The process was turning out to be unusually difficult (as I had feared); a case that Harrison Investigations should not have taken on to begin with. But Melissa had made a rash offer, I had been forced to honor it, and now I was stuck in the position of trying to do something I was fairly sure could not be done.
I had not gotten all the way into the basement—I believe my hairline was still between floors—when I noticed our client sitting in a corner opposite the furnace, looking at a box of toys Alison had stored from when Melissa was some years younger.
He was sifting through the admittedly disorganized carton, discarding dolls and toy jewelry in favor of some of Melissa’s more aggressive playthings, chiefly small superhero action toys that were sometimes included in fast food children’s meals. He did not seem to notice me as I descended, so I ducked quickly behind the furnace to avoid his attention, and watched him.
Normally, I would never spy on a client, or anyone else who was not a target of surveillance for an investigation. But in this case, Antinanco had been as mysterious as the puzzle he was asking us to solve, so observing him while he was unaware he was being watched had some utility. When people are alone, they exhibit their true character traits; no one is there (or at least, no one of whom they are aware) to see them, so they have no need to project a positive image and can do what they please.
Antinanco was choosing to play with Batman toys.
That in itself was not terribly noteworthy; the boy, no matter how many centuries he had been dead, had not aged. He was still an eight-year-old child, and they will play with figures, project personalities onto them and pretend to have great adventures. Any eight-year-old boy would be happy to play Batman.
Any eight-year-old boy from the twentieth or twenty-first centuries, anyway.
It was possibly true that Antinanco had been existing in the house at 123 Seafront or somewhere near it for some time, and he had himself said he was cognizant of current trends in popular culture. So the fact that he was aware of Batman was only slightly odd; surely he would have had the chance to observe books or television programs featuring the character. So his accurate depiction of Batman (in Antinanco’s version, he was battling with the Joker—represented here by his left hand, whose fingers opened and closed while the character “spoke”—over some enormous jewel being played by a plastic ring Melissa had owned) did not indicate anything strange on its own.
What caught my attention were the toys Antinanco was choosing not to play with. Like many children, Melissa had apparently gone through a “cowboys and Indians” phase; the collection of toys scattered when Antinanco had been searching for a worthy plaything indicated she’d had a fairly healthy fascination. There were native headdresses, headbands, and small plastic figures that the boy would certainly recognize as his own people.
Antinanco appeared not to be the least bit interested in them.
Again, on the surface, that was not especially odd. But he had evinced such pride in his heritage that his decision to eschew the plastic figures that looked like himself or people he had once known was telling. The problem was I couldn’t understand what it was telling me.
Perhaps now I needed two translators.
Antinanco’s game went on for quite a while. At one point Batman appeared to be menaced by a Tyrannosaurus Rex, whose name appeared to be Mr. Rex, summoned by the Joker, but he managed to subdue it with the help of . . . I couldn’t make out all of what Antinanco was saying. I did not make any noise, but nevertheless he eventually glanced up in the direction of the boiler, and saw me. His eyes rounded and widened and he appeared to panic; he drew in a sharp breath (or the airless equivalent).
“Don’t worry, Antinanco,” I said. “It’s just me.”
Apparently that information wasn’t soothing enough, however, because Antinanco vanished. Literally. He was no longer there. When people like me vanish, that’s exactly what we do.
I called his name a few times, but he did not reappear, and to be honest, I did not expect that he would. But it was difficult to think of anything else to do.
It is times like these that I most envy Maxie for her ability to break free of this property. If I could get out into the world, I might not feel so limited in my abilities. I might not be trying to conduct an investigation with the feeling that I had my eyes blindfolded and my hands tied behind my back.
In fact, I might not be so bored and frustrated that conducting investigations for ghosts would ever seem like a good idea.
This case had a client who didn’t seem to want us to succeed. I was inches from just admitting that failure to our eight-year-old client, and telling him he’d best simply move on with the rest of his existence and leave me to mine.
Truth be told, the only thing holding me back was the idea that before I told Antinanco, I would have to say the same thing to Melissa. She is something of an idealist, and disappointing her is the last thing any of us wants to do.
Maybe Loretta’s promised work would yield some information. Maybe the native woman who had appeared in the library would come back with someone who spoke English. Maybe I could still make some sense of this case, even as it seemed to make less sense to me with each passing minute.
I had come down here to exit the conversation between Maxie and Alison, but with a larger purpose in mind: I was going to try to communicate with a broader population of spirits than I had ever attempted to contact before, and hope that in that enormous group—if I could reach them—there would be someone who could help me.
As each time I had done this before, I focused on clearing my mind. At other times I could simply use a meditation technique like thinking of one word or one feeling, but now I was more agitated than usual, so I relaxed by trying to remember every word and note of “Missing” by the duo Everything But the Girl, which was a hit in Canada when I was growing up. That helped take my mind off my anxiety, and then I could begin to send the message I had rehearsed.
