Tangled Souls, Page 3

  O’Fallon struggled to pull himself away from what was to come, knowing that if he remained he’d share the victim’s moment of death. He heard the protesting groan of the ceiling beam and then nothing. Mercifully, he’d been spared that final agony. A cold wind blew through him, chilling him to the marrow, as the screen went black. Silence enfolded him as he lost his ability to stand.

  O’Fallon found himself on his knees, shivering intensely, his forehead nearly touching the muddy brown carpet. He shook his head, and a spray of sweat flew in an arc. A wizened face appeared within his field of vision, accompanied by strong, alcohol-laden breath.

  “I thought I had it bad,” the man said, his voice full of boozy concern. He offered a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. Without hesitation, O’Fallon took a swig and let the liquor burn down into his gut.

  “Thanks,” he said, handing back the bag. He looked into the old man’s jaundiced eyes and felt reassured. This one wasn’t a crazy.

  “You okay now?” the wino asked, taking his own pull from the bottle.

  “Yeah.” His actions said otherwise: he rose unsteadily, using the wall for support.

  The old man stood as well, his knees creaking. He gazed upward at the severed rope, and sadness came to his worn face.

  “I’m sorry he’s dead,” he said, and shuffled into the hallway.

  His words reverberated within O’Fallon’s hazy brain. The old man seemed to care about what had happened in this room, and that might be a place to start. O’Fallon stared at the rope for a few moments more and then crossed himself, the final tribute of one member of his faith to another.

  “Kyrie eleison, Benjamin,” he intoned. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

  Chapter Three

  Gavenia glanced at her watch, then tapped the dial as if that simple action would result in her sister’s speedy appearance. She shifted positions to ease the cramp in her left thigh, her nerves bowstring tight. It was nearing seven in the evening and Ari’s plane had landed half an hour ago. Immigration, Customs—it all chewed up time.

  “Time I don’t have.” She took another long breath in a futile attempt to relax, gradually blowing it out through pursed lips. A sea of faces swept by her. Voices called out and reunions occurred, but her sibling was noticeably absent.

  “You couldn’t have waited until next week,” she muttered in supreme irritation. The day had been difficult enough, and she still had another client to meet.

  Where was she?

  Gavenia knew the source of her impatience—Bradley Alliford. She’d encountered reluctant souls, but they’d always accepted the inevitable. Most were keen to move on, but Bradley was the exception. He was stalling, a classic child’s ploy.

  I have to find the mutt. That was the rub: Merlin was among the missing. For some unfathomable reason, Bradley’s mother had spirited the dog off within hours of the boy’s funeral. Gregory Alliford hadn’t been much help, completely mystified as to his estranged wife’s intent. He’d admitted that Janet had never liked the dog and had threatened to have him put down when he gnawed on one of the Oriental carpets. No surprise that the little boy’s spirit manifested the night of the funeral; the missing dog was the trigger.

  “Weird,” Gavenia muttered. She thought about the puppy as groups of passengers wandered past her. At least he was alive; that much she could sense. How long he’d remain that way was up for grabs given Janet Alliford’s seemingly inexplicable behavior.

  Gavenia wound a strand of her waist-length hair around an index finger and glanced at her watch. Seven ten, and another wave of passengers swept by. At times like this, her gift was a mixed blessing. She watched an older woman putter along with a walker, the essence of a man hovering beside her—the woman’s husband. That was touching. He gave Gavenia a warm smile and she returned it.

  Being a Shepherd was like wearing a neon sign, at least to the dead. The flip side was more disconcerting because she couldn’t see all of them, nor could she sense some of the Guardians. That unnerved her and made her wonder what else ran under her radar.

  It’s not polite to stare, a voice said. She glanced sideways. Her own Guardian, Bartholomew Quickens, stood at her elbow. A quintessential thespian, he fussed with his garments as if in preparation for a curtain call. This time he was dressed as a Victorian dandy, with an engraved gold watch hanging from his elegant steel-gray waistcoat. She found that strange, given that the dead had no need for marking time.

