Talking With The Dead Part 8

"I know that."

Lucas came walking into view, appearing out of the corner of his eye, his face blank. "You don't like guns."

"No, I don't. But I carry one when I have to."

"The pretty sheriff the have-to this time?" Lucas asked, leaning against the table. "I got some vibes earlier." He wagged his eyebrows and grinned.

Michael studied his brother with narrowed eyes. "You picking up eavesdropping?"

Lucas laughed. His image seemed to fade away for a minute and then he refocused, a little clearer, a little more solid. "No, but d.a.m.n, if I did, I wouldn't tell you. You'd just find a way to spoil my fun. It would be about the closest to living I've been in twenty years." He shrugged, staring out the window as he added, "I just know you, Mike. She's different-she means something to you."

"Yes." That was all Mike would admit to. He didn't want to think about it, much less talk about it. The idea of caring about somebody was just too d.a.m.n foreign to him. He'd given up on those kinds of emotions a long, long time ago.

"You know who you're looking for?"

Shaking his head, Michael methodically loaded his gun. That done, he slid the Glock into the holster and then pulled his jacket on. "No. If I did, you think I'd just be standing here?"

Michael lifted his eyes and stared at Lucas. "Do you know anything?"

Lucas smirked at Michael and said sardonically, "If I did, do you think I'd just be standing here?" The smile faded and his eyes closed.

Tension swelled in the room and Michael clenched one hand into a fist as Lucas wavered in and out of view for a moment. "Things are changing around you, Michael. I don't understand what it is, not completely. But be careful-I made myself a promise and I can't move on until I see it done. Eternity is a long time to spend trapped here."

Before Michael could form a single word, Lucas was gone. Snarling in frustration, he stalked out of the room. Ghosts-the most frustrating creatures on the d.a.m.ned planet.

They came, they went, they dropped ominous little comments like that and then before a person could ask so much as one d.a.m.ned question, they disappeared.

And Michael couldn't exactly stick a beeper on them, either.

Jogging down the steps, he slid silently out the door before Mrs. Maria Cambridge even saw him. No doubt she'd have fifty questions-she did every time she saw him. Michael would have loved to have stayed someplace else but Mitch.e.l.l wasn't exactly a hotbed of tourism trade.

This small B&B was about all the town had to offer other than a hotel ten miles down the highway. And Michael's gut instinct had insisted he stay here. Crossing the sidewalk, he ducked into the car just as the door to the B&B opened behind him. He saw Daisy waving and he grinned.

"She's going to be so d.a.m.ned mad you slid past her again. She always manages to pin her guests down for interrogation...I mean friendly conversation, but you've evaded her entirely too well."

Michael shifted in the seat so that he could look at Daisy while he talked. "I doubt I have anything too interesting to tell her."

Daisy arched a brow, but remained silent.

"Okay, I don't have anything interesting I would tell her."

"Hmmm."

He didn't like the sound of that disinterested hum. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. Michael said softly, "I p.i.s.sed you off, didn't I?"

She smiled brightly. "Why ever would you think that?"

Staring at her, he just waited. She pulled away from the curb, driving slowly down the busy street. People were leaving work, or coming into the small town for dinner at the diner. About as busy as this small place ever got.

She remained silent under his watchful gaze for long moments and then finally, hazel eyes slid his way. "I don't care to be brushed aside so quickly."

"You're talking about when I answered the phone just now," Michael said softly.

She didn't respond but the look in her eyes was answer enough.

"I wasn't brushing you off." Michael closed his eyes. "And I'm sorry if I made you think that." His gut started to churn and he didn't know if it was from the conversation's path, or something darker.

She slowed to a stop at the light and Michael could feel her watching him. He had to force the words out as he said, "There's just...something-"

Something cold brushed down his spine.

Turning his head, he found himself staring at a parked squad car. It was painted the same beige and browns as hundreds of other sheriff's deputies' cars throughout the country.

Nothing at all ominous about it. It sat parked in front of the bank, and Michael watched, unable to breathe, as a slender girl with short, spiky red hair came walking out. She pa.s.sed by the deputy's car and paused to wave.

