Kathy Reichs - Seizure

“I wish I knew. My guess is that since everyone has a distinct genetic code, the canine DNA affects each of us differently.”

The microwave beeped. Hi deftly scooped his snack onto a paper towel.

“Do you think our powers will ever go away?”

“What?” A shocking thought.

“The flare ability. Think it’s permanent?”

“I … I don’t know.” The thought had never occurred to me.

To my surprise, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. My powers would forever brand me as an outcast, but they also made me special.

Coop barged between my legs. Cocking his head, he let out a yip that morphed into a growl.

“What’s with you today?”

I reached down to stroke his head, but he danced away. Barked twice.

“Suit yourself. Hi, watch him. I need to grab the mail.”

“Get over here, mutt!” Hi ordered. “You can lick my toasting sleeves.”

Grabbing my keys, I bounced down the steps, through the garage, and outside. The mailbox stood twenty feet away. All junk, except for a letter to Kit with a Buffalo return address. I debated tossing it out with the credit card offers.

Suddenly, I had the sensation of being watched. Stiff neck hairs. Ice on the spine. You know the one.

I waited, but it didn’t pass.

My feet spun a quick three-sixty. Nothing.

Coop was at the kitchen window, barking frantically.

Freaky .

Reverse spin. There was no one in sight. Nothing moved.

“Shake it off, Brennan.”

I hurried back inside. Foolish perhaps, but so what?

I hate that feeling, like being a bug in a jar.

The creepy tickle of eyes on my back.

Feeling like a target.

WE ARRIVED ON Market Street fifteen minutes early.

The tour was scheduled for eight, but we couldn’t risk being tardy. The flyer warned that cancellation was possible if there weren’t enough guests.

“There they are.” I pointed.

Sallie and Chris Fletcher stood on a street corner across from the market entrance, a clapboard sign propped between them. The heavy wood was painted black. Garish red letters screamed out their offering:

CHARLESTON GHOST TOURS

Meet local ghouls on the scariest walk in downtown Charleston!

All tours include exclusive access to the Provost Dungeon

.

$10.00. Not for the faint of heart!

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shelton tugged an earlobe. “I thought the tour was informational. I don’t like people trying to scare me.”

“Quit being a wuss,” Hi said. “This is the easiest way into the Provost Dungeon.”

“It’s a freaking ghost tour.” Ben snorted. “What’d you expect?”

“Exactly.” I shot Ben a get-a-load-of-this-guy look.

Ben pointedly turned away.

Still not forgiven. Fine. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

“The hottie just spotted us,” Hi said. “She’s waving.”

When we joined the Fletchers, they both smiled warmly.

“Hey guys!” Sallie gestured to the clapboard. “Here for the show?”

“You bet,” I said. “It sounded too good to miss.”

“Fantastic!” Sallie’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

“I better get to work,” Chris said. “We need at least one more person.”

“We’ll take you guys regardless,” Sallie confided. “But let’s wait a few more minutes. I’m feeling lucky, maybe we can get a big group tonight.”

“No rush,” I said. “Please, do your thing.”

“Chris can handle sales,” Sallie said. “It’s his turn anyway.”

We waited on the corner as Chris worked the crowd. A pair of seniors laughed at his jokes, but ultimately passed. The clock ticked closer to eight.

I chatted with Sallie. The boys ogled her, pretending not to.

“How’d you get into the ghost business?” I asked.

“Bills,” Sallie laughed. “Chris and I are grad students in archaeology. The Charleston Museum is great, but it doesn’t pay much. So we work the streets.”

“This makes money?” Shelton glanced around. “We’re the only ones here.”

“Hey, don’t jinx it,” Sallie joked. “There’s still time.”

We smiled politely.

“Seriously! On a good summer night, we make a killing. The rest of the year can be hit or miss, but overall, we do pretty well. Tourists love ghosts.”

As if on cue, a hefty couple approached wearing matching Packers jerseys and munching waffle cones. Chris’s pitch hit the mark. The couple bought tickets, then wandered into the market.

“It’s a great idea,” I said. “How’d you get permission to visit the Provost Dungeon?”

“That’s our ace,” Sallie said. “The director is a CU alum. Chris schmoozed him and got us access in exchange for cross-promotion at the museum.”

Two more couples approached. The men wore polos and linen shorts, the women sundresses and strappy little sandals. Chris beamed as he doled out four tickets.

“See?” Sallie winked. “Money in the bank.”

“You’ll be rocking a penthouse soon,” Hi quipped. “Platinum watches.”

“Not likely. Every extra dollar goes to our expedition fund.”

She read the question on my face.

“Egypt. Next summer. Chris and I plan to join a new excavation at Deir el-Bahri, unearthing a temple complex built by the pharaoh Hatshepsut in the fifteenth century BC.”

“Sounds wonderful.” I felt some hero worship kick in.

“We’re super excited,” Sallie said. “The temple sits among the cliffs at the entrance to the Valley of Kings, on the west bank of the Nile. There’s nowhere more beautiful in the world.”

“I’m officially jealous.” I was.

“We have to foot the bill first,” she said. “It’s a two-year commitment, so that means hawking a whole lot of ghost stories on Market Street.”

Over Sallie’s shoulder, I noticed two young African American men amble toward Chris.

The first was maybe eighteen, with a shaved head, deep-set eyes, and a Z-shaped scar cutting across his left check. His oversized white tee and weathered jeans hung loose on his slender frame.

The second guy was older, perhaps twenty-five, and larger. Much larger. Well over six feet, he towered over his companion. Muscles bulged beneath his authentic Kobe Bryant Lakers jersey.

Shelton whistled softly. “Look at the size of that guy.”

Baggy Jeans handed Chris a bill. Chris said something. Baggy Jeans shook his head. Nodding quickly, Chris signaled to Sallie. She joined the pair, then hustled back to us.

“Can you guys pay now?” she asked. “That kid only has a hundred dollar bill, and Chris is short on change.”

“No problem.” Hi produced two twenties. “It’s all about the Benjamins.”

“Thanks.” Sallie scurried back to Chris. Transaction complete, the newcomers strolled to a nearby wall, leaned back, and waited.

The next customer was a shocker.

Rodney Brincefield. Minus his yacht club butler’s uniform.

Today Brincefield wore a khaki shirt-and-shorts combo with a matching Bushmaster hat. Tan socks, brown sandals. No kidding.

Shifting a sixty-ounce lemonade, Brincefield shook hands with Chris and bought a ticket. Below the bushy white brows, his bright eyes roved to our little troop.

And lit on me. A toothy grin spread Brincefield’s face.

“Miss Brennan, what a delight!” Closing in like a charging rhino.

“Who’s Father Time?” Shelton spoke sideways to me. “He looks crazy.”

“He’s fine,” I whispered. “Harmless.”