Ghost Talkers (9 page)

Ginger yanked free of the memory. “Don't try to soothe me!”

She writhed and slapped at Helen to make her release her hold. Helen held firm. She didn't understand. She had to let Ginger go. Grabbing a memory of her own, she shoved Helen into it.

She is sitting on the back of her cousin's gelding. It stretches her legs wider than her own pony and is not at all comfortable. A goose startles in front of her, and then the horse is rising. The ground smacks against her, and she looks up. The sky is grey and dappled and falling on her.

Helen jerked free, and Ginger became untethered. Freed of the encumbrance of her physical form, she turned to Ben again. His face was white with horror, and grey sprouted from his back in wings of despair. Shoving aside the souls between him and Ginger, Ben grimaced. He staggered as each soul brushed against him, leaving traces of memory in its wake, but he kept coming.

Ginger flowed out to meet him partway.

“You have to go back.”

“Why?”

“I need you to live.” He put his hands on the memory of her shoulders to push her down.

And he is shaking again. Goddamn it. It's one thing to kill a man in the heat of battle. A terrible thing, but understandable.

Behind him, Merrow is cleaning the dust off Ben's uniform, as if it matters what he looks like. The fabric rustles as the boy hangs it on the peg in his borrowed room at the camp. “Shall I fetch your dinner, sir?”

“I'm not hungry.” That was too harsh. “Thank you, Merrow.”

The boy hesitates. Please, God, do not let Merrow say anything sympathetic, because it will break him. God—and Ginger will know. She'll know that he killed one of their own.

For a moment, Ben released Ginger, and the anguish around him stunned her into stillness. The memory of Helen's voice tickled Ginger:
You don't think he …
Ben couldn't have killed Capt. Norris. That wasn't—it wasn't possible. She had heard the murderer's voice, and it hadn't been Ben's.

Gritting his teeth and wrapping resolve around himself, Ben grabbed her again.

He can't sleep. The man had been a traitor. There had been a trial and a firing squad. It was all correct.

But Ben had liked the fellow.

That is the devil of it. He had been charming and brave. And Ben had enjoyed his company. But he was a traitor, and now he is dead. Had he reported in? Maybe Ginger already knows that Ben—

The cabin is too confining, so he creeps out, trying not to wake Merrow. The guns boom, sporadically, in the night. He fishes in his pocket for the cigarettes the Red Cross shipped over. A damn sight easier than rolling his own, but he'd give a lot for a pipe. The match flares in the dark, almost like an aura. He cups his hand around the cigarette, guarding the flame as he inhales. Mint and shit fill his lungs. He shakes the match out and tosses it on the ground. Crushing it underfoot, he takes another drag.

Someone scuffs the dirt behind him. Ben starts to turn, and then he's hauled backward. His throat burns. He can't breathe. Why can't he breathe? The burning darkens into pain, and he claws at his throat. A garrote.

He tugs at the hands holding the piece of wire around his neck and staggers, trying to throw the man off. They stumble together, and, for a moment, there's a distorted reflection in the window of Ben's cabin.

A man with light hair and a British uniform.

He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He is on his knees. Breathe. He can't. He—

He was dead.

Ginger slammed back into her body. The weight of it lay upon her like a blanket of rotting meat. Her breath wheezed as she inhaled. She opened her eyes, and the cracked plane of the floor stretched away from her, ending in a horizon of fabric and flesh. She could not make sense of what she was seeing for even a moment.

“Oh, thank God.” Lt. Plumber lay next to her, clutching her left hand.

On her other side, Mrs. Richardson knelt with one leg twisted under her and her skirt hiked to her thighs. She held Ginger's right hand so tightly it ached. The rest of the circle sprawled on the floor, half seated, half kneeling, as if they had lunged from their seats when she pulled free.

Why hadn't they let her go?

Helen shook her head, panting. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “It's not your time. I know … oh, sweet girl. I know it hurts, but you have to stay here.”

Ginger closed her eyes. She had told Ben that she'd expected him to report in someday, but she'd lied. He could not be dead.

