Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (2 page)

The conductor had promised to drop me at a spot with trouble, so I assumed the two-story house directly beneath me was my destination. There didn’t seem to be any cause for alarm. If there was trouble here, it wasn’t apparent. Feeling uncertain, I dropped to the front walk and cautiously approached. Wide open uncurtained windows spilled light onto a porch and front steps. From the windows and open front door, guitar music blasted. I suspected neighbors were grateful for the distances between houses. I supposed it was music. Everyone to their own taste, of course.

In the graveled driveway, a low-slung sports car glistened cherry red in the sharp bright light of an outdoor lantern. Nearby sat a butter yellow motor scooter, which looked like the scooters Bobby Mac and I had once ridden up and down the hills of Bermuda. I floated to the front porch. The music was deafening. Wretched. However, Heaven also loves those who confuse thumps and twangs with melodies.

I drifted inside. The living room had a masculine appeal, comfortable leather furniture—obviously new and expensive—plain wooden floors, bright posters on the walls, a game table, and, on a golden desk, an iPad. I kept au courant with earthly matters and was now quite adept at computers and iPhones and all manner of electronic advances. I glanced from the table to a rather scruffy young man and wondered how he afforded such a luxury.

The windows lacked curtains. Wooden shutters were ajar. The single occupant perched on a wooden stool in front of a drum set. Lanky and lean, he drummed with abandon, locks of dark hair falling forward, bony face rapt in concentration as he added oomph to rock guitar blasting from the stereo. His foot slammed the bass drum foot pedal so hard, I feared an explosion. Whaba whaba whaba whump. Thutter thutter thutter crump.

I folded my arms and felt a sharp stab of impatience.

He did not appear to be in trouble except for the damage he might be inflicting on his hearing.

Could my ticket actually have been to a destination unknown to me? Had Wiggins realized that I was quite willing to go far afield? However, I’d expressed a preference for Paris, not Ponta Delgada, charming as it sounded.

Well, fuss and feathers, here I was and not a calamity in sight. I studied his face, noting the dark fuzz that indicated a casual attitude toward shaving. The features were a bit too irregular to qualify as handsome, the forehead a trifle large, the nose too narrow, sharp cheekbones, and a pointed chin with a decided cleft, but he possessed a definite appeal. Perhaps a hint of a likeable rebel? Perhaps an air of I’m-gonna-have-fun? He was young, early to mid-twenties. His broad mouth was stretched in a satisfied smile. He was clearly quite pleased with himself.

With a final horrendous tattoo, the assault on the drum set mercifully ended. “Yee-hah!” As he reached to turn off the stereo, he gave a boisterous shout, “Nick Magruder, you are The Man!,” and flung the sticks across the room, where they ricocheted off a high padded leather stool at the counter of a wet bar. He ended with an unmistakable rebel yell, a welcome home as warm as a hug.

“Yee-hah!” I responded.

I clapped a hand over my mouth.

His head jerked up. He looked around the room, then dropped to the wooden floor, and in two strides he was at the front door. He flipped on the porch light, looked out. Finally, shaking his head, he turned back into the room. Slowly bewilderment eased from his face.

I began to relax. Human beings are so transparent. They don’t tolerate the inexplicable well. In automatic defense, he would satisfy himself that the feminine yell had a perfectly ordinary explanation. An exuberant shout from a passing car. A high-pitched creak from old wood.

A majestic orange tabby strolled into the living room.

I smiled and reached down to pet the huge creature. I gazed at the cat’s large, splayed paws. Surely those were almost thumbs! I was startled into exclaiming, “Why, look at your claws—” Again my fingers pressed against my lips.

The cat flopped to the floor and rolled over on his back.

The young man blinked. “Hey, Champ, you got a lady cat stashed around here somewhere?” His tone was falsely genial and a bit overloud.

I darted to a rattan sofa and sank down. In my haste, I forgot the uncarpeted floor. The light sofa lurched and slid backward about an inch, making a distinct scraping sound.

