Poltergeist (Greywalker, Book 2)

by Kat Richardson

  He nodded, narrowing his eyes in thought. “Dangerous enough on its own and remarkable that they’ve moved the ley line—such things are not easily diverted.”

  He seemed less bothered by that than I was. I refocused the conversation on the events around Mark’s death. “Do you know who controlled it or how? Is there any way to tell from what you can . . . see?”

  “No. It is a single mind, though, and not the caprice of the collective personality that usually animates the entity. A powerful mind, unfettered by artificial limits.”

  “They’re all a little ‘unfettered’—they’ve been encouraged to believe in what most people around here think is impossible.”

  “This one is less restrained than any of them—it must be, to embrace the form of this thing. More like one of my kind than yours.”

  “Psychopathic?”

  Carlos rumbled amused gales of ice. “A matter of perspective.”

  I frowned. “Then whichever one of them sent Celia here killed Mark and they meant to do it.”

  “The details are unclear, but isn’t it still murder to you if the killer has used this harmful thing knowingly even if they may not have meant to kill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, yes, one of them murdered this man.”

  “How could he or she know they could do this?”

  “There would have been a previous event in which the murderer realized the power—even if they did not understand it.” He seemed to linger over the word “murderer,” turning my spine cold.

  “Would it have to be by the same person against the same person?”

  I asked.

  “Not necessarily, but it would be most likely.”

  “Then I have one more thing for you to see.”

  Carlos growled. “This begins to tire me. . . .”

  I was surprised. “You’re tired?”

  “Bored.”

  I pretended a cavalier attitude I didn’t feel—Carlos didn’t respect quailing. “Indulge me a little longer. It’s not far from here.”

  I could feel his annoyance as Carlos followed me out of the building and toward Old Possum’s. He displayed a slight limp that evening which had become marked over the hours and added to his grim presence. I tried to distract him a little as we walked.

  “I have a more general question.”

  He didn’t ask.

  “Are glass or mirrors special in some way? Magically, I mean.” He sent me a sideways glance of interest tinged with irritation. “Mirrors have an unusual quality of resonance and reflection. The glass slows the reflection of magical things. If it reaches the silvered surface, the energy that made the reflection is captured as a charge in the metal until it dissipates or is discharged at the edge of the glass.”

  “Like a battery?”

  “The charge is not indefinite. It dissipates with time, bleeding slowly away through the glass. The scientific uses of glass also serve magic—when pure it reacts to nothing and collects nothing. But it is much denser than meets the eye and its common resonance is not that of magic. Energies much greater or less than that resonance have difficulty passing through it and will seek other paths or become slowed in their passage.”

  I mulled that over as we turned in at the bookshop door.

  I didn’t recognize the wild-haired man behind the cash desk, happily bopping to his iPod. Carlos ignored him and followed me into the coffee alcove at the back. He glanced around, casting a dark eye on the room.

  “And what is this place to your problem?”

  “I think the first incident happened here. Mark—the man who was killed—was standing . . .” I looked around and went to a spot near the shelf marked “Biography,” checking the mirror to see if the cash desk was visible as it should have been. “He must have been standing here, having an argument with someone when that gargoyle flew at him,” I added, pointing to the listing figurine.

  Carlos turned his head slowly, scanning the mantel until he came to the black cat-faced creature. He picked it up and peered at it, drawing a long breath.

  “This.” In the light of the shop, his face had become drawn and the network of scars was more obvious, looking like sharp ridges in a wind-scoured landscape.

  “Yes. The autopsy showed a bruise on his shoulder from something and one on his chest from the book, and though I was told the gargoyle was only thrown at him, that was third-hand information. Supposedly no one touched the figure or threw it, but I think it did hit him and that a book also hit him. I think the person he was arguing with must have been the same one who sent the . . . entity after him later. Can you tell if I’m right?”

