"I thought God got those."
"He will," I assured her.
Tears filled her eyes, and she swiped them away. "He doesn't want me? Us?"
"This isn't a holding cell of His choice, but ours. Our souls aren't at rest."
"Because?"
"It's different for all us. For Willow, my new client, it's because she doesn't know who killed her. For Ann, she's troubled that justice wasn't served for her."
"What question hasn't been answered for you? It must be hard that after fifty plus years you still don't know your answer."
"It's better than those who are still confused about the question."
"We don't know what keeps us here?"
"That's the problem for some, kiddo. It ain't your mind, but your soul you have to listen to."
"Why do I have this feeling that's what we should always have been listening to?" She ran her fingers over the books, stopping at a title that proclaimed to know the mysteries of the afterlife. "Callous… Uncle… what should I call you?"
"I like Uncle Callous. It's been a long time since I've been called that name. What do you prefer? Abby or Abigail?"
"Either or." She shrugged. "Not much of a difference. So why are you still here?"
Persistent child. Either that or I'm not an expert at the old switcheroo of the subject, at least not with twenty-one-year-old dames.
"You don't know who killed you yet?"
"I know that. Matter of fact, he's floating around Limbo trying to cause problems."
"People can do that here. Cause trouble?"
"Not in the same way as they did on earth. They can't physically kill anyone, but they can make other ghosts do deeds that could get them trapped in Limbo forever or sent to Hell."
"Why?"
"I guess it's the same reason why someone would murder someone."
"They like the power of controlling someone else's destiny."
"Right." Not that my words fit together as well.
"If you know, why are you still here?"
"Must be another question I haven't pondered enough. Tough to do when I spend most of my eternity helping others."
I couldn't tell her the question I had to answer. Who told Denver where I was that night? The only people I ever spoke a word to about that case were Detective Garland, Joe, and Jenny. I had eliminated Garland as the snitch forty-nine years ago. I had decided I didn't need to narrow it down any more.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"No sneaking necessary."
"Let's see what Legs and Brains are up to."
"Who?" Abigail took my outstretched hand.
"The detectives on my client's case, Willow Flannery."
"Those are their names?"
"Nope," I said forcefully, hoping to end the discussion. How would it look to my grandniece knowing I had dubbed the dame, Legs, and the man, Brains. I needed to change their tags. "We need to go back down to earth."
"Do we go to a secret door? A certain spot?"
"We focus on where we need to go."
"What if one of us focuses on the wrong place?"
"We stay connected." I held up her hand clutched in mine. "If you don't focus on a location, you'll come with me."
"That simple?"
"Not everything has to be difficult."
"Well, I'll look on the bright side of this limbo thing here. I've always wanted to be a detective, and now I'll get the chance."
I wanted to groan, but I didn't. "Hang on, sweetheart. It's time for your first ride back down."
She leaned toward me, her body resting ever so slightly against my side. The opposite arm of the one I clutched twisted through mine, her hand gripping my upper arm.
I took calm and controlled breaths and focused my mind on the police station, pictured the front of it—the brick building still maroon, but now faded to an almost pink; asphalt parking lot that stretched from the station to a small diner down the block; firehouse sandwiched between the two buildings.
We emerged in front of the building. Now, time to find the detectives working on Willow's case.
"I read about her death."
"What?"
"Willow Flannery. It was in the newspaper the day before…" She gulped down the last two words, but I knew them.
Willow and Abby had lived in the same area, convenient turn of events for me. Not that I thought a serial killer had run amok and knocked off Willow, then Abby. As long as I was here, I could take a look at the investigation into Abby's death. I'd have to do it very hush-hush. Distract her for a while.
"Will they see us?" Abigail asked, as we slid through the walls of the county police station.
"Not if we don't want them to."
"So you wanted Rich to see you."
"Yes."
"Why couldn't he see me? I wanted him to."
"Duckie, you didn't even know you were dead."
"Could he now if I wanted him to?"
"If he's receptive to ghosts."
"He saw you."
I needed to keep her away from Rich. If Rich was involved, seeing Abby might shake him up, but it also ran the risk of destroying Abby. Her emotions rose around him, took over the thoughts controlling her spirit, and she turned into nothing but emotions, anger the strongest one left inside of her. That rush of heated energy churned a spirit and erupted into physical reactions.
"Let's focus on Willow Flannery."
Abby scanned the mass of plain-clothed and uniformed cops. "So, which are Legs and Brains?"
I didn't see them, so I had more time to come up with a good reason for my nicknames. "They're not in this mob, so they could be on patrol."
"Or not here."
I grinned. "We don't need them to get a report."
"We just sneak into the file room?"
"We're ghosts. No sneaking necessary."
A happy light danced in her eyes. "This is going to be fun. I know where the file room is." Abby grabbed my arm and dragged me through the maze of hallways.
I knew the file room location. I'd visited it a time or two for other clients, and police departments had low budgets. With crime achieving the statistics for basketball game scores, money was spent on hiring more officers rather than redecorating or adding on, except for more jail cells. The file room was in the same place as when I had been alive and pestering the cops.
