He dropped onto the blanket he’d carefully spread for me, moving over until his hip bumped mine, and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “Now this isn’t too bad, is it?”
I raised one eyebrow. “Hmm. Not so far. But wait until people get here.”
“It’s October, baby. We’re going to have this beach to ourselves.”
And he was right. Oh, a few people strolled by, walking with their feet in the surf. A couple of joggers passed us. But for the most part, it was deserted and quiet and—perfect.
When my stomach began to rumble around noon, Rafe stood up and pulled me to my feet. “We can leave our blanket here and go grab some burgers up at the Riptide. No one’s going to bother them.”
I glanced down, dubious. “Are you sure?” The aroma of grilled meat began to waft over us, and suddenly I was ravenous. “How do you know this place is any good?”
A shadow passed over his face, fleeting but undeniable. “I ate here once before. On my way to Savannah.”
I knew then, and I swallowed hard. He’d have been here with Joss, his partner and lover, on their way to the assignment that would take her life and nearly kill Rafe, too. I remembered those dark days in the aftermath of his rescue, when he’d tried to convince me to let him die.
We didn’t talk about Joss much these days, but her ghost could reappear any time, a reminder of how much he’d loved her during their brief relationship. I was hardly the poster child for self-assurance when it came to Rafe and me, but most of the time, I held my own. I couldn’t fight against a dead girl, though.
“It’s okay, Nell.” He ran one finger down the side of my face, brushing away a strand of my black hair. “It’s just a memory. It’s not real and alive, like you. Let’s go enjoy some burgers.”
I gave him my hand, and we trudged through the sand to the steps of the wooden deck of the beach-front restaurant. We had our pick of tables, and Rafe pulled out a chair for me at one near the railing, so we could look out over the ocean.
“It’s pretty here.” The admission didn’t come easily. “I never thought I’d be a beach girl, but maybe I can be reformed.”
“Nell, baby.” He rubbed his thumb over my knuckles, and warmth flooded me at his use of the endearment. We weren’t a cuddly couple who called each “sweetie” or “honeybunch”. In bed sometimes, he’d slip and call me “babe”, but I knew right now, he was reaching out, trying to soothe me. “You can be anyone you want to be. I love you whether or not you enjoy the beach. How I feel about you doesn’t depend on sand or surf.”
A door opened from the restaurant’s main building, and a pretty woman with hair as dark as mine stepped out, heading our way.
Rafe squeezed my hand. “Oh, by the way . . . we’re meeting our contact here. That’s her, I’d guess.”
I bit back a sharp response. Rafe knew me too well sometimes. I’d have bitched and stressed over meeting someone new if given the time, but now, all I could do was paste on the closest thing to a smile and do the job.
Her eyes flickered between us as she approached, and her lips curved on one side.
“Hello. I’m Abby Donavan, and I think we may have a ghost in my hotel.”
Halloween Flash Fiction (2016)
{This piece is in the Rafe and Nell world, and it’s more speculative than it is connected with details of Age of Aquarius.}
Dried leaves skittered across the stone steps of the mausoleum. The sky was cloudy tonight, but as Nell and I approached the edge of the cemetery, there was just enough moonlight to read the name chiseled over the two heavy doors with their brass pulls. Dead vines teased the top of the word, but I could see enough to make it out.
Next to me, Nell shivered. It was much cooler up here than what we were used to in Florida. I draped one arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to my side.
“Hover.” She murmured the name, squinting in the darkness. “That’s the one, then?”
I nodded. “I think so. I don’t see any other bone mansions around here with that name.”
“We’re a long way from San Francisco.” Her pale blue eyes roamed over the overgrown grass of the old burial yard. “How did the talisman end up in Virginia?”
“After those five men tried to open the dimensional door for the aliens—who turned out to be demons—they all had mental breaks. Our guy was brought back here to his hometown. As far as we know, they put the amulet we need to decipher the ritual text in his coffin when he died.”
