“What about Debbie Schaffer’s parents?” I pushed the button he had revealed earlier in the day.
My friend frowned at me, hard. The kind of thin-lipped scowl that told me instantly that I shouldn’t have ignored the sign next to the button that read, “Caution: Do Not Press.”
“Like I said before,” he snarled, “it’s gonna be a real disappointin’ holiday.”
“Sorry, Ben,” I apologized, “I shouldn’t have gone there.”
“Yeah, well now that you’ve been there, do me a favor and remember that.”
“Okay, you two,” McLaughlin spoke up. “I’m going to leave you to beat each other up by yourselves. I’ve got a husband and daughter waiting at home for me.”
“Big plans?” Ben asked without looking up.
“Scott always makes the traditional Turducken for dinner, and then we just relax and enjoy being a family.”
“What the hell’s a Turducken?”
“A turkey that’s stuffed with a duck that’s stuffed with a chicken. Oh, and there’s andouille sausage in there too.”
Ben finally cast an eye over his shoulder. He had a classic “give me a break” look creasing his face when he said, “I was serious, Chuck.”
“I’m serious too,” she told him with a grin. “Scott’s from Baton Rouge. It’s a Cajun thing.”
“No friggin’ way. A chicken in a duck in a turkey. Bullshit.”
“Yes way. I’m not kidding.”
“I’ve had Turducken before, Ben,” I interjected. “She’s really not kidding.”
“No shit. Well maybe you two should get together then.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Well why stop there,” he submitted with a shrug. “Shove that damn thing inta’ the bird ya’ served the other night and ya’ can have yourself one big Osturduckenrich.”
The Trans Siberian Orchestra was filling the cab of my truck with their particular brand of no-holds-barred holiday music when I merged onto Highway 40. I had the volume set mid-level so as not to drown out my cell phone if it was to ring. My headache was still with me, but thankfully it had settled to an almost ignorable dull thud somewhere in the vicinity of the right rear portion of my skull. Of course, had it not been for the two-fold reason of A) I liked the song, and B) I liked the song enough that it was helping keep my mind from dwelling on things I’d rather not think about, I would have turned the radio off completely.
Unfortunately, there was still one item that my mind insisted it be allowed to ponder, and that was the fact that I still couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched. The feeling had just grown worse as the day wore on. I’d been able to keep it at bay, for the most part, since I was intensely occupied with the cross-referencing tasks. However, now that I was alone and somewhat relaxed, even the frantic rhythms of the music weren’t enough to drive away that annoying itch at the base of my neck. I physically shivered, trying to shake off the feeling, and took another long glance in the rearview mirror.
There wasn’t much to see. Just a wide span of blackness, marred here and there by a pair of headlights-nothing on my tail. No one was purposely following me that I could tell. Of course, I wasn’t any kind of expert on the subject. But it still looked clear as far as I could see.
Even so, the feeling was still there.
I punched in the lighter on the dash and fished a cigarette out of my breast pocket. This would be the third one since I’d walked out of police headquarters. I spit out a hollow cough and noticed tightness in my chest then stuck the butt between my lips anyway. I really needed to do something about this. Maybe now that I had connected the recurrence of the habit with one of the victims it would be easier for me to break.
The lighter popped and I snatched it out of its receptacle, touching the glowing end to the cigarette and taking a deep drag. After replacing the device I took another puff and tucked the smoldering roll of paper and tobacco between my fingers.
“You know that’s really gross, don’t you?” a painfully familiar voice bled through the music.
I tried to ignore the presence. I’d seen enough for one day, and I simply wasn’t sure I could take any more. I continued to stare straight out the windshield.
“I said, you know that’s really gross, don’t you?” the voice insisted.
I still pretended not to hear.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, Rowan!” Debbie Schaeffer demanded my attention again.
Without a word, I reached over to the controls on the radio and moved the volume up a few notches. Almost instantly the speakers let out a staticky pop and went dead.
“I said I’m talking to you, Rowan!” she asserted.
“Well, I’m not talking to you,” I finally muttered under my breath.
It didn’t really matter that I was mumbling. I didn’t even have to speak for her to hear me. The simple fact that I acknowledged her with my thoughts was enough to set her in motion.
“And why not?”
“Hmmmm, let me see,” I offered in a sarcastic tone, speaking a bit louder. “Could it be the fact that you’re really fucking annoying?”
“You can do better than that.”
“Okay, how about that I’m not terribly impressed with that little stunt you pulled this afternoon? That good enough for you?”
As I finished the sentence, I glanced over at the passenger side. As I suspected, there she was, fully decked out in her cheerleading uniform, hair up in a ponytail, and her arms crossed over her chest.
“I helped you find out what you were after, didn’t I?” she stated more than asked. “You just needed a little push in the right direction, that’s all.”
“Not literally,” I replied.
All of the progress I’d made so far seemed to simply fly out the window. If anyone were to pull alongside it would probably look like I was talking to myself. I felt utterly insane sitting here having an argument with a ghost while traveling down the highway on Christmas Eve. Of course, what better night could one pick to be visited by a ghost? Do I hear Scrooge, anyone?
I let out a heavy sigh then told her, “I think I liked it better when you just did the automatic writing. You were a hell of a lot less annoying that way.”
“I’m not annoying. You just weren’t paying enough attention,” she spat. “Besides, this is more fun.”
“Fun? Give me a break, will you? I’m doing the best that I can. I’ve got my own problems you know.”
“What? Like I don’t have problems?”
“In case you weren’t paying attention, Debbie, the guy who tried to kill me last February is running around loose.”
“Yeah, so? I’m already dead.”
“So you’ve told me…repeatedly… And I hate to tell you this but that’s something I can’t fix.”
“Don’t be so selfish, Rowan. You’re supposed to be helping me. Paige is counting on you too.”
“What?” I exclaimed aloud. “ Me being selfish? What about you?”
Yes, it was official. I had to be insane. There was no other explanation.
“Yes, you being selfish. Here you are all worried about your problems when I’m dead. Dead I am, dead I am,…”
“…I do not like that dead I am, yeah Debbie, I get it. Will you please give the cheerleading crap a rest?” I announced with a healthy note of exasperation. “Can we move on to something else?”
“That’s up to you, Rowan. If you’ll just start paying attention.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She didn’t answer. I glanced over at the passenger seat and found an empty void. She was gone. Great, I thought to myself. Now she’s going to give me riddles. Of course, that’s what they all do. I’ve never understood why spirits can’t just say what they mean and be done with it.
Although, I had to admit that this particular specter was a first in my book. Most of the ethereal visits I’d experienced tended to take place during a heavily tranced state or even sleep. Clues were often complex strings of symbolic messages that required serious deciphering. Debbie seemed to be phasing back and forth between the planes at will and was even carrying on conversations-cryptic yes, but conversations nonetheless. This was definitely one I needed to record in my dream journal.