Gatekeeper

by Debra Glass

  A Celtic Cross layout of Tarot cards was spread out on the coffee table in front of Amy’s crimson velvet sofa. Jillian glanced at it. Her insides lurched when she saw the hanging man card right next to the death card. An unwelcome memory of her mother reading cards for clients intruded into her thoughts. She shook her head as if she could shake the thought away.

  “That’s bad, Boo.” She held the trembling little dog closer. “Those are bad cards.”

  But even as she uttered the words she hated that Amy’s disappearance had dragged her out of her comfort zone of scientific analysis and back into the world of psychic premonitions and—worst of all—ghosts.

  At eleven, after her mother’s death, she had made a decision never to delve into the supernatural. She had turned it off the way a person would turn off a faucet and in doing so, she’d severed a bond with her psychic sister she’d never been able to reestablish. “It was for the best,” she whispered and hugged Boo closer. She couldn’t risk losing someone she loved again. She couldn’t risk that terrible, terrible pain. But now it was happening again. Jillian’s world was suddenly spiraling out of control.

  The bronze button pressed ominously into her thigh through the pocket of her taupe trousers. And looming in her thoughts was the faded countenance of a ghost. She shivered again and fought down the knowing that those little tremors up her spine meant a spirit was near. Was it the soldier?

  She looked over her shoulder. The memory of the nightmare surfaced again. She exhaled sharply.

  “What was she doing at that Civil War site, Boo?” Jillian asked the dog as if she could answer. “What was she doing with that ghost?” And how did he tie into Amy’s disappearance?

  The rest of Amy’s house looked as if she were ready to walk back in at any moment. Wet clothes filled the washer. A few dirty dishes lay in the sink. Jillian sighed. Amy had intended to come home. She had not just disappeared with friends. Theo was right. She had been abducted and Jillian knew she was going to have to face down her worst fear to find her.

  She tried to put the thought of the ghost out of her mind and examine the relevant information already collected to establish an accurate picture of what had occurred. Amy had driven to a Civil War site. Had she gone alone? Jillian made a mental note of the questions she wanted Theo’s team to investigate. What had led Amy to Shy’s Hill? She shifted Boo to the other arm and made a quick check of the answering machine. It turned up nothing.

  She attempted a reconstruction of the crime in her head. Usually, answers would come to her easily. But not this time. She blew out a defeated sigh. Why was this so difficult? “Think, Jillian,” she told herself. “Think.” She rubbed the dog behind the ears. “I wish you could talk, Boo. You’d tell me what happened.”

  But Boo only stared with bulging little black eyes.

  She walked into the bedroom. The bed was unmade. A moon-and-star-printed comforter stretched half across the bed, half on the floor. The scent of lavender sheet spray hung sweet and thick in the air. Typical Amy.

  “Okay,” Jillian said, trying to talk through this out aloud. “Is this guy an organized offender or a disorganized offender? Did he know her? Was he one of her flaky clients? A stalker?” She put Boo down and sifted through the clothes scattered on the bedroom floor. “Does he live around here?” But although she was asking all the right questions according to her FBI Fellowship Program training, she wasn’t getting any answers.

  The rest of the house was absurdly normal in comparison to Amy’s disappearance. There was absolutely no evidence of foul play here. Disheartened, Jillian gathered up Boo, a bag of dog food and one of Boo’s favorite toys before she started to leave.

  But as she walked through the living room she noticed Amy’s Ouija board leaning temptingly against the side of the crimson sofa. She stopped and stared. With frayed edges and a faded cream-colored façade, the Ouija board didn’t look that scary. The triangular-shaped planchette sat on the gold Oriental rug next to it. Did she dare?

  This was ridiculous. She was a professional psychologist who did not need to resort to paranormal silliness to solve this case. But even as she debated she lowered Boo and her bundle to the wood floor, the bronze button burrowing into her thigh as she kneeled.

