The Urban Fantasy Anthology Part 22

And what did that prove? Did she think Nathan had dug up the murder weapon with those old LPs? Of course not. A few lines down, it said that both the gun and knife had been recovered.

What if Nathan bought a matching one? Compelled to reenact- She pressed her fists against her eyes. Nathan possessed by a killer teen, plotting to kill her? Was she losing her mind? It was Nathan-the same good-natured, carefree guy she'd lived with for ten years. Other than a few bouts of confusion, he was his usual self, and those bouts were cause for a doctor's appointment, not paranoia.

She skimmed through the rest of the articles. Nothing new there, just the tale retold again and again, until-the suspect dead-the story died a natural death, relegated to being a skeleton in the town's closet.

The last page was a memorial published on the first anniversary of the killings, with all the photos of the victims. Tanya glanced at the family photo and was about to close the folder when her gaze lit on the picture of the housekeeper: Madelyn Levy.

When Nathan came in a few minutes later, she was still staring at the picture.

"Hey, hon. What's wrong?"

"I-" She pointed at the housekeeper's photo. "I've seen this woman. She-she was outside, when we were looking at the house. She was picking raspberries."

The corners of Nathan's mouth twitched, as if he was expecting-hoping-that she was making a bad joke. When her gaze met his, the smile vanished and he took the folder from her hands, then sat on the edge of the desk.

"I think we should consider selling," he said.

"Wh-what? No. I-"

"This place is getting to you. Maybe-I don't know. Maybe there is something. Those workers certainly thought so. Some people could be more susceptible-"

She jerked up straight. "I am not susceptible-"

"You lost a job you loved. You left your home, your family, gave up everything to start over, and now it's not going the way you dreamed. You're under a lot of stress and it's only going to get worse when we open."

He took her hands and tugged her up, his arms going around her. "The guy who owns the Beamsville bed-and-breakfast has been asking about this place. He'd been eyeing it before, but with all the work it needed, it was too much for him. Now he's seen what we've done and, well, he's interested. Very interested. You wouldn't be giving up; you'd be renovating an old place and flipping it for a profit. Nothing wrong with that."

She stood. "No. I'm being silly, and I'm not giving in. We have two weeks until opening, and there's a lot of work to be done."

She turned back to her paperwork. He sighed and left the room.

It got worse after that, as if in refusing to leave, she'd issued a challenge to whatever lived there. She'd now stopped laughing when she caught herself referring to the spirits as if they were real. They were. She'd come to accept that. Seeing the housekeeper's picture had exploded the last obstacle. She'd wanted a haunted house and she'd gotten it.

For the last two nights, she'd woken to find herself alone in bed. Both times, Nathan had been downstairs listening to that d.a.m.ned music. The first time, he'd been digging through the boxes, wide awake, blaming insomnia. But last night...

Last night, she'd gone down to find him talking to someone. She'd tried to listen, but he was doing more listening than talking himself, and she caught only a few um-hmms and okays before he'd apparently woken up, startled and confused. They'd made an appointment to see the doctor after that. An appointment that was still a week away, which didn't do Tanya any good now, sitting awake in bed alone on the third night, listening to the strains of distant music.

She forced herself to lie back down. Just ignore it. Call the doctor in the morning, tell him Nathan would take any cancellation.

But lying down didn't mean falling asleep. As she lay there, staring at the ceiling, she made a decision. Nathan was right. There was no shame in flipping the house for a profit. Tell their friends and family they'd decided small-town life wasn't for them. Smile coyly when asked how much they'd made on the deal.

No shame in that. None at all. No one ever needed to know what had driven her from this house.

She closed her eyes and was actually on the verge of drifting off when she heard Nathan's footsteps climbing the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs. Coming to bed? She hoped so, but she could still hear the boom and wail of the music. Nathan's steps creaked across the first level. A door opened. Then the squeak of a cupboard door. A kitchen cupboard door.

Grabbing something to eat before going back downstairs.

Only he didn't go downstairs. His footsteps headed upstairs.

He's coming up to bed-just forgot to turn off the music.

All very logical, but logical explanations didn't work for Tanya anymore. She got out of bed and went into the dark hall. She reached for the light switch, but stopped. She didn't dare announce herself like that.

