It was dark and cozy, and the only illumination came from her vintage camping lamp. The rest of the group had also turned in for the night and the campsite was quiet. Well, mostly quiet, Caine and Cassie were still arguing about turkey vultures, but that particular fight should be over soon.
Or, at least she hoped it would be over soon. She had other plans for the night.
She smiled at Mike's panicked expression. The pink unicorn sleeping bag was very, very pink, but the purple one was even worse and Mike shook his head, looking completely lost.
"How about we share?" she said. "Purple on the bottom and pink on the top."
He grimaced.
"Can we keep the poop star cloud on the bottom?" he asked.
She laughed. "Sure."
She lay out the purple sleeping bag on the floor, pushing Mike's duffle bag to the side to make space. Man, that thing was heavy. It was like he had his whole life in there, all packed up and ready to go at a moment's notice. The thought was unpleasant.
Mike grabbed the bag and dragged it out of the way. Then he paused and looked at it, his face serious. He opened one of the front pockets, reconsidered it, and closed it.
"Um, Abby..." he started.
"That thing weighs a million pounds," she interrupted in a quiet voice. "Is that everything you own?"
Probably. She remembered quite clearly when all of her possessions had fit into a duffle bag, although in her case it had been a black synthetic bag with a picture of a turkey playing the trombone on the side. Her high school band had gotten it as a prize for marching in Macy's Thanksgiving Parade.
But now she had a house and a band and a precious mandolin.
Mike let out a breath and pushed the bag to the side. "Well, I just bought a car. So it's not quite everything that I own." He grabbed the sleeping bag. "C'mon, let's get going."
She nodded, pleased. She knew the car was a good start. She bent down to spread out the pink sleeping bag, but her tent was quite small and she bumped against Mike, pressing him against the duffle bag.
"Sorry," Mike said, trying to make space. "Abby, I have something..."
"Sorry for what?" She arched against him, feeling completely unrepentant. Mike felt strong and warm and their morning sexcapades seemed eons away.
"Er..." Mike seemed hesitant and she pressed against him again. An odd expression crossed his face almost like...guilt?
She pushed the thought away and gave him her most beguiling smile.
"I'm not sorry," she purred. "Not at all."
Mike stared at her, finally catching on. She bumped him again, her breasts brushing against his arm, and, this time, he bumped her back. She twisted, capturing him in a tight embrace and leaned in for a kiss. Things were about to get interesting when a loud shout rang out outside. A bobbing flashlight swept over their tent and she winced as the bright light hit her eyes.
"No vultures, Caine," Cassie screamed. "We have a deal. I signed up under certain conditions. No vultures, no mangy foxes, and no Elvira costumes."
"Be reasonable, Cassie," Caine whined. "Just a little one? The Raleigh guys have a fuzzy baby one. You'll love it, it's adorable."
"Absolutely not." Cassie's voice was firm.
"Okay, fine," Caine sighed. "How about a condor? I can get one from The San Diego group."
An eruption of loud clanging noises made her jump. She wasn't the only one startled as a loud owl screech followed the cacophony. The eerie sound faded away and they heard tent zippers open and close, then blessed darkness fell as the flashlight was turned off.
Mike sighed with relief, and Abby giggled.
"Don't laugh," he whispered. "I was afraid I'd have to come back to babysit a giant buzzard."
He smiled as he said it, but Abby frowned. The thought of Mike leaving made her heart hurt. Surely he was starting to like the town.
"C'mon," she said, leaning close so their lips were almost touching. "It hasn't been that bad, has it?"
"Well." He looked thoughtful. "I guess the singing was okay."
She punched him on the arm. He grabbed her arms and pulled her down onto the purple unicorn sleeping bag, making sure his body cushioned her fall. She turned and deployed her deadliest weapon.
Tickles. To her surprise and delight, Mike turned out to be extremely sensitive to tickles. He twisted and turned trying to avoid her nimble fingers, but it was in vain.
"Fine," Mike wheezed. "I admit it, it was more than okay."
