Poltergeist g-2

by Kat Richardson

  "So?" he asked.

  "Your dead guy is just a dead guy. Nothing to see."

  "Good. Great. Thank you, Harper. I owe you."

  "Yeah. OK. But I'd like not to do that ever again."

  "Never on my account."

  I hoped not on anyone's account. I finished up my business with Cameron and made another call. It was two a.m. in London, but I was expected.

  Will sounded tired when he answered.

  "Hi, Will," I started.

  "Hi, Harper. You sound far away. Usually, you sound close enough to touch. And I miss touching you."

  A mild flush heated my face. "I'm on a cell phone—that's why I sound odd. In the basement at Pacific Place. If I move I'll lose you."

  "Oh." His pause stretched as he shifted conversational gears and we talked about nothing much for a few minutes. Then he said, "Now I'm lying in bed, thinking I need to get up in four hours…"

  "I shouldn't have called."

  "You always call on Fridays."

  "Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe—"

  "Maybe you shouldn't call from the mall."

  "What?"

  "I just mean we can't have much of a conversation when you're in a public place with bad reception. There are things I want to say to you that I can't say in those conditions. I want…"

  "What?"

  I imagined him shaking his head, some stray light from the street glinting off his pale hair in the early-morning gloom. "Never mind. Good night, Harper."

  My own good-bye was made to a dead phone. I felt tired, frustrated, and sad. I wandered into the bookstore in the opposite corner, hoping to raise my mood. My feet hurt and I hadn't eaten all day, so I bought food and collapsed into a corner of the bookstore's cafe with a Michael Connelly novel.

  One of the most pleasant aspects of that bookstore to me was its location so deep in the earth of the Denny Regrade that no ghost stalked there. Pacific Place lay at the southern edge of what was once Denny Hill until R. H. Thomson got his hydraulic mining equipment turned on the offending bluff. He'd watered it down to size to make the north end of downtown hospitable to the wide, gently sloping avenues he preferred over the vertical insanity that defined the original shape of the city. The current street level at the corner of Pine and Seventh lay more than a hundred feet below the hill that once towered over it, and the basement bookstore snuggled down into the glacial silt that lay undisturbed until the foundations of the current building were laid in 1998. I reveled in the paranormal quiet with Harry Bosch and a cup of soup until I had the energy to head home.

  Chaos and I sorted laundry that had developed the sudden urge to levitate and move around the room, which amused the ferret, but just turned my dissatisfaction into irritation. I yelled at the moving clothes and swore at my purse, which spilled its contents all over the kitchen floor, sending coins and small objects everywhere, to the ferret's delight. I fell into bed late and in a mood so bad I had disjointed, angry dreams, and woke up swaddled as tight as a medieval baby.

  CHAPTER 12

  Later Saturday morning I was finishing my breakfast when Ken George arrived at the Alki Cafe. I already knew what he looked like, so I had no difficulty spotting him when he paused at the hostess's desk. She pointed him toward the back and I put up my hand to wave him over. Since the weather was lousy, the restaurant was half empty and no one had tried to rush me out as they often did on weekend mornings—a good thing considering I'd only just managed to kick my bad mood of the previous night by indulging in ridiculous amounts of coffee.

  Ken was about my height, slim, and had a loping, slope-shouldered gait that made his leather jacket swing as he came toward me. I now knew from the file that Quinton had guessed right: he'd been born in India, and while his coloring was classic Indian—black hair, bronze skin, brown eyes—the presentation was Western and unconsciously hip—as if other people copied him—right down to the wire-frame glasses and the soft mustache with close-trimmed goatee.

  He stopped at the table. "Hi. Are you… Harper?" His voice reminded me of Sean Connery without having a discernible accent— low and broad as if it came up through a trapdoor behind his teeth rather than his throat. His smile was bright white and I'd have taken him for a vampire if I were going by incisors.

  I nodded. "You're Ken George."

  He grinned and ducked his head. "Yeah. Sorry I'm late. I can't seem to get the hang of the buses." He sprawled opposite me, swinging a black courier bag under the table. He kept his chin tucked down and looked up at me with a self-deprecating smile. His long fingers toyed with the silverware roll. "So. What did you want to talk about?"

