Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction Page 16

  I put my hands at the bottom of the bin, and push myself off. As I do so, they come in contact with something beneath one of the towels. I’m afraid it’s the remains of whoever was pulling me down before, but I still close my fingers around it as Dex yanks me out of the bin and into the harsh fluorescent light of the room.

  I cough wildly, trying to find my breath as Dex keeps his hands on either side of my shoulders, steadying me. As the air hits my lungs and my wincing subsides, I notice Pam standing beside the door, a key in hand, her face drawn in a look of absolute terror.

  “Perry,” Dex says. “Perry, look at me.”

  I manage to look at him. His dark eyes are searching mine relentlessly, his brow furrowed, his stance tense.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I nod, feeling relieved and embarrassed all at the same time.

  “Was I sticking out of the laundry bin?” I ask with trepidation.

  He nods and I see a hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. It would have been a comical sight, my giant ass in the air and all.

  “I leave you alone for five seconds . . .” His tone is light, but he knows there’s more to the story. And that I’ll fill him in on it later.

  “What’s in your hands?” Pam asks, looking at them with curiosity.

  I glance down and see I’m holding a rectangular cover of well-worn leather. I open it carefully and see what I thought I would see. A checkbook filled with writing. The possible proof that Parker Hayden was murdered and not a victim of suicide.

  I walk over to Pam and place the item in her hands. She looks up at me, surprised and confused.

  “You may want to run this by a historian. Or even the police,” I say. “There’s a chance that Parker Hayden didn’t commit suicide after all. It could be a cold-case file. A very cold case.” I feel extremely cheesy as I tell Pam that.

  No surprise, Dex says, “Wow, I leave you for one minute and suddenly you’re CSI: Portland.”

  I give him a tired smile. I’m ready to go home.

  • • •

  A few days pass before I get a call from Dex. We’re not at the point where we call each other just to talk, but every contact I have with him is important, and I still get stupid butterflies every time I see his name pop up on the call display. This time, he’s calling to talk about our episode at the Benson.

  “How’s it all looking?” I ask as I sit on my bed, listening to my younger sister, Ada, argue with my dad downstairs.

  “Oh, it’s looking fucking fantastic, kiddo,” Dex says, his voice coming in low and smooth over the line. “I just want to hug you for keeping that camera rolling while May was talking. I’ll have to run it over some other footage and do that little subtitle thing underneath, but it really helps our case, especially when you get that blue shit on-screen. That really is something.”

  “Best show ever?” I ask, amused at his praise.

  “Well,” he says slowly, “it probably would have helped had I been around, but you did okay on your own.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “There’s something else, too, you should take as a compliment.”

  My eyes perk up and I sit up a bit straighter, putting down my Spin magazine. “What’s that?”

  “Pam just called me. She said she handed over the checkbook to the police, who are having a division look into it or something. Anyway, the point is that ever since our visit, all the haunting in the hotel has stopped.”

  “What do you mean, all hauntings?”

  “Well, she says she usually gets some sort of feedback each day. Since our shoot, there hasn’t been any. I don’t know what that means, but she seems to think that whatever you did down in that laundry room . . . well, I guess you cleared the place.”

  “So I’m an exorcist now?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, kiddo. You’re miles away from being Father Merrin, and for all we know the haunting could start up again. I’m just saying . . . next time you feel like being hard on yourself because we aren’t making a difference and there’s no point to any of this . . . I dunno. Don’t. Because you did good here. You did good.”

  I let Dex ramble on a bit more to please my ego, and then we hang up. Like the other times before, I still don’t know what to make of my ghost hunting. I don’t know how I got roped into doing the show, how I ended up being a magnet for the supernatural, and what on earth it has in store for me. The only thing I do know is that it’s dangerous and I’m compelled to keep doing it.

  But I also know that even though someone is dead, is doesn’t mean they’re beyond help. And for every ten ghosts who try to kill me, if I end up saving one of them, it might be worth it after all.

