“Can’t be sure with such a small sample, but that looks like the case.” He peered at the computer’s status bar. “Damn. I have to go—I have to meet someone at eight.”
“It’s only six thirty,” I protested.
“Yeah, but I have to do some prep and pick up some stuff first. But you know how to do this now. And I shouldn’t be hanging around, compromising your client confidentiality any further.”
He seemed a little uncomfortable, but I was reluctant to see him go. It was nice to talk to someone I didn’t have to lie to or be wary of. My social life had never been exhausting, but since my fall into the Grey, it had become minuscule. I don’t mind most of the time—being the prickly sort I am—but I go through fits of noticing the vacuum of social contact and regretting it. No surprise that this often coincided with phone calls from Will.
I made a face. “You’re right. I shouldn’t keep you. And these clips aren’t exactly Oscar-quality material.”
Quinton grinned. “I’d love to know how they make that noise, though. When you find out, tell me.”
“OK,” I said, and watched him snatch up his backpack and coat as he headed out the office door.
I returned to the séance recordings and notes, though I had to concentrate harder now that Quinton had left. The group continued to ask Celia about baseball for a while. The knocks got more firm as they went on and the table rocked several more times, though I suspected that was still under the control of Tuckman, Terry, and Mark. There wasn’t much more to that session, since the members grew tired and ended the séance early. During the review session afterward they’d been elated by the knocks, and most hoped the phenomena would get bigger soon. Mark, I noticed, had said very little once the knocks started and not much more after the session. Mark’s statement in the file confirmed he’d made none of the knocks after the first one. In spite of the participants’ hopes, Tuckman had worried that additional table manipulations might be too much reinforcement too soon and requested that Mark and Terry not escalate the effects until further notice.
They’d done as he asked. In the following six sessions, the knocks had become common but the table continued to move only under the secret manipulations of Tuckman and his cohort.
One month after the first Celia knocks, however, the table got into the act on its own, making a dramatic jump straight up that knocked some of the sitters out of their chairs. The jump had exceeded the height available from the magnetic pulses by several inches and left a clear gap between the table and floor on the infrared recording. Neither Mark nor Terry had claimed any responsibility for the movement. After that, the group stood at the table. As I watched the recordings, I began to put names and dossiers with faces and make note of interactions.
The phenomena became more pronounced as the sessions progressed and the group began to think of the table as Celia’s primary manifestation. Celia developed a distinct personality in the knocks and table movements. She liked swing music and would sometimes cause the table to “dance” around the room in a clumsy, teetering way by lifting three legs a little and pivoting on the fourth, or hopping it with all four legs off the floor at once. She learned to flicker the Christmas lights in patterns to match the music, if she was in the mood. She liked movies and was a fan of Tyrone Power, though she liked modern films, too. The young Caucasian man—his name was Ian—who always sat with the Asian woman, Ana, suggested that Celia snuck into movie houses since she didn’t need a ticket and everyone had laughed. Celia had rattled on the tabletop for several seconds, which the group interpreted as laughter. What they agreed upon was like law.
Celia’s taste in films and music would change a little depending on which members of the group were present. She also had a bit of a magpie streak and often dumped the women’s purses or played with their jewelry. Several times Ana’s hair got caught in her swinging earrings and had to be disentangled by Ian while Ana winced.
One of the most interesting sessions occurred when Ken, the young Indian man, brought in a portrait of Celia he’d made on his computer. It was very similar to the picture of the woman I’d seen on the wall of the séance room, except that her hair was darker and the picture showed her from the hips up—her outfit was a rather provocative black dress. The table had roiled with excited knocking and teetered about on the rug as though impatient when he offered to show it off.
Ken had pulled a page from his bag and put it down on the table. The table became quiet and heavy, sinking against the floor as if the magnets had pulled it down, though the infrared indicated no such activity.
Ken hadn’t noticed. He looked around at the group, then down at the table. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
Nothing.
“You don’t like it.”
The table thumped with two loud bangs neither Mark nor Terry had made.
Ken frowned and nibbled his lower lip, his brows pinching and quirking. “Yes, you don’t like it?”
Two more loud thumps.
“OK. What don’t you like about it? The hair?”
The group had taken turns asking questions about her looks as Ken tried to use his pens to adjust the picture to Celia’s satisfaction. There had been no hesitancy in the answering raps. Even though the group wasn’t sure what Celia looked like, Celia was. The hair was too dark, the dress was too sexy, and she objected to the generosity of curves Ken had given her—they were just a bit outrageous. By the end of the session, the group had become convinced of Celia’s existence and they left the room both happier and more thoughtful than usual.
When Ken had returned with the new portrait in a week, the table capered and bounced in approval. The artist was pleased—even relieved—at the response. From that date on, the table had become more and more active and had a particular fondness for Ken, sometimes chasing him like a friendly dog in a way the booth controls could not have caused. Ken seemed to be taking the whole thing a bit more seriously as well, concentrating on the table and biting his lower lip.
