by H. P. Bayne
Sure enough, Forbes’s smile vanished. “One of your jobs?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Forbes dropped his head and gave it a shake while heaving a sigh. “Bloody hell.”
“Sorry.”
Forbes returned his gaze to Sully’s, then tweaked his head as an indication for Sully to follow. “Come on. We can talk in one of the interview rooms upstairs.”
Forbes led Sully up the stairs, down the hall and through a door requiring a keycard. Sully recalled a couple of interview rooms were located back here—not the ones for suspects but rather for witnesses. The department used to conduct all interviews in the basement, not far from the cells. However, those rooms were cold and bare, not at all conducive to interviews needing a softer touch. Once the growing police force had been required to expand into another building, a few spaces had opened up, allowing several small offices to be converted into “soft” interview rooms.
As far as Sully knew, each was outfitted with a comfortable sofa and a chair or two for investigators. The walls had been painted in muted pastels and the carpeting had been replaced. Sully imagined the rooms doubled nicely as areas for police to grab a little shuteye during particularly long shifts.
Forbes led Sully into the first of the rooms and ushered him toward the couch before taking the chair for himself. “So what’s up?”
Sully launched right into it. “The Ice Man. Are you familiar with the stories?”
“You mean the Dead Man’s Lake ghost? Have you seen him?”
Sully gave a small shrug. “Honestly, I’m not sure what I saw.” He provided an explanation of the day’s events, including the attempt to drag him down beneath the ice.
Forbes visibly shuddered. “Jeezus, man, you serious? Why do you want to go back there?”
“I don’t. But I can’t ignore it, not if there’s any chance of him attacking anyone else. What I’m hoping to find out is what info police have on the sightings. I know a call was put out for public assistance in eighty-eight when someone reported seeing a guy covered in ice at the lake. I was hoping to get any additional information about that sighting and any others that might have come in afterward.”
“I can take a look,” Forbes said. “Not sure how much I can give you, but I’ll check into it. Need it now?”
“If possible, yeah.”
“Wait here,” Forbes said before leaving the room.
Twenty minutes passed, allowing Sully to conduct some internet searches of his own. He came away with the usual round of tales. Somewhere along the way, an urban legend had been born, one making the Ice Man out to be a murderous trapper from the nineteen twenties who’d plummeted through the ice while chasing a would-be victim. Naturally, no one knew the name of the victim, nor were there any newspaper accounts to back up the claims. As Marc had said, actual accounts didn’t seem to start until the mid-eighties.
Sully lifted his head from his phone as the door opened and Forbes reappeared.
“I’ve done some checking,” he said. “Files from back then aren’t in our electronic system, so it’s still in paper form. And we don’t store them on-site. There’s a building we use for old records, way over on the west side. I checked our system anyway, wondering if there were any further reports. There have been, actually, but nothing we’ve done much about. It’s gotten to the point where comms treat most calls about a guy covered in ice as a prank. We still send a unit out to check, just in case, but we don’t pour additional resources into it.”
Knowing it was a long shot to learn anything from this visit, Sully had hoped to gather at least one piece of info. “Other than the fact he’s covered in ice, have you got any other descriptions of the guy?”
“Not really. Usually, people describe the ice thing. A couple of them describe dark clothing.”
“Nothing about a red-and-black-checked lumberjack coat?”
Forbes raised a brow. “Sorry?”
Sully reached into a pocket and plucked out the baggie containing the shred of fabric. “This is why we’re interested. A neighbour of Dez’s described seeing the ghost, only he was wearing a coat like this. Then he found out his son had pulled this piece of fabric out of the lake while ice fishing. The fabric matches exactly to the coat the ghost had been wearing. That’s what the neighbour said, anyway.”
Forbes took the plastic bag from Sully. “Did you see enough to verify?”
Sully shook his head. “I only saw his face in the water. I couldn’t see what he was wearing.”
“So maybe this neighbour is imagining things.”
“Maybe. But it’s equally possible whatever he saw is actually in the lake. What if there’s someone down there?”
“Listen, our reports on the calls I told you about note the fact we’ve got no missing persons files pertaining to the lake. A few drownings have happened out there over the years, but the bodies have all been recovered. That was checked too.”
This seemed like a potentially helpful avenue. “Do you have descriptions of the people who drowned?”
“You only see ghosts who died by homicide, right? The drownings were all accidental. You wouldn’t be able to see them.”
“Maybe they weren’t accidental.”
Forbes heaved a sigh. “You really know how to complicate my life, don’t you, kid?”
Sully offered another apologetic smile as Forbes stood and made his way back out of the room. Twenty more minutes, then he was back.
“Okay, I’ve got descriptions for you. One child, clearly not matching your guy. One twenty-five-year-old woman who was partying with friends and fell off a speed boat. And one eighty-two-year-old fisherman without a life vest. I don’t think any of them fit.”
Sully was inclined to agree. The man he’d seen was middle-aged or a little older, definitely not over eighty. “Thanks for checking. And just to be clear, no clothing matched the fabric I showed you?”
“Nope, nothing. Do you want to open a missing persons file?”
