Possession

by Kat Richardson

  The man turned on me, glaring and pushing me back. “It’s not fake! Jordan’s sick! These rashes—they’re not his fault!”

  I put up my hands and didn’t resist him. “I know that. I can see it. I know it’s real.”

  The man dropped his hand from my arms. “You do? Everyone else thinks I’m doing it to him. They tried to bar me from the room for a while but I won that fight. I wish—I wish this wasn’t happening.”

  “I know you do. No one would want this.”

  “You believe me?”

  “Yes. I see the same thing you do.” I wished I could read the whole message, but the script was difficult to begin with—spidery and shaky—and the words were mostly under the patient’s shirt. All I could see were the words “Limos tribu . . .” on one arm and “broken wheel” on the other. At least I now had another reference to wheels and I thought I might understand Cannie Trimble’s reference to ashes, too—the ashes of the dead scattered in the market’s secret cemetery. “How long has this been happening?”

  The man backed away from me and fell again into his chair, letting out a sound like a sob of relief as he put his head in his hands. “Months. Since April at least. It’s hard to remember. Every day’s the same. . . .”

  I spotted another chair and pulled it up beside his so I could sit with him. “You come here every day?”

  “Since the beginning. It’s been hard. . . . I had to lie about our relationship so they wouldn’t throw me out, but no one asks you to prove you’re a relative.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He stared at me, frightened. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just to be polite. My name’s Harper Blaine,” I repeated, offering him my hand. “What can I call you?”

  He hesitated, shivering, then took my hand in a grip that was cold with sweat. “Levi. Levi Westman. Jordan—called me Westie.”

  “I’ll stick with Levi, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine.” He was trembling harder and his control was crumbling. “You really believe me? You believe I’m not doing it?”

  “I can see you’re not doing it. I know what it is. It’s not you. I believe you.”

  He broke down and cried quietly for a minute before mumbling through his fingers, “Thank God. Thank God someone believes me. I’ve been so scared—too scared to tell anyone what’s been going on in case they made me leave. They almost made me go once before but I . . . I tricked them into letting me stay. They don’t know about us. They’d make me leave if they knew!”

  “You and Jordan are partners.”

  He nodded, trembling, fighting to regain his self-control. In a moment he wiped his eyes with the hem of his shirt and raised his face. “Yes. We—we’re partners.”

  “Then why would they make you leave?”

  “We didn’t get married. That stupid election . . . we were going to, but then they put the referendum for affirmation on the ballot and we couldn’t. And then it was affirmed, but . . . Jordy was injured before we could do it. And I’m not legally a spouse, so I don’t actually have any right to be here. But he doesn’t have any family in the area, so . . . no one questioned me at first. Now, I just keep on lying. So I can stay with him.”

  In 2011 Washington’s voters had passed the Marriage Equality Act, which gave same-sex couples the privilege to marry legally and enjoy the same protections under the law as heterosexual couples. A religious group had called the law into question before it went into effect and the referendum had gone back onto the ballot for affirmation in 2012. In spite of strong lobbying by the political right, the law had been affirmed by a solid margin, and gay and lesbian couples had rushed to make their partnerships legally binding. Without the paperwork, however, Westman didn’t technically have the same rights to visit his spouse or make decisions about his care. With no other family in the area to back up his decisions, Westman was walking a very dangerous line.

  “What would happen to Jordan if you were forced to leave?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I suppose they’d need to talk to his folks or . . . they might make him a ward of the state. I don’t know what would happen then, and it scares me. This is awful. And then this strange thing—these messages—started. I don’t know what they are or what they mean.”

  “Have you been keeping copies of them?”

  “No. It’s too freaky. Why?”

  “I think it’s connected to two other cases with similar events.”

  “What does that mean? ‘Similar events’?”

