The Dead Love Longer (10 page)

I can't pay for my sins, but at least I can keep myself from hurting anyone else.

Lee

Anyone that knew Lee could see that her handwriting was wrong. She held the pen in a different position than usual, between two fingers instead of one and her thumb. What a smart woman.
A gun at her back, and still rational enough to throw some kinks into a near-perfect crime by leaving a puzzle for the handwriting experts.

"Nothing personal," said the goon. He even
smelled
like a lawyer, pungent with cologne and garlic and wine.

"I hope you fry in Hell," she said.

"The only place I'll be frying is on the beaches of
Singapore
," he said, bragging with the confidence of a sleazy crook who thought he was getting away with murder. Make
that
two
murders. And he'd been smart enough to stick a frame on Bailey as well, if worse came to worst. That and millions of
simoleons
would buy him plenty of time to skip the country.

Lee put the pen down. "The police are probably watching my apartment. They've already questioned me once."

"And the pressure has driven you to suicide," the goon said. "Guilt is a real bitch, isn't it?"

She sat back and looked out the window. The sun broke through, and the shadow of a palm tree fell across her face. Her eyes were hard, set in that determined look that I knew so well. She would not give her killer the satisfaction of making her squirm.

"You know what I can't forgive you for?" she asked, as if the gunman were a wayward child. "For taking away the only things I wanted to live for. You took my Richard, and now you're taking me from the father I've always wanted to have."

"Cry me a river."

I concentrated, trying to muster some flesh. If the lawyer and Bailey
DeBussey
and Bailey's jar-headed lover enjoyed a life of luxury, they won. If Lee died, I failed. If I couldn't will myself into action, I lost. And eternal love wasn't something you got many second chances at.

Now that I'd cleaned out the crypt inside my sorry soul, I had no desire to let dust gather in the corners.

I flitted to the goon's ear and penetrated the canal until I was at his eardrum.
Come ON
, I thought,
Make it happen.

What did my caseworker say?
Faith.
It's all about FAITH.

I was screaming inside, but I only managed a slight whisper.
"Hey, you."

The lawyer cocked his head and scratched his ear.

Faith.

I looked at Lee's face and tried again, raising my voice to gnat level. "It's God, you idiot."

"Huh?" The goon glanced around, his mouth parted in confusion.

"You've been a very bad boy," I whispered. Psychic razors slashed at my essence, my batteries pulsed with the last flicker of a charge, but I kept going. "God doesn't like bad boys."

Maybe it wasn't my place to play God. Maybe they'd hold that against me later. But the administration at The Bright Place set the rules, not me. They're the ones who gave me power and a mission.
And another chance.

They had taught me to hope. And, to hell with it, I was just a conduit, after all. "God's not happy with you."

The goon shook his head. His gun hand dropped to his side. He'd forgotten Lee in his surprise.

"God's going to have to kick your ass now," I whispered. Lee swung a leg out, making contact and sending the gun clattering across the floor. She exploded from her chair, delivering a flurry of chops and kicks to the poor guy's neck and stomach. The air rushed out of him as I backed away to enjoy the show.

Lee was good. Took her thirty seconds to wipe him out, and she didn't even make him bleed. He would have some nasty bruises, though. She's merciful, but not to a fault.

She tied his hands and called the police. I tried to summon myself into flesh, desperate with desire, but I was gone, done, used up. She was already out the door.

If she had heard my God imitation, she hadn't recognized my voice.

***

13.

Later, I drifted through
Uhlgren's
office. He was telling the District Attorney about the case. Turns out that Ron
Wesmeyer's
lawyer had actually worked his way through law school as a hit man. When he saw a chance to make a two-million-dollar cut, he fell back on old habits, though his ultimate plan was to filch the whole 10 mil himself.

The lawyer fingered Bailey and her boyfriend. Bailey was the mastermind of the whole setup. I guess smarts run in the family, same as looks. Too bad Bailey wasted hers, unlike her sister.

That was my only regret. Lee had finally found her family, except one of the
bunch
had turned rotten. Well, you can't ask for everything, especially in
Los Angeles
, and doubly especially around Christmas time. You can, but in my experience, you're just wasting your prayers. I guess even hope isn't unlimited.

I spent most of my remaining time hanging around Lee's place. It was a joy just watching her daily rituals, her karate routines, her laundry,
her
visits with her father. They were getting along great. She was going to be just fine.

I only had one more piece of unfinished business on this Earth.

***

14.

I had a beautiful funeral. I didn't know I had so many friends. It was good to see
Wesmeyer
by Lee's side. The priest's eulogy was so inspiring that you'd think I was up for sainthood.

Lee put a gorgeous bouquet on my chest, white roses,
bluets
, and yellow lilies, all grown in her garden. The morticians had done a swell job. I looked as if I
were
sleeping and visions of sugarplums were dancing in my head. As the mourners filed out and got into their cars to drive to the cemetery, Lee went back to my coffin for a last look.

