1
Chapter Three
JD sighed. "Well, dang, look at the time. Mike, Ray, we have three sexy ladies waiting for us. We better get moving or we'll be in deep shit. Are you two sure you don't want to join us," he asked.
Phoebe shook her head. "I can't leave-"
Ray shook a finger at Phoebe. "My cousin already volunteered to come over and stay with Marty. Hell, even Marty would have argued that you need to get out every once in a while. He'd never want people feeling sorry for him. He'd want everyone out celebrating instead."
Phoebe frowned. "You may be right, but I can't leave."
"Don't worry, guys, I'll stay with her," Peter said.
Ray gave Peter a guilty glance. "I thought I was supposed to take you home."
"I'll take a cab. Go on, get out of here, so Phoebe and I can talk in peace."
Finally, the three were at the front door and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. Smiling, Phoebe said, "Let me turn on some lights in the driveway while I see them off. That's one thing I hate about autumn, it's barely 6:30 and it's already dark out there."
She left Peter alone with Marty. Peter could hear an extended conversation going on out on the driveway. Mike and Ray began serenading her and Peter could hear her laughter. The sound was as refreshing as rain drops on drought ridden soil. The woman didn't laugh like she used to. He stood and peeked out the curtains. JD was whirling Phoebe around in a dance while the other two followed them singing. Peter shook his head and chuckled.
Looking back to Marty, he said, "That's quite a group we've got, you know?"
He sat and leaned closer to Marty's wheelchair. "We never knew how lucky we were to have them in our graduating class, huh? Those guys are true blue, not like-"
Peter stopped himself, surprised at what he was about to say. "Not like me," he voiced finally, the misery of the past week descending upon him in full force.
Who was he trying to fool? It wasn't just last week, but everything jumbled together from the past few months. It seemed the more time that passed, the more his life became a waking nightmare. Peter stood again and began to pace back and forth in front of the coffee table, finally returning to stand beside Marty's wheelchair.
"I've been thinking a lot about you and Gordy this week, and not just because of the anniversary. I've been thinking a lot about past mistakes, things I might have done differently, and the people I've let down."
Phoebe came through, startling Peter. "Give me just another moment. I want to start the dishwasher and put my hair up in a ponytail. It's driving me crazy."
"Take your time," Peter called back to her, hoping she didn't hear the tremble in his voice.
He looked to Marty again. The man seemed so much older than his years and so fragile, nothing like the Marty he'd known. The eeriest part was how Marty sat, just staring into space, as if he were deep in thought, forever caught in that pose. It was only a fluke that Marty had been hit harder by the explosion than Peter, a fluke that permanently changed the course of the lives of those who knew him.
"I know I say this every time I come to visit, but it's true. I'm so damned sorry about not being able to save Gordy or knock you clear of that explosion."
He reached for his beer to keep himself from crying. After a long swallow, he sat the empty bottle back on the coffee table. He ran his hand through his hair before he found the words he'd been struggling to say. "I really screwed up last week, Marty. Someone died on my watch. Some crazy yokel that needed to be locked away, but he didn't deserve to die. You-you never would have allowed that. Neither would Gordy. I'm not even sure I should continue being a cop."
Peter rubbed a hand over his face.
"But it's more than just that..." he said. He paused before chewing on his lower lip. "To hang around Peter Caine, deliverer of death and injury, is to invite certain misery into your life."
He sighed. "It seems like people are always getting hurt or dying around me. I'm tired of it, Marty. I'm just tired of it all."
Tears welled in Peter's eyes with that admission and he knitted his eyebrows together in a determined effort to keep them from falling. He sat on the sofa again and leaned toward Marty, trying to inject more enthusiasm than he felt, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to fool with that act, Marty or himself.
"Anyway, that's enough about me. Phoebe's doing all right. She's made a real life here for the two of you, doing the things that give her joy, like her glass working, while still being close to you. She's always been a trouper. Even when she was still with me, she had enough energy to drive me into the ground."
Peter paused in thought. "I think Gordy would be really proud of her, too. I mean the way she keeps on going in spite of everything."
The overhead lights flickered. Peter glanced up at them and back to Marty. His blue-green eyes looking out from underneath a shock of blond hair never moved, but then how could they? The man's EEG readings were far from normal.