Michael couldn't see the man inside, but it didn't matter.

"That's him," he rasped hoa.r.s.ely.

Blood seemed to flood his vision. Thick oozing red streams of it that poured across his line of sight like some bizarre Hollywood effect. Voices started to whisper. Then scream.

The voices of the dead had risen to banshee wails and it was sheer will that kept him from clapping his hands over his ears in an effort to drown the voices out. None of them made sense. There were no words, just those pain-filled, tortured cries, the mourning cries of those silenced far too soon, crying out for justice, begging for peace.

Even those who weren't trapped could suffer when their killer kept killing.

A hand came up, touching his arm. "Michael!"

Darkness swarmed up and flooded his vision-there was a roaring in his ears.

"d.a.m.n it, Michael, what in the h.e.l.l is wrong?" The hand squeezed his arm, shaking him lightly.

He focused on that voice. That voice was alive. It was real. She was real. Sucking air in, he breathed in the scent of her. Vanilla. Wildflowers. Life. Daisy... Opening his eyes, he stared at her.

She was staring at him with turbulent eyes. "d.a.m.n it, what is wrong?" she demanded.

Her voice was too loud, rasping, grating on his nerves, but he seized on it, focusing on her voice, on the sound of her breathing. He forced himself to relax, made his lungs work again, forcing air in and out of his lungs, as he stared at her.

"If you don't answer me..."

Hoa.r.s.ely, he said, "I'm okay-will be."

She blinked. "d.a.m.n it, you practically have a seizure on me and you tell me that you're going to be okay?"

Michael ran a shaking hand through his hair. He was sweating-covered all over with that nasty sweat that only came with fear. And rage churned in his gut. All the emotion pent up inside him made it d.a.m.ned hard to think, to focus on anything. "Sorry-hits like that sometimes."

Daisy stared at him. s.h.i.t. Her hand curled into a fist and she was tempted to just swing out and pop him on the end of that cleft chin. Instead, she took a deep breath and made herself pull to the side of the road, out of the flow of traffic as she muttered furiously to herself.

"Hits like that sometimes," she repeated, trying very hard not to growl. "You practically have a seizure. And all you have to say is. .h.i.ts like that sometimes."

Michael slid a look her way. His eyes were glowing. That had started just when he had gone stiff as a d.a.m.ned poker in the seat next to her, one hand flying up to the window, pressed flat. The other hand had briefly locked around hers, although she wondered if he remembered that at all.

He had arched up off the seat, his eyes rolling back, teeth bared. Never made a sound.

If his eyes hadn't been glowing that surreal shade of blue... As it was, that was the one thing that had kept her from calling for an ambulance. If an EMT had shown up and Michael stared at him with those glowing blue eyes, Daisy would have more trouble on her hands.

"Maybe you could have warned me about that," she snapped. d.a.m.n it, she was still scared to death. Turning sideways in the seat, she glared at him. "Now why don't you tell me exactly what it was that hit you?"

Michael wasn't looking at her though. He was staring past her shoulder, looking at something just beyond her. Or someone.

She turned, glancing behind her, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Just Mitch.e.l.l on a Thursday night. "What?" she asked warily.

"It's him." There was no emotion on his face. None in his voice. Yet she sensed a rage so deep, part of her wanted to hide.

She turned again, trying to find who he was talking about. "Who?" she asked huskily, looking at the men walking by. She knew these men. Some she'd known since she was a baby-some she'd gone to school with. h.e.l.l, Marc Tanner, he'd been her first crush.

"The deputy."

Chapter Six.

She turned back to him with turbulent eyes. Shaking her head, she said flatly, "No."

Michael whispered, "He's stained with blood. I can't see him beyond the blood-I don't even know what he looks like."

"Look again!" Daisy said shakily. She reached for the handle to get out, but Michael leaned over and caught her arm.

"You don't want to believe me."

