Dark Homecoming (4 page)

D
riving across town, making his way over the Royal Palm Bridge in his beat-up little Toyota Corolla, Jamison realized he was drunker than he'd thought. Just two beers, and his head was spinning. What was wrong with him? He gripped the steering wheel tightly in his hands and concentrated on the road. A light mist of rain speckled his windshield.

He was feeling pleased with himself for his decision to go to the police. It was the right thing to do. These past several months had been wearing on his conscience. He had covered up a crime, he had lied to police, he had assisted in preventing justice for a young woman's horrible death. Such actions could not be allowed to stand.

Ever since he'd been a boy, growing up in rural Georgia, Jamison had tried to do the right thing. His father had been the pastor of Marin Hills Baptist Church, and for many years Jamison had proudly worn his WWJD bracelet on his wrist:
What would Jesus do?
But while taking classes at the local community college—Jamison had intended on becoming a dental hygienist—he'd lost that bracelet, and, no surprise, he'd lost his way as well. He'd started smoking and drinking, and getting too familiar with fast girls. He ended up dropping out of school. His father was deeply disappointed in him, and told him he could no longer depend on him to pay his way. Jamison had to move out of his parents' house. He didn't know where to go, except he knew he needed to get out of town, far away from his father's disapproving eye. He'd lived in various little towns between there and here, finally lucking out by landing the job at Huntington House.

The first Mrs. Huntington had spotted him bagging groceries at the local Publix. She'd struck up a conversation with him. Jamison had been taken with how beautiful she was. Before long, Dominique Huntington had offered him a job, at a very good wage, as a houseboy on the Huntington estate. Jamison had felt like God was giving him a second chance, and as His messenger, he had sent the most beautiful angel He could find.

But now Jamison knew it had been Satan who had sent Dominique into that Publix that day. It had to have been Satan, since now Dominique's ghost walked the earth—killing people.

Still, at the time, Jamison had been glad for the job. It was more money than he had ever made before. It allowed him to leave the boardinghouses and shelters he'd been staying in ever since he left home and move into his own place, a little apartment above a convenience store that smelled constantly of kielbasa and popcorn.

He pulled into the parking space behind the apartment. His head was still spinning, and he craved a cigarette. What had he done? He was very angry with himself. He'd drowned his sorrows over being fired in beer—and not just one but two! What was he thinking?

Jamison knew it was a slippery slope from a couple of beers to a bottle of Jack. He had been doing so well, too. He'd gotten his life back together when he'd been hired at Huntington House. Who cared if he was a houseboy instead of a dental hygienist? It was an honest living. He'd made good money with the Huntingtons. His father had welcomed him home, telling him he was proud of him.

And then Audra had to be found facedown in a pool of blood.

It was Satan's doing, getting me that job
, Jamison thought.

He got out of the car and locked the door. The night was damp and muggy, with a mist in the air. Jamison climbed the back stairs to his apartment and let himself inside. He flicked on the overhead light. “Home sweet home,” he said to himself.

It wasn't much, but it was his. The couch, which had come with the apartment, was cobwebbed with a light blue mildew. The kitchen table had a broken leg. The linoleum on the kitchen floor was peeling. And always those smells rising up from the store below. But it was
his
—the first place Jamison could ever call his own.

There were three rooms in the apartment: the living room, the kitchen, and Jamison's bedroom, none of them much larger than six by eight feet.

And yet, even this he wouldn't be able to afford much longer, now that he was out of a job. He hoped Dad would allow him to move back home.

“He will,” Jamison said to himself, as he flopped down on the couch, rubbing his temples, trying to get his head to stop spinning. “Once he hears how I did the right thing and went to the police, he'll let me come home.”

But he'd also learn that Jamison had lied at first. He'd also discover that Jamison had been living for the past year in a house with the devil.

And some devilry can rub off.

