Against a Brightening Sky (8 page)

Aileen's ghost was the first to truly haunt me, strong willed and determined. Without Dora's help and tutoring, I might have succumbed to the same ghost-induced madness I feared for Connor. “I haven't forgotten Aileen. There's little chance of that.”

She sobered and hugged me again. “No, I don't imagine you would. We'll tackle the question of what influences were at work near Lotta's fountain later. This new spirit is the more immediate problem. Can you summon this princess ghost?”

“No need to summon her.” I gestured toward the small mirror holding the ghost's image. That Dora hadn't known the ghost was watching surprised me. “She's already here.”

Dora looked where I'd pointed, her expression changing from interested to horrified. “Oh dear God no … Sunny.” She moved closer, still staring. “I can't believe it. This girl seems too young, but she looks so, so much like Sunny.”

She brushed trembling fingers across the ghost's image, a startling gesture from Isadora. That she didn't immediately faint was a bigger surprise. I'd felt the moment of a person's death, known the pain of their last seconds and struggle to cling to life, but those were fleeting things for me. I could grit my teeth and go on.

Powerful emotions and the pain of others—both living and dead—sought Dora out, lingered, and grew stronger. Being swept away was a real danger, one she couldn't take lightly. Seeing her willingly touch a ghost was a shock.

“I don't have the vaguest idea what you're talking about, Dora.” I stood shoulder to shoulder with her, watching the ghost who'd shadowed me all day and ready to catch Isadora if she did faint. “You need to explain it to me.”

“I was married for several years while I lived in Europe. My husband, Mikal, was killed while on a hunting trip with friends. A rock slide is what I was told.” A shadow of old grief, old sorrows, moved across Dora's face. “Losing Mikal is why I left the Continent and moved to Atlanta.”

“I didn't know.” I touched her shoulder. My understanding of why Dora felt her relationships were cursed became painfully clear. “I'm sorry.”

“That was a long time ago, Dee, and I rarely talk about it. But this ghost of yours looks a great deal like a cousin of Mikal's. Everyone in the family called her Sunny and I took up the practice once we became friends. How much the two of them look alike took me by surprise, but Sunny was much older than this girl. I haven't seen her since I left Europe. That's more than twelve years now.” She touched the ghost's face one last time and stepped back, folding her arms over her chest and shivering. “You won't be able to banish this ghost or shut her out of your life, not unless she leaves willingly. There are haunts that some of the old texts refer to as memory wraiths. Other old stories call them mirror ghosts, for obvious reasons. Memory wraiths are extremely rare. I've never seen one before today.”

I followed Dora's lead and touched the mirror. Cold glass was all I felt, no sense of who the princess had been nor any lingering trace of how she'd died. I'd felt far too many ghosts die in the past to think of this as normal. “I can see her, but she's not really there.”

Dora studied the princess in the mirror. She was more thoughtful, working out the puzzle, now that shock had worn away. “No, she's not. The grimoire I studied maintained that mirror ghosts are never fully in the world of the living or the spirit realm. They exist in a kind of limbo between life and death. They are reflections of a memory, frozen in time exactly as remembered.”

“A reflection of a memory.” I turned to check on Connor, somewhat surprised our conversation hadn't woken him. A part of me wondered if the princess had a hand in that. “Then the question becomes whose memory does she belong to? We've established it's not one of yours. And I've never seen her before this morning.”

“No, definitely not a memory of mine or yours. The memory of this princess belongs to someone else. That she appears to have attached herself to you is really rather confusing.” Dora paced a few steps to the left to stand next to Connor's bureau, never taking her eyes off the mirror and the image of the princess. “Come stand over here, Dee, but don't block my view of the mirror as you move.”

Dora always had reasons for her requests and I'd learned not to question. I did as she asked, making a wide circle so she never lost her view of the ghost. Once I was standing next to her again, Isadora looked away from the mirror.

“Fascinating. There's no question she's attached to you.” She drummed long nails on the top of the bureau and frowned. “Her eyes follow you and she shifts position as you move. She's very lively for a memory. Everything I remember reading about mirror ghosts conflicts with what I see. But as I said, they are rare and the literature on them is rather sparse.”

