by A. J. Aalto
When his lament did not continue, I squinted at the picture. “What’s that he’s holding?”
“A pair of leashes.”
“Um, ew?” I said, and felt my shoulders squinch up. “What kind of pervert walks around with leashes at a crime scene?”
“Day job. He trains cadaver dogs for the Ontario Canine Forensics Association at his place on,” he paused, thinking, “Seaway Haulage Road.”
But where are the dogs? “There are houses at this end of the Haulage?”
“Just his.” His big finger hit a map he’d sketched. “It’s a converted church and parish hall; he lives in the church bit, works out of the hall.”
“Graveyard still there?”
“Moved about five years back,” Schenk supplied.
“Moved the stones, or all of it?”
“Not sure. Why?”
“Morbid curiosity,” I admitted. “The Haulage, eh? That’s just on the other side of the canal.”
Schenk murmured thoughtfully but noncommittally and tossed his pencil on the table, busying his hand with stirring a spoon in his cup, although there was nothing in it but black coffee. Maybe he was seeing if it would dissolve the spoon. “Practically his back-fucking-yard.”
“That makes the canal a real convenient dump site,” I suggested, “if you wanted to revisit your crimes, say.”
Schenk was silent on this, but I thought his eyes agreed with me. I sat back in the chair. Mine creaked, too.
“Exorcist?” I asked. “You talked to him. Him, out of that whole crowd. Why him?”
“He looks like a creepy rock star?” He made it a question, and I smiled.
“Does he think a demon is responsible?”
“Not his theory, no.” The spoon tapped on the cup, taptaptap, before he laid it aside on a napkin. “He believes this is the work of a ghost.”
His calculating green eyes cut to mine to judge my reaction; what he must have seen was my is-he-an-actual-idiot face, because that’s how I felt.
“Uh, no,” I said with a disappointed little laugh. I dumped a bunch of sugar in my coffee and gave it a noisy stir. “No, no, no.”
“So, ‘no’ then?”
I added more heavy cream. “Not possible.”
Schenk’s eyebrows did a slow rise. “You’re telling me, as a self-proclaimed preternatural expert—”
“Hey,” I said with an indignant sniff, “I’m not self-proclaimed. Other people proclaim that about me.”
The yeah-right lip pucker re-appeared, but this time it was tinged with a bit of friendly teasing. “Sure. So, you’re saying, in your sorta-expert opinion, the answer is not ‘a ghost did it.’”
“I’m telling you that Creepy Leash Dude is either lying, or he’s a full-on dumbass,” I said firmly. “Ghosts cannot affect the physical realm. They’re lost souls who are, generally speaking, unaware of human existence. Theirs is a struggle toward paradise and eternal rest, or rebirth, which is an even more difficult journey. We’re not even a blip on their radar. Even the rare ones who do notice us certainly can’t summon the enormous energy it would require to manifest, communicate with the living, or affect people or objects.”
Something nagged me about that, having said it. I was repeating word-for-word what the science told me… but hadn’t I just finished writing a paper for Fast Science Quarterly on zombie anatomy and the complete breakdown of the headshot theory? I had discovered, by neatly blowing most of Zombie Dunnachie’s brains out, that as long as the brain stem was intact, that sucker can keep on coming. I’d been fielding calls from preternatural biology students wanting to do thesis work on this development since August. Preternatural biology is a young field of study, and prevailing theories were being disproven all the time. So why was I so sure of myself on the matter of ghosts?
Schenk’s spoon clunking pointless circles in his mug again drew my focus back. “His theory is that a ghost is luring people into the water and drowning them.”
“People, plural?” I asked. “Has there been more than one disappearance?”
“Not as far as I can tell.”
“And for what reason would this supposed ghost do such a thing?”
“He wasn’t real clear on that,” Schenk said.
“Well, ghosts are a fun theory if you’re writing a scary movie, but you can't fantasize an explanation for what's happened,” I said. “That's not science. Maybe he should stick to training his puppies.” I frowned at myself. “Did that sound overly bitchy, or just bitchy enough? Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell. Either way, he’s dead wrong.”
