Revenge Walk Read online

Lacey remembered Daniel’s embarrassment at being targeted by the ghost in front of his girlfriend. Poor kid turned at least forty-seven shades of red. But that led her to another thought.

  “Will she behave herself at the open house?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Maybe we should include a warning on the invitation.”

  Sam shook his head. “Nah. Grown men can defend themselves. If they want to.”

  Lacey eyed him. “Uh huh. And what about you? Do you want to defend yourself?”

  Sam gave her an exasperated look, then snagged her hand and pulled her to him. “She knows I’m off the market,” he said in a low voice. He nuzzled her ear. “I prefer flesh and blood women.”

  “Women?” she repeated, accenting the plural.

  “One woman,” he said.

  She raised her face to his. “That’s what I want to hear.”

  He chuckled softly as he dipped down to kiss her.

  ~~~

  They walked in the front door of their apartment just as Lacey’s cell phone chimed. Sam closed the door while Lacey dug in her pack and vowed—for the zillionith time—to clean out some of the useless junk in there. She found her phone and answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Fitzpatrick?” A male voice, not familiar.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “My name is Price Reed. I wonder if I could talk to you and Mr. Firecloud about a… problem that I’m having.”

  “Uh, sure. Can you hang on for just a second? We just walked in the door.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  Lacey waved at Sam and pointed to her phone. They both took seats at the dining room table and Lacey set her notebook and a pen in front of her.

  “I’m going to put you on speaker so we can both hear you,” she told Reed. She punched the button and laid the phone between them. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I hear you fine. And Mr. Firecloud is there, also?”

  “Sam, please,” he said. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Sam, thank you. I’m Price Reed. I live up in Kagel Canyon, northwest of Burbank. My wife and I bought a home here about eight months ago. It’s an older home on an acre, nice quiet area. We thought it would be a perfect place to raise our two daughters. But over time we’ve had to come to the conclusion that we share our home with a… a spirit, and it’s attacking our daughters. We’re to the point where we’re fearing for their lives. We have to do something about it, or move.”

  “It’s attacking your children?” Lacey repeated. She raised her eyebrows at Sam.

  “Yes.” The man sighed heavily. “It pushes them down, grabs them by the hair. The girls are terrified.”

  “I understand,” Sam said. “We’ve got something going on tomorrow, but we could come out on Thursday. Would that work for you?”

  “Both my wife and I work, so it would have to be in the evening. If that’s okay with you, Thursday is fine.”

  Sam looked to Lacey and she nodded. “Okay, what time is good?”

  “How about seven?”

  “Seven is fine,” Lacey said. “What’s the address?”

  She wrote down the address and directions as Price gave them. She couldn’t help but notice the sense of relief in the man’s voice as they firmed up the details.

  “Thank you so much,” he said finally. “I can’t tell you how worrisome this is, so if you can do anything to… get rid of it, I… we…”

  “We’ll do all we can,” Sam said.

  Price sighed again. “Thank you. We’ll look forward to seeing you Thursday night.”

  Lacey keyed off the call and sat back in her chair.

  “Attacking their children?” She shivered involuntarily.

  “That’s pretty radical,” Sam said.

  “I’ll say.” She thought back. “Last time we had a ghost attacking people, it was that brujo at San Juan Capistrano. I certainly hope it’s not something like that.”

  Just the memory of it chilled her. The long-dead mestizo exacting revenge for over a hundred years had been one of their hardest—and most dangerous—cases. No, they didn’t need another one like that.

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Sam said. “I know what it’s like to be attacked by a spirit, and I hope I never experience that again.”

  Lacey frowned down at the hastily scribbled notes in her notebook.

  Attacked.

  The good news was that they’d faced similar circumstances and had prevailed.

  The bad news was that they really had no idea what they were walking into.

  She flipped her notebook closed.

  “What sounds good for dinner?”

