Dead Man and the Restless Spirits

by Harper, Lou

  "Have you ever tried?"

  Bran cleared his throat. "I can make my father appear, but it's because we share blood."

  Denton's interest perked up. Bran's family was an endless source of fascination for him. "Interdimensional phone call. Awesome."

  "Right." Bran flipped the pages of the book.

  A funny idea leapt into Denton's head. "Could I summon you? I mean, if I learned how. You being part demon and all."

  Bran gaped at him dumbstruck for several seconds. "I don't know," he said at last.

  Denton's brain started to spin with the speed of a hamster wheel. "It could be wicked! I could transport you across town." The wheel wobbled. "Wait, maybe only your demon part would respond. Uh-oh, you could end up like one of those horrible transporter accidents on Star Trek. What if only your tail showed up?" Obviously, his hamster was on crack.

  Bran stared at him in disbelief. "You're mad."

  "Me? Never. Merely practical." Denton managed to keep a straight face for two whole seconds.

  They took a break, during which Bran muttered under his breath about certain people who never took anything seriously. In response, Denton had a strategic conversation with Murry about how certain other people needed to learn to relax and just go with the flow every once in a while. The cat sprawled out on the carpet, eyes closed. He could've been asleep but for the twitching of the tip of his tail.

  Denton spent the rest of the day memorizing incantations, the shapes and proper placements of symbols and runes and the words to recite when drawing them, plus the proper placement of specific objects when performing one ritual or the other. He took notes on a yellow legal pad, the pages of which were all crumpled and smudged by the time the sun went down. He doubted he'd ever be able to summon as much as a dead mouse.

  The ringing of Bran's phone came as a welcome interruption. Especially since it was David calling. Denton kept his eyes on Bran's brows for clues.

  "No Gene?… (downward slope—not good) Oh. Of course… (up-twitch—better) … He could be. Do you have surviving relatives? … Just a second." Bran made the handwriting sign in the air, and Denton quickly handed him the yellow pad and the pen.

  Bran flipped to a clean page. "Okay, go." He began to write. "Right… Yes, thank you… Tell Amy hi… Okay. Talk to you later." Bran leaned back in his seat. Brushing his knuckles over his lips, he sank into contemplative silence.

  Denton suppressed his urge to throttle him. "Are you planning to share?"

  Bran blinked a few times and focused on Denton. "Oh. Sorry. The crash got a lot of media attention at the time, so David had no trouble digging up information. He found nobody with the name Gene among the victims, but one of the passengers who died was listed as Eugene Kent."

  Denton thought it over. If his parents had named him Eugene, he'd prefer to be called Gene too. "Okay, he could be our guy. What do we do now?"

  "The records listed Rosemary Dankworth, née Rosemary Kent, as the closest living relative. Eugene's sister."

  "Oh. Well, at least it's not a common name. I bet we can find it on the Intraweb."

  "Make it so, Number One." Bran lifted his hand and pointed in the direction of the study in an exact Captain Picard gesture.

  This sudden outburst of frivolity took Denton completely by surprise. He stared mutely as Bran's solemn expression developed a smug undertone. He liked it.

  Denton pulled himself up straight. "Aye, aye, Captain!" he said and bounded off toward the computer.

  Locating Rosemary Dankworth took no time at all. The Pennsylvania phone number held promise—UA 553 had taken off from Washington DC. They agreed Denton should make the call, being the more sociable one.

  The phone rang three times before a spry female voice answered, "Dankworth."

  Denton's heart sank—she sounded far too young, twenties at most. "Can I talk to Mrs. Rosemary Dankworth, please," he asked.

  "That's my grandma. Hang on."

  While they waited, Denton grabbed a pen and the notepad from the desk.

  "Hello. Who's this?" the woman asked at the other end of the line.

  "Hi, Mrs. Dankworth. My name's Denton Mills, and I'm a writer from Chicago, doing research on the crash of Flight 553. Your brother Eugene Kent was on board, correct?"

  He could hear only her breathing and the muffled sounds of television in the background for many seconds.