"You're d.a.m.ned right I don't!" she half screamed, trying to jerk away. "d.a.m.n it, that's Jake. He's like a brother to me. What in the h.e.l.l do you know?"

Michael looked away from her face. Looking back at the deputy's car, he watched as the door opened slowly. He couldn't see the man though. It was like he had just been blotted away, his image replaced with a blood smear. "Because I look at him and see blood. Nothing but blood. And I hear their screams. Tanya haunts him. She won't leave him alone."

Daisy turned back around, and Michael could see the tears rolling down her cheeks as she stared at the deputy. Michael watched as the blood stained figure followed the woman from the bank. "She's next-he's been watching her for some time. He won't take her for awhile, but he dreams about it."

"Shut up," Daisy whispered harshly. "d.a.m.n it, just shut up." Dear G.o.d, she was going to be sick. She knew it. Not Jake. d.a.m.n it, he had been there when they had found two of the victims. Tanya. He'd been there when they were looking for Tanya. Daisy moaned and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, m.u.f.fling the sound.

"I'm sorry."

Tears all but choked her. "If you are wrong about this..."

Michael sighed. "I'm not."

She looked at him. He felt his heart break as she stared at him with haunted eyes. "I know."

Jake owned a cabin a good thirty miles outside of town. Daisy sat at the computer in the county clerk's office, pulling up the files she needed. She did it with a blank mind. She couldn't think about what she was doing, or why.

If she did-if she did, she'd break. So she didn't think about it. She focused on the menial task, blocking out all other thought.

"What are you doing?" Michael asked.

He'd been very quiet, his voice neutral, almost as if he wasn't sure how to handle her right now. h.e.l.l, Daisy wasn't sure how to handle herself right now. She felt like she was going to shatter.

Slowly, focusing on each word, she said, "Looking for an address. Or an area. Jake...Jake owns a cabin." She flicked him a glance. "You said there was one."

Looking back at the screen, she continued to search through the files. Finally, she found the program she needed. "d.a.m.ned clerks. Always updating things," she muttered. "They've changed the program they used to use."

She typed in Jake's information and waited. A few seconds later, the data scrolled on the screen. She printed the sheet out and stood up. Even though she couldn't hear him, she knew he was behind her. His quiet presence didn't set her on edge quite the same way it had before. It was almost like her system had adjusted to him-started trusting him on some very deep, very basic level.

She believed him. He was right about Jake. She knew it. The knowledge hit her like a fist in the belly. Tears burned in her eyes.

She really believed him.

Oh, dear G.o.d. Closing her eyes, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to silence the tears rising inside her.

His fingers brushed against the back of her neck and she tore away, whispering harshly, "Don't. Okay? Just don't."

Clutching the address in her hand, she slid out of the room before he could say anything. h.e.l.l, what in the world could he say? He could try saying he was sorry, but what would that do?

It wouldn't make this any easier. Nothing would. Nothing ever could.

One of my best friends is a killer.

You can't...not right now.

But he couldn't go back there alone. That b.i.t.c.h-her voice drove him crazy. And he needed...needed it. Hadn't had any fun with that last one-needed to feel that rush, needed to hear her scream again. Maybe, just maybe, it would ease the pain in his head, wash away the fog. Pain cleansed. Purified. Yes. It did.

He'd take her. Grab her. And when he made her scream, he would be able to think again.

Her...the faces all blended together. Their faces seemed to merge into one. The face shattered-reshifted. Formed.

Finally a face he could recognize. Somebody he could reach out, touch...take.

The voice of caution kept murmuring, No, you can't, you can't...too soon, too soon.

But he had to. He had to grab another one. Had to do something to shut up that voice. Had to shut her up. Or drown her out. The screams would drown out that voice. He knew it.

"Do it," he muttered. Swiping the back of his hand over the back of his mouth, he nodded. He watched as she pulled over, a satisfied smile on his face. Slow leak-imagine that.

Jake Morris turned on the flashers and parked behind Sandy Hampton. Casting a quick look around, he climbed out of the car and crossed over to her. "Hey, Sandy...what's the matter here?"