Polterheist: An Esther Diamond Novel

by Laura Resnick

  “I had a feeling,” I muttered.

  “I’ll have you know, Connor, I was still recovering from the brawl this woman started in the cosmetics section—”

  “I didn’t start a—”

  “—when I got here and found her assaulting your father!”

  “Now, Bridget,” said her husband, “I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Lopez grumbled, shaking his head and staring abstractly at the floor.

  “And if you think that I will accept this—this—this deranged elf as the mother of my grandchildren, Connor Lopez, then you have got another thing coming!”

  “Whoa!” I said. “How did you get from ‘we’re not dating’ to me giving him children?” I could see it really was a mania with her.

  “This is a family matter!” she snapped at me, offended that I had intruded.

  “Oh, come on, of course this is happening,” Lopez muttered schizophrenically to himself. “Don’t pretend you weren’t expecting it, one way or another. No, dreading it. Be honest. Why else—”

  “But at least we know now why you’re not arresting her,” his mother added critically. “I suppose doing your duty by your father would interfere with your love life!”

  “Now, Bridget—”

  “What love life?” Lopez said morosely.

  “I’m very disappointed in you, Connor.”

  “Yes, I think we’ve established that, Mom.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I thought she’d be on the fourth floor,” Lopez replied, as if this explained everything.

  “What?” his mother said.

  He sighed. “Never mind.”

  I feared we’d be trapped in family hell all evening if I didn’t change the subject. So I said, “I hope you’re feeling all right now, Mr. Lopez? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Oh?” said his wife. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have kicked him in the head.”

  “Mom, can we stop now? You’ve made your point.”

  “It wasn’t my head, querida, it was more—”

  “Connor, I insist that you—”

  “Pop, maybe you should sit down for a minute,” Lopez said loudly, taking his father’s elbow and guiding him toward Karaoke Bear’s sparkly platform. “You just got kicked—”

  “Not there!”

  They all stopped speaking and stared at me.

  I realized I had sounded a tad hysterical.

  I took a deep breath and glanced at Karaoke Bear, who was still lying on his little stage. Thinking fast, I said, “All of a sudden the bear short-circuited and toppled forward, toward . . .” I gestured to Mr. Lopez, then said to him, “I was afraid you’d get a nasty electric shock or something if he fell against you.”

  They all continued staring at me.

  Mrs. Lopez was the first to find her voice—which I suspected was usually the case. “So kicking my husband was your solution? You couldn’t just have said something to him?”

  “I did,” I said, annoyed that she wasn’t receiving my explanation with more grace.

  “She did,” Carlos said gently to wife. “She shouted, but I didn’t understand—”

  “The bear short-circuited, too?” Lopez said, examining the prone performer at a safe distance. “Jesus, this whole place is falling apart, isn’t it?”

  “Too?” his mother repeated alertly. “You mean this has happened before?”

  “Yeah, yesterday,” Lopez said, still studying the bear. “Up on the fourth floor.”

  “You see?” Carlos said to his wife. “It was an accident, and Miss Diamond was looking out for my safety.”

  “Hmph,” said Bridget.

  “I hope you’re okay, Mr. Lopez?” I said.

  “I shall be fine,” he said with a warm smile. “Thank you.”

  “Please don’t thank me,” I replied sincerely, seeing the way his wife and son were looking at me.

  But despite the expression of mingled bemusement, speculation, and suspicion on Lopez’s face, he asked me with concern, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Just shaken.”

  “Connor is right about one thing,” Bridget said, taking her husband’s arm. “You should sit down.”

  “I just had the wind knocked out of me, that’s all,” he replied reassuringly. “But, yes, maybe I’ll sit for a minute.”

  Karaoke Bear was near the ladies’ winter accessories department, where an empty loveseat awaited a couple of weary shoppers. I watched Mrs. and Mr. Lopez walk over to it and sit down together. Next to me, their son let out his breath in a gush and sagged with relief, like a boxer taking a much-needed break between rounds.

