Remembrance by Meg Cabot (8)

It had grown fully dark by the time I got home, but I told myself I wasn’t worried about Aunt Pru’s warning. Despite the impressive amount of psychic power Lucia had shown back at the mission, she’d seemed primarily concerned with focusing it on Becca, not me.

“Lost children in pain can sometimes be very cruel.” That could easily sum up Paul, and the way he was lashing out at Jesse . . . and at me.

My mother had also used the word lost to refer to him. He was no child, though.

Still, even if Lucia had chosen to attack me again, the Carmel Valley Mountain View Apartment Complex—as the management company of the building in which I lived had somewhat misleadingly named it—would have made an unlikely place to do so. The so-called “mountain view” was actually only of the winery-dotted foothills of what eventually turned into the Santa Lucia mountain range, the breathtaking peaks against which the massive waves of the Pacific crashed at Big Sur, much farther down the coastal highway.

How coincidental was it that the place where I lived looked out over the Santa Lucias, and the ghost I was currently trying to mediate was called Lucia? It wasn’t that common of a name.

Feigning a lightheartedness I was far from feeling, I waved to my fellow tenants as I joined them in what had become a daily routine: the after-work trudge from our cars to our apartment doors, which we’d all unlock at the same time to get to our refrigerators and TVs and futons.

Still, I like my place. It’s nothing fancy, just a one bedroom in a thirty-unit building off the G16. Kelly Prescott Walters would probably sneer at the idea of living here instead of some two-bedroom condo over in Pebble Beach with a sea view and a private hot tub (though now she probably lives in a $20 million mansion with her billionaire husband).

But in good traffic my place was a less-than fifteen-minute drive from Carmel Beach (and my classes and place of work). Plus the other tenants—mostly young newlyweds with small children and singles like myself, either divorced or not yet married—were friendly. It was always good to be home, the one place I never had to worry about being attacked by the souls of the dead, because, “Evil spirits cannot enter an inhabited house unless invited.”

That’s what Sir Walter Scott—who’d written Ivanhoe and a bunch of other books Father Dominic tried very hard to make me read—said, and it’s (mostly) true. There are tons of ways unwelcome guests (of both the paranormal and human variety) can enter a home.

But there are also tons of precautions you can take to keep them out. I’m not just talking about hanging crucifixes or mezuzahs on the walls or doorways, either (though trust me, I have both. I’ll take all the protection I can get).

Before I’d moved in, I hired my own security experts to replace the unit’s dead bolts (in case any previous tenants—or their exes—had “forgotten” to return their keys).

Then I’d installed metal braces to jam the sliding glass doors to the balcony, even though they were located on the second floor. True, it was unlikely a burglar was going to scale the balcony of the unit below to break in.

But it wasn’t burglars I was worried about.

Then I’d sprinkled a mixture of sea salt and boric acid (the powdered kind you can get in a box at the hardware store) across all the outside doorways and windowsills, as well as the seams in the kitchen counters. The salt was to keep out Non-Compliant Deceased Persons. The boric acid was to keep away roaches. I figured why not kill two unwanted pests in one? Like Paul had said, I’m a modern kind of girl.

Of course, none of that stopped Father Dominic from coming over and doing a house blessing, dousing the place in holy water (which got me worried about the boric acid congealing, but it ended up being fine).

I didn’t mention to him that CeeCee’s aunt Pru had already been over and done a Wiccan cleansing, smudging the place with sage, or that Jesse had lain a shining copper penny, head up, in each outer corner of the unit, sheepishly admitting it was something one of his sisters used to do (of course, back then it had been halfpennies, and they’d been made of solid copper. Today’s pennies are mostly made of zinc), and he didn’t really believe in it, but why not?

Why not indeed? We all have our superstitions. I wasn’t going to begrudge anyone theirs. I have plenty of my own.

