Nightwalker (Harrison Investigation #8)

Nightwalker (Harrison Investigation #8) Page 22

She didn’t remember saying much as they’d driven to the casino. She still didn’t have her car. Dillon had suggested that she would be better off not driving, and she had agreed with him. He had hung around in the hall while she got dressed, and her coworkers had teased her about her handsome admirer. He spent a few minutes talking to the guard, and when the show began, he watched from the audience. He was sitting with a bunch of what looked like six-year-olds, and he seemed to be having a good time. He seemed so austere at times, and yet he could also unbend and have fun, and easily elicit trust from those around him.

Everything was going to be all right, she insisted to herself.

She was careful not to look toward the back of the room. It was bad enough seeing Tanner Green. It was adding insult to injury, being haunted by Rudy Yorba, a man she’d never even met. Not that she’d ever been formally introduced to Tanner Green, of course.

She made it through the show.

And when it was all over, when the pictures had been taken and the last gold-covered chocolate coin had been given away, Dillon was still there, waiting for her.

In the dressing room, she scrubbed her face, managed some casual conversation with a few other cast members and changed back into her street clothes. Dillon was in the hall, and when she joined him, she once again resisted the temptation to reach out for him, bury her head against his shoulder and cry. Or maybe just scream. She tried not to look like a doe caught in the headlights as she said, “Thanks for waiting.”

She was surprised to see the admiration in his eyes. “You were terrific.”

“You think?”

“Hey, not many people have to admit that not one, but two, ghosts are following them around, then go out onstage.”

He should have been joking, she thought, because the words were just that crazy. Instead, he was dead serious.

“I think you need some company, and I know for sure you need some food,” he said. “How would you feel about seeing my place? I have a house, a yard, the whole bit, and best of all, it’s not far away. You didn’t eat, and I’m not a great cook, but I can manage a mean frozen lasagna with a fresh salad.”

“Your house will be fine,” she said. She didn’t care where they went—as long as he didn’t leave her alone.

It took only a few minutes to reach his raised ranch–style house, which wasn’t far from the Strip. There was an adobe wall around the yard, which was handsomely landscaped with cacti and stone-bordered gardens. Inside, they were immediately greeted by a huge dog.

“Clancy, be polite. This is Jessy Sparhawk. I know she looks like she should be Swedish, but she’s actually part Lakota. Clancy is Belgian,” he informed Jessy.

“She’s beautiful,” Jessy told him awkwardly. It was true; the dog was beautiful—and very friendly. She didn’t jump up or slobber, but she was happy to be petted, though it was apparent that she adored her master.

“Come on in and have a seat,” Dillon offered.

“Thanks,” she said.

She heard a slight jingling sound and looked around nervously, but she couldn’t see anything. At least neither Tanner Green nor Rudy Yorba seemed to have followed her.

Dillon was studying her as if he was about to say something, but apparently he thought better of it, because he turned and headed through the stone-paved entryway into the living room. Native American art decorated the room, representing a number of different tribes. She recognized some of the pieces as local Paiute art, and some she recognized because they were similar to pieces in Timothy’s collection. Lakota dolls sat on the mantel, several dream catchers hung in the windows, and she recognized a Seminole shirt on one wall, ringed by small Inuit pieces.

There was a high-def television set opposite a leather sofa and matching chairs, and a cypress coffee table. Steps led up to a counter separating the kitchen from the living room, and beyond that, she could see a family room and French doors that led out to a small pool and patio, with the yard enclosed by an extension of the adobe wall, which was higher there in the back.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked her.

“Yes, thank you.”

“What?”

“I don’t care, as long as it has alcohol in it,” she said, sinking down onto the sofa. It was definitely a masculine room. She saw no sign that any female—other than Clancy—shared the space.

“Beer or bourbon, those are your choices—well, other than glass or bottle?”

“You can probably just hand me the bottle of bourbon,” she joked, then said, “No, I didn’t mean that. A beer will be fine.”

He came out with two, then returned to the kitchen. She sat back with her beer, letting herself appreciate the art and artifacts that gave the room its character. It felt good to be sitting there in silence—and safe.

He returned in a couple of minutes with a platter holding cheese, sliced pepperoni, fruit and chips. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian or a health-food addict,” he said.

“No,” she told him, and suddenly she was starving. She reached for a piece of cheese, which was delicious, and then another. She forced herself to slow down. He had taken one of the nearby chairs, and she smiled over at him. “Thanks. This really hits the spot.”

“Sure. You must be starving by now.”

