In the Dead of Night (44 page)

“I thought we’d work on the groove that Melvin and I had cookin’?”

Max’s indignant tone matched his scowl. It seemed to amuse Melvin and David, who both wore matching wry grins as they glanced at each other.

“What groove is that?” David asked.

“The one we ain’t working on tonight, Mongo,” said Ricky, sharply. “Since everyone seems to be in love with
Dragging the River
, let’s work on it. Besides, it has the shittiest demo arrangement, and now is as good a time as any to fix it.”

I thought for a moment there might be another fight on stage, which would make the fifth or sixth since we returned from New York at the end of August. The first two battles involved Chris, until he was told in no uncertain terms that his services would no longer be needed. Then, there was a fight over whether or not to get a new front man instead of reverting back to using Ricky.

I stayed out of that particular heated discussion. Hell, the only reason I agreed to accept the role of front man was on account of Ricky’s insistence and the fact he produced an old demo of me singing
Primetime
. Mongo and Max flipped out over the way I sang the tune, and I didn’t have the heart to say no to their pleading for me to take the gig. Still, I figured it would be nearly impossible to find a decent bassist to take over for me right away. Not to mention the fact I sincerely suck at singing and playing at the same time. However, one of Mongo’s Music Row buddies recommended Melvin, and after he auditioned and held his own with everything Max could throw at him, we had our new lineup.

Thankfully, on this night peace prevailed. Since the work was mainly getting the rhythm parts in sync, I got to sit at the console and just observe. Actually, I’m glad I did, since it gave me a clearer picture of what the band will look like the next time we perform in public. Whereas before I thought that Melvin would be such a terrible downgrade from Chris’s charisma, the dude has his own charm after all. Sort of Bill Wyman-ish from the Stones, and even Max and Ricky have a little Keith Richards and Ron Wood in ‘em to where a Stones-like persona might fit us…at least in terms of physical presentation. Thank God that when David turns into ‘Mongo’ on stage, with his incredible repertoire of jazz and other percussion licks that he has the versatility to keep our music in line with what we’re up against in the local and national rock n’ roll scenes.

For the first time since our ghost hunting cohorts started dying around us, I felt at peace. Things were looking up…at least for my band.

***

After a productive rehearsal, everyone—including Ricky—felt good about the progress we had made. I drove home to Arrington with the same song lifting my heart as it blasted through the Camaro’s Boston speakers.

Dragging the River
. I knew the lyrics by heart, and sort of sang along while driving along mostly deserted roadways to the southern part of town.

“…Never thought they’d come for me—they’re dragging the river…. I’m the one they wouldn’t see, they’re dragging—”

I heard something, and stopped singing. It sounded like a rustling inside the bag of fast food wrappers from lunch earlier that day, which I had carelessly tossed into the backseat until I could dispose of it later. I glanced in the rearview mirror and thought I saw a shadow. It was hard to say for sure, since streetlights can play some tricks when you’re flying past them at eighty miles per hour. But the napkins suddenly floating in the air above the backseat sure as hell wasn’t an illusion caused by light and shadow.

“Ah,
shit!”

No sooner than I whispered this, I heard a light chuckle emanating from the back seat. My heart raced, knowing who it was and worried about what was to come next.

“Heh heh heh…. I see you just fine, Jimmy boy!”

Angie. Sounding as if she was whispering through a hollow tube behind my right ear. It felt like the rear windows had suddenly been opened, and a rush of cold air had been allowed to flow into my car. But none of the windows were open. It was merely the ominous and frigid presence of a disembodied spirit. In this case, a psychopathic ghost.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” I said, slowing down to seventy, just in case this bitch went crazy on me and I had to make an emergency stop. “Why don’t you go to the Light, and leave me the hell alone?”

More chuckles, followed by what sounded like an incredibly deep breath. Was she going to try to blow my ass out of the car?

