Agents are forbidden to alter a pre-approved trip without notifying Quantico, nor are they allowed to fly first class unless it was an absolute emergency.
Screw the Code of Federal Regulations. Pipi needed to talk with Newt without people listening in. Besides, weren’t there special rules for special agents? To Pipi’s mind, as long as she and Newt continued to solve cases at their current rate, they should be able to sit in the cockpit.
Once the plane was in the air, Pipi leaned over and whispered in Newt’s ear. “H. H. Holmes.”
“So, why’d we have to leave?” Newt asked. “That was really interesting.”
“I know,” Pipi said. “But there are some things you don’t want to know about—things within the bureau, sensitive things.”
“Like?”
Pipi released a breath. Was she really going to have this conversation? With a fourteen-year-old? Who really wasn’t a bureau employee?
“Ghosts,” Pipi said finally.
“Yes!” Newt exclaimed. “That’s what I was thinking!”
“Keep your voice down,” Pipi said, glancing around at the other passengers.
“Okay,” Newt said quietly.
“What I’m about to tell you is classified,” Pipi said. “And if we’re going to continue to work together, this is the last time this topic will be discussed. Do you understand?”
Newt nodded.
“Okay, good. What it comes down to is this,” Pipi said. “Currently, in the United States, there are forty-six active situations like the one we just came across in Portland. Situations where there are many hundreds of deaths, all in a close geographic radius, which are unexplained—forty-seven now, assuming we decide to report it.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because there are two schools of thought within the bureau,” Pipi said. “One camp thinks the killings are the work of ghosts. The other camp doesn’t.”
“But—”
“I’m not done,” Pipi said. “The director belongs to the latter group. And whatever the director believes, that’s the way it is. Those who believe these unexplained deaths are the work of ghosts have learned to keep it to themselves. Anyone who has ever dared to go public is tucked away in the basement at Quantico, their careers basically at an end.”
“But—”
“Do you like working with me, Newt?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, I like working with you, too,” Pipi said. “And if we’re going to continue, what we just heard in Portland stays between us. Okay? And it has to stay that way.”
Newt nodded. “Okay. But just tell me this. What do you believe? Do you think ghosts are responsible for the deaths?”
“You’re good at math,” Pipi said. “You tell me.”
Newt went quiet for a few seconds. He had so many questions. So much he wanted to know. But he also knew better than to push it. “Why are we going to Oklahoma City?” he asked finally.
“I want to visit a friend who works at the Federal Building downtown,” Pipi said. “We’ll stop by there first thing in the morning, then we’ll head home. Now get some sleep.”
Once Newt had fallen asleep, Pipi pulled out a piece of paper to make notes—a piece of paper that would not be placed in the official file. On it she wrote:
348 “natural cause” deaths around area of Crimson Cove, Oregon over 50-year period. Two teenagers killed recently. Sloppy. Why?
Primary suspect: Onyx Webb
Over the years, a number of FBI agents had gotten involved in what were referred to as “Spooky Cases” or “Freaky Files”—situations for which there were no good explanations without having the words supernatural or paranormal attached.
After Pipi had supported the supernatural findings of two fellow FBI agents in the X-Files division of the bureau, the director pulled her aside and made it clear she should “steer clear of those kinds of cases” if she wanted to be considered for future promotion.
She hadn’t listened.
Which was how she ended up doing menial tasks in the ViCAP division. It was a mistake she didn’t want to repeat, especially now that she had Newt as her ticket to the corner office.
Chapter Twenty-Four
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
OCTOBER 16, 2010
It had been over six weeks since Nathaniel Cryer’s gray, lifeless body had been found on the cement floor in the parking lot at JFK. And the more time that passed, the more Olympia Fudge found herself wondering what had really happened to her ex-partner.
Nathaniel was young. Nathaniel was healthy. Yes, he might have been a bit promiscuous, but he was always safe.
Now he was dead.
It just didn’t make sense.
The thing that made Nathaniel’s sudden death particularly suspicious was the timing.
Nathaniel was deep into his book project—a biography on real estate billionaire Declan Mulvaney. Olympia knew this to be the case because she was the one who’d given him the idea for writing a tell-all book in the first place. That and the voicemail Nathanial left telling her he’d hit the mother lode.
Olympia grabbed her purse. “Natural causes my sweet black ass,” she said to the empty room and then headed out the door.
Olympia knew that Nathaniel rented two apartments—one in Chelsea, an area of New York with insanely high, $1,200-per-square-foot rent—and a second place in a more affordable area called Hunters Point out in Queens.
Olympia knew the address of the Queens apartment, having been there for Nathaniel’s “Welcome to the Gayborhood” housewarming bash when he’d first moved in. As such, it seemed like the best place to start. The only question was would there be anyone there to let her in?
There was.
Nathaniel’s boyfriend. Well, his now ex-boyfriend.
“Whatever you’re trying to find, sweetie, it isn’t here,” the ex-boyfriend said when Olympia explained why she’d dropped by. “Hell, in a month, I won’t be here either, not without Nathaniel throwing in half the rent. But knock yourself out.”
