Ghost Walk

  While the tour-takers began to surround Brent and Mitch, Nikki found herself looking into the coffee shop. Madame had come out from behind the counter. Wiping her hands on her apron, she was standing in front of Billy Banks, flushing, smiling, pleased, as she got him to sign one of her menus.

  “Hey!”

  Nikki turned. Mitch gave her a “we’re going that-away” sign with his forefinger. She nodded and waited for the last of the group—a sizable one that night—as they moved forward.

  From a distance, she watched Brent and felt a sweet warmth inside. He was damn good.

  He seemed to honestly like people, and he enjoyed answering questions. His voice was deep and rich, his smile quick. She liked everything about him.

  Maybe too much.

  They stopped on a corner of Royal Street where there was an antique shop. He told a story about a Civil War soldier that she’d never heard before.

  She wondered if he’d learned the story from the soldier himself.

  A block later she was leaning against the wall, idly listening to a story about Andrew Jackson, when she stiffened.

  What had caught her attention earlier was the bum. The bum who was really a government agent. Tom Garfield.

  She hadn’t recognized him because he was dressed in a handsome suit. Shaven. Hair trimmed. Clean and handsome.

  And she was seeing him again.

  He wasn’t next to her. He wasn’t even looking at her. He was in the midst of the crowd, apparently deeply intent on the story as he listened to Brent. Nikki moved away from the wall.

  For some reason this man apparently trusted her. And Brent was desperate to get to him.

  But they were in the middle of the tour. She could hardly just shout out, “Ghost! Ghost of the FBI guy, right in the crowd.”

  She had to reach the man herself, actually talk to him.

  As she hesitated, still half-frozen, the story ended and the crowd began to move.

  Nikki walked as quickly as she could, threading her way toward him.

  But just as she neared the ghost, he looked to the right and frowned.

  Then, instead of following the crowd, he ducked into a little alleyway in the middle of the block, which was partly residential, filled with courtyard homes, B & Bs and a few businesses.

  Nikki almost ran, but by the time she reached the dark walkway, the man had disappeared.

  “Damn,” she swore.

  She jogged about twenty feet down the shadowed trail.

  “Sir? Mr. Garfield? Oh, please. Where are you? Help me now, please. I can help you, too. Please, I know you’re here, I saw you. Please, don’t take off on me.”

  Where to go?

  There was a brick wall to her left, the backside of someone’s courtyard. There were garbage cans, a gravel parking area and the sounds of jazz coming from her right. A few steps farther and she reached a low red brick property divider. There was the slight scent of restaurant refuse from the opposite side.

  “Mr. Garfield?”

  She felt the rush of wind before she heard the footsteps pounding up behind her. She spun around in a split second, in time to see the figure rushing at her, but not much more.

  He was wearing a ski mask and gloves. In the heat of New Orleans.

  She screamed, loud and shrill. In an instant she realized that he intended to silence her with a black sheet or sack of some kind.

  Before he could reach her, she kicked out for all she was worth. Her purse tended to be heavy, and she swung it at the same time.

  The man swore. A grunt of pain escaped him, and he doubled over.

  Her heart racing, she turned to run down the alley.

  He caught her ankle, and she went down.

  But she did so screaming. Screaming, shrieking, her heart pounding like thunder.

  The man started to crawl over to her.

  “Nikki!”

  She wasn’t sure if she heard her name at first or not. But then she heard it again, along with pounding footsteps.

  Her attacker froze, then began to scramble up. A sense of fury swept through her, and she found herself furiously fighting to hold on to him.

  Help was coming. Brent.

  But her assailant was powerful. He disentangled himself, trying all the while to wrench her purse from her arm.

  It was just a purse. Filled with material things, not even that much money. She’d always thought it was idiotic to hang on to anything material when under attack. Let it go, she told herself.

  But she didn’t.

  She didn’t know why she held on to it, but she did, still fighting, kicking and lashing out from the ground, even as the gravel and grit in the alley bit into her back.

  The figure wasn’t going to fight for it, she realized. He, too, had heard her name shouted, heard Brent pounding down the alley, closer and closer….

  The figure released her purse and ran, a black form disappearing into the shadowed alley.

  Brent reached her side, fell to his knees next to her, eyes sharp and anxious, features taut. “Nikki, are you all right? What the hell happened? Nikki, dammit, talk. Are you all right?”

  She nodded, swallowed. “Fine. I’m fine.”

  “What the hell—oh, we’ll talk about it later.”

  Apparently assured that she really was all right, he was instantly back on his feet, racing in pursuit of her attacker.

  She heard his footfalls as he disappeared down the alley.

  Then the blaze of a police siren blasted away any other sound. She elbowed herself up to a sitting position. By then Mitch had reached her, falling down on a knee by her side. “Nikki, my God, Nikki! Are you all right?”

  She went through telling him that she was fine, then reassuring the several dozen tourists who crowded around, and then she had to tell the same thing to the first police officer on the scene.

  Suddenly it seemed that officers were everywhere, crawling through the alleyway. One was begging the crowd to disperse.

