A Ghost of a Chance (27 page)

Unfortunately, just as I had sensed your abilities, so had Azazel. He found you through your art and came back to use you.

When you told me of this new ghost friend in college, I thought nothing of it. Reggie was very clever; he made sure I never saw him. I would have recognized him at once, if I had. You spoke of him so fondly, I was happy you found at least one other ghost you could relate to. After all, you needed a friend, someone who could guide you as a man, who seemed to have your best interest at heart. Reggie was the perfect companion to help you deal with your special gift. As he took over, I felt confident you were in good hands. It was only when Amos descended from heaven that I learned the truth and so did Dabria. She came here to look for you. What she found instead was her old master and her mentor. Azazel used you both to capture Dabria. There was only one way to stop him.

You had to die.

Chapter Twenty-Three
Death Becomes Him

You had to die.

The words twisted his ethereal middle into knots.

Keenan was back with his friends, staring out into a real world that was distinctly surreal.

He could see a very human Dabria/Isabella backing away from the body lying on the floor, the chapel musty and small in front of them. In one corner was the storm cloud of Amos suspended there like gray cotton candy. The body wasn’t moving and a twinge of hope surfaced; maybe it didn’t take.

“Is he dead?”

Constance said nothing.

Every ghost held his or her breath for what seemed like an eternity, but the body did not move. Isabella pressed against a wall, biting her thumb. Was it hope or grief he saw in her eyes as she watched the still body? She wasn’t breathing either. It was the most held breaths Keenan had ever witnessed.

After several minutes, murmurs of joy leaked out of the ghostly mass, tentative at first and then picking up volume. Constance squeezed Keenan’s arm until it hurt, something he found very curious since he didn’t have nerves to speak of, but he didn’t mind. Maybe just the act of giving up his body had been enough. He let out a
whoohoo
and touched her hand. Azazel still didn’t move.

Just at the height of their joy, a strange shout came from the back of the room and Keenan’s relief turned to mush.

“Swanson!”

Sergeant Thompson made a beeline directly for the body, got it laid out flat with a quick tug, and started CPR and mouth-to-mouth, shouting at Isabella between breaths to get down on the floor and put her hands on top of her head. Confused, Isabella followed his orders.

Thompson flicked a switch in a blur and continued compressions, shouting into his radio, “I have a man down at the Old Church on Broadway. Get me a unit right now.”

Two more compressions and a fateful miracle exploded under his hands. Reggie’s chest heaved and he rolled over on his side with a coughing fit. Thompson fell back apparently startled the cadaver had come to life. He helped Reggie to sit up and suddenly looked very cross.

“What the fuck now, Swanson? You are one lucky son of a bitch! I’ve called an ambulance.”

“That won’t be necessary, officer.” Apparently, whatever Reggie had put into Keenan’s body was working for him. His recovery was nothing less than miraculous and Thompson scowled at him. “I’m fine, really.”

“You were dead a second ago, buddy. You’re going to the hospital.”

Reggie bounced up from the floor with the grace of an acrobat and performed a full spin for Thompson. “As you can see, I am quite all right, officer.”

Thompson laid one ear near his shoulder and brought those brutish brows close to the center of this forehead.

“What’s with the accent? You ok? Did you knock your head on something? Name’s Thompson, remember? Sergeant Thompson. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Right.” Reggie smoothed his face into an expression Keenan was sure
he
never had in his life, but it looked like Thompson was buying it. “Sorry, Sergeant.” The accent was perfect. “Guess I must have hit it when I fell. Three fingers.”

Thompson didn’t look too convinced, but he headed over to the door where his service revolver was lying. Picking it up, he inspected it briefly then pointed it at the girl on the floor. “Up, sweetheart.”

Isabella got off the floor and looked like she was going to make a break for it, but Reggie was quick. He darted to her side and wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Who’s this?” Thompson asked.

“My girlfriend.” It was an expertly executed lie. He tightened his grip on Isabella and she gasped under the pressure. Keenan was sure the smile she gave Reggie was forced. It confused him.

“The one you were talking about earlier?”

“Yep.” Keenan could tell Reggie was struggling with the accent, but it was coming easier with each word.

“I oughta take you in and throw the book at you, asshole! Just for taking my gun… not to mention my cruiser.” Thompson scratched his head and surveyed the room. “Not sure what happened back there, but looks like maybe you saved my life.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything…”

“Shut up, smart mouth! You sure you’re ok?”

“Never been better, offi…I mean, Sergeant. Unless you want to force me, I don’t need to go to the hospital. Maybe the clout to the head knocked some sense into me.”

Thompson snorted and holstered his gun. “I wish.” He pressed the button on his radio. “Dispatch, this is 7-2-2. Cancel last request. We’re all dandy here.”

“So are you arresting us?” Reggie adjusted his grip around Isabella’s waist and whispered something quick into her ear. She touched his cheek and gave him a quick kiss. Keenan bunched his fingers together.

Thompson folded his arms and bent one knee. He glared at the two for a count of ten then said, “I should, but not today. Waste of time.”

“Thank you.”

“You got a lot of explaining to do about that stunt last night. You come down to the station tomorrow and we’ll get it all sorted out. Right now I’m beat.” He rubbed his eyes and adjusted his belt. “You want a ride home?”

Reggie glanced at Isabella and sent a shining smile back to Thompson. From the look on the cop’s face, Keenan figured this whole thing was creeping Thompson out.

“Actually…” Reggie drawled. “…any chance you could take me to a house in the southeast? It’s very close to the station.”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

Reggie scanned the room as if searching for something. “Tell you what; I’ll meet you out there in a jiff. I need to find my coat.”

