by Harper, Lou
"Holy shit."
"No kidding. I went down to Mortonville to see the detective who'd been the lead on the investigation. He's retired now, and wasn't hard to get him to talk. Now check this out." Gabe paused, lifting the notepad, with a wait-for-it expression on his face. Denton itched to smack him, but fortunately he started talking again. "Detective Harris liked Carlton Gorman, Lyn Gorman's uncle for the murder."
"Fuckin-A." A tingling sensation of certainty rippled through Denton. This had to be it. Their spirit.
Bran, naturally, was skeptic. "Based on what?" he asked.
Gabe flipped a page. "A witness saw a dark van in the area where Lucy was most likely snatched. Carlton Gorman, who worked as a handyman, had a dark blue van. He didn't live in Mortonville but was at the time staying with his brother's family to help out in their home renovation. Detective Harris talked to him during the initial investigation, and from the start had suspicions of the guy."
"Not exactly a proof," Bran said.
"No. But there'd been four similar murders in Springfield—girls between the ages of twelve and seventeen kidnapped, raped, and murdered. All had their throats cut, one nearly decapitated. Guess who lived in Springfield?"
"Carlton Gorman," Denton guessed.
"Yes. I've learned all this from Detective Harris, but then I did a little more digging. Thanks to Augustine I got access to an official database of unsolved serial murders."
"Really? The old bat did it for you?"
"You know how he is about murders with bloodletting. I might have said something about possible vampire connection."
"You shrewd dog. So what did you find?"
"A cluster of dead and mutilated prostitutes in St. Louis during the same time period Carlton Gorman lived there. I know it's all circumstantial, but if you're looking for a ghost or whatever with a bad attitude, my money's on this guy." Gabe flipped another page and freed a black and white photo from under a paperclip holding it in place. He placed it in front of Denton.
Carlton Gorman was a good looking man, in his early thirties in the picture. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. Denton dropped the photo back to the table. "What happened to the Lucy Parks murder? Why didn't this Detective…"
"Harris."
"Yeah. Why didn't he get Carlton for it?"
"Not enough physical evidence at first, but mostly because by the time they found Lucy's body, Carlton was dead too. A simple accident—fell off a roof."
Denton caught himself playing with his eyebrow stud, but didn't stop—it helped him think. "So let's say Carlton was the serial killer. If his obsession was young girls, the evil part of him might have stayed behind and attached itself to Lyn. She was the right age. But she's older now and the spirit seems more connected to her son." Something he'd read recently tickled Denton's memory. He hunched forward and looked for Hiram Paine's journal on the coffee table, picking up magazines, notepads, bills waiting to be paid, and an orange. The journal wasn't there, nor on any of the shelves underneath. He hopped up and sprinted into the bedroom, but the damn thing wasn't on the bedside table either.
"Look under the bed," he heard Bran shouting after him. He did and there it was between two socks, one with orange and yellow stripes, the other blue with a pattern of parrots.
Dropping back onto the living room couch he opened the journal and kept leafing through till he found the relevant part. "Here it is. Hiram is asked for help by an old acquaintance. The lady friend is worried about her son, sixteen at the time, because the kid is out drinking and whoring, like his old man, who died when the kid was very young. However, Hiram knows the kid's not really the old guy's son—mom had a little dalliance back when. Or at least, I think that's what he's saying. It's hard to tell—he's so polite and roundabout on the subject. Anyway, Hiram figures out the kid is possessed by the spirit of the old dude, he banishes the spirit and everything's cool. The kid does a one-eighty, goes back to his studies and so on."
"Hiram?" Gabe asked.
"Oh, he was a necromancer of sorts, although he doesn't call himself by the name, back in the seventeen-hundreds, I think. At one point he mentions the Great Plague of Marseille and that was in 1720—I googled it. He writes about it as a semi-recent event. But back to my point, I think Carlton is trying to take over Sean."
Gabe closed his notebook. "You're the expert. My job is done. Unless you need anything else."
