by Sonia Singh
“After you,” she said and started up, looking back as Rosie followed. “You might be more comfortable waiting downstairs.”
Rosie leveled her with a steely gaze. “Every year someone try to sabotage my sales. Last year it was Connie Wang, now it’s ghost bitch. I’m going.”
As they went up Anjali trailed her fingers along the smooth wooden banister, picking up images and emotions along the way. Fleeting glimpses of all the living beings who’d ever dwelled in the house.
They reached the master bedroom. “It’s going to be cold,” Scott warned Rosie.
“Oh,” she said. “Just like in The Sixth Sense.”
Anjali counted to three, opened the door, and stepped into the room.
The cold surrounded them, seeping through their clothes, sliding down their throats. The very definition of bone-chilling. They’d found the heart of the house.
Scott and Anjali were prepared, but beside them, Rosie shivered and looked uneasy. Anjali reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.
Scott aimed the EMF meter around the room. Anjali watched him. “What are you doing? I think we’ve determined this place is haunted already.”
“The readings will be transferred into my laptop as proof,” he said and added in a dry voice. “Remember skeptics?”
Behind them the door slammed shut.
Rosie jumped. “Chiu!”
“That’s okay,” Anjali said, trying for a calm voice. “That’s about the most she can do.”
“Are you sure?”
This presence was definitely not that of a kindly old man tinkering in his garage.
“Positive,” she lied.
Scott gave her an encouraging smile. “Ghosts don’t kill people. Running away from ghosts, tripping and breaking your neck in the process, kills people.”
“Right,” she said.
He pulled out the video camera from his bag.
Anjali squared her shoulders and got to work.
She walked out to the middle of the empty room, her footsteps sounding abnormally loud against the hardwood floor. Touching her Ganesh again, she closed her eyes and reached out with her mind.
The male presence in the Michaels house had left on his own after she’d nudged him toward the fact he was dead. So she tried that again.
Nothing.
“It’s not working Scott.”
“Ask her if she has a message for the living.”
Is there anything you want to tell me?
Instead of cooperating, the female presence filled Anjali’s mind with visions: Rosie screaming her name. The walls of the house shaking and crumbling. Scott lying on the floor twisting in agony.
The presence was trying to scare her and overdoing it in Anjali’s opinion. Still, it was working.
Spectral fingers danced along the back of her neck.
She wanted to turn around, wanted to see, but stayed in place, her eyes closed. Focusing, tuning out everything else.
Once again, she reached out and explained to the presence that she needed to leave, her time was over. She visualized the doorway filled with light and urged the spirit toward it.
The spirit refused to budge.
Ghostly laughter filled the room.
Anjali’s fear was slowly replaced by annoyance.
She recalled what Scott had said. Spirits could keep themselves from moving on if their will was strong enough.
But Anjali’s will was stronger.
She focused hard on the doorway filled with light and guided—okay, willed—okay, shoved—the spirit toward it.
Concentrating, all it took was one final mental push, and the spirit slipped out of this world.
The air around them grew warmer.
She opened her eyes. “This house is clean.”
Rosie was wide-eyed, her hands pressed to her chest. “Oh boy! Oh boy! You did it!”
Scott stared at her, the hand with the camera drifting down to his leg. “Amazing. I still can’t believe this works.”
Rosie tilted her head and looked at Anjali. “You should still find real career though. No money in this ghost-busting stuff.”
18
During a brief stint in Texas, Coulter had romanced a preacher’s daughter who taught him two things.
One, God loves you.
Two, you’re going to hell.
He thought of what she’d said as he started a new career. Strolling the streets of San Francisco after dark, targeting criminals by making himself a target and depriving them of their hard-earned dollars.
On one hand, God had to love him because Coulter was using the talent the Divine Father had given him.
On the other, Coulter Marshall was destined for hell as surely as a bored housewife was sitting down to watch The Price Is Right.
His new racket proved it.
Until that day of reckoning though, he was going to enjoy himself. Number one on his list—check out of the cockroach castle he’d been staying in since he got to the city. Bugs in the bathroom, porn in the magazine rack, and bedsheets that hadn’t been washed since Velcro was invented.
The location wasn’t too desirable either, situated as it was between the Church of Satan and the Temple of Uranus—a bathhouse exclusively for men.
And no, Coulter had not taken a dip.
He was just heading out, pushing through the grimy door when a dark SUV screeched to the curb, techno music blasting, and three men who looked like extras from Men in Black spilled out.
“This place is a dump,” one of them said, staring up at the motel.
His companion sneered. “What was your first clue? The hookers in the lobby?”
“Can we get on with it?” the third one said. “Vivica doesn’t want us taking all day.”
Coulter stood aside to let them pass. They barely glanced at him.
He walked to the end of the block, and then caught the uptown bus. He was going to treat himself. Three-star hotel all the way.
19
“She cursed me,” Fitch whispered.
Maddox frowned. “Will you shut it?”
“I think she did curse him,” Gaspar murmured. “My Spanish is rusty but I swear it had something to do with Fitch’s manly parts.”
