When Maggie remained silent, Selena must have decided there’d been enough ghost talk. She spent the next hour telling stories passed down through the family and trying to convince Maggie they were a privileged clan, not burdened or cursed by their unique abilities.
Maggie grew restless and shifted several times to find a more comfortable position. Selena finally broke it off. “We’ll leave the rest for another day. I can see you have more than enough to think about.”
But Selena and Dalia took the time to make a list of things they thought Maggie needed to know.
“Why all this?” Maggie asked doubtfully when they showed it to her. “I only want to learn how to control the ghosts.” She pointed at number five on the list. “Why do I need to know about someone named Kate Batts? I’ve never heard of her.”
“The Bell Witch,” Dalia murmured.
“Witch?” Maggie scowled. “I don’t want to hear anything about witches.”
“But she’s actually a ghost. A nasty ghost. While most are harmless if you’re reasonably cautious,” Selena said carefully, “there are exceptions. Which brings us back to the chill you felt when you interacted with Hurst.”
Maggie didn’t know what was coming, but something in Selena’s voice made her suck in her breath.
“Ghosts are not from our world. They bring a little of their own dimension with them when they come through the veil. That’s the cold you felt. While no real harm has yet occurred from these brief incidents, every encounter with the chill of the Beyond leaves a marker on your soul. Over time, extreme exposure would leave so many markers you could be drawn through the veil against your will, trapping you there for…eternity.”
Maggie stared at her, the silence so profound she heard the blood pounding in her ears. “Geez, this can’t be real,” she said softly. “But it is, isn’t it?” No wonder they hadn’t mentioned this earlier, she would have run screaming. She might yet.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Selena hastened to add. “Most ghosts keep their distance, if you let them. And I can teach you ways to avoid contact with rogue ghosts, like Kate Batts. Usually they’re beings who were evil in their human lives. I’ll prepare you in case someone like Kate shows up, a being whose evil makes it powerful and hard to control. Such a creature would try to force itself upon you.”
Maggie put up her hands in self-defense. “Stop. I’ve heard enough. Don’t tell me anymore. Not tonight. You’ve made your point. We’ll talk again.”
By the time Dalia and Maggie started home, twilight had deepened into a dark, moonless night. Even her bright beams cut only a narrow swath through the inky black along the swamp road. Maggie kept her speed down to avoid missing a turn and ending eye to eye with an alligator in the murky waters.
Maggie’s thoughts swirled, and Dalia respected her need for silence until Maggie asked, “Why does Selena live way out here? Doesn’t she get lonely?”
“Oh, never that. I don’t know why she didn’t tell you. She can’t see ghosts, but she hears their voices. In a city like New Orleans so many spirits spoke to her, the sound was overwhelming. She couldn’t distinguish one from another. So she moved to seclusion. But she’s never alone.”
Apparently things could be worse than a ghost sighting now and then…as long as she didn’t go near them. Maggie sighed and returned her full attention to their precarious route. With a sense of relief, she finally turned onto a two-lane road. A black SUV appeared almost immediately, swung in behind her, and hugged her rear bumper. Maggie moved to the right to give him extra room to pass. Instead, he increased his speed and tapped her bumper, jolting her car. Dalia squeaked and grabbed the console.
“What the hell? What’s the matter with him?” Maggie scowled at the SUV in her rearview mirror. It dropped back, and then crept close again. When she sped up, the driver matched her speed. Maggie’s stomach clenched. This wasn’t a case of road rage. The Tahoe had been waiting.
Reaching for her waistband holster, she took out her SIG and laid it in her lap.
“Mercy me,” Dalia murmured.
Maggie abruptly shifted into a lower gear and put on the brakes. She’d hoped to force him into passing or dropping back, but the SUV kept coming, slammed into her bumper with a squeal of metal against metal, and began pushing her car forward. As their speed rapidly increased, she shifted upward to save her gears. The two cars raced through the dark at speeds approaching eighty on winding roads built for fifty miles per hour. The Tahoe gradually shifted toward the center of the road, metal screeching again, and increased pressure on the left rear corner.
