The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  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 him came crashing down, narrowly missing his head, and crushing the cameraman’s knapsack. “Goddamn,” breathed Johannes.

  “You need to go to the light,” Curtis urged.

  Rod felt something stir in his hands, and suddenly the jacket he was holding flew out of his arms and flung itself into the middle of the clearing, as if it had been possessed. “Hey!” he cried, standing abruptly. “It took my coat!”

  “I think she’s trying to convey how she feels about you taking over her land,” Curtis explained.

  Rod turned in a frantic circle. “It’s my land!”

  “Curtis, the temperature’s dropping.” Maylene waved a digital thermometer in the air. “And look at this.” On the ground, their EMF meter was blinking wildly. A thick white fog spilled from the sky, concentrating itself into the clearing.

  “Keep filming, Johannes,” Curtis whispered, and then more loudly. “You can’t live here anymore. You can cross to the other side. Show us a sign of departure!”

  The mist dissipated, and Rod glanced down to find the ground covered with rose petals. He knelt and picked one up, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, and looking up at the clear sky.

  At the sound of a click, all three of them jumped. “Sorry,” Johannes said. “That’s the end of the tape.”

  “Well. I think we both got what we need,” Curtis said, smiling at Rod.

  He stood up, looking around. “You mean that’s it? She’s gone now?”

  “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Rod nodded. “But what keeps her from coming back?”

  “Once she finds her way to the other side, there’s no reason for it. Unless, of course, your check bounces.” Curtis grinned at his own joke, then began to gather the equipment his production crew had brought. Maylene repacked her crystals in a small silk pouch.

  Rod handed Curtis Warburton an envelope with his prearranged fee, and followed him out toward the front of the property, where their cars were parked. “So . . . that’s it? I can build on it now?”

  “You could have built on it before,” Curtis said. “But now you won’t have a roommate.”

  “Curtis.” Maylene reached out the passenger-side window of their van. “Can we please get out of Mayberry and find a Starbucks?”

  “Coming.” He shook Rod’s hand. “Do me a favor, will you? When you see Ross Wakeman again, tell him what happened tonight.” He got into the van, waving as he drove down Otter Creek Pass.

  The van passed another vehicle on its way, and Rod squinted into the headlights until they switched off. A sheriff’s car, its motor still humming, sat a few feet away from him. “Mr. van Vleet?” the deputy said.

  “Yes?” Rod’s heart began to pound. Was it illegal to evict a ghost?

  “This is for you.”

  He slit open the sealed envelope from the county court, read the contents, and swore under his breath.

  Now that he’d gotten rid of his ghost, Rod was being evicted too.

  As Ethan rappelled down the trunk of the tree, Ross caught him by the waist. “Easy,” he said. “You don’t want to break anything.”

  He had waited to reveal himself for a full hour after he’d heard Rod van Vleet drive away, just in case. Ross reached up and stretched out the kinks in his body as Ethan swung his feet onto solid ground. “Got it all,” he promised, patting the backpack he wore. Several of the half-filled helium balloons—their globules—were tangled around his waist, floating at half-mast. “I didn’t leave anything up there.”

  The scent, the globules, the roses, the fog—these were all things Ross had seen when Lia had first come, organic signs of a spirit. Except this time, they’d been handmade. “You got the projector? The wires? And all of the mirrors?”

  “I even took the fishing line.” Ethan grinned widely. “Did you see that dude’s face when his jacket went flying?”

  “I told you not to try that. What if he’d moved, and gotten a hook in his palm?” Ross glanced around at the equipment he and Ethan had set up before the Warburtons’ arrival tonight. There was a sweet irony to perpetrating a hoax upon the man who ha