He’d known Mika for only one day. He sure as hell hadn’t expected her to trail him to Carmen’s house. The truth was, he knew so little about her that she could be capable of anything.
Anything.
It took him a long time to get back to sleep.
Chapter 18
O
n Thursday, Raymond and June had an early lunch at Gladys and Ron’s Chicken and Waffles, near Stonecrest Mall in Lithonia.
That morning, he’d had an appointment with Dr. Price, the neurologist to whom his physician had referred him. Since it was on short notice, Dr. Unaeze had called on his behalf to book the visit, stressing the urgency of Raymond’s situation.
June accompanied him to the neurologist. He underwent a cranial CT scan, a test to evaluate the brain for abnormalities and to visualize vascular masses. The scan results indicated that there was nothing wrong with him. Dissatisfied with the test results in light of Raymond’s complaints of intense headaches, the doctor scheduled an MRI for next Monday. The MRI promised to provide a more detailed picture of his brain—and what might be wrong with him.
At the rate his life was deteriorating, Raymond wondered whether he’d still be sane by next Monday.
Sitting at the restaurant table, they perused the lunch menus. After a moment, he put down his menu and gazed vacantly outside the large front windows. He didn’t have an appetite.
What he did have was a growing anxiety that science would fail to diagnose and solve his real problem—the recurring dreams. Brain scans . . . MRIs . . . sleeping pills . . . none of them would help him. Maybe he should talk to a shrink. Or a psychic.
That he was even considering such things was unusual for him. He’d never been to a psychiatrist, never called a psychic hot line. But he was running out of options. He was open to almost anything that might help him.
June looked up from her menu. “What’s on your mind, honey?”
His evasive response was automatic: “I’m supposed to meet my boy at the driving range this afternoon. Just thinking about seeing him again.”
“Ray? Honestly.”
He dragged his hand down his face. Avoiding the truth was pointless. June knew him well enough to know what really bothered him.
“June, I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me. I’m worried.”
Her eyes were kind.
“We’re going to get help for you. The MRI next week—”
“It won’t help. Got nothing to do with the problem.”
“The dreams?”
Lips tight, he nodded.
He didn’t like to talk about the dreams anymore. He was beginning to feel superstitious about the nightmares, as if discussing them aloud would guarantee their return.
The server arrived to take their orders. June ordered fried chicken and a waffle; Raymond asked for the same entree. If he didn’t at least attempt to eat, June would worry.
“You still don’t remember what the dreams are about?” she asked.
He shook his head. Wished she would change the subject.
“Last night, before you screamed in the kitchen, I thought I heard you shouting,” she said. “You said something about Andrew going inside a house. It’s like you were warning him to stay out. Does that trigger anything?”
He felt the blood drain out of his face.
Her words brought the dream images crashing into his thoughts, with terrifying clarity.
Noticing his sudden anxiety, June leaned forward.
“What house, Ray?” she asked. “I know you remember, I see it in your eyes. Will you please tell me?”
Ordinarily, she allowed him to confide in her at his own pace. Now, she was determined to pry the truth out of him.
He slumped in his seat.
He was too worn out to keep up the lies. And too worried.
She waited for him to speak. Her hands were clasped together, her knuckles milky white.
He’d thought he was the only one going through this hell. But she was suffering, too. He had been so focused on himself he hadn’t realized how badly his problems had affected her.
He felt like an ass. She had always been in his corner. He was wrong to block her out.
But could she help him?
He didn’t know, but he was weary of shouldering the burden on his own.
He hunkered forward and planted his elbows on the table.
“All right,” he said. “This is what’s been going on . . .”
Fifteen minutes later, Raymond finished talking.
The food sat on the table, growing cold. Neither of them had touched their meals.
“So am I a certifiable nut case?” he asked.
“Of course not. Don’t joke like that, you’re fine.”
“Fine? How can you say that I’m fine?”
She picked up her silverware and sliced into a chicken breast. “These visions you’ve been receiving are messages. Someone is trying to tell you something.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know exactly. My guess is that it’s something from a spiritual plane.”
“You believe in stuff like that?”
“Certainly. Don’t you?”
It was funny. They had been married for over a dozen years, and he’d never known about her belief in the supernatural. It wasn’t something that had ever been a subject of conversation between them. He had unpeeled another layer to his wife, and it was a surprising discovery.
“Since I don’t have any other explanation, I guess I do believe,” he said. “But why is this happening to
me
?”
“Because you’re responsible,” she said.
“Responsible for what?”
“Saving your son,” she said.
Her words sent a shiver through him. She was right. He knew it in the very core of his being. He was responsible for saving Andrew. Hearing her say it to him drove the truth home, deep into his soul.
How ironic. He’d neglected his son for his entire life. Now he had to rescue him.
“But what am I supposed to save him from?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea. Has he told you that anything unusual’s happened to him lately?”
“No. I’ll ask him when I see him this afternoon.” He sighed. “I wish I understood all of this better.”
“We’re going to find out the answers,” she said. “Together.”
She was so confident that his spirits lifted. He took a bite of chicken, chewed with gusto.
“Where are we going to start with this?” he asked.
“Research,” she said in a crisp tone. She had been a research librarian at Georgia State University for almost twenty years. But he never would have thought to seek her help decoding the mystery that had consumed his life.
