SPIRIT OF CONSEQUENCE (A Spirit Walking Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter 2

“No!” I shrieked and rushed back toward him.

He snapped his head up and around, then pointed the gun at me. “Who the hell are you and how did you get into my apartment?”

Who was he talking to? I looked behind me. No one there.

“I’ll pull this trigger if you don’t answer my questions, right now!” he bellowed. “Who the hell are you and how did you get into my apartment?”

I glanced behind me again.

He rose and stepped around the chair. His body was tight and I could sense the fury underneath the composure he fought to keep. “Stop looking around and answer me!”

My eyes widened and I pointed to my chest.

“Yes, you.” He leveled his gaze at me. “Who are you?”

Okay, this was weird. He could see me? It must be the tequila. How was I going to explain myself?

“If you don’t answer me, I’m going to shoot you.” His voice rose in tone and pitch with each word.

It wasn’t like it was going to hurt me, I was already dead after all, but I might as well answer him. “I’m a figment of your imagination.”

He frowned.

“I’m your conscience,” I suggested.

His frowned deepened.

“Okay, you’re really asleep in that chair and I’m a hallucination brought on by the tequila.”

“Oh,” he shrugged, as he set the gun next to the overturned frame and slumped back in the chair. He ran his fingers through his hair, then buried his head in his hands.

If I left would he pick up the gun and finish what he started? I walked around the chair and sat on the table, obscuring the gun and the frame. How do you stop someone from killing himself? Get him thinking about something else?

“How was your day?” I asked, pushing a huge smile on my face that went all the way to my eyes.

He didn’t even look up.

Stupid question. “You’re a cop?”

He glanced up, glared at me, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The nerves in my stomach did a somersault. I got a response. Try some more. “What’s it like being a cop? Is it a good job? It must be hard work. Do you like it?”

He leaned his head forward, rubbed his temples with his thumbs.

“Sorry, I tend to ramble when I’m nervous. This is my first attempt at trying to stop someone from killing himself. Are you okay? How am I doing?”

“You’re annoying and I was
not
going to kill myself,” he mumbled through clenched teeth.

Keep him talking. “I’ve been told that before. I’ve always wondered about policemen. Do you like being a cop?”

He raised his head and locked eyes with me.

“Do you?” I prodded.

He let out a long breath, then nodded.

Now try some flattery. “I bet you’re good at your job.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged.

“I’ll also bet that being a cop is important to you.”

He sat up straight. “I’m a good cop.”

“What do you say to someone who is at the end of their rope?”

He stared intently at me. In his eyes I saw the change from pure emotion to rational thought. “I tell them to find another rope to hold on to.”

“What do
you
grab?”

“I like being a cop,” he muttered.

“Then it’s settled. You’re a good cop, you like being a good cop, so be it.”

Silence. He seemed to be contemplating what I said. Would he reconsider his earlier desire to end his life? I shouldn’t let him think too long.

“Remember, you’re still asleep and I’m just a hallucination of your mind brought on by too much tequila, so take your own advice.”

“Damn, you’d think I’d have better looking hallucinations, especially in my dreams.”

“What!” I jumped up. Nobody insults me! I fisted my hands and placed them squarely on my hips. “What’s wrong with me?”

He started at my toes and inspected every inch of me. My anger subsided as my skin tingled with a rush of warmth. By the time he got to my face, I could barely catch my breath.

“Well,” he held up his hand and his jaw slacked a bit. “You’re almost as tall as I am but too thin. I guess you’re not bad looking, but look at you.”

I knew what I had on -- a green sweatsuit, white shirt, and tennis shoes. It was what I had on when I died. How dare he criticize my attire? “What’s wrong with what I have on?”

“It’s so --,” he stuttered, his face contorted into a grimace.

“What?” I glared at him.

He shrugged, and mumbled to himself. “If you’re
my
hallucination, I’d like to see you in a tight red strapless dress, red stiletto heels, and that red mop called your hair put up.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.” It was the truth, I never thought about my attire. I had been wearing the sweats for five years. There never had been a reason to change.

“Let me see if I can.” He closed his eyes, put his index fingers on his temples and squinted. He looked ridiculous. When he opened his eyes, he frowned.

I looked down, still dressed in green.

His frown intensified. “You’re a very stubborn hallucination.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh well,” he shrugged, picked up the photo frame and his gun again, and turned away from me.

“No,” I shouted.

He glanced over his shoulder at me, raised his eyebrows, and frowned again. “I’m going to put it away in its locked cabinet.”

“Oh, okay.” I let out a long sigh, releasing the breath I had been holding since he picked up the gun the second time.

As he left the room, I flopped down on the couch. Wow, that was close. It had felt good to do something. I had certainly stopped him from killing himself, even if he thought I was just a poorly dressed drunken hallucination. At least this time. Would he try again? That would defeat all the good I had done tonight.

Maybe I had better stick around and make sure he didn’t do it again. I heard the shower running, then the bed squeak. He was turning in for the night. Good.

I went into the hall bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, and stared at my reflection. Ghastly. My crumpled, ripped olive green sweatsuit hung droopily on my five-foot-ten frame. Had I lost weight? Was that even possible for a ghost? All those years of fad diets and the “Death Diet” had finally rid me of those stubborn ten pounds. My pale face with black mascara shadows under both blue eyes went so nicely with my shoulder length red hair that was tangled and sticking out in several places. I tried to comb it with my fingers, but my hand went right through. Touching or holding things wasn’t an option for me. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my hair and how I wanted it to look. When I opened my eyes, it was nicely combed and shiny.

