Deadly Decision (6 page)

“Sounds like an impersonal god to me.”

“When has God helped me?” The words jerked at my heart as soon as I said them. I knew God cared, but somehow my ability to see and feel it went missing a long time ago.

Betsy re-wrapped the picture. “One of these days, Bill, you are going to confront God. And then you will have to decide what you believe.”

I glared at her. “I know what I believe. I've gone to church almost every Sunday of my life.”

“Knowing and believing are two different things.” Her eyes looked deeply into mine.

We moved on to safer subjects, but the comfortable atmosphere had faded, replaced by a tension I didn't know how to change.

 



 

Later, I went to the couch where I had tossed my jacket. “Bets, where's my coat?”

“I hung it in the hall closet,” she yelled from the kitchen.

“Why'd you hang it—”

My heart shoved its way into my throat. Hanging on Betsy's wall was a grouping of family photos, both present and past generations. One picture…I must have walked by it a hundred times and never really noticed it…chilled the blood in my veins.

“Betsy!” Her name escaped my throat like a strangled moan.

She rushed into the hall, a dishtowel clutched in her hands.

“Who's in this picture?” I asked.

“That's all you want? I thought you were dying or something.” Color tinted her ashen face as she leaned against the wall.

“Betsy!”

“You remember; Grandpa gave it to you years ago when he moved into the apartment. You didn't want it, so you said I could have it.”

“OK, OK. But who
is
it?”

“I don't know.” She pushed herself off the wall, and twisted the towel into a knot.

“You have to know. You have the picture hanging on your wall!”

“Don't yell at me.”

I clenched my teeth, knowing if I got into a fight with Betsy, I would lose. Age does bring wisdom of a sort, and she would always be older. Besides, I was clutching my most valuable possession under my arm, a gift from her. I owed her something.

Her finger stroked the frame as her face softened. “Grandpa said it was one of the oldest family pictures he had. Great-Grandpa gave it to him. He told me some story about where it came from, but I don't remember. It was special to Grandpa, so I kept it.”

“And you don't know who it is, or how Great-Grandpa came to have it?”

“Why all the questions?”

I stared at the picture, still not believing. “He's my second ghost boy.”

 

 

 

 

8

 

I had a huge learning curve to fill, so after school on Thursday I headed to the local bookstore. I had Googled ghosts, but the endless links left me confused. As unusual as it was for me, there I stood, at the bookstore. Just inside the door, a tantalizing smell almost derailed me. Not having had a good cup of coffee since breakfast, my mouth watered in anticipation, like one of Pavlov's dogs, but with a different task than pushing a bell with my nose. A hot cup of the house brand would be my reward later.

Looking around, wondering where to begin, I searched for the paranormal section.

That's where I was when I saw Jimmy.

He walked past the end of the book stack. Hardly daring to believe my eyes, I jumped from my crouched position and ran to the end of the aisle, but he was gone. The pounding of my heart filled my ears. Was he alive? Had he been kidnapped and brought to Ohio? I ran in the direction he had been headed; I had to find him.

“Hey, slow down,” a store clerk admonished.

I grabbed the clerk's arm. “Did you see a boy? He's about this tall.” I held my hands four feet from the floor. “He has blonde hair and he's wearing a sweatshirt.”

“Is he lost in the store?” She grabbed the cellphone from its holder at her waist.

I raced past her. Jimmy had to be close. He had been headed toward the back. Running down the middle isle, I looked left and right, down each row as I sped past. I knew I looked like a wild man, but I didn't care.

Shelves of books blocked my sight. I remembered the long stretch of road on the way to Darlington, and the feeling there was something hiding behind them. Now the books replaced the towering pines and thorny bushes, blocking my vision, allowing Jimmy to disappear…again.

I rushed to the end of the row and turned down the next, tripped over a plastic pint-sized chair, and then leaped a half-height table. Thankfully, the small furniture was empty of equally diminutive customers.

