The White Night (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

Ford Atticus Ford

It’s early in the
morning—too early for normal, sane humans—when there’s just enough light to see
the world emerging. Born from night once again. Rubbing the sleep from its
eyes.

I’m sitting out on
the balcony of my rented condo here in Newport, Oregon. It’s a coastal town
roughly two and half hours southwest from my home in Portland, and the cool
thing is, it’s far enough away that I actually feel like I’m on vacation, yet
close enough that I don’t have to spend all day traveling to get somewhere.
It’s a distantly removed staycation, even though that term makes me gag a
little.

I like it here on
the coast. It’s where I come to pretend like I have a normal life that doesn’t
involve ghosts, demonic entities, lawsuits, cranky detectives, lawyers who may
as well be demons, and responsibility. Here, the misty, rainy grays of the day
feel like a comforting blanket to me. It’s good napping weather. It smells like
salt air and moss. Life feels slower, more measured. Other than sex and pizza,
there’s nothing better than wrapping a thick, fluffy blanket around your
shoulders, plopping down into a cozy chair on a deck overlooking the mighty
Pacific, and enjoying a lukewarm cup of coffee while the waves roll in.

But I don’t get to
do that right now because I just finished reading an email from Jesse, my
assistant in dry, sunny Albuquerque, with a subject line that reads, in all
caps: OMG! FORD! COOLEST NEWS EVER!

Except it’s not.

Not to me, anyway.

The email, which
contains the details of a press release from some company called Spirit World
Productions, Inc., sits open on my screen. Apparently, I’ve agreed to
participate in the filming of a controversial documentary—without signing
anything official, and especially without giving them my permission.

If I could, I’d
burn holes through the press release with giant, fiery bolts of white-hot flame
from my eyeballs. Instead, I slam my laptop closed, stand up, and twist
sideways like a discus-slinging Olympian, ready to hurl the damn thing off the
balcony and down the cliff, all the way to the soaking wet sand below. Better
judgment prevails because I have important stuff on here and my therapist has
suggested in the past that destroying inanimate objects is one of the least
productive ways to manage difficult emotions.

The biggest
problem is, I don’t know whom to blame first.

Should I blame
myself for even hinting to my friend and former co-lead investigator, Mike
Long, that I may even be
slightly
interested in doing a documentary
about the case of little Chelsea Hopper when we were together last, after the
Craghorn case in Hampton Roads?

I said
maybe
.
I absolutely
did not
agree to it. Not yet. Not in full.

Or should I blame
Mike himself, because as sure as the sky is blue, he has to be the one who
passed word along that I was interested?

I don’t… I just
don’t know. I can’t believe that Mike would do that to me. He knew I needed to
think about it. He understood that I was on the fence, that my feelings about
Chelsea, her family, and the former
Graveyard: Classified
producer,
Carla Hancock—who is mostly to blame for ruining the show’s future—were
difficult ones to reconcile. That whole situation is heavy, shadowy, and
pregnant with nasty possibilities. We’re talking, like, a moss green,
covered-in-warts imp baby of nastiness.

After Chelsea Hopper,
who was five years old at the time, was attacked by a demon on our show, on
live television, Halloween night 2012, my world crumbled like a pack of Ramen
noodles under the heel of God. Although forgiving Carla would be mentally
healthy, because there’s already enough darkness swimming around in my head, I
don’t think I’ll ever find the strength, or desire, to absolve her for forcing
that situation onto such a sweet, smiling, innocent girl.

Nor myself for
allowing it to happen while chasing glory and fame.

So, yeah. I
digress. You can see that, in my life, guilt and blame fly around like glowing
tracer bullets over ‘Nam, but I’ll need to make a few phone calls to find out
where I should adjust my crosshairs for this particular occasion.

Can you force someone
to redact a press release? Probably.

Should be simple
enough to issue a correction, right? But the damage will be done. Even hinting
at something like this will cause a hurricane of excitement on social media,
which normally would be a good thing—except for the subject matter.

After that shit in
Norfolk, I’m worried about Chelsea and what might be coming if that demon is to
be believed. It’s the kind of thing that should be handled in private. Then
again, Mike needs this to help his life heal just as much as I do, though for
extremely different reasons.

I blurt out a
handful of curses, stopping short of shaking my fist at the sky like a
crotchety old man and carefully sit my laptop down on the balcony’s small glass
table. Behind me, I hear the
tic-tic-tic
of dog claws on concrete and
turn to see my beloved canine buddy.