  “Channeling Oscar Wilde, are we?” she asked in a sarcastic tone. A woman close by gave her a confused look.

  Bart chuckled, pulled out the pocket watch, popped it open, studied the dial, and then snapped it shut, tucking it back into his waistcoat with a decided flourish.

  It was either this or something Native American. I had trouble deciding, he responded.

  I thought once you were dead you didn’t worry about things like that.

  You’re still upset about this morning.

  She sighed and shifted her gaze back to the crowd. There’s more going on in that household than the death of the little boy. Something else is up, but I can’t figure it out.

  Bart continued to fiddle with his clothes as if he hadn’t heard her, disinclined to offer insight on the issue. At that moment a familiar face appeared in the crowd. Gavenia waved, and the figure waved back.

  “She’s still wearing black,” she observed. It had been almost a year since her brother-in-law’s death, and her younger sister still remained in full mourning. Ariana moved through the crowd, the gray ghost of Paul Hansford following just behind her. Gavenia groaned. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  Bart tut-tutted in consummate disapproval. Ah, the widow Hansford and her very late husband. Some of them never understand the party’s over.

  “Gavenia!” her sister called.

  “Ari!” she called back, putting on a welcoming smile.

  They fell into an awkward embrace. Ariana Hansford was a head taller than her older sister, her shoulder-length auburn hair contrasting with Gavenia’s long honey-gold tresses. They’d always joked the fairies had left the wrong baby on the doorstep, though they’d never agreed as to which of them was the ringer.

  Gavenia broke the hug first though she knew it should have lasted longer. Her eyes met those of her deceased brother-in-law and he returned a disdainful look. Ariana was unaware her sister could see Paul, and that worked fine.

  She’ll have to know someday, Bart commented, leaning against a pillar a discreet distance away. She ignored him.

  “Come on, let’s get you back to the condo,” she said, and snagged up one of her sister’s bags. “I’ve got something going tonight.” Without waiting for a reply, she set off for the nearest exit at a ferocious pace despite her cane.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were so busy. Maybe I should have stayed in England a bit longer,” Ari called from behind.

  “That would have helped,” Gavenia replied without thinking, struggling to keep up the pace toward the far end of the terminal.

  “I see.”

  The pathetic tone of Ari’s voice caused Gavenia to halt midstride. Her sister deserved a warmer welcome. Dropping the heavy bag, she waited until Ari caught up, then she embraced her again, taking time with the hug. She brushed a light kiss on her sister’s flushed cheek.

  “I’ve missed you, Pooh,” she said softly, using her pet name for Ari.

  “You, too, Tinker Bell,” Ari replied.

  “I’m sorry, I’m a bit preoccupied.”

  “I understand.” As they pulled out of the hug, Gavenia studied her sister’s pale and weary face with concern.

  “You look really tired.”

  “I am. I can’t seem to sleep properly.”

  “You can rest in the car.”

  They hefted the suitcases and hiked through the busy terminal, the disapproving ghost of Paul Hansford trailing in their wake.

  * * *

  The man sitting across from Gavenia appeared remarkably alert, de
spite the late hour. Meeting a client at ten thirty in the evening wasn’t the norm, but despite her hints that a more reasonable time might be considered, Bill Jones had insisted he had to see her tonight.

  To mitigate her unease, Gavenia had chosen Earth, Wind, and Fire as the meeting place. A benign New Age café, it was an ideal location, despite the crime-infested neighborhood. She’d already talked to Branwen, the owner, and told her about the client’s unusual request. If anything went wrong, she just had to raise the alarm.

  Outside the psychic reading room, voices rose and fell in a soft cadence. The tantalizing scent of fresh-baked scones and Moonbeam tea wafted under the closed door. Gavenia had barely been able to drop Ari off at the condo before hurrying here. Supper had been lost in the shuffle.