Peter folded his arms in front of him as he sat back on the sofa. He always spoke to Marty out of habit, even though part of him knew Marty would never be able to respond. Hell, Peter wasn't even sure anything he'd said ever got through to his old friend, but he always tried to talk to him as he had before Marty was injured.
A book fell from the built-in bookcase. Peter got up to retrieve it. As he bent down, the book slowly rose from the carpet to his hand. It happened so quickly, Peter was startled into silence. He hefted the book in one hand as he straightened, pausing to read its title, I'm Okay. You're Okay.
Peter whistled softly as he glanced around the room. "Glad you're okay, buddy, because I'm having a little trouble right now."
A gentle breeze seemed to dance around him and Peter closed his eyes without meaning to. He felt a sense of peace with the shifting wind, as if his heart was reacting with something he couldn't see, but definitely felt. The peace it brought had been something almost denied to him in recent months and it was much welcomed. He sighed as he lingered in its presence for another moment.
You're losing it, Caine, he told himself, grasping at straws instead of real peace.
Finally, he returned the book to its place, and went back to the sofa, feeling slightly better than he had a moment before. Looking to Marty again and then the overhead lights, Peter asked, "Say, Marty, do you remember when Gordy took your motorcycle apart and put it back together in the bathroom of your apartment?"
The lights flared with Gordy's name, making Peter scratch his forehead. "And when Phoebe thought it was me at the front door to our place, and she answered it wearing nothing but a smile, only to find you standing there instead of me? I thought Gordy was going to bust a gut laughing over that one."
Again the lights flickered more brightly, and Peter sat up with anticipation. He was intrigued by the phenomenon.
Before he could pursue it further, a frigid wave of oppressive anger washed over him, leaving him feeling french-fried in its wake. "Whoa," he whispered as he blinked and looked around. He found nothing out of the ordinary, and yet Peter was deeply disturbed by the occurrence. "What the hell was that?"
As his gaze darted around the room again, a heavy photo album sitting on the far end table fell off without a push. The sight made Peter shiver with trepidation, and then he realized he was only shivering from the increased cold in the room.
Rubbing his hands together, he chided himself, "It's just a photo album. Pick it up, Peter, before Phoebe has to do it."
He tried to figure out why his momentary sense of peace had evaporated with the unexpected appearance of the cold. He felt about as agitated as ants on the trail of abandoned cotton candy at the fairgrounds, hardly able to stay in one place for more than a second. He ran a hand through his hair as he thought. The longer Peter was there, the more sure he was there was something wrong with the house itself.
Shaking his head, he stood and walked over to where the album lay. He bent to retrieve it from the floor and muttered, "This whole night has been too damned weird."
Suddenly, the metallic-covered album came rushing up and hit Peter squarely in the solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs. The album fell to the ground unnoticed as Peter went down to his knees. He stayed there, bent slightly forward, and gasping as one hand went to his wounded arm now aching from the abrupt jolt, and the other to his stomach.
Without warning, the photo album moved again. It clipped Peter on the right temple as it whipped upward, and then it crashed against the far end of the sofa. Peter reeled from the blow, groaning as he fell forward, fighting to control his balance. He had both hands on the floor now and stayed like that for a long moment, working hard not to give into unconsciousness or nausea. Finally, he shook his head to clear his hazy vision just as Phoebe came into the room.
"Peter!" she cried as she rushed to his side.
"Don't worry, I'm fine," Peter rasped, now feeling strong enough to lift his hands from the floor. They quickly went to his newly acquired sore spots, one hand pressed itself against his stomach while the other went to his head.
He felt Phoebe's grip on his shoulder tighten. "Like hell you are. I'm calling the para-"
"No, really," he said, forcing air in and out of his lungs, and went on to lie again. "I just lost my balance."
She turned his head to look at his pupils. "You aren't fine, not by a long shot. You're pale as a ghost and bleeding," she said firmly. "How did you cut your forehead like that?"
With her assistance, he managed to get to the couch, and then he quickly sagged back against its overstuffed cushions.
"I'll be right back," Phoebe said in a rush.