Denton thought about it, then shook his head. "Nothing I can think of. Thanks for everything. I owe you one."
Gabe stood. "Don't worry, I'll make you pay, but right now I gotta go. I've promised Harvey to meet him at the costume store before it closes."
Denton wondered what costume they'd be shopping for in February, but before he could ask, Gabe was out the door.
"You two get along well together," Bran noted.
"I guess." Denton reached for Carlton Gorman's picture. "It's time we shove you to the other side," he said to the man in the photo.
***
The plan was simple—summon the spirit, since now Denton knew its identity, and once it appeared blast it to the other side with a large dose of white light. The same as he'd done a few times before.
Bran helped to move the furniture and Denton set things up in the living room. He chose salt to draw the summoning circle. In the middle, surrounded by the requisite symbols, lay a photograph of Carlton Gorman. He drew the sign of summoning into the air and closed his eyes. Repeating the incantation cleared his mind from stray thoughts, and as white light filled him, the sounds of the city fell away too. He reached out with his mind, while calling for Carlton Gorman.
He felt darkness surround him, and the damp smell of decomposing vegetation, as he kept straining. He heard the sound of leaves rustling, but then the stink of an overflowing ashtray tweaked his nose, and he knew he was close. He stretched some more but something sharp and acrid hit all his senses. Horrific images flickered through his mind so fast he couldn't get a fix on any of them, and that was for the best. The darkness started to seep inside, consuming his light, and his focus wavered. Bile rose in his throat and with a cry he let go. He would've fallen flat on his ass if Bran wasn't there to catch him.
"Are you all right?" Bran asked. Deep grooves between his brows revealed true worry.
"Holy shit," Denton groaned as he scrambled to get his equilibrium back. He felt nauseated. "The motherfucker doesn't want to come. What the fuck is up with that?"
Bran didn't show surprise. "My mother always told me witchcraft is more intuition than science, and you're always flying by the seat of your pants. Or skirt, in your case." Bran tugged Denton to the couch and made him sit.
"You're not being terribly helpful," Denton snapped but immediately felt bad about it. "I'm a fucking necromancer; I'm supposed to command the dead as I please, aren't I?"
"Not really. As matter of fact, necromancy is about communicating with the deceased. It's another form of divination. Summoning and banishing are part of it, but they're not guaranteed to always work the same."
"Great. I somehow have a feeling I won't be able to simply talk the spirit Carlton Gorman into shoving off into the afterlife."
"No, I don't suppose so. Its connection to the boy must be growing stronger by the day. You've only been training for a few months, and have never had to deal with the spirit of a serial killer before."
"If only I had minions." Denton sighed. "I need to try again," he added, unconvinced.
"Absolutely not. You're pale. Well, paler than usual. Better rest." Bran nudged Denton.
Denton relented. His stomach roiled like the water in the gutters after a storm, and an impending headache gnawed at the edges of his brain. He gingerly lay down and took deep breaths hoping to keep the contents of his stomach where they were. Seeing Bran hovering over him, he remembered something he'd skipped over earlier. "Hey, did you make a joke about my kilt?"
"I might have." Bran draped a throw over Denton. "I'll make you tea—it'll make you feel bet
ter," he said and turned on his heels.
***
Denton had a restless night, full of shapeless dreams, but he was feeling better by morning. He had toast for breakfast, and coffee with lots of milk and sugar, against Bran's suggestion of more herbal tea. He needed the real stuff to make his brain work properly.
The defeated feeling from the previous night had fled in the morning light. Fresh new plans were forming in Denton's head. "I need to talk to Lyn Burke."
Bran put his own cup down. "Okay, and tell her what?"
"Well, if I can't summon the spirit to me, I'll have to go where it lives. I need to talk her into letting me do the banishing using her son."
"Would you like me to come with?"
"Uh…" It was a kind offer, but Bran wasn't exactly a people person. Denton figured his chances were better going alone. He couldn't say it, though, so his brain furiously searched for the right excuse. "Better not. She already knows me, but if it's the two of us she might feel threatened."
