Dark & Disorderly

by Bernita Harris

  Rumors of a task force had been making the rounds for several months. Nathan had crowed about it, claiming the formation of a task force was the direct result of lobbying efforts by his organization and proved their political influence. If this hulking specimen was part of that psi-squad I trusted it meant he possessed a working understanding of the paranormal as well as human crime, especially since I was dumping another case in his lap. Until now, federal initiatives against the paranormal tide had amounted to little more than directives and circulars.

  I perched like a hooded crow for a while and listened to him rustle paper and make hunh sounds into his phone. For some reason his deep voice soothed me. For the first time in months I felt safe. I leaned back.

  Keyboard clatter and the noise of a printer jerked me out of my doze. I yawned and dragged myself upright. Thresher swung away from the computer and faced me.

  Again, I got the full benefit of the standard policeman’s stare, the kind that takes you in all at once. He looked down at an open file and then his gaze went over me point by point, as if comparing my descriptors and photograph. I wondered if they matched. This morning the mirror told me I looked like I’d been buried three days and just dug up.

  He propped his elbows on the desk and laced his fingers together. I relaxed a fraction. Nathan had always steepled his perfectly manicured fingers, matching his thumbs and little fingers with precision. I hated it. It always signaled a lecture was in the offing. Nathan’s slender elegant hands had not been much bigger than mine. Thresher’s were in proportion with the rest of him, big, strong and confident. He wore a signet ring but no wedding band. About thirty-five, I calculated, about Nathan’s age. Eight to ten years older than me.

  “Ms. Lillie St. Claire. I see that as this detachment’s paranormal consultant you’ve assisted in the past year in the retirement of a number of cases, some of them cold files. Very impressive record.”

  He didn’t look impressed, but then cops usually don’t. I tilted my head in acknowledgment.

  “Your husband, Nathan Strange, met with an accident two weeks ago.” He added the conventional condolence, “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. St. Claire.”

  He paused and his eyes shifted toward the window for a moment as if some connection had been made.

  “Do you use your husband’s name in private life, by any chance, Ms. St. Claire? And does Chief Secord know your husband by sight?”

  Easy to answer. “No, I don’t, and yes, he does.” They’d met. Waredale was still a small town in many ways. Though he’d never said anything outright, I had always had the impression Bobby hadn’t particularly cared for Nathan. And Nathan, I’d come to realize, disliked any symbol of authority. Except his own.

  “You claimed to Ms. Tiller you were attacked by a zombie last evening, not long after Chief Secord of this division was also attacked by a rogue. There’s likely a connection. Why didn’t you report this immediately after the incident? Why the delay?”

  Sharp. Also adversarial. “Because I couldn’t,” I said. “Dead telephone. And I thought it inadvisable to leave the security of my house in the dark.”

  “No cell phone?”

  “I can’t carry one.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m an energy sink. Most handheld, battery-run devices—cells, quartz watches, TV remotes, sometimes flashlights—I bugger them, for want of a better word.”

  Fortunately, I usually did not have the same effect on any properly grounded machine or appliance. Life as a Talent proved inconvenient enough without that complication.

  “Unusual. Could you identify this zombie?”

  “Easily. If that’s what it was. My late husband. And, just to be clear, I don’t claim it was a zombie for certain, though I don’t know what else it could have been. I was confronted by an unnatural entity of an unspecified nature that closely resembled my husband. I’m not sure just what it was. I can only assure you he—it—was not likely a self-revenant and certainly not a ghost. I brought what’s left of him.”

  One heavy eyebrow lifted. The one-eyebrow trick didn’t go with Thresher’s face. It belonged on a smooth, sophisticated sort of face. Like Nathan’s. Nathan managed that mannerism in fine and supercilious style.

  I didn’t like his use of the word claim either, but I laid it all out—the ashes, the ring, the key and the fishing line, in a tidy little row of packets across his desk. Tried to keep to the bare facts in my account, to keep my voice and words stripped clean of residual emotion, of any reference to panic. Then I tucked my hands underneath my knees so he wouldn’t see them tremble. I needed this guy. I didn’t want to go to the cemetery alone. It wouldn’t be smart. I needed a witness, preferably of the official kind.

