The Demon Hunters

by Linda Welch

  I unlocked the door, towed Mac inside and slung my small overnight bag in the general direction of the staircase. When I unlatched Mac’s leash and let him go, he immediately charged into the kitchen.

  “Hello! I’m home!” I called as I passed the stairs.

  When nobody answered, I rolled my eyes and went in the kitchen. Mac snuffled on the floor where his water bowl should have been. I got it out the sink, filled it and put it down for him. With a weary sigh, I sat at the kitchen table, adding the mail to the pile already there. Most of them were bills, which I could now pay thanks to Gertrude. I know people who don’t pay their bills until they get red warning notes. I fret at the mere notion of not paying mine.

  I felt someone behind me. “Hi, guys. Have fun while I was gone?”

  Mac lifted his head from his bowl, water dripping off his little beard, and snarled.

  A humph noise behind me. I shrugged. They were sulking and determined to let me know, but they’d come around. I picked at a flake of paint on the edge of the table, a big old thing with drawers under the table top on one side and shelves on the other. I got it at a yard sale, but should have tried my hand at refinishing instead of painting it white to match the kitchen cabinets. The paint had worn through in some places and chipped off around the edges.

  I sorted through the mail, separating bills from advertisements. I didn’t say another word. The silence would eventually get to them.

  The kitchen felt warm and stuffy, so I got up, went to the big multipane windows and opened two of them. I leaned on the sill, enjoying the cooler air on my face. Yet more of the tiny green and white tiles, which cover the walls just above the counters and surround the windows, needed re-grouting. If only there weren’t so many of them. The damn things go all around the kitchen.

  “Did you bring us anything?” Mel asked.

  I turned back and leaned against the window sill. Mel stood on the other side of the table. Jack stood near the refrigerator. You would not know from Mel’s tone she was glad to see me, but I knew both of them were, no matter how they pretended otherwise.

  “Bring you anything? From the exotic metropolis of Merced?”

  “It’s what people do for their friends when they take a trip,” Mel said.

  “Fine. Next time I go anyplace, I’ll bring you back a snow globe or something.”

  “Is that your attempt at humor?” Jack said.

  “Yeah. We could stand all day and look at the little white flakes on the bottom of the globe,” from Mel.

  Honestly, they were like a couple of sulky little kids.

  Jack sniffed. “Phil White let his dog take a poop down the side of the house.”

  I narrowed my eyes, not at Jack, but because Phil thought I would not know his dog used my property as a doggy dumping ground. And I couldn’t very well tell him my dead roommate fingered him.

  Yes, Jack is well and truly dead. So is Mel. My dead and should-be-departed roomies, present in spirit if not in flesh.

  “And I think Wanda Crebs is having an affair,” from Mel.

  Wanda and her trucker husband live three houses down. “Really?”

  “The guy comes after dark, parks outside the Patrick’s old house and walks to Wanda’s. Looks real sneaky too,” Jack said.

  “How so, sneaky?”

  “He looks up and down the street, real careful, and comes up and around the back of Wanda’s house. She must let him in the backdoor.”

  What Wanda did was none of my business, but I hoped Jack and Mel were mistaken because her husband, Roland, worshipped the ground she walked on.

  I yawned, looked over at the wall clock. Almost eleven-thirty and my eyelids felt heavy as lead. “If that’s all you got, I’m for bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “But you just got back!” from Mel.

  I headed for the stairs. “Night,” I said over my shoulder, grinning, because I did bring them something back from Merced.

  Every time I returned from a trip, they asked what I brought them, and I never had, but a couple of things in Merced caught my eye. I knew I set myself up for future harangues and sulks because now they’d expect a little gift every time I left the state.

  Maybe I tried to appease my conscience. When I travel from home, I feel guilty, because I don’t like leaving them alone for too long. They get depressed, and I think they spend far too much time down in the basement, where their killer buried their bodies beneath concrete and dirt.