What was she trying to find? Olympia didn’t know. She made her way from room to room until she found herself sitting on what she assumed had been Nathaniel’s bed.
“Come on, sugar, what do you want of me?” Olympia said.
Silence.
“Please don’t tell me you dragged my black ass all the way to Queens just for some late afternoon barbeque.”
Silence.
“Look, sugar, I’m doing my part here,” Olympia said. “The least you could do is—”
“Stormy Boyd,” a male voice said from somewhere behind her, and Olympia spun around. There was no one else in the room.
“Is that you, Nathaniel?” Olympia asked, rising to her feet. “Where are you?”
“Here,” Nathaniel said.
Olympia turned in the direction of the voice, and then she saw him. In the mirror.
“Holy Jesus!” Olympia yelped. “My God, it’s really you, isn’t it? This isn’t some kind of Pepper’s Ghost thing, is it?”
Pepper’s Ghost was an illusion used in theater and on television to trick viewers into thinking they were seeing something in a mirror, when in reality the object—or person—was actually the reflection of the item from a separate room off to the side.
Olympia knew about the trick because Nathaniel had proposed using it on the show, demonstrating it once for their producers.
Olympia took several steps to her left, and then back to her right. The image of Nathaniel stayed in the center of the mirror right where it was.
Olympia felt weak and lowered herself back on the bed. The only other time she’d seen a vision in a mirror had been upstairs at the Forsyth Park Hotel when she’d seen the girl. But that had only been for a brief moment, and she’d had a bunch of drinks.
But this?
Olympia looked closely at the image before her. Nathaniel looked good, healthy—dead, but healthy. “For what it’s worth, you look good, sugar. I mean, like, Proacti
ve Plus treatment, laser-sun-spot-removal, no crow’s feet, no smile lines, like you just got yourself shot up with $800 worth of Botox good.”
“We don’t have a lot of time, Olympia,” Nathaniel said.
“Sorry,” Olympia said. “Now, when you say we…?”
“I was murdered, Olympia,” Nathaniel said.
“Murdered?”
Nathaniel’s image nodded in the mirror. “Yes.”
“Who? Who murdered you?”
“I don’t have a lot of energy left,” Nathaniel said. “So, listen closely.”
Olympia pulled herself to her feet and took several steps toward the mirror. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“Do you remember the show we did on the Child Snatcher of St. Louis?” Nathaniel asked.
“Uh, I think so,” Olympia said. “But what does that have to do with who—?”
“There’s an article in the St. Louis Post Dispatch, early August 1904,” Nathaniel continued. “Two girls were rescued. Katherine and Onyx were their names. They were rescued by one of the fathers and a cop.”
“Okay.”
“Find the article.”
“Yeah, okay,” Olympia asked. “But why?”
“Because the cop in the photograph is the man who murdered me.”
“How could a man in a newspaper photo from 1904 kill you in 2010?” Olympia asked as Nathaniel’s image began to fade.
Olympia took a step forward, pressing her hand against the glass. “Nathaniel, don’t go! What are you saying? Why would this man want you dead?”
“He didn’t,” Olympia heard Nathaniel say, though she could no longer see him. “Someone else did.”
“Who? Who wanted you dead?”
If Olympia Fudge wasn’t already spooked enough by the specter of Nathaniel Cryer in the mirror, the final words Olympia heard sent a chill down her spine.
“It was Declan Mulvaney.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
DAYTONA BEACH, FLORIDA
APRIL 24, 1995
Kajika was in the shop at Crazy Horse Motorcycles, working on a 1964 Honda RC164 Racer—hoping the bike’s 250cc engine would finally start—when Declan Mulvaney walked in. It was only the second time Declan had been to Kajika’s place of business. The previous time was ten years earlier, the day Declan had come to see the Porcupine. It was also the same day Bruce had met Nisa.
“Place looks the same as I remember it,” Declan said.
“Change is overrated,” Kajika said. “Why are you here? Did you hear something?”
Declan shook his head. “No, nothing’s changed.”
Declan was tempted to tell Kajika that he’d discovered the FBI had stopped working Nisa’s case, and the horrible news about Pipi, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. The only thing Kajika and Bebe had was hope, and Declan refused to take that away, too.
“So, what brings you all the way out here?”
“I wanted to show you something,” Declan said. “Can I borrow your handcart?”
Declan left with the cart, and then returned rolling in a stack of boxes. “These were delivered by the FBI about six months ago,” Declan said.
“What’s in them?”
“Parts. What’s left of the Porcupine,” Declan said. “I wanted you to take a look and tell me what you thought.”
“About what?”
“About rebuilding it,” Declan said.
“What in the hell do you know about rebuilding a motorcycle?” Kajika asked.
“Not a damn thing,” Declan said. “That’s where you come in.”
“Oh, I see. You want me to do it?”
“No,” Declan said. “I was thinking we could do it together.”
Kajika wasn’t sure what to make of Declan’s offer. Other than the occasional holiday get-together, the two men hadn’t spent ten minutes with each other in over a year. “You got anything in there with a serial number on it?” Kajika asked.
