Unholy Ghosts

Chapter Twenty-nine

She stuffed the invoice into her bag and flung herself at the file cabinet, jamming the Morton file back in just as Elder Griffin, Goody Tremmell, and Doyle rounded the corner.

“Cesaria! Are you all right? What happened to your face?”

Doyle went bright red, his mouth hanging slightly open, but she barely looked at him. She barely looked at any of them. Was Elder Griffin involved in this? Elder Griffin, her favorite? He’d been the one who gave her the Morton file to begin with, hadn’t he? And he’d been the one Randy talked to. So he knew something was happening.

Hard to believe. She didn’t want to believe it. But she couldn’t exactly ask him about it, not with Doyle and Goody Tremmell standing right there, not when Elder Griffin’s hand rested casually on the Goody’s shoulder like they were friends. Especially not when Goody Tremmell’s eyebrows drew down and she studied Chess as if she knew what Chess had found. Her stout arms stretched the seams of her plain black dress as she folded them, and the ties of her cap had come undone. She looked like a woman unraveling, piece by piece, like the tension inside her was shaking all the outward trimmings loose. Chess took a step back.

“Cesaria?”

“I fell,” she said. “Last night, in the rain. The stairs in my apartment building were wet, and I had my hands full, so…” With effort she stopped herself from continuing.

Elder Griffin, can I talk to you for a minute?

Just say it! You have to tell him, you have to tell somebody!

Elder Griffin, can I talk to you?

“Why are you behind my desk?”

“I apologize, Goody Tremmell. I was…I was on my way to the Mortons’ and I remembered I wanted to check something in the file, so I was waiting for you. But then I remembered what it was, and I—I dropped my pen.” Sweat trickled down her side. Elder Griffin, can I…Fuck it. “So I’m going to go now, and, um, good morrow, and Facts are Truth.”

“Facts are Truth,” Elder Griffin repeated, but Goody Tremmell didn’t speak. Chess turned and headed for the hall, trying to keep her gait calm and unconcerned while expecting fingers to close on her shoulder at any second.

“Chessie, wait a minute.” Doyle caught up to her as she passed through the office doorway. Just the sound of his voice made her jump. Did he have a knife or would he kill her with his bare hands? “Can I talk to you? Please? I’m—I’m so sorry, and thanks for covering for me, I don’t deserve it—”

“No, you don’t. Get away from me.” If he was talking about hitting her, he might not know what she knew. She might be able to fudge it, pretend she hadn’t discovered what he was, at least until she got outside. Terrible was outside. She quickened her pace.

Doyle matched it. “Listen, I didn’t mean it. I tried to tell you last night, but you ran away too fast. It was just because I haven’t slept, and you surprised me, it was just a reflex. You know I would never—”

“No. I know you did.”

“Don’t I at least get a chance to apologize?”

“No.” She pushed open the front door and walked out into the mist, increasing her pace as much as she could without running. Terrible’s car was about fifty feet away, off to the side in an effort to be less conspicuous.

“Will you just hold on a minute?” His fingers closed around her arm.

She yanked it away. Her heart kicked in her chest; her skin where he’d touched it felt slimy, as though he’d left a trail of blood on her. Blood from his hands, Brain’s blood. It was hard to speak clearly. “Fuck off, will you? I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want anything to do with you, how do you not get this? You fucking hit me, Doyle, and you’re involved in whatever—What?”

Doyle stared over her shoulder, eyes widening. A strangled sort of gasp left his throat.

Terrible was coming, his gait easy and steady, but the way his gaze fixed on Doyle and the tire iron dangling loosely from his hand were more eloquent than anything else could have been.

Doyle spun away from her, his feet slapping the wet cement as he started to run. Terrible’s pace didn’t change. The tire iron flew from his hand, spinning sideways like a Frisbee. Chess barely had time to gasp before it caught Doyle in the legs, knocking him to the ground.

His scream was muffled in the mist and drowned out by the clank of the tire iron skipping across the cement, but Chess felt it reverberate through her entire body just the same. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Still Terrible did not speed up, did not even glance at her as he passed, moving as purposefully and inexorably as a river cutting through mud.

Doyle had made it halfway to a stand when Terrible reached him, knocking him back to the pavement with a swift, neat kick to the jaw.

They were at the edge of the lot. Five feet away it ended in soft grass, and Doyle, flat on his back like a turtle, flipped over and tried to crawl toward it. He barely advanced an inch before Terrible picked him up and threw him—threw him—onto the grass.

“Wait, wait,” Doyle said, scrambling to his feet and holding up his muddy hands. “I’ll file a complaint, I’ll swear a warrant, I’ll—”

He doubled over as Terrible’s fist slammed into his stomach. Next came an uppercut, flinging him back to the wet grass.

Terrible yanked him up by the hair. Doyle made a feeble attempt to hit back, his arm swinging wide and short.

Another punch, and another. Blood flew everywhere, pouring from Doyle’s nose and mouth, spattering his shirt and the grass. He fell to his knees, his shoulders slumped, almost unrecognizable save the thick, shiny hair on his head. Even that didn’t identify him, she thought, not when from behind he and Randy Duncan could practically have been twins.

Speaking of Randy…Chess glanced in the direction of his cottage. That was all she needed, was for him to be watching. By morning everyone in the Church would know that Chess and some guy had come along and beaten Doyle up; Randy was incapable of keeping a secret.

But then, most people who wanted to be liked as badly as he did were.

Terrible let go of Doyle, who dropped like a corpse. Only the weak moan pouring from his mouth told Chess he was still alive.

