The White Night (9 page)

“Positive? It’s
not every day you get to hunt a ghost with a world famous paranormal
investigator.”

Shifting her
weight from foot to foot, daintily nibbling her bottom lip as she tries to make
up her mind, Dakota eventually takes a single step closer to the gorgeous,
beachfront mansion that she so desperately wants to call home. “Okay,” she
says, the single word shuddering itself into pieces. “I can—I can do this.”

“
We
,” I
remind her, raising my voice like Ford used to do during so many investigations.
He’d put on this locker room speech before filming, every single time, and the
crew loved it. So did I, honestly. It got everyone revved up and ready to rock,
and I’d like to do the same for Dakota. “Let’s go in there and kick some
ghostly ass. Let’s go tell this piece of shit where he can shove it, and let’s
take your home back, because you’re Dakota
Freakin’
Bailey.”

“Damn right,” she
squeaks, without a single bit of confidence.

CHAPTER TEN

Ford Atticus Ford

It’s easy to be a
good person, and it’s also easy to be a bad person.

Making the right
decisions is the line that divides the two.

And sometimes that
line is blurry.

The choice I have
to make at the moment is whether to believe Lauren Coeburn or call complete
bullshit whilst throwing her and her dog-slobber-covered Grandma Ellen out of
my condo and into the ferocious rainstorm. Ellen—I’d probably be cool with her
hanging around. She’s nice, gentle, low maintenance, and has never completely
gutted me on national television in front of millions of people.

Am I a humongous
jerkface for holding a grudge? Depends on your angle, I suppose.

My therapist,
bless his pointy little goatee, wire-rimmed glasses, and fatherly tone, always
suggests that forgiveness will open my heart to the light of the world and
fresh possibilities. I generally try to follow his advice; then again, he
doesn’t really know what it’s like to stand across the kitchen counter from a
woman who slid a sharp blade across your reputation’s throat.

What she just now
told me is so thoroughly unfathomable that my brain can’t even comprehend the
enormity of it.

Tell Ford we’re
waiting for him.

I—seriously? For
real?

First, Hamster
Hampstead’s grandfather, Papa Joe, called me out by name in that abandoned
farmhouse.

Then, the demon
right-hander that had attacked poor Dave Craghorn—and we’re fairly positive it
was the same one from Chelsea Hopper’s house—that bastard knew me and knew my
name as well.

I mention this to
people all the time. The police detectives I work with on a regular basis, the
families I try to help… I try to make them understand that it’s all connected.
There’s sort of a universal
energy
out there, and you can look to George
Lucas and
Star Wars
for a fancy nickname for the thing that binds
everyone together, living or dead, earthly or otherworldly. My theory is that
information can travel across this plane of energy in the spiritual world,
which is exactly how Papa Joe—grumpy old cuss that he is—was trying to warn me
about what’s coming, especially in relation to Chelsea Hopper and that all-too-powerful
right-hander.

But this?
Black-eyed children, some of the least known and least researched paranormal
entities sending me a message, by name?

Well, color me
stunned.

It’s terrifying,
confusing, and bowel-loosening, all at the same time.

And I don’t want
to believe it.

Because what’s
next? Will I get an email from Bigfoot?

Ford! Dude!
Let’s grab beers this weekend. This amigo of mine, he lives up the hill and has
some wicked cavebrew going on. You need to try it, yo!

Except that I
might actually enjoy having a couple of pints with Bigfoot, rather than some
cross-dimensional demonic entities out there trying to throw down.

What I prefer to
believe is that Lauren Coeburn is lying out of that succulent mouth of hers,
right between those pristinely bleached teeth. What I would also prefer to
believe is that she did some research—probably remembering some interview I did
five or six years ago where I mentioned how spooky the black-eyed children
are—and now she’s here to play against my fears, sidle up next to me, and
pickpocket whatever info I have on Carla Hancock and Spirit World Productions.

If that’s the
case, I’m might go caveman on her, grab a handful of hair, and drag this
screaming blonde pixie out of my condo where I’d deposit her in the deepest
puddle in the parking lot.

Ellen might get shown
the door, too. I’d be gentler, though—like maybe an angry piggyback ride.

That would be so
much easier than the difficult decision I’m about to make.

I’m going to trust
that Lauren is telling the truth for the time being.

