Will was so horrified by what had happened to the Tears of the Spirit that he didn’t anticipate her movement. Letting her wrist go like it was on fire, he went down like a bag of cement in the San Francisco Bay. So much for the big amazing sorcerer warrior.
Penelope stared down at him as he fought to recapture his breath. For a moment she almost felt guilty. He hadn’t tried to hurt her, but then she hadn’t given him the chance. A cold thought entered her brain. She bent over him and rifled his pockets. Coming out with a little leather bag tied with a beaded leather thong and a plain leather wallet, she straightened up. He was fighting for air and twitched spasmodically, looking at her with not fear in his eyes but impatient longing. She twirled away and ran. A moment later she heard his faint call. “Wait! Wait, dammit! They’re waiting for you!”
She didn’t stop. As a matter of fact, the only time that Penelope hesitated was when she mentally kicked herself for not getting back into the Jetta. How had he found me? There was no way that someone could have followed me home. And Jeremy wouldn’t have given me up. He never would do that. It hadn’t been Jeremy the night before. It couldn’t be true! She wanted to scream with frustration. It just wasn’t possible!
Penelope pocketed the items she had purloined from Will and hit the stairs running. She was coming down the second floor landing when she heard the door below clank hollowly as someone opened it. She stopped. Will’s words came back to her. ‘They’re waiting for you!’
Someone else’s words floated up to her. “Pa-nel-o-pee,” it called. Then it was Jeremy, and he sounded as empty as echoes in the stairwell. “Penelope,” he said, “it’s not too late.”
And the frigidly cold tones of the beautiful woman said, “Come now, thief. Give us what belongs to Anthony, and we’ll let you go, safe and sound.”
Ignoring the rash of chills running loosely down her spin, she thought, So who the hell is Anthony? Penelope spun around and headed back upstairs as quickly as one in her position could. No point in being trapped in a place that didn’t have any other exits.
Penelope climbed the stairs and skipped the third floor door. It wouldn’t matter anyway since she had left their cohort writhing on the floor there. And that thought was almost enough to bring a smile to her face. They could be hurt. If they could be hurt, then they could be killed.
The stairwell abruptly ended with a flat wall. Attached to the wall was a ladder, and at the top of the ladder was a little trapdoor that led to the roof. There wasn’t much need to be on the roof, but the builders of the structure had left it for some reason, and it was about to help save Penelope’s derrière. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she couldn’t see anyone, but the massive footfalls of something approaching rapidly let her know that she was not alone.
Climbing the stairs, Penelope pushed the unlocked trapdoor up and out of her way. It hit the roof with a loud sound that announced to one and all where she was, and she exploded out onto the topmost part of the car park. Slamming the door back down with her foot, she looked for something to block it with. A speedy glimpse showed her that she wasn’t the first to be on the roof of the car park nor would she be the last. There were a couple of beat up camp chairs sitting nearby and a pile of empty Schlitz Malt Liquor bottles. She grabbed one of the stools.
Jamming the leg into the hasp on top of the roof, she effectively blocked the doorway for the time being. Then the door hopped like an insane Mexican jumping bean and settled back into place. The aluminum of the camp chair had bent nearly in half. Penelope’s eyes widened in incredulous shock. The camp chair wasn’t going to hold, and she wasn’t going to be safe for very much longer. I’m not safe now, anyway. Who said I was safe?
Penelope ran along the edge of the roof looking down at what was situated around the building. There certainly wasn’t a river conveniently flowing past, and there wasn’t a great overgrown oleander bush to cushion a fall. There wasn’t even a group of firemen with a giant blanket spread out between them to catch her as she fell.
Stopping in the place that was the farthest away from the little trapdoor, Penelope looked around anxiously. If she fell, she would probably break something, preferably her neck. If she slid down the wall and let herself drop, she most likely wouldn’t be able to catch the next floor’s cement walls.
