by A. J. Aalto
“They’re not still here.” Scarrow’s lips set in a grim line. I felt a chill, and saw my breath go out in a long fog trail. “This was church land, hallowed ground. The sanctity of these graves guaranteed their freedom from limbo. Anyone buried here who had died peacefully of natural causes, and passed quietly into the beyond, would not have remained in spirit form.”
One of my hands drifted sideways in Father Scarrow’s direction, to grab at his arm, needing to hold onto the solidity of the priest despite the fact that the contact with the holy man would likely cause a rash to prickle on my palms under my gloves. Though the invigorating zing of his presence warmed my veins, thankfully, the giggles hadn’t returned.
“You’re saying they’ve come back,” I said.
“Yes. They’re back.” He lifted his face like he smelled some faint perfume on the air, and for a moment I was reminded of Harry’s distant stares. “Hundreds of them. They’re all back.”
As though it had been waiting for a cue from some director off-stage, the wind picked up, blowing past him with such force as to snap the black fabric of his cassock noisily. It billowed out behind him with an appropriately dramatic flourish. He looked down at it with a glimmer of recognition, and glanced at me to see if I noted it, too. I grudgingly nodded. I tried again to relax enough for the Blue Sense to feel around and pick up some feelings and emotions, but it spluttered and spat like flame on a cheap candle wick, dying as soon as it swelled to any useful proportion. Frustrated, I rolled my left-hand glove off into my pocket and side stepped closer to the priest, preparing to “accidentally” brush his hand with mine to see if I could Grope some clarity out of him.
“Six hundred forlorn spirits, despairing,” he said. “Their final resting place has been disturbed, Ms. Baranuik.”
“By Britney?”
“By human hands, yes,” Scarrow said, “hers included. But it wasn’t the humans that brought these ghosts back.”
The wind groaned down low, seeming to vibrate through the air; my shoulders went up, and it wasn't all in response to his pretentious portentousness. Scarrow looked like he wanted to say more. His brown eyes gleamed with the need to unburden himself. When Schenk wasn’t looking, Scarrow’s eyes widened slightly, meaningfully. I nodded. We’d talk privately, later. Maybe it would be over beers and seven-ten splits, but I doubted it. I used our silent concurrence to move a final step closer, and brushed his cassock with my palm, seeking his hand. It wasn’t his hand I caught, but the lip of a pocket. Immediately, there was a jolt to my fingertips. Something important, very close, drawing me in, tickling like the aftereffects of an electric shock.
“Then who’s brought them here?” I asked, pretending not to know to keep him talking and distracted. “The poltergeist? How? Why?”
“I call bullshit,” Schenk interrupted. He started to scribble in one corner of his notes, a triangle outline that he rapidly shaded in, seeming very interested in it. He wasn’t fooling me; Schenk’s attention had been riveted to my creeping bare hand the minute it appeared, an incongruous detail he was not about to dismiss. “You’re saying there are six hundred killer ghosts here?”
“No.” Father Scarrow could not have said this with more certainty. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
He turned slightly toward the pond to gaze out across it, and I darted two bare fingers to quickly pinch whatever papery thing was damn near sizzling at my Groping hand in his pocket, sliding the paper into my own without looking at it, and giddy with a blend of proximity to Scarrow and my own audaciousness. I'd never been a pickpocket before. It was kind of nifty, except for that “totally being observed by a cop while perpetrating it” part. Once it was safely tucked away, I avoided Schenk’s cop glare and asked the exorcist, “Then what are you saying?”
“The spirit responsible for the murder of Britney Wyatt, the one responsible for pulling all these melancholy entities back to their graves to witness the state of their resting place… I don’t believe that spirit belongs here. He never did. He was not invited to hallowed, sacred ground. He is a trespasser, an interloper, invading this space, claiming what was never his.” He tightened his grip on the dogs’ leashes. “He is our poltergeist.”
My mouth went dry and I licked my lips, stinging a spot that was becoming chapped. “You know who he is, Father?”