The black-eyed
children have tossed out a vaguely concealed threat, and I’m not one to back
down from paranormal fisticuffs.

Lauren says,
“Ford?” which shreds apart my mental seesaw and yanks me back into the kitchen.

The beer bottle is
cold in my hand. The tiles are cool under my feet. And when it comes to the woman
occupying the stool across from me, it seems like my heart isn’t as frozen as I
thought it was.

Open yourself to
forgiveness, Ford. People make mistakes. The world isn’t made up entirely of
demons and belly-crawlers.

Lauren asks, “You
heard what I said, right? He mentioned
you
. By
name
.”

“Wouldn’t be the
first time.”

She flattens her
lips together and considers my statement, then spins around on the stool to
check on Grandma Ellen, who has dozed off with one of Ulie’s floppy ears gently
curled up in a bony hand. He appears to be enjoying the affection and unwilling
to move and disturb her at the same time. Lauren hooks a thumb over her
shoulder. “I can’t take her back there. Not until it’s safe.”

“Definitely not.”

“Then what do we
do?”

“We?”

“I can’t call the
police, especially not me. They’d think I’m crazy. Next thing you know, I’m on
the news. All those L.A. frenemies of mine would see it; goddamn story goes
viral in a heartbeat, and boom, they yank me off
Weekend Report
.”

“Imagine the
horror.”

She’s quick, this
one, picking up on my sarcasm right away. She reaches across the counter and
touches my arm with a clammy palm. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”

“Yup.”

“Everybody in the
business, we all have to tiptoe around everything we do now, and it just
completely sucks.”

“Yup.” Preaching
to the choir, sister.

“Did you read
about Kaylynn Simms last week?”

“I have no idea
who that is.”

“The cute redhead
on
Smile High Club
.”

“That’s a TV show?”

“Where have you
been? It’s that Thursday night dramedy about the promiscuous flight attendants?
Really? You haven’t seen it? You are so missing out. It’s—”

I hold up a hand
to interrupt. “What about her?”

Lauren wiggles her
bottom on the stool and claps her hands in glee. “It’s so good. You have to
watch it. Anyway, my point is, some ‘razzi took a picture of her last week
wearing this t-shirt. Only thing it said was, ‘I drink orange Jews’ underneath
a cartoon orange wearing a yarmulke.”

“So?”

“So? Ford, it’s a
fucking t-shirt that’s actually kinda funny, and it only took about six hours
for people online to go ballistic. The Internet blew up about how Jewish people
are still being persecuted and when will it ever end, the whole nine. She
apologized, but it was too late. Rumor is, they’re reshooting the next episode
of
Smile High
to kill off her character.”

“Seems a bit
excessive for a t-shirt.”

Lauren throws her
hands out wide. “Thank you. That’s what I’ve been saying, too. It’s not like
she got a five-year-old girl attacked by a demon, right?”

“Ouch.”

“I’m just making a
point. No harm intended.”

“You sure?”

“I just meant it’s
not quite on the same level, and…”

“I get it,
Coeburn.”

“Give me a sec,
will ya?” Lauren stands up from the stool and wobbles a little. Looks like
breakfast finally caught up to her. She plays it off like a pro, however,
apologizes again, and excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

Which leaves me
standing here in the kitchen, wondering what to do next. I don’t have the slightest
bit of paranormal investigation equipment with me. I’m supposed to be here
relaxing, so yeah, I’m severely unprepared.

Then again, these
little black-eyed bastards are kinda front and center. I won’t need much to
have a face-to-face conversation. Any sort of camera would be nice for proof,
and I figure my cell phone will have to do for that. I’m not about to run down
to the nearest superstore and walk out of there with a few cameras and voice
recorders. There’s too much risk of being recognized and drawing attention to
the fact that the almighty Ford Atticus Ford is up to something.

Aside from a
smartphone, what does one take into battle against a paranormal entity that
appears to be flesh and blood, but may not actually be alive?

I don’t carry a
gun. Never have. Even when my celebrity star was at its apex in the sky, I
didn’t carry any heavy-duty protection with me. I figured if a stalker or some
overly excited fan got a little too rowdy, I’d trust my instincts and charm.

What to do? What
to do?