Tuckman had tried isolating Ken to see if he was causing the changed phenomena. The table would still perform if he didn’t come to a session, but it wasn’t quite so demonstrative. If the group was smaller than four, Celia would not manifest at all—not even a knock or a flicker of the lights—no matter which members were in the room. Tuckman tried every combination of participants, even putting Terry and Denise, the department secretary, in the room—but no matter the combination, the table remained inert and the lights static until there were four or more members of the séance team in the room with it, when the movement, knocking, light-flickering, and noises would occur with varying intensity. The level of the phenomena seemed to be incidental to how many participants more than four—or which ones—were present, but the table’s actions toward Ken continued with odd partiality for quite a while. Terry and Denise were ignored.
After several more hours, I still hadn’t finished the whole set of discs and notes, but I had lost my ability to concentrate and it was growing late. I threw in the towel and headed home.
On the drive to West Seattle, I thought about the project. I could see how Tuckman would be upset by the unusual levels of PK activity the team was currently recording. It was a lot to swallow, since it takes a pretty powerful ghost to move objects at all, much less cause thirty-pound tables to dance. Quinton had shown me that the systems in place didn’t have the power or the leverage to move the furniture as I’d seen it move, either in person or on some of the recordings. But unless someone else could show me how it was done mechanically, I’d have to assume the table was moving by itself—or by the power of the group, at least.
I was also bothered by the apparent movement of the Grey power line out of its alignment with the rest of the grid. Normally lines of that size lay near the ground, and I couldn’t see any reason for it to be where it was. It seemed likely that the grid link was providing additional power to the phenomena. If the group had moved it, that, of itself, was extraordinary, though I doubted I cou
ld explain that to Tuckman.
None of this had shed any light on Mark Lupoldi’s death. It wasn’t my case and Solis wouldn’t appreciate me poking around in it, but I couldn’t help wondering about the connection. Mark was deeply involved in Tuckman’s project and it seemed from what Phoebe had said that the project had begun to affect his life outside the lab, too—he’d been the focus of the paranormal, duppy or poltergeist, before his death. The manner of that death, from what I had seen, was weird enough to disconcert even Solis—who had seen much worse before he left Colombia than Seattle’s criminals could dish out.
I trudged up the stairs to my condo, still thinking and frowning, and opened the door on an epic wreck. Every book had been tipped off the shelves, the fluffy innards of a disemboweled pillow had been strewn to the four corners of the living room, and most of my shoes had been dragged out of the bedroom and left anywhere the culprit pleased. One blue running shoe—much chewed around the padded ankle bit—had become a nifty cot for the perpetrator, who was uttering little ferrety snores from within it. I just stared into the room with my mouth open, amazed at the destruction two pounds of frustrated mustelid could make.
I didn’t have the energy to swear. I just plucked Chaos out of the shoe and tucked her into her cage. Either I hadn’t latched it right or she’d grown thumbs while I was out. She snuffled and went back to sleep, leaving me to clean up. It was my own fault, but it still took a couple of hours to put the place back together. I was too tired to face the mound of laundry that had collected all week, and threw myself into bed thinking it could wait for morning—or at least later in the morning.
EIGHT
The phone rang at five a.m. and kept on ringing until I groped around in the autumnal predawn darkness and answered it.
“What?” My civility doesn’t function well before nine.
“Harper?”
I knew the voice but couldn’t connect it to a name in my half-asleep state. I grunted. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Cameron. Cameron Shadley.”
That woke me. Cameron had been my first vampire client, and I thought we’d solved his problems, but he sounded scared. “Cam? What’s wrong?”
“I am in big trouble and I need some help. Carlos thought you’d be the best person to call.” Carlos was helping Cameron learn the ropes of vampirism after a rather bad start and he was one of the few vampires I respected for something more than their ability to kill. He was a scary bastard even as vampires went and not particularly friendly to “daylighters,” though he seemed to find me interesting. I wasn’t sure what sort of interest he had, however.
I turned on the bedside lamp and snatched a shirt off the floor and yanked it on. Even with a phone line between us, I felt vulnerable and nervous talking to a vampire while undressed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked when I had my shirt on. I clamped the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I struggled into the nearest pair of pants.
“I don’t have a lot of time to explain. The sun’s coming up soon.”
“Then talk fast.”
“Someone died and I need you to go to the morgue and make sure he’s truly dead.”
“What kind of someone? Your kind of someone or my kind?”
“It was an old man. Just an ordinary old guy. He wasn’t supposed to die, but I made a mistake and—”
“You killed him?” My voice had gone cold with disgust. I’d liked Cameron, even when I realized the nature and necessities of a vampire’s existence. I’d hoped he wasn’t going to be like the rest, somehow, though that wasn’t possible.
“No!” Cam protested. His voice swooped with emotions—at least he still had that bit of humanity. “He just died. He had a heart condition. I didn’t know. Carlos was trying to teach me . . . something. I miscalculated and the guy was too weak and he died. I didn’t know what to do and while I was trying to figure it out, someone found the body and the cops took it to the morgue. I can’t get to him before the sun comes up. I need you to go and find out if the guy’s going to rise or not.”
