Dark & Disorderly

by Bernita Harris

  “So you heard the kitten crying and came down to get it? That was a brave thing to do,” I said, sliding the padded harness around her tiny sodden body, snapping the hooks, praying I got it right and tight with shaking fingers, trying to nourish her life spark with as much energy as I dared. Not something I was good at, but I tried.

  Stay with me, child. Don’t give up now, little girl, don’t let go, not when there’s warmth and love waiting.

  It was hard to see when I blocked the light bending over her, in spite of the bright spot aimed down at us. It was harder, in the overwhelming urge to get her and myself up out of this fetid hole to daylight, not to rush.

  “No…the woman dropped him… She picked him up…she said, ‘Ding dong dell…’ dropped him straight in…and then…and then…she just went in the house… I could see he was swimming when I looked down… I had to… I don’t like…mean, cruel people.”

  “I don’t either, sweetheart. Here, wasn’t what I intended but let’s see if this will work.” I slithered my jacket from my back, tied the sleeves around the girl’s neck and tucked the rest in under the harness to make a pouch for the kitten against her chest. I’d had some vague idea of wrapping her in it but soon realized the bulk would only complicate strapping her in.

  “You’re one tough little girl, Tiffany. Now, there’s some nice strong men waiting for you at the top, and they’re anxious to meet you. Maybe your mommy and daddy, too.”

  The lolling head straightened. She tried to smile.

  I squinted up into the light and called, “Two to beam up, Scotty. One has four legs. Make sure you keep the pair of them together. She needs him.”

  As the winch started to grind, I plastered my back against the wall and swung her against me, steadied her dangling, dripping legs as they hoisted her up and past me toward the light.

  They cheered when she reached the top.

  I wasted no time dragging my feet up on the same ledge she’d just vacated, and leaned back against the curving wall to wait my turn. The hole seemed smaller after she’d gone, not larger.

  Shortly, the sirens screamed, demanding passage.

  Alone in turn, except for the harsh sound of my breathing quivering against the cold slime of the well, I watched a tulip bulb bob in the murky water like a tiny skull. I wondered how many wandering pets had been sacrificed to that woman’s superstition.

  Ding, dong, dell, pussy’s in the well.

  Who pushed her in…

  How many crumbling feline skeletons lay crushed by my feet in the sediment below the murky water? And then I wondered if there were a particular ghost the woman sought to avert or propitiate in this sick fashion, and if all the bones below were animal. The message, the image, I’d received on the soft fragrant wind above hadn’t come from Tiffany.

  Short of dredging, I knew one quick way to find out, but I wasn’t sure I dared. Ghost raising was not a form of animation I often practiced. Hardly a prudent thing to do in the circumstances.

  “Lillie?”

  “Sergeant.”

  “We’re ready to winch you up now.”

  “Sergeant, warn them. I might bring with me more than myself and I don’t want you or them surprised. You all might dump me back in. And turn off that damned spot, it hurts my eyes.”

  “Nothing you do surprises me anymore, St. Claire. Will do.”

  I took a deep breath, joined my wrists and let the energy flow.

  The specter waif materialized, clawed at me, burrowed against me.

  Help me, please.

  A girl in a flowered dress with long dark hair, small like Tiffany.

  Did you fall, little one?

  She pushed me. My sister. Don’t leave me. Help me, please.

  “Up. Now,” I said to the ring of faces above, ignored the drain of energy and gathered her tight.

  We reached the top and daylight, and blurry, noisy people.

  As Johnny’s big hands caught and swung us away from the lip, she slipped from my arms, detaching herself from my shaking body even before I shut off the link.

  She danced in a circle, arms spread, her skirt flaring. The light, she said. Lilacs. Thank you.

  And faded.

  I sprawled on my behind on the grass. Johnny, on his knees beside me, busy with safety hooks, said quietly, “That was damned risky, Lillie. Why did you do that?”

  “Justice,” I said and toppled, down a tunnel of troubled voices into the dark.

  Later, after a reviving whiff of oxygen and while I hunched in a blanket in the open back doors of the second ambulance, I told him.

