The Ghost, the Girl, and the Gold

by Scott William Carter

  Ms. Langford, to put it kindly, was a homely woman. She had the kind of square, yellowish face that made me think of the throwback videogames that had become all the rage lately, the ones with blocky, simplistic graphics. Her bold features had a two-dimensional quality to them: massive eyes made all the bigger because of her enormous, black-rimmed glasses, a tiny upturned nose, and big, fishlike lips that stretched most of the way across her face. Her bob of mud-brown hair looked like an upside-down rice bowl, heavily curved along the top, extremely flat along the bottom.

  Still, there was a welcoming quality to her, a generosity of spirit her eyes, something about her whole demeanor that made her seem like a pleasant person just by her picture alone.

  I spent an hour wandering the zoo looking for her, shivering, tapping my feet now and then to keep the toes from going numb, and growing increasingly frustrated. I didn't find her by the cougars in the Great Northwest section. I didn't find her by the polar bears in Pacific Shores, by the pigs in Asia, or by the zebras in Africa. I saw plenty of ghosts—at least, judging by clothes that were often decades out of style—but they all seemed like random visitors, no different than the random visitors among the living there to simply enjoy a fun afternoon at the zoo.

  Needing to thaw out for a little while, I took refuge inside the Howard Vollum Aviary. Many people had the same idea, because the aviary was crowded, the conversations mostly hushed, though one obnoxious woman with a New Jersey-like accent loudly berated her toddler son for trying to taste some of the bird droppings. A spacious glass dome next to the cafe, full of noisy birds that fluttered from one leafy green plant to another, the aviary was meant to replicate the environment of an African rainforest—thick, humid air, lush plant life and wet earth.

  I was watching a golden-breasted starling bustle around in its nest, scattering twigs and twittering happily, when I sensed someone watching me.

  Turning my head slowly, I saw a man in a tan park uniform, gaping at me.

  He was a slight man, silver-gray hair curling up at his bony shoulders, his waist as narrow as some of the trunks behind him, his face deeply lined and yellowed except for a rosy color around his nose and eyes. It was the dull, glassy look of someone who spent his days drinking. The red shears in his right hand were poised near one of the leafiest plants. He was definitely staring at me.

  When I took a step, he bolted.

  He ran with a terrible limp, more of a lurch than a sprint, and it wasn't until he reached the first of the double doors that I saw the shiny silver rod that served as his left ankle. I pursued, not really running full out, thinking he'd be easy enough to grab, but then he passed right through both closed doors.

  A ghost. Of course.

  Maybe that's all this was; maybe he was just another member of the non-living world who'd heard about the great and terrible Ghost Detective. If that was the case, there was no reason to talk to him, but I sensed something more. By the time I got outside, slipping on the slick pavement, snowflakes sticking to my eyes, he was halfway across the big open field where they held various events and concerts. He left no footprints.

  I pursued. People gawked and stared, mothers holding their children. The man in the uniform had crossed the field, rounding to the backside of the elephant enclosure on a path along the edge of the park. He glanced over his shoulder, his face awash with panic, and in his haste he misjudged his steps and tumbled, skidding along the snow and smashing into the fence.

  He started to rise, but his artificial leg dangled out of his pants, half in the pant leg and half out like some kind of hideous snake. He hopped around on his good leg, struggling to escape and to reattach the leg at the same time, doing a poor job at both. He was heading for the fence, and probably for the dense forest of Washington Park that surrounded this side of the zoo, and the fact that he could slip unhindered through the underbrush while I had to fight through it like some kind of Amazonian explorer meant I undoubtedly would have lost him if he got there.

  "Wait!" I shouted.

  He didn't, of course. I'd probably shouted that command to hundreds of different people over the years, and nobody ever waited. Why didn't anybody ever wait? So rude. He hobbled his way to the fence, looking like he was going to dive through, so I did the only thing I could—I plunged my hand into his back.

