Sight Unseen

By Hunter Raines

The growing attraction between a blind medium and his skeptical biographer is threatened by deadly spirits in this paranormal romance.

Daniel Van Doren was once a renowned writer, until he was blinded in the car accident that killed his lover. Now, all he sees are ghosts in need of help. They follow him everywhere, and the only way to be rid of his ethereal visitors is to help them resolve their unfinished business here on earth.

Ghostwriter Logan Riley is assigned to pen Daniel’s biography. He plans to reveal him as a fraud, but when they meet he’s struck by Danny’s quiet sincerity—and an undeniable attraction. Which makes sticking close to Danny to find out the truth more than a little distracting.

When they are attacked by a violent poltergeist, Logan begins to believe Danny’s claims—and fear for his life. A spirit has learned how to harness the energy of the living to harm Danny. And Logan may be the one to blame . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781426894107

Book preview

Chapter One

The stench of rot, mildew and decay jammed Danny’s nasal passages. He’d tried breathing through his mouth for about a minute, but that only made him want to retch, so he returned to his original tactic. Slow, shallow breaths through his nose, taken one small whiff at a time.

If he survived this revolting trek through Phoenix’s sewer system, he’d be showering for the next three days. And he’d spend every minute of those seventy-two hours inhaling the scent of fresh shampoo until his lungs went numb.

You better be right about this, Van Doren. Detective Nick Samuels snorted, then gagged, before letting a gob of spit loose. It landed somewhere in the vicinity of Danny’s feet. If you’re dragging me through shit for nothing, I’ll spend the rest of my days making you pay. God as my witness.

Right, Detective. Because this is where I always take my evening stroll.

Nick let out a groan that said he didn’t give a damn if Danny walked off a cliff without bungee gear. You just better be right. That’s all I’m saying. No threat this time, but Danny heard it just the same.

Despite the fact that he’d helped the Phoenix P.D. solve six homicides in the last nine months, Nick didn’t like him much. He never had, not even when he’d been married to Danny’s sister. That was probably Danny’s fault. They’d gotten their relationship off to a rocky start the first night he found Nick groping Elena in the front seat of his car. A decade later, Nick still hadn’t forgiven him for that bloody nose.

The shape he followed flickered in the distance. She was short, maybe four foot six at best. Probably about ten years old. She ran ahead of them, but he couldn’t give chase. Being blind made treading on a newly paved sidewalk as treacherous as skating on bare feet. Slogging through the sewers with the rank stench of waste sticking to his lungs and his feet sloshing through inches of foul water meant he had to shuffle rather than walk, and running was out of the question.

Come on, honey. Danny kept his voice low, soothing, even though he had no idea whether the little girl could hear him. She pretended to, sometimes, and other times he might as well have been talking to a brick wall. A bystander watching him hold a conversation with himself would think he was doing just that. Most people who knew him already assumed he’d lost his mind along with his eyesight.

Hell, most days he thought the same.

Right behind ya, pumpkin.

The sarcasm in Nick’s voice grated on Danny’s nerves. If he didn’t need the man to identify the location of the body when Danny finally led him to it—and to guide him back out of this hellhole once his ethereal guide disappeared—he’d have been just as happy to leave the detective sitting in front of a box of donuts at the station.

Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. Danny wasn’t stupid. Or reckless, for that matter. He needed Nick to watch his back on this ill-advised expedition, almost as much as the little girl’s ghost needed him.

Two years ago, before Danny lost his sight, Nick had been tall, lean and handsome. These days, Danny liked to picture him based on his surly demeanor and gruff voice. It took some effort, but he pictured a barrel-chested, beer-gutted man with a bad comb over and a permanent snarl on thin lips crusted with powdered sugar. Danny grinned at that mental image and momentarily forgot his resolve to take small, shallow breaths. He sucked in a mouthful of the funky air before catching himself, and his stomach writhed.

As he heaved past the bile rising into the back of his throat, he smacked his cane against the sewer wall. Damn, it was tight in here. They had less than a few inches of space on either side. He shuffled forward slowly, testing each step before committing to it. Every so often a small creature scurried past his shin. He bumped a squishy object with his toe, and then stepped on something that gave like a mud pie under his boot.

Revulsion wiggled its way up his spine, but he forced his feet to keep moving. The only way out of here was to finish what he’d started.

