by Gina Ardito
He shrugged. “Is this story any more tragic than your own? Or mine?”
“Well, yes.” At his sharp look, she added, “At least, it’s sadder than mine. I made my own mistakes, took my own life, acted without thinking. I alone am responsible for my being here.”
Luc’s expression hardened to stone. “How comforting it must be to have such insight into your death.”
She slapped one hand on her hip. “Oh, come on. By now, you must have reached some conclusions about why you’re here instead of there. What is your story anyway?”
“I fell in love, got married, and died.” Each word came out chillier and sharper than an icicle spear. “End of story. Now get Mr. Finch’s coordinates so we can claim our next lucky contestant.”
~~~~
The blare of a car horn startled Jodie, and she gasped. How quickly she’d grown accustomed to a quieter world. She opened her eyes to gray cobblestone looming beneath her. Yet, her feet never touched the ground. She simply floated a whisper above the bustling world. New York City’s Soho area spread out before her in full Technicolor.
A large blue coach bus hissed to a stop near the curb. Yellow taxis swerved between lanes, barely avoiding jaywalking pedestrians. Above her, a rainbow of banners announcing art exhibits, restaurants, and antique sales snapped on a spring breeze. Shop windows crowded with tie-dyed clothing, stacks of books, or glass art deco, glinted in the afternoon sunlight. People buzzed along the sidewalk, whipping from doorway to doorway, speaking in excited tones in a dozen different languages. Across the street, the Soho Psychic’s scarlet storefront beckoned customers to come inside to hear their futures.
Jodie needed no help in that department. No, she and Luc had other business here. Which reminded her…
She turned to see Luc’s familiar silver orb floating beside her.
“That’s Finch’s place.” He pointed to a rust-colored brick building with white arched windows and awnings striped apricot and cream. “Sixth floor.”
“Okay. Let’s go for it.”
He zipped forward, calling over his shoulder, “Follow me.”
The hustle and bustle of New York City’s crowds made gathering energy easier than a hummingbird gathering nectar in a honeysuckle field. All too soon, she’d amassed enough electricity to power the Empire State Building. Spinning wildly, she propelled after Luc, dashing to the other side of the street and up six stories. For a moment, she hovered, marveling at her ability to appreciate a bird’s eye view of Manhattan. Neither windows nor walls enclosed her to prevent leaning too far to see the live theater below. What would a person think if he or she looked up and spotted her floating here?
“Quit sightseeing and let’s go,” Luc snapped.
The brick walls bore plenty of chinks where mortar had disintegrated, providing no impediment to their entrance. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a bit like a cat burglar as she landed beside Luc on a floor coated with decades of dust and cobwebs. Grimy floor-to-ceiling windows let in brief slivers of murky sunlight from the world outside. Industrial florescent fixtures hung from the ceiling, cold and dark, skeletal remains of a more productive era. In the far corner, a family of hawks had built their nest in the rafters.
Despite all the details her mind drank in, Jodie noted no ghost in attendance. Shoot. What if she’d screwed up and dragged them to the wrong place? Concerned, she turned to Luc. “Maybe I got the coordinates wrong?”
A swarm of energy jolted her, slamming her against the wall. The impact shattered her into a million pieces, billiard balls broken with one crack from the cue.
“Go away!” a man’s voice bellowed.
“Jodie!” Luc shot across the space to her side. “You okay?”
Shaking away the daze, she managed to gather her broken bits until she became an electrified entity once more. “Uh-huh. Where is he?”
“In the corner,” Luc said. “Near the bird’s nest.”
Jodie focused her gaze on the darkened area, and spotted him immediately. To be honest, he was hard to miss: a singular ball of light, bright red, spinning recklessly, bouncing from overhead beam to overhead beam. Each time he hit the metal ceiling joists, orange sparks pinged like spit from a blow torch. “Let’s get him.”
“Stay here.” Luc’s tone was firm, brooking no argument.
Which, naturally, raised Jodie’s hackles. “No. This is my bounty, too. We do this together.”
