“Down on Twenty-Ninth, just south of Hawthorn. I was at a stop sign and the sons of bitches broke my window and pulled me out of the car. I was trying to find a phone. It sounded like they couldn’t get the car started again. There’s a trick to it. They may still be there.”
The other man stood shoulder to shoulder with his buddy and rubbed his knuckles. “You girls stay here. We’ll be right back.”
A dark shadow appeared behind them and Keenan took a step back.
The two men took off down the street, and Keenan ran the other way, the protests of the two women mingling with the wind in his ears.
Taking a risk, he ran across Thirty-Fourth Street. When he looked to his left, he saw a car bearing down on him. It just missed him, honked its horn, and sped on past with a muted asshole! coming through the glass. When he looked over his shoulder, he could see the spirit dodging in and out of parked cars on either side of the street, almost playfully. Keenan put some fire into his feet and sprinted down the sidewalk.
Ancient houses zipped by him on either side, but thankfully there were no people around. He hadn’t been up this way before but didn’t stop to investigate. It was like most streets in the Hawthorn District; crowded with nicely remodeled turn of the century houses on small lots.
As always, the streetlights flashed and went out like Roman candles whenever he got within twenty feet of one, eventually making the sidewalk almost invisible. It’s why he never took a walk when he was angry.
In the darkness to his right, the houses turned into a large open area. A park? He darted into the darkness and sprinted faster. That is, until he ran into something protruding from the ground right at testicle level.
Except for the landing, no Olympian could have executed Keenan’s tumble through the air with more grace. He counted at least two flips, a half turn, and a twist, wondering when he would hit the ground. It wasn’t long before a tree broke his fall. Every last molecule of air flew from his overextended lungs in a rush, and he landed in a crumpled heap on top of its roots.
Shock set off alarms inside his eardrums and settled into his face, making it heavy and hot. There wasn’t any pain…yet. It wasn’t ghosts he saw before his eyes, only stars, fireworks, and every shade of red known to man. Then everything went black.
He must have only been stunned, because when he opened his eyes, they filled with the vision of the succubus leaning over him. When he tried to move, agony blossomed through every nerve in his body.
The creature tilted its head and reached out to touch him. Keenan mustered enough energy to get him moving, but it was only to his hands and knees. It was undignified, but he didn’t have much choice. He crawled like a baby toward a wall to his left.
The ground under his hands shifted from grass to what he assumed was asphalt; it was slightly sticky with tiny rocks that buried themselves in his palms. When he reached a brick wall and leaned his back against it, his strength gave out. The succubus rose as a dark shadow in front of him.
“Look,” he breathed, closing his eyes and lowering his chin. “Take your best shot, doll. Just leave the coroner something to bury, ok?” The words were very jagged.
Radiating warmth took the chill out of his breath when she came nearer. Keenan braced himself for the inevitable. What he got instead, was a hot blanket of air that wrapped around his body several times and lifted him to his feet.
When Keenan opened his eyes, all he could see was black. A wide ribbon of heat curled around his neck, up along his scalp, and then melted down his face in slow, easy eddies. Every muscle relaxed inside the gentle cocoon. His shirt and coat opened to let it touch his chest and his pants fell around his ankles so that his legs, ass, and privates could experience it too.
Strands of supple warmth coated his body, from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet. Keenan became suddenly weightless, buoyant, suspended above the ground, defying gravity and common sense. It was like plunging into a hot cloud, held firmly in place but freely floating. Sexuality had nothing to do with this; that was the last thing on Keenan’s mind. Instead, it was immensely peaceful.
Like being in the womb.
The thought meandered through his head along with a thousand other soothing images. There wasn’t the least bit of pain anymore.
A sound started as a quiet hum in the back of his neck. It took him forever to figure out what it was. Keenan couldn’t strain to hear it since that would require effort. Instead, he relaxed and closed his eyes again, waiting for the sound to unfold.
