Poltergeist g-2

by Kat Richardson

  "Great, now I have to get her to come out of your clothes, then drive back to West Seattle to drop her off, and get back here before three," I groaned.

  "I can keep her."

  I peered at him. "What?"

  "No problem. I like ferrets. If you give me those treats—and if you trust me—she can hang out with me until you're done, then we can hook up and look at those DVDs."

  I wasn't certain it was a good idea. "I'm not sure how long this is going to take," I said.

  Quinton shrugged. "I can keep her all night, if I have to—if you're OK with that. I know what ferrets eat and I can put her on her leash if she's too crazy. I have plenty of warm pockets for her to sleep in. I don't mind if you don't."

  I thought about it. I liked Quinton and I'd trusted him to do some pretty strange jobs for me—including one that could still get us both arrested. I'd trusted him with my life and my freedom—I guessed I could trust him with my pet. I took a deep breath, feeling a little nervous.

  "Well. All right. Don't let her eat anything sugary—it's like speed— or anything rubber—"

  He grinned and patted the air between us. "OK, OK. Atkins ferret diet: no carbs, no tubber. Really—I've kept ferrets before. She'll be fine with me."

  I laughed. "OK. I'll page you when I'm done." Quinton took the ferret's stuff and we went downstairs. I caught the furry little traitor nuzzling him as we headed out to get some food before I had to return to observe the séance.

  CHAPTER 4

  Seven people were gathered around the heavy table. They didn't sit, but stood with their fingertips resting lightly on the ash wood surface and their heads bowed to look at a vase of flowers in the center. A portable stereo in the room was playing the Glenn Miller version of «Imagination» at a low volume.

  Earlier, the people in the room had been joking around as they waited to see if the eighth member of their group would show up. They were an interesting mix: two apparent couples—one college-age and racially mixed, the other middle-aged and Nordic—plus one more woman who looked like a harried housewife, one vaguely Middle Eastern young man with a sly grin, and one more man who seemed to be a military retiree. I hadn't yet linked names to faces, since there'd been no photos in the files. After some chatter, greetings, and clowning around, they'd decided the eighth wasn't coming and had gone to stand around the table.

  The military man looked at the flowers and said, "Good evening, Celia. Are you standing by?"

  Two quick raps came from the table. I raised an eyebrow. When I'd been under that table, there had been nothing there that could have made that sharp, hollow noise and I was certain nothing had been placed there since. At least nothing official or large enough to see from the observation booth.

  Tuckman leaned his head close to mine without turning his eyes away from the scene on the other side of the observation room glass. "Two raps for yes—that's the code."

  I gave half a nod. "That's the usual thing." I tried to look into the Grey and see what was going on in the overlap between the normal and the paranormal, but the two layers of glass between me and the séance room baffled my unnatural vision and all I saw were vague blurs and wisps of colored light writhing around the members of the project and painting occasional squiggles on the floor and walls. Whatever had made the rap didn't seem to be normal and I wished I could stand up and walk into the other room to see for myself.

  "Was that one of yours?" I asked.

  "No. That's a phenomenon they caused." I noticed from the corner of my eye that Tuckman smiled smugly as he said it.

  The rest of the group in the room greeted the poltergeist. A flurry of taps sounded all over the table and in a few locations in the walls. The board full of Christmas lights flashed a complex sequence of colors. Tuckman was frowning.

  "You're in a feisty mood, Celia," observed the military man. "Are you happy to see us?"

  The table seemed to quiver. Its wooden feet rucked the carpet and then it gave a distinct hop, coming back down with a thump. I wasn't sure that movement was within the limits Quinton had explained, but it didn't seem that way to me.

  The sitters looked at one another. "Is that 'yes'?" the military man asked.

  A single loud crack sounded through the room, coming from the tabletop and sending out a sudden flare of red I could see even through the glass.

  Someone murmured, "No?" Then the table flattened, bucked, and began a rapid jigging from one leg to another. The people gathered around it had to watch their toes and dance a bit to avoid having their feet crushed by the capering table.

