Soldier of Love (3 page)

Tears streamed down her face and she shuddered with release. Though they were slick with sweat, she returned his embrace and held on to him as if her life depended on it. Their bodies jerked with the aftershocks of the passion that they’d shared. In the end, they clung to one another until the last wave of desire had subsided. His muscles relaxed under her touch, and his kisses became more tender. She felt that two were—once again—one.

* * * *

Toni was in the twilight between sleep and waking. The sheets were tangled about her legs and her pillow felt lumpy. She kicked at the bedclothes, trying to straighten them, and peered at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was nearly three in the morning. Before she’d turned in she’d cranked up the thermostat but the chill had returned. Toni sat up and pulled up the extra quilt from the foot of the bed, then rolled onto her side and drew up her knees to concentrate her body heat. She became aware that her pussy was wet and tingling and the dream came back to her in exquisite detail. She smiled. Exhausted, she burrowed into the blankets. As she drifted back to sleep, she imagined the faint smell of cap-gun smoke.

Chapter Two

The flickering lights, the sudden blasts of cold air, the unexplained sensation of being touched, the weird sexual dreams—all of those things were disturbing, but it was the incessant channel-flipping that annoyed her the most.

Toni shook the soapy dishwater from her hands and snatched up the TV remote from the windowsill over the sink. She pointed the device at the small flat-screen television on the wall and entered the code for the home improvement show she had been watching before the channel had flipped. It was an episode on plaster repair, and given the chunk of ceiling she’d found on the dining room table this morning, it was a skill she’d need to master.

The host of the home improvement show was demonstrating how to remove the loose plaster, dust and grime from the spot to be repaired.

Toni kept her attention on the screen as she plunged her hands back into the soapy water. She felt around for a plate, sponged it clean, then dipped the plate through the rinse water and turned to place it in the draining rack while keeping an ear tuned to the television.

“…remember, if you want any plaster repair to last you must…
Get buns of iron!”

Toni jerked her head towards the television, confirming that the channel had indeed switched again. She spiked the sponge into the wash water and the front of her dress was doused by the resulting splash.

“Oh, c’mon!” she shouted to the empty kitchen.

She grabbed the remote from the windowsill and pointed it towards the TV to once again flip back to the programme she’d been watching. Before she could make the switch, she felt a cushioned jolt to her right shoulder, like she’d been swatted with a bed pillow. The controller flew out of her hand and into the dishwater. She watched it sink beneath the sudsy surface. She spun around, pressed her back against the sink and jerked her gaze over the kitchen. It was empty.

A cold knot formed in Toni’s belly. She’d explained away two weeks’ worth of strange happenings. The lights flickered because the wiring was old. When she walked through a cold spot, it was because the doors and windows were draughty. She was having sexual dreams because she was horny. And the occasional physical sensations really were just tiny muscles contracting beneath her skin.

It was harder to explain away the sensation of being tripped every time she started to climb the stairs, but she’d never been particularly graceful. She’d wondered about the little house repairs that seemed to complete themselves overnight. She would often take a walk around the grounds and see that a swinging shutter had been secured or a leaning fencepost righted. The mysterious maintenance had been going on since the rainy night she’d seen the re-enactor in the alleyway. She’d awoken the next morning and found the carriage house door repaired and the handle reattached. She’d yet to identify the Good Samaritan, but she’d convinced herself that it probably was just a neighbour performing a random act of kindness. Who else could it be? But now the doubt that she’d been suppressing twisted inside her.

Toni smelt cap-gun smoke. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. She couldn’t explain away the blow that had caused her to drop the remote into the sink. Most of the other invisible touches she’d experienced had been as gentle as the brush of a cobweb against the skin, light enough to make her wonder if they’d been imagined. This time, there was no confusion. This time, she’d been pushed. Of that she was certain.

Toni wished she weren’t alone in the big old house. The re-enactors had all left immediately after breakfast to take part in the annual John Buckman Poker Tournament. They’d roll in well after dark and would undoubtedly be stumbling drunk. Not that any of those desk jockeys would provide much muscle. Toni realised that she was on her own. But, she’d grown up with five brothers. How tough could this be?

