Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) (19 page)

If he kept repeating it, he might someday come to believe it.

He jogged towards the squat brick building that housed his temporary abode, a small sublet he'd found through an Army buddy. The square brick building was utterly nondescript with heavy doors that indicated that security was a priority. The floor of the lobby was linoleum, old but clean, the stairs were sturdy red oak with a plain white banister, and the front door to his apartment, like all the other doors in the hallway, was white in a classic six-panel design.

The apartment complex had been built in the 1940s to house military personnel, and the general attitude of the current building management was simple: if it was good enough for the Greatest Generation, it's good enough for us. No intricate moldings or Victorian wallpaper for these guys. The look was strictly Midcentury Spartan. The building had no elevator, but he didn't mind walking up the three flights of stairs to his apartment.

His apartment was a small one bedroom with a tiny galley kitchen and an even tinier bath, but it did have one big amenity, a view of the Washington Monument. And right now, with the sun rising over the obelisk, the view was spectacular.

The rest of the apartment wasn't so amazing. The walls were white and the furniture was plain. Maybe he should buy something for the apartment, something that would make it homier, maybe a lamp, or a rug.
 

But that reminded him of the rug in Abby's living room and all the wild things they'd done on it.

No rug.

He headed for the bathroom. The shower was small, but the square white tiles were neat and clean, and the grout was entirely devoid of mildew. It was a very utilitarian space, not at all like Abby's turn of the century extravaganza with its hellish claw-foot bathtub and cracked flea-market mirror. This was much more practical. He could see himself in the mirror without bending and could therefore apply antibiotic ointment to the scratch on his forehead without poking himself in the eye. He definitely did not miss Abby's bathroom with its flowery shower curtain and undependable supply of hot water.

He dried himself and went to the bedroom to get dressed. He pulled out his dress uniform from the closet, picked up some underwear and threw everything on the bed. He actually had a closet full of new clothes, bought once it became clear that his wardrobe needed some adjustments. The clothes had been a bittersweet purchase. For the first time in years, he couldn't fit all his possessions into a duffle bag.

And that wasn't the worst part. The truly nightmarish development was yet to come. He needed to buy dress shoes, the ones with laces and tiny holes punched into the leather. That was the problem with promotions. Sure, they sounded fun at first, but then you realized you had to wear starched shirts and develop a close, personal relationship with the local dry cleaning service.

He finished getting dressed and looked at the alarm clock on his bedside tale. He still had a couple of minutes before he had to leave for work. He went to the kitchen, grabbed an energy bar and headed for the living room to set the television so it would record the latest episode of
NCIS
. Mark Harmon was going to Kabul and he didn't want to miss it.

He picked up the remote and pressed a couple of buttons. There. All done.

Satisfied, he sat on the sofa, studiously avoiding the laptop set up on the dining table. He knew his weaknesses, he was a creature of routine. For the past three years, whenever something important happened, he logged onto the computer and e-mailed Abby. Or messaged her over Skype. Or pinged her on Facebook.

But not today.

Today, he was starting a new job, heading off into the unknown, with no input from Abby. No congratulatory texts with smiley emoji. No internet pep talks with fifteen-second image lags. No inspirational music videos posted on his Facebook wall. Well, that last one was a blessing in disguise. He really didn't need an acoustic cover of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" this morning.

Oh, hell. The world wouldn't end if he arrived at work a few minutes early. He got up, grabbed his coat and backpack and headed out the door, down the stairs, and into the parking lot. The sun was bright and the air was cool. The breeze tickled the golden oak leaves, which looked like they were barely hanging on to the branches. Fall was here and winter was just around the corner. His sublet ended in December and he would have to find a permanent place after that.

Did he want to?

He could move. All he had to do was sign up for a new assignment. The military merry-go-round would keep him moving around. He was used to the nomadic lifestyle. Sure, it didn't feel quite right anymore, not without Abby, but that would change. He'd get used to it again. He could go to California, or return to Germany, or travel to Japan.

