Ulie has the only face in the world that I’d like to see at the moment. I brought him with me on this short getaway because I can’t burden Melanie from wardrobe—sorry, just Melanie—with another dog-sitting weekend. I can only pull water from that well so many times before I feel like I’m taking advantage of her generosity.
As my ex-wife, she’s more charitable than social customs typically dictate.
Besides, it’s when I’m travelling all across the U.S. that I really need her help. I should probably save my favor cards for when my next case pops up and a befuddled detective needs some paranormal help with an ongoing investigation a thousand miles from here.
Although, I’m sure, to Melanie, keeping an eye on Ulie is considered more of a treat than a chore. I mean, honestly, he’s the Bestest Doggie in the Whole Wide World.
Don’t tell him, though. It might go to his head.
This dog, man…
One ear that’s constantly flopped over. Big brown eyes. White fur around his muzzle that looks like a goatee. The cutest, most mischievous doggie grin that you’ve ever seen. Who wouldn’t want to hang out with this guy?
I left him on the loveseat earlier, legs twitching and upper lip curled, perhaps chasing a bevy of annoying seagulls in his dreams, and now, as he pads out onto the balcony with me, he looks up with a groggy expression. Head cocked as if he’s asking, “It’s so early. What in the hell are you doing out here, Ford?”
I drop down to one knee and cup my hands around the back of his head, running my thumbs across the inside of his ears. He loves this trick, eyelids drooping in bliss, and it’s great to see that he’s back to his old self after my third investigation at the Hampstead farmhouse. Papa Joe is a dark, malevolent spirit that rolls in like a thick blanket of black clouds around your heart, and I’ll admit that it wasn’t the best idea to have that grumpy old bastard serve as Ulie’s introduction to the world of paranormal investigations.
And then I had to leave him for a few days and fly east over to the Hampton Roads area in coastal Virginia. That investigation did not have the results I expected.
Once again, a spirit will likely change the direction of my life.
It’s no secret that ghosts affect my life more than humans, and yet, no matter how much I’ve been exposed to it, the thought is still strange to me.
Back in Virginia, after my little tantrum in the investigation room, where I practically said, “Screw you guys, I’m going home,” and stormed off like a kid on a playground, Detective Thomas was kind enough to send a copy of my audio files back to me when curiosity took over. I spent days reviewing them, staying up all hours of the night, pausing and rewinding, pausing and rewinding, fighting goosebumps, chugging coffee and energy drinks while I sent Mike random, caffeine-infused emails until he finally called and told me to take a break.
“Ford, dude, chill out,” he told me last week. “It was the same demon from the Hopper house. I get it. You don’t need to convince me. What you need to do is, drop the energy drinks down a notch or two and get a nap in, okay? And take Melanie to dinner. Get your mind off this a while.”
You know, it seemed like good advice at the time. At least the part about backing off the energy drinks and getting some rest. What Mike didn’t know, and what I hadn’t told him yet, is that Melanie was seeing this guy Jeff from the morning news program where she did hair, makeup, and wardrobe. I’d discovered that little tidbit of shitty information when I went to pick Ulie up after the Virginia trip. Sad thing is, I learned it after I had made a jackass of myself by asking if I could take her to dinner.
Maybe I looked like a jackass. Take it for what you will. She could’ve thought it was an innocent gesture. A quick thanks for watching Ulie. Who knows?
The only thing I can say for certain is that I felt my hopes fizzle out like week-old soda in a can, and I left her place that night with my tail tucked between my legs. Ulie had a sympathetic tail-tuck as well, or it could’ve been that he was just sad to leave Melanie.
Whatever. Doodoo happens.
I mention all that to say this: the trip over here to the Oregon coast was meant to get my mind off Melanie and how I screwed up our marriage. It was meant to give me some mental distance from Chelsea Hopper, her tormentor, and the mental hangups I have about doing a feature-length documentary on her story. Carla wants it for her career. Mike needs the money to heal his life and his marriage, as I’ve mentioned.
What about me?
