil spirits, I was out doing favors for the dearly departed.
"Guess you could call me a high maintenance kind of girl, huh?" My attempt to be lighthearted came out kind of wimpy.
I could practically hear Joe roll his eyes. "High maintenance, high drama—woman, you are nothing but trouble. It's been a roller-coaster ride since that first day in the E.R." He chuckled a little to take the sting from his words. "I don't normally have to use electric shocks to get a girl's attention."
That made me smile, but I wasn't really in the mood for teasing. My life had changed in an instant a few weeks ago, and I was still missing the old one, the one where things made sense.
"Everything's different now, Joe. I see and hear the dead. I can't pretend I don't. I don't know how it works, but it is what it is." I swallowed hard, trying to concentrate on the road, but failing miserably. "I have to learn to live with it, and if you wanna be with me, you have to, too."
Silence for a few moments.
"Do you want to be with me?" Joe asked the question very quietly.
I hesitated, and answered as honestly as I could. "For now I do." Romantic commitment had never been one of my strong points, but for Joe, I was tempted to throw caution to the wind.
And that scared me.
Joe heard the hesitation. He was quiet for a minute. I hadn't turned the radio on, and the silence in the car was laden with tension.
"I'm not sure how much longer I can accept that as an answer, Nicki. Are we a couple, or is this just a casual thing for you?"
Lila turned her head and looked at me. Mascara streaked her cheeks, and the sadness in her face tugged at my heart. "Please hurry," she said.
I gripped the steering wheel harder with one hand, pressing the phone to my ear.
"Joe, I—" I cleared my throat nervously. "This is not the best time for this conversation. I'm not alone."
Another brief silence. Then, "Has it occurred to you that you're probably already too late to save this woman's daughter?"
I breathed a silent sigh of relief, recognizing a change of subject when I heard one. "Yes."
"If you find the car, and if you find her, the girl will have been trapped inside for who knows how long. Chances are she's already dead."
"She isn't," I said stubbornly. If Lila's daughter was dead, she'd probably be speaking for herself instead of having her mother do it for her.
"How do you know where to look? I-85 is a long stretch of highway."
"Lila said they'd just left the airport, and were looking for the I-20 exit. It has to be somewhere near there."
I was driving well over the speed limit, and checked my rearview for the umpteenth time, hoping I wouldn't get pulled over. Georgia state troopers were not known for their open-mindedness.
Sorry I was speeding, Officer, but there's a ghost in my car and she says I need to hurry.
Joe sighed in my ear. "Nicki, please be careful. If you find this girl, call my beeper number, then 911. Tell the operator to dispatch from Columbia Hospital, and I'll be on the ambulance before it leaves the E.R."
"You're the best," I said, smiling into the phone.
"I'm crazy," he answered. A hesitation. "Crazy about you."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I wasn't sure if it was adrenaline or euphoria. This was the closest we'd come to using the L word. Either way, I needed to calm down or risk another cardiac event.
"I'm crazy about you, too," I murmured, wishing I didn't have an audience. "I'll call you as soon as I can."
Then I hung up, snapping my cell phone shut with one hand and dropping it into my lap.
"Was that your beau?" Lila had pulled herself out of her sadness enough to give me a small smile.
"My what?" For a moment I had no idea what she was talking about.
"You know… your boyfriend." Lila's Southern belle routine was no put on—for many Southern women, Gone With The Wind was never really gone. "He sounds nice."
"He's awesome." I pictured Joe as I'd first seen him, all serious and intent, trying to save my life; then another flash of him—naked and sexy, dark hair mussed—laughing down at me as we tickled each other silly after great sex. "Joe's an E.R. doctor at Columbia Hospital. He's promised to meet us with an ambulance if we—" I caught myself. "—when we find your daughter."
Lila's lower lip trembled, then steadied. "I've made such a mess of things," she said. "Now here I am, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. I never meant to hurt anybody."
"This isn't your fault." I hated to see anybody so sad. "Car accidents are called that for a reason."
"You're very sweet
," Lila said, "and pretty as a picture." She cocked her head, eyeing me closely. "I love those pink streaks in your hair. Tell me…" She hesitated, just a moment. "Are you happy with your life?"
An odd question coming from a total stranger, but then again—maybe not so odd given the circumstances. This woman's life was over.
"I'm very happy," I said. "Happier than I've ever been." As I said it, I knew it was true. "I own my own business, run it with my best buddy, and have a great boyfriend. Life is good."
