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  David saw Amber and Eric exchange glances.

  "What happened?" Amber asked.

  The chief looked at his massive hands, then back at Amber. "Your dad was waiting below while I went up the stairs. It took a while to get up there because they're so rickety, but I normally did, and didn't find a thing. So I came back down, just as slowly, and after I made the last turn and could see your dad waiting below, that's when it happened. David yelled something just as I felt a big old hand dig into my shoulder." He looked at David. "What was it you yelled, anyway?"

  "Run."

  He nodded. "Good advice. But I turned and came face-to-face--make that face to neck," he amended sickly, "with that thing. I just hauled off and socked it, but my hand went right into it like it wasn't there. It was like sticking my paw in a bucket of ice." Uneasily, he ran his fingers through his thick gray-sprinkled blond hair.

  "What did the captain's hand feel like on your shoulder?" Eric asked.

  "The captain?" Swenson paused, then nodded. "The captain. Well, it felt just like a hand clamping down on my shoulder."

  "It could touch him but he couldn't touch it," David explained.

  Swenson rose and walked over to the bay window and, again, David was fascinated by the similarities between Eric and his uncle. Swenson was off duty and both were dressed in shorts and bright Hawaiian-type shirts. They were tall, broad-shouldered, muscular types--Amber would class them as California beach hunks--with brilliant blue eyes, and strong jawlines softened by friendly smiles. The chief had a hint of middle-age spread, a little gray peppering his thick blond hair--which appeared to be pulled back into a ponytail hidden under his shirt--and maps of crinkles around his eyes, the result of a lifetime of sun worshipping. David thought he might make an interesting character in some future book.

  He ran after the murderer; his zorries flap-flap-flapping against the boardwalk as he dodged a group of roller-skaters, six women whose tanned, sculpted bodies were framed by fluorescent G-string bikinis that seemed to defy gravity. But Craig had no time for that now. As he passed a sun-sleepy surfer, he flashed his badge and yanked the banana-yellow surfboard from the sand. He ran with it held high above his head until he was less than a dozen feet behind the killer, then, barely pausing to take aim, he hurled the board at his target. Like a torpedo, it found its mark.

  “...Can't report this," Swenson was saying. "I'd be out of a job quicker than you can whistle 'Dixie.' David, you'd be more of an expert on handling this sort of thing than I would anyway. I hope you understand."

  "No, Chief--"

  "Craig."

  "Craig, I wouldn't want it reported. This place would be crawling with the curious." He paused. "What do you think pulled the hasp from the door?"

  Craig shook his head. "Just looks like simple vandalism to me. I'll file a report about that. It might be useful if it happens again."

  "Who's going to fix it?" Amber asked softly.

  "I will." Eric stood up.

  "It can wait until tomorrow," David told him. "Nobody will go in the lighthouse tonight--it seems to have its own security system anyway," he added with a sick chuckle.

  "We should get going," Swenson said. He looked from Amber to David. "You two been clamming yet?"

  "No!" Amber said enthusiastically.

  "That's where we're headed. You guys want to come along, you're more than welcome."

  "Can we, Daddy?"

  "Theo's expecting--" David said, then hesitated. Amber certainly didn't want to see her and he wasn't at all sure any respectable part of his anatomy wanted to, either. A relaxing evening·on the beach with the Swensons sounded far better. "Sure," he said. "Let's clam. I just have to make a quick call first." He could feel Amber's smile following him out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Pismo Beach: 8:35P.M.

  Craig poked the dying campfire with a long piece of driftwood. "You remember ever having that much energy?" he asked David.

  Masters stared at Amber and Eric as they energetically tossed a Frisbee back and forth on the hard-packed sand near the water's edge. "It's a dim recollection, at best," he said, not without fondness.

  Only a slight orange glow at the horizon remained to remind them of the sun, but a brilliant full moon cast enough light across the beach for the kids to see. Kids, thought Craig. I never thought I'd call a twenty-year-old a kid. He hadn't been much older than Eric was now when he'd joined the force. He glanced briefly at the writer, who seemed to have something on his mind. Craig figured he'd hear about it sooner or later. "Beer?"

