The White Night

by Desmond Doane

  I tilt my head back a bit, which accentuates my flared nostrils and raised eyebrows—an angry, snorting bull, I am—before I flop down into my chair, arms crossed, lips smashed together, in an obvious, edge-of-a-tantrum pouting position.

  Lauren appears amused and gestures to the seat opposite of me. “May I sit?”

  “Be my guest, Coeburn.” I look away. Outside, Ulie remains tethered to the front porch’s support beam, only now he’s moved down to the microscopic strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street, where he investigates the rear of a friendly poodle being ushered along by an elderly couple.

  Two minutes ago, I was daydreaming about doing the same thing to the woman sitting across from me until I found out who she was.

  What a world.

  I have absolutely no idea what to expect from this, and around someone like Lauren Coeburn, anything I say can and will be used against me in the court of public opinion, so I reserve my right to remain silent. I want her to speak first. That way, I’ll know how to proceed.

  Either Lauren has the same plan, or she doesn’t know what to expect either, because we sit in extended, funeral-parlor silence while she sips at her mug and pinches nibble-sized morsels off the bulbous muffin cap.

  In my peripheral vision, I catch the bakery clerk trying to sneak a picture of us with her iPhone. She forgets to turn off the flash, which gives her away immediately, and she apologizes with an embarrassed wave before scuttling behind the metal racks filled with the various loaves of bread that will be gone by ten a.m.

  Lauren loses the battle of wills when she finally says, “I heard you might be filming a new documentary.”

  Damn it. Word spreads fast.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mike Long

  Daylight breaks on the horizon. The sun peeks up over the dividing line where green meets blue, and this coffee tastes like complete shit. Why, oh why, do I let Toni buy this stuff? Perhaps it’s because she has my testicles poised above the coffee bean grinder, and I have no true say in the matter.

  The beach house. Jesus. I don’t know why we kept it. The cost definitely outweighs the benefits.

  Nah, that’s bullshit. I can’t even convince myself of that lie. This place is amazing, and that view? Would you just look at that view? Pinks, oranges, and yellows quiver along the underbellies of those fluffy puffy clouds. Hot damn. Heaven on Earth right here in North Carolina.

  It’s warm out already. A nice breeze pushes the seagrass along in rivulets. Out there, maybe a couple of miles, a tanker is sailing northward, probably heading up into the Chesapeake Bay.

  It’s a good life here. It really is.

  Or would be. Could be. Could be better if only Ford will stop waffling and say yes to the documentary. It’s not a big deal. Chelsea’s parents have already okayed it. They’re exploiting their daughter more than we will. Let them have the guilty conscious. Ford, buddy, come on. We’re trying to help her.

  And help ourselves, of course, for reasons so different you could drive a semi through the gap.

  I need the money, You need people to love you again.

  Well, I mean, like big time love you. Not just the folks you meet at a deli or walking down the street. I know you need to sit on the couches of late night shows and get invited to Eastwood’s ranch. Not me. All I need is for Dayton and Ashley to look up to me again, and for Toni to chill the hell out.

  I’m trying, okay? Please just get off my ass. I can’t make people take my ideas for a new series. I can’t make the people who sign the checks sign the fucking checks. Don’t you get it? This is out of my control. I have no say in this whatsoever. None. And that’s exactly why I had to go crawling back to Ford and beg him to do this. He’s the talent. He’s the show. He’s Batman. I’m Robin.

  The almighty Ford Atticus Ford was the show. He was Graveyard: Confidential all by himself. He was the gas, the engine, and the body of the Corvette.

  I was the can of soda in the cup holder.

  Maybe I had my own little cult following, but the spotcamgirls were never going out of their way to send me naked pictures of themselves, no matter how much Ford tried to placate me.

  For God’s sake, this coffee… Tastes like it’s been filtered through desiccated dog turds.

  Desiccated. Word of the day right there.

