Second Glance: A Novel Read online

  Frankie exploded into the apartment the minute he unlocked the door. "Wait'll you hear this," she said, making her way into the kitchen, where she held up the empty coffeepot and tsked. "I tested that nightgown at the state lab for you."

  "Frankie--"

  "You know that stuff you thought was the victim's blood?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, it wasn't. Don't you keep your coffee in the freezer, Eli, like the rest of the modern world?" She turned around, holding the coffeepot aloft. "You're wearing your underpants, for God's sake."

  "Underwear. Grown men don't wear underpants."

  "Grown men usually get dressed before they answer the door."

  "Frankie," Eli sighed, "I've had about three hours of sleep. Don't screw with me."

  She unearthed the coffee, which was--of all places--in a box with his black shoe polish on top of the fridge, and began to measure it out. "It's meconium."

  "No, I think it's Colombian."

  "The stain, you jerk. On the nightgown."

  Eli yawned and scratched his chest. He was too tired, at this point, to even care about covering himself for Frankie, who was far more interested in whatever her tests had yielded than his body anyway. "So what's meconium? Something radioactive? You're not gonna tell me aliens hanged her, are you?"

  "It's feces. Baby poop."

  "Yeah, well, we already know she gave birth that night. So what."

  The coffeemaker sputtered, and Frankie found two mismatched mugs. "You told me the woman gave birth to a dead baby. Dead babies don't pass stools."

  Her last sentence cut through Eli's senses, and he swam out of his fog. "Hang on--"

  "Hello," Frankie said. "That baby was alive."

  Today was Bingo Day, and although Eli had absolutely no intention of playing, some well-meaning staffer at the nursing home had plunked a card in front of him. "B-11," said the activities coordinator, a large woman in a jumpsuit that made her look like a prize-winning pumpkin. "B-11!"

  He saw Spencer Pike before the old man saw him, and approached the intern who was wheeling him into the room before he reached the table. "I can take care of this," Eli said, taking the handles of the chair and repositioning Pike in a corner, away from the grainy speakers of the Bingo caller.

  Eli was unprepared for the way hate spread through him viscerally. This was the man who had tried to erase his family. This man once thought he had the right to decide what kind of life was worth living. This man had played God.

  Eli had cringed when he'd read the 1932 police reports, where brutality was the order of the day and Miranda wasn't even a gleam in some detective's eye. But cruelty came easily, it turned out, when you had so much anger swimming in you that you risked floating away on the tide.

  "Go away," Spencer Pike said distinctly.

  Eli leaned closer, pinning Pike's shoulders to the back of his chair. "You lied to me, Spencer."

  "I don't even know who you are."

  "That's bullshit, and you know it. Your brain's just fine. I bet you remember everything you did in your life. I bet you even remember their names."

  "Whose names?"

  "O-75," the activities coordinator chirped. "Do we have a Bingo?"

  "You thought you were so smart, telling the cops you'd only just cut down your wife's body. But you'd cut it down hours before you called them."

  A vein throbbed in the old man's temple. "This is ridiculous."

  "Is it? I mean, I wasn't there. I wasn't even alive. So how could I possibly know?" Eli paused. "You ever heard about forensics, Spencer? You know how many things a dead body can tell us these days? Like when she was killed. How it was done. Who was stupid enough to leave clues behind."

  Spencer pushed at him ineffectively. "Get away from me."

  "Who'd you kill first, Spencer? The baby, or your wife?"

  "Nurse!"

  "It must have made you crazy to know that you'd married one. That your child was one."

  Pike's face had gone white. "One what?"

  "Gypsy," Eli said.

  Almost immediately, Pike struggled halfway out of his chair. His skin darkened, and his watery eyes fixed on Eli. "You . . . you . . ." he wheezed.

  "I-20. Anyone?"

  Pike clutched his chest and scrambled to grab at the armrests, but missed and fell forward, landing on the floor. The activities coordinator cried out and came running from the front of the room. Two burly interns headed toward them. Eli leaned down beside Pike. "How does it feel, not being able to fight back?" he whispered.

  In the melee that followed, Pike battled the staff trying to help him, shouting obscenities and scratching a nurse deep enough to draw blood. Pandemonium broke out in the activities room, with some patients egging Pike on, others weeping, and two coming to blows over who had called Bingo first. Eli slipped out of the room unnoticed. He walked down the main hall of the rest home and out the front door, whistling.

  Maylene Warburton moved a crystal an eighth of an inch to the right and lifted her face to the sky with expectation. A moment later, she swore and turned to her husband. "Curtis, I can't conjure anything with him standing here. The negativity is keeping all the spirits away."

  From his spot on a folding camping chair, Rod van Vleet exploded. "It's been four hours, and Wakeman didn't seem to have this much difficulty. Did you ever think maybe it's you?"

  "You see what I mean?" Maylene cried.

  "Cut!" Curtis called, and he clapped the cameraman on his shoulder as he walked into the clearing of the Pike property. "Johannes, take five." He smiled at his wife, placating, and pulled her toward Rod. "If we aren't all on the same page here, it's no wonder the spirits won't come."

  "Spirit," Rod clarified. "Getting rid of one is enough."

  He was beginning to believe his original premise-- namely, that all paranormal investigators were nutcases and that ghosts were about as real as the Tooth Fairy. The Warburtons had seemed a natural choice, since Ross Wakeman had touted Curtis as a mentor and since Bogeyman Nights was one of the better-known supernatural shows on cable. Plus, Curtis had asked to bring a camera, and to interview Rod on film. Who could resist that kind of PR?

  But after a lot of hoo-ha and posturing and some grand ceremony that involved Warburton's so-called psychic wife sticking rocks all over the place, no ghost had appeared. There had been no chains dragged, no bumps in the night, not even a faint moan. The EMF meter that had been set in stationary position beside a rock--after everyone had removed their watches and phones and everything else that might affect the magnetic field there--remained inactive. Next, Curtis Warburton would tell him that sometimes it took several sittings for a spirit to warm up to an investigator.

  "You know," Curtis said, "sometimes, we need to spend a few consecutive nights in order for the ghost to feel comfortable enough to show itself."

  Rod rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Well. The fact of the matter is, maybe it decided to up and leave without any help from--"

  Whatever he had been about to say was interrupted by a flash of light that originated from nowhere and seemed to bounce around, skimming the toes of Rod's loafers before growing brighter.

  "Johannes," Curtis yelled. "Get your ass back here!"

  The light was so bright now that Rod could see his shadow, as if it were daylight. Speechless, he squatted down toward the ground.

  His shadow didn't.

  "Oh my God," Rod whimpered. "Oh, holy shit."

  The black mass moved across the field of light and raised its arms. Overhead, pale pink globules of light began to rise into the night. A breeze rolled over the clearing, plunging it into darkness again, and scenting the air with a lady's perfume.

  "By any chance," Maylene asked, "is your ghost a woman?"

  Rod's insides had begun to quake. "It's her. It's the wife that was killed."

  "This isn't your place anymore," Curtis said loudly. "This isn't your time."

  The only warning he had was a rustle of leaves overhead, as a heavy limb from the tree beside hi