A Question of Ghosts Page 17

  Jo sighed, penitent once again. “I’ve apologized for touching the doll three times now.”

  “Well, keep at it.”

  Becca snickered into her coffee, and Jo wondered again at her resilience. Becca looked centered again, fully herself. They watched the Bentley roll by, hitched to the back of a tow truck, its image wavering across the shop’s paneled windows. It was nothing. A machine, a toy.

  “And we have one hit from a hooker.”

  “Excuse me?” Jo frowned.

  “A working girl was standing at the corner of Broadway and Roy, late Tuesday night.” Pam consulted her notebook, her tone sardonic. “She saw ‘a man’ walking away from your office shortly after midnight.”

  “A man,” Jo repeated.

  “Real helpful.” Pam nodded. “A white man, she thinks. Average height, average weight, nothing distinctive at all. Just that he was wearing a long coat, which no one needs in Seattle in late June in the middle of the night.”

  “So he could have been hiding something in it?” Becca asked.

  “A crowbar, a baseball bat. Might be.” Pam folded her arms. “Okay. I’m strongly suggesting the two of you stay the hell away from that house. He knows you’re there. This perp burned through an iron lock with acid. He wouldn’t have any problems getting to you.”

  “Well, that would be true wherever we went.” Becca drew her hands through her hair. “I don’t want to live my life looking over my shoulder every day. I hate this. And that house is still the best place to hear my mother.” She looked to Jo for confirmation.

  “That’s not necessarily true. We’ve heard your mother speak from the Healys’ place and from my car radio. She seems to travel with us. We haven’t heard her in that house since—”

  “She talked to me in that house last night.”

  “Excuse me?” Pam asked. “The what? The mother what, now?”

  “My dead mother.” Becca was smiling at Jo’s abruptly arched eyebrows.

  “You heard her again last night?” Jo was confounded. “She spoke to you? Becca, you might have mentioned this!”

  “She wasn’t talking to you,” Becca told Jo politely. “It was a private conversation.”

  “All right.” Jo drummed her nails against the glass tabletop. “If it’s not too private, what did your dead mother say?”

  “Well.” Becca hesitated, and that connection beamed again between them, light and effortless. “She told me I was right to be falling in love with you.”

  Jo stopped drumming on the table. She found herself smiling back, not a broad grin, just a small lift of one corner of her mouth.

  “The mother what, now?” Pam seemed to relent and slapped Jo on the back. “I mean, congratulations. I’m real happy for y’all. But you’re talking about hearing Madelyn Healy’s voice?”

  “We have a lot to tell you, Pam.” Becca patted Pam’s hand with real sympathy. “And we will fill you in, I promise. But right now, we have to make plans for the day. My hip is vibrating for the fourth time, and I think it’s Rachel, yelling at me for missing our breakfast.”

  Jo shook her hair out of her eyes, the motion needed to break that tingling bond with Becca. “Right. We stay in the house, then.”

  Pam sighed. “Guess we can step up patrols in the neighborhood, but that won’t cover it. You guys own a gun?”

  Becca shook her head in the same moment Jo nodded, and she looked at her in surprise.

  “I’m licensed to carry a Magnum six thirty-two. It’s a revolver, Becca. A hand gun.”

  Pam whistled softly. “What’s the caliber on that?”

  “Three twenty-seven. I’m quite accurate with it.” Jo was berating herself for not retrieving the weapon the last time she had been home, the day they found her ruined office. She had taken only the music box with her, Consuelo’s gift. She spoke to Becca softly. “I thought you’d be uneasy around a gun. Given your history.”

  Becca nodded, then shook her head. Then she nodded again, and shrugged helplessly. “I am. Uneasy with guns. Thank you for thinking of this. But I also think we need some protection.”

  “I never, never advise civilians to arm themselves.” Pam regarded them pensively. “But arm yourself, Jo. I’m not sure why a scientist dense enough to handle evidence is sharp enough to carry a classy weapon like that, but go get that gun. You a good shot?”

  “I have many skills.” Jo winked at Becca.

  “All right.” Pam thudded Jo’s back again with the flat of her hand, and if she kept punching the bruise below her shoulder, Jo was going to deck her, but she liked her catching the Xena reference. “I’m coming by your place tonight. Don’t know how long I can stay, but it won’t hurt to have a visible police presence there for a while.”

  Jo lifted her chin at Becca. “Would you like a calling of the clan?”

  A natural shorthand had developed between them. She knew Becca understood her.

  Becca grinned at Pam. “Bring popcorn, please. And prepare for at least three Xena episodes.”

  *

  Becca made her way upstairs, pulling on the bannister as covertly as possible. She felt Jo’s concern following her as palpably as touch.

  “Those recordings of ghost voices flat knock me out.” Pam’s dazed voice drifted up the stairs. “Wish we could call Becca’s mother to the stand, let her fry the son of a bitch who’s messing with her girl.”

  Becca pictured the little yellow globe radio perched on the railing of a witness stand and had to smile through her stupor. Xena’s closing theme was fading in the living room, and the voices of Marty and Khadijah murmured below. Becca glanced over her shoulder and caught Jo’s gaze, and nodded reassurance.

  She just needed a few minutes alone. The warm company of her friends was wonderful, but Becca was worn out. She trudged into the bedroom her parents had shared for six years and sat carefully on the side of the wide bed.

  She and Jo would sleep in the living room again tonight, after their clan left. The presence of her friends was infusing that space with a protective vibe, Becca could feel it. And she and Jo both knew that room was the true center of the house, the holder of whatever strange energy opened to the other side. She would bring down the Spiricom and the globe radio and let Jo set them up again.

  She picked up the little yellow ball and held it in her hands. A mild hissing issued from it, empty air.

  “Maddie,” Becca whispered to the globe. “Mom?”

  Nothing but static.

  “I feel a little like Hamlet, talking to poor Yorick’s skull,” Becca murmured to her mother. “Are you there?”

  Static.

  “It took us hours to sweep up the glass in that office today. Jo could have hired a crew to do it, but I know cleaning her space herself was important to her.” Becca examined a shallow cut at the base of her thumb. “I’m glad you like Jo. That you like Jo and me.”

  Becca didn’t like the small smudge of blood near her palm. She wiped her hand on her knee uneasily and stared at the radio. “What gift held blood, Mom?”

  She waited, but Madelyn Healy was especially far away tonight. Becca repeated the question, slowly and clearly, and waited again. Not even a faint crackle in the soft burr of sound.

  “We’re doing everything we can imagine to do to find an answer. I’m sure you realize this. I just hope I don’t let you down. It’s the only thing you’ve ever asked me to do, solving this puzzle. Short of learning to tie my shoes and whatnot. I’d like to come through for you if I can. Wish us luck.”

  Khadijah’s laugh pealed below her, and Becca smiled. “I wish you could have known my friends, Mom. I think you would have handpicked these guys for me. You know what, you might have been sick, but you must have done so much that was right. I have good friends, good work. Maybe even a chance at love now. I spent my first five years with you, the most crucial years in anyone’s life, and you gave me a strong start.”

  Jo, who said she didn’t do people, was right. Becca held feelings for her mother beyond
the anger, the grief; more gentle feelings. She was talking to her now as if deep cups of cocoa and all the time in the world lay before them.

  “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 should
ers. 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!”