The White Night (8 page)

You
have
to
be kidding me. I fell for this? Really?

Exactly what I
expected. She made up some bullshit story to get close to me again. Yet another
attempt to squeeze blood from a rock. She’s not getting anything from me. I’m
going to string her along, though, because I haven’t come up with the perfect
comeback yet, and whatever it is, whatever the words are that finally come out,
I want them to absolutely destroy her.

“It wasn’t so much
of a lie—more like an omission of certain… details.”

“If you’re making
all of this up just to ask about the documentary, so help me God—”

“I’m not, Ford.
Just listen.”

“To what, more of
your bullshit?”

“I’m trying to
tell you the truth. All of it. You were the first person I thought of because
they, um… they specifically mentioned you by name.”

“Nuh-uh. Shut up.”
Wasn’t expecting
that
.

“Hand to God, the
little one said, ‘Tell Ford we’re waiting for him.’”

CHAPTER NINE

Mike Long

Back in the
kitchen, Toni and Dakota are whispering and giggling over something like a
couple of teen girls at a pajama party. I haven’t seen Toni smile like this in
months, if not a year or more. Maybe since before
Graveyard
was
cancelled.

Dakota’s laughter
is throaty and full of life, like she has nothing against the world. That’s
what real happiness sounds like. Not the forced chuckles I push out once in a
while.

“What’s so funny?”
I ask as I lay a small pelican case on the black marbled island where they’re
sitting on hand-crafted stools that cost more than the annual GDP of Cambodia.
Way back when, in the days of sponsorships and big contracts, I didn’t blink
when Toni begged for them, saying they’d really bring the kitchen together. Now
they’re a symbol of an excessive past that I both wish I had again and
thoroughly hate at the same time. It’s a weird sensation.

My wife and my
celebrity crush go silent and try to contain themselves, sharing in their
secret humor, and I have to admit, I feel a bit betrayed by Dakota.

Not a bit. A lot.

I thought I gave
her an appropriate description of the cold shell my wife had become. Why is she
actually enjoying Toni’s company? Boggles the mind.

Toni snorts first,
followed by Dakota, and then they both explode in cackles.

I feign my best
dismissive, “Oh, you two,” and occupy myself by re-checking every item of
equipment I have in my case. For an initial investigation, I only brought the
essentials, like an EMF detector, a digital video camera, and a couple of
DVRs—digital voice recorders—in hopes of catching some EVPs, or electronic
voice phenomenon.

It’s obvious that
I’m annoyed once I slam the lid closed.

Dakota lifts both
eyebrows and Toni lowers hers.

Toni asks, “What’s
gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” I say.
“Frustrated. Haven’t brought any of this stuff out in so long, most of the
batteries are dead.”

“There’s some in
the garage, next to that giant box of toilet paper. You know that.”

I disappear for a
few minutes and hang out, waiting, pretending like I’m taking the time to find
all the right batteries while I take a breather. Okay, fine, fair enough. They
hit it off. No big deal.

Breathe, Mikey
Sweetheart. That charm is why you fell in love with Toni in the first place.
You know she’s magnetic when she wants to be.

Pockets full of
batteries, with my cargo shorts hanging low on my hips from the weight, I head
back into the kitchen one last time. Dakota is at the door, one foot on the
deck like she’s ready to leave, and Toni stands beside her, arms crossed and flashing
that million-watt-sparkle of a smile.

I ask Dakota,
“You’re not coming, are you?”

“I can’t let you
go back there alone.”

“What? Of course
you can. I did this for a living, remember?”

Obviously I
want
her to come back with me, but we can’t let Toni know that, now can we?

Toni says, “Why
don’t you stay, Dakota? I’ll show you around.” She pats me on the bottom. I
definitely haven’t felt that in two years, then she ruins it by saying, “I’ll tell
you more secrets about chubby Mikey before he turned into a meathead.”

So that’s what
they were laughing about. Thanks, Toni.

Dakota grins. “But
look at him now, huh? Lucky you.”

Now I’m
uncomfortable. And shy. And probably blushing.

When I get back,
I’m sure Toni will come at me with her jealousy guns blazing after a comment
like that. She surprises me with another gentle touch as she affectionately replies,
“Yeah, he’s not so bad.”

I risk a kiss on
her cheek and she doesn’t pull away. Could our relationship be salvageable
after all?

Dakota backs onto
the deck, and says, “Ready?”

“You’re definitely
coming?”

