by Morgan Brice
“What now?” Vic asked, trying to shift a bit in his chair to relieve his hard-on without being obvious. The hint of a smirk on Simon’s face told him he hadn’t succeeded.
“Now I touch you, and we see what happens,” Simon said.
So much for sitting comfortably, Vic thought, since his prick was back at attention.
Simon’s fingers were slim and strong as they brushed over Vic’s knuckles. Vic stifled a gasp at the spark that seemed to pass between them and wondered if Simon felt it, too. From the way the psychic’s eyes widened and darkened, he suspected it was mutual.
“Keep your eyes open,” Simon instructed, as his own fluttered shut. “I don’t want you to have any doubts. Both of my hands are where you can see them. You can put your feet on my toes if you’re really afraid I’m pressing hidden buttons or something. Go ahead. Do it.”
Vic felt as if he’d been caught out in a secret, but he complied, resting the tips of his shoes on top of Simon’s. If the other man so much as wiggled his toes, Vic would feel it.
“Think about what you want,” Simon said. His voice had gone low and quiet, a bit husky, and Vic couldn’t help wondering what it would be like in the heat of passion, to let that gorgeous hair down and strip away the t-shirt and feel those legs around his waist.
Shit. What if he can read minds? I’m so screwed. More like I’ll never get screwed, at this rate. Damn, damn, damn! Get your mind out of the gutter. Think about the case. Just the case. Vic took a deep breath, tried to ignore Simon’s fingers against his, and found that picturing the bloodied remains of a serial killer’s victims solved the problem of his erection. He felt his shoulders and arms tighten as he thought about the elusive murderer, the dead women, the scant evidence…
“Irene,” Simon murmured. “No. Iryena. Thick accent. She’s frightened. I don’t think she realizes yet that she’s dead. Oh,” he groaned, but it was more in sympathy than theatrical. “Oh, my god. Her throat…Palm trees. Not…real ones. With lights. And a word, it sounds like ‘ghost-in-eetza’. And a blue fish. Keeps repeating the word and the blue fish. Then what sounds like ‘Bolshy-noss.’”
Vic held absolutely still, watching Simon with a gut-clenching combination of fear and fascination. Nothing about the psychic suggested that Simon was putting on a show. He sat with his head back, eyes shut, but his body did not move, and his tone did not vary dramatically. At the name “Iryena,” Vic went cold. Ross said we hadn’t released her name to the media. How can he know? Shit, what if he’s involved somehow? This was a mistake—
Part of being a detective meant having a very good memory. Vic noted the details Simon revealed, making sure to remember the strange words. He could Google them later, or ask someone, although without admitting where he heard them.
Simon shifted in his chair, and his head turned as if looking at another speaker. “She says you did the right thing,” Simon said quietly, his voice somber. “Mary? No. Maria. Last name…something like Colorado? She says you didn’t have a choice, and neither did she. She would have killed you because of the fog—”
“That’s enough!” Vic’s voice was cold and almost shaking with fury. “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing—”
Simon’s hand jerked back, breaking the contact, and his eyes flew open as he stared at Vic with shock and hurt. “There’s no game—”
“You’re good,” Vic said, pushing his chair back. “Did you snap a photo of me at Le Miz, then run it through some kind of facial recognition software? There’s no way you should have known—”
“I didn’t know,” Simon replied, as the hurt in his expression hardened into anger. “They did. Almost none of that made any sense to me. It usually doesn’t. Did it mean something to you? And if I got something right, why do you look like you want to take a swing at me?”
Vic tried to calm himself, but his heart was thudding so hard he felt light-headed. What if Simon was telling the truth about being able to speak to ghosts? Vic had gotten less coherent statements from real, live witnesses in the aftermath of a traumatic incident. Maybe dying shook up ghosts as much as almost dying rattled survivors. He was nearly willing to believe the information about the serial killer’s victims. But as for the rest, Vic didn’t know how Simon would have known enough about him to find out what happened in Pittsburgh, but that was the only explanation, right?
Because no way would the woman, who had tried to kill him when the green glowy fog possessed her, ever forgive Vic for shooting her dead.