Then I saw him quietly sitting on the floor looking at a book, seemingly unaware the entire world was looking for him. Jimmy Roberts.

Suddenly I was unsure what to do. Was he boy or ghost? What if no one could see him except me? Would he dissolve like mist in my hand?

“Is that him?” the store clerk asked, rushing up behind me.

I walked slowly toward the boy. He raised his head.

His eyes told me what I needed to know. There was no mistake.

Even though I had only seen the Jimmy-ghost for a few seconds, I would never forget the pained look in those blue eyes. This boy's eyes were brown.

“Is this the child you were looking for?” the clerk asked.

“No, my mistake.”

“Give me his name, and I'll have the other clerks look for him. I'm sure he's still in the store.”

“That won't be necessary.” I moved past her.

“But sir…”

“It was a mistake.” Several customers looked our way. “Forget it,” I mumbled.

Walking quickly to the front of the store and out the heavy glass door, my face burned with shame. I had made a real fool of myself. Was this to be my life from now on, always hunting for a dead child?

I stood on the sidewalk and tried to gain enough composure to drive home. I stuffed my shaking hands into the pockets of my jeans, fingered the bits of sawdust that must have dropped off of my hands earlier.

“I saw what happened,” a woman's voice said. “You must be desperate to find someone.”

She was a stranger, about my age, slim and dressed neatly in slacks and a blouse. There was a cross; similar to the one Trina often wore, hanging on a chain around her neck.

“I thought I saw a child I knew.” I pretended to shrug it off.

“Are you trying to find someone?”

“No. I don't know. Maybe.” Verbally I stumbled around, trying to decide how to explain, or if I even should. I ran fingers through my stubble of hair, and looked at the woman again. She had soft eyes and a kind expression. Suddenly I wanted to tell her my weird story.

“There's a coffee shop down the block.” She smiled. “Or we could get something here, but I'm fairly certain you don't want to go back inside the bookstore.”

My lips curved into a grin. I couldn't help myself. It was unusual for me to be approached by a woman on the street, and I wondered what her game was. She seemed too decent to be after my body or my money, but you never knew. And I really needed a cup of coffee. Besides, at 250 pounds and six feet six, I made three of her.

“Just coffee and conversation,” she repeated. “I may be able to help you. I'm a psychic.”

A psychic!

My eyes widened and I had enough sense to stop before I took a few steps backward. She had said it so casually, like “I'm a teacher” or “I'm a nurse.” Not only was I seeing ghosts, now I was attracting fruitcakes. The only psychics I knew (and I didn't really know them) were the ones on television.

In my usual stupid mode, I said the first thing that came to mind. “You don't look like a psychic.”

Her eyes sparkled. “And what should a psychic look like?”

“It's just that, I saw the cross and all, and I thought…well, I thought all psychics were atheists.”

She laughed; it was a clear hearty sound. “You must believe in God.”

“I do,” I answered, stunned that she should guess.”

“So do I.” She touched the cross around her neck. “Let's go have some coffee.”

An internal voice told me to refuse. It was a different voice than my normal conscience; stronger, more urgent.

I ignored it. After all, how reliable was my sixth sense? What was the harm?

We walked the short distance to the coffee shop, got our order and settled at a table against the wall. The place was quiet for this late in the afternoon. I noticed a couple that entered holding hands; young love. My face reddened. It had been a long time since I had been on a date, and this wasn't intended to be romantic. But she
was
attractive and mysterious.

And dangerous.

I wondered if it would be rude to change my mind and walk away. As I wallowed in indecision, she started to talk.

“Most people think psychics are agnostics at best, devil worshipers at worst.” Her voice was low and soothing, like a late night talk show host I liked to listen to on the radio. “Some do operate outside the laws of God. That's why the image sticks. But there are some psychics around, not many but a few of us, who truly believe in God.”

Steam from the coffee swirled upward. I sniffed appreciatively while staring at the woman who both confused, and yet transfixed me.