  If Ford will just do the documentary—two weeks of shooting, we kick this demon’s ass, and then we go home. Little bit of promo around Christmas during the release, sit through a few press junkets, and we’re golden. I cash in on a few mil, and then I can disappear again. Maybe the kids will like me. Maybe Toni will stop looking at me the way she does. She doesn’t even try to hide the disappointment anymore, not even after I dropped the pounds.

  It was never about the fat, was it, Toni? Always the money. I dropped seventy-three pounds for you; the biceps, the pecs, the six-pack, the tan? I thought that’s what you wanted, but no, the money. The stupid money. I wish I’d never said yes to Ford back at that asylum.

  You will fall.

  So many years later, and that continues to pop up in the back of my mind now and again. How did it know? Or did it? Could’ve been talking about me tripping down the stairs later that night. And yet, here we are, Toni.

  Answer me this, sweetheart, when did dollar signs replace the love and affection?

  Was it after season two, when the sponsorships really started rolling in?

  The shoes, the fast food joints, the online investment websites—nobody at TPC headquarters had ever seen anything like it. Such amazing offers right up front for two goobers with a camera and some bad jokes. All we had to do was shill a product, and the bank accounts would runneth over like that Jesus cup thing.

  Those were the days, weren’t they, Ford?

  Looks like the tide is heading out. Should I go to the gym today or take it easy?

  It’s, what, leg day? Don’t be a cliché, Mike, everybody loves skipping leg day.

  Up and at ‘em, old boy. Get moving. To Do List. To do, to do.

  Hit the gym. Check in with Ford, then call Carla. Status update on the documentary.

  I should—

  “Mike?”

  Lost in the randomness of my own runaway thought train, I hadn’t heard the patio door open, and Toni’s voice scares the bejesus out of me. I jump, spin around to face her, and feel the lukewarm coffee splash on my toes.

  “Oh, hey, you’re up early.”

  “You didn’t answer the phone.”

  Hair mussed and sleepy-eyed, she still looks phenomenal in one of my t-shirts and nothing else. Obviously, I don’t mind that she’s never broken the habit of sleeping in the nude—man’s a man, am I right?—and will only throw on a t-shirt to come downstairs if she thinks the kids might be awake. They’re old enough to throw out a few jabs of “Gross, Mom,” and, “Dad, make her put some clothes on!” but I chuckle and ignore them. It’s one of the only awesome things left over from the good times.

  The other is her meatloaf.

  She mumbles something about the person on the phone.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know who it is. Just come get the fucking thing.” She beckons me over, using the cordless house phone as a lure, and doesn’t step out onto the deck.

  What happened to us?

  Rhetorical question.

  She barely acknowledges me when I take it, and then I listen to her bare feet pad across the kitchen floor, around the corner, and her angry stomps fade away the further she gets up the stairs. No matter what’s going on between us, that bare bottom remains a symbol of perfection, and I could chew it like bubble gum.

  Is that weird? Probably.

  Chances are high she doesn’t love me anymore, but I’m still attracted to her. Blood through the veins and all.

  “Hello. Mike speaking.” I have no clue who this could be at six-thirty in the morning.

  “Mr. Long?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mike Long from Graveyard: Classified?”
/>   “Yes. Who is this?”

  “You don’t know me, but…”

  The voice is female. Little rougher, could have some age on it, like she’s seen things. I’m thinking she could be in her mid-thirties.

  Mystery lady says, “God, I’m really sorry to bother you so early, but I haven’t slept in days, and I was—this is going to sound like I’m some crazy stalker, but you have your name listed in the phone book, and I was hoping, maybe… hoping you might be able to help.”

  I told Toni to take our name out of the public phone book years ago. Years. She never would. For a while, she was caught up in her own peripheral fame, and having our name in the phone book meant that she could take calls and entertain reporters, sometimes even segueing that whole thing into articles about herself and the interior decorating business she used to own. She even got a few modeling gigs out of it. By the time the phone stopped ringing entirely, I had forgotten that we were publicly listed, and since Toni controls all the household bills and whatnot, I’m guessing she left it out there with wistful hopes on her mind.