  "Hello?" Denton said louder.

  "Sorry, Mr…what did you say your name was…Mills?"

  "Yes, but Denton will do, ma'am."

  "Call me Rose, Denton."

  "Rose, would you mind answering a few questions?"

  She sighed. "Nobody has asked me about my Gene in decades, so it's a bit of a shock, you see. Why would you want to write about that old business now? It happened such a long time ago, nobody even remembers or cares anymore."

  Scrambling for a reply, Denton remembered the date of the crash. "The fortieth anniversary is coming up in a couple of years. After 911, there's renewed interest because of the suspicious circumstances surrounding the accident."

  "Oh, so you're one of those conspiracy theorists, then?"

  Denton caught the bitterness in her tone and quickly backpedalled. "No, ma'am. My main interest is the human angle—you know, the regular people whose lives were cut short or altered forever by this tragedy. That's why I called you."

  "I see. So how can I help you?" She sounded more cordial.

  Denton didn't want to raise suspicion by starting with questions about her brother's connection to Will. Who knew what kind of history hid there? "Well, for a start, could you give me some background on your brother?"

  The floodgates opened. She prattled on about Gene as a baby—three years younger than her—about them growing up, the scrapes he'd gotten into, the job Gene had at a local bank, and the bright future he should've had. "We were close—Gene was my little brother, and I felt responsible for him. It was hard on me when he died. I thought of him every day for years. Once my parents passed away, I had nobody left to talk to about him. My kids and grandkids never met Gene." Melancholy suffused her words. "I still dream of him sometimes. It's always the same—I'm at the airport waiting for him."

  "May I ask why he was flying to Chicago?"

  "To see Will."

  "Will?" Denton hoped his voice didn't give away his excitement.

  "Willard Hayes. They were best friends growing up. Inseparable. Then something happened between them. I don't know what, Gene wouldn't say. Will moved up to Chicago, went to work for one of the newspapers there. Not the Tribune, the other one. He'd always wanted to be a journalist. I wondered back then if Will's ambition was behind their fallout. It didn't make much sense, but you know how men are. In the end, they must've mended fences. I never heard from Will again, though. I found his address in Gene's things and sent an invitation for the memorial service, but he didn't come."

  "Do you remember the address?"

  "No, sorry, dear, not after all this time."

  Bran grabbed the pad and pen and made a rushed scribble, which he held up. PHOTOGRAPH! it said.

  Denton nodded to Bran and kept talking into the phone. "No problem. I didn't think you would. Can I trouble you for one more thing? Do you have a photograph of Gene I could have a copy of?"

  "Sure, I can do that. You got me in the mood for looking through the old album. I'll have my granddaughter scan one of them and e-mail it to you. Is that all right? My grandkids send me pictures all the time."

  "That would be great, thank you."

  Denton waited for her to find pen and paper, then gave her his e-mail address. He thanked her again and said good-bye.

  He turned to Bran. "Willard Hayes was Gene's best friend. He's a perfect candidate to be our Will, even without address confirmation."

  "I'll go down to the Cook County Clerk's Bureau tomorrow and ask for the death record."

  "And they'll just hand it to you?"

  "People researching their ancestors go there all the time. Th
e clerks know me there already as a genealogist."

  "I see. Then what?"

  "I have a plan. For now, we need to see if you've learned anything today," he said on his way out of the room.

  Soon he was pushing the living room furniture to the walls and spreading a painter's drop cloth out on the floor. These preparations filled Denton with apprehension. Murry, on the other hand, surveyed the proceedings with keen interest from his usual post on the back of the sofa.

  Bran left the room again and returned with a box of assorted items, including several candles, a rusty key, and chalk.

  "Right. It's time you summon a spirit for real," he said.

  "Who?" Denton wondered if there were easy-to-conjure practice spirits available for inexperienced necromancers.

  "Peter."

  Not the answer Denton expected. "Why on earth would you want me to do that?"

  "Because I want to tell him I'm sorry."