Toni drew in air until her lungs were full to bursting, then pushed away from the counter and balled her hands into fists.

“Okay!” she shouted to the empty kitchen. “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?”

The television crackled with static and she turned towards it. The Buns of Iron exercise video commercial ended with a toll-free number to call if one, in fact, wanted to spend one’s hard-earned cash to attain a forged-metal ass. The screen faded to black before the regularly scheduled programme filled the screen.

The episode of Paranormal Research Team was just wrapping up. The handsome star of the show was sitting in a modest kitchen across the table from a bedraggled housewife. They were both fixated on a tiny monitor at one end of the table.

“Keep a close eye on the curtain near the head of the bed,” the handsome host said.

They both leaned in.

“There!” he shouted. The woman jumped. “Right there. Did you see how the curtain puffed out? Was it a draught?” The host drew in a dramatic breath and looked into the camera, stretching out the melodramatic pause. “Or”—yet another long pause—“was it something else? Was it something”—he dipped his square chin and raised one eyebrow—“paranormal?”

A discordant collection of musical notes played ominously as the credits rolled. Toni’s skin prickled as she stared at the little television. The announcer’s theatrical voice boomed into the kitchen.

“If you, or someone you know, have experienced something unexplained, contact the Paranormal Research Team at…”

A static crackle issued from the television speaker and Toni watched as the horizontal green line that indicated the volume level travelled from left to right across the screen. She winced at the blaring sound of the announcer’s voice reciting the toll-free number to call.

Toni was shaking. She uncurled her fingers from the edge of the countertop and tried to recall where she kept her pens and notepaper. She turned towards the corner drawer that served as a catchall for the flotsam and jetsam that had no other obvious home. Her trembling hand was on the drawer knob when the cordless phone on the counter began to bleat at an unexpectedly rapid tempo. The rings were amplified far beyond their normal level and they came closer together until it was just one long, shrill tone.

She fought the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, cover her ears, and stumble blindly out of the kitchen. Instead, Toni turned towards the sound. Her mouth dropped open and when she inhaled, her breath shuddered. Her eyelids ached as she stretched them open to their limit.

A scream threatened to burst from her chest, but she was dumbstruck while she watched the phone’s display screen glow orange as it was activated. The television muted itself and the sound of a dial tone filled the kitchen as the cordless switched over to speaker. Toni felt cemented to the floor and silently watched the line of numbers fill the telephone display screen, each digit appearing with its assigned digital music note.

Toni’s entire body was now trembling. She crossed her arms under her breasts, trying to stop herself from shaking, then inched on unsteady legs towards the phone. She could hear the recipient line ringing through the speaker. She wasn’t sure if she could find her voice to speak when the voice on the other end answered, “Paranormal Research Team. How can we help you today?”

* * * *

Thomas Becker glanced at the dashboard GPS. The Paranormal Research Team was less than ten miles from their destination.

“What’s the deal with this one?” he asked the doe-eyed redhead in the passenger seat.

Bridget O’Malley flipped through the notebook pages attached to the clipboard on her lap. “Okay, Soldiers Orchard, Iowa—home of Civil War soldier John Buckman, one of about seventy-five thousand that the state sent to fight on the Union side. Came home from the war without a scratch. Died a year later from an infection after stepping on a rusty nail on his front porch. Supposedly haunts the house and grounds.”

Thomas didn’t mind that Bridget didn’t always speak in complete sentences. In fact, he kind of appreciated the shorthand. It took less effort than trying to engage her in conversation. The team had been researching paranormal activity—PA—for four seasons and the show had become the highest rated in the network’s history. At least part of that popularity could be attributed to his attractive sidekick.

Bridget continued, “No actual battle took place here but the town does a booming tourist trade with historic re-enactment buffs.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow and glanced at Bridget. “I thought those re-enactment guys only did their thing at actual, historic battlefields?”

