“It’s not about those objects, it’s about your mind,” Berg said. “What do you think about, focus on? How do you spend your time and energy?”
“I don’t spend that much time thinking about it. I helped Carissa call up the whatever-it-is on the Ouija, but so what?”
Frustrated to my core but unwilling to lose my temper, I started to walk away but did a quick about-face. “Garbage in, garbage out. It’s not just a cliche, it’s the truth. Of course an object can’t hurt you, but why allow that rubbish into your mind? What you think about counts. You’re having this trouble and you don’t see the connection between it and the Ouija board, the medium, the psychic, and all that?”
Offended by my impertinence, Matt glowered. “I choose to have a more scientific frame of mind, and if my wife wants to keep her Ouija board or anything else, I’m all for it.”
Carissa touched his arm. “It’s okay. I don’t mind throwing it away.”
Berg, ever the diplomat, stepped in, practically elbowing me from the doorway. “So let’s think about the science of it, Matt. You can alter your brain chemistry with your thoughts, you can modify the synapses of your brain through your actions. It’s called plasticity. It’s not magic, it’s science. What we do is examine everything and eliminate all possible sources of trouble, and to do that, we need your total focus. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Not really.” Matt looked to Carissa, sighed, and then relented, but with a grunt meant to signify his superior position. “Look, it’s getting late and I don’t want to argue, so if Carissa doesn’t mind and it means that much to you, we’ll get rid of it.”
“It means that much,” Berg said. “First thing tomorrow, bag it all and take it to the curb. Teagan and I are going down to the basement to look at the air ducts.”
Carissa clasped a hand over her mouth.
Good grief, she was on edge.
“We’ll be down there five minutes, and if you need us after that, we’ll be in the sanctuary or kitchen.”
“Don’t you need the key?” Carissa asked.
“No, it’s open,” I said, moving slowly down the hall, giving Berg a chance to catch up. I’d blown it for Matt with that answer. Now she knew the door to hell was unlocked.
An instant later, the muted sound of a door slamming froze me in place.
I heard Carissa moan and whipped back to Berg and the Petersons. Carissa was trembling, clutching Matt with all her might, looking as if she might collapse into his arms at any moment. “That came from the basement,” she breathed. “I felt the floor move.”
Matt nodded and rubbed his jaw. “That was a big one.”
“It’s getting worse,” Carissa said. “Please help us.”
CHAPTER 9
I ran my flashlight beam along the basement ceiling, slowing when I found ductwork, looking for gaps in the seams or any other anomalies. With every few steps, my eyes shot to the wide-open green door that separated one part of the basement from the other, and to the interior wall where Matt’s contractors had found the body. Tomorrow I’d recommend that Matt install more lighting. A couple hanging shop lights would do wonders for the dismal atmosphere, and I was convinced that part of the Petersons’ problem was the basement’s atmosphere.
At my insistence, Berg had stopped near the top of the stairs and was sitting there now, wondering aloud if we’d miscalculated the source of the slam and concurrent vibration. We’d felt it under our feet too, but did that mean it had come from the basement?
“We’re following Carissa’s lead,” he added, “and she’s fixated on this basement.”
I traced the last duct to the open door, batted a few cobwebs in my way, and then stepped through to the other side.
If the basement’s interior door had slammed shut, why was it now open? It was the only door on the basement level, the only object I could see that was capable of making an under-floor sound.
Carissa and Matt had been sure the sound had thumped up from the basement, but Berg was right: Carissa was predisposed to attribute any unusual sound to ghosts in their basement, and Matt didn’t like to contradict his wife when her emotions were agitated.
When I walked back through the door, Berg, still sitting, was shining a light on the yawning hole in the drywall.
I walked halfway up the stairs, sat, and shook my head. “The crap Carissa has let into this house.”
“Matt plays a part in this too. Where was the note found?”