  ***

  Of course I woke real early in the morning, six in the morning to be precise. I peered blearily at the alarm clock, trying to decide whether to roll over or get out of bed. But the bathroom called me and my nose felt all stuffed up, and when I got back in bed I couldn’t get comfortable. I rooted in my dresser, found a halter top and pair of shorts, struggled into them and padded barefoot downstairs. I’d take my shower later, after my hike. For once, Jack and Mel were not down there waiting for me. Probably still sulking.

  I filled the carafe with water, the filter with ground Columbian blend and started the coffee machine burbling.

  “Hey, guys, I got presents!”

  I stiffened as Jack spoke from close behind me. “What do we care if you got a present?”

  I relaxed my muscles and inhaled the wonderful aroma of perking coffee. “Not for me, idiot. For you.”

  “You got Jack a present!”

  “And you, Mel.” I walked out to the hall and picked up my carryall. Back in the kitchen, the terrible twosome stared at me from their position near the coffeemaker. I jiggled the bag. “Honest.”

  Jack dashed across the kitchen and stopped short. His spectral form would have overlapped my body if he’d been any closer. “Don’t tell me it’s a snow globe.”

  Jack and Mel were happily engrossed with their gifts when I walked out the door, Jack in front of the TV in the kitchen and Mel staring at the wall in her room. They would dredge every possible scrap of pleasure they could from what I gave them.

  I got Jack a DVD of Billy French, live at the Cincinnati Comedy Club. Billy specializes in “dead” jokes and is Jack’s idol. For Mel, a life-size poster of Mel Gibson in his Braveheart regalia.

  ***

  I walked the trails behind the apartment block where, eight months ago, I found the clue which led to solving my biggest and oddest case. I don’t think I will ever pass her block and not think of sad Lindy Marchant and her son Lawrence.

  With the help of his advisers, the boy now rules Royal’s world. Weird, to think of a child not yet seven-years-old ruling an entire world. But Lawrence is not an ordinary boy, he’s part demon. Is he a puppet-ruler, despite being smarter than the typical human child? Royal assures me Lawrence’s advising council has his best interests at heart and can be trusted to guide him.

  I don’t think Royal’s world - or sphere, or space, or whatever they call it - is anywhere as big as mine, and I think the population is smaller. Everyone belongs to a House, a kind of community run along medieval lines, where the Lord or Lady of the House sets the rules and is responsible for the welfare of their people. The Houses as a whole fall under the jurisdiction of the High Lord or High Lady and their House, so you could say he’s the supreme ruler.

  The High Lady died more than fifty years ago and her heir had been missing for a long time. But his grandson was alive and well and living in Clarion, the problem being, the High House didn’t know that. They were looking for him all over the world, but so were his enemies, who were abducting little part-Gelpha boys who could possibly be Lawrence. And what do kidnappers do to victims who can identify them? They kill them.

  Sometimes, they didn’t bother to abduct them, they killed the children right there, in their homes.

  Royal worked as a police detective in New York City, Seattle and San Antonio as he followed the killer’s trail. When the trail led him to the mid-west, he transferred to Clarion PD, the single available position at the time. I was looking for Lawrence, so Mike Warren partnered us. And my life
got even stranger.

  We found the killer, except they were killers, in the plural, led by Royal’s brother. Royal killed him to save my life.

  If not for Lindy Marchant, who broke the rules of the afterlife by leaving her place of death to come to me for help, chances are I’d never have met Royal, never found Lawrence, and little boys all over the world would still be dying.

  The mountain trails above Clarion are well-maintained, but they are trails, not concrete sidewalks, so a person has to jump over large snaking roots, leap puddles and duck under low branches. The terrain is steep, the ground rough, pocked with holes and depressions and littered with rock fallen down from above.

  The air felt a little chill, but not too bad. I quickly warmed up. I wove between giant lumps of rock upthrust from the ground and through a narrow slot canyon. It was a workout, and on a beautiful morning like this, I loved it.

