It rushed. I tipped the bottle. One edge of the mass caught on the silvered glass and the thing smacked me hard on the side as it was whipped around like a leaf caught in a vortex and sucked into the trap. I snatched the stopper from my pocket and slammed it home.
I slumped to the floor against the corner of the shelf, a small cascade of novels pattering to the floor around me. The kid with the manga stared at me, gaping.
“What?” I asked.
She shook her head.
From my other side a voice said, “Miss. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”
I looked up into the clean-shaven face of a security guard.
“OK,” I replied. “I’m ready to go now. Can you give me a hand?”
He seemed a little confused, but put out a hand and helped me back to my feet. He appraised me, his eyebrows in a quizzical W. “What . . . what happened to you?” he asked, leading me toward the downstairs doors.
I limped forward, my knee and shoulder throbbing. “I was hit by a car,” I lied. I wasn’t going to say I’d been smacked with a fake poltergeist.
His expression escalated to terrified. “Oh, no! Do you want to sit down?”
“No. No, I’ll be all right. Just get me out of here.”
He escorted me all the way onto the street, leaving me under the mall’s Pine Street portico. A dirt-crusted man with a hand-lettered sign harangued the automotive traffic against trusting the police or a certain apartment manager while a combo of electric violin and ordinary sax played jazz to a grinning bulldog.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was bruised and disarrayed and I smelled of sewers. I was sur-prised the cabby had allowed me into his car at all and I felt obliged to give him a very large tip when he dropped me off. I should have been paying more attention—I’d have noticed the pandemonium around the Harvard Exit. Crowds, cops, an aid car, and a press of onlookers surrounded the building.
Holding the flask in one hand, I got out of the cab around the corner from the theater and turned to find a cop by my elbow. The cab had already darted off and I was in no shape to run.
“Miss Blaine. Will you come with me, please.”
I shrugged, grimacing, and limped along with the policeman.
He made an opening in the cordon and led me into the lobby. Solis stood in front of the fireplace with his back to me. Ana was in a chair with her shoulders in a defensive hunch. Ken stood behind the chair with his hands on her shoulders, glowering at Solis with an expression that flickered between defiance and panic, his cold Grey shield against the world in shreds. Another plainclothes officer loomed a few feet beyond them.
My escort stopped me a couple of yards off, but not quite out of hearing range. He nodded at the plainclothesman facing us, who gave a curt nod back. I could just hear Solis’s intense, quiet voice saying, “. . . very dangerous. You will make every effort to cooperate with us this time, Mr. George, and there will be no repeat of your previous mistakes. Or of ours.”
Ken bit his lip and nodded.
“Good. Detective McBride will escort Miss Choi home. Now, you can all go.”
They trooped past me. Ken, with his arm around Ana’s shoulders, shot me a puzzled look. A deep crease pinched between his brows and he started to say something, then turned his attention back to Ana, pulling her tight against his side. Ana kept her head down, exhausted and miserable.
I watched them go, then turned back to Solis, who had turned to stare at me. He was seething.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“I fell into a sewer.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” Which was the truth, and a more detailed explanation would just piss him off further. “How did you happen to get here so fast?”
He narrowed his eyes and turned his head a little, appraising me. “Let me guess,” I hazarded. “You sent Ana here with a wire and those keys to see if you could trip Ian Markine up.”
The tiniest trace of a satisfied-cat smile pulled at his mouth. “Miss Leaman identified the keys.” His expression darkened again. “But you surprised me—you and Mr. George. We weren’t ready to make the arrest. You fouled us. What did you come for?”
Now I knew why so many faces in the lobby crowd had looked familiar—they were cops. “I had some questions for Ian. I didn’t get a chance to ask him at the funeral.”
“About what?”
I needed to fabricate something fast. I remembered the equipment in the loft. “About faking effects in the experiments and getting caught by Mark. That storage room is full of old equipment for rigging stage effects. He knew how, but he lied about it.”
