“Um… bartenders, mostly,” he said.
Emma felt a fresh wave of recrimination. She didn’t need this, not from some stranger, not from anybody.
“Yeah, well, sorry, Emma doesn’t live here anymore. She doesn’t live anywhere anymore, so,” Emma said, again trying to close her door in the man’s face.
He took a step up and put his hand on the door, stopping her.
“They said, there was a sign on the outside of the trailer. Emma Spaulding Paranormal Detective. I see where maybe there was a sign, but it’s not there. At first I thought I had the wrong trailer, but this is the only one… that looks like they said where Ms. Spaulding lived, so I waited,” he said.
Emma felt herself growing uncomfortable with the drift of this talk and she was concerned that if she waited too much longer, those first few boiler makers would be wasted.
“I, uh, took the sign down when I moved in. You know, was getting a lot of unwanted visitors stopping by,” she said, glaring at the young man and hoping he was getting the point.
“So, you’re not Emma Spaulding, then?” he said.
Emma sighed, clenched her fist by her side.
“You know, you look pretty smart, but you’re really not, are you? Emma died. Drank herself to death, poor thing, so—”
“You are Emma Spaulding,” he said, pulling a printout of a newspaper article and holding it out before her.
Emma stared at him, not looking down at the clipping with a clear photograph of her at the top. A major bust, a good day that one, making a difference, her partner by her side.
“Look, uh, I’m real busy. All those bartenders should have told you that, so, I… you just need to go, okay?” she said, feeling her resolve weaken and not liking it a bit.
The man did not move, only stood there in her trailer looking at her, pleading in his eyes. She almost felt sorry for him, almost wanted to hear his story. Almost.
“My name is Ahkbar Saleem. I work for the museum that brought that Egyptian exhibit. Something has happened and nobody will listen. They refuse to believe what is really happening and so it will happen again. Please, Ms. Spaulding, I need your help. Someone has died and others will too if you don’t help me,” he said.
Emma stared at Ahkbar. She wanted him to go away, wanted everything to go away, wanted to tell him that. Other words came out of her mouth.
“The woman who died on Main street. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?” she said.
She watched as Ahkbar’s eyes lit up.
“Yes! That’s it exactly. The police are saying it isn’t supernatural, but I know differently. It is related to the theft—to the disappearance of the exhibit. How did you know?” he said.
Emma huffed. The mere admittance of how she knew running counter to every feeling she was having right now.
“The death seemed… ritualistic. Not normal. I mean ripping someone’s heart out? There are easier ways to kill a body, you know?” she said.
“Like drinking oneself to death,” Ahkbar said.
Emma gave him a sharp look, her eyes flashing rage. Looking at him, she sensed no judgment, only compassion and it threw her.
“Ms. Spaulding, I do not believe the opinions of others are the only ones that matter. About myself or any other person. I know what is going on and I know that nobody can help me but you. That is no opinion, that is a fact. Please,” he said.
Emma bit down hard, trying to fight off the words.
“Yeah, well, like I said, I’m real busy, see. If I were to step up, my price would be significantly higher than what you might have heard, on account of moving you up the list, so to speak,” she said.
Ahkbar nodded.
“I understand, Ms. Spaulding. Please name your fee,” he said.
Emma knew she had him, now. That this would be the way she would send him away and be able to get back to her business at hand.
“Five thousand dollars. Half up front,” she said, preparing to close the door on his back.
“Will you take a check, or do you have one of those credit card readers handy,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket.
12
After she had made absolutely certain that Ahkbar was absolutely serious, she took the check. After she took the check she sort of felt obligated to take the job. She didn’t feel obligated right away. Her first thought was she could go out in style. No more rot-gut whiskey and warm beer. With twenty-five hundred, she could buy the best booze around. Hell, she told herself, it would be of such quality it wouldn’t be called booze at all. She had heard some fancy words for 'drink' somewhere. Libation. Twenty-five hundred would buy some fancy libation indeed. That was her intent, anyway. Until she listened to Ahkbar’s concern’s, until she realized by taking the money she was obligated to take the case. No, matter, with five thousand dollars, she could buy something with a name that made libation look like booze.
There had only been the one killing so far. Ahkbar was convinced there would be more, and she was inclined to agree with him. It sounded to her like ancient magic. She had some experience with this sort of thing before. A genie granting twisted wishes all over town had nearly wiped Hemisphere off the map. Trouble is, she was the only one who remembered anything about it. Yeah, not even her client which meant she never got paid for that job. This would go a long way to balancing the books. Fine, she would solve this demon goddess problem and then she would be flush, flush and free to do whatever she wanted. Emma knew what she had to do. There was only one source she could go to, to get both the information and the supplies she would need to draw this thing out and kill it. Adelaide’s.
