Kindred Spirits: The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 6

by A. J. Aalto

  Mr. Merritt made a noise that suggested he surely agreed with me, or maybe he just didn't want to say that weasels were mustelids and not rodents. I turned the radio back down, and as the hearse glided along and the rain blurred the side windows, I sat back and scribbled in my notes some more. Cheese shop, I wrote, then drew an arrow to Blind Tiger, rum runners, smugglers. My mind bounced back to Schenk’s cheese smugglers and sinkhole. Why did that sinkhole bother me? I circled the word sinkhole a bunch of times then tapped the pencil on the paper, a habit I'd picked up from Schenk.

  Harry had revealed slim hints about his own history of smuggling and drug dealing, both in India moving opium into China in the 1770s and, later, in San Francisco, supplying the opium dens. I knew he'd switched to pushing morphine, and still owned several of the very first hypodermic needles. At some point, he made a ton of cash pushing laudanum and patent medicines, after which he retired from his illicit dealings. Or so he’d said. Had Harry been in Niagara during Prohibition? I jotted 1920-1933 in my notebook, and Harry with a question mark, although after World War One, I thought Harry had been back in London, probably annoying every bespoke watchmaker, haberdasher, and tailor who'd survived.

  Was my Harry ever a rum runner? If not, he had probably known bootleggers and smugglers from the region. Were other revenants involved, then or now? If so, Sarokhanian, who was the eldest in the area, would have known about it; dominant revenants always keep a finger on the pulse of their turf. I wrote House S in the margin and drew a sad face. Then I gave the sad face frown-y eyebrows and a pair of fangs. The overall effect was disturbing, so I scribbled it out.

  Would House Sarokhanian even need money from illegal sources now? There had been times when it had been difficult for Harry to make money by above-board means to finance the decadence he’d become accustomed to, not to mention pampering his DaySitters once he was undead, I rationalized.

  But these days, would shady business be necessary, especially for a revenant as old as Sarokhanian? Perhaps Aston supported his entire house, like the world's fugliest sugar daddy. House Dreppenstedt's revenants, at least those Youngers who lived away from Crowned Prince Wilhelm and the stronghold of Felstein, were more financially independent and self-sufficient. I couldn’t speak to how things ran beyond the Bitter Pass, but I didn't remember anyone using money for much of anything there, though I’d had a lot of other things on my mind at the time.

  Mr. Merritt pulled into the pothole-ridden gravel parking lot of the Oh Yeah! Café. I pointed to Schenk’s Sonata, and he angled the hearse in next to it. Longshanks was still behind the wheel, talking into his phone, a stony look on his face.

  I shot Harry a quick text. Is House Sarokhanian full of smugglers? I added, You can tell me. I (probably) won’t peep.

  That last part was a big fib, and Harry would know it, but I smiled as I put my phone away, feeling like I was onto something big. I told Mr. Merritt, “I’ll be an hour or so. Is that okay?”

  “That will give me time to run some errands,” he said.

  “You’re going to cruise past the sinkhole, aren’t you?”

  “I admit, I am a tad curious.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Can you take a bunch of pictures for me? The hole, the edges, anyone who's hanging out nearby? Folks working, directing traffic, and the looky-loos. Especially the looky-loos. Oh! Get a shot of the cheese shop window, too, please. And if you can, discreetly, anyone working there.” Nobody would think twice about the kindly old man taking his time to be careful around a small catastrophe while actually being a stealth investigator.

  He gave me a seriously doubtful look, but didn’t object. I put my knit hat on over my peach fuzz and lunged out, clutching my mini-Moleskine, just in time to meet Schenk at the door. Longshanks held it open for me without comment, nodding. I shot him a single finger-gun and walked under his arm to stride in ahead of him.