This condo isn’t
mine, so I spend about thirty seconds rifling through cabinets and drawers,
looking for something to use as a weapon besides a kitchen knife. How about a
lighter and some cleaning spray? Or maybe I could throw a handful of flour in
their eyes and then use some karate-chop action. I find a half full bottle of
canola oil over the stove and get a slightly hilarious and cartoonish image of
pouring it on Ellen’s steps, then watching them hilariously slip and slide off
the edges.

I’m bordering on
absurd now. What else is there?

All this shit is
scary as hell, but sometimes it’s so unbelievable that all you can do is laugh
at it and at yourself.

Perhaps Ellen will
have something useful at her house. I’m not above using a kitchen knife to
protect us.

I feel awkward
about the possibility of stabbing a child, yet if there’s a demented alien or
upper-level demon possessing its host, one that has its sights set on dragging
me down to hell, I might just have to find out if these things bleed.

Lauren enters the
kitchen from the hallway, looking fresher. She says, “I’ll have to leave a
thank you note for the owners. I feel a little more like myself.”

“How so?”

“Fully stocked
drawers.”

Finally, I see
what she’s talking about. She has on a touch of makeup now and it suits her
well. Much subtler and normal than the garish, exotic-bird tones she was
flaunting this morning. Little bit of lipstick, little bit of eyeliner. I’m not
sure what the need is because she’s here, in jeans and a sweatshirt, and she
doesn’t know it yet, but she’s about to go confront some terrifying paranormal
entities.

Hey, I said I’d
forgive her—I just didn’t say I’d be entirely nice about it. I’m not letting
her hang out here while I go parlay with the beasts by myself.

***

We drape a
patchwork quilt over Ellen and leave her behind with Ulie. I like the idea of
him staying behind to protect her rather than risk being exposed to the unknown
potential. He’s my little buddy, you know? I feel like I’m the overprotective
parent, doing my best to guard him from harm.

Lauren isn’t too
thrilled to be going back. I understand why, obviously, and she relented once I
told her that this could go a long way toward retribution in my eyes if she’s
sincerely apologetic about her actions two years ago.

We rumble along in
the Wrangler, its fat, knobby tires thrumming along on the blacktop, hissing
over the layer of rain covering the streets. The waterfall downpour hammers the
canvas soft-top, and it sounds like we’re sitting inside a snare drum. It
smells musty in here due to all the small leaks in the canvas ragtop. Maybe I’m
driving a jalopy into battle instead of a tank, but I wouldn’t trade it for an
armored car shaped like a crucifix.

I focus on the
road, trying to see past wipers that can’t handle the deluge, while Lauren can’t
keep her hands still in nervous anticipation.

She says, “I think
I’m gonna be sick.”

“From nerves or
the scotch?”

“Both, probably.”

“Don’t hork in
here, please. I’ll pull over.”

“What’re we gonna
do, Ford?”

“You’re asking if
I have a plan?”

“Yeah. It’s not
like we can invite them in for tea.”

I ease up to a
stoplight. Ellen’s house is three blocks away, and I’m more than a little
freaked out. I have shit for plans and no qualms about delaying the inevitable.
Sitting here for thirty seconds longer is not a problem. I’m also not going to
tell Lauren. She needs to be reasonably calm in case the black-eyes feed off
of—and get stronger with—negative energy.

“We wait,” is all
I tell her. The downpour slams against the soft-top overhead, the repetitive,
slightly muted ratta-tat-tat on canvas heightening my anxiety.

“We wait? For
what? For them to kill us?”

“No. To talk. To
see what they want.”

“It can’t be good,
can it?”

“You never know. Could
be like a singing telegram.”

“This is not the
time.”

“I’m serious.
They’re not going to hop up on the front porch and sing a jingle, but maybe
they have a message for me.” About three molecules in my brain actually thinks
this might be a possibility, simply because Papa Joe had asked for me by name then
granted me a Class-A EVP with some vague details about Chelsea Hopper.

“You don’t
actually believe that, do you?” Lauren leans up against the window and stares
out into the night.

The light turns
green, and I allow the Wrangler to drift forward.

I don’t answer
her.

Lauren says, “So
this is how we die, huh? I was hoping to go out with a pool boy in my lap and a
martini in my hand, but I guess you’ll have to do.”