Faith.

It's about
faith
, a belief in right and wrong and justice and hope and love.
Love
, as in caring about something bigger than your own sorry hide, but also believing in yourself enough so that you had something to give. No, not just believing in yourself, but believing in your piece in the great puzzle, something that fits but not always to the shape you like. Somebody or something, maybe some grinning guru in a corner office of The Bright Place, had a better plan. I drew strength from those things. I could do it. I could live again, if only for a moment.

In the last pew sat Miss Titanic. She grinned, then frowned and pointed to an invisible wristwatch, then held up five fingers. Five minutes left to be dead and alive.

I spent the last of my energy incorporating myself. Lee's moist eyes widened, but she didn't scream. She's not the kind of lady that gets thrown all out of kilter over a little thing like the ghost of her dead lover. Or maybe her father had told her about my visit.

"
Hiya
, honey," I said, trying to be suave, which is kind of hard for a corpse.

"Richard?" she whispered.

"Yeah."

"But you're...you're..."

I nodded. "That's right."

"Oh, sweetie," she said, and more tears rolled down her pretty cheeks. I didn't think you could squeeze that much water out of a person. It made me feel good, in a strange way.

"Listen, babe, I don't have much time." I wiped her tears away, glancing behind me to make sure the priest didn't have his convictions rocked by my appearance. Only one ghost was sanctioned by the church, and that was the Holy Ghost, not Richard Steele.
Fine by me.
I had other temples to walk through.

The priest was occupied bottling holy water or something, so I went on with what I needed to say. "Here's the deal. I didn't say this as much as I should have. But I love you.
Forever."

More tears. This time they were mine.

Ghost tears are cold, serious stuff.

Lee gripped my hands. I stammered, shivering, my earthly molecules about to disintegrate for the final time.

"I don't mind if you find another guy," I said.

When she shook her head, I squeezed her hands. "You might not feel like it for a long time, but you might someday. I'm just asking one thing."

"Anything," she
said,
the heartache plain in her voice.

"Save the last dance for me, will you?"

She nodded, laughing and crying at the same time.

With a last effort of will, I kissed her hard enough for her to be sure she wasn't hallucinating. My lips went numb, then my fingers, then all my borrowed flesh.

"By the way," I whispered. "Thank you for the flowers. You throw a lovely funeral."

Then I was mist, scattered on the winds of time and the universe, gone to whatever this nice bright place is.

I like to think
it's
heaven.

I'm an optimist, you know.

THE END

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###

About Scott Nicholson:

I believe we build valuable ideas together, some of them inside a book, and some outside a book. I am honored that you shared my ideas and brought them to life in your imagination. I invite you to write a brief review or tell your friends about these ideas we have shared.

I’m author of more than 30 books, including
The
Red
Church
, Liquid Fear, Chronic Fear,
The
Harvest,
and
Speed Dating with the Dead
. I collaborated with bestselling author J.R. Rain on
Cursed,
The
Vampire Club, Bad Blood
, and
Ghost
College
. I’ve also written the children’s books
If
I Were Your Monster, Too Many Witches
,
Ida Claire
, and
Duncan the
Punkin
, and created the graphic novels
Dirt
and
Grave Conditions
. Connect with me on
Facebook
,
Goodreads
,
LibraryThing
,
Twitter
, my
blog
, or my
website
. I am really an organic gardener, but don’t tell anyone, because they think I am a writer.

Feel free to drop me a line anytime at
[email protected]
, or visit my
Author Central page
at Amazon to ask a question. If you enjoyed this book, please tell your friends and give another Nicholson title a try. If you hated it, why not try another one anyway? What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, and what
does
kill you is probably lurking in my next book.
Read on for more
.

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###

SHE CLIMBS A WINDING STAIR

(From the supernatural story collection
Ashes
.
View the collection at
view it at Amazon
or
Amazon UK
)

Outside the window, a flat sweep of sea. The ocean's tongue licks the shore as if probing an old scar. Clouds hang gray and heavy, crushed together by nature's looming anger. In the distance is a tiny white sail, or it might be a forlorn whitecap, breaking too far out to make land.

I hope it is a whitecap.

Because she may come that way, from the lavender east.
She may rise from the stubborn sandy fields behind the house, or seep from the silver trees beyond. She could arrive a thousand times, in a thousand different colors, from all directions above or below.

I can almost her hear now, her soft footsteps on the stairs, the whisper of her ragged lace, the mouse-quick clatter of her
fingerbones
on the railing.

Almost.

It's not fear that binds my limbs to this chair, for I know she's not bent on mortal vengeance. If only I could so easily repay my sins.

Rather, I dread that moment when she appears before me, when her imploring eyes stare blankly into mine, when her lost lips part in question.