Vision of Darkness (19 page)

CHAPTER 19

John Jr. felt tears building up behind his eyes again and didn’t bother holding them back as he found an old, dirty baseball that had rolled under Wade’s bed. It still had the players’ signatures on it, faded with time: Jim Rice, Wade Boggs, and Marty Barratt. He rubbed his hand over the smooth leather, tracing the names with his thumb.

Wade had collected a baseball from every Red Sox game he’d ever attended, but this one, as his first, had always been special. It had been Wade’s most prized possession for years, until he traveled to Boston last year and watched the Red Sox win the Series against the Cardinals. While there, he got another ball with three-times as many signatures, which now sat encased in a plastic cube on the bookshelf over his bed.

John Jr. had envied him that. Having a business to run and a father showing the first hints of Alzheimer’s, he couldn’t up and go to any game he pleased.

He had been jealous of Wade a lot, he realized. As the baby of the family who never quite grew up, Wade’s every whim had been catered to. In all his thirty-one years, he never had to concern himself over anything more imperative than the Red Sox: how they were playing and if they would make it to the Series again so he could get another ball.

A fresh round of tears. John Jr. picked himself up off the floor and sat on the edge of his brother’s twin-sized bed. Wade’s feet had always hung off the end of the bed when he slept, all rolled up inside his Red Sox comforter like an anaconda trying to squeeze into a caterpillar’s cocoon, but he never wanted anything bigger. Always perfectly content with what he had, never striving for anything more. Not a greedy or jealous fiber in the big guy’s body.

Oh God, he hadn’t deserved this.

John Jr. sat back and pulled out one of the dusty photo albums from the bookcase in the bed’s headboard. The photos, yellowed with time, showed forgotten clips of middle and high school. He, Rhett, Pru, Miranda, and other kids from the neighborhood, playing freeze tag in the lighthouse’s yard. He, Rhett, Kevin Mallory and David Faraday—“The Crew”—drinking stolen beers at a campfire on the beach. The neighborhood children all huddled around a similar campfire listening to Dad’s ghost stories….

In all of the pictures, Wade, a fat kid until he hit puberty, stood in the background or off to the side, half out of the photo, grinning even though he was never included in their reindeer games. He still considered them friends when they all treated him like dirt—even Pru, who was nice to everyone now, had brushed him off as a loser back then. All through middle school and part of high school, she complained about how creepy he was for having a silly crush on her, since their grandmothers were sisters. The complaints had always sent Rhett, David, Kevin and the other kids into taunts about incest and retards.

Rage bubbled as he thumbed through the photos, thankfully replacing his tears. Unlike grief, rage was something he could sink his teeth into and he gladly stoked it. He found another candid photo—Wade loved to play with cameras—showing The Crew out on his boat this past summer, fishing and drinking. In the background sat a young girl in a bikini, her black-tipped blonde hair flying in the wind, the small gem in her nostril winking in the sunlight as she raised a bottle of beer to her lips.

Lila VanBuran.  

“Aw, hell, Wade.” The big, slow idiot. Why hadn’t he destroyed this? It may very well have been the signature on his death warrant. John Jr. slid the damning thing from its sheath and tore it down the middle.

Had one of those bastards killed Wade? Possibly. No, more than that. Fucking likely.

Wade was a weak link. They’d all known it from the beginning. He couldn’t keep a secret. He’d come close to spilling the beans to Pru the very night he died. And with Alex Locke showing up in town asking questions about Lila, it was only a matter of time until the weakest link snapped.

Someone had wanted to silence Wade before it happened.

A soft sound from the hallway outside the bedroom door caught his attention. Leather against wood, the scrap of a footstep. Probably Miranda. She said she’d stop by to help pack Wade’s things.

Sassy, sexy Miranda.

John Jr. gave a snorting, derisive laugh. Go figure she finally noticed him when he planned to spill his secrets and end his life as an upstanding member of the community. Just his luck. Even though, by her own admission, she had a “thing” for bad boys, asking her to overlook a prison orange jumpsuit was too much. He wouldn’t do that to her. He had to tell her the truth first, before he went public. It was only fair.   

John Jr. looked up at the empty door and waited for her to appear. A full minute passed. He slid off the bed, photo album still in hand. “Miranda, is that you?”

The hallway was empty and silent, save for the faint creaking of the old carriage house. That must be what he’d heard.