Ulie has the only
face in the world that I’d like to see at the moment. I brought him with me on
this short getaway because I can’t burden Melanie from wardrobe—sorry, just
Melanie
—with
another dog-sitting weekend. I can only pull water from that well so many times
before I feel like I’m taking advantage of her generosity.

As my ex-wife,
she’s more charitable than social customs typically dictate.

Besides, it’s when
I’m travelling all across the U.S. that I really need her help. I should
probably save my favor cards for when my next case pops up and a befuddled
detective needs some paranormal help with an ongoing investigation a thousand
miles from here.

Although, I’m
sure, to Melanie, keeping an eye on Ulie is considered more of a treat than a
chore. I mean, honestly, he’s the Bestest Doggie in the Whole Wide World.

Don’t tell him,
though. It might go to his head.

This dog, man…

One ear that’s
constantly flopped over. Big brown eyes. White fur around his muzzle that looks
like a goatee. The cutest, most mischievous doggie grin that you’ve ever seen.
Who wouldn’t want to hang out with this guy?

I left him on the
loveseat earlier, legs twitching and upper lip curled, perhaps chasing a bevy
of annoying seagulls in his dreams, and now, as he pads out onto the balcony
with me, he looks up with a groggy expression. Head cocked as if he’s asking,
“It’s so early. What in the hell are you doing out here, Ford?”

I drop down to one
knee and cup my hands around the back of his head, running my thumbs across the
inside of his ears. He loves this trick, eyelids drooping in bliss, and it’s
great to see that he’s back to his old self after my third investigation at the
Hampstead farmhouse. Papa Joe is a dark, malevolent spirit that rolls in like a
thick blanket of black clouds around your heart, and I’ll admit that it wasn’t
the best idea to have that grumpy old bastard serve as Ulie’s introduction to
the world of paranormal investigations.

And then I had to
leave him for a few days and fly east over to the Hampton Roads area in coastal
Virginia. That investigation did
not
have the results I expected.

Once again, a
spirit will likely change the direction of my life.

It’s no secret
that ghosts affect my life more than humans, and yet, no matter how much I’ve been
exposed to it, the thought is still strange to me.

Back in Virginia,
after my little tantrum in the investigation room, where I practically said,
“Screw you guys, I’m going home,” and stormed off like a kid on a playground,
Detective Thomas was kind enough to send a copy of my audio files back to me
when curiosity took over. I spent days reviewing them, staying up all hours of
the night, pausing and rewinding, pausing and rewinding, fighting goosebumps, chugging
coffee and energy drinks while I sent Mike random, caffeine-infused emails
until he finally called and told me to take a break.

“Ford, dude, chill
out,” he told me last week. “It was the same demon from the Hopper house. I get
it. You don’t need to convince me. What you need to do is, drop the energy
drinks down a notch or two and get a nap in, okay? And take Melanie to dinner.
Get your mind off this a while.”

You know, it
seemed like good advice at the time. At least the part about backing off the
energy drinks and getting some rest. What Mike didn’t know, and what I hadn’t
told him yet, is that Melanie was seeing this guy Jeff from the morning news
program where she did hair, makeup, and wardrobe. I’d discovered that little
tidbit of shitty information when I went to pick Ulie up after the Virginia
trip. Sad thing is, I learned it
after
I had made a jackass of myself by
asking if I could take her to dinner.

Maybe
I
looked like a jackass. Take it for what you will. She could’ve thought it was
an innocent gesture. A quick thanks for watching Ulie. Who knows?

The only thing I can
say for certain is that I felt my hopes fizzle out like week-old soda in a can,
and I left her place that night with my tail tucked between my legs. Ulie had a
sympathetic tail-tuck as well, or it could’ve been that he was just sad to
leave Melanie.

Whatever. Doodoo
happens.

I mention all that
to say this: the trip over here to the Oregon coast was meant to get my mind
off Melanie and how I screwed up our marriage. It was meant to give me some
mental distance from Chelsea Hopper, her tormentor, and the mental hangups I
have about doing a feature-length documentary on her story. Carla wants it for
her career. Mike needs the money to heal his life and his marriage, as I’ve
mentioned.

What about me?

That’s easy.
Redemption. Has been and always will be until I get some closure for myself,
and for that sweetheart little girl.

This trip is
supposed to be relaxing.

Instead, all it’s
done is give me more time to think about the crap I should be ignoring for a
couple of weeks. My jaws hurt from clenching them so much. I need to be
working. I need to be investigating. I need to find something to occupy my
mind.

That’s exactly why
I checked my email earlier. I couldn’t sleep, so I left Ulie snoozing while I
got up and came out to the balcony. I opened my email in hopes that Jesse had
sent me a note with details about a job, any welcome distraction to get my
focus elsewhere. Maybe there would be a request from that cop down in Baton
Rouge. We left that case open a couple of months and he was supposed to get in
touch with me again if he wanted more help.

