Deadly Deceptions

“Time to go home,” I told her, forming the words very slowly and carefully. “You can stay at my place.”

She stared at me, looking almost defiant. Her little hands were clenched into fists, and her stance told me she wasn’t going anywhere, and I couldn’t make her. True enough. She’d simply vanish if I made any sudden moves.

How do you bribe a ghost-child? Do you offer to buzz through the drive-in at McDonald’s for a happy meal?

“You could watch TV,” I said, after searching my brain for any scrap of kid lore. “I have a big one that comes down out of the ceiling when you push a button.”

She signed something, but I didn’t know what it was.

“She wants you to buy her a dog,” a voice said.

I almost fell over, I was so jolted. I got to my feet and turned to see the young guy I’d glimpsed earlier, meditating beside a grave.

Duh, again. He was dead. The old lady with the flowers probably was, too. I made a mental note to pay more attention to my surroundings and not assume everybody I saw was alive.

He smiled.

I hoped he wasn’t planning to follow me home. I had my hands full with one ghost—I didn’t need two.

I swallowed. Stood up straight. “You’re—”

“Dead,” he said cheerfully.

“And you understand sign language.”

He nodded. “I took a couple of special classes at the community college,” he said. “I needed a service project to make Eagle Scout.” He signed something to Gillian, and she eagerly signed back.

“Ask if she knows who killed her,” I said.

“Whoa,” he said, round eyed.

“Just do it, okay? It’s important.”

“I don’t think we covered that in class,” the boy replied. “But I’ll try.”

His hands moved.

Gillian’s hands moved.

“She doesn’t know,” he said. “It happened really fast.”

“Damn,” I muttered. Then I took a closer look at him. He was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt, and he was even younger than I’d first thought. He probably hadn’t even made it through high school before he passed away. “What’s your name and when did you die?” I asked.

“I’m not sure when I croaked,” he said. “I only figured it out the other day. Up till then, I just thought I was having a bad dream.”

I threw back my head, looked up at heaven. Why did God just allow these people to wander around, not knowing they were dead? Wasn’t there some kind of intake system? Where were the angels? Where were the loving relatives, come to lead the newly deceased into the Light?

“But my name is Justin Braydaven,” Justin went on. “I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you that much if I hadn’t read it off my headstone.” He shook his head. “I’ve really been spaced lately.”

“You didn’t remember your name—but you can still communicate in sign language?”

Justin shrugged. “Maybe it’s like riding a bike,” he said. “You never forget how to do it, even when you’re—” he stopped, swallowed “—dead.”

I felt sorry for him, for obvious reasons. There was so much he was never going to experience. “I guess your date of death is probably on that headstone, too. Under your name.”

“I was so glad to know who I was, I forgot to look for that.”

“Justin, do you see a big light? If you do, you should go into it.”

“No big lights,” Justin said, sounding good-naturedly resigned.

Gillian began to sign again.

“She’s back to the dog,” Justin told me. “It’s a big thing to her. Maybe there’s one at the pound.”

I thought about Vince Erland, promising his stepdaughter a pet and then reneging. It would be easy to judge him for that, but the fact is, dogs and cats need a lot of things—shots, food, spaying or neutering, sometimes ongoing veterinary care. Those things aren’t cheap.

The three of us started walking down a paved, sloping drive, in the general direction of my car. I was musing, Justin and Gillian were signing.

“Hey, lady!” one of the groundskeepers called to me, loading tools into the back of a battered pickup truck. “We’re closing up for the night!”

I nodded. “On my way,” I called back.

We passed the old lady, fussing happily with her bouquet. She didn’t seem to notice us.

“She’s been in a good mood since the flowers came,” Justin informed me.

I drew up at the headstone where I’d first seen him, peered at the lettering.

He’d been dead for six years.

Where had he been all that time?

“Can I drop you off somewhere?” I asked, because I couldn’t just leave him there.

After giving the matter some serious thought, Justin came up with an address, and we all piled into the Volvo—Justin, Gillian and me. I recall a few curious glances from the groundskeepers when I opened the passenger door, flipped the seat forward so Gillian could climb in back and waited until Justin was settled up front.

I smiled and waved to the spectators.

The smile faded as I drove out of the cemetery, though.

I was busy trying to solve the great cosmic mysteries—life, death, the time-space continuum.

No Damn Fool’s Guide on that.

As it turned out, Justin lived—or had lived—in a modest, one-story rancher in one of the city’s many housing developments. I swear, every time I leave town, another one springs up. There were lights in the windows of the stucco house with the requisite red tile roof, though the shades were drawn, and an old collie lay curled up on the small concrete porch.

When we came to a stop at the curb, the dog got up and gave a halfhearted woof.