Cilla drew up adjacent to the building, the powerful engine thrumming in her ears. She felt a prickle of nerves, her eyes scanning for anyone lurking in the shadows. If what she believed was right, whoever had killed Brandon would not want them here. They were going to have to be particularly careful, looking out for both spiritual and human interference.
“I can’t ever be certain what the spirits will do,” she replied honestly. “But sometimes I get impulses.”
“Like you did when there was a gas leak at Melissa’s house,” he added.
“Yes. And earlier today, I knew I needed to take you to see Brandi Mae.” She switched off the engine.
“Why?” His eyes glinted in the gloom.
Cilla didn’t answer. She shut off the engine and took off her seatbelt, all business.
“We need to get the big black bag from the back,” she directed, avoiding his inquiry. “Anything we hear might be further evidence, so we need to catch what we can.”
Paxton eased his door open and stepped out onto the pavement. Cilla did the same, standing very still, listening for anything that might lead her to conclude there was a human intruder in the area.
It seemed only natural for Cilla to drive the old Chevy to the office building where Brandon had been murdered. She had driven it home from the hospital after the run in with the maniac driver, and there was something fitting about driving it to meet with Brandon’s ghost. She was feeling persecuted now, and she realized had the door not opened and allowed them out of the alley, she might have been a spirit as well. With the certainty she could trust Paxton, at least with this, she realized she needed to move forward and fast. With the break in at the office and the car accident, Cilla felt certain their time was running out. They just might be the next statistics if they didn’t figure out what the motive for the murder was.
This was more than what they had been hired for, true. This was not just a haunting. This was more than the tragic death of someone long ago, an old tragedy. This was murder, and only Brandon knew what had happened in those last moments. For better or worse, Cilla was certain she could contact him from beyond the grave. It was, after all, her gift. And sometimes, it was her nightmare.
It was quiet. The occasional hiss of tires as a car passed was interspersed with distant music. Cilla popped the trunk on the car and hurried to the back. The sedan had been built before the flood of SUVs hit the market, so the trunk was designed to have a generous storage area. Before she could catch the handle of the bag, Paxton hooked it with one hand and swung it out. With one final check of the interior, Cilla closed the trunk and went to the driver’s seat to lock up the car.
She silently followed Paxton around to the entrance of the office they had used before. They halted, and Cilla glanced behind them as Paxton tried the handle. With a whining creak, the door lurched open, and they slipped inside. Cilla pushed the door closed behind her and pulled out her cell phone, switching on the flashlight. The piercing white beam revealed little had changed. There was still the abandoned furniture, the scattered papers on the floor, the scent of dust.
“What is our next step?” Paxton asked quietly.
Cilla glanced in his direction, seeing his tall dark shape. If Smith had been here, he would already be setting up the few video cameras, instinctively knowing where the best angle could be found. Without her usual partner, Cilla had to stop to consider the space. They had been here before. They had already plotted where it would best show any activity.
“Here,” she replied, pointing to a spot adjacent to the staircase. “Let’s set one camera here. It will catch the door and most of the stairs.” She glanced upwards into the dark. “And we’ll put another one in the room where Brandon was discovered.” She bit her lip. “We can get the recorders to pick up audio over by the other office.”
Paxton nodded and set his burdens on the floor. Cilla heard him unzipping the bag and played her light in his direction. He was pulling out the folded tripods to use for positioning the cameras. She took one from him and began unfolding it. For a moment they worked in silence, pulling out the padded bags that contained the remarkably sophisticated cameras. The best one was with Smith at his house. He firmly believed he was the only one who could handle it, and therefore kept it under lock and key at his apartment when they weren’t on the job.
Cilla suspected they wouldn’t need anything so sensitive for this job. She was sure there was someone on the other side who wished to communicate with them. She just hoped they were friendly.
She flung a swift glance at Paxton. There was something there. She had been tapping into something paranormal when she seized his hand, and she was sure the girl in the vision had been his.
Who was she?
Cilla frowned. She had enough to do at this point. She didn’t have time to worry about what skeletons the handsome Paxton might be storing in his closet.
Fargo tensed next to her, and she laid a hand on the top of his head, feeling the warmth beneath the sleek fur. He was alert, not alarmed, but he wasn’t relaxed either. She wasn’t sure what he was detecting, but she would keep a close eye on him.
She offered him a final pat and stood. Using the tripod, she arranged the camera the way she wanted, confirming the shot was framed properly. She would use her cell phone as well, but she didn’t have the other gadgets. The EVP recorder, used to catch the voices of spirits for those who didn’t have her handy gift, was with Smith. She wouldn’t need it today but having the recording would have been nice. She might have been able to share it with Smith. If they made it out of here alive and well.
She shook her head, struggling to dismiss her grim thoughts.
“Okay, we’re good here,” she told Paxton over her shoulder.
“And this one goes upstairs. Do you want me to take it up?”
She shook her head. It was tempting to split the work, but he didn’t know what he was doing, and she didn’t want to miss a potential clue. Besides, in all the best and worst horror flicks, the team split up. No, they would go wherever they needed to as a tidy unit, Paxton, Fargo, and her.
