“That’s right.” Claire sat down in one of the room’s two chairs. Like most motel chairs they weren’t designed to be actually sat in, but she felt that remaining in bed with Dean, even if they were both fully clothed, undermined her authority.
“You some kind of an exorcist?”
“No, I’m a Keeper.”
Cheryl folded her arms. Half a dozen cheap bracelets jangled against the curve of one wrist. “And what’s that when it’s home?”
“Keepers maintain the structural integrity of the barrier between the world as most people know it and the metaphysical energy all around it.”
The ghost blinked. “Say what?”
“We mend the holes in the fabric of the universe so bad things don’t get through.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you say so the first time? If I wasn’t dead,” she continued thoughtfully before Claire could answer, “I’d think you were full of it, but since I’m not only dead, I’m here, my view of stuff has been, you know, broadened.” Penciled brows drew in…“Being dead makes you look at things differently.”…and centered themselves again. “So, how do you do it?”
“Do what?” Claire asked, having been distracted by the movement of the dead woman’s eyebrows.
“Fix the holes.”
“We reach beyond the barrier and manipulate the possibilities. We use magic,” she simplified as Cheryl looked blank.
Understanding dawned with returning facial features. “You’re a witch. Like on television.”
“No.”
“What’s the difference?”
“She’s got a better looking cat,” Austin announced from the top of the dresser in a tone that suggested it should have been obvious.
Claire ignored him. “I’m a Keeper.”
“Well, jeepers keepers.” Cheryl snickered and bounced her fingertips off a bit of bouffant hair, her hair spray having held into the afterlife. “Bet you wish you had a nickel for every time someone said that.”
“Not really, no.”
“They’ve got a better sense of humor on television, too,” the ghost muttered.
“That’s only because Keepers have no sense of humor at all,” Austin told her, studying his reflection in the mirror. “If it wasn’t for me, she’d be so smugly sanctimonious no one could live with her.”
“And thank you for your input, Austin.” Shooting him a look that clearly promised “later,” Claire stood. “Shall we begin?”
Cheryl waved off the suggestion. “What’s your hurry? Introduce me to the piece of beefcake the cat thinks you should do the big nasty with.”
“The what?”
“You know; the horizontal mambo, the beast with two backs.” Her pelvic motions—barely masked by the red stretch pants—cleared up any lingering confusions. “He a Keeper, too?”
Claire glanced over at Dean who was staring at the ghost with an expression of horrified fascination. Or fascinated horror, she wasn’t entirely certain which. “He’s a friend. And that was a private conversation.”
“Ask me if I care?” Translucent hands patted ephemeral pockets. “I’d kill for a freaking smoke. Couldn’t hurt me much now, could they? You oughta go for it, Keeper.”
“I don’t smoke.”
A ghostly, dismissive glance raked her up and down. “Not surprised—you’ve got that tobacco-free, alcohol-free, cholesterol-free—is that your natural hair color?”
“Yes.” Claire tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.
“Hair-color free sort of look. Take my advice, hon, try a henna.”
“I ought to go for a henna?”
“Yeah, in your hair. But that wasn’t what I meant. You oughta go for him.” She nodded toward Dean. “Live a little. I mean, men take their pleasure where they find it, right? Why not women? Your husband screws around, you know, and everyone thinks he’s such a freaking stallion and all you get’s a ‘sorry, sweetie’ that you’re supposed to take ’cause he’s out of work and feeling unsure of his manhood—like it’s your freaking fault he got LAID OFF.…”
Claire and Austin, who’d been watching the energy build, dropped to the floor. Dean, whose generations of Newfoundland ancestors trapped between a barren rock and an angry sea had turned adaptability into a genetic survival trait, followed less than a heartbeat behind.
In the sudden flare of yellow-white light, the clock radio and the garbage pail flew through the air and slammed into opposite walls.
“…but if you do it, just once, then BAM…”
The bureau drawers whipped open, then slammed shut.
“…brain aneurysm, and you’re stuck haunting this freaking DUMP!”
Both beds rose six inches into the air, then crashed back to the floor.
Breathing heavily—which was just a little redundant since she wasn’t breathing at all, but some old habits died very hard indeed—the ghost stared around the room. “What just happened?”
“Usually, when you manifest, your anger rips open one of those holes in the fabric of the universe,” Claire explained, one knee of her jeans separating from a sticky spot on the orange carpet with a sound like tearing Velcro. “I’m keeping you from doing that, so the energy had to go somewhere else, creating a poltergeist phenomenon.”
Cheryl actually looked intrigued. “Like in the movie?”
“I didn’t see the movie.”
“Again, not surprised.”
“Why? Don’t tell me I’ve got that movie-free look, too.”
“All right.”
“All right what?”
“All right, she won’t tell you,” Austin snickered.
Eyes narrowed, Claire glared down at him. “You are supposed to be on my side. And as for you…” She turned her attention back to the smirking ghost. “…get ready to move on.” She wasn’t supposed to make it sound like a threat, but she’d had just about as much of Cheryl Poropat as she could handle. I’ve got a life, lady. Which is more than I can say for you.
The ghost’s smirk disappeared. “Now?”
“Why not now?”
“Well, I’m still hanging here because I’ve got unfinished business, right?”
Claire sighed. She should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. “If that’s what you think.”
“And just what’s THAT supposed to mean?”
There was another small flare of energy. In the bathroom, the toilet flushed.
“With metaphysical phenomena, belief is very important. If you believe you’re here because you have unfinished business, then that’s why you’re here.”
“Yeah? What if I believe I’m alive again?”
“Doesn’t work that way.”
“Figures.” She looked from Claire to Dean and back to Claire again. “Okay. Unfinished business—I want to talk to my husband. You bring him here, you let me have my say, and I’ll go.”
“Bring your husband here?”
“Can I can go to him?”
Claire shook her head. “No, you’re tied to this room.”
“Doomed to appear to couples and give them unwanted advice,” Dean added from where he was kneeling in the narrow space between the bed and the bathroom wall.
“No one ever wants relationship advice, sweet-cheeks.” For the first time since she’d appeared, Cheryl looked at him like he was more than pretty meat. “But how did you know?”
He sighed and tried not to think about what he was kneeling in. “We spoke to Steve and Debbie.”
“Nice kids.”
“They’re some scared.”
“Yeah, well, death’s a bitch.”
“Can you believe that she died right after a nooner with my best friend?” Howard Poropat sounded more resigned than upset by the revelation, his light tenor voice releasing the words in a reluctant monotone that lifted slightly at the end of each sentence, creating a tentative question. “Did she tell you that?”
“No, she didn’t mention it.” Claire braced herself as the car turned into the motel parking lot, sliding a little in the accumulated slush. When she thought it was safe to release her grip on the dashboard, she pointed. “There. Number 42.”