“That’s not what you asked him about upstairs,” Solis reminded me.
“No. I overheard his argument with Ana and things made sense. You told me Cara had rejected him and he already had a complaint against Mark. The guy has an ego the size of a Metro bus and it’s fairly obvious he’s unstable and violent—he has a history of cruelty to animals and that’s just the start, I imagine.” I remembered with a shudder the pleased memory fragments of pain and death Ian had projected and his parents’ distress about the poisoning of their dog.
Solis was still glaring at me. “So you barged in,” he stated.
I took a risk and said, “He had something in his hand and he was trying to get Ana close enough to strike her.”
“What was it?”
“It looked like a pipe.” A lie, but one impossible to disprove. There were dozens of bits of pipe in the storage room.
“How did you leave the room? When we came in you were gone and Markine escaped.”
“What? You didn’t arrest him?”
“No!” Solis shouted. His habitual calm shattered. He was furious enough to talk.
“Markine is a very dangerous man and I do not have him in custody. I do not know how he killed Lupoldi or how he disposed of you down whatever rabbit hole you fell through. He is not of right mind. His confession to you and Choi will not stand up alone. I have evidence, I have witnesses, and I have warrants. We will search and find what we can, but I do not have the man himself!” He rammed his hands through his hair. “And he will try. He will try to harm those two—Choi and George. He tried to harm you—some kind of explosion, some kind of smoke . . . What was it?” he shouted.
I gaped at him. The bright flare of orange frustration was back. My knee twinged and I insisted on sitting down, buying time before responding to that sudden burst of passion.
With the silvered alembic in my lap, I reached down to rub my aching knee. Solis pulled another chair around in front of mine and sat down, leaning forward, intent, with his forearms on his thighs.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, exactly,” I replied. I used his terms. “There was that explosion or whatever, smoke . . . It was confusing. I tried to follow Markine, to go out a door, but I didn’t know which door I was going through. I fell through a trapdoor or a bit of rotten floor. I think I got into the basement, somehow. I thought I saw Markine and I chased after him. We ended up in the utility vaults, then the sewers. I lost him. Then I came back here.”
“And what’s that?” Solis asked, nodding at Celia’s prison.
I looked at it. The alembic had acquired a patina of gunk and dirt, but I could still see the Grey mist and energy roiling around inside through the mirror tint. The truth was so bizarre no one would believe it. So why not?
“It’s a ghost in a bottle,” I said.
Solis narrowed his eyes, closing back down to his usual shuttered expression. His aggravated aurora dimmed to a thin orange line.
“Where did you find it?”
“In the sewer.”
“While you were pursuing Mr. Markine. I’d like to have it, please.”
“No.”
“If it’s connected to this investigation—”
“It’s not anything you want.”
“It is.” He put out his open hands for it.
I stood up wi
th the flask in my grip. His chair was blocking my way, but I’m slim enough and quick enough and doubted I’d have trouble slipping out, even with a dicey knee and a body covered in bruises.
“If you want it, you’ll have to get a warrant.”
He gave me a sharp look. I stared back, vacillating. I couldn’t give him the bottle. Maybe I could put him on another track. “Ask Amanda Leaman to identify the person who argued with Mark the Monday before his death,” I said. “I’ll be surprised if she gives a positive ID on anyone other than Ian Markine.”
Speculation flickered on his face. He hadn’t forgotten the bottle, but he had other things to chase and he couldn’t force me to give it to him without arresting me or getting a warrant. He couldn’t intimidate me into giving it up, either.
“May I go now?” I asked.
“Where?”
“I need a change of clothes.”
Solis gave a tight, annoyed nod. “I expect a more detailed statement from you, Ms. Blaine.”
“Monday. If I can get the stink out of my hair by then.”
