Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

When he saw it was the girl and no threat, the knife had gone back into his boot. But he wouldn’t let go of her and tightened his grip until her hands felt like they were being crushed. He half-leaned down, half-reeled her in, until his face was nose-to-nose with hers; she could feel his hot breath, see every furious line etched on his countenance. “Made a mistake, girlie! No one messes with Callahan!”

Still she would not back down: “Well, no one steals from me! Give me back my armband!” Callahan didn’t react, which was telling, she thought. No confusion; he knows I’m on to him!

Alonso, who had come up the stairs to check on his wayward child, found the door to the guest room wide open. He could hear the shouting. He appeared in the doorway, already asking, “What is going—” But he didn’t finish that sentence. He saw the big man, saw Rain and immediately rushed in. “Take your hands off my daughter!” Ready for a fight, he separated Rain and the stranger.

Callahan sized up his new opposition in less than a second. Alonso Cacique was shorter, but still easily six feet tall. His frame was slim but well-muscled. (Sixteen years on a boat’ll do that.) Plus he was a bear fighting to protect his cub. Still Callahan knew he could take the innkeeper. And just for the temporary satisfaction of acting, of doing, of feeling his knuckles striking the other man’s jawbone, Callahan was on the verge of throwing that first punch. But he managed to strangle the impulse. Instead, he took a step back to reduce the temptation and swept his hand out to indicate the condition of his room. “Look what she did here!” he shouted. “She was rifling through my gear!”

“He stole Papa’s armband! I saw him leaving my room!”

Callahan scowled at her with contempt. “You find it?”

Rain looked away.

“’Course not,” Callahan continued. He then turned out all his pockets and patted himself down for her benefit. “’Cause I don’t have it.”

Alonso glanced up at Callahan’s smirking face and strangled his own impulse to do something manly. Then he looked around the demolished room. The guy’s a jerk. But… He turned to his daughter and with just the appropriate amount of disappointment in his voice, said, “Rain, I think you’d better apologize.”

Rain stood there. She didn’t move or speak for a long time. She wasn’t looking at anything. Just building up steam. Finally: “NO! He took it! I know he did!”

She bolted out of the room. From where the men stood, they heard her bedroom door open and quickly slam shut. A very tired Alonso turned to face Callahan. He sighed. “I’m sorry about that. It’s her grandfather. She’s taken it pretty hard. And it hasn’t helped that she lost something he gave her.”

“No excuse,” Callahan growled.

“Perhaps under the circumstances, I should arrange accommodations for you elsewhere.”

Callahan suddenly looked insecure. His tongue ran over his lower lip nervously and his eyes twitched back and forth. When he responded, it was with a new conciliatory tone. Deferential, even. “Don’t get carried away. Checking out tomorrow night anyhow. Can make allowances. Grieving kid. Tough break.” He heard himself rambling and swallowed to get a grip on his big mouth. “Think I’ll stay put,” he said with finality.

Rain heard it all. The backpedaling. The nervousness. The determination to stay. All of it. She pressed against the inside of her bedroom door. The same door she had immediately cracked open after intentionally slamming it shut for effect. (Being known as the family Drama Queen had its advantages.) She listened as her father offered to clean up the mess and heard Callahan decline.

And she knew. He was connected to all of it. The armband. ’Bastian’s death. The Dark Man. The Eight. She had no idea how it all fit together. But she knew Callahan was in the middle of it.

And she was almost right.

That night there were no ghosts, no Eight, no Dark Man. Just the conviction that Callahan was responsible for it all. Having someone to blame was a great relief. Rain slept soundly.

Then it was Sunday morning. One more day before school started. It was almost unimaginable that she should be expected to return to class after all that had happened. She looked out the window. Hazy. She took a shower and tried to summon up a song to play in her head. An instrument even. But nothing would stick. Everything was gray, inside and out. She took her time getting dressed, took even longer to dry, brush and braid her hair into its long, thick, black rope. She had a pretty good idea of what was waiting for her downstairs and was in no hurry to face it.

Eventually, though…

She entered the kitchen, wearing her standard uniform of shorts, t-shirt, deck shoes and no socks, and was surprised to see her father preparing breakfast. That wasn’t how labor was divided at the Nitaino. He silently watched her hesitant approach. Then he put down his spatula and held out a hand. “The key.”

“I won’t use it again. There’s no point. He’s hidden the armband somewhere else.”

Alonso frowned. That wasn’t the answer he was looking for. His hand didn’t move. “I’m not going to argue with you, Rain. Give me the key.”

She took out her key chain and started to remove the master. Her voice slipped into a whine: “Great. How am I supposed to do my Sunday chores without it?”

Alonso shoved the key in his pocket and spoke quietly as he fished around in it. “No chores for you today. Make sure you have everything you need for school tomorrow. Paper, notebooks. Pencils. Here.” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “I’m not expecting change.”

She stared at him with mouth agape. This is my punishment? No chores and free money?

He saw her reaction. “It’s been a difficult few days, Rain. Make sure you have your supplies. Then you can have the afternoon.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She turned to go, turned back. “Where’s Mom?”

“Upstairs. In ’Bastian’s room.”

Rain flinched. “What’s she doing up there?”

He shrugged.

Rain nodded absently and left the kitchen. A heartbeat later, she poked her head back in and stared at him.

“What?” he said.

“Don’t ever die, okay?”

“Okay, baby.”

“Promise.”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

She left again. He listened to her light footsteps dancing up the back stairs. Then he picked up the spatula.

Rain peeked into her grandfather’s bedroom. Her mother was sitting on the bed surrounded by a half-dozen open cardboard boxes. Piles of clothes and old photographs were scattered everywhere.

Rain hesitated at the threshold, another threshold. But this one she didn’t want to cross. He’s not here anymore.

Iris idly unfolded a shirt from one pile and refolded it atop another. After a bit, she felt her daughter’s eyes. She lifted her head and smiled wistfully. “I’m just sorting through his things. I don’t know what to do with this room.”

Rain winced. “Can’t we leave it as is?”

“I’m not sure he’d like that. I just don’t know.”

Rain considered that. What would he want? A museum? A pit stop for still more tourists?

“Can I have his room?”

Iris looked up again. Momentarily, Rain wondered who had spoken, who would make such an audacious request. It took seconds before she realized she had done it. Did she really want to live up here? Would he approve?

Her mother seemed to be considering the same things. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “We can discuss it.” Which meant not now .