“Lovely.” Nell shrugged. “Well, let’s get started. The sooner we get this, the sooner we can get out of here.” She glanced over her shoulder. “There’s . . . unrest here.”
“No shit,” I muttered under my breath. Nell didn’t pay attention to me; she’d already closed her eyes and lifted her hands. I knew the hands were more for her own focus than anything else, as all the power came from her mind. At first, nothing happened beyond the wind picking up a little. And then there was a low groaning, and ever so slowly, the huge doors began to scrape and creak open. As soon as they did, the odor of decay poured out, making me gag.
Nell wasn’t affected at all. She dropped her hands back to her sides and climbed the steps, leaving me to follow behind her.
“Rafe, do you have your flashlight? I don’t think it’s likely that there’ll be electric lighting in here.”
“Got it.” I clicked on the button and pointed the light into the pitch black of the burial chamber. Shelves lined both sides, and caskets had been slid onto each one. I hesitated, not sure which would be the most likely to be the one we needed, but Nell moved unerringly to the top coffin on the right.
“This one? You sure?”
She cast me a wry look. “We’ve got to start somewhere, and I think it’s most likely to be one of the more recent ones, which means a top shelf. If you let me climb on your shoulders, I should be able to open it up and see inside.”
I obliged, kneeling so that she could toss one jean-covered leg over my neck. Rising, I grasped her thighs, eliciting a soft hiss from Nell when my fingers strayed too far off course. Well, who could blame a guy for taking advantage of his hot girlfriend in this position?
“Almost got it open.” She sounded strained and breathless, and I was just opening my mouth to tease her about that when a small noise behind us made me freeze. An icy-cold hand closed around my arm, and a low voice growled near my ear, sending a chill of dread down my spine.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing with my coffin?”
When the moon is in the Seventh House
And Jupiter aligns with Mars
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars
This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius
Harmony and understanding
Sympathy and trust abounding
No more falsehoods or derisions
Golden living dreams of visions
Mystic crystal revelation
And the mind’s true liberation
Aquarius.
Age of Aquarius
Lyrics and music by
James Rado, Gerome Ragni, Galt MacDermot
Redeem Yesterday
I’d listen to the words he’d say
But in his voice I heard decay
The plastic face forced to portray
All the insides left cold and gray.
“The Day the World Went Away” Lyrics by Trent Reznor
Part One
St. Joseph Memorial Hospital
Milwaukee
1992
“Hey, Welby.” The tall blond unwound a wool scarf from around his neck and shook his damp head, sending droplets of water flying around the lounge. “You heading out?”
“Yeah. It’s been a hell of a forty-eight, Trapper.” Denny Garrett rubbed his scruff-covered jaw and yawned. “Hope yours is—well, you know. Less hell.”
The other man laughed. “Thanks. Anything particular going on I need to know about?”
“No.” Denny
hesitated. “Well—not really. I mean, it’s over, and you don’t have to deal with it, but—just something kind of weird.”
“Weird? Isn’t it all weird? Not much comes standard in this Labor and Delivery.” He hung up his coat in the tall wooden locker and pulled his shirt over his head.
“Yeah, you’re right. This just felt . . . more off than usual. Gave me a vibe.” Denny shrugged.
“Well, hell. Now you’ve got me curious. What happened?” The other doctor donned a scrub shirt.
Denny sank onto the long wooden bench. He’d known this guy since they’d started at the hospital as residents, three years before. Pulling shifts that felt endless had bonded them, as had the discovery that they both had a weakness for medical shows from the 1970’s. They’d given each other nicknames—Welby and Trapper—as a running joke.
Still, their friendship had never stretched beyond work, and Denny wasn’t entirely sure if his buddy would understand why last night’s situation had rattled him.
“Last night, a woman was brought in. Motor vehicle accident. Husband was pronounced dead on the scene, but the wife seemed okay—they brought her in to be checked out, and we took her because she was thirty-one weeks pregnant, prima gravida. Aside from a few bumps and bruises, some minor lacerations, Mom looked good, and baby did, too.”