Or even go to Nashville.

He pushed the thought out of his mind. He had no reason to go to Nashville.

No reason at all.

He reached his Jeep and smiled. This was one new possession that he was happy about. The glossy black paint job gleamed in the sun. The chrome accessories shone brightly. He swept away a couple of stray leaves that had fallen on the hood.

The car was perfect. Well,
almost
perfect, he corrected as the leaves fell off, revealing deep scratches on the Jeep's chassis. That Banshee Creek camping trip had taken its toll on him and on his car.

One of his neighbors, a Navy guy, but still a nice dude, was casting admiring glances at the Wrangler.

"Is that the special edition?" he asked.

"Yep," Mike replied, opening the drivers' side door proudly.
 

The guy leaned in to check out the interior. "Titanium panels," he said. "Sweet. How many did they make? Two thousand?"

"Fifteen hundred," Mike replied modestly. "It was a limited run."

"Nice." Navy Guy touched the panels with reverence. "Too bad about the hood damage."

Mike nodded, glancing mournfully at the front hood. The deep scratches were definitely not attractive. They were also, he suspected, not cheap to fix.
 

 
"There's a shop in Alexandria that can get that fixed for you," Navy Guy said, straightening up and stepping away from the car. "The guy is a genius with Jeeps and they give a military discount. I can find the number for you."

"That would be great," Mike said, making a mental note to track down the number later. He really should get those scratches fixed. Navy Guy cast a final admiring glance at the car and nodded goodbye. Mike got in the car, turned it on, and drove out of the parking lot.

He'd get the car fixed this weekend. The scratches were an unpleasant reminder of the night he'd completed his delivery. The night he fled from Banshee Creek leaving Abby behind.

The night when a dark figure, flying low to the ground, crashed into his Jeep, scratching the finish. He stepped on the brakes causing the car to skid and leaving him with a large scratch on his forehead, where it banged against the steering wheel. He didn't know what that thing was, but he did know one thing.

It sure as hell wasn't an owl.
 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
OUR

A
BBY
RUSHED
through the streets of Crystal City, Arlington, periodically checking the tracking app on her smartphone. She was a woman on a mission, a mission to find Mike Stone and confront him.

The city was a maze of concrete, with small piazzas dotted here and there and a couple of potted plants to lighten the overbearing grayness. Why would anyone live here? It was like living in a bunker with gourmet coffee shops. She checked the app again. Yes, she was heading in the right direction

She hurried through a crosswalk and headed for the Pentagon parking lot. She knew Mike's schedule intimately. He arrived at work early, left when his eight-hour shift ended, then went home to watch
NCIS
, eat microwave mac'n'cheese, and do some more work. That routine never varied, and she wanted to catch him coming off work, when his guard was down.

She had a lot of things she wanted to say.

But she wouldn't get to say them unless she got to the Pentagon parking lot in time.

She'd planned to deliver paper fliers advertising the Space Cowboys' new gig to the local businesses, but the plan had gone awry. She'd spent too much time chatting with the elderly lady who owned the bookstore about Loreena McKennitt albums and now, like Alice's White Rabbit, she was horribly late.

She crossed the street, ducked under an overpass and cursed. The workday was over. A mass of Pentagon workers headed for the Metro entrance. She checked her smartphone, and her heart sank. She was still pretty far away.
 

But, at least, the blinking dot on her phone wasn't moving. She had that going for her. The tracker app was doing its job.

She ran for the parking lot, dodging people right and left, but when she finally reached the lot, she got a nasty surprise. The parking lot was enormous and her destination was still several yards away.

She walked the rest of the way, past rows of neatly parked economy cars. She passed a sedate Volvo station wagon with a bumper sticker that announced "My Other Vehicle is a Blackhawk," and an electric compact in bright silver paint that sported a vanity license plate bearing the name "MJOLNIR."

But no Lurid Larry. She saw a black Wrangler, but it wasn't Mike's Jeep, it didn't have enough chrome. She checked her smartphone, tapping the glass impatiently. The red dot wasn't moving which meant Lurid Larry was here somewhere.