The cat rolled to his feet and padded toward me. Before I could move, he jumped and landed on my lap. Unfortunately, that positioned him with a several-inch expanse of space between his fur and the sofa.

“Here, Champ.” I whispered. I gingerly pushed the cat toward the empty center of the sofa.

Sharp claws tightened on my upper thighs.

I managed—almost—to suppress a gasp of pain.

“Hey, Champ.” The young man walked nearer. “How you doing that, chum?” There was a mixture of disbelief and determined heartiness in his voice. “Cats can’t levitate.”

Desperate situations require desperate measures. I firmly gripped the cat, flowed to my feet and pressed him into his owner’s arms. I skittered sideways fast, knocking over a can of Schlitz that had been, in my view, carelessly left sitting on the floor by the sofa. Of course I hadn’t noticed the beer. I’d been watching the cat.

The cat growled deep in his throat.

Beer spewed, foaming.

“Okay, buddy, time to go out. I am not getting this.” His nice tenor voice definitely sounded strained. “I guess you made those funny noises. Maybe you’ve got a mouse stuck in your throat. Funny, but I thought you weren’t actually on the cushion. You looked like your were floating. Cats can’t float. I guess I didn’t see you right.” This was a mutter. “You didn’t need to knock over my beer.” Carrying the squirming tom, he hurried to the front door. He placed the cat on the porch and shut the door firmly.

I floated to the wet bar and perched on the counter. I needed to catch my breath.

He walked behind the counter, opened a small fridge, pulled out a new can of beer.

I watched with narrowed eyes. If anybody needed a beer, I did.

He flipped back the tab, lifted the can, drank about half. He heaved a sigh of contentment as he strolled back around the counter. He stopped to look into the mirror behind the wet bar. He gave himself an approving nod. “Nick, old buddy, you got ’em on the run.” He threw back his head and brayed with laughter.

I shook my head in dismay. I’m all in favor of good humor, but there was a tone of uncharitableness in his proud pronouncement.

He held the can high in a self-toast. “So they’re on me like june bugs.” His voice was defiant, but there was a lost look in his dark blue eyes. “Hey, that’s okay with me.”

The sound was small but alien, hard to define, something between a rasp and a rattle. Even before I swung toward the front of the house, I somehow knew that I’d found the trouble I’d been looking for.

The blue black barrel of a rifle poked through a hole gouged in the screen of an open window not fifteen feet distant. The barrel moved toward the lanky young man holding his can of beer.

With a shout—and I am pleased to say I thought quickly and screamed, “Police!” at the top of my lungs—I flung myself forward and barreled into him.

Caught completely by surprise, though he was tall and rangy, he toppled backward, crashing heavily to the floor. Beer spewed in an arc and the can fell and rolled across the uncarpeted wood.

A loud crack, and a vase atop a bookcase shattered.

I continued to scream. “Police! Police! Nine-one-one!” Not even the most determined of killers would hang around to find out the meaning of frenzied female shouts.

The rifle barrel was gone. I was about to pop outside to discover the shooter’s identity when I realized the young man who had happily played the drums and taken such a satisfied gulp of beer now lay unmoving.

Oh yes, there was trouble in Pontotoc County.

I
dropped to my knees beside Nick. I patted his chest, tugged up his polo. No blood. I ran my fingers across his face. No wounds. “Nick?” I spoke his name more loudly. “Nick, are you hurt?”

My hand slid behind his head. Dampness. I bent near and turned his face. Blood streaked my seeking fingers. Blood oozed from the back of his head. He must have grazed the edge of the wet bar’s foot rail when he tumbled backward. But surely he hadn’t been shot. From the angle of the attack—my eyes flicked toward the window—a bullet would have struck him from the front.

I lightly touched his throat and felt the steady beat of the carotid artery.

I was almost weak with relief.

My head jerked up. In a flash I was outside, standing by the window with the broken pane. I was alone. Whoever had stood there, rammed the barrel through, steadied the rifle, and pulled the trigger was long gone.