  When you’re in the twilight of fading fame, there’s nothing worse than a silent phone.

  The woman apologizes again and sounds like she’s going to hang up.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I was already up. You know, sunrise on the deck. Bad coffee.” I almost whisper those last two words. Toni is back in bed, in the master bedroom directly above me where the humongous, large-paned windows overlook the Atlantic, but I’m worried she’ll hear me criticizing her shopping choices. Yeah. It’s that bad. I’d rather avoid the argument. “Can I help you with something, Miss…?” I leave the question dangling at the end of that sentence, prompting her to finally reveal a name.

  “I’m Dakota. Bailey.”

  She reveals it in such a way that indicates I should know who she is, simply by her name, but I should keep it a secret that Dakota Bailey is on the other end of the line. Are you kidding me?

  “Oh, shit. No way! The Dakota Bailey? Seriously? Dakota Bailey. On my phone.”

  For God’s sake, Mike, reel it in. It’s not like it’s the president.

  “Yeah,” she says. “That would be me.”

  Dakota Bailey…the Dakota Bailey, won the reality cooking competition Yes, Chef! three seasons in a row before she retired and went out on top. She’s a miracle worker with a blank slate and a silver countertop covered with random ingredients. Give her three onions, a bowl of wild rice, some shrimp, sun-dried tomatoes, and a bucket of strawberry yogurt, and she’ll whip up a dish that will blow the ever-lovin’ socks off any celebrity judge sitting on the panel.

  Chicken cutlets, peanut butter, and a basket full of chocolate-covered walnuts, along with white cheddar and raisins… strap on your seatbelts for the rocket-ride of deliciousness.

  It was all mouth-watering from my side of the television screen. I never got to sit on the celebrity judge panel, though I tried my damndest to get Carla to pull some strings back when Graveyard was the number one show on Thursday nights. Never happened. My star wasn’t bright enough. Ford could’ve gone, if he had wanted to, but he wasn’t a fan of the show.

  Sacrilege, I say.

  Dakota Bailey retired from Yes, Chef! about five years ago, and I lost my chance. Last I’d heard she had taken her winnings and started some ridiculously upscale restaurant in New York City, and the reservation list was—literally—two years out.

  I adored her when she was on the show. It wasn’t the same without her, so I stopped watching a couple years back, and she sort of fell out of my memory. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Yet, here she is, now, on the other end of the phone.

  Dakota Freakin’ Bailey.

  Now I know what people feel like when they see Ford walking down the street.

  Total fanboy moment right here.

  I take a breath, or, you know, six deep ones to calm myself down. This takes so long that I hear Dakota say, “Mr. Long? Are you there?”

  “I—yeah—I am. Sorry about that. It’s just that you’re Dakota Bailey.”

  “And you’re Mike Long.”

  “I am indeed. Just Mike.”

  “You were my favorite part of Graveyard. I’m sure Ford’s a great guy off camera, but, you know, you always had the cool gadgets.”

  That’s nice to hear, even if it’s a little white lie. I’ll take it. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” This feels a bit like we’re both stroking each other’s egos at some schmaltzy cocktail party until I remember that she sorta called me in a panic at half past six in the morning. “So… You needed some help with things, or whatever?” I’m aware of how fumbling and awkward I sound but the words are tripping out of my mouth because I’m talking to Dakota Freakin’ Bailey.

  “Are you still investigating?” Her tone is full of hope.

  “Off and on, yeah. I do some local things around Kitty Hawk for charity organizations. Events like that once in a while. And, believe it or not, last month, I actually helped Ford with a pretty insane investigation up in Virginia Beach. I’m trying to get him to do—” I have to interrupt myself right there.

  Unofficially, I’m rambling like a fool.

  Officially, I’m bound by a non-disclosure agreement and don’t have the privileges to talk about the documentary until Carla and her team send out the press release. I’m told that’s any day now. And by ‘any day,’ it means whenever one of us is able to coerce my former partner into signing the contract. Ford and I haven’t spoken in a couple of days, not since I told him to chill the hell out and go take a break, but as of yesterday Carla insisted that he had his fingers wrapped around the pen and was hovering over the dotted line.