  ~~~

  THREE

  Wednesday they went back to the studio to put on the final touches for the interview. Both Lacey and Sam studied the display area with critical eyes, and they made a few adjustments. With some very deliberate placements, they mixed the old and the new, the traditional with the modern, so that neither overpowered the other. Both styles took turns being front row center as well as background for the other. It all made a pleasing whole.

  Lacey checked her notes to make sure she had all the arrangements fixed in her mind: the open house would be six to nine p.m. a week from Friday; there would be cheese and wine and finger food catered in. She’d had a couple photos of Sam working blown up into vertical banners which she would stand in the corners. She debated about taking down Theodora’s self portrait, but finally decided to leave it up. The artist deserved a place in the event, especially since she’d been inspiring Sam.

  Just before three p.m., the ABC News van rolled up in front of the studio. Marina and her cameraman brought their gear and Sam and Lacey met them at the door.

  “Marina,” Lacey greeted her. “Thanks for coming. I don’t know if you’ve ever met Sam…”

  The petite reporter put out a hand to Sam. “Not without a crowd of other reporters around. Hello, Sam. Nice to meet you. This is my cameraman, Herb Carey.”

  They all shook hands. Lacey was struck by the difference between Marina and Herb. She was small-boned, short and dark. Herb was tall and barrel-chested with wiry blond hair and a full beard. They were a Mutt ‘n’ Jeff pair if ever there was one.

  “Well, come on in, take a look around.” Sam stepped back and motioned them forward.

  Herb, toting his camera, prowled around and examined the space for good shooting angles. He eyed the shelves with all the artistic pieces, then did some light level readings. It was obvious he had done this sort of thing before, and required no direction from Marina.

  “Here are some notes about the open house,” Lacey said to the reporter. “All the who, what, where, when and how.”

  Marina took the paper, scanned it briefly, and slipped it into a pocket. She regarded Sam intently.

  “So, working on any cases right now?” she asked.

  Lacey stifled a sigh. The woman was an absolute ferret.

  Sam angled a look down at the reporter, and Lacey knew he wasn’t taken in by the innocent tone.

  “Nothing newsworthy,” he said.

  Marina’s eyes brightened. “But you are working on something?”

  “We’ve got a lead on something. Haven’t checked it out yet.”

  “Is it a murder?” Lacey noted the way Marina leaned toward Sam, practically licking her lips. Was there such a thing as a bad-news vampire? If so, Marina was it.

  Sam shrugged. “Don’t know. If it turns out to be something like that, you’ll hear about it.”

  The vague promise was not what Marina was looking for, Lacey knew. She wanted scoops, first and only. The reporter stared at Sam a moment longer, as if calculating how much more information she could cajole out of him. To her credit, she let it slide finally.

  “What do you think, Herb?” she asked instead. “Where do you want to set up?”

  “How about right here?” Herb waved toward the corner of the display area, taking in both walls of shelves and the widest assembly
of pieces. He turned on his camera and checked light levels again, then moved slightly so he didn’t block the ambient light from the front windows.

  “Let me set up a reflector.” He drew a collapsible gray screen from a bag and pulled out the telescoping legs of the tripod. Setting it to the side, he checked his light levels again. “Yeah, this is good.”

  “All right. Sam would you stand over here?” Marina pointed to a spot and Sam obediently took a place in front of his work, eyeing the big camera that rested on Herb’s shoulder. Lacey knew he hated this.

  “Okay, Sam, we’re just going to have a conversation here, so don’t worry about the camera or anything else. If you flub up a little, just keep going and we’ll edit it out. Nice and easy, okay?”

  Sam nodded warily. Herb gave a thumbs up and Marina drew in a deep breath.

  “This is Marina Vasquez, reporting from Silver Lake where crime-fighting medium Sam Firecloud is launching a new career—in art. Many of you will remember that Sam and his partner, Lacey Fitzpatrick, helped hunt down the Fairfax Stalker and more recently were integral to the capture of the dumpster serial killer. Today we’re at Sam’s ceramic art studio…”

  Lacey paid less attention to Marina’s intro than she did to Sam’s demeanor. He stood up tall—towering over Marina—but poised and confident. His copper skin gleamed, as did his blue-black hair, pulled back into a ponytail. He hated being the center of attention, but he knew his abilities and he knew his art. He would be fine.

