Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk (17 page)

 

Brent's heart went out to the beautiful young woman. Torment, mistrust and, strangely enough, something like hope were at war with one another in the depths of her eyes. She stood stiffly, unyielding, and yet…

"You know," she said, "my friends are beginning to think I'm crazy."

"That happens," he told her.

"Great. So they'll wind up having me locked up. And you're not helping me at all, though I'm sure that's what you think you're doing."

"I can help you," he assured her. "If you'll let me."

She smiled then, ruefully. "Julian will never let me go off with you alone."

Brent studied the man who had been her defender in the fracas in the street and who had accompanied her to the police station. Was the man her lover? The thought disturbed him. Admittedly, he had felt an attraction to Nikki DuMonde, the sort of attraction he hadn't known in years. It was one thing to look on a woman and judge her as stunning. Youth itself was often beautiful, and Nikki was right at that age, in her mid to upper twenties somewhere, when the sophistication of maturity had combined with all the elements of face and form to give her an added elegance. He was alive after all. In the years since Tania's death he had lived and breathed, gone through all the stages of loss, met and been attracted to several women, made love, and…

Moved on. The world was filled with people. Those you met along the way. With whom you shared something… and moved on. A moment, an evening, a few weeks, even a few months.

But there hadn't been… this.

Back off, he warned himself.

He never mixed work with anything personal. He and the others involved with Adam's agency, were often the butts of jokes, due to their focus on the paranormal, but they were still professionals.

But there was something about Nikki DuMonde…

It wasn't just her appearance, it was her…

Soul.

The essence of her existence.

Her eyes, her passion, her movement, the sound of her voice… everything about her.

"Is Julian your fiancé? Your boyfriend?" he asked politely.

She smiled, lowering her eyes for a moment. "No, he's my best friend. My very best friend for years."

Brent smiled. "But he doesn't believe a word you're saying, does he? He thinks you've concocted ghosts in your head because you're traumatized by Andrea Ciello's death."

She looked uncomfortable, and he knew that he had judged the situation correctly.

"I told you, my friends think I'm crazy."

"So… what do
you
think?" he demanded.

Her eyes narrowed. "Just what are you? A cop?" Then she smiled self-mockingly. "A psychic cop or something?"

"I'm not a cop at all."

"FBI?"

"No."

"Then… ?"

"I work for a civilian agency that does a lot of strange work for the government," he told her. "But we work privately, as well."

"I see."

"So will you have coffee with me?"

She hedged. "I don't see Andy anymore," she murmured.

"No, she isn't here."

Nikki hesitated again. "Did she… talk to you?"

He shook his head. "I didn't actually let on that I knew she was there."

"Oh, sure, of course not," she scoffed.

"She trusts you, not me," he said.

"Oh. So ghosts have to trust you to talk to you, huh?"

"Depends on the ghost," he said evenly, despite her combative tone.

She hesitated. For a moment he was certain she was going to blow him off.

"Give me a minute."

Brent watched as she walked over to Julian. The last of their tour group had said good-night and moved away.

Julian didn't trust him, Brent knew. Plus, he was very protective of Nikki. He'd been pleasant enough when Brent had joined the tour, but then, Brent had paid for the privilege of walking around and listening with the others.

Now Julian was clearly arguing with Nikki. But he didn't dissuade her. Apparently arguing with Nikki just made her determined to do the opposite. He would have to remember that.

When she turned to join him again, Brent saw Julian watch her walk toward him. The other man had a coffee cup in his hand and he lifted it in salute.

"'Night, then," he called. "Hey, where are you two going?"

Brent mentioned a hotel bar, one of the most frequented in the area, trying to assure Julian that he wasn't taking Nikki off anywhere alone or unsafe.

"Have a nice night."

Nikki joined Brent.

"He kind of sounds okay with this," Brent said, smiling, as they turned to walk down the street.

"No, he thinks I'm an idiot. Am I?"