Dammit. He was trying to shove her toward the right shoulder of the road where water gleamed whenever their car lights swung in that direction. Fighting the wheel, Maggie managed to keep them out of the swamp…until she spotted the sharp turn directly ahead. They’d never make it.
“Hang on,” she yelled, jerking the wheel toward the left lane, taking the curve on the fly. Tromping on the brakes, she skidded her car a hundred and eighty degrees to face the Tahoe. “Now we’ll see what you’re made of,” she said softly. She hit the gas, and her car leaped forward directly in the path of the oncoming SUV. Just when she thought she couldn’t hold the course another instant, the other driver blinked first, swinging out around her and racing off toward the city.
Maggie brought her car to a halt. Her heart pounded, her palms suddenly sweaty now it was over. Thank God for police academy road training. She was tempted to give chase, but there wasn’t a prayer of catching him, not in that modified SUV with its oversized tires and supercharged engine. Besides, her knees hadn’t yet stopped shaking.
She took a deep breath and looked at her wide-eyed companion. “You OK?”
“I think so. I’ll know more once I collect my scattered wits.” Dalia’s fingers were locked in her lap. She finally relaxed them and cleared her throat. “You have bigger problems than ghosts.”
Yeah, Maggie got that. Someone very real had tried to kill or terrify them. She picked up her phone to call it in, but she was out of service range. She frowned. Should she even report it? The SUV’s license plate had been removed, the windows were tinted, and she couldn’t see the driver. It looked like a Tahoe, but black SUVs were common, even used by most government agencies in the country. Would her account be passed off as another spurious report? Dalia’s support wouldn’t help…not if they discovered she was a spiritualist. Maggie was in no mood to face another skeptical or overly sympathetic cop. She laid her phone back on the console, shifted the car into gear, and started for New Orleans.
“Aren’t you going to call 911 or something?” Dalia asked.
“No. At least not tonight. He’s gone. I’ll take you home.”
Maggie kept the SIG in her lap and a sharp eye on every crossroad. As they got closer to the city and traffic increased, she watched every vehicle, alert for any hostile moves. But no one paid any attention to them, and she dropped Dalia off without incident.
Tension still tingled between her shoulder blades. It might be a normal adrenaline reaction, but she wasn’t about to ignore her uneasy feelings. Not with everything that had happened lately. After parking her car, she palmed her pistol and carried it at her side until she was inside her apartment. Still not satisfied, she cleared her residence, silently gliding from room to room, pistol ready. She opened every closet, even checked under the bed, until she was sure she was alone. Only then did she throw the double locks on the apartment door.
She stood uncertainly in the middle of the living room, finally laid her SIG on the coffee table, and went to the kitchen for a glass and a bottle of wine. She programmed soft music on the surround system, curled up on the couch with her wine, and called Annie.
“Hey, girlfriend,” Maggie said, keeping her voice light. “Tell me about your day. Mine wasn’t worth mentioning. So dull, I need to live vicariously through yours.”
CHAPTER TEN
The following morning Maggie was driving home from Dalia’s when police l
ights flashed behind her. She looked in her rearview mirror and frowned. Wasn’t that Brandt in his unmarked car signaling her to pull over? She acknowledged him with a wave, found a business parking lot two blocks away, and stopped. She got out and stalked toward him.
“What the hell are you doing, Brandt, pulling me over like that?”
“Your left taillight is out.” He pointed toward her damaged back bumper. “Did you tangle with a brick wall?”
“No, I did not.” Her indignant response was automatic. She followed his line of sight, but she’d checked earlier and knew what she’d see. A sizable dent and scraped paint on the left fender, gouge marks the length of her bumper. The covers on both taillights had been broken. She hadn’t realized one of the lights was out. He frowned as he ran his fingers along the deep streaks on her bumper. “It must have been quite an accident. How’d it happen?”