  In the observation room, I glanced at Tuckman. He was staring into the séance room in confusion.

  "Is your ringer doing this, Tuckman?" I asked.

  "No, Mark's the one who didn't show up."

  Dornier cleared his throat. "There's some really odd electrical activity in there. There've been several small spikes on the meters and whatever it is seems to be affecting the thermometers, too."

  "What?" I asked.

  He started making notes on a pad beside the meters, not looking at me as he responded. "Usually the temperature in the room goes up as things get more lively and the subjects get more excited. They can work up quite a sweat if Celia is active. Sometimes we have to leave the window open. But it's getting a little colder in there today. That's anomalous."

  That was when the table broke loose from the group and careened around the room. I could see it trailing red and yellow streamers in the Grey—they would have blazed like fire if I'd been able to see them without the glass in the way. The table slid wildly back and forth, then seemed to scurry around, dodging the sitters who chased after it. It ran faster and faster, galloping with pounding thuds around the wooden floor, scattering the lighter furniture, overturning a bookshelf to send books and pads of paper fluttering everywhere.

  "Electrical readings are spiking again," Dornier said. "Continuing upward…"

  Tuckman glowered. "What the hell…?"

  "This isn't normal, I take it?" I asked.

  "No," he replied. "It's damned strange. They shouldn't be able to move it that much by themselves. Damn it, when I find out which one of them is manipulating this, I'll…"

  "Hire him?" I supplied.

  Tuckman gave me a black glare. I would have laughed if I hadn't been so unnerved by the table's motion. I've been glared at by scarier things than Gartner Tuckman.

  The séance participants chased the table into a corner by the window. The table reared up onto one leg. First it tried to climb the wall; then it pirouetted on its single leg and began to menace the people gathered around it by waggling back and forth. It hopped forward. They fell back. It spun. Faster. Faster. A wisp of smoke rose from the wooden floor where the twirling table leg rubbed against it.

  The table lurched forward, twisting a little, flaring red…

  And collapsed onto the floor, top down, with a crash that shook the room.

  Then it lay there, still and inert and dim. Everyone seemed frozen a moment, catching their breath. Watching them, I seemed to have caught their enervation and felt a little dazed by the sudden change.

  "Electrical readings back to normal. Temperature returning to normal."

  "OK," I said. "That was kind of weird."

  Tuckman turned to me. "That is what I was talking about. It's not within possibility."

  I glanced toward Dornier. "Yeah. Do they do that all the time?"

  "That's the wildest one yet," he replied in a cool tone. "They don't usually approach that sort of show without Mark in the room. They've had some good days without him. Nothing like that, though."

  Tuckman gave me a significant look. "You see what I mean?"

  I bit my lower lip. Without doubt someone was contributing more than their fair share to that performance—there was something going on in the thin fold of reality between the normal and the paranormal— but whether I believed it was sabotage or not was another matter. But I wished I could have seen it better. The flashes and glim
pses I'd caught had been indistinct and intermittent, but there was something Grey going on.

  I looked into the other room. The participants buzzed around the séance room like an agitated swarm. The table didn't show any further sign of life. It just lay where it had fallen in the debris under the swinging shadows thrown by the brass chandelier.

  "Can I get a copy of the readings from this session?" I asked.

  Tuckman was almost out the door, and he threw a glance back at me and his assistant. "All right. Mark those up and get Ms. Blaine a copy before she goes. I have to talk to the group in the lounge."

  Dornier started scooping up his pads and pens and followed Tuckman out of the booth, not quite closing the door. I heard them talking in the hall as I lingered, watching the other room for signs of any further Grey activity. Through the glass, I couldn't see any if it was there, and the people wandering through the space gave no indication that anything new disturbed them—they seemed excited the way some people do after an accident, but not as if they were still experiencing anything surreal.

