Dead Man Talking

by TM Simmons

  ~

  None of us wanted to sit in front with Jack, so Granny, Twila, and I all piled into the back seat of Smitty’s patrol car, Granny in the middle, her walking stick upright in front of her like a prophet’s staff. Twila and I sat by windows made of some sort of hardened Plexiglas, cloudy rather than clear.

  Jack adjusted the rearview mirror. “Home, ladies?” he asked.

  We didn’t give him the satisfaction of lightening the mood. Three sets of arms crossed over three chests, wordless. Logically I knew it wasn’t Jack’s fault, but he was the closest target for our anger and frustration. He sighed and started the car.

  The rain heightened as we drove, and Jack turned on the wipers. I’d hated driving or even riding in a bad storm ever since one of my cars hydroplaned in a downpour and ended up two inches from a steep cliff edge. A crack of lightning followed by a roll of thunder descending into the distance didn’t help my state of mind. Had I been driving, I’d have pulled into a side road to outwait the deluge. But Jack continued on, albeit at a slow, steady pace.

  I should have been trying to figure out how to get Katy out of that blasted cell, but my mind refused to cooperate, not dredging up even one lawyer’s name. When we got back to Esprit d’Chene, I could pour over my address books. Not that I’d have lawyers’ names listed, but I could call everyone listed to get input — and home numbers to roust the attorneys out of bed.

  The patrol car radio buzzed with unbroken static, the sound nearly drowned by the rain pounding on the roof. Granny broke the silence. “Don’t sound like there’s nothin’ goin’ on with the police t’night. Ain’t no school zones for them to watch over this time a’night, I suppose.”

  Twila chuckled, and Jack shot Granny a half-grin through the rearview mirror. I was too tense from the storm and thoughts of Katy to respond. Another crack of lightning brightened the sky briefly, and Jack slammed on the brakes, skidding on the wet pavement. Sir Gary, in the passenger seat, tossed Jack a casual glance.

  “Why have we stopped? Did this conveyance run out of the petrol it needs, like Twila’s?”

  “I wish the hell you wouldn’t pop in and out like that with no warning!” Jack snarled.

  Sir Gary shrugged. “It’s the way I travel.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched, and we chuckled. “How’s Katy?” I asked the ghost as Jack eased the patrol car on down the road.

  “How do you expect?” Sir Gary answered. “Feeling rotten and scared." He muttered something else under his breath, which I didn’t catch, but Jack glared quickly at him before he turned his attention back to the road.

  “We don’t have any choice now,” Twila said.

  “No,” I agreed.

  Granny bobbed her head, and Sir Gary shifted around to look at us, then slowly nodded. “I have all the time in the world,” he said. “Right now, Katy’s more important.”

  “Any of y’all want to let me in on what you’re plannin’?” Jack asked.

  Silence answered him, so he drove on for a few more miles without another word. As we neared Esprit d’Chene, I relented, although I was pretty sure what his reaction would be.

  “We need to find Bucky’s head.”

  “What the hell good’s that going to do?” Jack gritted. “And just how the hell do you plan on doin’ that, when none of the investigators...trained investigators...have been able to?”

  “Maybe they aren’t trained in the proper investigative techniques,” I threw back at him in answer to his second question first.

  “Ghosthunting techniques, I suppose,” Jack growled.

  Sir Gary fixed him with a haughty glance. “And you have a problem with that type of investigation?" When Jack refused to answer, Sir Gary turned his attention to the burst of static that erupted from the radio, covering up some broken words.

  “Damn storm." Jack reached for the radio knob with one hand and steered with the other.

  “Maybe you should try that button." Sir Gary waggled a finger. The siren blasted through the night and red, green, and blue flashed, illuminating the downpour. Sir Gary cocked his head, eyes wide with delight.

  “Keep your damn hands off the equipment!” Jack yelled. He pushed a couple buttons, twisted a knob or two, but the lights and siren continued unabated. The radio crackled again, and one word penetrated the racket: “Detective?”

  Jack swerved into the plantation driveway and slammed on his brakes. “Turn those things off!” he snarled at Sir Gary. “Whatever you did, undo it!”

  “Ooooaa, ooooaa, ooooaa,” Granny joined in with a snicker.

  “Why?” Sir Gary asked with a laugh. “It’s a jolly good show. I might not get to ride in one of these carriages again. What is that button there?”

  Jack jammed the gearshift into park and switched off the key, but the siren just kept blaring, the lights circling. Now the radio joined the cacophony of sound, but not with police transmissions. Instead, a Cajun band blared, a rocking song that set my toes tapping and Granny and Twila’s shoulders bouncing.

  “Damn it!” Jack yelled. “Someone from the station’s trying to get through to me! Someone could need help, and you’re all actin’ like you’re at a party!”

  That drained our amusement, and Sir Gary quickly waggled his finger at the dashboard. The siren and lights died, the radio went dead. The frantic voice on the police radio burst into the quiet. “Detective? Oh, shit.”

  Jack grabbed for the microphone, but his cell phone rang. He jerked it out of his pocket and spat, “Yeah?”

