Missy hesitated. “Yes. I’m sure,” she said, weighing guilt and good deeds. “I’ll be fine.” He nodded and turned, not for the parking lot but the open field. It led to a wooded cut-through that met with train tracks. Missy looked behind her, at the primitive but sheltered Snack Shack. She yelled toward Frank’s fading frame. “The ice has to be dumped from those coolers.” He did an abrupt about-face. “I hate to ask. I’m sure you have somewhere to be.”
“A thousand places,” he said, already on his way back. Frank fished cans of soda from icy cooler water and Missy emptied the popcorn machine.
“Hey there, Miss Missy. Who’s your new friend?”
“Dustin. Hi.” Missy abandoned the popcorn machine, making a beeline to the outside of the Snack Shack. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I was fixing sprinkler heads on the opposite side of the field.” Overhead lighting glinted off stray candy wrappers. Missy widened the gap between herself and Dustin by picking them up. “So . . . who’s this?” His round shoulder nudged toward Frank.
“Mr. Delacort?” Missy said, as if she’d referred to him that way all afternoon. “He’s visiting.” Frank stood, his real-life army jacket contrasting against Dustin’s Sears-purchased camouflage pants. Dustin folded his arms over the paunch of his belly, crunching into the slick vinyl of a town-issued jacket. “Mr. Delacort’s moving here from . . .”
“From Western Mass,” Frank said.
“He, um . . . he came to get a taste of the local atmosphere. We’ve been talking about schools and Surrey. He’s deciding between public school and Xaverian for his sons.”
Frank set the icy Cokes on the counter. Then he stepped forward, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you . . . Dustin, was it?”
“Yeah . . . Dustin Byrd.” Instead of shaking Frank’s hand, his index finger underscored the name on his jacket. “Deputy Director of Surrey Parks and Rec.”
“I see that.” The unrequited handshake morphed into a pointed finger. “Great jacket. Everyone knows who you are. That and you don’t ever have to worry about forgetting your name.”
“Uh-huh,” Dustin said. “Moving here, you say?” He looked Frank over. “You married?”
“Married? Sure. My wife’s home with the boys. I drove up on a fact-finding mission.”
“Over.”
“What?
“If you’re coming from Western Mass you would have driven over . . . west to east.” Missy watched as Dustin gestured north and south.
Frank picked up one of the cans, tapping it on the counter. “I came from my new job. It’s in Worcester. That’s southwest of here, right? That’s why we’re moving.”
“Guess it makes sense.” Dustin’s knuckles brushed over his mustache before cinching up his pants, eyes on Frank the whole time.
“Anyway,” Missy said, “I think Mr. Delacort was leaning toward Xaverian, since it’s a private school . . . all boys.”
Frank glanced at Missy. “Yeah, that’s how I was leaning.”
“So you’ll be going—” A fuzzy buzz from Dustin’s walkie-talkie interrupted. “I read you, copy that, central. I’ll check it out,” he said, still focused on Frank. “That was the police station. I’m patched right into their system. Some stragglers got bored, busted a bunch of beer bottles under the bleachers over at the football field. Now who do you suppose is going to clean up that mess?” Neither Missy nor Frank answered, and Dustin nodded. “That’s right, me. They need me there right away. Missy, do you need a ride?”
“My mom’s picking me up.” She pointed to car headlights turning into the parking lot.
“I didn’t know she was up to driving these days.”
“Yes, she’s been on a good stretch—the ups and downs of MS. Anyway, my car’s in the shop again. I could really use a new one.”
“New one, huh?” Dustin said. “That’s a pricy venture. You need to think hard about what you want to spend your money on. It all takes time.”
“Speaking of time,” Frank said, glancing at a watch that wasn’t there, “I’ve got to get on the road. I only offered to help because the young lady . . .”
“Missy . . . Flannigan,” she said brightly.
“Right, Missy. Sorry.”
“If your mom’s here,” Dustin said, “I’ll be going.” He started toward the football field, but turned back. “What kind of work is it you do?”