“Let me put this recorder up and then we can go to the office together.” She pulled out the circa 1987 audio recorder with the cassette tape and plugged the cord into the wall. She didn’t have the EVP recorded, but Smith was sentimental sometimes for the olden days, and had kept the machine. She would use it as a backup. She hit the record button.
“Okay, let’s go,” she told Fargo, patting her leg. The dog followed her obediently. His leash was folded in her pocket. She didn’t want to restrain him while they were at a site. She never wanted to feel like he couldn’t escape some paranormal situation. Besides, he was smart enough not to venture far from them in an unfamiliar place.
Cilla used her cell phone to light the way up the stairs. She felt the subtlest change in atmosphere as they rose, a building of pressure, and temperature fluctuations from lukewarm to chilly. She knew scientifically that heat rises, and any remaining warmth from the sunshine of the day should be trapped in the top floors, but she also realized with an increasing confidence that it was not the case. If felt like they were descending into a basement, the air growing colder and colder as they advanced.
“Do you feel anything?” she asked softly.
“Cold,” Paxton said shortly.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Just checking.”
She heard him give a dry chuckle.
At the head of the stairs, the hallway stretched out in front of them. Cilla tried to settle her nerves, to appear businesslike. Smith tended to be more spooked during their encounters with spirits, probably because Cilla had grown up with the phenomena. She had made it her job to steady him. Now as she regarded her human partner, she realized Paxton was working hard at keeping it together.
“Come on,” she encouraged, and led the way down the hall. She figured in any other situation, Paxton might have tried to lead the way, but here, well this was her area of expertise. She strode with purpose down the
corridor, feigning a little of her confidence for her companion. The truth was, she was getting some skittering sounds in her head, and she figured it wasn’t going to be long before they had a visitor.
The floors creaked and groaned under their feet as they walked down the hall, making a mournful music as they passed. In the tiny room where they had discovered Brandon’s body, the scene of the crime had been swept clean. Cilla knew there were companies that performed such a duty, cleaning up after gruesome murders, and she decided then and there that hers was not the worst business to be in.
“We can put the camera here,” she began, and waited as Paxton set up the tripod before easing the piece of equipment into place. She checked the camera, setting up the sites and angling it to capture the area where she had seen Brandon’s body lay.
Fargo was observing their movements with interest, but not alarm. Whatever spirit they expected to visit hadn’t done anything to put the dog on high alert. With his keener senses of smell and hearing, he would be able to warn them much sooner than Cilla about the imminent visitation.
“Would you go downstairs and get me a chair?” Cilla asked impulsively. There was something in her sixth sense that told her Paxton’s presence was causing the entities to waver in their communication. Cilla hadn’t planned on them being separated, but for this one occasion, she figured the payoff would outweigh the risk.
“I will,” Paxton immediately replied. “But please do not go anywhere.” He studied her, his face solemn.
Cilla nodded, recognizing the caution for what it was. He didn’t like the idea of them being separated either.
She waited for a second after he had left the room before letting her eyes close. She could hear the soft sighing of the building, the wind gently pressing against the windows. She patted her side and Fargo trotted over to her, sitting at attention by her feet. She was absolutely silent for a time, and in the buzz and hiss of the stillness, she heard the unmistakable giggle of a child.
“Come on,” she said softly. “Come here.”
She eased down until she was seated on the floor, feeling the grit beneath her. She didn’t like it, but sensing the spirit was a child made her believe getting down on his level might help make him more comfortable. She had hoped to contact Brandon’s spirit, but if this child ghost needed her, she would communicate with them.
A sigh of air came just before the ripple of mist in front of her. The figure appeared to emerge out of the floor, more air than light, more electricity than substance.
Chapter Seventeen
She heard the distinctive step of a human, and her eyes darted to the doorway. Paxton was standing there, fixed in place.
She ignored him and inclined her head. The figure had blinked out, like a bulb lit too long. “Come back,” she whispered. “I want to talk to you.”
She heard a tapping noise coming from the far wall, and she stilled. The tapping was repeated, three rapid beats, this time on the wall to Cilla’s left.
“Is that you?” she asked mildly. “Is this the little boy who stays here.” She paused a beat. “I’m looking for Brandon,” she said.
A lilting giggle, like the spirit of a child, rippled over her skin. Her eyes shifted to where Paxton was still frozen in place.
“I think he’s playing,” she declared quietly. She glanced down at the dog. “If it was something dangerous, Fargo would tell us.” Fargo’s black tail was wagging, his excitement at the new playmate a welcome relief to the sheer creepiness of the sound.
“We need to find out what happened to you,” she said. “And we need to find out what happened to the man who died here.” She waited. “There was a man, Brandon, who died right here in this room.” She could feel the ripples of cold. “Brandon was a good man. We need to talk to him. We need to find out what happened to him.”
She cast a hurried glance toward the recorder. The button was still blinking red. Good. They were still getting footage. She knew oftentimes during their investigations, especially if the entity was a forceful one, they would drain the battery of any equipment, leaving them in the dark. That it hadn’t happened yet didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen.