A short drive later that involved the requisite battle with her car door, Emma was parked just beyond Conjurer’s Row. She didn’t like coming here anymore than the residents of the row liked seeing her, but Adelaide was her secret weapon and a case like this made the trip a necessary evil. Getting out of her car, she headed toward the dark alley that marked the entrance to the supernatural district. There were always people entering and leaving the row. Sometimes tourists looking for a trinket to take back to wherever they came from, sometimes regular citizens looking for a ward to protect them from some bump in the night, maybe a potion to spice up their love life. It was no surprise then to see foot traffic on the row. What was a surprise was the magical field across the alley that threw Emma back and through the air, depositing her painfully on her butt. For a second she sat on the sidewalk stunned. Looking around, nobody else seemed to be having any difficulty at all entering or leaving the alley. Not grasping why she might be, she got up and tried again. This time the push was more forceful and she flew farther back, landing on her back, her head thumping painfully on the concrete.
Emma lay there for a second, staring up at the sky. Her head was already hurting from the inside, the result of drinking her bottom shelf libations. Now, a new pain wracked her cranium from the outside. She sat up and rubbed the back of her head, already feeling a lump starting to form and promising to be a painful companion for the foreseeable future. She stood up and stared at the alley. She could see nothing. There did not appear to be anything blocking her way and yet twice she was repelled. Emma looked around and watched as other people came and went freely in and out of the alley. A trash can nearby gave her an idea and she went over to it. Finding a particularly solid piece of trash, she fished it out of the can and went back over to the mouth of the alley. She took in a breath and drew her arm back, hurling the glass soft-drink bottle through the air. Nothing prevented its flight and it soared into the alley, smashing into pieces somewhere in the shadows.
“Hey!” someone in the distance said.
Emma jammed her hands in her pockets and tried to act casually. With no further repercussions from the broken bottle, she again studied the entrance to the alley.
“Just me, then,” she said, crossing her arms and feeling annoyed.
Seeing some people walking a short distance in the row, she called out to them.
> “Hey! Can you do me a favor? Go to Adelaide’s and get her to come out here! I—”
Emma gave up her plea as she saw the small group of people give her a disheartening look and hurry away.
Confused, Emma called out to a young woman just heading into the alley.
“Hey can you help me?” she said, touching the woman’s arm.
The woman pulled away as if she was stung and quickly yanked a five dollar bill out of her pocket, thrusting it at her.
“Don’t use it to buy booze,” the woman said, making a face and sticking her fingers under her nose as she turned away.
Emma took the five dollars before she knew what was happening. She stared after the woman as she hurried away into the row.
“No, I—I need to see Adelaide! What the…” she said, pocketing the five bucks.
A thought occurred to her and she lifted the front collar of her shirt and smelled herself. The pungent scent of body odor and stale beer made her withdraw quickly. With a sigh, she went over to her car and reached in the driver’s side window. A second later, a blaring sound reverberated through the alley as she held down on her car horn.
This audible intrusion drew the angry looks of passersby, but Emma didn’t care. She needed to see Adelaide and something was preventing her from entering the row. The only thing to do was to draw someone out. Adelaide would be best, but if not her, someone who would go and get her. After a minute or two of the noise, a distinguished looking man hurried toward her from somewhere deep in the row. He was waving his arm in the air and Emma understood that he wanted her to stop blowing her horn. She had no intention of doing so until he was right in front of her and willing to listen to what she had to say.
Emma’s resolve proved stronger than the man’s resistance and he eventually stood where Emma wanted him. Satisfied with her victory, she let go of the horn, the silence more an absence of noise and loud in its own way. Determined to hold the high ground in the exchange, she did not give the man time to speak first.
“Why can’t I get in the row? I need to see Adelaide,” she said, her words like a bark.
The man raised his chin to her and clasped his hands behind his back. His suit and tie ratcheting up the condescension by several degrees.
“I should think you know why, Emma Spaulding,” he said.
Emma was taken aback.
“How do you know my name? What’s your name?” she said, the challenge in her tone matching his disdain.
The man straightened his tie and smoothed his suit.
“Everyone in the row knows who you are. Even the ones not familiar with your recent court appearance would know who you are by the simple fact that the magic field has barred your entrance. Oh look, that dreadful woman can’t enter the row due to a repulsing field across the street. Why, that must be Emma Spaulding we have heard so much about,” he said, his snide tone drawing clenched teeth and a sneer from Emma.
She attempted and failed to keep a cool veneer, drawing a smug smile from the man.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” she said.
The man looked to the side and sniffed.
“Not that it matters, but it’s Gordon. Gordon Shuffley,” he said. "I am the duly elected ombudsman of the row for this quarter, hence the onerous task of dealing with you here and now falls to me, so thank you for that,” he said.
Emma laughed.
“The ombudsman? I thought only super-nats could be elected for that,” she said, feeling the advantage swing her way.
The question brought the man up short and he looked at Emma with surprise.
“I am a super—a purveyor, a Mage by trade, for your information,” he said, looking down at her.
Emma knew she was touching a nerve and decided to punch it.
“Like hell you are. Not with a name like Gordon Shuffley,” she said, chuckling.
Now it was Gordon’s turn to sneer and fail to hide his angst.
“Yes, well, I will not attempt to address your stereotypes and prejudices, Ms. Spaulding. I’m sure if I said my name was Balthazar or some such trope you would have taken me at my word. Purveyors are people like you—well not like you, but like decent people. We have regular names and live regular lives except that we have a certain set of skills. I thought you would have learned that by now, but the fact that a restraining order has been issued and a spell cast to keep you out tells me you haven’t learned a thing,” he said, inspecting the back of his hand.