"No."

"He'll probably be following us."

"Is that a warning?" Brent asked her softly. "Because I really have no evil intent."

"If you're going to play with my mind right now, I assure you, that
is
evil intent."

He sighed, silent. A group who had been on the tour passed by, calling out, "Great tour—thanks!"

"My pleasure. Come back for one of our other tours," Nikki called back.

"I. swear, I could almost see ghosts," one of the women said, laughing, as the group disappeared.

The hotel was just up at the corner. Brent moved ahead and opened the door for Nikki. She murmured her thanks, and they made their way to the bar.

It was quieter than many of the local establishments. A pianist played softly, mainly performing show tunes. Businessmen were ranged in some of the oak booths. Women returning from dinners out were nicely dressed. Average tourists sat around in shorts, tank tops and halter dresses. Only two seats at the bar were empty, and only three booths were available. A hostess with copper skin, inky dark hair, a flashing smile and a pleasant cologne led them to a private little recess.

They sat, and Nikki opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated as a waiter approached them. She ordered a latte with shaved chocolate. Brent opted for the same.

The waiter moved on.

Nikki looked at him and smiled with no humor. She smoothed a cocktail napkin nervously with both hands.

Her fingers were long and delicate; her nails a medium length, lacquered in a clear polish.

"So you're not a cop or an FBI agent, but you have access to the police, and you're walking around with the picture of a dead man, making once-sane people think they've gone over the edge. Or you're a shrink of some kind, making a study of the human mind," she said sharply.

"Nope."

"Okay, then… how long have you been seeing ghosts?" she asked.

"A while," he told her.

"You're Indian, right? Whoops, sorry, the term these days is Native American."

"Partly, yes."

"What kind?"

"Lakota. One grandfather."

"So… " She paused as the waiter arrived with their orders. He didn't seem distressed that they weren't drinking, since the lattes cost more than aged brandy in most establishments.

As soon as the waiter left, Nikki stared at Brent, aqua eyes hard and searching. "So, tell me, did you get into this whole ghost thing by peyote smoking or something?"

She was scared and angry, he knew, and therefore on the offensive. Still, he felt tension ripple through his muscles.

The little stirrer he'd been using snapped between his fingers.

Deep breath.

"No. It had nothing to do with peyote."

"Okay, sorry," she said, stirring her latte. "This is just… you can't imagine.
I
don't think
I'm
sane."

"But you are."

"All right, so you see ghosts," she said. "And, according to you, it's perfectly natural that I see them, too, and we should have a nice long chat about our spectral companions."

"I never said it was perfectly natural," he told her.

She played with the little stirrer, mixing the shreds of chocolate into the whipped cream atop her gourmet latte.

"So we're back to insanity?"

"No we're not. Some people are born with a musical ear. They can pick up an instrument and play a tune with no training while others can attend class after class, but never really learn how to play. Some people are born artists."

"So you were born seeing ghosts?" she demanded. "I guess that gave new meaning to the term
imaginary friend.
"

He shook his head. "What I'm trying to say is that there are gray regions in life. You're afraid right now. I don't blame you. Questioning your own mental health can be even more frightening than admitting you commune with ghosts. It's not perfectly natural, no. But it doesn't make you a lunatic. All scientists know that there are still things in the world that defy logic and explanation. We understand gravity, life, evolution, ages long gone. We're constantly questioning faith. Men live and die for their beliefs. But none of us has the definitive answer."

She offered a skeptical smile. "Not even you? Don't your ghosts fill you in on everything?"

He shook his head. "Ghosts are usually wandering around a little lost themselves."

"Right. It's that thing about a violent end, or a need to finish something, find someone, even take revenge, right?"

It was half sincere question, half skepticism.

"There are different reasons."

