Ghost Dance

by Rebecca Levene

  She began to struggle in earnest, but the men holding her were far stronger and the drug had killed her coordination. When she briefly freed one hand, the punch she threw sailed wide of her captor's face, aimed at the muzzle of his spirit form. The dog winced in phantom pain, but the man didn't release her and now they'd opened the back door of the car.

  There was a commotion behind her, raised voices and grunts of physical exertion, but she could see nothing except the car in front of her, the darkness inside and the burning eyes waiting for her. She tried to scream and a hand clamped over her mouth. She bit the fleshy palm and heard a cry of outrage but the hand didn't move, and now they'd pushed her head inside the car and other hands were levering her legs to follow. The skull-faced man in the front passenger seat turned to face her, the blunt nub of a gun pointing at her from his bone hands. Beside him, the driver turned the key and the car purred.

  She kicked out desperately and felt the satisfying impact of her heel connecting with flesh. Then her ankle was grabbed and her shoe torn from her foot. She cried out as her leg bent back against the way it was meant to go, and then the door slammed shut and the engine gunned as the car gathered power with her inside it.

  There was the squeal of rubber on tarmac as something heavy hit the roof above her. She hunched down into the leather seat. The car swerved, still gathering speed, and she was flung against the door. She heard a shout from the front seat and knew that her captor had been flung aside too. For a second his gun wasn't pointed at her and she scrabbled desperately at the door, searching for the lock.

  Her fingers hooked into plastic and she was afraid it was stuck fast, secured from the front. But whatever had attacked them had struck too soon after they'd moved and her nail bent then held as the lock popped open.

  Above, she could hear the painful screech of metal against metal and she realised what had happened. Someone had jumped onto the roof of the car and now clung on as the driver spun the wheel from side to side and the car veered like a horse trying to dislodge its rider. It was PD, she was sure of it, but he couldn't possibly hold on much longer.

  She heard a noise from the front and saw that the passenger had turned back to face her, the long teeth in his skull bared in a humourless smile. He'd raised the gun again but the movement of the car jerked it from side to side and she knew she'd have to risk it. She didn't have any choice. She pressed down on the handle, then pushed.

  The door swung open, dragging her arm with it. For a second she hung suspended, face-down above the tarmac. She watched it rush by with terrifying speed. Her shoulder burned with pain and her breath was coming in ragged pants. If she let go, the surface of the road would rush to meet her and the tarmac would take all the skin from her face. She couldn't do it. Captivity was better.

  Then the car swerved again and she didn't have any choice. The door swung wider, her arm went with it and her legs tumbled after. They bounced once, twice against the surface of the road. Her ankle twisted as her foot snagged. And then she released the door handle and only instinct stopped her face smashing against the ground as her arms jerked to protect it, and she rolled over and over, stomach heaving with nausea and adrenaline.

  When she opened her eyes the blue rectangle of sky framed by dark buildings was crazed, as if she was seeing it through cracked glass, and for a moment of confusion she thought she'd somehow shattered her eyes. But then the fragments swam and merged into a whole picture and she realised it was only her mind which was fragmented. A vicious pain burned behind her temples and she groaned as she tried to sit up. Her hands felt as weak as water and her legs were so shaky she wasn't sure she'd be able to stand.

  A second later, she was jerked to her feet by her arm and her heart lurched then thundered with sudden fear until she saw that it was PD. His face was dripping blood from a scrape along his cheek. He must have flung himself from the roof of the car when she'd fallen out of the door.

  The moment she thought of the car she heard it, an accelerating roar as it turned to race back towards them. The skull leered at her from the front seat and she froze on the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for it to catch her - until PD dragged her into an alley between buildings too narrow for the car to follow.

  He ran and she followed, spurred by the sound of car doors opening and closing to their rear.

  "Hang on," she gasped. "They can't just... kidnap someone. We... should call... the police."

