Ghosts of Columbia

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “At least you didn’t say admirer.” Haarlan actually laughed.

  “No, I didn’t. But he’ll understand.”

  “So he will. Good luck, Johan. We look forward to seeing you at one of the next presidential dinners.”

  I took a deep breath, stamped my feet to warm them, and hurried to the Stanley, driving across Zuider to the public wireset outside Names, the department store. I probably could have stayed behind Herman’s, but then, who knew? Besides, the drive gave me a chance to warm up.

  Asquith was Speaker Hartpence’s number-two political aide, and I actually had met him. He was the one who had requested my resignation.

  Again, the operators connected us immediately.

  “Johan, I can’t say I exactly expected this.”

  “Nothing surprises you, Charles. I have been making an effort to avoid too much media exposure. But I did read that vanBecton, the number-two Spazi, had suffered some strange form of amnesia.”

  “I think the entire world knows that, Johan. They also know that the Speaker has been engaging in covert warfare against psychic phenomena—rather elegant wording. It is so elegant that it is almost professorial.”

  “It could be. After all, the late Professor Branston-Hay was not only inventive, but elegant. Still, I imagine that the Speaker would prefer that things returned to normal rather more quickly than not …”

  “He has said very little.”

  “I would think so. Public utterances can be rather damaging when the press has a few facts to work with.”

  “Why did you call, Johan?”

  “Call it mutual concern. I know the Speaker must be concerned. I’m a little concerned myself. With the accidents that happened to vanBecton and Ralston McGuiness, and all the uproar, well, I visited several, shall we say, insurance agents … in the interests of life insurance, you understand?”

  “I’m afraid I do. Are the odds good?”

  “You’d have to provide the quotes. As you may know, since my retirement, my choice was to live a quiet life. Minister vanBecton, shall we say, wanted to encourage a more active lifestyle. I didn’t have much choice, but it just wasn’t suitable. I’d prefer to resume a far less ambitious lifestyle, I really would.”

  “I think the Speaker would appreciate that. Of course, we have no idea what Minister vanBecton’s legacy might provide for you, but Minister Jerome will certainly share and respect your wishes for continuing such a quiet lifestyle—teaching and writing public commentaries, is it?”

  “Exactly. I would prefer to stay away from technical publications, unless, of course, my estate has to be probated in the near future.”

  “We understand. You will have to resolve the legacies of Minister vanBecton yourself, though, since some of those were never … published. His later efforts were … rather independent. And please try to deal with those quietly. That would please the Speaker no end. Like you, he would prefer a subdued result. Pardon my pun.”

  I hated getting puns back from others, but I wasn’t about to complain. “I appreciate your concerns and thoughtfulness. I will certainly try for a quiet and calm return to normal life.” I paused, but not enough for him to cut me off. “By the way, I do know of one of Minister vanBecton’s, ah, legacies. He seemed to have had a number of conversations with a fellow by the name of Hans Waetjen. Hans is the watch chief in Vanderbraak Centre, and he hired some … unusual … officers. You might encourage him to return to the fold, so to speak.”

  “I think something could be managed there. We would all appreciate a certain return to tranquility in New Bruges.”

  “Thank you, Charles. I will do my best to ensure the same.”

  “I would appreciate that, Johan. Good day.”

  I found a quiet bed and breakfast, the Twin Pines, and went to sleep almost as soon as I locked the door and got my boots off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Thursday morning—it was hard to believe that so much had happened in a week—I slept in at the Twin Pines, if sleeping in means waking at eight o’clock instead of six. I still felt like I’d been dragged behind a road hauler for a week.

  I drove the five blocks to Suzanne’s Diner. Most mornings that would have been a warm-up walk, but the sidewalks were icy, and my head ached. I picked up a copy of the Lakes News, dreading what I might find, and struggled into a small booth.

  “Tea, please,” I told the waitress.

  “You don’t look so good. You want some bayers?”