I pressed my lips together. I’d foiled the attack, but the attacker was at large. The police must be summoned and Nick’s injury treated.

I was once again at his side.

Nick’s eyelids fluttered. The lashes were long and dark and silky. His eyes opened. He stared blearily up.

“Don’t move.” I was crisp. My mind was going a mile a minute. “You probably have a concussion. I’ll call nine-one-one, and then I’ll check outside again.”

His eyes snapped wide. “Where are you?” He moved his head from side to side. “Ouch. My head.”

“Lay still. That can’t be good for you.”

Breathing fast, he struggled to his hands and knees, reached out, pulled himself up, and leaned against the wet bar. He wavered unsteadily. “Nutty. Something’s nuts. My head hurts. Voices. Nobody here.”

“Nick. Listen up.” I once taught high school English and had six football players in my class. I can match a drill sergeant any day.

Instead of cowed attention, he gave a yelp that was part panic and part despair. His gaze swept back and forth, seeking the source of that imperious voice. “What was I doing on the floor? How’d I get on the floor? I’m sober. I swear to God, I’m stone-cold sober. I am not hearing voices.”

Clearly I’d whacked him like a mole in the instant before the attacker pulled the trigger. Nick had no idea what had happened, and every time I spoke, he edged nearer complete demoralization.

I felt equally demoralized. So far, and I’d not been here for more than a quarter hour, I’d violated Precepts Three and Six. However, in the present situation, I was able to follow Precept Four: “Become visible only when absolutely necessary.” If ever necessity demanded my appearance, it was now.

“I can explain everything.” As I spoke, I swirled into being. Of course, such an appearance can be rather startling. As colors whirled, I was reflected in the mirror behind the bar. I brushed back a tangle of red curls. I appeared a bit disheveled, but I’d been rather active. I admired the wine-colored sweater, decided the shade should be a tad lighter, and paused in mid-swirl. Lavender was such a nice color.

He clutched the counter and moaned.

I went around the end of the wet bar, found a glass and a bottle of club soda. I scooped ice cubes from the freezer and poured the fizzy soda. “Sit down on a stool.” I nodded in approval as he slid onto the leather seat. I placed the glass in front of him. “Drink this. I imagine your head hurts. But don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.” I spoke soothingly. “I’ll call the police.”

“The police? Why? What have I done? Lady, I never laid a hand on you.” He leaned forward, stared at me as if I might disappear. How insightful of him. “Where’d you come from? You weren’t here a minute ago. How’d you get in?”

“Everything will come back to you.” I had this nurse thing down pat, just the right pleasant tone: warm, reassuring, and slightly condescending. Now was the moment to take charge. I jerked my thumb toward the ragged hole in the screen. “Someone poked a rifle through the screen and took a shot at you.”

Nick slowly turned his head, looked toward the window. “The screen’s messed up.” He looked puzzled.

Nick might be young, sexy, and attractive, but he was a trifle slow.

He squinted at me. “Who ripped the screen?”

I was patient. “Your assailant.” At his lack of response, I shook my head. “The person who tried to shoot at you.”

He managed a sickly grin. “You got a great sense of humor. Is that how you got in?”

“I dropped in.” I try to be accurate. “Please pay attention. We need to call the police. Now. Where’s the phone?”

“Phone?” His face creased.

“We need to call nine-one-one. Your attacker has been gone for several minutes. But the police can start a search.”

“I didn’t hear a shot. That’s nuts.” He started to shake his head, winced, gingerly touched the back of his skull. He brought his fingers around. His eyes looked hollow. “Blood!”

He swayed.

I gripped his arm. “Not much. You banged your head when you went down. I pushed you out of the way.” I spoke with quiet pride.

“You were here?” His voice fairly squeaked. “I’ve never seen you before. Where did you come from?”

Heaven admires honesty. However, if I understood the Precepts properly, and in Wiggins’s mind there was some question about that, I should avoid sharing information about the department. Therefore, I felt comfortable in obfuscating, always a delectable sport.

