The White Night (12 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ford Atticus Ford

Lauren steps into Grandma
Ellen’s house and takes a look around like she’s never seen the place before.
Initially, this seems like an odd reaction, then it occurs to me that she’s
probably freaked out and expecting her black-eyed buddies to pop up from behind
the couch and yell, “Boo!”

“It’s okay,” I
tell her. “All clear. I checked.”

That’s a small, possibly
harmless fib, because I got so involved with setting up the antiquated video
recorder, I didn’t have a chance to thoroughly check the bathroom down the hall
or the linen closet beside it. Or, you know, both bedrooms. Besides, I’m still in
the mindset that if she didn’t invite them in, it’s all good. That tingly
sensation I get when something paranormal is present isn’t firing off either.

We’re fine.

I hope.

At least until
those things come back.

And then what?

Pray? Let them in?
Let the host of
Weekend Report
interview them?

No clue, but I’m
going to trust my instincts when the time comes.

Lauren stops in
the middle of the living room floor. She’s soaked. Her wet hoodie and jeans and
limp bottle-blonde hair all drip onto the throw rug that bears a picture of the
local seascape.

“You okay,
Coeburn? You seem
off
.”

“No, I’m good.
Just feels strange being in here after… them.”

“Why were you out
in the rain?”

“Checking around
the house. Helping.”

“You didn’t need
to do that. I had it.” And for someone who was so terrified, that’s a damn
ballsy move, so I should give her some credit. “Thanks, though. Pretty brave.”

She nods and pulls
her soaked hair back. “So we’re safe? You’re positive?”

I tell her I think
so and that we should be good until our visitors return.

“How long?”

“Until they come
back? Hell if I know. Ten minutes? An hour? Never?”

“Good.”

“Why?”

Lauren ignores my
question and snatches her sopping wet hoodie at the hem and then whips it up
and off. Before I can grasp what she’s doing, I see a perfectly taut tummy and
full, round breasts that, upon a microscopic glimpse, appear to be a little too
perfectly round. My educated guess says that pushup bra isn’t necessary.

Typical male, yeah,
but I’m also a gentleman—sometimes—so I grunt, “Whoa,” and turn away. “How
‘bout a little warning?”

“Chill, Ford. It’s
not like you haven’t seen breasts before,” she chides, zipper hissing down,
followed by mumbles and wiggling as she tries to peel off her painted-on jeans
that must be astronomically harder to remove now that they’re wet.

Yeah, I’ve seen lady
parts before, but does she have to strip down right here, though?

I get my answer
why when she says, “The dryer is in the kitchen. Avert your eyes if you must, gallant
Sir Ford.”

Curiosity trumps
my gallantry, and I
have
to look, because telling me to avert my eyes is
like putting me in an empty room and telling me not to push the giant, red, DO
NOT PUSH button. While I used to hate her guts with the passion of a million
stars gone supernova, it’s hard to ignore the fact that all the weight she’s
lost has really done wonders. She looks
good
. Capital
G
good.

Although, as she’s
walking away, I note that her bra and thong don’t match. I don’t know why this
amuses me. Maybe it’s because I expected the ultra-pristine television persona
to be as put together off camera as she is on. In the dim light, the bra appears
to be something of a cream shade, and the thong looks midnight blue.

Could be purple, could
be black, but not that I care because her butt is amazing.

I wonder how
much she squats?

Shit. I’m an
asshole.

Or am I human?

Frustrated, I grind
my teeth and look out the bay window. Whitecaps cover most of the angry ocean.
It’s mental behavior like this that sent my relationship with Melanie hurtling
and flaming toward the ground like a meteorite. It landed hard. That’s for damn
sure, and it left a huge crater in my heart.

Why do I do this?

My therapist says
I shouldn’t punish myself for my intrinsic male tendencies. Everybody looks, he
says, because it’s
biology
. The difference is, you gotta have the common
friggin’ courtesy to not act on your animalistic impulses. Your partner—the
person you
love
for many reasons other than sex—deserves that respect.

I’m working on it.

