Juniper Wiles, page 22
I shake my head. She keeps trying to cadge an answer out of me—“Just give us the tiniest of hints!”—but I stick to my guns. I do have a last thing to confirm, but mostly, I’m just having fun teasing her.
Later, I sit on the front steps and look out at Stanton Street, Sonora leaning against me and nudging my hand whenever she needs another pat. The oak trees are full of crows, as usual, and I find myself wondering how many of them are crows and how many are magical beings that can take the shape of people.
“So, Ethan Law,” I finally say.
I say his full name with intent, willing him to come. He appears on a lower step and looks back at me.
“How do you do that?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“I’m—I don’t know what or where I am, but suddenly I’m here with you.”
“All I did was say your name.”
“Well, stop it.”
“I will. But first we need a last talk.”
He sighs theatrically.
“I’ve figured out how you died,” I say.
“I know how I died. Charlie Midnight came into my dreams and…”
His voice trails off when he sees me shaking my head.
“Then what?” he asks.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Whatever else Ethan was—and let’s face it, we would never have been friends—he still cared about Edward, cared enough to want to protect Edward any way he could. So when he thought Midnight might be able to step through his dreams as a way into this world he did the only thing he could think of to keep Edward safe.
“You gave up your borrowed life,” I say. “You abandoned it and let it go.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were afraid that Midnight would be able to come after Edward through you, so you disappeared out of his life. You crawled away under those bushes and tried to let yourself go the same way you left Crescent Beach. I guess you felt or saw something in the bushes?”
He gives a slow nod. “There was a kind of pull…”
“There was no gateway there, so all you did was step out of your body and with your spirit gone, it stopped living.”
There’s a faraway look in his eyes but he’s still nodding.“I remember…”
“I know what it was like,” I say. “Midnight got into my head. He was haunting my dreams and Gabi’s too. I don’t know about her, but if he’d upped the pressure and I couldn’t have gotten him out, I’d have been just as desperate as you were.”
“How did you beat him?”
“He got sloppy and I got lucky. Plus I had a gun. It’s hard to put the mojo on somebody once your head’s been blown off.”
The words come out casually, but I can’t suppress a shiver. I don’t want to ever experience something like that again. Right now I hope I never have another gun in my hand.
Ethan just sits there, not saying anything.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“About what?”
“That it worked out the way it did. That you couldn’t go back to the Crescent Beach world and you can’t go back to Edward and your life here.”
His shoulders droop. I hear the crows chattering in the trees, but they seem very far away from this pool of silence that lies between Ethan and me on the steps. Someone nearby must have cut their lawn today because the smell of grass is strong in the air.
“I hate him so much,” Ethan says.
“Who? Midnight?”
Ethan nods.
“The only comfort I can offer,” I tell him, “is that he’s never going to hurt anybody again.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s dead. I killed him yesterday.”
“You killed him before.”
“That was Bret Palmer.”
I almost add, “and that wasn’t even real,” but in the Crescent Beach world, it was. And I didn’t kill him. Nora did.
“How do you know he won’t just come back again?”
“Whatever power it was that allowed Emma and her daughter to bring that all to life doesn’t exist anymore.”
“So I died for nothing.”
“You were protecting Edward—that’s something. You were selfless and brave.”
I’m laying it on a little thick, but he did care about Edward, and it doesn’t hurt me to let him go away thinking he did something that mattered.
“But he doesn’t know,” Ethan says.
And there we go. Here’s the Ethan who, if he can’t be alive at least wants credit for the sacrifice he made. But I’ll give him that.
“I can make sure he knows,” I say.
Ethan sighs and then surprises me. “No,” he says. “It’s probably better this way. I don’t want him to have to carry the burden of knowing I died trying to protect him.”
Except that doesn’t feel right either.
“So it’s better that he thinks you abandoned him?” I ask. “That you just disappeared from his life and he never gets to know why?”
“I’d rather he was mad than sad.”
“He’s going to be both if he never learns the whole story.”
Ethan’s been staring out into the street. Now he looks at me again.
“If it was you,” he says, “would you rather know?”
“Absolutely.”
“So tell him. But don’t make me out to be some kind of hero. If I were a hero, I’d have confronted Midnight the way you did.”
“I had help. A lot of help.”
“But still…”
I nod. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead.
He stands up.
“I guess I owe you a million dollars,” he says.
I get up as well, eliciting a groan from Sonora because she’s just lost the pillow of my thigh for her head.
“I guess you do,” I say.
He holds a hand out to me.
“Thanks, Juniper,” he says.
I lift an eyebrow.
He smiles. It’s a good effort, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I always knew who you were,” he says.