  She pulled her mind back to the moment, studying her client. Mr. Jones was an older man, nondescript; clean-shaven, wearing a white shirt, black-rimmed glasses, and gray pants. A paean to simplicity.

  Too simple, Bart commented from his location nearby. He was watching with more interest than usual. Was that a warning? It was often hard to sort through his offhand remarks.

  Where is his Guardian? she asked.

  Doesn’t want to be seen.

  Why not?

  He hitched a shoulder. Gavenia shifted in her chair, on edge. “How can I help you, Mr. Jones?” she asked.

  He produced a smart phone in a scuffed case. “Do you mind if I record this?” he asked, pointing at it.

  “I have no objections,” Gavenia replied. Often what she told a client didn’t make sense until they’d listened to the recording sometime down the line; then she’d receive a telephone call reaffirming that the session had been of value.

  “I lost my brother last year,” Jones announced after fiddling with the phone. He set it on the small table between them. It was scuffed and scarred as though it had a million frequent-flier miles.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Gavenia replied, as politely as she could given the late hour. A nascent yawn tried to sneak up on her, and she clenched her teeth to prevent its escape.

  “I’d like to talk to him,” he said as if ordering a glass of wine. His nonchalant attitude generated a prickle of apprehension, and she resisted the temptation to look at Bart. Instead, she lit a citrus candle and focused on the light.

  “Please relax and take a few deep breaths. When you’re ready, silently ask for assistance from your own personal source of Divinity, and I’ll do the same.” She disliked putting things in those terms, but given that she didn’t know the religious affiliations of most of her clients, the generic reference was best. Gavenia closed her eyes and began her personal ritual: three deep breaths, a prayer for protection, another calming breath, and a prayer for guidance.

  Let me speak for those who are no longer with us, those who still have great wisdom to share. Let this be a time of healing and of understanding. Use me as you see fit.

  Gavenia sensed the presence immediately. The young woman stood near Jones’s chair, clad in a fifties-style floral dress, her chestnut-brown hair in the soft waves typical of that era. She wore a small gold cross at her throat and a white apron, as if she’d just stepped from her kitchen. She twisted her hands together in an agitated manner, glancing right and left.

  I am Gavenia. Do you wish to speak to Bill?

  Yes.

  Who are you?

  I am his mother. My name is Linda.

  “Mr. Jones, I have someone here, but it isn’t your brother. She says her name is Linda. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  Gavenia hesitated and, after another look at the spirit, added, “She says she’s your mother.” The man’s eyes narrowed, and a slight upward tilt appeared at the corner of his mouth. It almost resembled a smirk.

  “What does she want to tell me?” he asked after a quick look at the phone. He was paying closer attention to it than to the actual session.

  Bart shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  What’s up here? Gavenia asked through their mental link.

  I’m not sure.

  She turned her attention to the waiting soul, hoping to find answers from that quarter. What do you wish your son to know?

  That I love him and that he shouldn’t blame his father. Donald was very angry. He thought I was having an affair. I wouldn’t do that. The woman began to weep, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of the apron. I’d never hurt little Billy like that.

  Gavenia explained to Jones, “She says she loves you and that you shouldn’t blame your father, that he was very angry. Does that make sense to you?”

  The man shook his head and flicked another downward glance at the phone. Something’s not right, Bart said, rising from his chair. I think you should end this session.

  Before Gavenia could react, images bulldozed into her mind, shoving aside any questions. She saw Linda in her pristine kitchen, a cake in the oven; its rich scent filled her nose. She heard the sounds of a screen door banging shut and angry words erupting. Tears flowed, and then came a shrill scream as a bright flash of silver arced in the air. The screams continued, ricocheting through Gavenia as she crumpled forward. White-hot agony seared through her chest, burning as if someone had ignited an inferno within her heart. She clenched her hands together, burrowing her nails into her palms, oblivious to the pain. In her mind’s eye, immense sprays of scarlet sailed heavenward, splashing the virginal white cabinets, raining downward onto the immaculate floor. Abrupt silence. Then the rhythmic chiming of the oven timer.

