Dead Demon Walking

by Linda Welch

  His lips lingered on my forehead. “I’ll be listening.”

  “You do that.” I tapped my fingers on his shoulder, turned and headed for the house.

  I went up the steps to the upper deck and cautiously opened the glass door to look inside before entering. You can never be too careful. I’ve been in houses where a ranting shade made a beeline for me the second I stepped in. They couldn’t hurt me, but being charged by an irate shade can make your heart miss a beat or two. But nothing stirred.

  The bitter-almond smell of old blood and stink of excrement made me want to gag, but knowing the Suits watched, I held my breath and went in the living room, closing the door behind me. Inside, I sagged on the doorframe till the smell no longer seemed as bad.

  The place was huge. The ceiling of the living room and entry went up to the next floor, with a staircase winding up opposite the front door. The open-plan area had a sparse elegance and the modern furniture looked uncomfortable. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind me must provide an incredible view of the lake when the white cellular blinds were up.

  On my left, the wall broke to leave a square, empty space; beyond that a huge, octagonal parquetry dining table and twelve high-backed chairs occupied nearly all the space in the octagonal dining-room. A door from there led to the screened-in porch. A square opening on the right of the dining-room gave into a big kitchen with black marble counters, glass-fronted cabinets and a huge refrigerator. Six gas burners and a deep-frying unit were embedded in a large workstation in the middle of the room. Sunlight streamed through tall east windows above the double sink.

  The air-conditioning was off. The inside of the house felt worse than outside, with the hot, clammy unmoving air and reek of stale bodily fluids.

  I sensed them. Three people. I knew where they waited, so I didn’t climb to the top floor. As I suspected, I found another staircase going down, just past the one going up.

  I stood a moment at the top, composing my mind and senses for what I would find on the ground floor, then I went down.

  Blue, brown and green plaid wallpaper covered three walls. The ceiling and east wall, with a large picture window looking over the fire pit, were dark forest green, the carpet blue. A pool table stood in the middle of the den and a leather-topped bar and fancy barstools stretched along the south wall with a dozen framed black-and-white photos behind it. A fifty-inch TV hung on the north wall; below that a bookshelf held paperbacks triple-stacked. Two loveseats and an armchair exactly matched the wallpaper.

  The ugliest example of interior decorating I had ever seen.

  Mr. and Mrs. Fensham lounged on separate loveseats. Brian lay on his stomach on the floor, chin in his cupped hands, looking up at the TV as if it were not blank. The hole in his back didn’t look as bad as in his morgue picture, probably because he wore clothes, and he still had both arms. Gregory Fensham’s head seemed just fine, for which I was immensely grateful. I’d visualized a guy with his head under his arm. Daphne Fensham stroked her neck as if unaware of the gaping hole. However, gore coated all three like someone upended cans of brown paint over them.

  Because they were alive when Gregory’s head and Brian’s arm were removed, blood had spurted like a geyser. It discolored much of the room, splattered the walls and patched the ceiling, floor and furniture. Someone had lived long enough for terror to loosen their bowels. The smell made my eyes water. I didn’t want to go farther in the room lest the carpet squished, although it must be dry by now.

  Although, with this humidity, it could still be damp. The clean-up crew was in for a treat.

  My back hit the wall as images rolled over the inside of my eyelids.

  The air shuddered. I heard a sound like a big, thudding heartbeat or the downbeat of a giant wing. Gregory made a break for it, running toward me, eyes panicked. He seemed to be sucked backward, arms flying out, mouth open in a scream which never made it out his throat. For a second, just a second, I saw a shape behind him and hands either side his head as the body dropped.

  Brian picked up a large silver award statuette from the bar and moved across the room, and a tall figure blinked into existence behind him - white shirt, straight black hair - Brian’s arm flew to the right as blood jetted. The tall man pulled back his arm, then thrust his hand in Brian’s back. More blood gouted.

  Blood ran down the walls, it rained from the ceiling and hung in the air as a fine pink mist. The mist shifted and swayed as something I couldn’t see moved through it. My brain skittered as it tried to make sense of what my inner eye saw. Daphne screamed.