  The waitress passed by and he caught her eye with the same little-boy grin. "Hey, could I get a cup of coffee, please?"

  She smiled back. "Sure."

  As he turned away from me, I peeped at him through the Grey and found myself stymied. There was a sort of glassy, shifting emptiness between us, giving only brief glimpses of color through its moving surface. It reminded me of my own Grey shield. Ken's barrier was incomplete and unstable and he didn't seem conscious of my probing. Like Solis's blank walls, it was turned to the world, not to the Grey, and had the worn ease of a habit. This piqued my curiosity and raised my mental hackles a little.

  He returned his gaze to me, raising his eyebrows, and I reverted to a more normal view, smiling.

  "I'm doing some additional background on Dr. Tuckman's project. I just wanted to ask a few questions."

  "Shoot."

  "How did you get involved in the project?"

  He smiled and ducked his head, taking the silverware roll apart; then he looked me in the eye again. "I'm in love." Then he gave a short laugh. "No, that's not true—I exaggerate. I wasn't in love when I started."

  He went quiet, thinking and plucking at the edge of the napkin. Then he sat up, leaning forward, staring into my eyes without blinking.

  "How did I get involved… I was bored. Let me tell you, Harper, a couple of years ago I thought I was a real badass." His voice was low and soft, coming slowly and with a subtle rhythm. "I drove everybody crazy, I got into trouble, got thrown in jail, messed with people, just did mean, stupid things because I could. And my friends thought I was damn cool for it—or they just really loved seeing me screw up. What a bunch of jerks. I figured out how dumb it was—eventually. And I've been trying to get my life together since then. But sometimes it's… well, it's boring. So this guy I know says this ghost study sounds like a trip, and I thought it could be… fun. And Tuck thought I was cool, so I was in." He sat back and let the waitress put down a mug of coffee. He thanked her with a sincere look straight in the eyes as if coffee from her was a blessing. He started tinkering with the drink as soon as she left, dropping his gaze and keeping it from mine.

  "Fun," I repeated, dismissing the odd mood he'd created. "Is that why you knocked on the table at the first séance?"

  He jerked his head up and stared at me, his eyes wide. "What?" he squeaked. "Me?"

  I nodded. "I studied the recording. It was you."

  He laughed and seemed very ordinary, the hard walls around him momentarily dropping, and I saw a thin yellow thread of energy looped around his head. "All right, all right. Yeah, I did it. It was all just so… goofy. Here we're all taking this thing so seriously and trying to be cool with it and in my head I'm laughing my ass off. So I smacked the table with my knee. And they're all so excited and I'm trying not to bust up. God, it was funny! But it was… an icebreaker or something and after that things started to happen." His voice dropped a bit and his demeanor flickered toward serious, the blankness covering him again.

  "What do you think of Tuckman's premise?"

  "Tuckman's premise." He thought a bit. "Seems plausible. See, I don't really believe in this ghost thing—all that spooky howling around the windows stuff—I figure what's the point? But… I think I met one once. There was something there, at least. This was back when I was about thirteen, back when I started smoking, and I was outside at night, having a
smoke, and there was a shadow where there couldn't be a shadow. And me, being a stubborn bastard, I went and I stood in it. Just stood. And it was cold there. I mean, it was the middle of the summer and this one spot is just freakin' cold. Then it moved away and disappeared. And I want to know what the hell it was. This project hasn't answered that question, but it's making me think and that's something. Challenging."

  He gave a sudden laugh. "Most of what I do in class or even at work is boring—I'm always putting things off until the last minute and then pulling something out of the air the night before and everyone goes nuts about it and I know it's just some half-assed junk I whipped up. But this is not something I can fake. It's not just me. It's kind of cool making stuff happen. And, yeah, it's fun."

  "Same kind of fun?"

  "Same kind of fun… What do you mean?"

  I noticed his habit of repeating phrases to buy himself time, of thinking and gauging his answers before he gave them. "I mean have you faked anything else since then?"