Satisfied, she stopped tickling him. "That's better."
"It was absolutely brilliant," he said, looking into her eyes. "The songs were lovely and catchy and sad and haunting at the same time. I have no idea how you did it, but it was brilliant."
He was vehemently sincere, and, even though it was the result she was looking for, his praise embarrassed her.
"Of course they're haunting," she said, trying, as usual, to deflect the compliment. "They're ghost songs. That's kind of their job."
"No, I mean that they get stuck in your head. You can't stop thinking about them."
"Well, they're old ballads. They survived for a reason. And, usually, it's because of a common theme: fear."
"Fear?"
"Yep. That's how I managed to adapt the 'The Two Sisters.' At first I thought the story was about the murder, about revenge, but that didn't work. The song had no pull, no hook. Then I realized, it's not about the dead sister, it's about the murderess and her fear of getting caught."
"Oh."
"That's why I put in all the peppy country fair music. You get to picture her, dancing with her sweetheart, and you're just waiting, holding your breath, dying to see if she is found out."
Mike shifted under her. He seemed uncomfortable.
"You okay?" she asked, pulling away. "Am I too heavy?"
"No." He pulled her closer. "You're fine."
"I'm glad you liked the song," she said shyly.
"I didn't exactly like it," he said.
"Hey," she squealed. "What does that mean?"
"It's more like I couldn't get it out of my head." He stared at the tent's ceiling. "You know, the whole thing about the golden strings and the ghost in the guitar."
She smiled, feeling absurdly pleased with herself. "That's good. That's better than liking. That means it works, it has a hook."
A joyful feeling bubbled through her like fizzy pink champagne, and she reached up for a kiss. "But that's enough about my songs," she said, pulling up his shirt. "I have another hook I'd like to show you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MIKE WOKE up, disoriented. Was it reveille already?
No, it was still dark and the sun wouldn't be up for a while. And he wasn't in the base anymore, not by a long shot. He was in a tent with Abby, snuggled under a sparkly pink sleeping bag.
He drew her closer, nuzzling her neck. This was as far from the U.S. Army as he could get.
Another owl screech sounded in the distance. Rusty's socializing must have woken him up. Mike was wide-awake in the middle of the barn owl happy hour.
Abby, on the other hand, was fast asleep. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and peaceful, and her dark hair was spread out over the sleeping bag. The owl calls did not bother her at all. Living in Banshee Creek must acclimate you to weird night noises.
He carefully extricated himself from her embrace. She frowned, muttering something, but settled down. Then, still asleep, she started humming.
The humming turned into quiet singing.
This was a common occurrence. He'd found that out in the past two nights. He was a light sleeper and he'd woken up a couple of times to find her humming a melody or mouthing lyrics in her sleep. Sometimes she smiled and nodded, and other times she shook her head impatiently and muttered "nope, not right."
All of this while fast asleep.
This was one of the smiling times. She was humming the chorus to the "Girls of Gold" song and she seemed pretty pleased with herself.
And she should be, it was a
great song. Unfortunately, it was also a song that reminded him of...things he really didn't want to think about, things undone and vows unkept.
He glanced at his duffle bag, lying innocently next to the tent entrance. Yep, speaking of haunted objects, what about the torture box he'd been carrying around for the past two years? It wasn't as dramatic as a murder accusation, but it was still a loose end...something left undone.
Damn, he hated unmet responsibilities and he hated feeling like he had not done his duty.
He should have given her the box yesterday, or, better yet, the day he arrived. He should have just handed it over as soon as he saw her on the street in front of 12 Hooded Owl Road. Or, even better, avoided seeing her altogether and just left the box on her doorstep with the note he'd written.
That was his original mission plan. Take the bus to Banshee Creek, leave the package, and take the bus back to Arlington.
Quick, simple, neat.
But he didn't do that. Instead, he'd gone to The World's Biggest Costume Party, drunk too much cider, and peeled off Abby's leather costume in the attic.
