Jack stepped out of the carcinogenic cloud and replaced the candle. “On second thought, maybe the personality transplant wouldn’t be a bad idea after all.”
“Not possible,” she said. “No more than backing off from my work is possible. That would be letting the bastard win.” She hauled her backpack onto her shoulder. “I gotta go.”
“I’ll walk you out.” He walked her through the shop to the front door.
She looked around his shop, those piercing eyes of hers searching for secrets, tricks. She wouldn’t find any. Jack’s tricks were all in the minds of his customers. This crap was real to them.
Brigham stopped at the front door, turning to face him. For a very brief moment he had the feeling she didn’t want to leave any more than he wanted her to. Damn. He must be overworked or something. They couldn’t stand each other. They
detested
each other. If someone had asked Jack to name his number one
enemy, he’d have named her without batting an eye. And he had no doubt she would name him if asked the same question. She knew damned well he had about as much clairvoyance as her ancient, smoke-belching boat of a Buick. She
knew
it, and he knew she knew it. He reveled in rubbing her nose in it, and that drove her nuts!
It was strange, the relationship they’d developed over the past few years. She, always trying to trip him up. He, always struggling to stay a half step ahead of her. It was an ongoing contest with no clear winner in sight. He’d gotten kind of used to it…maybe was even beginning to
enjoy
her irritating persistence?
Nah.
He looked down at her and then he flinched at the size of the knot that formed in his stomach. For a second, he’d seen it in her face, just as plain as day: cold, dark fear. She hid it quickly, covering it up with the stubborn determination he was used to seeing there. But not fast enough. Not before he’d spotted it peering out of those sparkling emerald eyes of hers. It wasn’t an emotion he’d ever seen there before. She was probably the gutsiest loudmouth he’d ever known.
She cleared her throat, reached for the door handle. “Well…”
“Yeah.”
She nodded once, stepped outside into the normal world again. And he winced inwardly, because he had the feeling someone was about to drop a piano on her.
He caught the door before it could swing closed. “Brigham?”
“What?”
Jack licked his lips. “Watch your back, okay?”
“You bet your amethysts, I will. And I pity the son
of a bitch who left me that message, once I find him.” She sent him a wink and strode away as if she wasn’t terrified of being alone.
J
ACK
M
C
C
AIN MIGHT BE
the lowest form of pond slime, Kiley thought as she sat at her desk back in her office at the
Burnt Hills Gazette
, staring at her empty computer screen. But he wasn’t the kind who would leave messages in human blood on a bathroom mirror.
She’d known that before she’d asked him, but hadn’t been able to resist asking all the same. Just to gauge his reaction.
There was a tap on her office door before it opened, and her boss, the most gorgeous woman in town if Kiley was any judge, stepped inside. “Did you get anything on McCain?”
Sighing, Kiley shook her head. “He knew it was a setup. Smelled it like a rat smells cheese.”
Barbara Benedict laughed softly, raking a hand through her pixie-cut ash-blond hair. “You ever wonder about that, Kiley?”
“About what? Whether he’s part rat?”
“Whether he…maybe really
has
something. Some kind of…you know.”
Kiley pursed her lips. “God, it would be one warped universe if it handed out gifts like that to guys like him.”
“Yeah, he’s already got the looks, the charm—you’re right, it would be unfair.”
Kiley hadn’t been referring to his looks or his charm, but she didn’t bother to correct her employer.
“So did you ask him about the, uh—the incident?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And?”
“Oh, hell, you should have seen it. It was the performance of a lifetime, Barb. The hint of worry in his eyes. The concerned knit in his brow. The hand on my shoulder. It was perfect. He almost had me believing he was worried about me.”
“You…you don’t really think he
did
it?”
Kiley lowered her head. “No, it’s not his style.”
“Then why—”
“Because Jack McCain doesn’t worry about anybody or anything, other than himself and his financial wellbeing. If he’s concerned at all, it’s that I’ll try to pin this on him and disrupt his livelihood in the process. No, Jack is a con man. I’ve dealt with men like him before. I know ’em when I see ’em.”