  Though you may want to remind me of that, next time I’m locked in a coffin or something.

  THE END

  You can read more about Dex and Perry in Karina Halle’s Experiment in Terror Series, starting with the first book, Darkhouse, which is free at all e-book retailers.

  About the Author

  With her USA Today best-selling contemporary romance novel, Love, in English, and The Artists Trilogy (published by Grand Central Publishing), numerous foreign publication deals, and self-publishing success with her Experiment in Terror series, Vancouver-born Karina Halle is a true example of the term “hybrid author.” Though her books showcase her love of all things dark, sexy, and edgy, she’s a closet romantic at heart and strives to give her characters a HEA . . . whenever possible.

  Karina holds a screenwriting degree from Vancouver Film School and a Bachelor of Journalism from TRU. Her travel writing, music reviews/interviews, and photography have appeared in publications such as Consequence of Sound, mxdwn, and GoNomad Travel Guides. She currently lives on an island on the coast of British Columbia where she’s preparing for the zombie apocalypse with her fiancé and rescue pup.

  Karina may be found on social media at:

  Facebook: Karina Halle

  Twitter: @MetalBlonde

  Website: www.experimentinterror.com

  Website: www.authorkarinahalle.com

  Books by Karina Halle include:

  The Artists Trilogy

  Sins and Needles

  On Every Street

  Shooting Scars

  Bold Tricks

  Experiment in Terror

  Darkhouse #1

  Red Fox #2

  The Benson #2.5

  Lying Season #4

  On Demon Wings #5

  Old Blood #5.5

  The Dex-Files #5.7

  Into the Hollow #6

  And With Madness Comes the Light #6.5

  Come Alive #7

  Ashes to Ashes #8

  Perception (Collection)

  Dust to Dust #9

  Other Books

  Donners of the Dead

  The Devil’s Metal

  The Devil’s Reprise

  Love, in English

  Dark Paradise

  A short story with characters from The Artists Trilogy and the upcoming Dirty Angels Trilogy

  by Karina Halle

  Distraught by her husband’s affair, a woman flees to Hawaii to lose herself, but instead finds something unexpected.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I knew that the wave was too dangerous. I knew it and that was why I went for it. It came rolling into Hanalei Bay like a brilliant blue shock wave, diamond-studded from the sun, catching the attention of the bored surfers on this otherwise average day. It called to me like a slippery siren, just as it called to them. But instead of watching it pass underneath my dangling legs, like I had done with every surfable wave in the last hour, I decided to answer the call.

  I decided it would be a good way to die.

  Determined, I lay down on my stomach and began paddling like a madwoman, knowing the liquid beast was barreling up behind me. I could hear some of the territorial surfers out there were yelling, perhaps to get out of their way, perhaps to warn me, but I didn’t care. The golden beach spread out in
front of me as kids grabbed their bodyboards and fled from the surf, their parents yelling at them to be careful. They knew the dangers, just as I did.

  I wasn’t a great surfer. But then again, that was the point.

  I sucked in my breath, salt dancing on my tongue, and got to my knees as I felt the massive pull of the wave take me and the board back.

  My feet found the rough, beaten surface, my legs bracing for balance. The ocean roared beneath me. This wave was what every surfer could ever dream of, their holy grail, their Moby Dick, and I captured it like fireflies in a jar. I could feel the power, the surge, the sea spray, the sun on my skin. I could feel everything, as if I were finally alive and breathing and part of the world.

  And yet living was the last thing on my mind.

  I rode that wave for a few seconds that stretched out into eternity. Maybe my life flashed before my eyes, or maybe it flashed behind them. One moment I was up, feeling the immense girth of the wave curling up behind me, and the next I was down, a flower crushed in a closing hand. The board was yanked away from me so hard and fast that the cord was ripped off my ankle, and I was pulled in a million directions before the way down was the only way to go. The wave pummeled me until I took in water and gave up nothing in return.