Jamison regretted the fact that he had run to a bar for consolation the moment he learned he'd been fired. Why hadn't he run to a church and prayed? No, he'd gone right back to his old ways and made his way to a bar. He'd had two beers and craved a cigarette. He'd even had impure thoughts sitting next to Rita as she'd tried flirting with him.

“Begone, Satan!” Jamison suddenly bellowed, his hands over his ears.

In that moment, the overhead light went out and Jamison was left in darkness.

He looked around. The little green light on his television was also out. The hum of the refrigerator had stopped.

We've lost power
, Jamison thought to himself, standing and looking out the window, bumping his shin against the coffee table as he did so. He let out a little cry of pain. It got so dark in this place at night.

Jamison peered down to the street below. The convenience store underneath him was closed, but he could see the red glow of its neon sign. And through the haze, he could make out that the streetlight some yards away was still burning.

Could it just be his apartment that lost power?

Jamison figured a fuse had blown. He wasn't even sure where the fuse box was. Without a flashlight, he stumbled through his living room, whacking his shin again and suppressing the urge to curse. He remembered the little metal door on the wall in the hallway near the bathroom. That must be the fuse box. He felt his way along the wall, turning at the hallway and running his fingers across the plaster until he felt the metal door. He used his phone for a little bit of light, but still he had to strain to see the fuses. He had no idea what was what.

“Well,” Jamison said, “here goes.”

He switched each one in turn back and forth. But the power didn't come back on.

Suddenly he felt as if he might faint. That beer was still messing with his head. A year ago, Jamison could have drunk most of his friends under the table. Now he couldn't even handle a couple of beers!

He needed to lie down. He'd deal with the power outage in the morning. He'd call the landlord right before he went down to the police station.

All he wanted to do right now was sleep.

He yanked off his pants and left them in a clump on the floor. He lay in his shirt, underwear, and socks on the bed, staring up into the darkness. He wished the room would stop spinning.

He heard something from the other room. It sounded like a footstep in the kitchen. For some reason Jamison became frightened. He listened again. He heard nothing. It must have been the wind or the rain against the house.

He was feeling jittery. His heart was beating fast. He needed to relax. After everything that had happened today, he needed very badly to chill out. But he was having a difficult time doing so.

Of course, there was one way he could chill out fast.

One way he could forget all his distress about being fired and his anxiety about going to the police and telling what he knew and his fear of his father's disapproval. One way he could block all that out of his mind.

He could smoke a joint.

Jamison had been so good this past year. He'd barely had a sip of alcohol (until tonight) and he'd not had one whiff of pot. But suddenly he wanted to get high so bad. It would stop his head from spinning. It would relax him, settle his mind, allow him to sleep.

He reached over to the bedside table and slid open a drawer. Far in the back, behind his Bible, buried among his dozens of wax-smudged earplugs, he'd stored something in the event of an emergency. Jamison withdrew a small remnant of a joint and held it in front of his face, close enough so he could make it out in the dark.

It was more than a year old. But he figured it might still do the trick.

From the drawer he took a lighter and ignited the little flame. Bringing the joint to his lips, Jamison inhaled.

“Forgive me, Jesus,” he said as he let out the smoke.

It was stale, but it was still potent enough.

He smoked the joint until it was just a brown crisp smoldering between his fingers. Resting his head back against the pillow, he allowed the wave of good feeling to wash over him.

But then he heard the footstep in the kitchen again.

He pushed the sound out of his mind and closed his eyes. He just wanted to sleep. In the morning, he'd feel better, and he'd go down to the police and get all of this devilry off his chest. He wasn't sure how the police were going to stop the ghost of Dominique Huntington from killing again, but they could at least arrest that plastic-faced Mrs. Hoffman.

Another footstep, then two.

Jamison opened his eyes. The pot was maybe making him a little paranoid. But it seemed that someone was in his apartment and walking around in the dark.

That's crazy,
Jamison told himself.
I locked the door behind me when I came in tonight.

Of course he did. He shook off the paranoia and closed his eyes.

He was fading off to sleep, but some small voice inside his head forced its way through the marijuana haze and got him to wonder.

