This wasn’t a touch like the one I’d experienced not long ago with Karen Thorne. This was a genuine squeeze, indistinguishable from the real thing, ten fingers pressing into my flesh in ten different spots, no electric charge to go with it.
“You need to trust me,” he said.
“How—how did you—” I stammered.
“Just like you do.”
“You’re alive.”
“No. Like you, I have some gifts. This is one of them.” He lowered his hands. “I’m here for one reason, Myron. I want you to drop this case.”
“What?”
“You’ve done very well the past few years. The transition was difficult, as I warned you it would be, but you’re in a good place now.”
I snorted. “You call this a good place?”
“What I call it doesn’t matter. But the truth remains that you’ve done good work. You’ve helped lots of people who couldn’t have been helped without you. You’ve saved many lives.”
“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“Whoever saves a life,” the priest said, raising his index finger to emphasize his point, “it is considered as if he saved an entire world.”
“Uh-huh. Isn’t that from the Talmud?”
He smiled. “Caught that, did you? Catholics have no monopoly on wisdom, as you well know.”
“I wasn’t sure Catholics had any wisdom.”
The priest placed his hand over his heart. “Ouch. But a criticism that is somewhat justifiable, I’m afraid. I’ll concede as much. But I don’t have much time, so I best get back to the point. Drop this case, Myron. Let it go.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not good for you. Because it could unravel everything you’ve built. Because if you become unraveled now, those people who see you as a threat may decide that you’re just too much of a loose cannon.”
“What does that mean? You’re saying they’d kill me?”
“The only reason they haven’t killed you is because they’re more afraid of what you might become on the other side.”
“And you know this because …?”
“It’s not really relevant.”
“Not relevant? We’re talking about the guy who shot me in the face!”
“Things are not as straightforward as they seem.”
“Oh, so you’re saying he’s not the one who shot me?”
He said nothing, nor did his eyes betray his thoughts. Obviously if I’d hoped to squeeze some information out of him, I was going to be disappointed. Standing so close to him was a bit unnerving, especially after his shoulder squeeze, so I moved away, toward our country-style kitchen with its white cabinets and shiny oak countertops. The bungalow had an open floor plan except for the narrow hall that led to the three bedrooms and the bathroom, so there was plenty of space for the both of us, but somehow I was still nagged with the feeling that I was locked in a prison cell with him.
“I think you should go,” I said.
“You really should trust me on this,” he insisted.
“You’ve given me no reason to trust you on anything.”
“I guess you’ll just have to take it on faith.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
He smiled a prim little smile. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Myron, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Oh, now you’re quoting Shakespeare?”
He nodded. “Wisdom wherever I can find it. You are a literate man, Myron, which I quite like. And it’s also why I know you’re smart enough not to let yourself become like poor Hamlet. The need for revenge is an inferno that consumes all, leaving nothing and no one unburned.”
“Who said anything about revenge?” I shot back. “I just want to find the guy. Bring him to justice.”
The priest raised his eyebrows.
“Really!” I said.
He bowed his head slightly. “I’ve said all I can, and now I must go. You would do well to heed my advice, Myron. Drop the case.”
Having absorbed all I could of this nonsense, I pointed to the door. My head was pounding, I was feeling dizzy, and the wariness I’d felt toward the priest was quickly being subsumed by a growing anger. “I’m tired of your games and your riddles,” I said. “If you’re not going to be more forthcoming, I want you out of my house.”
“I’ve been as forthcoming as I can be.”
“Get out.”
“Of course, of course,” he said. With another slight bow of the head, he headed for the door, then stopped suddenly. “One thing, just out of curiosity. I noticed that your third bedroom is completely empty. Why is that?”
“None of your business,” I said.
“It seems like it might be nice for a better studio, the windows being bigger. I was just wondering—”
“Get out,” I said.
“Myron, please.”
“Get out!”
I was screaming, and I felt the veins in my neck bulging. My heart was a booming beat in my ears. The priest nodded sadly, then, with steepled fingers, he turned to the door and walked straight through it.
Chapter 16
After sending Frank Warren packing, I worked my weedy lawn furiously until the bright light of morning faded into a cloudy afternoon. A bank of menacing storm clouds gathered in the distance, blocking where I knew Mount Hood would show its craggy face on a clearer day. The temperature, already cool, dropped precipitously. When my anger had reached its peak, I tossed the hand shovel in the bucket and went in the house searching for Billie. Mrs. Halverson, the old woman who’d died the previous winter, was out in her white terrycloth robe and pink slippers at the mailbox, waiting for the postman. Unlike the old days, she couldn’t get the mail anymore, but she was still there every day, rain or shine.
Even if she could get the mail, it wasn’t her house. Her niece, who’d inherited the place, had sold it to young man who worked for Intel. He often didn’t collect his mail until the box was overflowing, a point of pride for him and a fact that I knew drove Mrs. Halverson crazy.
