Ghost Talkers (32 page)

“They can't have much ammunition, can they?” Lt. Plumber's aura trembled with a growing doubt. “They weren't really planning to hole up there, after all.”

“We don't know what they were planning, or what uses they might have had for this place.” The brigadier-general resumed stomping around the circle, the spectacle of the poltergeisting battalion palling. “If they shoot through this ruse of ours, we might have to wait them out.”

“But, Helen. They have a full circle working on her.” Ginger paused, seeing the brown of his incomprehension. “They can pry into her mind and get the information without her willing participation.”

He tugged his mustache and stared toward the trees, over which the plumes of dust and smoke still rose. “In that case, we'll drop a bomb on them if we have to.”

The circle flared with rage around him. Joanne rose to her knees. “Over my dead body! You don't just bomb someone because it's easier—”

“It's in the interests of national security. The knowledge that she has is too valuable to fall into enemy hands. If we have to sacrifice her to prevent it from getting out, that's what we'll do.”

Lady Penfold sniffed. “My dear brigadier-general, I have a great deal of affection for you, but you are an idiot. They are mediums. Killing them won't keep them from reporting what they've learned.”

More shouts went up around the farmhouse, alarm growing. The Germans might be wearing uniforms impregnated with salt, but that seemed to be the extent of their preparation for dealing with the dead. The machine-gun fire ramped up, then suddenly stopped. More frantic shouts, and guards began running from the far side of the farmhouse to the near side, then back again.

The machine-gun fire picked up again, yet steadily the straw soldiers advanced. The Germans shot wildly, discipline gone from their defense. A blanket of dark terror covered them.

The orange streak of Pvt. Tucker zipped toward her. He was shouting as he came, “They're breaking, they're breaking!” When he fetched up in the circle, the light of exhilaration was in his aura. The ghosts had joined the battle. “Captain says now's the time to make your move.”

Ginger fell into her old role with ease. “Casualty report?”

“Two men injured, but none killed. Five spirits were shredded when they poltergeisted to lift the the living fellows clear.”

Unease rippled through the cold spot at her shoulder. A whisper of Ben hissed “Shit!” in her ear.

“Did they go beyond the veil?” They had told the ghost soldiers that their business was completed if they had to poltergeist in the line of duty. Some men, like Ben, had a different sense of duty.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She sighed with relief. “Is there a clear path to the house?”

“It's getting that way. There's only two guards left watching this side, and they've pulled all the machine-gun ammunition to the far side.”

Ginger relayed the information to the brigadier-general.

“Very well. Launch the real attack.” He grunted and bounced on his toes, still surveying the scene.

“Run to tell Cpl. Pa—” But Pvt. Tucker had already gone, the orange streak not heading to the far side now, but much closer.

Fewer than a hundred yards ahead of them, between the circle and the farmhouse, more straw soldiers rose up from the ground. The balance of the Indian company rose with them, trotting across the cratered field. Frantic shouts came from the guards on the near side of the farmhouse, but the wild firing on the far side all but drowned them out. Close by, the pop and crash of trusty Enfield rifles filled the air. One German stood as though to run, then flopped over as soon as he was upright. He did not stir, but his soul drifted free and vanished beyond the veil.

Gunfire rippled up and down the advancing line, and Ginger recognised a catastrophic flaw in the plan. Pvt. Tucker would not return to relay new orders unless the situation changed. The men advancing were instructed to kill the guards—all of the guards—with orders to try to avoid hitting the house if at all possible. But if one of the German mediums had broken Helen, he could simply run out into the teeth of the fire and be cut down, his spirit free to return across the German lines and report to a medium there.

“We need to follow the line of assault and get closer.” Ginger stood, still gripping the hands to either side of her. The others struggled to stand without toppling over, and Lt. Plumber—his aura spoke of eagerness, agreement, but he could not cross the field with his crutches and maintain contact with the circle at the same time. And then there was the brigadier-general.

“Absolutely not. I will not hear of it!” He stomped up behind her, and she sensed that only a lifetime of training kept him from putting his hands on her shoulders and forcing her to sit once more. “It's dangerous enough for you to be this close to the fighting.”

