A Barricade in Hell (5 page)

I gripped his hand tighter, unsure I'd heard correctly. “A ritual killing? Are you certain?”

“I don't know what else to think.” His voice cracked as he described the cloth covering Bradley Wells, how his throat had been cut and the lack of blood. “He didn't seem to struggle at all. If I didn't know better, Dee, I'd swear he let the killers cut his throat.”

Now I understood why this case had shaken him so badly. What he'd described left me with an irrational need to keep looking over my shoulder. “Dora said something about ritual murders or some sort of cult sacrifices a few weeks ago. Do you remember? Jack and Sadie were late getting to the café and we were talking about the war. Dora changed the subject as soon as Sadie arrived. But I'm positive the murders Dora told us about happened in Europe nearly a century ago.”

“I don't want to believe something that barbaric could happen in San Francisco. This is 1917.” Gabe rubbed a hand over his face. “But I can't shake the feeling I'm right. I'm really hoping that Dora tells me the idea is ridiculous.”

I couldn't bring myself to let go of his hand or stop thoughts of possible disaster. The ghosts that had followed him home frightened me, especially in connection with this case. “You're not being ridiculous, Gabe, and I'm glad you told me. Bringing Dora in is wise—she knows more about the occult than any of us. She'll help you find the person responsible. I'll help as well.”

“I don't like dragging you into my cases. And I know how hard this is on Dora. If there were another way, I wouldn't put either of you through this.” He leaned across the table to kiss my cheek. “But I'd be an idiot not to know I'm in over my head. Just promise me that the two of you will be very careful. I wouldn't admit this to anyone but you or Jack, but something about this case scares me.”

“We'll be careful. I promise.” I stood to clear away the dinner dishes. “Annie brought a batch of apple tarts by this afternoon. We have sweet cream too if you like.”

“Maybe later.” Gabe took the plates and bowls from me and set them in the sink. He pulled me into his arms and nuzzled my neck. “I don't see enough of you, Mrs. Ryan. Leave the dishes for morning.”

I laughed and held him tight. “We're already the talk of the neighborhood gossips. Going to bed early and leaving the dishes unwashed is for honeymooners, not an old married couple like us. Can you imagine the scandal?”

“Let them talk.” He looked into my eyes, serious and sober. “I'm not willing to waste a moment with you.”

Events and wandering haunts conspired to make sure neither of us ever forgot that life was precarious. Fragile. Gabe was right. Let them talk.

We turned out the lights and left the dishes in the sink. Scandalizing the neighbors was far better than living with regrets.

*   *   *

The parlor clock struck three, each hollow chime sounding farther away than just down the hall. I sat straight up in bed, confused and unsure about what had awakened me. Panic burned in my chest, making me nauseated and urging me to get away, to run far and fast and not look behind. I'd be safe if only I could run fast enough.

Gabe sprawled across the bed beside me, arms thrown up over his head and long legs tangled in the coverlet. He muttered nonsense and thrashed side to side, kicking at the bedclothes. “No … don't run … no. I can't follow.… I can't reach you!”

“Gabe, wake up.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Wake up, it's only a dream.” He rolled toward the wall, still muttering, still pleading for someone to wait. Gradually his thrashing quieted, the pleas died away, and I lay back down. My panic faded as well.

A little girl's laugh and the singsong rhyme of a familiar child's song set my heart to pounding again.

Every night when I go out

The monkey's on the table,

Take a stick and knock it off,

Pop! goes the weasel.

I sat up again, panic slithering across my skin and searching the shadows for the small ghost I'd seen before. She was back, I was certain of that, even if I couldn't see her. More laughter sounded, and a man's deep, guttural voice joined in with the little girl's singing.

All around the cobbler's bench

The monkey chased the people;

The donkey thought 'twas all in fun,

Pop! goes the weasel.

Laughter and threads of melody trailed away, and I shivered at the sudden chill in the room. The same small ghost I'd seen before shimmered into view at the foot of our bed. She clutched her china doll tight and stared at me, blue eyes too wise for a child so small.

