by A. J. Aalto
Mr. Merritt pulled the hearse in beside the Sonata and I took two paper cups of coffee out with me. I’d left my ski mask in the tunnel; some crime scene guy had probably scooped it and entered it into evidence. The wind was chilly but not as horrible as it had been, and it tossed my black hair around my bruised face as I headed for the big cop. The morning was topped with a weird mix of blue skies and white clouds stained along their bottoms by grey, like the Green Man had dipped them in sludge before setting them above us.
Schenk didn’t turn to look as I came up on his flank.
“There better not be a donut in that bag,” he said gruffly.
My boots scuffed slush as I came to a full stop. “I’m not even holding a bag. Left my Danish in the hearse. Some detective you are.”
He looked down at me, slate eyes seriously scanning my upper lip, which had ceased to be puffy but was still nursing a split. I knew how bad my face looked; I couldn’t wait to get the stink-eye from airport security. I handed Schenk one of the coffees. He took off his gloves and wrapped both hands around the cup. “Thanks. On your way out?”
“Unless you need me to help you with paperwork.”
“That’ll be the day,” he said. “I have no fucking clue what I’m going to say, but I’m looking forward to the break.”
He didn’t say whether that was a break from the paranormal stuff or a break from me, and the Blue Sense was quiet about it. “What did Malashock say about last night?”
“That she no longer owes you a favor.” He tried to bend back the little bit of the coffee cup lid that's supposed to fold and clip, but he got a crappy lid and it wouldn’t stay. He ripped the plastic tab off and stuck it in his pocket. “Littering is a crime.”
I grinned. “I’m in awe of your complete and utter obedience to the law at all times, Constable FunTimes.”
“You should be,” he said, blowing off the coffee steam, looking over my head to the hearse. “He doesn’t mind waiting?”
“I pay him to do a lot worse,” I bluffed. “He’s an assassin after dark. Everything settled?”
He stared into the canal for a long while, and then sipped his coffee. “Seems to be. No activity here. I’ve got a clean-up team waiting for the crime scene guys to finish at the tunnel.” He looked back at the hearse, and the Blue Sense reported a momentary struggle within him, an internal debate. “Father Scarrow left a note for you at the rectory.”
Urg. “Was it private?”
“Very.”
“Did you read it?”
“Of course.” He took it out of his pocket and flapped it at me. I snatched it from his hand with a sigh.
“Dammit, Longshanks,” I said, giving it a quick scan. Since he’d already seen it, I read aloud, “Marnie, I write this knowing that this exorcism will most likely be my last. My home is not the sanctuary I had hoped. The poltergeist froze Drake and Wolf right in front of me. God forgive me, but I must assume His hand no longer protects the once-hallowed ground that I have without a doubt tainted. I’ve tried to call you a hundred times since then, but I am no longer alone here, and everything I attempt is blocked, every battery drained, every power source altered, every wire melted. By having the mourning vial in my possession, I have opened the door to the entity that was once Elizabeth Briggs-Adsit, but I do not regret having done so. Understand, keeping this object in the police station drew her attention to dozens of innocent men, and had the power to bring her to it. I had to remove it for their sakes. Since I assume Barnaby Nowland stole it from me, I hope you are now in possession of it. If I should die before this is resolved, I will warn you here: when Mrs. Briggs-Adsit comes for her necklace, LET HER HAVE IT. She will kill you if you do not. I will do everything I can to banish her beyond the veil before this happens.” I paused for a moment, fighting off a wave of sadness, and continued. “It is nine-thirty. I am heading to the Blue Ghost Tunnel to exorcise the area, and then I will move to the overflow pond to pay special attention to the Briggs-Adsit gravesite. I am not confident this will work without the skull and the necklace, but I can wait no longer as my life is now at risk. I am sorry that my selfish curiosity has brought us to this, and hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. May whatever face of God you believe in bless and keep you, Marnie. I will pray for you.” I dropped my arm as if the letter had become unbearably heavy. “Well, shit.”
“He left funeral instructions,” Schenk said. “High noon. So the ‘unrepentant monster’ can’t attend.”
Harry. I checked my watch. “Funeral? Father Scarrow was murdered by a poltergeist. Do you have any idea what that would do to tissue at the microscopic level?”