  I’m not an exercise freak. I do what I must to keep my figure. Mostly I jog on my treadmill, but between May and mid-July, until the heat settles in, I enjoy an occasional hike up the mountain trails. The view is amazing; a diorama of Clarion, North Clarion and South Clarion almost fills the valley. You can see Northfork Road way out to the west, just before it disappears down Fork Canyon and on down to the Salt Lake Valley. And all around, the sheer grandeur of the Wasatch Range.

  I slowed a little to pace myself and take in the scenery. Seasonal springs trickled down, sometimes right across the trail. Wild flowers dotted the terrain: alpine buttercup, spring lily, thimble berries, spring beauty and my favorite, the tiny, delicate lily-like flower of the wild onion. If you live in the mountains, you know early wild flowers tend to emerge in the same color groups. These were yellow or white. Blues would come next, then pinks and reds, and later in the year a mixture of colors.

  Although I couldn’t see the sun above the ridgeline, its light streamed down Pineview Canyon to the north of me like a river of gold.

  For good exercise, hiking uphill on rough terrain beats walking concrete any day of the week. Panting a little, I paused on the trail.

  My cell rang.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” Royal drawled.

  That word again – sweetheart- and his tone made me go liquid. I sat on a convenient rock. “Morning to you too.”

  “I called your house. You’re not there.”

  Funny man. “Um. I’m walking.”

  “When you get back, can you come over here?”

  I grinned at the phone. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

  “All kinds of things, but unfortunately I cannot act on any of them. We have visitors.”

  “We have visitors? For both of us? At your place? This early in the morning?” I checked my wristwatch. “At seven in the morning?”

  An audible sigh. “Clients. They will be here any minute.”

  “Clients? I didn’t know we had clients. In particular, clients who make appointments at the crack of dawn.”

  “Prospective clients, then. I can explain when you get here. Or would you rather we come to your place?”

  “Uh, no. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “I’ll save you a donut.”

  “Aw,” I crooned into the phone. “You do know how to treat a girl.”

  I pocketed the phone and started down. The sun crested behind me, hot on the nape of my neck, then traveled down to envelop my entire body. Its golden light swathed the mountainside, casting my shadow crookedly before me. Chickadee flitted through the branches of scrub oak and tiny pine siskin pecked in the long grasses for last year’s wild flax seeds. A hawk drifted lazily above, the sun making its underside a bright, almost dazzling metallic copper, the color of Royal’s hair.

  Chapter Three

  “What’s the big hurry?” Mel asked.

  “Off to Royal’s for donuts and mysterious visitors,” I sang out, charging through the kitchen, making quotation marks in the air with my fingers. I headed up the stairs to the bathroom with Jack and Mel trailing me.

  “Mysterious visitors? Ooh, can I come?” Jack asked.

  I walked into the bathroom. “Be my guest.”

  ”That’s our Tiff, always the comedian.”

  I slammed the door on him.

  “What’s this about mysterious visitors?” Mel asked.

  “Don’t do that!”

  “Do what?”

  “Your disappearing from one room and reappearing in another act.”

  I stripped off my top and slung it at her where she sat on the toilet, or seemed to sit. Mel and Jack can’t sit on solid objects, but they like to pretend they can. I suppose they actually kind of hover. She ducked reflexively and it missed her to land on the lip of the sink.

  She stood and walked through the tub to the window, turned and put her back to the small square panes. “So who are these visitors?”

  “Yeah, who?” Jack asked.

  I spun on my heel and glared at him. “You, out of here, mister!”

  He looked me up and down as I stood in front of him in my sports bra. It’s funny, but although a dead person’s expression doesn’t change, when I look at Jack and Mel I imagine one I expect them to wear. I could almost see the twitch of Jack’s eyebrows, the blatant leer.

  “I mean it, Jack!”

  He faded back through the door, muttering, “I can hear from out here anyway.”

  “And you,” I told Mel as I started unbraiding my hair.

