Cate Culpepper - A Question of Ghosts

“Which doesn’t exactly vindicate him.” Becca rested her head against the seat, looking disturbingly spent. “So John William Voakes stays on our list, along with Rachel, my uncle, my aunt, my mother, my father. Hell, Jo, maybe I shot the gun myself and blocked it all out. Maybe I thought it was a toy. Two unlucky shots…”

Jo had actually considered this most horrific of scenarios early on, and dismissed it out of hand. “Becca, you were five years old. They would have to be two incredibly unlucky shots, one after the other. And a five-year-old wouldn’t have the knowledge or presence of mind to stage a murder/suicide.”

“I was a pretty precocious five-year-old. And where are we going? Oh.”

Jo waited until Becca’s face lit up, then she sighed in relief. She nodded at the glass doors of Ezell’s Famous Chicken. “I understand Oprah Winfrey announced on her show that Seattle’s Ezell’s had the best fried chicken she ever tasted. I know you like chicken. You wanted some the other night, when Marty and Khadijah came over for the Xenathon, but you suggested going to KFC …” Jo uttered the letters with distaste.

“You know, Jo?” Becca looked entirely serious, as if she were telling an unvarnished truth. “You can be a very sweet woman. A good friend. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit for that.”

She unsnapped her seatbelt and leaned over to kiss Jo lightly on the cheek. “Come on. Aren’t you hungry? You’re buying.”

Jo ducked out of the car, smiling, resting her hand on her cheek.

Becca had the best intentions of waiting until they had settled in the house and fired up a Xena episode before attacking the chicken, but she made short work of her share on the drive back to the Hill. Some of Jo’s share, too. She didn’t understand how anyone could steer a luxury car while consuming greasy poultry without so much as a smeared lip, but Jo managed it. Becca went through twenty napkins with relish.

She was growing drowsy by the time they pulled up to the house. The triple punch of a long day, a heart-to-heart with a serial killer, and a full meal had about done her in.

She saw the wrought iron gates of Lake View Cemetery across the street reflected in the polished glass of the Bentley’s window as Jo keyed off the engine. “You realize I’m using a solid week of vacation leave for this, Jo? We could be at Cannon Beach. We could be at Lake Crescent.” She glanced at Jo and blushed. “I mean, I could be. Just saying, I’ve taken more relaxing vacations.”

“You’ll deserve a real break after this.” Jo extended her long arm across the back of the seat and regarded Becca. “You would deserve a luxury vacation, in any case. Seeing Western and meeting Emily Kelley have opened my eyes a bit about your work. You deal with people in crisis every day, and you have for your entire career. I can tell how good you are at what you do, Becca. You were diamond sharp with Voakes, but genuine and warm with Pam’s father. Your compassion comes through so clearly.”

Becca set off the tiny little vacuum cleaners behind her eyes, not wanting to tear up, hoping to keep Jo in the gentle space she had amazingly created. “Sometimes I think I spend my days applying Band-Aids. The poverty and mental illness and addiction I see in my work seem unbeatable. Feels like all I’ve done is deal with a constant series of mini crises my entire career.”

“A thousand Band-Aids, a thousand small works of healing that actually helped someone.” Jo shrugged. “Seems like an honorable career to look back on to me.”

The interior of the Bentley was growing warm in the late afternoon sun. Becca glanced at Jo’s hand on the back of the seat. Her thumb would only have to move a mere inch to brush the back of Becca’s neck. Jo sat motionless, her eyes on the steering wheel, and Becca felt a weary sadness seep into her. This was a woman dealing with a profound disability, and she didn’t have the right, or enough hope right now, to push things further.

“Listen, I’m bushed.” She gave Jo’s knee a sisterly pat. “I could conk out easily for a nap in that armchair. You have to be tired, too, so I’ll swap you for the couch.”

Jo slid her arm slowly from the back of the seat and unclasped her belt. “We can fight about it inside.”

They walked together up the shaded steps to the porch, and Becca found enough energy to be proud of her lack of stomach knot. Dread used to shoot through her at the very sight of this place, and simply walking into it took an act of will. She was besting this house slowly, with Jo’s help, with late-night Xena parties here with her friends. A murderer of a family, a house haunted by tragedy, eating fried chicken in luxury cars. Becca was learning to face down her demons.

Or she was, until she saw the body of the bloody, mutilated child slumped beside the front door.

The first indication Jo had of anything amiss was Becca’s sharp gasp, then her body slamming into her own with an impact powerful enough to send them both hurtling backward down the stone steps.

Jo twisted instinctively and managed to save her spine the first smashing blow of the step, but the swell of her shoulder took a painful crack. Her body helped cushion Becca’s landing, but they both tumbled helplessly because she was thrashing like a banshee. The bone of Jo’s ankle smacked against another stair before she could bring them to a halt.

“Becca, hold still!” It was all Jo could yell, mindlessly and several times, while she tried to pin Becca’s wrists to the cement walk. She was afraid she would hurt herself, and she kept trying to cushion the back of Becca’s head with a hand she needed to restrain her.

Becca was trying to talk. Jo could hear words mixed in with her terrible gasping, but she made no coherent sense. Her eyes were filled with horror and then they fluttered shut, and her body sagged abruptly beneath Jo’s hands.

“Becca? Christ.” Jo looked around wildly. Where was a medically knowledgeable pedestrian when she needed one? Her hands hovered over Becca’s still figure. She didn’t seem to be hurt. Air was still whistling in and out of her chest, so at least she was breathing.

Jo crouched beside her, tapping her clammy hand ineffectually. Then she cursed and lifted Becca into her arms. Her dead weight made Jo stagger as she lunged to her feet, and her ankle and shoulder protested painfully, but she managed to wrestle them both up the wide stairs. If getting Becca out of this sun and a wet compress didn’t bring her around quickly, she was calling medics.

Jo was dimly grateful she’d gotten the door unlocked before Becca smacked her. One good kick would widen the opening enough to carry her in. She clenched her teeth, wincing as she maneuvered her head around the doorjamb, and then she saw the bloody doll on the cement step. Jo stared at it until Becca stirred sluggishly in her arms.

“Hey. Let’s get you inside.” Jo felt Becca’s small nod against her shoulder. Her body remained slack, but she lifted one hand to grip the back of Jo’s neck.

Jo back-heeled the door curtly, then waited until she heard it latch behind them before carrying Becca down the two stairs to the sofa. She lowered her into it carefully, then sat at its edge. “Becca?”

“T-trigger.”

“Yes, I saw it.” Jo rested her hand on Becca’s forehead. “I’ll call Pam Emerson. You’ll never see it again.”

Becca nodded again.

“You look awful,” Jo said. “Can you talk to me?”

Becca wrapped her arms around her waist, holding herself tightly, trembling so hard Jo imagined the couch vibrated.

“Becca, you’re safe, I promise you.” Jo fought a wave of helplessness. “Tell me what you need from me.”