She looked down, smoothed her napkin again. He had gone for his own. Their fingers brushed. She looked at him, startled, and he returned the intense stare, equally aware of the electricity between them. A tremor shook the length of him. She was appealing on so many levels, sensual in the most natural of ways, the opposite of internationally provocative.

She didn't trust him, though. She wanted him at arm's length.

He drew his fingers away, afraid that he would lose her if he wasn't careful, that she would stand up and leave and demand that he stay away from her.

"Nikki, I believe with my whole heart that I can help you. And I also desperately need your help in return."

She didn't bolt, though her eyes remained downcast. Then she looked up at him again. "Who was the man in the picture you showed me today? And when did he die? Was he supposedly dead when I saw him at Madame's? Or was he killed after?"

He shook his head. "The ME could only give an approximate time of death. I think he might still have been alive the first time you saw him, but in serious trouble. I don't know. And who was he? An undercover FBI agent, a man above reproach. The kind of guy who couldn't be bought, not for any price. He'd been undercover in some of our worst slums, among the most heinous drug lords, in war zones. He was on to something here. He managed to keep his cover by keeping private until he really had something."

"You knew him?" Nikki asked.

Brent shook his head. "No. That's part of the problem."

"How do you know he was so lily white, then?" she asked softly. "And why is it a problem that you didn't know him?"

"I work for a man who travels in the highest government circles possible. But he never trusts anything without proof. Adam Harrison always goes to the people who knew someone best, those who were closest. When you don't hear anything but lily white all the way around, you can pretty much bet it's true."

"So I thought he was a bum, and he was really a great guy. There you go. I'm a great judge of character, huh?"

"You saw what you were intended to see," he told her.

"Why is it bad that you didn't actually know him yourself?"

"Because he didn't know me, either, so he has no reason to trust me now. But you saw him again. On the street the other night, and that's part of the problem, right?"

She licked her stir stick absently.

The tremors rocked through his body again.

Business. He was a professional. A professional ghost buster, some mocked, but still a professional.

Never mix business and pleasure. Never. Not in this. Not in matters of life and death. Not when there was the least chance it could weaken the perception or the wits…

"I saw him, yes," she murmured. Then she stared at him with her huge eyes pleading. "They must have made a mistake. He isn't dead. It's someone else—"

"No."

She exhaled.

"And you know," he added, "that Andy is dead, as well."

She looked at him, smiling sadly. "Yes, Andy is dead."

"But you keep seeing her."

"Yes," she murmured, looking down, then quickly back up. "She even changed clothes. From the T-shirt she was wearing when… to the suit I chose for her funeral."

"She's here to help you, you know," he said softly.

"Help me? So far, my friends think I'm nuts, and I nearly alienated a woman on the tour tonight."

He smiled ruefully. "It can be difficult, to say the least."

She twirled her swizzle stick in her now-empty mug. "Maybe I do need a drink," she said. "No, no, I'll start seeing polka-dotted elephants or something."

"Another latte?" he suggested.

She looked at him suddenly, aqua eyes assessing.

"You're telling me mat I have a special gift—something like an artist or a musician has. And it's been drawn out because Andy wants to help me. And you—whoever you are—have the same gift. And I'm not insane."

"Yes."

"And other people have this gift, as well?"

"Yes."

"Why haven't I ever heard of it?"

He shrugged, hands lifting. He was careful not to touch her. The scent of her perfume was so subtle. Like the whisper of her movement, the touch of her breath.

"Surely you've read stories about… well, hauntings. Usually written by people on the periphery. Those who have a touch of something on a different level than most people even experience. Those who have to become deeply involved… well, they're usually fairly circumspect about the whole thing."

"Um, sure," she murmured.

"I need your help," he repeated.

She sighed, staring at him intently again.

"And you need mine."

"Just… just exactly what do you want from me?"

"I need to get to know your ghosts," he said flatly.

"Can't you… just walk up and introduce yourself?" she asked, half laughing. Her laughter faded uneasily.

"They don't know me. They don't trust me."