by Sara Reinke
They slipped on plastic safety goggles and plodded up the creaking, aged wooden steps to the back porch. Paul imagined they must have looked very much like astronauts tromping about on the surface of an alien planet in their ridiculous gear, what with him armed with a crowbar and flashlight, and Brenda hefting about a cumbersome tackle box containing crime scene investigation supplies.
Paul broke the lock on the back door, and they checked inside the house. They found nothing of interest, just some empty liquor bottles, gang symbols spraypainted on the walls, plenty of cobwebs, dust and leaves and veritable mountains of mummified mouse droppings. They fared no better on the second house, and by the time they drove over to the third, collected their gear, and made their way into the back yard, they were both feeling tired, irritable, disappointed and roasting in the bunnysuits.
And then Paul discovered that someone had beat them at breaking into the third house. The metal hinge panels securing the padlock in place had been carefully pried loose, the screws removed from their anchorage, the plywood pulled back far enough to allow a grown man access. Paul leaned through this precarious opening carefully, shining the broad beam of his flashlight around and seeing the distinctive impression of footprints in the dust- and dirt-covered floor―numerous sets, as if someone had passed that way time and again.
“I think we’ve got something here,” he murmured to Brenda, motioning her back off the porch. He followed her, unfastening the front of his jumpsuit, reaching for his gun harness beneath. “Someone’s been in there. They might still be around,” he said, drawing out his pistol. “You wait out here, let me make sure it’s secure.”
She arched her brow. “Screw that, Paul,” she said. She knelt, opening her tackle box and―to his surprise―pulling out a large black pistol of her own. “Did I ever mention I’ve been deputized?” she asked, rising once more. She checked the clip of the pistol, an unadorned and imposing looking Sig Sauer P-226 that seemed impossibly out of place in her delicate hand.
He blinked at her. In that moment, dressed in her Tyvek bunnysuit, with her goggles on, fogged somewhat with the afternoon humidity, her cheeks flushed above the edge of her particulate mask, strands of her ivory-colored hair worked loose from her ponytail, clinging to her cheeks in sweat-dampened twists, and with her bull-dog of a pistol in hand, Brenda left him mute and breathless. My God, I’m in love.
“Come on,” she said, tromping past him, slapping him in the belly.
They crept quietly into the house, and Paul took the lead as they stole room to room, checking each for any signs of intrusion. The footprints on the floor led them in all directions, as if whoever had left them had wandered aimlessly and repeatedly. As they followed them from the first floor to the second and then to the third―where the afternoon heat was absolutely stifling as it hung stagnantly in the dust-choked air―Paul began to have a sinking feeling that, despite their initial excitement, they were being led on a wild goose chase.
“There’s no one here, Paul,” Brenda said, echoing his suspicions.
“We haven’t checked the cellar yet,” he replied.
In all of his dreams, he’d had a sense of being below, somehow, like in a basement. When his nose had started bleeding in his office earlier that day, he’d had an image in his mind of descending concrete stairs―going down someplace, possibly a cellar.
“Come on,” he said, leading her back toward the staircase.
They found the door to the cellar in what had once been the house’s kitchen. Paul went down first, settling his feet slowly, carefully, each in turn upon the old, splintered risers of the steps. He held his arms ahead of him, crossed at the wrists so he could aim both his flashlight and the barrel of his pistol directly, steadily ahead of him. He listened to the soft groan of the wooden stairs settling beneath Brenda’s slight weight as she followed him.
This isn’t right, a part of his mind whispered. I don’t remember wooden stairs. Concrete steps, that’s what I saw. I remember concrete stairs going down…
He hesitated on the stairs, the beam of his flashlight wavering slightly. I didn’t see anything! another part of his mind cried out. It was a dream, not a memory!
“Paul?” Brenda whispered, as she drew still on the stairs behind him. “What is it?”
