Dead Demon Walking

by Linda Welch

  Wrong thing to say.

  “And we were miserable,” Mel groaned. “We spent our days looking at the walls or out the windows at an empty street. We were bored silly.”

  “No television, no newspaper, no books, no conversation,” Jack said

  “No whining,” I interjected as I flung open the closet doors.

  “Oh, we had plenty of whining,” from Jack. He struck a pose, hand on hip. “Jack, how long will we be here? Jack, I’m so bored. Jack, will we be here forever? Jack - ”

  “You are so full of it,” from Mel.

  I decided to be patient with Jack and Mel, because at least my pending vacation provided a distraction and the leaden atmosphere had lifted. This was the first time I’d seen and spoken to Jack since our chat about Dale Jericho.

  I looked in my closet - what did one wear in Boston in late August? “It won’t be the first time I’ve been away from home.”

  “But not for so long!” Mel whined.

  I’d been away on investigations, but never for more than a few days. “Two weeks at the most. What do you want, an apology? You won’t get one.”

  “Perhaps a little sympathy.”

  I tried to be sympathetic. I knew being stuck in the house, unable to enjoy pleasures to which a living person is accustomed, must be boring and frustrating. They would feel isolated with me absent from home. But at least they could wander from room to room; at least they could talk to each other. I know some shades who are restricted to tiny areas, and some, like old Henry, stuck out in the middle of nowhere. He can’t move an inch, poor old boy.

  Henry? His nephew murdered him. The guy’s wife distracted Henry as he came at the lewd old codger from behind. Henry is the only shade I know with a permanent leer. Note to self: take Henry a few Playboy copies next time you drive through Wyoming. I could lay the pages on the ground and weigh them down with rocks.

  “At least leave the TV on,” Jack said as his head came through the closet’s back wall.

  I pulled the hangers together with a clatter so clothes hid his face. “Get out of there! And no, I can’t leave the TV on that long.”

  “You could get a house- and pet-sitter,” Mel suggested.

  Hands on the hangers, I considered the suggestion. Mel and Jack could watch TV while she or he did, and read if he or she read, and otherwise find entertainment from a live person in the house. But leave Mac with a stranger? Mac would be a pet-sitter’s worst nightmare.

  Mac. Janie is the best, but I hate to leave Mac. What if someone broke in her kennels and stole him? What if her assistant left a side gate open and he escaped? What if he became ill, and I had to leave his health-care to another person?

  Speak of the devil - Mac trundled in the bedroom. Mel and Jack wandered out. I sat at my desk and fired up the computer. As it did its thing, I dug in the bag of doggie treats on my desk and tossed one to my boy.

  Another dog would jump and snatch it out the air. Not Mac. He let it hit the floor, gave me a reproachful look when he had to walk a whole foot to get it, and only then crunched it up.

  I logged on to American Airlines and punched in dates for a return trip to Boston, creating an imaginary two-week time span because I didn’t yet know when we would leave. We could fly via Dallas Fort Worth or Chicago O’Hare to Boston Logan International.

  I leaned back with a smile and a contented sigh. Now I had firmly in my head we were going, I anticipated the excursion with pleasure. Just Royal and me. No snarky roommates, no cases, no shades.

  I caught Mac’s eyes and lost my smile. “Oh, Mac, you are gonna hate me for a long time.”

  He responded to my tone, ears flat and big, sad eyes. He came over and lay down with his chin on my foot. I laughed. “You loon. You know how to work it, don’t you.”

  “Tiff, got a minute?” Jack whispered.

  I cocked my head at where Jack had materialized near my right shoulder. Now, Jack always whispers, as do all shades to whom I speak. That’s the way I hear their voices. But this time Jack deliberately whispered. I could barely hear him. When I opened my mouth, he put one finger to his lips. I caught on; he didn’t want Mel to hear us. Then I realized he asked my permission to talk to me!

  Dislodging Mac, I spun the chair to face Jack. “What is it?” I whispered back.

  “I want to talk to him.”

  Confused, I glanced down, grimacing at Mac. Jack wanted to talk to Mac? Why tell me? Why not go ahead and talk to him? And since when did Jack have anything to say to Mac? How weird was that?