I trotted down the steps, pointed to where Lloyd’s body had been—I needn’t have since the blood stain was conspicuous—then said, “The other side of this post. On the ground, I guess. I didn’t ask. Did you notice how many times it was folded?”
“I did. And there were no holes in the drywall before the Petersons moved in?”
“Matt says no. You know what just occurred to me?”
“I think I can guess.”
“Matt could’ve lied about finding the note. Maybe he wrote it.”
“Now why would he do that?”
“That’s where my theory gets tricky. And even if he’d written it, why would he mention Jack?”
“I don’t think he would.”
“Back at Bricktown you said the note made it clear this was your fight. If that’s true, why has the Peterson home been targeted?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be as useful to target my home, and the Petersons are new to Wells, making them easy marks.” He tried to stand but his knees buckled.
“Hang on.” I mounted the steps and helped him to his feet.
“Dang arthritis. Talk about demons.”
Once up, Berg found it easier to move to the landing and then into the hall. I closed the door behind us and kept my voice low. “But why here and why now?”
“As for why now, your guess is as good as mine. Why here? Because they knew I’d come.”
“And me, thank you very much. I’m not chopped liver—and you’re not carrying this by yourself.”
“How did Ray Nickle get your card?” he asked, starting off for the sanctuary.
“You heard him. He pretends not to remember.”
The instant we entered the sanctuary, the lights flickered again.
“It must be faulty electrics,” I said. My gaze rose to the ceiling. “That’s why it affects this room but not others. A bad circuit, maybe? Do you think?”
Berg was walking slowly up the aisle, his eyes riveted to the floor.
“Berg?”
He cast a backward glance but kept walking.
“What are you looking at?”
I caught up with him.
“Don’t step in it,” he warned.
Wet, red droplets trailed away, leading us up the aisle, toward the podium.
“Tell me that’s paint,” I said.
“I think it is. It smells like paint anyway, small favors.”
“I can’t smell it. You can smell that?”
“I’m a cook.”
The droplets grew to small puddles as we advanced, becoming large swaths of red on the first of two podium steps. I smelled it now. A chalky scent.
Berg skirted the mess and struggled up the steps, taking them sideways. I squatted down for a closer whiff of one blotch. Latex paint, I was sure of it.
At that I breathed a little easier, but when I saw Berg’s face and his rapt attention to the spot where the altar used to be, it set my heart racing. I steeled myself and mounted the podium.
“What the bloody hell?”
“Language.”
Painted on the floor was a single word in bright red letters: Jack.
In a flash it became clear. “There’s someone else in this church. The Petersons didn’t do this.”
“No, they did not.”
“Someone’s in here—right now.”
Berg worked his way down the steps and out of the sanctuary, and from there, with dogged determination, he trudged down the hall. I fell in step beside him, stopping when he did at the Petersons’ door. He rapped on it with his can
e and called out, “It’s Berg, open up.”
Matt flung open the door. “What is it? What happened?”
“Who else has a key to your home? Other than Teagan and me. Think carefully. The real estate agent, neighbors?”
Matt turned to his wife. “Carissa?”
“Our agent?” she ventured. “We didn’t change the locks after we moved in.”
“So anyone who had a key to the church has a key to your house,” Berg said.
“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Carissa said, the ramifications of Berg’s statement beginning to sink in.
“We should have changed the locks,” Matt said. “I didn’t think of it either. Stupid.”
“Don’t trouble yourselves tonight,” Berg said. “It’s not something anyone thinks of doing their first month in a new home.”
Matt ran a hand down his face. A shock of brown hair fell across his eyes and he palmed it back. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so I don’t think I can get anyone out here, and I’m sure I can’t on Sunday.”
“Put it on your list of things to do,” Berg said. “In the meantime, be aware that other people can enter your home, and without breaking in. There’s evidence someone else has been in the church in the past half hour.”
Carissa looked at Berg with horror.
“Old neighbors, possibly? Former church officials?” he added with a shrug.
