Dags, on the other hand, looked like he was gonna faint.
Oookay. This was fun. Now, can we chew cardboard for our next trick?
"Can I get dressed?"
I nodded. Hey, I'm not stopping you. I stepped back and motioned for him to come out. He wasn't going to be able to pull his pants up in that tight of an area.
The first thing I noticed this time, and hadn't noticed in the bar. was how not-tall he was. I guessed the top of his head would smack my nose. Short wasn't a bad thing—I liked short. And Dags made up for his lack of height in several different ways—like his hair. Loved his hair.
He gulped and shuffled forward, maneuvering around the toilet and paper holder, still keeping those hands at half-mast. Sheesh. Come on dude—have a little pride in the goodies.
He was looking at everything but me, and I noticed his ponytail reached a good bit down the middle of his back.
"You don't talk much, do you?" he finally said as he cleared his throat and fixed me with a pleading look. I shook my head and touched my neck with my right hand, making sawing motions across my throat, hoping to get the idea across that I was mute.
His face bleached white. "You—you had your throat—sliced?" The last word of his question cracked like a pubescent request. "Is that how you died?"
Christ. Just pull your pants up already, you moron.
That's when Tiarra stepped in. He turned as the door opened. She smiled when she saw me.
And then she noticed someone standing behind and to her right. Her eyes widened as she took in Dags' obviously embarrassing situation, pants at his ankles. His eyes widened. She put her hands on her more than feminine hips and knitted her eyebrows together until they became one.
Which was quite a feat since they were like plucked into oblivion.
"Darren McConnell!" Tiarrah boomed, and I swear the tile rattled. I jumped.
He did, too, and I winced as the motion yanked his shoulders up, which yanked his elbows up, which, in turn, pulled those cupped hands really tight.
"What the hell are you doing? Exhibitioning in the ladies' room? You done gone all crazy? Jus' stand'n here all nekkid? You know you're nekkid, right? That's it, boy. That is it. You done made Tiarra mad, that you have." And with that, she took two deliberate steps toward him and got right up in his face. There was a pause. "Boo."
And he keeled right on over. Bam! Didn't move or bend his body as he went down. Never tried to brace his fall. And he kept his hands in place the whole time. Though I did get a great shot of his bare ass.
That's when Tiarra gave me the WTF? look.
I shrugged, grabbed my iBook, and got the fucking hell out of the bathroom. From now on, I pee at home.
•••
"Delete, delete, spam, shit, Viagra, delete, delete, Cialis, trash," Rhonda continued her mantra as I buttered a biscuit. I'd grabbed a Sierra Mist out of a machine on the way from the bathroom back to Daniel's room and decided it was better for me—and everyone else—that in my present state of confusion I should remain sequestered.
Rhonda asked me if I'd gone over my email while I'd been out of the room, and I'd nodded. Of course. But then she'd opened the thing, and she and Mom had read THE email.
The one from my new pal, Maharba.
That led to a discussion of going to Captain Cooper and showing him the veiled threat from Maharba, which of course led me into a long and finger-cramping (as I scribbled away) explanation of why that was a bad idea in like so many ways. They finally agreed that showing Cooper would invite all sorts of questions I wasn't prepared to answer.
And I knew Cooper wasn't prepared to believe me on any level. Period.
So it'd been dropped for the moment, and Rhonda turned her attention to the tedious job of going through my email for me—her way.
I just really didn't feel like it. There was something wrong with me—I'd just tortured a helpless guy in the ladies' room. What up with that?
"So you just made him stand there?"
I looked at Mom over the buttered biscuit and pretended my eyes were short-range missiles. Lock and load. I made little firing noises at her in my head. I nodded and put the butter knife back into her little picnic basket on the roll-around table, the one patients usually ate from while in bed.
Made him stand there my ass.
Hey, look at me, I'm Mom's Boo-Boo.
"—delete, delete, delete—huh—what the hell?"
"Zoë—you probably cost that boy his job."
