by Sonia Singh
Coulter sat up. He could practically feel the tension radiating off her body. He was about to get up and investigate when the bedroom door crashed open. A petite brunette stood there and glared at them.
He let out a deep breath and lounged back on his elbows.
The stranger looked like an elf and seemed about as harmless.
Next to him, Rachel grasped the bedsheet so tightly, her knuckles were white. “You’re not supposed to be here, Liz. We’re through.”
Oh, so it was like that now, was it? Coulter was intrigued.
He settled in for the show. He relished the idea of a catfight. Hair pulling, scratching, and Rachel was naked. Maybe the elf would end up that way too.
Instead, she pulled out a small gun and aimed it between his legs.
Jesus Christ Almighty! The gun was killing the mood.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he demanded, sitting up.
Liz’s eyes glittered. “How could you, Rachel?”
Coulter decided she no longer looked cute. She looked like a deranged pixie.
And then she pulled the trigger.
Rachel screamed. Futon filling went flying. He looked down at the hole in the sheet. The bitch nearly had him singing soprano.
“Liz, stop!” Rachel cried.
Anger welled inside him. He looked wildly around for something to use, something he could move. Nothing but those goddamn mats, some paper-thin screens, and a futon.
Frustration and fear melded with the rage inside him as Liz took aim again. Coulter was unprepared for what happened next.
Without any conscious effort, he felt the familiar pull in his gut.
Liz flew back against the wall. Her gun clattered to the floor.
Coulter stared in shock. What the hell had happened? He couldn’t move people. He couldn’t move animals. He’d tried. Something to do with energy fields.
Too late, he realized he could have just moved the gun from her hand.
Rachel stared at him, trembling. “What just happened?”
He leaped up and grabbed his clothes. He wasn’t about to hang around for the aftermath.
And not for the first time in his life, Coulter Marshall found himself running out of a woman’s house buck naked.
11
Vivica Bates was in a foul mood.
Her espresso machine was on the fritz and she’d been forced to visit one of the seven Starbucks that had cropped up in town like a virulent strain of mushroom.
She sat back in her chair and propped her long legs on the desk. She’d opened the San Francisco Chronicle earlier to find a scathing review of her latest book, Phenomenal Phenomena. She wasn’t comforted by the fact that the book was a commercial success or that she had a cult following on the Internet. She wanted critical acclaim.
She wanted some goddamn respect.
At the last board of trustees meeting, several tenured members approached the chancellor and expressed concern over the continued presence of a parapsychology department on campus, the consensus being that it was detrimental to the university’s academic reputation.
Vivica met with the chancellor privately and displayed a decade’s worth of paranormal research (along with a generous amount of cleavage).
But the old fart remained unmoved.
The world of academia didn’t care about cold spots and power surges and furniture being moved around a room by unseeing hands. They wanted definitive proof regarding paranormal existence.
All the more reason, Vivica argued, for the university to continue funding her research.
Her arguments went unheeded. The board planned to reconvene in four months, and a decision would be made then.
Vivica supposed she could branch out on her own. But she craved the prestige of a university behind her. Without it she’d be just another ghost hunter.
She had a Ph.D., damn it!
There was a soft knock at the door. Her mouth tightened. She didn’t appreciate being interrupted while she was contemplating her stunning achievements, past and future. “Enter,” she said coolly.
Her three assistants came in: Gaspar, Maddox, and Fitch. Vivica had a hard time telling them apart. The trio all carried Starbucks containers.
Why was she not surprised?
“Where’s Hans?” she asked.
Gaspar (she assumed it was Gaspar) looked behind him. “He was right here.”
Maddox (the smart one, in her opinion) left her office and returned a moment later, leading Hans by the elbow. “Someone threw a half-eaten donut in the trash. He stuffed it in his mouth before I could stop him.”
Vivica rolled her eyes. Considering Hans had been living off scraps when she found him, the discarded donut must have seemed like foie gras.
She stood up and gestured for him to take a seat. Hans stared back at her.
“Oh for the love of…” she snapped and prodded him into the chair. The man might have been gifted but he could barely function.
Vivica leaned against her desk and folded her arms. “There’s been a change in plans, boys. I intend to introduce Hans to the trustee board. That gives us four months to test and hone his abilities for my presentation. After they see him in action, they’ll be throwing money at me.”
“Not if they see him eating out of a trash can,” Fitch said.
Vivica narrowed her eyes. “Then it’s your job to play Professor Higgins. I want Hans as socially acceptable as possible. Is that clear?”
“Yes ma’am,” Fitch said in a subdued voice.
Vivica smiled. “Well then, let’s get started.”
12
A carved wooden entrance sign informed Anjali she was in the right place.
THE COLD SPOT
PARANORMAL INVESTIGATIONS
She didn’t know what she expected a ghost-hunting agency to look like, but this wasn’t it.
The beautifully restored Victorian came complete with gingerbread trim, thick columns, and real turrets.