“I’m afraid I may.” He gathered his hounds and they got to their feet, looking up at him obediently. “We should not speak of him here. I will not say his name in this place. To do so would be to invite his attentions. I will only discuss him in the parish hall. He’s not welcome there.”
“I’ve got time right now,” Schenk said. “I’ll follow you home.”
“Please understand, constable,” Scarrow said, “I am mourning the loss of this young woman, too, and need a chance to rest before I go into this mess again. Tomorrow, I will see you.” His eyes slid to the stretcher where the recovery team had placed Britney Wyatt's body. The dogs, now standing patiently at their master’s heel, didn’t so much as wiggle. They watched Father Scarrow for their cue to walk, and when he excused himself, they followed him away.
Schenk and I watched the three of them go. After a minute or so, Schenk indicated with a tip of his head that we should go back up the hill.
“Pick-pocketing a man of the cloth in front of a police officer? Really?”
“I know, right?” I shrank inside my parka, wishing the shivering would go away. “Ballsy.”
“Or stupid.”
“Or stupid-ballsy. Wait, that doesn’t sound better. Listen, it’s just a piece of paper,” I said, but that wasn’t entirely true. It was a laminated card – baseball, poker, or Pokemon, I couldn't tell – and I didn’t dare take it out yet. Not until Father Scarrow was safely away. “I think I need it.”
“Give him your phone number and decided to take it back, eh?”
“Something like that,” I said. “Trust your psychic sidekick?”
“Nope. But you’ll show me when you’re ready. You’re not keeping things from me, right?”
“I’d never.” That was completely true, and he read it on my face. I put my glove back on.
“Good. I’ll see you to your car,” Schenk said.
When we got closer to the yellow tape twisting in the wind, I felt the Blue Sense flare, and seconds later, absorbed a flicker of exhaustion from Schenk. I focused on the reporters, aiming my glare at them until I felt my own impressions match Schenk’s frustration. I pointed one of the reporters out. “That one. He’s your least favorite. Your personal thorn-in-the-paw.”
The curl of his lip said I was right. “Perceptive, Big City Psychic.”
“Does he always do that notice-me dance by the perimeter?” I mimed listening for music by cupping one hand to my ear. I started shaking my booty to mimic the reporter’s boogying. “Or are they playing What Does the Fox Say to give your team some cover to talk? Ah wah wah wah wah oooo!” I'm pretty sure foxes actually howl and yip, but they tended to steer clear of my property, probably due to the combination of revenant presence and, more pragmatically, the two (or three, by now, my brain reminded me; we have half a guest at the cabin) huge debt vultures that hulked in the trees.
Schenk made an indecipherable noise in the back of his throat and refrained from looking directly at the reporter.
“He looks like a coke-addled lemur being swarmed by fire ants,” I said.
Schenk snorted.
“You are a master of deep, meaningful conversation, Thag.”
He looked down at me and my relentless grooving.
“I’ve seen him on the news, right?” I asked. “What’s his stupid name again?”
At stupid name, Schenk’s eyes squeezed shut and he shook his head, like he couldn’t even bear to say it.
“Jerry something...,” I said. “Sounded like a porn actor's name. Foreskin? Foredick? Formick!”
This time his noise was an affirmative grunt. I mimed spiking the ball after scoring a winning touchdown. Ther
e may have been extra booty shaking and finger guns. There may also have been footage taken by the compadres of the object of our discussion. I'd have to ask Mr. Merritt to DVR it so I could share it with de Cabrera to show him how kickass my positivity was.
“Did you know that formic acid is the chemical in fire ant venom that makes their bites sting? He’s literally named after a pain in the ass.”
He searched my face for a degree of seriousness. “That a fact?”
“I’m chock full of facts,” I promised, “and I hardly ever invent chemicals to amuse people.”
As he trained his eyes over one impossibly-broad shoulder at the reporter, Schenk’s smile crooked up on one side and slid towards nasty. For once I was seeing behind his cop mask to the true feelings beneath, and he let his irritation show on his face. The Blue Sense sprang up to offer a whiff of his satisfaction.
