Her Last Whisper: A Novel Page 4

  “You called them evil spirits. Why?” Charlie asked in a constricted voice as horror dried her throat. The monstrous hunters she had glimpsed still haunted her nightmares; it didn’t help that she was pretty sure that their mission was to drag errant souls—an example would be Michael—down to hell.

  He shook his head. “All I can tell you is, that’s how they struck me. They were shaped like humans, only they were kind of twisted and gray. A blackish, burnt-looking gray, with smoky wisps floating around them and—no faces. No features at all. I don’t know what the hell they are, to tell you the truth. I ain’t seen nothing like them before. Bottom line, though, is they’re not anything you want to mess with. Hell, they’re not anything I want to mess with. Which is why we’re getting out of here just as quick as we can.”

  Charlie fought to maintain some perspective.

  “You know what, I had a fairly uncomplicated life before I met you,” she complained. “Aside from a few random encounters with dead people, it was boring. I like boring.”

  “I was sitting on death row waiting to bite the big one before I met you,” he retorted. He was sounding more like himself now. Some of the harshness had left his voice. “You want to talk boring, it doesn’t get much more boring than that.” That devastating grin of his made another quick appearance. “As far as I’m concerned, though, boring sucks.”

  As they rounded the corner into the hall where her office was located, Charlie realized that the time for coming clean about what she meant to do was at hand. She shot him a sideways look. “Michael … I’ve got to go back and do what I can to help. I can’t just leave poor Dr. Creason to—” She broke off as the guard Johnson emerged from the open doorway to the room where earlier she’d been interviewing Spivey.

  “You okay, Dr. Stone?” Johnson called.

  “I’m fine.” Charlie slowed down to a fast walk. In response to the questioning look Johnson directed at her bandaged hand as she neared him, she held it up for him to see. “All taken care of.”

  “You were just in the infirmary, weren’t you?” Johnson’s eyes were bright with curiosity as he looked at her. The ringing of the alarm had stopped abruptly a few seconds before. “What’s going on in there?” he asked.

  “I don’t know exactly,” she replied, working hard to keep her voice sounding normal. “Something’s wrong, is all I can tell you. It’s been shut down.”

  “Full moon this week, you know? Inmates are all going crazy.” Johnson shook his head. “Hole’s already at capacity. Somebody else is acting up, we’ll have to start pulling people out to make room. Or we could always just shoot ’em.” The wide grin with which Johnson accompanied that told her that it was an attempt at guard humor. “You know how the politicians are always harping on prison overcrowding. That’d be a primo solution.”

  “Asshole,” Michael growled at Johnson, with whom he had been unhappily acquainted while alive.

  “Let’s hope that the excitement in the infirmary turns out to be nothing.” Charlie ignored Michael in favor of replying to the guard. As she passed the open door of the interview room, she glanced inside. The bright yellow vinyl suits and clear face masks worn by the people wiping down the surfaces made her frown. “Who are they?”

  “Hazmat team,” Johnson replied. Then Charlie understood: they were following protocols for cleaning up blood. Hers, which shouldn’t amount to much, and Spivey’s. The guards who’d stormed to her rescue hadn’t been gentle, and Spivey had been bleeding pretty copiously by the time they’d dragged him out. “Been a hell of a day.”

  Charlie pushed through the door into her office. This was her world. In here, evil was abstract, researchable, something she could quantify and work toward preventing. As the door closed behind her, some of the dread that gripped her eased. About twice the size of the tiny interview room, her office also had no windows. It held her L-shaped desk with her laptop on it, two plastic chairs opposite the desk, for visitors, and a tall black filing cabinet topped with a crystal vase filled with a dozen red roses (courtesy of FBI Special Agent Tony Bartoli, sent to mark the occasion of her return to work yesterday after she was nearly killed as part of his team; the arrival of the flowers had prompted a derisive snort from Michael, who was no fan of Tony’s). A big picture of a sunrise over the Blue Ridge Mountains hung on the wall behind the desk. A dry erase board with the names and some notes about the various serial killers she was currently studying stood on an easel in one corner. Except for a few personal touches (the roses, the picture), the room was institutional and unattractive. Ridiculous as it might be, though, she felt safe in this small space she’d made her own.