“We should start with the house,” he said. The image of the mansion flashed in his thoughts; gooseflesh popped up on his arms. “I don’t mean going there. That’s the last thing I want to do. Let’s see what we can find out without setting foot on the property.”
“I was going to suggest the same thing. I can pull public records, dig into the background of the owners and the estate. It should give us a good start.”
“Can we start today?”
“You couldn’t stop me from starting today, honey. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do.”
She smiled at him; he returned her smile.
His wife had his back. He was so grateful to have her that he wanted to drop on his knees and thank God for blessing him with her.
“You’ll start with the research, then,” he said. “And I’ll talk to Andrew today and see what’s going on with him.”
He spoke the words smoothly, but what he proposed was easier said than done. Open, direct communication with his son had always been a problem for him. Oftentimes, he was tongue-tied around the boy.
Or he’d say something, and it would be the wrong thing, or something superficial and meaningless, like a joke. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a serious, personal conversation with Andrew.
He realized, then, that there was one thing in the world that scared him far more than his nightmares ever could.
Fatherhood.
Chapter 19
T
hursday morning, Andrew busied himself by browsing at a Borders in Buckhead. He was supposed to meet his father for golf at two o’clock, which gave him a few hours to burn.
His first step upon entering the store, as always, was to check on his books. He made a beeline to the “J” area of the fiction section. The store stocked all three of his Mark Justice novels; he turned the copies of the newest one so that they were face-out, a little trick to gain some extra visibility on the shelves.
As he walked the other aisles, he frequently swiveled to survey the edges of his vision. Looking for a darting motion or a blur—any sign of his ghostly accomplice. Each time, he spotted nothing.
Sitting at a table in the café, he cleared his mind and drew deep breaths, trying to fine-tune his extrasensory awareness and tap in to whatever psychic wavelength the ghost occupied, as if it were the equivalent of locating the right channel on a radio station. But after sensing nothing whatsoever, he started to think the whole thing was stupid.
“This is how the journey to the nuthouse begins, man,” he said to himself. “Next thing you know, I’ll be listening for voices, too.”
He left the bookstore, but avoided going home. Returning to his house would mean establishing a dialogue with the entity. He both anticipated and dreaded the encounter and delayed it for as long as he could. Instead, he cruised through Atlanta’s neighborhoods and retail districts, whittling away time. Being prevented from following his daily routine bothered him, but if he had to choose between annoyance and the sheer terror of facing something supernatural, he’d choose a little frustration any day.
At two, he arrived at Atlanta International Golf, a course in Decatur, a city near the eastern edge of Atlanta. Since he and his father lived on different ends of the metro area—he on the south side, his dad in the far eastern suburbs—the location was close to a middle point for both of them.
He’d been looking forward to the golf outing all day. It would be a nice break from the madness that had stormed into his life.
His dad was already there. Swinging away, he wore sunglasses and a Kangol hat to block out the brilliant afternoon sun.
Andrew took a driving iron out of his golf bag in the trunk and went to meet his dad.
They shook hands.
“Good to see you, young buck,” Dad said. “I got here early.”
“I know. I saw you flailing away from the road.”
Dad grinned at the good-natured ribbing. He was in a much better mood than when Andrew had seen him at the cookout.
“Got a bucket of balls for you,” Dad said. “Try not to land all of ’em in the trees.”
“There you go.”
Things were back to normal between them. Andrew didn’t know what had been going on with his dad over the past couple of weeks, but he seemed to have gotten over it. If he wasn’t, he sure acted as if everything was cool.
Andrew wished he could say the same about his own life.
He set up on the spot beside his father. He stretched, took a few practice swings without the ball. Then he lined up, swung, and sent the ball soaring.
“So you were out when I called last night,” Dad said. “Sowing those wild oats, huh?”
Dad loved to talk about women. In addition to sports and work, girls were a frequent topic of discussion for them. It had probably been that way since Andrew was thirteen.
“I stayed over Carmen’s last night,” Andrew said.
“Is that right? Now she’s a sweetie, cute as all get out, too. You and her finally getting together?”
“We haven’t talked about it yet.”
“It’s coming up, trust me. Women like to have those talks, young buck.”
“You called it,” he said, thinking of how Carmen had been expecting him to initiate a where-is-this-going chat last night.
“You’ll know when the time’s right,” Dad said. “But don’t wait too long. I want me some grandkids before I’m too decrepit to enjoy them.”
“Judging from how you’re swinging that club, I’d say you’re already there,” Andrew said.
Dad laughed. He pulled off his sunglasses.
Setting up for a swing, Andrew hesitated.
The bags still hung under his father’s eyes. But even worse, he looked disturbed, too.
No, not disturbed. Haunted. That was the right word. His dad looked haunted by something.
“Is anything else going on, Andrew?” Dad asked.
He wasn’t going to tell his father about the ghost. He’d sound like a fool. His dad was a no-nonsense kind of guy, a man’s man. And he respected Andrew—admired him, even. He didn’t want to lose his dad’s respect by telling him a nutty story about being followed around town by a ghost who couldn’t spell. Hell, it sounded like a crazy story to him, and he was the one living it. He didn’t know his father well enough to be confident that he would react with anything other than complete disbelief.