It was cold. It was rainy. And I was just—depressed. Once back at the Tea and Botanica, Mom went to the kitchen while I started a fire, and Rhonda set up her computer and mine in the Botanica where the fireplace was.
A stone dragon glared down at me from the mantel. A Soul Cage. I stuck my tongue out at it. I'd spent a little time in that thing, so I had a real special kinda hatred for it. Foul beast.
After the fire came to life, Rhonda announced there were about fifty emails again!
When Mom brought in three cups of tea that smelled of oranges and spice and settled down in her usual straight back chair, I pulled my dry erase board from Rhonda's backpack and scribbled on it.
YOU KNOW THIS SURGERY GUY?
Mom nodded. "I have heard of him. But only on the news and not because of any magical relationship." She sipped tea and looked at me. "He's going to trial for murder in a week. His wife mysteriously disappeared a few months ago—and then another girl disappeared. They found remains near his house, and though no one's positively ID'd the body—suspicion is that it's the wife. The D.A. apparently smells a way to gain public support, so he's reopening the dead wife's case."
To me it didn't really make this guy guilty.
"Oh yeah," Tim said as he appeared near the fireplace. Steve also made a showing, seated in the matching wicker chair beside Mom. "She was a bar and restaurant owner, wasn't she? His wife?"
Mom nodded.
Rhonda and I looked at each other. She looked back at the computer and then said, "She own just one?"
"Yeah," Tim said. "Real nice place, up in Roswell. Sitting in the square. It used to be a funeral parlor at one time, and a general store during the Civil War. The restaurant's said to be haunted with little Shadow People."
The dead wife of a spooky chief of surgery owns a restaurant with Shadow People? Oh say it ain't so. I could see this coming a mile away.
So could Rhonda as she glanced down at the screen. "And the name of this restaurant?"
"The Livery Bar and Restaurant," Tim said. "Steve took me there for our second anniversary. You can have drinks and desserts in the bar upstairs, and there's usually live music."
I heard the email package ding on my computer.
I waited patiently for Rhonda to acknowledge what I already knew. This was the same restaurant with the Shadow People I'd gotten the email about today. She read something and looked up at me. "Yeah, same restaurant."
This wasn't a coincidence.
"And it gets worse." Rhonda glanced down. "I just heard back from the restaurant bartender. Said Maureen Lafferty, the requester, is now one of the missing girls—that would put it a week before she sent that client request to us about the Shadow People."
Mom was looking from me to Rhonda. "What Shadow People? Is this a band?"
Scribble. WHO RESPONDED?
Rhonda grinned. I did not like it. "You're gonna love this. Seems you've seen more of him than most people."
Mental note: Mother—
"The bartender, Darren "Dags" McConnell."
—Guppy
-2-
Mornings suck.
And let me say that again with emphasis. Mornings suck. Not so much mornings at Mom's house. Those I wake up to the smells of bacon, eggs, buttery biscuits (mmmmmmm), fresh-squeezed orange juice, and coffee.
Just mornings in general—especially the ones where I'm not at the hospital and expected to do something I really don't want to do. I did not want to look for Shadow People, mean people, or even imaginary people. So I lay there in the bed, pillow over my head, with the missing-head-Mary and the over-stuffed bear in the chair.
You know how hard it is to try and ignore bacon and eggs? Unless you're a vegetarian, it's next to impossible.
Especially when your friend/manager/magical MacGyver shows up with hot chocolate.
"Oh, come on, Zoë," she finally said after I kept the pillow tight over my head. "The restaurant doesn't open for another four hours. If you don't get in there now, you'll miss your opportunity."
No.
"Chicken shit."
Bock. Bock.
"Zo-eeeeeeeee."
Wow. She whines better than me.
"Wow—she's not so tough looking from this angle."
Blink.
Wait. Hold the phone. That wasn't Rhonda's voice. That was a man's voice.
MAN!! In my room!!
I spun around on the bed—and let me tell you, John Woo would have been proud 'cause I nearly came up off the bed in slow motion as I turned—and landed with my elbows behind me to see Dags McConnell standing just behind Rhonda.