Lila smiled at me, a little wistfully. "You're a lucky girl, darlin'."
A sudden lump rose in my throat. I swallowed hard to get past it.
"Yes, I am." Luckier than you know. I'd been given a second chance at life. Lila Boudreaux hadn't.
"Your friend—back at the store—he's a little light in his loafers, isn't he?"
Despite the tenseness of the situation, I burst out laughing. "Yes, Evan's gay."
"That's all right," Lila said comfortably. "To each his own, I always say." She fluttered a red-nailed hand in my direction. "Don't mind me, honey, sometimes my mouth outruns my good sense."
"I know the feeling." And I did. My mouth had gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion.
The sign for I-20 appeared, and as we neared the exit, I slowed, pulling over to the side of the road.
"Does anything look familiar?"
Lila was staring at me. She blinked and drew in a deep breath, as though waking from a dream. Then she turned her head and scanned the roadside to our right.
It was pretty steep there. The grass dropped off quickly into a ravine choked with undergrowth, sparse trees draped with kudzu vines, scrawny crepe myrtles just touched with color.
Then I saw the skid marks on the blacktop, about twenty feet in front of us.
"I think this might be it, Lila."
She didn't answer. I glanced over to find the passenger seat empty.
With a sigh, I checked the sideview mirror to make sure I didn't become road kill, then got out, wishing I'd changed my shoes. Sandals would have a tough time on this hill. Then I remembered something useful—a pair of binoculars I'd bought for a Blondie concert the year before were still in my trunk.
I dug them out, shoving aside empty boxes and leftover garage sale junk from the weekend before, ignoring the whizzing of cars and the occasional honking of horns.
"Woo-hoo, baby!" A red truck with mud flaps and a Dixie flag in the back window came a little too close for comfort. I glanced up as it drove past to see a guy's head and arm hanging out the window.
Stupid Georgia rednecks.
Using the skid marks as a reference, I scanned the wooded area to my right. Tightening the focus on the binoculars, I followed a straight path down the hill. The undergrowth got thicker and the trees more numerous as my view of the hill changed. It was green, everything was green, except for the occasional gray rock or patch of red clay, a flash of pink crepe myrtle here and there.
And then I saw a glint of something shiny where there should be nothing shiny. Buried beneath fallen branches and hidden from easy sight by a wild tangle of bushes was a car's sideview mirror. Looking closer, I could see the car itself. It was green, too.
Things happened pretty quickly after that.
I speed-dialed Joe's beeper number as fast as I could. Once I heard the tone, I entered 666—our personal code—then hung up and called 911. I gave them the exit number and asked specifically for an ambulance from Columbia Hospital, but the dispatcher got a little snippy with me when I wouldn't stay on the line. "I've told you exactly where to find us. Now get your ass in gear and send somebody out here." Then I hung up, shoved the cell phone in my back pocket, and started down the hill.
It was pretty steep, and the ground kept shifting beneath my feet. Snatching at the bushes and using my butt as a counterweight, I scrabbled down the hill, wishing again for tennis shoes, or boots. Despite the dirt and clay between my toes, I managed to reach the crumpled car in just a few moments.
There was an oily smell, grease and gasoline. Broken branches covered the roof and hood, so I snatched away whatever greenery I could, revealing shattered glass and twisted metal. A few seconds later I could see the woman in the driver's seat. She was lying almost flat, the seat in a reclining position. Good thing, too, because the roof of the car was crushed. She had less than a foot of breathing space. There was blackened blood in her hair, and her eyes were closed.
It wasn't Lila, and I was glad. I didn't want to see Lila's dead body. The passenger side of the car was completely crushed against a tree, and there was no way I could get to it.
Lila's final task was. done—finding help for her daughter—and her spirit was nowhere to be seen. I could only hope she'd crossed over.
"Miss?" I kept pulling branches off the car so I could get closer to the woman in the front seat. "Help is on the way," I said, knowing she couldn't hear. She was young—late twenties, maybe, brown hair, white T-shirt. Her face was turned toward me, cheeks pale except for a big bruise along the jawline, mouth slightly open.
"Where the hell is that ambulance?" I muttered. The window was shattered, jagged pieces of glass still stuck in the frame. Very carefully, I reached a hand in until I could touch her wrist, feeling gingerly for a pulse.
Like I knew what I was doing.
She moaned slightly, fingers twitching. Relieved, I said again, "Help is on the way. Just stay still." Her eyes didn't open, but her fingers twitched again, harder.
