by A. J. Aalto
“Did you tell him what you needed it for?” Okay, not the subtlest gambit into figuring out his motivations, but he was barely paying attention to me as it was. I just wanted him to keep talking.
Scarrow played with the carte-de-visite, turning it around in those bony, nimble fingers. His big Adam’s apple bobbed. “I was only out of the room for a minute. He must have come prepared though, with this teapot… which, by the way, bears an eerie resemblance to the skull in more than one way.”
“C'mon, dude, focus. What do you think you need this skull for?”
“If I can find out exactly whose skull it is, I can return it to that person’s grave, along with any personal effects that might boost any show of respect.”
Personal effects. Like the necklace. Speaking of boosting things.
He continued, “Then I can attempt to exorcise the rage from the spirit’s aura, and dismiss any other spirits this poltergeist has lured back through the veil.”
I gaped, and then laughed without meaning to. “How the hel--ck would you do any of that?”
“Helck?” Scarrow’s lips twisted and one eyebrow twitched up.
“I don’t swear anymore,” I fibbed. “I’m a good girl when I’m in Canada, eh?” Apparently.
“You pick-pocketed a man of the cloth, lied to that same priest in a church, and asked him if he is, quote, 'fucking with you,'” he confirmed. “Interesting choices.”
My life was a nonstop cavalcade of bones and boners, and I didn't have time to examine the poor life choices that delivered me here, and I definitely didn't need to have decisions questioned by an aging rock-and-roll Reverend who got tossed out of the church for sticking his dick in the eye of doctrinal opinion. Maybe later, after a few drinks, and Harry making reassuring noises in my ear as he fed, I could indulge in some introspection and have a good, solid laugh about it. I could use a lot more of that, and it seemed like a pretty good decision to me.
“Ex-priest,” I pointed out, looking up at the high, beamed ceiling. “And ex-church. My point is, the cemetery was flooded over ninety years ago. I’ve seen pictures of it after the water gets drained in winter. There are no obvious plots, no headstones, nada. You can’t tell where the plots would have been, and even if you did have some sort of old map…,” I winced. “I hate to say this, but between the shifting mud, the frost heave, the rotted caskets, the water invasions… the bodies would have been displaced. Who knows, they may have even done earth moving in there when they dredged the canal or built up the retention ponds.” I thought about the humped promontory with its broken cement. “I know they at least cleared some of the fallen walls from the old canal that used to run nearby. I’ve tripped over some of the remnants.”
“So we do it together,” he decided, his eyes flashing with new excitement. “I can prove to you that ghosts interact with us. I can also prove that a poltergeist can force its way through the veil without being held or swayed by demons. Together we can present the evidence to the church.” He lowered his voice so Schenk couldn’t hear it from the hall. “I’ll take you where an experience is almost guaranteed. But just us. Not your officer.”
My internal alarm bell started firing off warnings about people I had foolishly trusted in the past. Danika Sherlock. Ruby Valli. Gregori Nazaire. Neil Dunnachie. Malas Nazaire. Declan Edgar. But mostly, it wanted to return again and again to Ruby, the harmless-seeming old lady with the bright skirts and squeaky Wellington boots, who had seemed like the obvious person to go to when I needed expert help, and who had put roofies in my Chai and nearly sacrificed me to a demon. Now, as the exorcist looked at me with his eyes full of fire, I thought, do not drink the tea.
“Okay, where is it?” I said, standing in a rush. “Probably you don’t even hide it well because who would ransack a priest’s stuff, right?”
“Marnie, what—“
“Where is it?” I ran my gloved hands under the couch cushions, tossing throw pillows around the room, pulling down the back cushions on the Chesterfield.
“Where is what?” Scarrow asked.
“The grimoire. The roofies.” I started pacing, and then began a hasty investigation of his bookshelves, tipping every one of the books onto the floor, ignoring the hard covers hitting my boots. “I’m not an idiot, Renfield Aquinas Thackeray Scarrow. Mr. Rats. There, I said it. Rats! Rats! Go ahead, rip my nipples off!”
“Marnie, shhh,” Scarrow said, indicating the cop in the hall.
