Dark & Disorderly

by Bernita Harris

  Staff in each of the businesses I visited at the Italian-style villa on River seemed honestly bewildered by my arrival and disclaimed any knowledge of ghostly visitations. By and large, most of the office staff I interviewed seemed to think the idea rather funny. They were a young lot and the businesses were mostly programming services for dot-com ventures. That might account for it. Oblivious to and uninterested in any ghosts except for those within their machines.

  Someone asked if I was a specter inspector. Someone else said the only spirits he knew of were in the boss’s desk. And suggested I liberate them. No one connected me with the woman in the creek, but that might have been because of the cocky navy cap I wore slanted down to my right eye and my mod jacket and jeans.

  Some, I’m sure, wondered if I was trying to drum up business. The receptionist at the travel agency whom I first approached and who apparently acted also as a building superintendent, as much as said so.

  After I showed her the request and approval from the town she unbent enough to introduce me throughout the building, to unlock doors to the empty flat and artist’s studio on the second floor to let me cruise through. From the paintings stacked and hung along the walls, the artist worked with pre-Raphaelite subjects in an impressionist style. I liked them very much. The tenant was vacationing in Italy, she told me, and not due back until later this month. I wasn’t so sure of that. The flat showed signs of recent occupation—or at least use, for I smelled men’s aftershave, the same fruity brand that Nathan used. But it wasn’t my business.

  She also showed me the stairs to the basement and obligingly signed my form to certify I’d been. Just to be sure, I checked the parking lot and the lawn behind the building as well.

  Past time I questioned the dead. I drove toward Deadman’s Point. Slowly. Much to the irritation of other drivers.

  Because I didn’t know the exact location.

  Because I was nervous on the downgrades. Because I needed to search for signs: raw ruts in the gravel of the shoulder, gouges in the dun winter grass of the ditch, a break in a guardrail, a smash of trees. A figure standing or sitting where a figure shouldn’t be.

  Because the last thing I wanted to see again in this life was Nathan’s face.

  I had to pull over and stop several times to rest my head on my arms over the steering wheel. To clamp down on the memory and imagination that created ghoulish faces on my windshield.

  Memories of Nathan’s features distorted in anger, twisted in contempt or tight with lust. Imagining how his face must have looked after the accident, before the paramedics and the emergency crew pried him out of the mangled remains of his car. Remembering how his zombie looked bursting through my front door. Hoping the specter I sought would not reflect the in medias res damage from the accident scene.

  I came to the place at last. Where the highway narrowed between a ridges of solid rock before a downhill curve. I knew it was the place because of the fresh scar on the rock face, the wrinkled steel of the guardrail and the figure of a man who stood on the slope of scree below it.

  I drove a hundred yards or so until I found a safe spot to pull off and park. Clutching each wrist with the opposite hand to retain my courage, I trudged warily back.

  He was walking back and forth in the dank shadow of the rock, talking softly to himself when I arrived opposite. And the puzzle over Dumbarton’s rage on zombie night was solved. Along with the mystery of why Nathan had never haunted our house.

  His voice wasn’t Nathan’s voice. His clothes weren’t Nathan’s clothes. The face he turned toward me wasn’t Nathan’s face. The feeble remains of his aura that told me he was interactive were not unfamiliar. I’d seen them one night in an emergency cubicle in the hospital.

  Similar build, similar hair, almost exact on a similar elegant head, same color eyes, even vaguely similar features. Closer, the resemblance was much less remarkable, but no wonder I’d mistaken his bruised face and shattered body on the gurney for Nathan’s. We see what we expect to see.

  But I had never seen him before in my life.

  This man wasn’t Nathan.

  This ghost wasn’t Nathan’s ghost.

  He picked his way out of the shadow of the red rock, past the remains of a few cellophane-wrapped floral tributes and up the incline to where I stood frozen in sunlight.

  “What’s your name?” His voice was soft, with sweetness in it.

  “Lillie” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “Phillip,” he answered. “I like your name. I don’t understand, Lillie. They left me. I heard them. I was doing a favor for his friend and they left me. And I was so cold.”

