Gatekeeper

by Natasha Deen

  Nell pressed her ear against the scarred wood. “I can hear someone moving around.”

  “Mrs. Meagher! Mrs. Meagher! It’s about your son!” I banged on the door, then almost fell into the threshold when it was suddenly wrenched open.

  Marlo Meagher swayed in front of me, one hand on the doorframe, the other around an etched glass filled with gold-coloured liquid.

  That tweaked me. She was anxious and flighty, but I’d never heard anything about her being a drinker.

  It tweaked Kent, too, because his eyes went panic-wide. “She’s doesn’t drink. She hates it. What’s going on—why does she have alcohol?”

  Liquor was a great anesthetic, but I just couldn’t see her killing her son then drowning the guilt in alcohol. Then again, I didn’t know her and was basing my premise on her being like my dad.

  “I’m going to sneak inside,” said Serge. “Take a look around the house, Maybe I’ll find something that can help.”

  Nell read his text and nodded.

  “What do you want?” Mrs. Meagher squinted in Nell’s direction then peered at me. “If you’re fund-raising for school or band, I don’t have money.”

  Kent stepped close to her. “Unsteady footing, slurred words, pupils dilated…”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “It’s not—”

  “The diner pays nothing and the customers tip like crap. You see that car in the driveway? Don’t let the fact it’s a newer model fool you. It’s held together by duct tape and cardboard.”

  “Yes, ma’am—”

  “Or prom. I don’t have money to help you with limousines or dresses. Frankly, you kids should be—”

  “That’s not why we’re here. We were...my name is Maggie. I—we know your son, Kent,” I said. “And we’re worried about him.”

  That snapped her out of her stupor.

  Kent jerked back then leaned forward and scanned her face.

  Her eyes suddenly bright, she said, “You’re friends with Kent?”

  “Sort of.” I stamped the snow off my boots and onto the rubber mat.

  Nell did the same.

  “My friend, Nell, she wants to be a doctor, like Kent. They’ve been emailing back and forth but Kent suddenly went quiet.”

  “At first I thought he was buried under school stuff.” Nell tightened the scarf around her neck. “But it’s been over a month and I haven’t heard anything. That’s not like him. Kent’s very...conscientious about keeping in touch.”

  Mrs. Meagher’s mouth pulled down. She glanced at our feet. “Take off your boots and come inside.”

  I shucked my shoes and followed her into a living room full of mismatched furniture. I scanned the room for a hint of the truth behind the family. Everything was old and worn—faded fabric on the couch, the dull sheen of the wood tables. But everything was also in order. Tidy. The coffee table may have been scratched, but the smell of lemon wax polish scented the air.

  Mrs. Meagher sat. She was a sturdy woman, the kind you expected—and liked—to be the one handing you greasy bacon, eggs, and hash browns at the diner.

  “Mrs. Meagher, are you okay?” I asked. I stepped forward, put my hand on her shoulder, and caught a whiff of the drink in her hand. Apple juice. So she hadn’t suddenly started drinking. I took it from her. “Can I get you some more apple juice?”

  Kent’s shoulders dropped, his breath left in a whoosh.

  She nodded. “It’s the medication, gives me a dry mouth—”

  I set the glass down.

  “Medication?” Kent frowned. “For what? She doesn’t have any medical issues.”

  Okay, her son didn’t know anything about her being on meds.

  “—they’re fixing my dosage.” Mrs. Meagher squinted at the glass on the coffee table. “I think they said something about side effects.”

  Kent frowned. “Unless they’ve given her a too-high dosage, her symptoms are more in line with mixed medications—listen to her. Her speech is slurred.”

  Another question answered about why she was unsteady on her feet. I was super curious about what medications she was on, but figured that would get me a glare if I got too nosy. Still… “Are you sick? What medication are you on?”

  “You said you haven’t heard from Kent in over a month.”

  Okay, I could take the hint.

  “I’m going to check her room,” said Kent. “Find those pills.” He took a couple of steps, froze, then turned back to me. “Maggie, I’m dead, and we don’t know why. It could be a lot of things, but no one’s found my body, and it’s been weeks. And now my mom is suddenly on medication with a dosage high enough to make her look drunk. Do you think there’s a link?”

  I shrugged, then made a mental note to talk to him about what he’d said. It was weird he’d even think there was a connection, unless he was remembering things from the night he died…things that would make his death more deliberate than accidental.

  “Okay, maybe I’m being paranoid and letting my imagination run wild. But meds? I just saw her—” He stopped. “I guess a lot can happen in a month,” he muttered and headed down the hallway.

  I squinted at the trail of green fog that hung off his heels. I blinked and it was gone.

  Turning my attention back to his mom, I asked, “Yes, ma’am. It’s not like him…”

  “I thought maybe you might know what’s going on?” Nell perched on the edge of the couch.

  Shadows darkened her face. “No, Kent’s...” A smile flitted across her face. “He’s very busy. His class load plus he works at the hospital. He’s probably just caught up with work and school.”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “But since it’s been a while since he’s talked to anyone—”

  “I’m sure he’s just busy and will email you as soon as he can.”

