Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet (Charley Davidson)

7

Happiness isn’t good enough.

I demand euphoria!

—T-SHIRT

Clearly Reyes didn’t want to answer any of my questions. Then again, we were on hallowed ground. Maybe he couldn’t step foot on sacred soil? But could he really dematerialize his physical body? The mere concept left me flummoxed.

I crawled into the Jeep beside the boy and pushed his hair out of his face. He woke up with a jolt and pushed away from me, half in confusion and half in fear.

“It’s okay,” I said, showing my palms in surrender. “You’re okay, but I need to get you inside.”

His gaze darted around wildly, squinting every time he looked at me as though looking into a bright light, and I realized, with no small amount of shock, that he was like Pari. He could see my light, and it was obviously disturbing him. I reached into the front and brought out my sunglasses.

“This will help.” When he didn’t take them from me, I unfolded them and leaned in to slip them on his face, taking care to move slowly. He let me but kept his muscles taut, wary. “Is that better?”

He examined his surroundings, then returned his wary expression to mine.

“Oh, right. This is my Jeep, Misery, and I’m Charley.” The moment I said it, I wished I could take it back. Why would I introduce my vehicle to a kid who was, as far as he was concerned, being held captive in it? That would be like introducing Jonah to the whale after the fact and expecting them to get along.

“Misery didn’t have anything to do with this, I promise.”

“Why am I here?” he asked, and I realized why he wasn’t answering my questions. He didn’t use his voice. He used his hands.

“Are you Deaf?” I signed back to him.

He seemed surprised. “Yes.”

“Well, then, I’m Charley,” I signed, taking a couple of seconds to finger-spell my name. I was suddenly very grateful I’d been born knowing every language ever spoken in the history of the world, including the vast and varied array of signed languages.

“Who else?” he asked, and I furrowed my brows in confusion. “You introduced someone else.”

“Yeah,” I said sheepishly. “I introduced my Jeep.” I indicated her with a sweep of my hand. “Her name is Misery.”

“You named your car?”

“Yes. And please don’t ask what else I’ve named. You’re too young.”

The barest hint of a smile crossed his mouth. “My name is Quentin,” he said, finger-spelling his full name; then he raised his left arm and placed a Q on the outside of his wrist with his right hand, indicating his name sign.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, and as per custom, he reciprocated the sentiment, even though I doubt he meant it. “I brought you here for your safety. Do you remember what happened to you?”

He glanced to the side. “Some things.”

Crap. He would totally need counseling.

I waited for him to turn back to me, and said, “It could happen again.” When he stilled and a ripple of fear wafted toward me, I said, “I’m so sorry. I need to get you inside this building. You’ll be safe there.”

He leaned forward to take a look.

“Do you have family here in Albuquerque?”

“A-B-Q?” he asked, not recognizing the abbreviation, so I finger-spelled the whole thing. No easy feat.

“Yes, you are in Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

The shock on his face needed no interpretation.

I put my hand on his shoulder for a minute, let him absorb that latest bit of intel, then asked, “Where are you from?”

After a moment of recovery, he said, “Washington, D.C.”

“Oh, you’re a long way from home. Do you remember how you got here?”

He turned away from me to hide the tears that had pooled in his eyes. I took that as a no. He must’ve been possessed before leaving D.C.

“I can contact your family. I’ll let them know you’re okay.”

He covered his face with a hand, and a blanket of sorrow fell over my heart. I put a palm on his shoulder again. Rubbed. Soothed. He didn’t have to say anything for me to realize he had no family. I wondered if he was homeless.

His sorrow had me struggling for air. To be so lost. So alone.

“Are you going to come in anytime soon, because it’s getting really late.”

I jumped in surprise to see Sister Mary Elizabeth standing outside Misery.

Awe swelled inside my chest. “Did the angels tell you we were coming?”

“No, I saw you pull up.”

“Oh.” That was kind of anticlimactic.

“And the angels never tell me anything. I just kind of overhear their conversations.”

