Ghost of a Chance Read online

  Like all boys his age, his room existed in a perpetual state of disarray. I ignored the mess. Later I'd remind him that clutter attracted chaos. He let go of my hand and sat on the foot of the bed as I took three deep breaths and lowered myself into a trance, searching with the vague feelers and wisps that were my antennae.

  My mind began to drift—lighter and lighter, until it felt like I was standing at the top of a cliff. Then—one long dive, down past the blur of lost sleep, through the confusion with Andrew, through worry and stress, deep into the corners of my mind—which at this point felt like the pit of my stomach. After a few minutes, a swirl of mist surrounded me that indicated I had managed to find a doorway into the energy, a kaleidoscope vortex into which I plunged and soared upward—Icarus rising like mercury on a dog day and then… I opened my eyes.

  B-I-N-G-O.

  There she was. Susan Mitchell. Standing by the bottom of my son's bed with a luminescent smile on her face. As I watched, a shadow rose up behind her, and I caught the merest whiff of jackal bites and crocodile smiles. Susan turned, pulling back when she saw what was there. I decided that if she was making tracks, so would we. I started to back up, pushing Kip behind me, but the apparition was growing larger, amorphous and swirling like a whirlpool of energy, and I found myself mesmerized. I couldn't look away.

  "Mom? Mom!" Kip's tentative voice shook me out of my paralysis. As I broke free from the trance, I thought I caught a glimpse of cold steel teeth in the heart of the shadow. I broke into a sweat—this couldn't be good. Couldn't be safe. I had to get Kip out of the room now, but before I could move, the creature lunged, dissipating Susan's image as it shot right through her misty body on a beeline for me. Both Kip and I screamed as the thing plowed through me like a freight train.

  Kip gasped and lurched forward, bumping against my back. "Mom!"

  I whirled around as his scream cut short, just in time to catch him in my arms as he sprawled to the floor. "Kip? Kip?" What was happening to my son? His eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to convulse. A seizure? Could he be having some sort of epileptic fit? That glazed stare was too close to a death mask. But the convulsions stopped and, with a look that told me that Kip wasn't anywhere behind those gleaming eyes, he lifted his head and began to laugh. "Kip! Can you hear me?"

  Miranda came racing into the room. She stopped cold at the sight of her brother. "What's wrong?"

  "Don't underestimate me, bitch. I'm here to stay." The voice emanating from my son's mouth was dark and masculine. Miranda let out a little shriek. By now the shadow had separated enough from Kip that we could see mist rising out of his body.

  Thick, like a haze of smog, the energy from everything going on threatened to overwhelm me. Kip fighting against the possession, anger fueling the spirit, Miranda's confusion and panic over her baby brother; together, these emotions formed a vortex, an undertow in a psychic whirlpool, and I was battling the current, trying to pull my son out of the maelstrom.

  "In my room—get the bottle of amethyst water and my ward rune!" I yelled at Miranda, willing her to move, to break free of her fear. Her eyes darted first to Kip, then back at me. With a choked cry, she turned and raced out of the door.

  I leaned over my son, forcing myself to quit shaking as I focused on the spirit that was using him as a megaphone. "Get out of my son, now!" Miranda rushed back in, clutching the bottle and my copper warding rune. She held them out to me, shaking so hard that I could barely grab hold of them.

  I slapped the copper plate down over his heart, where the sigil would help me concentrate the energy. The etched rune on the copper began to glow. Using my teeth, I pulled the cork out of the bottle and splashed his face with the water. I took a guess that the spirit had entered his body through his third eye—the psychic portal on the forehead—so that seemed the most logical place from which to try and evict the bastard.

  "Kneel on his other side." I glanced up to make sure she heard me. Miranda obediently dropped to the floor, but looked about ready to lose it. As if the spirit sensed what I was planning, Kip began to convulse, his body burning with fever. I pushed him flat against the floor, straddling him in order to pin him down with my knees.

  I cupped my hands over the ward rune. The copper felt hot beneath my fingers. "Put your hands on top of mine. I know you're scared, but I need you to help."

  "Okay…" Miranda was slow, the fear making her sluggish.