Lauren’s
shenanigans, unintentional or not, and my reaction to them, makes me think of
Melanie. I feel regret bubbling and growing warm in my stomach like a simmering
pot. One day, it’ll boil over, and I’ll either drink a million gallons of beer
to dull the memory or carry my heart up to her front door and beg forgiveness.

Jeff from the
control room be damned. I’m pretty motivated when I need to be.

If she’ll have me.
I’ve learned that’s another aspect of common courtesy in a relationship.
Respecting the needs of others.

See?

I might get a
boner if the wind blows the right direction, but I’m trying to keep the train
on the tracks.

In the kitchen, the
dryer door slams and I hear Lauren call out, “Coming through.” I close my
eyes—out of respect for Melanie, not Lauren—and hear my counterpart scamper
from the kitchen, through the living room, and down the hallway. A bedroom door
screeches shut and a moment later, she emerges wearing, yet again, a new pair
of form-fitting jeans and a hoodie.

“How many
sweatshirts did you bring?” I ask.

“I pack comfy,”
Lauren answers. “And you’ve seen the weather here, haven’t you? Pouring rain,
hoods. No brainer.” She pulls her hair back tight against her scalp, deftly twirls
it into a bun, and straps it down with a hair band. Then she rolls up her
sleeves and snorts, a mama tiger prepped and ready for battle, ready to protect
her territory.

Speaking of battle,
I ask, “Do you have anything here we can use as a weapon? Golf clubs? A baseball
bat? Anything you can swing?”

“When was the last
time you swung either of those?”

“Last… decade. But
it’s better than nothing.”

“Fair enough.” Lauren
twists at the waist, hands on her hips, chewing the side of her lip while she
evaluates our options. “Not that I can think of. Grandma’s blind. She doesn’t
need much.” She holds up an index finger. “
Oh
, hang on a sec.”

Back down the
hallway she goes, this time to a different bedroom, and returns carrying a
small, green lockbox, roughly the size of a paperback copy of
War &
Peace
.

I remember seeing
that book on the shelves earlier. Who has the time? Maybe that’s why Ellen went
blind. Trying to read that brick would do it, no offense to Tolstoy.

“What’s this?”

“A .22 pistol.
Belonged to my grandpa.”

“Uh, yeah…
no
.”

“What? Why?” she
asks, incredulous.

“Not my thing,
guns.”

“You’ll beat some
paranormal creature thing over the head with a baseball bat, but you won’t
shoot
it?”

“Bats or clubs
can’t accidentally go off and shoot someone in the foot. Or the face, or the
head, or the chest, or—”

“Or the nose, or
the knees, or the ears, I get it, but can’t we—”

“Not a chance,
no.” I take the lockbox from her, step over, and place it in the middle of the
bookshelf. My eye goes up to the video camera. It’s still hidden well, yet I
catch the tiniest glimpse of the little red light blinking. I can’t risk an
attempt to hide it more, so I try out some misdirection. “It’s a thing I have.
With guns, I mean. You’ve kept up with what I’m doing now, right? The whole
paranormal private investigator gig?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just, you know,
wondering what you thought about it.”

“It might come as
a shock that I don’t think about you all the time.”

“Meaning?”

“
Meaning
I
don’t have an opinion.”

“But what do you
think
?”

“You’re being weird,
but fine.” Looking past my shoulder, she longingly eyes the lockbox on the
shelf, and I’m afraid she’ll look up and see the camera. I nudge sideways and
block her view as she says, “I’ve heard some stuff. Let me guess. You’re
greasing the gears for a shot at another show?”

“The thought
crossed my mind, but that’s not entirely the reason, no. Just helping out,
working on a little soul redemption. After Chelsea, I mean.” It occurs to me
that I’ve gotten exactly what I wished for earlier this morning. I haven’t
thought about Chelsea, the documentary, or Carla Hancock in hours.

You can’t miss
Lauren’s eyeroll. It’s the stuff of television legend, and part of her
signature persona on
Weekend Report
. I’m on the receiving end of it as
she says, “Whatever.”

“It’s true.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway,
what’s it got to do with you and no guns?”

