A Ghost of a Chance Page 4

  Keenan scowled up at the apparition as he drifted past the table. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Reggie stopped and regarded Keenan over his shoulder. “A succubus can kill you, old buck…and usually does after a while. I think you…how do you Americans say it… dodged a bullet?”

  Without another word, Reggie disappeared, leaving Keenan to contemplate his mortality.

  Chapter Four

  The Spirit Is Willing…The Flash Is Weak

  One blustering night years before, Keenan found himself lost in the Oltrarno district of Florence, Italy. Flanked by towering cement buildings on both sides and a narrow cobbled road under his feet, try as he might, he could not seem to find his way out of the ancient maze. Finally, being young, bold, and relatively ignorant, he stumbled into a smoky tavern.

  He knew at once that this was probably a local hang out. Dark, angry men, some old, some young, glared at him when he came through the door, dripping rainwater onto a stone floor that bowed in the middle where hundreds of years of footsteps had worn it away. Keenan adjusted the portfolio tucked under his cloak when an old woman approached and led him to a table without saying a word.

  She set a mug in front of him and filled it with Chianti, grabbed a bowl from a nearby sideboard, wiped it out with her apron, and then filled it from the pot sitting over an open flame. Keenan liked ribollita, a bean stew common to the area, and imagined the place only served one dish per day. The woman held out her hand in the universal gesture of “pay me” and Keenan fished some coins from his pocket to give to her. She counted the coins with a huff, then grabbed a rough loaf of black bread from the same sideboard, plopped it onto the table to accompany the stew, and then scuttled off into some hidden recess of the tavern.

  Keenan ate as he watched the patrons going about their own personal business. There were four men decked out in fine clothes sitting at one table. The Italian equivalent of a bachelor party? Keenan assumed so from their merry making and what few words of Italian he could catch. They were very drunk and kept toasting a cheery faced young man sitting at the middle.

  Over to his right was a wrinkled fisherman by the smell, sitting alone and concentrating on his dinner. Behind him, in the shadows, sat another man.

  Keenan tried to make out his face over his bowl of beans, but the only thing coming across were the glints of the stranger’s eyes and the smoke from a cigarette. It may have been Keenan’s imagination, but it looked like the stranger was staring at him.

  Without warning, a woman plopped into the seat across from Keenan, uninvited. She might have been beautiful once, but several decayed teeth and the leathery hide of an alcoholic smoker made her look as dry as yesterday’s ashes. The micro mini skirt and dangling halter-top she wore left nothing to the imagination; it was all she had on. Her bright blue eye shadow was thick and hypnotic.

  “Vuoi un buon tempo?” The checkered smile shooting from behind large strawberry red lips looked predatory.

  Keenan sat back, dropping his spoon into his bowl. His Italian was sketchy. All he could think to say was, “Scusi?”

  From out of the shadows, the strange man rose and crossed to them with assured, graceful strides. He was tall, handsome, with a bushy black beard and piercing black eyes. He took the woman’s bare shoulders into his hands and squeezed. Her smile turned upside down in an instant and the look of terror was unmistakable in her eyes. She shot Keenan a pleading glance then lowered her face to the rough brown table.

  “Questo non si è per voi.” The stranger’s voice was deep and menacing. The woman bolted from the chair and rushed to the door without looking back. The wind and the rain sucked her into the night.

  The man gave Keenan a quick nod and bow. “Enjoy your dinner, signore.” He left the building almost as quickly as the woman had, leaving Keenan to scratch his head and wonder what just happened.

  That memory crept into his thoughts as he watched the beer in his glass disappear, sitting there at Taps. It had always creeped him out. The disconcertion of both nights echoed one another sending a frigid quake up his sides. He was so sick of that feeling.

  After finishing his beer, Keenan left Taps and pulled his collar up around his ears. The heat from earlier had leaked out of his arms and legs. He was freezing. Walking fast seemed the best solution until the wind meandered up his legs and into his balls. But, baby, it’s cold outside…

  Eventually, the moving muscles started to warm up and by the time he rounded the pathway to his front door, it was bearable. He took the painted cement steps two at a time and then stopped dead in his tracks.