  “Who left you, Phillip?”

  “I like your hair, Lillie. I would like to paint you. Would you let it down for me?”

  Slowly I undid the clasp holding my knot of hair in place. Sometimes one negotiates with the dead.

  “Ah, thank you,” he said, touching a strand lightly. “Like rainshine on the hills of Tuscany.”

  He raised a perplexed brown gaze to my face. His eyes were larger than Nathan’s and wider set, and without the slightest touch of guile.

  “I’ve been trying to understand, Lillie. He promised he would never leave me.”

  “Who left you, Phillip?”

  “Kevin. And Nathan. I don’t understand.”

  I did, and shivered in understanding. He was a bird brought down. Like they intended me to be. Pity for his pain and bewilderment made me wish to ease it, but I knew I should not.

  “I’m sorry, Phillip,” I said. “I must go now.”

  Sometimes you learn too much about the living from the dead.

  27.

  He bade me a wistful farewell. I looked back once at the curve, just before I broke into a run for my car. He had gone back to pacing back and forth below the rock face. I was glad I now had his original face to superimpose over that of the monstrosity sent to invade my living room.

  I don’t remember much about the drive back to town. It’s a wonder I didn’t get a ticket for running reds. I do remember a lot of car horns and a transport driver giving me the finger. Maybe I’d cut him off. I didn’t much care.

  My first headlong impulse was to run to the police station to find Johnny Thresher. My second, to brave the morgue and demand a DNA test—until I realized I didn’t know where the Nathan-zombie-that-wasn’t-Nathan-but-an-artist-named-Phillip had been taken or what they’d done with the body. My third impulse was to run far, far away and hide from the nightmare knowledge that Nathan was almost certainly alive. I couldn’t do that though, unless I could take Dumbarton with me.

  Instead, I went back to the town hall and typed up a bleak summation of my interview with and a description of the ghost of one Phillip, who may or may not have resided at 1945 River Road before he had been inveigled into driving Nathan’s car that night. And my suspicion that the body in Nathan’s car belonged to said Phillip and was not that of my husband. The memo took me quite a while to make legible. I had to backspace a lot.

  I e-mailed the report to Waredale PD, attention Sergeant Thresher, and copied the coroner. I felt considerably relieved after I hit Send. I printed out copies, signed them and addressed snail mail envelopes to the same.

  I also typed up a brief report about the lack of any White Lady or any other significant or injurious spirits at the aforementioned address on River owned by one Kevin Cornett. A report it had never been intended I would be alive to make. It gave me satisfaction to cross the case off my list and mark it NSF—No Spirit Found.

  I could see how easily Phillip had become the spur of the moment alternate as soon as Nathan announced I’d refused the bait to drive that night. Nathan certainly didn’t drive the sabotaged car himself. One or the other must have suggested that Phillip drive Nathan’s car. Perhaps Phillip had even offered. When he’d crashed the car in my place, they’d left him to die. One triangle resolved. Their tidy murder plot fell apart at that point, but they recovered. Later they used him like a blunt object, afte
r they cut off his artist’s fingers. Perhaps as a precaution against casual fingerprinting. Perhaps as part of some arcane ritual I had no knowledge of. Nathan knew I didn’t do zombies and despised the ceremonies of magick.

  Phillip, Mr. Pearson and Bobby. Maybe the mechanic. Three deaths to their credit and counting.

  Some time after I was out of the way—a tragic incident, that, done in by the forces she fought, you know—Nathan could reappear with a story, no doubt backed up by Kevin, that because of differences and difficulties in our marriage he’d left—as agreed between us, of course—on an extended trip or holiday and had no idea about the mistaken identity.

  Nathan would return clear of any wifely encumbrances, and in addition become the beneficiary of a tidy inheritance from my estate, which no doubt would go to remedy any deficiencies in Cornett’s finances. Some version or variation of that, I figured. I had served my primary usefulness in securing his uncle’s money, but I hadn’t become malleable. I had threatened divorce, which would have, according to the codicil, endangered his legacy. Kevin Cornett, an enthusiastic supporter of ASP, probably a secret Talent—a bokor, at least—was my replacement.