  Until she considered the fact that the infirmary door almost certainly had been, or was about to be, opened. Of course, the guards might keep Creason inside until an investigation was completed, but she couldn’t count on that: if whatever was possessing Creason left his body, all bets were off. Spirits weren’t hampered by physical barriers. This one could just appear. Anywhere. Like right here. Right now.

  The realization made her go cold all over. It also made her hurry toward her desk, which held her purse, which held a mini mobile version of her Miracle-Go (i.e., spirit banishing) kit. Throwing her lab coat on her chair, she bent toward her desk drawers.

  “Grab your stuff. We’re out of here.” With that stark order, Michael stopped just inside the door. Except for the continuing blackness of his eyes and a certain hardness around his mouth, he was almost back to normal. Which meant that he was looking tall, blond, and surfer-God gorgeous, as well as big and bad enough to take on all comers. The thought that he was choosing flight over fight in this instance was enough to make butterflies take off in big swirling waves in her stomach.

  “I can’t just go.” She snatched open the large bottom drawer of her desk where she kept her purse—actually a big black leather tote bag—and pulled it out as she spoke. Just thinking about Creason’s body being invaded by an evil spirit that she had in some part been responsible for bringing into this plane made her shiver. “You know I can’t. I have to at least try to get those spirits out of the doctor and trustee’s bodies.”

  “What, you’re wanting to play exorcist now?” Those disconcertingly black eyes practically bored a hole through her. “You said yourself that you’ve never even seen a possession.”

  He had a point, but—“There’s nobody else who can help. It’s my responsibility.”

  “Screw that. No, it’s not.”

  “I’m going to do what I can to rescue Dr. Creason and the trustee.”

  “No,” he said, like that was the last word on the subject.

  “You can’t tell me no.” She met his glower with one of her own as, with a triumphant flourish, she pulled the kit out of her purse.

  “I just did.” His frown darkened as he eyed the kit, then watched her unzip it. Her quick check of the contents confirmed that everything was there: the sticks of sage incense that were crucial to banishing spirits; her canister of salt—salt created a barrier that spirits were unable to cross, and she had found that loose sea salt worked best; her horseshoe—an old one, solid iron, because iron worked on spirits roughly like Kryptonite worked on Superman. Ah, and there was her jasmine candle, and the small, heavy drinking glass to cap it with, and a lighter …

  Grabbing an incense stick, she waved it at him. “Remember these? Remember how well they worked?”

  His jaw hardened. The memory of how she had driven him from this plane into Spookville in the early days of their acquaintance hung between them. He had fought with every ounce of strength he possessed, and still she had succeeded. From her perspective, that made the incense pretty powerful stuff. The fact that witnessing the pain she had caused him then had taken her to her knees and left her in tears was neither here nor there.

  One thing was certain: she wouldn’t have that reaction with whatever had taken possession of Creason and the trustee. Those spirits she was not going to feel the least bit sorry for.

  “
You really think you’re going to wave that stinky shit at those things and they’ll just fold up and go?”

  “I think they’re going to be forced from the earthly plane. And you needn’t bother sneering at me! It worked on you, remember? And you’re not the only one, either. In fact, I’ve never had it not work.”

  “You ever hear famous last words?” Far from vanishing, the sneer grew more pronounced. He moved purposefully toward her. “Forget it. I’m not letting you do it.”

  Tucking the incense sticks back inside the bag, she curled her lip at him. “You’re ectoplasm, remember? You can’t stop me.”

  “Try me.” He walked right through her desk—he did it to underline the fact that she couldn’t get away from him, she was sure—and in response she grabbed her purse and her Miracle-Go kit and, juggling them in her arms, scooted around the side of the desk. He was between her and the door before she even realized he’d changed positions. Damn ghosts and their ability to shift in the blink of an eye anyway!