As soon as I entered, I heard the slap of paint hitting canvas coming from Billie’s studio. I washed my hands in the kitchen, downed a cold drink of water, and gobbled up the rest of the ham sandwich I had left from yesterday, the whole while making as much noise as possible—banging cabinets, slamming the glass down, thunking the drawers closed with unnecessary force.
Billie didn’t come out. I wandered to her doorway and found her intently painting a still life of a cow skull in the middle of a fruit basket. A pair of tangerines filled the eye sockets of the skull. She was barefoot and dressed in paint-spattered overalls and a red plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves, her jet-black hair tied into a tight ponytail with a rubber band. She had a bit of black paint on the end of her nose.
Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, I watched her silently. I liked to watch her work, though I didn’t take any pleasure in it now. The walls were filled with her recent paintings, mostly different kinds of animal skulls in slight variations of the same still life. When Alesha stopped by shortly after Billie and I returned to the house, she saw nothing but blank canvases hanging on the walls—I put a new sheet on Billie’s easel when she said she was done—and a matching still life that consisted of a small white table covered with a white tablecloth and nothing else.
“Good weeding?” Billie said finally.
“Just swell,” I said.
She looked at me, paintbrush paused mid-stroke. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“You just sound … on edge.”
I shrugged.
“You’re scowling,” she added.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re most definitely scowling.”
I shrugged again. She studied me with the same intense focus she applied to her paintings, then turned back to her work. I watched a while longer, the knot in my stomach growing, then left her alone. I banged around the kitchen some more,
not sure what I was looking for, then settled on a bottle of Rolling Rock beer I’d hidden in the refrigerator among the salad dressing. I plopped myself on the futon and turned on the television with the remote. I drank a few sips, channel surfing, not really registering what I was seeing, waiting for Billie to show up and see me with the beer. She didn’t. Growing ever restless, I took my beer and headed for the bedroom—and stopped at the spare bedroom door, the one we always kept closed. I touched the handle, hesitating, my pulse quickening.
What the hell. I opened the door. Stale, musty air wafted out to greet me. The room was empty except for the bamboo flooring and the white walls, motes of dust floating in the shafts of pale afternoon light slanting through the curtainless windows. The light, gray and colorless, matched my mood.
I stood in the doorway, listening. The house was silent. I no longer heard Billie’s paintbrush. Good.
Beer in hand, I went to the window. Mrs. Halverson was still at the mailbox, waiting. A couple of young men in deerskin hats and moccasins, rifle muskets slung over their shoulders, were walking down the far street. Ghosts or simply a costume party? Who knew. I sat along the far wall, knees bent in front of me, my free hand flat on the floor. The bamboo felt gritty with dust. The room had no overhead light, nor did any of the rooms in the old house, but I wouldn’t have turned it on even if I could. I wanted to sit there until the darkness came—or until Billie did. It was a toss-up which would come first.
Billie did, and it didn’t take long. I heard the creak of her footsteps, a sound that never ceased to amaze me because I knew it was all in my own mind, and yet there was no discernable difference to me between the creak of her footsteps now and the creak of her footsteps when she’d been alive. None. Not one bit of difference, and it was a sound I knew well.
She appeared in the doorway half in silhouette, lit by the light in the hall behind her. Now it was she who had her arms crossed over her chest, the paintbrush nowhere to be found. Shadows masked her face, but I could still pick out the dark deep curve of her frown.
“I thought we agreed,” she said tersely, “that we weren’t going to go in here.”
I took a sip of my beer and balanced it on my stomach, feeling the coldness of the bottle through my thin cotton T-shirt.
“Drinking too?” she said.
“It’s just a beer,” I said.
“You want to tell me what this is about?”
I took another drink, made her wait. I’d had enough alcohol now that I felt the warmth of it spreading into my neck and face.
“Your friend came by,” I said.
“What?”
“Frank Warren.”
“Oh.”
I glared at her. “Oh.”
“So that’s what you’re mad about?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You sound mad.”
“I’m not mad, damn it.”
She stared at me. I couldn’t see her face well enough to know if she was wearing that smug expression of hers, the one she got when she knew perfectly well what I was doing and why, the eyes narrowing, the jaw tight, the lips a small firm line, but I imagined she was wearing it. I imagined all the self-righteousness and condescension and irritation, and imagining it somehow made her expression all the more intolerable.
“I just don’t appreciate you meddling,” I said.
“Oh, I’m meddling?”
“You know exactly what you were doing. You were telling me to get off my ass and get a job.”
She sighed. “Myron, I just bumped into Frank the other day at a meeting. He was the one who brought up the idea of you working for them. He asked how receptive I thought you would be to the idea. I told him I didn’t know but it wouldn’t hurt to try. That’s all I did.”
“Right,” I said.
“I’m serious. Sorry if even that was too much. I’m just trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Myron, if you’re not going to be a detective, then you should at least be something.”
