Since You've Been Gone (13 page)

MONDAY 1:20 A.M.

Skeeter had heard people say Sinclair was boring, but at night he liked the near-empty streets. After midnight the quiet became so profound it seeped into his own head, calming the sound of his father's carping and his grandfather's scream as he plummeted from the sixth floor of the Dobbs Hotel, a scream that to Skeeter sometimes seemed like a memory and sometimes like a dream.

Skeeter prided himself on his organizational skills. He kept string, rubber bands, and paper clips in his right trouser pocket. He kept his grandfather's Bulova watch in the left jacket pocket, although the watch had not worked since his grandfather's death. He kept his money—a few dollar bills and some change he collected during the week-—in his right jacket pocket. And he never forgot to buy two bottles of wine on Saturday because his favorite liquor store was closed on Sundays. He held the second bottle now, comforted by the thought of the joy it would bring him tonight.

The day had had been hot but not uncomfortable. Really, it had been an exceptional day. He got to confer with Chief
Garrett, which made him feel very important. He'd had two cups of good coffee and two pieces of foreign food that were delicious. He'd visited with a number of beings in the park, some of them human. Yes, it had been a good day, but now it was night and Skeeter had a number of weighty things to think about and some plans to work out.

He looked up at his hotel. The light in the Presidential Suite was on. He wondered who was occupying it. No doubt someone rich. Sometimes he prowled the building at night, looking for his grandfather. He never entered any of the rooms, knowing that privacy was sacred, but one time the attic door had been left unlocked for about a week and each night he went up. He was staggered when he saw the beautiful patio furniture, complete with unfurled, fringed umbrella. One night a pitcher of apple juice and a plate of shortbread cookies rested on the table. He'd sat at the table for an hour, drinking juice from a paper cup, daintily eating cookies with a dirty hand, saying intelligent and witty things to imaginary guests, and generally acting like the golden boy of a distinguished family. The next night the attic was locked again, but that was all right because he'd been given one of the best memories of his life.

There had been a lot of activity in the attic today. Skeeter knew Grandfather wouldn't like it. Having a hotel full of fancy guests was one thing; having policemen tramping around the place was another. But Skeeter was responsible for the building and something fishy was going on. There wasn't a better person he could have gone to than Bill Garrett. He would settle down Grandfather and make him stop prowling the attic, if indeed that
was
Grandfather he'd seen Saturday night. During the afternoon he'd decided he wasn't quite so sure whether or not Grandfather had been messing around up there. But unfortunately Chief Garrett wouldn't do anything about the girl with second sight because they were related. No, Skeeter was going to handle the girl himself, scare her out of town … with a little help.

Skeeter entered the recessed doorway of Vinson's Apothecary Shoppe, placed his back against the wall, and
slid down to a sitting position. His knobby knees nearly poked through the thin material of his trousers. He'd have to find something heavier by winter. Father Brennan was usually real good at finding clothes for him.

His hands were shaky because his evening drink had been delayed by all his important business. He uncapped his wine and took a long, satisfying draw and then another. Stars were out tonight. Before the Ryan girl got her second sight and he grew fearful of her, Skeeter used to talk to her when she came to the park with Chief Garrett. She told him that at night the stars formed pictures of bears and a cow, but he could never make any sense of them. Still they were pretty, all sparkly like the diamonds in the window of the jewelry store. The Ryan girl had also told him the light of the stars came from long ago. She said the stars were so far away, it took
years
for their light to reach Sinclair. But that didn't make any sense to Skeeter either. He thought she'd just been fooling him. Maybe she'd been bad even then.

He took another generous drink of wine. He'd had nothing to eat except the heavenly Danish and the wine seemed to hit his system harder than usual. When he narrowed his eyes, the stars shimmered and danced. He looked at the Dobbs Hotel again. He'd passed by at 7:01 P.M. and as usual seen the spectacle of his grandfather crashing to the sidewalk. Skeeter was used to no one else seeming to notice. He didn't take it personally, but he was always relieved when the fall was over.