Bridget nodded. “Usually. Sometimes historical societies will do living history demonstrations at encampments.”

“So, was Soldiers Orchard an encampment?”

Bridget shook her head. “No. It wasn’t even Soldiers Orchard until about ten years after the end of the war—used to be Appleville. John Buckman’s son…” Bridget flipped pages searching for the name. She tapped the paper when she’d found it. “Right, Samuel Buckman—reputation as a scammer—cooked up inflated stories about his dad’s military service, got elected mayor, got the town name changed to Soldiers Orchard and started ‘John Buckman Days’ to draw travellers. He turned the house into an inn and charged a penny for folks to look at his dad’s old uniform and rifle. He charged two pennies if they wanted to put the stuff on and walk around the back yard.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Sounds like quite a guy. But they’re still doing re-enactments today? Those guys are pretty serious about historical accuracy. Aren’t they?”

“Definitely. The truth came out in the late 1980s when computers changed fact-checking. But by then, ‘John Buckman Days’ had become a huge deal and tourism had become the town’s major source of revenue. The battle re-enactment is only one of the events. There are arts and crafts shows, a parade, a 10K run, a beauty pageant, a fair with midway rides, you name it. Not many hard-core re-enactors show up anymore. The ones that do are here for the party.”

Thomas shook his head. “Wow. John Buckman must be rolling over in his grave!”

Bridget pointed a finger at Thomas. “Exactly! The theory—the legend—is that he haunts his old homestead, trying to make amends for Samuel’s bullshit.”

“So that’s where we’re going? John Buckman’s estate?”

“Right. Samuel Buckman started taking in guests around the time he changed the name of the town. It ran as a B and B for the next hundred years. After the scam was uncovered in the 1980s, the clientele got a little less genteel—think LARPing geeks instead of scholars—and the house fell into disrepair.”

Bridget glanced at Thomas as if trying to make sure he was following her. He raised an eyebrow and she offered an explanation. “LARP—Live Action Role Playing—usually teens or college guys—go into the woods and pretend to be elves or wizards or gremlins. Occasionally they delve into the historic stuff. It’s like a supercharged game of Cowboys and Indians.”

Thomas nodded his understanding and Bridget continued.

“Some city chick, Toni Bianchi, bought the place a few months ago, intending to bring it back to its former glory and revive it as a B and B.”

“Toni Bianchi. Is that our subject?”

Bridget nodded. “Yep. Sceptical but curious. PA started almost immediately. Good advance interview. Intelligent. High energy. If she isn’t a total troll, it’ll be good TV.”

“Did she contact us?”

Bridget fixed her big, green eyes on Thomas. “Yep. She said her ghost told her to. This is either a no-shit haunting, or the woman is deep in the throes of paranoid delusion.”

Thomas was sure that the viewers of Paranormal Research Team would be shocked to learn that Bridget had her doctorate in abnormal psychology and was an expert in paranormal activity. She certainly was more than a pretty face, but the male viewers didn’t tune in to admire her big brain. And, if Bridget was the eye candy of the operation, then Brad Michaels, the cameraman and technology guy, provided the comic relief.

Thomas looked in the rear-view mirror and squinted at the reflection of the gangly man in the back seat. Brad seemed to be searching for something.

Thomas tightened his grip on the steering wheel. It wouldn’t be the first time the cameraman had forgotten something. Thomas couldn’t remember a time that they hadn’t had to turn around and go back to the studio, or wait in some Podunk town for a piece of equipment to be shipped to their destination. Thomas was tired of Brad’s forgetfulness and the delays it caused, but he was the best cameraman around. And he was the only one who knew how to work the collection of blinking ghost-detection gadgets. Brad and his wife were expecting their first baby any day. Thomas wondered if it was because the guy had misplaced the condoms.

“Brad, did you forget something?”

Thomas was answered by the sound of zippers sliding open and Velcro being released.

“Brad?”

Brad met Thomas’s gaze in the rear-view mirror and cringed.