City of Masks cb-1

by Daniel Hecht

  "The idea just does something to the, ah, ambience, wouldn't you say?"

  Cree shrugged. "What's the matter with the ambience? What could possibly remain to discomfort a person?"

  He opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again. Finally he grinned sourly and said, "Touche." Then the smile faded and he looked at her appraisingly. "So, Ms. Black. Would it be safe to say the 'empathic techniques' you referred to earlier are your, uh, personal area of expertise? Your primary responsibility in your firm?"

  "You're very observant." Yes, he'd caught her sudden slide and recovery.

  "Which brings up the question, why would an attractive, intelligent woman like you want, actively seek out, involvement with places and situations like that? How the hell'd you ever get into this line of work?"

  Beauforte's eyes showed he'd caught the dodge. But he nodded, accepting it, then checked his watch again and stood up. "Well, this has been one of the strangest conversations I have ever had, but I can't say it hasn't been educational. In any case, I have a meeting to get to. Ms. Black, we'll go as far as to pay for one of your preliminary reviews. Hell, maybe if we can convince my sister we've done something, that'll fix her head. Chalk it up to the placebo effect." He paused, opened his lapel to take out a checkbook and a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen, then flipped open a paird it's something you can do soon. We, uh, feel it's become a matter of some urgency given my sister's state of mind, you understand." He put on the glasses but peered over the top of them with a blue gaze calculated to drive home the point: His sister was not coping with whatever had happened to her.

  Cree tapped on her keyboard to bring up her calendar. "There are a few things I need to take care of, and as I said, my partner's in Massachussetts, so he's not available… It's short notice, but I think I can juggle things to get down there by the end of the week. Is that soon enough?"

  "Sooner the better. Your retainer for this 'preliminary review,' how much would that be?"

  "Five thousand dollars, plus expenses — airfare, hotels, and so on."

  Beauforte began to write out the check.

  "Mr. Beauforte, there is one other thing you and your family should be aware of." The obligatory caveat. It was in the contract, too, just so clients couldn't say you hadn't warned them.

  "Oh? And what's that?" Bent over her desk, he paused, eyes alert.

  "Part of our process is to do extensive investigation into the personal and family histories of our clients. It will be especially important in this case, since the house has been in the family for several generations. Should we take on this case, we will need to have candid, in-depth discussion with you and your sister, your mother, and any others who have known you, your father, or your grandparents."

  "Isn't it Temp Chase's family you want to talk to? Isn't he the supposed ghost?"

  "We don't know that yet. One of the problems facing a serious researcher is that the history of a place is very much… layered. We'll need to be like archaeologists, delving down through those layers of time. If there is a haunting entity, it could be the residuum of a homeless person who died there while the house was empty back in the forties. Or the wife of General Beauforte, say, or one of those Union soldiers who occupied it. Or someone from any time in between. And sometimes it can be… older still."

  Beauforte nodded equivocally. "Okay, I get the idea."

  "Your family's history is particularly important for two reasons. One is simply that they've been the house's primary occupants. The other is the issue of the link — why it is your sister who has had these experiences, why she's particularly vulnerable or sensitive. We'll need access to family archives, photo albums, and genealogies.. My point is, this can become very personal, and some clients find the process intrusive. And sometimes… unpleasant details emerge. But let me stress that this is an essential component of our work. And our contract includes strict confidentiality clauses that — "

  "Ms. Black." Beauforte took off his glasses, squared his wide shoulders, and drilled his eyes into hers. "You have never been to New Orleans, have you?"

  "No."

  "When you do come, you will discover that we Beaufortes are held in highest esteem by our community. For the simple reason that there is nothing less than honorable in our history. Nothing in the slightest unsavory." He finished writing the check, ripped it free, and flipped it onto Cree's desk. "Your warning is unnecessary and verges on being offensive. The Beaufortes have nothing to hide."

