Jackie forced a smile. “I did not mean to offend, Mr. Thatcher. How long have you lived here in Thatcher's Mill?” From over the top of Robert's head, Jackie caught movement on the edge of her vision. Someone was looking down at them through an upstairs window.
“The Thatchers have been here for decades, as you might well imagine,” he replied. “Surely educated folk like yourselves would know this?”
Surely, I'm going smack you upside the head, you little twerp.
“I meant you, Mr. Thatcher. How long have you personally lived here?”
“Why, I grew up here, as you might expect.”
“Mr. Thatcher,” Jackie said and pushed her hands into her pockets before they involuntarily reached out to throttle him. “We happen to know you married Beverly Thatcher and came to Thatcher's Mill five years ago.”
“I most certainly did not,” he snapped back. “I married my lovely Beverly seventeen years ago this past July. I may have married into the family, but I am a Thatcher through and through, thank you very much.” He took a step back. “I believe I shall take offense at your presence upon my property now. I politely ask that you leave. Have a good day.” Robert gave her a curt nod, spun on his heel, and marched back into the house. The door slammed, followed by the click of the deadbolt being turned into place.
“What the hell was that?” Jackie stared at the house in disbelief. “Does he even know what century he's living in?”
“We should get off his property,” Nick said, “before he decides to call upon the police chief.”
Jackie spun around and stomped toward the car. “Nothing a badge and a gun wouldn't deal with.”
Hon, quit. It's fine. We've learned something. Let's go from there and move on,
Laurel said.
Oh, well that's just preposterous,
Jackie replied in her best imitation snotty voice.
People don't give you shit for being an FBI agent.
Laurel huffed.
Then don't let them give you shit for hunting ghosts. Own your work, hon. Be proud of it. You're skilled in ways nobody else is.
Jackie slammed the door shut and started up the Explorer.
That's the problem. Nobody else gets it, so it's just a fucking joke. Pisses me off. Anyway. I'm just being bitchy. He annoyed the crap out of me.
“Did anyone else see someone in the upstairs window?”
“A girl,” Nick replied. “Fourteen or fifteen perhaps.”
Shelby grunted. “Did we hear anything about kids?”
“And why would he lie about his past to us?” Jackie wondered. “Marrying someone and changing your name isn't illegal.”
“Have to admit,” Cynthia said, “that changing both your first and last name is a little strange.”
“But worth getting all offended over?” Jackie didn't buy it. Something was really off with the guy, besides the stuffy suit.
“Call up Hauser,” Nick said. “I want to see if he can tell us what the names of the Thatchers were back when I was here.”
I'm going to stay here for a bit, hon,
Laurel said.
Maybe there's a spirit who will actually have something to say. I'll come back down to the diner shortly.
Jackie talked with Hauser, who said he would need a little time to find out the old Thatcher names, but he quickly looked up census information on the current Thatchers, which listed only the Robert and Beverly Thatcher living at the residence.
“OK, then,” Shelby said, as Jackie pulled the Explorer up along the curb next to the drug store. “So who's the girl?”
“Could be a relative for all we know,” Jackie replied, getting out of the SUV. “But I'll bet we can find out quick enough. I want a coffee, and then maybe we can canvas the town again. Surely someone around here is willing to say something.”
“They might be afraid to talk to us,” Nick said.
“Everyone?” She could not believe that. People liked to gossip about strange goings on in their neighborhoods. This town should be no different. “Someone around here will talk. We just have to find them.”
“We might try neighboring towns, too,” Cynthia added. “They might have some interesting things to say about this place.”
Jackie led them across the street to the diner, feeling horribly conspicuous on the nearly deserted streets. A young woman stepped out of a wall behind the diner and crossed the street, her eyes following them as they passed one another. Jackie waved.
“Hi there,” she said, but kept walking. Maybe questioning was the wrong tack to take with these ghosts. Perhaps, if they just realized someone else noticed them, one of them might eventually take an interest on their own. They might be dead, but they were still human, and humans were curious creatures.
“What was that about?” Shelby wondered.
“A little reverse psychology,” Jackie said, and pulled open the diner door.
“Oh.” Shelby nodded. “Oh! Smart girl. See, I knew you were the boss for a reason.”
When they sat down, Molly came by a minute later and wordlessly poured coffee and set down water. She purposefully avoided eye contact.
Nick took a drink of his coffee after she walked away. “Not pleased we're back, obviously.”
“Getting the clear impression that nobody around here takes much to strangers,” Jackie said.