Maggie sighed. Damn those eagle eyes. “It wasn’t an accident. Somebody tried to run me into the swamp last night.”
His gaze flashed to her face. “Did you call it in?”
“I didn’t have cell coverage at the time. But no, I didn’t bother.”
He shot her another unreadable look and crouched to check a spot on the bumper. “Looks like black paint.”
“Yeah, a big SUV.”
He finished his inspection and slowly stood. “Want to tell me about it?”
She gave a dismissive lift of one shoulder. “Not much to tell. We were coming back from visiting a friend in the bayou. The black SUV, with what sounded like a modified engine, came out of a side road, bumped my back bumper. Hard, a couple times. He speeded up, pushing us toward the water at the edge of the road. I did a spin around, and he drove on.”
“Who was with you?”
“A cousin. She wasn’t hurt.” She gave him the rest before he asked. “No plate on the SUV, and I didn’t get a look at the driver.”
“All the same, you should have called it in. You know the routine, Maggie. Eventually we’re going to get this guy, and every scrape of evidence helps the prosecutor put him away. Besides solving your case, it would be nice if we could keep you alive.”
“Yeah, I’d like that too.” Not that it was a priority for anyone except her. “Well, you know now.”
“You need to get those lights fixed,” he said walking toward his car.
“Does that mean I can go?”
“Hell, no.” He opened his door and grabbed his phone from somewhere inside. “I’m calling the lab to get a sample of that black paint.” He walked back toward her as he talked to the lab, and she heard his last words. “Yeah, hit and run. Photographs too. We’ll be here.”
“This is a waste of time.”
“Maybe, but when someone tries to kill a fellow officer, I like to be thorough.” He pulled out his notebook. “Where, what time, and what kind of SUV?”
“It looked like a black Tahoe, but like I said, it was specially equipped.” She gave him the rest of the particulars, including the approximate location and Dalia’s name and number.
By the time they were finished, a lab tech arrived, took a half-dozen photos, and scraped black paint off her car. While he worked, Brandt got in his car and left.
She watched him drive away. Not even a good-bye. She’d been right before. His attitude sucked. What rumor had he heard this time? Maggie compressed her lips in a thin line. They were all pretty much the same, centering on her alleged instability. At least he was still working her case.
But why was he keeping such close track of her? Was he also watching her house?
Her eyes narrowed. Who else was watching? How did the driver of the Tahoe know she’d be on that lonely road last night, unless he followed her there?
Did Brandt own a Tahoe?
She rubbed her forehead with one hand. Coridan might be right. She needed to get out of town, escape the ghosts, the uncertainties, the damned spies—well-meaning or not—and develop a little perspective.
When the tech finished, she drove toward home, keeping an eye on both side mirrors and the rearview for potential tails. She went out of her way, doubled back, circled again, checking to see if she spotted any vehicle more than once. When she was satisfied no one was currently following her, she stopped in front of her apartment building and ran inside to pack.
Ten minutes later she wove around town, watching for Brandt’s car or anyone else suspicious. On an impulse, she pulled over at a city park, checked under her bumpers and on the undercarriage, looking for trackers that someone might have planted. Geez, York. Paranoid much?
When she didn’t find anything that shouldn’t be there, she stopped at an auto repair shop, had her taillights fixed and got an estimate on the other repair work. Since the car ran fine, the bodywork might have to wait until she was fully employed again.
Finally, she headed out on I10 east toward Slidell. She’d called Dalia to let her know she was playing hooky for a few days, and she’d called Annie. Her best friend enthusiastically entered into planning a getaway and made several suggestions, including a live theatre performance on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain. She became so enamored with the idea, she offered to join Maggie tomorrow night and make a holiday of it. They’d been to a live performance once before with a wedding party. There was a cute bed and breakfast nearby, and a day spa mere blocks away. Since Maggie didn’t care what she did, it sounded like a perfect plan. Not too far, good company, and most important—nothing to do with her daily life.