Schenk finished mopping up the yolk with his last crust of rye toast, ate it, wiped his mouth, put away his notes, and stowed the pencil. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Wanna go talk to him with me?”
Score. I might have liked to find Mr. Merritt, North House, and a hot bath, but it was just before noon and the obliging detective was still in detecting mode; I nodded. “It would be my pleasure, Longshanks.”
Schenk shook his head at me, but the Blue Sense reported a wash of grudging acceptance. He snagged the bill before it hit the table, told me to shut up when I offered to pay my half, and off we went.
CHAPTER 7
THE COVERED PORCH of the rectory smelled pungently of damp wool, mothballs, mildewed laundry, old boots, and wet dog. There was a rack full of leashes above a half-filled shoe tree, with a row of salt-encrusted hiking boots lined up toe-to-wall like bodyguards on either side of a single pair of black, pointy-toed dress shoes. I’d had a brief glimpse of Scarrow in person when he peeked through the inched-open door to greet us, which he'd pulled closed again to secure his dogs.
While we waited I texted the number Mr. Merritt had given me to check on Harry. It was unlike me to trust anyone with Harry’s well-being without more assurance of competence (unless it's with a corpse-licking ogre or a vampire hunter with a hundred and five hash marks on his sexy, sexy chest? my guilty conscience taunted), but the fact that Harry trusted Mr. Merritt enough to hire him and keep him on retainer gave me some comfort; Harry was not one to let me shirk my duties unless he was in safe hands. It hadn’t occurred to me until now to be insulted about the fact that Harry passed his care to Mr. Merritt’s without the slightest fuss. Within moments my phone buzzed with a reply: Lord D. is well and secure.
My next idea was to text Batten under the pretense of checking on Wesley and Mr. Duchoslav. When the thought of contacting Batten made something flutter low in my belly, I reconsidered; maybe the time away from Batten would be healthy for me. After all, I was moving on. I was dating. Sort of. Not that any of the men in my life seemed to take that seriously. Harry viewed it as a pointless, distracting hobby I’d taken up. Batten apparently found it straight-up hilarious. What’s up with that? I wondered if Batten was dating; the thought made me want to vomit up my toenails. I shoved the phone in my back pocket and pulled my gloves on.
“Everything okay?” Schenk asked.
I didn’t think Schenk needed to hear about my pathetic excuse for a love life, which consisted mostly of sexual jealousy and a jumbo pack of batteries. “Why the pencil?”
Schenk didn’t seem to be paying attention to me, but I’d been around enough cops to know that he was seeing every detail around him. We had a great view of the rectory’s office through the screen door, and I'd have bet my favorite pair of frog-bedecked panties his seemingly-casual inspection was anything but. I’d even wager plain old cash that he also hadn’t missed my text from his elevated viewpoint, nor my momentary hesitation to send another.
“The pencil,” I repeated. It was again pinched between his fingers like a cigarette. I pointed to it helpfully. “Why not a pen?”
“It’s thirty below zero,” he said. “Ink freezes.”
“Lead breaks,” I pointed out. “Are you carrying a concealed pencil sharpener?”
“I’ll never tell.”
I pointed to his side. “Well, there’s something in your pocket.” I didn't even sound salacious when I
said it, which was probably the surest sign that I was mentally off-balance.
Schenk gave me a who-can-say shrug. I opened my mouth to retort when Mr. Scarrow returned.
He was a scrawny little dude, way too old to be wearing skinny jeans but pulling the look off with a poised insouciance that reminded me of Harry, an unflinching denim fuck-you to fashion propriety. He was still (again?) clad in black-on-black, a turtleneck cupping his pale, pointy chin. His dark hair was getting a little long, and looked like he styled it by running his hands through it all day long when he wasn’t out in the wind with his dogs. Many secrets to a man’s personality can be revealed by the state of his hands, so I took a quick peek at them. Maybe he sensed my inspection; they disappeared into his pants pockets, but not before I saw smallish fingers with bony knuckles and the hint of calluses, thin but powerful. I got the impression he’d have no trouble handling leashes, or reins, or any other method of controlling various beasts. I wasn’t entirely sure that didn’t turn me on and scare me at the same time. I swallowed hard, and glanced up at Schenk for reassurance against some nervous giggles that began to well up inside me.