Clinging to the shadows, she crept along the wall until she could make out the top of Nathan's blond head as he slowly climbed the stairs. Her gaze dropped, waiting for his hands to come into view.

A flash of silver winked in the pale glow of a nightlight. Her breath caught. She forced herself to stay still just a moment longer, to be sure, and then she saw it, the knife gripped in his hand, the angry set of his expression, the emptiness in his eyes, and she turned and fled.

A room. Any room. Just get into one, lock the door, and climb over the balcony.

The first one she tried was locked. She wrenched on the doork.n.o.b, certain she was wrong.

"Mom?" Nathan said, his voice gruff, unrecognizable. "Are you up here, Mom?"

Tanya turned. She looked down the row of doors. All closed. Only theirs was open, at the end. She ran for it as Nathan's footsteps thumped behind her.

She dashed into the room, slammed the door, and locked it. As she raced for the balcony, she heard the k.n.o.b turn behind her. Then the creak of the door opening. But that couldn't be. She'd locked- Tanya glanced over her shoulder and saw Nathan, his face twisted with rage.

"h.e.l.lo, Mom. I have something for you."

Tanya grabbed the balcony door. It was already cracked open, since Nathan always insisted on fresh air. She ran out onto the balcony and looked down to the concrete patio twenty feet below. No way she could jump that, not without breaking both legs, and then she'd be trapped. Maybe if she could hang from it, then drop- Nathan stepped onto the balcony. Tanya backed up. She called his name, begged him to snap out of it, but he just kept coming, kept smiling, knife raised. She backed up, leaning against the railing.

"Nathan. Plea-"

There was a tremendous crack, and the railing gave way. She felt herself falling, dropping backward so fast that she didn't have time to twist, to scream, and then- Nothing.

Nathan escorted the innkeeper from Beamsville to the door.

"You folks did an incredible job," the man said. "But I really do hate to take advantage of a tragedy..."

Nathan managed a wan smile. "You'd be doing me a favor. The sooner I can get away, the happier I'll be. Every time I drive in, I see that balcony, and I-" His voice hitched. "I keep asking myself why she went out there. I know she loved the view; she must have woken up and seen the moon and wanted a better look." He shook his head. "I meant to fix that balcony. We did the others, but she said ours could wait, and now..."

The man laid a hand on Nathan's shoulder. "Let me talk to my real estate agent and I'll get an offer drawn up, see if I can't take this place off your hands."

"Thank you."

Nathan closed the door and took a deep breath. He was making good use of those community-theater skills, but he really hoped he didn't have to keep this up much longer.

He headed into the office, giving it yet another once-over, making sure he'd gotten rid of all the evidence. He'd already checked, twice, but he couldn't be too careful.

There wasn't much to hide. The old woman had been an actor friend of one of his theater buddies, and even if she came forward, what of it? Tanya had wanted a haunted house and he'd hired her to indulge his wife's fancy.

Adding the woman's photo to the article had been simple Photoshop work, the files-paper and electronic-long gone now. The workmen really had been scared off by the haunting, which he'd orchestrated. The only person who knew about his "bouts" was Tanya. And he'd been very careful with the balcony, loosening the nails just enough that her weight would rip them from the rotting wood.

Killing Tanya hadn't been his original intention. But when she'd refused to leave, he'd been almost relieved. As if he didn't mind having to fall back on the more permanent solution, get the insurance money as well as the inheritance, go back home, hook up with Denise again-if she'd still have him-and open the kind of business he wanted. There'd been no chance of that while Tanya was alive. Her money. Her rules. Always.

He opened the bas.e.m.e.nt door, stepped down, and almost went flying, his foot sending a hammer clunking down a few stairs. He retrieved it, wondering how it got there, then shoved it into his back pocket and- The ring of the phone stopped his descent. He headed back up to answer it. "Restrictions?" Nathan bellowed into the phone. "What do you mean restrictions? How long-?"

He paused.

"A year? I have to live here a year?"

Pause.

"Look, can't there be an exception under the circ.u.mstances? My wife died in this house. I need to get out of here."