  “To Dale.”

  What? My head went up so fast, I almost cricked my neck. “Jericho?”

  Jack nodded.

  I squinted at him. What was he thinking? “Not one of your better ideas, Jack; not to mention physically impossible.” I squared my shoulders against the chair’s high back and clasped my hands on my stomach. “Why would you want to, anyway?”

  “Things unsaid between us.” Jack shrugged. “I can’t get what you said out of my mind. He thought about me all this time. I think. . . .” He hung his head. “Knowing what happened would bring him peace of a kind.”

  He could be right, but I couldn’t tell Dale what happened to Jack without an explanation I did not want to give. “I can’t tell Jericho the truth. Sorry, Jack.”

  “You don’t need to. I will. I don’t mean I’ll tell him what actually happened. I’ll make up a story . . . I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.”

  This conversation was way bizarre. “You keep saying you’ll talk to him. Do you forget that’s impossible?”

  “You tell people you have psychic powers.”

  I tucked my chin in my neck. “So?”

  “Dale won’t know what they are.”

  “He. . . .” I clamped my mouth shut as I got his gist, shook my head. “You want me to act the medium? No. Way.”

  He came in closer. “Dale would keep it to himself. I know he would.”

  I coughed - all the whispering strained my vocal cords. “No I don’t, and neither do you.”

  “Have I ever asked you for anything?”

  Good lord. “Yes, you ask for what I can’t give you all the time.”

  Silence. Jack turned his back on me. Then his voice whispered plaintively through the room. “You can give me this.”

  All the air went out of me as his words hit me like a punch in the gut. A shade’s facial expression cannot change, but posture and whispered timbre reflect their emotions. Jack is an abrasive, sarcastic, argumentative know-it-all. I’d never heard him do sad before.

  I twisted back to the desk. I could help him. I couldn’t bring his killer to justice, I couldn’t make him go on his way, but in this I could help, though I would risk it blowing up in my face.

  I shook my head imperceptibly. “He won’t believe me.”

  Jack spun. “He will. I’ll make sure of that.”

  How? I didn’t ask.

  If they did communicate, through me, would putting Jack and Jericho together achieve anything? Time had passed. People change. Did Jack know Jericho as well as he thought? I stared at the monitor. I couldn’t decide what to do; I had to think it through. “Jack, I can’t tell you yea or nay right now. I gotta think on it.”

  I held up my hand to ward him off. “Best I can do, Jack. I’ll call Jericho, tell him I’ll be away for a few weeks but will be in touch when I get back.”

  He nodded and turned away. I wanted to say yes, he seemed so sad.

  ***

  I drove along Radcliffe Road, heading for the mall and my favorite lingerie store: Décolleté. I don’t spend much on clothes, but I refuse to skimp on underwear. I wanted a few new, sexy sets for the vacation. And I’d leave the worn old T-shirt I slept in at home. I’d get some slinky little number instead. Maybe a teddy. I never wore a teddy before. I grinned. I bet Royal would like me in a teddy.

  My cell rang. Unknown Caller. I hesitated, inclined to let it go to voicemail, but it could be someone wanting to hire us. I answered the p
hone. “Hello?”

  “Please help me!”

  The same voice. I knew it. “Look, Lady,” I began. The line went dead.

  “Goddammit!” I snapped the phone closed and tossed it on the passenger seat.

  Swearing, I spun the steering wheel, took a sharp left to Childress and headed for Royal’s apartment.

  ***

  “Royal!” I burst through the door into his living room. He wasn’t there. I saw the two contractors, dim apparitions through the plastic sheet, standing with hammers poised in midair. Then I heard the steady thump, thump, thump on the ceiling, Royal’s way of letting me know he was upstairs in his bedroom. I sighed, and went out the door to climb more stairs. The rhythmic banging resumed behind me.

  Taking the steps two at a time, I climbed the staircase to the top floor.

  Royal sat at his big roll-top desk. He spun the chair as I came in the room and his smile took everything else from my mind. And that he wore only a pair of Levi’s had something to do with it. He stood to meet me and three steps later his arms held me close. Behind his back, I stuck my thumbs inside his waistband as I lay against his warm, smooth chest. We stood that way for a minute.

