Not Flesh Nor Feathers
Page 14“Crazy psychics,” he mumbled.
“Were you asleep?”
“No. Yes. I’m at work.”
“Sleeping at work?”
“You should try it sometime. Hey, I was just going to call you.”
“When you woke up?”
“When I woke up,” he confirmed. “But you’ve beat me to the punch.”
“We crazy psychics are good for that,” I said. “So tell me, what happened down at Riverside last night?”
“Huh? Oh. Someone set fire to something.”
“I know that much; I can read the paper. I want to know what else happened. What’s going on?”
“What do you care?”
“Because I’m supposed to move into one of those apartments soon, and I’ll be real pissed off if it doesn’t work out.”
He yawned, and behind the yawn I heard the rustling of papers, clicking of pens, and the ringing of phones. “What makes you think I can tell you anything about it? I can give you the same blurb I spit out for the morning news, but it won’t tell you more than the paper, I don’t think. Someone torched one of the half-finished buildings. Dragged in a bunch of trash, doused it with an accelerant and tossed in a lighter. Dumb kids. Same old bullshit tricks. They’ll get it cleaned up soon, and you’ll have a spanky new place to live. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried, exactly. Never mind. What were you going to call me about, anyway?”
“Huh? Oh. The Read House thing. I think I know who Caroline was. You want to do lunch and talk about it? We’ll get pizza, and I’ll see if I can scare up any skinny on the arsonist.”
“Yeah, okay. That sounds fine. Say noonish?”
“I can live with noonish. Come on down to the station, would you?”
“All right. Noonish.”
I killed a little time around the house and took a shower before dressing to go see Nick at Channel 3. I didn’t go too crazy with it—just jeans and a T-shirt. The weather couldn’t seem to decide what it wanted to do, so I carried a sweater with me in case it cooled off beyond my comfort level. January in Tennessee is funny sometimes—it might be single-digit temperatures, might be in the seventies.
A glance outside reminded me to bring an umbrella, too. It wasn’t raining yet, but there was a whiff of ozone in the air and the clouds hung low and bleak.
By the time I’d made it down the mountain and over to the TV station, the first droplets of a shower were beginning to slap against my windshield. It wasn’t enough to warrant the umbrella yet, so I left it in the back seat and made a quick dash inside.
The receptionist called Nick’s desk and invited me to wait in a cheesy little lounge with ’80s furnishings. I sat down on an oversized beige couch that faced a big television tuned to Channel 3. Since the remote control was missing, I stared vacantly at the mid-afternoon news broadcast while a woman talked about using garden vegetables in homemade bread.
The door to the main set of offices and cubicles popped open. Nick emerged with a couple of bags and a suit wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic.
“There you are,” he said, shifting sideways to pull himself and all his baggage out into the lobby. “Let me stash this shit in the news Bronco. And I know I said lunch, but I need to make a stop first. I think you might be interested.”
I rose and held out a hand, offering to help carry something. He pushed the suit towards me and I grabbed it. “All right. Where to?”
“Riverside.” He flashed one of the big bags, and I saw that it held a video camera. “I was going to take a few minutes of tragic-looking arson footage to layer with a voiceover for the 5:30 show,” he added.
“Didn’t you do the morning show today, too?”
“I did, and it sucked ass. A couple of people are out sick and one guy’s on vacation. But I’m flexible. I’m versatile”
As we made our way outside and out of the secretary’s earshot, I clarified for him. “You’re sucking up.”
“Not exactly. I’ve been on shaky footing here ever since—well, pretty much ever since I met you. Besides, I think they’re looking for an excuse to dump me and pick up someone blonder, perkier, and breastier.”
“Yipe.”
He shrugged. “It’s the nature of the business. I’m just trying to stay relevant.”
“Gotcha. Didn’t you used to have a cameraman for this sort of thing?”“Still do. But I’m learning to do some of my own staging. One-man-bands are more useful than one-trick-ponies. Besides, Steve’s out too. Kid’s sick. It’s all right. I can handle it—oh Jesus no. Is it raining?”
