Justice

by Sara Bell

  Will glanced at the MapQuest page taped to the dash. “That's it.” He made the turn. “The house should be at the end of this driveway."

  Marc thought calling the thing a driveway was a little too generous. Unlike the previous two roads, this one wasn't even gravel, just dirt. He leaned back against the seat, his eyes sharp on the horizon, even though he could see no further than the van's headlights allowed. “You sure this guy didn't give you any details about the job?"

  "I already told you, he refused to discuss it. Wouldn't even give his name, just said his place was haunted, and that's all he was saying until he could speak with you in person.” Will shrugged. “Some clients want to deal straight with the boss."

  "Maybe, but if he wants us to take this case, he has to understand we're a team. He can't get me without taking us all.” On that, Marc was firm. He was no prima donna. He needed Maggie and the others to keep him grounded as he worked to send the spirit on to its afterlife. If the client couldn't handle that, Marc had no problem taking a walk.

  "I don't think he's going to argue with you. The guy sounded twitchy as hell. My guess is he's desperate, just like Maggie said. At this point, I bet he'd still hire you if you showed up in a chicken suit and started belting out Sinatra tunes.” Will brought the van to a stop, his eyes wide. “Damn. No wonder this guy can afford three times our usual fee."

  Marc followed Will's gaze to the three story Georgian monster in front of him. No less than ten hulking columns held up the triangular porch roof and framed an entryway wide enough to drive a Buick through. The massive brick box was lit up like a Christmas tree, light peeking through every window in the place.

  Marc felt a moment of sympathy for the house's owner. No amount of light could keep the ghosts at bay. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

  "I won't take a dollar more than our regular fees, no matter how loaded our mystery employer happens to be.” He unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed his leather backpack from the floor by his feet. Slinging it onto his shoulder, he reached for the door handle. “Come on. Let's go meet this guy, solve his problem, and get the heck out of dodge."

  Marc got out of the van just as Maggie and Alex were climbing out of the truck. Maggie had already unpacked her EMF meter and was holding it in her hand. While Alex unloaded the truck, Will busied himself removing the more sensitive pieces from the back of the van, and Marc looked around, taking in the location.

  Marc waited until most of the equipment was sitting in a neat stack at the edge of the drive before he made his way to the front door. Fresh drabs of mortar on the wide brick steps spoke of a recent repair, and the peeling columns were sheathed with scaffolding, as if someone were preparing to paint. Dodging a wealth of tools and cans, he approached the double doors, grabbed the simple loop knocker and gave it a solid rap.

  A moment passed, and then footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A second later, the right-side door swung wide, and a tall, black-haired guy stepped out. He was lean with a boyish face that made Marc think he was in his late-teens, early twenties. He was practically shaking, he was so nervous.

  Marc pasted a smile on his face and stuck out his hand. “I'm Marc Elliot. The rest of my team is out in the drive, readying the equipment."

  "I know who you are.” The guy smiled then, and Marc noticed the crooked dimple on his left cheek. He clasped Marc's hand in a warm, tight grip. “It's good to see you again, Marc."

  Marc blinked twice before his rattled brain finally made the connection. “Brian? Brian Ryder? My God ... is it really you?"

  Brian laughed. “I'm not surprised you didn't recognize me. I was just a kid when you and Dean broke up.” His smile faded. “I've missed having you around. I'm more sorry than I can say that things didn't work out between two of you."

  Marc let go of Brian's hand and took a step back, his mouth falling into a grim, hard line. “Your brother's choice, not mine. As I remember, he couldn't get away from me fast enough once he figured out what a freak I was."

  Brian started shaking his head. “It wasn't like that. I swear. If you'll listen for just a minute—"

  "What about Dean, anyway?” Marc wet his lips. “He'll be pissed as hell if he finds out you called me, especially to investigate—what did he so affectionately call it?—my ‘psychic bullshit'?"

