The dark line of the nun’s mouth turned down, easier to discern than the rest of her features. No, the original spring is gone and piped to the wall, but I am drawn to the qualities of these specific waters. She strode through the outdoor room, paying no attention to whether she moved through rides or pillars or benches, her arms out. Look where it is now! A place of petty amusement. Denigrated! It was considered the BEST of all the springs, the best tasting with lemonade and even ginger champagne made with the water!
“I am sorry you feel so angry about that,” Clare said, and yanked the topic back. “You’re stuck.”
The nun’s head lowered. I should say that I allow my guilt to affix me to this spot. A slight ruffle of slightly warmer air came to Clare as if Julianna had sighed. It was here that I met with my Indian mentor, the one who taught me to heal with my hands and direct the energy of the Great Spirit through me. She stopped. That is how he spoke and how it seemed to stay in my head. I feel as if I have betrayed my faith and my God.
“Oh.” Well, Clare would consider that a big reason for Julianna to be unable to transition into heaven. And the nun had continued with her good work, her healing, all along, not only because of her general nature but also because of her guilt.
Clare sat straight. “I will help you. We’ll figure out how to banish that guilt, and then I will help you transition from the gray dimension to what comes next.”
Julianna Emmanuel stopped in front of Clare. You will? You can help me cross into heaven?
“Absolutely.”
A breeze whirled around the spirit, touching Clare with a warm breeze and the scent of French lavender. Julianna Emmanuel lifted her head, and the darkness where her eyes should have been glittered with occasional bright fireworks, flashing as she stared at Clare. Her pale hands came together as if in prayer, then she faded back toward the mosaic wall where the water continued to stream.
Zach drew close, then sat with Clare, handing her a cardboard tray with a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream. Her nose twitched at the smell of his bitter espresso, also in the tray.
I hesitate—no, I must do this. Julianna Emmanuel’s head bowed. I must reveal my sins not only to a wise older woman, but to the spirit dog— The young woman’s hand stroked Enzo’s head, then a wisp of warm air came their way, another sigh. But also to the older man I cannot heal.
Clare shared a look with Zach. Neither one of them felt that old, but they must look like it to the apparition before them. Clare wanted to ask Julianna Emmanuel’s age, but hesitated. Enzo sent her the information. She is eighteen, Clare and Zach.
Zach mouthed, “Drama queen.”
Clare sent mentally to him, She’s been through a lot, including last night. She deserves to act out some teenaged drama.
Enzo barked in agreement, pressing close to the healing phantom. They both brightened and even took on a golden hue. Shoulders straight, head high, Julianna Emmanuel stepped out of the wall, held her hand under the flow of water, and smiled sadly when it didn’t diverge around her insubstantial fingers. She met Clare’s gaze. Learning to use my healing gift, my healing hands, is not my only sin. Then she bowed her head.
Clare felt supremely uncomfortable at being Sister Julianna Emmanuel’s confessor. She wondered about the chances of there being the ghost of a Catholic priest lingering, then reasoned that if there was, he’d probably have broken more of the rules he was supposed to have lived by than Julianna. Clare would simply have to accept the fact that a nun wanted to unburden herself.
Zach lounged in a casual manner, obviously unfazed. As a police officer, he must have heard a lot of confessions in his time. People didn’t reveal many secrets to their accountant.
After a little cough, Clare said, “I can’t believe that a gift such as yours”—a gift Clare hoped to benefit by—“can be considered a sin.” She added all the support and firmness she could to her next words, hoped she radiated sincerity. “And wouldn’t it have been God who led you here and to the Native American who could teach you the best way to use your gift?” She hoped she sounded reasonable, because she wasn’t sure of her own faith. For an instant the words—gift, use your gift—echoed in her head. She’d think about them later. She wet her lips and dug up the patchwork stories she knew of the Bible. “You, ah, used your talent. You did not ignore it or bury it. God would be pleased with that.”
