The ghost of Jack Shepard recognized each of these scents. They were as distinct to him as the red, green, and yellow of the corner stoplight. Jack’s body may have been dead for more than fifty years, but his state of awareness was very much alive.
Smells were stronger. Sounds were louder. Touch and taste were even possible in strange ways. And without any physical barriers to block his movements, he could now pass through furniture and floors, experiencing the feel of them on entirely new levels. Only the brick and mortar of this building were impenetrable to him, rendering him a prisoner here.
So what else was he going to do to pass the time? Surveillance work had been his profession—and, as they say, old habits die hard. Besides, the plain truth was, witnessing Timothy Brennan’s murder had awakened Jack Shepard in peculiar new ways.
“A little too cold . . . almost there.”
Jack heard Penelope’s thoughts and wondered yet again what made this doll so special. He didn’t know why, but he had to admit, he was curious.
First of all, in Jack’s experience, communication with the living had been rare, limited mainly to giving all comers the shakes to the gate. The very idea that he could hear her thoughts at all was an oddity. Only two other beings in the last fifty-plus years had been able to broadcast their thoughts to him—and they had been children.
Second of all—and this was the real kicker—she could hear his passing thoughts whenever he desired it, and with the least amount of effort on his part. Never happened before, not to Jack. And with her prissy attitude irritating the hell out of him, Jack wasn’t so sure he was very happy about it.
Case in point: Downstairs.
First, she refused to take his advice and give that insulting pink-cloaked goon of a councilwoman what for. Instead, she played the do-right girl, held her tongue to keep everything nicey-nice.
That sort of I’ll-do-anything-to-keep-from-upsetting-the-applecart philosophy of living really grated on Jack. While a poker face was routinely necessary for the detection racket, when it came to family and friends, Jack believed that cards on the table, face up, was the only way to play it.
Next, she completely brushed off his warning that the State Police were here to find a perp to fit their profile. The once-over that detective-lieutenant gave Penelope had “you’re a suspect” written all over it. Maybe that councilwoman tipped him, maybe he simply reviewed the witness statements from the night before, but he was making her for some sort of guilty party, and she refused to acknowledge it—yet another thing that grated on Jack: denial. Put your head in the sand and it’ll all go away. That’s not how Jack played the game, and if Penelope kept playing it her way, she’d be picked off like a clay pigeon at a sharpshooters’ picnic.
“Ah, yes . . . that’s the way I like it: warm . . . soothing . . . inviting.”
Penelope had finally adjusted the water temperature to her liking. Flipping up a central lever, she directed the flow through the shower nozzle above. Water rained down, and she leaned back to avoid its splash.
Stepping away from the curtain, she unzipped her wrinkled black skirt and let it pool at her feet on the tile floor. After stepping free of it, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of the pantyhose, whipping them off in one swift movement—much faster than Jack would have liked.
With an ethereal sigh, he remembered the old-style stockings that dames used to wear—garter belts holding up each silky leg separately. Some even put on a little grind for him, taking their good old time unsnapping them, rolling them off, their eyes watching his for a pleasurable reaction. A few dolls actually preferred to leave the silky stockings in place, removing only their panties so he could—
“You’re not here, are you?”
Standing with hands on hips in her pale blue sweater set and virginal white panties, Penelope had addressed the empty air. Or at least it would have looked like empty air to the living eye.
He considered for a moment revealing himself to her. But he instantly thought better of it. He was simply having too much fun. For a dead guy, fun wasn’t exactly a part of the daily vocab.
“You better not be here. I mean it.”
Jack was dying to ask how she thought a “delusion” could spy on her in the shower, anyway. But he exercised self-control and kept silent.
Next she removed her glasses, then the loose blue sweater set, first shrugging off the exterior cardigan and then tugging the pullover up and off.
An innocent cotton bra displayed ample mounds of flesh. Hers were the sort of generous curves Jack had favored when he’d been alive. And the sight of her womanly form, standing there in her bra and panties, struck Jack like a wall of bricks.
She seemed so vulnerable and soft, like the sweet idea of home. Here was everything he’d wanted in a woman . . . when he’d wanted a woman.
A longing washed over Jack, moving him. And, despite himself, he ached for something he knew he could never have.
Suddenly, he couldn’t watch anymore. He retreated instead, back through the closed door, down the hallway, and into the living room. The digital television was on again and—once he adjusted the channel changer to a good crime show—it was sure to provide a much-needed distraction.
CHAPTER 9
Dying for Profit
You are not booksellers, you are retailers. . . . You’ll only win this battle if you are damn good at something and provide the consumer with a better experience. . . . If you don’t like change, you’re going to like irrelevance even less. . . . The glory days for independent booksellers are gone.
—Tom Peters, keynote address, British Booksellers Association, 2003
PROVIDENCE, RI (ap)—Last night’s death of internationally best-selling author Timothy Brennan has cast an unusual spotlight on Quindicott, Rhode Island, a small hamlet just outside of Newport.
The site of Brennan’s death was the town’s only bookstore. According to local officials, he collapsed during a public talk in which he announced Shield of Justice would be his last Jack Shield novel.
An autopsy is being conducted by the state medical examiner. In the meantime, bids on eBay for first edition copies of Shield of Justice bought at Buy the Book are topping $100.00 a copy.
Although sales of Jack Shield novels had floundered in the midnineties, Brennan’s most recent efforts were the strongest he’d ever written, according to critics, and an upcoming feature film deal was reportedly in the making. Consequently, Brennan’s abrupt announcement that he intended to stop writing Shield novels shocked his fans and the publishing world.
“Quitting while you’re ahead isn’t an unheard-of strategy,” said Parker Peterson, president and publisher of Salient House, “but Tim had just hit his stride again. So, of course, it was a shock to us.”
Brennan’s death was also a shock to his fans and even his third and most recent wife, who had chosen to remain in the couple’s New York City apartment rather than accompany her husband on his book tour.
“He had a weak heart, sure,” said Mrs. “Bunny” Brennan, “but it wasn’t that bad, you know? Timmy just had a physical. He wanted to make sure he was healthy enough to make the book tour, you know?—and he was, too. The doctor said he was fit as a fiddle. I’m really, really shocked.”
The store, which now goes by the name Buy the Book, was the last place detective Jack Shepard had been seen before his disappearance nearly fifty years before, Brennan said. Shepard was the real-life model for Brennan’s Jack Shield character, star of nineteen novels and two TV series.