“Conspiracy of silence,” Cynthia said.
Molly brought back menus and set them on the edge of the table. Jackie smiled up at her. “Molly, mind if I ask you a question?”
She stopped, her shoulders sagging in exasperation. “I have nothing to say about any ghosts in Thatcher's. You folk should just move on to some other town.”
Really? Changing your tune already, Molly? Have words with the police chief perhaps?
“Actually, I just wanted to know who the Thatcher's daughter was?”
Molly heaved a sigh. “Which one?”
More than one.
“Well, um ...”
“Long, dark hair,” Nick said. “Teenager, about fifteen or so.”
She looked at them in silence for a moment. “That would be Rebecca Thatcher,” she replied. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got other customers.”
There was one other customer in the diner. Jackie frowned. “She's going to be useful.”
“So,” Nick said. “How does one go about having a daughter with no record of her living there?”
“Previous marriage?” Cynthia suggested.
“Not if you've been married for seventeen years and grew up here,” Jackie replied. “Think we need to get an accurate record of just who these Thatchers were before they were Thatchers.”
“I think you're right,” Shelby said. “Something ain't right up on the hill.”
Jackie felt the familiar cold breeze of Laurel returning. She glided through the kitchen and sat down between Cynthia and Shelby. Jackie raised an eyebrow at her. “That was quick.”
She shrugged. “Nobody had much to say, and our favorite alien is back. I did get a name, though, from one of the spirits. Rebecca. Her name was Rebecca.”
Jackie just about spit her coffee back into the cup. “Really. Well, that is some interesting news.”
Nick sat frozen, staring at his cup, his gaze far off and empty. “Interesting indeed.”
“What is it, babe?” Shelby asked. “I know that look, and I never like it.”
“When I was here ... back then,” he said. “The girl I tried to help, the survivor from Drake's attack, she had a twin sister. Rebecca.”
They all looked at each other in stunned silence. The little nagging feeling of wrongness about this whole situation abruptly blossomed into a hollow pit of dread in Jackie's gut. “No shit.”
“Well,” Cynthia said. “Can't say that sounds good at all.”
The door bell chimed as someone walked into the diner. Shelby sighed and downed the rest of her water. “Maybe you ought to tell us that story now, babe.”
“Well, well,” a voice rang out right behind Jackie's ear, startling her, “what's a former FBI agent doing in a little town like Thatcher's Mill?”
Jackie wheeled around and stared up at the source of the familiar voice. It took a second to register who she was looking at before her stomach knotted up in agitation. “Margolin.”
He gave her an unwelcoming grin. “Ms. Rutledge. Fancy meeting you here.”
Chapter 13
Jackie got to her feet, her small frame inches away from Margolin, who towered a good six inches over her. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Might ask you the same question,” he said. “Imagine my surprise when a little birdie told me you were heading out this way. So, what's Special Investigations doing in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere?”
She inched forward, bumping into him and forcing Margolin to take a step back. “The airport is twenty miles away, you shithead. How'd you know we were here?”
“I know a thing or two about investigation,” he said. “Not that hard.”
Jackie felt Nick slide out and stand up behind her. “I got this, Nick. He's just a reporter.”
“Hey!” Tucker yelled from behind the counter. “Take your problems outside. I doubt Chief Carson would take kindly to a fight in here.”
“And Mr. Anderson,” Margolin said, the smile still on his face, “CEO of Bloodwork Industries, philanthropist to the Chicago arts community, and oddly, a PI on the side, helping people with paranormal problems. An interesting team”âhis gaze roamed over Cynthia and Shelbyâ“to say the least.”
“You have a point to any of this? Before I decide to throw you out on your ass?” Jackie said. If he had something, he would have said it already. Reporters were antsy like that in general. He was fishing. Though she might have to give him one good shot regardless.
Margolin chuckled. “You aren't an agent anymore, Ms. Rutledge, at least
officially
. So you have no authority to be throwing me anywhere.”
She stepped forward again, staying in his face. “Who said I need authority? It would be a civic service.”
The smile faded somewhat. “I'm not here to pick a fight with you, Rutledge. I just want to know what you're investigating here.”
“None of your fucking business,” Jackie said.
“Anything to do with all of the ghosts around here?”
Sonofabitch.
There would be no getting rid of him now. “You've seen some ghosts then? Maybe you could point them out for us, help us out.”
“Hey, you guys are the Ghostbusters. Isn't that your job?”
Ghostbusters? Weaselly motherfucker.