The girl stopped abruptly. She turned to face him, her golden pigtails bopping in the unearthly light surrounding her. She stuck her lower lip out as her eyes filled with tears.

Danny’s heart lurched. His niece wasn’t much older than Anne-Marie, and the thought that Isabelle could end up like her made his blood run cold. We’re here. He could smell it now, the nauseating decay that added another layer to the reek.

Here? Nick slammed into Danny’s back but caught them both before they tumbled into the muck. Shit, I can’t see a thing.

Want to borrow my cane?

Smartass. My flashlight trumps your cane any day of the week.

Wouldn’t do me much good.

Nick fell silent. Danny pictured him running the beam of light along the sewer walls and down over the creepy crawlies slithering around in the filthy water. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes he was glad he couldn’t see.

Oh, God. Nick gagged and placed a hand on Danny’s shoulder to steady himself. Better than leaning against the wall. How could a person do that to someone’s baby girl?

There was no sarcasm in Nick’s voice now. Just raw, bitter hatred tinged with a sorrowful empathy that shook Danny to the core. Nick must have made the parallel to Isy too. His daughter was safe at home with Elena, but that wouldn’t matter to the detective. He’d see her face along with the mangled body, her bright blue eyes staring up at him from the sewage sludge.

For the second time in as many minutes, Danny was grateful for the absolute darkness.

We found her. Nick must have been speaking into his cell, because he waited for a beat before grunting an acknowledgement and then giving their location.

Anne-Marie wiped the streams of tears running down her cheeks with the back of her hands. Behind her, a bright, incandescent blob of pure white light shimmered into existence. It started out the size of a golf ball and expanded, growing as tall as she was.

The portal flickered, beckoning the ghost home. She turned toward it, but hesitated and glanced over her shoulder at Danny instead. He nodded to her. Anne-Marie returned the gesture before stepping through. Her ethereal form blended with the light, then vanished altogether. The doorway to the other side dematerialized along with her, leaving Danny standing alone in the dark.

Anne-Marie was well and truly gone. The earthly ties she’d been clinging to had been cut, leaving her free to move on. Where she went from here, he didn’t know. None of the ghosts that appeared to him told Danny a thing about where they were bound. In fact, they never told him anything at all, which made his job a hell of a lot harder than it would have been if they could speak.

His heart thumped, heavy and solid against his ribcage. He always expected to feel relieved when a ghost passed through the portal, but he never did. The complete isolation closed in on him again, just like it always did. The stench of rotting flesh, muck, and waste clogged his senses.

But this was his life, his duty, the only thing he was good at. It was his future, too, and it smelled sickly sweet, like death and loneliness.

Was she really here? Anne-Marie?

Danny forced himself to snap out of his melancholy and nodded, then stopped when he realized he had no idea whether Nick had the flashlight pointed at his face. She’s gone now.

Good. No one should have to see themselves all cut up and— He spat again. Fucking animals out there, you know that? Animals.

Danny couldn’t disagree. He felt for Nick’s arm, found it, and squeezed. I appreciate you coming down here.

Save it. I told the lieutenant you were full of shit, and leading me down into a pile of it was your idea of a sick joke.

A smile teased the corners of Danny’s lips, but he fought it, just in case the detective could see him after all. Looks to me like he didn’t believe you.

Damn straight. I… Nick cleared his throat. Look, I don’t know how you do what you do, but this little girl deserves justice. We’re going to give it to her.

Danny didn’t trust himself to speak again. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His sole caught on something sticky, and he grimaced. Sirens blared overhead, but the layers of rock standing between them and the street muted the sound.

Next time, try to find a body that’s not in the sewers, all right?

Whatever you say, detective. Danny gave a mock salute, praying there wouldn’t be a next time.

Just as the wish took hold in his mind, a gleaming shape appeared in the distance. Arms, legs, torso, head, all arranged in the right places. Light blazed around the airy form, helping it coalesce into a person.

Another ghost had found him. This one was an African-American man who looked to be in his eighties. His outfit, though, didn’t appear to have come out of an octogenarian’s closet. He wore silk shorts over skinny legs the color of dark chocolate, and not much else. His bare abdomen was nearly concave, and his ribs poked through his skin. Yet he sported large boxing gloves on both hands. The blood red gloves matched his shorts.

Danny sighed. He was glad for the company, but he’d have liked a break from yet another mystery this time. Just a small one, before his next ghostly adventure took him to God only knew where. Today a sewer, tomorrow maybe the top of Mount Everest. Apparently the dead didn’t give a damn about his handicap.