He turned to stare into the room. Cluttered but clean, it smelled and looked as Wade had left it. Cheap cologne lingered over clothes strung across the floor. A half-eaten bag of Doritos sat on the nightstand, a sports magazine turned facedown next to the chips to save the page. As if Wade would return to snuggle up in that too small bed and resume his reading and snacking.

Exhaustion swept through John Jr., smothering every other tangled emotion.

Too hard to do this right now. He needed more time to cope.

Yet, as he headed for the stairs, he couldn’t part with the photo album—a connection to his brother, no matter how flimsy. His only connection.      

Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

John Jr. froze on the top step and glanced over his shoulder at the pounding sound coming down the hall toward him. A small, circular object ping-ponged off the walls and floor in a manner that defied physics then came to a rolling halt beside him.

“What the…?”

Wade’s 2013 Series baseball.

Not possible. A second ago, plastic had encased it.

John Jr. bent to pick it up and stared at the empty hallway. “Miranda?”

No answer. The photo of Lila VanBuran flashed before his eyes, the evidence that could damn them all. Who was the weakest link in the chain now?

His heart bumped. “David? Rhett? Kevin?”

No sound. He swallowed hard as his shuddering breath clouded against the air. The ball felt heavy in his hand, condemning. Slowly, the bedroom door creaked open.

“Oh, God.” His voice cracked. “Wade?”

The hallway shook. Wade’s baseballs teemed from the open door and thundered toward him at speeds that would destroy any mortal pitcher’s arm. He held up the photo album in weak defense.

“Wait, Wade! I didn’t mean for it to happen! You were right. We should have gone to the police. I didn’t mean—”

The baseballs slammed into his chest. The stairs flipped up over the ceiling and the ceiling flipped over the floor. He landed with a sickening crunch, heard the noise, knew it was the sound of his bones breaking, and braced for pain. Nothing. He tried to lift his head, but his body and brain had lost communication with each other. Heartbeat slowed, teeth chattered. Warm liquid pooled onto the floor beneath him. Still no pain.

Good God, he was going to die.

John Jr. moaned as tears dripped down his cheeks. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of green fabric, a bare foot, the shapely leg of a woman. She laughed—a soft, musical, half-insane sound—and disappeared.

His mind registered shock just before it blacked out.

***

Rhett groaned at the brisk knock on his front door, muted the television, and set aside the old Winchester rifle he’d been polishing. It was a good gun, one he’d forgotten about until this afternoon, but it was in bad need of a cleaning. Since he…acquired…it last year, it had been sitting in the back of his closet gathering dust. Sad to let such a nice gun go to waste. He really should take it out and see what it could do. He could start by practicing on those two nosy pests that had overrun the lighthouse.

The knock sounded again. With a scowl, he scooped up his glass of brandy on his way to answer the door. David Faraday stood on the other side, looking as skittish as a squirrel.

Rhett leaned against the doorframe and took a swig of his brandy. The ice had melted, watering it down so that it tasted like shit. “What’s up, Dave?”

“Can I come in?”

“If this is about what I think it is, no. You can go home and forget it.”

“John Jr. was just life-flighted to Portland,” David blurted. “That Boston guy found him all busted up at the bottom of the stairs in the carriage house. It’s serious, man.”

Rhett straightened. The brandy roiled in his gut. He stepped back to let David in, then shut and locked the door. “Does Forbes know?”

“Shit, I don’t know. I—” He spotted the Winchester and staggered back a step as if Rhett had shot him with it. “What the fuck is that doing here? You were supposed to—”

“Forget it. Tell me what happened to J.J.”

After a long moment, David ripped his gaze from the gun and swallowed audibly. “He…fell. Possibly broke his neck.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?” David
was
acting rather guilty.

“No!” His eyes flared wide. “Did you?”

“No.” Rhett stared into his glass, the amber liquid now unappetizing. He set the tumbler aside on an end table. “That fucking Kevin. Helen reported him missing today, says he hasn’t been seen since the night Wade died.”

“Oh, shit.” David dragged a hand over his mouth. “He’s snapped. Dammit, I knew it. As soon as he dropped that pumpkin decoration on Locke, I knew it.”

“That was stupid of him,” Rhett agreed. “And desperate. You need to watch your back. First Wade, now J.J. He’s probably going to come after one of us next.”

“Oh,” David said as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Oh, hell, no. Let’s go to Forbes and tell him everything. The sheriff can deal with it and we can wash our hands.”

Rhett caught his arm as he strode toward the door. “Not unless you want to spend the next twenty-five to life in a six-by-nine cell.”