“Concussion,” I announced with nurselike firmness. If he assumed greater medical expertise than I possessed, I was not responsible for his thought processes. I leaned forward, peered intently into his blue eyes. I held up one hand. “How many fingers do you see?”

“Five.”

“Excellent.” I beamed at him. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

I had no idea, but it sounded okay to me.

“Who is the police chief?” Chief Cobb wouldn’t be pleased at the delay in reporting the shooting.

“How should I know?” He sounded bewildered.

Apparently he wasn’t active in his community. On the positive side, his ignorance suggested that he wasn’t a lawbreaker.

“What’s your favorite TV show?”

“
True Blood
.
”
He gingerly touched his head. “But I don’t like blood. How’d my head get hurt?”

I pointed at the railing on the wet bar. “You cracked your head as you went down.”

He stared down at his fingers. He looked queasy.

I took him by the elbow. “Here. Wash your hands.” I turned on the spigot of the wet bar.

Dutifully, he thrust his big hands into the gushing water.

I grabbed some paper napkins, swiped them beneath the water, gently dabbed at the back of his head.

“Ouch.”

“It’s a very minor cut. Hold still.” I patted the area. “If you have some antibiotic cream, I’ll dab some on the scratch.” The wound was minor and no longer noticeable.

He turned off the water, grabbed a handful of napkins to dry his hands. “I don’t keep stuff like that. How’s it look now?”

“Fine. And you’re fine.”

He turned to look at me. “Yeah, thanks for the help.” He moved out from behind the counter.

I followed, feeling impatient. We definitely needed to contact the police, the sooner the better. I scanned the room for a phone.

“The door’s that way.” He pointed.

As if I couldn’t find a front door. I gave him a scathing look. “I’m not going anywhere until we find out who shot at you.”

He started to shake his head, winced. “I didn’t hear a shot.”

“There was a shot. I shoved you. I saved your life. That’s why you weren’t shot. You took a glancing blow and momentarily lost consciousness”—I thought he had been stunned, but it wouldn’t hurt to mislead him—“and that’s why you don’t remember me.”

He studied me.

I saw quick recognition that I was young, redheaded, and female. There was a momentary pulse of attraction, the automatic male appreciation of a desirable woman. But there was no spark of pursuit in his dark blue eyes. As Bobby Mac always puts it so well, he never walks by a beautiful woman without noticing, but his heart belongs to me.

I wondered who owned Nick’s heart.

“Now that everything’s clear—”

“What were you doing here?” There was a tinge of apprehension in his voice. He clearly hoped he wasn’t forgetting anything compromising.

“I’d just arrived. I’m running behind”—I scrambled for a reason to be in a young (I assumed) bachelor’s home long after dark—“in my survey for the Chamber of Commerce. I have to turn in my report tomorrow, and your house is one of the last on my list.” I’d once served as the mayor’s secretary, and I had great faith that the chamber was quite capable of surveying a neighborhood for one reason or another. “However, that’s neither here nor there.” I spoke with great accuracy. “What matters now is to report the effort made to shoot you.” I held out my hand. “Your cell phone.”

He reached into his back pocket, stopped, looked puzzled. He patted all of his pockets, then glanced around the room, his eyes searching. “I must have put it somewhere.”

Time was fleeting, as it always is when it is of the essence. “Surely you have a regular phone. Where is it?” I, too, glanced around the room. I didn’t see a telephone anywhere.

He started to shake his head, stopped with a wince. “What for?”

“No phone?” I suppose my shock was evident.

“Who needs a landline?” He was disparaging. “That’s for geezers.”

I kept to the main point. “Do you mean we can’t call the police?”

He rubbed his temple. “My cell’s gone.” He didn’t speak as if this were a complete surprise. “Maybe it’s out in my car. I toss it on the seat a lot. Bulges in my pocket.”

He started for the door.

I gripped his arm and admired its muscular firmness. “Wait. I think it’s safe enough. Let me take a look first.”