Missy’s mouth gaped. Frank grazed his hand smoothly over his army jacket. “Guess your uniform is more obvious than mine. I’ve been assigned a desk job, army recruiting office.” Dustin nodded, then looked twice over his shoulder as he marched across the field.
Missy offered a big wave at the waiting car. The gesture said there was no need for anyone to get out. She slapped closed the Snack Shack’s cupboard doors and trotted around to the rear. Frank was on his way out. Her hand met with his chest. “You don’t really have a desk job in a recruiting office, do you?”
“Is that really your mother?”
“Of course,” she said, her hand still resting on him. “It makes her feel good to get out and do little things for me when she can. She . . . she’s a wonderful person. Why do you ask?”
“My gut said to.”
“And my question?”
“About as real as a wife and two sons. But you made up that part.” She laughed and Frank’s chin cocked toward the football field. “What’s with the black-ops groundskeeper?”
“Dustin? Long story. He’s intense but harmless.”
“It’s the harmless ones that will fool you the most.”
“Not Dustin. He couldn’t fool me if he blindfolded me.” Missy leaned, peering toward the parking lot. “You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Before, you were headed for the woods. It leads to the train tracks and the freighter that stops on the outskirts of Surrey around midnight.”
“You know the freight train schedule?”
“I know every route out of this town—freight trains to ant tunnels. That train doesn’t run on Saturdays. If you want . . .” she said, glancing at the Snack Shack. “It’s a wood floor, but it’s dry and there’s plenty to eat, at least a dozen leftover hot dogs.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you do that for me?”
“Call it returning a favor. Ed Maginty,” she said, noting the man, not his money. “I’ve got to go. Do you want to stay or not?”
“Okay,” he said. “For the night.” She stepped away and Frank tugged her back. The two were nose to nose in the isolated space. Missy was unafraid, although she did think this might be it. It would be one way out of Surrey. He could knock her unconscious and drag her off into the woods. Her mother would think she’d vanished into thin air. It would be the easiest explanation for Barbara Flannigan to hear. Missy sucked in a breath. He smelled of dirt and hot dogs and desperation. His Adam’s apple bobbed through a stubble-covered throat. Then Frank’s grip eased. “Hey, don’t forget your cashbox.”
“Oh, geez, thanks,” she said, taking it. The cold metal box pressed between them. “So maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe you will. Never can predict the future, can you, Missy Flannigan?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Present Day
“Missy . . . Missy . . . Missy . . . what do you know that we don’t?” Aubrey had sat for hours, the weight of her head now resting on her hand, fingertips massaging her temple. Her elbow eased, and her arm dropped across the news stories and notes spread across her desk. She touched the archived pages of the Surrey City Press. Trepidation had waned days ago; none of the news stories produced a tingle of ghostly presence. Aubrey stared harder, but it only felt like more of an inner challenge—like a math equation you had no hope of solving. Yet the impulse deepened as Aubrey focused on a
skill set that deviated from standard investigation. “Imagine, Missy, what a conversation with you might unearth.”
Aubrey shook her head and pushed back in her chair. She needed distance. Why would she even consider such a thing? Poking a finger—or any part of her—through that kind of portal was insane. She gathered the stories and shuffled them aside. There was no good reason, certainly no obligation, to attempt to channel Missy Flannigan. Aubrey had used her gift in a positive way. She didn’t squander it or capitalize on it. She didn’t owe anything or anybody a damn thing, least of all Levi St John and his ambitions. Exasperated, she stood. Directly in her line of vision was an enormous flower arrangement. It had arrived earlier that day, and now the wide display was poised on a shelf that overhung her cubicle. Peering through the flora, Aubrey observed Levi.
Inside his office, he also stood. Even his posture was determined . . . unyielding. He wasn’t going to let this story go. Not for any reason. But Aubrey was certain that her motivation was equally strong. Inviting Missy Flannigan’s death into her life was foolish, even dangerous. Knowing that the girl had been shot and where her body was found, sealed behind a brick wall . . . Aubrey sighed. It was already more information than she needed. Tapping into Missy Flannigan, accidently or otherwise, meant there was every chance Aubrey would experience the victim’s terror or desire for retaliation firsthand. Levi’s hunt for the truth had brought unrest. The newsroom, a place that Aubrey had always deemed safe, no longer felt as secure.