As soon as I’d locked the door behind me, I kicked off my wedges, undid my bra, and fed Romeo, the lab rat I’d stolen from my Operant Conditioning class after successfully training him to run a maze, then press a lever to feed himself.

The professor had warned us in advance not to grow too attached to our rats. It doesn’t pay for clinical researchers to become emotionally attached to their lab animals, any more than it does for therapists or physicians to become emotionally attached to their patients. In order for the professional to best serve their client, they need to remain detached.

And virtually every achievement in medical history owes its lifesaving advancements to animal testing. Eventually most lab rats end up getting dissected.

But I only took the class because it was a requirement. I no more planned on going into clinical research than I planned on becoming emotionally attached to my rat (this was becoming an upsetting pattern: as a mediator, I also hadn’t planned on becoming emotionally attached to any of the ghosts I’d attempted to mediate, but look what happened).

As soon as the final was over, I swapped out Romeo for a look-alike I’d found in a pet store.

Rats are a lot cleaner and smarter than people give them credit for. Romeo and I have grown to share a genuine and totally unique personal bond. He’s paper trained, and likes to sleep on my shoulder while I watch TV. No way would I have left my little buddy in that lab for some PhD candidate to experiment on—possibly even kill—over the summer.

Paul was right: I’m probably going to be world’s crappiest counselor.

But since his opinion isn’t one that matters too much to me, I’m not worried.

While Romeo sat in his cage, contentedly chewing his dinner of baby carrots and unsalted nuts, I sprawled out on the couch (also known as Gina’s bed), and dialed Father Dominic’s cell and home numbers. Of course he picked up on neither. I left a message I hoped had the right tone of professionalism and yet urgency.

“Hey, Father D, it’s me. Sister E probably already talked to you about the alleged earthquake we had today in the office . . . yeah, not so much. But don’t worry, I totally have it under control. Well, mostly. Anyway, something else kind of unusual came up . . . nothing serious. I’m just wondering if you’ve ever heard of an old curse from the Book of the Dead . . . something about resurrection and what happens when you destroy the resting place of a ghost?”

I couldn’t say exactly what it was about, of course, because I knew the minute I did, Father Dominic would realize I was referring to Jesse. Then the old man would freak out and call him, as well. That kind of headache I did not need.

“So, anyway, just call me back as soon as you get this,” I went on. “I’d really appreciate it. Hope you’re having fun with all the other principals at your little conference. Bye!”

I hung up, pretty sure I wouldn’t be getting a return call anytime soon. Father Dominic was nearly as bad as Jesse at dealing with phones, although at least Jesse liked to text. Father D’s phone didn’t even have texting capabilities. It was one of those mobiles for elderly people who can’t see very well, with extremely large buttons. I’d gotten it for him out of frustration when he’d failed to return any messages at all for a week because he couldn’t figure out how to retrieve his voice mail on his last phone. At least this new one had an enormous button that flashed MESSAGE when someone left one. I hoped he’d notice, and press it.

Checking my own phone, I saw I’d gotten several messages during my drive home. There was nothing yet from Shahbaz Effendi, the Egyptology student, but I told myself that didn’t mean he was blowing me off. He could be sleeping. He could be off on an archeological dig. He could be in a different time zone, halfway around the world. He didn’t necessarily think I was some lying weirdo.

At least CeeCee had gotten back to me. She’d been busy since I’d last seen her, only a short time ago:

I was definitely going to have to upgrade that gift card.

One thing for sure, I wasn’t going to tell her that Adam MacTavish may have been ignoring her calls and texts, but he’d replied right away to an e-mail I’d sent him:

To: [email protected]

Fr: [email protected]

Re: Your House

Date: November 16 8:33:07 PM EST

Hey, Suze! Great to hear from you. Glad things are going so well . . . or not so well, I guess, given the news about your old house. Sorry about that.

Thanks for the congrats, CeeCee’s right, I did make Law Review. It’s not as big a deal as people think. Although I’ll admit I’ve been partying pretty hard since I found out ;-)

But you managed to catch me in a sober moment.

