by Emby Press
*
Paladin’s fingers closed around the bag in his coat pocket. He checked the walkway again: still nothing. A couple of automobiles roared past, their drivers pounding horns and yelling something which didn’t sound like Season’s Greetings.
He hunched into his coat. It was definitely getting colder; and the air felt damp, too. He wasn’t surprised as the occasional skein of mist skimmed the bridge’s deck: twisting and spreading. At least it wasn’t snowing.
“Go on,” called Leigh, “ask me what I prefer. Standing here in the cold river air – or being back at The Palace, eating something good Franco just whipped up and singing O Tannenbaum. Just ask me…”
“O Tannenbaum…?”
“Okay – maybe not. But something Christmassy…”
“You know you love it.” As he constantly checked the sidewalk, Paladin noted the battered Ford was looking wetter than ever: the windows steamed over, bodywork covered in growing spots of water that dripped off the running boards.
A truck rattled by, its horn lost and mournful.
*
Rosario Martini’s apartment was over a boarded-up florist’s in Hoboken. Sited on an intersection, the place didn’t look like it had done any proper business since Theo Roosevelt had been President. The streets were deserted; a few windows glowed with festive candles – most were dark and hollow. Standing in the drab hallway outside the apartment, Paladin rapped on the door and called Rosario’s name. There was no reply.
Leigh tried her luck. “We’re not cops, Miss Martini. We just want to ask about your sister—” She looked at Paladin, her face troubled. “Did that sound mean to you?” she asked softly.
He shrugged and tapped on the door again. From inside he thought he heard a muffled sound: something being dragged across a floor; then a dull thud. That settled it. “I’ll get the building supervisor.”
“Why bother?” Leigh pulled a bobby pin out of her hair. Seconds later the lock snicked and the door swung gently open. She gave Paladin a smug look.
“Swell. First she loses her sister; then her apartment gets burglarized.”
“You’d only kick the door down.” Leigh stepped inside; Paladin followed her, snapping on the light.
The room was dim – everything looked a smoky brown, and the low-wattage bulbs just made the place murkier. There was a tiny kitchen area to the right, and a short passageway beyond it. The furniture was cheap – just a couple of chairs, a bookcase and a table. A radio and a fancy clock which looked out of place sat on the bookcase’s top shelf. A faded throw-rug lay on bare boards. A few Christmas cards were thumb-tacked to a wall; a tree not much bigger than a sapling was propped in a corner by the dirty window. Tired paper chains drooped from the walls.
“That supervisor ought to get the heating fixed.” Leigh hugged herself, breath smoking out of her lips. “Miss Martini?”
The joint was colder than outside; just like the Edelman’s place. And it felt damp. Paladin nodded, only half-listening. “Maybe both buildings share a landlord?”
“Maybe.” She headed towards the passageway. “Guess this way to the bedroom?”
While she was checking the rest of the apartment, Paladin simply looked around. No coat, no purse – no indication at all that Rosario Martini had come here after leaving her dead sister’s place. Leigh reappeared.
“Bedroom and bathroom back there. She’s not in either.”
Paladin rubbed at the base of his neck. Something was wrong; something he couldn’t place. He was starting to get twitchy – his nerves raw and over-responsive, never a good sign. “We better get back to New York, princess. I—”
On the wall he was facing, one of the paper chains rose up lazily, as though in a sudden draught. Thumb-tacks snapped out of the plasterboard and the whole chain swung around in a graceful, serpentine arc. One last tack kept the tail end pinned to the wall.
“Princess—!”
Before Leigh could react, the chain had coiled itself around her neck – burrowing under her fur collar. She looked more surprised than alarmed, reaching up a hand to tear herself free. For a moment the chain didn’t move, and Paladin saw a brief stab of panic in her eyes – then the paper snapped and two lengths of decoration fluttered to the floorboards.
“Tougher than it looks.”
“You, or the paper chain?”
“Flatterer…” She leapt back with a quiet squeal as one of the chairs spun on a back leg and slammed against the floor – inches from her feet. It flipped over, clumsily rolling towards Leigh. She stepped aside, dodging it easily.