This was a direct request, a plea to any spirits of the Lenni-Lenape nation. If there were some out there—and even I wasn’t sure where “out there” might be—who could provide information about Jaci, or who could translate for me with the woman from the library, I made it clear that their appearance in the house would be extremely helpful. This was not expressed in words, exactly, but I made sure that I knew what I wanted, and then wanted it as fervently as I could muster. If I were successful, those of us who can communicate this way might pass the plea along to others. The population of all of us who have died but remain earthbound is enormous.
When I was cognizant of my surroundings again, I took some time to await any responses that might be coming immediately; there were none. So I made my way to the carton of toys and began to replace the ones Antinanco had been using. I didn’t want Melissa—or worse, mice—to get the blame for strewing them about the room if Alison came downstairs. Focusing on the objects in order to manipulate them helped me to concentrate again on the here and now, and not the mental netherworld I had recently been inhabiting.
In replacing the items, I considered each toy as an insight into Melissa’s psyche; it is an investigator’s exercise to strip away all emotion and determine what every object a person displays or owns can reveal about that person. The Batman and Superman figures were more or less generic; they were from fast food meals, but the fact that Melissa had chosen to keep them, particularly when moving from one home to another, clearly meant that they had some significance. They had obviously also attracted Antinanco’s eye.
The Indian figures, which were smaller and less detailed, like green Army soldiers with a solid base so the figures could stand independently, had also clearly been coveted by their original owner. They were in excellent condition though worn around their sharper edges, showing they’d been played with often. There was no trick in understanding why Eagle of the Sun might find these comforting or significant. Yet
he had taken them out of the carton, then decided against playing with them.
It wasn’t until I considered the small molded plastic dinosaur that something really began to bother me, but I couldn’t really put my finger on what it might be. I put the dinosaur into the pocket of my pants, and rose up through the unfinished ceiling back into Alison’s kitchen. After all this time, I can pretty much pinpoint my entrances and exits, and take pride in my precision. No one else seems to notice, but the reward is in the doing. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
The kitchen was empty but for Alison when I got there. She was sitting at the center island drinking a cup of tea and looking off into space. I felt like I was intruding, and would have gone elsewhere if my movement hadn’t caught her eye. She regarded me quizzically.
“Where’ve you been?” she asked. “It’s not like you to run from a good fight.” She must have meant the argument between herself and Maxie that I had used as a cover to escape to the basement.
“I didn’t feel like I had anything to contribute,” I told her. That was true, if irrelevant.
“Well, you missed a corker,” Alison said. “I’m pretty sure that at one point, Maxie threatened to take off her clothes and appear to the guests by covering herself in chocolate syrup.”
“You don’t think she’d really do that,” I admonished.
“I don’t doubt for a second that she would,” Alison said with a hint of a smile. “But I really don’t think she will.”
“You two have an interesting relationship,” I said, but my attention wandered to a native woman, this one younger than the previous one I’d seen in the library, floating into the kitchen from the driveway side of the house. She appeared in traditional dress: a skirt made of an animal’s hide, although I could not definitively identify the species, and her hair pulled back severely and held with a clasp that appeared to consist of feathers from an unidentified bird. She peered into the room like a nearsighted person who had forgotten her eyeglasses.
I quickly glanced at Alison, to check whether she could see our new visitor. I gave it a 50/50 chance she’d notice the woman who now called out to me in a language I presumed to be Unami.
“We don’t get along except when we get along,” Alison said, responding to my comment about her and Maxie, a good sign that Alison appeared not to have heard the woman call to me.
“I suppose not,” I said absently. “How long until the next spook show?” I could see the clock perfectly well, but I wanted to set up an exit.
“You have an hour and a half,” Alison answered, a little puzzlement in her voice. “Why, do you have something special planned?”
I tried to look nonchalant as I rose up. “I don’t know yet,” I said. “Maybe I’ll appear covered in chocolate syrup.” The native woman appeared to understand that she was to follow me upstairs, and rose as I rose. Alison did not turn at her movement.
“Let me know. I’ll sell special tickets.” Alison grinned, a particularly endearing look on her.
“Start printing them up,” I said, for a brief second wondering if . . . no. We were just bantering. Sometimes I forget.
“No, really,” Alison said. “Are you planning something new?”
“I’m working on something,” I lied as I reached the ceiling. “Not sure if it’ll be ready.” I ducked up through the ceiling fan and into the next level before Alison could answer. The native woman followed me.
I did not speak until we were in Melissa’s room in the attic. I’d hoped Maxie would be there, but unfortunately she wasn’t. I don’t like going into Melissa’s room when she’s not there and hasn’t invited me, but it was where I thought we’d have the most privacy. This was the best place to conduct an interview.
The woman continued to speak in Unami, so I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Do you speak English?” I took up a position away from the loft bed and near Melissa’s pile of stuffed animals, and perched on the radiator (it was probably hot, but I had no idea—like food and sleep, hot and cold were bodily concerns no more).
The woman considered for a moment, and nodded. “Little bit,” she said. I’d hoped for someone who’d become more fluent over hundreds of years, like Antinanco, but this was certainly an improvement over our first visitor, so I smiled.