  “So those are your parents,” I said.

  “Those are my parents,” he agreed, eyeing them with disfavor.

  “Your mom’s a little . . .” I didn’t know how to finish the thought tactfully.

  “I know,” he said dryly.

  I added, “But your dad’s very . . .”

  “Yeah. He is.” Lopez smiled and started to relax a little.

  I had always assumed, in my romantic imaginings, that he got his exotic good looks from his Cuban immigrant father. I had vaguely pictured his dad as a combination between a fiery counter-revolutionary and a sultry tango instructor who’d swept an ordinary New York girl off her feet decades ago.

  Now I realized, looking at the couple, that only Lopez’s dark coloring and straight black hair were inherited from his sire. (Well, that and his patience—which had quite clearly not come from his maternal line.) He got his masculine beauty from his mother, who’d probably been the most stunning young woman in whatever crowd her husband had first spotted her in. In the obvious ways, of course, Lopez looked nothing like his petite, fair-skinned, redheaded mom. But to someone as familiar with his face as I was, the resemblance was evident now that I knew who this woman was.

  “I’m still a little unclear,” Lopez said, turning to face me, “about why I found you apparently smothering my dad while my mom was whaling on you.”

  “It was all part of my grand plan to rescue him from the singing bear.”

  “Ah. Of course.” Lopez nodded. “That should have occurred to me.”

  After a moment, I said inanely, “She calls you Connor.” I’d never heard anyone call him that before.

  “It is my name,” he pointed out.

  “You don’t look like a Connor.”

  “I know,” he said with a smile. “Everyone says that. Even my dad. But it was the name Mom decided on when I was born, and she usually gets her way.”

  That was easy to believe.

  “But your father calls you something else, doesn’t he?”

  “Oh.” He didn’t seem pleased that I had noticed. “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t quite catch what it was . . .” When Lopez didn’t respond, I prodded, “What does he call you?”

  He hesitated before saying, “Perrito.”

  On his tongue, the word sounded sexy and exotic. I tried to conceal the quiver of pleasure it always gave me to hear Lopez speak in Spanish.

  “Is that your middle name or something?” When he shook his head, I prodded, “Why does he call you that?”

  Lopez shrugged. “It’s just my dad’s pet name for me.”

  “What does it mean?”

  It took him a moment to decide to tell me. “Puppy. Little dog.”

  I was charmed by this. “Puppy?”

  “Sí, yo soy su perrito.” He looked across the store at his father. “Thirty-one years old, an NYPD detective, and I’m still his little puppy.”

  “That’s so sweet!”

  He grunted.

  I recalled that both his brothers were older. “Oh, that’s right. You were the baby of the family, weren’t you? The puppy trotting around after the big dogs?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I’m not sure it suits you any better now than Connor does,” I said. “But I like it, anyhow, mi perrito.
”

  That made him smile. “My brothers changed it to ‘burrito,’ which they thought was hilarious. Thanks to them, that’s what most other kids in the neighborhood called me.”

  “Burrito?” I said with a sympathetic laugh. “No wonder you wanted handcuffs and a gun when you grew up.”

  “Yep.”

  After a moment, I touched his arm and said, “I, uh . . . Look, it’s not really my fault that meeting your parents went so badly, but I’m sorry about it, even so.”

  Lopez waved away my apology. “No, I’m sorry that they . . . That we . . .” He cleared his throat. “You know.”

  “I guess it was a shock to the system for all of us,” I said. “Will you recover?”

  “Hmph. Serves me right for agreeing to let them meet me at the store today, I suppose. But I thought, you know, it’s a huge place, half a dozen floors, thousands of people . . . And you were supposed to be stuck in Santa’s crib all evening. So what could possibly go wrong?” He smiled ruefully. “That’ll teach me.”

  “You dad will be okay, won’t he?”

  “Of course,” he said. “See?”