It was then that the trapdoor burst open behind her, and Penelope closed her eyes.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday, July 5th
Slipgibbet (slang, origin probably 18th century English) - a person who cleverly escapes hanging from the gallows
Penelope’s eyes snapped open at the same time that the thing in the mask wedged itself into the undersized trapdoor. A low growl of unmitigated frustration emitted from the mouth under the mask. It surged upward again, and the roof groaned in response, but the trapdoor and its frame were constructed out of very solid steel. Muscles and lumps bulged and rippled under the black robe, and once more it made an attempt to go upward. Mismatched eyes glared down the length of the roof at her, but it wasn’t going anywhere.
The seatco, was that the word that the oh-so-helpful Will had called him or it, endeavored to pull itself downward instead, and the frame wailed with protest. Penelope couldn’t quite believe it. The thing was stuck there. It growled angrily again, too irate to do anything but jerk up and down in a futile effort to free itself.
Penelope looked swiftly around again. Empty bottles of Schlitz could be used as a weapon, but she preferred escape. As long as Mr. Dumb Big and Frightening was blocking the only way up to where she was, she was safe. Relatively speaking, she considered. He wasn’t going to stay there forever, and besides, the steel frame was already warped with his struggle to liberate himself. Not long. Not long at all. Time to use your noggin, Pen.
Swiftly she scanned the length of the roof. It seemed as though there was only one way down. The hard way. She scuttled to the opposite end and surveyed the edge of the roof. The seatco was making strange noises as if someone were ramming a red-hot poker into its butt in an attempt to motivate it. It made Penelope’s skin crawl.
The roof groaned for a third time, and this time she heard the cracking of the wood studs that made up some of the non-load bearing infrastructure. The frame had been attached to the wood studs around it, and the frame was not giving out. But the wood was and a lot more quickly than she would have liked. Penelope glanced in that direction and saw the huge thing pull one of its incompatible arms loose and place the hand on the flat of the roof. The tone of its growling cries changed to something akin to success over its situation.
A great ball of something unknown seemed to stop itself in the middle of Penelope’s craw. She had trouble identifying it at first but became aware that she was trembling. She looked behind her and saw nothing that would help her. Then she froze.
There was something there. Painted the same color as the concrete walls, and considering the few lights up here and the street lights pointing toward the street, she had initially missed it.
Sparing another glance at the thing ripping and wrenching its way out of the undersized trapdoor, she saw that it was only concerned with freedom. Penelope slipped over the side of the wall and grasped the drain that was fixed to the side of the building. It was only a few inches in diameter, but it had been firmly attached in order to allow rain water to empty off the roof. Metal hinges creaked in response to her sudden weight.
Penelope let her arms take her weight and her muscles strained with the effort. Swiftly she let herself down, and her last look at the thing working its way out of the trapdoor was that of something wiggling its massive shape through the mangled opening. Shimmying her way down the drainpipe wasn’t like sliding down a rope, but it was better than dropping to the ground. She didn’t dare stop on the third floor to retrieve the Jetta because of the man who had said his name was Will and the woman he had called Merri, but she knew where her landlord, Sammy, kept a spare set of keys for his 1963 Ford Thunderbird.
As soon as Penel
ope’s feet hit the ground, and she looked skyward to ascertain that the people chasing her were not onto her method of escape, the trembling in her limbs lessened. “Hope springs eternal,” Jacob Quick had said on many occasions. Oh, Pop, he had a million of them, and it’s times like this that I remember them and how useless they are at the present. She didn’t waste a moment and headed for the back of the house where she lived and where Sammy kept his pristine baby blue Thunderbird with the white leather interior.
*
Harcourt discovered fairly quickly that there wasn’t anything in the basement except a mostly dirt floor, an empty safe, and a workbench that had a bunch of brand-new tools strewn across it. There was a hole in one wall where something had once been, but Harcourt couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what it had been. One wall was freshly grouted brick.
