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

her, Dr Altmann? She was good looking, wasn't she? I know that, you know that. Did you want to get her into bed? Did you want to screw her? Must've stung you that she didn't return those feelings, huh?”
    “Get the fuck out of here!” the doctor yelled. He took a step towards me, face red, hands clenching.
    “You weren't working on the day she died, right? Just so I have as complete a picture as possible, could you tell me where you were between, say, five and six that evening?”
    Altmann rushed at me, fury in his eyes, yelling incoherently. His hands scrabbled for grip on my shoulders as he barged me backwards like we were playing football. He was strong, surprisingly so. I didn't resist; the sensible part of me didn’t want to add assault to any potential charge of being a jerk on private property. I let him force me back all the way down the hall and hurl me away, out on to his porch. By the time I caught my balance he’d slammed the door shut.  
    Inside, I thought I heard him sobbing.

12.

    The house was in darkness when I opened my eyes. I’d been sleeping, not much, but some. My breathing sounded loud and ragged in the near-silence. Even the wind outside had stopped rattling the boards. I lay wrapped up in the blanket and listened hard.  
    Creak .
    A floorboard. it didn't sound like normal building noise. There’d been weight behind that. Something — someone — walking around.
    Creak .
    From a slightly different position this time? It was hard to say. I swung my legs off the couch as quietly as I could. I was already pretty much dressed so I slipped into my shoes and grabbed my gun. I left the lights off and headed out into the hallway. It seemed to be empty.  
    I walked carefully up the stairs, edging along against the wall, pistol down at my side. My gaze was fixed on the landing. Nothing.  
    I cleared the last few steps. The air at the top of the stairs was cold, as bad as it had been outside Gemma's door the previous night. If this was the same mystery draft as before, it had spread a couple of yards. I quickly checked the bathroom behind me for the intruder, then sidled back into the band of frozen air, eyes on the remaining two doors and the hatch leading up to the attic room. The cold was incredible, soaking through my clothes and beneath my skin, reminding me what it was like to be a kid trapped in the dark by imaginary shadows on the wall. Then, as my hand closed round the bedroom door knob, there was a thud from downstairs.
    I hauled ass back to the ground floor, watching for movement all around and wondering what the hell was going on. The hallway was still empty. I crept along it fast then, into the kitchen. Melting snow shone darkly against the tiles. Footprints, leading from the back door, out to the hall.
    Creak .
    This time it was close enough to be almost ear-splitting. I jumped and snapped a look behind me in the second it took to realize that it was me who’d trodden on an old board this time.  
    I turned back and brought up my gun as a clatter came from the front room. A dark figure sprinted out in a blur and wrenched open the front door. Man or woman, big or small, I couldn’t tell a thing about them, just that they were dressed for night time and that they didn’t belong here. I didn't bother yelling at them to stop. I just chased.  
    The intruder raced through the yard and on to the white-covered road. They had a head start on me and they were a little faster. I still didn't shout anything and I didn't even think about using the gun, not on a public street. I just ran, heart hammering at my ribs. Through a parking lot by the lakeside, into the trees. The ground changed from blacktop to snow-covered leaf litter, darkening as I left the town behind. Twigs flicked chunks of ice at me as I crashed through the trees, specks of cold that turned to water wherever they touched flesh. My face was covered by a webwork of drying rivulets like tear tracks.
    Muscles burning, my throat