“Right. I forgot.”

I coaxed Quentin out of Misery and introduced him to Sister Mary Elizabeth and the three other sisters who’d come out to greet us. They huddled around him like mother hens, checking a scrape on his face and a large cut on his wrist. A couple of them even knew ASL, to my utter delight. He’d be fine. For now, at least.

They herded us into the convent, made us soup—which tasted much better than the vomit that still lingered in my mouth—and hot chocolate, and then proceeded to ask me a million questions about what it was like to be the grim reaper and what it was like when people passed through me until the mother superior came in and broke up our party. Sister Mary Elizabeth had told them all about me, so it was only natural they’d be curious. I couldn’t help but notice how they skirted the issue of Reyes. They knew who he was, what he was, and how we were connected.

I turned to Quentin. He’d been having a riveting conversation with Sister Ann about how Xbox had the best graphics and the best live streaming. Sister Ann knew her game systems, and she had completely disarmed the shy youth.

He put the sunglasses back on so he could understand me.

“You’re going to stay here awhile—is that okay?” I asked him.

“Can I stay with you?”

“No, you need to be on holy ground to be safe. My apartment is more, well, unholy.”

He nodded and looked around him, pretending not to be affected by the prospect of staying in a house with a bunch of nuns, though he did seem kind of relieved.

“If you need anything, text me.” I handed him my card. “Wait, do you have a phone?”

He patted his jacket and jeans pocket, then pulled out a phone with a huge smile. Then it faded as he tapped on keys. “Dead,” he signed with one hand.

“I can get you a charger,” Sister Mary Elizabeth signed, her enthusiasm endless.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. Then he asked me, “What’s your name sign?”

I bowed my head in mortal shame. “I don’t have one. None of my Deaf friends will give me one. Every time I ask, they say they’re still thinking about it. It’s like they’re avoiding the issue.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s because I have so many good qualities, they can’t decide which one to focus on for a name sign.”

He chuckled softly. “Hearing people are crazy,” he said, his signs vague, as though pretending I wouldn’t understand him.

“Oh, yeah?” I asked, puffing up my chest. “Well, Deaf people talk with their mouths full.” I burst out laughing at the oldest joke in the Deaf handbook.

Quentin rolled his eyes, and I took the opportunity to go in for a hug. At first he stilled; then he almost draped himself over me, hugging me back like his life depended on it. We stayed in that embrace until Quentin loosened his hold. I kissed his dirty cheek as we pulled apart, and he bowed his head in that sweet, shy way of his.

“I’ll be back soon, okay?”

“Wait,” he said, suddenly worried. “Do nuns eat bacon? I really like bacon.”

Sister Mary Elizabeth tapped his arm to get his attention, then signed, “I love bacon. I’ll make some for breakfast, okay?”

He nodded, then let the sisters, thrilled with the prospect of protecting him, usher him out to show him the living quarters where he could bathe and get a fresh change of clothes. He seemed relaxed and grateful, which made me relaxed and grateful. And I could tell the mother superior had taken a shine to him. Something deep inside her stirred when her eyes met his, something warm and maternal, and I wondered what memory surfaced when she looked at him.

After everyone left, I pinned Sister Mary Elizabeth to her chair with my infamous fluster stare. She didn’t seem to get flustered, though, if her bright, slightly ADD gaze was any indication. A gaze I could totally relate to.

“I know what you’re going to ask me,” she said in that rushed way of hers.

“Good, then I don’t have to ask. What have you heard?”

Sister Mary’s superpower lay in her ability to hear the angels. Literally. Like a supernatural wiretap without the wires. It was how she knew about me and about Reyes and about Artemis. She’d been listening to supreme beings talk about us for years. I could only wonder what they had to say. I wasn’t that interesting.

She bowed her head and stared into her tea. It was unlike her. She was about to give me some very bad news.

“They’ve discovered a way to track you.”