He looked incredulous. “Listen, I don’t believe in this OK Corral stuff. But if somebody was sniping at me, I’m the guy to look. What do you think I am, a weenie?”

“I’m better equipped.” As soon as I stepped onto the porch, I could disappear. “Just wait right here.” I hurried toward the door.

He was right behind me. “Lady, let’s cut the drama and the fairy tales. The C of C is a fine group, but I doubt it sends ladies out at this time of night, and even if it did, nobody’s handed you a marshal badge.”

I stopped and faced him. “Don’t be difficult. I am here on a mission to protect your sorry carcass.” I slapped my fingers to my lips. Wiggins always feared that his emissaries might forget in the heat of the moment that they were
on
the earth, not
of
the earth and succumb to worldly emotions.

Such as irritation.

I forced a smile. “Truly, it’s much safer for me to go out and check the grounds.” Since the cat was out of the bag, I might as well be forthright. “See, I’ll disappear—”

I glanced at the mirror behind the bar. No matter how often I appear or disappear, I enjoy the quick swirl of colors. At first there is a delicate hint of change in the substance of the air, the merest flicker of pastels. Colors brighten, deepen, and there I am, copper red hair, eager face with a spatter of freckles, obviously up for anything. Disappearing is dramatic, too. I was fully there—in the moment, for all who appreciate Zen—with eager green eyes and a merry smile and fashionable clothes. I admired the cunning trim on my lavender sweater. . . .

My smile slid away.

I stared at the mirror. Red hair. Green eyes wide and staring. Lips parted in dismay. I reached up, tugged at a strand of hair. I fingered a flamingly visible curl and gazed in disbelief.

Nick’s expression was desperate. He cracked the knuckles of his right hand. “You got someone I can call to help you out?” His attempt to soothe sounded like a sheep bleating. “Oh damn, I forgot. I don’t have a phone.” He struggled for air. “Try taking a deep breath. Looking cross-eyed at your hair is pretty weird. Look, why don’t you go home?” His voice rose in hope.

I ignored him, pressed my eyes shut. I would think, as I always did,
Disappear
, and I would disappear. I eased open one eye.

Both eyes.

I stared at my unmistakable image in the mirror. I gave myself a little shake. Okay, how about different clothes? I shut my eyes, thought:
Green silk dress, high heels, very high heels with a natty little strap over the instep.

My eyes jerked wide and gazed in despair at the lavender sweater and charcoal gray slacks. I patted my arm, slapped my palms together, stamped my right foot on the floor. “I can’t disappear. My clothes won’t change! What am I going to do?”

He gestured toward the bar. “How about a drink?”

I walked toward the wet bar. Nearer and nearer came my image in the mirror. I slapped the countertop, stared into green eyes stretched wide in disbelief. “I’m stuck. How could this happen?”

“Lady, do me a big favor. Walk outside and get in your car and go home. It’s been nice to know you. And I’m sorry if I miffed you about the Chamber of Commerce. Whatever your survey is about, check the yeses and I’ll make a donation. A great, big, fat donation. Look, it’s late.” He glanced at the clock. “Almost ten.” He spoke as if the hour were incredibly late. I’d be willing to bet he barely to started to boogie by ten. Boogie? I’ll explain another time. Time! Why was I still here when I’d intended to disappear. All I had to do was think,
Gone
, and I was gone.

The reflection in the mirror was clear and sharp and undeniably there.

“Lady—”

I spoke in a steel-ribbed voice. “Stop calling me lady.”

“Who are you? What’s your name? Why don’t you go away?”

“I would go,” I spoke through clenched teeth, “if I could. I can’t. Hush for a minute and let me think.”

He started for the door.

I beat him to it, yanked open the door, plunged onto the front porch, and yelled, “The police are on the way.”

He pushed out beside me.

The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the distant whoo of an owl.

I turned to go back inside.

He caught my arm. “Do you always yell for the police when you go outside?”

“I am protecting your—” I broke off. Despite the pressures of the world, I would demonstrate that I wasn’t
of
the world.