It wasn’t a memory, Paul told himself firmly, and he glanced over his shoulder toward Brenda. “Nothing,” he whispered. “It was nothing. I just―”
A sound from below, a sudden clatter, drew him abruptly silent. Brenda gasped sharply, startled, and Paul swung the beam of his flashlight in the direction of the noise. He saw a darting shadow, a scamper of movement, and heard the quick scuttling of footsteps. “Hold it!” he yelled, rushing down the remaining stairs, damn near spilling ass over elbows in his haste. “Goddamn it, don’t move!”
He panned the flashlight around, straining to find any more hints of movement in the absolute blackness. The basement was immense, a hollowed out depression in the earth as broad as the foundation. The floor was damp and muddy, stinking of mildew and rat shit. “Who’s down here?” he shouted, as Brenda moved behind him, shining her own light around. “This is Lieutenant Paul Frances with the Metropolitan Police Department and I’m armed. I repeat―I’m a police officer and I’m armed! Get your ass out here now with your hands up!”
He heard the scuffle of sneaker soles on the dirt floor and swung the light toward the sound. “Please don’t shoot,” he heard a voice say, tremulous and timid. He pinned a figure in the beam, a broad, tall figure―a young man, little more than a kid, in glasses and blue jeans, with a T-shirt that declared Fox Mulder for President.
“Get out here!” Paul snapped, and then he realized the kid wasn’t alone. He caught a glimpse of movement from the nearby shadows, and then three, four and finally a fifth person strode forward. Not a damn one of them was out of college, to judge by the looks of them, and they were all carrying large, cumbersome pieces of audio-visual equipment―tape recorders, video cameras, microphone booms.
“Please don’t shoot,” the kid in the glasses said again, his hands raised, palms out towards Paul and Brenda. “We’re not criminals, Officer, really. We’re ghosthunters.”
* * *
“I could have shot you,” Paul said, his brows narrowed, his mouth turned in a frown as he paced around the cluster of youths. They stood together in a sheepish huddle on the back lawn of the house while Paul circled them, jerking off his face mask, goggles and out of his Tyvek suit in turn.
“Yes, sir,” said the kid in the glasses, who had introduced himself as Cameron Taylor, president of the Greater Metropolitan Ghosthunting Society.
“Do you kids not realize that place is full of asbestos and lead paint?” Paul asked. “Why in Christ’s name do you think we’re dressed up in these monkey-suits?”
“We’re sorry, sir,” Cameron said, his shoulders hunched, his face ablaze with shame. “We didn’t know, sir.”
Terrific, Paul thought. This is goddamn fantastic. I waste an entire afternoon creeping around a bunch of broken-down houses―illegally at that―to try and find a killer, and instead, I wind up with the goddamn Scooby Doo gang.
“What were you all doing in there anyway?” Brenda asked, “you all” coming out as “y’all” in her drawling accent. She stood with her hands on her hips, her Sig Sauer long-since stowed away again in the tackle box by her feet. “This is private property. You have no business being here.”
Never mind that technically we have no business being here, either, Paul thought. “And you busted the goddamn padlock to get inside,” he added sharply. “Which is called trespassing, Mr. Taylor, so technically, you all are, in fact, criminals.”
The kids blinked at one another in mutual anxious fright, as if this notion had never occurred to them. “We didn’t hurt anyone,” said one of the girls, a petite, mousy waif with hot pink hair, who smelled like Patchouli and wore an ankle-length gypsy skirt with a Phish T-shirt atop. “We didn’t damage anything either, except fo
r the lock. All that spraypainting on the walls inside, all the junk, it was like that when we got here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Brenda said, her voice mild and patient. Paul realized that, without consciously thinking about it, they had slipped into a sort of good-cop/bad-cop routine, or in this case, a calm-parent/pissed-off parent one, with her being the latter, and him, the former. “It’s still considered breaking and entering.”
“We’re just here to do some investigating,” Cameron Taylor said, pointing to their pile of equipment. “We’re recording for electronic voice phenomenon and testing for variations in electromagnetic field readings. We’ve got some laser-guided thermometers so we can test for temperature fluctuations and cameras so we can―”
“You’re kidding me,” Paul interrupted, incredulous. “You’ve got to be yanking my chain. All of this…” He stared at the equipment in disbelief. “For ghostbusting?”
