Daniel pushed himself back from the table. “I think I should leave, and you should get some sleep.”
I shook my head. I needed to think on this eternal life contract, and what it meant.
I scribbled again. WHERE YOU GO?
“To work.”
IS MIDNIGHT.
He stood and leaned over me. “Right, which means you need to be in bed, kiddo.”
Too late I realized he was going to pick me up. I pushed at him, protesting that I was perfectly capable of getting up myself. Ah, but of course, there was nothing but silence.
This quiet thing just wasn’t me, you know?
He had me in his arms, blanket and all, and Mom was up and leading him up the stairs to the guest bedroom on the right. She’d painted the room a soft blue with white trim. A powder blue comforter adorned the bed, accented by matching sheets and several pillows.
She turned down the sheets and Daniel gently set me down on them. I was becoming more and more impressed with this man. I’m not a small woman, about average height really. And I weigh a good one hundred—
Ah.
Never mind. I get blabby when I get tired.
I’m heavier than you think.
The sheets were cold, and I shivered. Mom’s and Daniel’s hands collided as each of them tried to place one on my forehead.
Oh please. I’m not sick. Just a bit tired.
Mom started that Mom-tuck thing. You know the one where they go around and shove the sheet and the comforter between the mattress and the box spring. She used to do it when I was a kid, and it worked. I’d been unable to get up for the first ten minutes of the night, and then I’d just go to sleep because the effort of struggle was too much.
Daniel ran his fingers, only slightly calloused and nice, along my forehead. “Rest. Please. And stay put. No more going out. You’re my only witness against Hirokumi’s assistant. When we find her, I’ll need you to ID her.”
I looked into his incredibly blue eyes and smiled. No skull. No death mask. Just pure beautiful. But nothing could quell the niggling of danger I felt when he touched me.
Daniel, please don’t go—I’m afraid for your life.
He kissed me (mmmmm…) and left the room.
Rhonda was around the corner in an instant, and Tim and Steve appeared out of thin air. The truth is, they could have been there the whole time, invisible, and probably were.
“Okay—what the hell happened down there?” Rhonda sat on the bed with enough force that it popped me up a bit, and luckily freed up some of Mom’s tucked covers. “What did you do to it?”
I looked around for my board. Where was my board?
Rhonda had it.
I pushed myself up in the bed and wrote. DIDN’T YOU SEE? Steve sat down on the wicker chair beside the bed, and I was surprised when it actually creaked. Who knew ghosts had weight?
“We didn’t see anything. Other than her going at Daniel, then you swooping in all Wraithlike, then you both vanished. What happened?”
I shrugged. Aren’t ghosts supposed to have all the answers to these questions? I mean, when you die, aren’t you supposed to know all the answers?
Like wasn’t there this big stack of spook-lopedias somewhere? Or maybe a spectral library to look this stuff up?
I TOUCH HER SAME AS DEANGELO—SHE GO POOF. Mom pursed her lips. “You mean you released her spirit.” I looked at Mom. Scribble, scribble. Boy—my handwriting sucks. NO ONE SAW IT?
Rhonda looked at Nona, who looked at Steve, who looked at Tim. Tim shrugged. “Steve and I lost visibility when the circle went up. It was like watching things through a mist.”
Really? Wow. Didn’t know that could happen. And from the looks on their faces—they did.
Steve spoke. “Happens when Nona does one of her circles.” I looked back at Mom. YOU DO THIS OFTEN?
And, of course, like all good mothers who don’t want to talk about something with their daughters, she ignored me. “We didn’t see any more than what Steve’s already said. I am noticing you’re not as pink and healthy-looking as before. Maybe releasing Mitsuri wasn’t the same as releasing the elderly woman.”
Scribble. NOT ALIVE. ALREADY DEAD. MAYBE?
I leaned back into the pillows Daniel had fluffed up and thought over things.
Okay—so we have a Symbiont called the Archer hired by the Reverend to intimidate the vice president of a company that now has some sort of document of immortality of said Reverend. Have I lost anyone?
