The Touch Of Ghosts: Writer's Cut (Alex Rourke) by John Rickards Read Free Book Online Page B

except that his beard was much shorter and he was completely bald. Otherwise they could be brothers.
    “Alex Rourke,” I said.
    “Mr Rourke's looking for whoever killed his lady friend, the doctor.”
    Charlie nodded. “That sort of thing shouldn't happen, not to decent people.”
    “I talked to Sylvia Ehrlich, one of the sheriff's deputies, after it happened,” Ed said. “She didn't say much, just that there was a woman they found dead in her car, and that when the doc checked her, they saw she'd been shot. Then it was a murder case, so they had to turn everything over to the State Police.”
    “Bad business,” Charlie said.
    Then it was Ed's turn to nod. “We all only found out who it was a couple of days ago. You talked to the police?”
    “Yes and no. The State Police took a statement from me. I haven’t seen anyone from the local sheriff’s department. I guess it’s not their case now anyway.”
    “Are you going to?”
    “I’m just sorting out Gemma’s things. Getting them in order.”
    “Sure,” Ed said, and I guessed he knew damn well that if I really thought that then I was kidding myself.
    The conversation died away after that, although I stayed sitting there while Ed and Charlie chatted about people I’d never heard of. I gave it some time, then said goodnight to the pair of them and made for the door.
    Outside, snow was falling again. Tiny specks of ice caught in the breeze spiraled into vortices where they passed trees and buildings, pricking my skin like frozen grains of salt and collecting in my hair. I pulled up my collar and walked back to Gemma's house as fast as the slippery footing allowed. The old building creaked faintly, stiff beams flexing and groaning. The breeze whistled and piped through a stray knothole or gap somewhere in one of the corners of the roof. It sounded like a warped lament playing far away. I turned the key in the lock, briefly checked behind me, then stepped inside.
    The house had warmed up a little while I was out, so I assumed the heating system was still working. I wiped cold water out of my eyes, dropped my jacket over the back of the couch and made a cup of coffee.  
    There was something about the building that made it hard to settle for any length of time. I tried watching TV, but every few minutes I caught myself looking over my shoulder at the rest of the room, scanning the corners, the space behind the door. I got a glass of water. Took a piss. Thought I heard the window rattling in the hall and went to check — it wasn’t, and in fact the snow was stopping and the sky looked to be clearing a little. Smoked a cigarette. Got a fresh pack from my jacket. Changed chairs. Changed back again. I didn’t know whether it was the unaccustomed emptiness of the place, something about the journey up here, or the funeral that morning, but I was jumpy. My eyes picked up every shifting shadow, every little noise.
    After an hour or so of this, I decided I might as well unpack my things and try to sleep. I went upstairs and along the landing to the bedroom door, then paused. The room beyond was dark. The bed was a vague silhouette against the far wall. The only illumination was the faint glow from downstairs and the even fainter silver sheen coming through the windows. The room still carried Gemma's scent, and in the gloom it was possible to believe she was asleep in the bed, breathing just too softly to hear. It was like stepping into a memory of one of those nights when I’d stayed up late to watch a movie and had to creep into the bedroom in the dark, trying not to wake her. If I crossed the threshold, passed into this dreamlike bubble of the past, could I stay there? Could I slip under the covers, warmed by her body, and feel her skin gently brush mine?  
    The answer to both questions was no and I knew it. Still, just imagining the possibility was comforting in a strange way, as though Gemma was still alive in another world, another time, and maybe I’d be able