  No fight.

  My eyes closed, burned by the salt, and my hair whipped around my head like seaweed. With heavy limbs and a heavy heart, I sank.

  The ocean took me under, intent on holding me hostage with no ransom.

  No one would have bartered for me anyway.

  And then a hand reached out for me in the depths, wrapping around my wrist. I didn’t know if it was the hand of life or death. But it had me.

  Then another hand grabbed my arm and I felt the water around me surge, my body being pulled upward. I opened my eyes into the stinging blue glow, and past the rising bubbles and foam, I caught a glimpse of a man’s face. His expression was twisted in turmoil; I suppose from the act of trying to save me. He obviously didn’t know how little I’d appreciate it, how little I was worth it.

  Suddenly, I was brought up to the surface, the sun and air hitting me just as the water began to rush out of my lungs. I could only cough until my chest ached, the rest of me completely useless as the man towed me toward the shore. My brain switched on and off, processing everything in splices of film:

  The man’s longish hair sticking to the back of his bare neck.

  The gray clouds that hunkered down above the cliffs of the Na Pali coast.

  The people on the beach watching my rescue, hands to their mouths, murmurs in the crowd.

  The painfully vivid sky as the man laid me down on the beach, cradling the back of my head in his hands.

  The man as he stared down at me—his disturbingly scarred face contrasting with his beautiful hazel eyes framed by wet lashes.

  The face of a man I knew would be more dangerous than any wave.

  And so, with consciousness slipping out of my hands again, I smiled at him, at the danger I recognized within.

  And then the new world went black.

  • • •

  “Are you sure you don’t want us to take you to the hospital?” the EMT asked me for the millionth time.

  “I’m fine,” I said deliberately. “Though I’m getting a headache from all your questions.”

  “It’s really better if—”

  I narrowed my eyes at the clean-cut man, even though it hurt my brain to do so. “I didn’t call the ambulance, and I have no intention of riding in one to the hospital all the way in Lihue.” I paused, inwardly wincing at what I was about to say. “I’m an artist and I’m uninsured.”

  He gave me a dry look. “Well, if you’re going to continue surfing, perhaps looking into insurance is a good idea.” But before I could say anything to that, he snapped up his kit and headed back to the ambulance that was purring behind the public restrooms.

  I sighed from my perch on top of the picnic table and ignored the curious looks of the vagrants who were hanging around underneath the shelter, drinking cheap beer. Water from the rains that had passed by a few hours ago was still dripping off the roof, smacking the concrete and sand below with a desolate sound. The looky-loos who had been twittering about me earlier had gone on their sunburned ways back to the sand and surf, and Hanalei Bay looked as it did before I nearly died.

  I was back to being alone. Back to being caught in my thoughts. Back to everything I had tried to escape from.

  Except now that I’d actually willed myself to give it all up, there was something that pushed at my mind.

  Someone.

  The man who had saved me.

  Just where had he come from and where did he go? When I came to on the beach a few minutes later after I had blacked out yet again, he was gone, and I was stuck looking at the faces of the panicked tourists, one who must have called the ambulance for me. The man, with his scars that crisscrossed the side of his face, and his vibrant eyes that hinted at the depths within, had completely disappeared.

  The least he could have done was stick around so I could thank him.

  But would I have thanked him? Perhaps if I saw the darkness in him, he saw the same darkness in me.

  I got off the table and stood on the stiff grass, careful not hurt my ankle. It was especially tender after my board was ripped away from me, but not bad enough to warrant spending the money to get it checked out. I wondered if my board had washed up on the beach somewhere or if it was lost to the waves, then decided to forget about it. I didn’t want to spend an extra minute here, knowing that I’d made a fool of myself by almost dying and all that.

  I fished my keys out of my board shorts and headed to the Jeep I’d rented during the last two weeks. I had one week left on it before I was supposed to return to the mainland, back to Doug and the life that was drowning me. I swallowed my bitterness at still having to find a way out of all of this.

