Poltergeist (Greywalker, Book 2)

by Kat Richardson

  I sat and thought about that for a moment, until we were interrupted by a knock on the observation room door.

  We looked at each other before I opened the door to find a young black man standing in the hall with a large manila envelope in his hand.

  I looked at him. “Hi. Can I help you? Dr. Tuckman told me we’d be undisturbed here.”

  His face was as unrevealing as an ebony mask and his tone was dismissive. “I don’t intend to disturb you. Tuck told me to deliver these—assuming you’re Harper Blaine—and since he knew you’d be here, I thought I’d come over early.”

  This was not helpful and neither was his lofty attitude. “Yes, I’m Harper. Do you work for Tuckman?” I asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I do. I’m his graduate assistant on the poltergeist project. Terril Dornier. Terry.” He didn’t offer me his hand or a smile, just held out the envelope.

  According to his dossier file, Terry Dornier had an undergraduate degree in psychology and was continuing on to a specialization in abnormal behaviors. His cold outward reserve bordered on disdain. I wondered if that was usual or if he just didn’t like me for some reason.

  “Hi, Terry. What have you brought?”

  “Recordings of the séances and the recent monitoring and notes.”

  Quinton stepped into the doorway. “Which codec did you use to encrypt the video?”

  Dornier looked startled. “Nothing special. The school can’t afford the licensing fees for proprietary software. It’s all open source ’nix.”

  Quinton grinned. “Great.”

  “Terry,” I interrupted. “Has anyone been in these rooms since the last session?”

  Dornier gave me a flat look. “No. Frankie was going to check the room today, but Tuck told us to leave it be until you were done. He told everyone to stay out until three.”

  It was hard to resist grinding my teeth at how thoughtless Tuckman had been about securing the room. I couldn’t be certain no one had nipped in to change anything before Quinton and I arrived—the security of the front desk being what it was. Damn Tuckman for complicating the investigation.

  “Who’s Frankie?” I asked.

  “Denise Francisco,” Dornier said, “the department secretary. She used to work for the project, but she quit. She volunteered to reset the room after the sessions since she helped set it up in the first place.”

  “Why would she make extra work for herself?” I asked.

  Dornier gave me a sideways stare and a frown. “What extra work? She does it all the time. I think she just likes to keep some kind of tabs on the place, feel like she’s still involved.” Then he closed up as suddenly as an anemone catching a fish. “You should ask her yourself.”

  I held out my hand for the envelope. “Thanks, Terry, I’ll do that.”

  He handed over the envelope without enthusiasm and stared at me a moment before he turned away and headed down the stairs. I stayed in the doorway until he left.

  Once we were alone in the booth again, Quinton looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shrugged. “No idea what that was about,” I said.

  “Are we done here? I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you.”

  “I wish I knew how long Dornier’d been out there and if he heard or saw anything.”

  “Wouldn’t matter how long he was in the hall, he couldn’t see or hear anything from there and”—he pointed to a red light on the monitoring console—“there’re indicators for the door and both windows that show if they’re open or closed.”

  “Why would they monitor that?” I asked.

  “Control. To confirm the condition of the room at all times, make sure no one was sneaking in or out or throwing something through the window, I’d guess. There’s a bit of a blind spot near the mirror and in that corner near the door.”

  I nodded and looked down at the envelope full of discs. “What was all that business about codecs and ’nix?”

  Quinton chuckled. “Just geek-speak. Basically, PNU is too cheap or too broke to use Microsoft or Apple or some other licensed computer system, so all the discs were encoded using free software systems. To be honest, I’m surprised they’ve sunk so much money into this room if they’re running that close to the bone, but there’s nothing wrong with the systems they’re using—it’s pro stuff, even if it’s free or cheap.”

  “So, am I going to need some kind of special machine to watch the rest of this video?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, the video format is about as basic and universal as it gets. You just need a computer with a DVD drive or a decent DVD player. The files are in really basic formats—that’s the easiest way to be sure your information’s compatible with as many other systems as possible, and it sounds like the school is using whatever systems they can get. It isn’t fancy, but it’s reliable.”

  “All right. Are you free later to look at some of these DVDs with me? I want to be sure I understand what I’m seeing.”

  That earned a huge grin from Quinton. “I’m so free I float.”

  I snorted at him, then caught a look at the clock in the hall. “Damn. It’s later than I thought. The session’s going to start in a little over an hour.” Chaos stuck her head out of Quinton’s pocket and tried to escape to the floor. I grabbed her as she made a leap for the lino. “Oh, no, bandit queen. No wild rampages for you.”

  She thrashed around and slipped out of my hand, doing her punk-ferret pogo and chittering in annoyance.

  Quinton scooped her up. “What’s the matter, tube rat? Past your nap time?” He stuffed the ferret into his sweater. She wriggled about for a moment, then calmed down and poked her head out of his collar, resting her body in the sagging knit. She flipped open her head and yawned.

  “Great, now I have to get her to come out of your clothes, then drive back to West Seattle to drop her off, and get back here before three,” I groaned.

  “I can keep her.”

  I peered at him. “What?”