“Look, I think you’d better go.” Simon’s voice had grown cool, not rude but distant and formal. “What I told you is either right, or it isn’t—judge the truth about me by that. And no, I didn’t take your photo, hell, I didn’t even know your last name until you told me, here in the shop. You don’t have to believe in me. But you don’t get to accuse me of being a fraud.”
By now, Vic’s temper had cooled enough for him to realize how much he’d fucked everything up. “Sorry,” he muttered, sure it was too little too late. He had been an ass when Simon had done exactly what Vic had paid him to do. It wouldn’t take much to determine whether the “ghostly information” about the victims was real. But his reaction had certainly made a mess of any shot he might have had with Simon. “I was out of line.”
“Yeah, you were. Don’t worry; you’re not the first person to figure it’s a lark and then get their shorts in a wad when it’s more than they bargained for.” Simon frowned, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter. “Just don’t write it all off, please. What she—Iryena—told me, it’s true. And what happened to her, God, no one deserves that. Please don’t ignore what she said because you can’t explain it.”
“I need to go,” Vic said, torn between wanting to bolt and wanting to throw up. His chest felt tight, his gut was in a knot, and his mouth had gone dry. “You’ve got my number if any of your dead buddies start talking again.” With that, he headed for the door with as much haste as his pride would allow.
5
Simon
“Well, that went to shit fast enough,” Simon muttered as the door closed behind Vic. He sighed, and sat back down in his chair, resting his head in his hands. He knew he should go flip the sign, but he needed just a few minutes to compose himself.
Fuck. Or more to the point, no fuck. Simon didn’t want to admit to himself how happy he’d been when Vic walked in the door. And when the cop had admitted looking for Simon to get his number, because they had connected, Simon had a roller coaster vertigo moment like an addled teenager.
As soon as Vic asked about doing a reading, Simon’s self-preservation instincts started blinking a warning. He didn’t have a problem doing readings for friends. Hell, he’d done plenty of readings for Jacen, when they were first dating, up in Columbia. Back then, when it didn’t cost him anything, Jacen had believed in Simon’s talent. But Simon got the feeling that Vic’s skepticism wasn’t as simple as not believing in psychics. He almost thought the opposite—that Vic did believe, or had, and got burned because of it.
Vic hadn’t seemed freaked out until the second ghost showed up. He’d startled at the name “Iryena,” so that must have been a hit. The other words were too vague for Simon to figure out the meaning, but ghosts didn’t chit-chat, so if Iryena passed along those particular phrases, she thought they would help identify her killer. But the woman who would have killed Vic in the fog? What the hell was that about, and why did it make Vic take off like his tail was on fire?
Simon figured it didn’t matter because he didn’t expect to ever see Vic again. Unless the cop showed up to arrest him if something he said turned out to be details only the killer would know. Fuck. Why had he agreed to do the reading in the first place?
But he knew the answer to that. Vic had asked for help to solve a crime, and if Simon could lend a hand with his gift, he was willing, just like he would have assisted if he came upon an accident at the side of the road. Next time, I’ll tell my inner Good Samaritan to fuck off.
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He forced himself to get up, flip the sign, and sit behind the counter. Maybe his new coffee maker would come in the mail. That way, he wouldn’t risk running into Vic again, since he felt certain the detective didn’t plan on coming to his shop.
Dammit. Simon couldn’t ignore the bitter disappointment churning in his gut. He’d felt a spark the first time he’d set eyes on Vic, and they’d hit it off so well talking over coffee. Not to mention that the cop was hella sexy. He was just enough taller Simon would have had to stretch to kiss him, and those inked arms would have felt solid and strong slipping around Simon’s waist. And the way his jeans clung to his toned ass and muscular thighs? Lord have mercy, it made Simon stiff just thinking about it.
Except he wasn’t going to get the chance to find out what that ink looked like, or get a piece of that tight ass. Because Vic either thought Simon was a fraud or had too many of his own issues to stick around for a one night stand, let alone a relationship. And how the hell had he gone from “call me, maybe” to fantasizing about Vic being a boyfriend anyhow? Simon chastised himself.
