Island of the Forbidden (3 page)

Chapter Five

Eddie Home looked at the disaster that was his apartment, considered getting out some paper towels and cleaning supplies, thought better of it and crashed on the couch. He ordered a pizza and watched
The Omega Man
while he waited.

No matter how much the opaque spirit of the man in his kitchen vied for his attention, Eddie kept him tuned out. His old skin sagged from his bones—death by old age—kind, rheumy eyes always staring, an unknowable plea drowning in their depths. Eddie had tried talking to the man many times before because he reminded him of his own long-deceased grandfather. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get a coherent word or thought from the man. He knew that
he
was the problem, not the poor old spirit. So, he tried his best to ignore him. Maybe he'd get the hint that Eddie wasn't much company and leave.

That also went for the woman wearing a billowing dress with a collar that went up along her neck, barely concealing a red, vertical slash, standing behind the couch whispering his name.

He turned up the volume when a skinny man clothed in rags, his eyes swollen and leaking a viscous fluid, sat in the chair to his left. The man's mouth, stained with grime, moved but no sound came out.

Just ignore them. They'll get tired and go away.

Eddie ran a hand over the remaining stubble of his hair. He'd shaved it all off a week ago. It was hot and he couldn't be bothered with it anymore. It was yet another aspect of his process to simplify his life. He'd traded in his Bronx apartment for a better place in Cos Cob, Connecticut. It was small, the rent was cheap and it was close to his job as the manager of a pet supplies store. The stock market may have been gangbusters but the economy was still in a major shit heap. Almost everyone in the pet store had recent degrees going to waste.

Closing his eyes, he conjured the image of his talisman, the mental portal his uber-psychic father had taught him to construct as a barrier between the living and the dead.

The once-solid barn sitting amidst a green and gold field of waving grass looked weathered and worn. The vibrant red paint had faded, chipped away, revealing gray, rotting wood. He placed himself within the shadowy confines of the barn, facing the wide-open double doors.

There was a time he could keep those doors locked tight, opening them only when he wanted to, when he needed to speak to the other side. Now, no matter how hard he tried, the hinges remained rusted in place, his psychic barrier thrown wide for all to come and go as they please.

The doorbell rang, yanking him from his broken talisman. He paid for the pizza, dropped the box on his coffee table but didn't open it. His head hung low as he fumbled with his cell phone.

Please, Jessica, call. I'm just as broken as you are, maybe even more so. Something's coming, and if we don't face it, I don't know what's going to happen to us.

The constant pressure of the dead, like being a passenger in a steadily rising jet, had never felt more ominous, more foreboding. Sometimes, when his mind was weak with exhaustion and he couldn't hold them back or continue ignoring their presence, he was able to sense another mind, a living mind, someone with gifts, though nothing quite as immense as those he'd been born with, poking, prodding, searching. This mind, whenever it came through, caused great ripples in the pool of souls that existed around him—hell, around everyone. Then they would press in even closer, demanding—what? He desperately tried to close his mind, not only to keep out the other, but to erect a “do not cross” barrier for the multitudes that congregated in his apartment, the pet store, even his car.

What did they want? What were they up to?

It had gotten much worse over the past couple of weeks. Bits and pieces came into focus momentarily, then evaporated like steam. Eddie clung to each fragment, seeing how they fit in the puzzle.

As the picture lost its obscurity, his worry grew.

Jessica's number, repeated a dozen times, stared back at him from his phone's call log.
I know I'm the last one you want to talk to, but whatever's brewing doesn't care about what either of us wants.

When he looked up, every space in the apartment was crammed with the ethereal bodies of the dead. All eyes, even empty sockets as black as the core of the galaxy, were fixed on him. Jaws worked, up and down, up and down, but he refused to hear their words.

A half dozen women, young, blond, pretty, their wet, onyx eyes shielding him from their intent, stood between him and the television, their forms so concrete, he couldn't see the picture behind them. Heavy droplets of tears fell from their unfathomable eyes.

“Not you again,” he said, pinching his eyes shut.

The women were the worst of the lot. With the others, he was still able to catch glimpses of how they lived, how they died, what they wanted from him, which at this point seemed to be his sanity. Not so with the blonds, the oldest maybe scraping up against middle age. Their chests didn't move, but he could sense the inrush of air that preceded the same thing they said to him, day and night.

“Perfect, not perfect. Perfect, not perfect.”

When they'd first come to him, along with the parade of other uninvited dead, he'd tried to connect with them, to learn their story, perhaps set them to rest. At the very least, his intent was to get them to bother someone else, maybe even someone not as sensitive as he, a person whose life wouldn't be turned inside out by their constant presence. They were as impenetrable as the deepest edges of space, wraiths of dazzling beauty and confounding purpose.

Who wasn't perfect? Were they talking about themselves? They sure looked perfect enough, at least in the physical sense.

Or was it a commentary on him, a condemnation that despite his cockiness in his psychic abilities, he was a far cry from what they truly needed, perhaps what all of the dead who suffocated him needed.

“
Perfect, not perfect.”

He reached for the can of beer on the coffee table, the hot, bitter remains barely enough to coat his tongue. The amber bottle of anti-anxiety pills sat on top of his television, but to get to them, he'd have to pass through the women. For a man who had been interacting with the dead since he was a small child, he was frustratingly afraid to get so close as to mix his atoms with theirs, to share a space in place and time more intimate than if he'd made love to them.

They were what scared him, what drove him to break his promise never to speak to Jessica again. The others wanted to be around him because he was one of the few that could see and interact with them, a filament connecting them to a life now gone.

The perfect women were different. Not so long ago, he would have been able to decipher their intent. Now, they were either an urging or an admonishment. A plea or a caution. Sometimes the other dead, equally disturbed by them, gave him glimpses, but it was hard to coalesce everything into a linear plotline.

