The Rising: A Badlands Novel

by Morgan Brice

  Firefighters still battled the blaze, trying to put out a fire that Simon knew couldn’t have been spontaneous.

  A bomb. Someone bombed their car. Oh, God—

  Everything went still in Simon’s head, except for the pounding of his heart. He stood, frozen in place, needing to know where Vic was and afraid to find out. His breath came in sharp, shallow pants.

  Vic. I need to find Vic. Sweet Jesus, let him be okay.

  One of the uniformed cops noticed Simon and started toward him. “This is a restricted area. You need to leave.”

  “Simon!” Captain Hargrove’s voice stopped the cop in his tracks and broke through the haze of fear that had Simon paralyzed.

  Simon looked up as Hargrove approached, unable to find his voice. The look on his face must have been sufficient.

  “Vic and Ross are okay. They’re safe.”

  “Then who—” Simon managed, staring at the body under the sheet. Hargrove grabbed his bicep and steered him through the chaos, maneuvering around officers, EMTs, and firefighters, making sure Simon didn’t trip over the hoses.

  “We don’t know for sure. But the winning theory at the moment is that he’s a would-be thief with the world’s worst luck,” Hargrove replied. “From the surveillance video, we know a guy in a hoodie broke the car window and tossed something inside. The other guy came out a few seconds later, saw the smashed window and must have decided to look for spare change or valuables. He caught the full blast.”

  Later, Simon would feel bad for the dead man. Now, all he could process was that Vic and Ross were alive. The words “they’re safe” echoed in his mind, but he knew he wouldn’t really believe it until he saw them.

  “Found him!” Hargrove announced as he led Simon into the apartment complex office where a small crowd of first responders was gathered.

  Vic plowed through the group, with Ross right behind. Simon laid a hand on Vic’s shoulder, unsure how much Vic felt comfortable showing in front of the crowd. Vic pulled him into an embrace, and Simon hugged him hard in return before stepping back.

  “What happened?” Simon asked.

  Vic shook his head. “We’re not sure yet. Ross and I went across the street to ask about Bradley at the bar. When we came out, ka-boom.”

  Simon shivered. The twisted, melted metal suggested a true inferno. “Did anyone see—”

  Vic jerked his head toward where two cops were hunched over the shoulder of the hotel manager in front of a computer. “They’re going over the security tapes now. All I’ve seen so far is a guy in a hoodie running away after breaking into the car. Tape’s black and white, so we can’t even get a color on the damn sweatshirt.”

  Simon could see the tension in the line of Vic’s jaw, and in the way he held his shoulders. The attack terrified Simon, but it clearly made Vic mad as fuck.

  “Come on,” Vic said, guiding Simon back outside with Ross right behind them. “Since you’re here, let’s have a look at Bradley’s room—if you’re up for it.” He met Simon’s gaze as if he could guess the emotional roller coaster of the past few minutes.

  Simon swallowed hard and then nodded. Vic’s safe. He’s alive. He’s here. It’s okay. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry you came in on it like this, but I’m glad you weren’t around for the show,” Vic continued as they sidestepped pools of whatever the firefighters had used to extinguish the blaze and contain spilled fluids.

  Now that he was closer, Simon could see where the fire had scorched part of the roof overhang and melted the asphalt around the car. The plume of black smoke had lessened, but not the noxious odor of burning plastic, rubber and gasoline. An oily residue in the air meant Simon could taste the fumes, and he knew he would still smell the fire for hours afterward.

  “Whoever did it knew you weren’t in the car, and set it to blow anyhow,” Simon reasoned out loud. “So they weren’t trying to kill.”

  Ross nodded, a tight-lipped expression on his face. “A warning is our guess. Helluva way to send a message.”

  “But was it about the wreck of the Annabelle, Bradley’s murder, or the stolen knives?” Simon mused.

  “Your guess is as good as ours,” Vic replied.

