“Because that’s not the way it works.”
“What do you know about how it works? You ever been dead? No. Let me give you a hint, Doc: you don’t know shit about it.”
“I—” Charlie had to break off as the door opened just then to admit an elderly, white-haired woman in a tea-length lilac dress. She was maybe seventy, medium height, thin, sweet-faced, a little stooped. As the door swung shut behind her, the newcomer looked right through Garland. Of course, she was seeing nothing but thin air.
“Oh, hello,” the woman said to Charlie, who had frozen in place. It was one thing to know that no one besides herself could see Garland, and another to ignore the solid-to-her, rampantly male figure standing inches away from her in the middle of the ladies’ room as another woman walked right past him without a clue that he was there. As she made her way toward the lavatory, the old woman smiled brightly at Charlie and added, “Beautiful night out, isn’t it?”
“Y-yes indeed,” Charlie stuttered. It was all she could do to get the words out. She knew her eyes had gone wide, and her expression had to be a study in alarm. There was a reason for that: the woman wasn’t alone. Bursting through—literally through—the closed door as if the heavy metal panel didn’t exist came a tall, stocky, dreadlocked man in a black track suit. He was armed with a wicked-looking knife. Screaming, “Tell me where the money is,” he ran toward the old woman, viciously swinging the knife at her back as soon as he was within reach of her.
Charlie’s heart leaped. She started to call out a warning, clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the words before they could escape, and hurried in the attacker’s wake, only to stop stock-still on the threshold between the lounge and the restroom. With a racing pulse she watched as the knife drove harmlessly through the victim’s lilac-clad back. The woman disappeared into one of the stalls, unaware.
Violence crackled in the air, potent as a thunderstorm.
“What the—?” Garland began from behind her. But he broke off as the knife-wielding apparition—because an apparition was what it was, as Charlie had known from the first—turned on her. For a split second the apparition’s eyes met hers. His were wild, crazed, terrified—and terrifying. He knew she could see him: it was there in his harsh-featured face.
As quickly as their eyes locked, he raised the knife high and charged her.
“Where’s the money, bitch?” he screamed, his face contorting with fury. Except for his shriek, no other sounds accompanied the assault: no scrape of feet on tile, no rush of a body moving through air, no rustle of clothing.
Nothing. Because there was nothing physical there.
Adrenaline shot down Charlie’s veins anyway. But before she could react, before she could summon up something potentially disarming to say, like You’re dead, give it up, before she even had time to move out of the doorway or do anything except suck in air, Garland somehow stepped in front of her, planting himself between her and her would-be attacker. Charlie found herself blinking at his back. His torso was honed, V-shaped to the waist above a small, tight, athletic butt. The muscles of his legs appeared to tighten and flex as he braced himself. His arms bunched. His shoulders suddenly looked as wide and formidable as an NFL linebacker’s in full gear.
“Back the fuck off,” Garland roared at the other apparition, who didn’t. The two of them converged, the knife slashed at Garland’s chest, Garland grabbed the other man’s wrist, and they both vanished.
Gone. Poof.
A toilet flushed.
Shaken, heart still pounding, struggling to get her suddenly roiling stomach under control, Charlie tottered a couple of steps forward then leaned against the nearest wall as the old woman emerged from the stall. With a glance and a smile for Charlie, she headed for the sink, where she turned on the faucet.
Charlie welcomed the rush of running water because she hoped it would cover the sound of her quickened breathing.
It was clear that the old woman had no clue that anything out of the ordinary had just happened.
“Is something the matter, dear?” As she soaped her hands, the woman glanced at Charlie’s reflection in the mirror.