It wasn’t long before the music became distinct, a light humming, a faint melody, a woman’s voice lilting through his brain. The sound wasn’t like anything Keenan had heard before; it was exhilarating and yet sadly haunting at the same time. It went straight to his heart then to his eyes. He couldn’t stop the tears despite his macho instincts. The effect was profound and life changing. He had never been so at peace, so certain, so alive. The urge to float inside the music forever dominated every other aspiration.
The shadow shifted around him, squeezing tightly, like a hug, then it released.
All of a sudden, the night poured back in on him, and he landed with a thump right on his naked ass. The pain from earlier and this new one ripped out through every pore. He groaned. Cold rushed in on him, stealing the heat and the moment.
Strangely, when he looked down, his cock was rock hard. When he looked up, the succubus was gone, replaced by the looming figure of a man. Everything collapsed immediately.
Keenan blinked in the brilliance of a flashlight shining on his face and shaded his eyes with his forearm. That’s when he saw the gun. It was dark gray and looked like it meant business.
“You again.” The words were gruff and gut wrenching. “Hands out to the side. Get up.”
Keenan complied and his heart sank when he realized who it was. A meaty hand spun him around to face the wall.
“Spread your legs. Hands on the top of your head. Lace your fingers.”
Keenan’s hair was wet with fear, but he tangled his fingers together and pulled them tightly against his scalp. He heard the snap of rubber gloves, and the whispered jingle of metal against metal. When cold surrounded his right wrist, he knew he was sunk.
“Listen, Sergeant Thompson, I know this looks bad, but…”
“Save it.”
The hands throwing his wrists together were experts. Click went the other handcuff.
Without a shade of embarrassment, Thompson turned him around, reached down, grabbed Keenan’s jeans and shorts, and pulled them over his hips, zipping the fly and buttoning the button. He dragged his shirt closed and buttoned it as well. The blue-gloved hands were cold and humiliation flooded every inch of his skin followed by sheets of goose bumps.
When he was done, Thompson roughly turned him toward the brick wall again and thoroughly searched him. As he did, he reached into each of Keenan’s pockets, removing everything: wallet, cell phone, change, and keys. Keenan could hear the distinct zip of another evidence bag. He wondered vaguely if he’d ever see his stuff again.
Pulling a frustrated sigh into his lungs, Thompson patted him down one more time.
“Mr. Swanson, I need to read you your rights…”
“Oh, God, no… It’s not what it looks like.” Hot pins of fear were making Keenan dizzy. He couldn’t believe Thompson was arresting him.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you…”
“Honestly. There’s a good explanation for…”
“Right,” Thompson barked then whirled him around to face him. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” A laminated card had appeared in his hand. “You have the right to talk to an attorney and have him or her present while you are questioned. If you cannot afford to hire an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you at no expense.” Thompson tucked the card into his pocket and leered down at Keenan. “Do you understand these right
s?”
“Really…I wasn’t doing anything…”
“Do you understand these rights?” Thompson repeated with restrained anger.
The smell of freshly eaten sausage blew from the officer’s mouth, and Keenan saw a splash of seaside on a summer weekend in his head. Over Thompson’s shoulder, Constance, Reggie, and a score of other ghosts floated just out of the light. Constance was shaking her head.
“Yes…I guess…but I wasn’t doing anything. I was just taking a piss, got light headed, and fell. That’s not a crime, is it?”
One side of Thompson’s lip and the opposite brow curled up. He nodded and played his flashlight above Keenan’s head. When Keenan turned around, his heart fell into his guts and boiled there.
Just above his eyes, in neat silver letters splayed evenly across the red bricks, were the words St. Angelo’s School for Girls. The Catholic cross hung straight and true beside them.
“Mr. Swanson, you are being charged with public indecency, a Class A misdemeanor. I strongly suggest you cooperate. Sorry, buddy,” Thompson added with a huffed laugh. “You’re looking at maybe a year in jail and a six grand fine. Tough break.”
