In the Dead of Night (4 page)

I headed back downstairs, pausing for a moment at the top of the gallery overlooking the living room. In the past, sometimes we’ve had visitations from things on the ‘other side’. Entities have followed us home from investigations, and not so much on account of me as Fiona. Somehow she attracts them. I’m convinced restless spirits are always on the lookout for somebody who can see, hear, or at least sense them. The last option applies to me, and my limited extrasensory perception.

There was nothing like this going on that night. No weird feelings, like being watched from all directions, and no cold spots. Just the beautiful glow of polished pine logs under the dimmed accent lights in the ceiling’s apex above. Fiona looked so peaceful. But the dog looked on edge, and I could hear her growls from upstairs, dwarfed only by the air conditioner and the collective snores from both floors.

“What’s up, girl?” I asked her, sweetly, once I returned to the main level.

Gypsy’s a smart dog. A breed that understands several hundred words from the English language. According to my wife, our pooch really only responds to
how
we say something. Correctly interpreting the words is more hit and miss, depending on tone, like my sugared approach a moment ago.

Gypsy trotted over to the back door and whined. Maybe she needed to go out. Just the same, I grabbed the .44 magnum we have registered with the local Sheriff’s Department from the top shelf in the kitchen cupboard and a couple of rounds from the utility drawer. The gun was loaded and ready. She and I stepped out onto the back porch together.

Affording a great view in the daytime, our property sits on six wooded acres. It’s my dream home. I truly believe I could live here forever, as long as I can pay the bills. I love the quiet solitude. Unlike me, Fiona dreams of an old home in historic Franklin, where the essence of the Civil War and a world long forgotten in much of America still thrives. No, it’s not redneck racist. Not at all. But the quaint shops and restaurants near the downtown square make most anyone think of Mayberry or any of the other quaint towns that defined the 1950s golden age of middle class America. Not to mention the stately mansions and smaller Victorian homes near the square.

Maybe someday she’ll get her wish...although I’m not a neighborly guy. Hence the preference for our cabin in the woods. I’m not into sharing my pad with any ghosts, either, which is almost an assured reality if you own an older home in Franklin. Most owners of a place that predates 1900 are proud of their spirit buddies and can readily provide the departed entity’s earthly name.

Anyway, after sniffing the air and checking the deck’s perimeter, Gypsy ran down the steps to do her business. On alert for her barks that could flush out a prowler’s location, I held the pistol in front of me, loaded and ready to go.

But all she offered was a low grunt before coming back up the stairs. Still, her response was enough to make me linger on the deck for another moment. I tried picturing the layout of the brush and shorter trees closer to our home, since I couldn’t make out a damned thing beyond the security lights’ reach.

I gave the dog her treat once back inside and took one last stroll around the main floor. There was still nothing amiss. I wondered if it was just a weird coincidence that I woke up when I did, and that my overactive imagination had gotten the better of me.

Then I heard footsteps on the front driveway, pressing softly against the gravel, and moving away from the house. I thought about running outside and waving the gun...maybe even firing a warning shot. Then I’d demand whoever was out there to reveal themselves before I….

“Before I
what
?” I wondered aloud.

Before I got myself killed? Lord knows I have a good enough aim to hit something dead on from a hundred feet in daylight. But at night? Hell no. I’d be lucky to hit anything from thirty feet. Damned lucky.

So I peered through the front curtain instead, pulling it back ever so carefully. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a dark silhouette was crouched, backing up slowly toward the street. Of course, now the dog figured out what I was up to and let out a shrill yelp. Loud enough to wake Fiona again.

“What’s going on, hon?” she asked, groggily, half asleep.

“Nothing, babe,” I told her, while giving Gypsy a threatening
shush!
to ensure she’d shut the hell up.

I had to be careful and quick, or else my wife might catch on to what I was doing. Thank God she hadn’t noticed the pistol in my hand.