  When a victim sees their killer, so do I. I saw what Daphne saw as if through impure glass, until it blinked out. At that moment, Daphne died.

  The victim does not always see their killer. For example, an assassin with a long-distance rifle, a perp hiding in the shadows or coming at them from behind - their physical eyes don’t see their murderer, so neither do I. The Fenshams had but briefly glimpsed their killer.

  When I opened my eyes, the Fenshams watched me from the middle of the den.

  “Is she all right?” Daphne Fensham asked in a Scarlett O’Hara accent. “She looks like she saw a ghost.”

  Garret did say the Fenshams were here on vacation. They could be from a Southern state, or originated there.

  Brian put the back of his wrist to his mouth and made a sniggering sound.

  Gregory swaggered nearer. “What a honey,” he drawled. He clutched his crotch with one hand and flexed his hips. “Come to poppa, sugar.”

  “Gregory!” Daphne put fisted hands to hips. “Do not speak like that in front of our child!”

  “Poppa!” Brian exclaimed. He swung on Daphne. “Momma, I am not a child!”

  Gregory kept his eyes on me as he spoke to his wife. “We are dead, darlin’. Let us at least be honest with each other.” He turned to Brian. “Your momma has not been a wife to me for over a decade.”

  Brian put his palms over his ears. “I do not want to hear.”

  “So I went elsewhere,” Gregory continued. “But I hazard none was sweet as this gal. She must be a tasty morsel under the covers, despite bein’ the size of an Amazon.”

  “That is quite enough!” from Daphne. She half-heartedly slapped at his face, but her hand went through his head. She made a sound of disgust.

  ”Ahem. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if it’s okay with you.”

  They stared at me; I had their undivided attention.

  Gregory stepped forward and waved a hand before my eyes. I blinked. “I can see and hear you, Mr. Fensham.”

  “Well glory be.” He took a pace back. “Then perhaps you can tell us what all’s happenin’ here.”

  That didn’t take long. You died violently, you’re here until your murderer dies, then you pass to the other side. And no, I don’t know what waits for you there. I didn’t add that some shades, like my roommates, can and do voluntarily remain here.

  Daphne went back to a stained couch and sank several inches into it. She flapped a hand in her face as she rose to cushion level. “I do not know why I keep doin’ that. It’s not that I can feel anythin’.”

  “Force of habit?” Jack and Mel told me sitting, lying and leaning is so natural they can’t stop themselves doing it, so they pretend. It’s something all shades do. Jack said mastering the knack of hovering in the right place took weeks. The Fenshams already had it down pat for the most part.

  “So,” I continued, “if we find your killer, we’re closer to getting you on your way. Did you know him?”

  What I saw of the murderer didn’t give me much to go on, only a hint which I wanted to deny with all my heart. But the dead also see with something other than their eyes. I don’t know what it is, their soul, perhaps? That part knows and can describe their killer and they never, ever forget his or her face. This family’s inner vision should be able to tell me more than they physically saw.

  “Never seen him before,” Brian said. “He busted in here, then it got . . . confusin’.�
�

  “He was fast,” Gregory added.

  “That is an understatement, honey,” said Daphne. “Had I not seen him come on in, I would think the wind tore us apart.”

  I felt my face blanch. “Can you describe him?”

  “He was tall and han’some,” Daphne said. “He had - ”

  Gregory burst out with, “How can you call that animal han’some!”

  “Honey, what he did makes no difference to how he looked, and he was somethin’ sublime.”

  “Big dude. I mean tall, maybe six-eight. Mid-twenties. Long black hair, long as yours, black eyes. White tee, blue jeans, black sneakers. Mexican, I think,” Brian said.

  “Columbian,” from Gregory.

  “American Indian,” Daphne said.

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “No,” said Daphne.

  “Did he take anything?”

  She revolved to see every part of the den. “Everythin’ in here looks as it should be. I don’t know about the rest of the house.”

  Ah. “You can’t leave this room?”

  She shook her head.

