by Nene Adams
Na-moe-oh-me-toe-fo…na-moe-oh-me-toe-fo.
The syllables repeated over and over. A scent came to her nose, growing stronger while she wrote. Smoky, woody, sweet, a touch of bitterness clinging to the back of her throat. Incense, she decided. Subtle yet strong enough to overpower the odor of pizza. She was reminded of the charred spices smell of All Saints Church when frankincense was burned at certain times of the year, such as the services on Christmas Eve.
“What do you want?” she asked aloud.
The chanting continued. She received no other answer. After several minutes, she set the magazine and pen aside. The pizza box trembled, bouncing on the coffee table. She set her hand on the greasy cardboard to hold it in place and glared at the monk. “Don’t you dare.”
Several books jumped off the shelf and thumped on the floor.
The monk didn’t appear angry or distressed. His hollow eyes remained fixed on her. From somewhere in the distance, a drum pounded, each thud sounding low and impossibly deep, the heartbeat of a sleeping giant.
Goose bumps swept over her flesh, followed by a rush of cold that left her shivering. “What do you want?” she repeated.
A reply, not necessarily an answer, came in another spate of nonsense syllables, a whisper carrying clearly to her ears. Fury-so-day-no-tie-ee-ko.
“I don’t understand.” She grabbed the magazine and pen and wrote out the sounds phonetically.
Perhaps the ghost didn’t “speak” English. If the words were in another language, she might be able to get a translation at Welcome College or Kyoko-ji temple. She’d ask for Veronica’s advice later. At the moment, she had to concentrate on keeping up.
The syllables repeated. The drum’s vibrations traveled through her skin, her flesh and into her bones. Her teeth ached. Her skull hurt. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them after several seconds to find the monk gone.
The apartment was quiet except for the air-conditioner’s muted hum. She waited, holding her breath. Nothing happened. A muscle at a time, she relaxed. Neither the monk nor the drum made a reappearance. She reached for another slice of pizza.
A sharp rap caused her to jump and squawk and almost knock the pizza box off the coffee table. Now annoyed more than frightened, she went to answer the door.
Alexander Purvis stood on the threshold. He greeted her with a crocodile smile. “I am sorry to bother you at this hour, Ms. Cross. May I come in?”
“No,” she said flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. She stared at him, not bothering to hide her dislike, until his smile slipped.
“I have good news from my client, Mr. Erskine,” Purvis went on doggedly. “Owing to your prior relationship with his sister, Deborah Louise, Mr. Erskine has decided to accept from you a reduced settlement of five hundred thousand dollars to resolve the suit.” His expression indicated puzzlement when she didn’t turn cartwheels and/or collapse in paroxysms of delight.
She mentally ran through as many profanities as she knew, including the creative cursing she’d heard from Uncle Anse the time he got his man titty caught in a fan belt. When she felt she could speak words that didn’t begin with the letter “F” and her frayed temper wasn’t going to unravel to the point of homicide, she said, “I saw the news tonight. Turnip’s going to be arrested. He’s a suspect in the fires.”
“My client denies the accusation,” Purvis snapped at once, “and condemns the Antioch sheriff’s department for their slanderous allegations.”
Mackenzie gave him her coldest look. “I guess Turnip needs a cash infusion to hire a defense attorney, doesn’t he? Well, I wouldn’t piss in his mouth if his heart was on fire.”
“Mr. Erskine wants—”
“I’m sure men in hell want ice water, Mr. Purvis.”
He harrumphed. “This is a one-time offer, Ms. Cross, which will be withdrawn the moment I leave. You might want to consider your options more carefully.”
Her reply was succinct and pungent.
Purvis’s mouth tightened. He spun around and left. She watched him trudge down the flight of cement steps to the bottom and let himself out before she shut the door.
“Jesus Christ on an eighteen karat gold electroplated crutch,” Mackenzie huffed, fuming over Purvis’s nerve and Turnip’s gall. She leaned against the doorframe and told herself to calm down or the pressure behind her eyes might make the top of her head fly off.
