Crazy For You (45 page)

The flyer’s eyes, dark and intriguing, gave the
impression of lighting up. An invisible gleam trailed out,
enveloping Izzy in a blanket of comfort.

“Who is he?” She pointed to the flyer’s picture.

Lieutenant Stark lingered at her side and shifted
into an at ease stance with his legs apart and his hands crossed
behind his back. “Captain Jack Baker,” he said with clout. “A flyer
during the Second World War. He was quite the hero.”

The sprite danced around the lieutenant’s head,
teasing Izzy with threats of piercing the man’s body again.

She disregarded the creature and remained fixated on
the man in the photograph. “What happened to him?” Loneliness swept
through Izzy and stalled inside her heart where it intensified with
an emptiness she’d never experienced but felt she knew just the
same.

“I believe he was killed during a training
exercise.”

“Details?” She tried to pull her gaze from the
flyer’s picture. She wanted to look at the lieutenant now instead
of catching glimpses of him in her peripheral vision. She managed
to direct her attention to the man before her, but her thoughts
remained on the one in the photograph.

The lieutenant wavered as he rocked on his heels.
“Well, I’m not privy to all the particulars, but the United States
military is known for its record-keeping.”

The thought of not wanting to leave the hangar
washed over her like a warm summer rain. While scintillating at
first, once she got used to it she welcomed it, embraced it,
reveled in it. “I’d like to read the records here, please.”

“That much was anticipated.” He gestured toward an
office on the other side of the wall of photographs. “They’re on
the desk.”

“Thank you.” She stepped toward the office door and
stopped to look back at the lieutenant. “May I?” she asked, nodding
at the flyer’s photograph.

The lieutenant folded his arms over his chest; his
indifference emerged in a quick, tilting shrug. “Be my guest.”

Izzy reached for the picture and a nameless energy
rippled through her. Her legs congealed as if she were stuck in
quicksand.

She had her phantom. His will was strong, stronger
than anything she’d ever encountered. Raw, primitive grit pushed
her trembling hands to remove the photograph from the wall.

“Are you all right, Miss?” The lieutenant’s brow
crinkled with lines of concern, fatigue and fear.

Izzy didn’t have time to worry about his state of
mind. Thanks to the government’s deadline she had no time to give,
no energy to waste. When it came to spiritual therapy, no
energy—neither mental nor physical—could afford to be divided. Even
a smidgeon focused elsewhere could prove disastrous.

“I’m fine.” She clutched the picture frame to her
chest, fighting the urge to look into the eyes of the ill-fated
flyer. The lieutenant was a meager alternative, if not
disheartening. But she concentrated on him anyway, needing a
distraction from the spirit’s powerful influence. “There’s
definitely something here...someone.” Not to mention all those
damned sprites and fairies.

“You mean, like a
ghost?” As if he wasn’t already frazzled enough, the mention of the
word ghost sprouted perspiration on his forehead. He retrieved
another handkerchief from his pocket and began swabbing his
brow.

“No, not a ghost.” Izzy shook her head. “It’s a
spirit.”

“There’s a difference?” He followed her into the
office.

“Yes.” Sitting in a chair by the door, she let her
senses relax and get a feel for the spirit, his motives, his
desires. His whole life—at least the part that led to his
death—must have been encapsulated in the three boxes sitting on the
desk, all dust free. The flyer’s records? Wow, he must’ve been some
kind of hotshot. Obviously, the Air Force knew the identity of the
spirit, getting rid of him was another matter. She drew a breath,
long and deep, in hopes of tempering the awestruck feeling her
target had generated. “Ghosts or apparitions are what I like to
call reruns.”

“Reruns?” The lieutenant raised his bushy
eyebrows.

“The deceased’s presence isn’t really here. It’s
more like a memory.”

“A memory?” he echoed, but not nearly as
confident.

A second sprite joined the first and they swarmed
around the lieutenant’s head. Damn nuisances. Irritation crept up
Izzy’s gut. She cleared her throat as if she could cast it and the
sprites aside. The willful creatures bounced off each other and
zipped around the lieutenant. Izzy damned them with silent curses.
Curses that could send them to the deepest, darkest neighborhood of
nonexistence.

