In the Air Tonight Page 10

  “Not so fast. Who’s to say he didn’t find the ring on the ground.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m just talking like a defense attorney.”

  “Guy’s dead,” Sullivan said. “Does he get a defense attorney?”

  “True. But we can’t stamp closed on something until we’re sure.”

  “What would make you sure?”

  “If the meat cleaver is the murder weapon, I’d say we’re in business.”

  “Not so fast.” Sullivan repeated Bobby’s words. “No meat-cleaver killings here.”

  Man had a point. He often did, which was why they worked so well together.

  “Although, since we seem to have hit an uncommon streak of luck, maybe he was stupid enough not to wash the branding ring between victims and there’ll be DNA from all of them all over the place.”

  “What are the chances of that?” Bobby wondered.

  “Slim to none.”

  The usual odds.

  “Remember that case in the Hotel St. Germain?” he asked.

  Silence came over the line. Bobby could almost see his partner’s face crease in thought. The hotel was in a seedy section of town; therefore they’d had more than one case there. Bobby gave him a hint. “Locked-room mystery.”

  “Hated that thing.”

  “Did we ever check the floor in the locker?”

  “Not following.”

  “Seemed like the guy could have been shot through the door of the room, but no hole in the door, and it was still locked, bolted, chained.”

  “Hence my hatred. What about the closet?” Despite years spent in New Orleans, to a man from Maine—or was it Massachusetts?—a closet was always and forever a closet.

  “Not sure. But the door to the locker and the door to the outside were right next to each other. One was open; one wasn’t. I had a…” Bobby shifted his shoulders. “Hunch. Check the floor in the locker of that room and let me know what you find.”

  “’Cause I got nothin’ better to do? There were four murders last night. One of them was another one of those damn wild-animal killings that just makes my head pound.”

  Sullivan’s leave of absence had followed a spate of wild-animal attacks in New Orleans. Some by wolves, a creature that had not been seen in Louisiana for at least a century. Others by a big cat larger than any bobcat found in the swamps. Folks had whispered of a loup-garou, a werewolf legend of the Crescent City, whereby the beast attacked beneath a sickle-shaped moon and not the full.

  Sullivan—born and bred Yankee that he was—hadn’t believed any of it. He’d figured serial killer, even called the FBI. They had not agreed. The killings had continued. He’d snapped. Then, the killings had stopped. But, apparently, not forever.

  Bobby had been briefed about his partner’s issues. Brief being the operative word. He didn’t really know what had happened or why, and he hadn’t asked. Sullivan was the best partner he’d ever had, and he wasn’t going to fuck it up by sticking his nose into things that were over. Except …

  What if they weren’t over?

  “You okay?” Bobby asked.

  “Yeah.” Sullivan let out a long sigh. “I’m not going to jibber in the corner.”

  “You say that like you’ve done it before.”

  “Haven’t we all?”

  Bobby certainly had.

  *

  “What’s wrong, Genevieve?”

  Tears shimmered in the ghost child’s eyes. “He never sees me.”

  “I know, baby.” She had Bobby’s eyes. I saw that now.

  “Where’s your mom?” I asked.

  “She couldn’t see me either.” Her face scrunched into an expression I first thought was confusion and then, when she stomped her foot, realized was anger. “She should have been able to!”

  I was confused. Should her mom have been able to see her because she was also dead? Or just because the child thought a mother should always have that connection? I could relate. I still looked for my mother everywhere.

  Of course she wasn’t really my mother. But not being blood relations didn’t keep every other specter in the township from appearing to me.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  Genevieve hadn’t moved on for a reason, one I needed to discover so that she could. She didn’t belong in this world. I glanced at the closed door across the hall.

  No matter how much the living might long for her.

  “My daddy is sad.”

  He was, and now I understood why.

  “Tell him…”

  I leaned forward, but she trailed off, her gaze flicking to his closed door.

  “What should I tell him?” I pressed, even though the idea of talking to Bobby Doucet about his dead daughter made me cringe. But who else was going to?

  “Tell him it wasn’t his fault,” she said. Then she disappeared.

  I stared at the empty space where she’d been, then glanced at the closed door across the hall and back at the empty space.

  I couldn’t just knock on his door and tell him I had a message from his dead daughter. I’d learned the hard way that I needed to impart info from beyond with a little more tact. Therefore, I had to get him to tell me about Genevieve and what had happened to her before I could ever tell him “it” wasn’t his fault.

  Whatever “it” was.

  Curious, I dug my laptop from my overnight bag and Googled. Genevieve Doucet brought many returns, none of them a child, which made me even more reluctant to mention her to Bobby.

  Still, I’d never known a ghost to lie. She had to be his daughter.

  Was he unaware of her? I didn’t think the child would attach herself so strongly to someone she hadn’t spent time with during her life, but one never knew. There was information missing, and though I had no idea where to hunt for it, I kept trying.

  I searched on Bobby Doucet, got a ton of hits, the Times Picayune mostly. His cases exclusively. No marriage announcement, no birth announcement either, but that didn’t mean much. Perhaps he’d gotten married elsewhere. Perhaps they were just private people. Newspapers only printed the announcements they were given, and, in some cases, were paid for.