  Ken chuckled. "I don't have to. Stuff happens by itself and it's a lot funnier than what I could fake. Wednesday, the table was galloping around like a horse. That was a laugh."

  "Do you think anyone else could be faking any of the things that have been happening?"

  "I know they could, but I don't think they are. That's not the point."

  "What is the point?" His clever evasions and cold shield irritated me. I was reminded of the abusive boyfriend I'd run away from in college. He had also been charming and attractive, slipping out of hard questions and dealing damage for them later while he seemed unscathed by anything I did. I tried to shove the feeling aside, but it pricked me as I watched Ken.

  He toyed with his coffee mug and built his reply. "The point? The group, I guess. Power of the mind. Self-control. We're all working together, but we're still alone, still ourselves, controlling this thing we made." He paused and played with the mug, then drank from it before continuing. He lowered his eyebrows and shifted his gaze to the side, and his wall was solid and slick as glass. "Maybe I'm not so sure, after all. I need to think about it."

  "OK. What do you think about the rest of the group?"

  "The rest of the group." There was a sudden flare of brightness around him before subsiding and he looked at me again with a smile lighting his eyes. "About half of 'em are dicks in one way or another. The rest are OK."

  "Who's OK?"

  "Mark's all right. He's funny, you can hang with him, have a beer, that sort of thing. Wayne's good—"

  I stopped him. "I'm not sure who's who yet, give me a clue."

  "OK. Mark's the guy with the long hair. Wayne—he's the old guy with the crewcut—sometimes he acts like he's still in the army, but he's a good guy. Cara's the blonde married to Dale Stahlqvist, very rich, beautiful. She" — his tone grew cold and bitter—"no… I take it back. I can find her attractive—I can want her—but I think she'd cut my throat and keep my scalp when she was done with me. Ana— Chinese woman—she's… she's magic." He shrugged and looked down. His skin was too dusky to blush well. He peered back up at me from under his brow. "The rest—they're just there."

  "Just there?" I echoed.

  He chuckled, catching on to me. "OK, they're dicks."

  "I've got one more question for you."

  "Fire away."

  "When did you start to take it more seriously?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe when I started talking to Ana."

  "And why'd you do the portrait of Celia?"

  "You said only one more question."

  I shrugged. "I lied. Why the portrait?"

  He returned my shrug. "It's just what I do. It's one of my tricks— people get all impressed that I can use Illustrator and Photoshop—like it's hard. I'm not even that good at it. But I get an obsession and then I want to do something about it. So I do. I wanted to know what Celia looked like. I couldn't think of her as real until I knew and I had to know, had to dig in. So I painted her." He glowered and seemed both more human and more dangerous, exposed in sudden, bright red ire. "She didn't even like the damned picture. I had to work it over for days. Man! You know how hard it is to draw a person when you can't even see them? It's not like there's even a photo of her to work from. We had to do this sort of Twenty Questions thing to get it right. I wanted to smash something before we were done. It was frustrating."

  "Do you think of Celia as a real person?"

  He blinked at me, his Grey shutters sliding back into place. "A real person? No. A real personality, yes." He frowned and sucked in his lower lip. "Does it matter?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. What does Tuckman say?"

  "Huh. He'd probably say the reality of the personality is the only thing that matters."

  We both sat back and I watched the glassy emptiness around him. I wondered just what the hell he was trying to hide. He wasn't very good at keeping his shield in place and I couldn't tell if he did it on purpose or not. When it faltered, something bright and passionate showed through, but he always hid it again. Some vulnerability, in spite of the tough-guy pose? Or something else?

  My silence made him uncomfortable. Ken looked at his watch. "Wow. I have to get going."

  "Thanks for talking with me."

  "Hey, it was a pleasure. Seriously."

  "Can I call you if I think of anything else?"

  "Sure. No problem. Gotta go."

  I watched him grab his bag and stride out. I wasn't sure if I'd learned much from Ken except that he was hiding something I wanted to discover. He'd answered my questions—not saying he'd been a theater major before switching to art. His obsession about Celia's portrait seemed a bit unusual and I knew I'd missed something through my own annoyance. I didn't think he knew how he affected the Grey—if he'd known I could see it, he would never have let his shield slip. Something had caused that psychic wall to rise, but I had no clue what, no matter how much it bothered me.