He grimaced. No rest for the wicked.

You hoping to go on vacation, Van Doren? Maybe drink some margaritas on a beach somewhere?

The idea didn’t sound half bad, but he’d gladly settle for an uneventful night spent cuddled up to a strong, warm body. Since that was about as likely as winning the lottery without buying a ticket, he pushed the thought away and stuck out his arm. Get me out of here, Detective.

* * *

The Creosote bush gave off a distinct odor after the rain. The pungent smell, combined with the scent of wet asphalt, told Danny the skies had opened while they’d been underground. After nearly forty-three days without a drop of moisture, the shower was a welcome bit of relief from the extended dry spell that had plagued Phoenix since June.

They’d entered the sewers through a manhole on South Thirty-Sixth Street but hadn’t come out in the same place. Nick had led them out through a different route, one closer to the spot where they’d discovered Anne-Marie’s corpse. Danny had absolutely no idea where he was.

Mr. Van Doren! Did you follow a ghost into the sewers?

Detective Samuels! What did you find down there?

Has the victim’s family been notified?

Detective, is the Phoenix P.D. now unable to solve cases without the aid of a psychic?

Is the ghost detective a permanent member of the homicide team?

The myriad voices clamored for attention from every direction. Panic surged inside Danny, making it hard to breathe despite the welcome fragrance of untainted air. He took a step backward. A hand settled at the base of his spine, stopping him in mid-stride.

The manhole’s still open back there. Nick released him, but his presence at Danny’s elbow lingered. He lowered his voice. The news hounds would like nothing better than to see you fall in. You’d give them a hell of a story.

Heat crept up his cheeks. He knew better than to move even a fraction of an inch without testing his surroundings first, but the incessant questions and the throng of people clustered around him made his flight instinct kick into high gear. He wanted to be home, where he could burn these clothes and spend the rest of the day getting pelted by hot water in his own shower. At least there he’d be safe from the never-ending reporter interrogations. Ever since the first story broke about his involvement in an active investigation, journalists had been on him like ticks on a seeing-eye dog.

He shuddered. They wouldn’t go away just because he ignored them. He’d tried pretending that because he couldn’t see them, they didn’t exist, but they only shouted their questions louder, as though he was deaf instead of blind.

Mr. Van Doren, what can you tell us about your connection with the dead?

Should the good citizens of Phoenix be concerned that there are spirits among us?

Detective Samuels, would you have allowed a so-called psychic to interfere with your investigation if he wasn’t your former brother-in-law?

He felt Nick stiffen at his side. The detective had been barking out, No comment, at every opportunity, but now he growled low under his breath.

Listen, pal. The body of a little girl is lying in that sewer, naked and cut up like a side of beef. Right now, you’re the only thing standing between me and the guy who did this. The whole lot of you. He raised his voice to be heard above the sirens, which blared louder with each passing second. A fire truck joined the squad cars that had arrived earlier, and the wail of an ambulance blared on a nearby block. Now step aside and let me do my job.

The journalists grumbled their displeasure, and one woman threatened to take her complaint straight to the Police Chief, but the mob parted as Nick made his way through.

Danny followed closely. The moist afternoon air plastered his shirt to his back and made his hair stick to his forehead. He pushed the curls back with one hand while gripping his cane tightly in the other and tapping out his steps.

You’ve done good work here, Van Doren. I’ll have an officer drive you home. Nick placed a broad hand on Danny’s shoulder, guiding him toward the sidewalk. Get some rest.

Danny heard the weariness in Nick’s voice. You should take your own advice. When was the last time you got eight hours of uninterrupted sleep?

Nick snorted. Sleep is for babies and blind men.

Danny heard the teasing lilt in Nick’s tone, but even if he hadn’t, he didn’t have the energy to be insulted. It’s been a pleasure as always, Detective.

Give my regards to your sister. Nick’s voice sounded distant, indicating he’d already moved back into the crowd.

Ever since the divorce two years ago, Elena and Nick spoke few civil words to each other. These days they barely talked at all, unless their discussion involved Isabelle. For her, they came together like business partners willing to negotiate agreements in their daughter’s best interest.

Mr. Van Doren? Follow me, please.