“No. And neither do you, I bet.”
“Damn right, I don’t. Nobody knows. This is unheard of. That’s why Scarrow’s body, along with Britney Wyatt’s and Barnaby Nowland’s, will be at the morgue and then the Center for Preternatural Forensic Sciences in Hamilton for a looooong time.”
“They’ve already called about it three times this morning,” Schenk agreed. “I want my guy to do his preliminaries comprehensively first.”
“Who called?” I asked, opening my coffee and sipping carefully to see if it had cooled off enough not to scald my tongue. “Burns? Gyorkos? Mills? Souza?”
“Mills,” he confirmed.
“Fuckin’ Mills.” I gave Schenk the exorcist’s letter back, as he no doubt would need it for copies and paperwork and who knew what else. “I’ve had some run-ins with him. You do not want that guy to put you on his Christmas list, let me tell you.”
“Bad fruitcake?”
“You say that like there’s good fruitcake.” I glanced up at him while he finished his coffee. “And no, it wasn’t fruitcake.”
“Jelly of the month club?”
“Yes,” I said, “If by ‘jelly’ you mean ‘dick pics.’” When he looked mildly surprised, I said, “Hey, just because a guy’s a scientist doesn’t mean he’s not a fuckin’ weirdo.”
“True. After all, look at you.”
“Right—heeeeeey.” I smiled sourly.
“I’m not convinced you didn’t request those pictures.”
“Now, what you want to do is address all your files and correspondence to Souza. Souza is thorough.”
“And no risk of naked pictures.”
“In fact, you might want to run those files to Souza in person,” I continued, thinking of Melinda Souza’s long, glossy chestnut hair and startling green eyes. Last I’d heard, she was still single, probably on account of her serious nature, dedication to her job, fierce independence, and her tendency to be brusque. Mindy was not a warm and fuzzy kind of girl, but that was nothing Schenk couldn’t handle. He had a good, if Anderson Cooper-colored head on his shoulders, and shared the same serious nature and work ethic. Could Souza be the answer to Schenk’s dreams? Feeling a bit like Cupid, I said, “Bring tea, not coffee. Souza drinks tea. English Breakfast, if I recall. Milk, no sugar. Maybe a cookie. Cookies are a nice touch. But not in the lab. No food in the lab.”
He gave me the side-eye. “Why do I get the feeling you’re up to something?”
“Because you’re an overly suspicious, fancy-brains detective?” I finished my coffee and took his empty cup from him. He put his gloves back on and went back to staring at the canal’s surface. The sun slanting down into the water made it seem more grey than black. “You know, you might never get to bury Father Scarrow. If this is a confirmed death-by-Incorporeal-Human-Entity, they’re going to shove him in a freezer and study his bits and pieces for years.”
“You’re full of good news today.”
Positive thinking, Marnie. “Your hair looks good white?”
“Try again.”
“You’re right, it really doesn’t. Gonna dye it?”
“Will that work?”
“I doubt it. It’s ghost-touched hair.” That’s positivity? “Mama-Captain will never kill another person,” I offered. “The lost spirits are gone. John Briggs-Adsit, Britney Wyatt, and Barnaby Nowland
are at peace.”
“So, there’s that.” He aimed a squint up at the clouds as they went across the sun, cooling us for a moment in shade before trundling onward and letting the sun return to its snow-melting duty. “Talked to the city about discussing plans with you to relocate the remains.”
The skeletons, those that remained under the pond’s muddy floor, would have to be carefully transferred to one of the Red Hook cemeteries, and Harry had agreed to foot the bill and assume all expenses for the memorial stone. This project would be a nightmare, years of red tape and litigations and anthropology surveys, but I’d kinda-sorta promised an entire congress of ghosts that I’d heard their pleas, and I wasn’t about to leave Canada without at least starting the process. “Thanks. Text me the names and numbers and Harry and I will get on that.”
He nodded. “Simon Hiscott was released on bail. You'll probably need to come back to testify.”
I sucked my teeth. “I don't suppose an attempted murder charge is really necessary, since one would-be plaintiff is now deceased, and I'm not pressing charges. Anyway, where’d he get the gun?”