Oh, well, that didn’t seem too bad in the grand scheme of things. “Who? The demons?”

“Yes, the fallen. They’ve devised a new plan.”

“They’re possessing people,” I said in disgust. “Is that their big plan? To take over humans’ lives? To destroy them? They possessed that boy for no reason.”

“They had a reason.” She ran a fingertip through some spilt sugar granules. “They’re only possessing people who are sensitive to the spiritual realm. Who are clairvoyant.”

I looked to where they’d led Quentin. “So, Quentin is clairvoyant?”

“Yes. Quite.”

“Cool, but what does that have to do with me? Doesn’t clairvoyance mean you can see into the future?”

“Not necessarily. It encompasses all persons with clear vision. Those who can see into the spiritual realm. Some people are born with the ability. Some come by it through other means, like near-death experiences.”

I thought of Pari. She could see ghosts ever since she’d had a near-death experience as a child. “But, why target them? What do they have to gain?”

“Because they can often see auras.”

“Okay,” I said, still not catching on.

“And if they can see auras”—she put a hand on my arm—“they can see you.”

I did a mental slap to the head. Sometimes I was so thick. “Of course. That explains why they chose Quentin. He can see the light around me.”

I’d have to check in on Pari, make sure she hadn’t been possessed since I saw her last.

“That’s how they can track you. And according to the latest conversations, the demons are closing in. That’s why they sent you a guardian. Why they sent you Artemis. They knew this was going to happen.”

Damn. I figured there had to be some ghastly reason full of gloom and doom. Artemis couldn’t have just been a belated house warming gift. “Can they hurt her?” I asked, suddenly concerned. “Can the demons hurt Artemis?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard.” She cleared her throat and took my cup. “Would you like some more tea?”

“Sure, thank you,” I said absently.

The mother superior walked back in and sat down as Sister Mary Elizabeth gathered our cups and stood to make more tea.

She planted her best disdainful expression on me.

I smiled. Inspected the craftsmanship of the cabinetry. Thrummed my fingers on the table. Checked my watch. Or checked my wrist where a watch would have been had I not forgotten it.

“You know,” she said after a long moment of reflection, “it took me a long time to—” She struggled to find the right words. “—to believe in Sister Mary Elizabeth’s abilities.”

Oh, cool. This wasn’t going to be about me and my shoe box full of sins. Because we could be here awhile if that were the case. “I understand,” I said, trying to be understanding. “It takes people a long time to believe in mine, too. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Actually, there is. She was sent to us by God, and I questioned it. I questioned his gift. That is something I’ll have to answer for when the time comes.”

That seemed kind of harsh. “I don’t think using logic and human instinct is a sin.”

Her smile was more congenial than affirming. “From what she has told us, there is a great and terrible war on the horizon.”

“That’s right,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said, nodding in enthusiastic confirmation as she sat back down, handing me a fresh cup of tea. “And it will be brought forth by an impostor.”

“An impostor?” I asked.

The mother superior placed a hand on Sister Mary Elizabeth’s arm to stay her.

“No way,” I said, looking back and forth between the two of them. “You have information that I could use, and you won’t hand it over?”

“It is not our place,” the mother superior said. “This information is sacred. It was given to us so that we may pray.”

“I can pray,” I said, insulted. “Just tell me what to pray about. I’ll totally put it on my to-do list.”

The woman’s iron demeanor relaxed a little as a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Prayer must be lived, not checked off a laundry list of duties.”

Crap. She was right. “But we’re talking about my life here.”

“And the lives and salvation of everyone on Earth. You are destined to play a part. You simply must decide which part to play.”

“Riddles?” I asked, unimpressed. “You’re giving me riddles?”

Sister Mary Elizabeth’s eyes were wide with innocent ardency as she watched our exchange. She looked like a kid watching her favorite Saturday-morning cartoon.

Fine, they were keeping the good stuff to themselves. “Can you at least tell me what I’m capable of?”