I bit into a chunk of fluffy, buttery heaven at that moment, and the comment made it turn to mashed peas in my mouth. I chewed and set the biscuit down before grabbing up my board again and erasing what I'd already written there.
I NOT SCREW NANCY. I HAD TO PEE.
"Did you pee?"
Uh. No.
Erase. NOT MY FAULT. I WAS...
"You shouldn't be eating that biscuit," Mom said, as she finished off her own. She swiped her hands together. "You bring your tester?"
I shook my head and put the board down. Mom was already off on another tangent. No meter. I'd forgotten it that day, but I'd survived all freak'n day without it. Tadah!
"Well, I'll go find Miss Tiarra—maybe they've got a spare kit, and I can make sure she doesn't fire that nice boy."
Nice boy? Mom, he was pok'n it to some cheeseball in the ladies' bathroom.
In a hospital.
And I'm the bad guy here?
What the hell is Mom Logic? Chaos theory revisited?
I eyeballed this woman as she wiped her mouth with a napkin and then stood. She gave Daniel a glance, where he lay quietly on the bed, before leaving the room.
I looked at Rhonda. She was reading something on my computer.
Screw it.
I stood, wiping my hands on my sweats and moved to the chair beside Daniel. He was still, oblivious to everything around him. I'd started worrying, really. If the smell of Mom's biscuits wasn't rousing him, then I was afraid nothing would.
I took his hand. It was cold. This was the left hand, the one that didn't have the broken pinky. I held it between my two hands and closed my eyes. I wasn't going to go OOB.
No, not now. I was too afraid I'd suck up his soul or something.
And I hadn't really gone OOB in several days. Maybe I'd forgotten how to do it. I watched his chest move up and down. Watched his beautiful face. It'd been badly bruised when he was first brought in, with swollen eyes and jaw. But now he looked much better, with only a little stubble on his chin. Mom shaved him every other day.
I trusted her to do that.
"Hey Zoë—"
I put my hand on his shoulder. I wanted him to open his eyes. I wanted him to look at me and tell me he loved me. I wanted him to tell his damned captain that I wasn't a bad person—
Hell, I wanted to find Dags the Bartender and tell him I was sorry for making him stand there naked.
"Hey—"
I put both my hands to my face.
"Kill the drama and get your ass over here."
I raised my head and looked at Rhonda. Leave it to her to push me into reality again. With a look at my boyfriend, I stood, snatched up my board, and moved to where Rhonda sat on the other side of the bed near the window of the small room. She motioned for me to kneel beside her.
I grabbed one of mom's donut-shaped pillows and knelt on that. I held out my hands, palms up.
"You look at any of these jobs that came in?"
I shook my head and erased my board. NOT WORKING. VACATION.
"Well, yeah, but this one sounds kinda intriguing."
I narrowed my eyes at her and shook my head.
"Will you listen to it?"
Did I have a choice?
"Okay," she tapped the down arrow. "To whom it may concern, I work with a woman named Maureen who insists the place we work has Shadow People in it."
I held up my hand and mouthed, "Shadow People?" Most of my clients wanted me to gather information on an employee, or their wife or husband.<
br />
So what was a Shadow Person? Was this a new code word for boring coworker? They were as exciting as shadows? Could be government spooks.
Rhonda shrugged and kept on reading. "My boss thinks we're all crazy, but me and the waitstaff all have witnessed chairs moving, pictures turning around, and movement out of the corner of our eyes. They've shown up in pictures, and several customers have complained of seeing someone standing in the bathroom." She paused and looked up at me.
I shrugged. I was intrigued, but this was starting to sound more like an episode of Ghost Hunters than reality.
I scribbled. WHAT ARE SHADOW PEOPLE?
And Rhonda being Rhonda, tucked the email into the background and Googled the term. We both leaned in close to read what Wikipedia had to say (not that I suggest anyone believe what they read on this site, which is totally user based):
Shadow People are said to be shadowlike creatures of supernatural origin that appear as dark forms in the peripheries of peoplesí vision and disintegrate, or move between walls, when noticed.
Okay, let me say now, that just creeped me the hell out. And I play a Ghost on TV.