Maybe it had just been too long, he thought. Myrtle Beach had a vibrant gay community, with plenty of bars and nightclubs where he could certainly find some company. Then again, he’d never been much for casual sex. He liked being in a relationship, sticking around long enough to get out of the awkward “making a good impression” phase and into just being comfortable with each other.
Of course, if he didn’t go out, he wasn’t likely to find a new boyfriend. Especially since he’d already checked out the UPS driver, who was too old and married. I wonder if the FedEx drivers are cute.
Why not just order a pizza or call a plumber, he mocked himself. Shit. He needed to get his mind off Vic “the jerk” D’Amato and back in the game. But after he’d spent the next fifteen minutes staring at the door while absolutely no one even paused to look in the window, he realized that no distraction was likely to save him from his thoughts.
Vic hadn’t said what case he was working on, but the image of the dead woman’s bloody corpse and the Eastern European name—along with her accent and the foreign words—told Simon it had to be the “Strand Slitter.” So far, the accounts in the media were short and to the point, no doubt thanks to the considerable pressure of the city fathers and the hospitality industry, which wouldn’t want to scare off the tourists. The local news channels weren’t even calling it a “serial killer.” Just “the latest in a string of murders…”
But the locals talked. Simon knew all of the other store managers or owners in his block by name, and most of their regular employees, too. Cheap seasonal help brought in from less well-off countries kept hotel and restaurant prices low and translated into happy tourists. But he’d also heard stories about the darker side to the practice, and how the cops sometimes turned as blind an eye to abuses as did the employers. And all of them had heard of the Strand Slitter, warning their friends to take extra precautions.
Myrtle Beach—like any vacation spot—was a criminal’s wet dream. So many transients—tourists, seasonal workers, drifters—that the pickings were easy and the odds of getting caught were worth the gamble. Unwillingness to make a fuss over problems, whether it was pickpockets, bed bugs, sharks, or thefts, kept the visitors blissfully ignorant and gave the perpetrators the advantage. And all too often the foreign workers were targeted because they didn’t speak English fluently, were desperate to keep their jobs, and had no one to turn to. Simon had heard too many stories about those who were victimized getting brushed off by cops who didn’t take their complaints seriously. People like Iryena.
So if Vic is looking into the Strand Slitter, at least he’s willing to care about someone preying on transient help, Simon thought. It didn’t fix his disastrous encounter with the detective, but it at least meant he might be an honorable man and a good cop. Not that those admirable traits were going to do Simon any good. Still, it mattered that someone was trying to stop the killer. And now that Simon had an inkling of what was going on, he knew he needed to check in with the network of special acquaintances that were going to be doubly at risk.
Right after work, Simon decided it was time to connect with his “skeleton crew.”
His phone buzzed, and for a second, part of him hoped Vic had decided to call with an apology. Then he saw the number and sighed. “Hello, Mrs. Conrad. How can I help you?”
“Simon? I just wanted to remind you about the time for the library talk tomorrow. You can get someone to watch the shop while you’re out, can’t you?”
Fuck. He’d forgotten. “I’ll make sure it all works smoothly,” he lied, crossing his fingers. “It’s at noon, right?”
“Noon to one, and you can bring some of your books to sell if you like,” Mrs. Conrad, director of the Horry County Public Library, Myrtle Beach Branch assured him. She looked less like anyone’s idea of a librarian, and more like a forty-something woman who came to the beach for a girlfriends’ get-together and never went home. She seemed to own an unlimited variety of bright matching lipstick and nail polish to coordinate with the hair color that changed on a whim. Mrs. Conrad had been one of Simon’s first friends when he had first moved to Myrtle Beach, and she remained a staunch supporter of his books and the tours. Despite himself, Simon smiled at her enthusiasm.
“Think we’ll have a crowd?” he asked.
“I imagine you’ll at least have warm bodies in the room since I advertised there would be refreshments,” she confided. “That never hurts.”