  The Oh Yeah! was exactly as it had been the first time I went there, the last time I I'd been there, and, for all I knew, had always been that way; an eternal greasy spoon, the undead of the diner world. Warm yellow pine walls, chairs, tables, booths, and benches. Window sills crammed with old tin boxes and overflowing with Christmas cacti and philodendrons that loved the sunny spots. Every empty area on the wall was decorated with classic road signs and hammered tin shapes, colorfully painted. Maple syrup, coffee, and fried onions perfumed the air. The overall effect was sunny, homey comfort, even with the dreary weather outside. The blackboard by the front door assured you that you’d leave stuffed but not poor; a three-egg breakfast complete with your choice of meat and a plate of French toast or pancakes would run you about five bucks. Coffee was bottomless for two dollars. Bodies packed every table, and I knew from my last visit that they were a mix of auto factory workers from the plant across the street and off-duty cops. The owner was a retired police officer who loved his regulars.

  Longshanks was one of them. He waved politely at the waitress, who looked like Bea Arthur had risen from the grave, slapped on some plum lipstick and blue eye shadow, and taken up an afterlife of pouring coffee and hauling flapjacks.

  Schenk moved through the crowded restaurant towards his target, light on his feet but casting a long shadow. I stayed at his heels, not knowing who I was looking for. In the back booth directly ahead of us was a lone, dark figure, the sight of whom gave me a queasy buzz of apprehension; black, naturally-curly hair tamed with a plain elastic band, no make-up, no jewelry, no nail polish, no smile. Her clenched jaw warned don’t-fuck-with-me and her head-to-toe black leather on black denim promised I’ll–fuck-you-up. This was a person who would tolerate no absurdity and whose bullshit meter was finely tuned. I prayed silently, Dark Lady: don’t let it be her.

  Naturally, Schenk slid into her booth, and she eyeballed me skeptically before I joined him.

  “This your expert?” she asked Schenk, her voice a deep, rough grating like that of Malas Nazaire, though a touch more whiskey and cigars than rotten vocal chords. Her cynical tone and economy of words set off flashbacks to when I first met Batten, and my heart sank. Crap. She’s a female Kill-Notch. She-Batten is gonna hate everything I say and do. I decided not to blow it too early; I bit my tongue and let Schenk take the lead.

  “Dr. Marnie Baranuik, Liv Malashock,” Schenk introduced. “FUSZ.”

  I nodded without comment. She did the same.

  The waitress sidled over, pouring hot, black bitterness disguised as coffee into any mug that was upturned. “Your usual?” she asked Schenk. He nodded.

  When the waitress looked at me, I said, “The same, thanks.” There, that’s safe, right? The less I talk, the better. I awarded myself a point on my imaginary scoreboard and gave Inner Marnie a high five.

  “Nyquist couldn’t be here,” Malashock said. “Deadline, paperwork.” Right down to business, she launched into getting me up to speed on her case, pretty much what Schenk had told me on the phone, pausing only to double-check that I understood phantasm form, passive feeding, and the deleterious effects thereof. Her definitions were textbook precise, which is fine in theory but not entirely helpful in the field — cryptobiology and other preternatural sciences were rapidly changing as we learned, and leaning too heavily on theory could be dangerous in law enforcement. The waitress returned with a small metal teapot full of hot water for Malashock and a bowl of lemon slices.

  “How many phantasms have you personally encountered?” I asked, wary not to slip any attitude or judgment of her job history into my tone.

  Her eyes flashed angrily for less than a heartbeat, but it was impossible to miss. Her lips may have smiled, but her eyes wanted me dead. “This will be my first.”

  Yep. Female Kill-Notch. She does not want my help. “I hope to be able to assist you when you do. I have some experience with them.”

  “I understand you have quite a lot of experience with them.” She leaned heavily on the word, and I wondered what her beef with the undead was.

  “If by ‘them’ you mean revenant
s, yes, of course. I’m a DaySitter, I live with one; two, if you count my brother, who really needs to get his own place,” I admitted, keeping my tone light. “That’s no secret. You’re expecting me to apologize, I take it? I won’t. That said, if you need a resource, take advantage of that or don’t, your choice.”

  The plates of food came just as I finished my little speech, and though I’d said all of it without responding to her anger with any of my own, the resulting silence was heavy. I looked down at my breakfast to find that Schenk and I were having over-easy eggs with pea meal back bacon and cinnamon French toast. We both reached for the hot sauce, and he backed off so I could go first. The waitress didn't bother topping either of our coffees off, as if sensing Malashock’s tension and wanting no part of it — she wasn't being paid enough to deal with our shit.

