October 9th
"We can't do this investigation without you, Roz. You're the linchpin for the whole team."
Roz rolled her eyes and was glad Tony couldn't see her. There were some advantages to phone calls versus webcam conferences. "You and I basically are the whole team right now."
"My point exactly! If you're not there to help we won't be able to accept the invitation to check this place out, and we've waited for this for ages! You know it's going to be a good case, there are so many stories from different owners." Tony lowered his voice. "If it's about the . . . you know . . ."
"My hideously scarred and grotesque-looking arm?" Roz said sweetly, heavy on the sarcasm because Tony usually needed help to recognize it.
"Now come on, don't be all touchy. I was just going to say, if you want to run the monitors and let me and Jim do the search—"
"No way." Roz's slight amusement vanished. "Jim does not come on investigations with us ever again. He almost ruined our reputation last time when he showed up drunk. If we want to be taken seriously we have to be as professional as possible."
"Yeah, okay," Tony said. He sounded resigned. "But we need one more person."
"I know. I'll ask around. Maybe Dot would be willing to go. She was pretty good the night we scoped out that church someone converted into a house."
"If you consider someone jumping at every noise and running like hell for the front door 'pretty good'," Tony said with some sarcasm.
"But she came back," Roz pointed out, which earned her a chuckle.
"True."
"We'll think of someone," Roz said. "Why don't we work on a list of possible candidates and get back with each other?"
Tony agreed and she ended the call, discouraged. A noise on her left brought her out of her thoughts. It was a snort of derision.
"You cannot be serious." Greg was settled in his easy chair. He watched her with eyes as hard and bright as diamonds. "Don't tell me you actually believe in that garbage."
Roz put the phone back in the base and perched on the couch. Her arm had started to hurt in earnest and she was still twenty minutes from her next meds; nights were the worst that way. "Define what you mean by 'garbage'."
"Anything paranormal," Greg said. He made it sound like a profanity. Roz held back a sigh and rubbed her eyes.
"Care to elaborate?" she said.
"You're in pain." His tone was sharp, but she knew he was worried and not angry.
"Yes I am," Roz said. "Answer the question."
Greg tilted his head. "Do you believe in UFOs, astral projection, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, telekinetic movement, full trance mediums, the Loch Ness monster and the theory of Atlantis?"
"I get the idea. You don't have to quote Ghostbusters," she said, annoyed now. "That's not what our group is about."
Greg folded his arms. "Enlighten me."
Roz took the plunge. "We want to figure out why unusual events are occurring in a given area. We investigate, gather evidence, then try to find the best theory or explanation for what we've discovered."
"And how many spooks have you met face to face?" Now it was open ridicule. His mockery added to the physical pain she felt. Because she was tired, Roz gave in to her irritation a little more readily than she would have otherwise.
"None that I know of," she said with some acerbity. "I've heard what sounded like someone walking behind me and once something touched my face, but we only have audio evidence for the footsteps. The other incident was personal and I couldn't offer any evidence, so we had to discount it."
Greg's disdain was replaced by incredulous amusement. "You're trying to use a scientific approach."
Roz struggled against a desire to thump him on the noggin. "We do the best we can to find a natural explanation first, yeah. Disbelief is a good place to work from."
"I'm all agog to learn what do you do with the things you can't explain."
"We put up photos on our Facebook page and tell the world we've seen a real ghost, what else," Roz snapped. In a reckless impulse borne of pain and exasperation she went a step further than she would have otherwise. "Check us out if you don't believe me. We're under the title 'UNYPR'. Have fun laughing yourself sick at our expense, I'm sure you're be vastly entertained." She rose and headed for the kitchen, and winced as her arm throbbed. At least a cup of tea would keep her occupied until she could take something.
[H]
By the time Roz is in the kitchen, Greg is at his desk to check out her FB page. He won't admit it, but he feels a grudging respect for her determination to be a skeptic, although as far as he's concerned that should be anyone's permanent default position on this non-topic.
The site looks good—no wild claims, blurry photos of orbs (whatever the hell those are), or emotional anecdotal stories. He skim-reads through the entries, which are mostly logs. They've got an impressive history of cases stacked up through the use of a logical, methodical and thorough search pattern in each instance. There's a sad lack of incidents or whatever they're called, but a wealth of solid physical evidence: meteorological and atmospheric conditions, sunspot activity, moon phase, and even the health and well-being of the team members at the time of each investigation. He chuckles a little over Roz's dry report in the last log, where they claimed to have heard the footsteps: "No, I'm not menstruating." All in all, it's not a bad effort for amateurs, not bad at all.