  I eyed Brian. “You can’t go outside, Brian?”

  His head jerked up. “I wish.”

  “How long were you . . . unconscious?”

  His voice went up a notch “I don’t know!”

  “I’d like to know if this guy dragged your body outside after he killed you. Was it still here when you woke?”

  “Oh. I see. Yeah, it was. What has that to do with anythin’?”

  So our Suits thought they could mess with me. “Nothing, Brian. Don’t worry about it.” I couldn’t wait to get away now.

  I spoke to all three. “Anything else?”

  “Sure,” Gregory said. “When your time comes, sweetcakes, you look me up. You hear?” and he cupped his crotch again.

  I lacked the energy to enlighten him. “Sure, I’ll do that.”

  I slipped sideways and through the door before one of them could say another word. I knew I should question them more, but I just had to get out and back to Royal. I lumbered up the stairs feeling like I couldn’t get enough breath in my lungs, the restriction not owing to the humidity alone.

  I walked in the living room and paused at an oak-framed mirror on the wall. I’m pale-skinned, but today I looked ashen. I rubbed my palms briskly over my cheeks to bring the blood to the surface so I didn’t look quite as bad as the shades I left in the den.

  What to tell the agents? Should I give them something to keep their interest, because if I was right about the killer - God forbid - and the Fensham killings were one in a series, maybe they could give us more information.

  I hurried through the living room and out the door to the deck, closing the door behind me. Gunn, Vanderkamp and Royal waited on the grass. I trotted down to them.

  “Anything?” Vanderkamp asked.

  “They don’t recall much. They gave me a vague description of an unusually tall man with waist-length black hair.”

  Shit! I belatedly wondered if they bugged the house. What did I say to the Fenshams?

  “That’s it?” Vanderkamp said. “That description is worthless.”

  No, I didn’t say anything the agents could call me on. “Sometimes their memories fade pretty fast.”

  “So we came here for nothing,” Vanderkamp stated.

  “Miss Banks thought she could make a few dollars with her cock-and-bull story,” Gunn said in disgust, his lip twisted.

  “Hey! I didn’t want to come here and communicate with gruesomely murdered dead people.”

  “But naturally you can’t prove you did,” from Vanderkamp, with that smile which seriously began to get on my nerves.

  I widened my eyes. “Ah, but you see, Agent, I don’t have to. You can believe what I say or not, your choice. Makes no difference to me.”

  We walked beside the house to the concrete steps. “Garret won’t be pleased,” Vanderkamp said. “He went out on a limb to bring you in on this.”

  I twitched one shoulder, said mildly, “Garret can kiss my ass.”

  I knew Royal thought Tiff! though he didn’t say it. But to hell with diplomacy, I worked hard for the Miss Mouthy USA title and you know what they say, practice makes perfect.

  “I can tell you this,” I said as I labored up the steps. “Brian died in the den with his mom and dad, not outside.”

  Silence behind me. They wondered if I worked it out from looking at the lawn. “That Gregory was a genuine lady’s man,” I added. “Unfortunately the lady was not his wife. He had a string of affairs in the past ten years.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Vanderkamp asked.

  I read his speculative expression. He knew we brought a laptop along, but a search would likely not bring up Gregory’s infidelities.

  I slowly arched one eyebrow. “Well, I didn’t Google it.”

  I tromped to the SUV, each indrawn breath like inhaling marsh gas. I felt soggy all the way through my clothes. I settled in the back seat and snatched up my bottle of water. Already warm, it tasted stale.

  Vanderkamp tried to get inside my head on the drive to the airport, kept asking was I sure I didn’t get anything else. All I gave him was a description, not that the Fenshams identified their murderer. Did he approach them, did he touch them, speak to them? He asked as if he believed I did make contact with the Fenshams, but I thought he tried to make me relax and slip up.

  Gunn was his usual stoic self, except when I caught his reflection in the rearview mirror, his expression turned glummer than ever.