“God has given me a gift,” she continued. “I don't know why. My mother had the gift, and my grandmother.”

The similarity between our lives surprised me.

“So do you tell fortunes, or what?” I gulped a mouthful of coffee. “Sorry, that was stupid again.”

Her blue eyes held mine, as though she could see deep within me. “Sometimes I can tell what's in the future for a person: sadness due to a loss, change in life situation; those types of things. But not always. It depends on my spiritual guide, and what he wants to reveal. Sometimes he's quiet, but not usually. God gave me this gift to use, so there's little reason for my spiritual guide to be quiet when I'm trying to communicate with him.”

“Spiritual guide? That doesn't sound Christian to me.”

“God communicates in many ways. My spiritual guide is a past saint, although I don't know his name. You've heard about guardian angels. It's the same thing, only we communicate directly.”

I had never met anyone who claimed to communicate directly with saints, but I had heard of guardian angels. Even though I knew I should question her more, explore her beliefs, I didn't. With emotions raw from the event at the bookstore, this strange woman served as a soothing balm to my ego.

“So try me out, Mr. Christian. See if I can help you.”

I realized I had never told her my name. “Sorry, I'm Bill Iver.”

“Glad to meet you, Bill. I'm Barbara Thompson. So Bill, why are you chasing little boys in book stores?”

I told Barbara the story, just like I had told Betsy. Now two people in Ohio knew the details of my trip to South Carolina. Barbara was a good listener, asked a few questions, but mostly listened.

“So I came home to try to figure out what it all means. What exactly did I see in the attic?”

“And have you figured it out?”

I threw my hands into the air. “Not a clue. I thought the memory would fade when I got home, but it hasn't. Hardly an hour goes by that I don't think about those boys.”

“So that's the real issue. You want to know who the boys were in life, and why they are lingering.”

“If you could have seen Jimmy, or what I'm assuming was Jimmy. He was chained like an animal.”

I looked toward the wall, the memory replaying in my mind. Shaking my head, I turn back to Barbara. “The kid was scared to death, and I don't blame him when the other boy was hovering over him like a bully.” Words exploded out of my mouth like bullets from a machine gun. “Now I find out this menacing kid has some connection to my family. His picture's hanging on my sister's wall, like he's some loved ancestor or something!”

Barbara took a slow sip of coffee. “How do you know the one boy was frightened?”

“I could tell.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you're psychic too.”

“No way.” I pushed myself away from the table. “You can keep the spooky stuff. Just give me a hammer and some nails - sturdy, predictable things.”

“Many people have psychic abilities that lay dormant until God needs them. God may need you, Bill Iver.”

“Why would God need me?” This sounded too much like my conversation with Betsy, God being personal and all. I still didn't accept it. God put the laws into place and gives us free will on how to run our lives.

Barbara looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup. Steam swirled over her eyes, making her all the more mysterious. “For a start,” she said, putting her cup back on the table, “ God may want to you to bring out in the open what happened to this little Jimmy, reveal the unfinished business that is keeping him from moving on.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don't believe in coincidences; God put me in your path to help you.”

I stared at Barbara, unashamed at my familiarity. The tension I had been feeling since meeting her slipped to my feet, like a discarded robe. For a brief second I wondered if my coffee had been drugged. I had not felt this relaxed with a stranger in a very long time.

The jangling in my head continued. I pushed it away.
So she's a psychic. What she says makes sense. And she is a Christian…
“Say you're right. How can you help me?”

“I can help you get in touch with Jimmy. He can tell us who the boy is who's with him, and why they're lingering in your daughter's attic.”

“You think Jimmy's a ghost?”

“Not a ghost, a displaced spirit. And he has chosen you to help him.”

“So Jimmy really is dead.” Regardless of what I had told Trina, I, too, had held onto the hope that the boy was somehow alive. Now I
knew
I wouldn't find Jimmy Roberts at the bookstore, or anywhere else.