  He gestured to his parents, who were still seated together. His mother was fussing over his father, who seemed to be enjoying her anxious attentions. As I watched, Carlos took Bridget’s hand from his head (how many times did she have to be told I hadn’t kicked him there? I wondered irritably), held her hand between both of his, and spoke soothingly, calming her down. Seeing his gentleness and the affection shining in his expression, it was easy to guess what had drawn Bridget to him nearly forty years ago, when she’d probably been a dazzling catch who could have any man she wanted. Then he kissed her hand flirtatiously and teased her about something, and the two of them laughed together.

  “All better now,” I murmured, recognizing that the storm had passed.

  I recalled Lopez once telling me that he came from a family that always shouted noisily over stupid arguments but handled serious problems very quietly. Although it wasn’t exactly flattering, I was nonetheless glad that his parents’ disapproval of me qualified as just a stupid argument in their family.

  Lopez, who was now looking around this area as if seeking an explanation for what had occurred here, noticed my blue stocking cap on the floor. He bent over to pick it up. Examining it, he said, “I think someone’s stepped on it.” He slapped it against his thigh a couple of times to dust it off, then shook it out a bit, making the attached ears bobble. Satisfied with its condition, he handed it over to me.

  “Thanks.” I just held it in my hands, not enthused about suiting back up. I didn’t know where I’d spend the rest of my shift, but there was no way I was going to keep working with a possessed karaoke apparatus.

  “Tell me again what happened to the singing bear,” Lopez said.

  The phrase brought to mind Carlos’ phone conversations near the performance platform, and I realized he had been speaking to his son shortly before calling his wife.

  “Oh, that’s how you showed up here just in time to stop your mother from giving me a concussion,” I said, realizing it hadn’t been a lucky (or unlucky) coincidence. “This is where you were meeting your parents.”

  “Actually, I was meeting them in sporting goods,” he said, “so we could pick up my eldest brother’s Christmas gift. He’s getting into town tomorrow. But my dad couldn’t find the department, and my mom couldn’t find my dad. Then Pop called and asked me to meet him by the singing bear, instead. At first, I thought I’d heard wrong . . .” He looked over at the prone bear. “So what exactly happened here?”

  I decided just to tell him. “Karaoke Bear grew fangs and claws and tried to attack your father.”

  There was a long pause. Then: “That’s your story? For real?”

  “Yep. And I’m sticking to it.”

  “O . . . kay.” Another pause. “Did anyone else see this?”

  “Some little kids. They got scared and ran away.”

  “Before or after you attacked my father?”

  “I didn’t attack—”

  “Let me rephrase that,” he said. “Is it possible that you scared them away? When you suddenly launched a flying dropkick at a bystander, for example?”

  “No! They got scared when they saw the bear turn into something monstrous.”

  “And that’s when they ran away?”

  “No, they screamed and ran away when . . . um . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “When I kicked your dad,” I said sullenly.

  “So when did the bear short-circuit?”

  “He didn’t. I just made that up so your parents won’t think I’m crazy.”

  “Oh, I think we already crossed that bridge and burned it behind us,” Lopez said in resignation.

  “I was trying to sound sane,” I grumbled.

  “It was a good effort,” he assured me. “I appreciated it.”

  “But you didn’t believe me?”

  “Well, I had a feeling there was more to it than that—with you, there usually is,” he said philosophically. “But I believed that part. I still do. I mean, that bear sure looks like its circuits blew.”

  “Really?” I cautiously stepped closer to Karaoke Bear to get a good look, recalling the smoke I’d seen rising from his body after he keeled over. I noticed scorch marks around his eyes and mouth. “Hmm. Like the tree yesterday . . .”

  “Yeah. I’d say they really need to overhaul all their mechanical displays.” He thought it over and added, “Or their whole electrical system.”

  I wondered what to make of this. Maybe the force lurking inside Fenster & Co. was looking for a host—or hosts?—but was so powerful that its energy quickly destroyed the vehicles it tried to inhabit.