I go to shake his hand, but as soon as I touch him he fades away. Even in the broad daylight, it’s still eerie.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on the stairs with Sonora when Jilly comes out of the house and plunks down beside me. I tell her what I told Ethan and she gives a slow nod of her head.
“How did he take it?” she asks.
“Pretty well, all things considered. He’s worried about Edward, of course.”
“We should look in on him.”
“Tomorrow,” I say.
She nods. It’s a really nice day, the kind we don’t always pay enough attention to when they’re actually happening. I lean back on my elbows and look up through the oaks to the blue sky beyond. After a few moments I turn to look at Jilly.
“How did the professor die?” I find myself asking.
Nobody in the house ever talks about it.
Jilly gives me a surprised look. “What makes you think he’s dead?”
I sit up. “He’s not? But he left you and Sophie his house.”
“He did. And then he moved to Mabon.”
“Which is…?”
“In the otherworld.”
“Of course it is. You told me that before. That’s where Sophie goes when she dreams.”
11
Saturday
I go to the gym. I do some cardio, a few weights, work on the bag. My stomach hurts and the bruise is ugly but arnica is already doing wonders for my healing. What went down in Crescent Beach was brutal but I’ve had similar injuries filming action scenes that I insisted on doing rather than bring in a stunt double. I’m trying to process Crescent Beach like it was one of those.
Pearse comes out of his office just as I’m finishing up. Sonora lies on a towel by the bench along the wall and I sit beside her. I wipe my face with another towel and drape it across my shoulders. Pearse sits on his heels and pats Sonora before he joins me on the bench.
“Did you get your problem worked out?” he asks.
“Pretty much. The bad guys are dead and the survivors are going to try to put their lives back together.”
He nods. “Gabi?”
“She stayed over there.”
He nods again. “I liked her.”
“Me too.”
Sonora pushes her nose against his leg and he gives her a scratch behind the ear.
“And how’s Juniper doing?” he asks.
“Better, now that I’ve had the chance to punch something.”
We sit there a little longer while I give him an abbreviated version of what happened in the Crescent Beach world.
“Working the bag,” he says when I’m done. “That’s not going to be enough to make what happened go away.”
“I know that. But it helps. The repetition clears my head.”
“You should talk to somebody. Don’t bottle it up.”
“I’m talking to you.”
“Except I’m a trainer, not a shrink.”
“Yeah? What do you do when you’re trying to deal with your feelings?”
He shrugs. “I work the bag.”
“Asshole.”
“Nice. Is that any way to talk to your elders?”
I laugh and leave him with Sonora while I go grab a shower.
“Make sure you wash that mouth of yours while you’re at it,” he calls after me.
I give him a one-finger salute.
Pop’s Pins has exactly the vintage vibe that Jilly promised. I feel like I’m stepping back through time as I come through the door. Polished wooden floors and vinyl seats, eight ten-pin lanes, mood lighting, but the lanes are bright, a jukebox pumping out Buddy Holly. Everything about the place immediately puts me in a great mood, so much so that when I see Nick waiting for us I give him a big hug.
It’s a good thing Wendy reserved us a couple of lanes because pretty much the whole gang from Bramleyhaugh has come along, except for Izzy and Kathy, that odd pair of girls who live in the attic, and Lyle, who offered to stay home with the dogs. The place is hopping but our lanes are waiting for us.
We rent shoes, choose our balls, order drinks from the bar with half of us going for beer, the rest opting for the soda fountain.
I sip a cola float as I wait my turn to play. “I haven’t had one of these in forever,” I say.
Jilly beams. “I have one every time I come—this or a root beer float.”
We’re not the most orderly group in the alley tonight. There are a lot of laughs, gutter balls, screams of delight when someone actually makes a strike. I’m so rusty I can’t even make a spare. Plus I’m still stiff and a little sore. But it doesn’t take very long to realize that Nick and I seem to really click. Maybe it’s when I give him a short version of what happened to Ethan, and he doesn’t think I’m crazy. Maybe it’s just that I like his sense of humour and his form when he’s bowling.
Actually, everything would feel pretty much perfect, except earlier in the evening I noticed this girl leaning against the shoe rental counter by the hall to the bathrooms. She’s medium height, brown hair, dressed like a sixties librarian. The kind of girl who’s not particularly memorable, but I notice her because throughout the evening I keep feeling her looking at me. Whenever I turn in her direction, she quickly looks away.
I set my second cola float on the table by our bench.
“I’m off to the ladies’ room,” I say.
I get up quickly before anyone can accompany me and walk over to where the girl is standing. She straightens up at my approach and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Do I know you?” I ask.
She gives me a small smile. She doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, so she holds them in front of her, fingers entangled. “No,” she says. “But I know you.”
