Stumptown Spirits

by E. J. Russell

  Riley took the napkin. Logan’s address. Any desire for food fled. “Oh. Thanks.” I think.

  “I mean it.” She made a shooing motion with her hands as she left their table.

  Damn it. Now he had a choice. He didn’t have to stalk Logan at work. He could take it straight to the mattresses. God, that kiss last night. Logan still wanted him. He’d said so. Riley could be proactive, but did he want to?

  “Holy shit,” Zack muttered. “Dead man walking.”

  Riley’s head jerked around. Bert was approaching their corner like a vulture with his sights on some tasty roadkill.

  “Nobody told me this was gonna be the zombie episode,” Zack murmured out of the side of his mouth.

  “Shut up,” Riley said, keeping his voice low. “That’s the owner. Thank him for the free food if you know what’s good for you.”

  A ragged cheer erupted from the crew as Bert reached them. “Thanks, man.”

  Bert’s lips drew back, reminding Riley of Jim Carrey’s old Fire Marshal Bill routine.

  “My pleasure, boys.” Bert nodded at Julie, Grace, and Charmaine. “And ladies.”

  “Would you like to . . .” Riley’s mouth went dry as Bert drew up a chair next to him. “Join us?”

  “Right neighborly. Now. I hear you folks are looking for some ghosts. That true?”

  “Um . . . yes.”

  “Let me tell you a thing or two about the Balch Creek homestead.”

  An evening sitting next to Bert versus a chance for Logan to shoot him down for good?

  Surprisingly tough choice.

  Still, Riley shouldered his messenger bag and stood. “Excuse me. I have to . . . um . . . see a man about a . . . thing.”

  As he stumbled to the door, Heather caught his eye and gave him a thumbs-up.

  God, he hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.

  The narrow alley where Logan waited smelled of urine and rotting meat. A mud-brown rat regarded him from atop a pile of burst garbage bags, the rustle and squeak from beneath the tattered plastic suggesting it had brought its friends to the party. Altogether, a totally revolting spot.

  Perfect.

  He bounced on his toes, his hands fisted in his pockets, and tried not to grin like a maniac. Today he might finally have a chance to confront Danford Balch, the bastard who’d hijacked Trent’s life and mortgaged Logan’s own. He couldn’t fucking wait.

  The first shelter had been a bust—teens only. But the second one looked promising. As the evening wore on, chill with autumn, a pitiful double handful of men lined up on the sidewalk outside the peeling green door, shuffling forward in the hope there’d still be room by the time their turn came.

  There. That one. Second to last in line, his head covered by the draggled fur-lined hood of his parka. The men on either side of him stood twice the distance away from him than from any of the others.

  “Stinks like month-old fish dipped in piss.”

  Yeah, that’d be a reason to cut a wider berth.

  As if he could feel the heat of Logan’s glare, the man raised his head and stared straight at the spot where Logan lurked in the shadows.

  That’s right, you bastard. I’m here for you.

  When Logan strode forward into the flickering light of a streetlamp, the man bolted for the corner and across the street, the untied laces of his boots slapping the concrete. Logan sprinted after him, grabbing the guy’s arm before he could plunge into traffic, and dragged him into the doorway of a closed secondhand shop.

  The man held his hands up, protecting his face and his neck. “Don’t. Please.” His voice was worn and cracked like old leather. “I don’t have any money. I don’t have anything.”

  “You got that right.”

  The man flinched and drew his hands toward his chest, fingers half-curled. “What do you want with . . .” His breath caught in a rattling wheeze. “You. You were there.”

  Logan tightened his grip on Balch’s arm. “That’s right, and on Saturday night, I’ll be there again, damn you, Danford.”

  “I go by Danny now. Danny Ball.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you call yourself—”

  “Hey, man. Need some help?” The voice behind Logan was laced with menace and deep enough to belong to someone who could back it up.

  Under the shadow of his hood, Balch’s eyes widened, his gaze skittering from Logan’s face to a point beyond his shoulder. “No. Only a . . . a chat. Friendly-like.”