  “You are the most distracting man,” I softly chided.

  “I aim to please,” he murmured back.

  “Oh, you do.” I lightly flicked his bare shoulder. “Sometimes I wonder how we get any work done.”

  His eyes rolled up. “Ah. Work, is it?”

  I stepped back. “Yes and no.”

  “All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.”

  I put my hands behind my back, the temptation to climb all over him nearly overpowering me. “You couldn’t be dull if you tried.” I held up one hand as he stepped into me again with a twinkle in his glowing eyes. “Hold up there, big boy.”

  The limited seating in Royal’s bedroom - either the desk chair or the bed - can be a problem. I learned early in our relationship that sitting on the bed was, in his opinion, an invitation to stretch out on the mattress and experiment with every position in the Karma Sutra. One of us had to remember we worked for a living. Unfortunately, that someone had to be me. It sure would never be Royal.

  I went around him and sat at the desk. “I had another call, on my cell this time. Like before, a woman asking for help. She sounded a long way off, difficult to hear, and the call cut off after a few words.”

  Royal gracefully sank to the floor to sit cross-legged with his back against the bed’s footboard. “The same woman, are you are positive?”

  “It has to be.”

  “She could be a potential client with a bad phone.”

  Possibly. I tend to take the negative view, look at the worst-case scenario. I fixate on what can go wrong instead of what can go right. That’s just me. Sometimes there is an innocent explanation. So why not think so this time?

  Chapter Five

  As ridges and folds of far distant terrain disappeared beneath the clouds, I unsnapped my seatbelt and shifted first one way then another, trying to get comfortable. Economy class is not designed for tall people. I don’t think it’s designed for people of any width and height.

  Did I remember everything? Put the newspaper on hold - check. Put mail delivery on hold - check. Give Janie the Boston hotel’s phone number in case she had to call me and I forgot to charge my cell phone battery - check. I’m not paranoid, honest. I happen to believe in Murphy’s Law, which says anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Murphy and I have a close relationship.

  I shouldn’t worry about Mac. He’d be safe in Janie’s care. But his sad doggy look got me where it hurt. It’s amazing how a dog can express emotion. When MacKlutzy is mad his ears go back flat on his skull and he slits his eyes. When he is sad or does not feel good, the ears go down and out horizontally - a Scottie’s ears can’t droop - and those eyes get all big and dewy. When I handed him to Janie his look said, how can you desert and betray me yet again? He doesn’t understand why I leave him, just that I do.

  But he does that every time he stays with Janie and is always fine when I collect him.

  Jack and Mel tried to make me feel guilty. They hid from me when I wanted to say good-bye. I walked all over the house, calling them, and not a whisper.

  They’ll be fine, Tiff. Nothing could happen to them. The house could go up in flames and they would be okay.

  “What are you fretting about now?” Royal asked. He gave my hand a warm squeeze. “Jack and Mel?”

  I huffed out a breath. “No. The house burning down.”

  He chuckled deep in his throat and laid his head back on the cushioned headrest.

  I folded one leg beneath me so I sat at an angle, and watched him doze. I gently brushed away copper-gold strands caught on his lip. His profile, etched against the dim cabin, made me forget to breathe. I let my head settle on his shoulder and inhaled his scent. He smiled and groped for my hand.

  Then an evil flight attendant paused on her patrol to tell me to sit up and buckle up.

  I had more than enough time during the flight to mull over what I should or should not do about Jack and Dale Jericho. I would have to invite Dale to my home and persuade him I could summon the spirits of the dead. I could not tell him the truth. That would be worse than foolhardy, it would be plain stupid.

  But if I didn’t bring Jack and Dale together, Jack would be impossible to live with. If I did . . . how would Jericho react? He’d call me crazy.

  The plane banked to begin descent and my stomach went along for the ride; I closed my eyes as it tried to crawl up my throat.

  “We have a two-hour layover before our flight to Boston,” Royal said cheerfully.

  I opened my eyes to see him looking at the diagram of a terminal concourse on his cell phone’s tiny screen. “Where do you want to eat?”

  I give him a look as sour as what I felt in my belly.

