Bzzz! Bzzz
! A sudden drone rose up beside her, and purple lights danced across the clipboard. Yanking up the communication device, she slapped her palm atop.
“Your request has been approved,” the Voice hummed through her. “Gabriel David Sachs will be made aware of the Finches’ legal struggles and will volunte
er to assist the family. When the full solution has come to its conclusion, the Board will notify you to retrieve Mr. Finch from his Soho loft, as agreed upon today…”
Jodie’s heart plummeted.
In other words, she got half her wish.
The wrong half.
Chapter
10
The Board’s buzzing summons shot Jodie out of bed and sleep with the speed of dynamite on a short fuse. Damn! One of these days, she vowed, she’d remember to bring the clipboard closer to the bed before she sank into oblivion. That way she wouldn’t stumble over tossed sheets and tangled blankets to reach the counter while the infernal noise permeated her dense brain matter like a chainsaw.
Before she managed to
reach the communication device skittering over the slick surface, a knock sounded on her door.
“Rise and shine, babe
,” Luc called from the hallway. “We’ve got another spirit to go after.”
She narrowed her eyes, focusing all her resentment on blasting him through the door with the heat of a thousand blow torches.
How could he be so cheerful so soon after waking? And why the hell didn’t the Afterlife have coffee? While her mind fantasized about a steaming sixteen-ounce cup of her favorite beverage, she yanked open the door.
There he stood,
Luc the Alert, lounging against the wall in his usual costume. Through bleary eyes, Jodie took in today’s sage advice on his standard black t-shirt.
He who dies with the most toys is still dead.
Okay, that one made her smile. Shooting her index finger at the bl
ood red script, she murmured, “Cute.”
He glanced down, and then up again, shrugging. “I
’m kinda fond of this one myself.”
“
Any particular reason?” She strode to the counter, sat on one of the stools. No point in waving him inside. He’d push past her, even if she attempted to bar his way.
“Yeah.” Sure enough, he sauntered into the foyer, Lord of the Manor. “Reminds me to focus on what matters right now and forget the crap
py people and stuff I left behind.”
Zing
! The barb struck, as she was certain he intended, but she fisted her hands, and refused to rise to his bait. “Are you ready?”
“More
so than you.” He drew curlicues on her counter with a fingertip. “I’ve been awake for a while.”
Great. So he had a head start on her. That explained how he managed to be so animated while she lagged behind,
the two of them a perfect tableau of the Tortoise and the Hare. Returning her attention to the clipboard, she slapped her hand on the dancing characters.
“In life,” the Voice intoned, “Jacob Eihler was a high school math teacher, popular with students, faculty, and parents. Using corny jokes and pop culture references, he engaged the kids into not only learning algebra, but enjoying the experience.
“On May 26, 2006, Mr. Eihler arrived at school, unaware of the evil waiting beneath the stairwell near the gymnasium. When the ten o’clock bell rang, the hallway filled with students streaming toward their next classes. Some lingered near lockers, discussing plans for the coming weekend, the prom, graduation, or college acceptance letters they’d recently received. One student, socially outcast and enraged, opened fire on these innocents with a cache of automatic weapons.
“Mr. Eihler immediately began hustling screaming students away from the barrage of bullets. Clearing the hallway as best he could, he crept toward the gunman, intent on talking him into dropping the weapon before more students died. The boy’s sweat-slicked finger slipped on the trigger, plugging five bullets into Mr. Eihler’s chest.
“His death was mourned by the entire community. He was hailed as a hero who’d sacrificed his own life to save countless others. After the tragedy, the town ordered the school completely renovated and renamed Jacob Eihler Memorial High School. You’ll find Mr. Eihler in the school that bears his name, coordinates twenty-two east, ninety south…”
As her fingers absorbed the last of the teacher's story, tears stung her eyes. Jodie refused to wipe them away. Let Luc scold her for her softness. Such a tragic story deserved some sympathy.
Especially since once she and Luc left the safety of her room to fetch Mr. Eihler, she'd be forced to play the devoted, stoical handmaiden.
Monkey see, monkey do. Monkey don't speak
. Because every word passing between them held enough anger and resentment to build a dam larger than the Great Wall of China.
Okay, so she'd ruined his unblemished
“one out, one back” record. And she'd hoped the Board would allow her to contact Gabe to help with Taylor Finch's dilemma…
"Oh, it's much more than that, babe."
Her head jerked up, allowing the water to stream down her cheeks in twin rivers. He stood near the counter, arms crossed over his chest and a deep frown plastered on his face.
He held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong. I'm pissed you thought to use a spirit's misfortune to forward your own agenda."
"I did
not
have an agenda."
"Yeah, right. And men go to strip clubs for the music."
He took a step toward her, and
she scraped her stool back. An ear-splitting screech echoed, and Luc flashed a toothy grin.
"You know," he said, boredom lacing his tone
as he took another step closer, "you never did tell me what the Board had decided with dear Mr. Finch."
