A Question of Ghosts (22 page)

“I had dinner with Rachel tonight. She’s in bad shape, Mom. Scary weak. I know the two of you were friends. You cared about her. Look after her if you can, wherever you are.” Becca lowered the ball radio to her lap. “I guess that’s it. Good night.”

It was time she got back downstairs. She knew Jo was worried. She lifted herself to her feet and picked up the Spiricom, cradling it and the radio in her arms. Becca looked around, trying to remember what else she had brought up here.

She slid open the drawer to the bedside table to retrieve her bottle of lotion, and instead found a bottle of Scotch.

*

The scant sliver of a moon was shielded by tattered streams of clouds, the late-night air mild and cool on Jo’s face.

She sat out on the front steps feeling guilty about this brief escape from the house, but enjoying it nonetheless. It wasn’t a heinous desertion. Their company had left hours ago, and Becca had been curled on the sofa, sleeping peacefully when she slipped out. She drew smoke deeply into her lungs, feeling mildly guilty about this indulgence too, but—

“You
smoke
?” Becca’s low voice behind her was incredulous.

Jo clenched her eyes shut and sighed out a white plume. “I guess there would be no point in denying it at this time. In my own defense, this is my first cigarette in two years. I found an old pack in my bag.” With real regret, she rubbed the glowing tip against the stone step.

“Well,
cripes,
don’t kill it!” Becca padded quickly closer on her bare feet and sat on the step next to Jo. The soft white of her T-shirt glowed against her skin, even in the meager moonlight. She held out two fingers expectantly.

Jo passed her the still-smoldering tube, surprised.

“You know we’re both going to hell for this.” Becca drew shortly and closed her eyes in pleasure. She stuttered out her next words to keep the smoke in. “We’re the only two people left in Seattle who smoke.”

Jo nodded gravely. “In some circles, it’s a greater social stigma now than drug abuse.”

“In lesbian circles, smoking is second only to being single, as proof of a character disorder. This is written down somewhere.” Becca exhaled a cheerful gust of smoke. “I think eating too much chocolate and fainting at the sight of dolls made the list, too.”

“I’m fairly certain you’ll find wealth and long-term virginity on the same list.” Jo was proud of herself for this light-hearted reference, and gratified when Becca laughed, but something nudged at her. “I’m kind of surprised you’re tempting fate, Becca. Khadijah mentioned complete abstinence is how you’ve stayed clean and sober, and nicotine is certainly a dr—”

“Yeah, well, I may not be as much of a die-hard junkie as some people think.” Becca pulled in smoke again, her eyes suddenly hard. “I’ve beaten that.”

Jo wished for better light. Becca’s features underwent a fascinating change, angry and almost feral for an instant. Then she was Becca again.

“In my own defense, this smoke is my first in six years. I don’t think either of us want to puff like chimneys again, Jo. But tonight, it’s nice.”

Jo accepted the cigarette back, willing to agree. They finished it in companionable silence.

“I tried to reach my mother earlier.” Becca snugged her T-shirt down around her knees. “While I was upstairs. The lady ain’t talking.”

“We know so little about windows.” Jo scrubbed the glowing butt thoughtfully against the step, then slipped it into the crumpled cigarette pack. “Those brief periods of time when voices are able to come through. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to your mother’s timing.”

“Becca. Not true.” Becca tapped two fingers. “Her first message, and I heard it twice.”

Jo understood where she was going, and remembered Madelyn Healy’s second message. “Becca, run.”

“He wanted me.”

“The gift held blood.”

They sat in brooding silence. At least Jo wasn’t alone in her frustration; Becca shared her impatience to make sense of all this. She saw Becca’s hands lying loose in her lap and lifted one. She touched the small, neat Band-Aid at the base of her palm. “Did you wash this out? It’s a wonder we’re not both slashed to ribbons after sweeping up that lake of glass today.”

Becca nodded, but she was staring at her hand, and Jo could feel her trembling.

“Becca?”

“It’s fine. It’s just a scratch.”

Jo closed her fingers gently over Becca’s wrist and felt the rapid patter of her pulse. Becca looked up at her, and gradually, her trembling quieted, and the thrumming beneath Jo’s fingers slowed to a steady beat. Becca’s features changed, the anxiety draining away, replaced by an already familiar expression of friendly invitation.