  On the way back to Kilauea, I drove fast—too fast—nearly smashing into a waiting car as I sped over the one-lane Hanalei bridge, stars in my eyes and the war raging on in my mind. It was a miracle I even pulled into the driveway of my rental house in one piece.

  The fact is, I wanted to keep driving. I didn’t want to come back even to here, the place that should have been the escape from my marriage, from my job that didn’t even insure me, and everything. But that was the irony of trying to escape to an island. There was nowhere to go; you just kept going in circles, coming back to where you started.

  I went inside to the kitchen and poured myself an extra-large glass of red wine, wishing I hadn’t finished the bottle of Scotch the night before. Leaning against the counter, I stared at the backyard, which disappeared into a thicket of hibiscus and gardenia, the azure sea stretching beyond it. I’d stared at the same scene ever since I arrived, willing myself to paint it. There was a papaya tree in the corner, a small fish pond, a hole in the distressed wood fence where brightly colored feral chickens would come through. This should have been paradise—this should have brought me and my art back to life. But it hadn’t.

  My phone buzzed and vibrated on the counter. I didn’t even look at it. I knew I probably had a million missed calls since I headed out surfing, and I knew they were all either from work or from Doug. Work, because I was sure the temp couldn’t handle another day under my boss’s direction, and Doug because he just had to know where I was. Not because he cared—he stopped caring two years after our wedding—but because the fact that I took off to Kauai by myself was the biggest fuck-you to his renegade ego that I could have done.

  I wondered what he would have thought if he knew I’d almost drowned without his permission, what he could have said if I’d come home with a death certificate. Would he genuinely be upset, distraught at losing his wife because he loved me oh so much—or would he just write me off to be with Justine?

  I gulped back the rest of the wine and thought about what the gravestone of Lani Morrison would say on it. Here lies a wife? Here lies an artist?
Here lies one lost woman who never quite found her way?

  I hoped it would be blank and that people could draw their own stories about my life. They’d all be better than the truth, that Lani Morrison died at the age of thirty-three, childless by choice, locked in an unhappy seven-year marriage with a man who’d been in love with someone else for most of it. She lost her parents to a car crash when she was seventeen, found mediocre fame in her twenties for her watercolor paintings, then when her muse, her “spirit” for the art, left her, she had to find work as a part-time assistant in an office selling dishwashers.

  May she rest in peace.

  Fuck peace.

  I slammed down the glass and it shattered on the marble countertop, sending shards everywhere. As I looked down at the mess, I felt acutely overwhelmed for a second, before I decided to let it all go. I plucked the bottle of wine off the counter and headed out into the backyard, where I sat down on the back stoop and proceeded to drink until all the cab sav was gone and I was even more numb than before.

  Though not numb enough to prevent my thoughts from going back to the mystery man, my savior. What was it about him that kept stealing my attention? Every time I tried to picture him, I either saw his face under the water, partially obscured by the bubbles rushing past my eyes, or the sun-kissed look of his neck, his wet hair clinging to it as he pulled me to the shore.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the back door, the images replaying over and over in my mind until a noise brought me to attention. It sounded like someone was outside the front of my house.

  Carefully easing myself up, feeling more than a bit drunk, I made my way through the cool house to the front door. I opened it and had to blink a few times at what I was seeing.

  It was my surfboard, leaning against a potted Phoenix palm. I walked over to it and ran my hands down the smooth sides, then looked around. The street was empty except for a lazy cat waddling through the neighbor’s grass. Who dropped it off, and more importantly, how the hell did they know where I was staying?

  For the first time that day I felt uneasy, my skin prickling with gooseflesh. As empty as I had been, the fact that someone must have followed me to my house to return it to me was a bit unsettling, yet considerate. I took in a steadying breath and picked up the board, about to take it inside, when a piece of paper fluttered to the pavement.