Ghostly Liaison (16 page)

Even with sunset hours away, darkness greeted her. So did the heat. A stuffy mustiness hung in the air. All the rain earlier in the week, and the fact minimal light and air made it through the windows, probably created some mold growth. She pulled out her trusty flashlight.

“Charlie? Where are you?” No sign of her ghost-friend. No splitting headache announcing her arrival. Was it possible she hadn’t followed her? Maybe something happened causing her to stay behind. Seemed unrealistic, but stranger things have happened. Like seeing Charlie for one thing.

The hairs on the back of her neck tickled. Scuffling sounds came from her left.

“Charlie? Nick?” Could there be rats? With her heart rate picking up speed, she turned, pointing the flashlight. The beam didn’t go far, but illuminated the plastic window covering flapping inside the building.

Idiot. She took a deep breath. She needed to calm down. Too bad Charlie wasn’t here. She could use the encouragement and the company.

Cupping a hand around her mouth, she leaned upward and yelled. “Nick! Are you here? Charlie sent me. Please show yourself. I’ll be able to see you.”

Her voice echoed through the building and still no Nick. Damn. Exactly what she’d feared—Charlie was wrong. She wandered around the interior and came to an elevator shaft. Shining the flashlight upward only illuminated the hanging cables. She shone the light below.

Hell’s bells. Someone lived here. She spun around, the beam slicing through the room. Was that person hiding from her?

A scratching sound came from the shadows. She swung her flashlight. The shaky beam barely made a dent. Was he in the shadows? Something hit the wall from behind. She spun. Nothing. Didn’t stop her heart from beating triple-time, though. Okay. Time to go home. Coming here alone was a bad idea. She turned off the flashlight and headed for the exit.

Pain exploded in the back of her head, and darkness engulfed her before she hit the floor.

* * * *

“What the hell?” Nick stared at his father as the young blonde lay on the floor.

He and his father had just arrived on the first floor when she’d entered the building, so Dad had nowhere to go. He’d become pale at the mention of Charlie’s name and then picked up the loose board. Nick had called out a warning, since the woman said she could see him, but never got a response.

Dad lifted the backpack and pulled out her wallet. Upon inspecting her driver’s license, he cursed.

So, he knew Bridget Quigley. But why would he hurt her? What did Bridget have to do with his criminal activity?

His father dashed into the elevator shaft and returned with some plastic grocery bags. He tied Bridget’s hands behind her back and secured her feet. When she moaned, he stuffed a bag in her mouth and secured it with another plastic bag. Blood oozed from her head wound.

His father was a madman, clear and simple. And Nick couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Dad pulled on her arm and dragged her to the elevator shaft, grunting in the process. He pushed her and she dropped onto the moldy mattress. The backpack followed. For the finishing touch, he took one of the ratty blankets and covered her like a mummy.

He fled the scene, leaving her to die, and rode away on Bridget’s bike. Must be his modus operandi, since he’d pulled the same stunt with Nick. The man lacked a conscience.

Nick floated back to Bridget. He nearly reached out for her—old habits and all that. She couldn’t feel any comfort he could offer, but he spoke to her like someone would to a coma patient. It certainly couldn’t hurt and it made him feel a little useful.

* * * *

Rob drove toward the construction site with Barnaby lying quietly by his side. Quite a turn of events from the way the dog had acted at the house. For a moment he’d suspected Charlie rode with them. But that was crazy, right? Or could there be some truth to Bridget’s claim?

Is that why she’d gone to the scene of Nick’s death? He truly didn’t believe she was crazy, but could he actually believe Charlie communicated with her? It would explain why she’d be at the site, her color choice, and Barnaby’s odd behavior.

His cell phone played “Who Are You” by The Who, indicating an unknown caller. Most likely some potential client needing information and while the intrusion was annoying, he still had a business to run. “This is Rob Gentry. How may I help you?”

“Wow! I finally got you. Does this mean you’ve been ignoring me?”

The familiar whiny voice grated on his skin. “Hello, Tori. Sorry, I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to return my calls? Doesn’t matter. I got you now. What are you doing?”

The signal turned red and Rob rolled to a stop. “I’m driving, so I can’t talk now. Can I call you back?”