Go ahead, have your fun. I’ll deal with you
later.

The sprites vanished.

They left, but she doubted for good. They never gave
up easily. They’d be back.

For now, she settled on the lieutenant. “Sometimes,
we become so attached to the place we lived that a piece of our
existence remains there. But it’s not live, it’s like a recording.
It’s as if someone snapped a picture and placed it on an airwave
that not everyone can see.”

Lieutenant Stark snorted. “So how do you explain
lights turning on and off? Or doors opening when no one’s
there?”

“Spirit.”

“Spirit.” Wide eyes became permanently stretched
upon his weary face.

“The deceased’s soul stays behind. They have
unfinished—” Her words stopped, brutalized by sadness. Sadness that
stabbed at her head and her heart, and strove to get to her core.
The blade of sorrow felt sharp and she doubted her composure could
last much longer.

The flyer’s unfinished business must have been a
doozie, it had kept him there all this time. She looked at the
photograph, captured by his penetrating eyes. So lonely. So lovely.
So lost. The world around her faded just outside cognitive
awareness.

Izzy ached for the man in the picture. Ghost-busting
had always drained her strength of mind, but never her strength of
character. Until now. Now, it sapped her wisdom and sucked it out
through her pores. Anguish gathered in watery pools around her
eyes, stinging them at first and then raining down in hot, hushed
tears. The thought of this man’s death shattered her heart like a
powerful wind scattering the delicate blossoms of a dandelion.

“Miss Miller, are you all right?”

Izzy’s lethargic carriage made it hard to pull
herself to her feet. She lumbered across the room in slow-moving,
measured steps toward the desk on the other side. She nodded,
blinked the tears away and dropped into the chair. Having someone
watching her, judging her on-the-job moments of weakness was not
good. Aside from the shame her failings might bring, the sprites
could reveal themselves at any time. The lieutenant was already
nervous. She doubted he could handle a close encounter of the
paranormal kind.

“You don’t have to stay. It’s probably best if you
don’t.”

“You sure?” He stepped back with each word in his
half-hearted show of courtesy. His gallantry was well-intended, but
not genuine. She knew he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

“You should go.” She rose and strolled around the
desk.

The sprites reappeared but didn’t make themselves
known to the lieutenant. That meant trouble. Big trouble.

Damn it.

The sprites emitted iridescent tones of silver and
gold, hovering inches from the lieutenant’s face. Izzy cringed when
their brightness intensified and inflated like an electrified
bubble bursting into pointed edges. She knew what was coming, even
if the lieutenant didn’t. The nymphs squealed and exploded, their
remnants shooting through his body.

He stumbled back.
His face paled so fast she was sure he’d pass out. Instead, he
raced around the corner and disappeared. The sound of a slamming
door told Izzy he wouldn’t be back.

At least he didn’t have a heart attack.

“Okay. Are you guys done?” She perched her hands on
her hips. “You’d better scram before I banish you into
oblivion.”

Silence fell over the hangar, followed by emptiness.
The sprites and fairies had vanished, leaving behind an
unmistakable stillness, quiet and eerie.

Izzy wasn’t used to the effects of the beefed-up
emotions. Loss and sorrow had begun suffocating her the moment she
entered the hangar.

Or was it just a fascination with Captain Baker?

Her talent for ghost-whispering had been with her
since childhood, but she couldn’t remember a time when a spirit had
so thoroughly drawn her in, captivating her, making her forget
everything except this one time and place. Right here. Right
now.

Remorse blasted Izzy. The flyer’s consuming allure
bathed her in vulnerability. Not the best mindset for a
ghost-whisperer.

Jack Baker glided across the room toward the US
Government’s latest exorcist. He’d never known there was a
difference between a ghost and a spirit. She’d labeled him as the
latter. Well— He chuckled. It’s good to know I’m not a re-run.

Hovering on the edge of the desk, his legs breezed
through hers. She shuddered, and he knew she’d felt the connection.
Jack straightened and sighed with a wisp of anticipation.

Her gaze traveled around the room as if she was
studying every inch of it, taking in every ounce of information,
reviewing every minute of his seclusion.