  Crap. Nell and I glanced at each other. I was hoping for more hysteria and less calm.

  Serge came into the room. “Any luck? There’s a laptop in his room that might have stuff.” He moved closer to me. “I thought about zapping it but I was scared I might short-circuit the computer.” He did a three-sixty of the living room. “Where’s Kent?”

  Looking for her medication bottle.

  “Holy smokes, is she not taking her meds? That’s no good—”

  No, she’s not on any meds—not that he remembers. And this stuff is pretty strong going by her lack of balance.

  Nell glanced at her phone and started typing.

  “Mrs. Meagher,” I said, “I’m worried. I didn’t know Kent well, but he wasn’t the kind of guy to bail on someone who needed help. Besides, Nell’s dad is a doctor, too. For sure, Kent would’ve wanted to be nice to her. You know, as a way to get in good with her dad and maybe get a residency here at the hospital.”

  Mrs. Meagher frowned. “I suppose, but he was close with a lot of the doctors—”

  “I emailed him a few times and we were supposed to meet on the Thanksgiving weekend.” Nell cut me a quick look, then continued. “He didn’t show and I figured maybe he just got caught up with family stuff. I gave him a few days, then I emailed him. But when he didn’t email me back, I started getting worried.”

  “We’re a couple years younger than him,” I said, “so we don’t really know any of his friends.”

  “Kent had a lot of friends, here.” Pride straightened her shoulders. “Smart, good looking, all the girls love him. But of course, university is his first love and he lost touch—”

  As Mrs. Meagher continued to count the ways her son was amazing, I tuned out. This really wasn’t going well. What happened to the hysterical mother who would phone the cops if her kid was five minutes late?

  “Isn’t there anyone we can talk to about him? Find out where he might be?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid when Kent left for school, I lost touch with most of his friend
s. I think he did, too. It’s not often he gets to come home. The holidays, that’s it.”

  “Did he have a Facebook page or—”

  “No, I didn’t.” Kent came back into the living room. “That stuff’s never really been my style.”

  “Maybe we should call Nancy?” I suggested.

  Mrs. Meagher’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no! Kent will be so angry if I—” She stopped, took a breath.

  “Mrs. Meagher, I really don’t think Kent would be angry if you told Nancy—”

  “No, I promised him after the last time, I wouldn’t do it, again.” She gave me an embarrassed smile. “I’m afraid I’ve been a little overprotective where he’s been concerned and I’d been good the last couple of years. Did my best to give him space to be a normal high school kid. Didn’t ask him about doing drugs or girls…I didn’t mean to be a nag or smother him—”

  “I know you didn’t, Mom,” said Kent.

  “But at Thanksgiving he went out for a jog and he was late. Really, really late. And it started to rain. I thought he might have rolled his ankle or was having a hard time of the run, so I went looking for him.”

  The outline of Kent’s body got a fuzzy, low-res, pixilated look to it. “I remember that, now. I was at the forest, running, just trying to clear my head—”

  “I found him coming out of the forest on the highway. Beeped the horn at him. I thought he’d be happy to get a ride home. It was so cold that night and raining—”

  Kent’s body went blurry and shiny, like oil mixed with water.

  “Instead, he was so mad—”

  “And I started yelling at her,” he said. He body returned to a normal state and he spoke through his tears. “She’d driven around town, looking for me, wanting to give me a ride home so I didn’t get cold and wet in the rain, and all I could see was—”

  “I didn’t realize how smothered he’d felt,” she whispered. “All those years, I thought I was being a good mom and instead, I was building up his resentment—”

  “—the times she’d called the cops to look for me, how she and Dad would fight over visitation and custody—” He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his face. “—I was so stupid and arrogant, told her—”

  “—he was a grown man, he didn’t need me coddling him. He was right—”

  “—I was so wrong. I yelled at her. Told her the next time we talked, it was going to be because I phoned her. She wasn’t to call or text, or email.” His body started losing cohesion, the edges of him went fuzzy and wavy. “It was the last time I ever talked to her. Those were the last words I ever said to my mother.”

  “I tried phoning him but he refused to talk to me for the rest of the night,” said Mrs. Meagher. “And the next day, he was gone before I woke up.” She gave me a trembling smile. “I can’t help you with Kent. He hasn’t talked to me since that day.”

  “But Mrs. Meagher, he hasn’t talked to anyone since that day. Don’t you think that’s odd?” I wanted to point out that he’d left his laptop at her house, but since there was no way for me to explain how I knew that, I kept quiet.

  “Not really. When he got involved in a science project, I could lose him for weeks.” She gave me a wobbly smile. “When he comes back, he’s going to be real proud of me. He’ll see the changes I made—therapy and medication to deal with this overprotectiveness.”

  Kent moaned. “She doesn’t need to be on medication.” He directed his comments to his knees. “She’s drugging herself because I was a jerk. And now I’m dead and she’s drugging herself for nothing.”

  She was earnest, sincere, and the way she clutched my hand transmitted her vulnerability. Knowing I was further upsetting her but also knowing it had to be done, I said, “But he’s missing.”

  “No, no he’s not! Look!” She sprang to her feet.

