Night Shift
Page 27
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Love the atmosphere of your home, gloated the deep voice.
The minute the sky was dark, Fiji called Lemuel. “It’s talking to me,” she said.
For a long moment, he said nothing. “I’m coming,” he said. Fiji heard him saying, “Olivia, please mind the shop for a few minutes,” and four seconds later he knocked on her back door.
“Where is the sister?” Lemuel glanced through the hall at the shop.
“She’s still at the restaurant. I’ve asked her to leave in the morning. The voice told me that he’s trying to kill my enemies to placate me. I’d ask her to leave, anyway. She’s unhealthy for the community. But in view of the voice’s agenda . . . Lemuel, what is it?” Fiji didn’t mind showing Lemuel how frightened she was.
Lemuel’s cold hand brushed her cheek. “Fiji, don’t feel singled out. Do you know why it’s speaking to you?”
“No, but I hope you do.”
“You are its target because you alone can stop it.”
“How?” She was excited and terrified by the prospect.
“I don’t know yet.”
Fiji deflated in a hurry. “Lemuel, how can you know one thing and not another?”
“Because I’m still reading the damn book, woman.”
“You need help. We need to speed this process up.”
“What is coming up on the witch calendar, Fiji?”
“That’s easy! Samhain.”
“What does this mean to you as a witch?”
“Not too different from what it should mean to the nonpagan community. It’s the day when the souls of the dead can come through. People used to dress in disguises so the dead couldn’t recognize them, and they used to leave food out for the spirits. Now we call that ‘trick or treat,’ and it’s fun for kids.” She shrugged. “Also, it’s a thin day, a day when the spirit world is close to ours, and fairies and other supernatural creatures can enter our world. There’s lots more, but those are some of the aspects of Samhain . . . which I celebrate on the night of October thirty-first. Some celebrate it on November first.” She looked askance at Lemuel. Lemuel knew that she had a big Halloween party and decorated her house starting days ahead of time.
“I think you should not have your party this year,” Lemuel said. “Fiji, I’ll do anything I can to unearth the information we need as soon as possible.”
Kiki came in the back door as Fiji was digesting this. Kiki’s expression had been angry, haughty, her jaw set hard and ready for a fight. But when she saw Lemuel, she became wary.
“Hello,” Kiki said, and realized she had to pass Lemuel to get to her room. She stopped dead.
“You’ll be leaving tomorrow?” Lemuel said directly to Kiki, his icy eyes locking on hers.
“Yes, first thing in the morning,” she said, as if the words were being wrenched from her throat.
“You are not a good woman,” Lemuel said. “I hope you will not return.”
“God, no!” Kiki exclaimed. “Not for love or money.”
“I doubt either will be offered you,” he said, and stood aside so that she could walk through the kitchen.
When the guest bedroom door was shut, Fiji said, “I’m afraid he’ll try to get her out there to kill herself tonight.”
“Olivia and I will take turns watching,” Lemuel said. Despite that reassurance, Fiji was awake for most of the night, listening for sounds of movement in her house. She got up very early, and quietly made breakfast, thinking it was the least she could do. Now, she felt vaguely guilty, though leaving might save Kiki’s life. She put on a pot of coffee and left biscuits and jelly on the table. When she glimpsed Kiki going into the bathroom, Fiji went into her own room to make her bed and pull on some clothes. Then she sat and waited, identifying each noise Kiki made until she heard the good-bye sound of suitcase wheels. After the back door slammed, Fiji emerged and watched out the back window as Kiki slung her suitcase into her backseat and got into the car herself.
It was a profound relief, in many ways, to see the car pull onto Witch Light Road. Kiki turned south at the light, and Fiji hoped she was on her way back to Houston.
11
Rasta ran away that afternoon. The little Peke had been acting oddly the past few days, growling at nothing and barking at shadows. Despite all the extra petting and reassurances Joe and Chuy lavished on the dog, his atypical behavior accelerated. Rasta refused to go for his walk on the Midnight streets; he tugged and tugged until Joe or Chuy took him out behind the shop.
The two men were baffled. Rasta had always enjoyed visiting the other people of Midnight, who often had dog treats to offer him. (Though the hospitable Fiji was not on Rasta’s visiting list, because Mr. Snuggly would seldom permit Rasta to come into the yard.) The hotel residents had quickly become favorites, but now Joe could not even drag Rasta over to see them.
The morning Kiki drove away, Chuy had to carry the dog down the steps from the apartment and then turn left instantly to take Rasta into the backyard, which they’d never succeeded in turning green. As soon as Rasta was empty, he’d demanded to be picked up again. After a windy and chilly morning had passed, Joe opened the door of the Antique Gallery and Nail Salon, intending to sweep off the sidewalk.
To Joe’s shock and astonishment, Rasta suddenly darted out past him. Hampered by the broom, Joe could not lunge fast enough to stop the Peke. No one else witnessed Rasta’s mad dash, even Chuy, who was upstairs in their apartment doing ten minutes’ prep work for their evening meal.
The little brown streak dashed east, sprinting without pause across the Davy highway—thankfully, he wasn’t hit by the pickup truck slowing to a stop at the light—continuing past the pawn shop (unseen by Bobo, whose attention was on the computer) and passing Manfred’s house at only a slightly reduced speed. Manfred happened to be collecting his previous days’ mail. He dropped the bundle of envelopes and started his pursuit.
“Rasta!” he bellowed. “Stop!” Rasta, perhaps not in his right mind, did not stop. But the Peke’s little legs were tiring, and he was gradually slowing down. Rasta didn’t seem to be aware that Manfred was closing in behind him. Manfred staked everything on a flying forward tackle. He landed on the hard ground with a bone-jarring, tooth-rattling thud, but he had his hands around Rasta.