“Damn. Dad was killed, and Mom basically walked away? That is unusual.”
“Yes, and that was kind of the start. When she’d been here on the floor for about an hour, Mom started contracting pretty good. We tried to stop the contractions, but she was too far along, and she delivered. But it was all fine—normal vaginal delivery, no complications. Baby was . . . well, she was pretty damn amazing for a thirty-one weeker. Seven pounds, seven ounces, Apgar of eight and ten, which is basically a freaking miracle.”
“You’re not kidding. That’s incredible.”
“Uh-huh, it was. And Mom was good. I mean, yeah, shell-shocked, of course, with losing her husband and having a baby all within a few hours, but still . . . she held the baby, and I was standing there next to her. She looked up at me, tears running down her face, and she said, ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. I’m going to call her Joy.’ She nursed her, and then we took the baby down to the nursery to check her out, let Mom get some rest.” Denny drew in a long breath. “The nurse took her back to Mom, and Mom . . . she was gone. Non-responsive, no pulse, no breath sounds. Just . . . gone.”
“Shit.” Trapper shook his head. “Man, that’s tough. They’re thinking embolism?”
“I guess, or a bleed we didn’t catch. But it was crazy.”
“Did they have family?”
Denny sighed. “Nope. I’d asked the mom before she delivered if there was anyone we could call for her, and she said no—her mother had died a few years back, and she never knew her dad. And she said her husband had been estranged from his parents. She didn’t even know how to get in touch with them.”
“So what happened to the kid? She still here?”
“No. The nurse called child services, and at first, they said they didn’t have any foster families with space. Then the social worker came over and said it was the damnedest thing—the absolute best foster mom in this area had decided to retire, said she wasn’t taking in any more kids last week, but she just happened to change her mind today. She came in about an hour ago to take the baby home.” Denny paused.
“Hey, the kid lucked out. Good for her.” Trapper tugged his scrub bottoms up and tied the drawstring. “Sounds more tragic than weird to me, though. What was it that freaked you out?”
Denny frowned. “I wasn’t exactly freaked out. It was just . . . odd, like I said. Like all these terrible things happened, but they ended up turning out okay for the baby. You know, accident bad enough to kill a man, but mom and baby are okay. Then premature delivery, but the kid’s not only healthy, but a good size even for a full-termer. Mom dies, and she’s alone in the world, but baby basically drops in the lap of the absolute best caregiver around here.” He lifted his shoulder.
“Welby, my man, sometimes things just work out. Sad about mom and dad, but this sounds like a happy ending for the kid. Or at least the best anyone could hope for, in the circumstances.”
“Yeah, I know. I get that. I guess it was a sense I kept getting and then . . .” He swallowed hard, his brow knit together. “When the mom told me what she was going to name the kid, I was alone with them in the room. Just the two of us, and I didn’t tell anyone. I saw the foster mother on her way out, leaving with the baby, and I stopped to talk to her for a minute. Right as she was heading out the door, I asked what she was going to call the kid.” Denny paused.
“She said, ‘Her name is Joy.’”
Part Two
St. Barnabus Rest Home
Larkspur, California
January, 2017
It was two hours past the end of open visiting, and the small lobby of the nursing home was quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock and the soft buzz of the janitor’s music playing through his headphones. Lydia Spurl had been sitting behind the desk for four hours; she’d come in early tonight so that one of her co-workers could leave in time to get to her son’s soccer game. At the time, the offer to help hadn’t seemed like a sacrifice, but now, with eight more hours stretching out before her, Lydia was kicking herself for being so nice.
She couldn’t complain about the work, not on the overnight shift. In this section of St. Barnabus, the patients were mostly silent. They’d lost their ability or will to speak long ago, and now their days were spent staring blankly at walls or at the droning television set. The only time any uproar occurred was when one of them died, and even then, it sometimes happened without much fanfare or notice.
Even so, staying awake was one of the few requirements for this shift. Tonight, it was a struggle. She’d already downed two cups of high-test coffee and walked the unit three times, and her eyes still wanted to droop. She yawned, rolling her shoulders and stretching her back.
