…”
“Second floor window. The curtain dropped back like somebody pulled away.”
For the first time in an hour … no, longer, since he was attacked and we retreated to the safety of the sidewalk, Craghorn speaks a coherent sentence. He says, “That’s where it likes to stay.”
“It?” Mike asks. “You mean the …”
“Yeah. Him.”
There’s a layer of sharp acrimony in Craghorn’s voice that I’m hearing for the first time. Perhaps he’s recovering from earlier. Perhaps he feels emboldened now that the paranormal defense team is fully present.
“That was my wife’s study. She used to paint in there.” Craghorn clenches his jaw, the muscle rising and falling underneath loose skin. His mouth purses, his nose scrunches as he glares up at the window. I halfway expect him to make a fist and shake it like some old codger.
Mike is about to ask another question when Detective Thomas excuses himself and takes a phone call. We wait patiently while he listens to his caller, lifting his shoulders in a sorry-can’t-help-it apology. Finally, he hangs up and tells us he has to go. “Wife was reminding me about my visit to the doc. Checking out the ticker today,” he says, patting his chest. “After what happened in there, I feel like I should keep the appointment. Tell you what, Mr. Craghorn is in good hands here. You know what you’re doing, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going back inside that goddamn place ever again. So, you do what you do, and then come meet me back at the station. That work for you guys?”
Craghorn’s gaze flitters upward, looking as if he’s slightly worried that the man with the gun is leaving, and I don’t bother telling him that bullets would only tickle that thing inside his house.
I say to Detective Thomas, “We’ve got it all under control,” then toss another subtle compliment at Mike. “He’s the best at what he does, so if we’re able to find anything for you, it’ll be because he’s here.”
You catch more bees with honey.
The detective gives us a cordial salute and spins on his heels. He’s down the sidewalk, around the corner with his step looking lighter, and gone before anyone else speaks again.
Craghorn is the first to say something. “Good thing for him.”
“Why’s that?” Mike asks.
“I can’t repeat what the dark man inside said about the detective.”
My lungs clench, and Mike flashes me a worried glance.
Maybe it’s just coincidence—could be nothing at all—but it’s so odd that he refers to it using the same words as Chelsea Hopper.
“ Don’t let the dark man get me, okay ?”
I can see tremors of the past rippling across Mike’s face. At first, I think he’s reliving the moment with that little blonde angel bobbing down the hallway, excited to help and so thrilled to be with her new friends from TV. A thousand pounds of regret fill my stomach. I’m aching and anxious to get back to fighting for her retribution.
I think Mike is going to sympathize with me. He’s going to tell Dave Craghorn that it’ll be okay. We’ve fought things like this before, and we’re going to get his life back. We’re going to give his wife the everlasting rest she deserves. I think this, and I’m about to say something to Craghorn, but Mike’s fist connects with my jaw, and I drop like my chute didn’t open. I blink, trying to see around the sparkles dancing in my vision.
Before I can clear my head, there are rough hands on my shirt, yanking me up. Mike says, “You put him up to this, didn’t you? The dark man? Really, Ford? Did you think I’d come running back for that?”
I taste blood. I try to tell him no, that I never said a word to Craghorn about Chelsea or the dark man, but I’m dizzy and confused. My words come out jumbled. I can make out the red hue in Mike’s skin, the rage twisting his features, and then his forehead meets the bridge of my nose.
I succumb to the darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I come to, and it takes me a
“Second floor window. The curtain dropped back like somebody pulled away.”
For the first time in an hour … no, longer, since he was attacked and we retreated to the safety of the sidewalk, Craghorn speaks a coherent sentence. He says, “That’s where it likes to stay.”
“It?” Mike asks. “You mean the …”
“Yeah. Him.”
There’s a layer of sharp acrimony in Craghorn’s voice that I’m hearing for the first time. Perhaps he’s recovering from earlier. Perhaps he feels emboldened now that the paranormal defense team is fully present.
“That was my wife’s study. She used to paint in there.” Craghorn clenches his jaw, the muscle rising and falling underneath loose skin. His mouth purses, his nose scrunches as he glares up at the window. I halfway expect him to make a fist and shake it like some old codger.
Mike is about to ask another question when Detective Thomas excuses himself and takes a phone call. We wait patiently while he listens to his caller, lifting his shoulders in a sorry-can’t-help-it apology. Finally, he hangs up and tells us he has to go. “Wife was reminding me about my visit to the doc. Checking out the ticker today,” he says, patting his chest. “After what happened in there, I feel like I should keep the appointment. Tell you what, Mr. Craghorn is in good hands here. You know what you’re doing, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going back inside that goddamn place ever again. So, you do what you do, and then come meet me back at the station. That work for you guys?”
Craghorn’s gaze flitters upward, looking as if he’s slightly worried that the man with the gun is leaving, and I don’t bother telling him that bullets would only tickle that thing inside his house.
I say to Detective Thomas, “We’ve got it all under control,” then toss another subtle compliment at Mike. “He’s the best at what he does, so if we’re able to find anything for you, it’ll be because he’s here.”
You catch more bees with honey.
The detective gives us a cordial salute and spins on his heels. He’s down the sidewalk, around the corner with his step looking lighter, and gone before anyone else speaks again.
Craghorn is the first to say something. “Good thing for him.”
“Why’s that?” Mike asks.
“I can’t repeat what the dark man inside said about the detective.”
My lungs clench, and Mike flashes me a worried glance.
Maybe it’s just coincidence—could be nothing at all—but it’s so odd that he refers to it using the same words as Chelsea Hopper.
“ Don’t let the dark man get me, okay ?”
I can see tremors of the past rippling across Mike’s face. At first, I think he’s reliving the moment with that little blonde angel bobbing down the hallway, excited to help and so thrilled to be with her new friends from TV. A thousand pounds of regret fill my stomach. I’m aching and anxious to get back to fighting for her retribution.
I think Mike is going to sympathize with me. He’s going to tell Dave Craghorn that it’ll be okay. We’ve fought things like this before, and we’re going to get his life back. We’re going to give his wife the everlasting rest she deserves. I think this, and I’m about to say something to Craghorn, but Mike’s fist connects with my jaw, and I drop like my chute didn’t open. I blink, trying to see around the sparkles dancing in my vision.
Before I can clear my head, there are rough hands on my shirt, yanking me up. Mike says, “You put him up to this, didn’t you? The dark man? Really, Ford? Did you think I’d come running back for that?”
I taste blood. I try to tell him no, that I never said a word to Craghorn about Chelsea or the dark man, but I’m dizzy and confused. My words come out jumbled. I can make out the red hue in Mike’s skin, the rage twisting his features, and then his forehead meets the bridge of my nose.
I succumb to the darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I come to, and it takes me a
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