Rain of the Ghosts (3 page)

Terry Chung and Elizabeth Ellis-Chung, Cambridge, Mass.

The stranger wrote only one word.

“Callahan,” he said. “Name’s Callahan.”

Rain gave him one last look and retreated out of the lobby.

The Nitaino Inn was a Bed & Breakfast with a good reputation in the guidebooks. Rain lived there with her parents and grandfather and whatever tourists happened to be staying in the Inn’s six guest rooms. They were rarely full (outside the High Season). Old Town was a popular tourist attraction—during the day. Antique shops, galleries, craftsmen with pushcarts and those oh-so-charming cobblestone streets brought a nice walk-through business in good weather. But parking was problematic, and it was a fair distance to the water. And no fast food or chain stores at all. People walked through Old Town, but they tended not to sleep there. Still, Iris ran a tight, clean ship and served large portions of good food every morning, so although they were rarely full, they were also rarely vacant. Rain had grown up that way. In a house she shared with both family and strangers. Privacy, real privacy, was something she had read about in books. As she passed through the dining room, she wasn’t surprised to see a light on in the kitchen. All she could do was hope it was her father and not a tourist “just grabbing a quick bite.”

She pushed open the swinging door. A man with long gray hair sat at the kitchen table with his back to her. Immediately, she relaxed. Not a tourist. Not even her dad. Better. “Hey, ’Bastian,” she said, smiling for the first time since she left Charlie at the lockup.

“Hi, Raindrop.”

Sebastian Bohique was Rain’s maternal grandfather and just about her favorite person on the planet. He was a month shy of eighty years old but was sitting there eating a very sugary breakfast cereal, the one that came in the shape of hearts, moons, stars, clovers and new blue whales. Rain crossed to the cupboard, opened the wood and glass door and pulled out a bowl. She glanced out the window. It was still pouring. A flash of lightning was followed seconds later by a crack of thunder. The storm-head was getting closer.

“Rain.” Her father’s voice. She turned toward the doorway to the laundry room. Alonso Cacique stood there with a basketful of white towels. “I’ve got a charter tomorrow. I’ll need you to work the boat with me.”

Rain’s expression, not to mention her posture, took a nosedive. She threw out her arms (bowl and all). “Dad, I can’t! I’ve got plans with Charlie.”

“You see Charlie everyday.”

“We’re going waterskiing! We just got invited tonight!”

“And the charter came in this afternoon.” He approached her. Calm but firm. “You should have checked with me first.”

Papa ’Bastian looked up from his cereal. “I’ll cover for her, Alonso.”

“That’s not your job, ’Bastian.”

’Bastian shrugged. “I know. But school starts Monday. Let’s cut her some slack.”

Rain became a sudden and exaggerated supplicant. “Yes. Slack. Pleeeassse!”

Alonso shook his head, but his eyes were smiling. “All right. Just this once.”

Rain leaned over the laundry basket and gave her dad a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

By now, Alonso was smiling with his mouth as well. “Thank your grandfather.”

“I will.”

Still smiling and shaking his head, Alonso did a quick about-face and headed back out the door. Rain stood there, staring at nothing in particular. ’Bastian snuck a glance at her. She looked down at the cereal bowl in her hand as if it were a strange artifact from another world. Then she placed it absently on the counter and sighed deeply.

“Well, I’m waiting,”’Bastian said.

Rain’s head turned slowly toward him. “What for?”

’Bastian gave her his patented Old Man Twinkle. “My thank you.”

Rain walked around the table, pulled an empty chair out of the way and kissed him on the forehead. “Sorry. Thanks. You saved me.” She looked down at the empty chair and thought about sitting down. The simplest decision suddenly seemed very hard to make. Or so unimportant that it was impossible to care.

“So how come you’re not happy?”

Rain collapsed into the chair. “I’m thirteen years old, and my life is
over!
” she moaned.

It seemed to ’Bastian that she was auditioning to be the poster child for teen angst and melodramatic defeat. He nodded solemnly. “I see. And how did you come by this revelation…?”

“
Summer’s over!
I can’t pretend anymore. I’m trapped, Papa. Totally trapped.”

Papa Sebastian leaned his head away, scratching one eyebrow with his pinky so that he wouldn’t have to meet her gaze. “That’s a problem, all right.”