“‘The one they wouldn’t see’? I see you very clearly, and do you know why? It’s because I’m
not
done yet!” she said, louder, but not near as deafening as I had feared. “I’ve got some ‘unfinished business’, as you creeps like to refer to it. I’ll be back to collect my prize very soon…. But it isn’t me that you should fear, Cracker Jack! I know who the killer is, and won’t you be surprised when it’s
your
fine ass that’s on the list and not some peripheral friends? You will indeed come to regret your stupidity…and that’s when I’ll be waiting for you on
this
side…. I’ve got lots of fun for you planned then!”

I may never know for certain, but it felt like she suddenly passed through me from behind, somehow traveling through the heated leather of my seat. Regardless, it was the coldest sensation I’ve ever endured. Not even the shadow wraiths we encountered in Bethpage could deliver such an experience. At least not to me.

As the snow began to fall again, and I was nearing the I-840 split that would take me home to the rural residence I share with my beloved wife and boys, I watched a wispy form rise up from the windshield and disappear into the air above. Impossible to know if it was Angie’s exit from the Camaro or not, I prayed fervently that she was gone. It took every ounce of determination not to look in the rearview mirror the rest of the way home.

Chapter Seven

It took the better part of two full days to get over this experience. Not that anyone else could tell, since I hid it well. I didn’t even share it with Fiona, since she was working tirelessly to try and keep our group of sulking ghost hunters together as one entity. After she told me that Ricky, Justin, and Tony were considering starting their own new band of investigators, and that Tom, Jackie, and Michelle were digging their heels in to co-host our remaining Civil War investigations with our new Pulaski associates, I didn’t have the heart to tell her about what happened to me late Wednesday night. She needed the extra worry like she would an extra hole in her head.

But I should’ve never questioned Fiona’s resourcefulness.

On a whim, she contacted one of the sites that we had to turn down for our official Civil War ghost tour, and arranged for five of us to visit Thursday night. The owners of the mansion at Marshall’s Crossing, near Adams, were ecstatic about this opportunity, and advised for us to stop by there at any time. Fiona asked if we could come after work that Thursday night, and the owners, Ed and Judy Barnes, said yes.

Unbeknownst to me, Fiona had contacted Tony and Justin during the day, and the two guys convinced Ricky to join them in the parking lot of the Tattered Pages at five o’clock. They were waiting for Fiona and me as we left the store for the night.

I expected some tension—even though the guys readily acknowledged that they knew Monday night’s bullshit had nothing to do with Fiona or me. But to see the guys fully prepared and excited about visiting the noted plantation warmed my heart. Granted, we stood the chance of being ostracized from everyone else for this treachery, if Tom and the others ever found out. But, as I mentioned, my wife had a plan.

Ricky owns a spacious SUV, so we all traveled north together in one vehicle. By the time we arrived at the site, just after 6:00 p.m., Fiona had not only smoothed over the hurt that each of the guys experienced the other night, but got their collective buy-in to rejoin us Saturday afternoon at one of the biggest investigative events on the tour: Stones River.

I’m still amazed she pulled it off, and seemingly with very little effort involved on her part. Maybe she ‘glamored’ all three into seeing things her way, and even spun some magic on her old man to boot. Regardless, after we visited the old federal-styled plantation near the Red River—which turned out to be an uneventful experience—Justin, Tony, and Ricky told us that they were all really jazzed about Saturday’s investigation. Furthermore—and this really blew me away—they said they looked forward to burying the hatchet with Tom and the girls, and they would do their best to get along with the Thomas twins.

Glamored—all of us—by some latent hexing ability my wife carries with her from a long Scottish line of druids and witches….

“So, is everyone meeting us at the visitor center at Stones River?”

Flash forward to Saturday afternoon. It wasn’t as warm as the last weekend, with temperatures in the low forties. But at least the sun was out, with nary a cloud in the sky. Fiona and I were on our way to meet everyone else, after dropping off our kids at their grandma’s new condo in Brentwood. Traffic to get to I-24 was horrendous, which added a hefty dose of stress, since my wife loathes being late for anything.