  Carlos glowered at me with impatience. “Very little remains—as I expected. No one—no murderer—has touched this, so there is no trace of death to it. Only the finest thread of the entity. It has the scent, but no more.”

  “You don’t think this may have been the precipitating incident?”

  “It is possible,” he snapped. “Probable. But there is no more to find here. This is even older than the death site, useless for anything but rough confirmation. Mere trivia.”

  There was a hot spark to his glare and the annoyance rolled off him in waves with a strange, feral scent that made me dizzy. He put the object down and moved close to me, making my stomach heave. I turned my gaze away.

  “It grows late and I grow hungry and tired of this. An interesting puzzle does not feed me. If you want more from me tonight, I will require payment—though you’d be a fool for it. There is nothing more I can see here.”

  I felt frozen in place, fighting to keep my eyes turned from his. A rumble vibrated the air and my body.

  “I’m done,” I answered from a dry mouth.

  I felt him withdraw, but didn’t try to watch him go. I only waited until I was sure he was gone.

  I sat down in one of the armchairs and took several deep, slow breaths. I’d been concentrating too hard on the problem of Celia—and the revelation of my connection to it—and not paying enough attention to the native threat of vampires. Carlos had always been the most controlled of them. He’d never threatened to make a meal of me before. I considered the limp and the scars, the incompleteness of his presence in the Grey. It had not occurred to me until now that even a creature who heals with preternatural speed would take a while to recover from being burned to a crisp—and it might be worse for a necromancer, whose relationship with death was not like that of other vampires.

  I picked myself up and went to the front of the shop.

  I waved and smiled at the bopping man until he pulled the tiny plastic buds from his ears.

  “What can I do for you, pretty lady?” he cooed in a broad Jamaican accent that was laid on with a trowel.

  “You must be Germaine.”

  “That I am. How’d you know?”

  “I know your cousin Phoebe.”

  He rolled his head and his eyes. “Oh, man. You’re not spyin’ for the woman, are you?”

  “No,” I replied, laughing. “I need to talk to Amanda—she works here.”

  He blew out a full-cheeked sigh of relief. “Well, thank God. But she’s not in. Not in all week. Poor thing. She stayed at home since her man died. You try her home?”

  “No. I was hoping you had the address.”

  “Me? Man, no way Phoebe’d let me get at the records. As it is, Hugh make me bring the money and the keys to him every night. I’m just take in the money and send the books out. You could try tomorrow morning when the regular employees be in.”

  Given Germaine’s ditzy performance, I could understand Hugh’s belief that Phoebe would get over her grief just to get him out of her store. I was ready to do a lot just to get him to drop the accent, but instead, Germaine was saved by my cell phone blatting.

  I backed away from the desk to answer it, letting Germaine go back to his music.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Quinton.”

  “Hey. Did you figure out what was bothering you at the séance?�
�

  “Yes.” His answer was a little sharper than normal. “I thought some of the old equipment looked different, so I checked my memory and notes against some lists and catalogs. I don’t know why he did it or what he’s up to, but your client has swapped out about half the original equipment for much cheaper models. It’s still decent stuff, not cheap enough to fail under normal use, so he’d still have good data and control, but not like he had—not topflight. It’s a bit more in line with what I’d expect a college like PNU to be able to afford.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned the school seemed a little strapped.”

  “A lot strapped. If they didn’t get a big annual endowment from the church, they’d be in serious trouble. So I’m thinking maybe he had to scrape up more money to pay for the extra equipment and so he swapped parts for credit, but I’m not comfortable with the forms he had me sign.”

  “What forms?”

  “An inspection report. There was a prior inspection report by the school’s electrician for the original installation, but none for the new installation. He had me sign a report for my inspection, but if he doesn’t sign off on the installation, it may look like I signed off on the installation of the new parts.”

  “Sorry, I’m not sure I’m following this.”

