Poltergeist (20 page)

Dale Stahlqvist snatched at a leg of the rolling table, pulling it away from his wife and Ana. Red and yellow light strobed in the room, lending a disjointed, horror-film aspect to the scene. Patricia picked up a wooden chair and began to beat at the rogue table, screaming at it as blood ran down her neck.

I needed a closer look at Celia. In the confusion, I bolted toward the observation room door as the board full of Christmas lights in the séance room exploded, raining colored glass and sparks over Ana, Cara, and Wayne. The stereo let out a final tortured howl and fell silent as both rooms blacked out.

I heard the whoosh of a fire extinguisher behind me as I rushed into the hall. The séance room door crashed open, flooding the hall with Celia's hot glow and tangled lines. Wayne, Ana, and Cara rushed out as I skidded into the sudden fire and knives of the poltergeist.

A tornado of fury twisted around me, pulling and tearing at me with murderous power. Crystal planes, glittering like ice sheets, cut kaleidoscopic slices of time, flaying me with instants of memory— flashes of lives and shattered jumbles of faces…and the odor of gun-smoke and salt wrack. The sensation of foulness pushed against me and I reeled forward, desperate to escape it.

Then I was through it and the séance sitters were milling, hysterical and gabbling, into the hall around me. Acrid smoke and the smell of the extinguisher's chemicals flooded from the rooms on a raft of chill. But I still had the other smell in my nose—the stink that had clung under the scent of superglue at Mark's apartment. The odor of the poltergeist.

Turning, I saw the hot swirl of Celia's shape collapse, spiraling away like water down a drain and leaving only dim, frayed threads like a spiderweb spun between the participants. I shuddered. It was a force—an entity—capable of great destruction, and the feel and smell of it only confirmed the sickening idea that had been growing in my mind for a while. I had passed through the thing that had killed Mark Lupoldi.

It hadn't just been present and it wasn't a coincidence. One or some of these people had created a killer ghost. I had no doubt of it, but Solis wouldn't like it. He would require a more prosaic solution and I might have to be the one to point him to it. No one else would or could.

I stood in the hall, breath heaving, and looked them over. Ken was still missing. Tuckman and Terry had come into the hall with Quinton a smoke-wrapped step behind them. Cara had allowed Dale to comfort her and I could see thin blood trickling from beneath her bandage as she leaned against him. Wayne had vanished again, leaving Ana in the care of Ian.

I caught up to Wayne exiting the séance room. Glancing in, I could see Ken sitting up against the control room wall. He shook his head as if dazed or deafened. I looked at Wayne.

"Bruised, but not broken, I think," he said. "Just knocked silly. How 'bout you call the medics and I'll take a look at the rest?”

"We'll have to keep them calm and here and not let them go wandering off like Cara did last time.”

"Check. Go tell Tuckman. He'll listen to you more than me.”

"OK. Be back in a minute." I glanced in at Ken one more time, but he hadn't changed any—his shield of blankness was still missing, but there was nothing much else to see. I dug up my cell phone and called 911 as I headed for Tuckman.

Quinton buttonholed me. "I really don't like this.”

"Join the club. What went wrong?”

He gave me a grave look. "I was going to ask you that. The machinery was all doing what it should have—right up until the electrical surge that fried most of it. What caused the surge seems to be your field, not mine.”

"I'm afraid I don't know, either. Some kind of ghost energy, but—”

He waved my explanation aside. "I don't want to know. Magic just makes my head ache. What I do want to know is if this is going to attract cops.”

I chewed my lip. "I think so. There's a murder investigation involved and I suspect the detective in charge has been watching at least a few of these people.”

"Then I need to go, but I'll call you later. There's something I need to check out.”

"Something wrong?”

"Maybe, but I want to be sure first. I've got your cell phone number. I'll call you when I know. Now, I'm out of here.”

I reserved judgment on his mysterious habits and blew out a breath. "I'm stuck a while longer or I'd offer you a lift back to Pioneer Square. Will you be OK?”

He chuckled. "I'm great at getting around. But you be careful, Harper. This thing's a mess.”

I gave him a sardonic look. "No duh.”

He gave me a small smile, then shook his head and loped for the back stairs with his pack slung over one shoulder.