  His keys were in his jean’s pocket, sitting on top of his laundry, inside the locked house.

  He tried the door but it was locked tight.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said to the tall green door. The sinking feeling mingled with his frozen head and blasted a pang of panic between his ears.

  Keenan scurried around the house, rubbing his hands together, trying to figure out what he should do next. The cold was getting worse. He searched the blank wall, forgetting there weren’t any entrances on this side. Running more to get his legs warmed up, he sped around the back of the house and then the other side testing every window. No luck.

  When he got to his bedroom, he stopped. From outside, the beached mattress looked like a giant teeter-totter, but it wasn’t obstructing the window. The beer chose that moment to take over Keenan’s reasoning. It apparently figured a little more glass on the floor wasn’t going to hurt anything.

  Grabbing his right fist in his left hand, Keenan lifted his elbow and slammed it against the window as hard as he could. As was expected, the glass gave way and shattered into the room. As was unexpected, pain bolted up Keenan’s arm, set bells and whistles off in his eardrums, and burst out of the top of his head.

  He jumped up and down holding the injured arm, sending scattered profanities out into the street. When he saw a light go on in his neighbor’s house, he stopped. Steady, boy. The beer decided it had done enough. Keenan was instantly sober.

  He flexed his arm carefully several times and knew it was still intact. He couldn’t see any blood (small comfort), but he knew it was going to be black and blue for a while.

  It looks so flippin’ easy on TV. Pain radiated in a tidal wave through his arm.

  The shards of glass in the window beamed back at him like funhouse teeth. He pushed one back and forth until it loosened and then pulled it out, careful not to cut himself. When he got the second and third out, he was feeling a little better, but it didn’t last long. A blinding white light threw a gigantic Keenan shadow against the outside of the house.

  “Freeze. Put your hands out where I can see them.”

  “Fuck.” The elongated word floated out of Keenan’s mouth like a boiling teakettle and he carefully put his hands out on the wall next to the window.

  He heard some mumbled cop talk then, “Sir, put your hands on your head, slowly.” The voice was deep enough to send primordial shock waves into Keenan’s back, and he did what the nice police officer told him.

  “This is my house, officer.” The words didn’t sound convincing even to Keenan.

  “Stay where you are. Don’t move or I will shoot you. Do you understand?”

  That warmed Keenan some; rivulets of sweat trickled down both his sides. He nodded, but couldn’t get his mouth working.

  A few seconds later, he saw more red and blue lights reflecting off his house. They played eerily over the broken glass in the window. It sounded like two more cruisers pulled up.

  When the first voice sounded right behind his ear, he jumped a foot. “Lace your fingers on top of your head, sir.”

  Keenan complied, but by then he was shaking like a leaf.

  A hand wrapped around the first three interlocked fingers sending pangs of pain through his arms and into his head. He couldn’t have budged from the spot to save his life. Something cold clicked around Keenan’s right wrist. The officer gripped it tightly, bending the wri
st forward until a new kind of pain joined the first. Not letting up on the pressure, the cop pulled the right hand behind Keenan’s back until it nearly reached his neck. That third pain completed the ensemble. The cop repeated the process with Keenan’s left hand and a second cuff zipped into place. Cold metal pinched his wrists, cutting off his circulation, but Keenan didn’t complain.

  Turning his head side to side, he spotted the two other officers flanking him. They stood back with deference to let the first cop do his job. Without ceremony, that one twisted Keenan around and one of the other cops blinded him with a flashlight.

  Keenan felt hands the size of catchers’ mitts on his shoulders, around each arm, chest, back, ass, and down each leg. When they got there, the hands stopped, apparently realizing Keenan was naked under that coat, and a snorted huh came floating up to his ears.