Thompson headed for the door. “Don’t take too long. I’m leaving in five minutes.” He lumbered out the door.

As soon as he was gone, Reggie grabbed both Isabella’s arms and shook her. Keenan had never wanted to hit someone more than at that moment.

“Where are they?” Reggie snarled.

“Who?”

“The fucking ghosts and Amos… Where are they?”

Isabella looked straight at Keenan and it startled him. Were those tears in her eyes?

“Look at me, you bitch!” Reggie shook her hard with each syllable. “Where the fuck did they go?”

“He can’t see us,” Constance whispered in Keenan’s ear.

“Why?” Keenan whispered back, struck for the moment by Isabella’s beauty. It was very distracting.

“Because he doesn’t have your abilities as a human, Kee. He’s blind because he’s seeing through mortal eyes. It’s the best piece of news I’ve had all day.”

“Tell me!” Reggie shouted at Isabella.

“I… I don’t know. They left.” Her lips quivered under his hard stare and her eyes were wild.

“Fuck!” Reggie screamed up at the rafters. He grabbed Isabella by one arm and pulled her toward the door.

Just before they went through, Isabella managed to turn her head. The expression she shot at Keenan before they vanished burned into his heart. Sadness, hope, adoration, all rolled into that face in an instant. Before he could return it, they were gone.

Chapter Twenty-Four
The Devil in the Details

For some reason, Keenan had always suspected that ghosts were just kind of “born” into the condition, instantly knowing everything they needed to function in an un-living world. Had he realized how difficult it was to adjust to his new surroundings, he would have been much more understanding.

When Constance grabbed his hand and “pulled” him forward with a shouted, “Come on!” everything twisted around him into dark multi-colored blurs. The
physical
universe melted into the ghostly universe, creating a watercolor world that he flitted through like an oak leaf twirling in the wind. He was flying, or at least that’s what he preferred to call it. It was actually more like creative flapping.

They rushed out of the church so fast Keenan was having a hard time getting his bearings. That coupled with the fact that the world had turned into melting ice cream around him and Constance a bright beam of light, it was no wonder he resisted her pull. She was apparently unaware of Keenan’s plight since it didn’t even slow her down.

“What are you doing?” He didn’t need to shout; there wasn’t any particular sound going on around him. It should have been noisy as all hell so it was a natural inclination.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell ya, Kee. When Amos went after Dabria at
The Hotcake House
, I panicked. I was so afraid Reggie might have him grab you, too, and we weren’t ready.” She stopped talking only long enough to swerve around a sharp corner. “This is why we needed you to give up your body, Kee. So Reggie would go to the girl.”

Keenan’s legs were pulling colors off the tops of frosting cars as they flew past. If he still had his head, he was sure he’d have a splitting headache. “What girl?”

Constance’s face materialized out of the bright light to smile at him. “You really need to keep up.”

“Granted.” His feet went through a shining yellow parking meter and got tangled in an old woman’s hair, but bounced back at him instantly, sending out waves like ripples in a cup of coffee. They picked up speed. “I’ve never died before, so my wits are a little scrambled this morning. What girl?”

The light took Constance’s face back and they sped after the cruiser sailing through a ginger bread world. “The vessel… the woman who has been impregnated with your seed. We need to reach her before he does.”

It was as if he had missed every other chapter in a mystery novel. “Ok,” was all he could manage. “And then what?”

“You’ll see.”

The silence that followed was stern, if that was possible. Keenan knew Constance would not answer any more questions.

To entertain himself, he focused on getting things to settle down around him. Cars, buses, houses, buildings, everything manmade had a cake-like texture. A thirty-year-old birthday wish flashed through his skull; he had always wanted to live in a candy world.
What a stupid wish
! Natural objects, people, animals, trees, grass, and the like all had a golden or red hue around them.

The cruiser stopped abruptly at a street light, and the gang of ghosts collided against itself in a roiling cloud of entities. When it got itself sorted out, Keenan’s universe solidified and everything around him turned normal again. It was disconcerting as all hell. When the cop car fired across the intersection, the mass de-constituted itself and followed like a cartoon swarm of bees. Keenan decided to hitch his ass to the inevitable, as if he had a choice.

When they reached Maywood Park, Thompson took a sharp right onto 102
^nd
and floored it. Six blocks down, he screeched around another right and the group of ghosts almost missed the turn. They caught themselves en-mass and had to bank hard left to make the turn. The cruiser was just pulling up to the house on the right when they got behind it.

Maywood Park, a tiny city within the larger city of Portland, was a triangular neighborhood built between 1920 and 1940. The neighbors had filed for independence when the state threatened to park an interstate highway in their backyards. The highway stayed despite their efforts, but the neighborhood was now an isolated oasis in the middle of concrete, asphalt, and expansion, fighting them all with manicured lawns, clockwork dog walking, and stern refusals to budge. It was a mighty midget amongst municipal giants.

The house they stopped at was typical for the area; small, with a conical tower and a large yard surrounded by a white slatted fence. The grass and hedges were neat and trim, the large front porch clear of debris, and, except for the color, it was a perfect example of Maywood Park’s best. The house was black, all black, from the perfectly placed plywood covering the crawlspace, to the ten-foot high brick chimney spewing smoke against fluffy white clouds. It looked like Dorothy had caught the wrong tornado and missed Oz by at least eighteen hundred miles.

Constance didn’t let Keenan examine it for long. Before he knew it, they had hauled him into the yard and set him in front of the five stairs leading to the railed porch. The black swing bench hanging from black chains rattled once in an ethereal breeze then remained still.