Abruptly, she realized she felt heat radiating on the skin of her back, concentrated most intensely on her shoulders. Seconds later, she bit off a cry when pain exploded in that area as if someone had poured scalding hot coffee down her shirt. Jerking away from the door relieved the worst of the pain.
She turned around to find a screaming woman’s face burned into the door panel.
Chapter Fourteen
“Let’s go through it one more time.” Veronica picked up her coffee cup and put it down untouched on the kitchen table for the third time in five minutes.
Mackenzie didn’t beat her head against the cabinet in frustration, but oh, how she wanted to. Despite her shaking hands, she stirred half-and-half into her second cup of coffee and tossed the spoon into the sink. “The monk we saw at Lake Minnesauga, remember?”
She didn’t look at Veronica in case she lost control of herself. In her entire life, she’d encountered exactly one ghost before now, which hadn’t prepared her to be harassed or barbequed by others. The skin between her shoulders still felt fried.
Veronica nodded encouragingly.
Mackenzie told the whole story again, beginning with the monk’s ghost appearing in her living room and going on to Purvis’s visit. “My back was on fire, so I turned around and there it was, plain as day,” she concluded. “A woman’s face burned into the door. Talk about spooky! I nearly swallowed my tongue.”
“Did you see the burning spirit?”
“I didn’t even smell smoke.”
Veronica stared into her untouched coffee. “Did you sense anything?”
Mackenzie began to find Veronica’s calm offensive. “Apart from the goddamn second-degree burn on my shoulders? Not a thing.” She felt more than saw Veronica rise from the table and come around to stand beside her.
“Let me see.” Veronica pulled aside Mackenzie’s top strap. “Skin’s red, but no blisters.”
“Fine. First-degree burn. Still hurts.” Mackenzie turned and looped her arms around Veronica’s neck. Standing this close to her lover’s strong, warm body, her fear dissolved. “Can you explain to me how the hell a ghost has the power to do that…that?” She waved in the front door’s direction.
Veronica’s hands curved over Mackenzie’s hips, holding her steady. “How did Annabel Coffin make forks fly through the air? Some wait-abouts have power. Poltergeists have power. I don’t know where it comes from. Negative energy? Emotions? Wrath of God?” She pursed her lips. “You could talk to Myrtle Johnson. She might have some insights.”
Mackenzie wrinkled her nose. She didn’t believe in Myrtle Johnson’s pagan or New Age hocus pocus any more than she put her faith in Christian pulpit thumping and holy rolling, but perhaps Veronica had a point. “I’ll put a talk with Myrtle on my to-do list.”
“She has a store in Straightaway Shopping Center, but—”
“Oh, really? What’s she peddling, eye of newt?”
“Don’t be facetious, Mac. Wicca has been recognized as a religion by the US government. We no longer perpetuate cruel stereotypes of witches or practitioners of alternate forms of worship.” Despite the prim admonition, Veronica gazed at Mackenzie with an affection that caught her in the soft underbelly, prompting her insides to melt.
“Sorry.” Mackenzie squirmed closer, not at all repentant. “I’m cold,” she complained into Veronica’s bosom.
Veronica chuckled. “It’s eighty degrees in the apartment.”
“Don’t care.”
“Do you want a sweater?”
Mackenzie reared back and glared. “No, I want you to take me to bed. But not he
re,” she added hastily. “Your place. I can’t sleep here tonight, Ronnie. No way.”
“Zack Harjo came by an hour ago, worked his plumbing magic and fixed the water heater, so I can offer you hot showers again.” Veronica planted a kiss on Mackenzie’s forehead and released her. “You can stay at my place as long as you want.”
Relieved, Mackenzie went to her bedroom to put together an overnight bag. She called through the open door, “What’s going on with Turnip Erskine?”
“He was brought in for questioning. Looks like you might be right, Mac. Mr. McCarty discovered some new trace evidence at the warehouse that points to arson. I believe Detective Maynard plans to bring in Ms. Parker tomorrow.”
“Wow.” Mackenzie paused, a pair of charcoal gray slacks in her hands. “Do they think maybe Rosalyn Parker paid Turnip to torch her warehouse?”