“It’s sprinkling. Nothing to get too excited about.”
After laying his suit across the back seat, I climbed into the SUV and tried not to feel ridiculous. I’d never ridden in anything with so many logos on it before.
“Are you going to be investigating the arson?” I asked as I fastened my seatbelt, while noting that he didn’t bother to do likewise.
“Reporting, not investigating. I’m beat, Eden. I need some fucking sleep. Being at work at four A.M.is going to be the death of me. I don’t know how the regular morning guys do it, but if I don’t get my evening shift back soon, I’m going to pass out or say something completely stupid on air. People lose jobs that way all the time. I’d prefer not to be one of them.”
“Four o’clock in the morning?”
“Tomorrow, too. And today, before suppertime, I’ve got to put together a three-minute piece on the Riverside arson. Since you were asking about it on the phone, I didn’t figure you’d cry too hard about the detour.” His tone changed suddenly, lowering and going all conspiratorial on me. “You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you? Anything psychically helpful?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told him. My suspicions had nothing to do with being psychic and everything to do with knowing Christ. “If I knew anything, I wouldn’t have called you to ask for the information hook-up.”
“Good point. And I don’t know anything, by the way. The paper got most of the details as I heard them—broken windows, obvious arson with the rags and a lighter, stuff like that. It looks like a drive-by party to me.”
“But why?”
“Why do punks do anything?” he said. “Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, I think I know who Caroline is.”
“Really?” I asked, not sure how interested I was in her identity. I was still rattled from the incident in the hotel, and I didn’t know how much I actually cared who she was or what she was doing there.
“Caroline Read,” he said, grinning. “She told us. At the beginning, when you asked her if she knew who she was and where she was, she answered ‘Read.’ When I listened to the recording I assumed the same thing you did, that she was saying that she knew where she was. But now I don’t think so. I think she was telling you her name.”
” Was there a Caroline Read at the Read House?”
“Indeed there was. And get this—she went crazy and killed herself there at the hotel back in 1933.”
I nodded. “I’d say that makes her a pretty likely candidate for our ghost, then.”
“You did say you thought her behavior was off the deep end, even for a dead woman. I think it’s definitely her. I wish I knew what her problem was, though.”
“Crazy life, crazy afterlife. She kept saying that someone was coming for her—she accused me of bringing them to her, and saying that ‘It was all a mistake.’ The building renovation is as likely as any reason. New noises, new people coming and going. It’s enough to drive anyone to distraction.”
He held back, not asking for what he really wanted. I didn’t prompt him. Regardless of whether we knew who she was or not, I didn’t want to go back to that room, and Nick knew better than to beg.
Nick parked the SUV a block or two inside the development, just outside the police tape that warned against trespassing. Either he had permission to ignore the tape or he didn’t give a damn; he lifted it up and held it for me. He gazed sleepily at the soot-covered carnage while I scanned the area for some hint or sign of a skateboard’s passage.
A row of broken windows tracked the vandal’s progress. I pointed at them and asked, “What do you think they took out the windows with?”
“Baseball bat? Tire iron?”
A few years before, a fight had broken out downtown near the coffee shop. I’d been there, and I’d watched as a blue-haired kid had taken his skateboard and smashed out a car window with it. People don’t think of those boards as weapons, but I knew better.
I didn’t say it to Nick, though. I wanted to have a chat with Christ before I sent the cops or the reporters after him. Besides, I didn’t have any proof—just a gut-filling hunch.
“Give me a minute, here,” Nick said, scoping for a good spot to set up shop. He settled on a driveway and unfolded his tripod there, motioning for me to bring the rest of his stuff.
I dutifully lugged the bag over and set it down beside him, waiting while he checked batteries and assembled bits and pieces of equipment.
“So you bought into this place, did you?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Having second thoughts?”
“Why would I?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged the camera up onto his shoulder. “You’re acting funny.”
“Funny?”
“Quieter, but with more questions. If I didn’t like having my balls right where they are, I might pry.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">