  “That would be nice, thank you.”

  “Not a problem. Wish everything was that easy.” She set two of the white tablets on the table. “Anything to eat?”

  “How’s the French toast?”

  “Not bad if you like rubber. You ought to try the Belgian waffle with blueberries. It’s pretty good, and you can get it with sausage for only four bits more.” She poured the tea into the big brown mug.

  “I’ll take it.” I handed her the greasy menu and dumped three teaspoons of raw sugar into the tea before I sipped any. It was still bitter, but I took the bayers with the second swallow.

  Sitting in the small booth, I watched scattered snowflakes drift outside the streaked window as cars glided past on Union Street. I nursed the tea and my headache until the Belgian waffle came. I didn’t have the energy to look at the slim paper.

  “Here you go.” She set down the plate and a pitcher of syrup with matching thumps. A smaller plate followed with four slices of flat sausage.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem.” She refilled the mug with tea.

  I nodded again and dumped more raw sugar into it. No matter what my mind said, my body was telling me that I was far too old for what I’d been doing. It wasn’t the exercise, but the stress, the looking over the shoulder every other minute. Almost everything had worked out. So why was I exhausted?

  The Belgian waffle wasn’t quite so good as it looked, but far better than rubber eggs, and the sausage slices had just the right hint of pepper and spices.

  When I was finished, I let her refill the mug with tea again. Then I took a deep breath and began to read the Lakes News.

  There was a tiny blip on the national news page—that was all—about the ongoing investigation of the Spirit Preservation League. The story quoted Speaker Hartpence as saying, “Any attempt to shorten the existence of psychic presences will be opposed. That has always been our policy.”

  I figured he was half right.

  There was also a short editorial—predictably Dutch—that suggested the government in the Federal District should spend more time worrying about the waste of taxes than investing in a psychic destruction technology.

  The waitress arrived as I folded the paper to look at the editorial again.

  “Leave’em alone. Leave us alone, too. Government’s too big as it is.”

  I agreed, and I left her a twenty-five-percent tip, both for the bayers and the recommendations, then made my way to the wireset booth in the corner.

  I dialed the Vanderbraak Centre watch.

  “Watch center.”

  “This is Johan Eschbach. I’d like to talk with Chief Waetjen.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I did not get your name.”

  “Eschbach. Johan. The fellow whose house you searched. The man you’ve been chasing for the wrong reason. Could I speak with Chief Waetjen?”

  “Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir.”

  I waited. Were they trying to trace the call? Or was Waetjen on another line?

  “Waetjen.”

  “Johan Eschbach.”

  “What do you want, Eschbach?”

  “I just wanted to know if I headed home whether your people would be inclined to leave me alone.”

  “You know the answer to that. But let me tell you, Eschbach—”

  “I know. I’d better be very helpful, very friendly, and not do anything wrong.”

  “You understand, I see.”

  “I understand. I never wanted to do anything in the first place, C
hief. Remember that.”

  “A fellow by the name of Asquith made that point to me. So did another fellow by the name of Jerome.”

  I could tell Waetjen was angry, not only from the brittle tone but the words. No subtleties. No indirection.

  “They can be very persuasive.”

  “I suspect you were more persuasive. Is that all?”

  “That’s all, Chief. If I find out anything else that could help you, I’ll let you know.”

  “That would be fine. Good day, Doktor.”

  Another friend for life. Why did it always seem to end up that way? I’d never even wanted to get involved. All because I’d decided to help Ralston out a year earlier, just let him know what I saw. I’d never even seen that much until Miranda was murdered.

  I stepped out of the booth and used the men’s room. After that, on the way back through the diner, the waitress smiled. “Thanks, Sarge.”

  Just because I hadn’t shaved that morning and my clothes were wrinkled? Did I really look that tough? Or was she being charitable?

  I grinned and left the diner.