  The thought of conjuring up that Civil War ghost terrified her. Her pulse rioted. She wiped the perspiration from her palms onto her pant legs. He may have witnessed the crime. He might be able to tell her what happened to Amy. She couldn’t not try this.

  And then a dark thought darted through her head.

  What if he was responsible for Amy’s disappearance?

  A hideous image of her sister—bruised and beaten, discarded in some cold, godforsaken place—rose to the forefront of Jillian’s mind. No, that was silly. A ghost couldn’t make someone disappear. Amy needed her and she owed it to her sister to do anything to find her.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she snatched the Ouija board and planchette and sat down at the card table. Like she had seen her sister do countless times when they were kids, she placed her fingers on the planchette and mentally surrounded herself with White Light. Chills skittered up her spine and down her arms.

  “You’re not going to need that.”

  Jillian froze. She could not move. She could not breathe. The ghost she had seen in her vision stood before her. Dressed in a worn and double-breasted cadet gray, thigh-length frock coat, he was nearly opaque and looked as real as a flesh-and-blood man with the exception of appearing somewhat faded. Jillian gaped. The only thing separating them was the flimsy old card table and she doubted that would stop him if it occurred to him to come any closer. Her pulse pounded relentlessly.

  “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” He came closer, his boots resounding on the wood floor. Spurs jingled with each step.

  Jillian’s back flattened against the chair. Her breath left her lungs in an audible rush. She had glimpsed ghosts many times before but never had one been this present, this alive. She stared. But it wasn’t because of his devastatingly rakish appearance—the roughly chiseled cheekbones, straight nose and curve of his sensual lips—it was because he looked so real…and because she felt a very odd sense of recognition. Still, the static charge of energy emanating from him left her with no doubt he was a ghost.

  The thought of Amy forced her out of her utter state of immobility. “Who are you?” Her voice trembled.

  The hint of a smile curled the thin moustache at the corner of his mouth. “You’re even prettier than the other one.” His Southern drawl was thick and languid. He squinted. “Green eyes.” One dark eyebrow arched wickedly. “Is it true that women with green eyes are more easily…enticed…than others?” His comment provoked an impulse which Jillian couldn’t identify. Was she flattered or offended? She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it.

  Suddenly, it was clear.

  He was merely a lost soul, an earthbound looking for the Light. He had no doubt come to Amy to be sent on. So that’s what she was doing on top of Shy’s Hill. Scenarios raced through Jillian’s head. Amy may have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. She may have inadvertently witnessed a drug deal.

  “Can you do it too?” The ghost’s comment brought her abruptly back to the moment, reminding her that she was sharing an uncomfortably small space with a dead man.

  “Do what?” Her voice rushed out in a hoarse whisper.

  His regard slid down to where her Chanel sweater opened, revealing her blue silk blouse. Her nipples instinctively tightened underneath the thin fabric of her bra. And as if he knew it, he took his time returning his gaze to hers. “Well, I have to say I was ready to go on to my great reward until I saw you.” His tone was sarcastic. His stare was not.

  Her mouth was dry as cotton. “I’m not like my sister.”

  “No, you’re not.” His tongue wet his lips. Jillian could only gape at him. No man, dead or alive, had ever spoken to her this way. And the way he looked at her—it was scalding, lewd—as if
he somehow knew her intimately. Something hot and liquid spiraled from her stomach down. She blinked hard. She had to keep her focus. Somehow she had to keep both herself and this lothario of a ghost focused. She racked her brain for something to say—for something that would mean something to him. “Sir, I am a lady. I would appreciate it if you treated me as such.” She lifted her chin.

  Something unpleasant sparked in his dark gray eyes. “I gave up on ladies a long time ago.”

  Well that idea failed miserably. If this were one of her patients she would know exactly what to do, but she had no idea how to react to an earthbound spirit or how to speak to one. When they had appeared at the foot of her bed during her childhood, she had cowered under the covers. Now she had no choice but to talk to this one. “You are aware that you are…dead, aren’t you?”

