A Ghost of a Chance

by Meador, Minnette

  Keenan pulled his head back. “Fuck that!”

  “You don’t know all of it and I haven’t got time to explain. Suffice it to say that without your sacrifice, everyone’s dead. You, me, your ghost friends, Dabria, and your corporeal friends too, in the end. If Azazel completes his plans, the earth and humankind is dead in twenty-five years, maybe less. It’s all up to you.”

  Keenan wasn’t convinced, but the urgency of the situation was nagging the back of his neck. The flames on the car were defrosting and he figured he was running out of time. Maybe he’d just go back and see what happened. God, he wished he could talk to Constance…or Isabella. He pulled in a deep sigh to relieve the pressure. It just made his ears crackle.

  “Where’s Isabella? What did you do with her?” he demanded.

  “She’s fine, son. Safe. I needed her to get you to come to the church. You’ve got to trust me.”

  Keenan didn’t answer him and looked at the cop instead. “Can you help me get Thompson into the cruiser?”

  Amos shrugged and turned back into a cloud. “Just leave him here and I’ll take you back. It would be faster that way.”

  “Not on your life, buddy. Who knows, I might need rescuing later.”

  Keenan got his arms under Thompson’s and lifted with a groan. The man was as solid as a rock. Man! You need to lay off the weights, big boy.

  Amos disappeared and Keenan struggled to get the cop into the back seat. Thompson’s position on the hard plastic bench was probably going to give the poor guy a stiff neck, but it beat the alternative.

  Keenan got behind the wheel of the cruiser and sent one forlorn look at his Jeep. Goodbye, old friend.

  Everything came to life at once and Keenan could feel the heat from the flames even through the windshield. He put the cruiser in gear and searched the road before easing it in. There wasn’t a soul around…bodied or disembodied.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Descending into the Pit

  It took him a while to figure out all the controls on the cruiser. Lights lit up the dashboard in flashing blues, reds, greens, and yellows. The soft dash lights were doing nothing to help him. It reminded him a bit of his very first car, a 1966 AMC Rambler with push button ignition and shifting. Futuristic, he had called it. This was more like the space shuttle.

  Keenan had no idea what he had in mind. After failing to get his wits in order, he settled for just going along for the ride. The impulse to turn tail and run was stomped by his responsibility. It was a first for him. Maybe it was time to be a hero. He’d been just about everything else in his life.

  When he got to the church, there were cops everywhere. He counted at least seven cars. Holding his breath they wouldn’t look at the cruiser too closely, he eased on by without making eye contact. He drove three blocks away and parked it.

  Thompson was snoring like a rumbling jigsaw in the back when Keenan pulled the keys from the ignition. Going to the back door and opening it, he tried again to shake Thompson awake, but it was impossible. Whatever Amos gave him had knocked him out but good.

  Keenan slipped the keys into Thompson’s breast pocket. He then searched the cop’s belt for a flashlight. It came out of its sling without any trouble. Keenan stashed it in his coat pocket, grateful it was smaller than some he had seen on other cops.

  Something caught his eye and an interesting idea blossomed in his head. Being a pacifist, he did something he thought he’d never do; after some finagling with the holster, he lifted Thompson’s Glock and examined it.

  It was a lot lighter than he expected and the finish was more like plastic than metal. When he found the trigger, he realized with a jolt that the weapon had no safety. Made sense, since cops needed their guns to shoot fast. Just point and click. The thought gave him a rush and he decided it was probably best not to think about it much. Macho had never been a requirement for him, but the touch of cold death in his hand made him feel like a man.

  “Baby!” he said to the Glock.

  Keenan stuffed the gun into the back of his belt. It was a little like a bad PI movie. Not that a gun would be any good against ghosts, demons, angels, or what have you; it just made him feel a little better having it.

  He got back into the front seat and searched the dash for a way to turn off the lights. He finally found the button below the laptop and slid it to the off position. The lights blinked out.