“But Kev’s the one—”

“What we did is just as bad.” Maybe, at one time, they could have gone to the authorities and gotten off with a slap on the wrist, maybe a couple years in jail, but not now. They were in too deep. “Seriously, Dave, we can’t go to Forbes. We’d be lucky to get life with parole.”   

David shook off his grip and paced a circle around the living room, biting on a thumbnail that was already ragged and bloody. Then he took another lap around the couch. “What if J.J. talks when he wakes up? He’s the least involved of us all and if he thinks Kevin or even one of us killed Wade then attacked him, he’ll risk a jail sentence.”

Rhett considered it, shook his head. “You said it was bad, right? I mean, he was life-flighted, right? He’s not going to be in any condition to talk for a long while. If he even survives. By then, this could be all over. Maybe Kevin left enough behind at the scene to hang himself.”

David shot a look at the Winchester. “Bad choice of words, man.” He bit his thumb again and winced, noticed it was bleeding, and took it out of his mouth. “What if we find Kevin and end it ourselves?”

“I’m already trying. Forbes assigned me his missing person’s case, but nobody’s seen him. Frank Garrett said a guy that ‘looked sort of familiar’ bought Kev a beer at Buzzy’s the night Wade died and they left together. That’s the last anyone saw him.”

“Shit. Oh, shit. We’re so screwed.”

“Just relax, okay?” Rhett said. “We’re not screwed unless Kevin turns up.”

CHAPTER 20

Miranda was a wreck. Pru had never seen her best friend so freaked out and her heart ached as she stood in her kitchen, absently chopping veggies for a casserole. After spending a long day at the hospital in Portland waiting for news, hoping for the best and fearing the worst, she’d managed to convince Miranda to return to Three Churches for the night. The hospital wouldn’t allow her to stay with J.J. in ICU and sleeping in the waiting room wasn’t going to do anyone any good. By the time they made the three and a half hour drive to and from Portland, they were all exhausted, but Miranda was nearly catatonic.

Apparently, John Jr. had finally gotten Miranda to notice him.

His timing completely sucked.

Pru dumped a pile of potatoes into the bubbling pot on the stove and swallowed back her own surge of tears. John Jr. would be okay. The alternatives—paralysis, death—were simply not an option. Soon, he’d come home and explore the blooming relationship he’d always wanted with Miranda. Maybe they’d even get married and Pru would finally have a cousin-in-law.         

At the kitchen table, Alex groaned and Nick laughed in a low, rolling sound that made Pru smile despite her dismal mood. She glanced over her shoulder. Nick had beaten Alex in their umpteenth round of gin. They started the card game in the hospital’s waiting room and it had turned into a war, both men showing their competitive natures.

“You guys want more coffee?”

“Always,” Alex said and nudged his mug to the edge of the table. He grabbed the deck of cards, shuffled, and started the deal. “Best seven outta ten.”

Pru resisted—barely—the urge to bend over and kiss his forehead as she refilled his mug. When the news spread through the diner that someone was life-flighted from the lighthouse, her first panicked thought was,
Alex!
But then he showed up about twenty minutes later with Nick, both men fatigued and sad. She had ushered them into the empty kitchen—Jones, damn him, had called in again—away from the curious ears of the diner’s patrons. Miranda barreled through the door seconds later.

“What happened? Where are they taking him?”

Alex explained how he let John Jr. into the carriage house to pack up Wade’s things. A half hour or so later, he’d walked out to talk to J.J. and found him at the bottom of the stairs, a photo album clutched in his hand and a scatter of baseballs around him.

Alex’s voice had snagged on the last part of the story, and he’d taken a long drink of his coffee to hide it. He didn’t even know J.J. all that well, and he was visibly shaken by the accident. Something had shifted inside Pru then, a melting sensation, a blooming of emotion that should probably terrify her.

Dammit, she was falling in love with Alex.  

“You just love gettin’ your ass kicked, huh, Range?” Nick said, bringing her back to the present. “All right, seven out of ten.” He covered his mug with his hand when she motioned to the pot of decaf she’d brewed especially for him. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

The L-word was off-limits, she reminded herself as she returned the coffee pot to the burner. Unless it was “lust”. No doubt, she was deeply in lust with the man. Plus, she liked him, admired his strength and compassion. That was enough. Love didn’t have to factor into the equation.

Yeah, right.