I caught up to Tuckman next, hearing the screech of a siren and the clatter of noise from in front of the building. "Hey," I said, catching his arm to turn his attention from the hysterical Patricia, who was still pinching her bleeding ear. "You're going to have cops all over you in a few minutes and you need to keep this bunch contained—”

The Medic One team hustled up the stairs with their kits. Wayne sent them to Ken first, then resumed his position blocking the main stairs.

Tuckman seemed a little dazed. "What? Why?”

"I suspect that Detective Solis has been keeping an eye on you and your group. Someone has surely called campus security about the noise and the smoke, and Solis's guys will be right behind them. Keep these people in order and under control and try to get them coherent. No detective is going to buy the idea that your pet ghost got loose and attacked a few people—especially not when one of your project assistants died in mysterious circumstances a week ago.”

His respiration was a little fast, his eyes still a little glazed. I leaned in and peered into them. "Do you understand me, Tuckman? Hello?”

He blinked several times. "Yes. Yes, I think so." He shook himself back to normal. "I need to keep them together. Will you stay or have you other concerns elsewhere?”

I smiled at him. "I have other things I have to do. I need to talk to you about all of this, but it'll have to wait.”

"All right." He nodded and stepped away from me, beginning to move through the small crowd, soothing them and organizing their thoughts for them.

I watched the ghost-makers wander for a moment, beginning to fall back under Tuckman's calm. They seemed frightened and confused—unaware of what power they wielded. Most of them. But at least one of them was acting.

I followed Quinton's lead and slid away before the cops arrived. I had an appointment I couldn't miss. Not even for Solis.

Carlos paused a moment outside the building to study it, as I had a week before. The Grey fog of yellow and black that had hung over the building the night of Mark Lupoldi's death had thinned and contracted to a single blazing spot on his window. The police cars and barricades were gone, but the building still had an air of violation and depression.

Carlos said nothing until we were upstairs and standing in front of Mark's door. The snap lock had been engaged but it was old, unsophisticated, and poorly installed—easily bypassed with a credit card. "Corruption is rife when even the locks take bribes," he observed. I raised an eyebrow. I'd never expected a joke out of Carlos. "It doesn't usually work," I replied. "This just happens to be a very cheap lock in a run-down building.”

I closed the door behind us, locking us into the murder scene. The landlord had not cleaned the apartment yet and the bloodstains and print-kit residue still marked the walls. Carlos looked it over and nodded approval as he began pacing around the room. His tread made no sound in spite of his size. He put his hands out as if touching objects as yet invisible to me.

I sank down into the Grey, hoping to see something of what he saw. The cold silver mist swelled over me, shot with the phosphorescent glow of energized objects, heaving and flickering with the shapes of ghosts and memories. Layers of old tenants had built up a map of their daily routines, laying a path paved with ghost footprints around the bed, kitchen counter, and bath. A similar pearly patch floated near the windows, where generations of tenants had gazed out, watered their plants, or sat to read in the sunlight a while.

I pushed myself deeper, to the lines of the grid. Bright white, yellow, and blue dominated the vertiginous view through the blackness between the worlds. I felt dizzy at the apparent emptiness below my feet. Cars left a blur of displaced energy overhead on the black smear of the AuroraBridge as the neon wire-frame world rolled down to the cold cut of the canal below.

A tangled stain of red and yellow—like strands of poisoned cottonwood fluff—lay upon the air a few feet from me. They didn't seem to hover, but to have become caught on some invisible hook in the air. A boiling shape of black and red moved around them. I started toward it, curious, then saw it reach out, beckon to me. The shape was Carlos’s presence in the deepest levels of the Grey. It was heavier and more solid than I would have expected, though it had strange rents and holes.

I fixed my sight on the shape that was Carlos and eased back toward normal, watching the energy-shape change and clothe itself in layers of power, appearance, and memory as I surfaced. Jagged shards of glittering ice danced in his shape and clustered through him, reflecting sudden glimpses of history before he regained the dark, hulking cloak of shadow and blood I was familiar with.