I stifle a groan. This is exactly how it started with Ethan.
Except then she adds, “You’re Juniper Wiles—the detective who helps ghosts.”
“I’m Juniper,” I tell her, “but I’m not really a detect—”
“I need your help.”
She says it just like that, cutting me off, her gaze earnest. I don’t want to be rude and I have to admit I’m a little curious.
“Help with what?” I find myself saying.
“Why were you standing over there talking to yourself?” Mona asks when I get back to my party.
Everybody’s lounging around the little area we’ve commandeered except for Sophie and Geordie, who are up next in their respective lanes. “This Is England” by The Clash comes on the jukebox for the third time in the past hour. Wendy has developed a huge interest in the band, this song in particular.
“You didn’t see her?” I say.
I look around, but no one knows what I mean.
“I was talking to a ghost,” I say.
Everybody looks in the direction of where the girl was standing, then back at me. I hold Jilly’s gaze.
“And it looks like we have another case,” I add.
She grins, then turns serious. “It’s not going to be dangerous, is it?” she asks.
I shake my head. “She just wants us to find her wedding ring so that her husband can hold it in his hand when he passes. She thinks it’ll make it easier for him to find her.”
“Is that a real thing?” Saskia asks.
“You’re the internet,” I say. “You tell me.”
Nick has a teasing look in his eyes. “If I didn’t know differently from all I’ve heard tonight, I’d say your claiming to talk to ghosts is a cry for help.”
That earns him a nudge in the side before I return my attention to Jilly.
“You know this is just a one-off,” I say. “You up for it?”
Jilly gives me a shocked, “I can’t believe you have to even ask” look, then grins.
“We’ll need a name to go by,” she says.
I shake my head. “We don’t, actually, because we’re not really detectives.”
“I’ve got it,” Mona pipes. “You could call yourselves The J-Girls Detective Agency.”
“Not helping,” I tell her.
Even Nick has to get in on it. “No, it needs to be classier than that. How about Coppercorn & Wiles, Private Investigators.”
“Oh, I like that,” Jilly says.
I smile. “Only because your name comes first.”
“No, it just makes better phonetic sense. Otherwise it sounds like a wily coppercorn which—admit it—makes no sense at all.”
“Nothing about this makes sense,” I tell her.
“All the more reason to at least try to instill some seriousness in the name of our firm.” She thinks for a moment. “I wonder how hard it is to get a private investigator’s license.”
“That’s an excellent question,” I say, “for anybody who actually wants to be one.”
Geordie comes from the lane, having bowled a spare, and plunks himself down beside me on the bench.
“You know arguing is pointless,” he says.
“I have to try.”
He smiles. “Of course you do, but the problem is she’s always had this fascination with detecting, and finding clues, and whatever else it is that private eyes do. Plus she rocks a trench coat.”
“I do,” Jilly says. “But I wouldn’t wear one unless you did too.”
“You know,” I say, “it’s not all fun and games for the people who are asking for help.”
I know from the solemn look in her eyes that she gets what I’m saying.
“I would never forget that,” she tells me.
And I know she won’t.
“Coppercorn & Wiles actually sounds pretty good,” I say.
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Acknowledgments
Thanks as always to MaryAnn, who lent her ever astute and discerning editorial eye to the story you’ve just read, and to first readers Julie Bartel-Thomas and Alice Vachss, and also to my most patient agent Russ Galen.
Also very special thanks to Rodger Turner, Kin Jee, Cynthia A. Taylor, Jack Johnson, Denise Cardos, Alan Allinger, Kim Miller, Samuel Beard Jr., Aaron Daniels, River Lark Madison, Lizz Huerta, Kath Sargent, Valérie Giese, Kelly Beaudoin, Michael Babinski, Beth Moore and Leslie Howle. I’m so grateful for the time and effort they all put into the going through the manuscript. Reading is fun. Critiquing and proofing is harder work, but they were willing to put in the time.
And thanks as well to my loyal readers who wait for books with great patience and are so supportive of our indie publishing endeavours.
2020-2021 has been such a crappy time. I hope this story has allowed you to step away from it for just a little while.
Ottawa, Winter 2021
About the Author
Charles de Lint is a Canadian author with more than eighty published adult, young adult and children's books. Widely recognized in his field, he has won the World Fantasy, Aurora, Sunburst, and White Pine awards, among others. He has been inducted into the Canadian SF & Fantasy Association Hall of Fame and received a Lifetime Achievement Award from the World Fantasy Organization. De Lint is also a poet, musician, songwriter, performer and folklorist, and writes a monthly book review column for The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. He makes his home in Ottawa, Ontario. For more information, visit his website at www.charlesdelint.com.
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