I looked at the attachment you sent me, and though real estate/construction law is not my specialty, as far as I can tell, your old house was purchased (along with the others around it) by Slater Industries, which is a private company, through private sales. So they aren’t in violation of the rule of eminent domain.

The houses are also situated just outside the historic preservation zone of Carmel-by-the-Sea, in the Carmel Hills.

You can get the place retroactively declared a historic landmark, but that will take at least sixty days. Only then will you be able to secure an injunction to stop the demolition. However, the work is scheduled to begin next week.

In other words, Suze, I’m sorry to tell you: you’re screwed.

I’ll be home next week for Thanksgiving break. Let’s get together with CeeCee for a cup at the Clutch like old times!*

Adam

*I keep forgetting her aunt changed the name! I mean the Happy Medium.

Well, that was discouraging, but not as bad as I’d thought. At least there was something I could do. It was better than what I’d been picturing, which was standing outside my old house facing down Paul’s bulldozers with a baseball bat.

I wasn’t giving up hope . . . not yet, anyway.

I rolled over on the couch so I could get a better look out my balcony’s open sliding glass door at the pool below. From where I lay, I could see that the exterior landscaping lights had come on, including the pool’s. The unnaturally blue water beckoned to me. I knew it was full of chlorine and chemicals and probably the pee of my neighbors’ children, but I didn’t care. It was kept heated in cold weather and doing laps in it was heavenly compared to forty minutes on the elliptical in the gym.

It also helped me think. I had a lot of thinking to do.

Because while in addition to hearing from CeeCee and Adam, I’d received a few pleasant texts from classmates at school asking if I was going to join them for happy hour (bless their boozy little hearts), as well as an invitation from my stepbrother, Jake, to join him at his place for “brews and za” (but only if I brought along Gina after she got off work. Jake was so transparent—he’d been crushing on Gina for years), I’d also been left a few concerning voice mails.

The first was from Sister Ernestine, wanting to know how—how on earth!—I could have left the office looking the way I had, and just what I proposed we do about the triplets, my stepnieces.

The next one was from the triplets’ mother, my stepbrother Brad’s wife, Debbie, demanding to know who Sister Ernestine thought she was, suggesting that her daughters might have ADHD, when in fact they were only naturally high-spirited and creative little girls.

This was followed by a voice mail from Brad, asking if I could please get “that old windbag Sister Ernestine” off his back, as she was ruining his marriage. Then he wanted to know if I was joining Jake for “brews and za,” and if so, could he tag along—anything to get away from Debbie, who was driving him crazy.

Great. Just great.

This was in direct contrast to his youngest brother, David (known to me privately as Doc, since he was also the most intelligent of my stepsiblings), who texted me a photo of himself in his dorm room at Harvard, wearing—for reasons he did not explain—a woman’s bustier and full makeup.

I wasn’t certain if he was coming out of the closet or purposefully challenging gender stereotypes for some class assignment. Knowing David, it could be either, both, or none of the above.

But I responded to his message immediately—as opposed to the ones from his older brothers, which I ignored—with a thumbs-up sign.

Last—but never least—there was a text from Jesse:

Medico meant doctor. I was pretty sure jugar meant play, as in jugar al tenis.

Was he teasing? Was he actually asking if I wanted to play doctor?

I was busy replying:

when my cell buzzed, indicating I was receiving another text. I eagerly clicked on the screen, hoping it might be Father Dominic (or the Egyptology student) calling with the answer to all my problems (or, even better, Jesse on a break from his rounds at the hospital, simul-texting me), when my smile froze on my face.

It wasn’t Jesse.

El Diablo was the nickname I’d assigned to Paul in my phone. It seemed appropriate, given that I was pretty sure he was Satan.

After that I felt a little sick and knew I couldn’t stay in my apartment a second longer, no matter how homey it felt with my pet lab rat chewing on his carrot stick and my boyfriend playfully propositioning me in Spanish.