Miranda padded into the kitchen as Pru checked on the casserole in the oven. Thank God. She needed the distraction. “You’re up.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Miranda said. “Every time I started to drift off, I heard you laughing. How can you laugh now? John Jr.’s in the hospital—” Her voice broke. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Pru crossed the kitchen and gave her a hard hug. “Oh, honey. I wasn’t laughing.”

“Uh,” Nick said and blushed a deep red, “I was. At Alex. I meant no offense, Miz Miranda.”

“No, it was a woman. I thought Pru…” She trailed off.

“Lovie,” Nick said.

She blinked at him. “You think so?”

“He knows all about ghosts,” Pru said and guided her to a seat at the table. She hurried to fetch another coffee and set it down in front of her best friend.

Miranda wrapped her shaking hands around the mug. “He does?”

“It’s a hobby,” Nick said.

“Obsession,” Alex corrected.

“To-may-to, to-mah-to.” Nick waved one big tanned-leather hand in the air. “I bet it’s Lovie True you heard laughin’, Miz Miranda. If the myth’s correct, she don’t like men. What happened to John—” He cut himself off as Miranda flinched and Pru shot him a warning look. “Well, Lovie’s probably gotten a kick outta it.”

“Bitch,” Miranda said. “I’d like to say a thing or two to her.”

An idea flitted through Pru’s mind and she snagged it. “You could,” she said. Anything to keep Miranda from thinking about John Jr. “A couple days ago, Nick suggested we do a séance. He has a friend who’s a medium.”

“A séance?” Miranda asked with more curiosity than fear. She wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt. “That might be cool.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Alex groaned and threw down a card.

Don’t tempt me.
Pru tamped down the rebellious thought and waved him off. “Shush. I’d like to try the séance.”

Nick glanced around the table, shrugged. “If nobody has any objections—besides Alex,” he added as Alex raised a hand. “It’s early yet on the west coast. We can call Jacob and have him walk us through it.”

Miranda sat forward. “This Jacob guy’s a real, true and blue medium?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nick withdrew a cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans. “I’ve seen him work.”

“Okay, let’s do it.” Pru pulled out the chair between Nick and Miranda, across the table from Alex, whose expression had gone hard.

“C’mon, people,” he said. “Let’s play a round of cards. We’re all adults here. This is something a bunch of preteen girls would do during a sleepover.”

“Not necessarily,” Nick said. “Jacob makes a mighty fine livin’ doin’ séances.”

“And as I’ve already pointed out several times, Jacob is not sane anymore.”

Nick placed his open cell phone on the table and a cheerful voice said, “Love you too, Range.”

Alex grimaced. “You know you’re not right, Jacob.”

“And I kind of like it that way,” Jacob Street laughed. “You’re just afraid something will happen you won’t be able to explain away with logic.”

Alex’s back straightened. “I’m not afraid.”

Nick leaned over the table, his yellow eyes narrowed in challenge. “Prove it.”

“Fine.” He threw down his cards. “We’ll do this damn séance and you’ll see it’s a load of crock.”

Miranda leaned toward the phone. “Uh, hi, Jacob. I’m—”

“Miranda,” he said. “I know. And, yes, I really do see ghosts. I’m also a touch clairvoyant, so I know for sure your man will get better. Don’t worry your pretty head about that. Everything will work out.”

She sat back with a gasp. “Oh my God. How did he know that?” 

Nick snorted. “He’s showing off.”   

Jacob chuckled. “But it’s the truth. So, you guys decided to do the séance after all? Cool. Here’s how it works. Alex, since I can’t be there, you’ll serve as the medium.”

Alex jolted. “Me? Why not Nick?”

“Because Nick’s not like us.”

“I’m not psychic,” Alex said through his teeth.

“Yes, you are. Clairvoyant to be exact, with a touch of psychometry—pun intended. But that’s not what I said. I simply stated Nick is not like the rest of us.”

For the first time ever, Pru saw Nick look uncomfortable. He didn’t squirm, but his face hardened and his easy smile faded. “All right, Jake,” he said. “We get it. Move on.”

Jacob laughed again. Almost a creepy sound, fit for an evil genius. “Sure thing. Al, like I said, you’ll do the honors. Now you need to turn down the lights.”

“Candles?” Alex asked, sarcasm thick in his tone.

“They’re good, give off a nice subdued glow, which is why they’re used. But they’re not necessary. A lamp works as long as it’s not too bright.”

“Do we sit in a circle, hold hands, and sing Kumbaya?”