“So what do we do now?”

Isadora hooked her arm through mine. “We go downstairs and wait for Sadie's call. I plan to occupy my time raiding Jack's liquor cabinet and listening to you tell me more about what the union men saw. Much as I tease, you don't go actively looking to get tangled up with unusual occult activity or ghostly manifestations. You seem to be some sort of lodestone for obscure denizens of the spirit realm. Damned if I can figure out why.”

“At least you allow that it's not my fault. That's progress of a sort.” I looked back at Connor, torn about leaving. “Will he be all right alone?”

“This used to be your room, as I recall.” She tipped her head, peering into the corners of the room. “We layered enough wards and charms and protections on this room to last a millennium. Don't fret about Connor. He'll be fine.”

We went toward the stairs, still arm in arm. I did my best to ignore the face of the princess looking back at me from every shiny surface. Dora paid her no attention. I wasn't at all sure she saw the ghost.

“So tell me about this friend of Sam's. I think you said her name was Libby?”

“Yes, Libby Mills, the social worker. The papers have written several articles about her obtaining employment for soldiers' widows. I like her a great deal.” I gave Dora a sidelong look, but her eyes were crinkled up in concentration, and not a trace of mischief showed on her face. She was paying more attention to the ghost than I'd thought. “Libby's not at all subject to panic in a crisis. She's downstairs right now, helping Annie tend to the poor young woman Sam rescued.”

Dora stopped to stare at me. “Really? Our Sam is a hero?”

I nodded. “Very much so. He saved Alina from being shot.”

“Well, well … Sam is always full of surprises. I suppose displaying full-blown heroics was just a matter of time and circumstance.” Dora patted my hand. “Raiding the liquor cabinet can wait a bit. I want to meet Sam's friend Libby and his damsel in distress. What did you say her name was?”

“She told Sam her given name is Alina, but she's said little since. The poor thing had just seen her parents gunned down and he was lucky to get that much from her.”

“Alina … Sam's sure that's the name?” I nodded. An expression I couldn't read crossed Dora's face. She glanced at the princess ghost and frowned. “Imbibing can definitely wait a little longer. A clear head is always best when meeting new people.”

“Tell me what's wrong, Isadora Bobet.” I dug in my heels, facing her straight on and refusing to go any farther until I got an answer. “And don't try to pretend it's nothing. I know you too well.”

She started to pout and make light of it, but thought better of games after a good look at my face. “I can't absolutely say that anything is or isn't wrong. Let's just say I have a hunch.”

“A hunch?” Dora had surprised me for a second time. I couldn't keep myself from staring openmouthed. “I don't think I've heard you use that word before, not once. Is this a new thing for you?”

“Mock me if you choose. Gabe doesn't have exclusive ownership of the word.” She sniffed in exaggerated disdain, but the worry in her eyes ruined the effect. “A hunch is just a milder form of a premonition. I've had more than my share of those. Now, let's get downstairs. I'm eager to meet Libby and Alina.”

Dora strode down the stairs, head high and moving with that same ingrained confidence I'd attributed to royalty. I followed, thinking hard.

She hadn't fooled me; something was wrong. I'd just have to wait to discover what.

Gabe

Gabe stayed in the area surrounding Lotta's fountain long enough to make sure all the bodies had been recovered and survivors accounted for. Shifting rubble and exploring damaged buildings took hours, a grim task for everyone involved. Smoke still clouded the air, a result of smoldering fires. The search was further complicated by trying not to bring down teetering skeletons of charred timber and brick on the searchers' heads.

One of the deputy coroners, a young doctor named Jefferson West, gave him a tally when they'd finished. They'd found five people trapped in a ruined storefront, all of them frightened and with minor injuries, but still alive. He counted that a victory, considering. More than a hundred and twenty bodies went to the morgue. West didn't say how many of the dead were children, and Gabe didn't push for an answer. He didn't want to know.