  At a loss, I moved to the window. My Puritan and his wolf stood in the yard.

  I was out of my room and down the stairs before I considered that they’d only be gone by the time I got there. Nevertheless, I opened the door and went outside. The two remained, though they’d moved closer to the trees.

  I glanced over my shoulder, at what I have no idea. My father was in bed, or at least in his room. Bobby too. No one here but me and my shadows.

  The Puritan beckoned. I sprinted across the distance between us. I didn’t need to be asked twice.

  Up close, the wolf was huge, the top of its head level with my waist. The man laid his hand on the beast’s back. The two nearly blended into the night—he all in black, the wolf too. Only their eyes shone like jewels—onyx and emerald.

  I wished, not for the first time, that I could paint. Their image, here in the dark, with the trees at their backs and the moon just coming out, would be exquisite. However, my artistic skills ran toward stick folks and primary-colored collages. Not a surprise considering my occupation.

  “Is there something you need?” I asked.

  The wolf snorted. The man’s lips and his fingers curved—a smile for me, a calming stroke for the wolf. “I’m here to help you, child.”

  “Usually ghosts come to me for help.”

  “Most do, aye.”

  His accent beguiled. I’d never realized what a sucker I was for accents. How could I? In New Bergin, there weren’t any.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Is that what you want to ask after so very long?”

  He had a point, but his not going poof the instant I approached after so many years of doing just that seemed to have frazzled my brain.

  “It’s as good a place to start as any.”

  “I suspect it is. Well, then…” His finge
rs continued to stroke the wolf as he lifted his gaze to the night. “I was born in Scotland.”

  “When?”

  “A forgotten time.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He lowered his gaze to mine. “Perhaps I only wish it was forgotten, as it appears to have returned. You must beware of the hunters.”

  Living in the woods, I’d been taught young to have a care during the hunting time of the year. But it was bow season not gun—the latter being far more dangerous by virtue of bullets instead of arrows, and more morons per square mile. While killing with a bow required some skill, blasting a rifle did not. Either way …

  “There’s no deer hunting after dark.” Of course morons were often unclear about what constituted darkness—as well as hunters’ blaze orange. Hence the accidental shootings of the many.

  “That is not the kind of hunter of which I speak.” The wolf gave a very feminine yip, and he nodded as if he understood. “You must beware the Venatores Mali.”

  “My Latin is … nonexistent.”

  “Hunters of evil,” he translated.

  “Evil what?”

  “Witches.”

  I laughed. “Right.”

  “You are talking to a ghost yet you laugh at the concept of witches?”

  I stopped laughing. “Isn’t the time for the persecution of religions past?” Except for Muslims, Jews … maybe he had a point.

  “Though the burning of witches was couched in religion, it had nothing to do with God.”

  Had to agree there.

  “I wasn’t referring to the burners’ religion, but the burnees’.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Wicca is a religion.”

  “What is Wicca?”

  “The religion of witchcraft.”

  The wolf snorted again.

  His gaze sharpened. “Are you of this religion?”

  “Me? No.” I stifled a nervous giggle at the idea of telling my father I was Wiccan. His head might explode.

  The discussion of fire reminded me of something. “The black-eyed ghost from the alley said, ‘He will burn us all.’”

  The wolf snarled.

  “Hush, Pru.”

  “Your wolf is named Pru?”

  “Prudence.”

  I should probably find a wolf named Prudence amusing, but right now so little was.

  “And your name?” It would be too weird, now that I knew her name was Prudence, to continue thinking of him as the Puritan. “Prudence and the Puritan”—sounded a little kinky.

  Now that was amusing.

  “Henry,” he said absently. “Who is he?” At my confused expression he continued, “He who will burn us all?”

  “The maniac?” It was his turn to appear confused. “Big knife. Tried to kill me.”

  “Ah. I don’t think he’ll be killing, or burning, any of us again.”

  “Who’s us?”

  “Witches.”

  I glanced at the wolf, frowned. He had said us, but how could a wolf be a witch? For that matter, how could he? Not only was he a he—and wasn’t that a warlock?—but they were ghosts.

  “You lost me,” I admitted.

  “I am a witch; Pru is a witch.” He spread his hands. “Have I found you?”

  “Not really. How can you burn?”

  Prudence yipped. The sound, or perhaps my words, made the ghost appear even ghostlier.

  “How do you think we became what we are?”

  “You were burned as witches?”

  His shudder was answer enough.

  “When?”

  “Sixteen twelve.”

  “That explains the hat.”

  Henry lifted his hand and touched the brim.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. “You’re talking over four hundred years. Why me? Why now?”

  “The hunters are back.” His lips tightened, and he stroked the wolf again, though I think this time more for his own comfort than hers. “For you.”

  “Me?” I didn’t realize I’d spoken more loudly until he repeated, “Hush,” as he had to Pru. “I’m not a witch.”

  “Then why did the hunter try to kill you?”

  “He was crazy?”

  Henry shook his head.