As he considers the data, a thought occurs to him. After a moment he shuts down the site and heads into the kitchen.
[H]
"I want you to investigate my office."
Roz put her teabag in the compost scrap bucket and kept her back to Greg. "Yeah, right."
"I'm not yanking your chain." He came a little closer. "Things have gone missing, files messed up, furniture rearranged . . . I want to know who or what's causing it."
Roz stirred some sugar into her cup. "Why us?"
Greg moved around to her side and opened the fridge to extract a beer. "Something weird's going on. I'd like to know what it is. It's the very definition of your raison d'etre."
"You've already checked things out, you don't need the team to come in," she said, and sipped her tea.
"Well yeah, I did some poking around," he said, as if that was a foregone conclusion. "Didn't find anything. No wires, no sleight of hand, no nothing. So there's no reason why you can't come in and verify my findings."
Roz set the cup down with care. "Gee, that's very generous of you," she said, unable to keep her cynicism at bay. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Greg pause.
"I'm a bighearted kind of guy," he said after a moment. His tone was guarded. Roz said nothing. She fought the urge to look at the clock, took her cup and went to the dining room table. The pain had started to push at her now.
"You can take your meds a few minutes early," Greg said. "You won't be breaking any rules." Now he sounded annoyed. Roz ignored him and concentrated on her tea. "Oh, great. Now you're a martyr. That goes so well with being a cripple."
"I'm not a martyr," she said despite her determination to stay silent. "I don't want . . ." She bit her lip. Greg sat down across from her. In the mellow lamplight his gaze glittered.
"What are you afraid of?" he said, in that harsh way she knew by now meant he was upset or angry. "You're taking prescription ibuprofen because you don't want narcotics . . . ah, I get it now. You don't want to end up like me."
Roz stared at him. "You think this is about you? Well, it's not. I said no to Percocet or Vicodin because-because I got hooked on codeine when my dentist had to pull two wisdom teeth a few years ago. After the scrip ran out I went through three days worth of withdrawal, it was—" She stopped, surprised to find she was upset.
"Amateur," Greg said. Roz's anger began to rise.
"So this is some kind of weird contest between you and me that you're always going to win since you're just that much more damaged, you've been through it all and had it so much worse." She resisted the urge to hurl the contents of her cup at him. "Fine. If all you're going to do is mock me then just leave me the hell alone, okay?"
"Ooohh, touchy," Greg said. "Maybe that's because someone needs her meds."
Roz gritted her teeth. "And in ten minutes I'll get them. So shut up."
"Ten minutes isn't going to—"
The last of her composure shattered. "What part of 'no' do you not understand?" she yelled at him. "If I want to wait, then I'll wait and your prodding me is pointless!" She got to her feet, grabbed her cup from the table and stalked off to the kitchen. Her arm ached from shoulder to missing fingertip. She put the cup in the sink and went through the mudroom, to stand at the back door window and look out on darkness. This is not going to work, she thought. Not unless something changes. She felt Greg come up behind her and closed her eyes, prepared for battle.
"Meds are on the counter by the fridge," he said after a brief silence. She didn't acknowledge him. He hesitated. "There's no contest going on," he muttered, and left her there.
This won't work, he thinks as he sits by his window. The night breeze verges on chilly, but he needs a smoke and the cold air helps clear his mind. At least he hopes it will, because right now he's got all kinds of stupid emotions inside him and he hates every moment of it.
When a quiet knock sounds at his door, he puts away the Marlboros before he lights up. When he answer the knock he finds Roz there, as expected. She doesn't ask to come in; she just looks at him, her expression impassive. "I'm sorry," she says at last. Greg puts his hand on the jamb, and stares down at her in surprise.
"Why?"
"You . . . you were right," she says. Her gaze does not leave his. She means it.
He doesn't move, but does dare to prod her a little. "About . . . ?"
Her eyes flash, but she answers him. "I'm afraid I'll end up hooked on something again. Besides, I saw what it did to my mom." She stops, goes on. "What if I'm not strong enough? What if I mess this up?"
"You won't." He knows it as surely as he knows he wasn't strong enough, he did mess things up all those years ago.
She looks away. "I didn't mean to yell at you."
He makes a gesture of dismissal. "Doesn't matter."
