Baker's Dozen

by Cutter, Leah

  The front desk of the precinct was busy, much busier than I expected, until I realized they were in the middle of processing a whole gang of drunken men.

  I hesitated by the open door. The harried sergeant at the desk still caught my eye. “Can I help you?” she asked. Murphy said the name on the counter.

  Two of the drunks started shouting at each other, each accusing the other of stealing the last bottle of beer.

  She rolled her eyes, then looked back at me. “Can I help you?”

  “Former detective Andrew Collin,” I said, introducing myself. “Is Detective Lewis around?” I didn’t know the man; I’d just looked him up in the police records.

  “Robbie? Yeah. You know his wife?” she asked, suddenly curious.

  Maybe I should have learned more than his name and that he worked narcotics. Too late now. “Afraid not, no, ma’am.” Given my luck, I couldn’t afford a lie. I was sure to get caught in any I gave.

  “Nice lady,” Sergeant Murphy said. “Still a bit sensitive,” she warned as she reached for the phone.

  I nearly groaned. Of course he was.

  Before I could stop the sergeant, she told me, “He’ll be down in a minute.”

  I stepped back toward the door, wondering if I could make a quick escape.

  It was easy to recognize Detective Lewis. He was the only one who walked in, then did a double take.

  As if he’d just seen a ghost.

  Then he straightened up, squared his shoulders, and marched right over to me, his faded brown eyes determined, his mouth set firmly in a neutral line. “Detective Lewis,” he said. He made an aborted gesture with his hand, as if to shake mine.

  Old habits.

  I introduced myself, then asked for a moment of his time.

  “Of course.” One of the drunks suddenly woke up and started shouting again. “Let’s step outside. At least we’ll be able to hear ourselves think, eh?” He swung the door open and left.

  I could only follow him. I couldn’t remind him that it wouldn’t be a great idea to chat, outside, at night, with a ghost.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, not looking at me as he shook a cigarette out of his pack and started walking up the street.

  “No,” I told him, keeping my hands firmly by my sides. I hoped that when he died he’d step through straight to Heaven, because nicotine was an addiction that followed you into death.

  “So, Detective Collin—” he said, taking that first sweet drag. I watched enviously.

  “Just Andy,” I insisted. “Have you heard about a new street drug called Slide?”

  For the first time since we’d stepped outside, Detective Lewis looked at me full on. He blanched slightly. The night here was darker than I was used to, in Seattle. Ghosts have their own glow, particularly after midnight. Though others, mainly the living, have described it as more of a deathly pallor.

  Still, the detective soldiered on. “No. Should I have?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if it has any effect on the living.”

  He paused, then continued walking. “Didn’t think there were drugs that affected you lot.”

  I shrugged. “Might be new.”

  “So it’s not illegal—”

  “But it should be. It’s killing your ghosts.”

  Detective Lewis came to a full stop at that, his lips pressed tightly together, his jaw stone hard. “You’re already dead,” he said in clipped tones. “Wouldn’t it be better if you went Beyond, anyway? You’re not really the same, after, when you become a ghost.” He stared me straight in the eye as if daring me to contradict his statement.

  I wondered if he was referring to his wife. I had no real experience. Everyone who’d known me well when I’d been alive was long gone. No one could tell me if I’d changed once I’d passed over.

  “Passing Beyond is a choice. It should be a clear one,” I told him. We stared at each other, living and dead across an untouchable barrier. Finally he lowered his eyes and started walking again.

  “That’s what Bea said. Why I had to leave,” Detective Lewis admitted quietly. “So she could make her choice in peace.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I told him, the words automatic and comfortless.

  “Your loss, too,” Detective Lewis said with a sudden smile. “Bea was a spitfire. Great lawyer, too. I just wish—” He sighed.

  “It was her choice,” I told him.

  Detective Lewis nodded.

