The Departed by Shiloh Walker Page B

asked, “Are you going to ask me my whereabouts on the night he died? Because when it comes back that he is Myra’s husband, you’re going to look pretty silly, seeing as how he died before I was born—that’s a pretty good alibi. You know, with me not being alive and all.”
    “Damn. I really could like you.” He shook his head and sighed again, shooting a look over her shoulder at the house. “But tell me, how come you’re so certain it’s her husband? Hm? Why are you so certain?”
    Dez smiled serenely. “Maybe a little birdie told me.” Or a ghost. “Or maybe I’m psychic.”
    He snorted. “Don’t start that bullshit with me, angel, okay? I’m not as easy to fool as a lonely old lady.”
    Dez was tempted to point out that he obviously didn’t know Myra very well. Myra was nobody’s fool. But before she could, she heard it. A voice on the wind…so faint.
    …Help me…
    A whisper of cold danced along her spine.
    A voice, young and desperate and strong.
    Dez swallowed. Not again. Not already. She was so damn tired, worn to the bone, and she was always cold now, so cold she ached with it. Closing her eyes, she shored up her shields, steadied herself. It took less than five seconds. She could do this—she might pay for doing another job right on the tail of this one, but she could handle it.
    Looking at Detective Tate Morris, she gave him a brittle smile. “I’m sure you’ve checked me out, from birth on up to now. If there was any way you could think to discredit me, you would. And we both know you didn’t have any luck…don’t we?”
    “I guess we do,” he said slowly, nodding.
    “Then there’s really nothing left for us to say. You have a good day.” She went to step around him. But then, because curiosity had a grip on her, she reached inside her pocket, tugged out a card. “If you’re so moved, I wouldn’t mind knowing how the investigation turns out.”
    He accepted the card but when she tried to go around him, he caught her arm. “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing.” The whisper was already back. Help…damn it, can’t anybody help…
    There was an edge of desperation there. What was this?
    “Don’t tell me that,” Morris said, shaking his head. “Five seconds ago you were fine, and then your pupils go all pinpoint—now they are all dilated and your skin’s cold. You don’t look like the pill-popping type, either.”
    Dez pulled her arm away. “I have to go.”
    Help me…
    * * *
     
    THAT morning, she woke up in Springfield, Missouri.
    By sunset, Dez Lincoln was pulling into French Lick, Indiana. It had been one hellaciously long day and she knew it wasn’t about to end yet, either.
    Her hands were icy, but despite that, sweat trickled along her spine.
    The voice was driving Dez mad. The ghost was trying to drive her mad.
    Pulling her too hard, too fast. And now that she was here, it was loud. So loud. It was almost a scream in her head.
    Swallowing, she turned off the narrow, two-lane road onto a drive that led to a small cemetery.
    Strange —
    Most of her ghosts were people not at rest—unfound souls. Murder victims. And although some of them were found and laid to rest, many of her ghosts weren’t.
    There was something odd about this, though.
    She could feel it, like a buzz in her brain.
    She bypassed several dozen stones before she found the one she needed. She had no doubt it was the right one, either.
    After all, he waited there for her.
    Her ghost.
    According to his grave marker, his name was Tristan Haler.
    He had been a boy when he died, but just barely—hovering on the edge between boyhood and manhood. And when he turned to look at her, she saw something in his eyes that backed up her suspicion—too much knowledge.
    “Why did you call me here?” she asked softly.
    “I…I didn’t mean to,” he said, his voice insubstantial and distant. “You can see me, hear me, though, can’t you?”
    “Yes. I see those who’ve left this world.”
    To her surprise,