“That was the only way to get the safe into the basement,” Anthony explained.
Harcourt didn’t turn around. He found that he didn’t care much for the ambiance in the dank area. It smelled of sweat, must, and something that he compared to the butcher he worked at when he was sixteen years old. The house had a distinct smell of death around it. But it was more than just the disconcerting smell. He likened the worrying feeling that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up to the story about the murdered family. Death had occurred here and in such a gruesome manner that it had tinged the entire property. In short, it was giving him the screaming willies. “Why not put the safe upstairs?” he asked finally.
“The floors are not reinforced enough for the weight.” Anthony’s voice floated eerily across the hollow-sounding basement. He was standing in the same place that he had stopped when they had descended to the lowest level, as calm and motionless as a completely innocent individual. “And we have to consider whether or not a modern safe fits into the architectural scheme of renovation.”
“Why put in a safe at all?”
“That is similar to the question of why should we rewire the house,” Anthony said, his voice sounding hollow behind Harcourt.
Harcourt turned his head enough so he could see Anthony out of the corner of his eye. There was a single dim light bulb near the entrance to the basement, but flashlights were needed for the remainder. It was like being in a huge black void, and Harcourt was reminded of a childhood trip to Carlsbad Caverns. Empty, nothingness, strange, and lightless.
“Rewire the house?” Harcourt repeated. He shook off the odd feeling he had and thought about Anthony Littlesoldier’s explanation of the missing Chevy Suburban. It didn’t have any holes in it, but it didn’t ring true. Harcourt didn’t have a single reason to doubt Anthony, but he did. “I don’t understand.”
“Renovation is the process of overhaul,” Anthony explained. “Depending on the laws of the city or county in which we are working there are certain mandates that require restoration rather than renovation. Restoration is the process of bringing something back to its original state. A 19th century house in its original, albeit perfect condition, would be hugely unusable. Most cities and boards that govern construction codes realize that, and such historical eyesores such as this house,” he waved his hand around him, “are only required to restore the exterior. Consequently, we renovate the interior. We leave the original amenities that make it a grand home. Hardwood floors, the mahogany and oak grand staircase, the finely detailed fretwork and wainscoting. But we add certain indispensable modern details.”
“The modernized electrical work,” Harcourt murmured.
“Yes, and the safe as well, along with a dozen other niceties. Modern conveniences in the kitchen are essential. An up-to-date, high-end bathroom. Centralized air conditioning and heating that are retrofitted into the existing space so that it isn’t disrupted. The safe, however, comes first and is used for paperwork, payroll, etc., by the company.” Anthony crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve found that protecting one’s assets is a necessary evil.”
“But you’ve said that you don’t have any valuables other than some of the Native American artwork,” Harcourt said easily. He turned this time, and his flashlight lit up the dirt floor between them. The dirt appeared as though it had been freshly turned by a hoe.
The detective inside him couldn’t help but wonder what was buried in the basement. His experience only indicated one thing that would be hidden there.
Anthony noticed Harcourt’s interest. “We were looking for a water line.”
“Water line,” Harcourt repeated. He took another long look around the room. Something stunk. It really reeked. There was no question of that. It smelled bad literally and figuratively.
“Finished, detective?” Anthony said plainly. It was clear that his patience was at an end.
When Harcourt’s flashlight was pointed toward the door, he saw something that made him pause. He reached down and retrieved a little Mini Mag. It was a small flashlight that had a pinpoint light and ran on two double‘A batteries. Harcourt didn’t know anyone that used one who wasn’t a crook or plain old stupid. He twisted the tiny flashlight and realized the batteries were dead. “Who does this belong to?”
Anthony shrugged. “A workman? Gas meter guy? Who knows?”
“Uh-huh.” Harcourt nodded and strolled over to Anthony. “Do you mind if I keep it?”
“Not at all,” Anthony said. His arms uncrossed over his chest and Harcourt recognized the intent expression on his face. The police detective knew that if he prodded more the façade would crack. But what would it reveal?