  “So tell us, Sam, about your work here. You’ve got two vastly different styles going. Why is that?”

  Sam picked up a traditional bowl—plain on the outside, painted with an intricate geometric pattern on the inside—and talked about the ancient process he honored. He mentioned digging the clay with his own hands, mixing in the temper, using the timeworn coil method of building the piece, then firing in an open wood fire. The reverent way he handled the piece and his serious tone bespoke his dedication.

  “Hang on,” Herb said suddenly. The big man slung his camera down off his shoulder and slapped at his left ear. The others turned to stare.

  “God bless it,” Herb swore softly. He ran a large hand over the side of his face and through his hair. “Are there bugs in here? Some kind of flying insects? Something keeps tickling my ear.”

  Lacey flashed a look at Sam. He laughed softly.

  “What?” Marina asked sharply. Her eyes darted from Sam to Lacey.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “That’s just Theodora. Ignore her if you can.”

  Marina’s head snapped back toward Sam. “The ghost?”

  Herb’s eyes widened in alarm. “What?”

  “She’s harmless,” Lacey said. “But she’s a terrible flirt.”

  The big man stared at her, mouth open, one hand over his ear. His body shuddered with an involuntary chill.

  Marina jammed her cordless microphone under her arms and pulled a pen out of her pocket. “What’s her name again?” She held the pen poised over Lacey’s note.

  “Theodora Sullivan,” Sam said. “She was an artist, used to live here. She died in…?” He looked to Lacey.

  “Back in 1951. That’s her self portrait hanging on the wall.” She nodded toward the painting that swirled with wild red hair and an emerald green dress, an Irish dervish caught in mid-whirl.

  “Get a shot of that when we’re done here, okay?” Marina told the cameraman. She scribbled notes on the paper, then returned both paper and pen to her pocket. “Okay, let’s get back to this. Herb, you all right?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He glanced around nervously as he hauled the camera back to his shoulder. “Will she… Can you ask her to leave me alone?”

  “Sure,” Sam chuckled. “Come on, Theodora. Give us a break.”

  Herb flinched as something brushed his ear. He batted at the ear furiously and ducked away.

  “Theodora,” Sam sighed. “Please.”

  Herb stood pensively, his body tense, ready to hunch his shoulders. The big man’s eyes darted from under bushy brows.

  They all waited.

  Nothing happened.

  “Okay,” Sam said. “I think we’re good now.”

  “Uh, okay.” Marina retrieved her mic and found her spot again. Sam replaced the bowl he’d been holding and stood ready for her next question.

  “So tell us about this new style,” she said, slipping back into the interview.

  Lacey watched as Sam explained the thought process behind the Fauvist pieces—how did one explain creativity, she wondered—and Marina as she listened. She also kept an eye on Herb, but it seemed Theodora had agreed to back off for a while. At the open house itself, Lacey doubted the ghost would be so easily contained.

  “So Theodora is the one who inspired these pieces?” Marina asked. “Tell us about her.”

  “She’s great,” Sam said. “She was an artist herself, and she’s enjoying how her home has become an artist’s studio again. She was pretty radical in her day, rumored to have had affairs with Salvador Dali and Picasso, among others, although she never confirmed or denied. But she was definitely ahead of her time.”

  “But haven’t you always said that ghosts that hang around do so because they’re trapped in traumatic emotions? Is that why she’s still here? And if so, can’t you help her move on?”

  Sam chuckled. “Theodora’s one of a kind. She stays because she wants to. She’s interested in people—likes to tease them, actually—and knows she can move on any time. But she’s having too much fun here.”

  Marina cast a quick look at Herb, but the cameraman remained steady. She turned her attention back to Sam.