But the peeling-off part had been fun. No, more than fun. Being with Abby made him feel...things that he really didn't want to think about. But now he was stuck, up Banshee Creek without a paddle so to speak. The nagging feeling of guilt he'd carried for the past twenty-four hours was suddenly overwhelming. The tent suddenly felt too small and confining, like a cheap plastic cage.
He crawled out of the tent, trying to clear his head. The crisp, cool air helped a bit. He put on his boots and stepped out on the dew-covered grass. Ah, humidity, you don't miss it until it's gone. The sky was dark and covered with stars, and it looked a lot like Abby's purple sleeping bag. All it needed was a shiny unicorn riding the Milky Way.
A lone figure crossed the campsite, heading for the owl cage. Mike checked his watch, dawn was still an hour away. Actually, more like an hour and a half. Not a good time to be up and around. He picked up his flashlight and followed the figure. He wasn't happy to be woken up from a sound sleep either, but strigiformicide was not the answer.
The figure waved at him as he neared the cage. It was Cassie and she was carrying the owl feeding kit. She took out a frozen mouse and fed it to Rusty.
"There you go," she said. "Now sit quietly and digest that for a while."
She turned to Mike.
"Did he wake you up?" she asked. "Sorry about that. He's nocturnal, so this is about dinner time for him."
"And you are on feeding duty?"
She nodded. "Yep," she said. "I'm usually the one who gets to keep stuff alive. It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it." She closed the cage and covered it, humming as she worked.
Mike grinned. "Catchy song isn't it?"
"It sure is." She checked the cage one last time. "I'm going to use it for my class next semester."
"You teach?"
"Yes, Folklore and Mythology at William and Mary." She grimaced. "But I'm only an adjunct so I'm stuck teaching the intro classes. Next semester is Perspectives on American History and I'm going to try to spice it up with some music. I'll use Abby's song and some Bob Dylan protest songs too. They're also based on Child Ballads."
"You mean they're kid songs?"
She laughed. "No." A slightly superior smile accompanied her denial. "Francis James Child was a nineteenth century Harvard professor and folklorist. He traveled to Britain and Scotland looking for old traditional ballads. He felt the old oral traditions were disappearing due to industrialism and he wanted to preserve them. He created a traditional song collection that is still considered the best of its kind. The folk music revival in the sixties made the songs popular again. You know? Dylan, Baez and all those singers?"
Her enthusiasm for the subject made him smile. "And Emmylou Harris," he replied.
"Yes." She gave him an encouraging pat on the arm. "You know your stuff. I can use the Joan Baez songs too, those are awesome. But no Paul Simon." She shook her head firmly. "I can't stand Scarborough Fair. I'll use Dylan's 'Girl from the North Country' instead."
So Abby was singing stuff that was centuries old? That was pretty amazing.
Cassie closed the feeding kit, still lecturing. "I can discuss about how communities used folk tales, and songs based on folk tales, to deal with societal trauma. It's not a coincidence that the songs became popular again in the war-torn sixties. That will get my students talking. College students love the sixties, you know, because of all the drugs and free sex."
"But the songs aren't about war."
"No," she replied. "But they're about the effects of war. Laws are broken and social contracts are breached. As a result, promises are not kept, murders are not tried, legacies are stolen, fiancées are abandoned and so on. Society doesn't address these things, but they are still there, festering under the surface, and they come up in stories and songs. The song repairs the social fabric by rewarding the hero and punishing the villain. The truth comes out, the ghost kills his murderer, and the rightful king is restored to the throne. The songs are a stabilizing mechanism after the calamity of war."
"So they're like propaganda?" He vaguely recalled something like this from his PsyOps training. The rightful king stuff, in particular, sounded familiar. He vaguely recalled writing an essay on it.
"Sometimes they are, although it's less controlled, less deliberate, and also, less efficient. Also, in order to be effective, the song, like propaganda, has to have a bit of truth in it, a hook, like Abby would say. Otherwise it just won't take. There has to be a psychological truth underneath."
