No Humans Involved (12 page)

Helpless

WE LEFT HOPE TO THE ARRANGEMENTS. In the meantime, Jeremy would make the telephone check-in rounds again, seeing whether Robert, Paige or Clay had anything new for us. As for me, as much as I hated being distracted from the investigation, I had a job to do. Time for the Gabrielle Langdon seance.

We wound up not at Langdon's house—where she'd been murdered—but at a place down the street, where she'd gone for a few community barbecues. As for why her ghost would linger there, the intro would give some heart-tugging speech about the good times she'd had in that place, and how those memories would attract her far more than the nightmares she experienced at her house. I'd bet my retirement savings, though, that this was at the end of a long list of potential sites, all of which had refused access.

Only after we arrived did Becky announce the subject of the seance. While we waited for Dr. Robson to set up his "electronic voice phenomena" equipment, Angelique sidled over to me.

"Isn't this exciting?" she said. "Lord knows, I was barely more than a tot when poor Gabrielle died, but I remember Daddy talking about it in church. He was certain the husband did it. A soccer player, wasn't he?"

"Baseball."

She nodded, processing.

"San Diego Padres," I added. "Star pitcher."

Her eyes narrowed as if suspecting me of feeding her false information. Then she lowered herself onto the bench beside a statue of a nymph that, apparently in keeping with Hollywood standards, had undergone a boob job. I glanced at the statue. Angelique followed my gaze, let out a squeak and vacated the bench, lest she be photographed under it. Not inconceivable—the cameraman was prowling the garden, getting his setup shots.

"Maybe you can give me some advice, Jaime. I know— Well, I get the impression you don't like me very much—"

"Then you're getting the wrong one, hon. I'm always thrilled to see a new star in the making. Plenty of room for all of us."

She lifted limpid eyes to mine. "Really? Lord, you don't know what that means to me. I've idolized you my whole life, waiting for this moment, hoping you'd still be around—"

"So you wanted to ask… ?"

A quick glance toward the others. "Your advice. I just don't think it's fair, picking seances with these people that I've barely even heard of. It's… what's the word? Ageist."

"Ageist?" I tried not to laugh. Tried even harder not to remind her she was supposed to be getting her stories from the dead, not from memories of past events. "I suppose it is."

"I think Becky has me scheduled to go first, and I was wondering whether there was any way you might…"

"Switch spots with you? Be happy to."

"Really? Oh, gosh, that's so sweet of you. So you'll go first and I'll take the last place, which is hard, but I think I can manage—"

Becky approached, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Angelique, but the positions are set. Jaime goes last."

"I thought Mr. Grady had the last spot." Claudia hurried over. "What's this? Another change?"

I raised my hands. "I don't know what order we're supposed to go in, but I'll take whatever works for you two. First, second, last, your choice."

"No, Jaime, I'm afraid it isn't," Becky said. "You're scheduled last. I can't change that."

As she spoke, she shot nervous glances at me. Had I been the other two, I'd have interpreted those glances to mean Becky was indeed fol-lowing orders: my orders. Protest, and I'd sound like a two-faced poseur. Take Becky aside and I'd confirm suspicions of collusion.

Damn it, I didn't need this. It was hard enough doing this silly seance, when all I could think about was those child ghosts. It took all I had not to say "screw it" and walk away from the whole thing. Screw the show. Screw my future in television. I had more important things to do—things I'd
rather
be doing.

I forced my attention back on task. As Claudia harassed Becky, and Angelique made pointed comments about special treatment, I noticed the cameraman, ten feet away, filming the spat.

"Becky," I murmured.

"I'm sorry, Claudia, but the positioning has been set—"

I coughed, and nudged Becky toward the cameraman.

She glanced his way, then continued. "If Mr. Grady has a problem with this shoot, then I'd suggest he go ahead and contact Mr. Simon because…"

I excused myself and walked away.

THE SEANCE did not go well. Suspecting that my information was false, Angelique called Gabrielle's husband a soccer player, then started talking about bullet holes, when the woman had been stabbed. Seeing her failure on Becky's face, she tried to salvage the seance with boring personal details—Gabrielle remembered her mother brushing her hair, Gabrielle liked to walk in bare feet, Gabrielle liked puppies—the sorts of things impossible to confirm or deny.