  Tuckman reappeared on the other side of the glass in a few minutes, rounding up the participants and urging them downstairs. I went out into the hallway once it was clear of study participants. There was an odd scent to the air from the séance room: a whiff of something sharp and burned, a hint of iodine—the lighter perfume of its earlier, uncanny stench. I went in, but I couldn't see anything much. The ball of energy had disappeared and the vines and power line were dim, no matter how hard I looked. There was nothing else in the room—if anyone had brought something with them to stimulate the phenomena, it was gone now. I turned and left.

  Dornier met me in the hallway with a fistful of yellow paper.

  "I had to transcribe these," he said, thrusting out the notes to me.

  "Thanks, Terry." Now I was glad he'd introduced himself before, since Tuckman had just waved at him as if graduate assistants were as interchangeable as Shakespeare's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. "Can I call you if I have any questions about these readings?"

  He shrugged. "I guess. You're working for Tuck."

  "Terry," I started, uncomfortable, but needing to ask, "do you believe that's all… real? That they couldn't actually be raising something paranormal in there?"

  He snorted. "If you think it's really some ghost or spook or something, you had better be prepared to back yourself up—all the way to the wall Tuck'll shove you into if you come up with crap like that. Hard proof. Whatever you think it is… you better have stone-hard proof it can't be anything else."

  I frowned at him but said nothing before I excused myself and headed out with the papers in hand and a list of questions already tabulating in my head. Dornier had quite the sandpaper personality and I suspected he wasn't the only one. The tone of the byplay in the séance had been more tense than I'd expected for a group that supposedly worked together to create a ghost—their clowning had an edge to it. It was an odd group and I needed some immediate information about what I'd just witnessed.

  As Tuckman's ringer, Mark Lupoldi was supposedly vital to the production of high-level PK phenomena, yet we'd all seen something that was beyond the group's normal activity in spite of Mark's absence. I was more convinced now that Tuckman's problem wasn't attributable only to normal, human activity. The recordings and monitor readings might help me figure out what had happened, since I'd been unable to see into the Grey much through the mirror—another thing I'd have to bring up with Mara and Ben Danziger. But first, I needed to find out why Lupoldi hadn't shown up for the séance session. And I hoped he'd be able—and willing—to tell me how the system worked and how one of the participants could have boosted it without anyone else knowing. It looked paranormal to me, from what I'd seen and from Tuckman's reaction. But as Dornier had said, I'd have to prove it couldn't be anything else.

  I paged Quinton and left a message that I couldn't pick up Chaos yet. He might be stuck with her furry company for a while longer. I had to pin down Lupoldi.

  CHAPTER 5

  I drove over to Lupoldi’s apartment in the Fremont district. Autumn twilight was already falling with a scent of impending rain. I knew the address was near the troll under the Aurora Bridge—a cement sculpture of a life-sized monster crawling from beneath the structure to snatch an ancient VW. Along with the amusement rocket mounted to a building and the heroic bronze of Lenin that stood in the patio of a fast-food restaurant, it was typical of the neighborhood the locals had dubbed the Center of the Universe and others called the Haight-Ashbury of Seattle, in spite of a recent spate of yuppification. Parking is always bad in that funky little neighborhood and worse so close to quitting time, so I didn't even try to get close. I left my old Land Rover in a pay lot near the supermarket on Fremont Boulevard and started hiking up the hill.

  The street was choked with cop cars. An unpleasant cold trickled down my spine at the sight. I paused outside the building and looked it over; a grim black and yellow haze wrapped it. I narrowed my eyes, searching the Grey shroud for anything that might be lurking, but all I spotted were confused or fragmented shapes and shadows.

  My study was interrupted by a voice near my ear. "You have business in this building, Ms. Blaine?"

  I shook myself and refocused my vision on the man in front of me. Detective Rey Solis: a wiry, dark-haired Colombian émigré with a face like the surface of Mars. I hadn't seen him since wed both been looking for the same hit-and-run witness over a year ago. His sloe-eyed calm was as impenetrable as ever but the uncharacteristic red-orange gleam around him made me wary. This aura thing might be useful once I figured it out, but that particular color didn't reassure me.