This slip of a girl was stronger than I'd guessed and, as Dora warned, older than I'd imagined. She'd evaded all my wards easily, creeping into Gabe's dreams to show me that she could. I suspected she'd chosen to use him as a way to force me to pay attention. Anger woke, fierce and determined to protect Gabe at all costs. Whatever her reasons were didn't matter. I wouldn't let her hurt him.

“Leave my house, spirit. Go now and never return.” I put all the force of command I could muster into my voice, the rage churning inside lending power to the skills I'd labored so hard to learn. “You can't have him. You've forfeited any help I might've been willing to give.”

She drifted closer, defying me. A red glint flickered in her eyes, anger of her own and determination to enforce her will. The chill in our bedroom deepened, and the lamp on the nightstand rattled.

Laughter filled the air again; the joyful sounds of a little girl at play replaced by a man's harsh laugh, gloating and triumphant. The little girl's voice became breathless half sobs, chanting,
“The monkey chased the people, run … run, don't stop … run run run.”

Gabe groaned, his eyes screwed shut and fingers clawing at the bedroom wall blindly. Choked sobs filled his voice. “Stop … oh please, you have to stop!”

“Go!” I slipped from bed, putting myself between Gabe and the ghost. “I banish you, spirit. You are not welcome in my house!”

She glared a final time, turned, and opened a bright doorway into summer. I glimpsed a pathway lined on either side with tall grass and sunlight sparking off pebbles in a burbling stream. The small ghost looked back at me with a chilly smile and vanished.

Gone for now, but I couldn't fool myself into believing this ghost was gone forever. I stood on the carpet, fists clenched and shaking, whispering charms under my breath, building new walls around our house, our bedroom, and another set around our bed. Long after all traces of the spirit's presence vanished, I kept adding more layers of charms. If I made the walls thick enough, she'd never find a crack to wiggle through. Making sure Gabe was safe, even if only for one night, was all I could think about.

The bed was still warm, a relief after shivering barefoot on icy oak floors. I rolled toward Gabe, molding my body to his and putting an arm around him. He sighed sleepily, threading his fingers through mine.

Sleep was impossible, so I lay there thinking and listened to the creak and groan of redwood trees swaying, and the hiss of wind slithering through needled branches. I couldn't keep this ghost away for long. She was too strong, too determined. All my plans to send her on and vows to keep her out of our lives were nothing more than comforting lies and foolishness. She could do what she wanted with Gabe, drive him mad or convince him to harm himself, and there was nothing I could do to stop her.

I was afraid. Afraid I'd summoned this spirit unknowingly, afraid that a lack of skill on my part would bring disaster. The thought of losing Gabe, the way I'd lost my parents in the 1906 earthquake, or the way Gabe had lost his first wife, Victoria, to the fire afterwards, truly terrified me.

Admitting that even to myself stung my pride, but I'd never been good at hiding from truth.

Feeling helpless in the face of this spirit made me angry all over again. Like Gabe, I knew when I was out of my depth. I needed to ask Dora for help.

I wouldn't allow this spirit to keep the upper hand. I'd find a way to banish this ghost for good.

 

CHAPTER 4

Gabe

Gabe pulled the desk lamp closer, tipping the shade so all the light shone on the open file. The early-morning fog had thinned and burned off enough not to hug the pavement, but clouds still hung low in the sky, and very little light shone through his office window. Trying to read Officer Rockwell's reports, written in a jagged, cramped script, was difficult enough under the best of circumstances. Doing so in semidarkness was impossible. He refused to go blind in order to read burglary reports.

He initialed the last page and glanced at the old clock hanging above the door. Gabe automatically added five minutes to the time, compensating for the fact the clock ran slow no matter how often he wound it. The same clock had hung in his father's office when Matt Ryan was a detective with the San Francisco Police Department. After Matt retired, he'd put the clock in the office he set up on his egg ranch, bent hands, cracked glass, and all.