  A throaty chuckle emanated from his chest. The sound was soft and seductive. “When no one could see or hear me, I suspected as much.”

  Every fiber of her being was taut. Her mind searched for words. Anything to dispel the welling terror inside her. “Why haven’t you crossed into the Light?”

  “Because there is no Light.” He hooked his thumbs in his leather belt.

  A little twinge of jealousy that Amy was so comfortable entertaining spirits passed through Jillian. She sat frozen, staring, her gaze riveted to the ghost’s. Absolutely beguiling from his unruly dark hair down to his spurred black boots, he had undoubtedly broken many a Southern belle’s heart in his day. Despite his slightly faded appearance, his features were those of a young man. His eyes, however, revealed something hard and jaded, reflecting the horrors he had no doubt witnessed during the war. It lent him a maturity beyond his years. The conflicting façade only made him that much more attractive but Jillian quickly reminded herself she was no Southern belle and he was no flesh-and-blood man.

  He gestured toward the chair. “Do you mind, madam?”

  “Please sit,” she offered, slightly disconcerted that he’d called her on her lack of manners. But even given that, she couldn’t believe she was doing this—asking a ghost to sit down and have a conversation with her.

  The chair slid back seemingly of its own accord to accommodate his long, lean form. He sat, his body consuming the metal chair. He folded his arms and crossed his ankles.

  Jillian swallowed and tamped down the eerie knowledge that the man sitting across from her was dead. But he might very well be the only witness to her sister’s disappearance.

  Or he might very well be the reason Amy had disappeared.

  She took a deep breath and steeled herself. “Did you see what happened to my sister?”

  His gaze raked her again in unconcealed appraisal. Jillian shrank back farther into the chair. He maintained their proximity, leaning forward slightly. His gaze remained locked with hers while his long index finger traced the faded checkerboard pattern on the table. “I find it hard to believe that little gypsy fortuneteller is your sister.”

  Jillian was becoming impatient. She had always hated ghosts. She hated looking at them. She hated their unpredictable behavior. And this one was no exception. He was being difficult on purpose. Still, he was her only link to finding Amy. “Please. My sister has been…abducted.” Even saying the word caused a lump to surge in her throat. “I need to find her.”

  His eyes softened as if some long-ago memory had surfaced. “She was releasing me when it happened. I tried to warn her. Someone struck her in the head and dragged her away.” How could he be so matter-of-fact about this? But then he added, “Madam, I apologize that I cannot be of more service to you…”

  Her gaze dropped to the three wreathed stars on his upright collar. A dark stain marred the shoulder of his frock coat. Blood? Had he been wounded? Is that how he died? It didn’t matter. He’d been a witness to her sister’s abduction. She returned her gaze to his. “So you saw the man who took her?”

  His brow furrowed. “My dear, I saw someone but the person was covered from head to toe.”

  Frustration drove her to strike the table with her fist. She felt helpless and she hated it. Besides, she had lifted the veil to a world she had long since turned her back on. What if these spooks started coming to her like they had when she was a scared little girl? She shuddered at the thought.

  And then the unthinkable happened.

  The ghost reached across the table and before Jillian could move, he placed his hand over hers. Her breath froze in her lungs. She was too terrified to move. Instead, she could only gape at his faded hand on her flesh. None of them had ever touched her before. She stiffened at the cool but solid energy emanating from his touch. Her gaze darted from their hands to his clouded gray eyes. He had meant it as a comforting gesture—it was anything but. “Please don’t touch me,” she blurted.

  The ghost stared for another agonizing heartbeat before he slowly withdrew his hand. His expression turned cool, unreadable. And then a smug smile revealed a deep dimple at the corner of his mouth. “Madam, you act as if this is the first time we have ever touched.”

  Jillian sucked in a breath. Heat infused her cheeks. Her wanton behavior in her dreams reared up in her mind and it was suddenly filled with blatant sexual images and sounds—and sensations.

  He sneered. “Don’t you remember?”