Good. Cause I’m toast on this one. None of it made sense. Not if you looked at it from a rational point of view.
And cut the crap—I can be rational.
Sort of. Well, maybe not when I’m sore and wanting sleep.
In the past few decades, rock stars, models, politicians, and even other men of the cloth have withstood sordid nastiness about their pasts. Okay—so we all did things we would avoid the second time through.
Like me—if I had second grade to do over—I’d have never eaten that—
Never mind.
The point is a reverend having a history in the porn industry just seemed so blasé. Capisce? I mean—it was bad drama. Not even TNT would touch this one.
And a reverend hiring a Symbiont—hell—a reverend having the connections to hire one—now that seemed a bit serious. If I had access to that kind of connection, then I’d have just sent the thing to steal the document back again.
Why send it to torture and kill a vice president, though memory from that night in Rollins’s office surfaced for me then (See? No control), and I remembered Rollins not being happy that Trench-Coat killed Tanaka.
And why have Mitsuri spying? And what the hell did she mean with all that vagueness? And what the hell had Mitsuri been all along? She obviously wasn’t a Symbiont, or even an astral Traveler. Maybe she was exactly what I’d assumed at that moment of her release—a lost soul.
I had this really uncomfortable feeling I was missing something. I knew Rollins had Hirokumi’s daughter—and yet the businessman hadn’t gone to the police.
Why not?
Did he plan on handling things on his own?
And was there something else—something a bit more serious—that Koba Hirokumi had on Theodore Rollins?
I’d originally thought I’d sneak out later and spy on Rollins again and find Susan, the daughter. But I was beginning to suspect my target shouldn’t be the good Reverend, but Hirokumi.
I suspected that man knew exactly what was going on.
Barring another one of those dragon things in the house, I thought it was high time I paid the president of Visitar a visit. I made my plans mentally as my eyes drooped closed and I drifted off into pleasant dreams of being fondled and kissed by cute, dark-haired men in red flannel.
24
A bee woke me up.
Or at least that’s what I thought it was. I cussed and smacked at the air over my head. But it continued to buzz around in the dark.
My feet were cold where the comforter and sheets had fallen away. Now why is it even when I sleep alone I get the sheets pulled off of me?
The buzzing continued and I suffered my usual irritation when my hair fell in my face, tangled and itching my nose.
I should have braided it before going to bed. Crap.
The bedroom had a small night-light shoved into the outlet to the right of my nightstand. I could see the window (still dark outside), the wicker chair, and my PDA phone. The phone lit up in pinks and blues and vibrated against the stand’s wood.
Oh. So that’s where the bee was coming from. I’d wondered how a small, annoying bug had gotten into the rhythm of buzz-buzz-buzz-pause so well. Someone was calling me.
And where had my phone come from? I didn’t remember having it last night. Unless Mom had gotten my personal effects from the morgue (Gah!) which I’m sure came from my car.
My car!
Moment of silence.
With a snort (the only noise being the air and mucus being driven forcefully fr
om my nose) I sat up fully, turned on the little lamp (Gah! It was my old Mary-had-a-Little-Lamb nursery lamp. Wow…and Mary’s head was missing) and grabbed up the phone.
The display had a generic picture for the caller ID. Incoming call. No shit.
I paused.
Oh hell. How am I supposed to answer it? I can say hello all day—er, night—and who’s going to hear me?
So I held it in my hand, waiting for it to switch over to voice mail. Whistle while you…
Damn—I couldn’t even whistle! Lips puckered up (and chapped) and no sound. Just air. When Trench-Coat cleans something out he does it all the way.
Goddamnitsonofabitchpoxonhispeck—
The little unit gave a short jolt and the prerecorded “New Message” came through in its little tin voice through the little tin speakers. I dialed voice mail and put the receiver to my ear.
“You have, one, new message. Message received 3:17, A.M.” It was three in the morning?
