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Chapter Three

Harley had tonight off, then he’d be back on days tomorrow. He’d been filling in for Ricker, but it wasn’t something he planned on doing again.

After he’d logged off the computer, it must have been social hour for half the people he knew. Actually, by the time he’d finished reports, research, and that little interlude with Jocko, it had been coffee break time for those with a liberal interpretation of "break". They saw him almost every day, but that morning he’d worn the gloss of the night shifter. His workmates wanted to know how it’d been to "be a rookie again".

Joke for the day...

Accommodating was the name of the game, though. If they were short-staffed, you filled in. What was that saying? "A supervisor not only had to know every job, but be willing to do it." It was the way to earn respect.

Also, a way to get ahead. Harley liked the people he worked with (for just a moment, Jock Jamieson strolled behind his eyes, and he grimaced)—most of the people he worked with—but he was a man who needed challenges. He was trying to move up the ranks, and it wasn’t only his own co-workers who mattered. It wouldn’t hurt to get to know the people on other shifts.

One person he didn’t want to know better was Jock. He wondered whether the man would prove a problem. Maybe Jock would think they’d forged some secret bond or alliance; some conspiracy of secrecy. It was the last thing Harley wanted, and he planned on disabusing Jock of the notion if it had entered his feeble brain.

To disabuse him meant he’d have to talk to the moron...again. It made Harley dread the morrow. Not only would there be a few lame comments from people who wanted to play out his night shift "lapse", and didn’t have anything better to talk about, but he’d probably have to counter a few subtle and not-so-subtle queries regarding his new "friendship" with Jock.

Hey, I have broad shoulders...

His recollected his dad’s words with a smile: "Broad shoulders weren’t made for bearing loads of bullshit—they were made so you could turn your back on it, and avoid getting hit in the face."

Words of wisdom. If I’m so wise, why can’t I turn my back on Emma Rathburn?

He was still wondering it half an hour later, when he pulled up in front of her house...again.

*

She held off as long as she could, hoarding her sense of normalcy, and holding her imagination in check, but was finally coerced by the silence. It was thick and oppressive, her microcosm muffled, as though she’d been stricken deaf to the world outside.

Doom. If doom had a sound, it would be this dense and bottomless void.

Once triggered, her imagination rode her fear. Grim visions chased each other behind her eyes—their star, the man she’d seen lurking, just off her porch.

Dead and buried. Weighted down and muffled by tonnes of earth. Stricken with eternal silence.

 

Stop it!

TV. She jumped up and, reluctant to put her feet on the ground, ran lopsidedly across the sofa and grabbed the remote off the side table. The TV came on with a loud blast that made her start, and almost made her topple off the couch. She headed back to the chair—the only island in the room. Not only was it blessed with a high back and big, cushy arms, but it backed up against a wall. She grabbed the decorative throw off its seat and wrapped up in it.

I should go. Leave. Get out of here.

She thought with longing of people and places with lights and buzzing conversation and endless action. The phone sat in her lap now but she knew she couldn’t use it. There was no one to call.

Wait it out. Sooner or later, it’ll be over. By tomorrow, everything’ll be okay...

The lights flickered again, the TV cutting in and out. The reception was going now, and static sizzling filled the screen. Ghost images moved in negative stances, and she couldn’t stand it. Emma averted her eyes and wondered how far she’d get.

I’d have to make it to the car first. Through the lounge, the hall, the kitchen. Into the garage...

But then there’d be the car windows. All those places for someone to lurk, just beyond the glass. At every intersection...every stop sign.

Hiding in her rearview mirror...

 

Because it wasn’t this house, this place. It’s me.

 

Emma was hit by inspiration. With shaking fingers, she punched in a number she’d seen on a billboard. It would cost her, but it might break the cycle. Then, she scrunched her eyes closed, and settled down to wait.

*

He was halfway into hating himself, and feeling way too much like Jock Jamieson for comfort. Did he really believe she was guilty of illegal activity? Could he justify his presence, if some neighbour reported him?

They’re not going to, Harley. If they didn’t acknowledge the rats, why the hell would they acknowledge you? More than likely, it was yet another instance of induced oblivion. If it didn’t directly impact them, it didn’t exist. Harley had seen the look on that neighbour lady’s face, though. For her, Emma no longer existed, either. He couldn’t help but feel a little pity for her predicament.