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, but I’ll tell you her antique furniture collection was heavily insured.”
“Did he set any of the other fires?”
“Unlikely.”
Mackenzie nodded, though she knew Veronica couldn’t see her. She added her favorite black sleeveless blouse and a pair of low heeled pumps to the bag. Even though she worked alone in her office during the day, she liked to dress professionally.
Her cell phone rang while she fetched her toothbrush from the bathroom. She hastened back to answer the call, waving at Veronica as she trotted to the short entrance hall near the front door to pick up her phone. The screaming face etched into the door gave her the heebie-jeebies so she turned her back on it, which didn’t help much.
“Baby girl, why did I have to hear from Cousin James about you and Miss Birdwell going together?” Sarah Grace asked without preamble.
Lord, lend me strength. Looked like the conversation she’d hoped to avoid was about to rear its ugly head. “Hey, Mama, me and Veronica aren’t going together and she hasn’t given me her letter jacket or her class ring. We’re dating.”
Sarah Grace made an unladylike snort. “Dating,” she said in a disparaging drawl.
“Yes, Mama. I’m sure girls did that back in your day, too.”
“Not with other girls, they didn’t.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Well, baby, I didn’t call to argue.” Sarah Grace surrendered the argument with surprising ease. “I just wanted to know if you and Miss Birdwell might like to have supper with me on Saturday night.”
Mackenzie pinched the bridge of her nose to stave off a headache. “Saturday? Uh, I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Ronnie, okay? Call you later, Mama. Bye.” She ended the call without waiting for a response.
“What’s up?” Veronica asked from the living room.
“Just Mama.” Mackenzie tucked her phone into her pocket. She had no intention of mentioning the dinner invitation. “You ready to go? Let me grab my bag.”
Trotting into the bedroom, she picked up her overnight bag and returned to the living room to find Veronica examining the magazine she’d left open.
“What’s this?” Veronica asked, indicating the page with its scribbled notes.
“Got me.” Mackenzie shrugged. “I heard chanting when the monk’s spirit appeared.”
“Did he do anything?”
“Just stood there looking creepy. Oh, and a couple of reference books jumped off the shelf. No biggie. I checked the books for clues, by the way. Unless this monk’s into eighteenth century American silver or collectible fountain pens, there’s no relevance.”
Veronica studied the writing at the top of the page. After a moment, she laid the magazine on the coffee table. “How does all this connect together?”
“I haven’t got a clue.” A series of sharp raps on the front door brought Mackenzie’s head up. “If that’s Purvis again, I’ll slap that sucker sideways, so help me God,” she muttered savagely, stomping to the entrance hall.
“Oh, Mac, wait a second,” Veronica called. “I tried to tell you before—”
Grasping the knob with her fingertips, Mackenzie opened the door to reveal a shaven-headed Asian man, his hand poised midair as if to knock a second time. She gaped at him.
Veronica finished lamely, “I asked Abbot Imamura to come over to the apartment after you called me. Sorry. I thought he might help.”
Another monk. Well, isn’t this just peachy. Mackenzie forced a smile onto her stiff face. At least this one’s still breathing.
Chapter Fifteen
Abbot Imamura entered the apartment, turned around and silently regarded the face branded on the door. Mackenzie said nothing. She’d tried taking pictures earlier with her cell phone. For no reason she could discern, the files were corrupted and wouldn’t open.
She controlled her internal shudder and glanced at the woman’s face, formed from blisters, char and scorched patterns in the paint. Not even pareidolia, seeing patterns in random data, could explain the clearly formed Asian features. The woman appeared in the throes of profound rage: her mouth gaping in a furious snarl, her nostrils flared, her brows drawn together over eyes with an epicanthic fold. Thick and thin lines indicated long hair hanging in snake tresses around the head. The portrait looked as though it had been created by an artist well steeped in nightmares.
Veronica fidgeted.
Imamura grunted under his breath. From his black robe, he withdrew a double strand of wooden beads worn smooth from handling.