Barbara tipped her head to one side. “You talking about your ex now?”
“They’re so much alike it’s tough not to compare.”
“What did that guy
do
to you, anyway? You haven’t talked about it since you moved out here, and you have to know I’m dying of curiosity.”
Kiley pushed her hair behind one ear, rising from her chair and grabbing her shoulder bag from the desk. “I gotta go find a subject for this week’s column. I’ve got a bear for a boss and she’ll skin me alive if I don’t.” She sent Barbara a wink, then moved past her and out of the office.
Kiley walked out through the parking lot, trying to let the slanting October sunshine lift her spirits. She inhaled the scent of dying leaves, tasted late autumn on
the breeze, told herself the alarm system would be all installed by the time she went to bed tonight, and that all was right with the world. But it wasn’t easy to shake off the chill that had settled into her bones last night.
At her car, she ran a hand over the warm fender. “You up for a ride, Lana?”
The car sat there, silent, ready. Her trusty steed. It was way better than the Porsche she used to drive. Lana had
character
. She unlocked the driver’s door, checked the back seat and got in. Then she drove into town to have her lunch in the park, as she did every day, weather permitting. People knew where to find her. Up to now, she’d always considered that a good thing.
Now, though, maybe she should reconsider.
Still, she needed a tip, and this was her best shot at landing one. She walked to the corner hot dog stand. “Hey, Bernie. Gimme the usual.”
Smiling, the compact, muscular, utterly bald vendor began putting her foot-long-with-the-works together. “Heard you had a break-in last night,” he said as he heaped on the sauerkraut.
Her brows rose. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Around.”
Bernie’s son was on the town’s police force. But she wouldn’t rat him out for spreading gossip. It was a small town. Everyone knew everyone’s business.
“So you okay?”
“Yeah. Got a whole new security system being installed tonight.”
“Smart.” He put her dog in a cardboard boat, set it aside and fished an icy diet cola from his cooler. “Three ninety-five, same as always.”
She slid a five dollar bill across the top of his shiny
stand. “Keep the change, same as always.” She took her dog and drink and started to turn away.
“So you sure it was someone that broke in, not someone who was already there?”
She turned back to face the hot dog vendor again. “What do you mean, Bernie? There was no one there but me.”
“Well, yeah, but you know the stories about that place. It’s got a history.”
She blinked three times. “What kind of history?”
His face changed; he looked suddenly…different. Worried, and maybe regretting his words. “I, uh—I figured you knew. Then again, it’s old stuff. You’ve only been in town a year.”
“Two years,” she corrected him. “And I’ve only been in the house for a few days, Bernie. So if there’s something I should know, then I’d appreciate you telling me.”
He grinned at her suddenly and waved a hand. “I’m just picking on you, kid. You know this town, it’s full of ghost stories.”
“My house has ghost stories attached to it?”
“I told you, I was kidding. Go on, get outta here.”
She wasn’t going to get anything out of Bernie. Not that a ghost had anything to do with what had happened in her house last night. Even if her stomach did tighten up at the word, and even if it was the same theory her imagination kept posing. But if there were things she hadn’t known about the place, things the real estate folks had failed to disclose, they were liable to find themselves the next topic of one of her columns.
She walked to her favorite bench, the one near the fountain, sat down and proceeded to share scraps of hot
dog bun with the pigeons while she opened a notebook and dashed a note to herself to do some research on her house.
Someone sat down, right beside her. And she knew just by the way her skin prickled who it was. Without looking up, she said, “Hello, McCain. What, you didn’t get enough of me this morning?”
“Don’t be nasty, Brigham. I come bearing gifts.”
She finally looked up at him. He had a foot-long hot dog with the works, and a diet cola. She said, “You’re going to give me your lunch?”
“You telling me you could eat two of these pups?”
“I could eat three. And still have room for dessert.”