  The words fell between them, flat and cold, but Denton knew by now that Bran's impassive surface hid complicated emotions. Denton couldn't pin down exactly what bugged him most about the request. Jealousy? Or unease over Bran picking at an old scab? He thought of refusing but decided against it. Who knew, maybe it was closure Bran needed.

  "Okay. What do I do?" he asked.

  Bran told him which ritual to do—one of the simpler ones, thank God.

  "This one requires a personal object," Denton said, consulting his notes.

  Bran handed him a Polaroid photo of a man as unremarkable as a potted plant—not one of Bran's, but something you'd see in a bank lobby.

  "Peter Lattimer," Bran explained.

  Denton pointed at the pad. "This says you need something belonging to the deceased."

  "Traditionally, you'd use a lock of hair or a piece of clothing, but for some reason, photographs work just the same."

  "So it's true—they steal a part of your soul, after all," Denton quipped.

  Bran shrugged. "Maybe they work because they also hold a trace of the living person? I don't know."

  Denton went through his notes one more time, then stood at the edge of the drop cloth and laid down the necessary tools on the floor next to him. "Okay, I'm ready."

  Bran turned off the lights and stood aside.

  "Are you gonna help?" Denton asked.

  "No. You should do this alone."

  Denton waited for his eyes to get used to the semidarkness. The light of the moon and the city spilling through the windows gave just enough illumination to see what he was doing. The powdered sugar circle he drew around the photo turned out more of an oval, but it would have to do. He repeated the requisite chants as he put the candles at their places and lit them. At first he felt a little silly, but as he went on, the rhythm of the incantation got him into a groove. He picked up the chalk and drew the runes around the circle without having to check his cheat sheet.

  He felt the warmth of light filling him as he stood at the edge of the drop cloth. He picked up the wand, which was more of a gnarly stick. Tracing the summoning symbol in the air, he loudly demanded the spirit of Peter Lattimer to appear. He had to repeat himself several times before the ring and the symbols around it began to give out a dim glow. And then…nothing happened. He redoubled his efforts and concentrated his thoughts on the man in the picture.

  A gust of wind came out of nowhere. It made the candle light flare up for a moment, then die out completely and blew the summoning circle apart.

  A loud "Meooowrr!" broke the dead silence.

  Denton squinted as lamplight flooded the room. "What the fuck just happened?" he asked, glaring at Bran.

  Bran came forward, picked up the Polaroid from the floor, and wiped it on his shirt. "The ritual failed. Damn. Look at the mess."

  He was right—powdered sugar was everywhere.

  They cleaned up and put everything back in its place. Murry played his part by supervising and being underfoot.

  "Maybe Peter's not dead." Denton offered his opinion as they shifted the coffee table back to its usual spot.

  "Not possible."

  "Well, then, I suck at summoning."

  "Even less likely." Bran threw himself into a chair. He drummed his fingers on the armrest while his whole face turned into a knot of anxiety.

  Denton cast around for any reasonable explanation. "Okay, when you cursed him, Peter must have turned into a frog in more than just body. Or he wouldn't have hopped off into the water, right?"

  Bran stopped drumming while he considered the question. "I suppose so. Not my area of expertise."

  Encouraged by this admission, Denton went on. "You've told me that there are different rituals for summoning ghosts and demons. Wouldn't be logical that you need something else for animal spirits too?"

  "That's possible. I haven't come across anything about animal spirits before," Bran said, scratching his chin.

  "You just said it's not your field of expertise."

  "Right. I'll have to do some research."

  Denton was glad to see the prospect of a rational approach brighten Bran's mood. For a half demon, he was very methodical.

  Murry hopped into Bran's lap, and then climbed on the chair's back and sprawled out in a pose that made him appear like a shawl around Bran's neck. His hind legs hung over one shoulder; his head peeked over the other. Bran in all black and with the cat behind him struck a picture-book image of a witch.

  However, Denton was worn out by the whole occult business. "Can we have dinner? I'm starving."

  Bran checked his watch. "Good idea. You'll need your strength."

  Oh no. Denton didn't like the sound of that at all. No siree. "For what?"