He’d started up his car, fed up with his own nosiness, when the lights flickered in her house and nearly went out. Even after they were back on, they remained dim compared to the other houses on the block. It wasn’t a singular phenomena, limited to her living room or front hall. The entire house possessed a wavery dimness, like a weak fluorescent tube.

Uh-oh.

In severe need of rewiring? Overloaded, maybe?

Or someone playing around with the circuit breakers? He deliberated for a few minutes, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. There was too much Jock Jamieson in the air, and he didn’t want to get involved.

Then, why are you?

The truth was, he had no idea.

He gave a loud and frustrated sigh, rested his head briefly on the steering wheel, and pounded it with his fist. It didn’t do much to relieve his frustration. He’d been stupid enough to get himself into this situation. Now, his sense of duty wouldn’t let him leave without at least checking things out.

Remember, Chalmers, she phoned for assistance, just last night. Maybe it would provide enough of a reason for him to be hanging around her house, especially if no one mentioned his appearance earlier today.

She won’t. You know too much about her rats...

Feeling slightly dirty again rather than heroic, now that all his coercive tactics were in place, Harley grabbed a flashlight and climbed out of his car. He’d taken only one determined step toward her house when he halted in his tracks.

A purple VW with gigantic pink bunny ears had pulled up, into her driveway. A big pink rabbit, basket in hand, trotted up to Emma’s front door and hastily rang the bell.

*

Emma heard the front doorbell and dashed across the darkness like a sprinter going for the gold.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look...

She wouldn’t let her attention be diverted, but focussed on the floor, and her feet moving speedily across it. The door was just ahead. If she looked neither right nor left, and didn’t eye that wooden bulwark as a blockade to freedom, she had it made.

But in that last instant, she knew she wasn’t alone. Her breath was so tight in her chest her gasp was a wheeze. The front hall was chill and still; her shaky exhalations coming out in swirling white.

Like a ghost...

A squeak escaped her lips, but she wouldn’t let the feeling of being surrounded...of being wedged in by ice floes...stop her. Her progress was suddenly as choppy and erratic as a ship scraping a berg, but determination won out. The fingers that clenched the door handle stuck like damp meat to frozen metal, and there was an audible crackling as she twisted the knob. It took both hands and a solid yank, foot against the jamb, to lever it open.

A few more seconds and it would have been stuck...frozen in place. Emma whimpered again, and barrelled outside, into the arms of the bunny.

*

It looked to Harley—standing in the shadows next to his car—like she was assaulting the giant rabbit. She’d come diving out of the house, and he watched as the bunny, already awkward in an over-sized costume, overcompensated. He went tumbling backwards, rolling them both onto the mushy grass.

Could it be the rabbit wasn’t the innocuous symbol he seemed? Harley took a couple of steps, automatically moving to the rescue, before he remembered the rats. He checked, scanning the neighbourhood warily for signs of movement. Nothing. Either Emma wasn’t "active", or her attention had been diverted.

Diverted, all right, he thought, watching with unanticipated amusement her tussle with the overdressed performer. Harley had finally remembered where he’d seen the big bunny before—on a billboard downtown. He was the latest in a trend of happiness delivery services. More than likely, he’d come here, song in mid-warble, and been flattened for his efforts.

If this is the kind of hazard she’s reporting, something has to be done. The humour faded from Harley’s eyes. If, in her confusion, she was attacking people, it needed to be stopped. Add her rats to the equation, and the situation became untenable.

If I don’t stop it—her—now, I’ll be responsible. Because I saw it happening, and did nothing about it.

If the rabbit wanted to press charges for assault, Harley could arrest her now—maybe get her the help she needed.

Maybe ruin her life...her career. He recalled what her co-worker had said. He’d seemed to have a lot of respect for her.

Harley deliberated for nearly thirty seconds more, then jogged over to help Emma extricate herself from the rabbit’s clutches. The support of her co-worker was more than matched on the down side by her relationship with Jocko. And the balance had just been tipped by Harley’s own observations. Assault was assault, whether you were the one directing the punch, or the rats.

But when Harley bent down to lift her up, off the bunny, Emma went nuts. She’d been clinging to the pink fur, but now she began pummelling...Harley. He’d seen that kind of reaction before—enough to recognise it wasn’t anger, any more than her bunny hug had been affection. Emma Rathburn was reacting...in terror.

And she thought Harley Chalmers was the source. She was squealing, kicking, pounding on him with her fists. Twisting like a mad thing in his arms as she fought to escape. Finally, he did the only thing he could think of: he shouted, "Emma! It’s me—Jack’s friend—Harley!"