The sister’s mouth spread wide. “Anything you can imagine.”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying not to be disappointed. “I can imagine a lot.”

The mother superior patted her protégée’s arm. “Time for bed,” she said, her voice maternal, caring.

That was my cue to leave. They promised to keep an eye on Quentin until it was safe for him to venture out, but they knew more than I did. I tried not to feel resentful. Not hard, but I did give it an ounce of effort before I gave up and resented the heck out of the entire human race. Not sure why. Fortunately, I was over that by the time I got to Misery, dripping wet, as it had started to rain again.

I called Cookie. She knew where I’d gone and would be frantic with worry. Or driven to the brink of insanity with lust. Reyes did that to her. He probably did that to a lot of girls.

“Well?” she asked when she picked up.

“Do you think we’re really alone in the universe?”

“Were you abducted by aliens again?”

“No, thank goodness. Once was enough for me.”

“Oh, whew. So, what happened with Reyes? Did you see him?”

“Saw him. Argued with him. Barfed.”

“You vomited?”

“Yes.”

“On Reyes?”

“No, but only because I didn’t think of it at the time. I’m going to Pari’s to check on Harper before I head home. No need to let the fact that I’m wearing a bra go to waste.”

“Wonderful, then you have a few minutes to fill me in.”

I figured as much. I explained everything that had happened in the shortest sentence structure possible. Pari didn’t live that far away. Brevity was of the utmost importance. By the time I got there, every molecule in my body was vibrating. It would seem that recaps of Reyes were almost as good as the real thing. How could any man be so inhumanly perfect? Probably because he was inhuman. His presence seemed to cause a disturbance in my space–time continuum. I felt disoriented around him. Unbalanced. And hot. Always hot.

“What about the bill?” she asked, her voice full of hope.

“I told him to send a check.”

“A check?” She seemed appalled. “Couldn’t he just work out what he owes us?”

“Maybe, but he owes me much more than he owes you. I think he only owes you like two dollars.”

Her voice turned deep and husky. “I could do a lot of damage for two dollars. Send that boy over here, and I’ll prove it.”

She scared me sometimes. I ended the call after promising I’d brush the vomit taste out of my mouth as soon as possible. But my mind drifted back to the problem at hand. Or, more specifically, problems. As in multiple. They were back. The demons in all their glory. And they had a plan. I made plans sometimes, too, but they rarely involved world domination. Hot dogs on a grill, maybe. Tequila.

After searching for a space, I parked behind the tattoo parlor in front of a sign that said NO PARKING. Since it didn’t specify to whom it was referring, I figured it couldn’t possibly be talking to me. I hurried through the rain. Got drenched again anyway. I had every intention of complaining to Pari and Tre, but they were both busy evoking whimpers of agony from their patrons, so I left them to it and cruised to the makeshift guest bedroom. Harper, who seemed to have taken an interest in Pari’s wall texture, jumped up the minute I walked in.

“Did you find anything?”

“Not a lot. How are you doing?” I asked, sitting on the sofa and motioning for her to sit beside me.

She did reluctantly. “I’m okay.”

“I talked to your stepmother today. Why didn’t you tell me this has been going on since you were a kid?”

She stood again and turned her back to me, embarrassed. “I didn’t think you’d believe me. No one ever believes me, especially when I tell them the whole story.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, knowing exactly how she felt. “You promise to trust me, and I’ll promise to trust you, okay?”

“Okay.”

I finally convinced her to sit back down, but she hid behind her long dark hair.

“Can you tell me what happened? How all this got started?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“Your stepmother said it started right after she married your father.”

Harper rolled her eyes and faced me. “She always says that, because this is all about her. All about their marriage. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me, with the fact that I’ve been traumatized almost my entire life.” She threw her arms up in frustration, and I liked the glimpse of her she offered me. The fighter. The spirited and capable woman I knew she was if she’d put up with a psychotic stalker her entire life.

I let an appreciative smile slide across my face. “Better.”

“What?” Her pretty brows crinkled together.

