Love Never Dies (2 page)

Kateri asked, "Tall guy, bulky shoulders, fingerless gloves, smells like BO and pine needles?"

"That's him," Areila said. "What's
wrong
with him?"

Kateri met Garik's gaze. "Cleardale's off his meds again."

"I've sent one of the guys to pick him up," Garik said. "Miss Leon, are you sure you don't want to press charges?"

"No, really. As soon as he saw your officer, he turned and ran. I mean he seemed really frightened, and your officer wasn't doing anything, just standing there . . . I know I shouldn't ask, but has Cleardale ever been a victim of police, um . . ." She glanced nervously at Garik.

"Brutality?" he said. "Not that I know of."

Areila asked, "Then what's wrong with him? Why was he so afraid?"

Garik answered the first question. "He's schizophrenic. He met his wife at a treatment center. She had mood disorders, suffered from depression, and when one of their children began to display signs of mental illness, she killed them, all four of them, and then herself. He found the bodies and he . . . his disorder is controllable with medication, but then he remembers, and that's the sadness you sensed before."

Kateri answered the second question. "As to why he was so afraid, I would guess it was because the police didn't have a presence in Eugene Park tonight at five."

"I'm afraid not," Garik said.

Areila looked at them as if she thought they suffered their own version of mental illness. "But he wore a uniform. So I thought—"

"Are you familiar with World War II uniforms?" Garik asked.

"The greatest generation. Sure." Areila seemed to think that over. "Are you saying there's some guy in Virtue Falls who wears a World War II uniform and hangs around the park rescuing ladies in distress?"

"Sort of," Kateri said.

Areila let go of a long, pent-up breath. "Pardon me, I don't want to put down your town, but there are some weird people here."

"Well, yes," Kateri said. "We have our share of eccentrics. But I believe you've had an encounter with our town ghost."

Areila gave a spurt of laughter. "A haunted park? You're pulling my leg." She looked around at Garik, back at Kateri, and her laughter died. "You're not pulling my leg."

"According to my foster mother, Margaret Smith, he's been there a long time," Garik said.

"Since he's wearing a WWII uniform, I would guess he's been there about seventy years," Areila snapped.

Kateri grinned. "Unless he died at a costume party."

Garik and Kateri chortled before Kateri realized Areila was appalled at their insensitive joke.

That was the trouble with being a police officer or a public servant. You saw so many tragedies, laughter was the only thing that kept you from crying, and civilians seldom understood.

Kateri leaned back in her chair. "Have you ever seen the ghost, Garik?"

"Never have. You?"

"Once. After the tsunami."

Areila's glance sharpened. "Now I remember your name. You were the Coast Guard commander. The tsunami picked you up and . . ." She stopped abruptly.

"Yes. I lost my Coast Guard cutter and was . . . badly hurt." An understatement. "After all the surgeries, I was determined to walk again, but to try I had to take pain-killers, a lot of them. It got dark. I decided to go through the park. I was pretty whacked out, on the point of collapse. And there he was in his WWII uniform, reaching out a hand to help me. Or get me." Kateri shivered at the memory. "I didn't know which. I didn't care."

"What did you do?" Areila asked.

"I discovered I wasn't on the point of collapse after all. Next thing I remember was slamming the door of my apartment behind me." Kateri put a hand on her racing heart; even the memory still scared her. "What about Walt? Has he ever seen the ghost?"

"Who's Walt?" Areila asked.

"The groundskeeper for the Virtue Falls parks," Kateri told her. "You've seen him, I'm sure."

Areila shook her head. "Is he new?"

"No, he's been in town for about a year. He says he's never seen the ghost. But he is . . ." Garik hesitated.

"Boring?" Kateri suggested. "Ordinary? None too bright?"

Garik looked surprised. "How do you really feel?"

"He comes to the library with his wife and checks out cozy mysteries. He likes to discuss them when he brings them back." Kateri leaned forward.
"Ad nauseum.
And by the way, he always tells me who the killer is."

Garik winced. "He shovels and salts the sidewalks, picks up the downed branches after a windstorm, and mows the lawn in the summer. He doesn't have to be Mr. Excitement."

"Nor does he have to be a combination of Mr. I-Can-Put-Her-Into-A-Coma and Sir Spill-the-Beans-on-the-Ending." Kateri realized Areila viewed them both as if they were a little odd. Maybe they had wandered off topic . . . Kateri said, "Personally, I avoid that damned park all the time. I avoid it at nighttime in particular."

Areila frowned. "But I . . . I work down in the canyon monitoring the geological sites."

"Crappy job in the winter," Garik said.

"Amen," Areila agreed. "Yet it's a great opportunity, and I was lucky to get the position. The park is on the edge of town and the easiest way to get from the canyon back to civilization."

Garik and Kateri knew all that; the geological study had been going on almost thirty years, and as the seasons passed, they had seen interns come and go.

Garik asked, "Could you get any of the other geologists to walk with you?"

Areila looked disgusted. "In this cold, I can't get any of the other geologists to do anything but sit in front of their warm desks to input the data I bring them."

"Yeah . . . being low man on the totem pole is a bitch," Kateri commiserated. She ought to know; she had gone from Coast Guard commander to a survivor of the worst earthquake and tsunami in Washington state history to underpaid librarian of an underfunded library.

But there was hope in her future. Garik had suggested that, because of her experience as Coast Guard commander and her time learning about the citizens of Virtue Falls via her job at the library, she would be a good candidate to take his place as sheriff. When he left the position, he intended to present her name to the Virtue Falls City Council.