Clancy came and lay down between them. The dog didn’t beg, even when Dillon reached down and stroked her head.

“You still doing okay?” he asked.

Jessy nodded. Then she stared at him, taking a long swallow of beer. “Harrison Investigations is a…a ghost-busting organization, isn’t it?” she asked.

He smiled. “The truth? Sometimes, yes. Other times we go in and find out that there’s a natural explanation for a ‘haunting’ or whatever is supposedly going on.”

“But…you saw them,” she whispered. “You saw Tanner Green and Rudy Yorba, the same as I did.” She couldn’t believe she was admitting out loud that she’d seen a ghost. Two ghosts.

“I saw them, but too briefly to find out anything,” he said regretfully.

She tried not to let her voice rise to a squeak. “You want to see them?”

“Of course.”

“Oh.” She took another long swallow of her beer. “Well, I don’t.”

“They’re only here because they have something to say, something to ask. They need help clearing up the mystery surrounding their own deaths,” Dillon explained.

“Then they should be following you around,” she whispered. “You’re the investigator.”

“Yeah, I agree, and I admit to being perplexed about that myself. I mean, I understand Tanner Green. You were his last contact. But I was one of the last people to speak to Rudy, and you never even met him. I think he’s too green, too new, and that he can’t figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” she asked.

“Sometimes the body dies but the soul, or whatever you want to call it, remains, because it’s looking for justice. For closure, to use the trendy term. But sometimes it takes the soul, the ghost, a while to even figure out what’s happened to him, much less how he can get the help he needs. Neither I, nor anyone I know, has all the answers. What’s clear so far is that Tanner Green seems to be afraid.”

“Afraid?” Jessy repeated skeptically.

Dillon smiled. “Yes. Afraid to accept death. But he seems to trust you and no one else.”

“How can I tell him that I’m not trustworthy?” Jessy asked.

Dillon laughed at that. Jessy didn’t.

“You can’t,” Dillon said. “But you can help me make contact with him, and when that happens, I can try to help him. And once he’s gotten the help he needs, then he won’t haunt you anymore.”

“I’m supposed to introduce you to a ghost?” she asked incredulously.

He offered her a rueful smile. “Something like that, but not so easy, I’m afraid. You’ll have to let him get close, and let him see that you trust me. Eventually he’ll trust me, too, and let me know how I can help.”

“Eventually?” she said with dismay.

“He’s not trying to hurt you, you know,” Dillon told her.

“Maybe not,” she said. “but what if I’m driving and he suddenly pops up? Doesn’t he realize I might run into a wall or take a few pedestrians out with me?”

“People don’t always think rationally, and ghosts don’t, either,” he said, then changed the subject.

“Would you like another?” he asked, indicating her empty beer bottle.

She nodded.

This time, when he headed toward the kitchen, she rose and followed him. Clancy pattered along, as well, sitting at her feet when she took a stool at the counter.

“Have you always seen ghosts?” she asked him.

He smiled and shook his head. “I grew up on one of the Paiute reservations near here, and I was a wiseass kid. My mom was a nurse who was working for the government, vaccinating kids. She met my dad, and they fell in love. They were a couple of dreamers, in love with the whole world. I was an only child, and when they moved onto a government military base—my dad joined the army, and we were sent to North Carolina—I suddenly became an oddity. Kids can be brutal. Not so much when they’re really young. At that point they don’t know Chinese from Indian, black man from Inuit. They see skin color the way most men see the color of someone’s hair, but when they get older…Anyway, I started getting into scrapes when I hit my teens. Nothing really bad, mostly because my parents would have been so disappointed. Then they were killed together in a small-plane crash. I turned into a real asshole then. After their funeral—they were buried back here, in Nevada, because they both loved it here—I was at a bar, drinking pretty heavily, and I picked a fight with a big white burly guy just because he was blond.” His smile twisted into a grim slash. “You’re Lakota, right? Our tribes share a lot of the same myths and beliefs. You’ve heard the stories about the maiden who wears white, and the great white buffalo, and the magic that comes when they’re seen? Well, I saw the maiden. She was at the funeral. At first I chalked it up to the trauma of my parents’ deaths. Then, at the bar—right when I’d started the fight and the guy was about to rearrange my face—she stepped between us. She spoke to me. I can still hear her words. ‘No. It’s not the way. You must grow strong. Pain must never cause pain. You must find your peace—for them, for yourself.’ I think some friends dragged me away and apologized for me, told the guy my folks had just died. Anyway, after that day…I started seeing…people. Ghosts. Then I met Adam.”