  "Sounds good."

  Craig took two Buds out of the cooler and tossed one over to Masters. He was glad David and Amber had come along. Usually it was just himself and Eric, which was fine, but Eric didn't drink--said it didn't agree with him--and it was nice to share a brew once in a while. As he pulled the tab, he felt a fresh wave of guilt about his nephew. He'd always been close to Eric, like a father really, since the boy's father, Craig's own black sheep brother, had run off eighteen years ago, leaving Holly and her toddler to fend for themselves.

  But he hadn't believed Eric's wild stories any more than anyone else had. "I wish I'd seen one of those things a long time ago," he said. The fire crackled.

  "I think Eric understands."

  Eric sees ghosts and this guy reads minds. Craig considered for a moment, then understood that Masters' brain was simply working in the same channel as his: he was thinking like a parent, probably upset as hell he hadn't been there for his little girl when she'd run into that creature. That hallucination.

  "My first month on the force, a few years before Eric was born, there was an accident on that road near where the High Hooey Center is now." Craig took a long swallow of beer. "It was bad. Really bad. I took one look and lost my dinner on the side of the road. Fisher Cox was a seventeen-year-old punk and, as usual, he was drunk off his ass and tearing around in the hills.

  "That day, as far as we could tell, he took a blind curve on the wrong side of the road and plowed into a car, a little tin box of a car." The memory still made him wince. "Car had a family in it, folks from Denver. Parents, a couple of little kids. The wife was eight months pregnant." The beer suddenly tasted way too bitter. "That was back before people wore seatbelts much. The bodies were pretty torn up. Some were thrown clear--we found one in a tree that was growing a ways down the mountain from the road. Some were crushed right into the metal. Couldn't really get 'em out, you know?"

  Masters nodded solemnly.

  "The father was impaled on the steering column, neat as you like, but the pregnant mother had gone through the windshield, right through it and then through Fisher Cox's windshield, so she was face to face with him. Forehead to forehead." He shivered. "Almost like they were kissing, but when you looked closer, you saw that her whole front was sheered off by the windshield glass. In effect, her belly was scalped. The hood of the car had gone off to one side and the skin hung off it like a red flag."

  He shivered, then took a couple more beers from the cooler. "We found the fetus all kind of smushed down in the engine." Purposefully, he opened a fresh beer and swallowed. "A few years later, when Eric was about two, whenever we'd drive that way, I'd notice that he'd cover up his eyes right there at that curve where the accident had been. When he was four, I asked him why he did that."

  "What'd he say?"

  "That he 'didn't like to look at the bloody, sad people, especially the mommy.' "

  "Christ!"

  "Yeah, Christ! When he was a little older, he described the people in detail. Fisher, the parents, the kids. At least he didn't seem to know about the fetus."

  "So, what'd you think?"

  "I did like everybody else in this backward little town and decided he was a little off." Disgusted with himself, he added, "He described what I'd seen. I knew it was real, but I still wrote the poor kid off."

  "That's a normal human response to something we don't understand," David said, opening his second Bud.
/>   "As he grew, he pointed out other things, things no one else saw. Between that and his personality, which is pretty non-aggressive, everybody just began to ignore him.'' He paused, listening to the kids' laughter rising over the crash of the waves. The tide was coming in. "I realized a long time ago that he wasn't slow, but I still thought he was a little abnormal." Craig tilted the can to his lips and took a long drink. "By the time he was eight or nine, he'd quit telling people about the things he saw, but I could tell that he was still seeing them, you know?"

  David nodded. "I know."

  "So," Craig continued. "Now I see something myself and, I swear, if you and your daughter hadn't seen it too, I'd think I was losing my mind, regardless of Eric. I'd probably run to a doctor to see if there was some sort of insane gene in the Swenson makeup. When I think of what that boy has been through..." He was glad it was hard to see around the fire because his eyes were watering like crazy.

