A Strangely Victorious Valentine’s Day

2

“A priest?” she murmured. “Out for Valentine’s Day?”

Either the man heard her very low whisper or was perhaps accustomed to being judged. He stopped, smiling at the hostess who had been seating them, and smiled at Angela.

“Hi. I’m Father Matthew Carson, Episcopal priest; and this is my wife, Lucy,” he told her.

“Oh, ouch! Sorry!” Angela said quickly. “I’m so sorry, it’s just the collar threw me for a bit of a loop. I should have known, of course!”

“Hi!” Lucy, his pretty young wife said, grinning and waving from around his back. “It’s okay, not everyone knows that priests of different denominations exist, and that it’s fine that they are married men.”

“I know, I know, but . . .” Angela said, looking at them with distress.

“Please, please, don’t be upset!” Matthew told her. “It’s Valentine’s Day. You two enjoy. We intend to!”

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Angela said. “And forgive me—”

“Trust me! Forgiveness is my business!” Matthew said.

“Yep, happy Valentine’s Day!” Jackson said, grinning.

The couple were seated at their booth. Angela winced and groaned softly. “What was the matter with me? What was I thinking?”

Jackson covered her hands then with his own, grinning. “Angela, it’s okay! You gave them a laugh!”

She nodded, but she was frowning again.

He was facing the inner wall of the restaurant. She was facing the door.

He turned.

Sometimes—something that could prove difficult at times—they didn’t always recognize if a person was living, or if they were a soul, visible to only them and that tiny division of the population with their strange gift, curse, or talent.

But he realized quickly the man who had just entered the restaurant was a dead man, one who was looking extremely agitated.

He was in his early fifties, Jackson thought, dressed in a handsome suit as if he had a date himself for Valentine’s Day. He had silvery-white hair cut short, and a strong face with a good square jawline.

Angela murmured softly, “He looks upset.”

She was staring at him. Apparently, the ghost knew tshe saw him. He was surprised, of course, but his agitation was greater than his surprise.

He immediately started walking toward the two of them. Halfway there, he stopped, staring beyond them, seeing Father Matthew and Lucy in the booth just a few feet behind them.

He then looked as if he was about to cry. But he winced and hurried toward them again, sliding into the slim space next to Angela and then frowning as he looked at Jackson.

“You . . . you, too?” he said incredulously. “Well, good, two of you. You don’t have to look crazy. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you, but you see me, so I need your help. I’m Gary Barton. I’m . . .” He paused again, once again trying to hang on and not cry. “I’m Lucy’s father. She’s the young lady just behind us. And she’s wonderful. And Father Matt is an incredible man, truly. He’s a priest at St. Celia’s, and he’s wonderful with the college group that makes up so much of his congregation. And she has loved him forever . . . they were in high school together. They’re married and it’s okay, it’s good with their church. But that crazy man thinks that she should love him—”

“Um, what crazy man?” Jackson interrupted.

The man law enforcement had been missing all day?

“He’s out there!” the ghost assured him passionately. “He . . . he latches onto women, onto Valentine’s Day. He thinks Matthew is supposed to die if he really loves Lucy; and if she doesn’t understand, then she needs to die too. He’s been running all over town trying to find them; and I think he knows . . . Oh, I’m so terrified for both Matt and Lucy because I think he somehow knew they were coming here tonight. He’s coming to get them. You can’t begin to understand how terrified I am. I can see things, hear them, even feel warmth, know that my daughter loved me, that she’s loved deeply by her husband, that she is in extreme danger and . . .”

He broke off, staring at the door.

“He almost killed another man last year; they couldn’t get enough evidence against him to prove it in court. His name is Caleb Carpenter—they arrested him, but they had to let him go—even with all the forensics these days, they had to let him go. He threw the gun he had into the Potomac. The poor fellow is still in a wheelchair and all the witnesses couldn’t identify the crazy guy. But now, please, you need to warn them for me! Warn Matthew and Lucy. They need to get out of here, they need to lock in for the night and someone needs to get to this man, and oh, my God! We’re too late!”

The door had swung open.

And there was a man standing there, just inside the restaurant. The friendly hostess walked up to him, asking if he had a reservation.

“Yes, I do!” he told her. “I’m meeting someone here, and I think I see her right back over there, if you don’t mind . . .”