Well, then.

Now for my attire.

For the next few hours, I thought myself into every outfit and hairstyle imaginable. It was just like my virtual-reality platform at home, back when I was alive. There I spent hours virtually trying on outfits, then pushed a button and they would be delivered to my house. This was even better. Now, I had them immediately. First I wore a long black evening gown, with my hair expertly piled up, then cowboy boots, hat, and a western outfit. I tried hot pants with knee length boots, and then a skimpy bikini and strapless sandals. I changed the color and style of my hair with each outfit. I giggled and laughed as the outfits and hairstyles got more and more bizarre. It was more fun than I’d had in a very long time.

A few minutes later the man walked by the bathroom door, muttering. “I can’t believe I’m dreaming that you’re keeping me awake.”

What? He could still hear me? He must still be drunk. I leaned out of the bathroom and watched him walk down the hall. He was dressed in a faded blue t-shirt and striped boxer shorts and I was getting that warm-all-over feeling again. Even without the uniform, he made my heart race.

I changed back into my sweatsuit, made sure it was neatly pressed, clean and not torn, and followed him down the hall. He went into the kitchen, opened a drawer in the refrigerator, and took out a carton of real eggs and a plastic bag of shredded orange cheese.

I sat down on the stool at the counter. “What’s your name?”

He frowned at me. “It’s bad enough I’m having an alcohol-induced hallucination, I’m not carrying on a conversation with it.”

“That’s rude.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Great,” he sighed and shook his head. “A hallucination with attitude.”

I jumped up and smiled. “I finally figured out how to change my outfit.”

He ignored me and broke two eggs into a bowl.

I changed into that skimpy red dress he asked for earlier.

He glanced up, but then went back to mixing his eggs.

When he continued to ignore me, I changed into several other outfits. At the string bikini, he whipped some of the egg right out of the bowl. He put his hand up. “Okay, stop that.”

“Why? It’s fun.”

“It’s distracting.”

I changed back into my green sweatsuit and sat down on the stool. “Then talk to me. I rarely get to actually talk to people.”

He shook his head. “The tequila must still be in my system.”

“I’m sure it is,” I nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Let me finish fixing my breakfast.”

“Why aren’t you using your Auto Chef?”

“I like cooking my own food. Let me finish and then I’ll talk to you.”

“Hoping the tequila will be out of your system by then and I’ll disappear?”

He nodded. “Yep.”

He was probably right. As soon as he wasn’t drunk anymore, I would disappear and be alone again. Until this point I hadn’t realized how much I missed the simple interaction of conversation. I didn’t want to sound as desperate as I felt, so I leaned nonchalantly on the counter. “Come on, just a few words before I go?”

“Fine,” he poured his eggs into a frying pan and they started to sizzle. “My name is Dodge Benson.”

“Like the car?”

He moved the eggs around the pan with a spatula. “Yes, according to my dad I was conceived in his 1974 Dodge Dart Sport. He spent hours refurbishing that classic old car. It was dark blue and sweet.”

“Why isn’t your name Dart?”

He shrugged. “It’s my middle name.”

I laughed and he shrugged again. It felt so good sharing with another person, even if he never smiled and was suicidal. If I was going to disappear soon, I needed to figure out what was Mr. Dodge Dart Benson’s problem.

“Why’d you try to kill yourself?” I asked.

The spatula slid through the eggs and he flipped a piece on to the stove.

“Sorry. Let’s try something else.” I sat back down, put my elbows on the counter, and rested my chin in my hand. “My name is Samantha Gerald.”

“My hallucination has a name?”

“Of course.”

“That’s weird.”

I ignored the obvious slam on me and continued. “How long have you been a policeman?”

“Fifteen years.”

“And you’re still only a patrolman?”

“I am a Homicide Inspector with the San Francisco Police Department.” He grimaced. “But now I’m a patrolman.”

“Did you run over your chief’s foot?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Sleep with his wife?”

Dodge scowled at me.

Guess not. I leaned forward and gave him my best smile. “What happened?”

He dished out his scrambled eggs on to a plate, added the cheese, sat down on the stool next to me and started eating.

“Are you just going to ignore me?” I huffed. “If so, I’m going to start changing my outfits and hair again.”

“No, I’ll talk to you.” He set his fork down. “I was investigating a couple of related murders.”

“Okay,” I shrugged. “You were trying to catch a killer, so how’d you end up a patrolman?”

Dodge Benson got up and started a pot of coffee. I was probably annoying him and he hoped that coffee would sober him up and I would disappear. He was probably right. As the coffee brewed, he sat back down and continued eating his eggs.

“How’d you end up a patrolman?” I asked again.

He glanced at the coffee pot, which wasn’t finished yet. “The victims were prostitutes and my chief didn’t think their deaths were important. He wanted me to stop working the cases.”

“You were pulled from the case and put back into patrol?”

He scowled at me. “No, he pulled me from the cases so I could oversee the security for a visiting dignitary from France.”

“As a patrolman?” I asked.

“I’m a Homicide Inspector,” he growled. “NOT a babysitter.”

“Okay, I think I’ve got it. You disagreed with your chief and that’s why you got busted down to patrolman.”