“No, this won’t take long. Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess it is last minute. How about Monday? Are you going to Kate’s barbecue?”

He wanted to take Bridget, if she wasn’t already going. “Yes, I’ll be there, but—”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

“Wait, Tori. I should tell you….” Crap. What should he tell her?

“Tell me what?”

The truth? Well, part of it anyway. Why not? “There’s someone else.”

Dead silence. Had they been cut off? The signal turned green and Rob gunned it a little too hard.

Finally, her breathing came over the line. “I hope she, or he, makes you happy then.”

Or he? Great. Now she thought he was gay? “She does. Thank you.”

“Are you bringing her to the barbecue?”

“I don’t know what her plans are, yet. I might.”

Tori muttered something unintelligible and said her good-byes. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she’d left him no choice. Hopefully now the phone calls would stop.

Rob pocketed his phone and continued on his way, anxious to find Bridget. If he had been smart, he would have programmed her number in his cell. Then he could have just called her and found out…what? That she was ghost hunting for Nick? Yeah, like she’d tell him.

No, confronting her in person was the best way. He’d get the truth out of her eventually.

A siren whooped-whooped behind him and lights flashed in the rearview mirror. What now? The speed limit was thirty-five and he was barely doing forty. Shit. He pulled over and fished out his driver’s license.

Ten minutes and one ticket later, Rob merged back into traffic. He’d run a stupid stop sign. That’s what he got for driving with his mind off the road.

The shell of the Rialto project loomed ahead on the right. He pulled around to the back and killed the engine. Barnaby lifted his head.

Bridget’s bike was nowhere to be seen. Could he have missed her? The cop hadn’t been all that long, and no one on a bike had passed. He opened the door and hopped out, the dog close behind. “Bridget!”

Wind kicked up the dirt and thunder rumbled in the distance. He headed around the building to search when Barnaby jumped up on the door. Could he sense her? Rob rushed over. The door to the building was unlocked. It should have been locked. As soon as he pulled the door, Barnaby brushed against his legs and squirmed his way inside.

“Bridget? Are you here?”

No answer. He headed for the stairwell and the dog ran to the elevator shaft, whining.

His heart rate picked up speed and he urged his feet forward. He stepped on something cylindrical. Pinwheeling his arms, he regained his balance and then picked up the item—a flashlight.

Barnaby’s whining and scratching intensified.

“Bridget?” Dread crushed his chest. He rushed to the elevator shaft and shone the light. The stench of urine assaulted his nose. Not Bridget. It was those damn squatters. Carl should have taken care of this problem long before now. With his panic under control, Rob jumped down and toed the offender. “Come on, fella. Wake up. You can’t stay here.”

The lump moaned and squirmed. A muffled scream came from the blanket. The squatter had twisted in the fabric in some kind of attempt to get free. Rob reached down and pulled the blanket away from the head. His heart momentarily stopped. Bridget stared at him with terror in her eyes.

She screamed and moved to scoot away from him.

He stuffed the flashlight in his back pocket. “Shh, Bridget. It’s okay. It’s me, Rob.”

“Raw?” The binding caused her words to be muffled, but she seemed to recognize him and relaxed a little, until she gagged.

“Breathe through your nose.”

She did as he requested, putting an end to her gags. He pulled her head against his chest and worked at the knot, but the slick surface made it hard to grab. His shaky hands weren’t helping any, either. Blood covered the back of her head. Who the hell would do this to her and why? He pulled out his pocketknife and, carefully avoiding her skin, cut the plastic.

She jerked free and coughed up the bag before he had a chance to remove it.

“Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! What the hell was that?” She spat several times as if she couldn’t get the taste out of her mouth.

“They look like plastic shopping bags.” He sawed the binding at her wrists. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

“I don’t know. I was leaving when someone hit me from behind.” The tie came free and she rubbed her wrists while he cut the plastic around her ankles.

“I need to call 9-1-1.”

“No! I’m fine. I just want to go home.”

“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding. And I need to report this.” He pulled out his phone.

She placed his hand over his. “Can I get out of this stinky mess first, then? I think I’ll be sick if I sit here much longer.”