Sully considered it but wasn’t sold on the idea. Not just yet, anyway. “They can’t search the lake until spring. Not much point, right? Anyway, what am I supposed to base it on? Some people think I’m crazy enough without me asking to open a missing persons file for a ghost.”
“Sure, but there’s more to it, right? It’s a homicide. Apparently, an unknown one.”
Sully rubbed his temples. “How about other missing persons files? Are you able to check if there’s anything in the system involving an adult male wearing this kind of coat?”
Forbes uttered a dry laugh. “For once, I’m ahead of you. I had a feeling you’d ask. I ran searches in the missing persons database using search terms like ‘lumberjack’ and ‘red and black.’ Nothing comes back. There are a hell of a lot of people in the system, though. They’re all available online if you want to take a gander yourself. Check the missing persons tab on the Association of Police Chiefs’ website. It’ll show you what’s still open as well as anything recently closed.”
“Okay, thanks. Good idea. I appreciate you checking for me, Forbes.”
“I’d say anytime, but I hate giving you ideas.”
Sully stood and followed Forbes back into the hall and down through the building toward the main entrance. There, he faced Forbes with a final smile. “Thanks again.”
“Watch yourself, all right? Don’t go putting yourself at risk with this thing, whatever it is.”
“Now you’re starting to sound like Dez.”
Forbes gave a wry smile. “Words I never thought I’d hear. And I’m about to say something I never thought I’d say. Listen to Dez. He’s right.”
Sully chuckled. “Yeah, I know. I won’t pull anything stupid.”
Forbes crossed his arms—a Dez-like pose if Sully had ever seen one. He kept the thought to himself.
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better,” Forbes said. “Not when experience has taught me otherwise.”
Sully let his SUV run, heater slowly chasing away the co
ld as he scrolled through the missing persons list on the website Forbes had recommended.
He’d been right. There were a hell of a lot of people in here. Sully knew from experience some had chosen to go missing, had run from abusive homes or unhappy lives to try for something better elsewhere. Some—the kids and young women in particular—could easily have met tragic outcomes. The older ones might be working the streets or lying half-dead inside a drug den in Riverview or the Forks. Others were probably already dead.
Sully tried not to think about it too hard as he scanned the faces. Always when he viewed the images of missing people, the worry niggled at him he might inadvertently call a spirit to him. He loved having the ability to help, but he also knew he was one man in a large world full of troubled spirits. And at the end of the day, that’s what he was—a man, not a miracle-worker.
After going through as much as he could, he ultimately gave up once he’d gone halfway through the alphabet. He was getting eyestrain and decided he’d finish scanning the list back at his apartment while stretched out on his pullout. While he could dedicate some time to this, he had a paid job to worry about later, and his paid job dictated he get a nap. Once it came time for him to take on his share of surveillance duty, he had to be fully alert.
Sully clicked off the phone and dropped it into one of the console cupholders. Then he pushed the stick into drive, pulled into traffic and headed for home.
7
When he wasn’t off work with a questionable shoulder injury, Greg Waterford worked for a company by the name of Brinks Construction and Landscaping Ltd.
Peter Brinks had been in business for several decades and had accrued a solid roster of clients during that time. He’d been behind successful bids on some of the most lucrative projects in the city, including many of the larger, post-flood new builds that had sprung up. Though he did a lot of residential work, he was equally skilled in the sort of high-rise construction required of those wishing to take on corporate work. Brinks demanded a lot of himself and, in turn, demanded a lot of his people.
So Dez had learned from Lachlan, anyway.
When one of his crew bosses, Greg Waterford, went down with a rotator cuff injury, Brinks hadn’t been a happy boy. Less because of concerns for Greg or what it might do to his safety record than because of the setback it created on a current project. Greg ran a crew well; without him, the guys weren’t putting in the same level of work. And already, an occupational health and safety rep had handed Brinks Construction a ticket after finding one of the workers failing to wear a safety harness.
So why make things worse for Greg? Dez had wondered. Shouldn’t Brinks be bending over backwards to ensure his crew boss’s eventual return?
Nope, Lachlan had said. Because while Greg was a good supervisor, it was because he had a strong personality his people respected. Which was all fine, except that same personality clashed with Brinks’s own. Two tough guys in one small space rarely went well.
So here they were, hired by Brinks to catch Greg Waterford in a compromising position. Brinks didn’t want to fire him, he’d assured Lachlan, just take him down a peg or two. If he had something to lord over him, he could keep him in his place. Good enough for Brinks.
Not so good for Dez. Much as he hated ghost investigations, at least those jobs with Sully were never boring. Sully and his abilities made life interesting, if not downright creepy.
Sitting down the block from Greg’s home was the opposite of interesting.
An hour passed, during which Greg came out once to shovel his driveway. Dez shot some video, watching for any particularly enthusiastic or effortful moves, but Greg moved slowly and methodically. Whether to avoid aggravating a healing injury or because he was aware of the possibility of being observed was anyone’s guess.
He’d been at this a few days, so Dez found he got excited whenever Greg decided to go for a drive. Though pulling a tail wasn’t exactly a thrill a minute—particularly when the destination was most often a fast-food joint or a grocery store—at least it wasn’t sitting around. When Greg backed out of his garage in the afternoon, Dez anticipated he was having a late lunch and had a hankering for a hamburger.