“Normally,” Jacob continued without acknowledging the snide remark, “Alex’s cynicism would disrupt the circle’s energy, but he’s powerful enough that it won’t matter. If there’s a spirit around, it’ll be attracted to him.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely peachy.”

Nick sent him a quelling look over the table and Alex sat back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child. He glowered at the phone as if he wanted to reach through it and throttle Jacob.

Pru shook her head at him and got up to dim the lights, leaving only the lamp over the stove on. “I hope that’s enough.”

“It’s fine, Pru,” Jacob’s rough voice came through the phone like the caress of a calloused hand. “By the way, if you ever get sick of Range, I’ll be happy to show you a good time.”

She felt color rise into her cheeks. Alex lurched for the phone, but Nick batted his hand away and picked it up himself, switching off speaker mode.

“Jake, are you goin’ta help us or not?” He listened for a moment. “Yeah, we’re sure.” Another pause. “Then behave.” He turned the speaker on and replaced the phone on the table.

“This won’t be like you see on TV,” Jacob said, subdued now. “There won’t be anyone barfing ectoplasm and you probably won’t get a manifestation either. You all need to place your hands palms down on the table. Close your eyes and concentrate on the purpose of this séance.”

“The Green Lady,” Nick supplied.

“Yes. You need to push everything else out of your mind. Your worries, fears… everything. It’s like meditating. If you feel the need to say something during the session, say it. If an image pops into your head, describe it—especially you, Al. It may be the spirit trying to communicate. I’m going to hang up and Nick, you’ll need to turn the phone off. If anyone else has a cell phone on them, they need to do the same because it can disrupt the energy.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Good luck. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

The line went dead and Nick shut the phone off as instructed. “Ready?” he asked the group.

Everyone nodded. Alex grumbled.

Pru placed her hands on the table as instructed and shut her eyes. She concentrated on her breathing first to relax.
In, out. In, out. In…

She thought of the story of Lovie True, of the photograph in the stairway. Minutes ticked by. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed the hour. Then the quarter hour.

Just as she was about to give up, the images formed from a fog that felt almost like memory.

“The church,” she whispered.

“That’s what I see too,” Nick said and Miranda agreed. Alex stayed silent.

“I think it’s the Catholic church in town. I used to go there with Grandma Mae sometimes. I recognize the stained glass window, but everyone here is dressed in old-fashioned clothes. There’s a woman with dark hair—she has a veil pinned to her hat. She’s sad…missing someone, I think. She keeps looking at a man sitting a couple rows in front of her. He’s turning, looking back at her, but I can’t see his face—”

“Sinner,” Alex said.

Pru’s lids popped open. He sat slumped over in his chair with his hands in his lap, his face slack. His closed eyes twitched. The room seemed darker, the air chilled. Nobody else had opened their eyes so she swallowed hard and shut hers again.

“I see the lighthouse,” Miranda said. “She’s there. Lovie True. I see her on the front porch. It’s dark and cold. She’s wearing the green dress, looking down at the beach, at the man and woman from the church. They’re kissing.”

“Envy,” Alex said.

Pru looked at him again. His face had gone white and sweat beaded on his brow. His eyes moved faster under their heavy lids. She opened her mouth to say they should stop, but Nick spoke over her.

“I see this kitchen. Lovie’s makin’ dinner. A man comes in…the same man. She turns on him with the knife.”

“Murder,” Alex whispered.

Pru sucked in a breath and watched it cloud as she let it out. Pain slashed through her head, a hot stab that blotted out her vision for an instant. “Nick?”

His eyes opened. He studied her, then Alex. “Shit.”

Miranda stirred and blinked. “I saw Lovie jump from the lighthouse tower.”

“Suicide,” Alex said in a hollow tone.

Pru touched a hand to her throbbing temple. “Nick, wake him up.”

“I-I don’t know how.”

“Call Jacob back then!”

As Nick fumbled with his cell phone, Alex’s eyes rolled open. He stared at them without seeing, then his gaze found hers. The smile that spread across his face was so tender it melted her heart.

“Hi, baby,” he said softly.

The pain intensified and nausea swelled. She doubled over. “Nick, do something.”

Alex’s smile faded into sneer. “You bitch. Get away!”

He lunged out of the chair and, lightning quick, Nick jumped between them and took the blow like a mountain.

“Miranda, get her out of here.” He turned, using his body to block Alex’s view as Miranda ushered her from the room.