  “With this new drug, Slide, ghosts can’t make the choice. It’s getting made for them.” I didn’t know that for a fact. I just had two pieces of evidence and I was pressing them together, hoping they’d fit, like a two-year-old with his first puzzle.

  “I’ll do some digging,” Detective Lewis promised, taking one last long drag on his cigarette.

  I raised my nose slightly, like a dog seeking a scent. Nothing but the usual too-cool air pressed against me.

  “Come by tomorrow night; I’ll let you know if I’ve found anything.”

  “Thank you.” I paused, adding again, “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Detective Lewis jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. “I know, really, I do. It would have been just as great a loss if she’d stayed.” Then he turned and hurried back to the artificial daylight of the precinct.

  While I stayed outside in the dark, cold night.

  * * *

  My next stop was the local Defender’s office. Every city and most towns had one.

  I did mention that we had a lot of lawyers on our side, right?

  They worked for ghosts’ rights with a passion that few ghosts had. I don’t know if they thought they could earn their way into Heaven by working for their fellow beings after death, or if it was simply self-interest, but they’d ensured that the undead had equal rights to the living whenever possible.

  The Defender’s office was in the old town, farther away from the center and bright lights. It really felt as if the sidewalks had rolled up after 8 P.M. All the offices, boutique wine shops, and artsy craft galleries were long closed.

  I expected the Defender’s office to be open. It was, after all, staffed by ghosts, who were nocturnal by nature. However, because I have the luck I do, it was closed.

  I turned to go—someplace. I wasn’t certain. I wasn’t looking forward to sleeping outside, either in a park or back up in the vineyard, but I didn’t seem to have much choice.

  There was another ghost on the sidewalk behind me. He bobbed his head as he walked. It took me a moment to remember the teenaged ghost I’d seen in the library.

  I forced down my paranoia. It was a small town. The ghost population was shrinking. I was in front of the Defender’s office, a legitimate destination for all ghosts. Despite that, I still felt my virtual hackles rise.

  “It’s closed,” I told him as he came up.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, still moving his head in time with that beat only he could hear.

  “You know?”

  He nodded. “I also told them you wouldn’t know the office hours.”

  Rustling behind me made me stand up straighter. I refused to turn around.

  A blond man in fatigues stepped out of the bushes next to the sidewalk. He looked like the perfect poster boy for the Army, clean and pressed, standing as stiffly as if a plank were tied to his back. He gave a brief nod to the boy, who ambled away, before turning to me. “You’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he told me.

  I looked at his insignia as well as his name patch. Either he was wearing someone else’s clothes, or he didn’t care who knew him. “Private Standish, what are you going to do about it?” He couldn’t stop me, couldn’t touch me, and I wasn’t in some sort of Sealed room. His smirk of confidence irritated me.

  “You have a choice,” Standish told me. “You can come with us, or—” He beckoned one of his cohorts forward.

  Another Army type, though not as put together as Private Standish. He wore his cap backwards and his jacket open. He
also had a gun trained on me.

  If I could have laughed, I would have. A bullet would go straight through me. Standish’s men were more likely to hurt one another than me.

  Then I looked again.

  It was a banishment gun. I’d encountered one of these before. It was a slow, torturous way of disembodying a ghost. “Oh,” was all I said before looking back at Standish.

  “You know what this is,” he said, surprised. “Not many do. So?”

  I have to say I honestly considered it. The experience was far from pleasant. Imagine your limbs being torn from your body, slowly, painfully, without cessation of the agony.

  However, I would have reincorporated, or become a ghost again, in Seattle. I could tell Toni I’d found her brother and let her deal with it. I wouldn’t have to endure more time with all that bare rock between me and my bones.

  At the end, I had to go with them.

  There was still too much of the living in me, too much sympathy for the dead.

  * * *

  I felt relieved when they didn’t take me to the military base. I didn’t want to believe that it was all some government plot. Still, I didn’t know for certain until we stopped at a trailer park. It wasn’t the fancy one I’d seen coming into town. This one was abandoned. Even had its own Portal to the Beyond flickering next to a bombed-out double-wide. It flared to life when I walked by, with chaotic clouds and leaping flames.