Lowering herself into the chair, Aubrey thought that a good cleansing of her karma might be in order. The upheaval of her sanctuary was the latest calamity to enter Aubrey’s life, but not the most glaring. That dubious honor belonged to her marriage and Aubrey’s soon to be ex-husband, Owen. She sank farther into the cubicle space, wanting to hide from misfortune, which seemed like a solid precursor to failure.
Not so long ago, bright and shiny would have described Aubrey and Owen’s future. She’d married the perfect man—well, perfect for her. Aside from Owen’s left-of-center appearance—the long hair, lanky frame, and cutting throwback looks—Aubrey was drawn to his self-sufficient personality. Owen was determined to succeed at life on his terms. Terms that Aubrey also desired. Both wanted the traditional life they’d missed out on—years of collected Christmas ornaments, a stick of a tree grown into a mighty oak, rooms you’d lived in so long they needed repainting.
And for the first year, marriage went that way. The word newlywed sparkled like a diamond. But the promise of a happy life had broken, the sparkle fading to a dull finish. While there was ample blame to share, Aubrey took responsibility for her part. She’d made the terrific mistake of keeping her gift from Owen. Worse, he’d found out by accident. He’d had a harder time dealing with it than she’d ever imagined. She should have been up front from the beginning, but every time Aubrey broached the subject of her gift, she retreated. She was too fearful of risking happiness. It had been so elusive in the first place.
In hindsight, the relative normalcy of Aubrey’s new job had made it easier to keep up pretenses. They’d bought a house in a picture-perfect town; the zip code to a normal, happy life was now theirs. But it all came undone when Owen finally admitted to second thoughts about white picket fences and a routine lifestyle—he couldn’t let go of a freelance career that kept him on the move. By the time Aubrey’s secret came tumbling out, the marriage had already reached a breaking point. Aubrey glanced at her naked ring finger, then her cell. She’d avoided two calls from her soon-to-be ex today. The final divorce papers were waiting. Aubrey was certain that was the point of Owen’s message: “What’s the hold up, Bre? I’m more than ready to end this thing . . .” She fidgeted, eyeing her phone. The thought didn’t quite ring true. He hadn’t called her Bre since the two of them agreed that a divorce was probably for the best. Aubrey shoved the phone aside. When it came to Owen, and her gift, she still lacked courage.
Charley, on the other hand, had possessed courage enough for the two of them, especially during Aubrey’s younger years. She’d shown remarkable mettle, guiding Aubrey, a girl who, at times, questioned her own sanity. Sometimes, Aubrey mused that carnival life could have had that effect—insanity. Instead of being trapped in a room full of mirrors she’d been caught in a loop of random voices. It had been Charley’s sense of calm that had persevered. On one occasion, she’d told Aubrey, “If you had a genetic disease, something passed from your father to you, I’d go to the end of the earth to find a cure.” A barely teenage Aubrey had watched the breath move in and out of Charley as she went on, speaking about her son’s death in terms of medical history. “For your father, a gift like yours was never more than lifelong misery. It’s not good. It’s not bad, my dear girl. It just is. We’ll find our way—together. Trust me, though. This gift is part of you. We can’t change it. We can’t take it out of you.”
“Not even with an exorcism?” Aubrey had asked.
“You’re not possessed,” she’d snapped. There wasn’t much that startled Charley, but that thought surely had. She’d gone on to say, “Aubrey, be aware. Not every entity is about positive messages and closure.”
It was a statement that would prove to be an omen.
Between the ages of four and sixteen, Aubrey had struggled to make sense of her gift—understand how to use it and how to control it. She’d made headway, not comfortable with but accepting of the dead in her life. At seventeen a singular event halted all progress, nearly putting Aubrey back to square one. A violent encounter with the cleverness of evil alerted her to the inherent dangers of her gift—dangers that had driven her father to the brink of madness.