  "Of course not, Mr. Beauforte." The smile she gave him was meant to be reassuring and businesslike, but it felt wan and wry on her face, the best she could manage. She felt a rush of sympathy for him: He was either a man who knew very little about the human condition, or a man who worked very hard in what would always be a futile effort to stay above it."No insult was intended," she said, wanting suddenly to console him.

  "Of course not."

  2

  After he left, Cree jotted a few more notes, started a file on the case, and brought the retainer check out to Joyce. The outer office was smaller but had enough room for a row of file cabinets, a big bookcase, Joyce's desk, and a couch and coffee table. A small counter held cups, napkins, and a coffee brewer that filled the suite with a tempting smell.

  Joyce looked up. "Good-lookin' guy, huh? Clark Gable with a little more meat on his bones."

  "If you like the type." Cree handed her the check.

  "Which I take it you don't?" Joyce looked at the check and whistled.

  "Hallelujah. We'll get paid for at least another couple of weeks."

  "He wants us to provide the placebo effect," Cree said dryly. "For his sister."

  "A skeptic, huh?"

  "Also a model of probity and integrity, from a family without a smudge upon its name. But the site is historic, and the case has other interesting features. It might be a productive one for us to investigate. I was thinking I might try to get down there for a preliminary before — "

  "Cree." Joyce's face showed concern, and she reached out to take Cree's hand. "You're speaking with a Southern accent."

  "Shit."

  Cree shut her eyes and let Joyce rub her hand, feeling the stabilizing effect of physical human contact. Thank God for Joyce, who took seriously the job of keeping Cree anchored in herself, in her own body and identity, in the here and now.

  It was so easy to drift. Before she knew it, she was resonating with another person, the way an old piano will sing ghost notes from the vibration of your footsteps as you walk by. The tendency even had physical manifestations: She often took on clients' limps and gestures, felt their aches and itches. When her sister had delivered the twins, Cree had been doubled up with sympathetic labor pains.

  You had to keep the empathic connection manageable, or you'd lose yourself. In their work, it was a useful talent that allowed her to perceive things beyond the ordinarily inviolate walls of individual identity. But in daily life, it was more like a disability, some exotic disease. It required constant vigilance. If you weren't careful, the sheer mass of human presence in the world could crash over you, a tidal wave of emotion that would drown you in the hungers and hopes and fears that were all around, everywhere, always. Or, as had just started to happen, it could subtly, stealthily erode you. Without her even noticing it, her borders had blurred and she'd absorbed some of Ronald Beauforte, becoming him to a tiny degree, picking up his accent and who knew what else. And she didn't even like the guy!

  Cree hated imposing her penchant on her friends and colleagues. It made her feel fragile, dependent — a sickly child. And yet it was essential to their work.

  "Sorry. Thanks." Cree took a deep breath and blew herself a Bronx cheer, retrieved her hand, and briskly slapped her own cheeks as if putting on aftershave. One of Pop's gestures, she remembered. "'The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain.' Better?"

  "Much." Joyce's almond eyes checked her face critically and then looked back to her desk, apparently reassured. "Listen, Ed called while Clark Gable was here, I figure
d you didn't want to be disturbed. But he'd like you to call him back ASAP. Also your sister called, wants a return buzz." Joyce handed her the phone slips. "But don't forget there's Mrs. Wilson coming in ten minutes."

  Right. Cree had forgotten Mrs. Wilson. Ronald Beauforte's visit had put her off balance, and anyway it was seldom that two clients came to the office on the same day. She took the slips, gave Joyce a kiss of gratitude, headed back to the office.

  Joyce didn't get involved with the supernatural end of the work, but she kept Cree and Edgar on track, managed the business end of things, archived their files, and did the lion's share of historical and forensic detective work. Like Cree, she was an East Coast transplant to Seattle. Her accent gave away that she'd grown up on Long Island — talking to her on the phone, people assumed she was a New Yorker, probably Jewish, and, given her deep contralto, probably large. They were always surprised to come to the office to hear the same voice coming from the small, delicate Chinese woman behind the desk. But Joyce Wu was a person of contradictions, and her appearance was misleading, too. She looked to be in her early thirties but was in fact forty-two, four years older than Cree, possessing some enviable longevity gene that kept her skin smooth and hair glossy. And though she was small and slim, she was as strong as any man Cree knew, something of a fitness freak. The first time they'd gone jogging together, Cree had done four miles with her, working hard to keep up with Joyce's lithe stride, before letting her go on for another three.

