The Guardians(84)

Gratifying, yes. But Quincy is still a convicted killer and we have a long way to go.

The last time I glance at my watch it’s almost midnight. But I refuse to make a move until they do. They are at least twenty-five years older and have far more experience with serious drinking. I gamely hang on as Archie switches to brandy and I take one too. Mercifully, Glenn begins snoring, and at some point I nod off.





Chapter 42



Of course, the weather turns foul. It hasn’t rained in north Florida in two weeks, there’s even talk of a drought, but the day breaks dark and turbulent as we hustle through Dillon, Frankie at the wheel and me gritting my teeth and swallowing hard.

“You sure you’re okay, boss?” he asks, for at least the third time.

“What are you getting at, Frankie?” I snap. “I’ve already confessed. I had a long night, too much to drink, too much to eat, a rather nasty cigar, and I slept on the porch like a dead man until a really big cat pounced on my chest at three in the morning and scared the hell out of me. How was I to know it was his rocker? Neither of us could go back to sleep. So, yes, I have some cobwebs. My eyes are leaking. I’m covered with cat hair. And I feel like death warmed over. There.”

“Nauseous?”

“Not yet. But I’ll let you know. How about you? Excited about exploring a haunted house, one hexed by an African witch doctor?”

“Can’t wait.” He touches his Glock and grins, thoroughly enjoying my physical agony.

Riley and Wendell are waiting at the house. The wind is howling and the rain will begin soon enough. I hand them each a copy of the lease and quickly go over the basics. They are more interested in the money, so I hand them a check made payable to both and drawn on the Colacurci Law Firm’s trust account.

“How ’bout cash?” Wendell says, frowning at the check.

I give a lawyerly frown and reply, “Can’t do cash for a real estate transaction.” I’m not sure if this is true in Florida but I project the voice of authority.

From the bed of his truck, Frankie removes an eight-foot stepladder and a shiny new crowbar purchased yesterday. I hold two flashlights and a can of insect repellent. We move through the tall weeds to the remains of the front porch steps and stare at the house. Wendell points and says, “Two rooms over two rooms, den and one bedroom downstairs. Stairs to the right, in the den. Two bedrooms up. Over that you might find an attic, you might not. Again, I’ve never been up there, never wanted to go. Never even asked about it, really. Around back is an addition added sometime later. That’s the kitchen and a bathroom, with nothing above it. It’s all yours, fellas.”

I am determined not to show the slightest reticence as I begin spraying my arms and legs with the repellent. I’m assuming the place is filled with ticks and spiders and nasty little bugs I’ve never heard of. I hand the can to Frankie, who sprays himself. He sets the ladder by the door for the time being. We’re not sure if we’ll need it.

With a reluctance that seems overly dramatic but is probably real, Riley steps forward with a key and twists it into the heavy padlock. It springs and the lock falls loose. He backs away quickly. Both Tafts seem ready to bolt. Lightning hits not far away and we’re startled. The skies rumble as the dark clouds swirl. Being the brave one, I shove the front door with my foot and it creaks open. We take a breath and are relieved when nothing ominous emerges. I turn to Riley and Wendell and say, “See you guys in a minute.”

Suddenly, the door slams shut with a loud crack. Frankie yelps a frantic “Shit!” as I jump out of my skin. Both Tafts retreat, wide-eyed, mouths open. I give a fake laugh as if to say “Damn this is fun,” then step forward and open the door again.

We wait. Nothing emerges. No one slams the door again. I switch on my flashlight and Frankie does the same. He has his in his left hand, the crowbar in his right, the Glock in a hip pocket. One glance at his face and it’s obvious he’s terrified. And this from a man who survived fourteen years in prison. I jam the door open and we step inside. Vida died thirteen years ago and supposedly the house has been off-limits, but someone has helped themselves to most of the furniture. The smell is not bad, just thick and musty. The wooden floors are mildewed and molded and I can feel myself inhaling all manner of deadly bacteria. With our lights, we scan the bedroom on the left. A mattress is layered with dust and dirt. I assume this is where she died. The filthy floor is covered with broken lampshades, old clothing, books and newspapers. We take a few steps into the den and scan it with our lights. A television from the 1960s with a cracked screen. Peeling wallpaper. Layers of dust and crud and spiderwebs spun everywhere.

As we shine our lights up the narrow staircase and prepare to go up, a heavy rain hits the tin roof and the noise is deafening. The wind kicks up and rattles the walls.

I take three steps up, Frankie is on my heels, and suddenly the front door slams again. We are enclosed, with whatever spirits Vida left behind. I pause but only for a second. I’m the leader of this expedition, the brave one, and I cannot show fear though my unsettled bowels are turning flips and my heart is about to explode.

How much fun will I have recounting this episode to Vicki and Mazy?

Add this to the list of all the things they didn’t mention in law school.

We make it to the top of the stairway and the heat hits like a sauna, a hot sticky fog we could probably see if things weren’t so dark. The rain and wind are pounding the roof and windows and making a tremendous racket. We step into the bedroom on the right, a small space no more than twelve feet square, with a mattress, a broken chair, and a rug in tatters. We light the ceiling, looking for a sign of a door or entry point to the attic, but see nothing. It’s all pine, once painted white but peeling badly. In a corner, something moves and knocks over a jar. I shine it with my light and say, “Back off. It’s a snake!” A long, thick black one, probably not poisonous but at the moment who cares? It’s not coiled but slinking around, not headed our way, probably just confused by the interruption.