  “Her sister pushed her. You’ll have to order them to dredge the well. Her bones are down there,” I said, between chattering teeth, while a paramedic, deprived of providing more substantial first aid and forced to cope with Johnny’s interference, cleaned and tut-tutted over the cut on my brow, then applied fresh tape.

  Johnny wrapped my shaking paws around a Styrofoam cup. “Here, get this inside you… I spoke with the father. There was another daughter. She disappeared about fifty years ago. The woman we met, the eldest daughter, told everyone she saw her sister abducted, snatched off the sidewalk while the two of them played hopscotch. Bundled into a car by a man who sped off.”

  “What was her name? Names didn’t come up during our brief acquaintance.”

  “I hear the mills of the gods grinding fine around you, St. Claire. He showed me her picture. Her name was Katie. But everyone called her ‘Kitten.’”

  I couldn’t keep my mouth steady, so I gulped at my coffee and nearly choked. That accounted for the tears in my eyes when I raised my head.

  30.

  The rescue team finished loading their equipment and banged shut the van’s doors. The crew chief looked over and started toward us, but halted when Sullivan, in formal regalia, trailed by the official police photographer, bustled past him. The crew chief threw up his hands, circled his arms in an imaginary hug and turned away.

  I moaned. “Oh, shit.”

  “Steady, Lillie.”

  “I hate this. That cameraman. Publicity shots. Stan the Man. Sullivan’s pushing to make the chief’s job permanent.”

  “Can’t blame him for that.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  Sullivan came at me with his hand outstretched. I eyed it as I would an enraged gander, swallowed a last swig of coffee and handed Johnny my cup, just in time.

  “Fine job, Ms. St. Claire, fine job,” Sullivan said in a gust of garlic, pumping my grubby hand and beaming at the camera at the same time. I pulled the slipping blanket tighter with the other. No need for any wet T-shirt photos to make the rounds.

  “I’m due to give a press conference in fifteen minutes to announce the good news. But I had to take the time to inspect the scene and congratulate the members of the team like yourself on a successful search.”

  “Thank you.” I extracted my hand with difficulty. He wanted to pat it. “The people who deserve congratulations are the rescue crew for their speed and expertise. If it weren’t for them she might still be down there. And thank the little girl herself for her courage.”

  “Old Town PD’s fortunate we have your Talent on call. I’ll be sure to mention your assistance.” He waved the photographer off and lowered his voice. “Er…I’m curious…how did you come to zero in on this particular property? I understood the search team had already cleared this area.”

  My clothes might not be dry but my voice was. “It’s what I do.”

  I pushed myself off to the ground, still clutching the blanket. Johnny held my little cap and keys, but my jacket had gone with Tiffany in the other ambulance. “Can I keep this for the time being?” I asked the paramedic, over my shoulder. “I promise to return it.” At his nod, I thanked him and turned back to Sullivan.

  “It’s hard to explain, Sergeant Sullivan. And you don’t have the time. Neither do I, not right now. I need to get into something dry.”

  “You might not have been informed of the whole story, Ser
geant. Ms. St. Claire went down the well to get the child,” Johnny put in. “If you’ll excuse us, she really does need to attend to herself. I’m taking her home.” With that, he guided me around the rear of the ambulance and away from Sullivan’s astonished face.

  My boots squelched with every step. “Thank you for the extraction. I hope you have plastic or something to put over your car seat. I’m still drippy.”

  “Not a problem, St. Claire. That was a gutsy thing you did.”

  “I stink too, from that putrid well,” I said ruefully. I’d just realized it.

  “Shut up, St. Claire. There’s a newspaper on the seat. You’ve got a blanket. Just get in.”

  St. Claire. That sounded better than Ms. St. Claire. More inter pares. I liked it. Without intending to, maybe I’d proved something. Not innocence though. I’d probably never be able to prove that. Not to Johnny Thresher’s satisfaction. My sense of temporary alliance in the interest of a good cause faded. I looked out the window glumly.