Wait a minute.
"How do you know where the file room is?" I asked.
"I had to look up some information for school." She shot a glance back at me. "I am… was…" She cleared her throat, then finished, "studying criminal justice. I wanted to be a private investigator."
"A dangerous career," I commented.
"You did it."
And ended up dead.
Abby reached for the doorknob of the file room.
"We can walk right through the door."
"Oh, that's right." She shook her head in disgust. I hoped it wasn't for herself. It took a while to grasp the differences between Limbo and Earth, and the matching appearances left one feeling a little confused, even after decades of splitting time between the living and the dead.
Abby and I walked through the door and floated toward the big metal file cabinets. I stared hard at the file cabinet marked D through F. The drawer slid open.
"How did you do that?"
"You'll learn how. It just takes time. You have to envision what you need to do, think hard, concentrate."
"I knocked down the stuff in my apartment."
"You were angry. Anger is the easiest part of the soul and spirit to focus." And an emotion not to use often, as it controlled the spirit at times more than the spirit controlled it.
"That seems whacked."
After making sure Abby wasn't looking at me, I pulled out my blue notebook and jotted down 'whacked' to look up later. I shoved it back into my pocket and pulled out the black notebook I used for keeping track of evidence and case notes.
Abigail sat in front of a computer situated in the corner of th
e room. She looked at her hands hovering over the keyboard and closed her eyes. The keys clicked and clacked, and words appeared on the screen.
My niece was a genius! I had never seen a person enter the afterlife and learn how to navigate so quickly in their new existence. "You got a handle on it. Impressed."
"Computers are one of the necessities of life nowadays, like driving," Abby said, not understanding what I meant. "Willow Flannery. F. L. A," Abigail recited each letter in my client's last name.
I wondered how much information was on the computer, a rectangular box, not much bigger than a size-eleven shoebox.
"Here we go." Abigail pointed at the screen.
I leaned over her shoulder and read the accident report. The car had rammed into a massive tree, and Willow was thrown into the steering column. Her head hit the windshield and made a web design on the shattered glass. No seatbelt worn. One simple safety device ignored, and a life ended.
"Can you…" I paused. "Go down, flip the page? Whatever it is you do on the computer to read the rest."
"Scroll down," Abigail corrected.
I laid my black notebook down and pulled out my blue one for a brief instance. Scroll down, computer term meaning I want to read the rest. I snapped it shut with a flick of my wrist and deposited it back in my pocket. Hmm… maybe I should leave it out. I needed it quite a bit today.
According to the officers who reconstructed the accident, Ms. Flannery had gone sixty-five in a thirty-five mile-per-hour zone. I'd have to ask Willow if speeding was a normal driving habit.
"There were tire marks on the pavement. She tried to slow down. This accident can't be written off as a suicide," Abigail said.
"Correct deduction."
"After three years of college, you'd hope I learned something."
"And now you get a chance to apply it."
"Yes." A wistful look fluttered across her face.
It was obvious some heavy-duty questions bounced around in that pretty brunette head of hers. I didn't want to hope that she had found the answer because I didn't know the question. I couldn't count high enough to give a number to the dolls and ice cream I had bought for Laura because I said yes to the little girl without focusing on the words, and the few times I had brought her along when I worked small cases because Uncle Callous said yes to the 'Can I come' question.
Abigail bent her head toward the screen. Her forehead puckered, and her nose scrunched almost into her eyes.
"You're going to go blind getting that close to the screen."
"I'm dead," she said, not moving a tick hair back.
She brought up a good argument. "What is it you need to read that you're that close to the screen?"
"This." She pointed to a sentence in the report.
Interesting development. Willow's left arm had been looped through the shoulder harness. Maybe Willow's troubling question was how she got thrown into the windshield when she was wearing her seatbelt? At least during one point of her speed record attempt.
"The seatbelt malfunctioned. If I was her family, I'd be suing the car maker."
"Could've broke." Maybe nobody killed Willow. Maybe it was an honest-to-goodness unfortunate accident. If that theory panned out, Braswell would be a happy widower. One, he wouldn't be a murder suspect. Two, he could sue and get a lot of loot.
"Think we should talk to the officers?" Abby asked.
"Not unless you want them to go on disability. Commanding officers don't think highly of detectives or cops that start spouting off about ghosts."
"I didn't think about that." Abby's nose wrinkled as she peered up at the ceiling. "They probably still have the car in the impound lot. We could go check it out."
"In order to wrap this up sooner, one of us can go talk to Willow, and the other can check out the car. How about if you speak to the client?"
"All right, I guess." Abby appeared a little worried.
I smiled. "You'll do fine."
"To get back all I do is think about your office, right?"
I hesitated. Could she make it back on her own? Could I trust her to go back to Limbo without making a side trip? Did I have a choice? I needed to trust my grandniece to do the right thing.
"Just think about the office," I said. "Ann should be around. She'll help you locate Willow when you get back to..." Should I say Limbo or office?