I peered though the curtain again. I couldn’t be sure if the figure heard my dog, but that’d be my assumption. Whoever it was now stood at the edge of our driveway, in the street, and probably saw me, too, despite my efforts to remain concealed. Right before this person disappeared for good, the sucker shot me a bird.

It definitely wasn’t the Good Humor Man.

A minute or so later I heard an engine start up down the road. I waited nearly half an hour—long after it faded away—before going back to bed, which tonight remained the sofa. Snuggled up against Fiona with Gypsy curled near our feet and the gun tucked safely under a pillow, I kept my ears open for anything else…for our dark-clad visitor to return. It would be the last thing I remembered from that night, other than the dawn’s light creeping in through our living room window, announcing its promise of a long and weary Thursday.

Chapter Four

There’s nothing like a call center getting ready for a visit from the Big Bosses. Lots of shiny, circus-like balloons and an abundance of pens, notepads, and silly buttons. All bear the name of our employer and the latest ill-fated promotion. The carpets finally get cleaned past the imbedded popcorn kernels, and every PC and desktop is completely cleared of post-it notes and dust bunnies.

Such unabashed phoniness.

But everybody does it, whether it’s Wal-Mart, ATT, or even Nordstrom. Fortunately, their valued customers never see the semi-annual parade of happy horseshit. Hell, if I confessed we’re sometimes the brunt of industry jokes for an enhanced pastel shade obsession, it’d be easy to figure out who my employer is.

But that’s not the worst part of this corporate American travesty. The worst? That happens when all of the supervisors and their assistants dressed up in their Sunday best gather at the front entrance to the warehouse-sized building we call home. Think of it as a grand procession headed straight up corporate leadership’s pompous asses. I completely envy any of my peers who manage to get the day off, long in advance.

Back in January, I tried to hide in the back of the crowd, while my peers screamed excitedly when our CEO and CPO stepped out of the long white limousine and headed for the door. Like rock stars they waved to their fans, while our GM and his assistant served as their security escorts. More festivities followed inside, and by the time lunch arrived, the nausea had grown so bad I nearly passed out.

Okay, maybe that’s a little exaggerated. But it really was distasteful. And to think we’d be doing it again Friday. Tomorrow.

I arrived at the center just after 9:00 a.m. that Thursday. My lead agent and our team of fifteen CSRs (customer service representatives, for those unfamiliar with call center lingo), were busy with the Lysol and Clorox wipes, cleaning every topical surface in our cubical area. Laughing and chasing one another through the aisles, apparently they were excused from taking calls for the next hour or so. Such joyful ecstasy in their faces I’d seldom witnessed—definitely never when tethered to their computers with headsets.

“Well, hey there, sexy!” cooed Shikira, one of my more precocious and flirtatious young reps. “Dennis says we don’t have to be back on the phones until ten-thirty.”

She nodded toward my assistant, who handed out more Clorox wipes to the rest of the team, with Tammi and Nikki—Shakira’s closest cohorts—in tow behind him. The prettiest threesome in the center, Dennis had become their unwitting pet, completely wrapped around their pinkies for some time now. Yeah, it’s completely inappropriate for a forty-year old man to cavort about like this, and the looks on several of my other reps’ faces confirm the dangerous line he treads. Two middle-aged ladies, Suzanne and Marietta, especially make me worry every damned day about a possible lawsuit.

Have I talked to him about it? Several times, actually. His stated commitments to act more mature have all evaporated into the massive germ-infested ventilation system coursing through the center. I can hardly wait for the next team realignment and my emancipation from the three little vermin and their pathetic puppy dog.

My head was throbbing, compounded by lack of sleep from the night before.

Just great. Just frigging
great!

Smiling weakly, I fought to hide my intense irritation as I moved over to my desk, stopping briefly to greet Suzanne and Marietta. I offered much warmer smiles to my older girls. As usually was the case, their perturbed expressions melted away, and I tried not to picture the sordid images of me flourishing behind their wanton looks. At least Dennis could keep his job one more day.