"I'm not going anywhere," Peter muttered as he gingerly probed the area around the gash on his forehead with his fingertips. The damned thing throbbed like someone was playing a rhythm solo on his skull. He looked at the heavy photo album sitting innocently at the end of the sofa.
"What the hell just happened?" he asked the silent room.
He closed his eyes with a wave of vertigo. Once again, he prayed he wouldn't pass out. Phoebe didn't need to deal with that. The next thing he knew, she was beside him again. Her hands shook as she held a damp washcloth to his forehead. "How did you get this cut?"
She pulled the washcloth back to show him the blood that had already been soaked up by the absorbent cloth, and then she set about wiping the trail of blood running down from his temple to his neck.
"Doesn't matter how," he said, forcing strength he didn't feel into his voice. "It's nothing. Please stop worrying about me."
"It seems like worry is all I can do anymore," she whispered as she continued to dab at his face.
Peter caught one of her hands and squeezed. "That's not the Phoebe I remember."
"That Phoebe isn't around anymore," she said sadly. "Life just got to be too much for that free spirit."
"No, it didn't. I know she's in there somewhere."
Phoebe didn't argue. She merely squeezed her lips together in a tight line as she began to wipe the blood from Peter's fingers. Peter took the washcloth from her and set it on the coffee table. He gently clasped her hands in his, rubbing them before she put her head on his chest. He took her into his arms and she dissolved in his hold. He let her cry, knowing she needed the release, and it wasn't just because of the scare he'd given her.
"I'm so sorry," she said finally, wiping at the tears on her face.
Peter kissed her on the forehead. "You've got nothing to apologize for."
She wrapped her arms around him again as the tears started falling again. It hurt Peter to hear the tiny gasps that followed her intense crying. Finally, she pulled away. "Look at me, crying while you could be dying from a concussion."
"It's not that bad."
"Well, you're leaking blood all over your white sweater," she said as she wiped at the garment. "I remember that sweater. Annie gave that to you for your birthday a few years back."
She returned to the task of stemming the bleeding at his temple by pressing the washcloth to it. He hissed with the discomfort, but didn't pull away. He recognized her nervous chitchat but didn't say anything. Instead, he remained quiet as she spoke, "I was raised to be strong, and not sob at the drop of a hat. My grandmother would turn over in her grave at the sight of me carrying on like I just did..."
Peter put a finger under her chin and turned her head toward him. "You are an amazing woman, Phoebe Jordan Kensington, no matter how hard you try to escape the truth. I've never met anyone stronger, except maybe my father."
She smiled wistfully as she folded the bloodied washcloth into a neat rectangle. "I need a fresh washcloth. I think I have some sponge dressings around here. Heck, we could practically open a medical supply store with all the things we've accumulated since Marty was hurt." She sighed. "The sponges should soak up the blood better than that washcloth..."
Peter touched her arm and shook his head. "Phoebe, I don't care about a little blood."
Her eyes shimmered again as she pressed the folded washcloth to his head. "Well, I do. I don't want you bleeding on my new couch. Hold this tight while I'm gone."
He sighed, but released her to do what she needed to do. She was back a few moments later. When she was satisfied that the bleeding had slowed, she taped a makeshift dressing over his temple. Without looking at him, she asked, "Does that new girlfriend of yours love you as much as I loved you back then?"
The question took Peter by surprise, and then he nodded. "Yeah, I think so."
Her head dipped down a moment later, making Peter's smile grow winsome. He bent down to catch her gaze again, hooking a finger under her chin to lift her eyes to meet his. "We did love each other for a while, didn't we, Phebe?"
He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. Time slowed to a crawl as he imagined what his life would have been like if they'd stayed together. As he was lost in the land of might-have-beens, a distant part of him became aware of a sudden rush of air. With it, came a very real sense of danger. He reacted a moment ahead of it by pushing Phoebe down between the sofa and the coffee table before he threw himself over her.
The circular canopy of handmade lights overhead blew in a spectacular shower of sparks and glass. Phoebe screamed and Peter wrapped his arms around her more tightly, grunting when the stitches in his arm protested the abrupt movement, but his confusion was the more pressing issue.
