Buried Truth

by Frank Hurt

  Dennis grunted.

  Rodger bellowed, “Samuel, sit your scrawny ass down and quit harassing the Senior Investigator.”

  Samuel obeyed, though he did so with a nervous laugh. His laugh, unfortunately, closely resembled the staccato, squeaking clatter dolphins make when they communicate. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound so much as an incredibly odd noise to hear coming from a human.

  The Archives for Magic City colony records claimed most of the Second Floor of the building. Everything that hadn’t been digitized—and much which had been, too—was stored in the vast halls of the Archives. Access to the Archives was through a locked door within the Security Office. The nondescript door stood between steel filing cabinets and a unisex restroom that the embassy’s cleaning crew habitually forgot to visit.

  Ember slid her key card into the slot next to the door. Prior to her promotion, the light would have flashed red and the door would have remained locked. Now, the LED light blinked green and a buzzing noise preceded the distinct click of a bolt retreating from its strike plate. If she would have been in a more philosophical mood, she might have considered the metaphorical quality this access represented and the possibly analogy with respect to her career. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t.

  As the door swung shut behind her, Ember flicked the panel of switches on the wall. Rows of industrial fluorescent lights buzzed to life along the ceiling 14 feet up. Beneath the white glow, grey steel pallet racking ran from wall to wall. Within each of the four-foot-wide major shelves were additional, minor shelves. Within those smaller shelves were cardboard boxes, labeled and stacked, two high and two deep per minor shelf. Within the boxes were census reports, personnel files, bookkeeping records—all organized by numerical codes corresponding with years and months and weeks.

  It was multiple lifetimes of data, all gathered in one location. And it would take a lifetime to get through it all.

  There has to be thousands—no, millions—of boxes. Where do I even begin? She walked among the tall racking, in awe that such a place even existed within the city, never mind just one story beneath the offices she worked at each day.

  A half-dozen wheeled stairs with railings were located at various points within the expansive but crowded room, ready to be dragged to where they were needed. Ember hoped she wouldn’t need to use the mobile stairs, though she suspected she would have to. I don’t need stairs, I need a bloody search engine! I need a Google. Or, what was the one from years ago, the butler? Ask Jeeves. Right, I need a Jeeves.

  The source of a low buzzing noise was soon identified as the air filtration system, which would keep the room at a consistently cool but arid climate for optimal preservation of delicate paper records. The buzzing fan reminded Ember of the old window unit of her dorm room back at the academy in England. That’s it! My Jeeves!

  Ember patted herself down before discovering the lump in an inside pocket of her black leather jacket. She tucked a hand into the pocket and retrieved a brass locket. She pried the locket open with a fingernail and peered at the two halves. One side was bare but for the faint residue of adhesive. The other side showed a young woman with high cheek bones and a faint smile, her hair straight and past her shoulders.

  Focusing her attention on the photo, she initiated the summoning ritual with a little added flair. “Nancy Shaw, awake. Come help me. Come be my Jeeves.”

  The air in the Archives was already chilly, but the temperature dropped another twenty degrees. Ember slipped the locket away before she zipped her jacket up and hugged herself. Her breath become a visible vapor, lingering like a miniature cloud whenever she exhaled.

  An older version of the woman in the locket photo materialized between the pallet racks. She was a transparent azure figure, thin to the point of gaunt. She wore only a terrycloth bathrobe and slippers. Her hair was in curlers against a severe face, her eye sockets empty as all ghosts’ were.

  “Hello, Nancy. Care to assist me?” Ember asked. “I need a search engine.”

  The ghost’s voice resembled a thin, faint whistle, which was what reminded Ember of the old fan. Nancy said, “Ember! You want me to be your partner? At last!”

  “Partner might be overselling it,” Ember said. “How about ‘assistant’?”

  “Sidekick, maybe?” Nancy sounded hopeful. “Your ghostly sidekick, taking down the bad guys. Kicking butt and taking names. Tell me: what can your sidekick do for you? Need me to haunt the bejeezus outta someone? What’s my mission?”