“Good,” I said. “Did you hear me call before? Is that why you’re here?”
Again, a nod. “You need help,” she said slowly. “Talking Unami.”
I encouraged her with a nod of my own. “What is your name?” I asked.
She dropped her eyes, then looked back up, as if she didn’t know whether to be subservient or defiant. “I am Butterfly,” she answered. She did not give a Unami name.
I nodded. “Thank you for coming, Butterfly. A boy is here. A boy of the Human Beings. Trying to find his mother, but I speak no Unami. Do you know a woman of the Human Beings called Jaci?”
Butterfly looked down. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was embarrassed to make eye contact—I did not know the customs of the Lenni-Lenape—or because she was dejected. But she shook her head. “No Jaci,” she said. “Not our name.”
“This would be a Tupi woman,” I assured her, following Antinanco’s lead. “Taken from another nation. The wife of Chief White Eyes.”
This time Butterfly did make eye contact, and her expression indicated that I must be quite insane. “Tupi?” she repeated. “We have no Tupi with us. White Eyes not with us. He goes West. But we hear of him. Did not take a Tupi woman for his own.”
I felt myself frown. “Did he have a son?” I asked. Maybe that would be a thread to research.
“One son,” she answered. “With white woman.”
Now, that was interesting. “Did the son die as a boy?”
Butterfly shook her head delicately. “Young man. Go to school. Now call it . . . Princeton.”
Since Antinanco was clearly too young to have attended college, no matter how bright he might be, the idea that he was White Eyes’s son was losing credibility by the second. “How can I find other Human Beings?” I asked her.
“We stay together, even now. Don’t talk much to the white people.” That could explain why she wasn’t as culturally assimilated as Antinanco.
“Are you in touch with them? Other women? A woman who lost a young boy to smallpox?”
She actually sneered at that point. “Every woman in the nation lose children to smallpox,” she said. “We did not know it was in blankets.”
Suddenly it occurred to me to tell her I was Canadian, but my half-British blood was not unsullied with the guilt of what had happened to the natives on the American continent. I nodded. “That was very bad,” I said. “Please. I want to find this boy’s mother so they can be together again. Do you know anyone who can help?”
Butterfly shrugged, which seemed incongruous. “The boy does not give you the truth,” she said. “Other Human Beings probably hear you too, and not answer because they do not know.”
“One last thing,” I said. I fished the small plastic dinosaur from my pocket and showed it to her. “Do you know what this is?”
She looked at me oddly, then considered the object. “A totem?” she asked.
I supposed it was. “After a fashion,” I said. “Can you tell what it represents?”
Butterfly looked at the dinosaur again, carefully. “Maybe a lizard,” she said. “But not like one I have ever seen.”
That made sense. I put the dinosaur back into my pocket. “You have come from very far away,” I said. “I am grateful for your effort. Thank you for answering my call. You honor me.”
“It is our way,” Butterfly answered, and then she was gone. These abrupt departures tend to freak even me out a little. But now I was starting to have an idea of what this case was about.
6
“We ha
ve to be prepared,” I told Maxie and Melissa. “When Antinanco comes back again, we have to know what we’re going to say and,”—I looked directly at Maxie with some emphasis—“how we’re going to say it.”
“What’d I do?” she asked.
“You have a tendency to sound like a tough guy in a gangster movie,” I pointed out. “If you scare the boy, we might lose every chance we have to reunite him with his mother. He could flee and never come back here again.”
“Oh, like I’m so scary.” Maxie has an interesting self-image, which I believe might be at odds with how the world actually sees her.
“Maybe you should let Paul do most of the talking,” Melissa suggested. “He never scares anybody.” She grinned at Maxie. “Not even when he’s trying to.”
Maxie giggled. “You’re right.” She began her rather crude impersonation of me, saying, “Ooh, I’m Paul. I’m a ghost. I’m scaaaaaaaary.” I assure you, I’ve never said such a thing, in my life or otherwise.
“Then we’re agreed, I’ll talk to Antinanco,” I reiterated, ignoring her antics.
Melissa’s phone made a buzzing noise, indicating a text, so she pulled it out of her pocket and read the message. “Grandma says . . . hang on, it’s tough to figure out since she doesn’t like to use vowels. . . . OK, she says she’s on her way and will be here in five minutes.” Melissa looked up at me, which made me realize I was close to the ceiling. Sometimes I lose my sense of perspective, and when people like me don’t pay attention, we can drift in virtually any direction.
“Excellent,” I told Melissa as I brought myself back down to approximately floor level. Alison was downstairs, seeing to her guests and probably setting up one of the “meet-and-greets,” which meant Maxie and I would have to submit ourselves to curious tourists asking the same standard questions. I like to help Alison keep her guesthouse operating, but sometimes the procedures we have to endure are just a little embarrassing. No, I actually can’t get in touch with every single one of your deceased relatives. I’m sorry, but even eternity doesn’t offer that kind of free time. “Once your grandmother makes her report, I think I’ll be able to find a way to contact the boy’s mother.”
A Wild Ghost Chase Page 5