  People had come out from the rear doors of the jazz club and the restaurant, too.

  It seemed forever before she could get her well-wishers to move back far enough that she could get to her feet, even with the help of one of the policemen.

  She answered questions. The officer who had helped her gave sharp orders to the other men to get busy searching high and low.

  Mitch kept worrying.

  At last he spoke to their tour group, offering refunds.

  Though they were still far from the tour’s end, no one would take a refund. They all hovered, though.

  In the middle of the bedlam, Brent returned, looking haggard and disgusted. He hadn’t been able to catch her attacker.

  The next thing she knew, she and Brent and Mitch were down at the station, and the first officer, a man named O’Malley, was telling her that there had been a number of purse snatchings, and the offender had matched the same description.

  She was left alone in one of the conference rooms with Brent. He stared at her with impatience, and she saw that he was barely controlling his anger. A vein ticked hard in the side of his neck.

  “Brent, I heard you coming. That’s why I fought with the guy.”

  “All right, that was idiotic, too,” he said, rising, pacing.

  She was startled. “He attacked me! I had to fight back.”

  “He could have had a knife…he could have…” He threw up his hands, ending with an oath. He spun on her. “Why were you in the alley to begin with?” he demanded.

  Startled, she opened her mouth. She knew the explanation was going to make him even angrier.

  He set his hands on the table between them and leaned toward her, eyes sharp. “You followed someone into the alley, right?”

  She hesitated, wondering how he knew it for a fact, how he could read her so easily.

  “Andy?” he demanded.

  She shook her head, glancing toward the door, hoping that the officers weren’t about to walk back in. She hadn’t entirely convinced herself tha
t she wasn’t crazy yet.

  “The bum,” she said. “Except that he’s not a bum anymore. I’d actually seen him earlier in the day, but I hadn’t realized it. He’s…clean shaven. And in a suit. I saw him walk by earlier, but…”

  “When?” Brent demanded.

  “On our way to the voodoo shop.” Now there was no way in hell she was going to tell him that Contessa had seen a purple aura around her.

  She cleared her throat. “Look, I definitely wasn’t attacked by the ghost of an FBI agent. The man who attacked me was solid. There’s no connection between the two of them. And I should never walk into an alley, no matter what. I’ve got that. I understand it now.”

  “You saw Tom Garfield, and you didn’t tell me?” he asked quietly.

  “I couldn’t—”

  “I asked you to tell me the minute anything happened.”

  “Dammit, Brent, you were giving a tour, and he didn’t even come up to me. He was ahead of me. I followed him, hoping to…I don’t know. Make contact, I guess. I mean, this whole thing is like I know this ghost, and I’m supposed to introduce you to him. Well, I don’t know him. My God, this is the most insane conversation we’ve had yet,” Nikki finished.

  The door to the room opened. Brent stepped away, and Nikki straightened in her chair.

  Neither of them was going to have this conversation in front of the cops, whether they knew about Brent’s connection with the next world or not.

  “Detective Massey,” Nikki said, surprised that he was there.

  “You like to keep us hopping around here, huh?” Massey said, smiling and trying to be light.

  She shrugged. “I’m sorry. Did you just drop in to say hi, or do you think this purse snatcher is in on drugs and murder, too?”

  Massey shook his head. He was staring at her strangely, and Nikki noticed that Brent seemed concerned by Massey’s attitude.

  Massey himself looked a little perplexed.

  “Okay…what?” Brent said.

  “This is nuts,” Massey said.

  “What?” Brent pursued.

  “There was a young cop named Robinson who was one of the first on the scene,” he said.

  Nikki frowned, then nodded. “Robinson. Yes, he was with the officer who took the report. They’re partners, I take it.”

  “Tall, slim guy?” Brent said to Massey.

  Massey nodded.

  “Well?” Nikki said.

  Massey sighed and pulled out a chair at the table. “Okay…the guy who tried to take your purse…you didn’t see him, right?”

  “Oh, I saw him. Do I know what he looked like?” Nikki asked. “No. He was wearing a ski mask. He wasn’t small, just medium height, medium build. He was strong, though.”

  “And…uh…real?” Massey asked. He flushed as they both stared at him. “I mean, you didn’t think you were being attacked by a ghost, right?”

  Furious, jaw clenched, she sat back. “Detective Massey, I am not ready to be committed. The man was real,” she said tightly.

  “And very much alive. I saw him running, and I chased him,” Brent added, now at her side, tightly under control, but ready to lash out in her defense if need be.

  “Is there a reason why you’re asking this?” Brent demanded.

  Massey sighed, shaking his head. “Please, don’t take offense, either of you. It’s just that Robinson was on duty when another woman had her bag snatched. She didn’t see the man who took her purse, but she was certain she knew who had stolen it. Robinson used to be a sketch artist, then went back on the street. He wants to apply for detective.”

  “I hope he makes detective, if that’s what he wants,” she said politely. “But what does all this have to do with anything? I told you, I can’t describe the guy.”