Relieved to be going home, Danny used the sound of the officer’s voice to gauge the direction in which they headed. His ghostly companion fell into step beside him. The old boxer’s head twisted slightly and he caught Danny’s gaze with his own. Drawn in by the emptiness in the ghost’s dark brown eyes, Danny stumbled. He misjudged the next step and lost his footing, only to come down hard on his left leg as it slipped off the sidewalk.

The officer grabbed him by the shoulders and brought him up to his full height. Watch your step, Mr. Van Doren. Apparently realizing what he’d said, the man stammered an apology.

Danny waved a hand in the air, trying to appear nonchalant. He gritted his teeth, hating his dependency on others, his helplessness in the face of an act as simple as walking down the street. Babysitting the blind guy… This is why they pay you the big bucks, right?

The officer cleared his throat. He grabbed Danny’s hand. This way, please.

Danny could have told him that wasn’t how he liked to be led. He could have shown the man the proper way to guide a blind person. He did neither. Fully aware of the cameras on him and the reporters still milling about, Danny straightened his spine, gripped the officer’s hand, and prayed he’d stay upright long enough to reach the car.

* * *

Every time Logan crossed the threshold into his editor’s office, he imagined he’d just stepped through a time warp. A huge movie buff, Frank Desmond had decorated his office to match the visual motif of the film noir era. Everything in the room was black and white, including Frank himself, who didn’t seem to realize there were other colors in the spectrum.

It’s done. Logan dropped a stack of manuscript pages onto Frank’s desk, then placed a thumb drive on top of them. Frank preferred reading on paper, but edits were easier for both of them when tackled electronically.

Frank slid a hand-rolled cigarette behind his ear. As far as Logan knew, his editor didn’t smoke. The cigarette was another way of paying homage to a time when every big screen detective lived on a pack a day. Although Logan had never asked, he figured Frank fancied himself a direct descendant of Sam Spade, the way Bogart portrayed him, right down to the bow-tie and the felt hat.

Two years, Reily. That’s much too long. You’re lucky I haven’t torn up your contract and demanded you return your advance.

If you’d done that, you wouldn’t have this. He tapped the manuscript with the tip of a fingernail. It’s the best work I’ve done yet. The book will fly off the shelves.

Frank grunted. It better. He yanked the manuscript forward, lifted the top page and began to read.

Logan fought the urge to fidget. They’d done this dance before, nearly a dozen times. He occupied himself with glancing at the framed movie posters of The Big Sleep and The Set Up behind Frank’s desk.

Half an hour later, Frank pushed the stack of pages aside. He’d made it through a quarter of the book. You’re a talented son of a bitch, you know that? Explains why I keep you around even though you’re a pain in the ass.

Logan leaned back in the chair. He wasn’t willing to let Frank see his relief, so he feigned a casual demeanor by crossing one ankle over his knee. What’s next?

You go home, wait for my call. I’ll have edits for you in a couple of weeks, then we’ll move on from there.

Logan pushed out a smile past gritted teeth. I mean, what’s my next assignment?

As he’d neared the end of his current project, Logan had sent in six proposals in the last month alone. Frank had shot down every one of them with a curt, thanks but not right for us reply.

A more paranoid writer would have thought he’d lost his edge. But that wasn’t possible. For the last eight years, Logan had been True of Heart Publishing’s top ghostwriter. His books won awards, garnered great reviews, and consistently got his subjects enough media attention to see them through their fifteen minutes of fame and tack on another half an hour.

Frank tapped his pen against the edge of the desk. Standard turnaround time on an assignment is three to four months. Not two years. If I can’t depend on you, you’re no good to me.

This was different, and you know it.

Maybe, but—

The client was dead, Frank. The words exploded from Logan’s mouth. I had to conduct interviews, dig up information, and make connections that would have been a hell of a lot easier if Sophie had still been alive. But she wasn’t. I buried my ex-wife, and then barely had time to mourn before you started hounding me for the manuscript. And let’s not forget the multi-million dollar lawsuit Sophie’s estate got slammed with after her death. Who do you think had to deal with all of that? Look, I got back to work as soon as I could, and I wrote your damn book. I’ll be faster next time. A lot faster.

Frank tipped his hat back and lifted his chin. Our business thrives because we’re first to press. We’ve been successful in a niche market when our competition is drowning in debt and bankruptcy papers because we beat the big guys to the punch.

Logan clasped his fingers and clenched them together hard enough to hurt, then leaned across Frank’s