Debriefing the Dead (The Dead Series Book 1)

by Kerry Blaisdell

  “Find anything?” Jason asked while Geordi pulled up a chair and started flipping randomly through the volumes.

  “No,” I said. “Unless you can also read Turkish?”

  I half expected a “sure,” but Jason said, “Sorry. Like I said, I speak tourist, but that’s it.”

  “Never mind. Can I see the photos?”

  He plopped them on the table, then sat by Geordi, who’d already given up on the books and was scribbling on a piece of scratch paper with one of those short, eraser-less library pencils. Jason picked up another one, and soon they were engaged in what looked like a highly competitive tic-tac-toe tournament.

  The photos were sorted by location, so I started with Colossae. Unsurprisingly, nothing new leapt out at me. It was still a barren, flat hill, near an unexceptional wandering stream. Without much hope, I switched to the Pamukkale set. As expected, the site was far less crowded than I’d first thought when taking the photos. Barely a third of the people I’d seen then showed up in the pictures, and more and more I realized how “real” the Dead looked to me.

  I glanced around the library. Were some of these people dead? How would I ever tell them apart? Of course, if I didn’t get the rock back for Michael, it’d be a moot point.

  I examined each photo carefully, not seeing anything of interest, and finally came to the last one, which I’d taken right before Eric found me. Again, nothing but the ledge, the hot springs, and assorted live tourists. I threw it down on the pile and blew out an aggravated breath.

  Jason glanced up sympathetically. “Maybe if you told me what you’re looking for?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Geordi abandoned the game. “Can I help?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  He leaned across the table, looking at the top shot, and immediately asked, “Who’s that?”

  I picked the photo up, heart pounding. Could he somehow have seen Eric, even though I couldn’t see him in the picture? And what did it mean—what would I do—if he had?

  But no. It wasn’t Eric he pointed at. It was a woman, dressed like a Russian peasant. Solid and real as any of the tourists around her.

  Nadezhda.

  She was so close to the photo’s edge that I hadn’t registered her until now. I turned to Jason. “Can you see her? That woman there—can you see her?”

  He shot me one of his concerned-for-my-sanity looks, but obediently checked the photo. “Short woman, wearing a dress and scarf?” I nodded, and he said, “Of course I see her.”

  Which meant…she wasn’t one of the Dead.

  Which also meant…I wasn’t the only living person who could communicate with them.

  I pushed back from the table, gathering up the photos. “Let’s go—we need to get back to Hierapolis. Now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You have to learn to do everything, even to die.”

  ~Gertrude Stein (1874-1946)

  Pamukkale was about as crowded as yesterday, but at least now I knew Jason and Geordi weren’t aware of all the folks milling around. I didn’t think Nadezhda would be on the terraces, so we went straight to Apollo’s Temple in the necropolis. From there, I made educated guesses and retraced my steps of last night, winding through the graves with Jason and Geordi in tow.

  Once again, the sun shone directly overhead, but wherever the Living and the Dead were, it wasn’t here. I supposed the terraces with their healing waters, and the museum at Hierapolis with its air conditioning, were a bigger draw for live tourists in this heat. But I expected to see at least a few of the Dead, since this was their “city.” Maybe they all had day jobs or were still asleep and would come out later.

  At last I recognized the ruin where I’d lost the trail of the rock. For form’s sake—I didn’t really think it would be so easy—I put my hand on the closed arch. Nothing. Not even a tremor or a hum to tell me the rock was there. Jason eyed me curiously, but I shook my head and moved outside the passage, clambering onto the hill. From there, it was a simple matter to find the place where Eric had been healed. None of the Dead were here, either, but evidently, I’m predictable.

  “There she is, Tata!” Geordi squealed excitedly. “The lady from the picture!”

  Nadezhda sat cross-legged on a low tomb, elbows on her knees, watching us. “I vaiting.” Her gaze flicked from me to Jason, then landed on Geordi, and her brow furrowed. “Come.”