  I put down money for my breakfast—the waitress had forgotten to charge for Ken's coffee—and picked up my still-strange cell phone. I thought I might be able to catch a few more of Tuckman's group at home now and I was pleased I didn't have to waste time going back to my office. Eventually I'd have to get in some background research on this lot—Stahlqvist and Ken both left me wanting to dig, and who knew what I'd get from the others? — but since all offices were closed, I'd do better spending the small grace period Solis had given me interviewing the principals than grubbing Internet records.

  I made calls and was able to catch up to most of the rest of the group and schedule time to talk before Tuesday. I wondered why I hadn't gotten a cell phone long ago.

  Patricia Railsback—the harried and unhappy housewife at the séance sessions—met me at the Harbor Steps play yard under a sky that threatened rain, but hadn't yet produced any. Her hair was pulled back into a hasty ponytail that left her made-up face strangely naked and let too much light fall onto the stains of sleeplessness under her eyes. No amount of makeup could hide her expression of pinched dissatisfaction and frustration. She hunched her shoulders under her fashionable wool jacket and stared into the small play yard wedged between two of the complex's four towers.

  Three children rollicked over the climbing equipment and kicked clouds of cedar bark into restless wakes whenever they touched ground. Greenery dripped from overhead galleries and orange beams running between the residential towers. Patricia put herself sideways to the yard, leaning her hip against the rubberized rail so she could talk to me and watch the kids at the same time.

  I looked over the shrieking, giggling mayhem. The kids were playing some elaborate game of climbing and jumping. "Which one's yours?" I asked.

  She sighed. "All of them—Ethan, Hannah, and Dylan," she added, pointing at them in age order. "Demolition experts in training." A large bit of beauty bark winged Patricia on the temple. "Ow!" she shouted, brushing it aside. "You brats stop that! You know better than to throw things at people!"

  Hannah and Ethan stopped and stared at
her. "It wasn't us! It was the ghost!" Hannah yelled.

  Patricia rolled her eyes. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath. "OK, I'm sorry," she called back. "You guys just play carefully, now, OK? Ghosts can fly but you can't, so no jumping around. And no throwing and blaming it on the ghost."

  A careless "OK, Mom" came back, but the kids were already back in motion.

  I gave her a sideways look and spotted a bright yellow gleam around her head. "Your kids know about the project?"

  "Oh, God… yeah. Sort of." Her mouth turned down as she spoke and her vowels seemed to spill out the corners. "It's not like you can miss the stupid thing with their dad gone all the time. It's their best little playmate—most kids have imaginary invisible friends, mine have an honest-to-goodness poltergeist to play with."

  "Are you certain this is Celia at work?"

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "What else would it be? It's not like I have any other life outside my home, my kids, and this project."

  Bitterness spilled out with every flooding word. She felt abused by life—although I thought that for a woman with no college degree and no apparent skills or charm, she hadn't done too badly in a socioeconomic sense. I wondered if her whining was bred from her husband's constant absence or the other way around. Half a life led in the shadows of a successful man to whom she no longer felt more than a mechanical duty might lead to many things. Yet she would not break from him, except to join this insane project. She was on the fence about the whole thing—life, family, project.

  She'd been a drama major in high school—a bit of a drama queen to my mind—and that seemed to have been the high point of her life. I got the idea she resented the children who kept her tied to her gilded cage and that she wanted attention from someone, anyone—preferably male—and the project had seemed like a place to get it. But it wasn't working out so well. She didn't fit in with the younger members or the older members, and the only person she'd ever had a reasonable conversation with was Mark, whom she'd driven home once when his bike had a flat tire. She didn't really like any of the rest of them, though she wouldn't say so. But she did believe that their poltergeist was real, that they'd made things move and caused the knocks and light flickers through their own power of the mind. She didn't see any contradiction in the idea that everyone else was hateful, yet they somehow worked together.