“We must, if we are to capture Schmitt alive. We cannot let him be killed and escape back to Germany with what he knows.” Ginger broke away from the circle, and from the brigadier-general, who screamed his disapproval. She set out from the little hilltop they had occupied, hurrying down the gentle slope to the depression where the main force of the Indian company had lain hidden.

A hand grabbed at Ginger's. She pulled it away, but then Edna snatched Ginger's hand back and held tight. Another hand, Mr. Haden's, grabbed her from the other side. Rather than hauling her back—something she doubted she could physically resist at this point—they hurried along with her in the wake of the attack.

“We cannot let you go alone, ma'am.” Edna twined her fingers in Ginger's. “You must stay anchored.”

“Thank you.” Ginger forced them into a trot across the broken field, her legs burning immediately with the exertion. The tang of cordite hung in the air, along with the scents of freshly churned earth and dry straw. An Indian soldier slipped down into a crater, and she feared he had been shot. But then she saw him taking aim and squeezing off a single shot. There was a cry from an upper window of the farmhouse, and a man and his rifle tumbled out the window.

A sniper. Had he been aiming at her? Feeling very exposed, she swallowed against the dryness in her throat.

They caught up to the advancing line just as they reached the farmhouse. Most of the ghosts had gone, rising through the veil, their energy expended by moving the straw dummies. But the Indian company, drawing together, was big enough to surround the farmhouse all on their own now. The Germans who had been on guard now all lay on the ground, dead or dying.

“I must get through,” she shouted, but it came out as more of a croak. A simple trot of a few hundred yards had nearly done her in.

“Here now! You lot.” Mr. Haden bellowed like a carnival barker. “The lady needs through.”

The men in front of them parted, letting her and her anchors by.

She almost felt as though she could just float away at this point, anchors or no, and leave this weary body behind. But she needed her body to be able to do anything for Helen, so she pressed on.

A guard lay slumped on the ground near the rear door of the farmhouse, his back a scarlet ruin. He had been hit in the chest several times, and his back had been opened by the exiting bullets. As much as she had seen of the dead, the freshly empty bodies were new to her, and Edna and Mr. Haden besides. In their shock, she was able to pull away from them and reached down to grab the pistol the man had in a leather holster on his belt.

Cpl. Patel stood at the door, looking dusty and sweaty, but otherwise unharmed. She indulged in a flash of relief, then nodded to him. He pulled the door open and she entered, the big Colt handgun held in front of her. It was at once strange, yet familiar from other people's memories. Edna and Mr. Haden protested behind her, but she had to get to Helen, had to stop this before it was too late. Schmitt need not run into the battle to die and carry his secrets off; he could just as easily die by his own hand, here in the farmhouse.

They passed into the kitchen and heard the murmur of voices from a room to the side. Cpl. Patel stepped through the door first and she followed, then staggered back. Six people sat in chairs arranged in a familiar circle, with Helen in the middle. Auras pulsed with the frantic effort being put forth to break Helen.

What would breaking the circle do at this point? She had no idea, but she could not let them continue. “We must take them alive. All of them.”

Cpl. Patel raised the butt of his rifle and brought it down hard on the shoulder of the nearest, a medium. He crumpled off his chair, and the efforts of the circle wavered and broke. One of the mundanes stood and launched himself at Cpl. Patel.

Ginger took another step toward Helen, feet leaden with exhaustion. Helen had been bound to the chair in the centre of the circle, and she looked on the edge of collapse. Shouts came from behind her. More Indian soldiers poured into the farmhouse. Familiar voices behind her as well. Edna?

She couldn't worry about that. In front of her, Schmitt, the false prisoner of war, sat on the far side of the circle. He was still working, holding tight to the anchors on either side of him. His eyes fluttered with effort. Helen fought him still.

Ginger's arm rose without much conscious thought. The pistol was primed, the hammer cocked back. Her finger caressed the trigger and the gun went off, the booming crash of the shot filling the farmhouse dining room. Schmitt jerked back, his shoulder appearing to explode in crimson, pulling away from the others as he fell.