“Silence!” Veda commanded.
After missing Coulter at his motel, Gaspar, Maddox, and Fitch were at The Magic Wand, Veda’s small magic shop on Haight. Veda was supposedly a witch, and Maddox thought she fit the bill. She had long silver hair, a hooked nose, and eyes that seemed to pierce right through them.
According to Vivica, Veda possessed a weak but true second sight, and her specialty was divining.
Maddox thought another one of Veda’s specialties was marketing. Tarot cards, candles, and charms filled the shelves, and judging by the silver Mercedes parked outside, business was good.
“The name!” Veda barked.
“Coulter Marshall,” Maddox supplied.
Fitch nudged Gaspar. “Wonder why she needs a Benz when a broomstick would beat traffic?” The two men snickered.
Maddox leaned toward them. “Do you want to keep making jokes or do you want to find this guy? Hmm…what option would Vivica prefer?”
Fitch and Gaspar settled back in their seats with various expressions of annoyance and fear. But they were quiet.
“Now.” Veda beamed. “Let me look into my crystal ball.”
It was too much. Even Maddox began snickering.
Veda looked up. “There is too much negative interference. I can’t see anything.”
Fitch coughed into his hand. “Fraud.”
“Anyone smell snake oil?” Gaspar questioned.
Maddox pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “If you want us to cross your palm with silver, lady, I’m going to need more.”
Veda frowned and returned to her crystal ball. “I see sawdust on the floor. Dancing. Not too far from here.” She threw up her hands. “Nothing else. My head pains me. Leave.”
“Country-western bar,” Maddox said.
&
nbsp; Gaspar pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll get a list of all the potentials in the area.”
“Let’s go.” Fitch rose. “I think she gave me hives.”
“You’re too impressionable.” Maddox tossed the money on the table, and the three men walked out.
Veda glared at their backs.
The crystal ball was just for effect. As soon as she’d been given the details, a location had formed in her mind. A place she knew well.
The Rockin’ Rodeo on Fulton.
Thursday was Ladies’ Night.
But she didn’t tell Vivica’s men that. She pocketed the money. “Dumbshits,” she muttered.
20
So a psychic and a ghost hunter walk into a bar.
Anjali stared warily at the man in a Confederate flag shirt exiting the Rockin’ Rodeo. She turned to Scott. “I think I’m too brown to feel comfortable in there. You know me and my redneck phobia.”
With his hand on her waist, he steered her through the entrance. “We’re in San Francisco. How red can their necks be?”
“You obviously didn’t see 48 Hours. Eddie Murphy walks into a country-western bar in San Francisco and the whole room screeches to a halt.”
“Don’t worry,” Scott said.
The sawdust crunched under her feet, she didn’t recognize what was playing on the jukebox, and everyone had a domestic beer in his hand.
Anjali didn’t feel very comforted.
Besides, how was she supposed to recognize this Coulter person anyway? There were a dozen blond-haired, blue-eyed men in the place. “Didn’t your friend Eddie have any other details about our guy?”
“All he knows is that Vivica’s lapdogs have checked out every Western dive in the city, save this one and the Sun dance Saloon. If we strike out here, we’ll head there next. Once Vivica gets her hands on this Coulter guy, I won’t be able to get within one foot of him. And the chance to talk to an actual telekinetic? I have so many questions!”
Anjali stared at him. He was practically glowing with excitement.
He’s like a kid in a clairvoyant candy store, she thought.
He maneuvered her toward the bar. “See if you can pick up anything.”
“I’ll try.”
Scott ordered two Millers and asked the bartender if he knew of a Coulter Marshall.
“Nope.” The bartender uncapped two bottles and set them on the counter. “Five bucks.” He turned away to take another order.
Anjali noticed the woman in a halter top and tight jeans seated on a bar stool next to them. She knew something about Coulter. Anjali couldn’t sense any information beyond that, but did notice the woman’s eyes sliding over Scott.
With one hand on his back, Anjali reached for her beer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Talk to Ms. Halter Top next to you. She knows something and thinks you’re cute.”
“And what will you do?”
“Investigate.”
She cut through the crowd and went to stand by the jukebox, scanning the titles. The next song cued up was by someone named Alison Krauss. She looked back to see Scott and the brunette deep in conversation.
Unsure of how exactly to go about investigating, she remained by the jukebox and tried to look like she belonged. She certainly stood out. Didn’t minorities go country line dancing? Or maybe she was being unnecessarily self-conscious.
After fifteen minutes she hadn’t picked up anything. But she’d become a fan of Alison Krauss and Gretchen Wilson.
Sipping on her beer she sat down on a bar stool at the opposite end of the bar from Scott and decided to people watch.
Since Anjali had started working as a psychic, actively using her abilities instead of trying to stifle them, she felt less like a victim and more in control of her life. She even contemplated writing a book. And inspired by the Rockin’ Rodeo, she’d come up with a title.
Even Mediums Get the Blues.
She was distracted from her literary musings (which included being an Oprah’s Book Club pick) by a couple on the dance floor.