Tanya stepped up behind Nathan and watched the hair on his neck rise. He rubbed it down and absently looked over his shoulder, then returned to his conversation. She stepped back, caught a glimpse of the hammer in his pocket, and sighed. So much for that idea. But she had plenty more, and it didn't sound like Nathan was leaving anytime soon.

She slid up behind him, arms going around his waist, smiling as he jumped and looked around. Her house might not have been haunted when she'd bought it. But it was now.

She's My Witch.

Norman Partridge.

We parked in the old cemetery that night, the Ford coupe I'd boosted up in Fresno wedged so tight between a couple of crumbling mausoleums that we could barely open one door. It seemed we'd spent the entire summer that way-sitting in one stolen car or another, talking or making out while we listened to the latest rhythm 'n' blues tunes on KTCB. Shari liked the old cemetery because it was real quiet. No one else ever came there, even in the daytime. As for me, I'd gotten used to the place. I wasn't crazy about it, but I was crazy about Shari.

That summer it was like no one else existed. The rest of the world couldn't touch us.

"Tonight's no different," I said. "Whatever's gonna happen later...well, it's just gonna happen, however it does."

Shari's hand slipped out of mine, just seemed to melt away. Her gaze was welded to the dash, like if she squinted real hard she'd actually be able to see LaVern Baker through the radio.

She wouldn't look at me at all, and I don't think she really heard the music, either. "I don't know," was all she said. And then she shook her head, her dark hair washing over her face like a silent wave.

I couldn't see her face at all, and I couldn't stand to be apart from her that way. Sitting there in a stolen car with my girl, her hair as black as night, her dress just as black...and having her whisper those three words in the darkness, like she didn't have any faith in me-in us-at all.

Those three words parting the only lips I wanted to kiss. And Shari not even looking at me when she said them, afraid that I'd see her doubts hiding in her eyes.

My girl, sitting there in a boosted Ford parked in her favorite place in the world, trembling, like she'd rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else. And who could blame her? Christ, with the things she'd discovered that summer, she could have had anyone. Sticking with me was just crazy, just- Unsure, I reached out, my hand barely brushing her bare shoulder, traveling that delicate ridge of collarbone, exploring her slender and perfect neck. My fingers drifted through her hair, my movements surer now-I gotta admit it did something to me, just like always. I found her chin and gently turned her head in my direction, brushing that midnight hair over one shoulder.

There were those beautiful eyes of hers, alive with mysteries she could never share. Those full lips, containing all those secrets that she would never speak. Like I said, it did something to me. Just like always. I moved in to kiss her, and she didn't move away. It didn't start out like much of a kiss, but it shook me up the way I hoped it would.

When it was over, I really had the itch. I wanted her more than ever.

One look, and I knew that she felt the same way. A tear ran down one smooth marble cheek. I wiped it away, and it smeared on my callused fingers, and I found myself wishing that I could crush it in my fist.

She said, "I just want everything to stay the way it is."

"Don't worry, little darlin'," I said, trying to sound more confident than I was. "Tonight it's you and me. Just like it's been all summer, ever since you and me became an us. Those jerks are in for a big surprise." I slipped one hand around the back of her neck, but not in a rough way, and with the other I twisted the rearview in her direction. "Just look at you, Shari. You're not the same girl you were when school let out."

Shari stared at her reflection. She didn't blink once, and a shiver rocketed over my spine like someone was stepping on my grave.

"No," she said finally. "I'm not the same person. This place...and you...you've given me so much, Johnny."

She pushed the mirror away, looking at the cemetery through the mosaic of kamikaze bugs plastered to the old Ford's wind shield. Low fog bathed the ring of tombstones where she'd danced a couple of nights back with nothing covering that beautiful marble skin of hers but the blood of a black cat. I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be okay, but I could see that she was spooked, just as spooked as the first time she visited the cemetery. That was back when she was just a scared kid in hand-me-downs who'd been broken by other kids because she couldn't bear to look anyone in the eye, before the black dress and the red lipstick, before I took to parking boosted cars in the long shadows between two jagged mausoleums, before all the secret kisses and all the things that went with them.