  "Get your hands over mine. Damn it, move when I tell you!" She gave me a wounded look but obeyed. I inhaled deeply as I anchored into the feel of the wood floor, to the stability of the soil beneath. The tendrils of earth mana began to flow through my body, calming my raging mind. No room for doubt. No room for anger. This had to work. Kip's life depended on it.

  I began to whisper, letting the words grow louder with each round. "Be gone, be gone, be gone, be gone!"

  Like a bonfire sputtering at first, then catching hold and roaring to life, the force of the chant expanded, growing deeper as if it were no longer coming from my breath but out of the mouth of a wind tunnel, like some giant street cleaner sweeping away the chaos that had claimed my son. I nodded to Miranda. Trembling at first, she settled into the rhythm. Lilting and celestial, her voice darted over the words like a hummingbird hovering over a bird feeder.

  I increased the urgency of the chant. Kip began to thrash, jerking wildly as a loud whoosh reverberated through the room. A rush of mist swirled up from his body and vanished out the window. Miranda burst into tears. I smoothed back Kip's hair and felt for his pulse. It was steady, and he was breathing softly, with a good rhythm. The fever had broken. As I slumped against the foot of his bed, the copper rune dropped to the floor.

  When I managed to muster up enough energy, I tipped his chin. "Kip? Kip? Kipling, speak to me." His eyes fluttered, and he struggled to yawn. Miranda, weeping silently, crept over to snuggle next to us.

  I kissed her forehead. "You did real good helping me, Randa. He's okay. Everything is going to be okay." I wished I felt as confident as I sounded.

  * * * *

  Kip dove into his sandwich. I cautioned him to slow down so he wouldn't choke. Being possessed wasn't a walk in the park, especially for an eight-year-old boy, but I had the sneaking suspicion that he was a little too excited about the whole situation.

  I handed Randa her sandwich and fixed one for myself. "After tonight, Susan can kiss my ass if she thinks I'm going to help her. I'll blow her ghostly butt to hell before I let her and her friend near this house again."

  Miranda picked at her food.

  Kip swallowed and took a sip of his milk. "Why can't you help her? I don't think that thing is her friend." He was recovering too quickly for my comfort. For once, I would have rather seen him scared witless, but I also knew that adrenaline worked wonders to overpower fear. I hoped the excitement would wear off after he had calmed down and gotten some food into him.

  "Do you remember anything? Did the spirit leave any impressions in your mind?" One thing was certain: If that creature was foolhardy enough to commandeer my son's body, he wasn't the brightest bulb in the socket. But then again, what did he have to lose? Mr. Big & Ugly was already dead, if—indeed—he had ever been alive. I couldn't do anything worse to him than banish him from my home. Susan wanted vengeance, justice. That I could understand. The part of me that still smarted from Roy's betrayal empathized with the dead woman. But what did this other creature want? What frightened me most was his comment about being here to stay.

  Kip gulped down the rest of his milk. Normally I'd object, but tonight wasn't the time to complain about table manners. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and squinted, one eye closed tight. "I dunno… it's fuzzy, like a dream. He did get pretty mad when you chased him out." He grinned at me. "You can sure kick butt, Mom."

  I looked into the eyes of my son, blood of my blood, soul of my soul. "Watch your mouth, kiddo." I contemplated his nonchalance. He was doing his best to convince me he was unscathed. "You want m
e to help Susan, even after everything that happened, don't you?" He nodded. "It would mean that she'd be hanging out here more. Can you guys handle having a ghost around if I can prevent the other spirit from coming back?"

  Miranda shoved her chair back. "No! I don't want her here. I don't like ghosts!"

  "You're just jealous because I'm like Mom!" Kip leaped up, and they were at it again. "Knock it off!" I dragged them into the living room, where I shoved them unceremoniously onto the sofa. "No more. Do you hear me?" They quieted down. "I have had it with these petty squabbles! One moment you two are fine and the next you're at each other's throats."

  Miranda shuffled her feet on the carpet and mumbled. "I'm trying to study for the scholarship test. I have to be at the top to win. I can't handle this kind of stuff."

  My daughter was determined to attend Space Camp for teens. It was an extra that we couldn't afford, but she had managed to dig up a scholarship fund for tuition and was studying like crazy so she could ace the test and "go live like the astronauts" for a week.