  The night was cold around him when he closed the cruiser doors searching the street for any sign of cops. His breath came out hazy white and the streetlights in the distance looked misty. Otherwise, the street was clear.

  Keenan had no idea what he was doing. The thought of going back to the church sucked the life out of him. He was scared, but something else was niggling the back of his thoughts. Dabria. The story Amos told him had reached deep inside his guts and given them a hard twist.

  He never thought of himself as much of a hero; hell, he figured a lifetime of hauntings got him out of that chore. But he was having distinct heroic feelings now. It was weird to find out that heroism and stark blind terror were so similar. Made him respect cops and firemen a whole lot more.

  Winding his way slowly down the abandoned street, Keenan made out blue and red lights blinking in and out as he got nearer to his destination. By the time he got there, only two sets were still moving. The cops were leaving.

  Standing behind a skinny tree that probably didn’t hide him very well, Keenan waited until the two cops finished talking. The streetlights had all gone out as he passed, so he was hoping the darkness would conceal him.

  The cops finally got into their respective cars and headed out, but not before the last one relocked the fence. They sped off down the street.

  Keenan approached the church making sure there weren’t any more of them lurking around. There wasn’t a soul visible anywhere.

  When he got to the fence, he was relieved to see that the cop hadn’t fastened it tightly. Keenan was able to get himself through the opening, but only after he got stuck. Sucking in and pushing hard, he burst through and landed on his ass. Compared to the other pains of the evening it was slight.

  Keenan pulled himself up, searched the street again, and slid to the side of the building.

  When he got to the door, he found it locked and swore under his breath. Now what was he supposed to do?

  Scanning the building, Keenan spotted an enclosed fire escape leading up to the roof. There was a locked cage around it, but he thought he could climb it. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. 2:30 a.m. Swallowing his disappointment, he thrust the phone back into his pocket and whispered, “Piss.” All he wanted was for this night to be over.

  Scaling the cage was easier than expected. It was almost completely gone on the opposite side, and he was able to squeeze through the opening to get to the ladder.

  The ladder was plenty difficult, however. The years had rusted through half of the rungs, but he didn’t know which until he reached them. Twice he almost fell to the ground, once several hundred feet up. His arms and legs were weak from all the evening’s abuses and his hands were giant slabs of meat against the rough rusted metal. He was sure his palms were hamburger by the time he reached the top.

  Keenan had never been fond of heights. A fact, unfortunately, he had forgotten in all the excitement. When he hauled himself up and over the top of the ladder, he landed on a small platform protruding from the roof. It prefaced one of the stained glass windows. The smell of roofing tar soaked his senses.

  He made the mistake of looking down. The faraway ground came rushing up into his eyes and his head started to spin. Keenan did the only thing he could think of. Falling to the rooftop, he curled into a fetal position until the dizziness passed.

  Testing the roof with his foot, he forced himself to clamber across the slippery accordion tile riding it up then down. Several times he slid down the roof, twice almost going over the edge, but, except for the bruises trashing his arms, legs, and elbows, he was stil
l in one piece when he reached the gaping hole in the roof and peered into the darkness.

  Suspended just below was a large pipe about four inches in diameter. It had a big hole in one side where water poured out to the floor below. Moving his butt as close to the edge as possible, he touched the pipe with his foot and gave it a good push. It was as solid as rock.

  Getting on his stomach, he inched over and pulled Thompson’s flashlight out of his pocket. It took him a couple of seconds to figure out he had to turn the head to make it work. The crumbling tiles under his stomach were weakening. Thoughts of a long fall to his death were paramount in his mind, but he forced them back by putting tar-laced air into his lungs. All that did was make his head spin, so he gave it up. There was a kind of freedom in succumbing to the inevitable that made him feel better.

  Shining the light down into the dark church, he followed the pipe along the ceiling and to the rear wall of the upper gallery. The pipe disappeared into the floor on the other side of the gallery, a good seventy-five feet away. There were no pews or seats there, from what he could see.