Mackenzie curbed her impatience, waiting for him to speak first. Her toes didn’t tap the floor, though she felt herself bristling all over like a spooked porcupine. The longer he played with his beads, the more her stomach flip-flopped. So much silence meant the situation was serious. Had he been a plumber, she’d have wept for her poor bank account.
“Not good,” Imamura said at last, his English laced with an upper-class Britain accent. Catching her surprise, he went on, “The benefit of an Oxford education.”
“You sound like Prince Charles,” she blurted.
He gave her a big, unself-conscious smile. “I have heard that before. Perhaps one day, I’ll try a second career as a BBC announcer. What do you think?” He struck a pose, gazing into the middle distance with an eyebrow quirked as if he were about to deliver the news.
“I don’t see why not.” Mackenzie’s mood began to lighten.
For an abbot of a Buddhist monastery and temple, Imamura was a hoot. She could probably grow to like him in short order, although she had no idea whether his religion allowed him to socialize with women. Maybe that was just a problem for Catholic priests? Or perhaps churches were more liberated these days. She didn’t want to ask.
Veronica cleared her throat, interrupting the mild banter. “Sir, could you elaborate on your earlier statement about this being ‘not good?’” She pointed at the door.
Imamura’s smile vanished. He rubbed the beads with his thumb while he again studied the scorched pattern in the paint. Eventually, he shook his head. Under his robe, his shoulders hunched. “I’m very sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Well, do you know what it is? Who it is?” Mackenzie asked.
He repeated his apology.
She wasn’t fooled by his carefully blank expression. Imamura acted like a frightened man. No, her interpretation wasn’t exactly right, she decided. He seemed resigned to whatever scared him, like a man standing at the bottom of a hill staring up at an approaching avalanche. Escape wasn’t an option, not with disaster looming as inevitably as taxes and a visit from the Grim Reaper. His fatalistic attitude made her angry.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, opting to call out shenanigans in no uncertain terms. Why pussyfoot around? “You’re hiding something. I want to know what it is.”
“Nothing,” Imamura insisted. “Please excuse me, you’re mistaken. I’ve examined the mark as you requested. I have no help to offer.”
Veronica came forward. “If there’s anything at all—”
“Regretfully, no.” He gathered his dignity around him and
turned to go.
“Very well, sir. Thank you for your time.” Veronica was polite to a fault as usual.
Mackenzie stood aside to let him pass.
His shoulders hunched further. Suddenly, he came close, almost pressing his face against Mackenzie’s, but not quite touching. A dry, smoky odor rose from his robes. “Please be careful,” he hissed in her ear. “Oh-saw-may hears you.” He pulled back a few inches, his eyes wide and serious behind the lenses of his glasses.
She waved Veronica away. “Who? What?” she asked in an undertone. “Tell me again. Is that a name? I don’t speak Japanese.”
Imamura’s mouth worked. No sound emerged. Finally, he said what sounded like, “Gee-go-coo.” He said the word twice, watching to see if she understood.
“I don’t understand.”
He lowered his voice further, just on the edge of hearing. Mackenzie thought he said something about repentance, but she didn’t catch the meaning. He pushed an object into her hand, released her, opened the door and walked down the cement steps so swiftly, she didn’t have an opportunity to stop him. He let himself out the metal security door on the ground floor. The door clanged shut behind him, casting the stairwell back into gloom.
“So much for that.” Mackenzie glanced at the object he’d given her: a weird bookmark-looking thing about the size of her palm, hard and flat, the rectangular whole covered in black silk brocade with a line of foreign symbols embroidered in gold on the front. A pretty gift, if considerably bewildering. She’d never come across anything like it.
Veronica moved to stand by her shoulder. She looked at the object with frank interest. “Maybe it’s Abbot Imamura’s way of trying to help,” she offered.
“With a bookmark?”
“I don’t think that’s what it is. What else did he say to you?”
“Ronnie, I don’t know if the man was all there, if you know what I mean. Maybe he’s a few cards short of a deck.” Mackenzie related Imamura’s words as she remembered them. “What does repentance have to do with the price of tea in China?”