  “I don’t know anything about witches or witchcraft. I haven’t studied. I don’t own a cat. No eye of newt.”

  “Being a witch has nothing to do with any of that. You are born a witch; you die a witch.” He swept his hand down his black-clad form. “Even after you die, a witch you remain.”

  “I can’t be.”

  “You see me.”

  I didn’t bother to answer what wasn’t a question. I was talking to him, obviously I saw him. Didn’t mean he was actually there.

  “You see others.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Want has nothing to do with it.”

  “Got that right.”

  “You have innate supernatural abilities.”

  “Plural?” I asked, and he nodded. “Hell.”

  “Hell has nothing to do with it either. Abilities are from God.”

  Considering how he’d died and when …

  “I bet the witch hunters loved you.”

  “They did not. Hence the burning.”

  Sarcasm appeared lost on him. Had they had it back then?

  “What else do you think I can do?” I asked.

  “Move objects with your mind.”

  “No way!”

  “Thus far only when you are upset, frightened, or under some stress, but with practice…”

  I remembered the phone flying off the table the first time I’d seen the maniac. I’d thought Henry had done it. I still kind of did.

  “Seeing ghosts and flinging things doesn’t seem very witchy to me.”

  “What does?”

  “Broomsticks. Familiars.” I eyed the wolf. “Is she yours?”

  “My familiar?” Pru growled as he laughed. “She’s my wife.”

  “How—” I began, and Henry’s gaze flicked past me.

  I spun. Bobby Doucet stood on the porch.

  “Who are you talking to?” he asked.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Prudence and the Puritan were gone. Even if they’d been there, it wasn’t as if he could see them.

  “Myself.” Only when I started for the house did I realize how cold I was. How long had I been out here?

  “Okay.” His gaze remained fixed on the trees. “Because for a minute there I thought you were talking to the wolf.”

  I stumbled, righting myself before I ate dirt. “I … uh…” I looked at the trees again, then back. “What?”

  “The huge black wolf. Is it someone’s pet?”

  “No.” He’d seen the wolf. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  “If it isn’t a pet, then what were you doing anywhere near it?”

  “Wait.” I held up my hand. “You saw a wolf?”

  “Wasn’t hard. It was right there. Within biting distance of your…” He waved in my direction. “Everything.”

  “What else did you see?”

  “What else was there?”

  Nothing that he should have seen. Including that wolf. That he had seen Pru and not Henry meant …

  I wasn’t sure. She was real? Bobby was special? I was nuts? I needed Henry back.

  “Raye?”

  I tried to remember what he’d asked me.

  What else was there?

  “Nothing,” I said. I couldn’t exactly explain that I’d been talking to the ghost and not the wolf. But what was I going to say about the wolf?

  I considered denying its existence. Telling him he’d been dreaming or imagining things, but I couldn’t. My lying had improved, but I’d never enjoyed it. And I liked him, which was going to be more trouble than he was probably worth. Although, after that kiss earlier, he might be worth just about anything.

  Still, I couldn’t tell him he was crazy when he wasn’t. I’d been there, and it sucked.

&nb
sp; “I couldn’t sleep,” I blurted.

  He tilted his head. “So you decided to take a walk on the wild side?”

  “Yes. I mean … What?” I was so thrown by his seeing Pru, I couldn’t seem to focus, and I needed to. The more holes I dug, the harder it would be to avoid falling into one.

  “You often stroll through the wilderness when you can’t sleep?”

  “This isn’t the wilderness. This is my yard.”

  He cast what I could only call a nervous glance at the trees. I guess, after he’d seen a huge, black wolf melt into them, I could understand that. If I’d thought Pru had been anything other than ethereal, I might have been more nervous myself.

  “No wolves in New Orleans?” I asked.

  “Depends on who you talk to.” He let out a short, sharp breath at my frown. “Wolves have been absent from Louisiana for about a century, but that doesn’t mean folks don’t see them. It’s New Orleans. During Mardi Gras people see dragons.”

  “Like Oktoberfest.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Lots of alcohol, tons of people, more weird shit than the cops can handle.”

  “Okay, maybe it is like Oktoberfest,” he admitted. “You don’t seem concerned that there was a wolf on your property.”

  “I don’t have any small animals to worry about.” At his blank expression I continued. “A wolf might run off with a cat or a yippy dog, maybe a lamb or a chicken or a new calf. But not a person.”

  “You’ve seen wolves before?”

  I’d seen Pru before. As I wasn’t sure how to phrase that, I went with a general statement that sounded like an answer. “There are wolves in Wisconsin. A lot of them.”

  “They don’t usually come near people, unless they’re rabid.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about wolves for someone from a place that doesn’t have any.”

  “I surf the Web a lot.” Which smelled like a statement that wasn’t an answer too. “Did that wolf seem wrong to you?”

  More wrong than I could say, but I wasn’t going to. He was right. Lone wolves that hung around populated areas were usually rabid. If he called the Department of Natural Resources, they would come and shoot her, and that I couldn’t allow, even if I wasn’t quite certain that shooting Pru by usual methods would even draw blood.

  “There was nothing wrong with her that I could see.”