Then again, as a ghost hunter, wouldn’t you want to live in a place that just oozed atmosphere? Being situated in a strip mall, between a nail spa and a Subway sandwich shop, just wouldn’t be the same.
It was now just half past five, and the fog had already started to roll in from the bay.
The whole place had gothic charm going for it.
Scott was going to give her a crash course in paranormal investigating and then they’d head over to the Michaels home. Lynne didn’t get off work until eighty-thirty. By then it would be dark.
Of course, Anjali thought. Can’t enter a haunted house until after dark.
When she was scared she felt it in her stomach. No sweaty palms or dry mouth, just her stomach—tight and twisted.
She tried to tell herself that maybe there was nothing haunted about the place. Maybe everything had a rational explanation, and Scott was just a lazy ghost hunter who hadn’t looked into everything.
But in the back of her mind she knew that wasn’t true. She had the feeling Scott was thorough to the point of anal retentiveness. Somehow he’d gotten her from a firm no to a “just once.”
Jeez, Anjali had never thought of herself as easy before.
She stepped up to the entrance, but before she had a chance to knock, Scott opened the door, looking incredibly cheerful.
Anjali felt nauseated.
“You made it,” he said.
“Looks like.”
“Let me show you around. Architecture is one of my hobbies.”
Stepping into the dark, elegant interior, she looked around in awe. The inside was gorgeous. Hardwood floors, stained glass windows, and silk draperies galore.
Upon entering, she saw a parlor immediately to the right. She followed Scott into the room, and a sigh of pleasure slipped from her lips. What an exquisite room. Rose walls matched the rose accents in the blue Bokhara carpet.
“I wanted a room for interviewing clients,” he explained.
Diagonally across from the parlor was the library. The room was l
ined with bookshelves, and a rolling ladder was needed to reach the highest shelves. A jeweled Tiffany lamp perched on the edge of an elegant carved desk, and the fireplace had one of those ornate Victorian screens in front of it. She wandered over and looked at a few of the titles. There were books of quotations, particularly by Mark Twain and Oscar Wilde.
“Nothing reduces the fear of a haunted house more than a well-placed quip,” Anjali said.
Scott laughed, gently took hold of her elbow, and resumed the rest of the tour.
Back in the hall, she stopped at the staircase leading up to the second floor and Scott’s residence. She was curious about that level, but he steered her toward the left side of the house.
A hallway split the left side in two. On one side was a state-of-the-art office humming with a fax machine, several computers, a scanner, and something called a white noise generator.
On the other side was a cozy den with a mounted flat-panel TV, a comfortable sofa, cushy recliners, and an elegant teak bar stocked with her favorite vodka.
The hallway ended in a large and pleasant kitchen with a breakfast nook.
Either ghost hunting was a profitable business or Scott Wilder had another source of income.
Anjali’s super psychic sense said it was the latter.
“I want to show you something,” Scott said as they returned to the library.
They sat down on either side of the desk, and Scott placed a sleek black leather case between them.
“What is that? A ghost hunter’s kit?” she joked.
“Exactly,” Scott said. “You know what a psychic’s greatest gift really is?”
“The gullible public?”
“No.” He frowned. “Thoroughness. I want to be as professional about this as possible. We’re going to marry psychic ability with science.”
The bag loomed in front of her. Anjali wondered what would come out of it—garlic cloves, Ouija board, a pentagram, holy water, a copy of Ghostbusters…? She stifled a giggle.
Scott unzipped the bag and pulled out a tape measure. “For checking the thickness of walls. You never know when you’ll find a hidden chamber—”
“Filled with skeletal remains,” she supplied.
“Possibly.” He then pulled out the smallest digital camera she’d ever seen. “For indoor and outdoor photography. I want to document everything we do. Plus, this also functions as a video recorder.”
He then reached in and pulled out a cell phone. “I’m sure you already have one of these but don’t waste your minutes. Use this one for maintaining contact at the location.”
Anjali shivered. “Are you saying we’d separate? You’re never supposed to separate; haven’t you watched any horror movies? For God’s sake, didn’t you ever watch Scooby Doo?”
“You remind me of Daphne.”
“Tell me about the house,” she said.
“Typical tract housing. Built in the 1970s. The last family lived there until recently. The wife is a retired schoolteacher and moved to San Diego to be near the daughter. The husband passed away in the house. Suffered a silent heart attack at eighty-one. Died in his sleep. Happy marriage, happy family. The only death was a peaceful one. Doesn’t fit your usual profile of a haunting.”
Despite her nerves, Anjali was intrigued. “Is there a typical haunting?”
“Basically, there are three categories. You have your residual haunting, where the spirit or ghost is seen repeating the same action over and over. You have your interactive spirit, where the presence actually interacts with the inhabitants, slamming doors, weird noises. The spirit is as aware of you as you are of it. And then the third…” He paused.
An icy breeze kissed the nape of her neck. Anjali did not need to turn to know all the windows were closed. The cold wasn’t coming from outside. The cold was generated from the thought in Scott’s head.