“Good evening.”
Lydia jumped in her chair with a startled yelp. The man who stood before the desk looked as though he was in his early thirties. He was impeccably dressed and groomed; his tie was straight, his shoes gleamed, and his hair was carefully combed. His hands were behind his back as he regarded her steadily.
“God, you scared me to death.” Her heart was still pounding as she looked at him up and down. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Ah, you looked like you were . . . distracted.” His voice was soft. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“Where did you come from?” Lydia frowned at the door behind him. “That door is supposed to be locked after visiting hours are over.”
He smiled. “I came in the main entrance and was directed over here. I promise you, I didn’t walk through the door like a ghost.”
“Hmph.” Lydia prided herself on having a sixth sense about people, and this guy was raising the hair on the back of her neck. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“I’m here to see one of your patients. His name is Donald Parcy.”
Sighing, Lydia shook her head. “I’m sorry. Visiting hours ended at eight. They should have told you that at the front.”
“Oh, they did, but given the special circumstances, the guard said I should just come right back.” He leaned on the desk, his eyes fastened on Lydia’s. “I haven’t seen Mr. Parcy in a long time, and I’m only in town for this evening. I really must be able to visit with him tonight.”
The drowsiness she’d been experiencing before swept over Lydia again, and she blinked rapidly. “Uhhhh . . . are you family? I’m not sure who’s on Mr. Parcy’s list . . . I’d have to check.” She turned a little drunkenly in her office chair, reaching for the filing cabinet behind her.
“My name won’t be on there, but I can assure you that I have every right to see him.” He reached down to lay a hand on Lydia’s arm. “There won’t be a problem.”
She
stared at him, her eyebrows drawn together, and then she shrugged. “No, there won’t be a problem. He’s in twelve-B.”
The man winked at Lydia. “Thank you so much. Have a good evening.”
He walked down the dim white hallway, his shoes not making a sound on the dull beige linoleum. Pausing at the door with the number twelve stenciled above it, he turned the knob and stepped inside.
The room was dark, except for a small nightlight in the corner which threw shadows over the two hospital beds. One was empty, made up with neat corners. In the other lay a shriveled body, curled in on itself. At the sound of the door shutting, the occupant of the bed opened one milky blue eye.
“Hello, Donald.” The visitor dragged a chair closer to the bed, not bothering to muffle the sound in any way. “It’s been a long time.”
A strangled noise emerged from the bed, and the elderly man began to thrash, struggling against the restriction of the bedclothes. His companion patted his arm but otherwise didn’t show any signs of being disturbed.
“Here, let me raise the bed a bit, so you can see me better. That doesn’t look comfortable at all.” He pressed the button on the control, and the gears began to grind, lifting the head slowly until the patient was nearly sitting up. “I have to say, Donald, that I was surprised to see where you are now. This place . . . well, it’s hardly the sort of rest home where one expects to find a man of your position and importance, is it?”
Donald grunted, but whether it was in agreement or disdain wasn’t quite clear.
“Your family must’ve washed its collective hands of you. That’s a pity.” He sighed.
In the bed, the old man managed to lift one trembling hand until it was nearly pointing. His visitor nodded.
“Yes, I’m sure it’s a bit of a shock to see me after all these years, isn’t it? And yes, I can see that you’ve noticed my . . . what shall we call it? My failure to age? My youthful appearance? It’s true. I look very much the same tonight as I did nearly fifty years ago, although of course, back then I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a suit like this. In those days, we were all about destroying the man, weren’t we? Dressing like this would’ve been a sign of selling out. We preferred jeans that hadn’t been washed . . . well, ever. And T-shirts that told the rest of the world what we believed in, in case our long hair and beads didn’t clue them in.” With a half-smile, he shook his head. “Those were the days. They were one of my favorite epochs in human history, and let me tell you, my friend, that’s saying something. As you might have guessed, I’ve been around a bit longer than I let on back then.”
Age of Aquarius Page 3
