They discovered a quaint town with a main street that ran parallel to the Milwaukee River, making the real estate prime for any business that might profit from water flowing past an eastern exposure.
But what really made Friedenberg grow was the vast amount of farmland that surrounded it. Once the bottom fell out of milk and cheese, the farmers sold what they had left—the land—and a subdivision was born. A very wealthy subdivision. Houses around Friedenberg started at half a million dollars.
However, the town proper—where I lived—was jokingly referred to by locals as the ghetto. I didn’t find it funny, but at least my building didn’t boast property taxes that equaled the gross national product of a small African nation.
The cab let me out in front my place—a two-story, business-residential combo I’d purchased after leaving the force. I’d wanted to get as far away from my previous life as I could without being too far from Ruthie to visit.
I rented out the first floor to a small retail establishment that sold useless knickknacks to the wealthy haus-fraus in the area.
These women made a career out of raising spoiled children and spending wads of their doctor, banker, lawyer husbands’ money. They hired full-time nannies so they could shop, order salad at the ridiculously expensive local lunch spot, then work out until they were as slim and hard as their French-manicured nails. It was a weird, weird world.
I lived in the efficiency apartment on the second floor, which worked out well since the store opened at ten and closed at five. The rest of the time, which conveniently encompassed the hours I was home, the place remained dark and silent.
Like now, thank goodness. All I wanted to do was sleep. My earlier burst of energy had faded into the exhaustion that follows an adrenaline rush.
The ground was covered with snow. According to the radio, tomorrow had a predicted high of sixty-four degrees. Welcome to Wisconsin. By tomorrow night, everything would be a sea of mud.
The moon had come out from behind the clouds, bright and eerily silver, casting cool blue shadows across the pristine white carpet.
I stumbled upstairs and locked the door behind me. The place already smelled closed in, musty. Didn’t take long.
I left the mail in the mailbox—one more night wouldn’t hurt—and ignored the blinking red light on my message machine. I was certain at least one if not more of the messages was from Megan. According to the nurse, she’d been a frequent visitor while I was unconscious.
She’d left a Get Well Now card. At the bottom she’d scrawled: Come back as soon as you’re up to it. 1 planned to be up to it by tomorrow.
My apartment was sparse. The kitchen lay to the left, my bed to the right, a bathroom in the far corner next to the only window. I didn’t need much; I spent most of my life at Murphy’s anyway.
I didn’t bother with a light, just dropped my clothes in a trail that led to the bed. Then I crawled in, pulled the covers over my head, and dreamed.
I was at Ruthie’s, but in the way of dreams the house was different—white with green trim and a picket fence. Too hokey for Ruthie, but nevertheless I still knew it was hers.
A rugrat in ringlets opened the door. I’d never seen her before, though I’d seen a thousand just like her. The eyes were far older than the childish face and doll-baby hair.
Had I looked like that? I knew damn well I had, even without Jimmy’s never-quite-amateur photography to remind me.
“Who you?” the child asked.
“Elizabeth,” I said. “1 need to see—”
“Lizbeth?” The door opened wider and there she was, her appearance exactly the same as it had been for as long as I could remember.
Ruthie Kane was sharp—from her all-seeing dark eyes, past her razorlike elbows, to her spiky hips and knobby knees. The only soft things about Ruthie were her steadily graying Afro and her great big heart.
“Run along,” she said to the girl. “Others are out back playin’ at somethin’.”
As the woman-child turned away, Ruthie ran her weathered hand over the youngster’s head. “Sweet baby,” she murmured.
The kid left skipping.
Ruthie headed for the kitchen. “I figured you’d be by.”
I followed, uncertain. My conscious mind knew Ruthie was dead, knew I was dreaming, yet this all seemed so real, and Ruthie very much alive.
“Figured?” I echoed as I stepped into the sun-bright room.
“I know I’m dead, honey.”
I’d always wondered if Ruthie were a bit psychic herself. She’d been the first to talk to me about my “special gift.” And while most people as religious as Ruthie might have taken me for an exorcism, or at least laid on the hands to rid me of my whispering demon, she had introduced me to someone who understood. Someone who had helped me learn how to deal with what I was.
I fingered the tiny piece of turquoise I’d worn around my neck since I was fifteen.
Someone who had scared the living hell out of me, but that was another story.
“Is this heaven?” I wondered.
“Sure enough.”
Why had I asked? Where else would Ruthie be?