The challenges facing any candidate for sheriff included a large, rugged county with a coastline to the west and mountains to the east that attracted tourists, hikers, eccentrics, the wealthy and the occasional serial killer. It was probably absurd to think a Native American female with no police force experience could successfully command the sheriff's department. Not to mention Kateri was still dealing with — would always deal with — physical frailties caused by the wreck of her cutter in the tsunami.

Yes. So many challenges . . .

Kateri Kwinault had never in her life backed away from a challenge.

Eugene Park

The next night the killer was back, and this time he got a middle-aged woman dragging a cart with two empty grocery bags. She had a long gray braid and a tired scowl, yet even with the scowl she treated the killer kindly — until he plunged the knife into her belly. Then she fought him and bled, and bled, and bled until she died. As before, as she passed on to the next world, she stared at me with reproach.

As before, he slung the corpse over his shoulder and carried her into the dark corner of the park. When he returned, the body was gone and he was using his shirttail to wipe the bloodstains off his face and hands.

The rain fell softly.

As he cleaned the gore from the sidewalk, a young couple walked by with their dog. The dog strained at the leash, fascinated with the smells of raw meat and warm blood, but when he neared the killer, the killer leveled a look at him. The dog, intelligent and running on instinct, danced away and stuck close to his master's heel.

The young couple never even glanced at the scene. The killer's behavior seemed to be without interest to them. It was as if he was part of the scenery. They made a circuit of the park. They allowed their dog to relieve himself and picked it up in a small blue bag. They walked toward town, oblivious to the fact a woman had died here tonight.

When the killer was done cleaning up his mess and before he headed back into the darkness, he looked at me and said, "You really don't like to watch, do you? Yet here you are with a front row seat. I'll try to keep the entertainment flowing."

Eugene Park

Again

Areila came through the park the next day around noon. She kept her head down, darted nervous little glances around her, and relaxed when she reached the other end. Then by chance or because she sensed me, she glanced toward the dark corner of the park.

She saw me, I know she did, but she pretended not to.

After that, it was one week and another murder before she again crossed the line of consecration. The afternoon was cloudy; the lamp posts along the walks already gave off their feeble glow. We had reached that time of year when it had either just rained, was about to rain, or was raining. Or the fog rolled in off the Pacific. Everywhere dampness rolled down the stones and moss flourished on the tree bark. Yet here and there, the crocus and daffodils poked their heads out of the soil.

Perhaps at last the long dark would be over.

Areila walked like she had somewhere to go. I stood by the fountain and watched her pass, but I didn't speak. It was the lady's prerogative to pretend she didn't see me. She got to the edge of the park; I swear her foot hovered right over the line, when she turned with military precision and marched back. She stopped in front of me and said, "Hello."

"Hello."

"My name is Areila Leon."

She had given me her name freely. Which made it possible for me to return the favor. "It's good to meet you. My name is Frank Vincent Montgomery."

"Huh!" She sounded surprised. "My grandfather's name was Frank Vincent. Not Montgomery, of course. . ."

"Neither Frank nor Vincent are unusual names." I was suddenly and wryly aware of the passage of time. "At least they weren't in my day."

"No, but to pair them — that is unusual." She gestured toward the bench. "Can you sit?"

I had the ability to move quickly from place to place, but I had found that disconcerting to most people, so I took my time, went to the bench, seated myself.

She joined me. "I've never understood the technicalities of how a ghost can sit on a corporeal object."

I wasn't really sitting, but that wasn't something I could explain. "I can do almost anything I used to do when alive. Except grasp, touch — or cross the park boundary." I looked out at the street where I had never been and wished I were gone from this place which had imprisoned me for so long.

"So you know you're a ghost?"

I looked at my hands; they were transparent and glowed faintly. "Can you think of another explanation?"

"No, but I've been reading up on ghosts and the mythology claims that much of the time, they're confused about where they are."

"I'm in Virtue Falls, Washington. This" — I waved my transparent glowing hand around at the towering old trees, concrete fountain, and neglected grass — "used to be a cemetery."

"In town, they told me they believed your grave was not moved when the city officials made this a park."

A little surprised, I nodded. "Makes sense."

"Did you not know?"

"No. Not that."

"You don't know where your grave is?"

"Not
my
grave."

At that, she viewed me oddly.

But bound by whatever rules there were, I couldn't say more.

"So, Frank Vincent, what is your story? Why isn't your spirit at rest?"

"I made too many mistakes, left too much unfinished, failed too often."

"Who did you fail?"
Not,
"How did you fail"
but
"Who?"
Areila was an acute young woman, seeing through the rhetoric to the heart of a matter. Again Areila reminded me of Sofia, intelligent and discerning. Did I dare remember those days gone by when all of life was warm sunshine and new feelings? I missed Sofia every moment of eternity. Surely talking about her would help . . . somehow . . . "I loved a woman," I said.

Areila pulled her knit hat off her head and fluffed her dark hair. "Here in Virtue Falls?"

"Not at all. She lived in Port Angeles. I was from Seattle. We met one summer when my family took a house on the coast. I met her on the beach. We got to know each other and she was unlike any girl I knew." I found myself smiling at the memories of Sofia dancing barefoot on the sand. "She was earthy. Funny. Ethereal. Loving. But we . . . our families disapproved. My family looked down on her. And — so much worse! — her family looked down on me." I mocked myself, but my pride, a young man's pride, had truly been stung. "The conflict in Europe was steadily growing more deadly. To me, it seemed inevitable that the United States would go to war. So I took my patriotism and my stung pride and joined the Army. When I told my love, she cried. I comforted her."
In the way of lovers . . .
"But I didn't tell her what was in my heart."