That’s easy. Redemption. Has been and always will be until I get some closure for myself, and for that sweetheart little girl.
This trip is supposed to be relaxing.
Instead, all it’s done is give me more time to think about the crap I should be ignoring for a couple of weeks. My jaws hurt from clenching them so much. I need to be working. I need to be investigating. I need to find something to occupy my mind.
That’s exactly why I checked my email earlier. I couldn’t sleep, so I left Ulie snoozing while I got up and came out to the balcony. I opened my email in hopes that Jesse had sent me a note with details about a job, any welcome distraction to get my focus elsewhere. Maybe there would be a request from that cop down in Baton Rouge. We left that case open a couple of months and he was supposed to get in touch with me again if he wanted more help.
And then, blammo, OMG FORD! COOLEST NEWS EVER.
The thought of it whips up another tornado of anger and nausea in my stomach.
“Damn it.” I stand up, grunting as my knees crackle like bubble wrap. I’m getting older, and the sad thing is, I’m probably on the back nine already, on the way down the slide, ready to become one of those who talk to me from the afterlife.
The words of my therapist—and Melanie, too, before we were divorced, crawl into my head. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You know how you are. Bad news or—or moments of indecision, too much going on in your mind… They’re not excuses to start feeling sorry for yourself. Listen to me, okay? It’s life. It doesn’t mean the universe hates Ford Atticus Ford.”
Yeah. I get it, but damn if that fist-sized snowball doesn’t turn into a massive boulder screaming down a hillside once it gets rolling.
I lean on the balcony railing and feel flecks of rain pitter-pattering against my cheeks and forehead. Ulie whimpers and grumbles when a seagull screeches by, sailing on the drizzle-soaked breeze.
I have to find some work. I need to put my mind back in its happy place, and that means I need to go talk to some dead people.
I’ll sit back on the press release news. There’s nothing I can do about it this very second anyway, and I expect my phone will be ringing, and Mike will be on the caller ID before long. He’ll either be apologizing, or asking for forgiveness, or both, and there’s no way I’m prepared to have a civil discussion with him.
Right now, at this very moment, as I stand here in my pajama bottoms and a USC sweatshirt, the only question that remains is this: who should a guy talk to if he wants to dig up some trouble with the local ghosts? I’ve had cases handed to me for so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to go out and search for them.
I’m tired, though. I hear the siren call of my bed, but I know if I go snuggle in, I won’t sleep. I’ll just think everything I’m not doing at the moment to make the world a better place, one that’s safer from the powerful right-handers who bear the torches for Satan Himself.
Yeah.
Coffee first. Then trouble.
CHAPTER TWO
Ford Atticus Ford
Her high heels are a shade of red that exists in nature, but only on the breast of some exotic bird in a South American jungle. That’s the first thing I notice. First, the color of her pumps, and second, I’m wondering why someone is so dressed up at half past seven in the morning, standing in line at a petite bakery that would fit inside my master bedroom closet back home.
I’m not disrespecting Le Breadcrumb. They work magic with an oven and some dough, but damn are they tiny.
And the smell in her
e? If God has air freshener in Heaven, I bet it’s the same.
Her appearance boggles the mind on a typical, drizzly day here in Nye Beach. Sure, it’s a bit artsy and more trend-ish than the rest of Newport, but this ain’t Fifth Avenue.
I’ll admit, the pumps are sexy, and they seamlessly lead into a pronounced set of well-toned and well-tanned calves. I stop at the hem of her little black dress, which tightly comes to a screeching halt just above her knees, and not because I can’t look any further up, but because she catches me.
I’m human. I’m male. Sue me.
Besides, it’s not often that you see such classy attire before the sun is barely up.
One of these things is not like the other, right?
I smile over the rim of my coffee, a bit sheepishly, because yeah, I just got caught being a man.
There’s a distant sense of familiarity about her too, like it would be okay to look because I know her. I’m sure I don’t. Ninety-nine percent. I’ve been here a few days now. Have I maybe seen her at a restaurant? In the wine aisle at the grocery joint up the street?