  "You're wrong about that,” a deep, familiar voice said from behind Brian. The second door opened, and Dean Ryder stepped out.

  Dean's bluer-than-blue eyes seemed to hold him in place. “Brian isn't the one who called for your help.” He took a deep breath, and with a shake of his black-haired head said, “I am."

  * * * *

  "Marc.... please ... for God's sake, wait a minute!” Brian caught up with him just as Marc was about to jump back in the van. A clearly confused Maggie, Will, and Alex were watching the two of them closely, but Brian seemed not to notice. He put his hand on Marc's arm and gently turned him so the two of them were facing. “Please, just listen for a minute. Dean wouldn't have called you if he didn't honestly need your help."

  "Honestly? Did you just use the word honestly?” Marc shrugged out Brian's grip. “There's nothing honest about this little set-up the two of you concocted to get me here. Dean didn't even give Will his name."

  "Because he knew you wouldn't come if he did,” Brian said.

  "He should have at least given me the choice."

  "I told him the same thing, but you have to understand.” Brian sidestepped to give Marc some space. “Dean is wracked with guilt over the way he treated you. He was afraid you'd say no and break his heart all over again."

  "I've got news for you, buddy: your brother doesn't have a heart. He proved that when he tossed me out on my ass eight years ago.” Marc turned away from him and opened the van door. “Tell him to find someone else to take his case. I'm not interested."

  "He won't call anyone else.” Brian's voice took on a note of desperation. “If you won't help him, there's no one who can. Dean's life is on the line here."

  Marc turned back around, his lips curling into a sneer. “A little dramatic, wouldn't you say?"

  "Not just no, but hell no.” Brian looked him dead in the eye. “This thing has already tried to kill him once.” He trembled, his eyes going all wet and shiny. “Next time, it might just finish him off."

  * * * *

  Dean was sitting on a sheet-covered sofa in the old parlor when the front doors opened wide. He expected to see Brian, coming to tell him that Marc had bolted. Not that Dean blamed him, and not that he didn't deserve it. He ran his fingers through his short, messy crop of hair. For all he knew, this haunting was payback for all the times he'd denied the existence of the Hereafter.

  Dean shook himself and looked to the foyer, ready to tell his brother it was okay, that he'd work something out. But instead of Brian, he saw Maggie Elliot standing in the hallway.

  "Hey, Dean."

  He stood up. “Maggie, hey.” He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, then crossed the short distance between them. “It's been a long time. I almost didn't recognize you."

  "I understand.” She shifted the bag she was carrying onto her left shoulder and then shook Dean's hand. The gesture wasn't exactly warm, but at least she wasn't letting him have it with both barrels. “I didn't recognize Brian until I saw you standing behind him. I put two and two together right about the time Marc stomped down the stairs and raced for the van."

  Dean winced. “Brian warned me to be honest with Marc from the beginning but I was too chicken sh—um, scared he'd tell me to go screw myself.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I've really messed this up, haven't I?"

  "That depends on the reason why you called us, and just what it is you hope to get out of my brother.” She pointed to one of the shrouded chairs in the parlor. “May I?"

  "What? Oh, please.” He stepped aside so she could get by, then followed her into the parlor. He waited until she sat down, then took the chair opposite hers. “Sorry it's so dirty in here. W
e've been renovating the place."

  "So I see.” Maggie set the bag at her feet and took a look around. “Is this your family home?"

  He shook his head. “Brian and I are partners in our own construction company.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. “We specialize in buying old places, rehabbing them back to their former glory, and then selling them for a profit."

  Maggie gave him a genuine smile. “Like those house flippers on T.V.?"

  He managed a weak laugh, her manner putting him at ease. “Not nearly as glamorous, I'm afraid. There's a whole lot of sweat equity that gets edited out of a sixty-minute episode."

  "That, I don't doubt.” She straightened her spine. “Before we get started, I should tell you Marc sent me in here."

  Dean sighed. “Let me guess: he wants you to tell me to fuck off.” He blushed. “Pardon my French."