  Thresher ran me through my account a second time, methodically assessing for Munchausen syndrome and old-fashioned hallucination as he went along. I had to expect that, I suppose, and couldn’t fault him for it—especially since I approached each new case the same way. Just because we were overrun by paranormal incidents didn’t mean an investigator should ignore human psychology. A good quarter of the cases referred to me turned out to be not paranatural at all.

  But that didn’t mean I had to like it. I said, helpfully, “The ashes, Sergeant Thresher, QED. Not a crisis apparition on time-delay. And not a ghost. I know ghosts.”

  I got an impassive stare in return. My bad. Ashes could be generic. The key could have been an extra.

  Since Nathan’s death I’d had personal experience with the phenomena of after-death hallucinations. A couple of times in the past days when I was out and about dealing with things I’d been willing to swear I’d seen Nathan’s sleek head in a passing car. All it takes is a set of the shoulders, a gesture, or a glimpse of a profile, to trigger an overlay and impose a familiar visage on a stranger’s face. They say this visual deceit, this refusal to accept, happens most often when death is unexpected. Nathan’s death had most certainly been unexpected.

  In my case, the syndrome reflected not grief, but an abiding fear. That Nathan dead was too good to be true.

  Thresher kept touching my packets lightly and frowning over them like a psychometrist, as if he could read their history by touch. He paused most often on the wedding ring, as if something about it bothered him.

  “And you believed this…zombielike replica of your husband had inimical intentions?”

  “Yes, I had that impression. Stupid question, Sergeant. You do know what zombies and others of that ilk do to the living? They need to feed. Some like to rape first. Or during.”

  “I’m aware of that, Ms. St. Claire, but you appear uninjured. Were you and your husband on good terms when he died?” His implication was obvious. Nathan might have come back for revenge, revenge being the prime impetus behind most revenant materializations.

  “No, we were not. If you must know, we had a vicious flaming fight the night he died.”

  I wasn’t going to play the grieving widow for his benefit, even if my admission did contradict my claim that the entity had not been a revenant.

  This time both strong eyebrows went up, but he didn’t pursue it. He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.

  “And you claim you dispersed this crypto-zombie with ordinary bath salts?”

  I stiffened. “Salt is the essential element, Sergeant. Are you unaware of its effective properties?”

  “Quite aware, Ms. St. Claire. I always carry a few grains of salt with me.” He paused to see if I’d gotten the point. I reminded myself again that I needed this guy and didn’t bite. I smiled back and said cordially, “Wise of you. I like to carry around several ounces myself.” He dropped his hands to riffle through more pages and hunhed again.

  Eventually, he turned to my qualifications, if that’s the proper word. I curled an ankle around the chair leg to curb my impatience. I was reporting a paranormal attack, not applying for a job.

  “I see you earned a postgraduate degree in parapsychology. You see ghosts. How? As a medium, a
channel? In a trance?”

  “No. I see them clearly as corporeal on all occasions, not on the intermittent, flickering fuzzy basis with which they’ve been disturbing the general public. And without any alteration of consciousness. It’s a visual condition. But not limited to sight only. Think of it as a form of synesthesia, if you like. Terms like channel are a little out of date in occultology, by the way, Sergeant, though many, principally older psychics, still use those terms and claim those communication skills.”

  Channel always made me think of a muddy canal. I disliked the term. In fact, I considered some of the old-style channels—if not outright frauds, with their spirit guides and ancient masters—at best, examples of non-pathological schizophrenia. Anyway, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to remind him that Talents weren’t your average clairvoyant.

  “You see them clearly.” He leaned forward. “How do you distinguish the Godforsaken from the sentient in that case?”

  Other than seeing ghostly forms climb stairs that were no longer there, passing through doorways long blocked up or walking on ground or floor level no longer present, how did I distinguish?