“He’s already tossed you once,” Luc retorted. “Stay here and regroup. I’ll take care of this guy. You can get the next one.” Without giving her a chance to continue the debate, he whirled to face the angry orb. “Taylor Finch?” His mode of address, while a question, held no uncertainty.
“Go away!” the man bellowed louder.
He loomed closer now, threatening, and Jodie got a clear look at the specter behind the ire. His face was lined with funnels, eyes blazing white-hot. Hair stood out in a spiky circle around his head. His mouth drew down in a perpetual frown. Heat pulsed around him in waves stronger than the noon sun. How could this man muster so much rage? So much sheer power? Was he a Fury?
In direct contrast to Mr. Finch’s furious tirade, Luc remained relaxed, keeping his tone and posture easy, but firm. “You know why we’re here. It’s time to give up the ghost.”
The artist shook his head emphatically. “I’m not ready. You can’t make me go.”
“You don’t have a choice. Your time’s up. The Board has a new life prepared for you.”
“Yeah, sure.” Finch folded his arms over his chest. “I’m starting all over somewhere else—lots of chances for happiness—and meanwhile, my wife and kids are still living here in some hellhole, struggling to make ends meet? No way, my friends. They already had to move into some slum ‘cuz they couldn’t afford the rent on our old place. If I’m gone, who’s gonna keep them from becoming homeless next?”
When the fog fully cleared from Finch’s blow, Jodie floated forward to back up her partner. “Perhaps you can appeal to the Council of Elders for more time. Why don’t you come with us and explain your situation to them directly?”
Luc shot her that infamous shut-up-and-look-pretty vibe again. In reply, she surreptitiously shook her head.
“Fat chance, sweetheart,” Finch countered. “You get me over there, and I’ll never get back here. Where were you and the Elders when my agent was ripping me off? Who took my side when I confronted the bastard and he shot me? Be a good girl. Go back without me and tell them I want to stay.”
“We don’t have that much authority,” Luc replied. His gaze remained riveted on Jodie, clearly communicating his need to wring her neck.
She pretended not to notice, keeping her focus fixed on Finch.
“I don’t give a damn about authority,” the artist snapped. “That bastard in Miami is trying to rip off my wife and kids. Someone has to see justice done. Who’s going to watch over my family? Who’s going to make sure they get what they should have received when I was murdered?”
Gabe! The name popped into Jodie’s head like the Hallelujah Chorus.
Ignoring Luc’s withering glance, she edged closer to Finch. “If I could promise you someone will take on your family’s case and work tirelessly to gain them justice, will you come with us?”
Luc whirled on her then. “Are you out of your mind? You think your ex-lover is going to get involved in this fiasco?”
She didn’t ask how he knew Gabe’s identity. The sensory link they shared had probably filled in the details before she’d finished the thought. An inner alarm warned her to be careful how much she divulged—or even what popped into her head—when they were on the job. If she wasn’t careful, in time, he’d strip her defenses bare.
“Gabe’s not just my ex-lover.” She returned her attention to Finch. “He’s an attorney who specializes in art law. He’s done work for Christie’s, Sotheby’s, even the MOMA.”
Finch’s brows drew together in a thick beetle line. “On which side?”
The
question threw her into a sea of confusion. Her gaze slipped from Finch to tight-lipped Luc, who shrugged, obviously content to let her founder with this one. “Umm…on both sides, I think. I mean, it depends on the case, but—”
“He means is Gabe living or dead,” Luc retorted, exasperation clipping each syllable.
“Oh!” Duh. She resisted the urge to slap her forehead. “Living, of course.”
Uncertainty deepened the crevices in Finch’s ghostly visage. While he pondered the possibilities, Luc simmered, a pot on a flame. And Jodie likened herself to popcorn kernels sitting at the bottom of that pot. The longer Finch took to decide, the hotter Luc grew until Jodie started bouncing from anticipation.
Finally, Finch nodded. “I’ll tell you what. You get your attorney friend on my family’s case, and I’ll go forward with you willingly. Until then, I stay here.” He pointed to the filthy floor.
Luc opened his mouth, but Jodie, sensing his brewing argument, stuck out her hand. “Deal!”