Two young men in fatigues rushed past her and the taller one opened the door to the electric car. Mjolnir's owner was tall, blonde and rather good-looking, and he had a sense of humor to boot. His friend wasn't bad either. In fact, the Pentagon parking lot was pretty much hottie central. How had she not known about this? Maybe there was a point to Arlington after all—the eye-candy.
 

Her smartphone started beeping. The tune was unexpected but very familiar. Oh crap, did Caine change her ringtone when he installed the tracker app? Yep, of course he did. She sighed. She was now the proud owner of a
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
ringtone.
 

Oh joy.

But that beep was good news. It meant she'd found Larry. She walked a bit and found a black Jeep parked near the building. It was definitely the car she was looking for, she could see the Virginia Vintage Motors license plate holder. The Jeep was parked close to the Pentagon entrance, which meant that Mike had, as usual, shown up early to work. She checked the time and frowned. Why wasn't he out yet? Had he taken the Metro?
 

No way. Larry was Mike's pride and joy, he wouldn't leave his baby behind. That meant he was still at work. She leaned against the back of the car and prepared for a short wait. Mike should be out any minute now.

A dark-haired man in a dress uniform and killer blue eyes stopped and asked her if she needed help. She said no, and he smiled and went on his way.

Yep, definitely military cute guy central.

Too bad her own personal military hottie was a complete idiot and she was going to inform him of that fact, at great length, and in colorful language. The past forty-eight hours had been a whirl—she'd been finalizing plans with the Space Cowboys when their new Nashville reps had announced the impromptu gig—but the avalanche of work had not dulled her anger. She was mad as hell and she was going to let Mike know it.

She leaned against the Jeep's rear bumper, arms crossed.

Any minute now...

But Mike didn't show up. Instead, her phone's new ringtone rang out. She checked the caller ID and picked up immediately.

"
Close Encounters
, Caine?" she barked into the phone. "I thought you were just going to download an app for me. What exactly made you believe that I wanted an alien spaceship ring tone?"

"Aw, c'mon, Abby," the biker replied, sounding perfectly unrepentant. "It's perfect for your new Space Cowboys gig. Don't you know anything about branding?"

"Branding?" Abby screeched. "Branding is what I'm going to do to your backside if you don't change my ringtone back."

"No flirting, Abby," Caine replied smoothly. "I don't flirt with girls who are taken." She opened her mouth to explain that she wasn't taken, but Caine just kept on talking. "And speaking of taken, did you find Mike?"

"No." Abby looked up at the Pentagon entrance. No Mike. "I found Lurid Larry though."

Caine hooted in triumph.

"See," he gloated. "I told you it would work. Well, I'll let you get on with your little 'chat' with Mike. Just let me know if you need help getting rid of the body." His voice dropped an octave. "I
know
people."

Abby rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to hurt him." At least not much, she thought to herself. "I just want to talk."

And tell him he was a ratfink cowardly pond-scum-sucking moron. Although, come to think of it, that designation may be offensive to rats...and pond scum. Let's not forget the pond scum, a vital member of the ecosystem that did not deserve to be compared to Mike Stone.
 

"You know," Caine said. "I'm not familiar with this 'talk' euphemism. It is code for dismemberment?"

"Very funny," Abby replied. "Thanks for the tracker app, and I'll come by the bar when I get back. I'm serious about getting my ringtone back."

"You're welcome. But give the
Close Encounters
theme a chance. It's perfect for you."

She hung up and put the phone back in her bag. She couldn't help but smile. It was good to have friends, even if they messed up your smartphone settings. After all, you never knew when you might need help tracking a car or getting rid of a dead body.
 

But the murder cover-up would have to wait, her prospective victim was still late.

The parking lot was emptying out. Only a handful of cars remained in the lot, one of them the Volvo with the Blackhawk sticker. The sky was darkening and the sun would set soon.