  Malashock swallowed a forkful of scrambled eggs and a little of her pride. “You’re right. I need you.”

  My eyebrows lifted and I waited. “I don’t get it, what’s the punchline?”

  Half her mouth twitched up briefly. “No punchline.”

  I looked over at Schenk, confused. “What’s happening? Nobody ever wants to work with me on purpose except Agent Chapel, and, just between you and me, I think he’s a little touched in the head.” I opened a little pod of strawberry jam and plopped it on my French toast. “Okay, I’m all yours, Malashock. What do you need?”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, it'll cost you,” I warned, spreading jam. “Any time we swing through a Tim Horton’s drive thru, you’re buying. That’s the rule. I’m not made of Loonies and Toonies.”

  Her lips twitched again. “She serious?”

  “You’ll get used to her,” Schenk said.

  “Will it always be this annoying?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly.

  I cleared my throat. “I can hear you.”

  “She can hear us,” Schenk said with a straight face. “No more honesty. She’s a rare treasure. A beacon of hope in — ”

  I threw my napkin at his face, interrupting his deadpan assessment with a flutter of paper. He snatched it out of the air and placed it neatly on top of my French toast. I waited until he removed his hand, then plucked the dirty napkin out of the jam blob and set it on the remains of his over-easy egg. Liv paused in the act of reaching for her tea to monitor our napkin war. I was clearly the winner, but neither of them cheered. I licked my finger and drew a point on the imaginary scoreboard in the air so my victory would not go unnoticed.

  “You two finished?” Malashock asked.

  I wasn’t quite. I plunked my jam-smeared knife in Schenk’s coffee cup.

  He took the knife out and sipped his coffee anyway. “Step one is surveillance.”

  I sat up with excitement. “A stake out? I love stake-outing.”

  Schenk said, “I was talking to Officer Malashock.”

  “Aw,” I wilted. “Come on, guys.” Neither of them looked like they intended to budge, so I muttered, “I was a big help last time.” Last time had ended with me flailing around in frigid, waist-deep water in a flooded graveyard by the Welland Canal and bleating like a dying cow until Schenk rescued me from what I thought was a grabby skeleton hand that turned out to be a stick.

  Schenk swung a would-you-care-to-review-that-adventure look at me, and I shrank further into the booth. Point: Longshanks.

  Malashock said, “Best we bring her along, in case she spots something we would have missed. Psychic, you said?”

  I bolted back upright in my seat, beaming. “I am! Two kinds of psychic in one awesome package.” I shot her double finger-guns. “This is gonna be great. I’ll bring snacks. Peanut brittle or cheese doodles? I better get both. Do you have night vision goggles? I need a map! Where are we going?”

  “Yep,” Schenk said into his coffee mug. “You’re going to regret this.”

  I didn’t know if he was talking to me, Liv, or himself, and it seemed like she didn’t either. She pulled a money clip from her inside pocket, peeled off a twenty, tossed it between our dirty dishes, and stood. She was all of five-three, one-ten, and if it hadn’t been for the perpetual scowl and wasteland-ready wardrobe, she would have been cute as a button. When she adjusted her leather jacket, I glimpsed not one but two holsters.

  She twirled one finger in my direction but spoke to Schenk. “Get this under control and meet me at the lake tomorrow night after dusk. Same spot, same conditions.” She left, lifting one hand in farewell to the owner, who matched it with his own.

  “That went well,” I said to Longshanks, switching to the other side of the booth so I could face him. I texted Mr. Merritt to start heading back for a pick up, and put my phone on the table face-down.

  He shook his head and finished his jam-tainted coffee, but I thought I saw the hint of a wry smile lurking behind the rim of his cup as he pushed my plate across to me.

  “Could have gone worse,” I continued hopefully.

  Schenk arched one skeptical brow.

  “I didn’t totally blow it.” I mopped up egg yolk with buttered rye toast, avoiding the dirty napkin, and then chewed toast thoughtfully. “What same conditions is she talking about?”

  “A couple of faces she wants me to avoid.”

  “For… mystery reasons?” I wiggled my gloved oggity-boogity fingers at him.