  Simon stopped just before they got to Bradley’s door, which was directly behind the burned car. The paint had bubbled and charred from the explosion, and the outside walls were streaked with soot. After the way the fire had turned his emotions inside-out, Simon wanted to be prepared in case Bradley’s ghost was waiting to whammy him. But as he sent out his psychic “feelers,” Simon didn’t sense a ghostly ambush waiting to happen.

  “What?” Ross asked.

  Simon blinked and came back to himself. “Sorry. Just…the psychic equivalent of peering around corners. Wanted to know what I’m walking into.”

  Ross unlocked the door, and the three stepped inside. Ross closed the door behind them to shut out the chaos of the parking lot. Light-blocking curtains pulled partway across the windows had protected the room somewhat from the blast, but the glass had shattered, and shards sprayed out from the explosion.

  Simon stopped in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths to ground himself. Bradley’s ghost didn’t respond to his call; no surprise, since Simon had been attempting to connect with the spirit since the murder. All he picked up were echoes of strong emotions. Anticipation, nervousness, worry, resentment, and bitter loneliness.

  “Anything?” Vic asked when Simon shook himself out of his trance.

  “Bradley either can’t hear me or doesn’t want to make an appearance,” Simon replied. “And I’ve been trying.” He glanced at Ross. “Not all souls become ghosts. Some go right on to…wherever. As for the others, it’s a little different for each one. It takes some people a while before they figure out how to show themselves as a spirit, while others get the knack pretty quickly.”

  “Were you able to read anything?” Ross asked.

  Simon nodded. “More like picking up on his mood. He was excited about something good in the future—maybe the payday he thought he’d get from whatever he found in the dive. But he was also uneasy—probably about how rough the water was. If Bradley was a serious diver, he had to know that the conditions made it treacherous.”

  He paused, parsing through his impressions. “Josh Williams said that Bradley had a reputation as a dive poacher, so he definitely made enemies. I think he resented not having his ability as a wreck diver appreciated, that he didn’t get the professional recognition he thought he deserved. Not like Josh, who’s made quite a name for himself.”

  Simon hesitated, thinking through the jumble of feelings he picked up from the room’s resonance. “If I had to guess—and I’m filling in a lot of blanks here—I’d say that somewhere along the line, Bradley lost out to Josh or someone like him, and Bradley didn’t think it was fair. So there’s a lot of anger, and a dangerous need to prove himself, show he was good enough—or better.”

  He frowned. “I’m also betting that his poaching isolated him from the exploration community—understandably. So he was alone—and blamed other people for it.”

  “That’s one hell of a ghostly shrink session,” Ross replied. “You got all that from an empty room?”

  Simon managed a wan smile. “It’s not really empty if you know where to look. And a lot of what I told you is interpretation. We already knew Bradley was a greedy asshole who didn’t care about the history of the wrecks or whose research he hurt by poaching.”

  “So the question is, was the explosion meant to warn us off investigating Bradley’s murder, or did the bomber think the car belonged to Bradley and was telling him to fuck off?” Vic mused.

  “Possible,” Ross replied. “We’ll have to see if there’s enough left of the bomb for forensics to come up with details.”

  Vic gave Simon an apologetic look. “I’m sorry for dragging you into the middle of this when I’m going to have to stay—probably late. Are you okay to drive back?”

>   Simon nodded. “Yeah. And believe me, I’m glad I didn’t see the explosion on TV.”

  He left Vic and Ross with the swarm of cops at the apartment and headed back to the shop. A glance at his watch told him that it was nearly closing time. Simon called Pete to close, figuring that with the storm threat the shop wouldn’t be busy. Then he headed back to the blue bungalow, needing to clear his mind and let go of the tension from the events of the afternoon.

  Simon had set the slow cooker before he left that morning, so the house smelled of pot roast. He checked to make sure there was enough liquid on the meat, and then gathered the items he needed to soothe his nerves.

  He lit a bundle of dried sage and smudged, letting the smell relax him. Simon put on water for tea, choosing a mix of matcha, chamomile, and citrus to help him unwind and get a second wind. Then he lit candles on the kitchen table, focusing on his thankfulness that Vic and Ross were all right, and his desire to stop more people from getting hurt.