“But I am.” He knelt by her in the spirit realm, carefully not touching her or anyone in the circle.

“Can you hear my thoughts now?”

“No.” He cocked his head. “But your aura is like … it's like a book in a language I'd forgotten I knew.”

Helen asserted control of the circle. “Let me take your report, Capt. Harford. It's not good for her to have you here.”

“No—” Ginger struggled to sit up. “I can do it.”

“You can listen.” Helen's voice was ragged. “Then you are going off duty. I'm not having your death on my watch.”

Ben leaned in. “If you die because of me … I'll never forgive myself, and never is a very long time. Do you really want to leave my soul trapped in that memory?”

Lifting her hand, which Mrs. Richardson did not release, Ginger wiped her eyes on the back of her arm. “You aren't playing fair.”

“All's fair in love and war. We're in both.” His grin was just as jaunty as it had been in life, and belied the deep purple of his grief. “Let me make my report.”

Ginger nodded and sat huddled on the floor. The room was so cold. She shivered. Even her hands, clutched tightly by Lt. Plumber and Mrs. Richardson, ached like ice.

Ben stood, brushing the wrinkles from the memory of his uniform. “I was at camp 463, smoking, when I died. It was past midnight, I'm guessing maybe two or three in the morning.”

“And someone strangled you.” Helen grimaced. “We saw when you pushed Ginger back into her body. Do you know who that was?”

He rippled, and for a moment the memory of grappling with the garrote at his throat was juxtaposed over the image of him standing in front of the circle. Then it was just him again, tall and lean, hair escaping from its pomade, even though pomade did not exist in the spirit realm. Ben stroked his mustache as he thought. “No. His hair was light, but whether it was blond, white, or grey, I can't tell you.”

“Are there any other details we should know?”

“Not if you saw it…” He faltered. “I'm sorry. I mean—you lived it. I am sorry that you had to feel that.”

Next would be the last message. Ginger sank further into herself. He'd give his message and then be released, and she would never see him again in this life. She rocked back and forth. There had to be more questions to keep him just a little longer. “What about Merrow? Do you think he saw anything?”

Ben shook his head. “I couldn't make any sound, and with the guns … I doubt he heard a thing.”

Helen sighed, and then lifted her head. “Do you have a last message?”

“Tell my parents that I love them and I am so sorry that I won't be home for the holidays. Merrow has their presents. Give him my thanks for his service.” He swallowed and looked at Ginger. His brows turned upward. “And tell Ginger that I love her so much and that she has to live to be an old woman. It is the only thing that could make this bearable. Please … please, Ginger.”

She had to remind herself to breathe, and only just managed. Biting her lips, she nodded.

“Is there anything else?” Helen asked.

Ben shook his head. He took a breath that he did not need and straightened his shoulders with determination. “What happens now?”

“You should see a light.” Helen glanced around the room at the other soldier ghosts waiting. “Most people report that it is golden.”

Ben revolved in a slow circle. His feet did not move. “And … if I don't see it?”

Ginger tightened her grip on Lt. Plumber's and Mrs. Richardson's hands. “Do you … do you feel as though you still have something left undone?”

“God, yes. I want to find the bastard who killed me. I—” Ben stopped, going white and crystalline with shock. “I always thought that was a metaphor. I won't—I won't be able rest until I stop him.”

*   *   *

It had taken some work to get Ben past the salt line that ringed the working area, but Joanne had solved it by brushing her foot across the line to break it for long enough for him to slip out. The other circles had seen Ginger's despair, and knew that Ben was dead, but the massive influx of souls had kept them busy.

It was a small mercy. Ginger did not think she would have survived their sympathy. Nor was she sure she wanted to.

She now sat on the narrow bed in her room, propped against the wall at its head. The circle was crowded into the small room on chairs they had dragged in from other parts of the old asylum. Mrs. Richardson and Lt. Plumber sat on either side of her, holding her hands. They could not quite see Ben, although they could hear him.

Helen could see the spirit world clearly. She kept looking between Ginger and Ben, her aura filled with dark skeins of worry.

