Keenan thought about Riley on his way home from The Hotcake House. Cold penetrated his light shirt and sent uncontrollable shivers through every pore. Keenan liked the pain. It focused his anger, smacked him hard to knock sense into him.
He stomped the pavement, ignoring the blisters forming on the bottom on his sockless feet and the ringing in his head. Reggie and Constance weren’t the target for his rage. The bull’s eye was smack dab in the middle of his chest, pounding out fury with each accelerated beat.
What the hell was I thinking?
For some idiotic reason he thought that once, just once, he might find another human being he could share his own special hell with. In a way, he was grateful Isabella ran away. He wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.
It was two miles to his house and he could have called a cab, but the walk helped him get his thoughts together. It was hard to keep the anger intact. It eventually melted into a deep depression. Exhaustion and loss left him dry in the biting cold.
From behind him, he heard something he had been expecting. The quick crack of the siren didn’t even startle him.
Mustering an attitude, one he thought he was due, Keenan stopped, tightened his lips, and gave into the inevitable. He clamped his hands tight against the top of his head and closed his eyes.
“Go ahead…make your day,” he said to the sky.
He heard a door opening and then a gruff voice. “Get in,” it said.
Surprised, he turned around to see Sergeant Thompson sitting in his cruiser with the front passenger door open.
Keenan stood on the sidewalk and gaped at him. “Well, what do you know? Three for three. You arresting me?”
For the first time, Keenan saw a glimmer of humanity shift through the large man’s face making it look almost placid. The expression was so out of place, it was like looking at a Salvador Dali painting.
“You want a ride or not? Just get into the fucking car.” Thompson frowned up at him.
Keenan wasn’t sure why, but he tucked himself onto the passenger’s seat and closed the door. The cruiser was deliciously warm. Keenan fought the urge to bask in it.
Without thinking, he buckled his seat belt and couldn’t resist saying, “Let’s ride.”
Thompson grunted a non sequitur at him and pulled into traffic. The roar of the V8 from the Crown Vic sent waves of thrill through Keenan’s legs. He suppressed the excitement by clamping his arms over his chest.
Thompson pressed the button on the wire around his neck. “Dispatch, this is 7-2-2 on 7 for 30. 10-63. Over.”
“Roger, 7-2-2. Copy your 7 and 63.” The voice came over another radio under a laptop at the center of the dash.
He released the button and sent an angry look Keenan’s way. “Are you trying to get yourself arrested? What kind of stunt was that back there? I should take you someplace where they can lock you up for good.”
Keenan exhaled and pressed tighter on his chest. “I don’t need a one-way ride to the seventh floor at Providence, thanks. Been there.”
Thompson pulled into another lane. “I got to be out of my mind,” he muttered. “If I had any sense, I’d whisk you off to the loony bin without a second thought.”
“So, why don’t you?” Keenan snarled. “I think we both know that’s where I belong. I could use the break.”
Thompson eyed him quickly and then concentrated on driving. “Don’t know why, but I like you, son.”
His familiarity made Keenan sit up and rail a bit against the “son;” hell, the cop couldn’t have been more than a couple years older than him.
“I saw something last night,” Thompson continued. “Something I can’t explain. You got some real problems, don’t you?”
Keenan didn’t like the sudden turn in their relationship. It gave him too much leeway to feel sorry for himself, so he said, “No more than any other red blooded American boy, officer.”
“Cut the crap, Swanson,” Thompson said. “You got about thirty seconds to tell me what the hell happened last night.”
That surprised Keenan. “What do you mean? I told you…”
“No.” The sudden calm in his voice actually soothed Keenan a bit. “I’ve seen lots of things in my lifetime,” the cop stated slowly. “Fought in Afghanistan, Iraq. Saw some stuff that’d curl a sane man into a ball they’d roll right into the nut house. Seen stuff in this neighborhood too. It’s old, you know, really old. One of the first Portland neighborhoods around. I’ve investigated… some pretty strange things over the years. Sometimes there’s a logical explanation, sometimes not.” He shrugged and flexed his right hand. “But these… events seem to stick to certain folks. You know what I mean?” He stopped at a red light and leveled experienced eyes at Keenan. “Folks like you. What I saw last night…” He shook his head. “It’s been making me crazy. I pulled a second shift to ask you about it.”
That really startled Keenan. “You’ve…you’ve been looking for me?”
“Since this morning…I just missed you at the precinct, so decided to cruise around. Went to your house three different times. By the way, your front door is open.”
“Thanks,” Keenan said absently, not focusing on the traffic in front of them. His voice was almost as numb as he was.
Thompson stared ahead and pulled through the intersection when the light turned green. “When I heard the call over the radio about a man screaming outside The Hotcake House, knew it had to be you. So…” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “So I gotta ask…what did I see last night?”
Keenan didn’t answer immediately, knowing he was sliding on pretty thin ectoplasm right then. He knew his answer could land him in jail again, or worse. He tried lying. “You didn’t see anything. Just a drunk guy taking a piss who couldn’t keep his balance.”
“Try again,” Thompson said, shooting Keenan a glare that could melt ice.