  She stopped, glaring at him. He gave her a sardonic smile.

  “Don’t think I won’t walk right through you,” she warned. “Because I totally will.”

  “Ooh,” he said. “You’re scaring me.”

  She started walking purposefully toward him. “Get out of my way.”

  “You know what’s going to happen to me if things go south with your woo-woo shit, right? I’ll end up doing whatever I can to save you, which means I’ll probably have to materialize to ward off whatever the hell is trying to kill you this time. That’ll get me sucked back up into Spookville. You willing to take the chance that I can get out again?”

  Since bullying her hadn’t done the trick, he was trying another tactic to get her to do what he wanted, and it actually sort of worked. Clutching her purse and the Miracle-Go kit to her chest, Charlie stopped walking to glare at him. Putting Michael in danger was the last thing she wanted to do. As annoying as it was to admit, he mattered to her.

  “You—” she began furiously, only to have the rest of what she was going to say lost forever. The heavy metal door to her office flew open with a bang, as if blown inward on its hinges by a gigantic burst of wind.

  “What—?” Charlie was so shocked that she jumped back and lost her grip on her purse and the Miracle-Go kit, both of which dropped with a crash, scattering their contents in all directions.

  “Holy shit!” Having whirled to face it, Michael stood between her and the door. “Charlie, get back!”

  He seemed to be staring up, way up, at—what? There was nothing there. At least, nothing that she could see. Then, squinting past his broad back, she caught the briefest glimpse of what looked like a tall column of heat shimmer surging toward him. Just as she made the connection that—dear God in heaven!—heat shimmer equals evil spirit equals something really bad going down, Michael was snatched off his feet and propelled toward the ceiling as if grabbed and yanked upward by an unseen giant.

  “No!” Charlie screamed, while Michael, struggling ferociously, was being shaken like a rat in the jaws of a pitbull by something she couldn’t quite see.

  “It’s a hunter! Stay back!” he yelled.

  A hunter?! Still processing the enormity of that, she threw herself at Michael, at what was holding him, with the vague plan of disrupting the evil energy attacking him or something, anything, that might get him free, only to be knocked backward with a force that lifted her off her feet and slammed her hard to the floor. Her head struck the polished concrete. For the briefest of moments, she saw stars.

  “Goddamn it, Charlie! Stay out of this! Keep the fuck away from me!” Michael cried.

  “Michael!” Shaking off the blow, she scrambled to her knees, gasping with shock and horror as she watched him fighting for his life with the all-but-invisible hunter. At the same time she realized that she was kneeling amidst the scattered contents of her purse and Miracle-Go kit and realized, too, what she had to do, what his only chance was. Even as she conducted a desperate visual search for her incense sticks or salt or something she could use, she spotted the horseshoe peeking out from beneath the overturned tote. Michael screamed, a horrible sound that denoted pure agony. She looked up in terror to see him arching his back and throwing weakening punches and kicks at the air in front of him.

  Charlie’s heart lurched. Her pulse raced. Pure adrenaline shot like speed through her veins.

  Snatching up the horseshoe, she hurled it at the shimmering column with all her strength.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Heart pounding, mouth sour with fear, Charlie watched as the horseshoe careened through the barely visible column of heat shimmer, crashed into the wall beyond it, and dropped to the floor with a clatter—but not before it had an effect. The heat shimmer wavered, thinned, and seemed to curl in on itself as, at the same time and apparently flung away by it, Michael came hurtling through the air toward her. He smacked down on the floor, slid right through the plastic chairs without moving them by so much as a hair’s breadth, and came to rest in front of her desk.

  “Michael!” Shaking with fright, shoving the lightweight plastic chairs out of her way, she scrambled toward him.

  Having hit on his side, he writhed and groaned. Reaching him even as she cast a terrified glance over her shoulder—she could see no trace of the heat shimmer, not that that meant anything—she put an unsteady hand on the corded muscle of his upper arm. Of course her hand sank right through; the accompanying electric tingle reminded her that there was no physical substance there.