  When we arrived at the airport I was happy to hear Royal and I would fly back to Boston. We didn’t need to see Garret again. Not so happy the agents would accompany us, but just as far as Dallas/Fort Worth. After a flight silent but for the droning engines and murmuring passengers, we landed in Dallas/Fort Worth and bade the agents good-bye.

  ***

  We leaned on a pillar in the lounge. I popped the tab of the diet soda I got out a vending machine; a dollar fifty and worth every penny.

  I swigged. Ah, bliss.

  The spicy-sweet smell of Chinese food drifted from a nearby café. Commuters stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the taxiing planes, the baggage carts and porters. The seats in our lounge were filling up fast, but not with people waiting for our flight. We had two hours to idle away.

  Royal was a restless presence next to me. “We can talk now. What did they tell you?”

  Well, no point in delaying. “The killer was Gelpha.”

  I think his entire body stiffened. “Are you sure?”

  “Ninety-nine percent. Humans can’t move that fast. Do you know any six-eight Gelpha with black hair and eyes, who looks Mexican or Columbian or American Indian?”

  “Asking me that is like a guy stopping you in Clarion to see if you know where someone named Eccles lives,” he said wryly.

  “On the next block. Big guy, tiny wife, five kids.”

  His mouth crunched on one side. He wasn’t amused, and neither was I. My wisecrack sounded strained, inappropriate under the circumstances. I can get that way when I’m anxious.

  “What about the one percent?”

  “It’s how the Fenshams described him. I barely saw him: black hair and his clothes, and motion, blurring through the room.”

  Now he eyed me with a piercing gaze. A blur. That’s how I see demons when they move at full speed. A blur, a haze, a displacement in the air.

  In my mind’s eye, I saw Alva charging us. “I think Alva attacked because she saw your resemblance to what killed her people.”

  He said in an undertone, “How did he kill them, Tiff?”

  I recalled that one-second-glimpse of hands on Gregory’s head, Brian’s arm dropping away. I shuddered.

  His arm snaked around my waist and molded me to him. I closed my eyes and snuggled in, hoping his heat could banish the gooseflesh which mottled my skin.

  “I think. . . .” I swallowed. “I think he did it with his bare ha
nds.”

  I let him have his silence, waiting for him to say, we would not and/or we could not. Remembering how muscles corded his arms, his shoulders, and the veins on his neck and wrists stood out as he struggled to hold Alva away from his throat, I wondered, just how strong is he? Did he put on a show for the edgy agents, or require that effort? He scoops me up in his arms like I’m feather-light. Strong enough to punch a hole in a young man’s back, rip his arm off at the shoulder, separate a man’s head from his neck?

  Passengers were boarding, leaving fast-food containers and Styrofoam cups on the carpet and in seats, ignoring trash bins a few feet away. Tired of standing, I slipped from his arms, took his hand and led him to the nearest seats. I sat on thick, unyielding plastic. Royal stood behind me, hands on my shoulders. He bent his head so his breath brushed my hair. “Shall we cancel our flight to Boston and get the next available to Salt Lake?”

  With images of the Fensham family etched in my mind, I had a sick feeling in my stomach, but my voice sounded calm enough. “That sounds good.”

  So the vacation ended almost before it began. At least I would not have to see Chris Plowman again.

  Chapter Ten

  “I found Vanderkamp, Gunn and Garrett in the FBI database easily enough, but I can’t get into their cases. Digging deeper will put up a red flag,” Royal said.

  We sat in my newly decorated living room, formerly the one room in the house I rarely used because it was dowdy, and gloomy to the point of bringing on claustrophobia. As often as I complained about always having to sit in the kitchen, I didn’t have the money to redecorate until now.

  We pulled up the old carpet and found a nice oak board floor beneath. Sanding, staining and sealing the wood is not something I want to do again in a hurry, but the end result was worth the sweat and aching joints, a floor with a lovely warm satin glow. Royal cleaned and polished the small wood-burning stove. It’s the type which fits right in the fireplace and although I don’t think it has the charm of an open fire, the flames looked nice through the glass plate in the door and it certainly got the room toasty. We brought in a guy to clean the chimney and lit a fire to make sure the smoke pulled.