I emerged with a shudder. Carlos watched me, one eyebrow raised. We were standing in front of the bloodstained wall, facing the cracked dent Mark's body had made in it. I could barely see the faded red and yellow threads, hanging at chest height. Carlos pulled a filament from it and brought it to his face.

"This is the trace of your ghost.”

"So it was here.”

"It was. A strange ghost, as you said. It is very difficult for me to read—it's not dead. It's alive. It is a living thing of this power, created by ignorant will, thriving on many power sources. One is not alive—a natural power source, but not that of a human life. It is not the life of the man who died here. He is not part of this…entity.”

"What is it, then? They call it a poltergeist, but it doesn't seem to be that.”

"A thought-entity," he answered. "The accumulation of their will with this power source they stumbled on, displaced time, memory, things dragged from their proper place in the net of combined human desire. It should not be as powerful as it is, except for whatever power source they found. A strange creature…”

He rubbed the strands between his fingers and breathed in whatever odor rose from it, frowning and casting his glance to me.

I looked at the bloodied wall. "Could it have caused that?”

"It did. I would not expect it of daylighters, usually. But the mind that guided it is unrestrained.”

"It was controlled? By a single person?”

"Without doubt. The smell of this is strange, though." He plucked another thread of it and I shivered. "It has a scent of you, also, and has the tang of fury and madness, surprise…desire? Odd." He crushed the strand in his hand and drizzled it out as dust on the floor. "Why does it smell of you?”

"I fell in it earlier today and got caught in it at least one other time at one of their séances," I replied. "I suppose that would account for the smell of it on me.”

Carlos frowned cold ripples across the surface of the Grey. "I did not say you smelled of it—though it clings to you. It brought the odor of you with it here.”

I stared at him and my mind spun through the chronology of Mark's death. "Wait. When I first investigated the lab, some of the threads of it were gathered under a table—I didn't know what it was at the time. I slipped and my head and shoulders plunged into the knot of threads, like a large version of that little snag here. That was the day Mark was killed. Maybe an hour or two before he died.”

Carlos closed his eyes and smiled.

A surge of despair swamped me. "Did I have something to do with this?”

"No. The trace of you is a mere shred and I wouldn't have recognized it without your presence now.”

"But—" I started to object, unsure I hadn't somehow pushed this thing.

His glance cut through me. "You own nothing of this.”

"Then what happened here?" I asked.

"I can't see the whole of it—the death was quick and the shock short. The man who died did not linger. This thing came as fury and struck him with its power unleashed. It flung him, crushed him, sweeping the room like flash fire, then was gone.”

"Did it take anything?”

Carlos snorted. "If it did, I cannot see that. It has no story, only these near-extinguished remains of its rage. The power of it amazes me.”

"I think I know where the extra power came from. The room the group picked to work in has a power line nearby.”

"A ley line.”

"It seems like a feeder line to a grid nexus, not a big source, but they seem to have dragged it from the position I'd expect.”

He nodded, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Dangerous enough on its own and remarkable that they've moved the ley line—such things are not easily diverted.”

He seemed less bothered by that than I was. I refocused the conversation on the events around Mark's death. "Do you know who controlled it or how? Is there any way to tell from what you can…see?

"No. It is a single mind, though, and not the caprice of the collective personality that usually animates the entity. A powerful mind, unfettered by artificial limits.”

"They're all a little 'unfettered'—they've been encouraged to believe in what most people around here think is impossible.”

"This one is less restrained than any of them—it must be, to embrace the form of this thing. More like one of my kind than yours.”

"Psychopathic?”

Carlos rumbled amused gales of ice. "A matter of perspective.”

I frowned. "Then whichever one of them sent Celia here killed Mark and they meant to do it.”

"The details are unclear, but isn't it still murder to you if the killer has used this harmful thing knowingly even if they may not have meant to kill?”

"Yes.”

"Then, yes, one of them murdered this man.”

"How could he or she know they could do this?”

"There would have been a previous event in which the murderer realized the power—even if they did not understand it." He seemed to linger over the word "murderer," turning my spine cold.

"Would it have to be by the same person against the same person?" I asked.

"Not necessarily, but it would be most likely.”

"Then I have one more thing for you to see.”

Carlos growled. "This begins to tire me…”

I was surprised. "You're tired?”