  “Right. Ace enthusiasm, yeah. Actually, you might be a tad disappointed with today’s mission. How would you like to be my search engine?”

  “Search engine?” The ghost glanced around, then floated slowly in a full 360-degree circle. “Where are we, anyway?”

  “We’re at the embassy in Minot,” Ember said, extending a hand as a weak parody of a tour guide. “In the Archives. We’re looking for files for someone long deceased. I’m hoping you can help speed the process up for me, since, you know, you can see through objects and all that.”

  “Ember, you know your sidekick will follow you to the gates of Hell. Or at least wait patiently outside the gates of Hell and keep your car idling while you slap the Devil around a bit and steal his lunch money,” Nancy said. “But I don’t know how I’ll be able to dig through boxes.”

  “I don’t need you to rifle through them,” Ember said. “I just need you to look into the boxes, the files. Look for records of interest. You did something like that before, after all.”

  “I did?”

  “Surely. You saw Marcus through the walls, remember?”

  Nancy nodded. “I saw the gun in his pocket, too.”

  “Right. See?”

  “That’s different though,” Nancy said. She floated to one of the shelves and stuck her transparent arm through a box. “Piles of papers…I mean, I can hardly see the papers within the boxes, much less what the words on them are. Like this one, it’s just a bunch of numbers in columns, next to rows of text memos. Debits and credits. Income and expenses. They spent two thousand dollars on a single party in 1928! Do you know how much money two thousand dollars was in 1928? Oh…wait, this was the sum for the entire year. I suppose that’s not unreasonable.”

  Ember laughed.

  Nancy startled at the laugh. “What’s funny?”

  “My sidekick.” Ember pointed at the ghost. “You’re reading the papers just fine, and you don’t even realize it.”

  “Oh. So I am.”

  “Right, so what we’re looking for is information on a Malvern named Billy Colton. He evidently lived in Minot at the turn of the century, though he may have moved away before he died. But as I’ve not found any sign of his existence to-date, I think we need to pivot and look for the records of someone who might lead to clues about him. Perhaps a next-of-kin. Or in this case, one of his alleged victims.”

  “Victims?” Nancy swirled until her empty eye sockets faced Ember. “Is this someone like…like my husband Marcus?”

  Ember noted how Nancy spat the name. The man who everyone else knew as the Changeling Hunter. If ever a man deserved death it was Marcus Charles Shaw. Death finally found him by way of hot lead delivered by Ember’s trigger finger. As righteous as the action was, she had nevertheless been haunted by the act of extrajudicial justice, ever since.

  The mage shook her head. “I don’t think so, but honestly, I don’t know. I know very little about him, other than that he pushed a man from a tall building to his death, in 1898. One Barnaby Harrison, a Grand Inquisitor of his time, now interred in a cemetery at the small town of Surrey, east of here.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because Barnaby told me so,” Ember said. “I’ve talked to his ghost many times before I summoned you. He and Billy Colton were friends in life, right up until the day Billy inexplicably murdered Barnaby.”

  “Sounds like something right out of a daytime drama,” Nancy said in her thin whistle-voice. “Next, you’re going to tell me that they were
in love with the same woman, but she didn’t love them back because she was smitten by with a third man. What none of them knew was that she was secretly pregnant. But who was the baby-daddy? Like sand in our butt cracks, these are the days of our Magic City lives.”

  Ember blinked, opened her mouth, and then, finding no words, closed it.

  Nancy sighed, a little over-dramatically. “Okay, you’ve sold me. I’ll look for Mister Harrison’s records from 1898 and we’ll see where that takes us. I need to know who the baby-daddy is. Sidekick ghost, away!”

  The terrycloth-robed apparition floated into and out of the shelves, cheerfully talking to herself. Nancy, by all measures, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her role as anointed sidekick. Some time later, she called out to Ember.

  “Did you find something?” Ember asked.

  “I think so,” Nancy answered. “Looks like 1898. Births and Deaths of 1898. This would be it.”

  “Where are you?” Ember called out. She walked down the rows, glancing left and right.

  “Over here. Look up!”