“It’s not like
you’re gonna stop me.”

“Can’t argue with
that. Off we go.”

“Don’t bring
anything home… and be careful,” Toni says, shutting the door behind us, and for
a moment, I think she actually means it. Which leaves me wondering if bringing
Dakota around sparked Toni’s territorial claim. Could that have been enough to
rekindle something?

Dakota and I are
silent as we walk along the beach. She looks determined, striding with her
spine straight and shoulders back. Ford always loved that episode in the ghost
town where we marched down the dirt-road main street, dressed like gunfighters preparing
to assault the OK Corral. Admittedly, that’s one of my favorite episodes too.

That was one of
the times when the spirits were truly malevolent, and it legitimately felt like
we were the vanguard marching headfirst into a battle of good versus evil.

Have I mentioned I
miss that shit?

Dakota gives a
quick glance back at my house and says, “All right, I think we’re far enough
away.”

“For what?”

“For me to tell
you I was totally faking.”

“You were?”

“The laughing. At
you. It wasn’t bad, actually, she was just poking fun about how you used to be a
little overweight and—I think the word she used was ‘fluffy’.”

“Clouds are
fluffy. I was fat,” I admit.

“She really does
seem proud of you. It’s just a shame that you’re…unhappy.” I’m looking at
Dakota when she says this, and I don’t know why, but I can sense there’s
something else hidden in her tone the way it drifts off, the way she looks out
at the ocean, pensively, like there’s more she wants to tell me.

I leave it alone. That’s
a discussion for another day. Besides, talking about my wife’s erratic emotions
is not something I’d care to partake in right before I investigate Dakota
Freakin’ Bailey’s multi-million dollar beach home.

We have a ways to
go yet, so we chat about some of the episodes of
Graveyard
that she’d
seen, and I ask about all the incredible meals she fixed on
Yes, Chef!
and if she prepares those any more.

It’s a gentle,
easy conversation. It’s fun, and we don’t have to try.

This is what it
should be like.

I remember how it
used to be that way with Toni so many years in the past.

Good times gone.

“Back again,”
Dakota says once we reach her steps. They’re faded and gray and splintery and
will likely get smashed and sucked into the ocean if The Big One ever comes.
Meteorologists keep talking about how global warming is getting worse, and
hurricanes are getting stronger. I say let them come to wash all this excess
away, my house included, so we can start again with reasonable lives.

I follow Dakota
up, trying to pretend I’m not some tongue-wagging cartoon wolf as I check out
her calves and that ridiculously incredible bottom. I believe in God, and I
believe that he created yoga shorts for lonely men in bad relationships who
still need proof that the downstairs equipment is alive.

Horrible, just
horrible, Mike. Control yourself.

Human nature, bud,
whispers the devil on my shoulder.

I turn my
attention to the massive mansion at the top of the steps. Bay windows line the
ocean-facing side, perfect for that morning experience of watching the sunrise.
There’s another deck up on the second level, and I can see the tops of chairs
pushed up against the wall. To the left of that is another boxlike structure of
rooms, and then up and to the left of that, another, smaller box. Imagine a set
of stairs going down from left to right, that’s what the house is shaped like;
an odd conglomeration of designs, like the architect wanted to experiment while
high on some designer drugs, yet she mentioned earlier that she paid about four
and a half million dollars.

If I recall
correctly, the prize money Dakota won from
Yes, Chef!
only amounted to
about three million. Then there were some sponsorships, which I’m no stranger
to, but they wouldn’t pay enough for this place. Her restaurant must be killing
it up there in the Big Apple.

How she affords it
is none of my business.

I bought
our
beachfront home when the
Graveyard
contracts were renewed after the
fifth season. Back then,
Casa de Long
was worth around two-point-five,
and I paid for it with a single check. Now I cringe whenever Toni brings home
two-ply toilet paper because I feel like we’re on the precipice of pinching
that final penny. Toni knows this, and doesn’t seem to care.

My saving grace
will be convincing Ford to do the documentary, after which I’ll be able to
breathe without feeling like I’m a thousand feet under the ocean surface.

Breaching the top
of the beach stairs, we stroll across a small expanse of sand and seagrass
before we reach the ground-level deck. It’s painted a greenish-gray color and
sits completely empty except for two large pots. They’re filled but flowerless,
and the dirt looks so old and void of moisture that it couldn’t grow a cactus.