Sister Julianna had raised her head. The tears she’d shed showed silver tracks against her near-white face. Much like Enzo’s drool was silver. No. Clare should not be comparing the two.
Clare continued, “I don’t believe that using your healing gift is a sin. I don’t believe a person I respect—you—should think so poorly of herself.”
Standing straighter, Sister Julianna Emmanuel said, Thank you, Clare. The young woman drifted back and forth through the empty area in a purposeful way as if she wanted to pace, then stopped near the stream and boulder at the far corner.
This time she actually drew her veil close to her face. Now her telepathic voice whispered. Slipping out of my room at night to visit my Indian mentor is not all I did. A sobbing hiccup. I also watched Dr. Isaac Davis as he conducted experiments upon cadavers.
The way she said that, Clare understood she felt it to be a sin indeed. But Clare answered, “You watched in the spirit of scientific inquiry. You didn’t do that for any, any prurient reasons, right? Just to see how the body might work and what might help you as you healed people.” Then she softened her tone. “You were—are—all about helping, Julianna. Don’t you think I can sense that?”
I—I thank you. I never felt as if I did anything wrong. I wanted to learn. I always wanted to learn and discover . . . everything.
“You did nothing wrong,” Clare said.
I broke the rules of curfew. I associated with a man, an Indian, without any of my sisters present. I learned Indian ways of healing instead of staying with what I was taught. I also observed another man practice odd procedures on bodies that should have been sanctified and buried. I did not stop him or report him.
“I think people closer than you to Dr. Davis understood he was experimenting with embalming. As for those other rules, they were man-made, ah, rules, not, ah, divine instruction.”
I promised to keep those rules and I broke my promises, habitually.
“All right, I won’t say that’s a good thing, but those aren’t the laws of God. The, ah, commandments and the rest of God’s word.” Clare floundered around in this sea of emotion, and could only reiterate the fact that radiated from the phantom and meant the most. “You wanted—want—to practice your healing gift.”
Yes! Julianna Emmanuel spun around again, arms wide. I was so joyful to come here and start a new life! Serving people, helping them deal with the dreaded white lung! The ghost’s shadowy habit in shades of dark gray swirled as she moved agitatedly. Her pale face angled toward Clare, then she glanced away. Then I reached here, and the breathtaking canyon, and I . . . felt something greater than me. God, I believed. So very happy. Her hands went to her face. And I thought I was called, and I met this wise Indian man at Navajo Spring, and he helped me . . . and I began to HEAL, with my hands. With my TOUCH. A God-given gift, I thought, the laying on of hands and invoking the Holy Spirit to move through me to help my patient. But . . . the night I died . . .
Clare blinked in surprise. Most ghosts would not speak of their deaths, would disintegrate at an indirect mention. This woman, a woman younger than she and less experienced in many ways, seemed surprisingly tough-minded about her own fate. Good.
The night I passed on, one of the local ministers—a minister, not a priest!—castigated me, me! For being pagan and not religious enough. He said he’d shame me to all of my sisters. Her shoulders hunched and she began to sob. That I consorted with a dirty Indian! A man who was so much wiser, and kinder, and more GENEROUS than he. I didn’t know what to do! I ran and ran and I tr
ipped and fell and broke my neck and now I am stuck!
Zach stood and spoke aloud, “Now what that guy told you was just wrong.”
Releasing a breath of relief that Zach had taken over, Clare watched him join the phantom in pacing the open space. “I would guess that that minister who scolded you didn’t care for women or nuns. Maybe he resented your healing gift, and your innocence and compassion that drew people to you instead of him.”
You think so? the young nun asked.
“I do,” Zach confirmed. “More, you can figure this out. Is that minister still hanging around?”
Oh! the phantom exclaimed. No, he died many years ago, perhaps a decade after me.
“And what kind of man was he?” Clare asked. “How did his character form his life in those years? You must have observed him occasionally.” Clare would have, a man who’d led her to doubt herself, who led her to run to her death.
Oh. He was . . . lonely.