  He killed me, the soul said in a hoarse whisper. He killed me on Billy’s second birthday.

  Gradually, the roaring in Gavenia’s ears lessened, though the torment in her head and chest did not give way once the images ceased. Sweat dampened her forehead, and the meager light from the candle pierced her eyes like a torch.

  Bart was near her now, kneeling, his face level with hers. Just take a few deep breaths, he advised. She did as instructed, and the pounding in her head diminished.

  “Are you okay?” Jones asked. In contrast to Bart’s anxious tone, his was indifferent.

  Gavenia raised her head, confused by his attitude and was stunned to see he wore a jubilant smile. The expression vanished instantly.

  “Your mother died violently,” she said, struggling to keep her thoughts together.

  A frown appeared. “Why do you say that?”

  “She showed me her death. She was stabbed with one of the kitchen knives.”

  “So who killed her?” he asked. Again, the nonchalant tone.

  “She said it was your father.”

  As if on cue, Jones surged to his feet. He started to chuckle, a low rumble in his chest as he pulled cash from his pants pocket. With a gesture of triumph, he tossed two twenties onto the table between them, a condescending smirk in place.

  Gavenia shook her head, though it hurt to move. “I only charge twenty-five and donate—”

  “Just so you know, my father is a used-car salesman in Bakersfield. He and my mom have been divorced for ten years, and she’s very much alive,” Jones gloated. He hesitated, as if he was going to add something else. Instead, he slipped off his glasses and dropped them into his shirt pocket, as if he was removing a disguise.

  “You think I’m making this up?” Gavenia asked.

  Jones nodded, his smile returning. “I know you are. Nice theatrics, by the way.”

  His mother’s ghost still wept. Linda was real, not some mind game one of the lower entities might play on an unsuspecting psychic. If she wasn’t lying, then what was going on?

  Gavenia made the supreme effort to rise to her feet, her balance unsteady. She leaned heavily on the cane as the room whirled.

  “I only relate what I’m told. I see your mother as clearly as you see me. She has brown hair and is wearing a flowered dress and a white apron. She said she was killed on your birthday.”

  A peculiar grin crossed Jones’s face, one that seemed at odds with the life-changing info
rmation she’d just revealed. It reminded her of a cat as it catches an elusive mouse, that moment of exultation right before it begins to play with its prey.

  “Thank you, Miss Kingsgrave; you’ve been fabulous, even better than I’d hoped,” he said, scooping the phone off the table. He pointed toward the cane. “Great prop, by the way.” He swept out the door as his mother’s ghost wept harder.

  He does not believe you, the soul said between heart-wrenching sobs.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Gavenia said, a sickening sense of foreboding enveloping her. She massaged her temples to ease the pain, taking two deep breaths before sinking down onto the chair. “What did he think I was going to tell him?” she whispered.

  Bart put his arm around the weeping soul in a comforting gesture. As Linda rested her head on his shoulder, he caught Gavenia’s gaze.

  I don’t think he cared.

  The ghost hadn’t been much further help, too lost in her own grief. Gavenia bid her farewell, and the spirit vanished, still weeping and clutching her apron. To calm herself, Gavenia took some Moonbeam tea and a blueberry scone to go. Once in her car, she locked the doors in deference to the neighborhood, sipped the brew, and devoured the pastry. The headache eased, replaced by exhaustion and supreme irritation.

  She’d been able to experience parts of a soul’s life before, but never with such depth and intensity. Never had she felt the moment of death.

  “Why did I . . . ?” She hesitated, ripples of the scene washing through her. She shivered and pushed the car’s heater control higher into the red, as if that would solve the underlying problem.

  You’re getting more in tune with them, was the solemn reply. Bart was in the front seat staring out the passenger-side window like a kid who wished he could be anywhere else at that moment.

  Gavenia finished up the scone and washed it down with a shot of the tea. “Anything else you want to tell me?” she asked.