  Put like that, it all sounded very sordid.

  And stupid. Divorce was a simple solution. No stigma attached. Same-sex liaisons—if indeed that was the case—hardly raised eyebrows anymore.

  Except for their success in passing off Phillip as Nathan, the pair must be very disappointed to date. Despite several efforts to the contrary, I was still alive. I wondered if they blamed Johnny Thresher for my survival.

  Two other thoughts collided. One, that Johnny Thresher’s idea that I’d do well to remain MIA hadn’t been such a bad one, after all; and two, when he read my e-mail, his suspicious mind would probably conclude that I’d known about this deception all along. I couldn’t help that. I even understood it. I resented it just the same.

  On further reflection, I researched, downloaded a will form and used it as the basis of a holographic document which changed the name of my legatee. Stuffing it in an envelope marked For Safe Keeping, I shoved it the top drawer of Ted’s desk.

  Not knowing what else to do, I picked the next folder off the pile and scanned the contents. A new case from the Clean House pile, entered this morning while I was out, not backlog. I should expedite a few of those or the entire pile would end up being backlog.

  Another haunting complaint, audio only, a crying as from a whimpering child in some pensioner’s backyard. Said pensioner demanding, no doubt, either immediate relief from the haunting or a reduction of taxes in lieu. Since the Old Town had instituted the Clean House program where any landholder could request that their properties be cleared of manifestations, I got a lot of these. Just sitting here, I could almost hear the thin lost wails and wondered what ancient tragedy had suddenly manifested itself. The weather and the time of year were sometimes factors.

  A case from the other pile concerned a Ghost Walk license application, a request from the Business Improvement Association to Business Development that BD deflected to me. Ghost Walks were a perversely popular tourist draw. The more outré called them Death Walks.

  I couldn’t concentrate on the details so I stuck both files under my arm and went out to go home for a late lunch. Sometimes routine, the order of ordinary things, can save one’s sanity.

  Sometimes routine can be a trap.

  I worried about that and worried if there was more I should or could do, besides informing the proper authorities and trusting their routine to resolve this staggering development. Sitting behind the wheel in the municipal parking lot, watching the sun flare off the hood, I realized I was afraid to go home.

  Because it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t a sanctuary. I would only stand by the window watching for Nathan to stroll through the gate.

  Because there was nothing outside of public fuss, embarrassment and speculation to prevent Nathan from walking in the door. He could claim amnesia or whatever. With his smooth charm, he could make it stick. Even the zombie could be explained away, inevitably to my detriment. Any suspicion could be diverted in my direction.

  He could bide his time and opportunity and not have to rely on remote methods.

  And expect me to cohabit with my killer.

  I got the car door open in time. Before I spewed.

  The polished black shoes retreated in good order, also just in time.

  I looked up with teary eyes to see Johnny Thresher turn abruptly away. Here I was, showing weakness again. This was the second time I had displayed elegance and poise and upchucked in front of him. Tough men like Johnny Thresher didn’t admire sniveling and frailty. I wondered why I should give a sweet goddamn.

  In a moment he returned with an open bottle of water, handed it to me and said, like a dentist, “Rinse and spit.”

  I complied.

  When I handed it back, he splashed the rest on a paper towel and wiped my mouth and forehead.

  “Do you feel faint? Are you pregnant?”

  I shook my head. The horror of the idea made me want to retch again. “Did you get my e-mail?”

  “No.” His voice was guarded. “I’ve been out.”

  “Nathan’s alive,” I said baldly.

  “How do you know that? Explain.”

  “At the accident site. Not Nathan’s ghost.”

  I flopped sideways against the headrest and closed my eyes against the silence in his face. I was married to a murderer; I had slept with a murderer. I was tainted by more than Talent and the condition was just as permanent.

  “Ms. St. Claire, when you’ve recovered sufficiently, please follow me to the station. I’ll take your statement.” He wheeled about and climbed in his SUV.