“No. No, I won’t hush. Where’s the Wolfsbane? Come on, I’m calling you out, mister. Let’s see what you got.”
“I’ve got nothing,” Scarrow insisted, showing me his open hands. This made me think of Chapel’s soothing psychological moves, and further infuriated me.
“Don’t try that body language crap!” I snapped, pointing at his hands. He shook his head, looking baffled. “Maybe black magic’s not your style, huh? Maybe you keep arsenic and strychnine next to your sacrificial altar.”
“Are you finished?”
“Not until I find the other shoe.”
“What other shoe?”
“The one that’s going to drop on my head the minute I trust you.” I pointed a gloved finger at him with a sour smile. “Think I’m easy to fool, eh? Like I never learn from my mistakes? You don’t want me to bring the big, overprotective cop to the tunnel with us? Hello? Red flag! I see you waving!” I flailed my arms to demonstrate the big signal I was getting. I grabbed hold of the tilt-down door of the secretary desk nearby. It was locked; instead of folding down into a writing surface, it just bumped against its lock — badump badump. “What’s in here, huh? Your duct tape? Your zip ties? Your murder kit? Your ju-ju go-bag? Your machete? Your voodoo hoodoo dolls?”
“No.” Scarrow scratched the back of his neck. “Just regular, private things.”
“Like what?”
“Like guys have, Marnie,” he said with a so-what shrug.
“I’m not trusting you until you unlock this!”
He dug in his front pocket and tossed me a small pair of keys. “Knock yourself out. If you see anything in there you might like to explore in more detail, you be sure to let me know.”
The Blue Sense smacked me on the nose like a rolled-up newspaper. The desk was where he kept his porn and sex toys. All at once I whipped off a glove and touched the top of the desk, not thinking too closely about what I might be coming into contact with, and was hit with waves of shameless, unbridled lust, in a variety of flavors and expressions. Ren Scarrow might be many things, but “piously celibate” was nowhere near that list. I breathed a sigh of relief and made sure my hand was neither tacky nor breaking out in a Harry-inflaming rash. “You’re just trying to intimidate me with what you wank to.”
“I can’t imagine that would intimidate you, Marnie.” He put his hands in his pockets, apparently reconsidered the suggestion, and put them on his hips instead. “But ghosts affecting the physical realm; that intimidates you quite a bit. Why are you fighting this?”
“Because I…” I let out a frustrated huff. “You’re trying to distract me again.”
“Distract you from…?”
“Discovering you’re a villain.”
“I’m only villainous in the dark,” he promised.
“You’re doing it again. Where’s the necklace? And don’t you dare pretend to me that you didn’t steal it from evidence.”
“I need it,” he insisted.
“You’re a thief and a liar,” I said. “And maybe something worse. But you can be all those things in jail when Schenk finds out. He probably heard you confess right now anyway.”
“Fine, let me put your mind at ease. I am not a killer.” He showed me a smile, and I was again reminded of the little ways Chapel manipulated his tone or facial expressions or the subtle position of his limbs to elicit the subconscious response he wanted from someone. “I am not trying to con you or hurt you. But I want something.”
I braced for it. “Is it my eyeballs? I bet it’s my eyeballs. I knew i
t.”
He chuckled. “No. I want you to witness what I’ve seen.”
“That is totally an eyeball thing! You really suck at anatomy, on top of all of your other failings.”
“And I want you to help me. I think you can. In fact, I know you can. I’ve done exorcisms before, but never on a poltergeist of this magnitude.” He dropped his hands, and for a moment he looked like he needed me. The Blue Sense soared to life to wash through the room, and reported no deception; either he was telling the truth or believed whatever he was saying so strongly that he no longer knew it was false. “This poltergeist drew Britney Wyatt into that water, and drained every joule of heat from her body. I’m willing to bet the coroner’s report will report the cause of death as drowning, but her body temperature was almost certainly lower than even that of the surrounding water, her tissues showing signs of frostbite deep inside, in the organs. Her lungs won't have been full of water; if anything, it would be ice, causing them to burst within her chest. She was probably freezing from the inside out before she slipped into unconsciousness, helpless in the black water, sucked dry by this angry spirit. And make no mistake: Britney’s own spirit is stuck here until we resolve this. I cannot imagine a more terrifying fate. The poltergeist must be banished beyond the veil where it cannot touch us, preferably before it hurts anyone else.”