“It’s his. Registered.” He shrugged. “A shooting sportsman. How’s your friend Ellie?”
“Didn’t want to see me to say goodbye,” I said. Positivity! “But my mom woke my dad up early so he could come to the door and wave. Sure, the only one of my sisters who would see me was, of all people, Rowena, but the good news is, she doesn’t hate me as much as before. I think. Don’t wanna push it. Maybe I’ll see her when I come back for the trial. I’m having Mr. Merritt drop the scrying board off to her later so she doesn’t have to see me.”
“That’s nice of you,” Schenk commented, crooking a finger at me and walking to the trunk of his car. “You should have had Mr. Merritt come say goodbye to me on your behalf so I didn’t have to see you.”
“You are a bit of a jerk today,” I mentioned affably. “A gigantic one, on account of how tall you are.”
“I am the Everest of Jerks,” he agreed, popping his trunk. He handed me a soft package wrapped in a plastic grocery bag, folded and taped. I put one of the empty cups in the crook of my arm to free a hand to take it. “Don’t open this until Christmas.”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas; I’m a witch. Well, my beliefs are fairly syncretic, but I don’t usually do the traditional stuff, mangers and wise men and all that.”
“Then don’t open it until the morning of December twenty-fifth because I asked you not to.”
“I’m opening it right now.”
“I will shoot you.”
I laughed from the belly, and relented. “You and your complete and utter obedience to the law at all times,” I repeated. “I didn’t get you a gift.”
He pointed to the hearse. “Your ass on a plane out of my country is the only gift I need, eh?”
“I’ve enjoyed your company, too, Longshanks.” I smiled knowingly. He nodded at my smile, and returned it. “Thanks for tolerating me. Harry should send you hazard pay, too.”
“Oh, he did,” Schenk confirmed. “Hey.”
When the sun came blasting out again I had to squint up at him to see. “Yeah?”
“None of this was easy,” he said. His gaze shifted to the imprint of my iPhone in the front pocket of my jeans. “You’re ballsy. When it comes to work, anyway. Maybe some of that courage will follow you home.” He leveled a challenging look in my direction that surprised me. I knew what he was hinting at immediately: a picture on my phone, a confession over nachos and wings, personal fears, private doubts, matters of the heart. Batten. The thought of returning home to Kill-Notch and his furious, clenching jaw and his hard ass and his hot glare made my knees weak, but none of that was Schenk’s business. I was about to tell him to butt the hell out of my love life when I realized that wouldn’t be fair, since I’d just set him up to maybe meet the woman of his dreams not five minutes ago.
“Ballsy, huh?” I said. “We’ll see, Thag.”
He nodded, seeing on my face that I got his drift. “Stay tough, Cinderblock. Take care of yourself, eh?”
I kinda wanted to hug him good bye, but that wasn’t our way; momentarily thwarted by our unspoken personal space arrangement, I shot him the best farewell smile I could manage. It didn’t quite feel like enough, but I respected the limitations and went to the hearse. Mr. Merritt had scooted out so he could hold the passenger side door open for me and take the not-exactly-Christmas gift.
I looked back only once, to watch Schenk stroll back to the side of the canal with his left hand in his pants pockets. With his right hand, he took something out of his inside jacket pocket. I knew it was a picture of Britney Wyatt. I watched him until his shoulders fell; then I turned around and faced forward in my seat to give him privacy while he said his other goodbye.
CHAPTER 34
MR. MERRITT ARRANGED for porters to load Harry and his casket carefully into the belly of the plane with the luggage while I got my ticket. Combat Butler’s goodbye before customs and security was quick and perfunctory. The Blue Sense told me that he didn’t enjoy farewells; he fled back to the hearse like he'd left the kettle on at home. He thought I didn’t catch him sneak a peek back at me before he left the building. It wouldn’t be the last time he saw me; before leaving North House I’d changed his laptop’s background picture to a picture of me from my iPhone with my mouth stuffed with cookies, giving him a thumbs-up. I wished I could see his face later when he discovered it. Maybe I’d call him on Skype.