"Bored.”

I pretended a cavalier attitude I didn't feel—Carlos didn't respect quailing. "Indulge me a little longer. It's not far from here.”

I could feel his annoyance as Carlos followed me out of the building and toward Old Possums. He displayed a slight limp that evening which had become marked over the hours and added to his grim presence. I tried to distract him a little as we walked.

"I have a more general question.”

He didn't ask.

"Are glass or mirrors special in some way? Magically, I mean.”

He sent me a sideways glance of interest tinged with irritation. "Mirrors have an unusual quality of resonance and reflection. The glass slows the reflection of magical things. If it reaches the silvered surface, the energy that made the reflection is captured as a charge in the metal until it dissipates or is discharged at the edge of the glass.”

"Like a battery?”

"The charge is not indefinite. It dissipates with time, bleeding slowly away through the glass. The scientific uses of glass also serve magic—when pure it reacts to nothing and collects nothing. But it is much denser than meets the eye and its common resonance is not that of magic. Energies much greater or less than that resonance have difficulty passing through it and will seek other paths or become slowed in their passage.”

I mulled that over as we turned in at the bookshop door.

I didn't recognize the wild-haired man behind the cash desk, happily bopping to his iPod. Carlos ignored him and followed me into the coffee alcove at the back. He glanced around, casting a dark eye on the room.

"And what is this place to your problem?”

"I think the first incident happened here. Mark—the man who was killed—was standing …" I looked around and went to a spot near the shelf marked "Biography," checking the mirror to see if the cash desk was visible as it should have been. "He must have been standing here, having an argument with someone when that gargoyle flew at him," I added, pointing to the listing figurine.

Carlos turned his head slowly, scanning the mantel until he came to the black cat-faced creature. He picked it up and peered at it, drawing a long breath.

"This." In the light of the shop, his face had become drawn and the network of scars was more obvious, looking like sharp ridges in a wind-scoured landscape.

"Yes. The autopsy showed a bruise on his shoulder from something and one on his chest from the book, and though I was told the gargoyle was only thrown
at
him, that was third-hand information. Supposedly no one touched the figure or threw it, but I think it did hit him and that a book also hit him. I think the person he was arguing with must have been the same one who sent the…entity after him later. Can you tell if I'm right?”

Carlos glowered at me with impatience. "Very little remains—as I expected. No one—no murderer—has touched this, so there is no trace of death to it. Only the finest thread of the entity. It has the scent, but no more.”

"You don't think this may have been the precipitating incident?”

"It is possible," he snapped. "Probable. But there is no more to find here. This is even older than the death site, useless for anything but rough confirmation. Mere trivia.”

There was a hot spark to his glare and the annoyance rolled off him in waves with a strange, feral scent that made me dizzy. He put the object down and moved close to me, making my stomach heave. I turned my gaze away.

"It grows late and I grow hungry and tired of this. An interesting puzzle does not feed me. If you want more from me tonight, I will require payment—though you'd be a fool for it. There is nothing more I can see here.”

I felt frozen in place, fighting to keep my eyes turned from his. A rumble vibrated the air and my body.

"I'm done," I answered from a dry mouth.

I felt him withdraw, but didn't try to watch him go. I only waited until I was sure he was gone.

I sat down in one of the armchairs and took several deep, slow breaths. I'd been concentrating too hard on the problem of Celia—and the revelation of my connection to it—and not paying enough attention to the native threat of vampires. Carlos had always been the most controlled of them. He'd never threatened to make a meal of me before. I considered the limp and the scars, the incompleteness of his presence in the Grey. It had not occurred to me until now that even a creature who heals with preternatural speed would take a while to recover from being burned to a crisp—and it might be worse for a necromancer, whose relationship with death was not like that of other vampires.

I picked myself up and went to the front of the shop.

I waved and smiled at the bopping man until he pulled the tiny plastic buds from his ears.

"What can I do for you, pretty lady?" he cooed in a broad Jamaican accent that was laid on with a trowel.

"You must be Germaine.”

"That I am. How'd you know?”

"I know your cousin Phoebe.”

He rolled his head and his eyes. "Oh, man. You're not spyin' for the woman, are you?”