  "Don't feel too bad," David said softly. "You know now."

  "I guess I do."

  "Rather than accept that we've come across something we can't comprehend, the human race creates rational answers. And we accept those rationalizations, no matter how ridiculous they are, because they're the only things we can comprehend, at least until we learn something more." David cleared his throat. "It sounds like I'm a little drunk."

  "Feels good, doesn't it?" Craig set the can down and stretched. "I get what you're saying and I appreciate it. It's a good excuse for not giving Eric the benefit of the doubt."

  "You sound bitter."

  Craig shrugged.

  "Don't be," David cautioned. "You're only human and, even if being human is an excuse, it's a valid one." He set his own can aside. "I'm surprised the Beings of Light haven't pestered Eric, quite frankly."

  "They tried, but Eric wouldn't have anything to do with them." Craig chuckled, remembering. "He suggested that someone had started a rumor about his talents and that none of it was true."

  "Good for him. I know Theo Pelinore doesn't have a clue about his psychic gifts." He considered a long moment. "I guess he's extra cautious around Minnie Willard."

  That struck Craig as particularly funny. "Who do you think he blamed for the rumor? Another beer?"

  "I don't know--"

  "We'll kill the sixer and that's it." Craig pulled the last cans out by the plastic rings.

  "Sure, let's kill it." David opened his can, then sat back and stared at the stars a moment. "I have so many questions."

  "Such as?"

  "Why isn't Eric allowed to drive?"

  "He's allowed. He doesn't like to. I think he sees things, things like that accident I told you about. I think it makes him nervous."

  David nodded. "He told me that sometimes he can't tell a ghost from a living person until he gets good and close."

  "I have a question." Craig belched. "Excuse me."

  "Thank God you did that." David burped too, a refined little city noise with his hand over his mouth. "I thought I was going to explode. So, what's your question?"

  "When did he start telling you about the ghosts?"

  "About five minutes after we shook hands."

  "He doesn't hide it around you." Another belch escaped, but he barely noticed. "Why is that?"

  David shrugged. "You know about his other talent?"

  Craig tried to think, but it had been so long since Eric had mentioned anything that he drew a blank. "Give me a clue."

  "Did you ever notice that your nephew is a good judge of character?"

  Scratching his head, Craig thought about it. "Yes," he said finally. "I guess I did, at that. But what does that have to do with it? There are plenty of good people in this town and he's not confiding in any of them."

  "Eric has a talent that commonly goes with his other ability. It's called psychometry. He senses a lot about things and people when he touches them. He's told me all sorts of things about the house that he couldn't possibly know--and that I've since verified.

  “And he shook your hand and knew you’d believe him?”

  "Yes, I think so. He may know that I've seen a number of things no one else would believe. Things I put in my fiction."

  “Wait a minute. You’re telling me you’re like Eric? You’ve got ESP?”

  David laughed heartily. "You're probably more psychic than I am. I work with psychics occasionally, but left to my own devices, I have about as much psychic ability as that Frisbee they're throwing."

  "Then how?" Craig was halfway through his third beer and it was making him a little foggy. He hoped he didn't sound too stupid.

  "Same way you saw the headless guy today. I just put myself in places where weird things happen."

  "On purpose?" Craig was incredulous.

  "Of course!"

  "Why?"

  "It's fun."

  "Jesus Christ, you're weird, you know that?" Shaking his head, Craig added, "Chief of Police, and I about wet myself out there today. And you enjoy it?"

  David gave him a shit-eating grin. "Sick, isn't it?"

  "Yeah." He turned the can in his hands, then rubbed it against his forehead. "But I'm glad you moved here. You're good for Eric."

  "He's good for me. He's so accepting and unafraid." David laughed. "You know when we got back to the house earlier and I disappeared for a minute?"

  "Uh huh."

  "I did lose control out there at the lighthouse."

  ''No shit?" Craig grinned. He liked a man who had the courage to admit it when he was afraid.

  "No shit." David laughed lightly. "Rule number one: always wear black jeans when you go ghostbusting."