Sergeant Thompson yanked Keenan’s arm once to get his legs moving toward the parked police car.
The red and blue lights throbbing above the snow-white sedan blurred through the sweat in Keenan’s eyes. He had never even gotten a ticket, let alone been arrested. It all just seemed so bizarre.
His ghostly friends congregated just outside the throw of lights and started to disappear one by one. Reggie and Constance remained just long enough for Sergeant Thompson to slam the front door behind him and start the engine. The prostitute sitting next to Keenan in the back seat pointed at him and chortled. It took him a second to realize she wasn’t alive. He concentrated instead on adjusting his hands so he could get feeling back into them. He wasn’t very successful.
Keenan’s imagination was ruthless, creating scenes of the local constable dragging him through the streets while citizens laughed and threw things at him. It was giving him a headache. Thankfully, Thompson shut the lights off once he got the car going.
When the car jolted into the street, Keenan’s eyes and cheeks went hot and the rest of his face went numb. A black shadow materialized in the headlight for only a moment and then disappeared into the night.
Chapter Seven
Ghost in the Cell
Charles J. Murray was the biggest asshole at Portland State University during Keenan’s freshman year. Keenan had trouble with bullies all his life. Over the years, he had developed excellent ways of coping. Running mostly, but his ability to ignore insults reached a genius plateau by the age of fifteen.
However, Charles J. Murray was a bully of extreme discipline. The junior football player had terrorized the campus for three years, and most students considered him pitiful at best. Not that any of them would say that to his face, mind you.
For whatever reason, Charles had developed a special affinity for tormenting Keenan. Names like numb nuts, faggot, and dumb shit all rolled off Keenan’s back, as always, but this just pissed off the giant fullback. The initial pranks were mostly embarrassing, but when they turned increasingly dangerous, Keenan got on a first name basis with terror. Try as he might, he could not get away from Charles. He even moved off campus, but it took Charles less than a day to find him, probably torturing one of the housing student aids for the information.
In November, right before Thanksgiving break and a rather nasty incident involving dish soap coating his kitchen floor and a concussion, Reggie told Keenan he had had enough. The vindictive ghost hatched a plan that was not only diabolical, but could rid the school of this tyrant forever. It was the first time Keenan had seen Reggie’s really sinister side and it bothered him. But since Reggie promised no real harm would come to Charles, he reluctantly agreed.
Keenan had never bought pot before. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried it; he smoked it only once when he was about twelve. Unfortunately, he was allergic to the stuff and ended up in the hospital. He told his mom, and the doctors, that he had smoked a clove cigarette. His medical record still stated he was allergic to cloves.
The next morning, he approached one of the dealers someone told him about. Keenan was certain some undercover cop was right there watching his every move, ready to call in a dozen squad cars to bust him. Reggie had to bolster him all the way through the transaction, telling him exactly what to say. Feeling a little like a puppet and shaking like a leaf, Keenan gave the guy the twenty-five bucks, snagged the plastic bag, stuffed it inside his jacket, and then took off, staying to the shadows so no one would see him.
That night he knew Charles and his roommates would be at a game. Following Reggie’s careful instructions, Keenan managed without too much difficulty to pick the lock on the frat house door and get inside, again amazed at Reggie’s expertise in yet another fine art. Finding Charles’s room was easy; it was the grossest one in the house. To this guy, rotten was a lifestyle. Keenan planted the pot under Charles’s mattress and left to make an anonymous phone call to the police from one of the campus payphones.
The next day the headlines read Heisman Hopeful Arrested on Drug Charges. In actuality, Charles got off with a slap on the wrist, suspension from school for two weeks and had to sit out of football for the rest of the quarter. But the scheme worked; Charles was a pussycat after that. Apparently, his few days in jail taught him some valuable lessons about playing with others. He went on to the pros after college for one season, but was busted for steroid use and kicked out of the league.