When Greg passed his usual drive-thru and then his grocery store, Dez began to wonder. It wasn’t his physio time—Greg had told his boss he only needed to go once every couple of weeks now. Physio day would be the big one for them. If Greg truly was still injured, he’d go. If not, he’d have no reason to.
Ensuring he kept several cars between them at all times, Dez trailed behind Greg’s half-ton truck until they left his west-side Kimotan Rapids neighbourhood and made their way toward the shining towers of the downtown core. Dez gritted his teeth. Following someone through the busy city centre wasn’t easy at the best of times, the traffic too snarled to ensure a target vehicle wouldn’t be lost between traffic lights and logjams. In the middle of winter, it was even worse, traffic moving more slowly to avoid potential ice slicks at intersections. Which was fine if the target vehicle was likewise slowed. Not so good if an overly cautious driver got between an investigator and his quarry.
Dez stewed as he drove, his winter tires and ABS brakes preventing out-of-control skids at two intersections. All over the world, it was spring by now. Not here, this far north of the equator. Here, they got both warmer days and snow in April, the yearly push-pull between an eager spring and a winter desperate to hold on. Therefore, any snowmelt from the day before pooled on the streets and froze overnight. Today being on the cold side, the ice stayed firmly where it was.
Good for ice fishing and hockey, not good for everyone else.
Of course, given the current circumstances, even ice fishing was questionable. If the weather didn’t get you, it seemed the Ice Man might.
Dez attempted to shake off the thought—shuddering at the memory of the ghost trying to drag Sully under. Ghosts could get desperate for someone to help them, and sometimes they—like living people—were driven crazy by lingering trauma and loneliness. Dez knew that. He also knew his sympathies only went so far when ghosts or living people began attacking others. When those they attacked were people Dez loved, his sympathy level dropped below zero.
He was drawn back into the present situation as Greg’s half-ton took a left ahead. Dez managed to make it through the light as the arrow stopped flashing, enabling him to keep behind Greg. Still no idea where he was headed. For those who lived in the city’s outlying neighbourhoods, there wasn’t much call for them to come downtown. Dez avoided it whenever possible.
Greg continued for a few more blocks, and Dez was relieved when at last he found himself a parking lot and turned in. Dez hurried down the next block, pleased when he chanced into a parking meter just being vacated. He whipped into the spot, earning a horn blast from the car behind him. Dez resisted lifting his middle finger as the driver peeled off. Last thing he wanted was to attract attention while he sat here, scoping out the parking lot entrance behind him for a sign of Greg.
He was entertaining the uncomfortable notion Greg might have found an alternate way out of the parking lot when he finally spotted him coming into view at the entrance. There, he stepped up to the automated ticket machine and keyed in whatever information was required before feeding a bill into the cash slot. That done, he walked off, leaving Dez to consider doing the same.
When he was certain Greg was walking in the opposite direction, Dez stepped from his SUV. He took a moment to check the meter, which showed close to twenty minutes remaining. Without knowing what Greg was up to, Dez played it safe by dropping in a few additional coins until he’d maxed out the time. No matter. He was operating on the client’s dime, anyway. Making a mental note to add this to his day’s expenses, he set a course to the south, eyes on the back of Greg’s head.
Greg paused at the light, crossing the street as the walk sign flashed. Dez hurried to catch the light, then slowed, doing his best to blend into the small crowd. Moments like this, he rued his size, standing fully head
and shoulders above everyone else around him. Though Greg had no reason to make him as a PI on his tail, being observed even once increased the chances of being made down the road. If Greg saw the same person around him several times, he’d clue in pretty quickly.
Across the street, Dez held back, keeping to his slower pace, placing some distance between the two of them. He resisted watching Greg directly, keeping him in his peripheral vision in case he should turn.
If Greg believed he was being watched or followed, he didn’t show it. Although he checked the windows of the buildings they passed, it appeared he was merely checking his appearance or various items on display.
A few minutes later, Greg finally revealed a destination, stepping up to a building entrance and pulling open the door. Kip’s Coffee had a variety of locations in the city, all of them boasting overpriced drinks with hard-to-pronounce names and ingredients lists longer than Dez’s arm. Dez cast a brief glance at the shop windows before opting to enter behind Greg. Ordinarily, watching from across the street would be the best bet, but Kip’s Coffee’s windows were lightly mirrored, preventing Dez’s seeing properly inside.
No choice.
Fortunately, Kip’s was ridiculously busy even at its slowest. Greg was already three-deep in line, so Dez stepped in behind and scanned the board for something cheap and simple. He searched for a basic coffee, but kept coming up empty. When he arrived at the till, he was forced to settle for a basic green tea.
“Chai or matcha?”
Dez’s brows shot up at the clerk’s question. “Pardon me?”
“Did you want chai or matcha?”
“Do you just have a basic green tea?”
The clerk eyed him as if he’d left his marbles somewhere on the street. “Like, just a teabag in a cup of hot water?”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
The clerk gave a slow blink. “That’ll be four seventy-seven.”