TWENTY-NINE
The swirling, agitated thing in the flask drew my eye and I found it difficult not to stare at it as I drove to the Danzigers’. I wanted to get rid of the whole package—container and contents—but even this was a temporary measure. I wasn’t quite sure how to be shut of it in a more permanent fashion. I hoped Ben and Mara would have some ideas.
I hadn’t looked as bad as I expected after a shower. Quite a lot of my battered appearance turned out to be filth. I had to throw most of the clothes in the garbage—what was crusted on them smelled like sun-rotten salmon and didn’t bear closer scrutiny—and I hoped my boots and jacket would be salvageable. I was amazed to note I hadn’t cut myself beyond a few scrapes through my jeans. At least I didn’t have to find out if I could develop some freaky infection from the ghosts of germs. It would have been my kind of luck to resurrect the 1918 flu or some extinct form of native-killing smallpox. Small mercies and all that platitude jazz. I’d popped a couple of anti-inflammatories, wound a light pressure bandage around my knee, and decided the shoulder would be fine on its own. I felt a bit stiff and sore, but figured I’d do.
When I started up the steps, Albert appeared beside me so fast he fizzed. He stared at the ghost-vessel, which reflected weirdly in his tiny glasses. I wondered how the bottle could have an image in the memory of a lens, but I supposed ghost-things might reflect other ghost-things just fine and maybe it was only what was inside the container that I saw in his specs. Mara opened the door and he rushed into the house, hovering behind her as if he expected me to pass him the jar like a basketball. I gave him a dirty look.
“Albert is acting very weird,” I said.
“Well, then, I imagine it’s that thing, isn’t it,” Mara answered, pointing to the bottle. “Bit intriguing, that.”
“I almost lost it to a police detective,” I continued, coming inside. “He thought it was evidence in this murder case.”
Some kind of random thumping came from overhead. Mara didn’t seem to notice.
“And isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes, but the first thing he’d do is turn it over to forensics and they’d pull the cork and let the nasty thing out again. And I didn’t enjoy getting it in there in the first place.”
“The poltergeist’s in there? Then it worked. Glad to see we’re not entirely barking at the moon. Come in to the living room. Ben’s got Brian upstairs for a few minutes. We can put that up where little fingers can’t get at it.”
Mara put the alembic on top of a low bookshelf and wedged it in place with a pair of small, sand-filled geckos she pulled from a basket of toys nearby.
“There,” she said, stepping back to admire it. “Looks rather dramatically alchemical, doesn’t it?” Albert drifted up to look into the flask some more.
“It looks like a bottle full of trouble,” I replied.
“So it is. How did you manage to keep the policeman’s paws off it?”
We could hear Ben coming down the stairs with a heavy tread.
“I told him that if he wanted it, he’d need a warrant,” I explained. “He didn’t like it, but by the time he’s got the paperwork in order, it may be moot.”
“We can only hope.”
Ben entered, carrying a giggling Brian upside down by the legs. “Are you ready to turn over?” Ben asked.
“Nooooo!” Brian laughed. Then he stuck his tongue out and flapped it up and down, yammering, “Lalalalalalala . . .” and waving his hands.
“What have you caught now?” Mara asked.
“This is the rare ebon-headed rhino-bat of the Pacific Northwest. Or we hope they’re rare, because this one weighs about forty pounds and eats cheese sandwiches—which are now extinct in the wild.”
Mara went to tickle her son on his exposed belly. “Shall we domesticate it, then?”
Brian shrieked with laughter.
“Fat chance,” I muttered.
Mara shot me a sly look. “Quite right. It may be past hope. We’ll be havin’ to tickle it—”
Brian yowled, laughed, wiggled, and squirmed mightily, then shouted, “Down, down!”
“All right,” Ben said, setting him gently on his head on the rug. Brian did a slow somersault and scrambled away from his mother’s waving fingers to hide behind a Morris chair.
Free of the rhino-bat for a moment, Ben walked over and perused the container full of ghost.
“Wow. It worked. I can almost see something in there. . . .”