Keenan stared out the window watching the world rush by as they moved along Ninth Street. It began to rain.
“You…you wouldn’t believe me,” he whispered.
“I’m not saying I will.” Thompson’s jaw tightened as he watched the traffic. “Before I picked you up last night, I looked everywhere for a…I don’t know. Magician? Mirrors? Anything to explain what it was. Came up with zilch. I just need to know that a man cocooned in a black cloud, suspended three feet above the ground has some explanation. I need you to give it to me.”
Nodding, Keenan took a deep breath and it lightened his heart. There was something in Thompson’s demeanor that eased the muscles in Keenan’s neck and a kind of relief settled in over his eyes.
“It’s a long story,” he said.
“We got time.”
Keenan swallowed hard. “It started when I was thirteen…”
He couldn’t stop the words from gushing out. He told Thompson everything… the ghosts, the succubus, the entity that attacked him at the restaurant, everything. When he was through it was like the words had washed away every ounce of strength he had left in his body. Deep fatigue soaked his skin and he closed his eyes. The world got very quiet.
“So,” he said. “You going to take me back to jail or to the ward? If I have a say, I’d vote for the hospital. Much more relaxing and better drugs.”
“Shut up. I’m taking you home.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“Oh, hell yeah.”
“Then, why…”
“‘Cause if you are, then so am I. I know what I saw.”
“Oh.” Keenan touched the dashboard and concentrated on the road ahead.
“Can I give you some advice?” Thompson was having problems with this big brother stuff by the sound of his voice, but Keenan appreciated the effort.
“Sure.”
“I wouldn’t go around telling this to just anyone…”
“Believe me, I don’t. You’re the first one I’ve ever told the whole story to.”
“Good,” Thompso
n replied simply and turned right onto Hawthorn. “If it were me?” He searched behind him before moving into the left lane. “I think I’d ask these ghost friends of yours a lot more questions, especially that lady one. Like, for example, why is it only you see them? Why are they picking on you? More important, can you ask them to leave? But that’s just me.”
The revelation hit Keenan between the eyes with the force of a rock hammer. As far as he knew, he had never asked them to leave. He’d asked them to leave him alone, to stop what they were doing, to shut up on a daily basis, but couldn’t think of one time he had asked them just to leave. It had never even crossed his mind. It suddenly dawned on him that maybe, despite the fact that they drove him insane, he just didn’t want them to. There was a perverted kind of comfort in having them around. The realization lodged in his indignation and left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Wow,” was all he said.
“Yeah.” Thompson turned onto Thirty-Second and stopped the cruiser. “We’re here.”
The house was pretty much the way Keenan had left it the night before, except that he didn’t notice any glass on the ground. He was sure the succubus had busted out every window in the place.
The passenger door seemed to weigh a hundred pounds when he opened it. He got his feet out and stretched when they hit the street. Thompson got out on the other side and put his hand on his holster, scanning the house with his eyes narrowed. He said brusquely, “You stay here,” and headed up the sidewalk to the open front door.
When the cop pulled his weapon out and approached the door cautiously, a cold prick started at the base of Keenan’s skull. He stayed put behind the police car and even crouched a little. Thompson disappeared around the side of the house.
In a few seconds, Thompson frantically motioned Keenan to get down. He complied without question.
“Dispatch, this is 7-2-2. We have a 1-5-7, personal prop.”
“Roger your 1-5-7. What’s your 20?”
Thompson gave Keenan a cool look. “What’s your house number?”
“My what?” Numbness crawled through his thighs as he squinted at his surroundings.
“Your house number.”
“Umm…” Keenan was having problems focusing. His mind wandered through the fog; he forgot he had no numbers on his house. The mail lady… uh, person hated that and left him nasty notes all the time. “1402.”
Thompson turned away from him and spoke into the radio. “1402 S.E. Thirty-Second. Swanson, Keenan. Looks like they got it all. I’ll need K-9 and backup. Put ICS on alert.”
Keenan had no idea what all of that meant, but apparently it was serious.
In a matter of minutes, six cruisers, including two K-9 units roared to his street, some parking in front, some down the street, and some around the corner. Keenan was a little embarrassed when neighbors he hardly knew began to peek out of their windows. A few of them came out on their porches to watch, sipping coffee, but didn’t get any nearer.
Thompson stayed on the grass in front of Keenan’s house but silently ordered several officers to spread out around it with hand signals. They obeyed immediately. Keenan found himself impressed by the skill and precision of their actions. Whatever was going on, the bases were covered.
When the men and women were in place, someone replaced Thompson, freeing him to speak to one of the K-9 cops. Keenan couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Thompson was motioning to the house and the other cop nodded. The brown and black German shepherd he had on a special harness looked excited, but in control. It didn’t make a sound.
Moving slowly up the stairs, the K-9 cop pulled his gun and put it up close to his shoulder, watching the door the entire time. The dog slithered up the steps close to him. When they were on the porch, the officer squatted down and talked into the dog’s ears. They stood up like pylons. The cop grabbed the dog’s collar, undid the leash, and pointed him toward the open door. The dog darted through it.