The plump blond had her arms wrapped around her date’s muscular neck as they ground their lips and hips against each other, oblivious to all the people around them.
Meanwhile, the only guy paying attention to Anjali was the bald man with a beer belly hanging over his Bronco buckle, breathing all over her.
Across the room, Halter Top had her hand on Scott’s shoulder, and he was laughing, leaning in close to her. Anjali scowled. How long did it take to elicit information anyway?
A giggle caught her attention, and Anjali turned to see the horny humping couple walking by her. The man’s arm brushed against her shoulder, and Anjali felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her.
His feelings came through dark and strong.
He was dangerous.
Perverse.
The woman was in trouble.
The couple headed out the back exit. Sliding off the stool, as if on automatic pilot, she followed them.
Anjali trailed the pair into a dark alley.
Now what? she thought.
They were directly in front of her. She had to do something. If she ran to get help, she’d lose them.
So she did the only thing a female with no martial arts training could do.
She threw back her head and screamed.
The couple whirled around and stared at her.
Anjali took a step toward the blond. “Don’t go with him,” she blurted. “He’s a sex criminal!”
She didn’t know what else to call him. Mr. Pervert seemed too lenient. Rapist was a possibility but she didn’t really know what his intentions were, just his depraved feelings behind them.
“Is she crazy or what?” Blond asked.
“Probably drunk,” Sex Criminal said smoothly.
Anjali made eye contact with the woman. “You have to believe me. The man you’re with is violent. You can’t leave with him.”
Sex Criminal tugged on his date’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
Anjali focused on the blond, opening her mind to the other woman’s thoughts. “I know you just met him. You think he’s the one. You think he’s saved you from a string of Saturday nights spent with Häagen-Dazs and chick flicks. You’ve watched Cocktail so many times, you know the dialogue by heart. Which I can’t understand because although I liked the movie when I saw it the first time in high school, I saw it again years later and it really sucked.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “How…” She looked at the man beside her, then back at Anjali. “I…I need to get out of here.”
Anjali watched her go off with a sigh of relief.
Then she realized she was now alone in a dark alley with a sexual deviant.
She took a step backward, intending to break into a run.
He lunged, grabbing her arm and twisting it hard, dragging her toward him.
“I don’t know who you are, but you made a big mistake, sweetness.”
He began dragging her toward the end of the alley, his grip unbreakable.
“Now that’s no way to treat a lady,” a male voice purred from the darkness.
Sex Criminal’s fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh of her upper arm. “Stay out of this. It’s none of your business.”
“Yes it is,” Anjali called out and winced as the bruising grip tightened on her arm.
As the stranger approached them, her skin began to tingle and tighten. There was now a crackle to the air, the sizzling charge of static electricity.
The stranger was the source. Anjali knew this as certainly as she knew the words to every Depeche Mode song ever written.
The man cruelly gripping her arm, however, seemed to be oblivious to the electrical current slicing through the air. That or he was too occupied with thoughts of a criminally sexual nature. “Leave. This doesn’t concern you,” he said.
The stranger’s lean form drew closer. “Well, there are things I don’t consider my concern. Politics for one. Proper etiquette for another.
And what is or isn’t corrupting the tender youth of America today. But a cock monster like you…concerns me.”
Anjali was shoved out of the way as her would-be attacker charged and caught the stranger around the middle, pinning his arms to his sides.
The stranger struggled, trying to break the stronger man’s grip.
Desperate, Anjali looked around for someone to call, some way to help, when the Sex Criminal abruptly released the stranger and staggered back as if pushed. A look of astonishment passed over his face before he went flying back. His body slammed against the brick wall and crumpled to the pavement.
Anjali blinked, trying to process what she’d just seen.
The stranger walked forward into a dimly lit patch of light. Anjali blinked several more times and tried not to gape. She did not succeed.
Her rescuer had blond hair, blue eyes, and a face so perfect it was devastating.
Holy shit, the man was testosterone on two legs.
“Thank you,” she said, continuing to stare.
“De nada, sweetheart.” He leaned over and searched the limp man’s body, pulling out his wallet. Grabbing a wad of bills, he stuffed them into his pocket.
“Word of warning,” he said. “You can tell people about what you saw tonight, but you’ll come off looking crazier than a faith healer at a revival meeting.”
He started to walk away, and Anjali finally found her voice. “Wait! Coulter!”
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
She took a deep breath. “I’m psychic too.”
He walked back, stood in front of her, and gazed down at her face. “Well now.” He smiled. “Isn’t that interesting?”
The noise inside the bar had risen to extreme levels.
Anjali saw a giant in a wife-beater advancing on three men dressed in identical dark suits. “Which one of you stiffs called me a hick?”
Ignoring them, she walked up to Scott, overhearing him ask the brunette next to him, “So you think Coulter will come in tonight?”
“Pretty sure,” she said, her gaze warm with invitation. “Now, about your number?”
Anjali tapped Scott on the shoulder. He turned, and she gestured to the man beside her. “I’d like you to meet Mr. Marshall.”