  “If you say so.” Footsteps slapped the concrete, fading under the whoosh of passing cars.

  “Smart, Danford,” Logan growled.

  He struggled weakly. “Let go. Please. I—I don’t know what you want.”

  Logan pulled Balch forward, ignoring the fetid puff of his breath. “That second chance didn’t work out the way you planned, eh?”

  Balch shook his head miserably. “No.”

  “Serves you fucking right.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across the man’s pockmarked face. “So easy for you to pass judgment.”

  “I’m not the one who murdered my son-in-law.”

  “It was an accident!” His wail cut through the blare of a horn in the street. “I told them. I didn’t deserve to hang.”

  “The judge saw differently, and no matter what your story is, whether you deserved the rope or not, I know damn well that Trent didn’t deserve it.”

  “Was he . . . the boy? Your friend? Did he . . .” He gulped, and Logan noticed the ring of scar tissue around his throat, under the collar of his threadbare flannel shirt. “I never thought he’d—”

  “Get trapped in your place? Hanged in your place? Die in your place? How’d you do it? How did you escape?” Despite the stench, Logan crowded Balch against the door. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know. I only wanted peace. An end to that everlasting hell. Instead . . .” His gaze tracked the seedy closed storefronts across the street, the graffiti-marred walls, the knots of men and teenagers hunkering down on the sidewalk and in doorways. “I found another.”

  Logan backed off and took an unsteady breath of the marginally clearer air in the street. “There’ve been a lot of changes since 1859.”

  “Some.” Balch’s hands plucked at the stained nylon of his pockets. “The frontier may have retreated, but the hearts of men are still black as Satan’s pitch.”

  “You should know.” He clenched his fists. “I’ve never wanted to kill anyone, but I’d make an exception for you.”

  “Have at it then.” Balch pulled the collar of his shirt open, baring his throat. “Finish the hangman’s job.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Please.” Balch held Logan’s gaze, chest heaving. “Please.”

  “I—I— Fuck.” Logan whirled and smacked the wall with one palm. If he took that last irrevocable step, he’d be no better than Balch. “No.”

  Balch clutched his shirt closed. “I don’t think you could anyway. God knows I’ve tried. A hundred times and more.”

  He can’t die? Marguerite had said she didn’t think the apparitions were ghosts. After years struggling to survive in an inhospitable world, could Balch be convinced to do the right thing? A desperate hope took hold of Logan and closed his throat, reducing his voice to a rough whisper. “Can you undo it? If you go back on Saturday night—”

  “No!” Balch’s eyes reflected the sullen glow of the streetlamp, as feral as the rats in the alley. “I may not know how to make my way in this pitiless stone wilderness, but I know what the end of the rope feels like.”

  “Then why come back now, after all this time?”

  Balch blinked, his brow furrowing under a fringe of filthy grizzled hair. “I come back every year.”

  “So do I. I’ve never seen you.”

  “I hide. Across the creek. In the trees.”

  “Why bother?” Logan shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and leaned one shoulder against the wall. “If you won’t do anything about it.”

  “For her. My
Anna. If I could see her again . . . just once.” He sucked in a breath, a half sob. “But she’s never there. Only a wisp of light at the place I saw her last.”

  “I figured that out the first year. If you knew nothing would materialize, why make the trip? Kind of pointless, wasn’t it?” Although that had never stopped Logan.

  “It’s my home. Was my home.” His gaze skittered back to the line outside the shelter. “I’ll never have another. Not anymore. Not anywhere.”

  He shouldered past Logan, trudged to the end of the dwindling line of men outside the shelter.

  A chill wind curled around the double row of buildings, cutting through Logan’s jeans as he returned to the alley where he’d parked his bike. He ought to feel gratified that Danford’s stolen life had been wretched, that he’d been punished for what he’d done. But instead a hot tide of anger swamped his chest, and he kicked a broken brick into the pile of tattered garbage bags, sending the rats scuttling into the shadows.