  An electric surge roared up my arm, a stronger jolt than usual, maybe because I was fed up with all these endless roadblocks. He screamed as if I'd stabbed him, loud enough and anguished enough that for a second, at least, I was actually glad he was a ghost, since none of the other living people in the zoo could hear it. He collapsed on the snow in front of the fence, leaving no imprint, writhing and contorting until the spasms of pain finally passed and he was left panting and sweaty-faced.

  "Why are you running?" I said.

  He glared up at me through a mess of silver hair, his eyes watery and bright. "You didn't have to do that!" he cried.

  "You didn't have to run," I said.

  Gritting his teeth, still shaky and recovering, he flashed me the bird. Classy move. I edged my foot into his stomach, just enough to give him another jolt, and he screamed again. I felt bad doing it. Torture, even mild torture, was never my thing. Rather than take even the mildest sadistic pleasure from it, hurting others, even people who deserved it a lot more than this guy, just made me hate myself.

  "Stop!" he pleaded.

  "Talk to me," I said.

  "Please, you gotta believe me. I don't know what happened to the money."

  "What are you talking about?"

  This, finally, broke whatever spell he'd been under. Still gasping, his eyes wide and furtive like a sparrow in the mouth of a cat, he managed to calm himself enough to sit upright. He blinked and swallowed and brought himself back from the edge of hysteria, brushing his hair behind his ears, staring at me as if he still suspected this was a trick. His nose was bright red, but the rest of his face was blotchy, pink in some places, a lifeless yellowish gray in others.

  "Vernon didn't send you?" he asked.

  "No," I said.

  "You're not joshing?"

  "Nope."

  "You're the Ghost Detective guy. I figured he sent you looking for me."

  "He didn't. I want to talk to you about something else."

  "What?"

  "You heard about the girl who was kidnapped? Olivia Ray?"

  "No."

  "Okay. How about a woman named Felicity Langford? You heard of her?"

  "I don't think so. Why?"

  I took out my phone and showed him her picture. He leaned forward, and I saw all the red veins threading his nose and the hair growing out of the mole on his chin. Snowflakes fell into his hair and disappeared. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turned his attention to his leg. He rolled up his pant leg, exposing the leather straps that held the prosthesis on his stump, adjusting them until it was locked into place. He struggled to his feet, all his weight on one leg. I would have offered him a hand, but that wasn't possible.

  "Maybe," he said.

  "Maybe?" I said.

  Standing, he was still quite a bit shorter than me, and something in my tone made him wilt and shrink even more.

  "Yeah," he said. "I might know her."

  "You might? You playing some kind of game?"

  "I'm just saying, I might know her. You know, for a price."

  "Uh huh. One minute you're running from me, next you're trying to strong-arm me."

  "Not strong-arming you, man. Just … a trade, that's all I'm saying. You know, I scratch your back, you—"

  "I get it. What do you want?"

  His whole demeanor changed. He straightened, doing his best to meet my gaze. He still wasn't much to look at it, but at least he didn't come off as a sniveling coward.

  "My name's Al, by the way."

  "Okay. You already know I'm Myron."

  He nodded. "I want you to get something for me."

  "What is it?"

  "It's a … box. A
plastic box. You know, like the kind you buy from Walmart. "

  "Uh huh. What's in the box? Money?"

  He hesitated.

  "You don't tell me," I said, "I don't do anything."

  "Okay, okay, it's money. I'm just scared, 'cause I'm still not sure you're on the level. But what do I have to lose, right? It's not like I have anyone else. It's from this guy named Vernon—sells meth, smack and other stuff in Boise. It was his stash, but he was screwing over my pal Kevin and me, not giving us our share. So we took it and buried it someplace. Vernon found Kev and beat him to death with his bong. Seriously, man, his bong. What a way to go. I got away. I dug up the box and brought it with me out here, buried it near Mt. Hood. I kinda started over in Portland, got this job at the zoo, thought I'd wait a couple years and go back for it. I kept thinking Vernon might show up, and I didn't want to have it around in case I had to bolt. But then I got the cancer, man. I got the cancer bad."

  "What good will the money do you now? It's not like you can spend it."