Chapter 9
At the Halfway House, Luc slammed Jodie’s door with such force the walls trembled. “Are you out of your mind?”
By all rights the trip to Earth and back should have exhausted her. And Luc’s smoldering attitude hardly lightened the atmosphere. But the prospect of seeing Gabe again had her struggling to keep from dancing on the ceiling. Why not? Within two bounties she’d managed to turn this job to her advantage. Still, she stifled her smugness and feigned ignorance under Luc’s withering glare. With nails dug into palms, she tamped down her excitement. “Why? What’s the problem?”
She beamed at him while he paced the few feet between her door and the counter with ground-eating strides. Anger bubbled and popped from his frame, a witch’s cauldron of resentment. “The problem is you’ve made a promise you can’t keep. And you ruined my perfect record in the process.”
“What are you rambling about now?” She pinned him in place with a blank stare. “What perfect record?”
Sometimes she wondered if, in life, he’d presided over some corporate board of directors. He had all the attitude of a multi-billionaire accustomed to people jumping when he snapped his fingers.
Snap your fingers at me and I’ll punch you square in your perfect aquiline nose. See how long it takes to pull yourself back to that gorgeous prime of life with blood spouting from your nostrils and a fractured nasal bone. Did he forget that here in the Afterlife, she and he were equals? She wasn’t his gal Friday or administrative assistant or chief coffee fetcher.
“In all my time here, I’ve consistently brought back every bounty in one trip. One out, one back.” Shifting his weight to a jean-clad hip, he held up his right index finger, mere inches from her nose. “One.”
Oh, yeah. He wore the posture of a captain of industry with ease, a stance that said he was supreme ruler of his kingdom. Arrogant jerk. She might be his trainee, but that didn’t give him the right to act so smug and superior with her.
Jodie took two steps back and rotated her wrists. Flexing her fingers to get the energy flowing, she struggled to keep from pitching him off his high and mighty throne. “So?”
“So?” Brows raised, he glared as if the answer should be obvious. “No other bounty hunter can hold a candle to my record. I’m the best because I’ve delivered the goods on the first run every single time.” He frowned. “Until you came along.”
Was that all? She set her hands on her hips. “Big deal.”
One hand clutching his chest, he staggered, stopping only when his back hit the counter behind him. “It sure as hell is a big deal.”
No matter how much heat his anger radiated, he wouldn’t singe her happiness. In fact, a devil sprung up on one shoulder, whispering how this seemed like the perfect opportunity to have some fun at Luc’s expense. In perfect imitation of a disapproving parent exasperated with an angst-filled teenager, she covered her chest with folded arms and thrust out a hip. For the coup de grace, she tapped a booted heel against the bare floor. “Tell me.” She kept her voice even, firm but curious, like that old sourpuss, Sister Mary Immaculata, who’d tutored her in the one-room schoolhouse in Castelan. “What do you get for your ‘one out, one back’ perfect record?”
Confusion whipped over his expression, and he blinked. “What do you mean, what do I get?”
“Just what I said. Is there an Employee of the Month Award in the Afterlife? Some kind of Super Bowl ring you get to flash proudly at all the He-Man Bounty Hunter Club meetings?”
“What the hell are you talking about now?” His eyes flashed brimstone fire. Eyes of flint.
Like those gun barrels in the El Salvadorian jungle. The image hurled her back into horrible childhood memories. Bullets. Heat. Screams. Blood. The sickly tangy smell of gasoline. When tears welled up, she turned away to hide her emotional state from Luc. Too late.
“Are you crying?” he demanded.
She didn’t answer. The words refused to eke past her tightening throat. Keeping her back to him, she strode toward the bed and yanked on one corner of the coverlet to straighten an imaginary wrinkle. Busy work. Just like Mom…
Her distraction, however, didn’t seem to fool Luc. “You see. This is exactly why I told Sherman you aren’t cut out for bounty hunting. You’re too soft, too emotional.”
