by Otto Penzler
“It works.” Nicholls said succinctly. “I wouldn’t advise you to go without it. The late Hank Jenkins is not a very strong ghost—a strong one would tear you apart and chew up your herbs for dessert—but without the protection of what you wear about your neck, you would become a very uncomfortable human as soon as Jenkins heard you’d stopped wearing it.”
He put down the glass of red wine he’d been inhaling without drinking, looked intently at Wilson. “I’ve put the money on this,” he said. “I had hoped you’d be able to handle the legal end. I see I’ll have to do more. Now listen intently because I have no intention of repeating this. There’s an angle to this case that’s got right by your blunted legal acumen. Jenkins claims to be an astral entity, which he undoubtedly is. Now, instead of trying to prove him a ghost, and legally dead, and therefore unfit to testify, which you should have been doing, suppose you do this.…”
He went on to speak rapidly and to the point.
And when he left them a bit later, and Wilson took Harley up to his room and poured him into bed, the lawyer felt happy for the first time in days.
Russell Joseph Harley, a little hung over and a lot nervous, was called to the stand as first witness in his own behalf.
Wilson said, “Your name?”
“Russell Joseph Harley.”
“You are the nephew of the late Zebulon Harley, who bequeathed the residence known as Harley Hall to you?”
“Yes.”
Wilson turned to the bench. “I offer this copy of the late Mr. Zebulon Harley will in evidence. All his possessions are left to his nephew and only living kin, the defendant.”
Turnbull spoke from his desk. “The plaintiff in no way disputes the defendant’s equity in Harley Hall.”
Wilson continued, “You passed part of your childhood in Harley Hall, did you not, and visited it as a grown man on occasion?”
“Yes.”
“At any time, has anything in the shape of a ghost, specter, or astral entity manifested itself to you in Harley Hall?”
“No. I’d remember it.”
“Did your late uncle ever mention any such manifestation to you?”
“Him? No.”
“That’s all.”
Turnbull came up for the cross-examination.
“When, Mr. Harley, did you last see your uncle before his death?”
“It was in 1938. In September, some time—around the tenth or eleventh of the month.”
“How long a time did you spend with him?”
Harley flushed unaccountably. “Ah—just one day,” he said.
“When before that did you see him?”
“Well, not since I was quite young. My parents moved to Pennsylvania in 1920.”
“And since then—except for that one-day visit in 1938—has any communication passed between your uncle and yourself?”
“No, I guess not. He was a rather queer duck—solitary. A little bit balmy, I think.”
“Well, you’re a loving nephew. But in view of what you’ve just said, does it sound surprising that your uncle never told you of Mr. Jenkins? He never had much chance to, did he?”
“He had a chance in 1938, but he didn’t,” Harley said defiantly.
Turnbull shrugged. “I’m finished,” he said.
Gimbel began to look bored. He had anticipated something more in the way of fireworks. He said, “Has the defense any further witnesses?”
Wilson smiled grimly. “Yes, your honor,” he said. This was his big moment, and he smiled again as he said gently, “I would like to call Mr. Henry Jenkins to the stand.”
In the amazed silence that followed, Judge Gimbel leaned forward. “You mean you wish to call the plaintiff as a witness for the defense?”
Serenely, “Yes, your honor.”
Gimbel grimaced. “Call Henry Jenkins,” he said wearily to the clerk, and sank back in his chair.
Turnbull was looking alarmed. He bit his lip, trying to decide whether to object to this astonishing procedure, but finally shrugged as the clerk bawled out the ghost’s name.
Turnbull sped down the corridor, out the door. His voice was heard in the anteroom, then he returned more slowly. Behind him came the trickle of blood drops; Pat. HISS. Pat. HISS—
“One moment,” said Gimbel, coming to life again. “I have no objection to your testifying, Mr. Jenkins, but the State should not be subjected to the needless expense of reupholstering its witness chair every time you do. Bailiff, find some sort of a rug or something to throw over the chair before Mr. Jenkins is sworn in.”