“I’m listening,” Becca said.

“I’ve never courted anyone,” Jo whispered. “I’m not sure how to do it. Especially given our tendency to encounter life-threatening emergencies every time we…”

Becca was just smiling at her. She was going to be absolutely no help. Jo turned her head and cleared her throat, worried about smoke on her breath. She wished she could go inside and brush her teeth, but even she knew certain moments could be lost forever and must be taken when offered.

Jo had very little historical data to rely on as to whether she was a good kisser. Apparently, there was some art to it. But this was only their second kiss, and she wanted to do her best. She tried to do what came naturally. And she enjoyed it, very much. She worried whether Becca was enjoying it too, and to Jo’s consternation, their lips popped apart as she yawned. Not a subtle, suppressible yawn, an irresistible jaw-cracker, and then Becca was doing it, too.

They leaned against each other and indulged in a mutual, whooping yawn that ended in a tired giggle, and Jo was not a woman who giggled. Her performance anxiety fled and she was filled with both relief and a creeping, numbing exhaustion.

Becca scratched Jo’s back lightly. “I’m useless in a kitchen, other than making cocoa. I make dynamite cocoa. Are you game?”

“I’m game. Then we sleep.”

“Then we sleep. Perchance to dream.” Becca accepted Jo’s hand to help her to her feet. “Sorry, I went into Shakespeare mode for a moment earlier tonight. I must still be there.”

Jo followed her to the silent house, hoping dreams would leave Becca alone for the night. Pam Emerson was due early in the morning for a brief check-in, and Jo wanted to stop by the archives at the UW Library for some research. She hoped to learn more about John William Voakes, and about Mitchell Healy’s aborted political career.

Jo was willing to trust fate would grant them at least one peaceful night before the craziness began again.

Chapter Eighteen

Jo dreamed of smoke, and even from the depths of sleep she clenched the arms of her chair like a vise.

Thick clouds of white swirled around the Lady of the Rock, hiding the cloaked woman and the girl kneeling beside her. Jo coughed into the bend of her arm, her eyes watering, and tried to see the Lady’s face through the gray billows and choking stink.

The statue swam abruptly clear and sharp into view. The Lady’s head turned slowly, the stern face shifting down to look directly at Jo. Her pointing fingers lowered protectively to spread over the girl’s vulnerable back.

The stone lips moved. “
Save my daughter.
”

It was Madelyn Healy’s voice, and the deep cathedral voice of the Lady, the voice of Artemis herself, for all Jo knew. Fear sliced through her and she jerked awake.

The living room was roiling with smoke.

The small lamp they had left lit near the entry was dark, casting the room in heavy shadows. The tiny lights from the radios were blurred by a shifting fog that stung Jo’s sinuses, galvanizing her with an atavistic, cellular awareness of danger.

Becca was thrashing on the couch even before Jo gripped her shoulders. She came awake with a wrenching gasp.

“Fire,” Jo barked. “We have to get out of here.”

“I’m running!” Becca flapped Jo’s hands off her arms, scooting off the couch. She coughed explosively. “Jesus, Jo!”

“I don’t see flames.” Jo bent and snatched up the Spiricom, then wrapped Becca’s hand in hers. “Stay low and breathe shallow.”

They inched around the furniture and made for the two stairs leading to the entry, adrenaline singing through Jo in a painful rush. The darkness in the room hung like a heavy curtain barring their way, but there wasn’t far to go. Jo listened so hard her scalp twinged tightly, and she heard it seconds before they reached the front door—the faint, low buzzing of a drill.

Damning caution, Jo grabbed the latch of the door and pushed. It budged half an inch and caught.

Someone was barricading the door, their way out. Someone who apparently was still kneeling on the other side, finishing his work.

“Jo?”

“Stay behind me.” Jo was dimly grateful she hadn’t removed her boots before falling asleep. She unleashed a powerful kick. The heel crashed into the door, but it held fast. The whirring sound on the other side cut off. Jo was caught up in a paroxysm of coughing. Becca clenched her forearm, and she straightened quickly. “All right, head for the kitchen. The side door.”

Jo pushed Becca in that direction, and hoped very much she could trust her memory of the large room, the layout of the furniture. The smoke was thick enough now to make visual navigation impossible, but she remembered where she left the bag holding her gun and Consuelo’s music box. She kept one watering eye on Becca’s progress as she moved as quickly as she could into the living room.