“Never mind. Why don’t you give me your version of what happened?”

She drew in a deep breath, leaned back, and said, “That’s just it. I don’t remember. They got married. Yes, against my wishes, but I was only five, so I really didn’t have much of a say. They went on their honeymoon. I stayed with my maternal grandparents in Bosque Farms while they were away.” She focused on me again. “My real grandparents on my biological mother’s side, who were wonderful. Then we came back and that’s when everything started. Right after their honeymoon.”

I took a memo pad out of my bag and started taking notes. It seemed like the right thing to do. “Okay, tell me exactly how it all started. What do you remember noticing first?”

She shrugged. “I’ve gone over this so many times with therapists, I’m not even sure which parts are real and which parts I made up. It was so long ago.”

“Well, I’m glad that you realize some of your memories could have been a product of years of prodding by professionals. They could have been a fabrication of your own mind trying to cope with the circumstances. But let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that they aren’t. That every single thing you remember really happened. What can you tell me?”

“Okay. Well, I guess it started when I found a dead rabbit on my bed.”

“So, a real rabbit? Dead?”

“Yes. I woke up one morning and there it was. Lying dead on the foot of my bed.”

“What happened?”

“I screamed. My dad came running in.” Her gaze darted toward me, then away. “He took it away.”

She was still in therapy mode, worried what I would think, how I would analyze her every move. “I get it, Harper. Your dad came to your rescue. So, maybe that was a way to get his attention, yes? Is that what you learned in all those years of therapy? That you were just seeking your father’s attention?”

She wilted. “Something like that. And maybe they’re right.”

“I thought we had an agreement.” When she turned back to me, I continued. “I thought we were going on the assumption that you are not making things up. That you did not imagine or fabricate any of this.” I leaned in closer. “That you’re not crazy.”

“But it makes sense.”

“Sure it does. So does exercise, but you don’t see me doing it on a regular basis, do you? And if it would make you feel better, I could analyze you myself. Tell you all the reasons why you’ve pulled these accusations out of thin air. I minored in psychology. I’m totally qualified.”

A timid smile emerged from behind her hair.

“I know how you feel. I’ve been analyzed to death as well. Not, like, professionally, though I did date a psych major who said I had attention issues. Or at least that’s what I think he said. I wasn’t really paying attention. Anyway, where was I?” When she didn’t answer in less that seven-twelfths of a second, I continued my rant. “Right, so what I’m trying to say is that—”

“You’re crazier than I am?” She crinkled her nose in delight.

With a laugh, I said, “Something like that. So, what happened with the rabbit?”

“Nothing really. My dad said the dog brought it in, but the dog wasn’t allowed in the house.”

“Can you describe the rabbit? Was there any blood?”

She thought back. Her brows furrowed in concentration; then a slight rush of fear flitted across her face. “Nobody’s ever asked me that. In over twenty-five years, not one person has asked me about that rabbit.”

“Harper?”

“No. I’m sorry, no, there was no blood. None. Its neck was broken.”

“Okay.” She seemed to be making a connection in her mind of some kind. I wondered if she was still talking about the rabbit. I kept silent awhile, let her absorb whatever she needed to, then asked, “What happened later? What led you to believe someone was trying to kill you?”

She blinked back to me with a shake of her head. “Oh, well, just little things. Strange things, one right after another.”

“Like?”

“Like the time my stepbrother set my dog’s house on fire. With him in it.”

“Your stepbrother did this? On purpose?”

“He says it was an accident. I believe him now, but I didn’t at the time.”

“Why not?”

“Because that same night, my electric blanket caught fire.”

“With you in it,” I said knowingly.

She nodded. “With me in it.”

Well, asshole stepbrother just jumped to the number one position of possible suspects.