I shot him a glance. Sure, painting the name of your dead brother on the spot where the altar used to be.
“Someone just broke into our home?” Matt asked. “My kids sleep here. My kids! This is insane.”
“I’m sure they’re gone now, and they won’t come again tonight,” Berg said, trying to reassure him. “I’ll see what I can do about getting a locksmith out here tomorrow. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. Step back a moment.”
Berg swung their door until it was half closed, and we both checked out the modern, industrial-looking keyhole below the doorknob.
“Do you have keys to any of the interior doors?” he asked.
“No, just the outside ones,” Matt said.
Carissa was clinging again to Matt. Practically clawing at him. “What do we do? We’re not safe.”
“I have a suggestion,” Berg said. “Stay at a hotel tonight. Tomorrow night too, if you can. You won’t have to worry about your home because we’ll be taking care of things, and you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”
Matt readily agreed. “Yup, yup. I’m all for it. Carissa?”
“Well, I can’t sleep here tonight.”
“Let’s start packing. I’ll call the kids to let them know.”
“Excellent,” Berg said. “Let us know when you leave, and when you settle in at a hotel, call one of us to let us know your room and phone number. And then get some sleep. No need to call us again unless you want to.”
Though they hadn’t yet left the building, or even begun to pack, Carissa looked as though the weight of the world had just been lifted from her shoulders. “I still have your card, Teagan,” she told me. “I’ll call you when we get a room.”
“I’ll bet the Quaker Inn has rooms,” Matt said, grabbing a couple canvas overnight bags from their closet. He’d been putting on a brave show, but he wanted out as much as his wife did. “That’s in Wells,” he said, glancing at me.
“Great,” I said. “Another suggestion. Don’t tell anyone, even the Nickles, where you’re going. On the off chance you run into them or anyone else.”
Carissa looked bewildered, inclined to object, but she and Matt quickly acquiesced. Anything to get out of their nightmare home and hopefully, eventually, get their lives back.
Berg and I walked back to the sanctuary, but we stayed close to the narthex so we could say goodbye to the Petersons on their way out and keep them from walking down the sanctuary aisle. Latex paint was a cinch to clean, for which I was grateful, but Berg wanted to leave it in place in case we decided to call the police in the morning. And before that, I needed to take photos. Was a person’s handwriting as distinctive when the tool was a paintbrush rather than a pen?
I leaned on the jamb where one of the sanctuary doors had once hung and Berg sat on the nearest pew.
“Crazy idea to turn this into a bed and breakfast,” I muttered.
“Mmm.”
Busy studying Northern Colorado Paranormal Society’s website, which was still on my computer screen, Berg said no more.
I looked down the hall and then out across the narthex. Through the twin windows over the doors, leaves danced in the air, driven by a weak storm front.
As I watched light and shadows play over the floor, thrown by pole lights in the parking lot and tree branches bending with the wind, despair as palpable as my own heartbeat passed through me, taking my lung’s breath with it.
My God. I bent forward, right hand on the doorframe to steady myself. No, no. Not this.
Willing myself to relax, I counted to ten and took several deep breaths. Then I straightened and looked back at Berg. He was still reading from the computer screen, oblivious to the brief assault. Safe. Untouchable.
I was the weak one in our two-person herd.
CHAPTER 10
A year and a half ago, my first night in a so-called haunted house in Fort Collins, Berg told me that people believe in ghosts because they’re afraid to believe in something more, even when they know darn well their home hasn’t been invaded by some impish Casper or long-dead criminal from the Wild West.
As disturbing as ghosts are, for those who believe in them, they don’t come close to fallen angels on most people’s Richter scale of fear. Ghosts are temporary interlopers, aberrations that attach themselves to a house or office building, and so their power is limited temporally and spatially.