Harcourt was stumped. He hadn’t an earthly clue. He dropped the Mini Mag into his pocket and said, “Mr. Littlesoldier, I sure don’t know what…” then his radio went off and alerted on an “all-officers” response to a liquor store robbery not a half mile away from where he stood. That wasn’t good. It indicated that someone had been shot, possibly killed. He frowned. “I’ve got to go. I appreciate your time, sir.” He headed for the narrow door leading to the upstairs.
Anthony followed at a more leisurely clip. He put the Glock back into the waistband of his black jeans from where he had removed it seconds before. It had been concealed in the shadows of the room while the detective had poked and prodded. He smiled to himself as Harcourt thundered up the stairs, clearly in a hurry to leave the residence. It didn’t really matter if Harcourt was coming back. If the seatco and the witch hadn’t succeeded with the thief, then he had the security company that had installed the safe. One of those men had given the combination to the thief, and he would know where she was to be found.
*
Will regained his breath and climbed to his feet. He heard the heavy slam of the stairwell door and started after her, trying not to drag one uncooperative foot. How had such a little woman managed to get the upper hand? Now it didn’t matter that he had her name and her address; she knew that he knew. She wouldn’t come back here until the heat was off. Therefore it was imperative that he caught her before she vanished again. Fortunately for him she hadn’t climbed back inside her VW Jetta and sped away like the spirit-like being she seemed to be.
And the thief had his wallet and his medicine bundle with the protective fetishes inside.
He stopped suddenly. The skin across his back began to ripple with the onslaught of perceived horrors to come. They’re here. In the stairwell with her. He could feel it like the wretched breath of the seatco expelling its stagnant filth upon the air of the world. And she was there too. Merri. The being who was once Merri, who was now something else. Something dreadful and terrifying. In a moment, they would sense him as well, and capturing him would be a great coup for Anthony. It would be another step in Anthony’s personal quest to end this world for the appalling reality of the next.
Stumbling backwards, Will knew he couldn’t help Penelope Quick now. In all likelihood her luck had run out. He turned back toward the VW. Using a booted foot he broke out the safety glass in the driver’s side window and began to search the car as quickly as he could, hoping to find the Tears of the Spirit. It wasn�
��t there.
If the girl had the gemstone with her, then she was truly dead.
The agonizing howl of the seatco came echoing down to Will. He perked up. It didn’t sound as though the beast were happy, which might very well mean that the thief had eluded them once again. Swiftly and with returning strength, he limped to the side of the car park building and looked out. A trim figure in too-loose shoes ran down the street and kept to the shadows as she went. As far as he could tell, nothing was following her.
Damn, he thought incredulously. She got away…again. A true spirit sent by the gods.
Will hurriedly climbed into his rented Lexus before the shit hit the proverbial fan and exited the building with great alacrity. He didn’t know how he was going to find Penelope Quick again. But he had a good idea about how it might work. First he was going to get some desperately needed sleep.
*
Penelope found Sammy’s 1963 Ford Thunderbird right where he obsessively parked it behind the house. For some reason, he habitually left the keys on an Elvis key chain tucked under the sun visor. So much for car alarm systems, she thought. She started it up, grateful that it was kept in immaculate mechanical condition by her landlord, and was pleased to hear it purr.
Her hands stopped trembling as she shifted into ‘drive.’ She let the parking brake go and saw the shades in Sammy’s window go up. It was too dark and a little too far away for him to see who was sitting in his prized possession, but she saw his mouth open up as he yelled a prolonged string of virulent obscenities directed at her lineage and general personage. “Sorry, Sammy,” she muttered and drove away.
With a lingering look down the street toward the car park, Penelope drove in the opposite direction, using every bit of the eight cylinders under the hood of the ‘Bird. For a moment, Jeremy popped into her mind, friendly, dogmatic, energetic.
Shadow People Page 12