  “My car’s at the detachment,” I reminded him. He’d gone through the intersection.

  “I’m driving you to your house. I want to examine the property bag of personal effects from the accident. I’ll wait while you shower and change, and I’ll bring you back to the station to pick up your car.”

  “That’s very kind,” I said. “Unfortunately, my house keys are in my car in my bag under the front seat.”

  “That’s no problem. I have your husband’s key.”

  For that, soaked and miserable as I was at that moment, I was grateful. Particularly grateful that I had someone big beside me going back to the house.

  A sharp glance. “Unless you’ve changed the locks?”

  “I haven’t had time. And I didn’t think it mattered. Not then.”

  Inside, while braced against the banister to pull off my soaking footwear, I listened to the house but perceived no disturbance in its passive energy currents, no sense of infiltration.

  Again, I left damp sock prints on the hall floor and the stairs on my way to the tub, shedding my clothing as I went. At least, this time, my soggy condition had been a deliberate choice.

  Twenty-five minutes later, dressed again in matching jeans and jacket, my wet hair sleeked under a scarf, and my reeking clothes and blanket stuffed in a garbage bag for a trip to the laundromat, I was good to go.

  Johnny Thresher waited, checking his watch at the foot of the stairs, the bag of effects in his hand. I made no silly apologies for keeping him waiting. He’d offered. I’d been quick and I knew it.

  “Laundry,” I said by way of answer to his eyebrows.

  On the way back, he had one question. “Tell me, St. Claire, what you meant after we hauled you up out of that stinking hole, when you said ‘justice’?”

  I glanced over at his stern profile. “Redress, I suppose. My basic sense is somewhat old-fashioned and impatient.”

  “How is that?”

  “Justice, as it is presently practiced, doesn’t always serve to protect the innocent. I think, in certain circumstances, the principle of an eye for an eye has much to recommend it. I also approve of extreme prejudice in certain instances.”

  Not the most diplomatic thing to admit to an officer of the law.

  “People frequently make hardline announcements,” Johnny observed to the street ahead. “But when it comes down to the crunch, they flinch at pulling the trigger.”

  This meant, I supposed, he thought I was talking big and blowing smoke. We drove the rest of the way to the station in silence. He parked next to my car.

  “Thank you for the lift to and fro. I appreciate it,” I said, reaching for the bag at my feet and for the door lever at the same time.

  The locks snicked down.

  “We have to talk,” he said, crossing his arms over the steering wheel. He didn’t look at me.

  “Unless you want to inform me about the progress of your investigations, Sergeant, I don’t think we have anything to discuss. Release the door lock, please.”

  “Lillie…”

  “Why don’t you keep to ‘St. Claire,’ Sergeant Thresher? It’s more professional, don’t you think? Now unlock this goddamned door!”

  “Will you listen to me?”

  “Not under duress. Not confined.”

  The locks popped up.

  “I’m getting out now,” I said, unclenching my teeth. “If you have anything to say I will hear to it outside. Or you can come and sit in my car.”

  I unlocked my car, popped the trunk and stalked back to toss in the bag of laundry.

  “I never suspected you were in any way claustrophobic,” Johnny said, coming around. “Not after seeing you go down that narrow bore well.”

  “That was a quite different thing.” I slammed down the trunk just as he reached to do it for me. “That was by choice. There’s a difference. Like the one between consensual sex and rape.”

  I looked up at him. “Well? What’s it to be?”

  “I think you should be sitting down,” he said, grim-faced, and went around to the passenger door.

  I slid under the wheel, shoved the files on the dash and waited while he fumbled to adjust the passenger seat to accommodate his long legs. He rolled down the window and turned to face me, aligning his body against the door frame, deceptively casual. His gaze roved over me, his eyes glittering cold as a winter’s night. Whatever was on his mind would not be good. Too bad. What was on mine regarding him wasn’t good either. I pattered my fingers on the padded steering wheel and glowered back.