What he did know was bad enough. Nine of those bodies were cops, two of them the frightened rookies from his squad who had gone with Jack. Guilt dug its hooks in deep as Gabe watched their bodies carried away. The death of any man under his command always felt like his responsibility, his failure.

He made sure the deputy coroner had all the dead officers' names before the stretchers were loaded into the vans and taken away. There were enough officers on the scene from all over the city that finding out the names Gabe didn't know right away wasn't difficult.

That held true until they tried to identify the unknown cop who'd set off the dynamite cache. Gabe had stared at the face of the strange detective with the long-barreled Colt, memorizing his features. Older with thinning brown hair, the dead man's features were unremarkable. Forgettable. Even after spending time studying him, Gabe wasn't sure he'd know the dead man again if they passed on the street.

No one else recognized him, knew his name, or could say what squad he came from. A sick feeling took root in Gabe's gut as patrolman after patrolman claimed not to know the stranger. He asked the coroner's men to wait and tugged off the blanket covering the body.

The stranger's pockets were empty, as if the suit and overcoat were brand new and he hadn't gotten around to filling them with spare change, trolley tokens, or sales slips from the tobacco shop. Gabe kept searching, but there was nothing for him to find. Nothing to tell him who this man might have been.

Pulling the dented, bloody badge off the dead man's overcoat and wiping it clean provided the only clue. The words engraved on the brass shield read
Chicago Police Department, number 687.
Gabe shoved the badge deep into his trouser pocket. No one recognized the dead man, because he wasn't a San Francisco cop.

Cold fingers caressed the back of his neck. Gabe thought hard about what a Chicago detective was doing in San Francisco unannounced and carrying a gun. More wind off the Bay swirled past, whispering in his ear. This stranger hadn't been a cop at all. The explosion, the death of the gunman and his partner, were all part of a bigger, deliberate plan.

Gabe straightened up much too quickly, gasping at the stab of pain in his side. Black spots skittered in front of his eyes. He took shallow breaths to keep from being sick and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Sam materialized at his side, eyeing Gabe. Butler was a good nursemaid, allowing him to do his job and still keeping his word to Delia. “Are you all right? Maybe we should leave now.”

“Give me another minute.” He caught Marshall Henderson's attention and motioned him over. The tall, red-haired officer's face was streaked with soot, masking his freckles. Marshall said something to the patrolman working with him and started toward Gabe. “As soon as I give Marshall some instructions, you can take me to the hospital. I want to check on Jack.”

“Excellent idea, Captain Ryan.” Sam pulled a handkerchief from his inside pocket and wiped his face. “While we're there, Dr. Jodes can look you over. That will make Delia happy.”

He wasn't going to argue. Arguing took too much air.

Marshall nodded at Sam before giving Gabe his full attention. “Something I can do for you, Captain?”

“I need you to send a telegram for me.” He fingered the badge in his pocket, but thought better of pulling it out. “Have it delivered to the chief of police for the Chicago City PD. I want to know if they have an officer with the badge number six hundred eighty-seven and what his name is. If there's anything else they can tell me about him, I'd appreciate knowing. Request the information be sent back as soon as possible. Make sure to thank the chief for his cooperation and his help.”

“Yes, sir.” Marshall scribbled notes in his notebook, a habit two-thirds of the squad had picked up from Jack. He glanced up. “Anything else?”

Gabe adjusted his hat, taking pressure off the bump on the back of his head. He was grateful the world stayed relatively steady afterwards. “Go send it off now. If we're lucky, we might have an answer tomorrow.”

Butler's hands were stuffed into his pockets and he whistled softly as he watched Henderson hurry away. He waited until Henderson reached a patrol car on the far side of the square before taking hold of Gabe's arm. Sam waved at Taylor, giving a prearranged signal to fetch the car.

They turned their backs on ruined buildings, coroner's vans, and blanket-covered bodies lined up on the pavement, picking their way across the debris-strewn square. Gabe moved slowly, the pain in his side worse, and Sam let him set the pace. By the time they reached the edge of the rubble, Taylor was there with the car. Getting into the backseat wasn't easy, but at least he didn't need to hide how much he shook or that he was in pain. Butler already knew.