“You going to tell me this is the Christmas spirit?” Before Paladin could stop her, Leigh drew a small automatic out of her purse and drilled the chair with three slugs. It stopped moving. “Hey – whaddya know…?”
The second chair whirled up, catching Leigh in the back. She staggered, dropping the automatic. Paladin leapt forward, pulling Leigh to him as the chair made another pass. It hit the table, bounced, skidded across the worn veneer and fell to the floor. Two of the legs splintered.
“Time we weren’t here, princess…!” As Paladin dragged a protesting Leigh towards the door – something about her gun – he heard the fingernails-down-a-board sound of wooden legs on floorboards. Glancing back, he saw the table juddering across the floor, throw rug part-wrapped around one leg. He lashed out a foot, catching the table-top, kicking it clean over. It hit the floor and lay there, legs clawing the air, the whole item twitching like it really was alive. After a moment it stilled – only for the stub of a Christmas tree to start thrashing its branches.
“C’mon, princess – before it remembers the carving knife!”
He hauled her through the door, slamming it shut behind them. The hallway was jammed with residents: shouting questions, threatening to call the cops, wanting to know just what in Sam Hill was going on. Paladin smiled, nodded, made soothing noises – and got the hell out of there. Dragging a loudly-swearing Leigh along with him.
*
Leigh hung on tight as Damy treated the route east as his own personal racetrack. Luckily the good people of New Jersey all had the sense to be someplace else: celebrating the holidays and keeping the streets clear. He wasn’t saying much; Leigh was glad: she didn’t feel up to talking either.
She was having trouble figuring it out. The Edelmans had somehow been killed by their Christmas tree; now she and Damy had been attacked – again, somehow – in Rosario Martini’s apartment. By furniture. What was the connection? She’d heard of poltergeists, but she wasn’t aware of anyone ever getting killed by one. And why the Edelmans? Or Damy and her? Or were the sisters at the center of … whatever it was…?
They hit the George Washington in minutes. The few autos around were spaced out enough for Damy to weave his slab of a Chrysler between them without scaring up more than a small chorus of horns. Leigh shut her eyes and tried not to think about the ice which had nearly sent one vehicle off into the river that night. She didn’t open them again until the car squealed to a halt – provoking another wave of indignant toots.
“We there already?” She glanced around: they were only about halfway along the bridge, right over the Hudson River. In front an old black Ford was parked across the South walkway. There was a hole in the guardrail and some doofus had driven the auto through, deserting it. “Rats! All the crazies out tonight, huh?”
Damy glanced at her. “You see it too?”
She stared back. “Why shouldn’t I?” The minute she said it, she had the feeling it was kind of a dumb question.
Damy stepped out of his coupe, ignoring the truck which missed him by inches, and the red-faced driver mouthing a stream of bad words from its cab. Leigh opened her door, almost hitting the guard rails.
On a hunch, she leaned back inside the Airflow, grabbing two Colt .38 revolvers from the glove box. She flipped open their chambers to make sure both were loaded. Then she backed out, slammed the door shut and climbed over the guard rails with as much dignity as she co
uld.
Damy was standing by the old Ford, looking as though he couldn’t decide whether to open the passenger door or not. Leigh handed him one of the revolvers; he stared at it a moment, then smiled a thank you at her.
“Don’t think they’re going to be much use,” he added.
“Always feel better packing heat.” Leigh cast her eyes over the black jalopy. The engine was off, and had been for some time: there was no sound of cooling metal. Wherever the driver was from it had been raining; though Leigh thought the night was too cold for rain. Otherwise it looked abandoned. “We stand here much longer someone’s going to start selling tickets…”
Damy stepped forward and laid a hand on the door handle. He swung it open and leaned inside, leading with his Colt. A moment later, Leigh saw his shoulders relax and he stepped back out.
“She’s not here.”
“She’s not? Say, that’s good. Just one question: who’s she?”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, princess?”