All traces of teasing or guile had vanished from his face, and I sensed he was sincere and frightened, but determined. Mr. Cynical had seen the worst thing he’d come up against, and he wanted to pick a fight with it, but his self doubt now showed in new lines on his forehead. “I need your help, Marnie. Just you. This is no place for him.” He motioned with a frown at the hall. “He can’t help us with this. I mean no disrespect. He’s a formidable officer of the law and an intelligent ally… but this is a matter for preternaturalists.” He thumped one last nail in the coffin. “You don’t want him to get hurt. He’s not prepared for this. That will put him in danger. You could get him killed.”
I hated him for saying that. I didn’t want to picture the dreadnaught bulk of Constable Patrick Schenk broken and battered, frozen solid in a foot of water, covered in a silken sheet of MUCE, staring at the night sky with accusing eyes, his mouth jacked open in a final, soundless scream. The vision was so vivid that it drew a shudder. “I won’t let that happen,” I said, more to myself and my mental Schenk than to Scarrow.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Marnie.”
“No, you call me Miss Baranuik,” I said, remembering what Harry said. “There are some major problems, here. First, we don’t know where the skull went.”
Scarrow agreed. “Barnaby took it somewhere.”
“Second, the poltergeist is really fu--ntastically angry.”
“Funtastically?” Amusement glinted in his eyes.
“Bite me, creep. Third, we could get seriously injured.”
“Killed, even. Yes. And if my theory about what happened to Britney is correct, it will be both terrifying and excruciatingly painful.”
“Well, fuck.”
“We could do that first,” he said, smiling slyly, “if you think that’ll help.”
“You’re doing it again,” I accused.
“I’ll behave when you do.” He pointed to the low-grade disaster I'd turned his office into. “Now, will you clean up your mess?”
Schenk marched back into the living room, sparing a glance at the disemboweled bookshelf and pillows on the floor, and hooked one big hand in the hood of my parka.
“Miss Baranuik,” Schenk said calmly, “may I see you outside for a moment?”
I shrugged at Scarrow and threw him the keys to his desk as I was marched backward, hood first, from the room. “Guess I’ll do it later?”
“I’m leaving it for you,” Scarrow warned.
“I’ll be back soon,” I promised. “And not in some French Maid getup, so don't even think about it.”
When Schenk released my hood, I spun and chased him out to the Sonata. His long legs made this a problem, as his one stride was about four of mine. I hurried to catch up.
“No time for lunch,” Schenk said, not looking back. “Y’okay? No gigglefit?”
“Nope,” I said, but there was an undeniable residual effect from being in Father Scarrow’s presence; a lightness to my step, even after an argument, that I still did not understand. “Where we going?”
“Body in the pond.”
“No, that was yesterday. Are you getting your days scrambled? Sometimes that happens to me, too.” I jumped into the car as soon as he unlocked it. I strapped in and thought about telling him about Scarrow’s concerns and plans, but his eyes were wide; there was a lot going on behind them, and I didn’t want to add to it.
“Same spot,” he said gruffly, pulling out onto the Haulage, taking the corners with less care than he had earlier. “Different body.”
“I thought they had that area cordoned and secured,” I said, remembering the uniformed officer cruising under the floodlight last night. “It was being patrolled.”
Schenk said tightly, “It was.”
“Bodies don’t just appear out of nowhere.”
“Apparently it floated to the surface in front of the patrolman’s eyes. Body moved ashore into its position while the officer was calling it in, watching it.”
I had the sinking realization that I already knew the answer, but asked anyway. “Whose body?”
“Barnaby Nowland.”
CHAPTER 19
DEAR DIARY: FUCK fuck fuck fuck fuck! Also, fuck. Love, Marnie. PS: I found a really bitchin' teapot.