Without thinking, I took her hand in mine and squeezed. The faintest pressure answered me, and that was that. I stayed in that position, bent over awkwardly, holding her hand and hoping I wouldn't cut my arm on broken glass, until the ambulance arrived.
I never thought the wail of a siren could sound so good.
And then there was Joe, white lab coat flapping as he scrambled down the hill with a first aid kit, two guys in blue shirts carrying bright orange boxes not far behind.
"They're here," I said to the woman. "Hang on." This time there was no answering pressure when I squeezed her hand.
As Joe reached us, I let her go to move out of the way, oddly reluctant to break contact.
"Oh my God," Joe breathed.
"Is she dead?" Please don't let her be dead.
"No." Joe's face was as white as a sheet. "It's Kelly. It's my wife."
* * *
CHAPTER 2
The nurse behind the emergency room admissions desk stared at me, stone-faced. Gray-haired and plump, she seemed glued to the chair, and completely unconcerned by my demands for information.
"Her name is Kelly Bascombe." I was insistent, unwilling to settle for "have a seat." I'd followed the ambulance in my car, but there was no way I could keep up. Now that I was here, I wanted to see her, dammit. "She's a car accident victim. They just brought her in."
The nurse's stern expression never changed. "You'll have to take a seat, ma'am. All I can tell you is she's being taken care of. The doctor will be out to speak with you as soon he's able." The woman's cheerful scrubs didn't go with her drill sergeant personality; cartoon flowers and butterflies all mixed in with the words "Get Well Soon." Her ID badge said BETTY WALKER, RN, CNAA.
"Can't you at least tell Dr. Bascombe I'm here? My name is Nicki Styx. Joe—Dr. Bascombe—is a friend of mine."
She eyed me coolly, unimpressed. "I'm sure you understand that Dr. Bascombe is very busy at the moment. Please have a seat, and he'll be with you when he can."
Battle-Axe Betty was about to get an earful, but Evan stepped in. I'd called him on the way, and he and Butch got to the hospital at nearly the same time I did. Evan took me by the elbow and pulled me toward a row of chairs. "C'mon, Nick. We're gonna have to wait a little while. Joe knows we're out here."
A "little while" turned out to be three and a half hours. By that time, Nurse Betty was shooting me dirty looks every time I got up from my chair. There was a TV droning over in one corner, but I spent the wait pacing, nagging the nurse, and w
hining. Butch went for snacks, sodas, and magazines, so he and Evan managed to occupy themselves with fashion and fitness for a while. I wasn't hungry, and for once I didn't care about Lagerfeld's spring line or photos of buff, sweaty men.
"You'd think somebody could figure out how to make waiting room chairs more comfortable." My butt and hard plastic weren't a good fit. "I'm sick of this place. Seems like I've been here at least once a week for the last month."
"Three times." Supremely bored, the Queen Supreme flipped lazily through the current issue of Muscle & Fitness. "Once for you, once for me, and now for Kelly," Evan said.
Kelly. My twin sister. Supposedly. Maybe.
I'd know when I looked her in the eye.
Wouldn't I?
The chair next to me creaked as Butch sat down. His big, bald bouncer image was the perfect cover for a heart of gold and a teddy bear personality. He slid an arm around my shoulders, offering me a cold can of soda. His bulk was solid and reassuring, and he wore great cologne. Armani, maybe.
"Does she look like you, Nicki?" Butch asked.
"I don't know. Her face was bruised, her eyes were closed—she had blood in her hair. Long brown hair. She was unconscious."
I remembered watching Joe take her pulse, and how he said "She's alive" as if it were some kind of miracle. I'd watched him open the first aid kit and start pulling out tubes and needles. I'd backed up, away from the car, mostly to stay out of his way, partly so I wouldn't have to see the look on his face.
Would he have been that absorbed, that focused, if the woman were a stranger? Had I been watching a doctor trying to save a patient, or a husband trying to save his wife?
"I could only see the side of her face anyway." I took a teeny sip of soda. She'd been wearing a white shirt and jeans. "When the paramedics got there they had to wait for the police to bring a pair of metal clippers to cut through the roof of the car. They peeled it back and got her out, but she never woke up. She never moved."
"Wow," Butch said. He gave me a squeeze. "You have had a day, haven't you?"
I didn't need to be here. What could I do? Stand around and watch while my boyfriend held his dying wife's hand?