  Mrs. Wilson. Right. The woman who had called for an appointment last week and who had refused to reveal any aspect of her situation, about which she seemed very uncomfortable.

  When she came in, she looked very much as Cree had imagined her: an elderly woman, portly, expensively dressed, and nervous. She had a large, lugubrious, kind face beneath a well-coiffed cloud of gray hair, and an endearing humility. Cree invited her to sit and offered her some coffee, which she declined.

  Mrs. Wilson's spotted hands fidgeted with the strap of her purse. "I do hope you can help me," she said.

  "I will certainly do my best. Please tell me how."

  "It's a little… awkward."

  "I understand. Many of our clients feel the same way at first — your situation may not be as unusual or awkward as you think."

  "Our discussion is confidential?"

  "Absolutely."

  Mrs. Wilson's watery hazel eyes caught Cree's and retreated. Another quick glance and retreat. "Not so long ago, I lost someone dear to me. Very dear." Pause.

  "I'm so sorry — "

  "I don't know anything about the 'afterlife.' I'm not religious, never have been."

  Cree nodded.

  "And I'm seventy-three years old!" Mrs. Wilson looked at Cree searchingly, the glistening eyes finding the courage to linger this time, as if trying to convey what her words did not.

  Cree put it together: My loved one has died and left an emptiness that hurts and frightens me. I am old and don't know what I believe. I am old and thinking about my own ending, facing big questions.

  Cree waited. But so did Mrs. Wilson, who apparently expected Cree to take the lead. After another moment, Cree came around the desk and took the chair next to her. Mrs. Wilson was now clenching her purse hard against her buxom front, and Cree put a hand on one tense forearm."Why don't you tell me about the person you lost."

  "My splendid prince. He died two weeks ago." Mrs. Wilson faltered, and the big face crumpled. Cree's heart went out to her: "splendid prince." Such a romantic term coming from this powder-smelling, proper-looking, fireplug-shaped old woman. She fumbled in her purse, took out a laminated color photo, and gave it to Cree with a trembling hand. "My companion for eighteen years. My splendid prince."

  It was a dog.

  Cree was no expert in dog breeds, but the scruffy little brown dog in the photo looked anything but splendid or princely.

  "You're surprised, I can see you are. Yes, he's just a mutt. I first called him Splendid Prince to be funny, to tease him. As if he were some noble pedigree, you see. But that is exactly what he became to me."

  Cree was speechless. This was very touching. Absolutely no words came for a full five heartbeats. Finally she managed, "It must be a terrible loss. I'm very sorry."

  "That's why I hoped that you might be able to… put me in touch with him, wherever he is?"

  Oh my, Cree thought.

  It took another half hour to soothe Mrs. Wilson and convince her that she and Ed weren't mediums, they couldn't go looking for the souls of the departed. She left the dog issue out of it, just stressed that PRA got involved only when there was reliable evidence the departed had already chosen to return. No, sorry, Cree couldn't refer her to someone else. She urged her to be cautious if she continued her quest, wary of unscrupulous people who might take advantage of her grief and desperation.

  As she was leaving, Cree felt a sweet-sad chord in her chest and spontaneously bent to give her a hug and a kiss on one doughy cheek. Mrs. Wilson looked grateful for the contact.

  Cree forestalled Joyce's questioning look with a raised finger and went to call Edgar. It was only four o'clock, but it would be seven back east, and she wanted to catch him before he went to do any night fieldwork. She went to his room so she could use the videophone and get a look at his face, which she missed whenever they worked independently.