I liked it. “What’s next?”
“Waiting,” he said. “Coroner’s report should clear some things up. You don’t buy this murdered-by-poltergeist thing, do you?”
“I want to say no,” I admitted. “My science tells me that this doesn’t happen. I need to hear what else Scarrow has to say about the so-called interloping poltergeist.” I thought about that for a second. “Interloping Poltergeist would make a great title for the research paper I’ll write if this murderous ghost thing disproves the idea that ghosts can’t affect the physical realm. Dear Diary: I’m going to be famous.” I stopped dancing to mime writing.
“Gonna keep it real and remember the little people?” Schenk asked.
I made an exaggerated boots-to-brows survey. “'Little people,' right. I’ll give you a signed copy of my autobiography.”
“Got a title for that, too?”
“I Only Cried Once: The Marnie Baranuik Story. It’s gonna be a big, big hit.”
“Bestseller.” Schenk gave a sarcastic little I-buy-that nod.
“I’d still really like to know what was in Scarrow’s bowling bag.”
“Is that why you asked him on a date to go bowling?”
“Oh, you heard about that, huh?”
“Mmhmm,” he murmured.
“Well, it’s not on account of his sparkling personality. Can I come see him with you tomorrow morning?”
“We’ll talk about it later tonight on the stakeout.”
I refrained for showing glee in front of the media buzzards who were still clicking pictures of me in my knitted, goggle-eyed froggy cap and bright pink parka, gloved hands in my pockets for warmth, craning way up at the mountain of a cop. I saved the cheering and clapping for inside my head. “We’re going to do a stakeout? Like, you, me, too much coffee and not enough sense?”
“Bet your ass.”
“Where? When?” And, most importantly, what do you hope to see? He'd banked those coals, so I was only able to get a trickle of expectancy through the Blue Sense.
Schenk adjusted his scarf to cover the hollow of his throat completely and started past the barricades and yellow tape toward the BMW. I poked a button on the key fob to unlock it, and Schenk opened the door for me while reporters made a crowded circle, pushing and asking questions, all of which the cop blatantly ignored with the ease that came from practice.
Schenk said, “I’ll text you details,” before striding off, motioning to someone who had just arrived on the scene: Detective Sergeant Malashock. I recognized her snazzy red leather jacket.
Before closing the door, I shouted, “Hey, Formick!” When he turned around, I shot him a grin and mimed his I-gotta-pee dance with my tongue sticking out. He paused, frowned, then aimed his camera and got a shot of me in a shimmy shake while shooting him a vigorous double-bird.
Mission accomplished, I closed the door and headed for North House and Harry.
CHAPTER 14
THERE HAD BEEN time for a quick bite to eat before my big stake-out adventure. I’d packed peanut butter sandwiches and Fig Newtons, and Mr. Merritt had filled a thermos for me. Now, sitting with Schenk as the last bit of heat faded from the van, I was glad for the hot beverage.
“Herbal tea?” Schenk said. “You? Seriously? If ever there was a time for coffee, it would be now.”
I blew into the travel mug. “That memo did not get through to my butler.”
“It’s so hard to find good help these days,” Schenk deadpanned.
I tried to rip a honey packet open with my teeth and it drooled down my chin and onto my parka.
“You’ve got goo on your chest, Cinderblock.”
“Honey,” I corrected.
“You’ve got goo on your chest, honey.”
I tried wiping it off with my napkin, but all that did was smear it around. Batten would have cocked an eyebrow and made my core flare with helpless heat; Hood would have blushed like a fire hydrant; And Harry? Harry would have put the honey in the tea for me in the first place or spread it on my skin intentionally, later. Schenk made jokes; I could get used to a dude who was just a normal human being.