She froze, absorbing that information. Then she twisted slowly to look at him. Her eyes were dilated and her skin coated with sweat. She was shivering with reaction, but her relief was rapidly being replaced by mortification.

The rabbit was on his feet by this time, his mask a little menacing, and his paws on his hips. He looked ready to attack. At that moment, he stamped his foot and Harley lost it. His arm, still around Emma’s waist, shook with silent laughter.

Emma was back in possession of her senses. She slipped out of Harley’s grasp, retrieved her wallet from the shrubbery, and paid the rabbit generously. Her smile was wavery. "I threw in a big tip—for your services."

Harley’s laughter went from silent to uncontrolled. He was offending Mr. Bunny, though, so he added a ten from his own pocket. "D-Dry cleaning b-bill," he managed.

The rabbit gave an abrupt nod, his ears flapping with the gesture. He stomped toward his VW Beetle, and was about to climb in when he relented, with a grumbled expletive. It was clear he was struggling, but finally, magnanimity won out. The rabbit turned their way, and offered them a sweeping bow, then tossed Harley’s ten onto the ground, under the sprinkler’s sweep. "Renaldo Rabbit," he said, elegantly. "Rescue Rodent." Harley was sure he was grinning behind the mask. "Endangered damsels are my specialty." He opened the car door with flair, then awkwardly clambered in.

He drove away with a grinding of gears, and Harley scrambled to retrieve his cash. "Who sent the rabbit?" he asked Emma.

Emma’s eyes flicked toward her front door, her sigh a gusty admission, and lifted one hand. "Guilty." To his raised eyebrows, she explained, "Merely a case of subliminal conditioning, billboard style." Emma shook her head and sighed again—with relief, this time. "Have to say, he’s the only rodent I’ve ever met with a decent sense of timing."

*

Afterwards, Harley wondered how long it was going to take her to go back inside. Someone should talk with her about this afternoon’s rat marathon, and tonight’s terror trip—he just didn’t know whether the someone should be him.

It suddenly occurred to him that she might have been running from a "they", rather than a "he". "Are they inside?" he asked softly. "The rats?"

Guilty, until proven innocent. "No rats," she told him, a little testily.

Why the attitude? Maybe she thinks I plan on coming in. He had, but only to talk. Something had frightened her, and he wanted to find out what it was.

But Emma showed no interest in re-entering her house. She seemed predisposed to silence, rather than any more action, unless action included turning off the sprinkler. After that, she hung around the porch, her eyes on the garage door.

Was she heading somewhere? He’d opened his mouth to offer her a lift, when she blurted, "They’re not, you know."

He realised she’d been debating whether to speak with him any more at all. His rat inquiry must have offended her. What did she expect? "Not what?" he asked now, confused.

"Not rodents."

All he could think of were rats. Occupational hazard, if you intended to spend much time with Emma Rathburn. "Of course they are."

She smirked at him. "Rabbits," she explained. "Not rats." Obviously, he was hung up on her rat problem. Probably all he could think of when he looked at her. She knew he wouldn’t believe her if she told him that for tonight, at least, rats were not her biggest problem.

It was just as obvious he liked to be in control. He gave a speaking glance toward her front door. "Staying out all night?"

"No," Emma retorted. She opened the garage door, thought again about the abundance of glass and visibility beyond her car windows, and ran the options through her head. If I drive fast, I won’t have time to worry about Him "showing up".

Yeah, but if He hops out in front of you, and you don’t stop, you might actually be running over someone else.

 

She needed people and company. Suddenly, she had an inspiration. "Leo’s!" she shouted triumphantly. Heaps of people, tonnes of noise, and it was open all night. She could miss a few nights’ sleep until this little paranormal cycle passed.

Harley jumped at her shout, and did that wary glance-around thing.

It hit Emma wrong—as though he thought everything she did was either about to endanger him personally, or cause trouble for everyone else. As a person who was generally liked, she didn’t appreciate being treated like some kind of lethal weapon.

Maybe, like Jack, this Harley was trying to be deliberately annoying. As her brother, Jack could be excused, but Harley? Hadn’t Jack warned him, about how important it was to be discreet? "Stop it!" she hissed, frustrated anew. "You’re making a scene."

His face reflected his disbelief, but there was a tremor in his voice as he retorted calmly, "I wasn’t the one beating up the pink bunny."

