Midnight Investigation

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She disconnected but stood for a moment, annoyed at herself for caring what Buck did or did not do. She felt relieved, too, that he’d kept his mouth shut. If he’d mentioned psychic crap to Gwen, then Gwen would have been at her door instead of merely calling.

She set the phone down and pulled the steaming tea from the microwave. Desi held the cup near her nose, hoping for soothing effects. She never got upset about a guy. Sure, she felt lonely sometimes and wished for a little romance. Overall she liked her life. She had a nice house and lots of good friends, and she certainly stayed busy with her work and Rampart. It wasn’t like she mooned around, bored and dissatisfied.

She walked past the breakfast bar and stopped short. The cup slipped from suddenly numb fingers. It bounced on the carpet, splashing her jeans with hot tea. Breath lodged in her throat, and her lungs froze.

All the receipts, invoices and other papers that had been on her desk were now scattered across the floor.

D ESI CHECKED the caller ID. It was Buck.

This had not been a good day. After cleaning up tea stains, broken china and scattered paper, and unable to blame the cat, since he’d been locked in the basement, she’d wasted over an hour trying to figure out how the papers had blown off her desk. She checked every door and window for drafts. She even climbed onto a chair and held a candle around the ceiling light fixture to see if there was an air leak. All that proved was that holding a burning candle near a popcorn-textured ceiling was dumb. She’d had to clean off soot then vacuum the bits of texture material that fell on the floor. She had turned the furnace fan on and off several times. Nothing on her desk so much as twitched. She’d even flipped through news stations on the radio and television to see if Colorado Springs had experienced any seismic activity. Nerved up, jumping at every little noise, she’d managed to finish the monthly bookkeeping for Joe’s restaurant, but it had taken twice as long as usual.

On the fourth ring she answered the cell phone.

“Hi, Desi,” Buck said. “What’s wrong?”

Quit being spooky! “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Do you know what the guys at work call me? The Human Lie Detector.”

Bad enough that apparently a mini-tornado had run through her living room, but now he was going all woo-woo on her. She had chills on top of goose bumps. “Good for you,” she sputtered. “I’m busy. I have to go.”

“Desi, come on, talk to me. Is something going on in your house? I’ve been thinking about you all day. I’m worried.”

Before she could reply, noise blared from the phone and banged against her eardrum. She cried out and almost dropped the cell phone. The screen flared then went black. Though she thumbed the Power button, the phone merely screeched and popped, and a wisp of blue smoke curled from the casing. She flung the phone away, half expecting it to sprout legs and come after her.

For the very first time since she’d signed the papers making this house her own, she wanted to be anywhere but here.

B UCK REDIALED Desi’s number. It went straight to voice mail. He knew for certain she hadn’t hung up on him then turned off her phone. The fear he’d heard in her voice rattled him.

He paced aimlessly through his apartment. He picked up a magazine and set it down. He lifted his old Gibson guitar from the stand. He fingered a few chords and played a few notes, but his nerves were as taut as the guitar strings. Not even a rerun of a college football game on ESPN could hold his attention.

Desi needed him.

He pulled on a coat, picked up his keys and cell phone, and left the apartment.

Ghosts rarely harmed people, he knew. A poltergeist might damage household items, and even slap a person or scratch them, but there was not one credibly documented case of a ghost or poltergeist seriously injuring or killing a person.

Dark Presences, on the other hand, operated by different rules. He didn’t know if they were ghosts at all or were instead something demonic. They did hurt people. They killed.

He drove across town to Desi’s town-house community. He parked in a guest space and got out of the Jeep. He exhaled white clouds. Weather reports predicted snow in the next few days.

An empty parking space drew him. He saw 1411 painted on the asphalt. Desi’s space.

He turned to the double row of town houses designed to vaguely resemble Colonial-style row houses. Most of the windows glowed with interior lights and the flickering of television sets. Number 1411 was dark. He rang the doorbell anyway.

The front door of the neighboring house opened, the storm door squeaking. “Do you look for Desi?” a woman with an accent asked. German, Buck thought.

“Yes, ma’am.” He walked down the steps. “I’m a friend of hers. I tried to call, but she’s not answering. I’m a little worried.”

The woman emanated a touch of suspicious nervousness, but a lot of friendliness, too. The warm, rich, yeasty aromas drifting from the open door made Buck’s belly growl.

The woman flipped her hand. “I tell her, those cell phones are no good. Why do all you young people need to talk, talk, talk all the time? A good black telephone, plugged in the wall, is all you need. You don’t answer? Pah! Let them call back if it’s so important.”

He sensed this woman’s loneliness. She held a lot of good will, too. Desi’s living guardian spirit. “She had trouble with her phone?”