Jack tried to wield her toward the boxes on the
desk. He peered into the closest carton. A brown folder, tattered
and faded, lay on top. His name had been scribbled at the top right
corner. Was that his handwriting or someone else’s? Ideas swarmed
his mind and he contemplated what could be inside that folder.

What he wouldn’t give to take a look-see. He’d come
to accept that he was dead long ago. He just couldn’t recall how it
happened.

“Go ahead, darlin’,” he encouraged her in a soft
persuasive voice, anticipating reading over her shoulder.

She sighed, reaching for a faded manila folder. Jack
floated into a standing position. If he could find one piece of
information in those files, one small detail to remind him about
his life, he was sure it would re-establish his memories. Hope
distorted his common sense and he forgot his boundaries. He breezed
through the girl, the box, the desk—and tumbled across the floor,
landing by the door.

The girl paused, her fingertips barely touching the
file. As if some invisible cosmic cord linked the two of them, she
scanned the room again, slower this time. She wheeled the chair
around facing the wall, and after a brief interlude, peered over
her shoulder. Her ocean-blue eyes seized Jack and held him
captive.

Breaking free took most of his energy and all his
concentration. He soared to the chair by the door, sat and crossed
his arms over his chest and stared at her. He needed to keep his
distance, far enough away to be safe. To stay in control. To keep
from invading her realm.

She knew he was there. He was sure of it.

Was it possible? Could he actually communicate with
her? The prospect stimulated his perception and sped through him
like a P-51 Mustang chasing the sound barrier. His heart felt like
it was pounding in his chest again.

Who was this girl? Some kind of demon?

There had been others. Self-proclaimed psychics and
spiritual therapists, as she so gallantly called herself. The Air
Corps ushered them in like soldiers being inducted into the Army.
Their goal—to remove him. None ever could. And neither would she.
He was going to have a good time watching her try. This one was a
real looker. They didn’t make them like her in his day.

Her chestnut-brown hair had blonde streaks. It was
the damnedest thing he’d ever seen. Yet it suited her, bringing out
her vivid blue eyes. Jack marveled at how easy he could get lost in
their endlessness, reminiscent of the deepest part of the Pacific
on a clear day. Her full lips, the color of pomegranate seed, were
ripe for kissing. If only….

The intoxicating scent of flowers—what was it?
Jasmine, maybe—filled the air. Jack smiled. Either she was invading
his world or he was breaking through to hers. Now he smelled her
perfume.

This was going to be fun. His resounding laughter
echoed through the room and he leaned back in the chair.

Her head jerked sideways, her eyes darting toward
him.

Anticipation leaned him forward in the chair. “Can
you see me?” He waited, hoping for a positive response.

Nothing.

“Can you hear me?” Jack wouldn’t give up easily. She
may not see him or even hear him, but his exorciser sensed his
presence. That could prove disastrous for Jack. If she truly knew
he was there, then he had to accept the probability that she could
also send him to his maker. Not what Jack had in mind.

“I know you’re here,” she muttered. She searched the
space around her like she thought he’d appear at any moment. “You
might as well show yourself.” He wasn’t surprised when she stopped
and her stare holed through him.

Pink fingernails marched a replicated sequence along
the desk top and drummed out a song of exasperation. She was as
determined to drive him out as he was to stay put. Fascinating.

“In due time, darlin’. In due time.” He chuckled,
amused by her resolve.

She tilted her head toward the nearest box and
grabbed the top file. “It’s going to be a long night.” She propped
her feet on the desk and leaned back in the chair, looked at the
front of the folder and yawned. Instead of opening it, she laid it
against her chest and folded her arms over it. Her eyes fluttered
shut. No doubt, some trick to lure him into a false sense of
security.

“Okay, so you can’t hear me, and you don’t see me,
but you know I’m here.” Or she knows somebody’s here, crossed
Jack’s mind as an afterthought.

He flew across the room and landed on the desk.
Looking at her, he cocked his head. Communicating with an exorcist
was dangerous and he’d never had the desire. Until now. Making an
appearance might be risky, but Jack loved a challenge.