So much had pa.s.sed between us that summer. We'd made a world of our own, and no one else knew anything about it. But with school ready to start up, our world was going to change. We'd have to face those other people again. I thought I had it all figured out. But with Shari so rattled and uncertain, I couldn't help but worry.

Her voice trembled. "Sometimes...this summer..." she began. "It just doesn't seem real. I keep thinking I'll wake up and it will have all been a dream. I keep thinking that maybe I'm imagining you.... I always had a crush on you, y'know? And I keep thinking that I'll wake up, and I'll be back in school with all those people, and you'll be here...."

I nodded. She took my hand then, her fingernails digging into my palm like little knives. I couldn't help but shiver; she couldn't seem to let go. Her face had disappeared in the darkness-there was just a little razor cut of a moon in the sky, and the night was coming on hard, clouds blanketing the stars.

"I keep staring at that moon," she said. "I keep thinking that it looks like a sickle."

She couldn't stop shaking. "I'm afraid the moon's going to slice down out of the sky, Johnny," she said, her fingers locked in mine. "I'm afraid it's going to cut us to pieces."

The carhop's roller skates made an icy little rumbling sound as she drifted across the parking lot, away from the stolen Ford.

When she was out of sight, I lifted the c.o.ke off of the little metal tray and handed it to Shari. Then I reached under the seat and found the cardboard box. Inside was a Revell model kit that I'd swiped from a hobby shop in Fresno the same night I boosted the Ford. I slipped the lid off of the box, revealing a miniature '48 Chevy.

"Wow." Shari smiled. "It looks just like it."

"Yeah, I'm a real artist." I wasn't bragging. I'd done a good job. Customized it just right. Two-tone paint-job-turquoise and black. Every detail reproduced, right down to the miniature tornado swirling on the hood.

I handed the model to Shari, then rummaged through the unused parts in the bottom of the box until I found the decal sheet. I traded her the sheet for the c.o.ke. She ran her fingers over the decals, whispering a few words.

I knew better than to listen. Instead I stared between a couple of dead moths splattered on the windshield, studying a turquoise-and-black '48 Chevy parked over by the bowling alley.

Shari dipped the decal sheet into the c.o.ke. She let it sit for a minute, until the decals started to drift away from the backing.

There were two license plate decals. She attached one of them to a blank plastic plate glued to the trunk of the model.

The other floated on the surface of a Coca-Cola ice-floe. Shari stared down at it as she took the gla.s.s from my hand, then glanced over at the Chevy parked by the bowling alley.

"You promise not to blink, right?" she asked. "I mean, you're not going to get distracted by a carhop who's a dead ringer for Anita Ekberg or anything, are you?"

When the girl you love asks you something like that, you've got to laugh. "Baby, I'm just like The Flamingos," I said, and then I sang the rest of it-"I only have eyes for you."

Shari hustled on over there. My ears were treated to the sweet little staccato rhythm of her high heels on blacktop, but my eyes got the better part of the deal when she bent low behind the '48, her tight dress riding up over firm thighs.

The fingers of one hand dipped into the c.o.ke. Then she reached out, kind of tenderly, the way she sometimes did when she ran a finger over my lips. But her finger only traveled the length of the Chevy's license plate, leaving behind a decal from a Revell model kit.

And then the two of them showed up, right on cue. Slammed out of the bowling alley like they owned the world, swaggered across the parking lot.

Shari barely had a chance to straighten up. They both saw her at the same time, saw that black dress hiked up to the limit, that red lipstick, saw everything through a testosterone haze.

Nick Bradley was the smarter of the two. He got his mouth open first, saying, "You like the ride, huh, honey? You maybe wanna go for a ride?"

"Course she wants to go for a ride." Marty Hyde's brain had finally kicked into gear. "But it's my ride, and I got the keys and the master switch." Marty jingled his car keys as punctuation, shoving Nick with one shoulder, Nick stumbling in spite of himself. "We don't have to make it a party," Marty added. "Unless you want it that way, angel."

Shari looked both of them dead in the eye. She refused to blink, and they... well, I'm sure the idiots wanted to blink, but they just couldn't.

Nick caught Shari's thought-wave first. He laughed, shaking his head. "Naw," he said. "Naw! It can't be!"