  Simon sat at the table and narrowed his concentration to the dancing flames in front of him. He took deep breaths to center himself and ran through a guided meditation he had memorized. Before long, he felt much less jangled. When his tea finished steeping, Simon brought the cup with him, inhaling the soothing vapors.

  All of his preparations helped, but deep down they couldn’t erase the bone-deep fear he’d felt when he saw the burned-out car and the body. Logically, he knew that being a cop was a dangerous job and that Vic knew how to handle it. But deep inside, he struggled.

  Bad things can happen to people in office jobs, he reminded himself, thinking of the Twin Towers and workplace violence. He understood that nowhere was one hundred percent safe. And he knew when he fell in love with Vic that the badge came with the deal, in the same way Simon’s psychic abilities were part of who he was. But most days, the dangers were theoretical. Today, they were frighteningly real.

  His phone rang, and he recognized the number. “Hi, Travis. What’s up?”

  “I wondered whether you’d had any more trouble with the boo hag,” Travis replied. “And, to be honest, I got a really strong psychic image of you and fire. Is everything okay?”

  Simon couldn’t help smiling, touched that his fellow psychic was worried. He told Travis what had happened at Bradley’s apartment, and the new twists with the ghosts since their previous conversation.

  “That’s quite a lot going on,” Travis said. “Watch your back on the man’s ghost in the house. He sounds like the kind who could be big trouble.”

  “Yeah, I’m bringing backup to the séance,” Simon replied. “But if I’m right about the ghost possession for the hangings, then there has to be a way to figure out whose ghost is causing the problem and what’s giving it power. The deaths only started a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I guess there’s no way you can get a closer look at that wreck?”

  “Diving isn’t my thing, even in good weather. And even the professional and military divers admit that going down in the weather we’ve been having is insane. Do you think it could be the wreck itself?”

  Travis considered for a moment. “Maybe. Men get attached to a favorite car. I’ve seen more than one haunted automobile—not to mention that Stephen King movie. So if the captain felt that way about his ship, I guess it’s possible. But I think the anchor would be more likely to be a personal possession, maybe something that’s still trapped in the wreckage? And I don’t know how you’ll find something like that and destroy it without going down there.”

  “I’ll talk to Josh Williams,” Simon conceded. “With the storm coming up, I don’t know if he’s planning to dive again, but if so, I’ll ask him to take a look.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Travis hesitated. “Look, I know you didn’t ask for my advice…but here’s my two cents on the cop thing, for what it’s worth. I wasn’t a cop or in the military, but the organization I was part of was very much a militant priesthood,” he said, referring to the role he’d played with Vatican black ops. “We were trained to be warriors against the supernatural. Often that included bad people, too. And I can tell you that it takes a special kind of person to do the job.”

  Travis paused. “I see the same thing in Brent,” he added, mentioning his work partner, a demon-hunting former FBI agent. “And he was military, and a cop, and a Fed. It’s not that we don’t care about our own safety. We just don’t worry about it the way normal people do. It’s not about thinking we’re invincible—because we’re not—but the fear doesn’t carry the same weight as it does for most folks. The same way that you and I aren’t scared of ghosts and supernatural things like regular people.”

  Simon nodded. That made sense. “Here’s the thing,” Travis went on. “When a soldier—or a cop—gets spooked by something that happened on the job and starts to worry, that’s the beginning of the end. It’s not a job you can do looking over your shoulder. You’ve got to have the arrogance to think you can go into a firefight and come back out again, because while it’s okay to be careful, you can’t afford to be fearful. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah. Kinda the way I ask Vic to trust me when I let a spirit take me over so I can do a séance,” Simon replied.

  “Having done both, I’d say it’s exactly the same. No room to doubt yourself.”

  “Thank you,” Simon said. “There aren’t many people I can talk to about this kind of thing.”

  “Any time,” Travis replied. “And while I don’t really expect one of your Southern ghosts to show up here in Pittsburgh, I’ll keep an ear out, just in case.”