And then,
blammo
,
OMG FORD! COOLEST NEWS EVER.

The thought of it
whips up another tornado of anger and nausea in my stomach.

“Damn it.” I stand
up, grunting as my knees crackle like bubble wrap. I’m getting older, and the
sad thing is, I’m probably on the back nine already, on the way down the slide,
ready to become one of those who talk to me from the afterlife.

The words of my
therapist—and Melanie, too, before we were divorced, crawl into my head. “You
can’t keep doing this to yourself. You know how you are. Bad news or—or moments
of indecision, too much going on in your mind… They’re not excuses to start
feeling sorry for yourself. Listen to me, okay? It’s
life
. It doesn’t
mean the universe hates Ford Atticus Ford.”

Yeah. I get it,
but damn if that fist-sized snowball doesn’t turn into a massive boulder
screaming down a hillside once it gets rolling.

I lean on the
balcony railing and feel flecks of rain pitter-pattering against my cheeks and
forehead. Ulie whimpers and grumbles when a seagull screeches by, sailing on
the drizzle-soaked breeze.

I
have
to
find some work. I need to put my mind back in its happy place, and that means I
need to go talk to some dead people.

I’ll sit back on
the press release news. There’s nothing I can do about it this very second
anyway, and I expect my phone will be ringing, and Mike will be on the caller
ID before long. He’ll either be apologizing, or asking for forgiveness, or
both, and there’s no way I’m prepared to have a civil discussion with him.

Right now, at this
very moment, as I stand here in my pajama bottoms and a USC sweatshirt, the
only question that remains is this: who should a guy talk to if he wants to dig
up some trouble with the local ghosts? I’ve had cases handed to me for so long
that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to go out and search for them.

I’m tired, though.
I hear the siren call of my bed, but I know if I go snuggle in, I won’t sleep.
I’ll just think everything I’m not doing at the moment to make the world a
better place, one that’s safer from the powerful right-handers who bear the
torches for Satan Himself.

Yeah.

Coffee first. Then
trouble.

CHAPTER TWO

Ford Atticus Ford

Her high heels are
a shade of red that exists in nature, but only on the breast of some exotic
bird in a South American jungle. That’s the first thing I notice. First, the
color of her pumps, and second, I’m wondering why someone is so dressed up at
half past seven in the morning, standing in line at a petite bakery that would
fit inside my master bedroom closet back home.

I’m not disrespecting
Le Breadcrumb. They work magic with an oven and some dough, but damn are they tiny.

And the smell in
here? If God has air freshener in Heaven, I bet it’s the same.

Her appearance boggles
the mind on a typical, drizzly day here in Nye Beach. Sure, it’s a bit artsy
and more trend-
ish
than the rest of Newport, but this ain’t Fifth
Avenue.

I’ll admit, the
pumps are sexy, and they seamlessly lead into a pronounced set of well-toned
and well-tanned calves. I stop at the hem of her little black dress, which
tightly comes to a screeching halt just above her knees, and not because I
can’t look any further up, but because she catches me.

I’m human. I’m
male. Sue me.

Besides, it’s not
often that you see such classy attire before the sun is barely up.

One of these
things is not like the other, right?

I smile over the
rim of my coffee, a bit sheepishly, because yeah, I just got caught being a man.

There’s a distant
sense of familiarity about her too, like it would be
okay
to look
because I know her. I’m sure I don’t. Ninety-nine percent. I’ve been here a few
days now. Have I maybe seen her at a restaurant? In the wine aisle at the
grocery joint up the street?

She’s bottle-blonde
with a shade of red lipstick that matches the pumps. Black-rimmed glasses—the
nerdy sexy kind—accentuate her cheekbones. Nothing about the whole ensemble is
an accident. It’s by design, and I can only think of a handful of reasons why
she’s here, dressed like that.

One, she’s an
escort on her way home—that’s
not
why I would recognize her, by the by—or
two, this is the walk of shame. Maybe she spent the night with some rich dude
who owns an obnoxiously gargantuan oceanfront house, someone she met at a bar
or an office party. Or—and God forbid the cliché—she’s the personal assistant,
she slept with the boss, and she’s regretting every second of the hangover, both
the moral aspects and the alcohol-induced ones.

But, who am I to
judge?

The point is,
she’s out of place, dressed like that here in this bakery, this early in the
morning, and I noticed.

She noticed me
noticing.