  ***

  Royal leased a car at Boston Logan. Not just any car: a red Mustang convertible. I didn’t know you can lease those. I fell in love with the machine in two minutes flat.

  Twenty minutes after leaving the airport, we entered a crescent-shaped terrace, tall white buildings in an unbroken half circle fronted by a small treeless park girded by black cast-iron railings. Stone steps flanked by white railings went up to entrances on the first floor instead of the ground floor - single-families homes or apartments, perhaps - but several were hotels two or three times the width of the other buildings. Royal pulled to the curb and let the engine idle in front of one of these, a noble, gleaming white stone façade and tall, sparkling arched windows.

  A blue canopy protected the entrance and a large, shiny brass plaque on the wall spelled out The Hermitage in etched Old English letters. A doorman in a pale-blue uniform trimmed with gold came down the steps, opened the passenger door to let me out then zipped to the driver’s side to do the same for Royal. A bellhop - a young, skinny brown-haired guy with tired eyes and buck teeth - trotted down the steps to take our bags. We followed him up the steps.

  The Hermitage’s cream walls rose twenty feet in the square foyer, with recessed powder-blue panels framed by just a touch of gilt. The color scheme would look tacky in a downtown Clarion motel, but had the opposite effect here. It looked real classy. Floor-to-ceiling marble columns outlined the circumference. Chandeliers dripped from the high ceiling; their crystals sparkled, sending out prisms of light. Artfully placed lamps and recessed lights gave the place a diffused golden glow.

  Arranged in intimate little groups throughout the foyer, chairs and couches upholstered in satiny gold, peach and powder-blue pinstripes clustered at occasional tables with pale marble tops. The seats looked so damned comfortable, I knew I’d fall asleep if I sat in one.

  Royal went to the desk to sign in with a white-haired, distinguished-looking older guy in a dark-gray pinstriped suit. I waited with the bellhop and our luggage, no doubt gawping like a country hick.

  I stiffened as a familiar sensation tugged at me. A very foul word
nearly burst out my mouth, but I managed to swallow it. I turned my face up to the high ceiling, toward the roiling presence.

  No. Not now. Not here. I wanted to stamp my foot in frustration. It’s not fair!

  Royal rejoined us. We followed the bellhop into an elevator.

  I jogged my head at the guy and whispered to Royal. “This is overkill.” As if we needed help with our two small cases.

  The presence rubbed my nerves as we rode up to the next floor.

  Out the elevator, along a high-ceilinged, carpeted hallway, and the guy opened a door and stood aside for us to enter. I knew a mistake had been made as we stepped inside. I tried to back out, but Royal caught my arm and spun me in a circle.

  I took in our surroundings. “You have to be kidding.”

  We stood in an octagonal reception room with paneled walls painted cream. A grouping of Louis XIII couch, chairs and desk were centered on a round Persian carpet - they couldn’t be real, could they? Ornately carved double doors touched with gilt stood open on our right. The bellhop opened a facing door to show us a half-bathroom the size of my full bathroom at home.

  Royal towed me through the double doors to a huge lounge with walls washed in palest gold. My entire ground floor could fit in there. A door from there let into a big bedroom, and a door from there to a bathroom with a shower to fit five people and a marble tub to easily accommodate four.

  The decor blended comfort with ostentation. Bemused, I drifted back and forth. I had to feel everything. The heavy floor-to-ceiling, cotton-velvet drapes were thick, lush chocolate. My fingers drifted over silken French-polished surfaces which reflected the room like garden gazing balls. Three couches in chocolate, cream and gold paisley, and a pale-gold chaise lounge edged in chocolate silk braid, not to mention several deeply upholstered, subtly coordinating armchairs.

  Scrollwork, leaves and flowers carved their way up elegant cabinets, a secretaire desk and long-legged tables designed for nothing more than to hold striking alabaster, marble or gilt statuettes and accenting knickknacks. A stunning ormolu cabinet fascinated me, the black wood and metallic accents complimenting the room’s color scheme. Atop a heavy bureau, an angel, feathered wings outspread, twined his body around a voluptuous woman on a pleated bed, and rippling drapes rose at their backs to support a clock face, the entire ensemble carved of dark-green jade.