  Well, the ones powered by electricity, anyhow. I thought about my consistent impression that Naughty and Nice were Evil incarnate . . .

  “I want you to promise me something,” Lopez said.

  “Mmm?”

  But what if my metaphor had been more realistic than I’d realized? What if Freddie’s bimbos were Evil in the flesh? What if they weren’t a couple of air-headed bitches whose entire self-worth was tied up in their cheap good looks, but instead innocent victims of the entity inhabiting Fenster’s?

  “I want you to stay away from anything mechanical around here,” said Lopez. “Toys, promotional items, gimmicks, displays . . . Since you’re not worried they’ll fire anyone at this point, you probably won’t lose your job for refusing to work at certain posts.”

  What if this thing invading the store wasn’t starting its insidious conquest via toys and devices? What if it had started by possessing people, and we just didn’t realize it?

  “And even if they do fire you . . .” Lopez continued, “It was only going to be two more days’ pay, right? And you’ll be back at work at Stella’s soon, after all. I know things are tight, Esther, but if push comes to shove, it would definitely be better to get fired than to get electrocuted. They’re obviously not exercising due diligence around here—or even common sense. So I’d feel better if you’d promise me not to do any more shifts with things that could hurt you.”

  I needed to find Max and Lucky. And Nelli! Maybe the familiar’s combined mystical and canine senses could detect whether Naughty and Nice were possessed.

  “Esther? Are you listening to me?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said absently.

  With luck, maybe Nelli could smell the Evil emanating from those two elves. Or something.

  “In fact,” Lopez was saying, “until we know how widespread the problem is, maybe you should just avoid touching anything connected to the electrical system here. Light switches. The coffee machine or microwave in the break room. Elevator buttons.”

  “Elevator,” I repeated, meeting his gaze when I heard him say that.

  The elevator, the mechanical tree, the singing bear . . . Electricity was the common denominator in the incidents we knew about for certain. Maybe that was how we could narrow our search an
d locate the—the—whatever was here at Fenster’s with us, unseen but present. Could the entity be inhabiting the store’s electrical power system?

  Lopez said, “Your friend Satsy’s reality was more than a little altered by the high-quality grass he’d been smoking before he got into the freight elevator, but that doesn’t mean the elevator didn’t really malfunction.”

  “How do you know about that?” I asked, startled.

  He gave me a funny look. “I was standing right there when Drag Queen Santa said the elevator had . . . Oh.” He realized what I meant. “It’s my job to be better at noticing things than the guys on the loading docks are at hiding them. Of course I know about the weed.”

  “Oh. Right.” I nodded. I should have expected that—especially given that activity on the docks comprised part of his investigation. “Never mind.”

  “Luckily for those guys,” he said, “I don’t care about it. I’m looking for a criminal conspiracy to commit armed robbery, not a few tokers.”

  His cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, and said, “I’ve got to take this. Excuse me.”

  I liked that he did that when he took a call. So many people just interrupted me without pause to start yammering into their phones, as if I were chopped liver. Having seen Lopez with his father, I could guess where he’d learned his good manners. (And having seen him with his mother, it was easy to guess how he had learned to exercise his patience.)

  “Lopez,” he said into the phone. After a moment, he frowned. “Now? I thought—Oh. Yeah, okay. So how’s it going?” He smiled as he glanced at me. “Well, elves can be feisty, you know. Uh-huh. Yeah, I know who you mean. No, I don’t think so, either.” He listened for a few more moments, then said, “Right. Okay. Let me know.”

  As he ended the call, I said with a touch of resentment, “Is there another trouble-making elf in the store today?

  “Not exactly.” He took a breath and informed me, “NYPD has just started executing a search warrant of employee areas throughout the store. And the Russian elf . . .”

  “Nutcracker,” I supplied.

  “Well, that name sure fits,” he muttered. “Nutcracker was in the ladies’ locker room on the fourth floor when the cops entered and started their search. I gather she got a little hostile.”