“What?”
“Rise. You know—come back as a vampire. Or something . . . else. Carlos is furious with me about this.”
“Why are you asking me to do this? I know Carlos must have someone he can send.”
“I made the mistake. I have to fix it. I can’t let my mistake cause Carlos problems with Edward. If Carlos sends someone to fix it, the word will get out and things could get pretty nasty.”
“I thought Carlos and Edward were getting along these days.” Edward was top dog in the local vampire pack. He and Carlos had reconciled some of the bitterness that had simmered for over a century between them when I had stepped in to help Cameron with his problems.
“It’s more like detente, really,” Cameron said. “Man, Harper, I’m running out of time here. Please say yes. I’ll pay you whatever you want and I’ll owe you a favor—we both will. All you have to do is go to the morgue this morning, look at the guy and see if he’s dead. Then call me first thing tomorrow night and let me know. Please.”
I sighed. “How am I supposed to tell?”
“You know what a vampire looks like in the Grey. He might look dead to the ME, but he won’t to you. If he’s dead—true death, that is—he’ll just be cold, like any other dead body.”
“Any chance he’s still alive?”
Cameron went quiet a moment. “Trust me, Harper. He’s dead. The only question is if he’s going to sit up and scare the hell out of someone or not.”
Oh, goody. I sighed again and got a description of the man. I hoped that he was dead and staying that way. I had no idea how to put a vampire down for good and I doubted the pathologists would be enthusiastic about experimenting. I said good-bye to Cameron and figured I might as well go to the morgue before the day got too much further advanced. I wanted to arrive at the end of the night shift, when the small staff was least likely to be on the ball.
I looked down and realized the clothes I was wearing were filthy and I didn’t have time to wash anything. I couldn’t find a clean pair of jeans in the place.
Muttering, I rushed through a shower, then dragged from my closet a pair of wool slacks I’d bought in a fit of incomplete wardrobe overhaul and put them on with a cashmere sweater foisted upon me by my mother one Christmas. It was a nice outfit, but I always cringed at the dry-cleaning bill. I prayed the corpse was clean and not inclined to get up and lead me on a merry chase into filth-laden alleys. It would be just my luck to get covered in gore or garbage the one day I wore something that couldn’t take the strain. Well, at least I looked good.
Chaos yawned at me and stretched luxuriously when I checked the cage latch on my way out. She didn’t even protest the lack of playtime, still sated with her condo-wrecking exertions of the night before.
Traffic was light when I got onto the West Seattle bridge, and the sun hadn’t yet risen high enough to pierce the cloud cover and stab into my eyes as I headed east.
Harborview Medical Center perched on the edge of First Hill—Pill Hill to the locals—and loomed over the freeway like a stone vulture waiting for something to die. It seemed appropriate that the county morgue was located in the basement of this Topsy-like maze of extensions, wings, annexes, and walkways that had “just growed” from the original core over seven decades. I parked on the administrative side of the hospital to avoid the busy trauma center and made my way down.
I walked through dim images of the buildings that had once flanked the hospital and crossed through the memories of sickness and health, birth and death. Ghostly accident victims lined the halls, lying on misty gurneys. The odors of illness and the sounds of newborn babies pushed on my attention and I moved aside without thinking for the shades of long-ago nurses bustling past me. The boring elevator was a small relief, though even it had a few lingering shadows that defied the lights. The doors opened on a throng of ghosts.
The morgue had been in the basement for a long time, collecting Grey, dead things. I
’d been down there before—missing persons, insurance, and pretrial investigations sometimes led to the deceased—but I’d never before been able to see what everyone always imagines: the spirits that never leave the place. There were plenty of them, though as I stared, I realized there were fewer than I would have thought. Most were oblivious to me, but some had gathered around the elevator door, making the apparent crowd. Two or three looked at me as if they expected something.
“I don’t have time for you right now,” I muttered. “Go away.”
A few of them backed away or faded as I stepped out of the lift. Something whispered, “We don’t know the way.” I wondered if that was literal truth or something more spiritual in nature.
I thought I might regret it, but I murmured, “You can follow me out when I leave. But after that, you’re on your own.” The rest of the ghosts that could, moved aside and let me through, though I still had to step through a couple to get to the desk. Each phantom I touched had a different icy feel as they slid through me. I shivered and was glad of the cashmere sweater.
The sleepy clerk at the desk wasn’t someone I knew, but she was a type I was familiar with—college student working an undemanding job late at night so she could make money and do homework at the same time. Since Harborview was the county hospital and administered by the University of Washington’s medical center, the chances were good the clerk was a UW med student doing work study. She didn’t even close her textbook when she looked up at me, a little puzzled by my natty appearance in such a place.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” I showed her my license. “I’m checking for a missing person and I wondered if you had any unidentified males who matched his description.” I rattled off the information Cameron had given me, and tried to ignore the cold presence of the dead around me. It occurred to me that Mark Lupoldi’s body was somewhere nearby, but I didn’t want to see it again and didn’t mention it.
Poltergeist (Greywalker, Book 2) Page 7