The minute the sky was dark, Fiji called Lemuel. “It’s talking to me,” she said.
For a long moment, he said nothing. “I’m coming,” he said. Fiji heard him saying, “Olivia, please mind the shop for a few minutes,” and four seconds later he knocked on her back door.
“Where is the sister?” Lemuel glanced through the hall at the shop.
“She’s still at the restaurant. I’ve asked her to leave in the morning. The voice told me that he’s trying to kill my enemies to placate me. I’d ask her to leave, anyway. She’s unhealthy for the community. But in view of the voice’s agenda . . . Lemuel, what is it?” Fiji didn’t mind showing Lemuel how frightened she was.
Lemuel’s cold hand brushed her cheek. “Fiji, don’t feel singled out. Do you know why it’s speaking to you?”
“No, but I hope you do.”
“You are its target because you alone can stop it.”
“How?” She was excited and terrified by the prospect.
“I don’t know yet.”
Fiji deflated in a hurry. “Lemuel, how can you know one thing and not another?”
“Because I’m still reading the damn book, woman.”
“You need help. We need to speed this process up.”
“What is coming up on the witch calendar, Fiji?”
“That’s easy! Samhain.”
“What does this mean to you as a witch?”
“Not too different from what it should mean to the nonpagan community. It’s the day when the souls of the dead can come through. People used to dress in disguises so the dead couldn’t recognize them, and they used to leave food out for the spirits. Now we call that ‘trick or treat,’ and it’s fun for kids.” She shrugged. “Also, it’s a thin day, a day when the spirit world is close to ours, and fairies and other supernatural creatures can enter our world. There’s lots more, but those are some of the aspects of Samhain . . . which I celebrate on the night of October thirty-first. Some celebrate it on November first.” She looked askance at Lemuel. Lemuel knew that she had a big Halloween party and decorated her house starting days ahead of time.
“I think you should not have your party this year,” Lemuel said. “Fiji, I’ll do anything I can to unearth the information we need as soon as possible.”
Kiki came in the back door as Fiji was digesting this. Kiki’s expression had been angry, haughty, her jaw set hard and ready for a fight. But when she saw Lemuel, she became wary.
“Hello,” Kiki said, and realized she had to pass Lemuel to get to her room. She stopped dead.
“You’ll be leaving tomorrow?” Lemuel said directly to Kiki, his icy eyes locking on hers.
“Yes, first thing in the morning,” she said, as if the words were being wrenched from her throat.
“You are not a good woman,” Lemuel said. “I hope you will not return.”
“God, no!” Kiki exclaimed. “Not for love or money.”
“I doubt either will be offered you,” he said, and stood aside so that she could walk through the kitchen.
When the guest bedroom door was shut, Fiji said, “I’m afraid he’ll try to get her out there to kill herself tonight.”
“Olivia and I will take turns watching,” Lemuel said. Despite that reassurance, Fiji was awake for most of the night, listening for sounds of movement in her house. She got up very early, and quietly made breakfast, thinking it was the least she could do. Now, she felt vaguely guilty, though leaving might save Kiki’s life. She put on a pot of coffee and left biscuits and jelly on the table. When she glimpsed Kiki going into the bathroom, Fiji went into her own room to make her bed and pull on some clothes. Then she sat and waited, identifying each noise Kiki made until she heard the good-bye sound of suitcase wheels. After the back door slammed, Fiji emerged and watched out the back window as Kiki slung her suitcase into her backseat and got into the car herself.
It was a profound relief, in many ways, to see the car pull onto Witch Light Road. Kiki turned south at the light, and Fiji hoped she was on her way back to Houston.
11
Rasta ran away that afternoon. The little Peke had been acting oddly the past few days, growling at nothing and barking at shadows. Despite all the extra petting and reassurances Joe and Chuy lavished on the dog, his atypical behavior accelerated. Rasta refused to go for his walk on the Midnight streets; he tugged and tugged until Joe or Chuy took him out behind the shop.
The two men were baffled. Rasta had always enjoyed visiting the other people of Midnight, who often had dog treats to offer him. (Though the hospitable Fiji was not on Rasta’s visiting list, because Mr. Snuggly would seldom permit Rasta to come into the yard.) The hotel residents had quickly become favorites, but now Joe could not even drag Rasta over to see them.
The morning Kiki drove away, Chuy had to carry the dog down the steps from the apartment and then turn left instantly to take Rasta into the backyard, which they’d never succeeded in turning green. As soon as Rasta was empty, he’d demanded to be picked up again. After a windy and chilly morning had passed, Joe opened the door of the Antique Gallery and Nail Salon, intending to sweep off the sidewalk.
To Joe’s shock and astonishment, Rasta suddenly darted out past him. Hampered by the broom, Joe could not lunge fast enough to stop the Peke. No one else witnessed Rasta’s mad dash, even Chuy, who was upstairs in their apartment doing ten minutes’ prep work for their evening meal.
The little brown streak dashed east, sprinting without pause across the Davy highway—thankfully, he wasn’t hit by the pickup truck slowing to a stop at the light—continuing past the pawn shop (unseen by Bobo, whose attention was on the computer) and passing Manfred’s house at only a slightly reduced speed. Manfred happened to be collecting his previous days’ mail. He dropped the bundle of envelopes and started his pursuit.
“Rasta!” he bellowed. “Stop!” Rasta, perhaps not in his right mind, did not stop. But the Peke’s little legs were tiring, and he was gradually slowing down. Rasta didn’t seem to be aware that Manfred was closing in behind him. Manfred staked everything on a flying forward tackle. He landed on the hard ground with a bone-jarring, tooth-rattling thud, but he had his hands around Rasta.