That definitely sounded like his PsyOps instructor. He gazed at purple-tressed Cassie with new respect. He'd seriously underestimated her. She really knew her stuff.
And maybe he could learn from her.
"Like the haunted guitar that tells a story?" he asked. Something about that song had really gotten under his skin. He couldn't stop thinking about it. Maybe Cassie could help.
"It actually tells two stories," Cassie explained, sounding very much like a college professor. "I like how Abby handled that. The murderous sister is defiant when the guitar fingers her as the killer, but she collapses when the guitar tells her that the guy she married is still in love with her dead sister. That was a nice touch. The audience is expecting one secret to come out, but is unprepared for the second."
Mike nodded. "So that's what the song is really about," he said thoughtfully. "Truth." Something clicked in the back of his mind, like a long-lost puzzle piece. Abby's clothes, Cole's boxes, the monster-hunting camping trip...all things that had been bothering him for the past two days and all things that made sense now. A feeling of dread came over him, like a dark cloud.
He'd been trying to fit into someone else's life.
Cassie shrugged. "Secrets, lies, guilt. They all work." She tapped the feed box thoughtfully. "I have to work the Vietnam War in there somewhere though. That's the first rule of academic jiu-jitsu: Vietnam Means Tenure."
She walked off, muttering to herself, and Mike was left alone. His head was swirling. He wasn't an intellectual like Cassie. Hell, he'd understood barely a fraction of her conversation. He had no idea who this Child guy was, and he didn't know anything about that Joan person or the Whatchamacallit Fair. But he did understand a couple of things: promises, dead lovers...and truth. His military career had taught him many things, among them that you couldn't avoid facts, you had to face them straight on.
He'd been a coward. He hadn't fulfilled his mission. He'd gotten distracted, rather like one of those knights in Abby's ballads, the one's who strayed into Fairyland and remained there for years, dazzled by the glamour.
But he wasn't dazzled anymore. The question was, what was he going to do now? Push forward or strategic retreat? All his life, he'd been able to count on two things, his brains and his courage, but, right now, he didn't feel brave or strong. He felt hurt, and confused.
And scared.
For the first time in a long time he was at a tota
l loss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ABBY OPENED her eyes and closed them again. She was warm and cozy inside her sleeping bag and she didn't want to get up.
But it was morning and she could hear people moving around the campsite. Cassie was calling people to breakfast. No, wait, now she was shouting at Caine who was trying to eat all the bacon.
Mmm, bacon.
She should get up. She really should. If she didn't hurry, she'd miss breakfast. She turned, willing herself into wakefulness. A sharp pain in her shoulder did the trick. Oh, man, she was terribly stiff. The hard ground had really done a number on her back. And the naughty acrobatics she'd done with Mike didn't help either. She stretched. Ah, post-coital soreness, we meet again.
She looked around. She was alone. Well, that wasn't a surprise. Mike was an early riser, and he'd probably been up for a while now. The thought cheered her up. Boy Scout Mike would definitely save her some bacon.
Then she noticed the small box, carefully placed on top of the sleeping bag, directly on top of the unicorn's horn. There was an envelope next to the box.
She propped herself up and reached for the envelope. That's when she noticed that Mike's duffle bag was gone. So were his clothes. He could have gotten dressed to go outside and he could have gotten a head start on their packing by taking the duffle bag back to the car.
But something told her that wasn't the case.
Her hands shook as she opened the envelope. There were two pieces of paper inside, one was new and in Mike's handwriting. The other was dirty and wrinkled, as if it had been folded and refolded many times.
She opened the dirty one, and her heart skipped a beat.
It was from Cole.
She read it once, then twice. Then she folded it with care, put it aside, and read Mike's note. She stared at the words for a while then she opened the box.
She stared at the contents, tears welling in her eyes. She felt light-headed and strange, as if she were having one of those out-of-body experiences that Cassie had researched last year while she was working on her alien abductions as modern folklore paper.
Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) Page 13