I was suddenly very glad I'd gone to sleep in my plaid loungers and not commando. I mean—a few seconds ago, I'd had my bare ass in Rhonda's face with my head buried, Ostridge style.
Wait—is that how you spell that?
Looks weird.
Rhonda had her arms crossed over her chest. She also had her hair back in a ponytail and wore dark jeans (duh) and a black sweater with a high collar. Looked kinda fuzzy and soft.
I reached out to touch it.
She pulled back—and not from anger—but from actual fear.
We both realized, at the same time, what had just happened and looked at each other. She'd been afraid I would suck on her soul again—and all I'd wanted was to touch the fuzzy.
"Zoë—I—"
I shook my head and waved my hand, hoping she caught the It's all right I meant in the gesture. Man, being voiceless sucked. Because, at that moment, Mr. Bartender-man was over near the big bear, bent over it, his hand reaching out to my dry-erase board I'd propped there before turning in.
I pointed to him and glared at Rhonda with my eyebrows up. Why is he here? I demanded with my eyes.
"Nona," Rhonda said.
Okay. That explained a whole lot. Well—not really. I knitted my eyebrows together and made the very obvious, universal gesture for what the hell for?
Mr. Bartender-man was back at the bed. "Your mom left a message on my voice mail. She was apologizing for you—for what happened—"
I pursed my lips at him as Rhonda moved past him and grabbed my board. She tossed it at me, and I caught it one-handed. Not on purpose, but it looked cool. I scribbled on it.
APOLOGIZE 4 WHAT? UR THE PERV
He looked down. His hair wasn't in a ponytail today and was loose about his shoulders. He was dressed in a black leather peacoat and jeans, a silver bracelet on his left wrist. "I explained to her that it wasn't your fault. We didn't exactly have the stall locked."
"Did you realize who you were shagging in the bathroom?" Rhonda piped up.
"I knew about her grandfather, yeah. But that's what I'm paid to do—dig up intel on what I refer to as the unconventional conventional."
Rhonda and I looked at each other, and she looked back at him with the biggest, dumbest grin I'd ever seen on her face. Oh good grief. Was that a crush I saw coming? "We thought you were a bartender and part-time orderly."
"That too," he looked at me. "I honestly thought you were dead. That's a very—unusual—ability you have there. You always had it?"
Erase. Scribble. LONG STORY. NEVERMIND.
Rhonda spoke up. "Have you always had the ability to see spirits? I mean, you saw Zoë at the bar that day, right?"
He looked at me and then back to Rhonda. I wasn't sure if he was excited or frightened. His eyes looked darker though—I could have sworn they were gray? "I saw her the moment she came in. I also knew Daniel couldn't see her. He comes in once or twice a week, has a coffee or a beer. We talk. Normal stuff, really. I was working at the bar because of a report of Ghosts," he smiled. "I thought Zoë was that Ghost, until I saw she was paying close attention to the cop. And then I realized she came in with him."
I erased and scribbled. WHY R U AT HOSPITAL?
"I was hired to keep an eye on Chief of Surgery, Dr. Allard Bonville."
I erased my board and scribbled. BY WHO?
"You mean whom?"
Scribble
. ASS WIPE.
He smiled, undeterred. And then he shrugged. "I don't know. I get all my freelance work through a secured site I set up a few months back when I moved here from Savannah."
Rhonda looked back at me again and then took a step toward him. "You set up a secured FTP for jobs? How did you do that? Did you use standard applications, or was this something you wrote on your own? How do your clients contact you—or how do they pay you?"
He grinned. "Well, first off I don't use FTP, I use MTP, which is Managed File Transfers. I first learned about it through a company called Communication Commerce. Then I discovered they were part of a larger conglomerate, and I like bailed as fast as I could. But I set up my own secured server using the MTP transfers, so now I have my own secure bulletin board."
It was about that minute my brain tuned out. It was pretty sure it wouldn't understand any of what was said, much of it becoming the standard Charlie Brown adult speak of "wonk, wonk, wonk-wonk," and well—
But I did watch them for a few seconds. Almost exactly the same height, their hair was close in color, though Rhonda's had the matte-black look of a spray-painted car. His was shiny and healthy. They were both kinda Gothy-emo-techno-babbly.