“Not ghostbusting,” said one of the other young men, looking decidedly insulted. “We’re hunters looking for concrete, scientific evidence of paranormal activity.”
“It’s not like this was our first choice of investigation sites,” said Patchouli Girl, as if this made up for any legal digressions. “All of the sites of good hauntings are either off limits, or they won’t let us bring our equipment and set up there.”
Can’t imagine why, Paul thought, but bit his teeth back on the snide reply. Brenda felt sorry for the kids; he could see that in her face, and if he pushed the “bad cop” routine too far, she might wind up mad at him.
“…the old main library, Manchester Hall, the Parkway mansion…” Patchouli Girl was ticking off on her fingers the venues from which their ghosthunting expeditions had been banned.
“And Liberty Sanitarium,” said Cameron, eliciting a chorus of murmured agreement, and a collective bobbing of heads from his fellows. “There’s the motherlode of local hauntings. They say you can still hear the shrieks of the dying down in the catacombs they used to bring the dead out through.” His expression had grown wistful, but shifted again now, nearly pouting. “But you’d need Delta Force to get in there these days. That construction company, Milton’s got it under lock and key, fifteen-foot chain link fences with razor-wire all around it, gated checkpoints, security codes.”
“So we have to take what we can get,” Patchouli Girl said in conclusion.
Paul glanced at Brenda, and her thoughts on the matter were undeniable: Forget about it, Paul. Let them go.
“Well, no more breaking and entering,” Paul told the kids. “You guys understand? Next time I catch you, I’m running your asses in, and I mean it.” He pointed at them in stern emphasis, and they all nodded. “Go on,” he said, nodding toward the street. “Get out of here.”
When they were gone, their gear shouldered and trundled back toward their awaiting cars, Paul sat down heavily in the grass, heaving a weary sigh. “Christ Almighty.”
Brenda chuckled, lowering herself to the ground beside him. To his surprise, she leaned over, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “You didn’t ever do anything reckless and stupid like that when you were their age?”
“Oh, no, I did plenty,” he said, making her laugh. “I just never got caught.”
She laughed some more, sitting back from him. She was still close enough that their legs were touching, close enough so that when he lifted his hand, he didn’t even have to stretch his arm to stroke her cheek, to brush a wayward strand of flaxen hair back. “I’m sorry the day was a bust,” he said quietly. She was looking at him, holding his gaze, holding him captive.
“It wasn’t,” she whispered, and when he moved his hand, touching her face, cradling her cheek against his palm, she didn’t duck away. When he leaned toward her, unable to resist, much less stop himself, she didn’t shy from him.
He canted his face, and she tilted hers to meet him. The afternoon had grown fiercely hot, and even more so humid, and their skin was flushed, their faces blazing with heat. He brushed his lips against hers softly, gently, and felt her respond, a slight, gently pucker to greet him. When he kissed her again, he let his mouth settle against hers. Her lips parted, a wordless beckon, and the tip of his tongue eased forward, slipping into her mouth, dancing against her own. She made a soft sound, a whimper, and her hands touched him, cupping his face, drawing him near.
When Susan had kissed Paul that morning, his mind had flown inveritably to Vicki, filled with a maelstrom of emotions, mostly shame. He had been immobilized, too startled too react. Susan’s kiss had not been unpleasant, but it had been unfamiliar, and his mind and heart had known that.
When he kissed Brenda, he felt none of those reservations. Her lips, her tongue, her breath, it all felt like coming home to him, something soft and warm and familiar, that he had been meant to kiss, that he was supposed to spend a lifetime kissing. He didn’t think of Susan, or Vicki, his job, his life, the nightmares that plagued his sleep and that had drawn him to these houses that afternoon―to that moment. He thought of nothing at all, the wonder of the moment, the simple comfort of it, overwhelming him.
“Brenda…” he whispered as they drew apart, remaining nearly nose to nose. He could feel her ragged, hesitant breath against his mouth, but when he moved to kiss her again, she shied back.
“I…I need to get back to the office,” she said clumsily. She shifted her weight and moved, rising to her feet again. She dusted off the seat of her slacks.