The library hosted all kinds of “lunch and learn” programs throughout the year and tapped local experts, authors, and business people to do the free presentations. Mrs. Conrad had suggested six months ago that Simon do one on “unlocking your psychic potential,” and he had agreed, but the time slipped by and what had been in the far future was now tomorrow.
“I’ll put up a sign in the shop window,” he promised. “And I’m looking forward to it,” he fibbed. “It’ll be fun.”
“It’s always fun when you’re doing what you love,” Mrs. Conrad chirped. He envied her seemingly endless supply of optimism. Maybe some of it would rub off on him and his non-existent love life.
Simon promised to be there early and ended the call just as two women in their thirties wandered in, looking for Tarot cards. After that, a constant stream of people made their way into the shop. Answering questions, ringing up purchases, and signing people up for tours kept Simon’s mind occupied. By the time he was ready to close up for the night, he’d sold several books, a good selection of other merchandise, and booked his Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night tours nearly solid. Any other day that would have made him pretty happy, but after the clusterfuck with Vic, nothing seemed to raise his mood.
He locked up the shop and decided to grab a hot dog for dinner so he could check in with his “crew.” As he paid the pushcart vendor, he realized that the dark-haired woman who usually sold frozen treats from a cart a little farther down the boardwalk was nowhere to be seen.
“What happened to the ice cream lady?” he asked the vendor.
“Who?” The man replied in heavily-accented English. Simon figured he was from the Philippines, maybe, or Malaysia.
Simon tilted his head toward the empty place on the boardwalk. “You know. The woman who sold ice cream, over there. She’s always here.”
The hot dog vendor shrugged. “Didn’t show up today. That’s all I know. Not my business. I stay out of it,” he said.
“Yeah, I get it,” Simon replied, thanking him and walking away. The boardwalk was lighting up as dusk fell. Upbeat music throbbed from the open-air bars and restaurants, tourists reeking of coconut sunscreen joked and laughed as they walked past, and in the distance, the huge Ferris wheel glowed rainbow colors that blurred when it started spinning fast.
The first bite of hot dog felt like a lump in the bottom of Simon’s stomach as he tried to remember what the ice cream woman looked like. He’d never studied her features, but what littl
e he recalled—dark hair, thin, heart-shaped face—was an unsettling match for Iryena’s ghost. He had thought the spirit looked familiar, although at the time, he couldn’t place her. Now, staring at the empty spot that usually held the brightly colored frozen treat stand, Simon feared that he already had his answer about why she wasn’t at her post.
Simon didn’t taste the rest of his hot dog as he hurried to finish. He washed the food down with a soda and headed for the first of several stops he intended to make before going home.
He walked down to the end of the boardwalk, then cut up a block to Ocean Boulevard. Cars formed a ribbon of red taillights driving along the iconic strip past surf shops, towering hotels, and neon-drenched attractions. The crowd in the cars and along the sidewalks would grow rowdier as the evening progressed, as the families with children gave way to drunken college students and twenty-somethings out for a good time. The Grand Strand wasn’t Vegas, but that didn’t stop it from having dirty dreams all of its own.
Simon lifted his head to the constant sea breeze, catching the tang of the waves above the car exhaust and cigarette smoke. He had liked living in the capitol, mostly, but he hadn’t realized how much the ocean spoke to his soul until he ran away to the beach and decided it had been home all along.
He remembered what Vic had said about being from elsewhere, and his panicked reaction to the words from the second ghost. Maybe he ran away from something, too, only it followed him. Simon figured Vic’s past would remain a mystery. He resolutely pushed down the hurt and disappointment and picked up his pace.
The Conch diner never closed. Its neon seashell was a beacon in the night to the hungry, the insomniacs, the stoned, and the inebriated, or those who had been tossed out at last call and had nowhere to go. The venerable eatery served greasy spoon comfort food, breakfast all day, and burgers from noon until sunrise. It anchored Ocean Boulevard just south of the 14th Street Pier, welcoming bar hoppers, fishermen, families, and travelers with its bottomless cups of coffee, Calabash-style seafood, and homemade banana pudding.