Hum. Was she crushing?
Not if I could help it. Did not want my best friend involved with some bathroom-stall-romance-guy. Even if he could see Ghosts.
Grrrr.
No one noticed as I slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom. I turned the hot water on full blast and turned to face some pale, strange woman in the mirror.
Gee-zus. I had really let myself go. It was one thing if Daniel saw me like this—I mean—he'd already seen me at some of my worst moments. Even with my teeth unbrushed.
But some strange man with a ponytail had seen me like this.
Hell—the whole hospital had.
Now I was feeling oogie about me. My hair looked absolutely like black straw. Even the damned white stripe that wouldn't go away looked like old lady hair. My skin was blotchy—definitely not the smooth olive tone I was used to seeing.
Half moons hung beneath my eyes. I could see my cheekbones. And maybe three months ago, I would have liked the obvious drop in weight—but not at that moment. I leaned into the mirror and looked closely at myself.
It was like—
Well, it was like I was losing some vital nutrient. Kinda like a plant looks when it doesn't get sun or water.
Water. Shower maybe?
Mental Note: Need spa treatment. Check cash flow.
After the shower, I looked more like a big wet piece of straw. Wrapped in a bathrobe (the big blue fuzzy one I'd bought myself a few weeks ago), I peeked into my bedroom. Rhonda and Dags weren't there.
Hunh.
I moved to the edge of the stairs and listened. I could hear mom, Rhonda, Dags, and—
Holy moly. Mrs. Jemmy Shultz was downstairs, too. They were having a powwow without me!
My stomach took that moment to growl.
Loudly.
"Zoë—stop playing spook and get down here and eat!" Mom yelled up at me.
It really sucks that even at my age, my mom can STILL embarrass me. I toweled my hair, braided it, and dressed casually in a black long-sleeved T-shirt with Kevin Barry's logo (they have the best Irish Coffee evah on River Street in Savannah) on the back and a pair of comfy jeans.
Once down the stairs with my board, I saw that everyone was huddled around one of the tables in the teashop, the Great Big Book of Everything in the center. Tim and Steve were even there.
Mom motioned me to a chair beside her and had a plate all ready. Coffee. Creamer and whipped cream already in and on top. Yummy. Whipped cream. And then she handed me my testing kit.
Smartass.
As I opened the zippered pouch, the conversation continued.
"—assigned to the same floor," Dags said. "Which is also part of the reason I was being nice to Nancy since she has a bit of influence on scheduling—because of her grandfather. I've known the detective for some time. So even while I was spying on Nancy's grandfather, I've been periodically checking in on Detective Frasier."
Dags sipped his coffee. "But I would like to know exactly how he got into the condition he's in. I suspect it's due to unnatural circumstances."
Ah! Ninety-three. That was a decent morning sugar count. I shoved the read out in Mom's face. That's when I realized everyone was looking at me. I did the equivalent to a voiced-person's "What?"
I held my arms out, elbow bent, and shrugged. Eyebrows high on my forehead. I hate my forehead. Too high.
"Zoë," Mom grabbed my wrist, the one with the monitor stuck in her face, and read the display down her nose. Then she smiled at me and nodded. "That's nice, but I think it's time you shared the circumstances of Daniel's injuries with Dags."
I lowered my hand with a pout. I thought it was a good enough score to at least warrant an attagirl or something. I turned my morning irritation on Bartender-boy. Can you hear me? I actually threw my thoughts at him like a dart at a corkboard.
And I was completely upset with myself when the boy actually fell backward off his chair. I stood up. So did Mom. Rhonda was up and on the floor with him.
He didn't get up right away, and I had that sinking feeling I'd just done something awful again. I was feeling like the kid who couldn't get anything right, not even walking through a house carefully. One missstep, and I would knock over the Ming vase.
"Zoë!" Rhonda's tone was upset. "What the hell did you do? His nose is bleeding!"
Huh? I was around the table and standing next to an observant Jemmy Schultz. She had on a blue housedress today, with white stockings and matching blue slippers.