  PD's grip on her arm didn't loosen. She was watching him, not the road, and she didn't know where he was leading her, between wooden buildings and across deserted streets until suddenly they emerged onto a major road. The noise slammed into her with a shock that felt physical, the growl of traffic and the shouts of pedestrians. PD finally released her bicep and slung a casual arm across her shoulders as if they were just any tourist couple out for a stroll.

  She studied his battered face and thought that no one was likely to believe that. But this was San Francisco. No one was likely to say anything, either.

  "We can't call the police," PD said. "We can't let the Croatoans know the Agency's involved."

  She nodded, though she didn't really understand. They were the government, weren't they? They could do what they damn well pleased. They had with her.

  PD stumbled against her and she realised for the first time that he was limping.

  "You're injured," she said.

  He shrugged then winced, as if the movement pained him.

  "Thanks for rescuing me," she added.

  He smiled and cut his eyes at her. He was a mess: hair mussed, sharp suit torn and dirty, eyes bright with adrenaline. She liked him better this way. He didn't look like a company man now, just a man. A good-looking one. The coyote's eyes peered out behind his, whiteless and inhuman, and the brown-grey of its fur lightened his hair, but she found she didn't mind. The creature was a protector and it had protected her.

  "Don't worry about it," PD said. "That's what partners are for."

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his lips down towards her. He resisted for only a moment, then his mouth opened over hers. He pushed her against the nearest building and the brick hurt the bruises on her back but she didn't complain. They'd tried to take her away and do god knows what to her. But they hadn't. PD had saved her life.

  He tore his mouth away from hers, panting. "Jesus," he said. "We shouldn't."

  She took his hand and pulled him towards a hotel sign she could see on the next block. She knew they couldn't return to the one they'd stayed in last night. The Croatoans had known her name. They'd find them there.

  "Alex," PD said, pulling back, but not hard enough to stop her.

  She tightened her hand around his until she felt the bones shift beneath her fingers. "No," she said. "This is something I get to decide."

  The hotel was much shabbier than their last but Alex hardly noticed the scabbed yellow paint or the balding carpet as PD slipped the keycard into their door then staggered back as the weight of her body pushed him inside, hands already fumbling at his jacket and shirt.

  He had a good body, sculpted and strong, but it was the imperfections which intrigued her. She ran her fingers over the mole beside his left nipple and traced the ridge of an appendectomy scar across his stomach. His fingers explored her arms, pausing to circle the tattoo of a butterfly on her shoulder.

  His breath hitched then speeded up as he dragged her dress over her head, tugging as it caught on her hips. He smiled when he was done and combed his fingers through her long hair to tidy it.

  "Promise me this is real," she said.

  "It's real," he told her, and though she saw the flash of the coyote's fangs through his smile she believed him and let him draw her down to the bed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Morgan called Kate. It went straight to answerphone and he stammered for a moment before saying, "Yeah, hi. It's Morgan. I'm in trouble. There's been another murder - one of Dr Granger's PhD students. Same guy did it. I tried to catch him and now t
he cops have picked me up for it. You'd better do whatever you do and sort it out."

  He let the dial tone buzz in his ear for a second after he ended the call before he put the phone back in its cradle. As soon as he did one of the uniforms approached, eyes narrowed and hostile.

  The officer led him to an interrogation room, a plain white cubicle with nothing but four chairs and a desk with a tape recorder on it. The same man who'd arrested him was waiting for him, his dirty grey hair looking even yellower in the harsh lighting. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Spalding and told Morgan - as he'd been told already - that he was entitled to legal advice.

  "Just get on with it," Morgan said, dropping into the chair opposite.

  The inspector nodded and switched on the tape recorder, telling it who was present in the room. Morgan had been arrested once before when he'd been caught smoking a spliff on the street as a teenager. He'd been frightened then and trying to hide it, but he was a different person now.

  "To start off, how about you tell me what you were doing in that library," Spalding said. "You're not a student at the university and - whatever that badge of yours might say - you're not on the force, either."