“Ahh, so that’s what this is about, Corpus. Yeah, well, my business with him is done. I’m here to see Adelaide, so if you’ll just drop your little force field, I’ll be in and out before you know it,” she said.
Gordon straightened back up and again folded his hands behind his back.
“I don’t think so. The restraining order is for Mr. Corpus’ protection, but we of the row are of the universal opinion that you are not to be trusted. Corpus works and lives on the row. Not to mention many other purveyors. All of them feel much more comfortable with you unable to enter. I bid you good day, Ms. Spaulding,” he said, turning on his heels and heading back toward the alley.
He made it two steps before Emma again pressed down on her horn in a sustained blast, feeling a wave of satisfaction at the way it made Gordon Shuffley jump and cringe. When he turned again to face her, she let up on the horn.
“Get me Adelaide,” she said.
Gordon attempted to speak, but before he got the first word of protest out, Emma pressed down on the horn, cutting off his words. She let the horn sound for a few seconds more, then took her hand off the wheel.
“Get me Adelaide,” she said again.
“Do you intend—”
Another sustained blast of the horn prevented further discussion on the matter. Gordon Shuffley turned on his heels and scurried back down the row. Emma continued to hold the horn down, not so much ignoring the dirty looks from passersby and those down the alley as relishing in them, despite the fact that it was doing nothing for her headache. Presently, a figure approached. Adelaide hurried down the alley. Emma let go of the horn and waited.
For her part, Adelaide seemed not a little embarrassed. She nodded and smiled at those nearby still casting disparaging looks at Emma, those looks now by degree falling on her.
Emma glared at Adelaide.
“Addy, what the hell? They won’t let me in the row. My beef was with Corpus, not any of those other jammers,” she said.
Adelaide had yet to look her directly in the face.
“Yes, well, the whole situation is unfortunate,” she said.
Emma crossed her arms and felt a fresh hurt.
“Gordo said that everyone on the row had agreed to keep me out. Is that true, Addy? Even you?” Emma said.
Emma felt a certain satisfaction at seeing her friend squirm, wringing her hands. Adelaide finally looked at Emma.
“an n a chuireas duine is e a bhuaineas e,” Adelaide said.
Emma continued to glare at Adelaide, the words beyond her comprehension. Adelaide huffed.
“You reap what ya sow, girl. If ya be wantin’ these folks to dance, you’re gonna have to change your tune, Emma,” she said.
Now it was Emma’s turn to squirm. She uncrossed her arms, looked away.
“So, when what’s his name said the decision to keep me out was unanimous, he meant you too?” she said, surprised at tears welling up in her own eyes.
Still not looking at Adelaide, Emma heard her heave a heavy sigh.
“We’re friends, Emma, dear ones as far as I’m concerned and I would do anything for ya. I hope ya know that, but these are my people. I have to live with them, work with them,” she said.
Emma wiped her eyes and recrossed her arms. She looked down at Adelaide’s feet.
“Whatever,” she said.
Adelaide stepped closer, putting a hand on Emma’s arm. Emma’s first thought was to pull away from the touch, but she didn’t.
“You have to understand, Emma. I have a foo
t in each world here. And can I say, as someone who cares about you deeply, that it looks to me like you have one foot in the grave,” Adelaide said, her words soft, but stinging Emma just the same.
Now Emma did shake off Adelaide’s touch. She straightened up, jammed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans, and looked Adelaide in the face.
“So, are you gonna help me or not?” she said.
The two women stared at each other for a moment, Emma’s face locked in a scowl, Adelaide’s in painful concern. Adelaide nodded.
“I will always be there for ya, Emma. What do you need?” she said, her tone full of resignation.
“I think it’s a demon goddess, this time. Egyptian. Goes by the name Ammit.”
13
Don T. Liedinger glanced at the clock. It had to be timed perfectly, but it was always a challenge. He had to start steering the conversation to a natural conclusion almost from the start, setting up little references to getting off the line without her catching on.
“Yeah, big day tomorrow. I should probably be getting to sleep. Got to get up pretty early,” he said.
He heard his wife sigh on the other end and knew what was coming. He was ready.
“These nightly calls are always so short. I wish we could talk for hours. I just miss you so much,” she said.
The words warmed him and chilled him all at the same time. It meant his secret was secure, that she loved him and believed he loved her. That part wasn’t a lie. He did love her, wanted to protect her. But when she started talking like this, it meant he had to work extra hard to get off the line in time, without her suspecting.
“I miss you too, baby. But tomorrow’s the big presentation and I have to be rested. If all goes well, then in another couple of weeks I’ll be back home and we can be together for awhile,” he said.
There was silence on the other end and this concerned him. It meant she was thinking. He didn’t need her thinking.
“I’ve been asking around town. I talked to Betty at the factory. There’s a management job open, pays almost as much as you’re making now. I was thinking, maybe, you could apply. It would mean you get to stay home. No traveling for weeks at a time,” she said, her voice a mixture of sadness and real hope.
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