The Charlatan's Conquest

by Vivien Dean

  The trick would be to hold on to that hope after he got thrown into the deep end.

  Chapter Two

  BRODY Weber’s knuckles ached from how tightly he held the steering wheel. He wanted to credit the pileup he’d run into on the wrong side of Scranton, the one he’d been stuck behind for almost forty-five minutes before the police on the scene opened the road to more than one lane, but that was only one of the reasons for his severe delay. There’d been the emergency at the lab that forced him to go in for an hour when he’d already planned to take the whole day off, the dead bird on his front step that he’d half stepped on in his rush to get out, and the line at the gas station when he realized there was no way he’d make it all the way from Philadelphia to Binghamton on what he had in the tank of his Chevy Malibu.

  According to Ramona, his father’s housekeeper, their new houseguest was set to arrive at one. If everything today had gone as intended, Brody would’ve been there by lunch with plenty of time to get his father to understand what a waste of money this was. He could’ve been there when the imposter arrived, and together they could’ve given him his marching papers. He might even have stuck around for dinner and some quality time with his dad instead of his usual hit-and-run visits.

  But no, the fates conspired against him. He’d missed the first two meetings with this so-called ghost hunter, only learning about them after the fact, when it was too late to do anything but yell at his dad. If he’d known about this third session earlier, he would’ve made arrangements to get to the house last night, but Ramona hadn’t contacted him until early this morning. His father had been so secretive about the whole matter, he hadn’t even told his housekeeper they were having an extended visitor until the very last minute.

  That was the true source of his frustration. Nothing he said or did could convince Loren he was throwing his money away. It was like he was sixteen again and trying to explain to his disapproving father why it was more important he take more science classes than yet another economics course. When Loren Weber made up his mind, he was a brick wall. Brody’s only choice back then had been to do it all on his own, so his father couldn’t demand a say in what he did with his life.

  Fifteen years later, that decision meant they led mostly separate existences, satellites to each other that could occasionally communicate but rarely interacted on any sort of meaningful level. While Brody drove up to see him once a week, he did it primarily to assuage his own guilt about the distance between them. An act of duty rather than desire. That made days like today, when he truly worried about protecting his dad from a con artist, even harder.

  The Weber house wasn’t located in Binghamton but several miles southwest of it near Sugar Creek, on a secluded lot not even visible from the main road. It was a bitch to get to—lots of winding roads that felt like they went miles out of the way only to double back on themselves—but his father liked it for its privacy and its proximity to the country club. More than once Brody had mentioned how much easier it would be to get to board meetings in Syracuse if he got a smaller place in the city, but Loren would have nothing of it, especially since Brody couldn’t argue against the efficacy of virtual meetings. The house might look like it was cut off from civilization, but that was an illusion. It was wired with the best technology. Everything a rich sixty-year-old widower who was tired of being around people all the time could possibly want.

  Another car was in the circular drive in front of the three-story brick house. Brody pulled up behind it with a frown, his gaze fixed on the vehicle as he got out of his own. It was a dark blue Volvo station wagon, at least twenty years old, with a dozen stickers on its rear bumper. A yellow ribbon for children’s cancer with words of support surrounding it. A rainbow-colored peace symbol. A variety of slogans like I’m not speeding. I’m qualifying and My other car is the Batmobile and Sometimes I wrestle with my demons. Sometimes we just snuggle.

  Brody snorted at the last one. He could tell this gay-rights supporter/speed freak/comics-loving ghost hunter a thing or two about demons.

  He let himself in without knocking and immediately heard voices in the sitting room to the left. Though the french doors were closed, Loren’s voice was obvious, the type to project to the back of the audience. The other voice was deeper, more modulated, a quiet rumble beneath his father’s stormy temperament.

  The civility of it all infuriated Brody even further. Grasping the handle, he shoved the door open, ready to take both of them on.

  His protest died on his tongue at the sight that greeted him. Loren sat on one of the brown leather couches, while a strange man sat next to him. Both men were intent on a laptop resting on the mahogany coffee table in front of them. At his entry, the stranger glanced up, then stiffened as he pulled away from the computer.

  He wasn’t what Brody had expected. Instead of someone older and grizzled, this man was younger than him, mid-to-late twenties most likely. His dark skin suggested a Latino or Mediterranean heritage, though the curly hair tied neatly into a tail at his nape was pure hipster. His long, angular face was mirrored in his body, with broad shoulders, a lean frame, and graceful hands to match. But it was the softness of the light brown eyes as they focused on Brody, obvious even behind the navy Wayfarer glasses he wore, that threw him for a loop. He’d anticipated guile and cynicism, but this man exhibited none of that. If anything, he looked like one of the guys in the IT department, albeit much better-looking and groomed and not nearly as burned out.

  “Brody? What’re you doing here?”

  His father’s query snapped him out of his momentary trance. Clenching his jaw, he stormed forward and squared off with them. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were doing this again, Dad. Actually, I can. Because you and I both know exactly why I’m here. You were just hoping you could slip it by me again.”