  "I won't let this become a nightly affair." I slid onto the sofa next to her and stroked her long, raven hair back from her face. "Is there something else you aren't telling me?"

  She coughed, trying not to cry, but I could see the tears peeking out from her lashes. "Nothing's wrong. Just… you and Kip do all this stuff together and I'm left out because I like other stuff! I'm tired of being the third wheel around here!" She started to flounce out of the room, but I grabbed her arm and drew her back.

  Third wheel? That clarified a lot of things that had been going on around here, but now was not the time to push.

  Kip smacked the arm of the sofa, pouting. He had to have an ulterior motive. The euphoric afterglow of possession couldn't account for his desire to let Susan Mitchell wander freely around our house only an hour after some psycho nightmare had taken control of his body.

  After a few moments I made my decision. "Here is what we are going to do. You are both going to sleep on the sofa the rest of the night, and I'll sleep in the rocking chair and keep watch. Tomorrow I'll decide what to do once I've had time to think the situation through." Both camps set up an immediate protest, but I put a stop to it with a raised hand. "I don't want to hear it. End of discussion. Now help me open the sofa."

  When they were safely tucked under the comforter, I settled myself into the rocker, threw an afghan over my legs, and turned out the light. Tomorrow promised to be a long day. I needed advice, and that meant a trip to Murray's.

  Chapter Five

  I hadn't seen Murray since the annual summer fish-fry festival that her tribe sponsored every year. The kids and I always joined them over in Quinault as family guests. She had moved off the reservation when she was a teenager but maintained close contact with the elders there. She was the niece of a medicine woman, fully versed in both native traditions and my own more European beliefs. She accepted the supernatural and yet was dedicated to her calling as a cop. Like the Amazons of old, she was tall and muscled, with curving breasts and streaming black hair that she always wore in a long French braid. Her wide nose and deep-set eyes reflected her heritage. She reminded me of part Indian princess, part warrior woman.

  Her house hadn't changed much, even though she'd been talking about renovating every time we got together during the spring. She had gotten around to a new coat of paint—the two-story monstrosity now sported a pale pink color instead of weathered gray—and what looked like a rose garden bordered the driveway. But instead of taming the sense of wildness that always surrounded her life, these changes seemed to have magnified the fecundity of the yard, and it felt more feral than ever, even under the layers of snow. Thick clumps of fern and ivy forced their way through the blanket of white, and I had the feeling that, come spring, the yard would be filled with wildflowers and berry thickets.

  She must have heard my car pull up because before I set one foot on the bottom step, she threw open the door and flew down the steps to give me a big hug. "Hey, babe! It's been too long. How are the kids? How's the shop doing? Come on, girl, get your butt in the house—it's freezing out here!" With Murray, there was always a flurry of words, then sudden, abrupt silence while she waited for you to digest what she said.

  Her name was actually Anna, but the day she joined the police force, way back in Seattle when we were younger and more naive, the guys had started calling her by her last name, and the nickname wormed its way into her civilian life. She would always be Murray to me. She was my best friend from my old life, Harl from my new one. Together they kept me in tune with myself.

  The inside of her house was as vibrant as the outside. Plants filled every inch of available space in the room. Murray had always loved exotic animals, and two floor-to-ceiling glass-enclosed cages took up an entire wall. Each built-in section had its own door, heat lamp, wooden branches, water tub, and hiding places for the tenants. Both cages were empty at the moment. I looked around the room.

  Bingo! Sid, a seven-foot-long red-tailed boa, coiled on one of the recliners. After a moment I spotted Nancy, another boa, three feet long and brilliant green, curled around the banister of the staircase railing. Nancy had a nasty temper, as did many emerald tree boas, but Sid and I got along.

  "Park your butt." Murray pointed to the coffee table where an espresso pot, a creamer full of half-and-half, and a bottle of chocolate syrup waited. I parked it right in her grandmother's rocking chair. After we charted and downed a couple of double espressos, I was ready to fill her in on the reason for my visit. I drained the last of my chocolate-laced caffeine fix, trying to figure out how to ease into the subject.