  “What a goddamned fucking waste.”

  Seven years of Trent’s life gone, at a minimum. His own about to be offered up on a platter. Riley on deck to get caught in the same shit-storm.

  All because Logan hadn’t kept his goddamn mouth shut about the ghosts of Stumptown past.

  The shabby apartment building squatting on the corner shared all the architectural charm of the finest state penitentiaries. Riley shifted from foot to foot, nerving himself to open the door and go inside.

  Stupid. This was stupid. Why did proximity to Logan french-fry his logic circuits? Any reasonable man would have given up on Logan the first time he bailed.

  Any reasonable man wouldn’t still be in love, damn it.

  Apparently Riley could no longer claim reasonable as an accomplishment on his CV.

  “Pathetic, yes. Reasonable, no,” he muttered, shoving the fatal bar napkin in his back pocket. This wasn’t just about the two of them anymore. Other people were involved—Julie, Scott, the rest of the crew. Even Joseph Geddes and Trent Pielmeyer, if they were still trapped in the ritual. He took a huge breath and blew it out, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag. Somehow, he’d force Logan to see the bigger picture. Not that he’d ever managed before. The guy couldn’t multitask if his life depended on it.

  One of the double front doors sported a sheet of plywood tagged with unimaginative obscenities, but the other still had its safety glass intact. Riley opened it and slipped inside.

  The narrow ill-lit stairs might just as well have been the path to any of a score of different underworlds, the cinder block walls breathing damp and cold like the dank bowels of a cave.

  The second-floor hallway smelled of cigarette smoke and mildew. Why would Logan, who loved the outdoors and wide-open vistas and the elegance of art deco style, choose to live in this depressing place?

  Logan had never been hard-up for money. He’d bartended in Eugene, and he’d done all right, with no expenses to speak of other than food, rent, and his precious Ducati. Riley had tried to talk him into going to school, into doing something besides bartending, but Logan had refused. His whole problem back then had seemed to be a lack of ambition that stifled his potential.

  Now, in light of what Riley had learned about Logan’s supernatural experience, he recognized that lack for what it was. Fatalism, with a heaping helping of guilt to top off a classic early-Christian martyr complex.

  The big overprotective jerk.

  Locating Logan’s unit at the end of the hall, he knocked, making the flimsy door rattle in its frame. Riley leaned closer, trying to detect any sound from inside above the blare of the television from the next apartment. He knocked again, and the door flew open under his fist. At first he thought he’d actually broken the thing down, and staggered forward in an attempt to grab the knob.

  Logan caught him by the arms, steadied him. “Take it easy, tiger.”

  “Sorry.” Riley stepped back, out of reach. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” Logan muttered. “Come inside before the spores invade.” He gestured to a vomit-green sofa, cigarette holes dotting its arms. “Have a seat and tell me what brings you to this lovely four-star shithole.”

  “Heather . . . um . . .” Riley shuffled across the faded orange shag carpet. “She gave me your address.”

  “Of course she did.” Logan didn’t sound surprised or angry. Just resigned.

  That was a good sign, right? At least he hadn’t left Riley standing in the hallway, or tossed him down the rickety stairs. Riley sat gingerly on the edge of a stained sofa cushion. A spring poked him in the butt. “Jesus, Logan. Do you have to disinfect yourself every time you sit on this thing?”

  Logan leaned one hip against a narrow counter that separated the living room from the galley kitchen. “It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s totally that bad. It’s worse.” Riley wove his fingers together, heels bouncing in a threadbare spot in the carpet. “We need to talk.”

  Logan crossed his arms and scowled. “Look, I didn’t trash your equipment.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  Riley shrugged. “You said you didn’t. I believe you.” Besides, given the way Zack and Heather bantered about “special equipment,” anyone in the bar could have overheard them.

  “Then what’s there to talk about?”

  “You may not have done it, but someone did.” Riley clamped his hands between his knees. “Someone has a vested interest in killing the story. Someone other than you.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “I think it is. I think it’s been your problem from the beginning.” He took a deep breath. “Logan. I know about Joseph Geddes. I know about the whole thing.”