  Wonder of wonders, he obeyed. Not that he was ordinarily shy. But she was a strange woman, on a ruin in Turkey, and I would’ve expected a little caution. Instead, he walked right up and looked her in the eye. She didn’t say anything, but clearly some sort of exchange passed between them. At the end of it, she nodded decisively.

  “You okay.” She reached in her pocket and took something out, handing it to him. “You like bugs. Zey like you. Keep zis. It belong viz you.”

  “Thank you,” Geordi said solemnly, and put the small object in his own pocket.

  She pointed to a hillock a few yards away. “Go. Is bugs.”

  Geordi grinned happily and skipped off to investigate.

  Jason’s face was oddly tense, and he whispered, “Who the hell is she?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered back. “But I think she can help me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “With what?”

  Nadezhda’s head snapped up, and she said sharply to me, “Speak. You haf questions. I no can answer, if you no ask.”

  I looked at Jason. He looked back. Finally, he ground out, “Fine. I’ll help Geordi.” He started to turn away, but I reached for his hand.

  “Thank you. For this—for everything.”

  I expected recriminations, or even a wisecrack. Instead, he blew out a breath and shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, and it scares the crap out of me. But you trusted me, even after I lied to you. I don’t deserve a second chance—but I’m going to take it.”

  He laced his fingers through mine and pulled me to him. The kiss was fast, over almost before I registered it. He released me and stepped back, and I wobbled a little.

  “You need meat,” he said, “but think you shouldn’t. I want you—and know I shouldn’t.”

  He went to Geordi, and Nadezhda cackled.

  “You gotta problem viz zat one. Or maybe viz…ze dead one?”

  As openings went, it wasn’t bad. I pulled myself up beside her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”

  “Vhy you no ask?”

  “You walked and talked with the Dead. It never occurred to me another living person could do that.”

  “Ve are alike, zen, you and me? Both of us…living?” Her expression was canny, but I wasn’t ready to have that conversation. I was here for other reasons.

  “I can talk to them, hear them, feel them. But you—you physically tied Eric to the hillside. How is that even possible, when he has no body?”

  She contemplated me for a moment, then said, “I use ghost cloth.”

  “You mean you can control spirit objects?”

  She didn’t answer, just lifted a shoulder. Or tried to. She was so rotund, the only change in her stance was that one side of her bosom lifted a fraction of an inch higher than the other.

  I tried a different tack. “Eric moved a vase. Is it something like that—if the Dead can influence objects in our world, does the same hold true for us, with stuff in theirs?”

  She shrugged again, and I tamped down my frustration. On to the next subject. “You’re Eastern Orthodox, right?”

  About eighty percent of Russians are, so I was hardly surprised when she nodded. “Da. I vaz.” She gave me a sly, sideways look. “I Old Believer. You know vhat is zat?”

  Actually, I did. “You follow the old ways of the church, from before the reforms in the seventeenth century. Well, the old ways of the Russian church.” I gave her a sly look of my own. “Which, itself, split from the Roman Catholics six hundred years before that.”

  She beamed, and I felt oddly proud of myself.
r />   “You good student.”

  “Not good enough. I haven’t been to church regularly since I was a kid.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “In Russia, ve Christian, da. Does not mean ve go to church. Vhat ist you vant to know?”

  “What happens on September fifth?”

  She thought a moment. “Is feast of Holy Prophet Zechariah and Righteous Elizabeth.”

  It took some searching through my spotty Catholic memories before I came up with a match. “The parents of John the Baptist?” How on earth were they connected to all this?

  “Da,” Nadezhda said. Then, evidently feeling chatty, she added, “September the six, now—is much bigger day. Is feast of Saint Michael.”

  I stared at her. “I thought his feast was at the end of September.”

  “In Roman Catholic Church, da, but is minor feast. Pah. In our church, is very important. September the sixth.”

  Well, hell. But if Michael’s feast was on the sixth, then why would the Rousseaux perform the ritual on the fifth?

  And then a big ole well-duh lightning bolt hit me in the head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. My mentors would be ashamed. Vadim would turn over in his grave, if he hadn’t been cremated.