  Without even an excuse me, the cop unbuttoned Keenan’s coat and opened it wide, apparently to do a visual search for weapons. Hot cauldrons of embarrassment suffused Keenan’s face and neck, warming his skin instantly. Perv flickered through his skull, but he didn’t make a sound.

  When the cop seemed satisfied, he re-buttoned the coat and pulled the change out of Keenan’s pocket, then slipped it into a clear Ziploc bag with Evidence neatly printed across it. He seemed upset when he didn’t find anything else on Keenan to join the change.

  As Keenan’s eyes recovered from the glare of the flashlight, the cop said, “What’s your name?”

  The officer towered a good head above Keenan and filled the dark blue uniform out very well. At eye level, Keenan focused on the intricate Portland Police badge that was shining dully in the sparse light. The man could have picked Keenan up and folded him into origami.

  “Keenan Swanson. This is my house, sir.”

  “Sergeant Thompson. You got any ID?”

  Keenan had no idea how he was going to explain this, so he dug into a reserve of brilliance he rarely used. “My cat…”

  “Huh?”

  “He got out. I chased after him and the door closed. Locked myself out. I swear this is my house.”

  Sergeant Thompson wrinkled his nose at him suspiciously and rubbed his chin, giving Keenan enough time to wallow in uncertainty. Keenan’s artistic instincts chose that moment to kick in; Thompson would have made a great model: tall, muscular, an Adonis god with rugged manly features. A guy Keenan was certain could shake the fillings out of his teeth.

  They chattered when he said, “You can check with Smith next door. He knows me.”

  As if on cue, the porch light on the house alongside Keenan’s puffed away the darkness. The front door opened a slit. He could see the pulsing red and blue lights reflecting off his neighbor’s glasses and nervous white steam escaping into the night.

  Phil Smith was a royal pain in the ass and a prissy little fellow, but they were on a forced cordial basis, so Keenan hoped he’d ID him.

  Thompson nodded to one of the officers, but before he could move, Phil closed the door to slide the chain off the latch then opened it quickly scooting outside before a draft could break into his warm house. Wrapping his arms around his shoulders, he crunched his way across the icy grass in his slippers and stopped well away from them. Looking like an avenging accountant, he eyed Keenan as if he were a serial killer.

  Thompson hooked a thumb in Keenan’s direction. “You know this guy?”

  Phil took off the frameless glasses and rubbed them against the sleeve of his robe, elongating the torment. When he put them back on, he peered at Keenan and nodded.

  “Absolutely, officer. That’s my neighbor Keenan Swanson. Has he done something wrong?” The question was spontaneous, gleeful, and it made Keenan sore.

  “Good night, sir,” the officer said. “Go back home. We’ll take care of this.”

  “I always thought he was a little shifty…crazy too.” Smith was relishing the experience and Keenan made a mental note to have one of his posse scare the bejesus out of him later.

  Thompson pressed a button attached to a wire on his shirt. “7-2-2 clear. Stand down from alert.” He turned to the other two officers and pulled a key out of his pocket. “Thanks, guys. I’ll finish this up.” The two nodded simultaneously and headed for their cruisers. Thompson turned Keenan around with one quick push.

  As the patrol cars pulled away, the cop fitted the key into the cuffs and turned it, releasing Keenan’s hand, and then scowled at the loitering neighbor.

  “Good night, sir.” This was an order and a good one. Smith turned on his heel and flitted back to his house in a heartbeat, slamming the door behind him.

  When Keenan was loose, Thompson surveyed the house by running his flashlight over the structure, stopping at the broken window. “That the only way in?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” Keenan had no idea what was on the cop’s mind and didn’t like it much.

  “Meet me at the front door, sir.” Thompson slurred the title apparently still not trusting Keenan. Without preamble, the large cop pulled out the rest of the glass and slid through the open window disappearing into the darkness. Keenan made his way to the front porch.

  After an agonizing series of long seconds, the front door finally opened and Keenan scooted inside. The heat felt good but didn’t take away the weakness in his legs. Thompson’s jaw was so tight Keenan could barely see his lips.