  He cursed himself for even contemplating what he was about to do next, but he rubbed his hands together, secured the backend of the flashlight in his mouth (trying hard to not think about where that flashlight had been), and scooted forward until his feet were hanging over the edge of the hole. The swirling light dancing against the darkness was making him dizzy as he leaned in and wrapped his hands around the solid pipe.

  He figured once he lowered himself down, either the pipe would give out and he would fall to his death, it would hold but his nerve would give out and he’d hang there until he lost his strength and fall to his death, or both the pipe and his nerve would hold long enough to get him to the upper gallery. At this point, he wasn’t too concerned about any of the options. Praying to various gods, he tightened his grip and lowered himself over the edge.

  When the weight of his body jolted him, he almost lost the flashlight, but he clamped down on it until his jaw ached. Hanging there to get his bearings, Keenan couldn’t keep the image of dead pheasants hanging from the rafters in his uncle’s barn out of his head. Maybe he would be gamey enough for a feast in a few days.

  Keenan maneuvered the flashlight as best he could to look forward. From this angle, the gallery didn’t seem that far away. Question was, how solid was that pipe where he couldn’t see it? It was taking his weight ok; hadn’t even moved when he lowered himself onto it, but what about swinging a hundred and seventy pounds to move along it. He tried to remember his twelfth grade trig. How many additional pounds per square inch would swinging along that pipe add to the stress on the rusty metal?

  Not that it mattered. Keenan knew he was just putting off the inevitable. He had to move one of two directions, forward or down.

  Tightening his grip and thanking his lucky stars for all that walking and exercise, he slid one hand forward on the pipe about a foot. So far so good. Making sure his hold was firm, he then lifted the back hand and swung it quickly in front of the other one. Then he stopped.

  His heart was racing fast enough to make his eyes pulse through the sweat pouring into them. Keenan hadn’t thought about wet hands, but the pipe was rusty enough to create its own friction. With a rush of adrenalin, he decided to go for broke and plowed ahead moving his hands one after the other to cover the distance to the looming balcony ahead.

  Amazed at how quickly he was going, Keenan gave into giddiness as he moved forward. He could see his target, was almost there, could see himself passing the railing and gently releasing the pipe to stand in the gallery. He was so proud of himself.

  Two feet from his goal, the pipe gave way.

  Keenan suddenly found himself vertical, swinging toward the ground floor as the pipe snapped one bracket at a time above his head. He instinctively grasped it with his arms and legs, like a child clinging to its mother. The only sensation was the rush of falling wind, the slight ping ping ping as the metal straps broke one by one, and the sudden emptiness in his middle when he seemed to leave some of his insides on the ceiling. He slammed his eyes closed and waited to die.

  Gravity and the strength of those last few brackets had other plans, however. Keenan swept within inches of the floor, the pipe caught on a beam way above his head, and stopped abruptly.

  His balls, chest, and shoulder caught most of the impact, and he wished he was dead for a moment or two. When he looked down, he was less than a foot above the ground. Prying his legs and arms from the pipe, he slid the rest of the way to the floor, extracted the flashlight from his mouth, and then threw up.

  It took Keenan several minutes to adjust to being alive. Despite the pain in his groin, he wrapped his arms around the pipe and kissed it. Sputtering, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and spit several times.

  From somewhere behind him down the long nave he heard the rustle of someone making their way through the debris. He fumbled with the flashlight, amazed it still worked when he twisted the top, and played the light down the long expanse. There was definitely a shadow coming toward him.

  “Who’s there?” His voice resonated through the ruin around him, coming back muffled.

  The figure stopped. “Keenan?”

  Keenan couldn’t believe what he thought his ears were hearing. He didn’t reply.

  “Keenan, is that you?” That wonderful voice made him go all loose inside.

  “Isabella?”

  The figure hurried across the open area and landed square in his arms. His balls ached where she landed, but he didn’t mind.