  "We'll have to go to the cemetery to collect graveyard dust. It's an exceptionally potent ingredient for conjuring."

  Denton gaped at him. "You're not serious."

  "I am."

  Denton could tell Bran was indeed dead serious. "Isn't that illegal?"

  "A little."

  Murry lifted his head and fixed his gaze on Denton. His eyes, round as traffic lights, seemed to say: GO. Nothing's wrong with a little trespassing. The dead don't mind.

  Denton gave in. "I… Okay, let's just go now and get it over with."

  "Can't. It has to be done at midnight."

  Denton slapped his forehead in exasperation. "You're as impossible as your cat."

  "Ah, that. Murry's not my cat."

  "What the hell do you mean? Whose cat is he?" Midnight loitering in cemeteries he could see, but catnapping?

  "No. I mean he's my familiar. You know, demonic companion, etcetera? A gift from my father for my seventeenth birthday."

  "Oh." Well, sure, it made sense. "He's still a cat, though," Denton pointed out.

  "Most of the time."

  "What do you mean most of the time?" Denton felt a headache coming on.

  "On occasion, he can be a raven, Right, Murmur?"

  Murry twitched his tail. "Meowrr."

  Chapter Four

  "I'm surprised you asked Layla to come too," Denton said as they were driving to pick her up at her hotel.

  "She drives me crazy, but if anything went wrong, I'd want her there."

  "Do you expect something to go wrong?"

  "I hope not, but this case has been troublesome from the start."

  "True. You know, she could've stayed at my place. Or yours, and you at mine."

  "She prefers the hotel, and her client's paying for it."

  "Oh, I didn't know."

  Denton sank down in his seat and stared out the window. After their midnight jaunt to the cemetery, he'd slept in and then spent a good part of the day working on the website. Joy had called and given him the go-ahead and sent a few temporary graphics.

  Several photos of Eugene Kent had arrived in Denton's mailbox too. Gene had brown hair like Luke Duke, but the similarities ended there. In one of the pictures, Gene and Will stood shoulder to shoulder in front of a white-shingled house. Gene's arm lay casually draped over Will's
shoulder, and both smiled at the photographer, whose shadow invaded the bottom of the frame.

  Bran had spent the day at the County Clerk's office and then meeting his mother. The death record complemented the information from Rosemary Dankworth. Willard Hayes had drowned in his own bathtub on December 25, 1972. The coroner had ruled the death accidental, noting high levels of alcohol and benzodiazepine in Willard's blood. Prescription Valium had been found in the apartment. Those details fit with the sounds they had heard in the bathroom.

  "It could've been suicide," Denton had said when he'd read the report.

  Bran had disagreed. "There was no note, and suicide victims are usually clothed. He was naked."

  Denton couldn't even imagine how Will must have felt losing his best friend, possibly lover, in such a way, and right before the holidays. He wished he could go back in time and fix it for them. Right, time machine—he needed to start working on it.

  "You're quiet. What's wrong?" Bran asked.

  "Just thinking."

  Denton looked at Bran, really looked. He took inventory of Bran's features—sensuous lips, harsh cheekbones, strong brows, and intense, dark eyes. They all added up to something strange yet intimately familiar, all of them manifestations of the complicated person beneath. A funny twinge in his solar plexus told Denton he more than liked this man.

  Bran must've noticed him staring. At the next red light, he turned to Denton. "What's on your mind?"

  "Do you have plans for Christmas?" Denton burst out. "I'm afraid to ask about Layla," he added.

  "She'll spend it partying in the desert with her pagan friends. I've already asked."

  "How about you?"

  "I have nothing planned. You?"

  "I'll spend it with Mom and my stepdad. I'd love it if you joined me. I can't promise much excitement, though."

  Bran being quiet was nothing new, but the blush over his cheeks was, and Denton didn't know how to interpret it. So he waited.

  "You really want me to?" Bran asked at long last.

  "Yes! With you there, I won't be bored out of my skull, and I'll also get Mom off my back about never bringing anyone home. Please come!" He truly wanted to Bran to join him. He wanted spend Christmas with the people he loved the most.