  “We need to discuss a couple of items. First, the pizza worker has admitted under questioning he strung the garrote on your porch. He denies having anything to do with the sabotage to your car. He also swears he acted independently and that the SOS at large has no part or knowledge of his plans.” I grimaced and raised an eyebrow. His job, not mine. “Second, I spoke with your husband this morning.”

  If he expected a bombshell effect, I didn’t disappoint him. My braced hands on the wheel flopped at my sides and I sagged against the seat. I had expected some half-assed but truculent excuse for his behavior. Certainly not this.

  “And his story is?” I asked after several deep breaths that failed to reduce the tightness in my chest.

  “Mr. Strange told me he was riding as a passenger, because another friend, a man named Phillip Tradittori, wanted to try out the car. Apparently, your husband considered selling it. When they went into the guardrail and flipped, your husband’s air bag deployed and the driver’s didn’t. And Tradittori had failed to wear his seat belt. Strange doesn’t remember anything about his actions subsequent to the crash. He came to himself in a motel in the city a week later with no idea how he arrived there, at which point he contacted a friend. This friend informed him that Tradittori had been buried in his place and that there were deep suspicions and various rumors about the cause of the accident.”

  I folded my flaccid paws in my lap. Just as I feared, from Johnny’s account Nathan had managed to draw a veil of plausibility over the whole affair.

  “And did he give any reason for not coming forward immediately after this convenient amnesia?”

  “Strange said he’d decided to hide out for a time, because he feared for his life.”

  “He claimed the SOS was responsible, I suppose?”

  “Not exactly, though they were mentioned.”

  “Then…” I looked up and saw something in the dark blue eyes.

  “Oh. I see,” I said, slowly twisting my bracelets back and forth and letting my gaze slide past him. A gossip of sparrows congregated on the chain-link fence, flitting and twittering like thoughts. “He pointed the finger at me, I take it.” Same old. Always my fault. Always my failure.

  “You’re taking this accusation of his very calmly.”

  “To me it’s a familiar pattern,” I said. “Did you actually see him in the flesh, not just a voice? Where is he?”

  “Yes, I met with him. I won’t disclose where.”

&nb
sp; He didn’t have to. I had a good idea where—and who the “friend” was. The aftershave.

  Haze diffused the afternoon sunlight. A breeze from his open window blew chill. If the temperature continued to drop, we were likely to have fog by evening. With a full moon due, it would be a perfect night for the Ghost Walkers. They loved these atmospherics. I turned the ignition and punched up the heat. Lucky for little Tiffany the night temperatures proved mild the past two days.

  “Just what am I supposed to have done?”

  Johnny checked his watch and rolled up the window before he answered.

  “He suspects you to be the cause of an ongoing physical and mental debilitation.”

  “That’s crap. He had the flu back in January. We both did. In fact, I was much sicker with it than he was and I likely caught it from him. He’s blaming that on me? Oh, never mind. Anything else you wish to share?”

  He didn’t answer. For all I knew he broke some sort of protocol by telling me this much, but that wasn’t my problem. Nobody said I couldn’t ask, and I’d been very good about not nagging for updates on the investigation. Too good. Maybe I should have been on his ass the entire time, about this and several other things—like the pizza man. I wondered if Nathan realized that Johnny Thresher might share the knowledge about Nathan’s undead status with me. I wondered if Johnny would have if I hadn’t found out for myself. I wanted to clutch at him, to plead, to beg for reassurance. Instead, I clutched at the steering wheel again.

  “Why you?” I asked into the silence, watching his fingers flex on his knee. “Why should he pick you to talk to? I suppose appearing in one’s own home by astral projection or thought form or whatever in hell that thing was is not a trespassing offence. Not a psi-crime. Especially since I destroyed it before it had a chance to commit one. And since the zombie was apparently Tradittori and not Nathan after all, he can’t be accused of that attack or the one on Chief Secord. Of course, it neatly and conveniently solves the case of the attack on the chief, except for little things like finding the animator who activated that zombie. The sabotage to Nathan’s car falls under regular police investigative work. You claim you deal with psi-crime. So if he’s not involved, why you?”