  Edgar's room was three times the size of Cree's, with naked brick walls and a pair of tall windows facing the building across the alley. His desk and file cabinets occupied only one corner of the room; the middle was taken up by the counters, computers, and rack-mounted electronics of the lab he used for processing physical evidence gathered at field sites. The remainder of the room served as storage for the equipment Edgar used for his end of their work. He had taken the minimal kit needed for a preliminary review to the Massachusetts job, leaving the bulky stuff behind, a mix of off-the-shelf, high-end high-tech and Edgar's own adaptations of various technologies: infrared cameras, radar motion detectors, ambient-light night-vision photographic equipment, sound recorders, visible-light video and film cameras, air-pressure- and temperature-monitoring equipment, seismic vibration sensors, ion counters, electromagnetic-field-measuring devices, a forensic gas chromatograph, microscopes, skin galvanometers, voice-stress analyzers, the electroencephalographs, tripods, toolboxes, and bulky aluminum travel cases.

  Edgar's playground. More than three hundred thousand dollars' worth of equipment. They'd gotten some of it used from various donors, received some grants from the Society for Psychical Research and the odd eccentric millionaire, including Ed's uncle, but the outlay had left them with some hefty debts. One big reason for Ed's concern for revenue.

  And so far, it had produced very little in the way of empirical evidence.

  But you had to try. Credibility ultimately rested on scientific evidence, — some hard physical proof. Something that all of Cree's emphatic talents couldn't provide.

  Cree sat at Edgar's desk and used his videophone to dial the number Joyce had given her. Within seconds, the screen bleeped and there was Ed's familiar face. Cree looked into the little ball-shaped camera on top of the monitor and waved.

  "I thought it might be you," he said. "Hey — you look different. You got your hair cut."

  "Just a trim. I'm surprised you noticed."

  "Are you kidding? It looks terrific." Edgar smiled, a grin that crept up the right side of his face. Cree had always liked that smile, the touch of irony in it.

  Ed was into technology, but he was not at all the proverbial nerd. He was too handsome, in a long-faced way, and his intelligence was by no means confined to machines. The tilt of his smile gave it away: the streak of sadness or resignation that came with knowing the human condition only too well. His lanky body, long face, and sandy hair gave him the look of a minor member of the British royal family, which he exploited to do an outrageous impersonation of Prince Charles.

  "How did the meeting with Beauforte go?"

  "He's sort of a sm
ug son of a bitch. But I think there might be something for us there. I agreed to do a preliminary, got a retainer check. Full fee, you'll be happy to hear."

  "Great! Well, I should be done here in a week. I can go down there if you'd like, or we could both go — "

  "I thought maybe I'd get down there later this week," Cree said."Maybe before you return. I can clear the time." Edgar looked disappointed, so she explained: "He says his sister — she's the main witness — is very disturbed. I got the sense the family's only coming to us because they'll do anything to calm her down, she's really going pieces. Plus, I was thinking, here's the paying customer you said we needed, so it would be good to follow up right away…"

  Edgar nodded, unconvinced.

  "Okay," Cree admitted, "I got a feeling that we should move on this. A buzz. I don't know why." Still Ed said nothing, but a little ripple of concern passed over his forehead, and Cree decided to change the subject. "How about your end? What're you getting?"

  His face brightened, sheer enthusiasm for the hunt replacing his doubtfulness. "Multiple occurrences, multiple witnesses with excellent credibility. The entity appears to be a perseverating fragmentary, displaying both visual and auditory. A couple of reports of tactile, but those're from my least reliable witnesses."

  Cree nodded, and Edgar went on, using a shorthand vocabulary that in all the world only Cree would understand. A perseverating fragmentary was an entity with a limited repertoire of activities, an apparition appearing in the same place and doing the same motions again and again. They called it fragmentary because the entity was not a complete human personality, but a lingering, very limited mental construct. Such a manifestation was almost more the experience itself than a being — a disconnected mental and emotional matrix that somehow repetitively played out independently of a corporeal body or much of a self-aware consciousness. What people referred to as "ghosts" could range from merest shards, no more than a roaming impulse or hunger, to virtually complete personalities.