And, now, we’re
doing the subtle glance dance… mostly because I’m sitting here with a
half-eaten scone and a horrible cup of coffee, waiting on her to recognize me.

I’m not being an
egotistical jerk. Honest to God. It comes with the job description of a former
television host of one of the most popular paranormal reality shows that has
ever graced the small screen. Or any show, for that matter.

Graveyard:
Classified
was a juggernaut.

And then that
thing with Chelsea Hopper happened.

And then it wasn’t
a juggernaut anymore.

I have no qualms
whatsoever about owning up to the fact that I went from A-List Celebrity
Extraordinaire to D-List Subterranean Basement Dweller who only gets invited to
the big parties when someone is feeling nostalgic.

My ego, my pride…
they earned that for me, and I’m man enough to accept it.

However, that
doesn’t stop me from enjoying the occasional interaction with a superfan, especially
when they look like the exotic species now paying for her cranberry muffin, who
then daintily picks up her coffee mug—that’s been filled too full—and shuffles
toward me with a smile baring the brightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen.
Really, they’re like an exploding star. I can tell that it’s hard for her to
shuffle in those heels, so I get up, extend a hand for assistance and pull out
a chair. Because, obviously, she’s coming to sit with me—and then she walks
right past and says hello to the elderly woman at my six.

Ouch.
Burn
.

My cheeks are on
fire. The knife wound in my dignity is cavernous, and I’m left standing here
with my coffee unfinished, my scone half eaten, wiping my sweaty palms on my
jeans, wondering if I should pretend like I was simply getting up to leave.

That’s the best
exit strategy, the safest way to save myself from the moment. I can see Ulie
outside, squinting against the drizzle blowing in his face as he sits
patiently, waiting for me to bring him one of the baked doggie treats that Le
Breadcrumb is known for. Well, at least in the canine world, population: Ulie.

A hasty exit is
the only salvageable way out of this, and the wailing screech of metal chair
legs on a smooth concrete floor announces my escape to the entire bakery.

Behind me, I hear
a radio-smooth voice saying, “Oh, hey, don’t go.”

I turn around and
she’s, boom,
right there
. “I’m sorry—what?”

She sets her
muffin down on my table, spills some of the too-full coffee, and tucks a loose
strand of hair behind her ear. The diamond stud in her earlobe is roughly the
size of a hailstone in mid-summer Kansas, and I assume there’s a matching one
on the other side. She apologizes again and tells me, “That was mean. I was
just screwing with you.”

“You were? I, uh…”

I don’t know what
to say to this. It’s fairly standard for fans of the show to stumble, fumble,
trip, fall, and stutter their way into a greeting, asking for a photo with me
or an autograph, whether I’m in line at Target or waiting to speak to a
detective at a police station. The general population isn’t secure enough to
mess with me out in public. That’s reserved for Mike Long, Melanie, and other
close friends; my guarded circle of people who know the real me—the guy in a
t-shirt and flip-flops—not the former
enfant terrible
of paranormal
investigations.

“The almighty Ford
Atticus Ford,” she says, narrowing her eyelids. “You were checking me out.”

Wow. The bravado
on this one. “I—uh, yeah—I mean, no.”

Up close, her
perfume dances among the luscious scents of scones, muffins, doughnuts, and
brewing coffee, penetrating the moment I’m fumbling through.

She smells like a
candy store that also doubles as a florist. If it were possible, it’s a scent I
would love to taste.

“It’s okay,” she
says. “I don’t mind. Happens a bit in my line of work. Yours too, I would
imagine.”

“Line of work?”

Her jaw drops in
mock offense. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

I squint at her,
feigning recognition. “
Vaguely
.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not, I—”

“Whatevs, buddy.
We’ve known each for a long time, even though we’ve never officially met. I’m
Lauren Coeburn. Nice to finally meet you in person.”

Oh. My. God.

Lauren Coeburn
.
I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out.

Especially since
she fucking
eviscerated
me on
The Weekend Report
, that
entertainment show where they make fun of all the dumb things said on reality
television each week. I used to love it and watched every chance I got, which
usually meant a marathon morning in front of the TV on the rare day that we
weren’t traveling or filming.

I haven’t watched
it since
Graveyard
got pulled, and not since she repeatedly flashed that
single picture of me, taken by Carla Hancock, where I’m looking over my
shoulder, grinning nervously. A grin that was taken out of context by every
media rep that showed it. It didn’t help that you can also see Chelsea Hopper
holding my hand, terrified and crying. Irony aside, that photo will fucking
haunt
me for the rest of my days.