"Limbo." Abby made the choice for me.
"Yeah, she knows where all the hangouts are."
"You'll meet us back at the office in a few hours?"
"Sure will, duckie."
Abby smiled and closed her eyes. I watched as her form faded from my sight. I hoped she made it back okay. I had to trust her, believe in her, or else she wouldn't believe in herself, and that kind of thinking was dangerous.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Abby
I had planned on returning to the office, but when I closed my eyes, Rich overtook my thoughts. I had to go back and make sure he was okay. I knew I should go see the client, but Willow Flannery was already dead. There was no future for her to worry about. It didn't matter if we found her killer today or tomorrow. One extra day in Limbo wouldn't hurt her.
I didn't know what to think about being dead, not having closure on my life. It felt as if I lived. I saw. I heard. I visited loved ones. Watched the world continue but not participate in it.
Were the rules for being alive the same when we were dead? Did it matter? Or should I even care one way or the other? I mean, I was dead, what more could happen to me? I never thought this would happen to me—not that I would never die, but the being murdered scenario and entering Limbo.
The living room I once shared with Rich materialized in front of me. Coldness swept through my body—my spirit. Should I be here? I wanted to see Rich again, but should I? I never knew being dead meant keeping free will. Or was that just part of Limbo? I'll ask Uncle Callous and see what he said about it. The one bright spot of the afterlife was getting to meet and hang out with Uncle Callous.
The photos I had tossed onto the floor yesterday crowded a corner of the dining room. The one of Rich and me at our tree hung on the wall in a different frame, a plain wooden one sold at the dollar stores. Heat wiggled up my form. I pushed it out. Rich was grieving. He didn't have time to pick out the perfect frame.
I wondered where he was right now. At work. His parents. My funeral. My grave. Had my funeral even taken place yet?
I floated around the house and tried to spot any changes. The books and old newspaper clippings I used for my research were gone, along with the folders containing my notes and outline for the criminal justice project. I hoped Grandma or Mom hadn't taken them. Since I was gone, there was no reason to have all of that information about Uncle Callous and his murder lying around for others to dig through.
How much did the police know? Who had they questioned? Did they suspect Rich and have him at the station? I knew the one closest to the victim was usually the first suspect. It made sense, except in my case. Rich loved me too much. He'd rather be the one dead than me. I fisted my hands and tried not to focus on the police station. What if they did have him there right now? Would my materializing help or hurt him?
Kim hated me. I had stolen Rich from her, and she never forgave me. Neither did his mother. But, I couldn't picture the prim and proper Mrs. Patrick Williams bludgeoning me to death or even hiring someone to do it.
I went to our bedroom. A strong pain, a squeezing, brought an ache to every part of my soul.
Rich lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Empty boxes were in front of the opened closet. All of my clothes still hung on the hangers and the shoes lined up on the carpeted floor.
I looked at Rich. Should I let him know that I was here, or should I leave him alone?
"Why? Why would someone kill her, God? How could You let it happen?" Rich sobbed to the ceiling. "I should have been here. I should have come home first. I should have been the one." He clenched his fists and pounded the mattress.
"Why
should it have been you?" I asked.
Rich's head snapped in my direction, and a hopeful glaze illuminated his eyes before a deep sorrow replaced it. I had first seen that expression in Grandma's eyes when Grandpa died.
"Abigail?" Rich whispered.
I hesitated, willing my mind to tell me if I should go to him or vanish back into the unseen world. I started to fade, but stopped at Rich's urgent calling of my name. Pleading. The confusion on where I should be left, and I drifted over to the bed.
"Abby." He reached out to touch my face, but his hand caressed the still air that made up my form. No more blood, no more flesh. Tears pooled in Rich's eyes. "If only I could touch you once more, hug you, love you."
"It can't happen." My voice quivered, portraying the pain in my soul.
"Just once. I never got to say goodbye." He tried to touch me again, but his hands couldn't find me. Nobody's hands would ever find me again.
I wanted to leave. I don't want these reminders of what I could never have again. They led me straight to the experiences I could never have, the ones I wanted and dreamed about. A career, marriage, a baby.
There were answers I needed to uncover. I needed to suck this up and push it down. I could cry later. I had a lot of time for crying and regrets.
"Rich, what did you mean?" I sat on the bed beside him.
He turned to me, his eyes filled with longing and love. He closed his eyes and caressed the bed where the image of my legs wavered. "I can think that it's you, I can sit here and remember what it was like to love you. Still love you."
My heart and soul felt comforted. Regardless of what his mother wanted, I was still his chosen one.
"Why do you feel it should have been you?" I asked to clarify my previous question.
"Because it hurts too much this way. To know I have to live without you. It would be easier if I were gone."
"This isn't easy," I whispered. "Being able to see you, talk to you, but not to touch."
Rich smiled sadly. "It's better than nothing."
"Is it?"
He looked into my eyes with a steady gaze. "Yes. I want your spirit here. You as a ghost is better than no you at all."
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