  There was a heart-stopping minute when I wasn’t sure she was going to stay on her feet, but she stayed upright then disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with a stack of papers in her hand. “See? All our bills are paid. On time, as usual. If he was missing, how could that be?”

  It was a good question. But there had to be an answer. After all, Kent was dead. But how was he paying the bills from beyond the grave?

  Chapter Eleven

  “Pre-arranged payment,” Dad said when I told him about the conversation with Mrs. Meagher. “With online banking. You can set it up to pay a set amount to your utilities and services every month. That’s how he’s doing it.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  He pushed a cup of tea my way. “This thing with Kent’s wearing on you.”

  “There are some creepy similarities between his life and Serge’s—”

  Dad’s laser gaze honed in on me. “How are you doing with that? The run off with Serge and his family, I mean.”

  I shrugged. “Okay. Having Serge around helps.”

  He sighed. “I wish I could do something, get you professional therapy, but—”

  “What are you going to say? My daughter needs help because she sees the dead and transitions souls? We’ll both end up in therapy. Or a nut house.”

  “I guess...”

  “Honest, between you, Nancy, Serge, Craig, and Nell, I have all the therapists and emotional support I need. Still, this situation with Kent and his mother...”

  “It’s destroying both of them.”

  “He’s drowning in guilt and she’s oblivious...and when she realizes why he’s been quiet....” I took a sip of tea, then leaned back in the kitchen chair. “Kent still can’t remember anything and his mom won’t file a report so we can start getting information. How am I supposed to transition him when I can’t get a straight answer from anyone?”

  “You didn’t have help from Serge’s parents.”

  “Yeah, but I had Serge. Kent’s a mess. Not only can he not remember what happened to him, but he’s all screwed up about not being able to help his mom. When we left, he was just sitting beside her, looking miserable.”

  “Maybe it’s time to stop trying to get the answers and time to start finding them.”

  “Thanks, Zen Master. Your words of wisdom are as empty as the calories from Nancy’s coffee cake.”

  “Maybe.” Dad helped himself to a slice of the frosted dessert. “But my words and this cake both give you something to chew on.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to find Serge. You see how you’ve upset me? I’d rather spend time with a ghost than you.”

  Dad shrugged. “He’s got good taste in TV. I like spending time with him, too.”

  “But now you’re all alone. Even Nancy’s deserted you on account of your poor puns.”

  “No desertion involved.” He sighed. “She’s back at the Piersons’. More vandalism. And it looks like it’s spreading around town.”

  I made a face. “What kind of jerk goes after a family whose daughter almost died?”

  “A big one,” Dad said. “I heard some people talking about it at the Tin Shack—town council’s going to have a meeting if it doesn’t get resolved soon.”

  Grabbing my drink with one hand and a slice of cake with the other, I headed upstairs. Serge was on the bed with Ebony and Buddha.

  “Did you hear anything from Kent?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but I don’t think he can hone in on me like you can.” I flopped down beside him. “It’s good he’s with his mom. We need some alone time. You and I haven’t really had a chance to talk about stuff.”

  “If this is going to be a conversation about feelings, you need to put on a tighter shirt.” He smirked. “And try to take some deep breaths.”

  I punched him on the shoulder. “Be serious. How are you doing with all this?”

  “If he doesn’t transition, I think he’ll make a good roommate. It’s hard to wake him in the mornings, though. I hear he sleeps like the dead.”
>
  That made me laugh. “Come on, I’m trying to be a good soul sister. You and Kent have a lot in common.”

  “Well, we are both dead.”

  “You both had difficult home lives, can’t remember how you died...”

  “What you’re really asking is if he’s bringing up any bad memories, giving me the ghostly version of PTSD.”

  “Yeah, but aren’t you glad I’m not asking about your feelings?”

  “You started this. We’re going to talk about my feelings.” He punched the pillow and laid back on it. “Just to be clear, sometimes, the only thing that comforts me is a strong hug.” He wriggled his eyebrows. “Make sure you press those mosquito bites close to my chest.”

  “Deflection. The last resort of the desperate. You must really not want to talk.”

  His mouth pulled down. “It’s making me feel weird but not for myself. There’s lots of people with screwy mothers and absent fathers. And ever since that night I exploded”—He shrugged—“I don’t feel tied to my life. Not anymore. I feel bad for Kent, though. I know how much it sucks to wake up dead and not know why. And then to find out you’ve been murdered, sucks.”

  “We don’t know it’s murder—”

  “Finding out that people don’t believe you when you tell them other people have been murdered, sucks.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why are you so sure?”

  “I can’t explain it—it’s just a feeling. Someone off’d him, I know it. I feel it. Maybe it takes a murder victim to sense a murder victim.”

  I hoped not. I’d already seen what one murderer could do, I wasn’t anxious to see what another one would do.

  “But that’s not the worst of it for Kent. It’s going to be him finding out how much people didn’t like him or know him…that sucks most.” After a second, he added, “That’s one thing we have in common: our funerals will be small.”

  A month ago, I would have felt gleeful that he didn’t have enough friends to carry his casket. Now it made me sad.