  “Oh my God, I thought I’d never get out of here,” she whispered in his ear, holding him tight. The warmth of her body made the pain disappear.

  He thought maybe this was another one of Reggie’s dreams. At first he was so bowled over just to have her in his arms, he forgot that maybe he should be suspicious, or maybe even a little surprised.

  “Are you all right?”

  She stepped out of his arms and looked up at him. In the muted light, he could make out shining tears on her cheeks and a red nose. Dust covered her hair, her face, and her clothes. Even mussed and dirty, Keenan felt the pang of desire run through his blood when he looked at her.

  “I think so, Kee,” she said breathlessly. “Something grabbed me. I don’t know what it was. I must be out of my mind.” Her trembling shoulders vibrated against his hands and her eyes were wild. “I blacked out. When I woke up, I was here. Where are we?” The words tumbled out of her mouth in breathless abandon.

  “It doesn’t matter, Is.” He turned her around to make sure everything was intact. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “No,” she whined and buried herself in his arms again. “I heard you shouting and running, but I couldn’t find you. Then I heard your jeep and tried to find the door, but it was too late. The police pulled in right after you left, so I hid. They locked the door, Kee. They locked me inside. I’ve been scared shitless.”

  She pressed her trembling body tight against his chest and cried.

  “You have to get out of here,” he said into her ear. “It isn’t safe. I’ll get the kitchen door open then you need to go.”

  That elicited an abrupt stop to the tears and Isabella looked up at him. She pulled herself out of his arms and with an effort, got her emotions in check with a sniff and a shake of her arms.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on. Why are we here? This is crazy.”

  It is crazy. A rush of fatigue ran through Keenan’s body. What was he going to tell her? What would she believe? Hell, what did he believe at that moment? The questions were only gathering momentum.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. “Listen, I don’t have time to explain everything, but I will, I promise. There’s something I have to do here, something important. I need you to trust me right now. You have to leave and I mean in a hurry. Sorry, Is.”

  Without waiting for her to respond, he pulled her into his arms, gave her
a good stout kiss, and dragged her toward the kitchen. Isabella planted her feet firmly against the ground. She was a lot stronger than Keenan had anticipated.

  “I’m not going anywhere without you,” she said, getting her wrist from his hand and taking a step back. The words seemed to take her back a bit; she folded her arms and rubbed her shoulders. “I mean, I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s going on. I’ve spent the last hour in this horrible place. You better start talking, mister. You said there wouldn’t be any secrets, so start talking, stud.” Isabella plopped down on the ground and glared up at him.

  Keenan rubbed his eyes and glanced at the small chapel at the end of the nave. It was absolutely quiet in the church, and he couldn’t see any light coming from under either of the closed doors. That startled him a bit. Again, without the ghosts around that lonely feeling gathered around his shoulders and sent a shiver down his back.

  Joining Isabella on the ground, he stood the flashlight on its end between them. When he searched her eyes, he thought he saw something he hadn’t seen in a very long time. For a split second, the love was unmistakable.

  She lowered her chin in a quick movement.

  Keenan was confused; they had only met two weeks ago, only gone out that morning. Sure he had a deep case of the lusts for her and, if he was honest with himself, there was something beyond that, something that had shocked him the first time he saw her. But this was different. In the instant glance, he read something much deeper in her eyes. What amazed him was he was sure his heart was echoing the sentiment with the same intensity. In that split second he was almost certain he loved her, too. It knocked the wind out of him.

  “Why did you come to my house?” he asked her softly, for some reason knowing it wasn’t to apologize.

  When Isabella looked up there were tears in her eyes. She put her hand on his cheek and brushed it with her thumb.

  “Hell if I know. Ever since I met you, I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about you, about being with you, about spending every minute…” The words stopped abruptly, and she yanked her hand away from his face. Even in the soft glow of the flashlight, the blush on her face was bright. “You’re going to think I’m nuts.”