  “There are other PVS patients who are manifesting strange activity, like the messages on Jordan’s arms. It’s not the same thing, but I think it’s of a piece.” I didn’t want to raise his anxiety further, but I knew time was short. “I’m sure Jordan’s doctor has told you that the longer a patient remains this way, the less likely his recovery becomes. One of the other patients seems to be failing, so there is some pressure to figure out why this is happening as quickly as possible. If I have all the pieces to the puzzle, we might discover what’s causing it and come up with a way to help all of them.”

  “Really?” Westman grabbed my hands. “Will it make him better?”

  “I don’t know. It may be that all I can do is make the messages stop. But wouldn’t it be worthwhile to try?”

  “Yes! I’d rather have Jordy back, but it would be something, at least, not to see him in this state,” he said, waving at the angry marks that lingered on Delamar’s skin.

  “Would you be willing to copy this message down for me?”

  “Yes! But we don’t have to write it all down—I can use my phone to take pictures if you’ll help me. . . .” He seemed uncomfortable asking for a favor, the energy around him flickering orange and green.

  Assisting with the photos was uncomfortably intimate and I wished I could look away, not invade their privacy or witness the wasting state of Delamar’s body and Westman’s painful sadness at revealing it piece by piece, moving sheets or the shirt aside with care and then covering him again gently. We closed the door and worked in methodical silence until every line of swollen, bloody words had been recorded.

  Then we sat down again, not speaking, not looking at each other. Westman stared at the photos, checking them. He frowned and put the phone down on the tray table that we’d moved to the side of the bed.

  “What is it?” I asked, watching him reach for a pad of paper and a pencil.

  “I’m not sure,” Westman said. He wrote something on the paper, looked at the photo again, and crossed something out before writing a new word over the excised one. He held the pad out to me. “It’s hard to make out—the writing’s so bad. . . .” He held up the camera next to the pad for me to read and flipped through a series of pictures. “I’m not sure I remember right, but . . . this message—or a lot of these words at least—may have appeared before. Do you think I’m reading the words correctly or just . . . wanting them to be familiar?”

  I glanced at the sentences—just two—that he had written down and compared them to the photos, looking back and forth from the long, spidery lines on Delamar’s skin to Westman’s transcription. “The writing is hard to read, but, yes, I think you’ve copied it correctly. ‘Given as Limos tribute, those who wasted away. Given to the wheel of death and birth, to break the wheel we are driven.’”

  I frowned over the strange message as Westman said, “It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

  “Not yet. It may eventually, though, in context with other messages.”

  “Other messages?”

  “If you remember any of the other writing you’ve seen. . . .” I was reluctant to be too blunt about the surface on which these messages were appearing—it seemed invasive and uncouth.

  “Oh,” he said, crestfallen. “I thought maybe there were other messages from . . . the other patients.”

  “There are.”

  “Do any of them say something like this . . . ?” he asked.

  “So far, no, but I haven’t
read or listened to them all.” I changed tack slightly, since this conversation seemed destined only for frustration. “Can you tell me what happened to Jordan?” I didn’t want to rely on the vendor’s version of events alone.

  “There was some work going on around the market—something about the tunnel or monitoring the tunnel. . . . Anyhow, whatever they were doing caused some temporary structures to collapse. He was hit on the top of the head by a falling awning pole. His doctor said something about cranial sutures . . . the place where the skull grows together when you’re a kid. He said the intersection is weaker than the rest of the skull and that’s right where Jordy got hit. He had some kind of swelling or clot pushing on his brain and they had to operate to remove it. But he—the surgeon—said that after they removed the clot the damage was like a bad concussion and Jordan should be fine. But he didn’t get better. I mean, his head healed up and they say everything’s fine, but he won’t wake up.”

  “And where did this happen?”

  “At the market—at Pike Place Market. Jody’s a musician and he performs there.”

  “Did he fall onto a hard surface or down some distance?” I asked, to be sure it really was the same accident that had been described to me before.