  "I want you to give it to the zoo," he said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Donate it. I want you to donate it to the zoo."

  I didn't know what I'd been expecting him to say, but he definitely surprised me. Another male zoo worker—a living one, I assumed—drove past in a green golf cart, eyeing me suspiciously. I smiled and waved back, as if it made perfect sense for me to be standing there on the snow-covered sidewalk, on the backside of the elephant enclosure, staring at nothing but empty air. When the man in the car had gone, Al took a deep breath and looked at me again.

  "I lived a bad life, man," he said. "A bad life. I don't want to get all into it, but I kinda found myself working here at the zoo. You know, found who I was. I always liked animals, but when I got here I found I really loved them. It was only supposed to be for a month or two, just enough for things to calm down in Idaho, make sure Vernon didn't find me, but the longer I worked, the more I couldn't use that money for me. I just couldn't. That was part of the reason I didn't go get it. It was my consciousness, man."

  "Your conscience, you mean?"

  "Yeah, yeah, that. But I still like working here, even if it's kind of pretend, you know? I get to watch the kids. You ever watch the kids when they first see the penguins? Or the monkeys? It's great. I love it."

  "So you want me to dig this box up and then give the money to the zoo?"

  "I know it's a lot to ask, but yeah."

  "How much is it?"

  "A hundred thou."

  "Seriously?"

  "Yeah, man. Vernon, he had this crazy idea about starting up a franchise system or something. You know, for when all drugs was totally legit. I thought he was nuts, but hey, pot is getting legal everywhere, so maybe he was—"

  "Half," I said.

  "What?"

  "I'll donate half to the zoo, and half goes to me. Or actually, to this missing girl, Olivia, when I find her."

  "Half!"

  "That's right."

  "That's crazy! It's my money!"

  "Was your money. You're dead now."

  "So!"

  "So … I'm your only hope, right? We're talking about drug money here, buddy. I think your claim on it is pretty questionable. But you got information on where it is, and I got the means to get it."

  "But—"

  "Hold on. This girl, Olivia? She's lost both her parents. She needs a little help getting a fresh start. That's what fifty grand will do—help her get a fresh start. She's also got a very special connection with animals. That's partly why I'm looking for Felicity."

  He thought about it, chewing on his bottom lip. In the silence, I heard the trumpet of an elephant, partly muffled by all the concrete. The snow was letting up, a fine powder easing into nothing.

  "Half?" he asked.

  "Half," I said.

  "You promise?"

  "Yes. Now, do you know this woman?"

  I held up the phone again, showing him the picture. He didn't even look at it, keeping his eyes on me.

  "She used to come here a lot," he said. "But the folks at SISAH, they kind of scared her off, you know? The problem is, she likes animals so much, she tends to make a ruckus if she doesn't feel they're being treated right. Gets the animals to, you know, act out and stuff."

  "Act out?"

  "Yeah, you know, misbehave. She can talk to them. I mean, not really talk to them, because animals don't think like we do … but connect with them in the same way, communicate on their level. She told me it's very primitive emotions, but there's also, um, what's the word? It's like, variations, layers, that sort of thing. Primitive, but … It starts with an 'N'."

  "Nuanced?"

  "Right! Nuanced! She said there's a lot there if you know how to connect. She said I had a little ability myself, and she was trying to teach me, see if I could improve it, but then, well, then she caused the polar bears to get a too aggressive and SISAH sent some people to tell her she needed to leave—or else."

  "Or else? What could they do?"

  Al shrugged. "These folks are totally pro-animal but they're not really pro-human, know what I'm saying? Kind of like some of the more extreme PETA people. You always get the feeling they're happy to kill some humans if it means saving even one little mouse."

  "So you knew Felicity Langford pretty well, then?"

  "Yeah. I mean, kinda. She didn't talk much about herself. What she could do, it was amazing. She'd get as close as she could to an animal, then take off her glasses and lean in real close, just staring at them, and they'd stare back, and the two of them would just stay like that for a long time. A beaver, a python, a cockatoo, don't matter what it was, she could—"

  "This is all very interesting," I said, "but I'd really like to hear this stuff straight from her. Where can I find her?"