Catching sight of herself, Charlie wasn’t surprised at the question. The humidity had added waves to her usually smooth chestnut hair, but still it fell in attractive profusion to her shoulders. Her sapphire blouse and black pants were maybe a little office-y for a Friday night out, but they were expensive-enough-looking for the surroundings and had the added, happy bonus of showing off both her coloring and her slim figure. No, what was wrong with the picture of herself that the mirror was throwing back at her was her face. It was rigid with tension. Her skin looked too tight, making her high cheekbones and square jaw seem way more prominent than they actually were. Despite her slenderness, her cheeks were usually a little too round, a little too rosy, which—coupled with her slender nose and full lips—tended to make her look just a tad too youthful to be taken entirely seriously. Not tonight. She was utterly white, big-eyed, shocked-looking. Before she saw and clamped her lips together to combat it, her mouth trembled. She looked like … she had seen a ghost.
Well, duh. Two actually.
As the thought popped into her head, Charlie was surprised into a wry inner smile. Then she got a grip.
“I know this may sound strange, but I was wondering … have you been involved in any kind of violent incident in the last week or so?” Charlie asked. Her upset stomach made her voice sound a little thin. “With—with a man wearing dreadlocks?”
Turning abruptly away from the sink, where the faucet still ran, the woman looked at her with sudden fear in her eyes.
“Who are you? What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. Don’t be afraid, I just …” Charlie thought fast. “… thought maybe I recognized you. And him. From the papers.”
“It wasn’t in the papers. We kept it quiet, because we thought there might be some backlash. The police said my husband was totally right to do what he did. The man broke into our shop. He would have killed us. George had to shoot him.” The woman was as white and shaken-looking as Charlie had been a moment before. “Who are you? How do you know about this?”
As she spoke, she was edging around Charlie with the clear intent of booking it back through the lounge and out of the restroom. Telling the woman that the ghost of the violent robber her husband had shot and killed had attached himself to her would not only serve no earthly purpose, it would also most likely not be believed.
Think fast again.
“That explains it, then. I must have seen the pictures in the police report,” Charlie said to the woman’s fleeing back. “See, I file those, and, well, I guess I saw your picture and remembered the face.”
“I didn’t know anyone ever took my picture.” Yanking the door open, the woman looked back at Charlie. “The policemen said no charges would be filed. My husband had no choice.”
Then she was out the door.
“I know that,” Charlie called softly after her as the door swung shut, then held her breath and waited. If the knife-wielding phantom was anywhere around, he should be materializing about now to follow the old woman. And Garland—where was he?
Could two ghosts hurt each other? Charlie had never experienced a situation like that, so she had no idea. Uneasy visions of an epic, otherworldly battle to the death (or whatever the already-dead equivalent of death was) danced through her brain; she banished them with an impatient shake of her head.
There was no point in worrying about something she could do nothing about.
As she moved toward the sink, where the water still ran, Charlie realized that Garland had said at least one true thing: she had no idea what actually happened after someone died. Once the spirits she saw left her vicinity, anything was possible.
Her stomach was still unsettled, still threatening to rebel. Cupping her hand beneath the running faucet, she scooped up a handful of cold water and swallowed it, then did it again. It seemed to help. She was reaching
for the tap to turn the water off when Garland spoke behind her.
“Interesting life you lead, Doc.” He sounded a little breathless. “You got any more of those deep, dark secrets your boyfriend couldn’t find up your sleeve? I mean, besides me and the whole ghost whisperer gig you got going on?”
Perversely, she was almost glad he was back, Charlie realized as she shut off the tap and turned to face him. At least now she knew he hadn’t been murdered—or cast into outer darkness or anything else horrible—by the maniacal knife-wielder.
She instantly dismissed the idea that she might actually have been worried about him, however briefly, however minutely.
“Don’t you have anybody else you can haunt?” Her voice was sharp.
His brows went up. “Gee, Michael, thanks for keeping the bad guy with the knife from hurting me.” His mocking falsetto made Charlie’s eyes narrow. It—he—was really starting to get on her nerves. “I am so grateful. Really I am.”