She’d heard the tremor, but misinterpreted it, as suppressed rage. She’d heard it in Jack’s voice before, and nodded wisely. For years she’d assumed that all policepeople had anger management issues. It was why they became policepeople. "I fell on him," she explained coolly. "Or, more precisely, tripped over him."

"While you were running," Harley prompted.

She nodded again. "That’s about it. He seemed okay, didn’t he?" she suddenly asked, concerned.

"He has a lot of padding. Maybe more, under the costume." Harley grinned. "What were you running from?"

"Disarming," she said. "That smile. Now I know what the phrase means: you’re trying to disarm me with charm."

"Is it working?"

"Did my plan with the rabbit?" she countered.

"Now who’s disarming whom?" He noticed her eyes glinted with approval at his use of the "whom". It was all he could do not to start laughing again. "Why were you running?"

"How did Jack do it?" He was looking blank again, so she elaborated, "Get you to spy on me this way?"

Mr. Police folded his arms, and for a moment, Emma was tempted to do something blatantly illegal, right in his face. Let him arrest my ass, she thought boldly. It might be a better solution: company on the ride, lots of people. Or would they put her in some kind of holding cell, all alone?

Where I couldn’t get away...

The shiver took her by surprise. Mr. Police saw it, too. "Let’s go in," he said.

"No!" Her answer was too sharp.

"Rats?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Is that all you can think about?!" Emma shook her head.

Harley grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the door, his whisper an urgent, "Who’s in there? Why’d you run?"

The eyes which met his held elements of the misery and terror which had shunted her out the door. "Because I knew it’d be safer," she admitted, in a wry whisper. It was so obvious she was surprised that Harley hadn’t guessed it. "If I’d called a cab—instead of the rabbit—he would’ve known I planned to leave."

*

Harley was really forceful after that. "Where is he?" he asked, his voice a sharp hiss. She’d been on the run. "Your living room?" He fingered his gun.

Emma deliberately widened her eyes, and crouched down warily at his side. "Block of ice!" she whispered. "Behind the front door..."

Harley straightened, lowered his hands, and stared at her as though she were nuts. "What are you on?" he asked harshly. He didn’t enjoy being played for a fool.

"Earth," she told him. "I’ve got a paranormal problem, and no hothead with a gun can fix it."

Harley’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need aggravation. "You’re more like Jock than I thought."

It wasn’t a compliment, and Emma knew it. Her face flushed with shame, and she swallowed hard. "I’m sorry," she said to his stiff back, as he walked away.

He checked slightly, nodded, then carried on.

"You’re nothing like Jack!" she blurted, and she suddenly realised it was true. The man was leaving, and she was going to be left alone.

In the dark.

"I’m in distress!" she shouted.

"Call your rabbit!" he shouted back, and could’ve kicked himself for letting provocation overcome his common sense. Nevertheless he paused, and pounded a pensive fist on the limb of a nearby tree. Aggravating, yes. Worth staying for? He wasn’t sure. "Your neighbours must hate you," he told her, turning around, and wondering why he was doing it. He couldn’t recall when he’d acted like such an idiot. "I shouldn’t even be here."

"I wish I weren’t," Emma admitted. She came over to him, desperate to keep him talking—anything so he wouldn’t walk away. "The neighbours don’t hate me."

"Why? What did you tell them, about the rats?"

"Why would you assume I’d lie to the people around me?" She almost, but not quite, managed to sound outraged. "That’s the trouble with police these days: negative thinking." She saw the annoyance flicker in his eyes. "Not that I mean you," she added sweetly.

Harley snorted, then asked again, "Okay, so what did you tell them?"

Emma sighed, and it sounded heartfelt. "Same old story. I bought one of those gadgets that deters insects and rodents, except it didn’t—deter, that is."

"It drew them in, instead."

She nodded. "Liar, thief..."

He frowned at that.

"I did buy five of those gadgets, then told them they didn’t work. They gave me my money back." At his expression she added, "And I’ve stolen at least a dozen rolls of toilet paper from work, and never replaced them. I could have used paper towels. Or-Or newspaper."

"Spoiled." He shook his head. Harley couldn’t remember when he’d been this amused, and it bothered him that he couldn’t hang onto his irritation. Somehow, this woman had taken him from terror to hilarity in less than twenty-four hours. "That’s how it begins," he added darkly.

"So now I’m evil." She looked up at him, worried. "I was serious, though, when I said I had a paranormal problem."

"I know. I heard the dog when I was walking around."

"You heard Studley?!" She sniffed sadly. "Still trying to protect me." Her eyes were slightly glassy now.