She’s bottle-blonde with a shade of red lipstick that matches the pumps. Black-rimmed glasses—the nerdy sexy kind—accentuate her cheekbones. Nothing about the whole ensemble is an accident. It’s by design, and I can only think of a handful of reasons why she’s here, dressed like that.
One, she’s an escort on her way home—that’s not why I would recognize her, by the by—or two, this is the walk of shame. Maybe she spent the night with some rich dude who owns an obnoxiously gargantuan oceanfront house, someone she met at a bar or an office party. Or—and God forbid the cliché—she’s the personal assistant, she slept with the boss, and she’s regretting every second of the hangover, both the moral aspects and the alcohol-induced ones.
But, who am I to judge?
The point is, she’s out of place, dressed like that here in this bakery, this early in the morning, and I noticed.
She noticed me noticing.
And, now, we’re doing the subtle glance dance… mostly because I’m sitting here with a half-eaten scone and a horrible cup of coffee, waiting on her to recognize me.
I’m not being an egotistical jerk. Honest to God. It comes with the job description of a former television host of one of the most popular paranormal reality shows that has ever graced the small screen. Or any show, for that matter.
Graveyard: Classified was a juggernaut.
And then that thing with Chelsea Hopper happened.
And then it wasn’t a juggernaut anymore.
I have no qualms whatsoever about owning up to the fact that I went from A-List Celebrity Extraordinaire to D-List Subterranean Basement Dweller who only gets invited to the big parties when someone is feeling nostalgic.
My ego, my pride… they earned that for me, and I’m man enough to accept it.
However, that doesn’t stop me from enjoying the occasional interaction with a superfan, especially when they look like the exotic species now paying for her cranberry muffin, who then daintily picks up her coffee mug—that’s been filled too full—and shuffles toward me with a smile baring the brightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. Really, they’re like an exploding star. I can tell that it’s hard for her to shuffle in those heels, so I get up, extend a hand for assistance and pull out a chair. Because, obviously, she’s coming to sit with me—and then she walks right past and says hello to the elderly woman at my six.
Ouch. Burn.
My cheeks are on fire. The knife wound in my dignity is cavernous, and I’m left standing here with my coffee unfinished, my scone half eaten, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, wondering if I should pretend like I was simply getting up to leave.
That’s the best exit strategy, the safest way to save myself from the moment. I can see Ulie outside, squinting against the drizzle blowing in his face as he sits patiently, waiting for me to bring him one of the baked doggie treats that Le Breadcrumb is known for. Well, at least in the canine world, population: Ulie.
A hasty exit is the only salvageable way out of this, and the wailing screech of metal chair legs on a smooth concrete floor announces my escape to the entire bakery.
Behind me, I hear a radio-smooth voice saying, “Oh, hey, don’t go.”
I turn around and she’s, boom, right there. “I’m sorry—what?”
She sets her muffin down on my table, spills some of the too-full coffee, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The diamond stud in her earlobe is roughly the size of a hailstone in mid-summer Kansas, and I assume there’s a matching one on the other side. She apologizes again and tells me, “That was mean. I was just screwing with you.”
“You were? I, uh…”
I don’t know what to say to this. It’s fairly standard for fans of the show to stumble, fumble, trip, fall, and stutter their way into a greeting, asking for a photo with me or an autograph, whether I’m in line at Target or waiting to speak to a detective at a police station. The general population isn’t secure enough to mess with me out in public. That’s reserved for Mike Long, Melanie, and other close friends; my guarded circle of people who know the real me—the guy in a t-shirt and flip-flops—not the former enfant terrible of paranormal investigations.
“The almighty Ford Atticus Ford,” she says, narrowing her eyelids. “You were checking me out.”
Wow. The bravado on this one. “I—uh, yeah—I mean, no.”
Up close, her perfume dances among the luscious scents of scones, muffins, doughnuts, and brewing coffee, penetrating the moment I’m fumbling through.
She smells like a candy store that also doubles as a florist. If it were possible, it’s a scent I would love to taste.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t mind. Happens a bit in my line of work. Yours too, I would imagine.”