  Once in the Stanley, I turned back northward. None of the flurrying snow had stuck, and Route Five was clear all the way to Vanderbraak Centre. Deacon’s Lane was still icy, though, and I put the Stanley back in four wheel.

  Everyone knows everything. By the time I got home around ten, Marie was busy baking, and the house smelled of various good things, including apples and cinnamon.

  “Hello, Marie. The wanderer has returned.”

  “I’m glad everything worked out, Doktor Eschbach. There’s an apple pie for later.”

  “Thank you, Marie. Most things worked out, but I have to tie up a few very loose ends.”

  “You know, Chief Waetjen sometimes is a little, a little enthusiastic.”

  “Especially when he’s prompted by the Spazi.”

  “Those people in Columbia City don’t know everything.” She snorted.

  “No, they don’t.” I certainly hoped they didn’t, for a number of reasons.

  “You just go off to your study and do whatever you have to. Later I’ll fix you a little lunch. You look terrible, Doktor.”

  “Thank you. Actually, I’m going to take a shower.”

  Everyone told me I looked terrible. I didn’t feel wonderful. Maybe they were right. Maybe a shower would help.

  The warm water loosened up a few things, and a shave and the comfort of a big sweater and comfortable trousers helped. I felt recognizably human when I went back down to the study.

  I sat down at the desk and put in a call to David, but Gilda answered. “Natural Resources Department.”

  “Gilda, this is Doktor Eschbach. I’ve been … ill. Is David in?”

  “He’s over at the dean’s office, Doktor Eschbach. When are you likely to be back in?”

  “Unless this develops more complications, I should be back on Monday. I would be fine to teach the day after tomorrow, but …”

  “I don’t think Doktor Doniger would want to set a precedent for Saturday classes.” She offered a brief laugh.

  “I don’t think so, either.”

  “What should I tell your students?”

  “Just to make sure they’ve done their readings. That’s all. There weren’t any papers or quizzes scheduled.” Unfortunately, virtually every class had a paper due in the next two weeks, but I’d deal with that as I could.

  “Take care, Doktor Eschbach. I have to go. There’s another line ringing.”

  “Take care. I’ll see you soon.”

  I put down the handset and looked out at the lawn, a blotchwork of snow and brown grass, knowing I was putting off the inevitable. Rather than face it, I finally unloaded all the rest of the equipment and papers from the Stanley and put most of it away, except for the clothes that needed washing or dry cleaning.

  Sooner or later I was going to have to deal with the remaining problem. Finally I picked up the handset again.

  “Allo.”

  “Is this the lovely Llysette duBoise, the sweet soprano of New Bruges?”

  “Johan.” There was a pause. “Where are you?”

  “At home. I’ve been under the weather.”

  “You have not been home.”

  “No. I had to take a trip, for reasons of health.” More like for reasons of survival. “I’m almost recovered. I was wondering if you’d be interested in dinner tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Why not?”

  “Rehearsals, I have—dress rehearsals. Tomorrow we open, and the dunderheads, I do not know …”

  “I suppose that means no dinner until Sunday night.”

  “Free I would be Saturday after the performance.”

  “Then I’ll come to the show, and we can do something afterwards.”

  “Perhaps a quiet evening at your house. Tired you must be.”

  “I am tired.”

  “I will see you Saturday. I must go. Another student she arrives.”

  “Saturday.”

  For a time, I looked out the window. Marie had taken down the blankets and opened the curtains, again without commenting upon the strangeness of her employer’s actions. A few lazy flakes continued to drift out of the sky, but I could tell that the clouds to the west were breaking.

  I yawned and realized that I wouldn’t be that much good for anything. Perhaps after lunch … and perhaps not.

  Lunch was good—some sort of dumpling thing with cabbage and sausage and fresh baked bread. Marie had some, but she stood at the counter and watched me, hovering like a brooding hen.

  I couldn’t eat that much.

  “Too tired to eat, Doktor?”

  “Too much of too many things,” I conceded.

  She gave me one of those “what can you expect?” shrugs, followed by a faint smile.