The room was cast into shadows and shapes in the ensuing darkness. Peter looked around, stopping at the trunk. For a moment, he thought he saw one of the shadowy shapes move. He slowly rose to his knees, and then gave Phoebe a hand to get up. She wound up supporting most of his weight by the time he stood. When he looked back, the shape was gone.
"Marty," Phoebe said in a rush.
"Ah, shit," Peter muttered as he turned to see shards littering Marty's hair and face, but amazingly no blood. He knelt beside Marty as Phoebe began brushing the glass from Marty's hair.
"It's a miracle he wasn't cut or scratched by the flying glass..." she whispered.
"Wish I could say the same for you," Peter said as he looked at some cuts on her arms.
"I'm fine," she said, stopping him. "That was too damned scary. I guess I should have had the electrician out here long before today. Now my creation of light and color is destroyed, but at least no one was seriously hurt. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I am. Now, relax."
Peter put a hand to her shoulder. Phoebe placed a hand over his and sighed. "What in the hell just happened?"
"I've asked myself that question repeatedly over the last few minutes...You said something about strange occurrences happening around here ever since that trunk arrived?"
She nodded.
"I think we better talk."
oOoOoOoOo
"It's almost as if Gordy's ghost was in that trunk, reaching out from beyond the grave, but he isn't his old happy-go-lucky self. At least, not with the really weird stuff that's been going on. I can almost touch the anger and malevolence I feel coming from him," Phoebe said a short time later as she used a small brush to sweep the broken glass from the cushions of the sofa into a dust pan. She finished by rounding up the few lingering pieces of glass on the floor that had been missed.
"And yet...sometimes it feels so much like Gordy, so real that I expect to see him standing in the doorway, just grinning at me the way he used to do."
"Gordy? You're sure it's Gordy?" Peter asked, looking up from Marty's side. Phoebe had already checked Marty for injuries. Now, Peter was looking for stray fragments of glass after moving Marty's wheelchair away from the sofa, so that Phoebe could work more easily.
"I don't know how I know, but I do. At least, I'm pretty sure it's him when the mood isn't so angry. In fact, there's a playfulness that's classic Gordy," she said as she lit a candle on the coffee table. "But the moods are becoming more violent. I mean, just look at you."
She froze and put a hand over her mouth. "Oh my god, Peter, will you listen to us? We're talking like there really are things such as ghosts."
Peter grimaced, still hurting from the attacks of a bodiless assailant. "I don't know, for a figment of our imagination, that 'ghost' felt pretty damned real."
He rubbed his neck. "You've always had an intuitive way about you. I'd trust your instincts over most other people's. Tell me more."
"I wish I had your confidence." She sighed before continuing. "Every night, right before I get ready to go to bed, and just after I get Marty down for the night, that music box starts playing the Twilight Zone. There's no one else in the house except Marty and me, and I know he couldn't turn it on. Then there's the baseball glove and ball. It's always lying on the table when I get up in the morning. And the rose from our garden is left on my night stand each day..."
She swallowed as if suddenly frightened. "As bizarre as it sounds, I think Gordy's ghost really came with that trunk. It's crazy, but it's the only thing that makes any sense."
Peter rubbed a thumb against his lower lip. "And nothing like this happened before the trunk arrived?"
Phoebe shook her head.
"Anything else?"
"Isn't that enough?" She closed her eyes as if waging some internal debate. "Do foul odors and loud knocking in the dead of night count?"
"It does in my book. Maybe I should have my father come over. He might be able to help."
"You mean your real father? Not Paul?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah, him. I think he's more equipped to deal with something like this than Paul is."
"Why?" Phoebe asked, moving closer to him.
"It's hard to explain. He just has a way about him."
"Well, if you think he could help." She glanced around. "Let me get some more candles. I don't have enough light bulbs to replace all of the ones that blew out."
She stood, and then paused, staring again at her chandelier now destroyed. Peter stood and put a hand on her shoulder. "You can make another one, Phebe."
"Yeah, I know," she said with a shrug, and her old indomitable resolve popped back in place. "I'll only be a moment."
She started to leave the room, carrying one lit candle and leaving Peter with one burning on the coffee table. Peter called out to her as her shoes crunched on the glass under foot, "Be careful."
"Always," she replied, and then disappeared into the kitchen in search of candles.