  “He landed in some dirt the workmen had dug up. It got in his mouth and nose, but the doctor said it didn’t contribute to the damage—it might have made the impact softer, actually. But he still got the clot and was unconscious.” He gazed at Delamar a moment before adding, “I haven’t seen him looking back at me since that morning. I was on my way to work and he was still in bed, smiling at me . . . and that’s the last time. . . .” He squeezed his eyes closed, forcing tears to roll off his lower lashes and creep down his cheeks. His breath was ragged and he didn’t say anything more until it eased back to normal. “I’m sorry. I get maudlin. . . .”

  “It’s OK,” I said. The conversation stalled on the awkward moment.

  After a bit Westman sniffed and sat up straighter. “What else did you want to know?” he asked, making an effort to act normal and do something.

  “Did he have another job as well? I know performing can be rough financially.”

  He looked a little uncomfortable. “No. I supported us a lot of the time. I’m a programmer. The money’s good but that’s another reason I’m worried—I’ve taken a lot of time off or been working from home, and his health insurance doesn’t really cover this. I do. I don’t know how much longer I can make this stretch. . . .” His eyes widened in alarm. “You’re sure you’re not from the insurance company? You’re not going to cut us off—!”

  I turned my palms out in a calming gesture. “No, no. I’m not working for the insurance company. I work for the sister of one of the other patients who’s exhibiting similar behavior.”

  Westman sagged in his chair. “I can’t take a lot more. I live in a state of fear every minute. ‘What if they find out?’ ‘What if they drop us?’ ‘What if he gets worse . . . ?’”

  “I don’t know if it will be a consolation, but at least you aren’t alone in this and I’m going to get to the bottom of it, I promise.”

  He grabbed my hands. “Don’t promise. I couldn’t stand it if it fell through. Please. Just . . . do your best.”

  “I will. Would you keep on photographing the messages for me? Maybe writing them out again if they’re hard to read? If they’re not all the same, it will help to have that information.”

  He nodded. “I’ll get as many as I can. I’m not here all the time, but I’ll see if I can get anyone to help me record them. How can I get them to you?”

  I pulled a business card out of my pocket and handed it to him. “You can e-mail them to me, or call and I’ll come to you—whichever is easiest for you.”

  “E-mail. Definitely. When I’m not with Jordy, I’m at the computer.”

  That didn’t surprise me in the least. I offered a reassuring smile and my thanks before taking my leave. It was growing late and I had a few more things to manage.

  I was sure now that each of the patients had been injured at sites associated with the tunnel project, though I still didn’t understand what the defining link was. Mindy and John from the market had both commented on the rise in strange occurrences and the appearance of Lois “Mae West” Brown’s ghost seemed to be part of that same phenomenon. Tunneling, by its nature, disturbs the ground it passes through and this particular bit of ground was full of artifacts of the dead as well as the usual dirt and bugs. Was it any wonder if there was an upwelling of ghosts, just as there’d been a rise in rat and insect infestations? Or if those ghosts were confused and creating havoc? I wasn’t sure what they wanted to say, but I was reasonably certain they were trying to say something. I wished I had more of Sterling’s writing and understood more about Goss’s paintings. I wished I knew if Goss’s accident had involved dirt from the tunnel just as Sterling’s and Delamar’s had. I doubted I’d change my evaluation once I had any of that information, but it might help me figure out what would make these spirits lie back down.

  TWELVE

  I had agreed to have dinner with Phoebe Mason a few weeks earlier and I knew she’d never forgive me if I missed it—not even if I was working on a case she’d sent to me. I took the ferret home first—disappointed that Quinton wasn’t there—and then drove up to the Wedgwood-area restaurant the Mason family owns. I couldn’t remember ever having a meal with Phoebe in her own home, since it was easier to eat at the restaurant, which was always lively with the comings and goings of her large family.

  Quinton was sitting in the back at the family table with Phoebe’s father when I came in and I had to admit I was a little surprised. With my boyfriend’s current preoccupation, I’d half expected him to blow this date off in spite of his reassurances. On the other hand, Phoebe would have been as unhappy with him for missing it as with me, so it had probably been no more an option in his mind than it had been in mine. No one risks the wrath of Phoebe lightly—she’s short and curvy and would rather make a joke than an enemy, but woe betide you if you piss her off. But Quinton’s presence still warmed me and sent a tingle of happiness through my whole body. I suspect I was smiling like a fool.