“Can we talk to Brandon?” she pleaded.
“Brandon, Brandon,” a childish voice rippled back, high pitched and reedy, more air than sound.
Cilla drew in a deep breath, keeping her pitch low and even, softening her words. “We want to help you, but we need your help. We need to know what happened to Brandon. And we need to know what happened to you.”
There was a rush of air, and Cilla felt a volatile energy. This was not good. There was something that had changed the mood of the spirit. She remained absolutely still, listening for the voice, but hearing only the sharp click of machinery as the power was drained from the camera. Apparently, she had been optimistic. The entity was getting agitated. A jittering movement vibrated the floor, and the desk with its forgotten papers and loose pencils clattered and shook.
“It’s okay,” Cilla said, still struggling to preserve her calm. “We’re here to listen.”
“Lost,” the whistling voice continued. “Can you find my, can you?”
Cilla felt her heart clutch. It was just a child. A sad child, a missing child, a child who had been left alone for so very long.
“I’m listening,” Cilla murmured.
The floor continued to tremble, now a humming beneath their feet.
The sound of the door opening barely registered with Cilla, so intent was she on the pitiful voice of the child. When Fargo turned and let out a barrage of furious barking, Cilla’s heart leapt to her throat, pounding in her ears. The dog launched himself from Cilla’s side, darting around Paxton’s still figure, heading out of the office before she could even think to call him back.
The clacking of his claws on the steps heralded his passage toward the front door of the office, and Cilla scrambled after him. This was not typical behavior for her stalwart companion. The ghostly mutterings were still ringing in her ears as she moved around Paxton and headed down the stairs. But there was something more alarming, something that terrified her even more. What would cause her dog to react like that?
She heard the sound of the gun like an odd sputter. She wouldn’t have known it was a silencer except she had seen the elongated barrel of the gun, an ominous reminder of a violent movie. She heard the bullet hit the plaster wall with a peculiar thud, and she saw Fargo leap as it registered. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t cry out, but she saw as the second bullet hit, and the dog went down with a piercing cry.
“No!” she screamed, her voice bursting out before she could muffle herself.
The man in the dark overcoat turned, and the gun barrel trained on Cilla, directed at her chest.
“There you are.” The man’s face was lined, but nevertheless handsome, a full shock of white hair framing his face. Brown eyes, so dark they seemed black, focused in Cilla’s direction. It was too dim to read his expression well, but Cilla figured it didn’t really matter. There was death in that face.
She had seen the owner of Moss Inc on the cover of a magazine and in the occasional newspaper story. Most photos depicted a distinguished man, still broad shouldered and strong, with snow white hair framing distinctive chiseled features. He hadn’t grown soft with age, but rather, time had whittled away any excess, leaving a hard figure with unforgiving eyes.
Cilla stopped in her tracks, her eyes going from the man in front of her to the fallen body of her dog. She strained her eyes, praying they weren’t deceiving her when she detected the rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing, wasn’t he?
“You shot my dog.” The proclamation came out fast, with incredulity.
“Stand very still,” Moss commanded, his eyes still on Cilla. “And you. Come down here,” he added, his gaze flickering upwards.
Paxton. Cilla’s breath caught. Paxton no doubt had heard the noises, and he had come down to help. Now he was under gunpoint as well. There would be no one coming in to sav
e the day.
Cilla felt the warmth of Paxton’s body as he came to her side, standing close. It took her a moment to process what she was sensing. It was cold here. Just the movement of Paxton’s body was generating enough warmth that she could feel it through her heavy jacket.
And the cold? It wasn’t a natural chill, she realized. Her breath was coming in a fog, meaning the spiritual presence they had been communicating with hadn’t left them. It was back and making itself known.
Christopher Moskov, now Moss, seemed unaware of the paranormal visitor. His focus was squarely on Cilla, as was the barrel of the gun.
“We are going to have a little discussion,” Moss declared, taking one step back. His eyes darted toward the still figure of the dog, and seeing that Fargo hadn’t moved, went to his two human companions. “What are you doing here?”
Cilla took two slow and easy breaths, but before she could begin, Paxton spoke up.
“We’re having a great séance,” he said, his accent a little thicker, his voice light with just a hint of a whine. “We were conjuring up ghosts.” Cilla glanced at him and saw he had both hands raised, and a strange ingratiating smile on his face. “We didn’t mean to trespass,” he went on. “My girlfriend here said she had found a dead body, and she always said she could see ghosts. She was going to show me,” he gestured to the camera to his left. Cilla saw with disappointment that they recording light was out. It was dead too. There would be no record of their final moments if she was right about Moss and his intentions.
“A séance?” Moss scoffed. “Ghosts and nonsense.”
“If this is your property, we’re very sorry. We’ll pack up and be on our way.” Paxton’s tone still held the hint of innocence, very unlike his usual voice. “Shame about the dog, though. We might be able to get him to a vet if we hurry, sweetheart. We’ll say it was just an accident.”
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