If the clock had belonged to anyone else or been department issue, Gabe would have thrown it out long before. But the slow, battered-looking timepiece had been his father's, not a fixture that came with the office and his promotion to captain. As he'd done with so many things left behind after his father's murder two years before, Gabe brought the old clock back from the ranch. He couldn't bring himself to get rid of it.

His partner gave a perfunctory knock and opened the office door without waiting for Gabe to answer. Jack was whistling an old tune popular on the docks when they were rookies. The bawdy lyrics had never been suitable for polite society, but Jack liked the song for exactly that reason.

Gabe smiled and reached for a new folder. “Good day, Lieutenant. You're in a jolly mood. That's a pleasant change.”

“The baby slept for six blissful hours last night. Sadie thinks the worst of Stella's teething might be over for a while. I hope she's right.” Jack whistled a few more notes. Not much dampened his spirits, not even losing sleep helping Sadie walk the floor with a teething baby. “Mrs. Bourke across the street snubbed me the other morning after Stella cried all night. I'd wager she's keeping the neighbors awake too.”

“Don't let that bother you. Stella's just like her mother. She'll have the entire neighborhood charmed before she's a year old.” He glanced up at his partner. “They don't stand a chance against her. Neither do you.”

“The poor bastards will never know what hit them. Now, close that file and lock your desk. I promised Sadie I'd make sure you ate a decent lunch today. You're buying.” Jack's coat was draped over an arm and his cloth cap stuffed into his back pocket. “Your wife worries about you, Gabe, and she tells Sadie all about it. I'm under orders to see that you don't try to survive another day on cold coffee.”

Gabe rubbed his eyes. “Lunch is a good idea. I might even tell Delia you thought of it if you pick up the check.”

“Senior officers shouldn't engage in blackmail, Captain.” Jack attempted to slick back his hair, but caused more disarray instead. “And fair is fair. I bought last time.”

“When we come back, you can help me go through the rest of these reports. Looking for other robberies was a good idea.” His stomach rumbled at the thought of food. Gabe flipped the file closed and settled back in his chair, making the polished oak creak and groan. After tucking the files inside the deep bottom desk drawer, he locked them away for safekeeping. “The other precincts found fifteen break-ins at small druggist's shops all over the city, all within the last five weeks. And Lindsey was as good as his word about getting us anything we needed. The files arrived by messenger this morning.”

Jack tossed Gabe's overcoat to him. “I got word to the last of my contacts last night. We should start hearing back from them soon. I don't know whether to hope they turn up more murders or not.”

“We may have found one already. One of the files from the Pine Street station was flagged.” Gabe smoothed the brim of his battered fedora and let it dangle from his hand, taking one last glance around the office to make sure everything was secure. Satisfied, he waved Jack out the door. “A small herb shop in Chinatown was broken into. The owner, Mr. Sung, and his granddaughter were found dead in a back room.”

The hallway was full of dayshift cops and detectives. Men hustled from the public portion of the station in the front and into the private areas at the back. Jack nodded to the patrolmen passing, waiting patiently while Gabe swore under his breath and fought with the sticky lock on his office door.

Gabe rattled the doorknob, making sure the bolt had caught. The frosted glass panel painted with his name,
CAPTAIN GABRIEL RYAN
, shook as well. Once he was sure the lock would hold, they continued toward the front desk. “Remind me to get the custodian up here to fix this. It's getting worse.”

“I'll send him over if I see him first. How did Lindsey know to flag the Chinatown file?”

“He didn't. It was one of the detectives at Pine Street. The case in Chinatown bothers him the way Wells's murder bothers us. We aren't the only smart cops in the city.” Gabe fought to ignore the itchy, crawling sensation on the back of his neck. His father taught him that good cops didn't believe in hunches. But the more he learned from Delia and Isadora about the spirit realm, the more certain he became that this feeling of something hidden, something he needed to
find,
wasn't a hunch in the way his father meant.

He didn't know what to call it, but he'd learned to pay attention. “The locations are miles apart. The days of the week and the times don't match up. But I can't bring myself to think there's no connection between the murders, especially with all the other robberies. I just can't see it yet.”