  “I’m trying to get him to come help me down here once in a while, but you know Ford, always the busy man in the room.”

  “That’s nice,” Dakota says. Her end of the line goes silent, and I patiently wait on her to continue. Otherwise, I might begin blabbing about how amazing she was in her third season and how she managed to pull off that incredible win over the guy with the dreadlocks.

  I can’t remember his name. Nobody remembers second place.

  Dakota’s raspberry steak parfait must have been out of this world on that final episode. Her voice is hushed when she speaks again. “Sorry. Thought I heard something.” The words quiver across her lips.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No. God, no. Not at all.” Her breathing intensifies; it sounds like she’s speedwalking. “Give me a sec. Moving to another room.”

  “Hey, everything all right? Do I need to call the cops?”

  “Please don’t. I can’t—this can’t get out to the media. No reporters, no Twitter, nothing, okay? Please?”

  “Absolutely. Of course.”

  Anything for you, Dakota Bailey. Wow.

  “Not a word?”

  “On my honor.”

  “I’m just down the beach from you, about half a mile.”

  “Really?” This is a mind-blowing fact, which sends me instantly daydreaming about walking down Beachfront Avenue, carrying a bottle of my best red wine, and spending the evening with her while she cooks Toni, the kids, and me some of the most delectable food we’ve ever tasted.

  Then I allow myself to be evil for a second and wonder if it’s necessary for my family to be there, too. Dakota Bailey and I alone in a kitchen…

  Dakota says, “Okay, I think I’m good. I don’t know how familiar you are with all the neighbors.”

  “Not much. At least not that far down.”

  “I bought this house about a month ago. White with dark blue shutters? You know the one?”

  “Didn’t the guy who owned it sell all of his Internet companies and buy his own island? Crazy money. You like it there?”

  I realize this is sort of a bullshit, throwaway, small-talk question, because something has to be wrong since she’s calling me before the sun is fully over the horizon.

  “This place is haunted, Mr. Long.” Her voice is muffled, like she’s
holding her hand over her mouth, trying to say something without being heard. If it really is haunted, keeping her voice low won’t matter. “I’ve hardly slept in three days, but I refuse to give this place up. It’s my—it’s a long story. Would you—is there any chance you could come check things out for me? Or… if you can, maybe get rid of whatever is here? I don’t know if you can actually do anything about it. I swear on my mother’s grave, there is something evil in this house, and I can pay you whatever you want—oh, God, no. There it is! Get away from me! Don’t touch me, you—Mike, can you come now, please?”

  Click.

  I had already decided that I would be helping Dakota Freakin’ Bailey, no question about it, but after hearing that, and before I have time to grab any of my paranormal investigation equipment, I’m down the wooden stairs and sprinting south along the sand, cordless phone still clenched in my fist.

  The sound of true terror in a person’s voice is unmistakable.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ford Atticus Ford

  “The hell are you doing here, Coeburn? Are you following me?”

  Her thrust, my parry, it’s the only defense I could come up with because I’m for damn sure not ready to say a single word about that documentary, much less to this woman with a mouth like a bullhorn on steroids.

  “Sheesh, enough with the hostility. One, that was a long time ago; two, you earned it; and, three, you admitted that you deserved it. I’m not gonna backtrack on something you’ve already publicly apologized for. Just accept it and move on.”

  “No.”

  Yeah, I’m pouting. So what?

  She takes a sip of her coffee. Her exquisitely manicured nails match the color of her pumps. “Grow up, Ford. And no, I’m not following you. If I were, you wouldn’t know it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Lauren leans back in her chair, one arm propped on the backrest, nonchalant, confident in her smugness. “The press release hit early this morning, and I shit you not, absolute truth, one of my producers sent me a text right before I walked through the door. And, woohoo, wonder of all wonders, wouldn’t you know it, here you are. The stars aligned. Like, literally.”