Yes, Angela was certain that had been done.
She was about to keep moving on down the street when she paused.
No one had seen her go out front.
What if she had gone out back? What if she had run through her back yard into the yard behind her house and out to the street from that yard or even into a neighbor’s house or perhaps out to the street to meet a friend who had gotten lost on the way to her house. . .
No. That one was too far-fetched. But maybe—
She wasn’t going to check back in. Jackson would be drawing anything he could out of Marty Lawson; he was great at getting any possible information. Besides, she was still knocking at doors, just in a slightly different direction than she had intended to go.
She patted the side of her jacket, habit, assuring herself that her Glock was in place in its holster. She wasn’t expecting any trouble; but she’d learned long, long ago that trouble could occur just about any time and anywhere.
Both backyards were nicely manicured, filled with expanses of very green grass. Winter might never have been.Trees and flowers were about. It was a neighborhood where people tended to their lawns.
There was a backdoor, but she was asking for help. She’d go around to the front.
But it was while she was on her way to the front door that she was stopped in a strange and surprising manner.
“Miss!”
There had been no one there; she was sure of that.
And now there was. Of course, she hadn’t seen him at first because he was among the spirits who—for whatever their reasons—remained when their mortal lives had come to an end.
She didn’t think he’d been dead long, though with men’s clothing it was sometimes hard to tell. He’d been buried in a handsome suit, and he’d died as an older man. He had maintained a headful of snow-white hair and sported a nicely trimmed beard and mustache combo.
“Sir,” she said, somewhat surprised he had approached her as he had. Spirits or “ghosts” seldom expected the living to be able to see them. Krewe members usually had to identify themselves and then get the spirits they encountered beyond their surprise to speak with them and be able to help them. But this fellow . . .
“You are one!” the ghost said, pleased that he had recognized her. “You have something about you, oh, something beautiful, of course!” For a moment, he smiled, but then his smile faded.
“You’re looking for the pregnant lass,” he said.
“I am. Do you know where she is, what’s happened—” Angela began.
“Wait! You must listen to me and understand what I’m going to explain. You cannot, you mustn’t hurt Davie! Because until you understand, I cannot help you.” he told her.
“I’m ready to listen!” she assured him.
“It’s the stupid drug!” the ghost announced. He winced. “, Forgive me, I’m Ray Cummings. Davie is my daughter’s grandson—my great grandson. Sorry, miss, I left this world following injuries after the second great war, but my daughter was a lass then. She had a lad and he had a lad, and then . . . Davie married. A beautiful, sweet young lass! And she was about to have a baby when she simply disappeared. As if into thin air, like this must appear. Police looked, Davie never gave up hope, but he went so crazy on the search that he had to have mental health help. I am afraid . . . well, he went to the wrong doctor, one willing to use his patients as guinea pigs for new drugs. And as I have watched and desperately tried . . . you cannot hurt Davie! That is the thing. The poor lad went through hell and then kept going through hell. And now . . . well, the cocktail that wretched doctor gave him has made him believe he has found his wife. He thinks it is a year ago, and the lady in the house behind his house is Donna and . . .”
“Sir, Mr. Cummings, I’m so sorry. And we’ll be happy to work on his case, too. I’m with the federal government. But we need to get Cindy safely home. I’ll head in—”
“No, no! The poor boy is armed and dangerous, terrified someone is going to go after his beloved Donna and their child again. If you break in there, he is going to shoot you; and if he shoots you, someone will shoot him—”
“I know what I’m doing, sir. I’m with the federal government, and I’ve been an investigator well over a decade. Sir—”
“Oh, no, you are armed. You are just going to go in there and shoot him!” Ray protested.
“Sir, I promise you, I’m not going to shoot your great-grandson,” Angela promised. “I’m going to speak with him. Trust me, sir, please! And . . .”
She hesitated and then told him, “My husband is in the Lawson house right now. If you could find a way to get to him—”
“He will see me, too?” the ghost of Ray Cummings demanded, shaking his head with confusion.
“He will. But be subtle, please. Let him know to come to David’s house. Wait, oh, no—this happened before? Right on this block, except that—”
“Not on this block. David moved here after it all happened and months had gone by. It is just an irony that his new home backed up to a house where a young woman was about to have her first child,” Ray told her. “But sadly, the first time, I don’t imagine it was a pathetically delusional man who thought Donna was his wife.”