"Oh, this is spooky. Zoë, it says that unlike Ghosts, these unknowns don't appear to wear clothing and don't feel as if they were once human. Instead—people have complained of being menaced, attacked, and chased by them."
I sat back and held up my hands. Nope. Sorry. After TC and Mr. Phantasm—I'm over the spook factory. Even if I am a VIP member. Uh-uh.
Rhonda flipped back to the email. "One of the waitstaff fell down the stairs last week and broke her ankle. The manager is challenging the workers' compensation claim because he overheard her say she was tripped by one of the Shadow People. The reason I'm writing you is because an old friend used you to prove her girlfriend was cheating on her. And I thought you'd be able to prove these Shadow People exist. Please help us."
I glanced at Daniel.
"Well that's weird." Rhonda continued looking at the computer screen. "I haven't seen a Ghost request since—"
I grabbed up my board and erased. NOT SINCE SPRITE.
Good old SPRITE. Southeastern Paranormal Research Institute for Tactical Extermination. Georgia's own brand of Ghost Hunters, which managed to get my astral self—pre-Wraith—on film. No shit. They'd been investigating a Poltergeist. And Maharba had sent me in there to investigate, as well.
The meeting was not something I wanted to repeat.
But since then, SPRITE had disappeared, and the owners—Randall and Herb—were missing in action. I hadn't heard a word from them in months. Not that I was complaining—but it was a little odd that right after exposing a Ghost on local television, the whole group vanished.
Even their website URL was up for grabs.
"This sounds interesting. I'll book it."
I was shaking my head. She wanted me to go Ghost hunting—which is technically not my thing—while my future husband was in a coma? Me be gone? What if he woke up, and I wasn't there? Would he think I didn't care?
Not to mention that I really needed to know what it was he saw that day—with me holding on to him as he fell. Did he see me?
Did he think I let go?
These were the questions I had to get answered.
Mental note: whine...
I erased my board with my sleeve. Scribble. I NO WANT TO GO WRAITH. Then after she read it, I erased and scribbled again. I COULD BE DANGEROUS.
Rhonda did this weird thing with her face. I mean—I've seen monkeys do that sort of thing—but Rhonda doesn't have a monkey face.
I sat back.
"Zoë—I know what you can do—you did it to me. But we're not talking about dealing with the living in this situation. And if you don't keep up the business, it'll vanish completely. So—this one sounds pretty easy. And I think it's more into where we should take things."
Uh huh. That's Rhonda-speak for Ooooh, this sounds like fun!
Rhonda didn't usually go on these cases with me. She stayed at home or did her gaming thing or something while I went out and went OOB.
She started typing. Argument closed. Rhonda one, me zilcho.
I pursed my lips, turned my attention back to Daniel, and watched the monitors for a while. The constant hum and spith of the machines, the light beeping noises, all played out a weird kind of lullaby...and I was tired.
Which is why I nearly jumped out of my skin, literally, when Rhonda spoke.
"Okay—I've said we'll take the case."
And that was that. We never gave clients any schedule, only the required date of payment, which was usually within twenty-four hours of accepting the job. That way they couldn't set up anything 'cause they just didn't know when it was we'd drop in. And since I was invisible—they never knew.
Mom came back into the room then, frowning. She moved to stand next to me, her hands clutched in front of her. I looked up at her and gave her the best Yeah? look I could muster.
"I fixed it," she said.
I felt a little apprehensive.
"Fixed what?" Rhonda said.
Thank you, Rhonda.
"We're not going to mention the boy in the bathroom, are we?" Mom looked at me and then at Rhonda. Rhonda gave her a good shrug and continued to look at the computer.
I pulled up my board. WHY? NOT THAT I CARE.
Mom went back to her chair and sat down before retrieving her biscuit from the sliding table. She slathered some butter on it—even though she'd already done that. Double butter.
Something was bothering her.
I stood and moved closer. She looked up at me, and I held out my hands, palms out in a look of WTF?
"Well, apparently the young lady you saw in the bathroom with this bartender is the chief of surgery's granddaughter."