  I threaded my way through the busy dining room and slid into a seat next to Quinton. “Hi, there, you,” I said to him, pressing a quick kiss on his ear. “Hi, Poppy,” I added, smiling at Mr. Mason.

  “Hey’m, Harper,” Poppy said, raising his glass of warm water in a tiny salute. “Been a while.”

  “Yes, it has,” I agreed as Quinton returned the kiss on my cheek.

  “What you been doing with yourself?” Poppy asked, his Jamaican accent still thick and musical even after decades in the United States. He never seemed to change, though I’d known him and his family for years—he was still the slim, bent, weathered old black man I’d first met, his bald head shining in the light and the ever-present glass of tepid water in his knobby hand. Still making sly comments, directing the lives of his children and grandchildren with gentle verbal nudges and the occasional good-natured barb. It would be hard to dislike Poppy. He was one of the few people I’d ever seen whose aura remained steady and bright at all times, shining a cool pale blue and sparkling with white lights as if the very air around him was effervescent.

  “Oh, just working,” I replied. “You know me.”

  Poppy nodded. “I do.” He looked at Quinton and nudged him. “You making her leave them bad things alone, now?”

  Quinton shook his head. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

  “Where’s Phoebe?” I asked, breaking up the conversation about my work habits before it could get properly started.

  “She back in the house, putting babies to bed. They do love a story from their Auntie Phee.”

  Phoebe’s oldest brother, Hugh, shared the house behind the restaurant with his parents and it seemed there was always one relative or another dropping by with kids in tow who had to be watched over and tucked into bed by someone who wasn’t busy in the kitchen or
the dining room. Since Phoebe was the oldest, the only daughter, and unmarried, she was often stuck with visiting-baby duty, though I don’t think she minded. For a woman who swore she was never, ever getting hitched, she had an unlikely affection for children, as well as a huge mental store of tales to tell them at bedtime. I suspected Phoebe of reading every children’s book that came into Old Possum’s before she put it out on the shelves to be sold.

  A few more members of the Mason clan whisked by, set down more glasses of water, or dropped in to sit at the table while we waited for Phoebe, each one offering a smile, a story, or a greeting to Poppy and us. One of the cousins sat down long enough to tell Poppy a joke that got the old man roaring with laughter—he’s past seventy, but hardly shows it and doesn’t find his age relevant except as a wellspring of wisdom and funny stories.

  Poppy wiped tears of hilarity from the corners of his eyes without ever putting down his water and shooed the cousin on his way with a grin. “Go tell that to Momma,” he suggested, eyes atwinkle with mischief.

  “No way, Poppy,” the cousin replied, jumping up in fake alarm. “Auntie Miranda’d smack me silly and tell me to wash out my mouth. And then supper would taste so bad! ’Sides, I gotta fix the espresso machine.”

  Poppy sighed as the cousin escaped to chores rather than risk the disapproval of his aunt over a dirty joke. “I swear, boys ain’t got the heart they used to do. Time was I’d have gone told Miranda that story myself.”

  “Yeah, Poppy, but she’s married to you—she’d just flick you with that towel of hers and tell you to get out of her kitchen. Ty would end up wearing curried goat,” Quinton said.

  Phoebe finally bustled in, waving at us before she ducked into the kitchen for plates of food and was chased back out by her mother wielding the snapping towel. Phoebe and her father laughed as she settled down with us at last.

  “Hey, girl, you made it! And the handsome man, too,” Phoebe noted, nodding at Quinton. In spite of the friendly atmosphere, there was still a tinge of reserve in her tone to me and her aura was slightly redder than usual. I had a bad habit of leaving Phoebe in the lurch or worse—I’d almost gotten her shot once and she hadn’t quite forgiven me.