“I need your status reports for last week by noon on my desk,” said a harsh, husky voice from behind me.

Matilda Jones, my direct manager. She slid around to face me before I laid my briefcase on my desktop and sat down. Matilda is a wonderful lady and the only coworker of mine whom my wife admires and respects. The feeling’s are mutual between them, too. Fiona has performed card readings for her on a couple of occasions. I often kid Matilda as being an Aussie from Queensland, Australia, greeting her with a hearty ‘G’day!” on most mornings, although she’s never even been outside the states, hailing from Flint, Michigan. Barely five feet in height, she’s an attractive fortyish lady of West Indies descent, whose affinity for fine chocolates is the only reason she struggles to keep her generous curves in line.

“I’ll get em’ turned in on time—Dennis should have most of what you need done already,” I told her, pausing to look at several paper towel bundles from the nearby restrooms stacked on top of my desk.

Two more cans of Lysol and another container of Clorox wipes sat next to my mouse pad. It left me just enough room to squeeze my laptop into its docking station, while I laid my bike helmet and backpack under my desk. There were no status reports from Dennis, however.

“By noon, Fabio, and don’t be late,” Matilda reminded me, after glancing at my desk. She smirked, but the look she gave me as she headed back to her office reinforced her seriousness.

Very funny. I couldn’t help thinking of a stupid “I can’t believe it’s not…” comeback that thankfully remained in my head behind the mouth-gate that sometimes works. Really, she isn’t opposed to having her top supervisor be a long-haired dude—so unlike the other two guys on our team of six, who always come to work wearing ties and slacks. “Dressed for success” is the way they like to put it. Desperately wanting to move up in this business, they act as if the only thing that matters in life is the proliferation of our company’s success. Even so, Matilda values my presence on her team, and I often catch her smiling when I offer a well-placed sarcastic observation to keep things grounded in our team meetings.

As I said earlier, my work attire is a bit cleaned up from the blue-jeaned rocker I normally roll as. Slacks and a polo shirt are the standard fare for all of leadership in our center, though I was wearing biker boots instead of loafers since I rode my Harley to work. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Maybe the earring bothers some folks, but at least it’s a diamond stud instead of the gold hoop I normally wear. A little less pirate that way and more GQ.

Anyway, not long after my laptop warmed up and I prepared to get started on the reports Matilda needed, my cell phone rang.

It was Fiona, calling from the bookstore she works at as a day manager.

She had some bad news.
Very
bad, actually.

The killer had struck again…another music industry personality who happens to know Fiona. Dickey Rollins, Candi Starr’s manager.

My wife was in tears, barely able to tell me the scant details she had learned about the latest murder. She was headed downtown to meet Detective Ed Sliver, one of Nashville’s premier homicide specialists, and one whom she’s assisted in the past with her psychic abilities. But she wanted me there, too.
Needed
me to be there, she told me.

I needed time, at least an hour to get the reports done for Matilda. So, I pulled Dennis from his tail-chasing activities and sat his ass down next to me. By 11:00 a.m., I was out the door, having just handed my reports to Matilda. Since my partner supervisors, Becky and Kendra, had already agreed to keep an eye on my team, she let me leave work early. Acute interest glowed within her green eyes, accented by her shiny ebony skin as I said goodbye.

She’s just dying to know what this is about.

Fiona would be proud that I haven’t divulged a damned thing…yet.

Chapter Five

Division Street near downtown Nashville is home to some of the more famous historic places in the city. At least in terms of the music biz. There are lots of big houses from the early 1900s, with mature magnolias in the manicured front lawns. Over the years, many of these places have since been converted into recording studios and offices for both record labels and management companies alike. All cater to the up and coming artists as well as the established country stars. The very heart and soul of “Music City” lies here beneath the worn pavement.