Oh.
Blink.
OH!
Mom took a bite of the biscuit and chewed. I waited. I knew there was more. Mom was taking a dramatic license with this.
"And apparently he didn't pass out because of you, but because he was terrified her grandfather would find out."
"So?" Rhonda said. "I don't think the chief of surgery could actually have him fired, could he? I'm not savvy on hospital hierarchy."
"I'm not sure it's his job he's worried about. Tiarra said it was his life he was more concerned for. Even Tiarra seemed a little—distraught. Apparently the chief of surgery has a reputation of being cursed."
Cursed?
Mom shrugged. "Well she said he was a magician, but I say he's cursed."
I got the sudden image of a guy in scrubs and a mask, wielding a blood-covered scalpel and pulling bloody bunnies out of a top hat.
Ew. What the hell is wrong with me?
"I'm thinking you don't mean like, stage magician?" Rhonda clarified.
"No, not hardly." Mom set the biscuit down and looked at me. "And since Tiarra didn't actually see Nancy in the bathroom—just you—and as long as you keep your mouth—well—you don't write it down anywhere," she shrugged. "He'll never have to know."
I looked at Rhonda. She looked at me. Then we both bore our gazes into Mom. "Nona," Rhonda said, since she had the voice, but we were thinking as one. "Why'd you blow right past the part about him being a magician? You care to elaborate on what exactly that means?"
But Mom already was packing up the picnic basket. I grabbed up the board and scribbled before shoving the board in her face.
CHICKEN SHIT.
"Nona," Rhonda said in a calm voice. "I'll just go consult the Big Book once we get home. What do you mean by magician—because I get the feeling this isn't the usual Houdini routine?"
Mom looked from me, to Rhonda, and back to me. I think she used her really good I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too stare on me. "The word Magician was, at one time, a basic generic term for magic worker. Or Magi. A term of respect."
"You got this out of the book," Rhonda looked excited. "I read this. But over the centuries, it sort of devovled."
Mom nodded.
> I continued to look confused.
Rhonda looked at me with a look that said, I'll use small words. "Think about the word xerox. You think of copiers, right? But Xerox is a brand—hell, it's a whole corporation. And because it was so synonymous with copier, people started using it generically. Instead of making a copy of something, you say, "I'll xerox this."
Okay...I got it.
"Xerox mounted a huge campaign to stop the generification of their name. If it became a common term, they'd lose the use of it. It would be diluted."
I pursed my lips. Was generification a real word? I doubted it. But I nodded, yeah I got it. Magician got turned into a generic term.
"In the past decade or so, the term Magician died away, pretty much tumbled back to mean stage magician, which indicates a trickster. Or say, a false individual."
I thought that one came really far out of the hat, and I was ready to go with it. Sure.
Mom took up the lesson. "One of the uses of magicians, especially here in the South, is as a conjurer, or one who refutes or creates hexes." She shrugged. "And the chief of surgery here at the hospital has that reputation. Though, apparently, not all the staff believe it—there was apparently some sort of soirée at his house a few months ago, and everyone who attended has disappeared. No one wants to get on his bad side."
Rhonda frowned and shifted her weight in the chair, the iBook still resting on her knees. "So anyone that's ever made him mad—"
"Vanished." Mom reached into the basket and pulled out a plastic half-pint milk jug. "Tea?"
•••
I drove back to Mom's behind the two of them, with Mom at the wheel of her antique Volvo, Elizabeth. I'd recently gotten that car impounded, after having left it at the bank behind Story Teller Park.
Long story, build a bridge.
I had a car again. A rental POS. First off, the heat didn't work, the right door wouldn't open, and the driver's door didn't have a working door handle on the inside. I had to roll the window down and open the door from the outside to get in and out.
I was waiting on the insurance to replace my Mustang. But I wasn't holding my breath. It was Christmas, and there wasn't anything getting done very quickly. Period.
Tales Of The Abysmal Plane (Zoë Martinique Short Stories) (The Zoë Martinique Investigation Series) Page 4