“Just so long as it stays in there,” I said.
“What are you going to do with it now?”
“I’m not sure. But it has to be kept away from—from the person who controls it.” I didn’t want to use his name. I was convinced of his guilt, but he was still, technically, only a suspect to the police. “We need to keep it safe until it falls apart. I thought of Carlos—”
“Oh, no!” Mara interjected. “I don’t like to imagine what he might do with it.”
I nodded. “Exactly why I’m here and not at his place. But I have no idea how long this thing may last.”
Brian growled behind the chair. Albert flitted away from studying the thing in the jar to conspire with his playmate. Giggles bubbled up from behind the chair over a scrabbling sound.
My knee throbbed a little. I sat down on the sofa farthest from the child-infested chair. I didn’t have the energy to withstand even a hug if it came at leg level.
Ben, still looking at Celia’s temporary prison, said, “It should fall apart on its own, eventually. But as you say, we don’t know when. The sooner the group stops giving it any energy or thought, the sooner that will happen.”
“I’ve already put pressure on Tuckman to break the group’s interest in it,” I said. “I think two or three may have already cut themselves off from it, for their own reasons. It seemed smaller than the last time I saw it—though it was big enough to hurt.”
“Hmm. The sooner they all do the same, the better.”
“Perhaps we can speed it on the way,” Mara suggested. “You might help the situation by removing that loop it’s got on you.”
I shook my head. “I’d rather do that last—even if it’s a risk. If it does get loose, I’ll have a way to find it again. Its master will snatch it back and use it if he can and I can’t let that happen. He’s threatened to kill two more people and he’s serious.”
“Oh,” Mara said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Yes. But what else can we be at?” she continued, thinking aloud. “We can’t exorcise it, but we might be able to break it down faster, I suppose.”
“Maybe the group could unmake it . . . ,” Ben started.
I shook my head and slumped deeper into the sofa. “They’ve already broken up and since two of them are on the hit list, getting them all together again is out of the question. Can we do anything to break it ourselves?”
Ben perked up. “It’s not a regular ghost, but energy dissipation is en
ergy dissipation no matter why you do it. Let me see what I have. . . .”
He darted out of the room and we heard him rocketing up the attic stairs.
I blew out a long breath. Mara looked me over.
“You look all in.”
“It’s been a long day. And I don’t think it’s over yet.”
“Most likely not.”
Brian emerged from behind the chair, crouched over in a strange, brachiating posture.
“Oh, what are you up to now, little boy?” Mara asked.
“I’s a rhino-bat!”
“So I hear. What do rhino-bats do?”
“Fly, fly, fly!” Brian yelled, jumping up and flapping his arms; then he ran off around the room with his “wings” spread wide, unusually quiet as he soared around the furniture without a single “graah.”
As Brian was running in and out of the living room, Ben came back with a thick book.
“OK. I found it. There’s kind of a standard for dissipating energy entities—which is what this is. It’s not specific and it might not do the job completely so long as anyone’s feeding it, but it should break the thing down a lot.”
I sat up straighter. “What’s the routine?”
Ben flipped the tome open as Albert swooped by him with Brian charging after. Boy and phantom dove back into the bat cave behind the Morris chair as Ben started to paraphrase.
“According to this—and this is the third reference to this process—you can disperse a ghost of this type by scattering its property and destroying its image. It draws strength from those reminders of its existence and once they are no longer there, or moved far apart from one another, the ghost has no center to cling to. It can’t hold itself together without a core and it will dissipate.”
“There’s a power line feeding this thing,” I reminded them.
“True,” Mara replied, her face pinched in thought. “But it was pulled from its proper place. It will want to move back to its original alignment. If you break down as much of the ‘home’ environment as you can, the power line should start to move back.”
“OK, maybe it will work. What’s the process, exactly?” I knew things like this were never as simple as they sounded.
Poltergeist (Greywalker, Book 2) Page 29