  “You act like I have Alzheimer’s.” Loren’s gaze shifted to the man at his side. “I must apologize for my very rude son. He spends all of his time in a lab. He doesn’t know how to interact with actual people anymore.”

  The stranger chuckled, a rich, warm sound that made all the hair stand up on Brody’s nape. “You just described two-thirds of my coworkers.”

  “Of course he did,” Brody sniped. “You talk to ghosts.”

  “I—”

  “You don’t have to defend yourself,” Loren interrupted. He rose from the couch and came around the back of it to grasp Brody’s arm. “Go back to Philly, Brody. Call me when you feel like talking like a rational adult.”

  Though Loren’s grip was still strong, Brody tore away from it and moved beyond his reach. “What if the board hears you’ve hired an exorcist? They could decide you’ve finally gone off the deep end and kick you off. What would you do then?”

  “They’re not going to find out.”

  “Why not? I did.”

  Loren scowled. “Did Ramona call you? Damn it, that’s the last straw.”

  “You are not going to fire her. You need her.”

  “No, you need her so you have an in-house snitch.”

  “Excuse me.”

  The stranger’s calm voice cut through their argument, silencing both of them. He’d stood and hovered patiently nearby, his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. When he realized he had their attention, he smiled, startling Brody with a pair of matching dimples.

  “No offense, Mr. Weber, but clearly your son has a problem with my being here. Maybe it would be best for all three of us to sit down and discuss exactly what’s going to happen in the next two weeks.”

  Brody gaped at him. “Two weeks?” He pivoted to his father. “How do you not see what a scam this is?”

  “I’m the one who asked him to stay that long,” Loren said.

  Unbelievable. “That’s the hallmark of a great scam. They make you think it’s all your idea right before they bilk you out of your money.”

  “Which is why I’ve been sitting here, letting him get to know me,” the man said. “He deserves to k
now who he’s invited into his home.”

  Brody’s eyes narrowed. It all sounded so reasonable. Too reasonable.

  The man took his hesitation as concession and stepped forward, holding his hand out. “I’m Cruz Guthrie.”

  He would look like a child if he refused, but he kept the handshake brief. “Brody Weber.”

  Cruz’s smile deepened. “Did I hear Mr. Weber say you live in Philadelphia? I grew up there.”

  “Brody works at Perelman,” Loren boasted.

  “Oh?” Cruz looked genuinely interested. “Do you teach?”

  “No. Neurological research.” But this had nothing to do with Cruz or his purpose here. “Where does ghost hunting base its headquarters these days?”

  “I live near Allentown,” Cruz said. “But this isn’t my full-time job. I’m in software.”

  Brody’s earlier analysis seemed closer to the truth, after all. But it didn’t explain—or excuse—the ghost hunting.

  Cruz gestured toward the laptop. “I was just showing your dad my company’s website. We’re pretty young, but we’re doing good work, I think.”

  “Doesn’t that take the whole ‘ghost in the machine’ thing a little too literally?” Brody said.

  Though his tone was condescending, Cruz smiled. “I wouldn’t think a neurological researcher would be very interested in debating Descartes.”

  “I’m not. Philosophy bores me.”

  “At least you understand it.” Cruz gave an apologetic shrug. “Except for the most basic principles, all I ever got out of it was word salad.”

  “All Brody ever cared about was science,” Loren said. “Which is why he’s a skeptic.”

  Brody crossed his arms and shoved his hands into his pits. He didn’t entirely trust himself not to do something stupid. Too many of his buttons were getting pushed, and his nerves had already been shot when he’d arrived. “I thought I came by that naturally until you started in on all this exorcism nonsense.”

  “Evictions,” Cruz said.

  Brody frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “Exorcisms are for demons,” Cruz explained. “The term Etienne uses to move ghosts along is eviction.”

  “Who’s Etienne?”

  “He was the fellow who came and looked around the first two times,” Loren explained. “Cruz is one of his associates.”

  “Wait a sec.” Too much information was flying by him at too fast a rate. “You’re not the ghost hunter who came before?”

  Loren shook his head and went back to his seat on the couch. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “So you’re going to do this eviction instead?” Brody asked Cruz.

  “No, because there aren’t any ghosts.”

  Brody swung his gaze back and forth between them, but the punch line never came. “If there aren’t any ghosts—”

  “There are,” Loren said.

  “Not according to Etienne,” Cruz corrected.

  “See?” Brody said, triumphant. “I told you ghosts weren’t real, Dad. They never have been, and they never will be.”

  As soon as the last word was spoken, both french doors slammed completely open, crashing into the walls so hard one of the panes shattered. Glass flew through the air. Though Cruz seemed unfazed by the display, Loren cried out in fear, scrambling to hide behind the end of the couch.

  “Dad!” Brody had never seen him like this before. Nothing could bend his father’s stalwart demeanor, and Brody had certainly never heard him sound so terrified. Yet there he was, cowering behind the sofa like a child during a thunderstorm.

  “That’s what I was talking about!” Loren said. “But nobody would believe me.”