“Let me guess,” Zach said, striding back to the table and downing some espresso. “He died bitter and alone.”
The nun had stayed near the boulder. I tried to help him . . . especially since he didn’t seem to see the pathway of light to heaven’s gates.
Zach grunted. Clare listened, fascinated at the details.
But he repudiated me and my help . . . and dimness came . . . and I could see him no more . . . and when sunlight filled the day again, he had vanished.
Silence throbbed a minute in the atmosphere, then Clare returned to her primary concern. “All right, then. Your . . . denigrator who accused you of sins that you took on as guilt that settled into your spirit is long gone. You have recognized that it is your own notions of failure that hold you here. And since you do, I believe it will be easy for you to move on.”
Julianna Emmanuel drew close. You believe that?
“I am a ghost seer, that is my gift. I help spirits transcend, and I do believe that you can.” She paused, glanced out at the beautiful autumn day where leaves showed yellow edges along the green. “As long as the time is right for you to transcend. Do you know when that might be?” So far, all the ghosts Clare had met had sensed innately when they could pass over.
I can leave at any time . . . though I think I do need your help.
Clare blinked. “That’s good.” She sat straighter. She hadn’t dressed for moving a ghost on . . . though Sister Julianna Emmanuel radiated warmth instead of iciness. And now Clare had to request the phantom nun heal the etheric wound. Clare put her hand on her side, even as Julianna Emmanuel said, I cannot leave now, not when I have those poor souls to help.
Chapter 24
“Right, about last night . . . ,” Zach began.
Clare flinched in embarrassed selfishness. She’d forgotten about the death the night before!
The Sister of Mercy’s whole form rippled, and her thoughts were ladened with sorrow. If she spoke aloud, she’d have been crying. The new ones who have been brought into my area, the young ones, too many deaths. Now it looked like her hands clasped.
“Tell us,” demanded Zach, intensely enough that people who’d begun to wander the area of closed shops and arcades headed back out. He clamped a hand on Clare’s shoulder, no doubt so he could view the nun’s ghost better.
It is terrible! A killer has come back to my town! Her shades of light and dark melded together even as Clare’s stomach clenched with the knowledge that her worst imaginings had come true. Zach went taut beside her, as if every sinew of his muscles tensed.
“That’s not good to hear,” he gritted out.
Oh, no! Enzo barked.
He preys on youths, those younger than me! Sometimes girls, sometimes boys. He only has boys this time. Always two captured at half-moon, then two at the new moon, and he kills them week by week. He kills at night. That is his new pattern the past month. Before it was only one girl or boy a month. He is getting worse! She whimpered pitifully. There were three yesterday morning. Now they are two, and he starves them in between.
Clare forced words out. “New moon came three days ago.”
Yes. He got two new boys, and he killed the last of the previous two last night.
“Terrible,” Clare echoed, her hands had clenched into tight fists. Guilt pummeled her. Why couldn’t she and Zach have discovered this earlier, found Julianna Emmanuel sooner? Just a few minutes might have—
“We’ll help them,” Zach vowed. “We’ll get them right now. Tell us where!”
Silvery tracks shone against the curve of her cheeks. I—go quickly in the time of a snap of fingers from here to there—I cannot describe the way! He keeps the boys in a cave. I don’t think it is very far, but I do not know all the little canyons and crevices and gullies around here. It is not a cave I knew in life.
“Describe the killer,” Zach ordered.
I do not see him well! Another wail from the phantom. I can see the cave and the boys, but not the dark spirit of the killer, because his old evil overwhelms me. She wrung her hands, and then her whole spirit churned, fragmenting from her human form into a turbulence in the air. I have failed so very, very much these last months. I could not free them. I could not speak of them but to other ghosts who quavered and could not help, either. All I could do was to help their souls as they died, ease their trauma as they progressed into heaven.
“You can’t tell us where the boys are or describe the killer,” Zach said flatly. “Does he torture his victims? How often does he check on them?”