“Oh, thank you for those words of wisdom. You get that from Dr. Phil?”
“Myron—”
“Why can’t you just let me be?”
“Because I don’t want to watch you destroy yourself.”
I couldn’t think of a retort to this, so I took another drink. She tapped her foot, waiting me out, and I responded by waiting her out.
“I see you’re not interested in having an adult conversation right now,” she said. “That’s fine. That’s your right. When you really want to talk, come find me.”
She started to leave, all smug and holier-than-though, but I wasn’t going to let her go like that.
“Have you ever wondered?” I said idly.
“What?”
“About, you know, the baby.”
She became absolutely still. This was akin to throwing a hand grenade into a weapons locker. I knew exactly what I was doing and I didn’t care.
“Don’t,” she said softly.
“You ever wonder if it’s out there, somewhere? I keep wondering if I’ll see it someday.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“How many weeks was it?” I continued, undaunted by the sound of her sniffling. “Ten? Something like that, right. That’s about when you lost it.”
“Myron, please.”
“I mean, the question is whether a fetus gets to become a ghost, right? I don’t know. I can’t say I’ve ever seen one. But I’ve wondered. When does a human being develop enough in the womb that it gets a soul? That’s what we’re talking about, right? I mean, I’ve never liked the term, but I don’t know what else to use. Something survives beyond death. But what if you’re never born?”
She was crying. I could barely see her in the poor light, but the sniffling was unmistakable. Since Billie almost never cried, the tears were all the more shocking, but I wasn’t about to show sympathy. I took another swig of my beer. She made no move to wipe away the tears. I heard the squeak of bus brakes one street over.
“Satisfied?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“Because I assume this is what you wanted,” she said. “You wanted me to cry. Congratulations. You win.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.
“First place, Myron Vale.”
“Stop.”
“You know how much I wanted a baby,” she said, her voice growing louder and more shrill. “I wanted one just as much as you. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you one. I’m sorry my body was broken.”
“Now you’re just being melodramatic,” I said.
“Oh, I’m being melodramatic? You’re the one who’s so pissed at me for trying to do something to help you that you’ve staged this little drunken sit-in in the nursery!”
“I’m not drunk,” I said.
“And now I can’t conceive, Myron. Do you understand how hard that is? I can never have a child. Never.”
“What about when you could?” I shot back.
“What?”
We engaged in a staring contest, the seconds pounding away like our beating hearts. All that resentment and anger mixed with the alcohol to form a strange cocktail, one that was pushing me to cross lines I’d so far been unwilling to cross. I should have let it go, but I couldn’t stop myself. These feelings had been brewing between us since she’d returned, and it was time to let them out. It was time.
“After the miscarriage,” I said. “That next year. We could have tried again.”
“I don’t believe this,” she said.
“You barely even touched me. When I got into bed, you—you rolled the other way.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. It is!”
“I was in a bad place,” she insisted. “I wasn’t ready yet. I wasn’t ready.”
“For a whole year?”
She shifted a little, more into the light, and now I could see her face. She was no longer crying, but the earlier tears still clung to her face like frozen dew
drops. “I don’t understand why you have to punish me like this.”
“I’m not punishing you,” I said. “I’m just trying to understand why we didn’t try again.”
“I was afraid,” she said. “I was afraid of losing the baby again. I was—”
“But at least we would have tried!”
“I was afraid of losing you, too.”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t be able to take care of the baby. I wouldn’t be able to provide for it.” She was digging her hands into her overalls, her fingers curling and pinching like claws. When she spoke, there was a strange halting brittleness in her voice. “You were a cop. You could have died. You—you almost did. What would I do? I’ve—I’ve never been very good at making money. I was afraid.”
“You know I never asked you to,” I said, and I felt my anger slipping away. In the end, no matter how mad I was at Billie, my empathy for her always got the upper hand. “And I always had a good life-insurance policy, you know that. You wouldn’t have had to work a day in your life. Both you and the baby would have been fine.”
She shook her head violently. “It’s not just the money. I just didn’t … didn’t know if I was capable.”
“Capable of what?”
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Damn it, Billie! It matters to me. Capable of what? Of being a good mother?”
“No,” she said.
“Then what? Capable of bringing the child to term? Capable of surviving another miscarriage? Capable of being a good Scrabble player? Give me something! Anything!”
“Capable of being the kind of woman you wanted me to be!” she shouted.
In the empty room, her words resounded off the walls like the shot of a cannon. She was breathing hard, and so was I. The most shocking thing about what she’d said was that she hadn’t said mother, but woman. I didn’t know what to say.
“Billie,” I said.
“I’m done with this,” she said, and marched away.
I stayed there on the floor in the empty room. I stayed there a long time, and I didn’t drink another drop of my beer. When I came out, to find her, to talk to her, to do something, anything, to make amends, she was gone.
Ghost Detective Page 14