But she wasn’t fooled. She gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder. “Don’t laugh,” she said. “You don’t know what it’s like. You’ve been places. To the mainland, to Europe.”

His whole body tensed up; he responded in clipped tones. “I wasn’t exactly on holiday, young lady.”

“That’s the point. You did something important with your life. I’m never going to
do
anything. I’ll never
go
anywhere. I’ll graduate high school and spend the rest of my life ushering tourists around these same eight islands!” She slumped down dramatically, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, her head buried in her hands on the table.

Sebastian quickly pushed away an old memory and eyed her wryly. He paused just long enough for her to be sure that he’d received the full effect of her performance. Then he spoke quietly. “Now I don’t believe that, Raindrop. I don’t believe that for a second.”

She didn’t budge, but he knew she was listening, so he continued: “This is home. And frankly, it’s not a bad place to make a life. So you may come back some day to usher tourists.” He shrugged. “After all, I did. But you’ll get your own chance to decide.”

Still no movement. “You’ve always been special, Rain. An adventurer. We’d turn our backs for a minute, and you’d be off exploring. Before you could walk, even. And I remember watching you as you grew up. You’d have long conversations with your imaginary friends. You’d fight pirates. Find treasure. Solve mysteries. I knew you were destined for greatness.”

She refused to lift her head. But at least she spoke—a sarcastic “Right.”

Sebastian placed a gentle hand on Rain’s head. His gold wristband caught the flash from another burst of lightning and sparkled. “It’s like my
abuela
used to say …
‘To unlock a door, you need two things: a key and someone who knows how to turn it.
’”

Rain’s arms and the thunder muffled her reply. “I never knew what that meant. And what does it have to do with anything, anyway?”

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “You strike me as someone who knows how to turn a key.”

Sebastian leaned back again, and slowly, tentatively, as if he had been working magic upon her, Rain started to raise her head to meet his warm gray eyes. “Maybe,” she said begrudgingly. “But I’m never gonna get my hands on any key. Not to anyplace I’d want to go.”

Papa Sebastian considered this for a moment. Rain watched him stare down at the milk in his cereal bowl. Outside, the wind howled, and another lightning bolt lit up the window. The thunder was nearly simultaneous; the storm was right over their heads. In contrast to that fury, the music in her head, which had been silent since she had yelled at Callahan out on the street, played a slow and pretty jazz cornet. Something was going to happen. Abruptly, he pushed the bowl away. “Let’s start here,” he said. He removed the gold band from around his right wrist. “I’ve been meaning to give you this for a while.”

He held it out to her on the palm of his hand: two gold snakes intertwined, braided almost, clasping each other’s tails in their mouths. Again, the band caught the light. She knew what this meant to him and shook her head. “’Bastian … Your grandmother gave you that.”

“That’s right. Been in the family for four hundred years.” One of the snakes had two tiny chips of blue stone for eyes. Rain looked from those eyes into ’Bastian’s. His were smiling, and her own started to smile as well. “Always made me feel like I was part of something larger than myself,” he said. “A span of generations and traditions.”

Rain’s eyes widened. She knew this was a big moment, even if she didn’t quite know why. Maybe for just that reason, she resisted. “It’s not exactly my ticket out of here.”

But Sebastian would not be swayed. He took hold of her left arm. The thunder growled at them both. “It’s yours now,” he said. Rain swallowed hard as he slipped the band onto her slim wrist. It was too big for her. ’Bastian paused for a moment, tilting his head to consider the problem or maybe just to listen to the storm. Then he slid it up around her biceps, until it was snug. A perfect fit. “You can wear it up here. That’ll look hip.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling and unconcerned with how it looked. She felt immensely grateful to the old man; he had a knack for making her feel special, for making her limited world seem limitless. Her eyes were focused on his, so she hardly noticed when he let go of the gold band. If she had, she might have also noticed the blue snake eyes
flash
for an instant. A mere trick of the light, perhaps, amid multiple lightning strikes and angry thunder.

His
thoughts were focused inward. His heart was full of familial pride, but he also felt suddenly weary. So he was distracted and didn’t notice the other snake, the eyeless snake, momentarily glowing—nor the same soft golden light shining briefly within his granddaughter’s brown eyes.