During brief introductions Scarrow doled out the bulk of his attention to the cop, allowing a minute or so for my dissecting eyes to take a second pass. Multiple earring holes, closed over, but not long enough to remove all traces. Narrow hips, square shoulders, lacking the solid muscle of the cop between us; I wasn’t foolish enough to think that would make him any less dangerous in a confrontation. What Schenk’s photos hadn’t captured was the sunken, wary hardness in Scarrow’s eyes; this was a man who had seen some shit, handled that shit, only to be handed more shit. He fully expected the fecal deluge to continue, and welcomed the opportunity to whip that shit into submission. He might not initiate the shit-flinging, but it looked like the fucks stopped here.
I was keenly glad that Mr. Merritt wasn't totting up my losses based on the run of my thoughts.
The Blue Sense flickered to life with some uncomfortable warnings: Ren Scarrow felt like a man who viewed the world from behind a cynic’s lens, with a cynic’s expectation that something bad would always be followed by something worse. Rather than avoiding trouble, however, he chased it, comfortably certain he could dominate it. Furthermore, the Blue Sense reported, Scarrow had decided I was something bad, or possibly something worse. This man was used to being in control, and, like a cheetah picking out the weak gazelle, he’d instantly marked me as someone he could (and maybe should) take down. I’d been filed under “Prey”. Instinct told me that, matched against the vital, wiry old bastard, my survival might depend on his good graces. Whether or not he had any to depend upon was still a question. I didn't really want to have to find out.
I clenched my fists, felt the leather creak, and contemplated taking off my gloves to do some Groping around the room a bit to judge if I was, indeed, in any immediate danger. The old me would have thought stick close to Schenk, but I was running Marnie three-point-oh up in this bitch, and the fact that Scarrow intimidated me dialed my mood to show no fear, bordering on the temptation to prove his predatory ass wrong. I was a gazelle who wanted to show off her middle hoof, though I was pretty sure that violated ungulate anatomy.
Scarrow invited Schenk, by name and title, down the hall and into his office. He didn’t mention me, so I hung back, watching the two of them, diametric opposites but for the self-assurance they shared. When I made no move to join them, Scarrow was finally forced to acknowledge me, but he only did so with his eyes, which said, Do you need an engraved invitation, or do I drag you in by your ears? Awfully cheeky for a stranger. I stood my ground until he returned to the hall. It was only two steps, but I counted them as a minor victory. I waited until Schenk was deep into the office before I spoke, keeping my voice at a lower and more intimate volume.
“Renfield Aquinas Thackeray Scarrow,” I said. “Your initials spell—”
“Say that word and I rip off your nipples.” Was that a smile? And why did the threatened body parts seem into that? My nipples are assholes.
I blinked once, and heard words sliding out of my mouth on an exhale. “I like ‘em where they are, thanks.”
Scarrow eyed my chest. “So do I. May I take your gloves?”
“Um, no, thank you.” I plunged my fists into the pockets of my parka. “I’ll keep them on.”
He looked at my pockets. “May I take your coat?”
“Nah. Bit chilly.” And I need to protect my nipples from all that ripping business, Mr. Rats.
“May I take your gun?”
I don’t have one. Probably should. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Scarrow.”
“How about the hat?” He smiled up at it. “Cute. My five-year-old nephew has one just like it.”
I whipped it off, shoved it in my pocket, and glared at him from beneath my static-frizzed blonde mop. For a moment the Blue Sense warred with my self-destructive need to tell him off, and then something else rushed in to crowd both of those feelings out: the ridiculous need to laugh. And not just laugh as though someone told a mildly amusing joke, no. I clamped my teeth together against an inexplicable and ill-timed wave of what threatened to become a belly-juddering gigglefest. Was the church itself to blame? I’d never been the child to giggle during a service; as the oldest daughter, I’d been in charge of keeping the littler ones quiet as they sat wriggling, bookended between my mother and me on the pew. Now, I was the one trying desperately to squelch some unnamed, mischievous mirth, and with every breath the urge to burst out into merry giggles continued.