  The living didn’t see them, not really. The Portals weren’t meant for them. They were there for us. We’re supposed to step through them, into the Beyond.

  I just wasn’t ready for that Hell yet.

  The trailer they took me to was Sealed, of course. The only opening was a deliberate crack in the center of the floor, carefully marked with a lurid purple Sharpie. All the furniture and fixtures had been removed. The six-man crew crowded into the space. I finally got a good look at all but the one still holding the banishment gun on me. They were a mixture of townie and military. Hernandez seemed to be second in command, talking quietly with Standish for a moment before heading further into the trailer.

  Hernandez returned with a wide-brimmed bowl as broad as a sunbonnet. It was made of blue porcelain and filled with a deep, burgundy=red liquid that glowed slightly, like merlot that had been Fixed.

  The bowl was special. It had been Fixed perfectly. Both the living and the dead could interact with it equally, as opposed to one side or the other having more control. It took a lot of energy for that level of balance. It had also been spelled—my nose twitched from the magic, though from this distance I didn’t see any runes or sigils.

  Hernandez carefully placed it on the floor, over the crack.

  “So the only way for me to get out of here is through that,” I said, gesturing.

  “No, we’d be happy to banish you,” Private Standish said.

  A lick of pain kicked in along my spine. It was a unique enough experience that I admit I just stood there for a moment.

  “So this is how you get ghosts to do drugs,” I said. I wondered how they’d figured it out. All I could think of was that something must happen when a ghost changed form to go underground, that opened us up to more influence here.

  Private Standish laughed. “Oh, no. Ghosts pay for this shit. And pay well. It helps them feel.”

  I shuddered. I understood too well.

  A ghost’s existence was really never here, on Earth. Every color was diffuse; every emotion flattened. With this drug, maybe there was passion again, a simulacrum of heated blood.

  I couldn’t let myself try it, even once. I’d be hooked.

  I walked closer to the bowl. Hernandez hadn’t set it down precisely. On the far side, barely a quarter inch of the liquid rested above the crack.

  Maybe I could go through that way, without touching the center. How much of the drug did I have to pass through to affect me?

  “This came from the Army, didn’t it?” I asked, stepping right next to the bowl.

  “Do you know how hard they tried to get you fuckers to fight? First you wouldn’t leave your bones, then you just didn’t care.”

  “I’d always thought you didn’t want to fight beside us,” I said. “Fighting with ghosts diminishes human morale.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, that too. But at least the living do as they’re told.”

  “You know, most ghosts kill themselves after trying your drug.”

  Private Standish shrugged. “So?”

  “Seems a bad business plan, hooking your clients on something that decreases your customer base.”

  “People die all the time. Now come on. Dip your toe in the water.” When I paused again, he added, “First one is free.”

  With that ringing endorsement, I focused my intent like never before and went down.

  * * *

  Normally when I traveled underground, I felt as though I changed into a small sphere with a hard shell, like a Ping-Pong ball. I didn’t know for certain. Scientists who had studied the phenomenon reported ghosts took on many different shapes, some long and snakelike, others like amorphous blobs or even spiraling tops.

  As I dipped into the earth, I felt my shape encircle me and I pushed myself, getting as far away as fast as I could. However, when the drug hit my system, I started to unravel. Instead of a compact form, I trailed slug-like streamers behind me. I had to slow down; I feared leaving part of myself behind and not even realizing it.

  The Army boys could be following me, but they probably wouldn’t bother. They seemed supremely confident that either I’d become an addict, or I’d step Beyond.

  Cool soil curled around me. I could almost feel its rich grittiness. I found it distracting, all these sensations, the weight of the ground above me, the silken slide of the dirt I passed through.

  I made myself focus. All I had to do was allow myself a single thought of home. Instantly, I could orient myself. I plotted my course back to Beppe by that steady beacon of Seattle, sailing blindly through the ground.