"From the rat-?" He noted her expression, and hastily changed it to: "From what?"

"A man."

Harley frowned.

"Not a real man. I mean, I thought he was real then, but not later. He’s dead...a-a ghost." Her eyes were huge. Harley was reminded of those kids at camp who sit around the campfire telling horror stories.

"Can’t you just ignore him? Tune him out or something?"

"You believe me!" Emma sounded pleased.

"Only because I heard the dog myself," Harley admitted. "I don’t handle hauntings. Are you sure this isn’t some nut case playing tricks on you?" He was thinking of Jack, but this seemed too subtle an exercise for him. It was more likely Emma had infuriated someone else with her "problem", but he hesitated to say so.

Emma shrugged. "That would make any physiological phenomena—"

"Like the ‘block of ice’ behind the door?" Harley interrupted.

"That was merely a metaphor," she admitted, "for the intense, gravelike chill I felt." She shivered.

"Lots of people see ghosts, Emma. My Aunt Jenny used to see one of my cousins in her bathtub. A friend of mine was bothered by a poltergeist for nearly a year. Do you know the history of the house?" He stared at the windows, unconsciously watching for signs of movement.

"People always ask that."

Harley looked startled.

"Knowing more about the ghosts would just make me more susceptible—play on my sympathies, that kind of thing."

His lips were twitching again, but she recognised his driving force as amusement now, rather than anger.

Emma smirked, and said sarcastically, "I can see this is all very entertaining from your perspective!"

He tried to squelch his smile and succeeded, except for the glint in his eyes. It was encouraging enough for her to ask him seriously, "Do you think some people are predisposed—to evil, I mean?"

Harley nodded slowly. "Circumstances predispose them, and that’s the excuse the lawyers like to live on, but hell—we all make choices." He pulled out his gun. "Don’t you think this gun in my hand predisposes me to violence?"

"Well, actually, yes. I wish you’d put it away."

Harley nodded, and tucked the Beretta in its holster. "What else are you?" His eyes glinted again, and she had the feeling he was confusing her on purpose.

"Your rhetoric’s gravely in need of work," she told him, with a sigh. "I bet you make lots of false arrests, just because you’re statutorially unclear."

He burst out laughing. "That’s why we have to memorise it—the Miranda Rights, that is. And I wouldn’t use the word ‘gravely’ too freely, if I were you."

"Damned police. Hit me when I’m down." But she was smiling now, the haunted look gone from her eyes.

He nodded approvingly.

"To answer your question, I’m a swindler. ‘Grand Larceny Fungus’. Illegal on an international scale. You don’t have the scope to handle me." She fidgeted under his official look, and explained, "They told me I couldn’t ship this one endophyte because the lab on the receiving end didn’t have an account set up. The point is, the endophyte can enhance growth in wheat, and I thought they should have it. I mean, hell! They barely have a lab—just a couple of microscopes and an old fridge they use as an incubator." It sounded like a series of excuses, even to her own ears. "The point is, their people are starving, and they have no funding, so I did it." She crossed her arms firmly and narrowed her eyes. "I’ve done it heaps of times. I’ll do it again, too. You can’t stop me."

"You are a nasty piece of work," Harley retorted. "You’re not naive enough to believe good intentions excuse what is, essentially, a criminal act?" In that instant, Harley knew Jock Jamieson had succeeded in ruining his life. The man had introduced him to his sister.

Things will never be the same. Harley grinned. "That said," he went on, lifting her hand. He hesitated.

"I washed it," Emma assured him. "No rats."

Harley nodded and lifted it to his lips. "Will you have dinner with me?" he asked.

The longing for romance shone in her eyes. It was rapidly replaced by tears. "I’d love to," she sniffled. "But I won’t." With only the briefest hesitation, she turned away, grasped the doorknob, and almost defiantly thrust open her front door.

She’s more afraid of me than she is of her ghosts. The thought took him aback. Had he been too overbearing? Too demanding? Or was it because he hadn’t appeared to take her seriously enough? To prove himself, he reminded her seriously, "I haven’t checked the house for you yet."

"It’s fine," she mumbled. "Overactive imagination." She shut the door in his face, then swiftly opened it a crack. "Nothing to worry about."

It was easy to read her voice. Even though she was upset, she didn’t want to appear rude, or ungrateful for his offer. She wouldn’t let him see her, and he guessed her tears had gotten away. "Thanks...f-for everything."