There was no doubt about it; the body of Barnaby Nowland, clad only in jeans and a t-shirt, lay in exactly the same spot as Britney Wyatt’s had, in the same position, head tucked between two rocks, covered by a silky, white sheet of MUCE. This enraged Schenk. He hid it remarkably well, but he couldn’t hide it from his buddy, the empathic psychic. The Blue Sense was hot and chaotic against the left side of my body. Beside me, Schenk vibrated with silent fury, a towering mountain of training and restraint, needing to put his massive mitts on some mundane cause and strangle it into submission. Though he felt the unfairness of blaming me, I could sense he was tempted; before the weirdo psychic showed up all his missing persons showed up as cut-and-dry, human-on-human nonsense, or disappeared of their own, very human, volition. Now he had to put up with both an exorcist and a witchy psychic, as well as a whole lot of evidence that only fit together if you accepted paranormal explanations.
Batten was as mundane as his standard-issue boots; Hood was as stolid as the winch on his Humvee; both had come to grips with the preternatural intersections of the world they thought they'd known with something that might approximate grace and adaptability. Schenk hadn't gotten there yet, and watching him fight it filled me with an uneasy mixture of terror and sympathy. If there was anything I could do to smooth the way for him, I would have. There weren't exactly training wheels for this kind of world-view adjustment.
The uniformed officer who had been on the scene when the body appeared was sitting at the back of an ambulance in the vehicle’s heat, trying to push his explanations past chattering teeth for the third or fourth time to yet another superior; this time it was Detective Sergeant Malashock herself. She was dressed for the field in heavy boots and an overcoat with the collar turned up in lieu of a muffler. Though she was nodding I could tell she was having a hard time picturing the events that the shaken young constable in front of her was describing.
Dr. Taylor was again on the scene, and after handing a folded piece of paper to Schenk, he left our side to direct his assistants. Schenk scanned the paper, holding it in both hands so the wind didn’t flap it about, and then handed it off to me. Taylor’s toxicology screen from Britney Wyatt’s autopsy showed negative results for ms-lipotropin, V-telomerase, and batrachotoxins. Britney wasn’t killed by a revenant or a mermaid. Her macula showed no radiation damage, so the culprit wasn't a Will-o’-the-Wisp, either.
The crim
e scene unit had their hands full with the slippery terrain and the bad weather, despite the protective advantage of the crayon-blue tarp tent. Radio babble got snatched away by the wind, which whipped in seemingly random and directionless gusts and spirals. I secured my hat strings under my chin and yanked at my gloves, wishing I had Ellie’s big fuzzy mittens instead. The leather did little to keep my hands warm in the relentless storm, so I stuck my hands in my pockets, where I found a sandwich wrapped in plastic. Peanut butter. Strawberry jelly. The crusts had been cut off. Was put food in Marnie’s pockets part of Combat Butler’s job description, or had he suspected I’d not have time to grab a meal today? I looked at the scene before me and figured he was right; if I got so much as a cup of coffee anytime soon, it’d be a miracle.
I couldn’t think of anything constructive or helpful to say, so I sighed. “Well, Boogernuggets.”
“Settle down, Cinderblock,” Schenk said. “It's a bit early to start dropping B-bombs.”
“I fell in there last night,” I said, looking up and down the shoreline, trying to orient myself. “Like, right there. Didn’t I?”
“You were a little further east,” he agreed through his teeth, “but yeah.”
“There was definitely no corpse here last night, right?” I swallowed hard, trying to block the frustration flowing from him. Unwrapping the sandwich with my gloves on was tricky; when I managed it, I offered him half. “Just the killer skeleton.”
He took the sandwich but didn’t eat it. “Your branch? I tossed it over there.” He gestured with the bread at an embarrassingly small branch. More of a twig, really. What little pride I'd been accumulating trickled away and died quietly of shame.
“Felt like a killer skeleton, sorry,” I said a little defensively, chagrined by the memory of my wounded-cow howling. “What was Barnaby Nowland doing near the canal? You’d think if your ghost hunting crew stole a dead guy’s skull from a pond, and one of your gang got killed and washed up at that pond, and then you stole the maybe-haunted skull from a priest, you’d stay the hell away from the Pond of Doom.” I masticated PB&J then dug Wonder bread out of my molars with my tongue. “Hate to speak ill of the dead, but maybe he wasn’t too bright. I mean, even Shaggy wasn't that dumb, and he was a stoner who thought his dog could talk.”