Ginger had told him the exact words that Capt. Norris had overheard before being murdered. Then she'd moved on to her suspicion that the explosion was to flood the Spirit Corps with useless deaths. He had flickered with agitation, changing posture without moving. “Can you find out about Merrow for me?”

“Of course. It will be in the records if he … and if he hasn't, we'll check the hospitals.”

“Thank you.”

Wetting her lips, Ginger leaned toward Ben. “In your letter, you said there was a traitor in the command structure, but you didn't say who. Could it be the same person?”

He froze. His image stood unnaturally still save for a flicker of silver confusion and orange frustration. The orange flared brighter, and Ben shuddered. “Maybe. I had figured out that it was someone in the command structure because of the direction and type of information that was leaking. Who? I don't think I knew.”

Ginger watched him with some concern. Ben's memory of his life was already starting to fade. “When did you figure it out?”

“The other day. It was.…” The orange danced over him in flames. “We were in … we were in Amiens. There were some prisoners of war I was interviewing.”

“We?” Helen asked.

“Merrow and I. I mean—he was with me, but not doing the interviews, so … so he wouldn't know who—” Ben held his head. “Why can't I remember what day? No. Scratch that. It's because I'm dead. Gah. I thought that would take longer.”

There was an inexorable fading of memory that afflicted all ghosts who remained for too long on this side of the veil. It was usually slower than this, but it was inevitable. Ginger shivered, and Mrs. Richardson squeezed her hand. That gentle pressure and the flood of concern from the entire circle made her chest tighten with tears. Ginger inhaled slowly.

With the circle linked like this, it was a pretence that would fool no one, but she still tried for a cheery and rueful tone. It would be easier on them. An outward display of grief was more difficult to ignore. “I'm not sure you can blame it on being a ghost, since you always had to make notes while you were alive to keep track of things.”

Ben looked up, brightening. “Ha! Notes. Maybe there's something in my notes.”

“I thought you said you didn't know who it was.”

“I don't.” He grimaced and paced in the middle of the circle. “But the fellow who killed me apparently thought I did. If I go to my billet I can go through my notes.”

Helen said, “If nothing else, familiar surroundings might help.”

In the hall, there came the rapid patter of a woman's heels running toward them. They clattered to a stop outside the door, the handle rattled, and then the door flew open, framing Lady Penfold.

“Ginger, my poor sweet dear. I just heard—” She stopped and stared directly at Ben's spirit. “Oh, my.”

He bowed. “Good morning, Lady Penfold.”

She looked back to Ginger. “Am I correct that Ben is haunting you?”

Haunting? That evoked images of ghosts who had not crossed over, memories evaporating until there was nothing left except a single traumatic event. Yet there was nothing else to call it. “He still has unfinished business.”

Surveying the circle of people surrounding Ginger, Lady Penfold stepped into the room. She looked into the hallway before shutting the door. “Then why are you here, instead of at Potter's Field?”

“He was—” Her voice broke, and Lt. Plumber tightened his grip on her left hand. Ginger swallowed and tried again. “He was strangled by a British officer. We don't know who.”

“Good lord.” Stripping off her gloves, Lady Penfold crossed the room to stand behind Helen's chair. “May I join in?”

Helen raised her eyebrows, meeting Ginger's gaze. The question in her aura was clear enough that Lady Penfold could probably see it. Ginger nodded. “Thank you, yes.”

Joanne started to stand up. “You can have my chair, Lady Penfold.”

“Oh, no, no, Miss Burrows. You have all been working far too hard. And I don't intend to do this for terribly long, so I shall stand right here, if Helen doesn't mind.”

“That's fine, my lady.”

“Good. Good.” She put her hands on Helen's shoulders so that the tips of her fingers touched the other medium's neck. With a little sigh, Lady Penfold lowered her chin and settled into the circle. In the spirit realm, she looked at Ben and
tsk
ed. “I suppose you are set on finding who killed you.”

“I am.”

“And you cannot be persuaded to rest, if we promise to complete that task for you.”