Once inside, Keenan could hear the dog barking frantically. The click of claws on his hardwood floors echoed out the door.
All at once, the barking and the clicks stopped. There was a long pause then a piercing whine from the animal. In less than a second, the dog erupted out of the door like a bullet, rushed passed his handler, and took the cement stairs in one leap.
“Charlie, get back here!” The cop took off after his partner who was half way to Hawthorn by then.
Thompson scowled after the duo and quickly motioned to the other K-9 unit waiting outside a cruiser down the street. The officer missed the first signal, watching instead the retreating pair, but then caught the second one. He pulled a huge black lab out of the back of the patrol car.
The performance with this second canine was about identical to the first. Encouraging words, over enthusiasm, frightening barks, and those hard nails on even harder floors. Then silence, a loud growl, and an even louder yelp. This time the dog knocked his partner over before taking off down the street.
Keenan couldn’t stop the smile trying to make its way around his lips. He knew what was happening; it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. At least the ghosts were good for a few laughs.
Thompson’s nose widened angrily when he glowered at Keenan, but one side of his lip went up when he apparently realized that maybe, just maybe, Keenan was telling him the truth.
He snarled and four officers gathered around him. The next orders were quiet but quick. They each pulled their weapons, made their way carefully up to the porch and lay flat on either side of the door. Keenan could only imagine that there were several cops at his back door to keep whoever was in there, in there.
“We’re coming in! Put down your weapon or we will shoot,” yelled the cop closest to the door. Keenan knew the cops were only hearing silence in return, but he heard the chaotic chortles, boos, and rude comments bursting out of the door; the ghosts were having a field day. He wished Thompson could hear them.
One by one, the cops tucked themselves into the house, guns pointed forward.
Keenan heard clear shouted from man to man, as they moved deeper into his home. The inside probably looked like a frat house on Sunday morning; the cops must be thinking that war had broken out in there.
The voices faded and then went silent. A minute later, the lead cop came out and swept four fingers to the group. Thompson touched the radio button.
“Dispatch, this is 7-2-2. The property is clear.”
Without preamble, he crossed to Keenan, grabbed his arm angrily, and propelled him toward his house. “That was some stunt with the dogs, asshole,” Thompson snarled under his breath. “If anything happens to them or my officers, you’re dead. Do you understand me?”
“But I didn’t…” Keenan had the protest shaken out of him.
“Shut up,” Thompson snapped. “Not a word about the ghosts.” He shook him again. “I mean that.”
“Ok.”
Keenan’s knees turned to warm pudding as he approached his front door. The sidewalk leading to the house seemed to elongate as he moved forward. The glances from the police were sympathetic at best. He was terrified.
When he entered the house, he stopped dead.
The house wasn’t the disaster area he originally thought it would be. Everything seemed to be in place, the windows were intact, and, except for stuff that was always in disarray, it all looked normal. Well almost normal; something seemed to be missing.
“Dispatch, this is 7-2-2. We’ll take victim through the house and then release for investigation. Give us about ten minutes.”
There was a hiss then, “Roger, 7-2-2.”
Keenan walked over to the gaping hole where his TV used to be and scowled at the entertainment unit. All of it was gone: the 37 inch TV, the DVD player, three video systems, all his DVDs and CDs, even the old VCR.
“Don’t touch anything,” Thompson said with authority. “Just take me on a tour and let me know what’s missing.”
Panic gripped at Keenan’s chest and he ran to hi
s office, Thompson on his heels. The desk looked naked. They had taken not only his Mac, but the laptop, printer, and everything else. The dangling cords looked crippled and destitute. His stomach did a flip, and a good one. There wasn’t a single piece of artwork or design packet on his desk. They had not only taken all his stuff but several pieces of original artwork, one of a kind photos, and irreplaceable negatives from his clients. They had left nothing. Oh, God, I am so fired! Even his incomplete paintings were gone.
Urgency pushed adrenalin through his blood and he began tearing through the house, searching every room. There wasn’t a single thing of value. They had taken it all.
Keenan finally sank down on the couch and buried his face in his hands.
“Don’t worry, son,” Thompson said from behind him. “I’m bringing in a team. We’ll find your stuff.” He shook his head and touched Keenan’s shoulder. “You have the worst luck.”
That didn’t help at all.
Chapter Ten
Giving up to the Ghost
After the circus of cops left his home, Keenan stared at the empty space that used to be his TV.
They had asked him a million questions, dusted the place for prints, and searched into every private area Keenan possessed. The robbers missed his stash of porn, but the cops sure didn’t. There were many, many embarrassing moments. He felt more violated by the cops than he did by the crooks.
Thompson stayed at his side the whole time and made sure none of them got too close to the truth. Keenan had few live friends and the last thing he expected was to find one in the vet turned cop that had harassed and arrested him the night before.
Was it only last night?
Things were getting decidedly bizarre.
As he stared blankly at the vacant stand, Keenan could feel the sides of his mouth touching his chin. He got up to inspect the kitchen again. When he rediscovered the poor state of his cupboards, he shuffled back into the living room and fell down on his couch. At least they hadn’t taken it.
A Ghost of a Chance Page 9