Jackie cocked her fist and started to swing, only to lurch off balance when Nick's hand grabbed her wrist and halted all forward momentum.
“Not worth it, Jackie,” Nick said, barely above whisper.
“The big, bad PI going to do your dirty work for you?” Margolin did, however, take another step back.
Purposefully egging me on. The little bastard is picking a fight for some reason, and he knows we could kick his ass. What the hell is he up to?
Just then, a Thatcher's Mill police car rolled up in front of the diner and Chief Carson stepped out.
Shelby sounded amused behind her. “Well, well. Isn't that convenient?”
“Great.” Jackie took a step back and bumped into Nick, who had not moved. “Last thing we need right now.”
“Think it's time we put a little space between us and the Mill,” Nick replied.
The diner's door jingled as Carson walked in, the dark worm on his lip following the frown of his mouth. “You folks having a problem here?”
Margolin moved toward Carson. “Hey, I was just asking what they were doing here, and she got all up in my face over it.”
“Tucker!” Carson yelled. “What's going on?”
The cook walked out to the counter. “Pretty much what the newsboy said, though I can't say much for his attitude either.”
“I see,” Carson said, leaning against the cash register at the end of the counter. “Perhaps I was a bit too subtle with my suggestion yesterday, Ms. Rutledge. Then again, you didn't strike me as the type to heed good advice when you heard it.”
Jackie started to retort, but managed to cut herself off before saying something too stupid to recover from. Not having a badge was proving difficult. “Our research isn't done yet, Chief Carson. When it is, we'll be out of your hair. As it is, no laws have been broken, nor do we intend to be breaking any, unless newsboy here decides to take a swing at me. We'll be on our way, though.”
Carson folded his arms over his chest. “Be that as it may, I don't believe the good folk of Thatcher's Mill appreciate or want you to be researching their town. I suggest once again that you take your team elsewhere to conduct your business. It's not wanted around here. Is that a littler clearer for you, Ms. Rutledge?”
She felt Nick's hand resting against the small of her back, a gentle warning to leave this alone. She did not want to leave it alone. In another life, she would not have left it alone at all.
Laurel took the opportunity to ease herself into Jackie's head.
Hon, I know. Let's just get out of here. We'll figure out what to do later.
This civilian stuff is bullshit,
Jackie told her.
I want my damn badge and gun.
Jackie walked toward the door, making sure to step on Margolin's toes as she went by, and paused next to Carson. “I got the message before, Chief. I'm a smart girl. Smart enough to know this town is hiding something. So I don't give a shit how clear you are. We'll be back.” Without waiting for his reply, Jackie pushed open the door and left.
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Back in the Explorer, Jackie forced herself to go the speed limit as she guided them out of town and toward the airport.
“I think we can count him as an enemy now,” Cynthia said. “He gave me the creeps.”
“He wasn't our friend to begin with,” Jackie said. “This whole town is giving me the creeps.”
“OK,” Shelby replied. “Back to more important matters. What was it Laur said about one of the ghosts being named Rebecca? Coincidence?”
“Not likely,” Nick replied. “What are the odds we have a girl named Rebecca Thatcher, a dead girl at the Thatcher's named Rebecca, and a Rebecca Thatcher who died over one hundred years ago?”
“Slim to none,” Jackie said. “Maybe we can find something in the county records?”
“And who's the other sister?” Shelby wondered. “Who was it back then, babe?”
“Charlotte,” Nick said. “Her name was Charlotte.”
“Care to tell us that story? We've got some time to kill here.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Guess I'd better.”
“And make it the short version. You know how long-winded you can get.”
Jackie caught Nick shaking his head out of the corner of her eye and smiled. “Oh, yeah. A real blowhard, our Nick.” He gave her a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile.
“All right, then,” he replied. “The CNN version of Nick's trip to Thatcher's Mill.”
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Surprisingly enough, he finished by the time they got to the airport, and once again, Jackie realized just how different a life this man must have compared to everyone else in the world. It was difficult to imagine how many bodies had fallen in the wake of his pursuit of that monster, Drake. She could relate to the singular purpose of tracking him down, just not the part about finally catching him. Somewhere out there, her stepfather Carl still lived and breathed, and God only knew how many lives he had ruined beyond hers and her mother's. Only Nick had never stopped, never been given the choice really, and she had. At some point, Jackie had given up her pursuit, and only held on to vague hopes that, some day, he would pop up on her radar again. If she never made it back to the FBI, however, even those small hopes would be gone.