"You're right." Bran's voice was flat and his expression an unreadable mask.
***
The Starbucks was located half a block from Lyn's office. According to information Denton had gotten from Gabe, she was likely to stop by around between two and three in the afternoon. It was the time most people sought out the caffeine and sugar boost to counter the post-lunch sleepiness. Denton remembered it from his own corporate days. He arrived to Starbucks at 1:30, bought a grande Caramel Macchiato and a blueberry muffin and set up his laptop by the window, facing the direction from which he expected her to approach. The coffee shop was a bit too public, but visiting her at home, with her son and the spirit hanging about wasn't an option.
Lyn Burke appeared at twenty after two. Denton noticed her red coat first. She was alone, no ghost in tow. She didn't see him coming in, but on her way out her gaze swept over the patrons and came to a standstill when it reached Denton. He waved and she walked up to him.
"Funny to run into you here," she said.
"I was in the neighborhood." Well, it wasn't a lie. He was in the neighborhood. "But I'm glad you're here—I wanted to ask you something. Do you have five minutes?"
A frown of doubt started gathering on her forehead but she pulled out a chair and sat down.
Denton closed his laptop. "Look, I don't know where to start, so I'll just come out with it: I think you're being haunted by the ghost of your uncle. The one who died when you were a teenager."
Her face fell. "What are you talking about? How do you—" The words seemed to have stuck in her throat.
"I can see ghosts, and I saw one when we found you in the alley. I'm pretty sure it wanted to harm you. And I saw it again when I visited you at home. It was following your son around. I asked a friend who's a private investigator and that's how I found out about your uncle. I'm convinced the spirit is malevolent." Conflicting emotions of fear and anger flickered across her features, so Denton rushed on. "He was a heavy smoker, wasn't he? I could smell the cigarettes. I think the spirit wants to possess your son, but I can banish it, if you let me. It'll be tricky but—"
She leapt up so fast, her chair fell back with a loud clatter. "Stay away from me and Sean, you creep, or I'll call the police!" She whirled around and ran out of the store.
Denton sunk down into his chair. "Well, that went well," he murmured to himself. Maybe he should've brought Bran along. The deadly silence of the room got his attention. He looked up and saw every single pair of eyes staring at him, with various levels and kinds of loathing. It was time for him to leave.
Chapter Four
Denton told Bran about the disastrous meeting with Lyn Burke. He was leaning against the doorjamb to Bran's office. Bran sat by his desk—it was now even more laden with old books, with sticky notes in every color of the rainbow poking out of their pages. The cork board had acquired another layer of notes. New ones overlapped the old ones, but they all gave wide berth to Peter Lattimer's photo. The asshole smiled smugly at Denton.
"What do you plan to do now?" Bran asked.
Denton tore his gaze from the picture. "Honestly, I don't know. I'm going to look through my necro books and see if I can find a stronger summoning option, and then check Hiram Paine's journal in case it has something useful. I see you're busy." He made a gesture to encompass the desk and the cork board.
Bran's gaze strayed to the notes pinned on the latter. "Yes, I have a bit of a conundrum myself."
"Anything I can help with?"
"No."
Denton tried very hard to take this as Bran being matter-of-fact, and not as a rejection. He had a partial success. "A'ight. I'm off to read then."
But Denton barely cracked open his first tome when his phone rang with the frisky jingle identifying Joy.
"Ferret Face! I have a job for you and it's urgent! Good money in it too." Joy's words shot through the line like bullets.
"All right, all right. Slow down and tell me the details." Denton slammed his book closed.
She went on about her client, dropped balls, and asses in the need of saving. What it boiled down to was, Denton had to get cracking pronto. He poked his head into the study to inform Bran about the situation, and went back to his own apartment. It made sense if he was going to pull an all-nighter.