  Ms. St. Claire. Not “Lillie.” My status had clearly been revised on my announcement that I was a widow no longer. Ah, well. I could hardly blame him. I’d have no trouble with distance now. He would handle it for me.

  Johnny Thresher stood waiting like a stone monolith in the station parking lot when I drove in and parked. He escorted me inside and into an interview room in silence. The ice floes off Baffin Island were soft ice cream by comparison with his eyes.

  I dropped the envelope on the table between us. “Here’s a hard copy of my e-mail.”

  He read it. He then proceeded to take me through my conversation with Phillip. My recitation didn’t vary much from my written account. I did make reference to the lack of any specter at the River Road address and its connection with the night of Nathan’s accident. However, I kept my conclusions to a minimum.

  Eventually, he leaned back.

  “You identified the body as your husband’s, did you not, Ms. St. Claire?”

  “Yes. If you read the medical files as you claimed, you know he had extensive facial injuries. The trauma unit had cut off his clothes. So there was nothing to alert me there.”

  “Wallet? Identification?”

  “Patrolmen in the ER told me they believed it had been lifted by a passerby who first happened on the accident. His pockets were turned out and his wallet missing. His laptop was missing as well. There was a gym membership card tucked in the visor, and the registration. All that should be in the reports.”

  “And where are those personal items now?”

  “The police returned what little they found. They’re in the plastic bag in the top drawer of the filing cabinet.”

  “Credit cards? Withdrawals?”

  “Several that evening from bank machines in the city. Those supported the theft of opportunity theory. Nathan kept a list. I was able to cancel them the next morning on police advice and with their assistance.”

  “Hunh.”

  “Is there some way to confirm? Can you do a DNA test?”

  “I ordered a DNA test after the zombie attack. The missing fingers, among other anomalies of the case, aroused my interest. The results came in this morning. The DNA did not match. The zombie who attacked Chief Secord and subsequently broke into your home was not your husband.”


  I twisted my bracelets while I assimilated the impact of his words. And the corollary to them. Twice, I’d been tempted to throw caution to the winds and let him into my bed. Thank God I hadn’t.

  “You mean you thought all along there was a possibility Nathan was alive? Is that what you’re saying, Sergeant?” I felt rather proud that I managed to keep my eyes and my voice level. That pain and the shame didn’t show, I hoped.

  “Not for…” He paused and cocked his head sideways. “Essentially, yes, Ms. St. Claire.”

  “And yet you put the moves on me, twice, thinking that and knowing I believed he was dead and that I was a widow. You bastard. I never imagined you were that low, Sergeant. My mistake.”

  My gaze dropped from his eyes and rested on his nice mouth, which had been very tight since my announcement. No, tight from when he first showed up beside my car. “If I had known. I would have never…I should have bitten you,” I said. Bitterness barbed my voice.

  He didn’t respond. I stood up. “Was it some sort of test, male ego, you in ‘good cop’ mode?”

  “Sit down, Lillie. We’re not finished yet.”

  “Or did you hope to take pictures? Oh, yes, Sergeant Thresher. We certainly are finished.” I could manage arctic wind chill too.

  Someone thumped the glass, opened the door. PC Wiggins.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant, Ms. St. Claire. Hope I’m not interrupting. Lillie, since you’re here, if you’d give us a statement about the blood-throwing incident at your house Saturday, we would appreciate it. We should have dropped by to see you before, but Sunday was shot, with the funeral and all.”

  “Of course.” I rested a hip on the table edge and gave it. He made notes.

  “Ah, great. Just one more question, Lillie. I should be asking you this in private but we’re crowded today. Another Amber Alert—we’re processing every perv on our list. Sorry, Sergeant, but it’s procedure, and Sullivan’s having a cat fit and shitting bricks over this. You didn’t hear me say that. The suspect, Marshall Miller, claims he was roughed up by Sergeant Thresher during the takedown, excessive force used. Miller shows bruises he says back his story. Did you witness anything of that nature, Lillie?