Shelby's hand reached over the seat and squeezed Nick's shoulder. “Goes without saying, I guess, that I'm sorry, babe. Tough price for only trying to help.”
He shrugged. “Is what it is, and that was over a hundred years ago.”
“Still, no fun to have it all dredged back up,” Cynthia said. “Figures, this would be the one case we manage to pick out of the stack.”
“Karma,” Shelby replied. “Maybe we were supposed to come back. It is beginning to seem like there's a correlation of some kind.”
So it would seem. Jackie had to agree. This went beyond mere coincidence. “Let's see if Hauser has anything more for us. We need a bigger picture. There's a link to all of these ghosts there somewhere, and I don't think we're going to find it by going door to door.”
“One has to wonder,” Nick said, “why everyone would be so unwilling to talk about the ghosts. Most small towns would milk this kind of thing for all the tourism dollars they could get their hands on.”
“Which means there's a reason they don't want anyone to dig,” Jackie replied. “So let's keep digging until we find something. I want to go back with something, anything that I can shove up that chief's ass.”
Shelby laughed and opened the door. “A girl after my own heart.”
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Back in the air headed toward home, they got Hauser back on the speakerphone. “Give us good news, Hauser,” Jackie said.
“Hey, beautiful. Not so sure about good.” He laughed. “How about more weirdness, because that's all I'm finding.”
Jackie sipped on the good coffee Nick had brewed on the plane's built-in machine. “That's what we expected anyway. Shoot.”
“I've compiled all of the vital records I could find, and it would appear that if you were born in Thatcher's Mill, you died there as well. Nobody has moved into or out of that place in decades, except those Thatcher men and women, which I guess explains the consistency in population over the years.”
“An island unto themselves,” Cynthia said.
“Pretty much,” Hauser replied. “And like I said before, everyone there has died either from an accident or natural causes.”
“Hauser,” Jackie said. “Can you tell me how many girls named Rebecca have been born there?”
“Sure, one sec.” There was silence for a moment before he returned. “Two, according to official records.”
“Figured as much. How about the Thatchers? Can you tell me how many Thatcher children have been born over the past century?”
“Yep. There were ... two. Charlotte and Rebecca.”
“That's it? They've been there over a hundred years and never had any kids?”
“According to the records.”
Nick frowned. “That doesn't add up. What are the ages of death on the Thatchers?”
“Let's see here.” Jackie could hear the clacking of Hauser's keyboard in the background. “Forty-two, thirty-five, thirty-seven, twenty-nine, thirty-two. Man, I wouldn't want to marry into that family.”
“So,” Shelby wondered, “who is the kid living there with them now?”
“Laur?” Jackie asked. “Could that ghost you talked to be the Rebecca Thatcher who died back when Nick was there?”
“Possibly,” she replied. “She looked the part, had on a pretty, old-fashioned wool dress with lace trim.”
“As did some of the other female ghosts we saw,” Nick said.
Shelby nodded. “The ones I saw as well.”
It made no sense. “All of those ghosts can't be from that era,” Jackie said. “And there weren't enough deaths in the appropriate age range to account for them all.”
“Exactly,” Nick replied. “So, if nobody has moved into Thatcher's Mill besides the Thatchers, where did these girls come from and why is there no record of them?”
“And Robert Thatcher was dressed up old school as well,” Jackie said.
“Yes,” Shelby replied. “Which means it's safe to assume that our current Rebecca Thatcher is, too.”
“So the Rebecca that Laur talked to may not be the original Rebecca at all,” Jackie said.
Cynthia brought her hand to her mouth, eyes wide. “Could some of those other ghosts be Rebeccas, too?”
“Holy shit,” Shelby exclaimed. “We should have some Roberts, Beverlys, and Charlottes, too.”
“The Thatcher's Mill curse,” Cynthia said. “It kind of makes some sense.”
“Curse, my ass,” Jackie replied. “Thatchers are dying for a reason. We just don't know why yet.”
“Damn, this is great stuff,” Hauser piped in. “You guys get the coolest cases.”
“Hardly,” Jackie said. “Hauser, how long has the police chief, Carson, been on the job?”
“Sec. I'll check.”
Jackie got up to pace. She wished she had her board to look at. “Let's assume for the moment that Thatchers have been dying at an absurd rate for years, and that it isn't some stupid curse afflicting them all.” She stopped and laid a hand on Cynthia's shoulder. “Sorry, Cyn. No offense.”