  “No problem. I like ferrets. If you give me those treats—and if you trust me—she can hang out with me until you’re done, then we can hook up and look at those DVDs.”

  I wasn’t certain it was a good idea. “I’m not sure how long this is going to take,” I said.

  Quinton shrugged. “I can keep her all night, if I have to—if you’re OK with that. I know what ferrets eat and I can put her on her leash if she’s too crazy. I have plenty of warm pockets for her to sleep in. I don’t mind if you don’t.”

  I thought about it. I liked Quinton and I’d trusted him to do some pretty strange jobs for me—including one that could still get us both arrested. I’d trusted him with my life and my freedom—I guessed I could trust him with my pet. I took a deep breath, feeling a little nervous.

  “Well. All right. Don’t let her eat anything sugary—it’s like speed—or anything rubber—”

  He grinned and patted the air between us. “OK, OK. Atkins ferret diet: no carbs, no rubber. Really—I’ve kept ferrets before. She’ll be fine with me.”

  I laughed. “OK. I’ll page you when I’m done.” Quinton took the ferret’s stuff and we went downstairs. I caught the furry little traitor nuzzling him as we headed out to get some food before I had to return to observe the séance.

  FOUR

  Seven people were gathered around the heavy table. They didn’t sit, but stood with their fingertips resting lightly on the ash wood surface and their heads bowed to look at a vase of flowers in the center. A portable stereo in the room was playing the Glenn Miller version of “Imagination” at a low volume.

  Earlier, the people in the room had been joking around as they waited to see if the eighth member of their group would show up. They were an interesting mix: two apparent couples—one college-age and racially mixed, the other middle-aged and Nordic—plus one more woman who looked like a harried housewife, one vaguely Middle Eastern young man with a sly grin, and one more man who seemed to be a military retiree. I hadn’t yet linked names to faces, since th
ere’d been no photos in the files. After some chatter, greetings, and clowning around, they’d decided the eighth wasn’t coming and had gone to stand around the table.

  The military man looked at the flowers and said, “Good evening, Celia. Are you standing by?”

  Two quick raps came from the table. I raised an eyebrow. When I’d been under that table, there had been nothing there that could have made that sharp, hollow noise and I was certain nothing had been placed there since. At least nothing official or large enough to see from the observation booth.

  Tuckman leaned his head close to mine without turning his eyes away from the scene on the other side of the observation room glass. “Two raps for yes—that’s the code.”

  I gave half a nod. “That’s the usual thing.” I tried to look into the Grey and see what was going on in the overlap between the normal and the paranormal, but the two layers of glass between me and the séance room baffled my unnatural vision and all I saw were vague blurs and wisps of colored light writhing around the members of the project and painting occasional squiggles on the floor and walls. Whatever had made the rap didn’t seem to be normal and I wished I could stand up and walk into the other room to see for myself.

  “Was that one of yours?” I asked.

  “No. That’s a phenomenon they caused.” I noticed from the corner of my eye that Tuckman smiled smugly as he said it.

  The rest of the group in the room greeted the poltergeist. A flurry of taps sounded all over the table and in a few locations in the walls. The board full of Christmas lights flashed a complex sequence of colors. Tuckman was frowning.

  “You’re in a feisty mood, Celia,” observed the military man. “Are you happy to see us?”

  The table seemed to quiver. Its wooden feet rucked the carpet and then it gave a distinct hop, coming back down with a thump. I wasn’t sure that movement was within the limits Quinton had explained, but it didn’t seem that way to me.

  The sitters looked at one another. “Is that ‘yes’?” the military man asked.

  A single loud crack sounded through the room, coming from the tabletop and sending out a sudden flare of red I could see even through the glass.

  Someone murmured, “No?” Then the table flattened, bucked, and began a rapid jigging from one leg to another. The people gathered around it had to watch their toes and dance a bit to avoid having their feet crushed by the capering table.

  In the observation room, I glanced at Tuckman. He was staring into the séance room in confusion.

  “Is your ringer doing this, Tuckman?” I asked.

  “No, Mark’s the one who didn’t show up.”

  Dornier cleared his throat. “There’s some really odd electrical activity in there. There’ve been several small spikes on the meters and whatever it is seems to be affecting the thermometers, too.”

  “What?” I asked.

  He started making notes on a pad beside the meters, not looking at me as he responded. “Usually the temperature in the room goes up as things get more lively and the subjects get more excited. They can work up quite a sweat if Celia is active. Sometimes we have to leave the window open. But it’s getting a little colder in there today. That’s anomalous.”

  That was when the table broke loose from the group and careened around the room. I could see it trailing red and yellow streamers in the Grey—they would have blazed like fire if I’d been able to see them without the glass in the way. The table slid wildly back and forth, then seemed to scurry around, dodging the sitters who chased after it. It ran faster and faster, galloping with pounding thuds around the wooden floor, scattering the lighter furniture, overturning a bookshelf to send books and pads of paper fluttering everywhere.

  “Electrical readings are spiking again,” Dornier said. “Continuing upward . . .”

  Tuckman glowered. “What the hell . . . ?”