Ginger slumped to her knees beside Helen, and then across her lap. Indian soldiers swarmed in, grabbing the others in the circle. Someone with warm, brown hands pried the pistol from her grip, and conscious thought left her.

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Everything was heavy. Gravity pulled her down into the embrace of sleep. Only a gentle murmuring slipped past the pressure of darkness to tug at her consciousness. She knew the voice. A man's. It wasn't Ben's, but it had a similar timbre.

Reginald Harford.

Ginger dragged her lids open. Sensation seemed to rush back in as she woke. Her throat scratched as she swallowed, and she coughed. The voices stopped.

Another cough tickled, and she tried to lift her hand to cover her mouth. It would not move. Someone held it. Someone held both hands, in fact. She rolled her head to the side.

Mr. Haden gave her a little smile. “Well. Look who's decided to rejoin the living.”

“Sorry to trouble you.” Her voice was hoarse with disuse. Ginger cleared her throat again. “Might I have some water?”

“Of course! Oh, my poor dear, you must be parched. We've been using ice cubes, of course, but that isn't the same as a nice drink of water.” Lady Penfold bustled up on her other side, leaning in past Edna to hold a glass of water for Ginger. Some of the water slopped out of the glass, leaving a cold spot on the fabric of her gown, but Edna did not let go of Ginger's hand.

She lifted her head, and it throbbed with the motion. She was in the guest bedroom in her aunt's apartment. The damask wallpaper stood in stark contrast to the dull blue uniforms of her circle. They sat around the bed, hands linked together. Joanne, Mr. Haden, Edna, Lt. Plumber, and … Ginger let out a sigh of relief when she saw Helen in her familiar spot. “Oh, thank God.”

“Eh. I think the thanks belongs closer to home.” Helen pursed her lips, but could not hide the twinkle in her eyes.

Ginger gave Mr. Haden's and Edna's hands a squeeze. “You can let go. I promise I won't venture out of my body.”

Helen snorted and exchanged a look with Lady Penfold. “Let's not test that just yet.”

“Truly—”

“The fact is, dear…” Lady Penfold ducked under the joined hands of Lt. Plumber and Edna, holding her skirt off the floor. She settled on Ginger's bed. “I'm afraid we have some business to attend to, and … well. I think it's best if you stay linked for it.”

“That … that sounds ominous.”

From the door, a man cleared his throat. Reginald Harford stepped fully into the room. “More ominous for me than you, I think.”

“What are you doing here?”

“My one good deed.” He set his hat on the dresser by the door.

She was too tired to be polite. “Are you certain you can manage even one?”

He winced. “I was trying to keep you safe.”

“By setting your men on me?”

“I don't expect you to believe me, but I didn't know what Johnson was up to. If it makes you feel any better, he's been … dealt with.”

“I am not disposed to be pleased by vagueness.”

Reginald sighed. “He's been arrested and will likely be shot for treason. Does that satisfy you?”

“I—” Did the death of another man matter at all in this endless bloody war? It did nothing to bring Ben back, and gave her no satisfaction.

Reginald turned to her aunt and swept a hand over his brilliantined hair. “Can we get this over with? I'm not who she wants to talk to.”

Aunt Edie compressed her lips and gave a little sniff. “I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Captain.” She rested a hand on Ginger's arm. “My dear … Ben has not yet crossed over.”

“What?” Ginger struggled to sit up. This time, though neither Mr. Haden nor Edna let go, her aunt helped her. “But we know who killed him.” She glanced across the circle to Helen, to reassure herself that the other medium was really safe. “And we've stopped the immediate threat from the Germans. Haven't we?”

“So it appears. We have Schmitt and the others.” Lady Penfold beckoned Reginald forward. “But he is still here, and he wants to talk to you.”

Ben wanted to talk to her. What did that have to do with Reginald Harford? Too slowly, Ginger's mind put the pieces together. His one good deed. “You're going to channel Ben?”

He took in a single breath and gave a nod. “I am.”