  Ember looked up. And up. Of course it would have to be on one of the top shelves. She whimpered.

  “Are you gonna come get it?” Nancy hovered near the ceiling. “This is where my superpowers as your ghost sidekick sort of run out.”

  “Right. Brilliant.” Ember grumbled. “I hate heights. I have bathmophobia. That mean a fear of steep stairs.”

  “Do these stairs qualify as steep?” Nancy asked.

  “I’m afraid they do.” Ember shook her head, then to herself muttered, “Barnaby better appreciate this.”

  She pushed the wheeled stairs into position, then locked each of the wheels. Testing the steel railing first, Ember climbed the stairs, never letting go of said railing.

  “Hooray! See, that wasn’t so bad,” Nancy said, applauding silently.

  “It’s the way down that’ll test me,” Ember said. “Which box—this one? Right. Here goes.” She retrieved the cardboard box. Its cover was pressed tightly on top, with two handle holes punched into the two narrow sides of the box. One step at a time, Ember walked down the stairs facing them. She kept her left arm hooked around the railing at all times and slid the box step by step in front of her. She was sweating when her feet found solid ground.

  “Barnaby really better appreciate this,” Ember breathed.

  The box contained personnel records for 1898, as promised. In one corner of the Archives, Ember found a wooden stool and drafting table with a green-glass banker’s lamp. She set up camp there, gingerly reading the old leather-bound books. Midway through the year’s death records, there it was:

  Barnaby Harrison. Died July 10, 1898. Age 193. Cause of death: construction accident. No other details.

  “Bloody hell,” Ember said. “This doesn’t give me anything new.”

  “How strange,” Nancy said. She was kneeling next to the open cardboard box. “There’s a photo of Viceroy Roth. Why would there be a photo of the Viceroy in a file box from 1898?”

  Ember frowned, turning her attention to the other record books in the box. “There shouldn’t be. Not unless someone miss-filed something. Which book are you seeing the photo in? This green one?” She paged through the book. Some pages were stiff. All the pages were brittle. None of them contained any photos.

  “Nice try, sidekick. There aren’t any photos in this.”

  “There is, too!” Nancy whined. “Look again. It’s right in your hands!”

  Ember thumbed through the pages once more. This time, when she reached the stiff page, she realized it wasn’t a single page, but two pages stuck together. She laid the book out on the sloped drafting table and carefully pried the pages apart. Sandwiched between them was a sepia-tone photo.

  The photo was edge-worn and creased diagonally. In it, a line of men in period-appropriate business suits posed in front of a partially excavated construction site. The crease ran overtop the faces of three of the men, leaving only two faces fully visible. One of the men had a prominent nose and mutton chops beneath a stylish beaver skin hat.

  Ember’s heart skipped a beat as she peered closely at the photo. “I don’t know that that’s Viceroy Roth, but I recognize the man next to him, the one in the hat. That’s Barnaby!”

  “Does this mean the photo was taken the year of your friend’s death?” Nancy’s whistle-voice echoed the Investigator’s enthusiasm. “It’s tucked inside this 1898 records box, after all.”

  “If not the year of his death, shortly before that, I’d guess,” Ember said. “I’ll ask Barnaby when I visit him next. Maybe he will remember this photo and the people in it.”

  “Why not ask him now?”

  “Because he’s buried in Surrey, Nancy.” Ember touched the photo, now dislodged from its tomb between the unstuck pages. “Wait…you’re suggesting—”

  “You’re able to summon me from just a photo. Why not him?”

  Ember canted her head, considering the idea. “In your case, it’s not just the photo but the locket too. The locket had meaning for you in life. I’m not sure I can summon a ghost just from a photo.”

  “You’ll never know until you try,” Nancy said.

  Ember chewed her lip. “I guess there’s no harm in trying.” She gently glided her fingers over the century-old photo. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do, so she closed her eyes and focused on the image of Barnaby. First, on the photo of him in life, then on the version she knew. The ghost of Barnaby Harrison. She said his name aloud and willed energy into the photo.