* * *
Brandt drove by Maggie’s apartment about nine o’clock that night. He’d found himself checking on her and watching for her around the French Quarter more than he could justify as routine casework. He’d spotted her car turning the corner ahead of him this morning but wouldn’t have noticed the broken taillight if she hadn’t hit her brakes at the crosswalk. And here he was again…checking on her safety. Or so he told himself. But he’d been thinking about their earlier meeting and feeling a bit guilty, wondering if he should offer an apology. He’d been angry—another attempt had been made on her life, and she hadn’t trusted the department or him enough to report it. He understood her frustration, but it was simply bad police work.
That still didn’t excuse his rough tone, abrupt departure, or his pretended indifference. She already felt isolated. Well, congratulations, Brandt. He’d just added to it.
He looked up at her window. No lights. He drove on with a mixture of relief and regret. He still wasn’t sure how to act around her. The ghost thing had thrown him. He’d been raised in a traditional family. His father, also a police officer, had instilled a no-nonsense philosophy—no ghosts, no witches, nothing you couldn’t see, feel, touch, and explain with cold, hard facts. New Orleans was a whole different world—maybe a different planet. Nothing surprised people here.
Who was he to say paranormal phenomenon didn’t exist? Or that York hadn’t had some kind of spiritual experience? He could have given her the benefit of the doubt.
Thursday and Friday night’s checks outside her apartment yielded no better results. He told himself she was out enjoying herself and there was no reason to worry…but he wished she’d come home.
By Saturday night he was ready to start an official inquiry. He let out an audible sigh of relief when he saw a light in her living room and her car parked on the street. Its rear light covers had been replaced.
Before driving home, Brandt glanced at her window again, wondering where she’d been…and more importantly, who she’d been with.
* * *
Maggie returned from her trip ready to take charge of her life. Someone had said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over yet expecting a different result. She’d tried ignoring Hurst, and it definitely hadn’t worked. Maybe Selena and Dalia were right, she should enlist his help…or at least try.
The soul taint was scary, so horrifying it seemed unbelievable…but Maggie knew it was true. She’d sensed an atmosphere of danger hovering over Hurst, and in a w
eird way, it was a relief to know what it was. He didn’t appear to be one of the really bad ones, and Maggie would avoid any more risky close encounters.
She’d shared everything with Annie. In between theatre shows, the beach, and drinking sparkling wines at a local club, they discussed it so much that the idea of working with a ghost didn’t seem any stranger than the rest of her life.
Early Sunday morning, she discussed the possible methods of contacting Hurst with Dalia. Since the veil between worlds was thinnest at night, that was the obvious time to try. Dalia suggested choosing a place Hurst had been before. Someplace significant. And simply putting out a mental call of his name.
“If he’s willing to make contact, that’s all it should take,” Dalia assured her.
At eight that evening, Maggie left her apartment building on foot. Wary of potential surveillance, she looked both ways, circled the block, and cut through an alley before heading north to the courtyard where she’d been shot.
It wasn’t exactly smart for a woman to be alone in this area at this time of evening, but she had a can of mace in her jacket pocket, her SIG, and her backup weapon. With any luck, she’d get in and out unnoticed. She wasn’t looking for trouble, just for ghosts. A grim smile flitted across her lips.
The courtyard was deserted. It still gave her the creeps. She had a momentary flashback to those moments just before she was shot. If she could have them back, what would she do differently?
Stop it, she scolded herself. She hadn’t come there to waste time on what ifs. Crossing the courtyard, she took a seat on the edge of a raised flowerbed, closed her eyes, and silently said Hurst’s name. She opened her eyes again and waited.
“OK, Hurst. Where the hell are you?” She spoke softly and glared around at the shadows, trying not to feel silly. “You keep hanging around as if you want something. So now I’m ready to talk.”