  Logan grunted. “I doubt it.”

  “Then tell me. This is the reason you don’t want the crew in the park on Saturday, right?”

  “Mmmphm.”

  “Logan . . .” Riley loaded his voice with as much warning as he could. “Don’t be a dick. Not now.”

  “Jesus, Riley. You can’t— Why don’t you— Ah, fuck.” Logan stalked across the room and threw himself into the sagging recliner. He stared at an empty bookshelf as if he could set it on fire with his eyes, his jaw as tight as marble.

  “Come on.” Riley used the same tone he used to cajole Julie out of production-induced hysteria. “Please? I want to help.”

  Logan let his head fall back and closed his eyes. “So you know my grandfather and another guy—”

  “Joseph Geddes.”

  “Yeah. They were out in the park, hunting. Not with guns, but still not strictly legal. Geddes’s family was in rough shape. Granddad wasn’t as hard up, but he knew how to trap small animals, so he went along to help.” He opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling. “They were ready to leave, but Geddes cut his hand while they were skinning the last rabbit, and Granddad was patching him up when it happened.”

  “The ghost war rose.”

  “Yeah. But for them, it was different. The figures were distinct right from the beginning. With Trent—”

  Riley straightened. “Hold it. You were there? You saw the ghost war too?”

  Logan met Riley’s eyes. “You said you knew.”

  “That you were questioned, not that you were there.” Riley’s eyes widened. “The blood at the scene. It was yours.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you manage—”

  “To evade the law?” Logan’s tone was bitter. “My father. He lied himself blue that I’d been with him since my last class the day before. He was a city commissioner. They took his word.”

  Riley stared out the window at the fading light. “So two men have been drafted into the ghost war.”

  “Not drafted. More like they volunteered.”

  “What?”

  “Granddad said Geddes wasn’t interested in trigger-happy Balch and his pathetic story. He fixated on the supply wagon. He had a wife and kids. They were starving, so he tried to inte
rcept one of the bags. Unfortunately for him, he succeeded—but instead of taking food home to his family, he’s heaving phantom flour forever.”

  Riley threaded his fingers through his bangs. “Whoa.” These weren’t random kidnappings at all. They were purposeful interactions between two planes of existence, instigated by the victim.

  “You know the fucking ironic thing? If Granddad had kept his mouth shut, he’d have been fine. He got away clean. But he insisted on giving those rabbits to Geddes’s family. He told them about what had happened. Hell, he told anyone who would listen, insisting what he’d seen was real, that he hadn’t killed his friend, that Geddes had turned into a ghost. But he could never find that other guy again to back him up.”

  “Wait.” Riley let go of his hair and scooted down the sofa toward Logan. “‘That other guy’? What guy?”

  “I told you.”

  “No. I’m pretty sure I’d have remembered a guy.”

  “Geddes didn’t just get sucked into the war. He displaced someone. When he went in, the other guy fell out.”

  Riley blinked and tried to recalibrate his brain. “You mean . . . your grandfather witnessed an actual possession?”

  Logan shook his head. “Don’t think so. That’s when a ghost takes over another person’s body, right? My grandfather said they swapped places—one here, one in the ghost war.”

  God, this was bigger than Riley had imagined. An actual corporeal manifestation? Un-freaking-believable. He edged closer. “Go on. What happened then?”

  “My grandmother was away, visiting her sister with my father, so Granddad took the guy home. Gave him a meal. A place to sleep. Claimed he stayed for several days but then took off before the police showed up.”

  “What was his name?”

  Logan snorted. “John. John Doe. Yet another reason why the authorities questioned my grandfather’s credibility. Nobody believed he existed, but you’d think if Granddad wanted to lie, he could have come up with a more convincing name.”

  “Do you think he was lying?”

  “No.” Logan’s gaze shifted away from Riley’s face to a point over his shoulder. “I know he was telling the truth.”