  Craig laughed. "I'll remember that. You know, I didn't know what to expect with you. I guess I thought you'd be a pretentious snob."

  David forced a belch, as if to waylay suspicions. "Why?"

  "Famous big time writer, moving into Body House. I thought that was kind of a show-off thing to do."

  "I only write bestsellers if I scare myself shitless first. It's the secret of my success. That's why I bought the house."

  "You're weird," Craig repeated, not unkindly. "You live in a house like that and you're superstitious?"

  "Maybe a little." David paused. "You mentioned the Minnie Willard rumor mill..."

  "Uh huh," Craig said slowly.

  "Am I in it?"

  "Sure." Minnie had been spreading some particularly vile stuff about Masters and his daughter and Craig figured he ought to tell him, but really didn't want to. "Minnie talks about everyone."

  "What's she saying?"

  "I don't pay any attention to her stories. No one with any sense does--we've all been embarrassed by her at one time or another, though some people never learn. She oughta be writing soap operas. A lot of people tune in to Millie, even though they're ashamed to admit it."

  "Jesus, what has she been saying about me?" The alarm in Masters' voice was unmistakable.

  "Oh, that you're a crazy writer, of course," Craig said lightly. "You won't let her in your office so she figures you've got some really interesting secrets in there. Says old Theo has her hooks in you."

  David snorted. "Is that all?"

  Craig knew he really should tell him the one about how Masters kept his daughter supplied with sexy underwear. But, he wondered, was it really necessary? Only the handful of old hens that were Minnie's buddies paid any real credence to the woman's stories. One of them, Bea Broadside, the second biggest gossip in town, had gone so far as to call him about it. He grunted something about looking into it, which almost made him laugh while still on the phone, then shamed her, just a little, since he didn't want her phoning anyone else and making trouble for an innocent man. As David had rightly pointed out, he really did rely a great deal on Eric's judgment and Eric had said nothing that made him worry about the man sitting across the fire from him.

  "That's about it," he normally said. He hated himself for his lack of honesty. "But if I were you..."

  "If you were me?" David prompted.

&nb
sp; "If I were you, I'd let her go. She's the worst kind of gossip, Masters." He took a deep breath. "Minnie takes a fact, a little bitty fact, and twists and turns it until it's bad."

  "Are you trying to tell me something?"

  "Let's put it this way. I got married in '89 and Linda packed up and left me in '91. It took me months to find out exactly where she got the notion that I was cheating on her." Old anger boiled at the memory.

  "Minnie."

  "Give the man a cigar. First, she saw my cruiser parked at Pelinore Realty, then one of her cronies saw it again a week later. Those two times, I really was there--Theo was having some trouble with vandalism at the time and we had two or three calls a week from her for more than a month, until we caught the culprit. Anyway, other officers were there at other times... but it just was my turn to be talked about." He paused to take a deep breath. Exhaling noisily, he continued. "Right around that same time, I was sitting in Fran's Café having lunch, reading the paper, minding my own business. Minnie and Bea were in the booth across from me. Well, Theo comes in to see Fran about a house she was buying. When she's done, she walks over to talk a minute about the vandal problem. Masters, she never even sat down and it got turned into one of a string of rendezvous, just like the two stops at her office turned into dozens. Linda left me two weeks later. Left a note, but wouldn't even speak to me because her good friend Minnie had advised her that her husband wasn't trustworthy." He coughed. "And that's what Minnie's mouth can do."

  "I wonder why Theo even hired her for me. Minnie despises Theo. She must be out to ruin her reputation. Theo must know that."

  "She knows. But I have two theories. Maybe one or both are right, or maybe both are bullshit. Personally, I'm theorizing they're both right."

  "Well, spit 'em out."

  "You told her to hire you a housekeeper, so she took what she could get." He snorted derisively. "Nobody but Minnie would do it. Her curiosity outweighs her fear. That's one theory. The other is, she's blackmailing Theo, so Theo had to hire her."

  "What could she blackmail Theo about and why does she hate her so much?"