There was a pause, then another tinny, automated voice spoke. The words were staccato-like, and very creepy. In fact, it sounded like one of those prerecorded messages available on answering machines now. The kind that usually come on and say “Please. Leave. A. Message.”
“Hello. Miss. Martinique. This is. Maharba. At maharba. Dot. Com.”
!!!
“I have. Not received. My full report from. Tuesday. I am afraid. I am disappointed. With your performance. You have. Until noon today. To submit your true findings. On the meeting. If not. I will be forced. To take advantage. Of my. Knowledge. Of your. Unique. Ability.”
The automated T-Mobile response came on then. “If you would like to call back, please press—”
I hit the button for playback and listened to the message again.
What the fuck?
I’d sent in my report after my Fadó experience with Daniel. Of course I had left out a lot of what’d really happened, with Mitsuri and the dragon statue and me and then me becoming corporeal and all.
But how had Maharba gotten my cell number? Rhonda said she’d fixed it up to be impossible to discover my identity. I’d never had a client threaten me before.
And that was a threat if I ever heard one.
How did this asshole know about my unique capabilities? What did he mean by he’d have to take advantage of his knowledge? What knowledge? Did he know more about what it is that I did than I do?
Well—anybody knew more about it than I did. Hell—I’m sure the neighbor’s cat, Miss Lady, knew. She always hissed at me when I stepped outside my door in astral form.
I hung up the phone and started shaking. What did this guy—or girl for that matter—want? I’d assumed Maharba was Rollins at first—but that proved to be a bust.
I didn’t think it was Trench-Coat. But who else would know about my unique ability?
Ah! The mysterious Joe! Certainly he wasn’t Maharba—was he?
“Zoë?”
Okay—if I could have screamed, I’d have popped off a nasty one at that instant.
I looked to my left to see Tim materialize out of the air. He had his hand up in self-defense, and I tried to smack him. Insubstantial. I mouthed “You scared me,” but we all know how that came out.
I sighed and looked around for my board. My phone chimed. Two short noises. I had e-mail, I probably had a lot of e-mail, “It’s okay—I got it. Sorry.” Tim’s voice was quiet, and he looked pale. Well, pretty pale for a ghost. “What happened? Nona told me to stay here and watch out for you. We’re not in your protected condo”—he pointed to the roof indicating the whole house—“though she’s got some pretty powerful wards up. Sometimes they’re hard for Steve and me to pass through. But we’re not sure if they’re strong enough to keep the Archer from you.”
I nodded. Mom had him spying on me. I knew how she thought—and I have to admit—I had considered sneaking out and heading back to Rollins’s house to find Susan Hirokumi myself. I felt I was better equipped.
I pointed to the phone, then picked it up and dialed up voice mail. Then I hit the speaker so he could hear the message as well. His brown eyes widened, eight balls against a white pool table.
Wow, that was a really bad analogy. Sue me. I was tired.
My phone chimed again.
“Who is this Maharba dot-com person?”
Okay—where was the board? All this shrugging and making faces was giving me another headache. I found it on the floor on my side of the bed. I erased it with my fingers and scribbled. THOUGHT IT WAS ROLLINS—NO DICE. COULD BE MYSTERY JOE.
I then told him Maharba had been a regular client for about two years, and this was the first time he—she—it—had ever contacted me on the phone.
Tim pursed his lips. He looked different when he wasn’t scowling. Handsome. He just needed to get over his death. And oh like I could dispense this advice? I was terrified of dying. I was too afraid death would be me wandering around in my astral form with no physical place to hide.
That would suck. No body to enjoy the physical joys of living. Joys like eating.
No more cheesecake. No more ice cream.
No more sex! Yeah…like I’ve been real lucky in that department recently. Pout.
“Zoë—it has to be someone you know, or that’s known you for some time. You did give them a report?”
Isn’t it odd how when I thought of food I then thought of sex? And thinking of sex—I thought of Joe—
No! Daniel.
Dannnnyulll. Not Joe. Don’t know Joe. “Zoë?”