***
Denton didn't go to bed till the wee hours, and alone. He was tempted to sneak next door to Bran's place and crawl under the warm blankets, but he decided against it. He'd get more rest at his own quarters, he told himself, even though Bran's being a morning person never bothered him before. Who knew, maybe Bran stayed up late too, working on schemes to bring his first love back. At least the distance should keep the spectral frogs away, was Denton's last thought before dropping off.
The ringing of his phone waking him at 9 a.m. felt exceptionally cruel. He cursed himself for not having muted the damn thing, and since the ringtone was the generic one, he pulled the covers over his head and let the call go to voice mail. He barely closed his eyes when the phone rang again. Denton gave in and patted around the night table till his hand landed on his cell. He knocked something to the floor in the process but he couldn't care less.
"Hello?" he mumbled into the set.
"Denton? Denton Mills? It's Lyn Burke."
"How…" he yawned "…did you get my number?"
"It's in your LinkedIn profile."
"Oh." Denton vaguely remembered creating the account and then doing nothing with it. No matter.
"I'm sorry, did I wake you? Should I call back later?"
He wanted say yes and yes, but the anxiety in her tone stopped him. "No, I'm good. What can I do for you?" He kept the grogginess out of his voice.
"We need to talk."
"Okay, I'm listening."
"Not on the phone. Meet me today at Starbucks."
Denton saw potential problems. "Sorry, but I can't show my face there again."
"Oh. Sorry." There was a moment of pause and Denton could've sworn he could hear her biting her lips, although it was impossible. "Err…there's a sandwich shop across the street, Porky's. Can you be there at noon?"
"You got it," he assured her.
She said her grateful goodbyes and hung up. Denton reckoned her call was a promising sign, but there was not much to be done for a few more hours. Since he was awake already, he crawled out of the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. After relieving himself he shuffled on to the kitchen and fixed himself a large pot of coffee. Consequently, his trek to the living room happened on much steadier feet. Until he spotted the frog.
It was a bright green thing, with a pale underbelly, sitting on the outside sill of his third-story window. Through the glass it glared at him with bleary, bulging eyes. Denton stared back over the rim of his coffee cup with eyes only slightly less bleary and bulging. He put his coffee down and marched to the window. It was stuck and he had to put all his strength into wrenching it free. But when it finally opened he was greeted only with frigid February air. The frog was gone.
Denton surveyed the window sill—an inch of fresh snow covered it, soft as feathers. Even the small body of a frog should've left a mark, yet it stretched smooth and even.
Denton shut the window. "Fucking hell," he murmured to no one in particular and slumped onto the couch. His frog hallucinations kept reminding him of Peter. Bran's Peter. "Screw this," he said and went back to bed—though he set the alarm first.
***
Denton arrived early at Porky's but instead of going inside, he ducked into a nearby doorway and kept his eyes peeled for the red coat. He didn't have to wait long—Lyn rushed across the street a few minutes later. Only when he was sure she had no shadow did he followed her inside. She sat at a corner table for two. Fatigue had painted even darker shadows under her eyes then the last time Denton saw her, but her eyes lit up seeing him enter.
"How are you doing?" he asked sitting down.
She shrugged and motioned toward the plastic sign with the number 9 on the table. "I ordered a couple of sandwiches for us. I hope you don't mind but I don't have much time. They only make five different kinds here anyway and they're all good, but if you don't like—"
Denton decided to cut her fretting. "I'll eat anything. Don't worry about it. I'm here to listen to whatever you have to say."
She sucked her lower lip between her teeth and glanced around. When it was obvious no one was paying them the slightest attention, she began to talk in a hushed tone. "I'm sorry for reacting yesterday like I did. You scared me."
"I apologize. I didn't mean to."
"No, it's…you were right. Or could be. I wouldn't have had such a fright if I hadn't known deep down something was wrong, and for a long time. My dreams and Sean…he worries me so much. Some days he's a perfectly normal little boy, and then he does or says something vile and I wonder…" Her voice trailed off and she sighed, but pulled herself together. "I was up all night thinking about what you said. I didn't sleep a wink."