“Yes, and we’re going to be so frigging
late!”

Some might wonder if I ever try to tell her, even nicely, that she doesn’t need to raise her voice at me when she’s frustrated with stuff going on in life. Indeed, I do take that approach…but only when I forget the response such an entreaty got me the last time I tried it.

It must’ve been a mind fart that I suffered, right before we veered from Bell Road onto I-24 heading south.

“You think this is shouting??!” she said, shooting me a glance that if it had hit me squarely in her target zone, I might’ve been melted into a puddle of Jimmy goo in the passenger seat. “I’ll be happy to show you some
real
shouting, Jimmy!!”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, wishing I’d been the driver that day. I shifted in my seat in hopes it might provide me a little more protection from the sudden wrath I had ignited. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything…really, it’s my bad.”

I offered a sheepish smile while wondering if I had missed anything in my full surrender. No, I’m truly not a wuss…and most of the married guys out there who enjoy a relationship that is loving, happy, and largely stress-free know what I’m talking about. In times of emotional duress, your woman is always right.

Of course, Fiona didn’t verbally acknowledge what I said. And I tried to ignore her subtle headshakes as we moved onto much lighter traffic on the highway, along with the stereo going up a few notches. That was the only response I got for my olive branch. But, wouldn’t you know that as soon as we pulled up next to Jackie’s Lexus in the main parking lot at Stones River, the storm cloud over my wife’s countenance had passed. Completely.

“Hi, hon’!” she said to Jackie, who had rushed over to greet us as we got out of the car. “Sorry we’re late. Traffic was horrible!”

No verbalized anguish this time…of course.

“What?”

Oops…that thought was not sheltered, but at least my darling girl smiled lovingly toward me once more. The issue would be as good as gone forever, if I’d just let it go.

Yeah, I’m not as stupid as some might think.

“Nothing important,” I said, returning her warm smile with my own. “It’s good to see you, Jackie…and you, too, Michelle.”

Everyone was on the way to greet us, including our camera crew. Honestly, I forgot about our silent trio until right then. I was more concerned with Detective Silver’s presence, or more accurately, the lack thereof. But, hamming it up at the drop of a hat is something I’ve learned to do very well over the years. Big smile. Make it a really big happy smile that surely bears some pretentiousness…. But, hell, the smile Justin wore right then was worse.

Even so, I doubt the Thomas twins could tell the difference. For the moment, they seemed to be getting along swimmingly with Ricky, Tony, and Tom. As long as Justin kept his contempt at bay behind his frozen Chris Rock grin, we might get through the afternoon with some great footage to make our soulless producers and their New York bosses quite happy.

“Well, I guess we should get this show on the road, huh?”

Immediately, Sally and Sam had their cameras turned on and pointed in my direction. As I mentioned, hamming it up is easy enough for me. However, unlike our previous investigations when we had the good fortune of being among the very few living souls present, there were roughly fifty people in the parking lot. Some even looked as if they recognized us from our TV show. I would’ve preferred us getting away a bit from these park visitors before filming. From the looks on Fiona’s and Jackie’s faces, they felt the same way. The plan was to keep the investigation low keyed until just before sunset, when we would be given about an hour to catch a few shots in the famed battleground’s more notorious areas and, of course, the main cemetery.

“Can we not do this until we’re inside the park?” I asked Sam. He looked surprised that I addressed him, and gave no response other than to continue filming me. “Seriously, Sam.”

He continued to ignore me until Sally grabbed his arm and shook her head in silence.

“Jimmy’s right,” Jackie agreed, but offering an apologetic smile to both Sally and Sam. “This was one of the problems we anticipated by filming the park in daylight hours. The park wouldn’t make an exception for us to get started after dark tonight.”