  “Get away from me.” His urgent command emerged through lips that barely seemed to move. He shuddered and grimaced even as he looked toward the door—the hunter—then started making feeble motions as if he was trying to rise but couldn’t quite manage it. His lids were half closed over eyes that were now so black that there was not a trace of white to be seen. His usually bronzed skin had turned a sickly pale shade. His mouth was clamped into a grim line that she thought betokened pain. “Did you hear me? Get back there behind the desk!”

  Ignoring that, she cast another panicky glance toward the door. “Where is it?”

  “Fuck if I know,” he gritted. “I said, get behind the damned desk!”

  “Not happening.” Just looking at him scared the daylights out of her, but there was no time to spare. She still could see no trace of the heat shimmer—the hunter—but what if it had just gone invisible, at least to her eyes? What if it was even now coming for Michael again?

  She’d thrown her weapon away.

  “Stay still!” she hissed at him, bolting for the horseshoe. As she ran right through where the hunter had been, her heart practically pounded its way out of her chest.

  “Charlie—” Clearly Michael couldn’t get up, because he sure was trying. His eyes were fastened on her.

  “Don’t move!” Snatching up the horseshoe, she darted back. Flight was clearly out: Michael didn’t look like he was going anywhere any time soon. Fight didn’t seem all that promising, either, so she was going with Plan C: barricade them in. Having located her canister of salt, she dove for it. Seconds later, ignoring Michael’s curses and orders to get away from him, one end of the horseshoe tucked into her waistband so that it would be easy to grab, she was on her hands and knees frantically laying down a line of salt in a circle around them that, hopefully, the hunter couldn’t cross.

  “You think salt’s going to keep that thing away?” Michael turned onto his back with a groan. “Jesus H. Christ, when I tell you to go, go! Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “I don’t think it can kill me,” Charlie said cautiously, throwing another dread-filled look around. “And salt acts as a barrier for all kinds of supernatural beings. Anyway, do you have a better idea?”

  No answer. She took that as a resounding no. He was gritting his teeth, clenching his fists—and looking around. After a moment in which he seemed to be warily examining every inch of space in the room, he said, “I’m thinking maybe it’s gone. If we’re lucky.�
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  His voice was hoarse and gravelly again and his lids were once more at half-mast, but at least he was there and making sense. Sending a quick message of thanks winging skyward that it was so, her movements a little awkward because of her bandaged hand, she continued pouring salt for all she was worth.

  “Dr. Stone?” At the unexpected sound of Warden Pugh’s voice, Charlie nearly jumped out of her skin. Her head came up with a snap. Her eyes went wide as they sought and found him.

  “Well, lookee who’s here.” Michael’s gaze found Pugh. “If it ain’t The Skunk.”

  The Skunk—because, oh, ha ha, his name was Pugh—was what Michael called the warden.

  Charlie didn’t respond to that with so much as a reproving look. Her eyes stayed fixed on Pugh. In his mid-fifties, average height, paunchy and balding, dressed in a rumpled suit with his tie askew, he had stopped short in what seemed to have been a headlong rush to her office. The beads of sweat on his forehead, the puce color of his face, even his still-swinging coattails, all screamed that he’d been moving fast seconds earlier.

  Now, standing in the doorway where the hunter had so recently loomed, he peered over the tops of his rimless spectacles at her. Surprise—okay, maybe astonishment was a better word—was apparent in every line of his face.

  Still on her knees, frozen in the act of shaking salt out onto the floor, Charlie returned the favor by gaping up at him.

  “What are you doing?” Plainly taken aback, Pugh looked from her to the semi-circle of sparkling crystals that extended from a few inches in front of her knees around what was actually sprawled-out Michael but must appear to Pugh like an expanse of bare floor littered with the scattered contents of her purse. Fortunately she had only a little more than a yard to go before the barrier was complete. Even as she registered her audience, registered how inexplicable what she was doing must appear, she went back to doing it, because she dared not stop: the hard truth was, they had no idea of where the hunter was, or if it would come back.