  "I thought I did," I replied.

  "Now not so much?"

  I tried to shrug, but it didn't come off so well. "Don't know. What about you?"

  "Homicide."

  I felt sick. Solis watched me. He glanced at the building, then back to me.

  "I wanted to talk to the tenant of apartment seven on business."

  "Client?"

  "No, just information-gathering for a case."

  Solis made a tiny tilt of his head. "Come up."

  I followed him into the old brick building and up to the second floor. The dim hallway smelled of musty carpet and resonated with conversations and TV noises from the open doorways of curious neighbors. The closer we got to apartment seven, the colder and queasier I felt.

  The door was open, bright light flooding out, and the crime lab crew was still crawling over everything. The photographer was done and heading out the door as we stopped just outside. Solis stood with his back to the room. Looking at him, I could also study the room beyond without entering the crime scene.

  It was a small no-bedroom apartment with a Murphy bed folded up into the hallway wall and a long counter that served as a kitchenette to the left of the door. A bicycle with a U-shaped lock leaned against the far wall under the window. The closet and bathroom shared the wall on the tight with a blood-spattered dent about the size and shape of a man. The room was hazy with layers of memory and Grey shapes left by past occupants and, to my eyes, thick with a swirling miasma of red and black. The reek of the fumed cyanoacrylate used to pick up fingerprints carried an uncanny undertone of gunsmoke and iodine that made me shiver and cough on a sudden sour taste in my mouth and a tightness in my chest.

  Solis noticed my gagging shudder. "We don't have a positive ID yet, but I'm assuming the victim was the tenant. Can you identify him?"

  I shook my head. "I never met him. He was supposed to show up for a lab demonstration at PNU, but he didn't. I came to find out why."

  The coroner's crew was preparing to bag the body, which lay crumpled and facedown on the ragged carpet by the dented wall. As they rolled it into the bag, the weirdly limp form flopped and the misshapen head lolled, turning its staring face my way for an instant.

  The silent force of an unreleased scream crashed into me. I jolted backward a step, squeezing my eyes shut and pressing my hand ove
r my own mouth. The shock of the blow drained away. Solis put his hand on my shoulder and I shook him off. "What did that?" I demanded. I thought, if he'd been dead a few hours, shouldn't the body be stiffer?

  Solis thought a moment, casting his gaze over me and around the hall as if there were an answer there somewhere. He watched the men carry the corpse away. Then he motioned me to follow him back outside.

  We watched them load the black bag into a discreet blue van and drive off. We both took a few deep breaths of the cool, moist air and didn't look at each other. A small crowd had gathered at the end of the street, but they kept their distance and we were left alone.

  At last, Solis spoke up. "Not sure yet. Looks like he was thrown against the wall. Maybe an accident." He didn't sound convinced. "We're working on it. You have any ideas? Anything like that demo he missed?"

  "When did this happen?" I asked, dismissing momentary visions of dancing tables.

  "A couple of hours ago, possibly three. I'll know more when the autopsy is done. What do you know?"

  I stared at Solis, my mind racing. Lupoldi had died before the séance started, while I'd been eating lunch with Quinton. The scene gave me an unsettled feeling. What I'd witnessed at St. John Hall stuck in my mind and, though I'd been thinking Tuckman was wrong about it, I suddenly didn't like the thought that a poltergeist—real or artificial—could have the energy to do something like this. It was ludicrous, but I knew better than to assume Solis wouldn't be interested in at least some of the possible connections; someone who could fake PK phenomena might be able to fling a man across a room as well as a table. Fake ghost he wouldn't buy, but killer acquaintance he might.

  Reluctantly, I started. "The demo is part of a psychological study at PNU. The researcher hired me to find out who in his group might be sabotaging his results, and today's demo went a bit wild. I came to see why Lupoldi—Mark Lupoldi is the name I was given with this address—why he hadn't shown up and if he knew anything about the demo going bad."