We were parked in a white utility van close to the pond, next to some trucks and service vehicles used by the employees of the canal. A big chain link fence blocked the road, with security cameras and signs on every panel warning about trespassing and towing and criminal charges. The gates had been shoved open for us, just wide enough to walk through. The heat had been on for quite a while, but he’d switched the van off to save gas. Mr. Merritt had suggested that I bring an afghan for my lap, which had tickled Harry; my Cold Company had been oddly punchy ever since repeated calls to my family had ended in rejection, if by “rejection” you meant “swearing and a hang-up.”
I propped the laminated paper I’d pick-pocketed from Father Scarrow— which turned out to be an old-timey photograph — between the dash and the windshield. It was a portrait of three people: an elderly couple and an adult son in uniform. I couldn’t tell the color of his jacket as the picture was grainy, faded, and black and white. On the back I could barely make out someone’s handwriting; two scrawled illegible names, and John, and the date, which looked like 1364 but must have originally read 1864. It was a cool picture, but it raised more questions than it answered. Maybe Father Scarrow just carried an old picture around for luck, or maybe he kept it because he thought he’d need it, like me with my mini Moleskine. Groping the picture with my bare hands had told me squat, just like Groping my business card had told me nothing, and I knew if I was going to be productive I’d need to relax. Being in Canada had my Talents more than a little numbed; the underlying anxiety that came with pretending I wasn’t going to see my family, and the impending disaster that was my inevitable folding on the issue had my internal wiring buzzing with distraction. Maybe some soothing herbal tea was a good idea after all. I gave the tea a long sniff. Chamomile. Combat Butler was a wily genius, if totally lousy at stakeout etiquette.
I’d been on a lot of stakeouts in my life, some of which could have more accurately been categorized as “stalking,” since they weren’t exactly related to official investigations. The way I figured, if Agent Batten didn’t want me watching him undress in his apartment he should maybe get some blinds.
“What are we waiting for?” I asked, more to pass the time than anything else.
Schenk answered, “To see if something happens.”
“What if nothing happens?”
“Then we saw it.”
“The nothing.”
“Right.”
I grinned over at him. “You’re a lot of fun.”
“I’m not here for your entertainment.” He didn't look disgusted, or bored, or like he was actively avoiding a bit of perfectly set-up Godfather line quoting. His reserved professionalism was catnip I had to swat at.
“You’re totally here for my entertainment,” I disagreed, moving the thermal mug to swirl the honey into the tea. “Other than the foot fetish that you should never have admitted, since I’m not going to let it go, and the knitting, which you were probably joking about, tell me something weird about you.”
/> Schenk sipped his coffee, blew into the lid to disperse the steam. “Why?”
“What else are we gonna do while we wait to see the nothing?”
He stared out the window for a long time then gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich.”
“Oh, yeah?” I thought about the grilled cheese sandwiches my dad used to make for us on Sunday afternoons. The days when he was writing poetry in his office and I was doing projects for school on the side of his desk, we’d split a stack of them; just him and me, him with his fried onions and hot sauce, me with my ketchup blob for dipping. “With onions and stuff?”
“No, with fancy cheese.”
“Fancy like Swiss?”
He rolled his eyes. “Fancy like Fontina or Tallegio on hand-sliced ciabatta bread.”
I whistled low. “I don’t even know what those are, so they must be fancy.”
“The fanciest,” he said, playing along even though his focus was a hundred feet down the path where the police floodlight was still set up and a uniformed officer was patrolling, near the end of his shift.
“You're a cheese connoisseur? That’s a weird thing to be.”
“Means a lot coming from you.”
“What’s the most expensive cheese?
“Pule.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That’s really a gross word.”
“Worse than MUCE?”
“No, MUCE is the worst. Sounds like mucus, and mice, and puce — the ugliest color of all. It’s bad. It’s a bad acronym. What’s pule?”
“Donkey cheese made in the Balkans. But don’t get any ideas; you can’t have any.”
I lowered my tea from my mouth. “Why the hell not?”
“Because some tennis pro bought it all.”
“Why would someone do that?”
Schenk shrugged. “Because he can.”
“Well, now I’m just gonna be wishing I could have Balkan donkey cheese. Why'd you tell me that?”