A tarpaulin was hurriedly procured and adjusted to the chair; Jenkins materialized long enough to be sworn in, then sat.
Wilson began in an amiable enough tone.
“Tell me, Mr. Jenkins,” he said, “just how many ‘astral entities’—I believe that is what you call yourself—are there?”
“I have no way of knowing. Many billions.”
“As many, in other words, as there have been human beings to die by violence?”
Turnbull rose to his feet in sudden agitation, but the ghost neatly evaded the trap. “I don’t know. I only know there are billions.”
The lawyer’s cat-who-ate-canary smile remained undimmed. “And all these billions are constantly about us, everywhere, only remaining invisible. Is that it?”
“Oh, no. Very few remain on Earth. Of those, still fewer have anything to do with humans. Most humans are quite boring to us.”
“Well, how many would you say are on Earth? A hundred thousand?”
“Even more, maybe. But that’s a good guess.”
Turnbull interrupted suddenly. “I would like to know the significance of these questions. I object to this whole line of questioning as being totally irrelevant.”
Wilson was a study in legal dignity. He retorted, “I am trying to elicit some facts of major value, your honor. This may change the entire character of the case. I ask your patience for a moment or two.”
“Counsel for the defense may continue,” Gimbel said curtly.
Wilson showed his canines in a grin. He continued to the blood-dripping before him. “Now, the contention of your counsel is that the late Mr. Harley allowed an ‘astral entity’ to occupy his home for twenty years or more, with his full knowledge and consent. That strikes me as being entirely improbable, but shall we for the moment assume it to be the case?”
“Certainly! It’s the truth.”
“Then tell me, Mr. Jenkins, have you fingers?”
“Have I—what?”
“You heard me!” Wilson snapped. “Have you fingers, flesh-and-blood fingers, capable of making an imprint?”
“Why, no. I—”
Wilson rushed on. “Or have you a photograph of yourself—or specimens of your handwriting—or any sort of material identification? Have you any of these?”
The voice was definitely querulous. “What do you mean?”
Wilson’s voice became harsh, menacing. “I mean, can you prove that you are the astral entity alleged to have occupied Zebulon Harley’s home. Was it you—or was it another of the featureless, faceless, intangible unknowns—one of the hundreds of thousands of them that, by your own admission, are all over the face of the earth, rambling where they choose, not halted by any locks or bars? Can you prove that you are anyone in particular?”
“Your honor!” Turnbull’s voice was almost a shriek as he found his feet at last. “My client’s identity was never in question!”
“It is now!” roared Wilson. “The opposing counsel has presented a personage whom he styles ‘Henry Jenkins.’ Who is this Jenkins? What is he? Is he even an individual—or a corporate aggregation of these mysterious ‘astral entities’ which we are to believe are everywhere, but which we never see? If he is an individual, is he the individual? And how can we know that even if he says he is? Let him produce evidence—photographs, a birth certificate, fingerprints. Let him bring in identifying witnesses who have known both ghosts, and are prepared to swear that these g
hosts are the same ghost. Failing this, there is no case! Your honor, I demand the court declare an immediate judgment in favor of the defendant!”
Judge Gimbel stared at Turnbull. “Have you anything to say?” he asked. “The argument of the defense would seem to have every merit with it. Unless you can produce some sort of evidence as to the identity of your client, I have no alternative but to find for the defense.”
For a moment there was a silent tableau. Wilson triumphant, Turnbull furiously frustrated.
How could you identify a ghost?
And then came the quietly amused voice from the witness chair.
“This thing has gone far enough,” it said above the sizzle and splatter of its own leaking blood. “I believe I can present proof that will satisfy the court.”
Wilson’s face fell with express-elevator speed. Turnbull held his breath, afraid to hope.
Judge Gimbel said, “You are under oath. Proceed.”
There was no other sound in the courtroom as the voice said, “Mr. Harley, here, spoke of a visit to his uncle in 1938. I can vouch for that. They spent a night and a day together. They weren’t alone. I was there.”