  Sir Gary evidently figured out how to open the radio communication, because Smitty’s voice flowed out so we could hear the conversation. “What’s wrong with your radio?”

  “Never mind. What’s wrong?” Jack responded to his cell phone...and through the radio.

  “Some sort of trouble at Esprit d’Chene,” Smitty said, and we gasped. “Sue Ann got cut off when she called. You want me to call in some backup?”

  “I’ll let you know. Stay by the phone." Jack threw his cell phone on the seat and started the engine. Unfortunately, the gate was closed, as it should have been.

  Jack glared at Sir Gary. “You wanna use your finger for something useful?”

  Sir Gary wiggled his finger and the gate swung open. Jack floored the gas pedal, none of us saying a word. When the car rounded the bend and we could see the manor house, I held my breath in horror. Every light was on, four of Katy’s guards on the veranda, two with pistols drawn, backs against the wall on either side of the door. The other two held a battering ram.

  The two with the battering ram paused as the car skidded to a halt. Jack, Twila, and I flung open doors and rushed into the pouring rain, Jack racing toward the veranda. Inside the house, Trucker’s howls and growls were furious, along with Miss Molly’s high-pitched screeches. A scream — a woman — probably Sue Ann — from the Great Room, to the left of the door. Chills chased up my back, and I glanced across the car roof at Twila.

  “Bucky,” she confirmed.

  Sir Gary was no longer in the front seat. I hoped he’d gone into the house.

  A splintering crash sounded. The front door now lay in the foyer. But the guards didn’t seem all that eager to push in. They gathered around the opening and peered inside.

  Jack didn’t take that sort of precaution. He grabbed a pistol from a guard and ran through the door, crouching slightly, pistol gripped in both hands, leading the way. Another scream, then a loud crash. The four guards trickled one by one into the house.

  I dashed toward the veranda, onto the steps. And barely ducked the Queen Anne’s chair that flew through a window. As it was, I felt a pain in my forearm and saw a sliver of window glass sticking out. I jerked it out and tossed it down.

  Twila grabbed my uninjured arm as I started through the doorway. “Wait.”

  “Where’s Granny?” I asked, worried that my elderly friend might have fallen.

  “I told her to wait in the car. And we’re not going in there without more protection.”

/>   We quickly joined hands, concentrating both our minds on pulling down white light. The noise inside distracted me — another crash, raised voices now — men’s, confused — asking what the hell was going on. But we got a measure of protection around us before I broke Twila’s hold.

  Miss Molly screeched again, and I dashed into the foyer, Twila right behind me. I didn’t have to decide which way to go. The noise continued to be centered in the Great Room.

  The four guards stood outside the doorway, peering in, shaking their heads and fidgeting with their pistols, raising them, lowering them, glancing at each other. I pushed into the room. And ducked as a silver platter flew at me. Behind me, Twila oomphed. The platter clattered to the floor, and I whirled to check on her. She shook her head, rubbing her shoulder.

  Sue Ann was crouched behind the settee, Gabe on his hands and knees peering around one end. Miss Molly stood on the back of it, back arched and every hair on end. She hissed and snarled, staring at the fireplace. At Bucky, whose doll head swiveled as he looked for another object to pitch.

  Gun aimed, Jack examined the room. Trucker snarled and barked at his feet, then plunged toward the fireplace. Bucky leaped straight at him. Trucker skidded on a throw rug, all hundred and fifty pounds of him sliding on a collision course with the ghost.

  Miss Molly flew through the air, claws extended. She and Trucker both hit Bucky at the same time, sailed through him. Miss Molly hit the floor, and she and Trucker whirled to confront Bucky side by side. The ghost just ambled on across the room, toward Jack.

  “Move, Jack!” I shouted.

  He had sense enough not to question me. He ducked over to join Twila and me, and Bucky swiveled his head to follow Jack’s progress. And saw a new set of antagonists.

  “Where the hell’s Sir Gary?” I muttered as Bucky considered his next move.

  I searched the room, a corner of my mind confirming that Katy would be devastated if we didn’t get it cleaned up before she came home. An Oriental vase of fresh-cut flowers lay shattered, the table it had set on tipped. Water pooled on the polished floor, discoloring it. The phone was on the floor beside Katy’s desk, the receiver emitting that weird off-the-hook sound. The figurines Katy kept on the mantle were scattered around, probably thrown by the angry ghost. Some had landed on the settee and fainting couch; others were splintered on the hearth.

  “Wonder how Katy’s going to explain this to her insurance company?” Twila mused.

  Suddenly an eerie silence spread through the room, broken only by various panting breaths and a tinkle as a piece of window glass dropped from a pane. Even Trucker and Miss Molly fell silent, staring at the ghost, and Miss Molly inched beneath Trucker’s broad belly. At the doorway, the guards stared in confusion, not seeing anything to...guard anyone from.

  “What’s happening?” Jack whispered.

  “I have no idea,” Twila said in a normal voice. “But I assume we’re about to find out.”

  Sir Gary materialized by Grandmere Alicia’s portrait. Bucky silently turned to him.