At her Surrey City Press desk, Aubrey touched evil’s imprint, grazing her hand over a deeply pockmarked forearm. She traced the crescent-moon scar on her chin and thought of the faint lasting marks on her stomach and legs. Gift . . . How obtuse. This “gift” had upended her life. It had stolen any semblance of normal. Her own father had quite possibly died from it. He’d certainly lived in fear of it. Evil was only one of many components Aubrey was required to navigate. She glared at the black and white news stories. The whole Missy Flannigan mess was a Petri dish for evil. Aubrey picked up the news clippings and, along with her cell phone, shoved them under that day’s edition of the Surrey City Press.
Even with these things out of sight, Aubrey’s thoughts about the dead girl remained a peculiar frustration. She sighed at the concealed articles. Why wasn’t there so much as a whisper penetrating from the other side? Perhaps Aubrey’s strict control had deadened the pathways. Who knew? It wasn’t as if you could Google the answer. Tentatively, like a child dreading a monster under the bed, she peeked under the newspaper. When nothing roared, Aubrey retrieved the room-temperature news stories—although she left the phone buried. She pressed her palm flat on top, just as she did with her real estate listing sheets. If Jerry Stallworth had stayed to bitch, it seemed like a murdered girl should have something to say. Yet no warmth radiated, no aberrant smells or tastes invaded her body. The only scent present was the flower arrangement, fragrant white lilies and sweet violet alyssum. There was nothing palpable from Surrey’s most famous dead resident.
Aubrey pushed back her chair, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the cubicle wall. The intention was to think about nothing, yet her mind raced. She was back to toying with psychic routes, curious if the right frequency required something of a more personal nature. She mumbled a mock request, “So, Levi, let’s face it. Traditional reporter tactics aren’t cutting it. But if we could put our . . . okay, my hands, on Missy’s hairbrush or pillow maybe that would rattle the right cage.”
“What do you want with Missy’s hairbrush or pillow? The authorities already have a complete DNA profile.”
Aubrey’s eyes popped open. Levi was in front of her. She nearly lost her balance as the chair wobbled and she scrambled to a steadier position, cracking her knee on the desk. “Ouch! Damn it . .
.”
“Sorry. Are you all right? I was passing by and I heard you say my name.”
Aubrey’s hand thrust to her palpitating heart. “Mind reading would have been way more useful.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I was thinking out loud. That and I’m forever banging my knee on the desk.” She rubbed the throbbing spot and rolled the chair forward. “Since you’re here,” she said, wading through her notes, “I’ve tracked down every viable Surrey connection to Missy. I even spoke with her high school guidance counselor, Esther Warren. Sorry to report that previous statements are true. Missy did love puppies and poetry. There isn’t much here.”
He surveyed her desktop, which by volume of paper if not results indicated a solid effort. “It can be slow going with something this old. Don’t let the lack of progress deter you. Maybe approaching what you do have from a different point of view is the way to go.”
“Interesting. I was considering exactly that.” She offered a tight-lipped smile. “So far, let’s just say the other side of my brain isn’t offering much.”
“I meant another person, as in a second opinion. If you’re going to work this late on something,” Levi said, waving his arm across the newsroom. “You should get a fresh pair of eyes to take a look.”
Aubrey stood again. This time she saw sunset through the windows, Malcolm’s office door closed, co-workers replaced by a janitorial staff. “I didn’t realize the time.” She looked at the wall clock. “Six forty-five!” Managing the real estate section never kept her past five. “My grandmother has help, but she’ll be leaving soon and I . . .” Aubrey grabbed her satchel. Levi’s satisfied expression waned. “Was there something else?”
“No, nothing. Your grandmother . . . I didn’t realize. I just thought if you did want a fresh set of eyes . . . Well, I’m sort of starving. We could grab a bite and . . .” Aubrey tipped her head at him. “Contrary to opinion, I do possess human habits, eating included.”
Ghost Gifts Page 8