  "You can say fuck in front of me. I'm not a kid anymore.” She smiled then, giving him a spark of hope. “After talking to Brian, Marc has decided to look over your case. That's where I come in."

  Too scared to say anything and mess up the fragile chance he'd been given, Dean only nodded.

  Maggie reached into her bag and pulled out a mini-recorder. “It's standard procedure before we take a case for me to interview any and all prospective clients. You mind if I record what you tell me so I can play it back for Marc later?"

  "No.” He wet his lips. “I guess he's doing this so he can have as little contact with me as possible, huh?” Cut like a knife to know that, but Dean had no one to blame but himself.

  "No, Dean.” Maggie put a hand on his knee, and this time there was real affection in the touch. “He does this with all his clients. People who find themselves the subject of a haunting are often emotional, and understandably so. Unfortunately, those emotions can often interfere with Marc's ability to make contact with the entity. We've found it best to let me do the initial interview. It breaks the ice and helps the subject shed some of his anxiety. Usually Marc meets the client, then hands him over to me, then comes back in and talks to the client when I'm done. In your case—"

  "He took one look at me and went running."

  Maggie leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Do you blame him?"

  Dean was shaking his head before she even finished. “Not even a little bit.” He hesitated. “I'm guessing he told you what happened."

  "Not at first. All I knew was one day you were a couple, and the next you weren't. It wasn't until a few years ago, when I started helping him with the business, that he told me all of it. For a long time, I think it was just too painful for him to talk about."

  Dean felt a wash of shame. “You must hate me as much as he does."

  "I love my brother, make no mistake, but I don't hate you. I'm willing to bet Marc doesn't either."

  Silently, Dean thought that was one bet she'd lose. He looked at her for a long, quiet moment, then said, “I have to admit, you've thrown me. If it were my brother, I'm not sure I'd be so understanding."

  "I'm not saying I like it, or that I won't cut your balls off and feed them to you if you hurt him like that again, just that I understand why you freaked out.” She picked at the buttons of the tape recorder with the edge of her thumbnail. “It took me a long time to accept Marc's abilities as real, and my parents took even longer. To tell you the truth, I'm still not sure they're a hundred percent convinced he isn't just a little bit crazy, even if they love him too much to say so.” She tilted her head to the side. “The fact that you were willing to ask for his help tells me you've changed your mind."

  "You have no idea.” He crossed his legs, ankle over knee, his eyes never leaving her face. “For the record ... I'd like you to know why I went ballistic when Marc told me about his gift."

  "Only if you want to."

  "No, but I need you to understand.” He hardened himself as best he could against the memories, then said, “My mother committed suicide. Left my father a note, took forty-seven sleeping pills, and an hour later she was dead."

  There was nothing phony about the horror on Maggie's face. “My God, how old were you?"

  "Seven. I'm the one who found the body.” He folded his hands together in his lap, hoping to still the fine tremors running through his fingers. “My parents were devout Catholics, and I spent my whole life hearing that suicides go to Hell. You have no idea what that did to me as a kid, believing that my mom—who had bipolar disorder—was suffering in everlasting damnation.” He wiped fresh sweat off his brow, even though it was turning cold in the drafty old house. “The only way I could deal with that was to convince myself it was all a lie. God, Heaven, Hell. All of it."

  "I can't imagine what torture you must've put yourself through.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes with impatient fingers. “You'd done a bang up job of convincing yourself that life ended at death—"

  "And there was the man I loved calling me out on every lie I'd concocted to protect myself. I retaliated by trying to convince myself that Marc was an outright fraud. Told him to get the hell out and never look back.” Dean swallowed. “By the time I realized what an idiot I was, Marc wanted nothing else to do with me.” He forced away images of that dark time, lost without Marc and hating himself for his own stupidity. “I'll spare you the details, but I don't mind telling you that eight years and twenty-thousand dollars worth of therapy later, I've finally realized I can believe in God without believing my mother is roasting in a fiery pit somewhere. I'd just gotten my faith back when we bought this house."