The words pelted her like sleet, icy balls of memory from her foster care days. You’re too sensitive, Jodie. If you didn’t react to the boys’ teasing about your scars, they’d grow bored and stop. The more you cry, the more entertainment you give them. Just ignore them…
Well, she couldn’t ignore the barbs then, and she’d be damned if she’d ignore them now. “It’s called ‘being human,’” she snapped.
“That’s my point. We’re not human anymore. And you’re holding on to memories and people who no longer exist for you. You’re too raw for this job.” His voice lowered to a husky whisper. “You have to toughen up your skin, baby.”
The misogynistic endearment boosted her temper into the stratosphere, and she jerked her head up to glare at him. “Maybe you should soften up. Maybe the Board paired me with you because you’re an ice cold prick who needs to see that most spirits stay behind because they’re hurting. Did you ever think of that?”
He raked a hand through his hair as if waking up his brain cells. “Of course not. We’re supposed to remain neutral. Bounty hunters don’t care about the whys and wherefores of a spirit’s life story. We don’t care about innocent, guilty, or extenuating circumstances. Our job is to collect errant ghosts and bring them to Sherman for preparation before their next incarnation.”
Under all her brewing heat, her tears sizzled and evaporated. “Like we’re heading up a cattle drive? ‘Rope ‘em in, move ‘em out?’ Is that what you really think?”
“Something like that.” At her sharp look, he shrugged. “Why not?”
“I’ll tell you why not. If that was really what our job was about, the Board wouldn’t bother to provide us with information regarding each spirit’s private life, details about the cause of death, even the names of loved ones left behind.” She held up a hand to stem the argument brewing on his lips. “You may think you’re the be-all/end-all on bounty hunting, but if you ask me, you’ve learned nothing about this place in all the time you’ve been here. I’d bet my kick-ass boots we’re supposed to use any and all information to do what’s in the best interest of our clients.”
“Oh?” One eyebrow arched. “You really expect me to believe you thought of contacting your former lover because it was in Finch’s best interest?”
And there, as if the proverbial elephant wearing a pink tutu had performed the death scene of Swan Lake in the room, lay the crux of Luc’s anger with her.
“It seemed to be the easiest way out of what was potentially a bad situation.” She smoothed the creased pillow with the flat of a shaky hand.
“Are you trying to convince yourself?” He stalked closer to the bed, a black panther fixed on a delicious yet trembling field mouse. “
Because I’m not buying your crap. You were thinking of nothing more than a tearful reunion with your old lover. Finch was just a means to an end.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so angry over this.” Okay. She understood his anger all too well. But she refused to admit any wrongdoing. “We didn’t exactly let Finch escape from some maximum security prison. Sherman said no one can escape the Board’s attention, no matter where they hide. So we know where Finch is and how to reach him. As soon as I contact Gabe and get him working on the family’s claim, the old artist will come along with us willingly.”
“Uh-huh.” His posture, arms folded over his chest, communicated his doubt.
“Come on, Luc. It’s a win/win situation, if you ask me. Everyone gets what they want.”
“Especially you.” He pointed his index finger at her face. “Right?”
She ignored him. “Trust me. Gabe is a brilliant art attorney. If there’s anything that can be done for Finch’s family, Gabe will get it done. And he’ll do it legally. Peacefully. No fighting, no argument. You’ll see. This will be a perfect example of the fine art of compromise.”
The rage in his expression melted, replaced by a twisted smile. “So tell me, Miss-Fine-Art-of-Compromise, how do you propose to contact your brilliant art attorney hero? Especially since you’re currently residing on two entirely different astral planes? It’s not as if you can pick up the phone or send an email.”
Hmmm… He had a point. She’d forgotten that pesky detail. His smirk deepened; he knew exactly what raced through her mind.
“Quit grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat!”
His index finger bopped near her nose. “You know I’m right.”
Then the scarlet door in Soho swam into her head. “I’ll use a psychic.” There. That should shut him up.
Well, almost. His sudden explosion of laughter left him incapable of speech. Each ha-ha ratcheted another rigid notch in her spine.
By the time she caught his eye again, a wrought iron backbone fused her upright. “I hardly see what’s so funny.”