No one was watching Russell Harley, or they might have seen the sudden sick pallor that passed over his face.
The voice, relentless, went on, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have eavesdropped as I did, but old Zeb never had any secrets from me anyhow. I listened to what they talked about. Young Harley was working for a bank in Philadelphia at the time. His first big job. He needed money, and needed it bad. There was a shortage in his department. A woman named Sally—”
“Hold on!” Wilson yelled. “This has nothing to do with your identification of yourself. Keep to the point!”
But Turnbull had begun to comprehend. He was shouting too, almost too excited to be coherent. “Your honor, my client must be allowed to speak. If he shows knowledge of an intimate conversation between the late Mr. Harley and defendant, it would be certain proof that he enjoyed the late Mr. Harley’s confidence, and thus, Q.E.D., that he is no other than the astral entity who occupied Harley Hall for so long!”
Gimbel nodded sharply. “Let me remind counsel for defense that this is his own witness. Mr. Jenkins, continue.”
The voice began again. “As I was saying, the woman’s name—”
“Shut up, damn you!” Harley yelled. He sprang upright, turned beseechingly toward the judge. “He’s twisting it! Make him stop! Sure, I knew my uncle had a ghost. He’s it, all right, curse his black soul! He can have the house if he wants it—I’ll clear out. I’ll clear out of the whole damned state!” He broke off into babbling and turned about wildly. Only the intervention of a marshal kept him from hurtling out of the courtroom.
Banging of the gavel and hard work by the court clerk and his staff restored order in the courtroom. When the room had returned almost to normalcy, Judge Gimbel, perspiring and annoyed, said, “As far as I am concerned, identification of the witness is complete. Has the defense any further evidence to present?”
Wilson shrugged morosely. “No, your honor.”
“Counsel for the plaintiff?”
“Nothing, your honor. I rest my case.”
Gimbel plowed a hand through his sparse hair and blinked. “In that case,” he said, “I find for the plaintiff. An order is entered hereby that the defendant, Russell Joseph Harley, shall remove from the premises of Harley Hall all spells, pentagrams, talismans, and other means of exorcism employed; that he shall cease and desist from making any attempts, of whatever nature, to evict the tenant in the future; and that Henry Jenkins, the plaintiff, shall be permitted the full use and occupancy of the premises designated as Harley Hall for the full term of his natural—ah—existence.”
The gavel banged. “The case is closed.”
“Don’t take it so hard,” said a mild voice behind Russell Harley. He whirled surlily. Nicholls was coming up the street after him from the courthouse, Wilson in tow.
Nicholls said, “You lost the case, but you’ve still got your life. Let me buy you a drink. In here, perhaps.”
He herded them into a cocktail lounge, sat them down before they had a chance to object. He glanced at his expensive wrist watch. “I have a few minutes,” he said. “Then I really must be off. It’s urgent.”
He hailed a barman, ordered for all. Then he looked at young Harley and smiled broadly as he dropped a bill on the counter to pay for the drinks.
“Harley,” he said, “I have a motto that you would do well to remember at times like these. I’ll make you a present of it, if you like.”
“What is it?”
“The worst is yet to come.”
Harley snarled and swallowed his drink without replying. Wilson said, “What gets me is why didn’t they come to us before the trial with that stuff about this charmingly illicit client you wished on me? We’d have had to settle out of court.”
Nicholls shrugged. “They had their reasons,” he said. “After all one case of exorcism, more or less, doesn’t matter. But lawsuits set precedents. You’re a lawyer, of sorts, Wilson; do you see what I mean?”
“Precedents?” Wilson looked at him slack-jawed for a moment; then his eyes widened.
“I see you understand me.” Nicholls nodded. “From now on in this state—and by virtue of the full-faith-and-credence clause of the Constitution, in every state of the country—a ghost has a legal right to haunt a house!”
“Good Lord!” said Wilson. He began to laugh, not loud, but from the bottom of his chest.
Harley stared at Nicholls. “Once and for all,” he whispered, “tell me—what’s your angle on all this?”