"Yes it does," she says, her tone fierce. "I don't want to hurt you." Her good hand reaches out, only to pull back before she touches him. "I'm . . . I'm going to Poppi's in the morning," she says. "It's not a good idea—"
"No," he says on some impulse he doesn't understand, and takes a breath. Before she can reply he steps forward and puts his hand under her chin, lifts her face to his and kisses her, tentative and soft, his mouth gentle on hers. When he dares to look her lips are parted a little, eyes closed. Her long dark lashes lie against her skin, and in that moment he knows beyond any doubt that he loves her. She loves him as well, he understands that too. It's a stupid, logic-free intuitive knowledge that he feels deep in his bones. "Stay. Please," he whispers.
Isn't this a pretty kettle of rotten fish guts, his emotional side says in disgust. So much for an easy lay without complications. He ignores the familiar voice and stays close. He wishes he could hold her and knows it isn't right, not now anyway.
"Okay," she says after a long, breathless silence. She's about one move away from flight; he doesn't feel too steady himself.
"Okay," he says, relieved, and steps back. She nods and turns from him. She cradles her arm a bit; her meds haven't kicked in yet. She's in pain, and yet she came to apologize anyway. He is about to close the door when she says
"We'll investigate your office."
"'kay," he says after a moment. She nods and goes to the stairs. He shuts the door and takes the Marlboros from atop his chest of drawers, but his heart isn't in it now. Instead he goes to the window, pulls down the sash and sits on his bed, stares at the floor and wonders how on earth he can live with what he's just discovered.
October 10th
"I love her."
Sarah lifted the finished waffle from the iron, placed it on a plate with the others, added more batter and closed the halves together. She turned to look at Greg. That's quite a revelation. He won't thank me for making a big deal out of it. "Well," she said aloud. He stirred the eggs in the skillet and didn't respond to her comment. "What happened?"
"Doesn't matter," he said. "She loves me too. Great story, two cripples together."
"I know you didn't tell her that because you're still alive, well and in one piece," Sarah said dryly.
"Right now she wouldn't believe me even if I did tell her," he said. There was a subtle forlorn note in his tone that made Sarah's maternal instincts rise. She subdued them and answered him with a quiet confidence she knew he needed to hear.
"You'll find the right time."
He stared at her, then gave a hesitant nod. They worked together in companionable silence for a while, until he spoke again. "I asked her to check out my office," he said. Sarah frowned.
"Check out . . . ?" Comprehension struck. "You want her to do an investigation?"
"Hey, apparently there's crazy shit going down in that broom closet I call home at work. Might as well bring in the closest thing to professionals, since the Ghostbusters don't exist."
"You'd better not be setting this up as some kind of prank," Sarah said, troubled by this turn of events. "Roz takes cases very seriously. If she finds out you're jerking her around—"
"I'm not." He gave her a wounded look, eyes wide. "I don't know why you'd just assume that."
Sarah regarded him with wry amusement. "I've heard you expound in the past on the subject of paranormal experiences. You're not a fan by any stretch, son."
Greg exhaled a long, slow breath. "Something weird's going on in my office. I want to know what it is. I've got someone willing to investigate, so I'll ask her to do it."
"Okay," Sarah said mildly. She leaned against the counter, intrigued by this turn of events. "You're serious. What's been happening?"
"Things have gone missing," Greg said. "I come in and find files on the floor, furniture pulled out of place—it could be a scene right out of Poltergeist."
"What's disappeared?" Sarah checked the waffle.
"My balls." He was all innocence. "No, really."
She rolled her eyes. "What else?"
"Little things—pens, binder clips, a spoon in a coffee mug." Greg transferred the scrambled eggs to a small casserole dish and picked up the peppermill. "I thought at first it might be the cleaning crew, but there's no reason why they'd take random items."
"You think you're being pranked," Sarah said. She opened the iron and kept a surreptitious eye on Greg.
"I think someone's trying very hard to get my attention," Greg said. "Now they've got it." He dusted freshly ground pepper over the eggs. "I want to find out why they want it."
"Well, Roz will be your best chance at getting to the heart of the mystery," Sarah said and placed another waffle on the stack. She took the plate and put it in the oven to keep warm beside a second plate full of sausages. "Her team's helped several people find out what's really going on in their house or workplace. They don't make wild claims and they don't jump to conclusions."
"We'll see," Greg said. He put the dish of eggs on the island counter and gave Sarah a hard stare. "No comment on what I said before all this. Interesting."
Sarah turned off the waffle iron. "I'm glad you're finally addressing your prejudices," she said in a dry tone. "Took you long enough." She turned to the fridge. "Maple syrup or raspberry preserves?"
"You're saying you really believe there's something going on beyond life as we know it." He snorted. "Wishful thinking."
"I consider all possibilities," Sarah said. "It's part of my job. Let's get breakfast on the table."