“Here, you can use mine.”
He took hers, signed, and handed the clipboard back. “Thanks again, Janice.”
The lawyer walked away while David sent a group text to his team to let them know their work paid off. Six months ago he wouldn’t have wasted the time, but he was a different man today. Recently he’d learned that his team was the only real family he had left in this world, and letting them know he appreciated them wasn’t a waste of time. Ever.
The helicopter was already waiting for him on the helipad to take him back to Savannah. If the fates were kind, he’d have Ashley Storrey in custody tonight.
…
By the time David drove into Ashley’s community, it was dark. He found a place to park a couple blocks away and killed the engine. Tonight, he’d arrest her. With any luck, he’d get a signed confession for the court and the location of the figurehead for Flynn and his crew to make the grab before anyone else got hurt.
In a few days, the relic would be locked in the vault. This could be his final chapter with Heather. If she chose to live dangerously with a member of the Sea Dog crew, he could walk away with a clear conscience. He could leave Savannah in his rearview mirror.
He was getting ahead of himself. He had to find Ashley first. If fate was kind, she’d be at home. He folded the warrant and slid it into the inside pocket of his suit. Showtime. He got out, walking briskly toward Ashley’s place, when something made him stop.
An eerie melody. Maybe a chant?
He frowned, following the sound like a siren’s song. It crescendoed louder, until the source of the screeching exposed itself. This was no siren.
This was a banshee.
David covered his ears. It didn’t muffle the glass-shattering wail in his head. He scanned the darkened houses on the street. No lights turned on. This torture was meant for him alone. He was the target, and the attack existed only inside his mind. He forced himself to lower his hands from his ears, struggling to fight his natural instincts. He’d trained for metaphysical battles for more than one lifetime. The key was to keep panic at bay.
A young girl approached him from the shadows. Dressed in a pink poodle skirt and her hair in a ponytail, like she stepped right off the cover of an issue of ’Teen magazine from the 1950s. He recognized her face but couldn’t place the name. She had been the victim in one of his first cases for Department 13.
“You let Daddy kill me,” she said matter-of-factly.
Now he remembered. Lori Miner. The thirteen-year-old girl’s file found its way onto Department 13’s radar after an internal FBI report could find no scientific explanation for an arson case.
Lori’s classmates all claimed the girl had started the inferno with her mind. No amount of questioning swayed their stories. The arson investigators never found evidence of an accelerant, and more worrisome was the lack of a starting point for the blaze. It was as if the school exploded in fire. No bomb fragments existed, either.
“You’re wrong.” David struggled for coherent thought while the banshee’s wail tormented him. “I tried to save you. We wanted to help you.”
“Daddy took me out in the shrimp boat.” Her skirt faded before his eyes, and her hair changed, wet with seaweed and brambles hanging from her ponytail. He blinked hard, willing the image to clear as her skin paled to a dull gray, and all the color drained from her eyes. “He cried while he tied my hands together. He said you made him do it.”
“No.” David winced, searching his pockets for any charmed trinket that could save him. “I was going to teach you to control your power.”
“You wanted to lock me up!” she screamed. “Daddy sent me to heaven at the bottom of the ocean.” She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling. “It’s so dark. And cold.” Gradually, her lips twisted into a vicious sneer, exposing her rotted gums, her teeth still ghostly white. “Now it’s your turn.”
Her words carried on the wind of the banshee’s wails. David’s head throbbed under the pressure. Unable to fight instinct any longer, he reached up to cover his ears even though the sound reverberated from inside his mind, not from the outside physical world. When he forced his hands back down, his fingers were covered in blood. How much longer would he be able to withstand this attack before he was deafened permanently?
He continued fumbling in his pants pocket for something that would block the mental attack. The girl taunted him, coaxing him to draw his pistol, to put it to his head and embrace the silence. “You can make this stop.”
A reply wasn’t possible, his mind far too jumbled. His pouch of magical herbs was still in his pocket. They could heal any wound, even from a gunshot, and had already kept him alive more lifetimes than he deserved. Sadly, herbs weren’t going to quiet the banshee or the vengeful spirit in the poodle skirt.
She kicked his foot. It should mean something. Think, damn it. His thumb brushed a cool, smooth surface of the trinity stone in his pocket, granting him a split second of clarity. The ghost touched him. Poltergeist.
He gripped the trinity stone and pulled it free of his pocket. It was used to ward off demons, and although his tormenter was a ghost, it might work to break the manipulation she was under. The banshee shrieked even louder inside his head, making him cry out in pain. He couldn’t die, but he could lose his grip on sanity.
He squeezed the stone tight and withdrew it from his pocket. Sweat rolled down his face as he lifted his head and stretched his hand out toward the decaying spirit. “This stone…will protect…you.”
Her expression faltered, the twisted smile morphing into a frown. “She’s making me hurt you.”
“And you can stop her.”