Peter glanced over at Marty, and then rubbed at his sore stomach again. He straightened when he thought he heard something from the direction of the trunk. The room's temperature dropped twenty degrees in a matter of seconds, and the candle in front of him went out without a draft to disturb it.
"Ah, crap, here we go again," he whispered as his fingers tightened into fists.
He didn't move for a long moment, not quite sure what to do next, especially when his exhalations started coming out in foggy puffs. He went to stand, but then felt something cold hit him hard in the back and he went down, just missing Marty's wheelchair. His face smashed against the area rug. The unmistakable taste of blood in his mouth irritated him more than anything else as he cursed the photo album resting a foot from his head. He shoved it under the sofa as he whispered, "I've had enough of you."
As he rose, he wiped at the moisture at his nose with the back of his hand. In the dim moonlight, the smear of red across the back of his hand stood out like a roadside flare. He stopped in mid-motion when he thought he sensed movement in the darkness.
"Gordy?" Peter asked softly, then cringed when he moved his injured arm the wrong way. Rubbing his arm, he asked again, "Gordy, is that you?"
The room's temperature dropped even more, and then he felt what Phoebe had described. A dark fomenting hatred that spewed and roiled toward him from the doorway of the dining room, bringing an added blackness to the room already shrouded in shadows.
Peter was still trying to understand what was happening when a curio cabinet next to the dining room entrance tipped over, shattering its contents as it crashed to the floor, just barely missing Peter's head. He was rolling to get away from it when a lamp on a nearby end table exploded.
"What the hell?" he said, scooting backwards on his butt past the coffee table heading toward the center of the room.
He didn't see the trunk's lid fly open behind him, but its heavy lid struck him on the back of the head and he went down hard. He heard Phoebe's frantic shouts right before the darkness claimed him.
oOoOoOoOo
The heavy smell of candle wax in the air made Peter think he was back in the temple decades before. He coughed, and then groaned, but stopped when he realized someone was with him. His awakening injuries vied for his attention, but he quickly sorted out his surroundings when he saw Phoebe kneeling over him, and realized the bone chilling cold was gone.
"Wh-what happened?" he asked finally.
She sat back. "You tell me."
"I-I must have passed out," he whispered. He gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head, then he noticed the tears on Phoebe's cheeks. Damn, once again, he'd made her cry.
"I think you hit your head on the trunk when you fell. How long have you been having these fainting spells?" she asked as she put a trembling hand to his shoulder.
"Fainting?" he asked, still rubbing the back of his head, and then the painful memory of flying photo albums, falling curio cabinets, and heavy trunk lids shoved away all other thoughts.
Phoebe's gaze swept around the candle-lit room. "What happened in here? I was only gone a moment and then I heard a loud crashing noise. When I came in here, you were on the floor..."
The room suddenly grew cold again, and Phoebe looked around in confusion. "What's going on?" she asked with apprehension, her voice reflecting her increasing fear.
Peter shook his head. He started to rise up on his elbows, but fell back instead, groaning loudly. He grabbed at his injured arm as he hissed, "Son of a bitch!"
"Don't move. I called 911," Phoebe said firmly.
Peter closed his eyes in frustration. "They'll just cart me off to the hospital and we won't get to the bottom of what's happening here. Besides, this isn't something 911 can handle. I want my father to come over, but until then, it's not safe for you here. We need to leave. Now."
"But Marty..."
"Don't worry, we'll take Marty, too."
Peter tried to sit up, but couldn't. It felt like there was a huge weight sitting right on top of his bullet wound. He glanced down at his arm, and his mouth dropped open. Blood was spreading out across the upper arm of his white pullover sweater like a growing bright red badge, a visual reminder of his recent injury.
"Peter?" Phoebe asked as she put a hand to his chest.
His breath came in rapid gasps. He tried to force the pain away, but failed. If anything, the pressing weight was getting worse.
"Peter, what's the matter?"
"I don't know," he said through clenched teeth, "It feels like someone is grinding their steel-toed boot into my arm. It hasn't hurt this bad since I was shot. What the hell is happening..."
He managed to get in one more quick breath before his arm exploded in pain, and then he felt nothing at all.
oOoOoOoOo