Father Skinny Jeans missed it, thankfully, while he indicated that I should join Schenk in the office. I had to pass the dogs’ rooms to get there, and did so while mentally scolding myself to keep it together. Big black noses snuffled the closed doors as I passed, and one of the dogs let out a yip; I knew they could smell Harry’s indelible mark on me, my Bond with an immortal, the faint hint of burnt sugar.
“Interesting place,” Schenk said as we joined him, now openly admiring the spacious room.
“A little ghoulish, if you ask me,” I said, watching Schenk stroll from one window to the next. I knew what he was looking for: did Scarrow’s office have a view of the canal? The yard seemed fairly deep; I wondered how far you’d have to walk to get there.
I checked out the exorcist’s old-timey record player and collection of vinyl in a rack by the desk. His tastes ran from Rush to Uriah Heap to Neil Young, with enough old Brit-punk thrown in to quirk my eyebrow. On the back desk there was an old, battered, single-ball bowling bag, navy blue leather with a sporty stripe that might have at one time been white but had aged to the yellow of smokers’ teeth. There was a little blue sticky note on the desktop, face down, that looked like it had lost its stick and fallen off the bag.
I asked, “What kind of whackaloon wants to live on an old cemetery plot, Mr. Scarrow?”
“I bought this land knowing what was once here,” Scarrow said. “I train my dogs here, and breed them especially for the purpose.”
My belly quivered with the inexplicable need to laugh again. “To sniff out corpses?” That’s not funny at all, Marnie, what the blooming fuck?
“Those are the cadaver dogs,” Scarrow answered; his eyes narrowed, and I hoped he wasn’t noticing my internal struggle. “I train dogs to track ghosts.”
I blinked. “The graveyard is gone, but you’re saying there are ghosts on this property?”
“Oh, dozens. This was not just any burial ground, Miss…?”
“Baranuik.”
He made an affirmative noise, like I’d cleared up some mystery, or checked something off an internal list he'd been tallying. He folded his hands loosely in front of his flat belly. “This was the final resting place of several soldiers from the War of 1812, men who died horribly, and who remain to this day. They’re lost, but relatively harmless; there’s only one resident who ever enters the rectory itself.”
“'Resident,'” I repeated, looking around the room, wonderin
g how quickly Harry’s skin would break out in an abandoned church and rectory, not to mention the clangor and clamor he'd hear if it was, in fact, home to the unquiet spirits Scarrow said it was. “Why would they haunt the cemetery and not the battlefield where they fell?”
“Fell,” Scarrow repeated, losing his calm for a split second of acid contempt that I didn't need the Blue Sense to catch.
“Died,” I corrected, noting the silent cop moving around the room behind me but saying nothing. I wasn’t accustomed to a cop giving me free reign or room to move, and certainly Batten never let me take the lead. “Does it bother you when I call it that?”
“Fell is too soft a word for how their life ended,” Scarrow said, but he regained his composure with the easy mask-switch of your average salesman. “And these spirits do not haunt. Haunting is a malicious act. The spirits on this property are not malicious.”
“But they’re here and not on the battleground?”
“As I said,” Scarrow said.
“Why?”
“Maybe they like my cologne,” Scarrow said pleasantly, and my urge to giggle returned. I clamped down on it hard, increasingly baffled. “They are indeed sentient. To interact with me and the dogs is their choice.”
“You realize that the established science disagrees with everything you just said.”
He leaned against his desk and crossed one ankle over the other. “You might be surprised how often science has disagreed with me, Miss Baranuik, and how infrequently that stalls my work.” He gave me a funny little smile, almost wistful. “If science disagreed with your findings, would you dismiss them?”
Touché. Point: Scarrow. I'd just sent in an article for publication where my findings represented a gigantic, shambling middle finger to the established science, so I decided to approach on another front. “You train dogs to track ghosts?”
“Only the two German Shepherds.”
“To what end?” I asked.
For a moment he looked confused. “To save them, of course. To release them to heaven and to perfect peace, if I can. ‘Yes, we are fully confident, and we would rather be away from these earthly bodies, for then we will be at home with the Lord,’ Second Corinthians, five-eight.” Looking past me to study Schenk’s wandering path, he said, “If you’d like to check out the yard, constable, be my guest.”