  Her eyes still shut, she sensed his demeanor. The way he looked, the way he conducted himself. His aloof, arrogant mannerisms. The shape of an ovoid orb—no, it was more egg-shaped—flashed in her mind. She sensed his presence, and focused again on his appearance, drawing him toward her. She recalled the distinct sound of his voice. The way it resembled sand poured over aluminum foil. The way it seemed to grate against the inside of her skull. She could almost hear him…

  “What…is this tomfoolery, girl?” The voice wasn’t imagined.

  She snapped her eyes open and had to pick her jaw up off the floor. “Barnaby! Oh my god, Barnaby!”

  “Once more, girl,” Barnaby said, “I am no god, though I understand why you would feel compelled to pronounce me so.”

  “I can’t believe I just did that,” Ember laughed, unable to contain her elation. “We’re not in the graveyard. We’re in the Archives at the Parker Building in Minot. I just summoned you from an old photo, Barnaby! I didn’t even know that was possible. Did you?”

  The ghost touched a transparent azure hand to his bearded chin. “Admittedly…no. I confess I did not know such an act to be remotely fathomable.”

  Nancy squeaked, swirling in a floating pirouette. “I knew you could do it! Go Team Ember!”

  “Who,” the words dripped like coarse sand from Barnaby, “is this dancing tart?”

  “Dancing tart?” Nancy’s hands formed fists. “I’m Nancy Shaw. I’m Ember’s sidekick. And it was my idea to call you from the photo, you…you pompous blue pig!”

  “Blue pig?” Barnaby scoffed. “Quite a daring insult from a woman unable to properly dress herself.”

  “Wait—you two can see each other?” Ember ran her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t know that was possible, either. You said you wouldn’t be able to talk to other ghosts, Barnaby. When I asked if you could talk to those three spies I’m dealing with, you told me it didn’t work that way.”

  Barnaby’s empty eye sockets searched as he considered his protégé’s statement. “That is…correct. To my knowledge, disparate spirits cannot interact. Only if they knew each other in life and died concurrently should they have such ability. Such a connection.”

  Nancy stated the obvious: “but we can see each other. We’re talking. And there’s no way I ever associated with this butt-head when I was alive.”

  Barnaby either didn’t realize he was being insulted, or more likely simply ignored it. “Somehow, you are forming
a bridge between us, Ember Wright. Tell me, how did you summon me from a mere photograph?”

  Ember recounted her actions, simple as they were. Barnaby appeared impressed—right up until the point she mentioned the visual of the egg.

  “You saw me within an egg?” Barnaby’s abrasive voice growled. “You sensed my spirit within an egg, and you…plucked it out?”

  “I…right, I guess you could say that,” Ember said. “Weird, yeah?”

  “Ember Wright.” Barnaby shook his head. He sounded decidedly less enthusiastic, maybe even weary. “You may be trespassing somewhere better left undisturbed. There is a world denied to the living, if they wish to remain living. I advise extreme caution from you. Nay, I urge it.”

  The way Barnaby delivered his warning gave Ember goosebumps. She had never heard him express advice that bordered so closely on genuine concern for her, for her safety.

  So engrossed were they all in their conversation, not one of them realized they were no longer alone in the Archives. They had not yet noticed that someone had entered the room and was watching and listening.

  15

  A Most Unimaginatively Incompetent Liar

  “Wright? Who the heck are you talking to?”

  Ember nearly leaped from her skin. It wasn’t that the voice was particularly loud. It wasn’t that the question was particularly unreasonable, either. It was, ironically, that while she was conversing with the dead, Ember simply had not expected a member of the living to join in.

  She spun around to find a smartly dressed figure with scarlet hair framing a face whose expression was a mix of concern and wariness. “Jackie? What’re you doing here?”

  “Is…everything okay?” Jackie approached Ember cautiously, glancing from side to side as though she expected a party of clowns to ambush her at any moment. “Is someone else in here with you?”

  “No, just me,” Ember said as she forced a smile that was meant to be reassuring but more closely aligned with maniacal. She feigned a chuckle which further undermined her charade. “Just me and these dusty, old tomes.”