“Line of work?”
Her jaw drops in mock offense. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
I squint at her, feigning recognition. “Vaguely.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not, I—”
“Whatevs, buddy. We’ve known each for a long time, even though we’ve never officially met. I’m Lauren Coeburn. Nice to finally meet you in person.”
Oh. My. God.
Lauren Coeburn. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out.
Especially since she fucking eviscerated me on The Weekend Report, that entertainment show where they make fun of all the dumb things said on reality television each week. I used to love it and watched every chance I got, which usually meant a marathon morning in front of the TV on the rare day that we weren’t traveling or filming.
I haven’t watched it since Graveyard got pulled, and not since she repeatedly flashed that single picture of me, taken by Carla Hancock, where I’m looking over my shoulder, grinning nervously. A grin that was taken out of context by every media rep that showed it. It didn’t help that you can also see Chelsea Hopper holding my hand, terrified and crying. Irony aside, that photo will fucking haunt me for the rest of my days.
Those thirty seconds of The Weekend Report are burned into my memory. That image of me, on the screen, appearing and then fading to black, over and over, with the overlaid soundtrack of a heartbeat thumping in rhythm—it stings.
I can recite her words verbatim: “Normally, this show is all about the comedy,” said her voiceover. “But today, we’re sad to announce the death knell for the almighty Ford Atticus Ford. You know him, you used to love him, though I wouldn’t blame you for bringing out the pitchforks now. Little Chelsea Hopper, attacked by a demon—and no, I’m not talking about that thing in the attic. Just look at him. The anger in his eyes. The vengeance that he seeks. For what? Why? What kind of monster could do such a thing to an innocent girl? I can tell you this; it takes the frozen heart of someone who’s already dead inside to do that to a child. That horrible, rotting, puss-filled shell of a human being should have committed hara-kiri in Times Square before this ever became a possibility. So le
t me ask you this: has Ford Atticus Ford become the monster that he supposedly claims to hunt each week on Graveyard: Classified? And, if that’s the case, does the real question become… should Ford have turned the camera on himself a long time ago? We’ve got the disturbing footage right after the break. You might want to put the kids to bed for this one, folks.”
And why, exactly, didn’t I recognize her if such an astronomically atrocious attack on my character is still zipping around my synapses?
It’s because, like Mike, she’s dropped some weight, gotten a tan, gone through a complete makeover, and has pretty much transformed herself into a different human entirely. It’s because she’s smiling at me. It’s because she’s being nice to me.
That is why I didn’t recognize her.
While Mike went through his transition, I’m assuming, in order to shed a layer that reminded him of anything having to do with me, it’s likely that Lauren Coeburn’s producers had not so subtly suggested that she straighten herself out.
I’ve been off the Internet and away from social media for close to two years now, but I have been in line at a grocery store, and I’ve seen the tabloids. I specifically remember seeing her on the cover of Hollywood Watchlist, wearing a gray one-piece swimsuit on a tropical beach somewhere, with some awful headline about how an elephant had escaped from the San Diego Zoo. I’ll admit that I felt a wee bit of vindication—okay, a whole lot of it—but that’s just wrong, man.
Okay, yeah, I chuckled. Poor thing.
Poor her, poor me. Whatever.
Lauren holds her hand out to shake, and I let her get to where I can sense she’s getting ready to pull it back. I do this on purpose, and then I grab it during the retreat, squeeze a little harder than you should with a “lady.” I make a theatrical show of wiping my hand on my shirt. Not down around my waist or indiscreetly on my side, no, nothing like that, but rather in full view across my chest.
Petty? Yes. Childish? Yes.
Do I care?
Nah.
The only thing I have to say to that is, sometimes it’s okay to indulge those tendencies. Staying young at heart doesn’t always mean eating an ice cream cone or watching cartoons. Sometimes you have to let go of that inner animal, the one that’s been molded and scarred by society, and relish in being the simplest of things: a whiny, foot-stomping brat.
The White Night Page 2