  "I met a guy, Murray. I'm not sure if it will go anywhere, but—"

  She whooped. "It's about time! I've been waiting for you to get out in the dating arena again. Who is he? What's his name? Do I know him?"

  "Andrew Martinez. He's a local writer, and I'm not sure if we're going to make it past the first date, which we already had. Kinda."

  She poured more espresso. "Andrew Martinez, huh? So what's he like? Where did you meet, and why do you sound so pessimistic?"

  "He wrote a play that the Chiqetaw Players are producing—Obsidian. He's gorgeous, single, seems nice." I took a deep breath. "Murray, did you read the paper yesterday? About that writer's death?"

  Murray gave me a long, studied look. "Writer? The insulin OD case? What's that got to do with your new guy?"

  I paused a beat. "Some weird things have been going on; both Andrew and Susan Mitchell—the woman who died—are involved."

  "Weird? How weird?"

  "Weird as in I saw Susan's ghost the other night. Recognized her the next day when I read the article in the paper about her death. Weird as in Andrew was one of her closest friends and, thanks to my snooping, he asked me out."

  Murray narrowed her eyes and stared at me over the top of her cup. "What does she want, and why did she show herself to you?" She leaned against the back of the sofa and crossed her legs yoga-style. Even though she was a big woman, Murray was incredibly limber and graceful. She could outrun the fastest man on the force. "I've got goose bumps. Speak of the dead and they listen." She lifted her arm. The skin was raised and puckered with little bumps. Energy crackled off her hands.

  "Susan told me that her husband murdered her."

  "Did she tell you how or why?"

  I shook my head. "No, in fact she wants me to prove it. She says nobody knows about it. She's upset, Murray."

  Murray pushed her hair back from her eyes. "Before you go any farther, I'm going to tell you something. The department looked into Susan's death already. She was supposed to have given up alcohol, and yet they found wine in her system; half of a bottle was spilled on the floor next to her. Her maid picked up a new prescription of Valium for her because Susan said she was out, yet she had Valium in her system, so she had to have some stashed around the house."

  "What else did you find out?"

  "Walter, her husband, was in a meeting during the time
she slid into a coma. Twelve people can account for his whereabouts—we did a quiet background check, since the case was so unusual. She had filed divorce papers, and he knew about it. His friends say he was relieved because he had been wanting to file for divorce himself. We questioned everybody in her writing and theater groups. I think I may have even spoken to this Martinez guy—tall with dark hair, right? Nothing to indicate that her husband killed her. Nothing out of the ordinary was reported; the maid said no one was expected over that day. I'm afraid that you're off base on this one."

  "What if she had been having an affair? Is there any chance that Walter could have hired somebody—"

  She broke in. "Was she having an affair? Or is that speculation?"

  "Speculation. I have no idea what was going on in her personal life. She told me that her husband murdered her, and I was trying to think up possible reasons."

  Murray tossed me her television remote. "You have a serious problem with the TV, Em. You've been watching too many episodes of Justice Files. Most 'jealous rage' murderers usually leave lots of blood and gore around. Consider these facts: One, Susan Mitchell was well known for screwing up with her diabetes. Two, she was alone all morning; nobody noticed anything out of the ordinary. Three, Walter's time is accounted for. And four, Susan Mitchell was popping Valium and booze, and the two are a dangerous combo even for a nondiabetic." She ticked off her points on her fingers.

  "So the doctors think—"

  "She gave herself a shot of insulin, swallowed a couple of Valium and a glass or two of wine, forgot to eat, and fell asleep. Bingo… coma. We know she went into convulsions; they found bite marks—her own—on her tongue. Accidental insulin overdose. Possible suicide, but don't you let that slip out or we'd have the Mitchells breathing down our neck. There's no way we'll ever know whether she meant to kill herself. She was dead by the time the medics transported her to the hospital."

  "And nobody else was in the house?"

  "Seems that way. Cars come and go all the time on that street. Nobody notices when neighbors have company unless there's something fishy about them, and that ever-so-helpful nosy old lady of mystery stories must either have been out of town or she moved to a different neighborhood. The truth is that Susan was well known for screwing up her insulin dosages. She'd been in the hospital four times over the past year because she forgot to eat and went into seizure. This time nobody was there to help her."