  Massey glanced over his shoulder, at the closed door. “Don’t either of you repeat what I’m about to say,” he warned them, his tone a growl that couldn’t mask his unease.

  “What is going on?” Brent demanded, tense and impatient.

  “The woman gave Robinson a description of the man she saw hanging around before her purse was stolen. The thing is…she gave him a description of Tom Garfield. An exact description. You…uh, didn’t happen to see the man you identified hanging around in the alley, too, did you, Nikki? I mean, hell, I know Tom Garfield is dead. But either he has a double running around this parish, or else…”

  “Or else what?” Brent asked sharply.

  Massey glanced his way wearily. “Or else his ghost is stalking the town, and I’ll be damned if I can figure out what that has to do with a purse snatcher.”

  15

  Brent was silent most of the way as they walked back to Nikki’s place. He still seemed tense, so she kept silent herself until they were back in her apartment.

  She didn’t know why, but the minute she opened the door, she felt uneasy. Once again, she had the bizarre feeling someone had been in her home.

  “What?” Brent said.

  She shook her head, taking her key from the lock. “I don’t know.”

  “Is it Andy?”

  “No.”

  “Then…?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I just keep having the feeling that someone has been in here.” She hesitated, thinking the questions she was about to ask didn’t bode well for her mental health. “Would I get this strange feeling if…if a ghost had been walking around in my place when I wasn’t here?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. Let’s check the place out.”

  They did, but there was nothing missing, nothing moved.

  But she still had a sense of something being just slightly out of focus.

  She was walking toward the kitchen, telling herself that she was simply on edge, when Brent took her by the shoulders, fiercely turning her around to face him.

  “Listen to me, you can’t keep walking yourself straight into danger the way you did tonight.”

  “I don’t go walking into danger,” she protested.

  “I told you to tell me the second you saw a ghost.”

  “I would have—”

  “Forget would have. You can’t let this happen again. You might have been killed. If I’d known…”

  “If you’d known…what? Tom Garfield probably would have disappeared a whole lot faster,” she responded. She pulled away from him. “Excuse me, will you? I’m still wearing half an alley.”

  He let her go instantly. His head was lowered, and she couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t ascertain what he was thinking. But his body language was still tense.

  She walked up the stairs and felt the distance escalating between them with each step she took. She hesitated, looking back. She could go downstairs, of course, and ask him what he thought about the fact that the victim of another purse snatching had been certain she had seen Tom Garfield just before the crime.

  But that would just be an excuse. She didn’t want to play games.

  She held on to the railing at the top of the stairs and called down to him.

  “Hey!”

  “Hey what?” Startled, he looked up at her.

  “Um…I don’t have to see a bug again, do I?”

  “Pardon?”

  She let out a soft sigh of aggravation.

  “I don’t have to scream to get you to come up here, do I?” she asked softly.

  His smile was instantaneous, and he threaded his fingers through his hair, pushing a dark lock back from his forehead.

  “I’m on my way,” he told her.

  “I really do need a shower.”

  “Nothing wrong with cleanliness,” he agreed, taking the stairs two at a time. She waited for him. And when he reached her, she forgot everything that had haunted her during the day.

  Contessa saying she was surrounded by a dangerous purple aura.

  The cemetery…his wife’s tomb.

  The ghost of Tom Garfield, now clean shaven, still walking the streets…

  A very real man in black in the alleyway, attacking her… br />
  In his arms, she was alive and life was good. The hold he had on her was powerful, the touch of his lips electric and combustible, eliciting a flow of heat that sped through her veins.

  There on the stairway…just his kiss…the feel of his arms around her…

  Tangled together, they moved toward her room, toward the bathroom, casting away the clothing they stripped from each other as they went.

  His lips were still locked with hers as she fumbled for the shower spray.

  Their tongues were entwined as they stepped beneath the cascading water.

  Then there was the feel of his lips and tongue sliding down her naked flesh, along with the fall of the steaming water. There was the mist of heat that rose around them, creating a sheer physical eroticism that gripped her, the excruciating carnal feel of his hands, fingers, tongue…delving.

  Here a brush, a touch, an invasion…

  She very nearly collapsed atop him, but the urge to cling was great, the urge to respond greater, and her hands were suddenly wild as they played against the flesh and muscle of his body, teased with ever greater abandon, tormented him.

  She had never imaged that simple soap could become such a stimulant, that bubbles could become so wickedly erotic. She was trembling and limp, yet ready to be aroused anew, when they stepped out, groping to turn the water off.

  They left a double trail of damp footprints from the bathroom to the bed, where they began all over again. In those blissful moments the world receded, and nothing was real but the blatant sexuality that rippled and pulsed with the strength of his every movement, the power of his muscles, the depth of her hunger. They twisted, they moved, and in the end he fell to her side, heart still racing, breath rasping.

  And then he pulled her close, and she felt as if all was right with the world when she lay there with him.

  Soft light fell from the bathroom, but the bedroom itself was in darkness. Nikki basked in the sense of safety that came with lovemaking, and despite everything that had happened, she found herself drifting to sleep.