Nicholls smiled again.
“Think about it awhile,” he said lightly. “You’ll begin to understand.” He sniffed his wine once more, then sat the glass down gently—
And vanished.
DEATH MUST DIE
Albert E. Cowdrey
IN WHAT MUST BE a nearly unprecedented display of loyalty (unless there is a darker explanation), all of Albert E(dward) Cowdrey’s (1933–) more than forty short stories have been published exclusively in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. The first, “The Lucky People,” appeared in the February 1968 issue under the pseudonym Chet Arthur.
Born in New Orleans, Cowdrey received his B.A. from Tulane University, then an M.A. from Johns Hopkins University. He served in the U.S. Army from 1957 to 1959, then in the Army Reserves from 1960 to 1963. He has written numerous histories of the army, including The Delta Engineers: A History of the United States Army Corps of Engineers in the New Orleans District (1971), A City for the Nation: The Army Engineers and the Building of Washington, D. C., 1790–1967 (1979), and Fighting for Life: American Military Medicine in World War II (1994). His first published book was Elixir of Life (1965), a historical novel set in New Orleans. His single science fiction novel, Crux (2004), tells of the resettling on space colonies by Earth’s survivors in the twenty-fifth century after the devastating wars of the twenty-first century in which twelve billion people died. Cowdrey’s novella “Queen for a Day,” which appeared in the October/November 2001 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, won the World Fantasy Award for Best Short Story.
“Death Must Die” was originally published in the November/December 2010 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.
Death Must Die*
ALBERT E. COWDREY
ON A DULL NOVEMBER DAY, I was seated in the office of my firm—Martin & Martin, Psychic Investigators—gazing at the dark, brooding sky beyond the window, when the door opened and a client entered.
He wore a three-piece charcoal suit and carried a briefcase for which an alligator had paid the highest possible price. His card identified him as Stephen Preston James, attorney at law, with offices in Greenwood Falls, Virginia. I like clients whose friends include the Brothers Brooks, and waved him to my most comfortable chair.
“I bet you run seven miles every morning,” I said, noting his le
an bronzed face and fleshless form.
“Bicycle. Less stress on the knee cartilage. And it’s more like ten.”
“Wow,” I marveled. “I have a stationary bike in my bathroom, but I just hang towels on it. So why do you need a Psychic Investigator?”
“Look, I don’t believe in spirits,” he said defiantly.
“Generally speaking, that’s wise. I spend a lot of time telling people they’re not living in Amityville, the problem’s just squirrels in the attic. I give a lot of business to Animal Control.”
“Well,” he said, “I don’t live in Amityville, but I do live at 419 Merritt Street.”
“Ah,” said I with quickening interest. “I begin to understand.”
He nodded glumly. “I see you know about the house. In fact, it turns out everybody in this goddamn burg knew about it but Alsatia and me.”
“Alsatia?”
“Wife,” he said, handing me a gold-initialed cowskin folder with pictures of a woman and kids in it. They looked exactly like everybody else’s wife and kids.
“Nice family,” I said tactfully, handing it back.
“Thank you. It’s the kids I’m worried about. They haven’t yet seen the, uh—the, uh—” He choked on the word ghost, so I gave him a hand.
“The manifestation,” I suggested, and he looked relieved.
“Exactly. The manifestation. And I’d rather they didn’t. So far it’s only showed up around midnight, when they’re in bed, but who knows what’s next. Any chance you can get rid of it?”
“I can but try. I charge fifty dollars an hour,” I added, expecting and receiving a glance of contempt. Stephen Preston James probably charged two-fifty at least.
“That’s high,” he lied, “but there seems to be remarkably few people in your profession, despite all the stuff I see about ghost hunters on TV. So I suppose I’m stuck.”
I gave him a copy of my standard contract. He read every word twice, then opened the alligator, took out a checkbook, and paid my minimum (eight hours). I asked if tonight would be a convenient time for me to check out the manifestation, and he said well, not tonight—he and Alsatia were giving a wine and cheese party for a group of clients.