  She flipped her hands out. “You sure are testy this morning.”

  I struggled out of my sweatpants and tossed them in the laundry basket next my treadmill. “No kidding.”

  She tried to sound solicitous. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  I spoke through gritted teeth. “You are irritating me. Go away.” I checked behind me before I unsnapped my bra and wriggled out my panties. I didn’t trust Jack one iota.

  “But we’re bored!” he whined through the door.

  “And it’s my fault? Go get an afterlife!”

  They were still mad at me for quitting my consulting job with Clarion PD. They missed all the gory little details and inside information on the police cases I worked. Rescuing a catnapped puss just didn’t cut it.

  Sharing your home with a couple of dead people has its drawbacks. Lack of privacy is one. And when you are their only contact with the outside world and what is happening there, when they pester you for attention, you get to feel like a babysitter tending a couple of needy brats.

  The benefits? They don’t use all your hot water, they don’t eat your food, they don’t leave their dirty laundry lying about, they don’t play their music too loud and they don’t borrow money from you.

  On the other hand, they don’t help with the rent or utilities, yard work, errands, or snow removal.

  They’re just there.

  I toweled my hair damp-dry and braided it, not easy as it reaches my tailbone when loose. It gets a little kinked if it dries out first and I like it smooth. Modest in my floor-length chenille robe, I went to my bedroom and slid open the closet door. Now, what to wear?

  I knew nothing about the potential clients, so couldn’t decide what might be appropriate or inappropriate wear. My gray You Call Me A Bitch Like It’s A Bad Thing T-shirt could send the wrong message, or maybe not. How about the black Behind Every Successful Man Is A Woman Who Thinks He’s An Asshole? Nah. The worn old black Ghostbusters shirt, the Burger King? The white Who’s Your Doggy?

  I settled on a plain navy-blue T-shirt and my newest pair of boot-flare Levis, even tucked the shirt in my waistband. Add my cleanest sneakers and I was set.

  I trotted down the stairs and straight out the front door. Mel and Jack watched from the kitchen window as I got in my Subaru.

  ***

  As I drove to Royal’s place, I recalled the time I told him about my roommates. He likes to tease me, but being teased is so far outside my experience, sometimes I’m slow to catch on.

  “There are dead people here?” he said, looking around the kitchen as if he
thought he’d spot them.

  I pointed at the fridge. “Yeah. Jack’s right over there.”

  He swiveled in the chair and stared at the fridge. Jack lifted one hand, wiggling his fingers.

  I pointed over the kitchen table, at the chair opposite us. “Mel’s right here.”

  Royal swiveled back, and again, stared at where I pointed. Then he stared at me.

  “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”

  “Are you feeling all right, Tiff?” he said, despite my mentioning Jack and Mel all the time. Still, hearing about ghosts and being introduced to them is entirely different. Although, as he couldn’t see or hear them, was there any difference?

  I rolled my eyes. “You know I see dead people. A couple of them happen to live in my house.”

  “Tell him I think he’s hot,” Mel said.

  “Mel thinks you’re hot.”

  He reached for my hands, held them. “Mel thinks I’m hot? What about you?”

  He was not taking me seriously. I pulled my hands free. “I’m serious, Royal. I want you to understand, ‘cause if you hang out here you’re gonna see me acting kinda strange.”

  He smiled. “Such as?”

  I frowned. “Talking to myself. Stuff like that.”

  “Are they traditional ghosts?”

  “What does he mean, traditional?” from Mel.

  “Traditional?”

  Royal was on the verge of laughter. “Walking through walls, creaking floorboards, mysterious cold zones, feeling of being watched.”

  I looked down at my clasped hands. “Just the walking through walls thing.”

  I looked up to see him lean back and hook one arm over the back of the chair. Jack came up behind and blew on his neck.

  “Jack, what in hell’s name are you doing?”

  Royal swiveled back around.

  “You’ll get whiplash if you keep that up,” I observed.