Kajika opened several of the boxes and looked inside. “You’ve got the cylinder block and the gas tank. That’s enough to start with. And you’ve got the carburetor. Got to pull it apart and look at the jets and gaskets to determine the condition. We’ll need to find a service manual.”
“Is that a yes?” Declan asked.
“It’s going to need a complete electrical system, headlights, turn signals. And it’s going to be hard to find an exhaust system for a ‘49 E90. You on a time table?”
“It really was a nice wedding, wasn’t it?” Declan said, catching the Indian off guard.
Kajika nodded. “Even when I intentionally went out of my way to piss you off?”
“You did?” Declan said.
“The fire ceremony? That isn’t even a Sioux tradition. It’s Cherokee.”
“I’m over it,” Declan said. “The person who’s still pissed off is Tank. He was counting on a traditional wedding so he could be Bruce’s best man. Bought a tux and everything.”
Both men went silent.
“Bebe and I miss our daughter,” Kajika said finally. “Not a day goes by that one of us isn’t in tears. Doesn’t matter how many times you hear people say there’s nothing worse than the loss of a child—you can’t possible know until it happens to you.”
Declan resisted the urge to say he understood because he didn’t. That was Kajika’s point. Declan could imagine how they must feel—but truly understand? “You interested in grabbing a bite?” Declan asked.
“What is today?” Kajika asked.
“It’s Monday.”
“Monday is pot roast night,” Kajika said. “It’s horrible, but I’m sure Bebe would love to see you.”
The pot roast was worse than Kajika had warned Declan it would be, but the evening was enjoyable nonetheless.
And long overdue.
“Why don’t you boys take your drinks out on the porch while I clean up the kitchen,” Bebe said. “It’s beautiful out, and there’s no humidity.”
Kajika grabbed two beers from the fridge and led Declan to the screened-in porch. “So, what is it about you and Indians?”
Declan sipped his beer. “Okay, you really want to know? It might take a while. And we’ll need more beer.”
Two hours, six beers, and 173 dead bodies later, Declan had told Kajika the entire story. It was something he’d never told another living soul.
“Sweet Jesus,” Kajika said. “No wonder you hate Indians.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
OCTOBER 16, 2010
“Explain it again, from the beginning,” Koda said. “And treat us both like we’re five years old.”
Koda and Robyn were side-by-side on a sofa in the sitting room just off the marble entry in the older portion of the mansion. Gerylyn Stoller sat in a chair opposite them next to a lit fireplace. The temperature had dipped into the mid-forties, and the Mulvaneys had learned that warming a specific room was quicker than warming the entire house.
“Very well,” Gerylyn said, taking another sip of her tea. “In regards to Juniper? So far, Koda has been waiting for her to come to him. But that hasn’t happened. Therefore, it is my opinion that if Koda truly wishes to find out what happened, he needs to go to her.”
“Go to her?” Koda said. “What do you mean?”
“Mirror gazing,” Gerylyn said. “Another term for it is scrying—a form of self-hypnosis achieved by looking into a darkened mirror to access other realms of existence—without the inconvenience of dying.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Robyn said.
“Your sarcasm is duly noted,” Gerylyn said.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Robyn said. “I just don’t know if I like the idea of Koda going to the other side again. Isn’t what you’re suggesting dangerous?”
“First, there is no other side. There is only here. Let me explain.” Gerylyn took another sip of her tea, and then carefully set the cup down. “The room we are sitting in—and what you see around you—is the physical realm. The here
and now. But when you add time to the equation, we have the here and before and the here and after. Are you with me?”
“In other words, the past, present, and future,” Koda said.
“Yes, good. Now, here’s where it gets a bit complicated,” Gerylyn said. “Within this same room—occupying the same space at the same time—there exists another realm. For the purposes of our discussion, let’s call it the here and here.”
“Wait,” Robyn said. “I learned in science that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”
“Yes, and what you learned is wrong.”
Koda and Robyn stayed silent.
“There is not only one realm of existence occupying this room. There are two,” Gerylyn said with authority. “One is the physical realm, which we see around us. The other is the etheric realm—a realm no less real yet completely unseen. The physical is the realm of the living, and the etheric is the realm of—”
“The dead,” Koda said.
“Precisely,” Gerylyn said. “Allow me to demonstrate. Please, close your eyes. Both of you.”
Koda and Robyn closed their eyes as instructed.
“Okay, now you may open them,” Gerylyn said as she reached into the pocket of her dress.
When Koda and Robyn opened their eyes, they saw a silver chain dangling from Gerylyn Stoller’s hand. At the bottom of the chain was a crystal, connected by a silver clasp. “Did either of you see this crystal earlier?”
“No,” Robyn said. Koda shook his head.
“And why is that?” Gerylyn asked. “It was right here in my pocket the entire time—no more than three feet from where you both are seated. Why didn’t you see it?”
“Because it was in your pocket,” Koda said.
“Are you saying you didn’t see it because it was hidden?” Gerylyn asked.
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