  "I was looking for some books," Morgan said.

  Spalding raised an eyebrow. "Really? And what's your particular area of interest, Mr Hewitt? You don't strike me as the intellectual sort."

  Morgan bit back an angry retort and shrugged instead. "Maybe I wanted to improve myself."

  Spalding thumped a fist on the table, making both it and Morgan jump. "This isn't a game, son. A girl's dead."

  "Yeah, and I didn't kill her. There were witnesses - they saw me running into the room after she was murdered. You've got the wrong person."

  "Oh, I know that." Spalding slouched back, stiff posture relaxing.

  Morgan pushed himself to his feet. "Then what the fuck am I doing here?"

  The other man's lips curved in a close-mouthed smile. "Waiting for your bosses at the Hermetic Division to spring you."

  "You work with us? You're with the Division?"

  Spalding stood. As Morgan watched, puzzled, his fingers began twisting open the buttons of his nylon shirt. "Not exactly. But you and me, son, we're on the same side. Or we used to be."

  He pulled open the unbuttoned shirt, revealing a hollow chest matted with wiry grey hair. The black tattoo stood out starkly against his pale skin, an inverted pentagram to the left of centre, covering his heart. "Belle sends her love, by the way. She told me she's been watching your career with interest."

  Morgan kept his eyes fixed on the man as he sat back down. "You sure you want this recorded?"

  Spalding shrugged. "I've got a funny feeling an electronic malfunction is going to erase the whole thing. Just one of those glitches."

  "You can't touch me," Morgan said. "You won't get away with it."

  "I don't want to hurt you. I want to talk - that's why I brought you in."

  Morgan studied him, this ordinary looking middle-aged man who'd given himself to a terrible cause. "I was never on the same side as you," he said. "I was just ignorant. Once I knew the truth I made my choice."

  "Maybe. But the thing is, son, the difficult decisions are the ones you don't just get to make once. You have to keep on making them, over and over, every day of your life. It's like a relationship, isn't it? The movies tell you that you meet some bird, fall in love, get married, end of story. That's how fairy tales work, not the real world. Love is about commitment. Are you committed to the other side, Morgan? Do you even really know what they are?"

  "I work for the Hermetic Division. That's my side - and I'm committed to them."

  Spalding's infuriating, smug little smile widened. "Render unto Caesar - isn't that what their book says? You've chosen your side in the mundane world, but that's not the one that matters. There's a hidden war, too, and in that battle no one gets to be Switzerland."

  "I don't need a fucking philosophy lesson. What do you actually want? You're gonna have to leave the job, maybe even the country now we know who you are. So what's the point of all this? You're not gonna change my mind and I don't think Belle was that keen to send her good wishes."

  "I want you to stop chasing the man who killed Julie Kirkpatrick and Jane Granger," Spalding said. "And I want you to know exactly who he is."

  "Yeah, because I'm really inclined to believe anything you tell me. I'm guessing he's one of yours."

  Spalding began to rebutton his shirt. "He works for the Mossad."

  "So? My father worked for the Hermetic Division."

  "You're right, son. And Lahav is a soldier in that other war - but not on our side. Your murderer works for the opposition."

  "Bullshit," Morgan said. "If he works for them, why do you want me to leave him alone?"

  "Because there's a few things heaven and hell agree on, and this is definitely one of them. Just let him get on with his job."

  "And help you? I don't think so."

  Spalding shrugged. "But you'd be helping them too - and if both sides win, neither does, right?"

  "Forget it," Morgan said, "you're just trying to mess with my head."

  Spalding's head was cocked, listening, and Morgan realised he could hear footsteps approaching. "He's stronger than you," Spalding said, suddenly hurried. "That knife of his can cut through anything, any flesh - even yours. He's never been defeated and you won't be the first. Go back to the Division and tell them this isn't their concern."

