Heather Graham - Ghost Walk

“Drop it. Or there will be no free meal for you tomorrow night,” Nikki warned him.

“It’s dropped,” he assured her.

Nikki rose. She could see a tour group gathering out front. “Julian, it’s showtime. Andy, you’re following along. Patricia, Nathan, don’t forget you’re on tonight.”

With a last long swallow of her café au lait, Nikki started off with a smile to meet the growing crowd. Twenty minutes later, she was standing in front of the Bourbon Street bar, once a blacksmith’s shop, that the pirate turned patriot Jean Lafitte was said to haunt. She found the story of the man a fascinating puzzle, and focused her speech on his enigmatic history, along with a mention that there were definitely “spirits” of all sorts to be found there—many of them behind the bar.

Her smile was as enigmatic as her story. She was certain that Jean Lafitte’s ghost loved to have his story told. She could feel the mischief in the air, something a little wicked, and yet benign.

She always told the story of the man with affection, and she knew that she always gave her audience a few delightful chills.

Ghosts filled the streets here, between the neon lights that advertised Girls! Girls! Girls! and the shop fronts offering voodoo charms, the ever-present music, the mimes on the street, the antique shops, the boutiques and the T-shirt shops that also sold pralines and potions.

It was New Orleans, and she loved it.

Tom Garfield fought to retain his senses, fought because that was what a man did. It was simple instinct. And so many times before, it had served him well. But this time?

The girl. Had he gotten to the girl? He didn’t know. No matter how he struggled, his mind was deeply fogged.

There had been a chance.

But he hadn’t been able to talk.

And then…

Then it had been too late. He had been followed.

Well, it had been a good fight. And he had done as much good as he could. Maybe someone would come after him, someone who knew the truth. He had tried so damn hard to talk…

He felt a jostling, and he knew. He was being “taken care of.” It no longer mattered, even to him. Dreams were taking over reality. And he could see…

The woman. Like a fairy-tale princess. Long blond hair, eyes both blue and green…And that face, porcelain, and the look of pity…

The…money.

More money than anyone ever gave a bum.

Not a bum. Once…

In his mind’s eye, in dreams, all that remained, he could see himself in a suit. No, in a tux. Clean. Walking across a room. And there, the woman…

He was jostled again, the dream broken. It was her kindness, he thought, that had most moved him.

He felt the needle.

Dreams…

Dreams were good.

He was dying. And as he died, one regret tore at him.

They would never know the truth.

Unless she realized just what she had, what she had received, what he had slipped to her in that instant when they touched…

It was over. Had he lost? No, he had to die for a reason! God help him, he had to have counted. She had to realize…

Fading. Fading, fading, and then…

Death.

The afternoon French Quarter tour wound up being a long one. They always allowed for questions after the tour, and it turned out they had a lot of people with questions. When they finished, Julian decided to head home, but Nikki wanted to do some shopping, so she and Andy headed off.

In addition to suggesting the party, Max had given Nikki a bonus. There was a corset shop on Royal Street and a certain piece of clothing she had been coveting for quite a while. On the way they stopped by Andy’s place to check on an old woman, Mrs. Montobello, Andy seemed to have adopted. The woman was full of tales about her younger years in New Orleans. She was an Italian immigrant who’d come to marry a fellow Italian, sight unseen, but now her husband was long gone, her one son had also passed away, and her grandchildren were sweet but living their own lives in New York City.

That day, she was on a kick about the many voodoo queens, and tarot and palm readers in the French Quarter.

“All shysters,” she said, shaking her old gray head with animation. “Once upon a time voodoo was a way for the slaves to have something of their own—and to get back at their masters, eh? But I can tell you this—there were women once who really had a special gift.”

“Mrs. Montobello,” Nikki said, “Marie Laveau supported her ‘powers’ by eavesdropping.”

“Dear child,” Mrs. Montobello protested. “Don’t you go doubting things just because they can’t be seen. I hear that you give the best ghost tour out there. That people believe they’ve seen ghosts when they get back from a walk with you. That’s because you see them, don’t you?”

Nikki shook her head. “I think it’s just a matter of seeing history, feeling the emotions that must have played out. But I’m a girl who sees the real picture. We lead tours, we make money. I don’t fall for the shyster palm readers. Oh, I believe there are people who give ‘good’ readings, but I think that’s because they would have made fabulous psychologists. They know how to read people.”

“Nikki’s good. No matter what she says, I’ve stood next to her and felt chills,” Andy said.

“So you really do talk to ghosts, huh?” Mrs. Montobello said, rheumy blue eyes studying Nikki in far too serious a manner.

“No. I have a feel for history, and I think I’m a good storyteller,” Nikki said. “I do not talk to ghosts.”

“So you don’t talk to them, but do they talk to you?” Mrs. Montobello asked.

“Good heavens, no!” Nikki said. “I’d have a heart attack on the spot if that happened. And if they’re out there,” Nikki said mischievously, “they apparently know that.”

“Maybe they will talk to you one day,” Mrs. Montobello murmured. “I suppose, just like plain folk, ghosts need to have something to say. But you believe they’re out there—I can tell.”

Nikki felt a sudden chill. Yes, she believed in ghosts, or if not ghosts, per se, in a memory that lingered in certain places.

It sure as hell wasn’t something she was going to share with anyone.

Not even Mrs. Montobello.

“At my age,” the old woman said, “you come to know a difference in this world, perhaps because you’re so close to the next.”

She was still studying Nikki closely. Nikki found herself staring back for a long moment.

For a moment she found herself thinking, I can see a fog. And I can feel the cold, an essence, a feeling…when someone is lost, when they’re frustrated. Looking for something. They’re benign, meaning no harm, and they are no more than mist, something in my heart, or imagination.

Then she shook off the feeling, and they continued to chat as Nikki and Andy picked up the tea they had made for Mrs. Montobello, washed and dried and straightened, and then headed out.

At the door, Mrs. Montobello stared at Nikki strangely again. “Go shopping. Listen to the music. But stay away from shysters.”

As they walked along the streets, past neon lights, garish come-ons, charming boutiques, and bars and clubs that wailed with blues and pop and everything in between, Andy suddenly stopped. “Isn’t it funny? I feel like a little kid. Mrs. Montobello just said we shouldn’t stop by a voodoo shop, so now I’m itching for a palm reading.”

“Andy, come on, they’re just silly.”

“Okay, how about a tarot card reading?”

Nikki hesitated, staring at her. “Just let me buy that corset I want and I’ll take you to a good place.”

“Yeah?”

“We won’t tell Mrs. Montobello.”

Nikki liked the boutique where she purchased the corset. Everything was unique and handmade. But since Andy seemed restless, she didn’t take the time to look around, just made her purchase, and then they headed for Conte Street.