  “This isn’t normal, I take it?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied. “It’s damned strange. They shouldn’t be able to move it that much by themselves. Damn it, when I find out which one of them is manipulating this, I’ll . . .”

  “Hire him?” I supplied.

  Tuckman gave me a black glare. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so unnerved by the table’s motion. I’ve been glared at by scarier things than Gartner Tuckman.

  The séance participants chased the table into a corner by the window. The table reared up onto one leg. First it tried to climb the wall; then it pirouetted on its single leg and began to menace the people gathered around it by waggling back and forth. It hopped forward. They fell back. It spun. Faster. Faster. A wisp of smoke rose from the wooden floor where the twirling table leg rubbed against it.

  The table lurched forward, twisting a little, flaring red . . .

  And collapsed onto the floor, top down, with a crash that shook the room.

  Then it lay there, still and inert and dim. Everyone seemed frozen a moment, catching their breath. Watching them, I seemed to have caught their enervation and felt a little dazed by the sudden change.

  “Electrical readings back to normal. Temperature returning to normal.”

  “OK,” I said. “That was kind of weird.”

  Tuckman turned to me. “That is what I was talking about. It’s not within possibility.”

  I glanced toward Dornier. “Yeah. Do they do that all the time?”

  “That’s the wildest one yet,” he replied in a cool tone. “They don’t usually approach that sort of show without Mark in the room. They’ve had some good days without him. Nothing like that, though.”

  Tuckman gave me a significant look. “You see what I mean?”

  I bit my lower lip. Without doubt someone was contributing more than their fair share to that performance—there was something going on in the thin fold of reality between the normal and the paranormal— but whether I believed it was sabotage or not was another matter. But I wished I could have seen it better. The flashes and glimpses I’d caught had been indistinct and intermittent, but there was something Grey going on.

  I looked into the other room. The participants buzzed around the séance room like an agitated swarm. The table didn’t show any further sign of life. It just lay where it had fallen in the debris under the swinging shadows thrown by the brass chandelier.

  “Can I get a copy of the readings from this session?” I asked.

  Tuckman was almost out the door, and he threw a glance back at me and his assistant. “All right. Mark those up and get Ms. Blaine a copy before she goes. I have to talk to the group in the lounge.”

  Dornier started scooping up his pads and pens and followed Tuckman out of the booth, not quite closing the door. I heard them talking in the hall as I lingered, watching the other room for signs of any further Grey activity. Through the glass, I couldn’t see any if it was there, and the people wandering through the space gave no indication that anything new disturbed them—they seemed excited the way some people do after an accident, but not as if they were still experiencing anything surreal.

  Tuckman reappeared on the other side of the glass in a few minutes, rounding up the participants and urging them downstairs. I went out into the hallway once it was clear of study participants. There was an odd scent to the air from the séance room: a whiff of something sharp and burned, a hint of iodine—the lighter perfume of its earlier, uncanny stench. I went in, but I couldn’t see anything much. The ball of energy had disappeared and the vines and power line were dim, no matter how hard I looked. There was nothing else in the room—if anyone had brought something with them to stimulate the phenomena, it was gone now. I turned and left.

  Dornier met me in the hallway with a fistful of yellow paper.

  “I had to transcribe these,” he said, thrusting out the notes to me.

  “Thanks, Terry.” Now I was glad he’d introduced himself before, since Tuckman had just waved at him as if graduate assistants were as interchangeable as Shakespeare’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. “Can I call you if I ha
ve any questions about these readings?”

  He shrugged. “I guess. You’re working for Tuck.”

  “Terry,” I started, uncomfortable, but needing to ask, “do you believe that’s all . . . real? That they couldn’t actually be raising something paranormal in there?”

  He snorted. “If you think it’s really some ghost or spook or something, you had better be prepared to back yourself up—all the way to the wall Tuck’ll shove you into if you come up with crap like that. Hard proof. Whatever you think it is . . . you better have stone-hard proof it can’t be anything else.”

  I frowned at him but said nothing before I excused myself and headed out with the papers in hand and a list of questions already tabulating in my head. Dornier had quite the sandpaper personality and I suspected he wasn’t the only one. The tone of the byplay in the séance had been more tense than I’d expected for a group that supposedly worked together to create a ghost—their clowning had an edge to it. It was an odd group and I needed some immediate information about what I’d just witnessed.

  As Tuckman’s ringer, Mark Lupoldi was supposedly vital to the production of high-level PK phenomena, yet we’d all seen something that was beyond the group’s normal activity in spite of Mark’s absence. I was more convinced now that Tuckman’s problem wasn’t attributable only to normal, human activity. The recordings and monitor readings might help me figure out what had happened, since I’d been unable to see into the Grey much through the mirror—another thing I’d have to bring up with Mara and Ben Danziger. But first, I needed to find out why Lupoldi hadn’t shown up for the séance session. And I hoped he’d be able—and willing—to tell me how the system worked and how one of the participants could have boosted it without anyone else knowing. It looked paranormal to me, from what I’d seen and from Tuckman’s reaction. But as Dornier had said, I’d have to prove it couldn’t be anything else.