  “It’s sloppy paperwork, so there’s no chain of responsibility between the original installation and the new one. It may appear I did the installation and swapped the parts without documenting them at the same time. If there’s any discrepancy in the paperwork when—not if—the project gets audited, I will take the blame for it. I think I’m just as glad I didn’t sign my real name on that form.”

  It was odd that Tuckman had swapped out parts at this point. “What do you think he’s up to?” I asked.

  Quinton huffed into the phone. “My gut says he’s cooking the books. It could be legit, but without knowing his original funding and budget, I can’t guess if he’s just trying to stay in budget or if he’s trying to skim the difference.”

  No wonder he’d been so pleased about Quinton preferring cash. I felt a little spurt of anger and suspected Tuckman was up to his old tricks.

  “Write that up for me,” I said. “All the details. And your notes about the malfunctions today. I may need to nail Dr. Tuckman to the wall.”

  “You got it. I’ll drop it off when I’m done.”

  I thanked him too curtly and hung up. Germaine kept a nervous eye on me as I put my temper away. Tuckman wasn’t my most immediate problem, no matter how irritated I was at that moment.

  Plunging out into the wet night, I kept all my senses alert for vampires and things that stream along the corners of the eye to walk in nightmares later.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Thursday morning I went back to research. Carlos had put words to the niggling idea in my own head: controlling and using Celia as a weapon required a psychopathic mind, and according to Frankie and Terry, the project was ripe to breed some. Only one of the participants controlled Celia and that one had to be truly unhinged. Given what I had seen at Wednesday’s séance—the way the energy had divided itself over Ian, Ana, Cara, and Ken—I was betting on one of them, but I had to figure out which one and I couldn’t take it for granted that Wayne, Patricia, and Dale had nothing to do with it. Dale had the classic excuse of the cuckolded spouse. And I wanted to know more about what Tuckman was up to as well. He didn’t have any apparent Grey connection to Celia, but he was up to something at PNU’s expense.

  The deeper I went, the more awful the whole picture looked. Wayne Hopke was the most stable of the lot and his tendency to assume command—and to drink—provided a point of irritation for others and a dice-throw chance of sudden instability. Dale Stahlqvist didn’t care for it and the records showed a continuous, low-level battle between them for control of the sessions. I’d seen that in action at the most recent event. The rest—including Terry and Frankie—were in a constant boil of interpersonal tension: fears, desires, ambitions, and imagined slights.

  Tuckman’s notes indicated he’d picked the members himself. I could only conclude he’d put this group together because of the potential strife, not in spite of it. But the records were thin. They gave ideas and hints, records of psychological tests I didn’t understand, and lists of the oddities of the subject’s personality, but there was no deep psychological analysis of any of them—as if Tuckman hadn’t wanted to bother digging any further once he’d found what he wanted. He’d wanted drama and now rejected the results. Tuckman didn’t seem much more reasonable or stable than his subjects. It was only his lack of connection to Celia that ruled him out as the killer, from my perspective, though I imagined he didn’t look so much of an outside chance to Solis, who would consider the possibility of Mark’s exposing Tuckman’s financial hijinks as more than adequate motive for murder.

  Ben called while I was staring at the pile of inadequate files.

  “Hi, Harper. Sorry I didn’t call you back earlier—things have been a little crazy here.”

  “That’s OK. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Tuckman. His former grad assistant told me he’d been let go from UW during cutbacks to avoid having to fire him. Does that sound likely to you?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “What cause would they have had?”

  “Didn’t the assistant say?”

  “Yes, but she has a grudge, so I’m interested in someone else’s ideas about it. What do you think?”

  He made thinking noises for a moment. “I told you I think Tuck’s a bit of a jerk, didn’t I? So I’m not the most objective person, either. But when I worked with him I thought he was rigging his financial reports. It was small and subtle—he’d find ways of getting things free or cheap but report them as if he’d had to pay for them. He was always doing better financially than the rest of us at the same salary grade, even without a family to support.”