They were armed, naturally. With what they did, Jackson and Angela were always armed.

Angela was up in a flash, Glock drawn, as was Jackson himself.

But the man saw them.

And before anyone could blink, he had the young hostess, Meg, in his arms with a Smith and Wesson pressed against her skull.

“Drop them! Drop them now or I will just saunter on over there and split her skull open and let her blood spurt all over that lovely wine you’re drinking!” he roared.

Another man in the restaurant started to rise.

“Sit down!” the man—Caleb Carpenter if their ghost was right—spun around, never losing his grip on his Smith and Wesson. He never moved the nose of the gun an inch away from being held hard to the young hostess’s head.

“Sit down! Everyone stay seated or she dies along with as many people as I can shoot before I become a martyr myself!”

The poor girl was terrified. Her eyes were wide; she was shaking so hard within his hold that Jackson feared the gun going off.

“Get those guns down!” Caleb Carpenter roared.

“Down, down, yes, we’ll get them down, Caleb!” Angela promised. “We’ll get them down right now, but first . . . well, first Caleb, you need to let Meg go.”

“No way in heaven or hell!” he replied.

Angela eased her way past the ghost at her side, giving Jackson a slight nod that promised she knew what she was doing.

“Look, as you can see, I have a Glock. I’m an agent. Now, you need to take me and let Meg go. I’m more important, and if anyone saw you coming here and called the police, well, you’ll want to be holding on to me,” she said. “And frankly, Caleb! I’ve known about you; I’m fascinated by you! I’d love to know more about you believing that some men need to be martyrs—”

“It’s Valentine’s Day!” Caleb roared. “And that man, oh, yes, I know he’s here! That supposed priest! He’s here, and he’s brainwashed Lucy. He thinks he can do whatever he wants! No! He has to die; if he’s any kind of real man at all, if he really loves Lucy, he needs to die, and Lucy needs to come with me!”

“Sir! Caleb!” Jackson said. “We need to discuss this. I mean, maybe we’ll all agree with you, but you need to let Meg go and explain to us just how this thinking comes in!”

Matthew had stood and was behind Angela.

“I would die for Lucy. But you can’t take her,” he said quietly.

“No, no, no!”

Angela, her gun lowered, walked toward Caleb.

“First, sir, you must let Meg go and take me. I will put my gun down—”

“That man has a gun, too,” Caleb noted. “What? Do I look stupid?”

No, just apeshit crazy! Jackson thought.

Angela looked over at him, smiled, and looked back at Caleb.

“He will lower it. You exchange Meg for me. And then, please, before anything else, you need to explain to me why this man should die, please. You shot someone last year, right, Caleb? And you were brilliant. You threw the gun into the Potomac!”

There was silence for a minute.

“How do you know that?” Caleb demanded.

“I know things,” Angela said softly.

“She does know things! She’s amazing. But if you want to put that gun against someone’s head, it should be mine. I mean, come on, I’m the big dude here and—”

“What? You think you have some kind of Native American magic that will save you?” Caleb asked.

“Native American and Northern European,” Jackson told him. “Black hair, blue eyes, two worlds—and no magic. But don’t you want your message out there? Don’t you want people to understand?”

Caleb frowned at Jackson, giving his words thought. “You know!” he said. “You all should know. Saint Valentine of Rome! He lived during the third century and the Romans locked him up for marrying Christians! He was jailed and he was executed, but he left his message! He was killed in the year 269, he was a martyr, don’t you get it! Because he really believed in love. His relics exist; they were in the Church and Catacombs of San Valentino in Rome until they were sent to Santa Prassede when Nicholas I was the pontiff. The skull is crowned with flowers . . . it is at the Basilica of Santa Maria. That’s Rome, but there are relics in Dublin, too. You can see them. I have seen them.”

“Oh, Caleb! I’m sure they exist!” Angela said.

“There’s more!” he told her. “St. Valentine of Terni—he died a martyr, too, always preaching his message of love. They were good men.”

“Let the young woman go, and you can shoot me,” Matthew said quietly. “I love Lucy, and I am willing to die for her.”

He was going to move around Angela’s side. She stopped him, holding her gun low, nose toward the floor, and walking toward Caleb.