  When the call ended, Simon found that much of the weight had been lifted. He glanced at the time and remembered that Vic expected to be late. The slow cooker meal would hold for a while. Since he found himself with extra time, Simon settled in and made another attempt to reach any of the ghosts involved with suicides, the Annabelle, or Platz’s death.

  The vision hit him quickly.

  He was aboard a sailing ship, in the middle of a bloody battle. Sailors with muskets and sabers defended their ship against pirates who would stop at nothing to steal precious cargo. The deck ran red with blood, as dark clouds filled the horizon and choppy seas made the deck pitch.

  Time skipped, and Simon saw the inside of what must have been the captain’s quarters. For a cabin aboard a ship, the room was well-appointed with mahogany furnishings and brass fittings. Simon saw through the captain’s eyes as he took a box down from a shelf and glanced inside. A blue stone lay inside, and whether the captain could see it, Simon’s Gift picked up on the stone’s power and its strange glow.

  The captain snapped the lid shut, then moved books to one side on a shelf and pressed a hidden button that made a panel slide, revealing a secret compartment. He pushed the box inside and had barely finished resetting the shelves when the door to his cabin burst open, and three ruffians forced their way inside.

  “We’ll take your special delivery now,” a tall man said, crowding closer, his musket aimed at the captain’s chest. Simon recognized the three men from the prior vision. They were part of the Gallows Nine.

  “I don’t keep cargo in my quarters,” the captain snapped. “Anything you want is in the hold.”

  The other two pirates began a rough search, tossing bedding and clothing out of their way as they rummaged through the captain’s belongings. The tall pirate kept his musket trained at the captain’s heart. Up on deck, the sounds of battle had slowed, and Simon knew the captain feared his crew had lost.

  “It’s not here,” one of the men said, straightening from where he’d gone through the captain’s clothing. The other pirate pulled all the books from the shelves and began shooting holes in the woodwork. On the third blast, the secret door opened, revealing the prize.

  “Well, well,” the tall man said. “Look what we found.”

  “You can’t—” A musket shot silenced the captain’s objections, and he slumped to the floor.

  Simon wobbled in his chair and nearly fell as t
he vision ended as abruptly as it began.

  Minutes later Simon stretched out on the couch for a nap, too restless to read or research, and almost afraid of what he might see if he turned on the TV. He woke to the sound of Vic’s key in the door and figured by how groggy he felt, that he must have slept for a while.

  “It smells great, but you didn’t need to hold dinner for me,” Vic said, hanging up his coat and toeing out of his boots. “I’m starving. You should have eaten already.”

  Simon shrugged. “I’d rather wait for you.” He grinned as his stomach rumbled. “Although I might have gone ahead if you’d been much later.”

  He went to greet Vic with a kiss, but Vic pulled him close, holding on to Simon’s hips, drawing their bodies together. The kiss deepened and grew more desperate. Simon felt all the emotions he’d struggled to suppress rise to the surface, a mixture of fear for Vic’s safety and abiding love.

  It felt to Simon that here in the privacy of the bungalow, Vic was showing him everything he hadn’t been able to share at the bomb scene. He hung on to Simon like he’d drown if he let go, as if their kisses reassured him that he was alive and safe, and home.

  “God, Vic,” Simon panted. He shifted to rut against Vic’s leg, making his erection impossible to ignore. Vic ground against him, equally hard, backing Simon against the kitchen counter.

  “Quick and dirty now; slow and good later,” Vic promised.

  “It’s always good.” Simon took back the initiative, cupping Vic’s face with one hand for another long, deep kiss. Simon’s other hand lazily traced the ink on Vic’s forearm. He worshipped the art with his hands and tongue at every opportunity, tracing the swirls and symbols and turning his tats into one big erogenous zone.

  Vic moaned and bucked against Simon, rutting like teenagers behind the bleachers. He reached between them, eager to get their jeans and briefs out of the way. Vic worked Simon’s belt open, then his jeans as Simon kept kissing his jaw and neck, stroking the patterns on his skin. It took two tries for Vic to get his own belt unbuckled, and he pushed down his button fly jeans rather than take the time to pop them open.