  The door opened and Morgan knew from the faces of the men there - tense and angry - that Kate had secured his release and pissed off the cops in the process.

  He rose, fixing his eyes on Spalding as he left the room. If he saw him outside the station, Spalding was dead and Morgan wanted him to know it.

  The other man smiled, unperturbed. "Nice meeting you, son," he said. "Remember what I said, won't you?"

  The last glimmer of twilight had faded from the sky when he left. The nearest street light was broken and the moon was below the horizon, leaving only a smattering of stars to freckle the sky. Morgan blinked, momentarily disoriented. The town looked different in the dark, the shadows obscuring the signs of modernity and making it easy to picture the long centuries of its history.

  He needed to tell Kate what had happened, but he couldn't use his mobile. The police had taken it from him while he'd been in custody and he couldn't take the risk that Spalding had tampered with it. He called from a payphone instead, keeping it brief. She told him to find himself somewhere to stay and that they'd be sending someone to debrief him tomorrow. He wasn't sure if there was disappointment in her voice, but he imagined it. He'd let her down and he knew it. There was another dead body and no more leads on the killer.

  He remembered Julie's flirtatious smile and the way she scratched the back of her neck when she was nervous. He'd let his guard down with her because some part of him wanted to believe what Kate had said, that he could have a normal life if he chose it. Well, so much for that.

  The bed and breakfast he found was shabby and unwelcoming. The scuffed, floral-patterned carpets and peeling flock wallpaper made it feel neglected rather than lived in and his room smelt cold, as if it had stood empty for a long time. He curled up beneath the orange bedspread and closed his eyes, hoping for rest he didn't really expect. Wakeful brooding merged with uneasy dreaming and when he rose at seven the next morning he barely felt like he'd slept at all. His joints creaked as he dressed and his eyes felt dusty.

  Kate hadn't said when the agent coming to debrief him would arrive. He looked around the dingy hotel and knew he couldn't bear to stay in it another minute. Kate's man could be hours yet. And there was still a murder - two murders - to investigate.

  He needed to know more about John Dee, but he couldn't face returning to the library. He leafed through the information the police had reluctantly handed over before releasing him and found they knew even less than the Hermetic Division. They didn't even know the identity of the killer, though his late
st murder had left enough witnesses to provide them with a description.

  There was only one piece of information in the files that was new to him: Dr Granger's home address. The police had searched her house and found nothing, but they hadn't been looking for the things Morgan wanted. He pocketed the address and left the hotel.

  Her house was on the outskirts of the town, a bus ride from the centre. As Morgan leant against the bus shelter, waiting, he felt a prickling between his shoulder blades, the indefinable feeling of eyes on him.

  The side of the shelter was clear plastic filled with an out-of-date advert for Pepsi. The day was grey and there was only the ghost of a reflection in the surface, his own wan face but nothing beyond it. He turned around as casually as he could and raised his eyes lazily to let his gaze sweep the street.

  There was no one there, just an elderly woman hurrying into a shop, wheeled trolley pushed in front of her. He lowered his head and scanned the street again from beneath his lids. Still nothing.

  Was it possible the observation he felt was something else, eyes watching from the occluded world? He wished, suddenly and strongly, that Tomas were with him. Tomas would have known what to do - he'd been at this game a long time. He'd pretty much started it.

  Morgan sighed, closing his eyes completely and leaning his head against the wall of the shelter until the bus came. Tomas was gone and Morgan was on his own, which he should be used to by now. The bus drew up, engine huffing, and he opened his gritty eyes reluctantly and climbed on.

  The journey to Granger's house took him out of the picturesque city centre and through suburban streets that were affluent but bland, rows of semi-detached 1930s homes and the occasional Victorian terrace. The don's house was in one of the latter, brickwork pleasantly crumbled with age but the paint on the doors and window frames fresh and bright. The front garden was carefully tended, a few square feet of gravel with pot plants at each corner.