“Me? Hell no – I’m just here to make up the numbers…!”
“Glad we got that sorted.” He glanced at the gaps in the rails. “This is where it happened.”
Leigh followed the direction of his gaze and it fell into place. “The truck smash,” she said, shivering a little when she saw how close the driver had been to going clean over into the river. She still wondered at the old Ford blocking the sidewalk, though. Maybe someone from the Port Authority had left it there instead of proper barriers.
“Only there wasn’t just a truck involved.”
She frowned. “How’s that?”
“I think there was another vehicle – one no one except the truck driver saw, and he’s still out cold.” He touched the roof of the black Ford, tracing a line in the water.
And before Leigh could say anything more, Damy pocketed the Colt and walked back towards his Chrysler.
*
Paladin glanced up. A large auto streaked past; when it was gone, she was standing less than ten feet away. He didn’t notice or sense her approach – she was simply there. He pocketed his pipe next to the Colt; taking hold of the burlap bag with his other hand.
She looked around thirty to forty, fake fur stole over a simple floral dress. She had a cloche hat jammed over dark, grey-flecked bangs and was clutching a black leather purse to her stomach. Quite unextraordinary – except for the endless drips of water puddling around her unfashionable shoes.
She stared at him, her expression bitter, aloof – but also a little baffled.
“Rosario Martini?” Paladin asked. He heard Leigh stiffen behind him and he held out a hand for quiet. “Am I right?”
She stared back with huge, wet eyes that weighed him up and found him wanting. He smiled at her, trying to project warmth and ease. It seemed to bounce right off. “Cold night to be taking a stroll.”
“Crazy place to leave a car, too,” Leigh muttered softly.
Rosario’s hands kneaded the leather purse; it oozed water like a black sponge. Paladin turned away from her, nodding towards the old Ford. Leigh’s face was puzzled; her revolver half-raised. He shook his head slightly before returning his attention to Rosario. “Yours?”
She continued to say nothing: just gazed back, fingers squeezing the sodden purse, water dripping from her hat.
“Marie’s dead, Rosario. Along with her husband Scott…”
Was that the hint of a smile he saw on Rosario’s thin, blue lips? Cold – maybe even contemptuous?
“Maybe I should say the no-good husband…”
The smile flared into a hateful snarl – just for a second. But in that moment, Paladin read all he needed to know about Rosario Martini’s feelings for her brother-in-law.
“Sorry – rude of me.” He raised his hat. “I’m Damian Paladin. I run a restaurant in Manhattan, but most folks know me as a ghost-hunter.”
The vicious snarl flickered briefly to alarm – then back to icy disdain. She stalked towards him, swinging her purse like she meant to swat him with it. Paladin stepped aside, letting her pass. Her shoes made no sound on the sidewalk: just left a trail of wet prints.
“How was it, Rosario?” he called after her. “You the older sister; Maria the dutiful younger one? She kept house – cooked, cleaned… Until she up and married – deserting you. That about sum it up?”
She jerked to a halt, raking him with a look that floated somewhere between contempt and fear.
“We’ve been in your apartment, Rosario. I felt the anger, the bitterness; the sense of betrayal. You never loved your sister, but when she married Scott Edelman … why, I think you actually grew to hate her. You certainly hated Scott.”
There was a hard, brittle sound from the old Ford. The passenger door window split; a knife of glass fell to the sidewalk.
“But you still agreed to visit for Christmas. Blood’s thicker than water, I guess. And you’re the kind who always keeps their word – even when they hate themselves for doing it. Even prides themselves being on time.”
Rosario’s cold eyes turned away from him – back to the old Ford.
Paladin gestured for Leigh to keep back; she stepped to one side. “But that dumb truck screwed things up, didn’t it. Hit a patch of ice, spun off – smashed through the rails here. Almost went over into the river. Driver was lucky…”
The Ford lurched, back wheels slewing as though something had just broadsided it. Leigh skipped lightly out of the way. The vehicle was now almost turned completely around: its grill facing the traffic lanes. Rosario took another step: towards the passenger door that was now oh so conveniently within reach.