Here’s where the
full misdirection lie comes in: “One of the first official investigations I did
was with this detective down in New Orleans”—I pronounce it
Naw’lins
to
give it some authenticity—“and this guy, he was caught up in such a horrible
case with this family. The dad was a drunk, the mom was on drugs. You make your
own luck, yeah, but these people had gotten the shaft over and over. Turns out,
one of their neighbors had died of—well, supposedly of an overdose, right there
in their living room. Graybeal, the detective, wasn’t convinced it was an
accidental OD, so he brought me in to see if I could communicate with the dead
neighbor’s spirit. Long story short, the dad and mom both were so strung out
when we got there for the investigation that they tried to attack us both. Graybeal
ended up shooting the dad between the eyes right in front of me. Boom, bullet.
Dead and done.”

Lauren cringes and
sucks air in through her teeth. “Jesus. That’s sad.”

“Yeah.”

In true Lauren
Coeburn fashion, the sympathy disappears, and she’s right back to the story. “How
come I never heard about this? Especially with
you
involved? Why wasn’t
that all over the national news?”

Oh, shit. Good
point.

“Um, they swept it
under the rug. Total cover up. You get that kind of treatment when…”

“When you’re
you
?”
She can’t hide her snide incredulity. “You’re a piece of work.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask
for it, but yeah, since that day,” I say, shaking my head with feigned remorse,
“I don’t want to be near a gun. That image is burned in my brain. The blood,
the way his head rocked back. Gives me the shivers. You get that, right?”

Lauren lifts a
shoulder, drops it with an exaggerated pout. “If you say so. No guns.” She
points past me with her chin. “Just in case, the combination is one,
twenty-nine, seventy-four if you change your mind.”

“Got it.”

“And now you know
when to send me something for my birthday. Don’t forget it.”

“Note taken.”

Lauren steps over
to the large bay window, surveys the outside, and says, “The anticipation is
killing me.”

I move over,
floorboards creaking underneath my boots. “Tell me about it.”

“I wish they’d get
it over with. I hate waiting.”

“You’d never make
it as a paranormal investigator then. That’s all we do. Hurry up and wait.”

A strong rush of
wind whips below the awning and across the porch, bringing with it the sharp
pitter-patter of rain against the glass.

She uses her
forefinger to trace the rivulets. They capture the distant light from the
southern streetlamp, the nearest one that’s shining, and refract it with
shimmering color. “You have a plan?” Her voice sounds empty and flat.

“I hate to say it,
but no, I don’t. I’ve never had the chance to see these guys up close. The only
thing I can think of—we wait and see what happens. Maybe we invite them in, ask
what they want me for. Don’t look at me like that. I already know it sounds
stupid.”

“Stupid? Those six
letters don’t do that idea justice.”

“With a situation
like this, I gotta trust my instincts when it happens.”

Lauren watches the
storm. She says, “I’m hungry. Can you find me some food?”

I look sideways at
her, eyebrow raised. “Uh, sure, I guess. You’ll take first watch?”

Peculiar request
from her. However, she’s in a peculiar situation, thinking about her safety,
her grandmother’s safety, while relying on a guy who might seriously consider
pushing her in front of a moving train.

Not that I would,
on a good day, but I’d say she had a legitimate reason to be acting weird.

Anyway, off I go
into the kitchen. The dryer is humming back in a little alcove, accentuated by
the
clink-chink
of the metal button on Lauren’s jeans tumbling inside.
It smells like fabric softener in here, remnants of past laundry exploits released
with the current heat. A streetlight to the east shines through the kitchen
window, giving me enough ambient light to see and move around. The linoleum
under my feet crackles in spots. No black-eyed children are sneaking up on us
from
this
direction.

Earlier, when I eased
in through the back door, eyes alert, waiting on something to pounce, I hadn’t
noticed the half-eaten meals on the kitchen table. Sandwiches with small bites
taken out of them sit next to glasses of dark, flat soda. The generic “cola”
two-liter is off to the right, cap unscrewed.

They left in a
hurry, apparently, which leads me to a question I had forgotten to ask earlier.
With the black-eyed children right at the back door, and so close, how had Lauren
gotten her nearly blind grandmother moving fast enough to make an easy escape?
They left their uneaten meals behind, yeah, but had Lauren really stopped long
enough to lock the front door behind them?