“He couldn’t have hurt me, just like you can’t hurt me.” She was (almost) positive about this one; she’d lived in the world of ghosts-on-the-ground for too long. These rules she knew. “No substance, remember?”
“I wouldn’t bet my life on it.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall and folded his arms across his chest as he looked her up and down. Again, if Charlie hadn’t known for sure he was dead, she wouldn’t have believed it. Her stomach was even starting to settle down. “Anyway, you’re welcome.”
“I never said thank you.”
“That was me ignoring your bad manners.”
Charlie’s lips compressed. “What happened to the guy with the knife?”
“He won’t be back. We crashed through into Spookville right in front of a hunter. He was nabbed. Lucky for me, I’m getting pretty good at slipping out of there. Just dove right back out the same hole I came in through. What the hell was that guy doing anyway?”
“Apparently the old woman’s husband shot him a few days ago. He was trying to rob their shop at the time. He just hasn’t figured out he’s dead yet. He’s confused, and he’s repeating the last few minutes of his life.” Charlie shrugged. “It’s what happens sometimes.”
“Jesus, are you telling me you see nut-jobs like that all the time?” He regarded her with a combination of alarm and fascination.
“Oh, yeah. All. The. Time.” Her heavy emphasis on each word, coupled with the pointed look she gave him, implied that she included him in that number. He grinned.
“I bet it’s a real joyride.” He glanced around restlessly. “Damn, I’ve seen the inside of more ladies’ bathrooms lately than I ever expected or wanted to see in my life. Don’t you ever hang out anyplace fun? Bars? Nightclubs? Football games?”
“No,” Charlie answered. “During the day I work. At night I go home—or when I’m not at home, like now, I go to wherever I’m staying. And I hate football. But feel free to go to all those places without me. In fact, please do. Start now. The door’s that way.”
She pointed.
“You act like you think I’m showing up where you are on purpose. Sorry to bust your bubble, Doc, but like I told you before, it ain’t a choice. I come out where I come out. So far, it just so happens it’s been in your vicinity.”
Charlie stared at him with as much horror as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. A terrible thought—no, scratch that, a terrible certainty—had just clonked her over the head. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before.
“Oh, my God.” She started shaking her head. “Oh, no, no, no.”
“What?”
Charlie took a deep breath. “I don’t believe this. I think you’re attached to me.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Garland looked wary. “I like you and everything, Doc, but attached to you? I am—was—attached to my dog. And my Harley. And—”
“No,” Charlie interrupted. “I see this kind of thing happen all the time. You’re attached to me. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. Just like that guy with the knife was attached to the old lady. Sometimes when people die suddenly and violently, like you did, they latch onto someone or something that’s close by at the time of their death. I think it’s kind of a way of not letting go, of hanging on to their lives and the earth, like throwing out a psychic anchor. I was working on you when you died. You latched onto me.”
Garland stared at her. After a moment his mouth twisted. “I got to say, if you’d started spouting off stuff like this a week ago, I would’ve said you were the one who needed to see a shrink. Bad.”
Charlie had gotten used to skepticism, back when she was still trying to enlighten people about the undead in their midst, but the difference here was that Garland had to believe her, because he himself was living (?) proof. It made a nice change, she discovered.
“Yeah, well, welcome to my world.”
“You mean to say I’m, like, tethered to you? Like by a psychic rubber band or something? Because you didn’t save my life?”
“You ever hear the saying ‘No good deed goes unpunished’?”
“Didn’t was the key word there. Didn’t save my life. So if I were you I wouldn’t get too wound up congratulating yourself on your good deed.”
“I don’t want you attached to me,” Charlie told him. “This doesn’t work for me.”
“You think I like it any better than you do? You’re cute, Doc, but you’re not exactly my idea of a rousing good time. Now, if you were a stripper, or a whore …”
“There, you see? You’re disgusting. And crude. And a psychopath. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you are.”
“And what’s that?”
“You brutally murdered seven women.”