Clare flinched at the horror, frowned at Zach. He’d gone into investigative mode, perhaps too intense and harsh for the young healer who had more guilt layering atop her own issues.
He checks on the boys every day, the sister said. But he does not feed them much or give them much water. To keep them weak, as well as because it is part of the darkness of his soul.
“Part of his modus operandi, MO,” Zach muttered. “So there are two new boys.” His jaw flexed.
“Can you go to them now?” Clare asked.
The phantom turned into a pale gray human outline. No. She paused. I do not think they are awake. The evil one gives them opium or laudanum to sleep. I can usually only go when one dies, to soothe his or her spirit on his or her journey.
“They must be in need of healing, though,” Clare said softly.
“You can’t feel their need?” Zach demanded.
I cannot heal physical wounds! Julianna Emmanuel snapped.
“Now that we’re here we can help you, too,” Clare said. “Help you with the boys. Perhaps if they think of you, if they call you . . . or if one of them can actually sense you . . .”
That happens sometimes, the nun said, her face sharpening a little so Clare could see the dark line of her mouth, a hint of nose and rounded cheeks.
Clare kept her voice soft, her manner as easy as possible though horror twisted her insides, and offered, “So if you stay alert for any sense that the boys call you for help, perhaps you can go a little slower. And you can call us and we can follow.” Clare gulped. “I’ll stay right here so I’ll be available to trail after you.”
The nun whirled so fast her habit became a blur. You cannot stay!
I can stay! Zach can stay! Enzo barked fiercely.
“I need to check this out. Try and find the boys on my own.”
You cannot stay, Clare Cermak. It will hurt you to stay. There are too many phantoms here.
Yes, she saw a lot of specters gathered around, as if drawn by the Sister of Mercy, and she knew if Zach and Enzo weren’t here, they might come closer, the mind shields she had against them might falter. But she’d stay if she could save a boy. Even if she had to call up the Other and barter favors with him.
After a minute or two of quiet, with people who ran the shops and the arcade coming in to prepare their stores for opening, the nun’s apparition said, The boys need your help, the
help of the living more than mine. I will listen and call to the dog. She rested her hand on Enzo’s head. And he will call you and find me and lead you to me. You will come quickly.
“That’s right,” Clare said.
“We will work together,” Zach said. “Do you have any idea how he disposes of the bodies? Does he have a place he buries them in the canyon? Can you show us that?”
Sister Julianna Emmanuel faded thin again to agitating air. She said, Bod-ies. Bury-ing. I don’t know, I don’t know. Oh, noooo! She averted her face, turned from them. Work! It is the Sabbath, and keeping the Sabbath holy is one of the commandments. I cannot speak of this any further now. I must pray and do my devotions. MUST PRAY for the lost ones. They NEED my prayers. Her too-high voice cracked in Clare’s mind more than once.
Zach’s telepathic thought came gently but insistently. When can you speak again?
Clare said at the same time, “You will call us if the boys call you?”
I don’t think the boys will call me today or tonight. Perhaps not even tomorrow. They don’t after one has been . . . one has passed on. I think they have escaped into sleep.
“Drugged,” Zach said.
Leave me to my devotions today. Come back tomorrow. I will think on this more, on what I can recall to help.
“What do you mean, recall? How long has this been going on?” Zach asked aloud.
In a repudiating gesture from the sister, she pulled away and Clare felt it. She gasped and covered her injury that she’d completely forgotten.
Wait, Clare’s wound! Zach shouted telepathically.
Oh, oh, oh! You are hurt, too! I must GO. But you are hurt! The apparition expanded, turning into a huge sheet of spirit, wrapped into a twisting breeze! Clare had seen whirlwind ghosts before. She rose and tried to stagger away, but the specter whisked to her, whipped her around. For a long, endless moment she stood, stunned, surrounded by warm verging on hot air. Warm hands pressed against her side, one angled, a finger traced the length of her injury, then the hand pressed and a sizzle like static electricity zipped along her wound, and was gone.
Ghost Maker Page 20