Eddie buried his head in a stained pillow, squeezing his eyes shut so hard, bright sparks flitted in his periphery.

Jessica.

“Are you sure this is it?” the tall, pale man asked, rubbing his thumb along the crease in the paper.

“The
spirits
are quite sure,” Nina D'Arcangela replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. She loathed people who doubted her. She'd had enough of that growing up, the strange kid in a family of eight who had been left alone because no one knew how to react to the things she said and did. Even her parents, the weakest pair of suburban automatons to ever sire children, had been of no use to her, other than to question her sanity, and seemingly, her right to be part of the family.

What she didn't say was that the connection to the spirit world had never been so strong. It was almost overwhelming, not to say unsettling. She'd been a psychic medium since she'd turned thirteen, able to snatch bits and bobs from the netherworld. It was always enough to build a story that would assure her return clientele.

But this place, this time, was different on every order. When she opened herself to the spirits, they not only came, they did so with unreal force. They didn't whisper snippets. They practically shouted at her. She would have to remember to encircle herself with a protective light next time she came out. She wasn't entirely sure all the spirits that descended upon her like ravenous lions had good intentions. There was evil here, and she didn't want it following her when she walked out the door.

Tonight, she'd had a very specific task to perform, and the spirits had come through in spades. Or more like clubs that had done a number on her gray matter. Her head was pounding.

Who needs the NSA? If I can find a way to harness this energy outside this house, I can make a fortune working for private snooping agencies.

She wanted to be out of here and back in her hotel so she could rest. There was just no way a person like her could get a moment's peace out here.

Every molecule in the air around her was alive, a dark insistence that scratched and clawed like a cat begging to be let inside. It was so damn draining.

“If you're right—” the man started.

“
When
I'm proven right, you have the details to wire my next deposit.”

His lips curved into a smile that fell quite far from his eyes. “Very well. I'll have Paul take you back.”

As anxious as she was to leave, she forced herself to take her time, leisurely walking through the sparsely furnished house. She didn't want them to think she was the least bit…perturbed.

Even though there were several other people in this house, a place with no carpets and old, wood flooring, the mansion was as silent as death itself. Such a strange house. It looked like something from a haunted amusement park on the outside, yet the interior was impeccable.

There was a lot riding on this. More than she suspected her hosts had even considered.

Nina wasn't about to make a single move that could screw it up.

Jessica surprised herself by crying when she said goodbye to Angela at the security line. For her part, Angela wiped her own tears away and tried to diffuse the sadness by saying, “Build your little house, then get your ass home for a while, you hear me?”

They hugged fiercely.

“I hear you,” Jessica said into her friend's neck, her tears rolling down to her collarbone. She hadn't told her on the drive about her call to Eddie. No need to spoil a perfectly good parting.

Angela pulled back a bit so they could be face-to-face. “You better not be lying, because I'm going to need your help.”

Jessica sniffed, rubbing a tear away with the back of her hand. “Oh yeah, help with what?”

Breaking into an enormous grin, Angela said, “I'm pregnant.”

The news hit her like ten car pile-up. Her brain short-circuited, refusing to send words down to her mouth.

“Boarding for flight three fifteen to New York. All rows, please proceed to the gate
.
”

“Sean Peters is the father, he knows and is thrilled, as are all our parents, and the wedding will be three months after the baby is born because I don't want to be a fattie in a wedding dress.” The words tumbled from Angela as fast as an auctioneer as she struggled to slip her bag over her shoulder. “You need to come home and put those newfound skills to work building a crib and help me plan my wedding since you'll be the maid of honor.”

Jessica croaked, “You wait until now to tell me?”

Angela pinched her cheek. “Now if you want to hear the rest, you have to get your ass to Long Island. It's called a tease. We're women. We created the art form. Now, tell me you love me and wish me a safe flight.”

She couldn't help but giggle with excitement. “I love you and have a safe flight. Oh my God, I'm going to be an aunt…sort of.”

“And not a wandering one, either.”

Angela blew her a kiss and hustled to the security line.

Did that just happen?

Feeling like she was in a dream, Jessica walked to the big viewing window and stayed there until the plane pulled away, headed for the runway. Her face muscles cramped from the smile that hadn't left her lips since Angela spilled the news. She walked against the throng of people heading to vacations and business trips and overdue visits home. Passing a store window, she spied a tiny green and yellow Green Bay Packers T shirt. She went inside and bought it, along with a Packers onesie, pink
I Love Wisconsin
footie pajama set, three teddy bears and two rattles.

She had to cover her bases, at least until she knew the sex of the baby. Unless it was twins, a boy and a girl!

It was hard to remember the last time she felt this happy.

I'm going to be an aunt. I'm going to be a maid of honor.

The frenetic pace of the airport couldn't penetrate her cocoon of sudden bliss. It took some searching to find her car in the short-term parking lot. Her mind was on other things.

Does Aunt Eve already know? Angela only lives four doors away. She has to know. Is that why she's been so desperate to get in touch with me? Why have I been such a loser, doing everything I can to avoid her?

Time to grow up, Aunt Jessica. Wow, that sounds weird. Wonder what it sounds like if I say it.

“Aunt Jessica. No, wait, Auntie Jess.”

Still weird.

Her Jeep wove in and out of traffic as her mind prepared a list of things she'd need to get and do. It was staggering.

Sean Peters. He and Angela had been dating off and on for a year. Well, it sounded like things were definitely
on
now.

As she pulled into the hotel parking lot, her cell phone blasted AC/DC for an incoming call from an unlisted number. She'd hoped it was Eve.

“Hello.” She cut the engine.