  “Your success with ghosts, and catching their killers, is legendary. Does this”—and she waved toward the pottery—“seem a little tame after all the crime-fighting?”

  Lacey’s back stiffened at the implied insult. Marina might just as well have said your little hobby, playing with clay. Sam, however, did not take offense, or at least not that was evident.

  “Not at all. It’s using a totally different side of the brain. It’s creative, it’s fun, and it’s supremely satisfying. I enjoy keeping the traditional Navajo art alive as well as trying new things. It’s good for the soul.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever stop using your mediumistic talents for crime-fighting?”

  Sam angled a look at her. “No. I’ll always do that, as long as I’m able. But you do other things in your life than interview people, right?”

  Lacey could see his question tossed back at Marina caught the reporter off guard. She forced a smile. “Of course. So what are you working on now? Got anything going with the LAPD like that last case?”

  Sam’s lips thinned slightly. He knew that she knew, yet still she asked. “No, not right now. We’re always available to the LAPD, but we don’t get involved unless they ask.”

  Not entirely true, Lacey thought, but Marina didn’t need to know those distinctions.

  “But it must feel good to catch a killer,” Marina continued. “Get the bad guys off the streets and put them behind bars.”

  “It feels good to balance out the actions with the consequences,” he said carefully. “To restore harmony within a small area, and to release a tortured soul. That’s what it’s all about.”

  “Do you feel like you’re doing God’s work?”

  Sam regarded her quietly for a heartbeat. “I’m doing the work I was born to do.”

  “But do you feel that your talent is a gift from God? So, by using it, you’re doing God’s will?”

  Lacey saw Sam’s jaw tighten just a bit. She felt bad for him, remembering how Marina had peppered her with questions when she was going through the trial of her ex-boyfriend. Had she made a mistake when she’d called in the reporter to announce Sam’s new business?

  “I’m doing the work I was born to do,” he repeated.

  “And this?” She motioned again to the pottery behind him.

  “I’m honoring the traditions of my people.”
/>   Marina gave Sam a measuring look, and Lacey had a feeling the reporter understood she was going to get less and less from him, no matter how much she persisted with her barbed questions. An irresistible force meeting an immoveable object.

  After a long moment, Marina turned to face the camera. “So, there you have it. Ghost-hunter turned artist Sam Firecloud and his partner Lacey Fitzpatrick will be hosting an open house a week from Friday from six to nine p.m. here at his studio. And, uh, Theodora will be in attendance?” She arched an eyebrow at Sam.

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “All right. Come on out for cheese and wine, ceramic art and… ghosts. All the details are on our website listed at the bottom of your screen.”

  Marina held her smile at the camera for a beat, then Herb switched off and lifted the contraption from his shoulder. “Got it,” he said.

  Marina turned off her mic, asking casually, “So what’s this case you’ve got brewing? Can you tell me anything about it?” She lifted her gaze to Sam, the razor-sharp instincts that Lacey knew existed disguised as innocent curiosity.

  Sam met her stare for a silent moment, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Nah. Just a run-of-the-mill haunting.”

  Marina regarded him closely. Lacey could practically see the wheels turning in the reporter’s brain. Was he lying? Was it really nothing? An investigative reporter like her didn’t get stories by believing casual dismissals. Lacey knew Marina wouldn’t forget this.

  “Okay,” the woman said finally. “Then I think we’re done here.” She surveyed the studio one last time.

  “When will this air?” Lacey asked.

  “Tonight at ten and tomorrow morning at seven. Possibly at noon, too, if there’s room for it.”

  “Great. By the way, you’re both welcome to come to the open house. With or without your gear.”

  Marina nodded. “Thanks. You never know; we might.” She flashed a quick smile without much warmth.

  Yeah, only if there’s a story to be had, Lacey thought.

  Herb had collapsed the reflector back into its sack and shoved it under his arm.

  “Ready?” Marina asked him.