Rain felt dizzy. She lowered her head, let out a little moan, and for a second her body reeled; she almost tipped right out of her chair. Sebastian regained focus and reached out to steady her with his hand. “Raindrop, kiddo, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said and meant it. She raised her eyes again and almost took his breath away. Of course, he always thought his granddaughter was pretty. He was biased; he’d admit it.
But she looks positively radiant.
He was reminded of his late wife, Iris’ mother. A woman who spent her whole life almost mystically at peace with the world.

He kept his hand on her shoulder. She placed hers on his. “Really, Papa. I feel good. Thanks.”

“
You
 … are welcome.” Then, with a grunt, he hoisted himself up onto his feet. The old wound was really killing him tonight. “Just put the milk away, okay? I’m beat.”

“Sure, Papa.” As he limped out the door, she gathered up the milk carton, the cereal box and his bowl. Another bolt of lightning flashed outside. The thunder came a full second later. The storm seemed to be moving on.

She listened to ’Bastian’s footsteps as he slowly climbed the back stairs to his third-floor room. Then she rinsed out the bowl and spoon. Put away the milk, the cereal, and her own unused bowl. She crossed back through the dining room and into the lobby.

Her father was there, checking in yet another late arrival. This one was a very tall woman with long black hair. She smiled at Rain. Red lips and dark eyes. Rain smiled back politely and headed up the front stairs.

Rain’s room was on the second floor. First door on the left, facing Goodfellow Lane. As she reached the top of the stairs, her mother came out of the guest room across the hall. “We serve breakfast from seven to ten.”

Callahan filled the doorway. His eyes looked past Iris to Rain, who glanced over her shoulder at him, before pulling out her key and unlocking her room. Iris didn’t notice. She was in hostess mode. “Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay a pleasant one.”

Callahan’s brow furrowed. “Get back to you on that,” he said.

Rain shuddered involuntarily. Iris didn’t see it but somehow sensed it and turned toward her daughter. Rain smiled, shrugged at her mother and entered her room, closing—and locking—the door behind her. There was no doubt about it. This Callahan guy gave her the creeps in a major way.

But he didn’t occupy her mind for long. She paused in front of the dresser mirror to admire her new armband. She had to admit it did look pretty cool around her biceps. “I’m hip,” she said aloud. She giggled. Then she carefully removed it from her arm and placed it on the nightstand. It was late, and she was going waterskiing in the morning. She quickly got ready for bed and turned out the light.

Soon the steady beat of the rain had lulled her to sleep. While outside, Maq and I stood vigil in the downpour, all through the night.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE GHOSTS

Somewhere along the line, I’d been dubbed “Opie.” It wasn’t my real name, of course, but I’d gotten used to it, and at any rate I wasn’t one to complain. I spent most of my time with an old beach bum that the locals knew as “Maq” (though that wasn’t
his
true name either). I was Maq’s best friend, and he was mine. We disagreed sometimes, but considering we were never too sure where our next meal was coming from, we got along just fine.

Maq and I know things.

Lately, he’s grown a bit scattered, but Maq can see into the future. No joke. He knew we’d find lunch behind the Versailles Hotel, and that night he had us standing outside the Nitaino for Rain’s reawakening before she even got to the kitchen. When the snake’s golden glow lit up her eyes, we could both feel it from the street—and despite the weather, it warmed us to our bones.

I couldn’t see the future. I could guess at it like anyone. And I had a more-than-decent memory for the past. But my real talent was the present. I knew what was happening—wherever it was happening—now. I knew what was being done. I knew what was being said. I even knew what was being thought. It came in handy, given my line of work, but it’s not nearly as much fun as it sounds.

Still, that’s why Maq and I made such a great team. We complemented each other. I handled the here and now; he handled the yet to come. Had to be that way. He was (to say the least) a bit vague on the present.

At present, Rain was dreaming. All through the night, she had slept the sleep of the dead. But just before sunrise, rapidly behind closed lids, her eyes began to track back and forth in her skull. She was alone on cobblestone streets. Surrounded by shadows seeking to hem her in. She ran, breathing hard, frightened. Bernie Cohen blocked her course. She tried to slip past, but his garish shirt seemed to swell up to fill the lane, and his increasing bulk forced her away. She stumbled backward, turned, tripped, fell to her knees. Tourists loomed above her. Bernie Cohen, Maude Cohen, Rebecca Sawyer and the shadows of a hundred others she had served breakfast to at the Inn, had carried bait for on the boat.