Dakota notices me
taking in the barren wasteland of a deck and says, “I’ll get some stuff out
here soon. Haven’t been here long enough to really decorate yet.”

“Lots of
potential,” is my pathetic, small talk reply.

She points
overhead and says, “I’d been here for about a week before the ghost-thing
showed up for the first time. I mostly hung out on the upper deck where I didn’t
have to—” She stops midsentence and unsuccessfully tries to hide an embarrassed
smile with her hand. “This is silly. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this
stuff. Maybe it matters. I don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Since it—what’s
the word? Oh, manifested. Since it manifested the first time, I’ve had this
sort of gut feeling that it was—I don’t know—
into me
, if that makes any
kind of sense whatsoever.”

“Gut reactions are
usually right, and a lot of entities have sexual motivations, believe it or
not.”

“Really?”

“Yup. And I don’t
mean to get too personal, and I’m not accusing you of anything, not in the
slightest, but do you think you might’ve done anything to provoke it?”

“Not intentionally,
no. The thing is—the hell with it, this is what I was gonna say earlier. My ex
hated
tan lines, like he was a freak about it. Some habits stay habits, and besides,
I’m at the beach. That deck is sorta private and most of the neighbors are
hardly ever here. Why wouldn’t I lay out with all this sun?”

“Right,” I say,
and I won’t deny where my mind goes with the mental imagery.

Mike! Chill.

Okay, fine.

I will say this,
however: that little devil on my shoulder is furiously working on stronger
forearms because he hasn’t felt an actual wiggle downstairs in a long, long
time.

“I stopped for a
couple of reasons. The ghost is one.” Dakota scoffs and puts her hands on her
hips. “I feel so ridiculous admitting this stuff, but the neighbor’s kid—the
one over there in the gray house?”

“Yeah?” I look to
where she’s pointing at an equally impressive mansion. It’s a lighter slate
color with white trim, black shutters, and a balcony that wraps around the
entire second floor.

“I’m fairly
certain it was the same day the black mist showed up, but I caught the creepy
little shit with a video camera. Standing right up there, up on top of the
house where they have a sun deck.”

“No way. You tell
his folks?”

“Nah, no real
harm,” she says with a dismissive wave. “My fault for being out there naked.
Obviously he’s going to look. Birds gotta fly.”

“But he was
recording you. Aren’t you worried about it showing up on the Internet?”

“I doubt he knows
who I am, and even if he does, that’s when you know you’ve made it, right? When
strangers care about seeing you naked?”

I admire her
levity. It’s refreshing.

Although, that
fact doesn’t prevent me from feeling a twinge of overprotective jealousy and
envisioning myself punching some teenage punk in the nose.

She adds, “All it
took was me standing up and flipping him the bird. He ran like I’d pointed a
gun at him.”

“Funny.”

Dakota takes
another step closer to the house, but doesn’t go any further, silently
surveying the interior of her home through all the spotless windows. She’s
looking for the entity, and I am, too. Rather than seeing a floating, swirling
black mass, I spot a single couch in the living room to the right. A blanket is
wadded up and hangs limply over the ocean-facing arm. I suspect she’s been
sleeping there because it’s a faster escape. A television the size of a small
drive-in theater screen is mounted on the wall and a wilted fern rests
underneath it. There’s no artwork hanging. It’s decorated less than a dentist’s
waiting room.

Over in the
kitchen a lone coffee cup rests on the glass table—a petite four-top that she
probably bought just to make the place feel like home. No pots and pans hang on
hooks over the island counter, nor does anything like a toaster oven or
microwave populate the rest of the long counters that angle around the far
walls.

The refrigerator
seems to be about the size of the Titanic, and I’d bet a hundred bucks that
it’s empty too—even for a world-class celebrity chef.

I’m certain I’d
win that bet because the trashcan is overflowing with fast food bags. Burger
joints, tacos, subs. When she said she needed a break from her old life, she
was more serious than I thought.

Dakota catches me
looking at the artery-clogging remnants and says, sheepishly, “That’s our
secret. And who would eat a five-star meal here if I fixed it? Me and the
ghost?”

“Zipped lips.” I
take one final glance around. Seems safe. Then again, it’s the quiet houses you
have to worry about. “Should we go in? Get started?”

She rubs her arms
like she’s cold, and I know it’s not the temperature outside. Feels like we’re
in the high seventies already. Not even the breeze is chilly enough to cause
gooseflesh like that. “I think maybe you should go in. Alone, I mean.”