But Joe seemed to know me. Wasn’t very comfortable with that. “Zoë, hello?”
I blinked at him. Oh…question…give them a report. I nodded.
“And somehow they know you weren’t entirely truthful?”
I nodded again. I had told Maharba the two had met and been vague about enemies and finding Tanaka’s killer. Of course I’d left out the parts about the faceless secretary and the huge-ass dragon. At the time I’d thought those details a bit on the Sci Fi Channel side of life.
But after the dude’s threats—maybe those were the details he wanted. But why? If he already knew about them, why have me tell him?
Was Maharba a part of this whole freaky mess? Or an entirely new player?
I couldn’t exactly go to the police with this either. Especially not to Daniel—as he was the one that I’d been spying on for money. Chime. Hush phone!
“You might be onto something thinking it’s Joe.”
It wasn’t a far-fetched notion. Joe’d obviously known what I was from the start, and he’d known what to do to jump-start me back into my body from where ever I’d been. Had Rhonda even tried to look for him?
“Are you going to send another report?”
I GUESS SO.
“And Nona? Are you going to tell her about the threat?” Hrm. I didn’t have an answer for that one.
“She’s terrified you know. For you.” He gave me a slight smile, and I found myself really liking this little ghost more and more. Tim rarely came forward when partnered with Steve, so his personality tended to play in the shadow. “You’re her world, even if she doesn’t show it. She’s proud of you—and of what you can do.”
GOOD. THEN ASK HER WHERE MY FATHER IS.
Tim made a face.
Taboo subject. Worth a try.
Chime.
All freak’n right!
I snatched up the phone and scrolled through the menu to the e-mail. As I’d feared, there were a little over seven e-mails—all clients wanting information. All successful eBay transactions.
Great. I had jobs, and wasn’t paying attention. That just wasn’t like me. But I’d been a little preoccupied with life and death in the past few days.
I checked the dates on each, only vaguely aware that Tim had vanished. I was too late on one of them, the “meeting” having been the day before. I needed to get online and reverse the transaction with apologies.
That left six. Two divorce cases, three of what looked like informati
on-trading snoops—looking over someone’s shoulder and taking notes.
And then there was the last one.
It looked like a job. Had the proper header. And there was a transaction.
For one hundred thousand dollars.
One hundred thousand dollars!
Luckily I didn’t have a voice or I’d have just woken all of Little Five Points. I looked around the room, not really sure if I should get up and call my bank to see if the money was really there, or wake Mom up and tell her we were headed to Hawaii!
The message was brief.
Must meet IRL (in real life—for those like me that had to ask the first ten times or so). I need your help, and you’ll need mine to save Lieutenant Daniel Frasier. Meet me in Buckhead, the Storyteller. Dawn is safest.
To save Daniel?
Crap! Had something happened to him since he left here?
The message was dated today. Dawn. I checked the clock on my phone. It was now closer to four. So what time was dawn exactly? When did the sun come up? Like I would know these things? I usually did my jobs at night, hung out downtown, then slept way past the time when the sun said morning salutations.
I guessed it to be around sixish. Maybe. Crap. And it wasn’t like I could call Daniel and find out. It’d be a one-sided conversation with a lot of “Hello? Hello? Hell-oh!” from his end. Sheesh.
Well, at least if I heard him answer, I’d know he was okay. So I pulled his number out of my received call list and pressed connect.
“You’ve reached the voice mail of Lt. Daniel Frasier, APD. If you’d like to leave a message—”
I hung up. What was I going to do? Bang pots? He hadn’t answered, though. And I didn’t know if he had a land line at home. Nor did I know its number.
Crap. He could be in trouble and this person could be either A, the one who’d put him in danger or B, the one who could help me help him out of danger.
My mind skipped several moments ahead and questioned mode of transportation. I was in Little Five Points, and Triangle Park, where the Storyteller sat, was northeast, on the other side of downtown. MARTA ceased running at one o’clock and wouldn’t start back up till six.
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