  He could practically see Maggie switch into business mode. “Tell me what happened.” She started the tape.

  "Nothing at first. This place had been empty for years when Brian and I bought it at auction six months ago. I don't know anything about the previous owners except they left a whole house full of furniture and personal items behind them. The place was a dusty old shrine when we took possession of it.” He picked at a tiny hole forming on the knee of his jeans. “We put the good stuff in storage and then started to work on the remodel."

  "How and when did the haunting first manifest?"

  "It was small things, about three weeks into the job. Electrical equipment would fail for no reason, tools would come up missing, cold spots would form in certain parts of the house even though it was blistering hot outside.” Dean shrugged. “I have a large crew, and everything that happened seemed to have a logical explanation. I chalked it up to antiquated wiring, tired workmen, and wonky insulation.” He barely suppressed a shudder. “Then the accidents started."

  Maggie pulled a notebook set from her purse and balanced it next to the recorder on her lap. “Tell me about those.” She uncapped her pen and held it poised over the page.

  "The first one came about two months into the job. My crew chief fell through the floor up on the third level, crashed hard onto the second story landing, and broke his left leg."

  Maggie nibbled her lip. “Could have been rotten boards."

  "First thing I checked.” He shook his head. “That wood was as solid as the day it was milled. I was still trying to figure it out three days later when one of my guys took a header off a twelve-foot scaffold. Fractured his collar bone and was damned lucky he didn't break his neck.” Dean shifted his weight from one hip to another, unable to find a comfortable position in the lumpy old chair. “After that, there were a flurry of mishaps, none quite as serious as the first two. A chandelier fell in the dining room, a crewman tripped down the front steps, and another one got locked in the old root cellar for a couple of hours before one of the guys found him and let him out."

  "Nothing that couldn't be easily explained,” Maggie said.

  "Right. I just thought that we'd hit a run of bad luck, or maybe this house was just a money pit. Never mind we were hearing weird noises from rooms where no one was working.” He made a sound of disgust at his own naiveté. “We explained it away as the settling of an old foundation. That's when
this thing—whatever it is—kicked it up a notch and showed itself."

  Maggie went rigid. “Showed itself how?"

  "Floating balls of light. Dark shadows in places where there shouldn't have been any.” Chill bumps rose in waves across his skin. “Then she took a more solid form, one all the men could see. At that point, all our explanations were shot to hell and we had to admit we were out of our league."

  "She?"

  He nodded. “Sure as hell looks like a woman to me. A young woman with long hair, though it's nearly impossible to see her face. She started popping up in front of my crewmen, scared a couple of ‘em so bad they pissed themselves. Three of the guys quit outright, and all of them have flatly refused to step foot back in here."

  "And that's when you called us."

  "I wish I could say I was that smart. I really do.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Your brother used to say I was one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, and he was right. I learned at an early age to solve my own problems. I thought this one was no different.” He clucked his tongue. “Sometimes my own arrogance amazes me."

  "What did you do?"

  "You'll probably laugh, but what the hell?” Dean shrugged. “I went on the Internet, read a whole lot of shit about dealing with spirits and sending them on to their heavenly reward.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “An old parochial school buddy of mine is a priest. I called him in to back me up, and the two of us set out to cleanse the house and send the spirit on."

  Maggie paled. “By yourselves?"

  "Stupid, huh? We were halfway through our impromptu exorcism when she appeared. The thing was screaming at us, but we couldn't make out what she was saying.” His mouth was dry, his lips sticking to his teeth. “I'll say this for us: we had the balls to keep going while that whatever she is was hovering in the air above us. My buddy had just reached the part about going on to God when she threw something at us, almost like a ball of energy. My friend was thrown against a wall, and that's when she took hold of me and tried to stop my heart."

  Maggie opened her mouth, closed it, and then tried it again. “Not literally."