“The third category is an entity,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “A nonhuman presence, ancient and ageless. Sometimes referred to as a demon or demonic presence. It’s debatable whether or not poltergeists fit into this category. I think they border between interactive spirits and entities.”
Anjali strove for his no-nonsense tone but didn’t quite succeed. “Have you ever encountered an entity?”
“No. And I hope I never do. Although from a purely intellectual standpoint—”
“Can we get this over with?”
Scott checked his watch. “Ten to eight. It’s about a thirty-minute drive. Let’s go. Ready?”
“Like hell.”
13
A bar brawl was too risky.
Too many people, and there was the risk of the police being called.
Coulter hadn’t contacted Rachel since her crazy, guntoting, ex-girlfriend had tried to kill him.
Instead he was out for a night stroll through the Tenderloin district, supposedly the sketchiest neighborhood in San Francisco. Coulter had been disappointed. The area seemed nice. He’d walked by crowded ethnic restaurants and colorful dive bars.
Annoyed, he was ready to return to his cheap motel. Apparently the streets were a lot safer than they used to be.
But as the hour grew late, he ventured deep into the darker parts, sidestepping panhandlers, tipping his hat to prostitutes, and stepping on at least a half-dozen syringes. The air grew thick with menace. Just what Coulter was looking for.
He was asking for it.
Literally.
He needed money, and he needed to practice his newfound skill. That’s why he was walking around San Francisco in the middle of the night, trying to look like a hick who didn’t know any better.
Finally he heard the sound of footsteps creeping up on him. Come on, he thought. He walked faster, and the footsteps also sped up.
All of a sudden the collar of his denim jacket was grabbed from behind.
“Your wallet. Now.” The voice was young, male, and tough.
Coulter had to stop himself from smiling.
He turned around. The mugger was wearing a ski mask and a fatigue jacket. And for the second time in days a gun was pointed at him, this time a little higher up at the chest.
“I reckon I’m gonna need my money,” he said, heavy on the drawl. “San Francisco’s an expensive city. That okay with you?”
The mugger’s hand on the gun was steady. “Don’t mess with me, cowboy, hand over the money.”
“I don’t know. This wallet here belonged to my granddaddy.”
“I’ll kill you and take it anyway. You think I won’t?”
“If I thought that I wouldn’t be here.”
This was it. Show time. Coulter concentrated on the mugger.
Nothing happened.
Shit!
The mugger’s hand tightened on the trigger. “All right, Kid Rock, time’s up.”
Coulter could feel a small bead of panic sliding down his back.
What a goddamn bullshit way to die.
He was psychic. Not Superman.
He was working up to full panic mode when it happened.
The pull in his gut, and the mugger went flying back into a pile of trash bags. The plastic burst at the seams, and rank refuse spilled all over.
“Thank you, Jesus!” Coulter kicked the gun into the sewer drain and slowly approached the man on the ground.
The mugger’s eyes behind the mask were wide. Shakily, he held out his wallet. Coulter took it, emptied it of cash, and tossed it back. “I hope you appreciate the irony of this moment, my friend. I’m mugging you.”
He headed back to the motel.
Only this time he was whistling.
14
Anjali stared at the house and felt her stomach clench. She should never have come here. She should never have left her safe, secure apartment.
“Hey,” Scott said, “remember what I told you.”
They were sitting in his black Range Rover staring out at the house.
“I’m supposed to guide whatever is in there toward the light. I sound like a Hollywo
od cliché.”
Scott tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Some people believe that when you die there is a wonderful light. All the answers to all the questions you want to know are there. And when you walk to it…you become a part of that energy forever.”
“But some people die, and they don’t know they’re gone,” she said.
“For some reason they resist going into the light. And then some people just get lost on the way there. They need someone to lead them. That’s where you come in.”
Anjali frowned. “You’re not making all this up, are you?”
“I can’t tell you why you’ve been given this particular ability; no one can,” Scott said gently. “All I know is that spirits can keep themselves from moving on if their will is strong enough. But if my assessment of your ability is correct, your will is stronger. Just close your eyes and focus as if you were meditating.”
“Meditation, huh?” Anjali raised an eyebrow. “You know that was invented in India.”
“Yes.”
“So was chess.”
“I’d read that somewhere.”
“And dice.”
“Dice?”
“And hippies. A lost tribe of fair-skinned people who were forced out of India and relocated to America where they lived freely wearing love beads, playing the sitar, and totally getting into Indian spirituality.”
“I see.”
“And yoga. But not Hare Krishnas. Shaved heads and begging in airports have never been what India’s about.”
He smiled. “Oh yeah?”
“And pasta.”
“I believe that was invented in China.”
“Close enough.”
“Ready to take a look at the house?”
“No.” But she opened the car door and stepped out.
She started up the drive, but the sound of a car pulling up made her turn around. An old Honda Civic parked in the driveway. Lynne Michaels was home.
Scott held the car door open for her. “Lynne, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Anjali.”
Lynne turned to her with a small, tight smile. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore no makeup. “So you’re the psychic?”
