Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

She ran. Turned onto Goodfellow Lane, simultaneous with a silent flash of lightning that heralded a real downpour. In response, the heavy boots of the shadowed man started to run as well, clomping and splashing on the wet stones, gaining on her. She beelined for the only streetlamp on the block.

She stopped beneath it, needing the light. He was close now. Just beyond the light, the footsteps slowed and stopped. A rumble of thunder jolted her into action. She wheeled on the shadow and yelled defiantly: “Take another step, and I’ll cut you off at the knees!” Her bravado ebbed pathetically. “Or… I’ll scream. My parents are right inside.”

She still couldn’t see her pursuer clearly. Just a shadow. A very big shadow. Ignoring her warning, it took one deliberate step toward her into the light—which hardly made it any less menacing. The streetlamp revealed a big man, considerably over six feet. He had tanned weathered skin, a spiky blond crewcut and ice blue eyes that accented a permanent scowl. Water dripped down the side of his face. He ignored that too.

She couldn’t move or make a sound. He looked down on her like she was a bug to be squashed under those clomping boots. Finally, he spoke: “Wasn’t following you, kid.” He had an Australian accent.

He nodded his head to the left, toward the three-story building illuminated by the street light. Rain glanced quickly at the sign—THE NITAINO INN—as the man continued, “Got a reservation at the Inn here.”

Rain squeaked out, “You ran after me.”

“Just trying to get out of the rain.” He sneered at her. “Still trying.” Rain just stared at him. He held up a duffel bag as if to prove he had luggage and was therefore on the level.

It worked. Immediately, Rain felt mortified. He was a tourist. “Uh, okay then,” she said. “Right this way.” She quickly ran up the four steps to the front door of the Inn and opened it. He followed.

The lobby of the Nitaino Inn was painted in warm island colors. It was presently deserted, and as she and the man shook the rainwater off, Rain called out, “Mom! We’ve got a guest!”

Almost magically, Rain’s mother appeared on the landing above them and quickly but gracefully descended the stairs. “Rain, I’m right here.” Translation: Don’t shout!

“Sorry.” Still a bit freaked, Rain put some distance between herself and the stranger. She slid past the front desk and hesitated at the door to the darkened dining room. She forced herself to meet that cold blue gaze. “And sorry about the mix-up.”

“I’ll try to survive the shame.”

Rain’s mom raised an eyebrow in Rain’s direction as she stepped behind the front desk. She opened the register and turned it to face her new guest. “My name’s Iris Cacique. Welcome to the Nitaino Inn, Mister…”

He picked up a pen and glanced down at the book. Currently, there were five other guests listed:

Rebecca Sawyer, Hannibal, MO

Mr. & Mrs. John DeLancy, San Francisco

Terry Chung and Elizabeth Ellis-Chung, Cambridge, Mass.

The stranger wrote only one word.

“Callahan,” he said. “Name’s Callahan.”

Rain gave him one last look and retreated out of the lobby.

The Nitaino Inn was a Bed & Breakfast with a good reputation in the guidebooks. Rain lived there with her parents and grandfather and whatever tourists happened to be staying in the Inn’s six guest rooms. They were rarely full (outside the High Season). Old Town was a popular tourist attraction—during the day. Antique shops, galleries, craftsmen with pushcarts and those oh-so-charming cobblestone streets brought a nice walk-through business in good weather. But parking was problematic, and it was a fair distance to the water. And no fast food or chain stores at all. People walked through Old Town, but they tended not to sleep there. Still, Iris ran a tight, clean ship and served large portions of good food every morning, so although they were rarely full, they were also rarely vacant. Rain had grown up that way. In a house she shared with both family and strangers. Privacy, real privacy, was something she had read about in books. As she passed through the dining room, she wasn’t surprised to see a light on in the kitchen. All she could do was hope it was her father and not a tourist “just grabbing a quick bite.”

She pushed open the swinging door. A man with long gray hair sat at the kitchen table with his back to her. Immediately, she relaxed. Not a tourist. Not even her dad. Better. “Hey, ’Bastian,” she said, smiling for the first time since she left Charlie at the lockup.

“Hi, Raindrop.”

Sebastian Bohique was Rain’s maternal grandfather and just about her favorite person on the planet. He was a month shy of eighty years old but was sitting there eating a very sugary breakfast cereal, the one that came in the shape of hearts, moons, stars, clovers and new blue whales. Rain crossed to the cupboard, opened the wood and glass door and pulled out a bowl. She glanced out the window. It was still pouring. A flash of lightning was followed seconds later by a crack of thunder. The storm-head was getting closer.

“Rain.” Her father’s voice. She turned toward the doorway to the laundry room. Alonso Cacique stood there with a basketful of white towels. “I’ve got a charter tomorrow. I’ll need you to work the boat with me.”

Rain’s expression, not to mention her posture, took a nosedive. She threw out her arms (bowl and all). “Dad, I can’t! I’ve got plans with Charlie.”

“You see Charlie everyday.”

“We’re going waterskiing! We just got invited tonight!”

“And the charter came in this afternoon.” He approached her. Calm but firm. “You should have checked with me first.”

Papa ’Bastian looked up from his cereal. “I’ll cover for her, Alonso.”

“That’s not your job, ’Bastian.”

’Bastian shrugged. “I know. But school starts Monday. Let’s cut her some slack.”

Rain became a sudden and exaggerated supplicant. “Yes. Slack. Pleeeassse!”

Alonso shook his head, but his eyes were smiling. “All right. Just this once.”

Rain leaned over the laundry basket and gave her dad a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

By now, Alonso was smiling with his mouth as well. “Thank your grandfather.”

“I will.”

Still smiling and shaking his head, Alonso did a quick about-face and headed back out the door. Rain stood there, staring at nothing in particular. ’Bastian snuck a glance at her. She looked down at the cereal bowl in her hand as if it were a strange artifact from another world. Then she placed it absently on the counter and sighed deeply.

“Well, I’m waiting,”’Bastian said.

Rain’s head turned slowly toward him. “What for?”

’Bastian gave her his patented Old Man Twinkle. “My thank you.”

Rain walked around the table, pulled an empty chair out of the way and kissed him on the forehead. “Sorry. Thanks. You saved me.” She looked down at the empty chair and thought about sitting down. The simplest decision suddenly seemed very hard to make. Or so unimportant that it was impossible to care.

“So how come you’re not happy?”

Rain collapsed into the chair. “I’m thirteen years old, and my life is over! ” she moaned.

It seemed to ’Bastian that she was auditioning to be the poster child for teen angst and melodramatic defeat. He nodded solemnly. “I see. And how did you come by this revelation…?”

“ Summer’s over! I can’t pretend anymore. I’m trapped, Papa. Totally trapped.”

Papa Sebastian leaned his head away, scratching one eyebrow with his pinky so that he wouldn’t have to meet her gaze. “That’s a problem, all right.”