  When I felt the space before me thinning, I finally rose. I found myself standing on the far side of the bridge that led to the vineyard.

  Dawn was coming soon. The light made my skin prickle. I looked at my hands and cursed.

  I’d faded.

  I tried to take a breath, emulating Beppe. Couldn’t do it. I took careful stock. Everything felt the same, flat and ordinary, mundane. I didn’t feel drunk or high or likely to fall over.

  Maybe I’d escaped most of the effects of the drugs.

  Then the sun rose.

  Vivid color sprang back into the world. I had to shield my eyes. The hillside was a multitude of browns, tans, blacks, grays, yellows, reds—every color I could name, and more.

  I groaned, heartbroken.

  All this beauty that I could never touch.

  I trudged up the hill to find Beppe. He talked with some of the workers on the edge of the orchard, giving them directions. He seemed more solid this morning than last night. Maybe the drug was wearing off. Or maybe I’d just been brought to his level.

  Beppe’s smile quickly turned to a frown when he saw me. “No, no, no, no,” he muttered, grabbing at my arm—

  —and nearly succeeding.

  We stopped and stared. Ghosts couldn’t touch anything. Maybe as half-ghosts, though, we could touch each other. Or come closer to it, at any rate.

  “Tomorrow,” Beppe finally said, arms akimbo.

  “Isn’t tomorrow today?”

  “Not without me,” Beppe said stubbornly.

  “Sorry, wasn’t really my choice.” I closed my eyes to all the variations of green in the orchard: the soft light shade of the newer leaves, the thick darkness of the mature ones, the spread of green to yellow and red in the leaves that had started to change.

  “Army men?”

  “Yes. You know them?” I asked sharply, opening my eyes to stare at Beppe.

  “No, not the big bosses. Just the little ones.”

  I had to see if I could get through to Beppe
at all. “The drug, you know. Sliding. It isn’t right.”

  Beppe shrugged. “It’s Yakima. And the Army. There have always been drugs here, carried by them. Always.”

  I nodded. Even when I’d been alive, the city had had its problems. I couldn’t think of a way to stop them, not with that kind of backing. I needed to get to the Defender’s office. They could take it from here.

  “We should go now,” Beppe said, smiling slyly at me. “It’s tomorrow, you know,” he admitted.

  How many more times would Beppe be able to take Slide before he slid away? I didn’t owe Toni anything more. I still felt responsible.

  I knew I’d never be able to talk Beppe out of going back. I fell into step beside him. “Part of the drug comes from the Army,” I told him, guessing. “But part of it must be made here.”

  Beppe nodded. “I don’t know the full mixture. But I think, I think they use our grapes as well.”

  “That might explain the color,” I said. “What about the bowl?”

  “Oh, the bowl,” Beppe said. He looked around, as if checking to make certain we were alone on the empty dirt road. “Jorge, he bragged once, he stole some of the Slide. But it didn’t work. Not without the bowl.”

  So I could cut a head off of this dragon, prevent them from plying their trade for a short while, until they got another container. That might give the Defender’s office enough time to put pressure on the military.

  “I’m glad you’re coming with,” Beppe said. “To come and Slide again.”

  I stilled for a moment before I made myself continue forward. “Of course.”

  I told myself I meant that, of course, I would never touch that stuff again. The colors hurt my eyes and the brightness of the day cut into my soul.

  I was afraid that I meant exactly what I’d said—of course I’ll take more.

  * * *

  In the murderous afternoon light, all the colors on the abandoned mobile homes grew lurid. I knew the drug hadn’t worn off and was affecting my senses, or at least I hoped that was the case, because no creature, living or dead, should have to exist in a home that was that particular shade of puke green. Red tinged with cotton candy pink covered the neighboring roof—maybe they’d painted it that color in retaliation. Screaming yellow made up the trim of what could have been a perfectly nice white trailer.