  I struggled through a bit more of the dumpling and a half-slice more of bread before I went back to the study, where I alternated between trying to compose final exams and trying to puzzle out the details of Miranda’s murder.

  Finally, after Marie left and the light outside dimmed, I clicked off the difference engine and looked at nothing.

  “Not to notice, while this dream lasts, the passing of time …” Carolynne perched on the corner of the desk in the high-necked dress.

  The effect was not quite what she expected because there were a good six inches between her and the desktop, and I had to grin.

  “You sound almost surprised.”

  She gave a little sound, although ghosts didn’t really make sounds—I only heard them in my mind, like everyone did, like a sigh. “The large ships, rocked silently by the tide, do not heed the cradles which the hands of the women rock … and the inquisitive men must dare the horizons that lure them!”

  “You’re saying that I’m like all men, off to do great deeds?” I stopped. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be short with you. I’m still tired, and I’m still worried.”

  “The large ships, fleeing from the vanishing port, feel their bulk held back by the soul of the faraway cradles. You ask me to be silent, to flee far …”

  “I know. But it’s not quite over.”

  “Alas, I have in my heart a frightful sadness … the woman not even hoped for, the dream pursued in vain … cruel one …”

  I caught the edge in her “voice,” not that I could have missed the combination of third-person reference and tone. Jealousy? Concern? “Llysette? I don’t know,” I repeated. “We’re quite a group, aren’t we?”

  “Not to notice, while the dream lasts, the passage of time, not to choose the world’s quarrels, not to grow weary, facing all that grows weary …” She glided off the desk and stood in the shadowed space before the bookcase to the right.

  I had to swivel the chair to face her. For a time I watched her and thought not only that she had been a beautiful woman and was a beautiful ghost, but that she was wrong. Finally I spoke. “No. I can’t make that kind of choice. And neither did you. You had as much choice
as any of us. You may not have chosen to fall in love with a married man, but you chose to act on that love. That is a choice. Emotional creatures that we are, we may not choose how we feel, but we do choose what we do.”

  Another long silence fell between us.

  “You ask me to be silent … rather ask the stars to fall into the infinite, the night to lose its veils …” Her words were somehow choked. “The hand that has touched you shuns my hand forever …”

  “Whose hand?” But I knew. I had ghosts between me and Llysette, and Llysette between me and Carolynne. Wonderful.

  She shook her head and was gone.

  “Carolynne?” I called. But she did not reappear, even though I sat in the cold study for almost an hour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Again, I tried to sleep in on Friday morning, but I couldn’t. I’ve never been able to sleep that late. So I dragged myself out, and ran through a misty drizzle that was melting off what remained of the patchy snow. Deacon’s Lane itself was clear, with a few icy patches, but the snow on the north side of the stone fence was still boot deep, perhaps because the mist was blowing in from the south.

  I only got about two-thirds as far as I had been running, not quite to the top of the hill, perhaps because I was still half looking over my shoulder, feeling that everyone was looking at me—Llysette, the watch, Carolynne, Marie, Asquith, Jerome, David, and scores more.

  I knew “Warbeck” was dead. What I didn’t know was just how many other little traps vanBecton had set. Probably Waetjen wouldn’t go against whatever instructions Jerome and Asquith had given him, but he definitely wasn’t in the mood to go out of his way on my behalf. He’d probably look the other way if he could—great comfort!

  After a small breakfast—the larder was getting empty again, and I had cheated by eating a slice of Marie’s apple pie—I felt good enough to go in to the university and teach class. But showing up would have accomplished nothing since the students had already been told, via Gilda or the grapevine, that I wouldn’t be there, and they certainly wouldn’t be. Anything to avoid Doktor Eschbach’s class!

  I did drive down to Samaha’s and pick up a week’s worth of papers. I left Louie a dollar. He didn’t quite look at me, instead just shook his head, as if to ask what the world had come to.