  Of course the ritual would happen on the fifth. Virtually every ancient religion, including early Christianity, began their holy observances at sunset on the day before. Sheesh. It was a wonder Michael thought me resourceful at all. Clearly, I’d gotten way too soft in recent years.

  I sat back, thinking over the facts as I now knew them. Satan tried to destroy Michael’s sanctuary at Colossae, but Michael stopped him by splitting the river slab and rerouting the newly-sanctified water. Since then, Satan and Michael both had hunted down the resulting rock shards. I still didn’t know why, but I could guess. Most likely, the pieces either held some of Michael’s powers, or acted as their source, or something along those lines. Obviously, Satan wanted to destroy the rocks to weaken Michael, and by doing it on the very day when Michael’s importance was celebrated by the Russian Church, he really thumbed his nose at Heaven.

  Saturday at sunset. Barely thirty hours from now.

  I turned to Nadezhda. “When I was here last night, I found a…cave, or something.” I hesitated. She might have helped Eric, but for all I knew, she worked for Satan. He’d have good reasons to want the Dead walking the Earth—maybe she was his shepherd or something. Still, she knew more of this area than anyone else I was likely to meet, so I pushed ahead.

  “Maybe on the other side of that archway?”

  I pointed to the one in question, and she promptly said, “Da. Is Plutonium.”

  What the…? The same thing the Turkish librarian had told me. But what in the world could nuclear bombs have to do with Michael and the rock?

  And then it kicked in. For the second time in under five minutes, I allowed myself the briefest of self-flagellations. It’s a good thing my education was self-taught, largely free, and I had no parents, because if I did, they’d rail at me for wasting their money. My only excuse was that the librarian’s mention of calcium silicate had got me thinking of minerals and elements.

  Not plutonium, as in the isotope used in nuclear reactors. Plutonium with a capital “P,” as in, the realm of the god Pluto—an entrance to the Underworld. The absolute perfect place for Satan’s minions to hang out, store rocks, and generally make a nuisance of themselves.

  I jumped off the tomb. “How—where—? I need to get inside!”

  “Nyet.”

  The absolute refusal in her tone was more than I could take. “God damn it!”

  It came out as a shout, and Jason and Geordi looked up, startled. I forced myself to calm down, waiting until they returned their attention to the dirt and its creepy crawlies.

  “I have to get inside,” I repeated. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “No one get inside. Is closed.”

  “I know that entrance is closed—there must be another one.”

  Nadezhda nodded. “Da. Is lots of gates to Plutonium. Is one at Temple of Apollo, viz iron grate. Zey tell you all about it at museum.”

  I started to snap at her again, then made myself stop. She wasn’t arguing with me, but instead appeared to be stating well-known facts. “If there are lots of gates, and everyone knows about them, why can’t I get inside?”

  “Poison.”

  That was the last thing I expected. Death by Demons—sure. Turkish laws forbidding entry into historic sites—absolutely. But…poison?

  She gave a toothy grin. “You hold temper. Is good. You not know everyzing. Is poison in caves—gas. Ancients use for sacrifice. Birds, animals. Gas rise from below and zey die. You go in all ze vay, you die.” She shot me a sideways glance. “If you no already dead.”

  I glanced at Jason and Geordi, but they didn’t appear to have heard, so I asked cautiously, “Are you saying the Dead can enter the Plutonium safely?”

  She let my deliberate misunderstanding pass. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Gas no affect zem—da, is true. But safe to enter?” She shook her head. “Is gate to Undervorld. Zey go in, maybe zey no get out.”

  Poison gas and a doorway to Hell. No wonder the arch was walled off. “Please—at least show me the other entrance. The one at the Temple.”

  She thought a moment. “Da—I show you.” She hopped off the tomb, calling loudly to Jason and Geordi, “You come, too.”

  They stood and joined us, wiping their hands on their grubby shorts.

  “Come where?” Jason asked.

  “Plutonium,” she said, and his face blanched.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, and Jason’s gaze snapped to mine. Far from the fear I’d expected, his expression was furious.