“Did I?”
“The Commonwealth of Virginia says you did. They sentenced you to death for it, if you recall. What, are you going to try to tell me you’re innocent?”
“Would you believe me if I did?”
“No.” Charlie thought it over for as long as it took for logic to clench the matter, which wasn’t very long. “And don’t even bother trying to convince me otherwise. The afterlife you described to me—purple twilight, screams, the whole bit—that’s not what most people experience when they die. Most people see the white light. The reason you’re experiencing Spookville, as you call it, is because you’re on your way to hell. And if you’re on your way to hell, then I’m confident there’s a good reason. Like you brutally murdered seven women.”
“You always latch onto the worst in everybody, Doc? Or am I just getting lucky here?”
Charlie started to reply, realized there was no point, and shook her head. “I’m not doing this. Uh-uh.”
“I hear you. But unless I’m missing something, I don’t think you have a choice.”
“You can always let go and embrace the afterlife. Sooner or later, that’s what you’re going to have to do anyway.” She smiled less than sweetly at him. “I’d be glad to help you on your way.”
Garland straightened away from the wall. “You try any more ju-ju on me—”
“And you’ll do what, exactly? Just so we’re clear, I think murder’s out for you now. The spirit may still be willing, but the flesh is—oh, wait: gone.”
The look he shot her said he wasn’t amused. “Are you afraid of me, Doc? Is that it?”
“Afraid of the ghost of a serial killer who’s following me around like a puppy on a leash? How crazy would I have to be to be afraid of something—you notice I don’t say someone—like that?”
“You are. You got no need to be, Doc. I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You couldn’t hurt me, Casper.”
“I wouldn’t if I could.”
“That’s actually kind of rich, considering you’ve been threatening me practically since you died.”
“If I’ve been threatening you, it’s only been since you tried to voodoo me out of here. Don’t do that again, and you and I should get along just fine.”
“I don’t want us to get al
ong just fine. I want you gone. Nothing personal, but you’re a complication my life doesn’t need.”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Afraid I’m going to cause a speed bump in your love life, Doc?”
“Afraid you’re going to be a total pain in the ass, which obviously you are.”
He gave her a warning look. “You try to get rid of me again, and …” His voice trailed off, but his face said it all.
“And chalk up one more threat.” As his eyes narrowed, Charlie held up her hands in a peacemaking gesture. “Don’t worry, I won’t try to get rid of you again. You know why? Because I don’t have to. The good news is, the state you’re in is a temporary thing. As I may have mentioned before, spirits who linger usually hang on maybe a week. It’s like you need time to get your head around the idea of being dead or something, and once you do you’re ready to go.”
“Without anybody doing anything? I’ll just … go?” Garland looked uneasy.
“You got it. The ones I’ve had experience with—one day they just disappear. According to my calculations, you’ve got at most—probably four or five days.”
Garland looked at her. “Fuck.”
“Who are you talking to?” Kaminsky’s voice made Charlie jump. She’d been so caught up with Garland that she hadn’t even heard the other woman enter the restroom. Now Kaminsky stood just on the other side of the threshold between the lounge and lavatory areas, staring at her. With obviously no idea that she was looking right through the hottest guy she’d probably ever seen in her life, who was large enough and vital enough, at least from Charlie’s perspective, to fill the space to overflowing.
“Myself.” God, I’m getting good at lying. And sick of it. Quickly she tried to recall the part of the conversation that Kaminsky had been most likely to overhear. “If you’re here to use the facilities, you’d best get a move on. We need to get going. Bayley Evans only has about four days left.”
“What’s your name, Sugar Buns?” Garland drawled at Kaminsky, who of course didn’t hear a syllable. Charlie would have been furious, except she suspected the remark had been aimed at riling her rather than hitting on Kaminsky, who he knew perfectly well couldn’t hear him. “Doc here never did introduce us.”
The Last Victim Page 15