“But they always happened like that: in twos.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had a birthday party about a week after the first incident, the dead rabbit thing. And my stepmother’s sister came to the party with her two horrid children.” She actually shivered in revulsion. “They were so aggressive. Anyway, she gave me a rabbit. A white rabbit just like the one in my room, only someone had torn a small hole in the back and had taken out part of the stuffing so that its head flopped to the side.”

“Like its neck was broken.”

“Exactly.”

What a loving family. I didn’t want to bring up the rabbit I’d found in her kitchen. It could have been the same one, or it could have been placed there more recently, but I was afraid if I mentioned it, I’d lose her altogether.

“Everyone laughed,” she continued, “when I got upset. My aunt held it up to me, flopping its head from side to side. She had a shrill laugh that reminded me of a jet engine during takeoff.”

“And you were five?” I asked, horrified.

She nodded and proceeded to pick lint off her dark blue coat.

“What did your father do while all this was going on?”

“Working. Always working.”

“What else happened?”

“Just odd little things. Jewelry would go missing or my shoelaces would be tied in knots every morning for a week.”

Things that could definitely be chalked up to a bratty brother playing practical jokes.

“Then I started seeing someone in my room at night.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And you never recognized who it was?”

After shaking her head, she said, “But it didn’t get really bad until I was around seven. My stepbrother gave me a plastic ring with a spider on it.” She grinned sheepishly. “We liked spiders and bugs and snakes and things.”

“Spiders are cool as long as they respect personal boundaries,” I said. “Namely mine. But why do I get the feeling it doesn’t end there?”

“That night, the same night he gave me the ring, I was bitten three times on the stomach by baby black widows as I lay sleeping. They found two of them in my pajamas.”

“Someone could have put them there while you slept.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think your brother had anything to do with it?”

“I wondered for a long time. We weren’t very close at first, especially after the doghouse thing. But we grew to love each other very much. He was the only one in my family who believed me, stood up for me even against my stepmother. It infuriated her.”

“I can imagine.”

And I could. Harper’s stepmother was about as loving as my own, but mine never set a black widow on me or lit my electric blanket on fire. There was a time when I thought she was trying to microwave my brain cells with the remote control, but I’d been on a three-day Twilight Zone marathon with too little sleep and too much coffee. And I was four at the time.

“So, this went on your whole life?” I asked.

“Yes. I’d find dead mice in my room or dead bugs in my shoes. One time I poured a cup of milk, and in the time it took me to put the milk in the refrigerator and butter my toast, someone put a dead worm in it. Another time I came home from a sleepover and found that all my dolls were bald. Someone shaved their heads. Of course, no one saw anyone go into my room. It was just me trying to get attention again.”

I pressed my mouth together in disapproval. “What are we going to do with you?”

She chuckled and I was glad I could help her sprinkle a little humor onto an otherwise horrific situation. It always helped me cope. Life was too short to be taken seriously.

I decided to find out where she’d run off to for three years. That is a long time to sow the old oats. “Your stepmom said you disappeared.”

“Yes. When I hit twenty-five, I’d finally had enough. I told them to kiss my butt and left. Completely disappeared. I changed my name, got a job, even took some night classes. But when my dad got sick, I had no choice. I had to come home.”

“When was this?”

“About six months ago.”

“But how did you know your father was sick?”

She bowed her head, her face softening in remembrance. “I had a contact,” she said; then she curled the edge of her jacket into her fingers. “But my stepmother was hardly happy to see me. I stayed with them at first, despite the glares of disapproval.”

“I swear our stepmothers were conjoined twins in another life.”

“Then another dead rabbit showed up on my bed, and everything came rushing back to me. I realized then that I’d willingly walked back into a recurring nightmare.” Tears pushed past her lashes.

I gave her a minute, then asked, “Can I ask you, when your father passes away, who inherits the estate?”

She sniffed. “I do. My stepmother and brother have a sizable sum coming to them, but I get the house and about seventy-five percent of the assets. It was part of the agreement when they got married. I think she signed a prenup.”

“So, if anything happens to you, then what?”

“My stepfamily gets it all.”

That’s what I figured.