“doesn’t believe in ghosts, then why not think of it as an alter ego, a part of the secret self trying to break through with a message? Why not ‘dialogue’ with it and see where it might lead?”
I thought of Calvin. Splat. Not a pretty picture.
“The unknown is a scary place, isn’t it?”
typed RUNE when I didn’t answer for a full minute.
“Very,”
I typed back.
You think this is a lot of supernatural baloney, don’t you? said the voice of Jack loud and clear in my head.
Onscreen, RUNE instant-messaged once more before signing off from the chat list.
“Supernatural. Perhaps. Baloney? Definitely not. After all, why do you think it’s called an afterlife?”
“This is crazy, all right,” I muttered. “And maybe I am, too.”
CHAPTER 13
Don’t Know Jack
The chief problem about death . . . is the fear that there may be no afterlife, a depressing thought, particularly for those who have bothered to shave. . . . I do not believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.
—Woody Allen
JACK WATCHED PENELOPE log off the supernatural chat room site and begin frantically searching for information on what she assumed was her “mental condition.”
“Online Psychological Testing . . .” she mumbled, reading the screen. “Addictions, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder . . . no, no, no. . . .”
Funny thing, the computer, thought Jack. Before Penelope, he hadn’t given the boxy typewriter two looks. For one thing, it appeared a cold, remote medium, like his old office’s Underwood. Every now and again, Jack would notice the screen above the keyboard reading “Inventory” or “Account Orders,” and Sadie typing away with a glassy-eyed look that reminded him of his old gum-chewing secretary.
(Not a bad-looking dame, his secretary, but not his type—that is, not much upstairs, which was actually why Jack had hired her. She had no interest in getting wise to his clients’ secrets or Jack’s. Just typed, filed, and answered phones, which was what he needed. In the end, the private dick business came with enough female distractions on the job as it was. Why compound that interest?)
Anyhow, in old Aunt Sadie’s hands, the computer seemed like little more than a typewriter. But not in Penelope’s. With that sharp cookie at the wheel, that plastic box had come alive, racing down alleyways he’d never even known existed.
Take that gab-room thing. Ten people all over the world spilling guts and squaring beefs, one after the other, faster than a bookie giving odds at post time. (Even though some of them did remind Jack of those uptown hustlers, full of gin and big words.)
And those information searches the doll was doing right now. Answers to all sorts of questions with the stroke of a few keys. People, places, events. It spun Jack like a top.
If he had a nickel for all the shoe leather he’d worn out tracking down information for just one case, he’d have died a rich man.
In fact, it seemed to Jack this new century had enough ready gadgets to make it possible for your average housewife to become a private dick—which reminded Jack of why he needed to talk to Penelope tonight in the first place: Brennan’s murder. And that syringe Josh had swiped.
“Depression . . .” murmured Penelope, staring at the “Psych Subjects” screen for a long moment. She clicked on the glowing blue D-word and the green screen dissolved into a white page with large black type at the top: CLINICAL DEPRESSION SCREENING TEST.
Because Penelope was nearsighted, she’d removed the black rectangular frames when she’d first sat down to read the computer screen, giving Jack a rare glimpse of her naked face.
The light from the computer screen reflected in her eyes, burnishing the copper irises with tiny flecks of buried gold and making her pale skin appear smooth as cream. With her lips slightly swollen from her nervous gnawing, and her reddish-brown hair mussed, Jack thought she looked as though she’d just risen from a night of lovemaking.
What he wouldn’t give to occupy a body again for just a few hours. He’d pull her up, out of that chair, into his arms. What he wouldn’t give to feel his hardness against her softness . . .
“This is a self-assessment test presented by mental-health. com,” Penelope murmured. “Please click the boxes that apply to you: Feelings of sadness and/or irritability. Check. Loss of interest or pleasure in activities once enjoyed. Check. Difficulty getting out of bed. Check. Inability to concentrate, work, or make decisions. Definitely a check—”
Waste of time, doll, Jack interrupted. You’re not depressed.
Penelope’s fingers stilled over the keyboard. Her body stiffened the way it always did when he penetrated her mind.
Well? Jack asked. Didn’t your chat room friend . . . RUNE . . . didn’t RUNE advise you to “dialogue” with me?
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to take psychological advice from a person who professes to believe in ghosts.”
Aw, shucks, doll, said Jack. You don’t believe in me? You want me to provide you a mental projection again, like I did last night?
“Is that what I saw?” Penelope whispered. “A mental projection?”
Don’t know what else to call it, said Jack.
“How about a hallucination?”
What a pill, Jack thought to himself. Okay, baby. Time to play hardball.
Turn off the lights again, he told her with the equivalent of a low rasp in her ear. He swirled himself silently around her, taking pleasure in the way goose bumps formed on the surface of her skin, and her ample breasts rose and fell with quickening breaths. I dare you . . .
“No!” Penelope said, even as shivers ran through her, giving her the startling revelation that he could manifest signs of his physical presence. “I can’t feel you. I can’t.”
You can. It’s me. He breezed by her again, and again she shivered, shutting her pretty copper eyes, the dark lashes brushing her pale cheeks in a way that made Jack even more restless.
“You go away now,” she said.
Jack laughed.
“I mean it.”
He laughed again.
Penelope stood up, her small hands balling into fists. She released a breath, then opened her eyes and grabbed up her clunky black glasses, shoving them on her face like armor.
“Get out of my head!” she cried. “Get out of my store!”
Calm down, baby. You’re in no danger. At least not yet—and I’m only bothering you now because I’d like to keep it that way for you and yours. Get me?
Jack backed away, letting the air around her warm again. Penelope took a deep breath. “You’re trying to protect me? And my family?”
Ready to open an eardrum now?
“Fine,” she said, sinking slowly back into her chair. “Proceed.”
First let’s get some things out of the way. I can’t stand it when broads pretend I’m not wise to things. It’s time to put the cards on the table. I want you to know what I know about you.
“What do you know about me?”
Everything. You’re a widow, that’s easy, but you haven’t let a living soul know how you really felt about your husband. Maybe not even yourself.
“Okay, I’ll bite. How do I feel?”