Click. The door closed again, but this time, with apologetic slowness.

He heard her steps as she walked, then sprinted, across the entry.

Was it only today he’d been longing for challenges? Looking forward to the challenges a detective’s badge could provide?

This was the first time he could ever recall being "romantically challenged", though. It was a novel experience. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but she—AKA "Rat"—was bound to make it interesting.

Harley, you wanted a challenge...

...looks like you’ve got it.

*

 

Harley took gingerly spongy steps across the overly-watered lawn. He kept thinking about her ghost problem, and wondering whether his sensible words had made some impression on her. If she could just staunch out her fear, she’d win. Dead things couldn’t hurt you. Scare the hell out of you, maybe, but it was physical, not metaphysical, phenomena which could put you six feet under.

Harley believed in handling the most important stuff first. Threats, fists, kicks, guns, knives, steel pipes, batons fell into those categories. Ghosts belonged more to the "fluff" category. If you had time to play with the idea, it was hobby stuff only.

But to her, it’s important. Downplaying it in his own head didn’t make it any less important to her.

He recalled the poltergeist which had plagued his friend Tom. Harley had always wondered how much had really happened, and how much was imagined. Difficult to prove, either way. Nothing factual.

It was more a matter of disappearing items—something which could plague anyone. It was a little harder to dismiss Aunt Jenny’s visions, of her son in the bathtub, but the mind played tricks sometimes.

What about the dog? Harley had to admit he’d never thought about dogs as spectres. The entire idea was ludicrous—like cows haunting a slaughterhouse. Now, at a distance, he could discount his experience, as the product of too little sleep and an unaccustomed shift change; of echoes from neighbouring houses. Nothing real, and there’d been no "chill" like the kind Emma had described. Just a little noise in a place it didn’t belong.

Harley paused at the lawn edge and glanced back at the house. He’d just remembered the problem with the lights. That sounded a lot like human interference. He’d meant to bring it up with her—to ask her about dimmer switches, or whether she’d had any electrical problems before—because it could be a fire hazard.

If the perpetrator was human, though, chances were, he was gone. All that activity out front would have alerted him to visitors. Unlikely he’d take the risk of discovery.

Harley was thinking Jock again. The man wasn’t totally without ambition. He wouldn’t want to be caught out by Harley—especially after their discussion this afternoon.

Harley was lost in thought, staring unfocussed at Emma’s tree—the one he’d been pounding with his fist—as he considered the possibilities. Should he go? The policeman in him said no. He’d done nothing whatsoever to investigate the things that were plaguing her. He recalled her words: "I’m in distress!". She had, more or less, asked for help.

She just doesn’t want the romantic kind, he thought, reddening slightly. He was the one who’d confused the issue.

Wrong place, and definitely the wrong time.

He was still playing it out on his internal viewscreen when he was distracted by movement in his peripheral vision. He turned, his eyes refocussing on something which hadn’t been there a split second before. Like one of those 3D puzzles, it had been hidden in the line of the porch rail, the rays of the front light, the hard edge of concrete. It was a part of the intricately branched shrub near Emma’s door, the rough-barked limb of the tree, the brick of the path. Now that it—He—was present, Harley wondered how he hadn’t seen him before. Gut instinct told him the man had been there all along.

And now that I know how to see him, I won’t be able to miss him again...

The idea was spooky, to say the least. Spiky gooseflesh chased dancing goosepimples down Harley’s arms and chest. It wasn’t nearly as spooky, though, as what happened next.

The man turned, to meet Harley’s eyes. His own were in darkness, but something told Harley this creature wouldn’t have the same problems with visualisation that he had. No problems seeing in the dark.

As the silhouette twisted, Harley sucked in a quick breath. For just an instant, the curve of the forehead, of aquiline nose and prominent chin were etched, darkly unmistakable against the lighter-coloured front door. It was a silhouette Harley recognised.

It was also one he’d never forget, any more than he’d forget the way he’d prided himself on his detective work, in solving the case.

A lookalike? His brain was in horror mode, and instinctively sought a reason.

No. Harley was shaking his head now, and he didn’t know whether it was more in acceptance or denial. However he played this, some part of him knew the truth, and it made his guts clench, his breath catch.

There are some things which can’t be rationalised.

Harley realised how much he’d wronged the woman in the house. She did, indeed, have a paranormal problem. So, it seemed, did he.

For, the man was Terence Edward Forsby. Harley had arrested his father last year...

...for the murder of his only son.

*

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