Keenan still felt pangs of guilt every time he thought about what he had done to Charles. Now he realized karma must have caught up on her to-do list and finally gotten around to him.
When they arrived at the precinct, Sergeant Thompson drove through a huge door at the front. The cruiser moved into what looked like a garage, except it had rolling doors on both ends. The one on the other side was closed. Once the door behind them shut, Thompson opened the car door, unlocked Keenan’s safety belt, and pulled him from the vehicle. Without batting an eye, Thompson marched Keenan through a heavy metal door he opened with a round electronic key and escorted him inside.
On the other side was a small cement and metal area with two identical holding cells. Each consisted of a concrete bench with lead pipes bolted to the wall at sitting height and a silver toilet bolted to the floor on the other side of the cell. Circling these luxuries were four blank, cream tiled walls.
As Thompson pulled Keenan to stand to the left of the cell door, he murmured, “You’re going to cause me a whole night of paperwork, my friend. You better sing nice and pretty when we come back to talk to you. Understand?”
Keenan nodded and Thompson made him take off his shoes before he pulled Keenan into one of the cells. Once they reached the bench, Thompson roughly un-cuffed one wrist and attached the business end to the steel pipe, telling Keenan to have a seat.
“I might be a while,” Thompson said over his shoulder closing the heavy door behind him. The beep of the electronic lock made Keenan’s ears pound.
Rubbing his wrists as best he could, Keenan inspected the small room. Except for the toilet and bench, it was empty. Well, of accoutrements, anyway.
A strange little Asian man sat in one corner, eyeing him suspiciously and rubbing his chin. He was nearly transparent, except for a pair of shining black eyes and a red goatee.
“Got yourself in a real jam, didn’t you?” The specter’s voice was very old.
Keenan ignored him and searched the room. He was certain they had it bugged. Spending the night in jail was bad enough; a week on the psych floor, however, was not his idea of a good time.
“You don’t need to talk, young man,” the apparition stated. “I’m an attorney…or was before I died. Constance sent me to give you some advice and maybe get you out of this.”
That brought Keenan up short and he thinned his lips at the ghost, not caring if anyone was
listening. “Constance?” he whispered.
“Sure.” The Asian man rose from the floor and drifted to float above the toilet. “Don’t talk, just listen. Name’s McGillivray, but you can call me Mac.”
Funny, he doesn’t look Scottish. A little smile tugged at Keenan’s lip, the first one of the evening. It made him feel better.
Mac replied, “My father was Scottish, my mother Chinese.”
Keenan could not get his wits wrapped around any of this. The whole situation was only confirming his suspicion that maybe he really was crazy and the last to hear about it. Makes perfect sense.
Mac assumed the lotus position above the toilet and put on a spectral pair of glasses that materialized out of the air. Resting them on his nose, a large leather bound book appeared on his lap. Opening it to somewhere at the center, he poured over the contents while water poured down Keenan’s sides and back. It was getting very warm.
“Let’s see…” Mac wrinkled his nose up and down several times and ran a finger along the page. “163…163… Ah! 163.465 Public indecency. (1) A person commits the crime of public indecency if while in, or in view of, a public place the person performs. . .” Mutter, mutter, mutter, and then, “(c) An act of exposing the genitals of the person with the intent of arousing the sexual desire of the person or another person. Public indecency is a Class A misdemeanor.” He pursed his lips and regarded Keenan gravely. “Oh, that’s very bad. And in front of a girls’ school too. Don’t suppose you knew where you were, did you?”
Keenan shook his head then watched his hands fold themselves together on his lap. The room was getting hotter and he reached to take his coat off. It was only then he realized he didn’t have it on.
“Good. I’m afraid you’re in for a night in jail, son.” Mac regarded him gravely. “Normally, they just give you a citation and send you home. You must have pissed this guy off. You may need to get in touch with someone to come up with bail.”
Bail.
A Ghost of a Chance Page 6