  Brody stepped toward the entryway. “Because believing in ghosts is crazy. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for this. A window must be open upstairs to create a draft.”

  Through the opening, the distant lilt of music suddenly became audible. Brody froze, every sense he possessed taking a sharp left turn to zero in on the sound. No. It couldn’t be. Except the closer he listened, the clearer it became.

  “What is that?” Cruz said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “A music box Brody’s mother gave him when he was little,” Loren replied, matching his tone. “That song from Cinderella.”

  “‘A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes,’” Brody said under his breath.

  He’d only been nine when she’d died. The music box had been an unbearable reminder of his devastating loss, so he’d begged his father to get rid of it. Loren refused. He’d insisted Brody would regret that decision one day and instead placed it in the guest room she’d been most proud of decorating. When Brody went away to college, he’d considered taking it, but he’d been too afraid of coming across as even more gay than he was. Not his proudest decision, especially considering how much he’d loved her.

  Clearing his throat, he looked toward the stairwell. “Did you tell Ramona to put Mr. Guthrie in that room? She must’ve knocked it as she’s cleaning.”

  “Ramona’s not even—ah!”

  Brody whipped around at the alarm in Loren’s voice. Wild flames danced in the fireplace, the same fireplace that had been cold and silent only seconds earlier.

  While Loren bolted to the window, the farthest point away from both the broken door and the newfound fire, Cruz remained stock-still. His gaze swept across the room before settling on Brody. “Still think ghosts aren’t real?”

  Brody had no answer to that. Anything he said would damn him.

  “Well, I believe.” Cruz didn’t shout it. He didn’t make any grand overtures. He didn’t do anything but stand there and regard Brody with eyes that begged him to listen. “I know we live in a world that wants to have a logical explanation for everything. You search for answers. I work to create them. And sometimes science is absolutely right. There’s no reason to deny that. I’d be a hypocrite otherwise, and I’d never be able to live with myself if that were the case.”

  Brody’s face was hot. From the fire. Maybe, partially, but that didn’t explain why he couldn’t feel his fingers and toes, or how his skin kept stippling with gooseflesh.

  “But we live in a world we can’t fully explain too,” Cruz continued. “Science doesn’t have all the answers. None of us do. Some people turn to religion, hoping to find them there, but I don’t. I don’t have to. Because to me, they’re not so much questions that need resolutions as they are facts we have to accept. Like ghosts. They’re out there. They see us. They hear us.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a soft half smile. “Be thankful they’re not throwing books at us for ignoring them.” For the first time, he lifted his gaze to the empty space around him. “Not that I’m suggesting you start.”

  As if on cue, the music and the fire died at the same time, leaving silence in their wake. Awareness came back to Brody’s extremities, but the tingling was a small token in light of the chasm hollowing him out.

  Silence was not equivalent to a vacuum.

  Cruz moved first, grabbing the small broom and shovel from the brass tool set next to the fire, then taking them to the doorway to sweep up the glass from the hardwood floor. Brody stood motionless and watched, stuck in place from the inversion of the entire situation. When had he fallen through the looking glass?

  The better question might be, why did he think he’d ever escaped it?

  “Don’t just stand there,” Loren said. He’d pulled himself together faster than Brody had, so straight and squared nobody would know he’d been cowering in the corner just moments ago. “Go get Ramona.”

  “And a vacuum,” Cruz said. “Something with an extension. The glass went everywhere.” He straightened, the shovel he held full of debris. “Where should I put this?”

  Shame that a stranger was cleaning up the mess finally broke Brody from his stasis. “I’ll take it.” As Cruz passed it over, their fingers grazed against each other, and a shock jumped between them. Brody jerked, his eyes widening, but he managed to somehow not spill the glass all over the
floor again. “Sorry,” he said automatically.

  Cruz’s eyes were kind. “No reason to apologize.”

  “But this proves I was right all along,” Loren asserted. “Now you can do the evictions your colleague wouldn’t.”

  Brody thought he detected a momentary hesitation before Cruz nodded. “Of course,” Cruz said. “I made a promise to help, and I stand by that. I’ll do everything in my power to give you some peace, Mr. Weber.”

  “And that’s going to take two weeks?” Brody asked.

  Cruz shrugged. “It’ll take as long as it needs.”

  Brody shook his head. “Can’t be done.”

  “After everything you just witnessed, are you trying to tell me—tell them—that you still don’t believe in ghosts?”

  He didn’t dare utter those words out loud, because Cruz was right about one thing. Everything he said, everything he did, would not go unnoticed.

  “I don’t believe you can do anything about it.” Brody forced a bravado he hoped was credible. “And if you think for a second I’m walking out that door and giving you carte blanche to con my dad, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “Then stay,” Cruz replied. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’m a hundred percent for it.”

  Though he hadn’t expected such easy acquiescence, Brody gave him a curt nod, as if that was the only possible response he could have given. He then went off in search of Ramona, trying to ignore the churning in his gut.

  Cruz was going to fail in at least one way.

  Brody wouldn’t find any peace of mind until he was safely locked away in his lab again.