Jamison opened his eyes again. The room was pitch-dark. He listened. A soft sound nearby. Maybe it was the light rain hitting against the window.

Or maybe, Jamison thought, it was someone breathing.

He fumbled his hand through the dark to the bedside table and found his phone. Grabbing ahold of it, he hit the switch, casting a soft amber glow through the room. Jamison looked around and saw nothing.

What would Jesus do?

Jesus would go to sleep
, Jamison thought.

In that instant, the glow of his phone picked up the steel of the blade that was swooping down toward him, which then slit Jamison's throat so deeply it nicked bone.

“O
h, no, David, no!” Liz cried.

“I'm sorry, darling, but it's true,” her husband replied.

“Why now? We just got here!”

Patiently, David took her hands and explained that the family business had a lot of interests around the world, and right now, there was trouble in their Amsterdam office. His father was putting all his trust in him that he'd be able to resolve that trouble. “It will only be for six days,” he told her. “Not even a full week.”

“But David—”

“I can't let Dad down,” he went on. “I need to prove to him that I'm capable of taking over the business from him one day soon.” He smiled kindly, seeing the stricken look on Liz's face. “And when that day comes, darling, I'll be able to delegate others to go off on these trips, and I'll get to stay home with you.”

Liz wasn't very consoled by that. “David, it's just that I—well, I don't know these people, and I'm not sure of my way around—”

She stopped herself. She heard the sound of her voice. Whiny and scared and needy. The same voice she'd used the night her father walked out on them.

I'm going away
, her father had said.
I can't take any more of this.

She stopped whining.

“Sweetheart,” David was saying, “believe me, if I didn't feel it was urgent, I wouldn't go.”

“It's okay, David,” Liz forced herself to say. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I'm disappointed that you won't be here for me to get to know Huntington House, but I do understand. It's very important that you show your father that you can handle situations like these.”

“That's my girl,” David said, cupping her chin in his palm.

Liz didn't like it when he called her a girl. It felt patronizing. But for the moment she let it slide. Better to have him patronizing her than considering leaving her.

Liz was fully aware that she had some serious codependency issues to work through. Nicki was always informing her of the fact. “Sweetheart,” Nicki would say, “you better work through that codependency stuff or you'll never have a satisfying relationship.” One time, somewhere between Gibraltar and Corsica, Nicki had been particularly adamant, giving Liz a long list of relationship dos and don'ts.

Liz had laughed. They had been drinking wine on the quarterdeck. “If you're such an expert on relationships, how come you're not in one?”

“Because I'm in the middle of a cruise, baby,” Nicki replied, “and I'm just having fun. But someday, when we're back on dry land, I intend on settling down. And I'm going to do it right. None of this letting the man set the terms.”

But Liz knew that was exactly what she had done with David. She had allowed him to make all the decisions about when they got married, where they would live, what their household would look like. It had been hard to say no to the promise of Huntington House, of course. Liz couldn't deny being intrigued by the idea of all that land, all those rooms, all those servants. Growing up as she had, with a mother always struggling to pay the bills, Liz had been a bit dazzled by David's descriptions of his estate.

He was packing now. Liz watched him with a sinking heart.

“Oh, but David, I don't know any of the details of running this house. Like preparing grocery lists and menus and coordinating the staff . . . I don't know any of that yet.”

“That's what Mrs. Hoffman is for, sweetheart. You don't have to trouble your mind with any of those details. You just relax and explore the estate. Have one of the chauffeurs drive you around town. Look for a property for your dance studio. You're going to need something to do with your time, baby.”

Liz wasn't all that keen on David calling her “baby” either. She wasn't a baby. She was a grown woman—his wife. But it was just his way of showing affection.

David snapped his suitcase shut. “And I'll be back in just six days, sweetheart. Not even a full week.”

He kissed her. Liz gave him a smile. This wasn't what she expected married life to be exactly, but she figured she'd have to get used to it.