He couldn’t argue with her there. Standing, he lifted her under her arms and sat her on the floor. He tossed up her backpack. She swung her legs around, giving him room to join her. Barnaby waited until they were clear before licking her face.

“Leave her be, boy.”

“Oh, he’s fine.” She nuzzled his neck. “He smells better than this place does.”

Rob called 9-1-1 and informed them of the situation. Time to get some answers from her now.

* * * *

Bridget couldn’t stay inside the stinky building any longer. Her stomach twisted and whatever remained in it threatened to be set free.

Worry-like wrinkles marred Rob’s beautiful face. “Come on, let’s go outside. Can you stand?”

Outside sounded great. “I think so.” She got to her feet, but her legs gave out. Before she met the floor, he caught her with his strong arms and held her up. “Thanks. How much blood did I lose?”

“I think it might have something to do with a concussion.”

That explained why her head throbbed. Normally Rob shooed her headache away. She leaned onto him and took in his scent, as well as his hard body. He was all muscle and she relied on every bit of it to help her to the exit. Barnaby kept pace and didn’t rush to beat them out.

A few raindrops hit her in the face and she took a deep breath. Fresh air had never tasted so good. Her stomach calmed.

Rob opened the passenger door to the truck. After she was settled, he pulled a roll of paper towels from the back and ripped off a few sheets. Gently, he placed them on the back of her head. Even that small amount of pressure stung. What’d the guy hit her with? A baseball bat?

He tossed the roll on the seat. “Hold this.”

“Afraid I’ll get blood in your truck?” It was meant as a joke, but he only frowned. She held the paper towel in place. “Can you put my bike in the back? I don’t think I’ll be riding it home.” Her attempts at making light of the situation bombed big time. Rob wasn’t having any of that. His face remained serious.

“Where’d you put it?”

She pointed to the building, but there was nothing to point at. “Ah, man. The creep stole my bike?”

“Maybe the cops will be able to find it.” He shut the door and circled around the front of the truck.

Why the hell would someone beat her up for her bike? It didn’t make any sense. The driver’s door opened and Barnaby hopped inside aiming straight for her. She hugged him tight with her free arm. Waking up in the dark—disoriented—and hearing her name called over and over, did a number on her mind. Not being able to breathe hadn’t helped her focus, either. And who had been talking to her? Not Rob. Then again, she had gotten hit hard enough to rattle her brain.

But no way would she go to the hospital. Not unless Rob planned on knocking her unconscious.

He slid behind the wheel and scratched Barnaby behind the ears. “How are you feeling? Really.”

Her head pounded and her stomach churned. “I’ll admit, I’ve felt better. But I’m fine.”

Rob pulled the towel from her head.

The pain seared and she cried out. “Owww. What’d you do that for?”

He held out the blood-soaked paper. Okay, so maybe she was bleeding a bit excessively, but he could have been a little less rough.

“You’re evil.”

“And you need stitches.” He handed her a clean sheet. “Now tell me again. How are you really feeling?”

She gently placed the towel over her wound. “My head hurts, but I know it’s Saturday and your name is Rob Gentry. I’m okay.
Really
.”

He relaxed a little, but the lines between his eyes remained. “What were you doing here?”

Sirens and flashing lights announced the paramedics’ arrival.

Panic nearly made her bolt from the truck. And what would that accomplish if she landed on her face? She needed to keep her head if she had any hope of getting her way. “I’m not going to the hospital. You can take me to Kate’s. She knows how to stitch.”

“Bridget… You’re hurt.”

The concern in his voice nearly made her give in. Nearly. “I’m not going. You can’t make me.” She pointed at the rescue vehicle. “They can’t make me.”

He gritted his teeth, but nodded his head in surrender. “Fine. But they’re still checking you out.”

As a paramedic confirmed Rob’s assessment of her head wound and handed her some padded gauze and an ice pack, the police arrived. There wasn’t much she could tell them since she never got a look at her attacker, but, of course, they wanted to know why she was there. Rob raised an eyebrow, waiting for her answer. Not one for thinking fast on her feet, she used her head injury and avoided the question altogether by claiming she couldn’t remember.