  She temporarily forgot her fear of ghosts. “How dare you speak to me that way.”

  “What way?”

  “You know very well what way! My sister has been taken. She might be dead…”

  “There are worse things.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  He laughed without mirth. “I, of all people, most certainly do mean it.”

  “If you think that, then you’ve never lost someone close to you. How can you be so callous?” Tears burned the corners of Jillian’s eyes but she would not cry in front of this insufferable spook. She would not. Her fists clenched in her lap. Anger momentarily allowed her to forget how much she feared ghosts. She burned a stare into him, silently willing him to go to hell.

  An expression of remorse crossed his handsome face. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  For the first time since he had appeared to her, she dared to close her eyes. She could not bear to look at him any longer. He wasn’t being of any help in finding Amy and besides, he represented everything she loathed. She trembled at the intruding memories of the pleading ghosts that haunted her childhood—of her mother’s spirit. And then there were the shadow beings… A tremor shook her to the core. Her eyes flew open. “Just go away.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  His gaze dropped to where the button was outlined in the thin fabric against her thigh. “Because I’m attached to the button. And you, madam, are in possession of the button.”

  Jillian did not miss the unspoken implication evident in his lingering gaze. Her stomach tightened. Her hand instinctively covered the button. Hot fury welled inside her at his lurid audacity. This was a waste of precious time. Every second should be devoted to profiling the person who took Amy. Not keeping some obnoxious ghoul amused with her distress. She plunged her hand into her pocket and seized the button. “We’ll see about that,” she said and started toward the kitchen where Amy’s trash can awaited.

  She got as far as the hallway before she slammed into the solid wall of the ghost’s chest.

  Jillian retreated. Her heart raced. The ghost pursued and seized her hand in his before she could throw the damned button across the hall.

  She wanted to scream but she wasn’t capable of uttering a sound. Every muscle in her body tightened until she thought she would explode. God, he was so close—and so solid! She was shocked at how utterly unyielding he was. She twisted against him.

  “Wait,” he said. “Jillian, stop this. Stop. I won’t hurt you.”

  Her back flattened against the wall and he was against her from head to toe, his hand firmly secured around her fist, one of his knees between hers, his broad shoulders preventing her from escape
. Contact with the full length of his body sent shivers down her spine. She thrashed wildly but his other hand caught her chin and held her still. The scent of well-worn wool mingled with the woody redolence of fallen leaves and earth filled her nostrils. Terror rendered her incoherent. All she could do was stand perfectly still and retreat to someplace within.

  “Jillian,” he said again. His voice was quiet but commanding, drawing her back out, making her all too aware of his rock-solid proximity.

  She dared to look into his eyes. It was a mistake.

  Fear of what he might do next engulfed her. His touch was intense but ethereal, more of a firmly concentrated energy than an actual physical contact. Adrenaline set her whole body on fire. She was sweating. Somehow, she had to free herself but his hold on her was too strong, too intense.

  “I would never hurt you,” he reiterated.

  Some sort of whimper escaped her lips. “Let me go.”

  “Promise me you’ll keep the button.”

  She merely shook her head. Instinct told her to fight, to flee, but fear rendered her immobile.

  “Jillian, promise me. Promise me and I will help you find your sister.”

  “You can’t help me. You’re dead.” Even uttering the words caused the panic to rise once again. She knew her horror was obvious to him.

  His steely gaze pierced hers, searching. She looked away. He expelled a breath which she actually felt on her cheeks. “I need you, Jillian.”

  Her gaze slammed into his once more. She stared.

  “Your sister needs you.” He brought the fist that still clasped the button up to his chest. His voice was insistent, almost pleading. “Your sister understood something about this button that I do not. She understood why it has held me here all these years.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” Her voice rose with hysteria.

  His hand smoothed back the hair at her temple. It was a caress which was incongruously gentle in comparison to the vise grip around her wrist. “You’re more like her than you know.”

  Jillian felt sick. Her knees would have buckled if he had not been holding her up.