Someone was walking down the street toward him. He squinted but it was dark and the person was looking down. Skeeter could make out jeans and some kind of jacket—not a fine, wool suit jacket like his—something bright blue and nylon. Used to be you could tell men from women. Now they all wore jeans and those huge white shoes they called running shoes although they never ran. And girls were taller than when he was young. Once Sonia Ellis told him girls wanted to be tall like supermodels. He didn't know what a supermodel was and she showed him some
pictures in a magazine called
Vogue
. Skeeter thought the women looked gigantic, muscular, and scary like they could wallop the dickens out of any man. He was glad they didn't have any supermodels in Sinclair.

He looked at the courthouse clock. One-thirty. Soon he might see Grandfather in the attic again. And this time he might get a better view. Chief Garrett had asked him over and over to describe Grandfather's face the way it had looked last night, but he couldn't. He'd given the matter a lot of thought, though. He still could not describe Grandfather's face, but he'd remembered something outstanding: Grandfather's hair. In old photographs, Skeeter had seen a man with fair hair that was very short, parted in the middle, and plastered close to the skull. But in the attic, Grandfather's hair looked longer and fuller. And definitely darker. Of course he'd been a ghost a long time—his hair could have grown. But didn't ghosts remain the same as when they died?

Photographs had also told Skeeter Grandfather was a slight man. Daddy used to say, ‘He was an elegant man, not a big, shambling hulk like you.' The photographs were
real
old—maybe Grandfather had grown. Still…

The figure walking up the street slowed. It wore a wind-breaker with the hood tied close around the face. Now that was odd, Skeeter thought. There was no wind.

“How do?” he called politely. “Nice night.” The figure nodded. Then it looked up and down the street. “You lost?” Skeeter asked.

“Lost? No. Just… tired.” The voice was breathy, barely above a whisper, and a shadow fell across the face. “And lonely.”

“No need to be lonely,” Skeeter replied. “My daddy always said I was poor company, but I'm better than nothin'. Have a seat.”

The figure ducked its head, then slowly approached Skeeter and hunched into the doorway. “Cozy.”

“You can see all up and down the street from here at
Vinson's. Not so warm in winter, but just dandy in summer. Would you care for some wine?”

Skeeter might have been offering a fine Château Margaux. His guest took a dainty drink from the bottle, then said, “Good. It's kind of you.”

“It's a big bad world. Folks got to be kind to each other. Father Brennan says so.” Skeeter tried to get a better look at his guest, but his vision was really fuzzy tonight. It seemed his hearing was much worse than usual, too. And he felt a little dizzy and nauseated.

“See your grandfather tonight?” the visitor asked.

“Right on time. Jumping out of the Presidential Suite at seven-oh-one P.M.”

“But not in the attic?”

“It's not time yet. He showed up in the attic later.” He paused. “How'd you know about that?”

“You told everyone. Even the police.”

“It was my civic duty. And I wasn't even tipsy. Left my bottles outside in my hidey-hole when I went to see Chief Garrett.”

“Your hidey-hole outside Klein—I mean the Dobbs Hotel?”

“You're on to me!” Skeeter crowed. “I didn't think anyone knew about my hidey-hole!”

“I do.”

Skeeter grinned showing all his stained teeth. Then his eyes narrowed. “Hey, you're not
her
, are you?”

“Who?”

“The girl with second sight.”

A scoffing sound. “Oh,
her
. No. I don't even
like
her. She scares me. I wish she'd go away.”

“Me, too!”

“I think she will. Real soon.” The guest leaned from the doorway of Vinson's Apothecary. “Look, there's a shooting star!”

Skeeter stared upward, mesmerized by the streak of silver light. His face bore the wondering expression of a child. “Isn't that just like magic? The world is a beautiful place.”

“Yes, it truly is,” his guest said slowly. Unnoticed by Skeeter, its hand slipped into a windbreaker pocket. “There's only one problem.”

Skeeter leaned back in the doorway, frowning. “What's that?”

“You're just like the girl with second sight.”

Skeeter shook his head vigorously. “No, I'm not!”

“Oh yes, I'm afraid you are,” the voice said gently. “You
see
too much. Way too much.”