Dags on the other hand lay on his side, his ponytail splayed out about his head, his eyes closed, and blood oozing from his nose.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
"Zoë," Mom's voice was a little more calming, but I could tell she still was irritated. "I didn't see you go OOB. What happened?"
"You threw your thoughts at him," Tim said in a very soft voice. He was visible near the counter that looked into the teashop kitchen. "That's new."
I—I didn't mean too. I knew Tim and Steve could hear me, but no one else. I looked about for my board, and reading my thoughts, Jemmy reached across the table and retrieved it for me. Guilt was an all too palpable thing at the moment—because in truth I had meant to throw my thoughts at him.
But who knew they'd skewer him like a shish kebab???
I DIDN'T THINK THEY WOULD HIT.
Mom and Rhonda skimmed my board, then both of them gave me identical faces. Ack. Was that rehearsed?
Jemmy was abruptly in the kitchen, grabbing a clean cloth, loading it with cold water, and then returning to where Dags was down. I stood dumbfounded.
It just seemed to me that men were constantly getting hurt around me. And I was the cause of this. I thought of Daniel and realized he was all alone in the hospital.
We were all here.
Rhonda had propped Dags' head up on her lap and was now dabbing at his nose with the wet rag. It looked like a sweet moment. Too bad I was the bully on the playground who whacked him.
Then he stirred, moaned, and looked up to see Rhonda, then totally turned seven shades of red. I put a hand over my mouth to avoid laughing—I was gonna say hysterically—but how can you laugh like that when you don't make noises?
Shit.
"Uh—" Dags said.
"Oh—" Rhonda said.
Both of them disengaged.
But when Dags tried to sit up, he grabbed his head with his hands. His nose wasn't bleeding anymore, but the rim of it was dark with dried blood. Rhonda did an awful job cleaning it. And there was blood on his collar.
"You okay, sugar?" Jemmy was bending over, and I moved out of the way of her caboose.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh I am so sorry...
"All right, all right," Dags muttered in a strained voice. "I can hear you. Just—use your verbal jujitsu somewhere else. Okay
? I'm not the enemy here."
I blinked and stood up straight. So you can hear me?
Dags winced and looked at me. He slowly pulled his hands away from his head. "Say that again?"
I pursed my lips. I said, So you can hear me?
He nodded slowly. "Yeah, well, no. Not really hear you."
Huh?
Rhonda shook her head. "What?"
"It's—it's more like I can suddenly see pictures. Images that kinda tell me what it is you're saying."
Okaynowthatwasweird.
Jemmy reached out her hand, and Dags took it, allowing her and Rhonda to help him off the floor. He looked a little pale—which only added interest to his striking eyes and dark hair.
"Lemme see," Jemmy grabbed his left shoulder and pressed her palm into his forehead. He glanced over at me and sort of gave me a helpless deer look. "Youse okay—but I'm afraid Zoë might have opened up your third eye."
Dags nodded and stepped back. I was thinking he might bolt. And who could blame him?
"What do you mean by images?" Steve said from his perch beside Mom's chair.
"Well," Dags held out his hands, palms up. "I knew she was asking me if I could hear her. But what I saw in my head was a barrage of images of ears and then her face." He glared at me. "And I do mean a barrage. Please, don't yell anymore."
Yell. I can yell?
I somehow felt comforted. Guilty. But oddly comforted.
Everyone took their seats again. I sat down and attacked my breakfast. It was cold.
"Zoë," Rhonda said as an icebreaker. "I'll handle it. You eat." She turned to Dags and gave him a very nice Reader's Digest version of what had happened to us in the past month. From my meeting TC, to the Reverend Rollins, Hirokumi, Daniel, Susan, Rai, and then the Phantasm.
I was a little surprised too. I'd told them all that? Wow. I'm a blabbermouth even when I don't have a voice.
Dags took it all in, finishing up his coffee. I did notice he pressed his fingers into his forehead and temple a lot—like maybe his head hurt.
After Rhonda was done, Dags spoke up. "Okay. So," he turned and looked at me. "You're a Wraith—whatever that is—and you can go out of body. That much I've seen."
Tales Of The Abysmal Plane (Zoë Martinique Short Stories) (The Zoë Martinique Investigation Series) Page 5