  “I suggest you’ve done enough damage for the time being,” Sir Gary said. “You’re not getting what you want with these temper tantrums. Why don’t we join forces and see if we can’t make some distinctive progress, rather than defeating your purpose by acting like a buffoon.”

  “Who’s the ghost talking to?” Jack asked.

  “Hush. It’s Bucky,” I whispered. Jack briefly closed his eyes, shook his head, then glanced at the guards, who hadn’t moved one inch from the doorway.

  The mouth on the doll’s head dropped open, exposing tiny, pearly white teeth. Then closed again. A noise like someone clearing his throat erupted, and the mouth opened again. A rusty, squeaky voice emerged. “How . . ." The mouth closed again, another throat clearing. “How long ya been like me?” Bucky asked Sir Gary.

  “Eons, like I tried to tell you earlier,” Sir Gary replied. “Watch." He wiggled a finger, and the set of fireplace tools on the hearth clanged together. Then the poker rose into the air.

  The guards lifted their guns, but Jack waved at them to subside. The poker danced in the air, then slid smoothly back into place with the gold-crowned log hooks and hearth brooms.

  “Purty good,” Bucky said with a nod. “I ain’t figgered out how ta make stuff go where I wanna aim it.”

  “Why don’t we find a private place to chat?” Sir Gary said. “I’ll teach you some things.”

  Bucky considered that, glanced at us, glared down at Trucker. Trucker growled low.

  “Don’t like dogs like that,” Bucky said. “Ugly cat, too.”

  “Now you listen here . . .” I began, but Twila nudged me into silence.

  “What the heck are you people looking at?” one of the guards asked.

  “Hush,” Twila and I said in unison.

  Bucky swiveled his head toward the guards, then around the room before he cocked it and examined Sir Gary. “Got some fancy duds, doncha? I ain’t real happy with the ones I got on. Any way to change 'em?”

  “We might be able to manage that.”

  “Lead the way. We ain’t got all night.”

  “Well, my friend." Sir Gary strolled over to Bucky. “There you may be wrong. I believe we have plenty of time.”

  “Katy doesn’t,” I reminded him, and Bucky stared at me.

  “What’s that s’posed to mean? Where’d she get off to? And what you doin’ here? I tol’ Katy to keep your interferrin’ nose outta our bizness this time.”

  “What — ” the same guard asked.

  “Hush!” Jack growled.

  Sir Gary heaved a sigh. “If you’re coming with me, let’s go." He glided toward the fireplace, Bucky following hesitantly. I really wanted to question Bucky, but when I opened my mouth, Sir Gary caught my eye and shook his head in warning. He glided on over to the wall, but Bucky stopped in front of the fireplace.

  “Hey,” he said. “You think we could make like Santy Claus?”

  “Who?” Sir Gary asked with a frown.

  “St. Nicholas,” I explained.

  “After you." Sir Gary waved at the chimney opening.

  Bucky giggled and dove at the fireplace. He zipped straight up the chimney, and Sir Gary watched with an amused smile. Then he jerked his shirt cuffs, gave us a wink, and laid an index finger beside his nose. And zipped after Bucky.

  Twila broke into gales of laughter, and I chuckled, sneaking a peek at Jack. He stared at the fireplace, me, Twila, and turned to Gabe and Sue Ann as they slowly stood up behind the settee. Trucker and Miss Molly paced to the settee. The cat leaped onto a cushion and snuggled down to bathe herself, the dog plopping down in front of her and laying his head on his paws.

  Sue Ann held out a hand to me, gris-gris bag in her palm. “You told me to let you know iffen this thing didn’t keep the haints away. Well, it ain’t.”

  “Get back on the grounds,” Jack ordered the guards. As they scattered, he turned back to Sue Ann. “You and Gabe saw what was goin’ on in here?”

  “Yeah,” Sue Ann muttered. “Didn’t you?”

  “I saw Sir Gary,” Jack admitted.

  “T’other one was Bucky,” Gabe put in. “Ain’t no doubt. And he ain’t a happy haint. Just look ‘round.”

  “What...how did it start?” Jack asked.

  “That there vase of flowers crashed over first,” Gabe explained. “And when we came in to take a look, Sue Ann grabbed the phone. Called nine-one-one. But he chased her away from there in nothin’ flat. Kept us from gettin’ out the door, too.”

  “We heard the sirens comin’, tho’,” Sue Ann said. “But didn’t seem like you was ever gonna get here. And Bucky must’ve done somethin’ to the front door. Back one, too, ‘cause the guards couldn’t get them open. We heard them poundin’.”

  Suddenly a guard in the front yard shouted. We could hear him clearly through the broken window. The few remaining panes shattered in a rain of glass as something thunked solidly into the chimney bricks the same instant the re
tort of a rifle sounded. Jack was out the door in a flash.

  Two more rapid shots followed, but I didn’t hear them hit. All of us lunged for the floor, but something seemed to be helping my fall along. I hadn’t figured out yet what. An instant later, a barrage of pistol gunfire erupted.