But demons? Those dark, bitter, and banished angels who wish nothing more than to ravage faith and hope? Who possess power beyond most people’s wildest imaginations? They don’t exist because they must not exist. And entire armies of Lebecs and Meyers—psychics, mediums, new age philosophers, wielders of crystals, the wandering lost in search of the harmonic convergence—make a living telling people to manage their troubles with a stick of incense and a shamanic chant.
If demons are acknowledged at all, they are diminished to the level of trolls under a bridge.
Say “demon” and watch people laugh.
Berg and I were alone in the Peterson home. Matt and Carissa had packed their belongings in what I was sure was record time, and as promised, Carissa had phoned me from the Quaker Inn. Finally, she said, a night of sleep for them both.
After the Petersons left, we’d searched the church, looking everywhere for an intruder, but we’d found nothing. We had seen the building’s other rooms, including a nice if small library, and I’d even hiked up the attic steps and shined my flashlight all around. Still nothing.
Now we sat at the kitchen table, me devouring a slice of Berg’s apple pie cold from the fridge and washing it down with a fresh can of Diet Coke. It was nine thirty and the night was young.
“Teagan, vegetables,” Berg moaned, shaking his head. “There are things called vegetables. They grow in the ground and they’re good for you.”
“I eat nothing but vegetables when I’m not on a case.”
He raked a hand through his thick, white hair. “It’s a sin to lie.”
I smiled and polished off the pie.
What I really wanted to do was tell him what I’d experienced while watching shadows in the narthex.
Part of me longed for Berg to reassure me that I wasn’t losing my mind, that the despair I’d felt was common to any spiritual battle, but I didn’t want to give greater life to my feelings by talking about them, and I didn’t want to burden him or, more honestly, lead him to wonder if I was going to be of any use to him tonight. So I kept silent and finished my Coke.
“We should stick together tonight,” he said. “Don’t go off on your own.”
That suited me more than he knew. “Sounds go
od.”
I washed my fork and plate and set them in the dish rack by the sink.
“We’ll sleep in shifts,” he said.
“Should we toss the Ouija board and all that stuff?”
“Let the Petersons do it when they come back.”
I turned and leaned on the counter, crossing my arms. “Part of this is a scam. Not Lloyd’s body, of course, but other parts. I mean, red latex paint? Seriously?”
“Depends on what you mean by scam.” Berg rose and got the coffee maker going, coffee being his version of Diet Coke. True, he didn’t mainline donuts like I did, but neither was he pure veg and fruit, as I sometimes liked to remind him.
“It’s a setup to get your goat,” I said. “Someone found out about your brother and they’re painting his name in the sanctuary, writing it in a cryptic note, naming their dog after him, and who knows what else.”
“To what purpose?”
“To rile you.”
He turned around, coffeepot in hand. “Why? I didn’t buy the church. I don’t live in Wells and I’ve never met the Petersons or anyone else connected to this case, except for Lebec.”
“They want to get to you because you get to them. Like you said, you’re a target.”
“Yes.” Berg poured himself a cup, pivoted back to me, and gave me an oddly inquisitive look. “And what about you? Are you a target?”
For a moment I considered saying more than the mere yes on the tip of my tongue, but dread of exposing my own weakness won out. “Yes. I am.”
“I’m glad you realize that,” he said. “If you think I’m the only one on the radar screen, you won’t be prepared.”
“That’s what I meant when I said this is my fight too.”
“Ah, I thought maybe you were being your usual obstructive self.”
I went to the fridge and pulled myself another can of Coke. “So what would my ex-husband say about what I do for a living?”
“Maybe he’d be proud.” He blew across the rim of his cup, cooling the coffee, and took a sip. “You’re not entirely wrong about part of this being a scam, and on that score, there’s something we need to look into tomorrow. The Petersons have known the Nickles for a month at most, so I’d like independent confirmation that Ray and Hattie have had that dog of theirs for years and that they called it Jack from the start.”
Chasing Angels (Teagan Doyle Mysteries Book 1) Page 7