  "Hell if I know," he said.

  "But you just said you could help me!"

  "Hey! I don't know specifically, but I do know where you should check. You have to understand, Felicity, she wants to help animals, animals who are, you know, in the most need. So you can always start with the pound, the Humane Society—"

  "I would have gone to those places anyway! They're next on my list."

  "Let me finish! Geez, how can you be a detective when you interrupt all the time? Don't they teach you anything in detective school? The problem is that if she stays too long in one place, SISAH is going to come after her, so she moves around a lot. That's what she told me she was going to do—just keep moving around, helping animals all over Oregon. That would make finding her pretty much a haystack in a needle."

  "I think you mean the other way around."

  "Huh?"

  "Just keep going," I said.

  "Oh. Yeah, well, you have to know that Felicity has a real soft spot for one kind of animal. You find those animals, you'll find her a lot more often."

  He smiled, his teeth yellow in some places, black in others. He was deliberately stretching out the suspense, parlaying what little information he had into a bizarre sort of power trip.

  "Spit it out," I said.

  "Ferrets," he said.

  "Ferrets?"

  He snickered. "Weird, right? Yeah, ferrets. She said they're smart and playful and have a lot more emotional depth than people give them credit for. And, man, the way she went on about them, it's almost like a weird fetish. You find a bunch of ferrets, especially ferrets in trouble, and you'll find Felicity. I guarantee it."

  Chapter 15

  Before I left, Al gave me specific instructions on where, exactly, I could find his plastic box in the woods near Mt. Hood, and I typed it all in my phone, emailing it to myself just to be sure. After that, he made me promise twice more that I would give half to the zoo. I humored him the first time, and the second, I told him if he asked me again I would give it all to Olivia and I wouldn't even feel bad about it. That shut him up in a hurry.

  But driving away, easing the Prius onto the snow-packed Highway 18, I found myself smiling at this cancer-s
tricken junkie who'd discovered a second life, and something he believed in, while hiding in a zoo. I didn't believe most people could change, before or after death. My years on the streets had provided too much evidence to the contrary. It was nice when my pessimism was occasionally proven wrong.

  I grabbed lunch downtown, making some calls to local pet shops while I nibbled at my turkey and avocado sandwich. Soon I had a list of seven stores in the greater Portland metropolitan area that sold ferrets. The rest of the afternoon, I shuttled from one pet store to another on the off chance that Felicity Langford might show up at one of them. Gresham, Beaverton, Lake Oswego—I hit all the suburbs, only barely avoiding accidents twice on the messy roads.

  The good news was that it soon stopped snowing. The bad news was that it started raining, a cold rain that froze as soon as it hit the ground.

  I came up empty. Because Felicity had been dead for a long time, it wasn't like I could show her picture to any of the clerks, making my job especially tough. I did run into several ghosts, mostly former customers, but for those few who did not turn and run as soon as they saw me, the rest did not recognize Felicity.

  At a quarter to five o'clock, with the sky, already gray, turning grayer still, I brooded in my Prius outside a Petco in Wilsonville. Sulked might have been a better word. I already hated the smell of fish food, rabbit pellets, and cat litter. How did I get to this point, driving around to pet shops that sold ferrets looking for a woman who supposedly had a special connection with animals? Because a long-dead psychic told me to?

  Craziness.

  Unsure what to do next, I made some calls. I started with Alesha, to see if she could turn up any relatives or friends in the area Felicity might visit. She came up with nothing. She had nothing for me on John's murder, either. The coroner's preliminary report had shown no evidence that this was anything more than a suicide. No other leads had emerged, either on her end or from the canvassing that Tim and Bud had done.

  Jak had nothing else for me either. She answered my questions with flat, one-word replies. No. Nope. Yeah. I was already cold sitting in the car with the heater off, the icy rain pinging against the glass, and her voice made feel even colder. In the long pauses, I heard the canned laughter of a sitcom in the background, then a bombastic tirade that was distinctively Kelsey Grammer.