Paladin was relentless. “But only because something got in the way, took some of the impact. Another car. It got bulldozed through the rails, and fell into the Hudson…
“What was left? The rage. The jealousy. The possessiveness. Can’t imagine what it was like at the end, but I guess you reacted like you’ve always reacted. You lashed out: in anger, despair … and you killed Maria. Your sister and her husband. Both dead, because of your blind jealousy.”
Rosario’s expression was unreadable. Her lips drew back in a parody of a smile – showing too many teeth. For a moment she held Paladin’s gaze, then turned away; her right hand snatched for the driver’s door handle. Leigh raised her revolver.
“Hold it sister!”
Rosario couldn’t have heard – or was just ignoring her. She opened the door and stepped up ready to get inside. Leigh cocked her gun.
“I said hold it!”
Paladin kept silent; either Leigh hadn’t caught on, or she was just taking refuge in the mundane. Either way, blazing away at Rosario Martini mightn’t do much good, but he didn’t think it would do any harm, either.
Rosario ducked her head; Leigh opened up. The first slug shattered the driver’s door window; the next two missed Rosario by a fingernail’s width. She didn’t flinch: just stepped back from the Ford, turning her head to face Leigh.
Leigh lowered her Colt. “Son of a—!” The words trailed off; her features drained of color. Paladin didn’t catch Rosario’s expression – or what Leigh saw there. But it couldn’t have been good.
Leigh backed away, her arms hanging limp. The gun slipped from her fingers.
“Princess – stay back…”
“Ab-so-lute-ly I’ll stay back!”
Rosario ducked into the Ford, slamming the door shut. But once inside she looked confused – like she’d suddenly forgotten how to drive, or start the car. She stared out of the empty window, her hard features softened by doubt and loss. Paladin walked quickly towards her, starting to take the hessian bag from his pocket.
“Is it too late to ask just what in hell’s going on?” Leigh demanded.
“She’s nearing the end of the cycle: the origin point.” He pulled at the bag’s drawstrings, opening it. “If it gets established she’ll go through it all again: the accident, going off into the river, drowning… Over and over. Unless we break the cycle now – before it
closes.”
“Swell.” Leigh bent and picked up her dropped gun. “And here was me thinking it was complicated.”
Paladin stopped right by the Ford’s door. Rosario stared back at him. She stank of dirty river and old mud. Brown water was running from the corners of her clenched mouth.
“I’m sorry, Rosario.” Paladin upended the bag, shaking it. Fine, gritty dust billowed out, settling on the old vehicle’s wet bodywork. It stuck, coating the black paint. Even though he’d pinched his mouth tight and was breathing out gently, Paladin could still feel it prickling his nose. “I really am.”
Her confusion broke. In a second her face twisted into something far beyond, far less than human. Her mouth was a yawning, mute scream – impossibly wide. Paladin flinched as a skeletal claw raked for his face – even though it slammed against an unseen barrier an inch outside the empty door window.
“Grave dust, powdered bone – few other ingredients. You’re sealed in, Rosario.”
Her pale wet hands battered at the solid air, nails tore at the invisible wall. A silent shriek distorted her face and neck. The thing that raved from the driver’s seat had ripped apart Rosario Martini’s hard, arrogant mask and lain itself bare. The whole car shook and groaned as her rage cycloned out of control, trapped inside Paladin’s barrier.
He stepped away, eyes locked on the gaping, clawing specter. He flinched when something touched his arm: it was Leigh, laying on a comforting hand.
“So I guess we go back to Christmas now, huh?”
“Not yet, princess. One last thing to do…”
He walked stiffly back to his Airflow, dropped into his seat and started the coupe up. Waiting for two trucks to pass, he swung out, spun the wheel, and lined up with the gaps through the barriers – and the black car framed by them. Behind the spider-webbed windshield, Rosario howled back at him. The Ford shuddered and bulged; bodywork twisting, windows shattering. Paladin floored the gas; his Chrysler sprang straight towards the old car.