The hand whipped out of the windbreaker's pocket. With violent speed an ice pick glittered beneath a streetlight before the pointed shaft plunged directly into Skeeter's left eye. His whole body shuddered before it slammed against the wall. As the hand relentlessly drove the spike deeper into Skeeter's confused brain, his mouth fell open, his expression dulled, and blood poured down his creased face and dripped off his jaw onto his cherished wool suit jacket.

Another shooting star streaked across the heavens, but this time Skeeter did not see it.

MONDAY, 7:25 A.M.

A rushing, muttering Matilda Vinson literally tripped over the slumped body of Skeeter Dobbs while fishing for the keys to the front door of Vinson's Apothecary Shoppe. Incensed, she launched into a tirade about lazy, worthless, smelly drunks before she noticed a gooey, reddish stain all over one of her new white shoes. She used the toe of the shoe to roll Skeeter over and when she saw the ice pick sticking grotesquely from his left eye, she let out two short, piercing shrieks before fainting onto the sidewalk.

Three minutes later Matilda awakened to find several people standing over her, staring at her as if she, too, were a corpse. Someone bent to help her into a sitting position and she saw that her skirt had ridden up to the top of her thighs. While she pulled at it, a child quavered, “Did you kill that man?”

“Don't be absurd!” she snapped. “Quit looking at me. All of you! Call the police!”

“Someone went to get ‘em,” a man said. “Would that be Skeeter Dobbs? Sweet Jesus, look at that eye.”

Unfortunately Matilda did. Her world swirled briefly before she fainted for the second time in her hardy life.

When Matilda opened her eyes again, a pair of cool gray ones were only two inches away. She almost screamed but got control of herself. “Lynn?”

“Yes, Miss Vinson.” Lynn Hardison kneeled on the pavement beside her. “Just be still. The emergency squad will be here in a minute.”

Matilda's gaze shot around. People were backing away as a man in uniform barked orders. He blocked her view of Skeeter and she was able to draw a deep, steadying breath. “Help me up, Lynn.”

“But—”

“Don't talk back! I will not lie here making a spectacle of myself.” She sat up, pulling at her skirt again. She caught a glimpse of her gory shoes and her stomach lurched. ‘Take my arm and lift.”

Lynn obeyed and Matilda stood, wobbling. Bill Garrett appeared in front of her. “Miss Vinson, you've had a bad shock and a fall.”

“I know very well what I've had. Why is everyone treating me as if I'm a hundred? I'm fine and this is my establishment. I need to be in charge.”

“You need to be checked out—”

“I-am-in-charge.” Matilda turned to Lynn. “Of course the store will be closed today. The police will have lots to do taking care of
him.
” Her lips trembled slightly. “Drunken, foolish layabout, always prowling around babbling about that grandfather of his. Well, at least he won't be haunted anymore.” She looked fiercely at Bill. “You concentrate on finding who did this horrible thing and leave me alone. All I need is to clean myself up and have a nice strong cup of coffee.”

“Let me ask one question, Miss Vinson,” Bill said gently. “I notice the blood on your shoe. Did you move Skeeter?”

“I stumbled over him. Then I… well, I poked him with my foot. I thought he was just passed out. His body fell sideways …” She drew another deep breath. “That's all.”

“Okay. I may need to ask you a few more questions later. And why don't you have Lynn drive you home?”

Lynn looked daggers at him but said sweetly, “Yes, Miss Vinson, let me. I'd feel much better about you.”

Matilda didn't want to be driven by Lynn, but she had to admit her stomach didn't feel right. She simply could not be sick in front of all these people or in her freshly cleaned car. “If I'm not needed, a ride home would be much appreciated,” she said formally. “Chief, please call to let me know when I can enter the store. There is some work I should get done before evening.”

“Will do, Miss Vinson. You take care.”

He couldn't help the hint of a smile as Lynn gently led away her employer. He knew Lynn detested both Matilda and her job at the drug store, which Suzanne had told him might be short-lived. He couldn't imagine Frank buying a store for Lynn's ceramics, but apparently he had. Maybe he thought it would sweeten her disposition.