My boyfriend who might cease to exist in a few days.

I needed to let off steam. I needed to clear my head. I needed to shake off the feeling that I’d been touched by something slimy.

Suppertime is the best time to hit my building’s pool. Everyone else is using the gym or heating up their microwave dinners, huddled around their Ikea dining tables, watching Jeopardy or the nightly news or Netflix.

I’m not an exercise freak, but I have to stay in shape, not only so I can fit into my clothes, but so I can kick the butts of all the dead people (and sextortionists) in my life who keep pestering me.

I left my apartment, went down the stairs to the pool area, kicked off my flip-flops, and peeled off my T-shirt and yoga pants, leaving them on a chaise longue with my towel. Then I slid into the brightly lit, heated water, dunking my head under (even though my hairdresser, Christophe, begs me to wear a swim cap. He says I’m ruining the highlights for which I pay him a small fortune).

But swim caps are ugly, and squeeze my head so I can’t think. I do my best thinking when I’m doing my laps.

Under the water, I couldn’t hear the sound of the light traffic over the G16, or the crickets chirping in the decorative plantings the apartment management company had put all around the pool. I couldn’t hear the tinkling of silverware in unit 2-B (they keep their balcony door open at dinnertime, just like I do).

Soon all I could hear was the sound of water splashing and my own breathing as I began to swim.

After my laps were finished, I decided I’d dry off and drive to the hardware store—there was a Home Depot open until ten in Monterey—and buy every bag of rock salt they had in stock (they’d probably think I was a lunatic. It snowed so rarely in Carmel it was considered an apocalyptic event).

Then I’d sow every inch of 99 Pine Crest Road with it, and the soil around it, too. I’d even salt the yards of the neighboring houses.

I had no proof this would work, but what other choice did I have? My apartment was salted to keep troublesome spirits out. Wouldn’t salting the ground of a place where dark acts had been committed keep that evil in?

That probably wouldn’t stop a demon for long, but if I also got Father D over there to perform another one of his house blessings—and maybe, while he was at it, bless Jesse, too—it could help.

Not that I believed for one minute that Jesse was going to sit still for a blessing—at least not without an explanation. He went to mass every Sunday, and on holy days of obligation, as well. If there was a demon living inside him, it was going to take one hell of a blessing to drive it out. I was probably going to have to come up with an imam, a rabbi, and a Wiccan high priestess in addition to Father Dom to get rid of this curse.

If only I’d kicked Paul in the throat instead of the groin on graduation night. If I’d broken his hyoid bone and killed him, I probably would have gotten off on self-defense. If I offed him now that he was so well known—thanks to Los Angeles magazine and his own parents suing him—the case might garner a lot of publicity, and if convicted, I’d probably get some jail time . . . though still way less than Jesse, seeing as how I’m white, and a woman.

But any jail time is too much for a girl who can only sleep with three down-filled pillows on 100 percent cotton sheets.

Oh, what was I saying? I could never kill another human being . . . at least not one that I knew.

Or could I? In order to protect everything—and everyone—that I loved?

When did everything become so complicated? If it wasn’t some jerk from your past showing up to blackmail you into having sex with him, it was a baby homicidal spirit wrecking your office. Non-compliant persons, both living and deceased, seemed always to be popping up from out of nowhere, ruining my life. Was I never going to be able to kick back and enjoy myself for a change?

It’s unconscionable—to use one of Sister Ernestine’s favorite terms—that I was thinking this exact thought when an NCDP appeared in the water beside me.

But I was so absorbed in my dark thoughts about Paul, listening to my own breathing and heartbeat, watching the shadow my own body made on the floor of the pool as I did my laps, that I didn’t notice, despite Pru’s warning not an hour earlier.

I didn’t notice until its clawlike hands were wrapped around my neck, and it was shoving me under the bright blue water.

And suddenly, I was the one about to die.