  “What the f—” At the last second, he remembered Geordi, and toned it down. A bit. “What in the name of Christ is going on? Why do you need to go there?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Jason looked like he wanted to shake me. Good thing Eric wasn’t around, or we might all have learned just how well he could harness his new “dead energy.”

  “I’ve been patient.” There was a hardness to Jason’s voice that, despite everything, I hadn’t heard before. “But this is too much. You will not take Geordi near the Plutonium.”

  “How the hell do you even know what that is?” I demanded, forgetting Geordi myself.

  “I can read a damn guidebook, too!” Jason was so angry, his blue eyes darkened until they were almost black. Nadezhda grinned at him and cackled, and he rounded on her. “How can you even think of taking a child near a cave filled with poison gas? Of taking anyone there?”

  She shrugged, unperturbed by the fact that he towered over her, exuding more outrage by the second. “Is safe at Temple. Apollo vill protect. Your friend—she go. Boy, he go viz her. Da?” I nodded emphatically, and she looked at Jason again. “Is up to you. Stay or go.”

  She turned and waddled toward the Temple, and I grabbed Geordi’s hand and followed. After a moment, the crunch of sneakers on the path behind let me know Jason had relented. Which was a not-so-secret relief. I’d gotten used to having him at my back, so to speak, and though he might be mad as hell, I really didn’t want to face this alone.

  It took a few minutes to wend our way through the necropolis. Last night and earlier today, I hadn’t paid much attention to the Temple itself, regarding it primarily as a landmark from which to branch out my search for Eric, and then for Nadezhda. Now as we approached it, I looked more carefully, memorizing details of the terrain, in case I needed them later.

  I’d left the camera in the car, but even if I’d brought it, I wouldn’t have used it. The truth is, after making such amateur mistakes, and missing so many details, I wanted to flex my muscles, see if I still had the skills that got Vadim to partner me in the first place. He’d always said cameras make you lazy. Photographing a site meant you never really looked at it or experienced its nuances, subtleties of time
and place that might not show up in the pictures. Plus, downloading and printing takes time, and if you forget the photos later, you’re screwed. Better, he said, to use your mind’s eye. Presumably, you’d always have that with you.

  Mine was rusty, that much was certain. I should have used it more at Colossae and Pamukkale. Who knew what I’d missed, peering through that narrow lens instead of absorbing the bigger picture. Today, by contrast, it felt good to be unencumbered, just me and the site.

  Well, me, the site, and various of my minions.

  Not much remains of the Temple, it having collapsed several times over the years, during successive earthquakes—the same ones that flattened Colossae. The Temple wasn’t a total pancake, but it was close, a jumble of broken tan stones and columns resting on slightly sloped ground. The earth and dead grass were similar in color to the ruin, and its relative flatness left us exposed to the elements, and to anyone who might be watching. I did a quick check, but saw no one, which was only mildly reassuring. I had a hunch demons and their ilk would either have powers of invisibility, or else be really good at hiding.

  The Temple was about fifteen or twenty meters square, with steps on all sides leading up to a formerly-columned dais. As noted, the columns now lay scattered across the surface, but an annex below and to one side of the dais was in halfway decent shape.

  It was to this that Nadezhda led us. There, below the Temple proper, a portion of the wall extended out into the low hillside, maybe one meter wide and around one and a half meters high. Atop this, a small arch added another meter or so. As Nadezhda had said, there was a padlocked iron grate over it, and I eagerly approached it, hoping to see beyond, into the Plutonium.

  Unfortunately, Nadezhda either hadn’t known, or didn’t see fit to mention, that behind the grate’s rusty bars, less than a meter in, this arch was also walled off. Not only that, but the lower portion of the opening was filled with dirt.

  I tried the grate, anyway. Maybe I could poke around in the dirt and learn something useful. But though it rattled, the padlock was secure, the casing sound, and there was no way I could open it, unless I came back later with a bolt cutter or a saw. Since the stones inside looked to be as tightly joined as the ones at the other entrance, there didn’t seem to be much point.