Those thirty
seconds of
The Weekend Report
are burned into my memory. That image of
me, on the screen, appearing and then fading to black, over and over, with the
overlaid soundtrack of a heartbeat thumping in rhythm—it stings.

I can recite her
words verbatim: “Normally, this show is all about the comedy,” said her
voiceover. “But today, we’re sad to announce the death knell for the almighty
Ford Atticus Ford. You know him, you
used to
love him, though I wouldn’t
blame you for bringing out the pitchforks now. Little Chelsea Hopper, attacked
by a demon—and no, I’m not talking about that thing in the attic. Just look at
him. The anger in his eyes. The vengeance that he seeks. For what? Why? What
kind of monster could do such a thing to an innocent girl? I can tell you this;
it takes the frozen heart of someone who’s already dead inside to do that to a
child. That horrible, rotting, puss-filled shell of a human being should have committed
hara-kiri
in Times Square before this ever became a possibility. So let
me ask you this: has Ford Atticus Ford become the monster that he supposedly
claims to hunt each week on
Graveyard: Classified
? And, if that’s the
case, does the
real
question become… should Ford have turned the camera
on
himself
a long time ago? We’ve got the disturbing footage right after
the break. You might want to put the kids to bed for this one, folks.”

And why, exactly,
didn’t I recognize her if such an astronomically atrocious attack on my
character is still zipping around my synapses?

It’s because, like
Mike, she’s dropped some weight, gotten a tan, gone through a complete
makeover, and has pretty much transformed herself into a different human
entirely. It’s because she’s smiling at me. It’s because she’s being nice to
me.

That
is why
I didn’t recognize her.

While Mike went
through his transition, I’m assuming, in order to shed a layer that reminded
him of anything having to do with
me
, it’s likely that Lauren Coeburn’s
producers had not so subtly suggested that she straighten herself out.

I’ve been off the
Internet and away from social media for close to two years now, but I have been
in line at a grocery store, and I’ve seen the tabloids. I specifically remember
seeing her on the cover of
Hollywood Watchlist
, wearing a gray one-piece
swimsuit on a tropical beach somewhere, with some awful headline about how an
elephant had escaped from the San Diego Zoo. I’ll admit that I felt a wee bit
of vindication—okay, a whole lot of it—but that’s just wrong, man.

Okay, yeah, I
chuckled. Poor thing.

Poor her, poor me.
Whatever.

Lauren holds her
hand out to shake, and I let her get to where I can sense she’s getting ready
to pull it back. I do this on purpose, and then I grab it during the retreat,
squeeze a little harder than you should with a “lady.” I make a theatrical show
of wiping my hand on my shirt. Not down around my waist or indiscreetly on my
side, no, nothing like that, but rather in full view across my chest.

Petty? Yes.
Childish? Yes.

Do I care?

Nah.

The only thing I
have to say to that is, sometimes it’s okay to indulge those tendencies.
Staying young at heart doesn’t always mean eating an ice cream cone or watching
cartoons. Sometimes you have to let go of that inner animal, the one that’s
been molded and scarred by society, and relish in being the simplest of things:
a whiny, foot-stomping brat.

I tilt my head
back a bit, which accentuates my flared nostrils and raised eyebrows—an angry,
snorting bull, I am—before I flop down into my chair, arms crossed, lips
smashed together, in an obvious, edge-of-a-tantrum pouting position.

Lauren appears
amused and gestures to the seat opposite of me. “May I sit?”

“Be my guest,
Coeburn.” I look away. Outside, Ulie remains tethered to the front porch’s
support beam, only now he’s moved down to the microscopic strip of grass between
the sidewalk and the street, where he investigates the rear of a friendly
poodle being ushered along by an elderly couple.

Two minutes ago, I
was daydreaming about doing the same thing to the woman sitting across from me
until I found out who she was.

What a world.

I have absolutely
no idea what to expect from this, and around someone like Lauren Coeburn,
anything I say can and will be used against me in the court of public opinion,
so I reserve my right to remain silent. I want her to speak first. That way,
I’ll know how to proceed.

Either Lauren has
the same plan, or she doesn’t know what to expect either, because we sit in
extended, funeral-parlor silence while she sips at her mug and pinches nibble-sized
morsels off the bulbous muffin cap.

In my peripheral
vision, I catch the bakery clerk trying to sneak a picture of us with her
iPhone. She forgets to turn off the flash, which gives her away immediately,
and she apologizes with an embarrassed wave before scuttling behind the metal
racks filled with the various loaves of bread that will be gone by ten a.m.

Lauren loses the
battle of wills when she finally says, “I heard you might be filming a new documentary.”

Damn it. Word
spreads fast.