  “I’ll need to see that ID. Where is it?”

  “Uh…” Keenan’s brain went on break and it took him a moment to locate the memory containing his wallet. “It’s in my jeans in the bedroom.”

  “Come with me, sir.” Thompson didn’t wait for a reply, and Keenan was an obedient shadow behind him as they made their way through the house.

  When they got to the bedroom, Keenan flicked the light switch, but it didn’t work. He tried the hall light and it flared on but didn’t send much in the way of illumination through the door.

  He scurried through the darkness to find his pants and pull out his wallet, crunching glass under his rubber soles. Disentangling it from the inside-out jeans with shaking fingers took forever, but it finally gave with a good tug. The stuffed old leather overflowed with cards of all kinds, some expired, some not, along with lots of miscellaneous junk. Buried in the back somewhere, it took Keenan a few seconds to extract his driver’s license from the tight wad.

  When he handed it over, the burly man in blue rumbled at the ID under his flashlight and finally handed it back. That was when he leveled a stern look at Keenan. He played his light over the broken glass, disheveled bed, and scattered remnants of Keenan’s personal life.

  “Would you care to explain this?” he growled.

  Keenan did some dancing.

  “Mice,” he said. “Big ones.”

  Apparently, Officer Thompson had no sense of humor since he didn’t even crack a smile. He tucked his flashlight into his belt, then put one hand on his holster and the other on his nightstick, obviously trying to figure out which he should use first.

  Keenan put up his hands and tried to smile. “Kidding…sorry. Chasing the cat…”

  Thompson shook his head and turned for the door. Keenan barely made his way past the officer to show him through the house.

  When Keenan led him to the front door, the officer gave his house a professional once over with his eyes and left without saying another word.

  Keenan closed the door carefully, turned his back to it, and slid to the floor. This had been one hell of a night.

  Chapter Five

  Apparition Advice

  When Keenan was twelve his mother married husband number six, Jack, a brute of a man who worked as a longshoreman on Swan Island. Jack wasn’t like a lot of the others; he was mean right down to the bone. A yeller by trade, Jack sat on his ass more than he worked. The only exercise this guy got as far as young Keenan was concerned was a daily workout that involved smacking the boy around the room. Keenan got to the point where he thought everyone heard ringing in their ears.

  On a very dark Novemb
er night a day after his fourteenth birthday (which was only noted as a black scribble on the calendar hanging on the fridge), Keenan got home from his job at the bread store to hear a loud shouting match coming from his house. He stopped on the sidewalk and contemplated just turning around and heading back to work another shift, but his hunger proved a stronger impulse. He thought he could sneak in and just grab a quick bite first.

  The row was nothing unusual; hell, the two went at each other pretty much every night lately. When he walked through the door, before he even hung up his backpack, a loud slap and a thump echoed into the kitchen followed by his mother’s scream.

  What Keenan did next surprised the hell out of him. It wasn’t that he and his mother were exactly close; he spent hours figuring out ways to avoid her. It wasn’t even the fact that she was his mother. What goaded him into action was something ingrained into him by her from the day he was born. A man never strikes a woman.

  He found himself charging straight for the son of bitch at full speed. Another smack, smack, smack got his legs moving even faster. Keenan wasn’t a big boy at fourteen, but he had hit his spurt early so he was tall and what his mother used to call gangly. Six hours kneading bread at the store every day for the last two years had given him a healthy set of arms and shoulders.

  When he reached Jack, Keenan grabbed him by the back of his shirt, twisted his hands in the fabric until Jack’s arms were pulled almost straight back, and lifted him off his feet. The smell of cheap gin, cigarettes, and sweat added fodder to his anger.

  Jack countered the action by bringing his head back and hitting Keenan hard on the collarbone. It hurt like hell and Keenan let go. When Jack turned around with a solid right, Keenan ducked, but not very well. The fist caught him squarely on the side of the face, and he went flying. He hit the wall at full speed, but fortunately, his backpack took the brunt of the impact.