“Brenda,” he said helplessly, sorry that he had kissed her, because it had clearly unnerved her, but at the same time, not sorry at all. Christ, I’ve wanted that…I don’t even know for how long.
He reached for her as he stood, but as his hand slipped against hers, she pulled away. “Paul, I’m seeing Dan,” she said, her voice cut with a wavering edge, as if she struggled to sound firm. She glanced at him, and away again, stomping forward to grab her discared Tyvek suit and tackle box. “I…I told you that. I’m seeing Dan.”
“Why?” he asked, drawing her to a halt. “Why are you seeing him, Brenda? What…what in the hell do you see in that asshole?”
“He’s not an asshole,” she said, her voice sharp and her eyes even sharper as she turned to him. “Dan Pierson is a good man, and maybe if you weren’t always trying to push his buttons and get a rise out of him, you’d see that. My husband left me, and my son wanted to go with him to California, and I…I’ve been lonely…” Her voice cracked, and Paul felt a spear of pain in his heart to realize her eyes had suddenly glossed with tears. Her brows furrowed, her posture growing rigid with steely resolve, and she hoisted her chin defiantly. “Dan is good to me and I’ve been glad for the company. You…what you did just now…what happened, it…it shouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing her reluctant gaze again. I’m sorry you’re seeing Dan, he thought. I’m sorry I upset you. And I’m sorry I let you down today―that there was nothing here like we were hoping to find.
He said nothing more aloud, though.
“Just take me back now, please,” she said. She cut her eyes away again, looking down at her feet, and walked back toward the car.
Paul felt as though she had just driven the butt of that Sig Sauer P-226 firmly into his gut. “Alright,” he said quietly, pained.
* * *
He picked Emma up from school that afternoon, and then they drove together to the house Paul had once shared with Vicki and his daughters. M.K. and Bethany were waiting for him, bags packed. While Paul loaded their things into the back of his Explorer, wondering vaguely in the back of his mind why anyone would need so many goddamn bags for two days away from home, Vicki and Emma exchanged hugs and hellos.
“I miss you, Aunt Vicki,” Emma said, arms wrapped around Vicki’s neck, as Vicki stooped to embrace her.
“I miss you, too, Emma,” Vicki said, smiling. She didn’t say much of anything to Paul, but awarded him cool looks aplenty to let him know she was still pissed off at him from their phone conversation that morning.
>
“I thought we could stop on the way and you girls could pick out some movies,” Paul said as they drove away from the house, following subdivision streets he still knew like the back of his hand, and could have driven along while blindfolded. He looked in his rearview mirror, where Emma and Bethany rode side-by-side, belted into their seats, and then glanced sideways at M.K., who rode shotgun in the passenger seat. “Anything you’d like―even scary ones. Even Orlando What’s-His-Name ones.”
Bethany giggled in the backseat and M.K. rolled her eyes, smirking. “Bloom, Dad. Orlando Bloom.”
“I thought we could get pizza for tonight, too,” he said. “Danny-O’s is on the way. What do you say? A couple of deep dish pies with all the trimmings? Extra pepperoni and cheese, even?”
Emma grinned at him through the rearview mirror. “Pizza! Hooray!” she cried, clapping her hands.
“Sounds good, Daddy,” Bethany said, smiling at him.
“Dad, do you know how much cholesterol is in that?” M.K. asked, wrinkling her nose. “Only enough to choke a horse. Ugh.”
“Since when do you worry about your cholesterol intake?” he said, raising his brow at her. This from the kid who practically lives on Taco Bell and Burger King.
“I don’t, but you should,” M.K. replied. “You’re getting older, Dad…”
“Jeez, thanks,” he said, feigning a scowl and making her laugh.
“I just mean you can’t keep eating like you do forever, Dad. Not with smoking, too. It’s going to catch up with you one of these days.”
She sounded so much like her mother, both in tone of voice and choice of words, that Paul was momentarily, simultaneously amused and disconcerted.
“One pizza isn’t going to make a difference, M.K.,” Bethany said, frowning, punting the back of her sister’s seat in a not-so-subtle admonishment.
