“Look, Jacques, you’re dead, so you have nothing to do, but I’m alive and I have…”
STRANGE TASTE IN MEN.
Shut up. “…responsibilities.”
Jacques looked interested. “Like what?”
“Like feeding the cat,” Austin declared in a tone that suggested he shouldn’t have had to mention it.
“And?” Jacques wondered.
“And that’s not important right now. What’s important is that you’re dead and I’m alive…”
“Cherie, non.”
“…and no matter how many times I give you flesh, you’ll still be dead!” The words echoed in the empty lobby. From the look of pained betrayal on Jacques’ face as he dematerialized, he wouldn’t be back any time soon. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she sighed. “I just wanted him to…”
“Go away. And he did, congratulations.” Critically inspecting a front paw, Austin snorted. “I’m not sure this is as clean as it could be.”
Claire grabbed the edge of the counter, bent over, and rhythmically banged her head against the wood.
THAT WAS FUN.
THIRTEEN
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS, as the pipes banged out the news that Claire was in the shower, Dean wasn’t lost in daydreams of soap and water. Kneeling by the bed, he pulled out his old hockey bag, the only luggage he’d brought from back home. It was pretty obvious that Claire thought they could just go on as though he hadn’t been willing to murder Faith Dunlop’s boyfriend for no greater crime than being a total moron. Maybe she could, but that sort of thing changed a guy.
Changed the way he looked at himself.
Maybe it was time he moved on.
“I see Dean’s truck is gone.”
Claire picked up her breakfast dishes, stared at them for a moment, and then carried them over to the sink. “He left about ten minutes ago.”
Austin sat by his empty dish and curled his tail around his front feet. “He left without feeding the cat.”
“You have such a rough life.” She picked up a can and a knife and froze, eyes locked on the empty parking lot.
After a moment, Austin sighed. “Get a grip! He went for groceries, like he does every Saturday morning.”
“I know.” Under blouse and sweater, she could feel goose bumps lifting. “I just had this incredible sense of foreboding.”
“Which is nothing compared to what you’re going to have if you don’t feed the cat.”
“Can’t you feel it?” she asked, scooping food into his dish. “When I think of Dean, I get the feeling that events are poised on the edge of a precipice.”
“A simple solution, cherie; do not think of Dean.”
Straightening, Claire drew in a deep breath. She hadn’t been looking forward to this, not after the way she’d smacked Jacques away from her yesterday.
When she turned, the ghost was sitting cross-legged on the dining room table—a position he favored because of how it irritated Dean. He grinned at her. “Why the long face, cherie? The day, she is sunny, Dean is gone, and me, I am here for company.”
Claire searched his face unsuccessfully for any lingering sign of hurt and betrayal.
“Ah.” The grin broadened. “You cannot see enough of me.”
“Yesterday…”
“I am dead since 1922,” he reminded her, with a matter-of-fact shrug. “I cannot carry all my yesterdays with me. Although,” he winked, “some I remember very well and am anxious to repeat.”
“Not now…”
“Oui, not now, not here. Although,” he glanced around and smiled broadly, “you and me on this table; it would give the old lady something to see, yes?”
“No.”
“Fraidy-cat.” He blew her a kiss and dematerialized.
“Some of us,” Austin muttered, jumping onto a chair and then up onto the counter, “don’t appreciate the word cat being used in a derogatory manner. If you’ve left the television on PBS, he’s going to be right back.”
“It’s probably still on TSN. I didn’t check.”
He rubbed his head against her elbow. “You okay?”
“I don’t know. Nothing’s changed with Jacques and everything seems changed with Dean. I can’t figure it out.”
“It’s simple. Jacques is dead, he can’t change. Dean’s alive, he can’t not change. Now me, I’m a cat. I don’t need to change.”
She reached down and scratched him gently between the ears. “What about me?”
“You need to move your fingers a little to the left. More. Ahhhhh. That’s got it.”
An hour later, perched precariously on top of the stepladder, eyes squinted nearly shut against the thin November sun, Claire razored masking tape off the windows. As expected, there’d been no change in the shields around Aunt Sara and Hell. She’d written as much in the site journal and now had the rest of the day to fill. Jacques was watching television, Dean was still out, and if the masking tape didn’t come off soon, it’d be there until Hell froze over.
SHE’S THINKING OF US.
SO? KEEP WORKING.
WE’LL NEVER WAKE HER USING SEEPAGE. The rest of Hell sounded sulky.
I DON’T NEED TO WAKE HER. I MERELY NEED TO UNBALANCE THE BALANCE OF POWER. SHE’LL DO THE REST.
WHO?
HER.
HER?
NO! HER, YOU IDIOT!
Picking bits of tape off the edge of the blade, Claire could just barely make out the unmistakable shapes of Mrs. Abrams and Baby by the driveway. Baby seemed to be sniffing the fresh concrete around the base of the railings.
“I don’t suppose you want to go chase that dog off our property?”
“You suppose correctly.” Sprawled in a patch of sunlight, Austin didn’t bother opening his eyes. “But I’ll pencil in a visit for later in the afternoon.”
“I can’t see the fun in bothering a dog that neurotic.”
“You can’t see the fun in shredding the furniture either. Don’t worry about it.”
When Baby’s head rose suddenly, ears flattened against his skull, Claire leaned forward to see what had caught his attention. The approaching pedestrian seemed to have no idea of the danger.
“Oh, no.” Although details had been washed out by the light, she knew that shape. Knew the way it moved. Watched it make a fuss over the big dog who, after a moment of visible confusion, actually wagged his stump of a tail.
Climbing down