She clamped her lips tight. No way would he intimidate her into revealing anything she didn't want to share.
His eyes
focused on her forehead and widened, his pupils glinting silver. "Wow,” he said after a long minute. “That bad, huh?"
"Stop reading my mind," she snapped. "You're only supposed to use that force to communicate when we're on hunts."
A smile quirked one side of his lips. "I can't help it. You're so simple to figure out I can read you more easily than the funny papers."
"Oh yeah?" She envisioned flipping him the bird. "Can you read my mind now?"
"Yes." His index finger waved near her nose in a tsk-tsk fashion. "And that isn't very nice. So, what happened with Finch? Did the Board give you hell? Tell you it was a test to see if you could relinquish your grip on the past even when it dovetailed with your present?"
She shook her head. "They only said they'd contact us when a resolution had been reached."
His nonchalant shrug prickled the hairs on her nape. "Well really, what did you expect?" he remarked. "If the Finch Fiasco
was
a test, I'll be happy to vouch for you before the Board. I can state unequivocally you failed. Miserably. You're not fit to be a hunter. If you were, you wouldn't be holding on to your precious
Gabe
."
He had the nerve to sing-song Gabe's name like a kindergartner.
An urge to smack him tingled in her palms, and she flexed her fingers to keep the violence in check. "Leave Gabe out of this. You don't know anything about him or the life I had before I came here."
"I don't have to know anything about him or your old life. All I need to know is you're making decisions
here
…" He pointed to the floor. "…based on people and things you left behind
there
. And that's a dangerous precedent."
"I made one mistake, for God's sake."
Stealing a page from his playbook, she shoved her index finger near his face. "One. Not all of us come to the Afterlife fully prepared for what the Board expects of us. If we did, they wouldn't assign trainers to assist rookies like me. Haven't you ever made a mistake
here
?" She pointed to the floor. "Or
there
?"
He stiffened.
Interesting... I hit a nerve.
As quickly as he'd reacted, his body relaxed, and he leaned a hip against the counter. "It all comes back to the problem I noted the first time I clapped eyes on you. You're too raw, too soft. For God's sake you cry at every sob story the Board hurls at us." His finger traced a quick trail down her cheek.
The contact snapped static along her synapses, and she backed away. "I do not!" She slapped a hand on the countertop, catching the edge of the clipboard and flipping it with a clatter.
He gave a meaningful glance at the inverted device, and then waved a hand in dismissal. "Grow up, babe. The sooner you put the past behind you, the better off you'll be."
"No, the sooner I'm away from you, the better off I'll be."
His finger traced the back of her hand. Slowly. Dangerously. "You think so?” His eyes danced with delightful sparks of light, and he smiled. “I'll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. You take the lead on this case. Let's see if you're as ready as you think you are."
Soda bubbles of excitement jettisoned her feet, and she fairly floated on air. "Really?"
"Yeah, sure. Why not? Knock yourself out. Show me your stuff. But…” The finger wagged near her face. “Screw this up and I'll advise the Board to revoke your hunting privileges. Permanently."
Before she might lose her nerve, she countered his offer. "But if I get my man—or woman—you tell the Board I'm ready to fly solo. Deal?"
He paused, scrubbing a hand over his chin. "Let's make it the next two hunts. You pass them both, and I'll set you free. Screw up either one of them the way you did Finch…” He jerked his thumb like an umpire. “…and you're outta here."
"Deal!" She shot out her hand, but he ignored it and strode toward the center of the room.
"Then let's go."
~~~~
Cotton candy clouds dotted a cornflower sky, and the lemony sun glowed over Jacob Eihler Memorial High School like a halo. The American flag snapped on a spring breeze, its metal grommets pinging musically against the steel pole.
Jodie
turned to Luc hovering beside her. “Stay here. I want to do this myself.”
Luc’s eyes narrowed, and he folded his arms over his chest. “I can still watch you, you know. And I’ll be listening to every word you say.”
“Fine.”
“One false step and I’ll be up there with you before you can blink.”
“Fine,” she repeated more firmly and soared toward the school, vibrating excitement with the intensity of a hummingbird’s wings. She floated into the first floor hall and toward the glass doors leading to the staircase. Mr. Eihler’s former classroom was on the second floor, Room 212.
She found him in the back, seated on the radiator near the windows, a moon-faced man with basset hound eyes and gingersnap hair.
“Mr. Eihler?”
Jerking his head toward the front of the classroom, he held an index finger to his lips. “Sssh!”
Up front, a new math teacher droned on about polynomials and integers. A yawn erupted from Jodie before she could stop it.
“My sentiments exactly,” Mr. Eihler remarked.
“Can you imagine they hired this doofus to replace me?”
Jodie's gaze swerved to the new teacher, an older man with dandruff dusting his Nehru-jacketed shoulders and a habit of ending each sentence with the question,
Understood?