“Uh, no, negatory on the kitchen.” Becca was apparently back in crisis mode. Her voice was loud but unafraid.

Jo whirled and saw the red light fluttering through the crack beneath the swinging kitchen door. She heard the crackling of flames for the first time.

“Jo, the south window,” Becca called. “It’s big enough!”

Jo found the bag and snatched it before joining Becca. They groped toward the far wall.

Her fumbling fingers found the catch at the top of the long window and turned it. Jo pulled up the wooden frame with one titanic heave, and punched the wire screen hard. It clattered outside onto the lawn, and Jo heaved the Spiricom and the bag after it, freeing her arms to help Becca.

Becca lifted one leg over the window ledge. “This won’t be pretty,” she grunted, “but I’ll make it.”

Jo helped Becca clamber through the window and drop to the sloping grass outside, a fall of some six feet, and jumped after her. The fresh air hit Jo’s face in a welcome rush as she landed on all fours beside Becca. The impact was enough to punch the breath from her aching lungs, and she hovered for a moment, head down, until she could take in air again.

She reached out and grasped Becca’s wrist.

“Okay,” Becca gasped.

Jo hauled them both bodily to their feet, and they ducked away from the eaves of the smoking house. Jo was fully erect when she saw him.

“Becca, get the gun,” she snapped, and she was running full-bore one second later.

“
What?
”

Jo could hardly stop to explain. The man had made it to the top of the porch stairs, and he hadn’t heard her yet, he wasn’t even hurrying. Jo caught a quick impression of a slender figure in dark clothes carrying a toolbox. She targeted it and went airborne, sailing off the top of the steps and tackling the man halfway down.

Jo was gratified not to take the brunt of the landing this time, her second trip down these wretched stairs. She crashed solidly on top of the man and he flailed beneath her, even before their bodies tumbled to a halt on the front walk.

They were nearly matched in size and weight. While Jo was fairly muscular, their stalker was thin and sinewy, almost wasted. But unlike her opponent, Jo wasn’t practiced at personal combat. He bucked under her, smacking Jo in a place that might have incapacitated her, had she been male.

“Wrong gender, asshole,” she hissed in his ear. She snarled her fingers in his ragged hair and jerked his head back, then absorbed a painful punch in her side from his elbow.

They grappled on the concrete, and he twisted out from under her. Jo’s chest burned with old smoke and she devoted herself to simply hanging on to the prick, not letting him get away. He got off one smacking punch to Jo’s brow that almost dazed her, but her arms wrapped around him in a death grip.

He twisted and rolled and he was on top of her, gasping harshly. His small gimlet eyes were slitted. Jo felt his cold hands wrap around her throat, and she heard a crack.

The man’s head snapped back and he stiffened. His hands around Jo’s neck went slack. He started to tumble to the side and Jo encouraged this, growling and throwing his sagging body off hers to sprawl on his back on the sidewalk.

Dread filtered through Jo’s shock, not that the man might be dead, but that Becca would have to live with having shot him. She clawed her hair out of her eyes and saw her, Becca, who ate four pounds of chocolate a day, holding an Amazon stance in the scant moonlight with one chobo balanced over her shoulder like a baseball bat. Jo noted vaguely that Becca also carried the Spiricom and Jo’s bag, crisis mode having rendered her amusingly thorough.

“I could only find one in the dark,” Becca gasped, waving the chobo. “Are you all right? Are you all right?”

Jo didn’t have the breath yet for speech so she just lifted a hand in reassurance. The man was still heaving for air, too. At least he wasn’t dead. Becca had clubbed him neatly and well. He was out cold. Jo took his hair again, none too gently, and turned his head. She realized she could see his features, outlined in red light. Behind them, the house had begun to burn in earnest.

“Do you know him?” she rasped at Becca.

Becca knelt gingerly at his side, gazing at his face with wide eyes. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. He’s alive, right?”

“He’s alive.” Jo heard him moan, a rumble deep in his chest, and she was taking no chances. She searched him swiftly, swiveled, and sat solidly on his back, pinning him to the ground.

“Good idea.” Becca plunked herself down on his legs, eliciting another groan, but the man lay still beneath them.