He smiled. “I like a woman with an appetite.”
“
You
like a woman with a pulse.”
“Well, yeah. A pulse is good, too.” He leaned back on the bench and took a big bite of the hot dog, giving her the perfect opportunity to do the same. God, she loved them. Probably unhealthy as all hell, but damn, so worth it.
He washed his bite down with a gulp of the cola. “I felt sorry for getting the best of you yet again this morning.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“Hated leaving you without a column this week.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She kept eating, pretending to be only barely listening, but in truth, she was rapt. Was her arch rival going to give her a tip? It sure seemed to be what he was getting around to.
“Anyway, I’m no more fond of frauds who cause more harm than good than you are.”
“So how do you sleep at night?”
“Hell, Brigham, you wanna shut up and listen, or should I take my information and go home?”
She faced him, a serene smile on her lips, batting her eyes in mock innocence.
He rolled his in response, then brought his napkin to the corner of her mouth to dab something away. Ketchup or relish, she guessed. “There’s a new player in town. He’s rented out that little brick box on Main and Oak that’s been vacant for so long.”
“The one that used to be the barber shop?”
He nodded.
“So what’s his game?”
“Oh, he starts out small. Tells people he had a dream about them, specifically, and that he has information for them. Then he gives them some cock-and-bull story about staying out of traffic on a certain day, and asks them to make an appointment for a more in-depth session. That first bit is free, but when they come back he starts really soaking them.”
“How badly?”
“Fifty bucks for the first session. Then there end up being all these charms and talismans they have to buy in order to avoid disaster, and those start at a hundred and go up from there. He’s calling these people at home, claiming to have urgent messages that they have to hear, convincing them to come back for another fifty-dollar session. It’s all older folks. One of my regulars said her mother had laid out more than a thousand dollars in the past month. The guy’s ruthless.”
“The guy’s a bastard.” She nodded. “Okay, I’ll get on it. Thanks for the tip.”
He smiled. “Can’t have people like him giving us legitimate psychic counselors a bad name.”
“You’re as legitimate as this hot dog is health food, McCain.”
“Hey, if I were a fake, you’d have had me by now. You’re too good not to.”
“Yeah, and flattery will win me right over.”
He shrugged. “Have it your way.” He got to his feet, popped the last bite of his hot dog into his mouth.
“McCain?”
Still chewing, he looked at her.
“You know anything about my house?” Her brows bent together.
He swallowed, swiped his mouth with the napkin. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. I heard it had…a history.”
His brows rose. “What kind of history?”
“I got the feeling it was the kind that was right up your alley.”
“You mean it’s haunted or something?” He covered the stunned expression he wore with a grin. “Hell, I didn’t think you believed in any of that stuff, Brigham.”
“Oh, I haven’t given up on the possibility. Just my faith in my fellow humans, and my chances of ever finding proof that there’s…something more out there.” She watched his face, because frankly, she had trouble swallowing that
he
really believed in the nonsense he was selling.
He swallowed hard. “Tell you the truth, Brigham, I only came to this town about six months before you did. I wouldn’t know much of its history.”
“I figured you probably would have mentioned it if you had.”
“You’re not thinking your little break-in and that death threat were the actions of some kind of ghost or demon or something, are you? Because that kind of thinking could make you careless. It could get you killed.”
She licked her lips, thought about how icy cold it had become in the bathroom just before the message had
appeared on her mirror. She thought about the clothes moving in the closet and the shadowy shape in her window. She almost told him about all of that. But then she pursed her lips, shook her had. “Nah. I don’t think any such thing. See you later, McCain.”
“Yeah. See you.”
Kiley watched him walk away as she finished her hot dog and her cola. Then she headed to the library and asked for help from the librarian. The woman promptly produced a book titled
The Haunted History of Burnt Hills.
It was a local author, self-published, but amazingly, exactly what she needed.
She took the volume with her when she went to stake out the little brick building on the corner of Main and Oak Streets.