  “OK. What about the projects themselves? Would they be cause to unload him, even if they were successful?”

  Ben clicked his tongue. “Oh. You heard about that. Umm . . . yeah. Tuckman has a documented bad habit of setting up his experiments to push his subjects to the limits. He doesn’t just study, he manipulates. One of his subjects was hospitalized a couple of years ago, but it was another subject who caused the accident. Still, he’s continued to do studies in stress reactions and justification that lead to some ugly territory.”

  “Would he be looking for that in this experiment? This group has a lot of sexual tension and control issues.”

  I could hear him shuffling papers. “I wouldn’t have thought of it until you mentioned it last time, but, yeah. The original Philip experimenters mentioned that they got more phenomena when the group had some level of internal tension. I had wondered why Tuckman was interested in this, so I looked into it a bit more and I’m thinking that Tuck’s real interest is in the stress reactions and how the subjects rationalize and justify their own behavior or the phenomena. If he’s on his usual course, the subjects could justify all kinds of nasty things by blaming the poltergeist.”

  “What kind of nasty things?”

  He blew out a breath, hesitating. “Well . . . almost anything. Temper tantrums, assault, theft certainly—if they get high-level PK phenomena, they would claim the poltergeist took the objects, or hurt the person, or broke things, and no one person would bear any guilt for it. It’s a collective phenomena, but they would soon reach the stage of separation—where they think of it as separate from them and therefore acting on its own. It’s unconscious. So long as the subjects don’t acknowledge their own desires as the poltergeist’s motive, they let themselves off the hook. If any of them did recognize their motive, they would have to acknowledge control of the poltergeist and, in theory, the phenomena only works when it’s an unconscious consensus, so the poltergeist would break down.”

  “I can’t believe it’s so fragile that if one person stops believing in it, it falls apart.”

  “No, that’s not it. If t
he group itself stops believing in the collective quality of it, then it breaks down. If they all give up belief, it falls apart. Or if they believe it’s no longer collective—that one person controls it.”

  “Do they all have to believe that? Or just one of them?”

  “I’m not sure. The collective has to break down, though. That’s the key.”

  “What if the poltergeist didn’t break down?”

  “Theoretically impossible. But you know more about the impossible than most people, so what do you think?”

  “I think I shouldn’t say. But I’m not a psychologist and I noticed this, so . . . I can’t imagine what Tuckman is thinking he can get away with here.”

  “Probably that’s all he’s thinking. It’s almost grant-review time, so he may just be trying to cover himself. He never had a high opinion of PNU—I was surprised he took the job—so maybe he thinks he can get away with something if he has other things to distract the committee with. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t do the right thing because it’s the right thing. He does the right thing because he can’t find a way to get away with not doing it. He’s been skirting the edges of professional censure for a while and if he gets caught with his hands dirty, he’ll be out on his butt this time.”

  “I see.” I ground my teeth on my anger and cursed Tuckman in silence.

  “Harper?”

  “What?”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Ben. I have to go.”

  “Um . . . all right. Hey. We really enjoyed having you to dinner.”

  “It was nice.”

  “Except for the flying pudding part, right at the end.”

  I laughed. “Well, he is just a kid.”

  “I blame the company he keeps. God knows he doesn’t learn that stuff from us. I hope you won’t stay away because of Albert and Brian’s bad behavior.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be around, I’m sure. Now I really have to get back to work. Thanks for the help, Ben.” I hung up before I lost my temper.

  Damn Tuckman. I had to think that when he’d asked Ben for the name of an open-minded investigator, what he’d meant was someone gullible. I’d thought it when he hired me, but I’d let my own knowledge—and smugness—get in front of better judgment. I was as angry with myself as with him. He appeared to be setting me and Quinton up for his misdeeds and that made me furious. He’d abused my professional trust, lied to his committees, probably defrauded PNU of money on the equipment swap, and engineered an experiment that had gotten someone killed. That was far more important than my pride.