I used the flight to organize my notes for the papers I’d have to write, and jot a list of everyone I thought I’d need to alert first about my discoveries. Scarrow’s discoveries. The Church wasn’t going to like it, but they didn’t much like DaySitters anyway, so I could live with that. The scientific community wasn’t going to like the news, either. Preternatural biology was a flexible field, but the other fields attached to it by necessity — ecology, chemistry, physics — were highly resistant to new ideas. The peer review process would be lengthy and fraught with doubt and even hostility; it wasn’t anything I hadn’t encountered before, but it was never enjoyable to be the bearer of unpleasant, not to mention paradigm-kicking, news.
Chapel was waiting at the arrivals gate when I got to Denver, looking boring but serious in shades of taupe and brown. The sight of him flushed days of stress out of my system; my ex-dhaugir, my ever-patient boss, my calm and cautious friend. Looking at Gary, I felt instantly at home. It wouldn’t be dark for another few hours, so Chapel had put the seats down in the SUV so the skycaps could load Harry’s casket in the back, with our luggage stuffed in on either side of it. Chapel held the passenger door open. I suddenly felt like hugging him, and wondered what the hell was happening to me; a few ghostly deaths and some demon dancing, and I become a softie?
Chapel waited until we were driving before noting, “That’s quite the black eye, Marnie.”
“Taunted a poltergeist.” I mimed a punch in my face. “Blammo! Whapped by a ghost fist.”
He favored me with a skeptical glance that I'm sure would have lasted longer if he hadn’t been driving. “The spirits of the departed cannot affect the physical realm.”
“Until one bitch-slapped me, that’s what I thought, eh?”
“And the black hair? Is that a blue streak?”
“Sorry. Wasn’t my idea. Dead girl left her mark on me,” I said, not entirely unhappy about it. If I avoided looking in the mirror, it hardly bothered me at all. “Could have been worse; Constable Schenk’s hair went completely white.”
Chapel nodded, and his simple acceptance of my explanations began unknotting my stomach. He was always so easy to be with. I wondered what Batten would think of my hair, and my belly did a funny flutter; I snuck a peek at my ex-dhaugir to see if he’d noticed. He seemed oblivious.
“Agent Chapel. Gary.” I chewed my bottom lip, trying to imagine what de Cabrera would say to encourage my positivity. All that came to me was Schenk’s encouraging voice. Ballsy. “We need to talk a
bout work.”
Chapel pulled into heavy Saturday traffic on the I-70 without comment, but I could see a hundred thoughts going through his hazel eyes behind the tortoiseshell glasses even without bringing the Blue Sense to bear.
“Remember how we worked together on the Danika Sherlock case?” I reminded him. “Imagine that, but with less ghoul sludge and fewer heads in mailboxes.”
He asked tentatively, “Are you considering parting from the PCU? Opening your own business? Working from home?”
“That’d be ballsy, eh? I mean, who would hire me, except for you?”
“What does Lord Dreppenstedt think?”
Harry’s gonna have a shit-fit, I predicted. Me? Working alone? Maybe boinking Batten on my days off between writing academic papers? Harry would dredge up his best expressions of outrage when I told him. Maybe even the fancy French ones. I wasn’t entirely new to working solo; I had once owned my own business, however briefly, and somewhere, tucked away in a Canadian evidence locker, there was a business card to prove it. I was currently working on a way to use that as proof that I could manage myself.
“I haven’t discussed it with Harry yet,” I admitted. “I thought I’d run it past you first and see if you thought it was even doable.”
“Are the hours at the lab too much for you?” he asked. “Do you need more time home during the day to watch Harry?”
“Oh, hey, he’ll buy that excuse,” I said, adding that to my mental list. When Chapel cast me a look that said he was more interested in the truth, I said, “I’m thinking I’m not a good fit in the FBI. Rules and regulations have never been my thing. I mess shit up on a regular basis. Internal Affairs would have a party if I left. Geoff would bake a fucking cake without putting kittens in it. Let’s face it, Boss Man: your life would be a lot easier with someone else in UnBio and me on the side. We gave it a shot. We had some success. But I’m a motherfucking handful.” I squirmed in my seat, then realized I didn’t have to pay anyone for swears, here. “I like cursing, Gary.”