The faint snick of Terrible’s switchblade finally galvanized her into speech. “Terrible, no!”

He didn’t even look at her. Instead he knelt beside Doyle, turned him over, and pressed the blade to his throat.

“You thinking on touching her again?” he asked, low and impersonal, as if he were asking what Doyle thought of the weather or if he could direct him to the nearest gas station.

Doyle shook his head. Chess, unable to look at his fear-white eyes, glanced away and saw he’d wet himself.

“That’s good. You touch her again, I kill you. Dig?”

Doyle managed to nod.

“Chess? You got any asks for him?”

“I-Is Elder Griffin in on it, Doyle?” It wasn’t the question she meant to ask, but it was the first one that came out. Probably the most important, too. She had better sense than she should, staring at Doyle’s ruined face.

“What?” His voice sounded thick.

“Is Elder Griffin in on it? Is he with you?” When Doyle still stared dumbly at her, she crossed her arms over her chest impatiently. “The Lamaru. The Dreamthief. Goody Tremmell. Is Elder Griffin one of you? Did he do the ritual with you?”

“What—the Lamaru? What ritual?”

Terrible pressed the knife harder. A drop of blood appeared at the point. “Ain’t got time for games. Give her the answer.”

“I can’t! I don’t know what you mean!”

Terrible lifted his fist, ready to slam it into Doyle’s face again, but Chess reached out and grabbed it. “Doyle…when did you see the Dreamthief?”

“I told you. I didn’t know what I was seeing until Bruce told me about it. I saw him in my bedroom once, and in a couple of Dreams. Why are you asking me this again? Why are you talking about the Lamaru?”

Chess and Terrible exchanged looks. Doyle could have been lying. He wasn’t bad at it. But would he really be willing to die to protect Goody Tremmell—and Mrs. Morton?

“Please, I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything about the Lamaru or rituals or anything.” Tears rolled down the sides of Doyle’s face. “Please, Chess, I’m sorry, I’ll never come near you again, but I don’t know! Please don’t let him hit me again.”

“How well do you know Goody Tremmell?”

“What?”

“You talk to her a lot. How well do you know her?”

Doyle coughed. A little blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t, I mean, not well. We don’t talk talk. We just…chat. I’m nice to her, that’s all.”

“Have you ever seen her with any other Debunkers?”

“Well, we all talk to her, don’t we? When she assigns cases and stuff.” Doyle’s brows wrinkled. He winced and touched his forehead with his fingertips. “What are you getting at?”

“But does she seem to have a particular friendship with anyone else?”

Both he and Terrible looked up at her. She shrugged, knowing her face was coloring. “I don’t live on grounds, remember?”

“I can’t think of anyone. She doesn’t seem to…Wait a minute. Is this something to do with the nightmare man?”

“Never mind, Doyle.”

“You don’t suspect Goody Tremmell’s behind that, do you? Goody Tremmell mixed up with the Lamaru? Shit, Chessie, you’re even crazier than I thought if you really think—”

She opened her mouth to say something snotty back, but Terrible got there first. He grabbed Doyle’s left hand and, with one quick savage twist, snapped Doyle’s pinky finger. Doyle screamed. Terrible didn’t even blink.

“You need ought else, Chess? Or we done here?”

They needed to get out of there. Lex was on his way, and she wasn’t eager to have him face-to-face with Terrible. She needed to get a few more things from Edsel so she could do the ritual to free Slipknot’s soul that night—Slipknot’s and her own, she remembered with an ugly twist in her gut—and figure out then what to do about Chester’s ghosts. Chances were good the Mortons were home, too, and she wanted to have another chat with them. Get this over with. She wanted this case closed like she wanted her Cepts.

Speaking of which. Her palms were starting to sweat.

“Yes, we’re done,” she said. “At least here.”

A smile broke over Edsel’s thin face when he saw her coming. “Hi, baby. What you needing? Hey, Terrible.”

“Ed, you know any other uses for copper? Anything aside from the usual stuff? I’ve got something else to show you.”

“Hope it ain’t like that amulet. Gave me the creeps, that thing did.”

“Yeah, well, your buddy Tyson gave me more than that, so we’re even.”

“Ain’t my buddy, just a customer.” Edsel took a contemplative drag off his long pipe and leaned back. “He ain’t scared you too much, hoping?”

“No, I’m fine. Take a look at this.” She pulled the photo of the Dream safe out of her bag and handed it to him. “You ever seen anything like that before?”

If he wondered why she didn’t simply look it up in the Church library, he didn’t show it. Instead he examined the photo, lifting his dark glasses to get a better look. “Look like a Dream safe, but an odd one. Least with that copper and the hair. Like it made to ward a specific entity, aye?”

“That’s what I thought. Not just a Dream safe, but a protection.”

“Awfully small piece, though. Don’t know as it’s even big enough to work.”

Chess thought for a minute, chewing her lip. “Could it be sympathetic? I mean, if it’s related to that amulet I showed you, have you ever heard of that, using the same thing that called a spirit to ward it?”

“Remind it of what’s holding it, meaning?”

She nodded.

“Aye, could be, could be. Gang I knew once, back in the when, used to do experiments with metals. Like alchemy, only not trying to turn things into gold, just trying to see what vibes everything had. Some metals ain’t magnetic, but they can work magnetic—sending energy away, like a shock.”

“And copper is electrically conductive. Which makes it magically conductive.”

Edsel nodded. “Somebody build a thing like this, they know what they doing.”

“That’s what I thought.” She pulled out her notepad. “There’s a few things I need, okay?”