  “They don’t have what I call true auras,” I stated. “And the nimbus varies, depending on the type of entity.” Since I didn’t know how familiar he was with apparitions and their characteristics, it seemed to be the best way to describe it. A coruscating black glitter had surrounded the zombie-thing last night.

  “Interesting.” He didn’t elaborate on why he found it so. “You see them,” he repeated. “You disperse them too, I understand. How?”

  I smiled, thinly. He was fishing without a license for that pond. “It’s a Talent,” I said and pushed back my headscarf so he could see my hair. Of course, Talent was the nice word for people like me. Some people called us the Cursed—when they didn’t call us Freaks.

  “So, your chief skill as a Talent is exorcism, in plain words.”

  I nodded. Exorcism was accurate enough. I didn’t fool around with chalk circles, incantations and that arcane crap. Those were things I considered pure stage effects to impress an audience, tradition be damned. The automatic assumption that I employed them always annoyed me. Herbs and incense and essential oils were fine, no problem. Used them myself, not with any profound faith in their traditional efficacy, but on the principle that anything that smells good is apt to repel anything bad.

  “Talent is remarkably individual, I understand. Do you possess animation Talents as well, Ms. St. Claire?”

  Did he suspect I’d raised Nathan myself and lost control of him and was trying to cover up by reporting an attack? Maybe that was the point he’d been leading up to with his questions about my Talent.

  “If you’re asking can I call up ghosts, resurrect spirits, it doesn’t usually apply, since I can see them without effort on my part. I prefer not to animate in any case unless there’s no other option or solution. In any case, my peculiar visual acuity means I don’t have to rely on a spirit’s whim or urge for temporary visibility, or for the usual symptoms of cold spots, disembodied voices or table knocking and rocking that afflicts the population at large these days.”

  He said an odd thing, “Da-shealladh. You must find the world very crowded.”

  Da-shealladh—the two-sighted, the double vision. Most people translated the Gaelic as “second sighted,” meaning “foresight.” I caught myself twisting my bracelets back and forth under the concealing sleeves of my jacket while I turned his words over in my mind. Crowded. This sergeant was the first person who seemed to comprehend that I walked in two worlds.

  “Let’s be plain here, Sergeant. If you’re asking am I strong enough to animate the dead, the answer is yes, I think so. If you’re asking do I reanimate the dead, bodily, the answer is no. I do not and will not. That’s a blood rite.”

  Which was another thing I had against Body Animators—animal sacrifice. If animators needed fresh blood, I believed they or their clients should damn well supply it, not some dumb and trusting animal.

  “I need to go there,” I burst out. “The stone hasn’t been delivered yet. Willowbank’s not an inactive cemetery.” A zombie meant a missing body. Since the body had been Nathan’s, it meant an opened grave. I waited for comprehension to dawn on his impassive face. The barest flicker in his eyes showed me it had, probably some time ago. He was certainly quick, I had to give him that.

  The sergeant nodded. “I understand that. We need you to identify your husband’s gravesite. Like you, I’m not totally convinced that your visitor was a zombie, some of the details you’ve provided seem ambiguous, but one way to determine the nature of the entity is to examine the gravesite. I’ll drive you to the cemetery. I intended to visit the location anyway, and you can direct me.”

  It didn’t occur to me until later that the custodian could have served as their first source to direct them to the proper plot. I suppose it was because I wanted to, had to, see the site for myself, to verify in my own troubled mind that I hadn’t imagined Nathan’s presence, Nathan’s face. Unless I was delusional about last night, there would be evidence. Black cocks maybe, a goat or some other poor animal. Helpless bodies drained of blood as a cruel aid to animate the equally helpless dead into an obscene parody of a living being.

  5.

  Willowbank Cemetery lay in a hidden valley just outside the boundaries of the Old Town, secluded from the sound of traffic from the highway above, the surrounding subdivision and an industrial park by a thick band of trees.