  A quirk of a smile. “For federal law enforcement reasons.”

  So, it's none of my beeswax. I was accustomed to police only sharing the necessary minimum, and otherwise hoarding information like it was rations in an apocalyptic food scare. It was less “need to know” and more “need to no.”

  “Is this ‘same spot,’ near where we met last night? By Lock One?”

  “No, Niagara-On-The-Lake.”

  Oh reeeeeeally. “Did you see that sinkhole near the old pub, there? Heard about it on the radio this morning. Weird, eh?”

  Schenk made a noncommittal noise.

  Maybe I needed to pry harder. “Place has a history of being a smuggler’s den, I hear.” I examined his face for clues but it didn’t give me any. “Attached to a cheese shop. Any connection to your cheese smuggler, you think?”

  “We’ll look into it,” he said lightly.

  “We” meaning law enforcement, not him and me. Figures. “Well, sure, yes. You should. I mean, weird coincidence, eh? Smuggler’s den and cheese, and you’re looking for cheese smugglers.” When he didn’t say anything, and sipped his coffee, I continued, “Weeeeeird coincidence.”

  “Yup.”

  I dragged the last little piece of my French toast around in syrup to mop it up. “Who’s the, uh, owner of the pub? Do you have a name?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “No, okay, but what’s his real name?”

  He spoke more slowly and enunciated like he wanted me to check his flossing job. “Erik William Shakespeare.”

  “He your smuggling suspect?”

  “I think he's trying to impress somebody.”

  An odd assessment but I trusted his instincts and noted it for future reference. I finished my coffee, feeling the burn hit my gut like hot acid. “Think he's undead?”

  He put down his cup and wiped his mouth, leaning back in the booth. After a long moment of staring at my face, he asked, “Should I?”

  “Malashock is looking for a rev, not a cheese smuggler. Maybe they’re same guy.”

  “We’re not going to the cheese shop. We’re going to the lake.” Then he surprised me with, “Is there a reason you think the smuggler is a revenant?”

  Careful, Marnie. I didn’t think anything I said about Harry could get him in trouble decades after he’d cleaned up his act, but best not to test that theory or spill long-held secrets about my Cold Company’s past. I should probably look up the statutes of limitations pertaining to the undead. “Like you said, maybe he's trying to impress somebody. Revenants can be territorial douchebags when it comes to local oomph, that’s all. You saw them yourself, getting all dick-wavy. I just have a gut fe
eling there's some kind of immortal power play going on around here.”

  “A psychic thing?”

  “No, those are more, like, in my head, definitely not gut-related,” I said. “Non-cops get hunches too, you know.”

  “Fair enough,” he allowed.

  “What about Nyquist? Why is he working with Malashock? It's not like a phantasm feed is going to be Boggle-slurping.”

  Schenk appeared to consider before answering. “It’s his job to assess the risk to the area, as the particular species he’s studying is protected. He’s more likely to keep Malashock out than invite her in. The map he gave us of the suspected at-risk boggle nesting areas overlap with Malashock’s suspected phantasm feeding zone.”

  “And the pub and cheese shop?”

  “And the pub and cheese shop. But we know where those are, we don't have to suspect their location.”

  “Wait, is that a cop joke? You really are the comic relief?” I said. “That's so sad.”

  Seven

  Mr. Merritt texted that he was twenty minutes away, and I managed to reassure Schenk that I was unlikely to get abducted or murdered in the Oh Yeah's parking lot in broad daylight, so he could fuck off to wherever he needed to be. The fact that I only had to tell him to scram twice was progress.

  The bench by the door was wet from the rain, so I leaned against the brick wall; warmed from the sun since the rain let up while we ate, the bricks baked through my sweater like a hug. For a few minutes, I enjoyed people watching and gazing at the sun glistening on the water of the canal in the distance. The lift bridge went up, siren wailing, guard arms coming down. Soon, the Seaway would close for the winter, and most of the locks would be drained of water, revealing their muddy secrets. Sometimes, they found cars down there, or bikes, or any manner of abandoned things. Sometimes, they found bodies. But this early in October, with Thanksgiving around the corner, the shipping traffic was still pushing through.