  Past the polished granite gateposts, the way in wound along a narrow, gravel road, tunnel dark with cedar, spruce and pine. An appropriate entry, I suppose, to the abode of the dead. The road opened to a long, sunny, sloping field above the river. A field that grew only artificial flowers—though the odd butter-yellow forsythia or purple lilac sprouted in the oldest section—and a variety of headstones, some plain, some ornate, and the occasional mausoleum, like stone piles in a farmer’s pasture. Most people considered it a peaceful, pleasant place.

  I did not. Though the older section was quiet enough. There, those spirits of the dead attracted to the spot had mostly dissipated, or faded into mere shimmers of energy motes, or drifted on to other sites. Only a few curled like vicious embryos in their coffins, chained there by ancient ritual. No Sensitive in her right mind would call up those.

  Nathan’s people resided in the old, early section. He’d been rather proud of the fact, first families and all that, though Willowbank was not the first or only cemetery connected with the Old Town. Some early patriarch bought up any number of burial plots and erected a decidedly phallic pillar, on which were inscribed the names of his eight children and their spouses. He consigned the remainder in his will for future generations. Nathan’s was the last plot in the family boneyard. No room for me. A fact for which I was devoutly glad.

  The caretaker’s clapboard house sat watch from a narrow enclave on the west side of the laneway. Next to it stood the shed that housed the lawn-mowing, snowplowing and grave-digging equipment. A second set of true gates in a low stone wall marked the cemetery proper. On a small central knoll beyond crouched the storage crypt for coffins of the winter dead under an ancient willow. Sometimes the frost went deep, too deep for man to bite and gouge the necessary gaping rectangle in the bruised and reluctant earth.

  As we turned the last curve, I saw the old caretaker, in plaid shirt, work pants and gum boots, standing in the middle of the roadway, waving his arms to signal us to stop.

  I cried, “Oh, no!” I threw an arm across my face. Naturally we drove right through him.

  “I thought they stayed more or less in place,” Thresher said irritably. He brought the unmarked Royal Vic to a stop just short of the open gates. “What’s the matter? You must be inured to apparitions by now as part of your occupation. One expects them here in numbers, I would think.”

  I gulped air and didn’t answer. Much worse than I expected. Much worse.

  He reached over and released my seat belt. Then he said, ge
ntly, “Ms. St. Claire, I realize it’s hard and nasty when the sacrifice of animals is involved. But if your visitor last night was indeed a zombie, surely you can expect—”

  “Contrary to public perception, Sergeant, graveyards aren’t particularly haunted. Not too many people die in graveyards…” I realized I was babbling. Holding the belt webbing with both hands like a lifeline, I stopped, swallowed and finally added, “I’m afraid you will need to call the homicide unit.”

  He went still, brought a long leg back inside and closed his car door, turned and gave me a hard stare.

  “Explain.”

  “I recognized that apparition. Mr. Pearson, the caretaker here. I know for a fact he was alive yesterday for I talked to him on the phone about the delivery dates for my husband’s tombstone.”

  With a helpless sense of foreboding, I choked out, “I don’t think this animator used animals.”

  He hadn’t. Or she hadn’t. Or they.

  No one answered the door of the caretaker’s house, though Thresher hammered on it. Grim-faced, he came down off the small porch to the cruiser and opened my door. We walked in silence through the gates to the cemetery proper and turned left at my gesture.

  Nathan’s grave was a gaping hole, his empty coffin leaning against one side of the pit. Beyond, the little backhoe straddled smashed and toppled tombstones. A crowbar stood upright, stabbed in one of the gouts of earth that had been flung in random, giant handfuls around the open gravesite.

  The caretaker’s body hung, draped, in a manner of speaking, over a tombstone a little ways beyond Nathan’s gravesite. For convenience. His throat slashed. I wondered what they had used for a blood basin. The flies were busy, crawling and swarming in ecstasy around the corpse. I saw all that before Thresher stepped in front of me and punched at his cell phone.

  Now police crawled the site.

  I sat. No, I huddled, with my head on my drawn-up knees, on the stepped base of the family obelisk at an adequate distance from the desecration, feeling like a bird of ill omen. I was temporarily forgotten and ignored, and glad to be so.