On to Grady, who probably vaguely remembered the case, but not -well enough to chance it, so he found a Spanish conquistador who'd stumbled on an evil pagan cult and claimed this ghost was so strong he blocked Gabrielle.

Then it was my turn. Becky could scarcely control her excitement. By placing me last, she'd given me the prime spot for using the details she'd provided.

I pulled my nonprescription glasses from my purse, and adjusted my hair from semipinned to a neater do—less sexy, more scholarly. Then I had them film me sitting under the double-D nymph, as I gravely explained the "challenges" of this seance.

The geographic connection was tenuous at best, which likely explained why no one could contact Gabrielle. Even had we been on the very site of her murder, I doubted our results would have been much better, given the trauma of her passing. While we'd hoped to help lessen her burden by sharing her story with the world, we had to accept that she wasn't yet ready to do that for herself. Perhaps someday, the world would know the truth behind her tragic passing. Cut.

"WHAT THE hell was that?" Becky said as I checked my cell phone for messages from Jeremy.

I closed the phone. "What's wrong?"

"You didn't contact Gabrielle Langdon, that's what's wrong." I sighed. "It's the location. I could have worked it harder, but after Tansy Lane, I thought it best if I didn't try to show up the others." I returned my phone to my purse, took out a pen, then stopped, staring at it. "Oh, my god. I'm such a ditz. That release you wanted me to sign. I forgot all about it. I'm so sorry. After you left, I got a call and walked out without grabbing that folder. I'll do that as soon as I get back to the house."

"No," she said, words clipped. "That won't be necessary." I asked if she minded if I walked back to the house while she finished up. She waved what I took for a 'yes' and strode back to the set.

THE STREET was empty. The houses, pushed back from the road, peeked out from curtains of trees and evergreens. The rumble of the distant highway was only white noise. Even the lawn crew I passed worked in silence as they clipped bushes into submission. Across the road, a pool-cleaning truck idled in a drive, the fumes harsh against the smell of fresh-cut grass.

There was nothing to see, nothing to listen to, nothing to distract me from burrowing deep in my thoughts and staying there. I wanted to say "to hell with this shoot" and walk off before it got worse, but I'd earned my own TV show and I was damned well going to get it.

A throat cleared behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a blond woman.

"Nice to see someone walking," she said as she fell into step beside me. "Around here, people drive to the corner store."

I nodded, torn between wanting to be polite and wanting to be left alone. We continued on, the woman staying beside me in silence.

"I hope I'm going the right way," I said finally.

"You are. Just another block and a half."

"Oh?" I glanced at her. "How—? Ah, there's not likely to be more than one TV special filming in Brentwood right now, is there? We're probably the subject of much discussion."

A small laugh. "Probably. But that's not why… I mean, that's not how I know…"

The sentence trailed off. I took a better look at her. Any other time, I'd have pegged her as a stereotypical Hollywood housewife, but considering where I'd just been and what I'd been doing, I recognized her.

I stopped walking. "Gabrielle, I didn't— Yes, they were calling you, but
I
didn't—"

"I know. Better keep walking. Bad enough you're talking to yourself. You don't want to be caught doing it in the middle of the road."

I resumed walking, my heart thumping. I pulled out my cell phone—an invention that made "talking to myself" much more socially acceptable. "I'm sorry. I'm so—"

"—sorry. But you shouldn't be. Like you said, you didn't call me. Some of us have been… catching your show, so to speak."

I glanced around, imagining ghosts, hidden on the other side of the veil, watching me, waiting for an excuse to make contact and ask for help I couldn't give.

"We don't get many of your kind around here, so it was big news. We're the ones who told Tansy you were calling her and, well, seeing you talking to her, being so nice, it gave us hope."

"Hope." The word echoed down the empty street, as hollow and empty as its promise. And it reminded me of an obligation I'd been trying to avoid—my promise to speak to Tansy. A double shot of guilt. I took a deep breath. "I don't blame you for wanting revenge against whoever killed you, but telling me who it was isn't going to help."

"Revenge?" She met my gaze. "I dont' want revenge. I just want answers."

"Answers?"

"I don't
know
who killed me. I don't remember."

"That's normal—"

"Normal?" A bitter laugh. "I don't think 'normal' has anything to do with my case. Everyone knows how I died. Everyone has an opinion about who did it. Everyone thinks they know the truth. Everyone except me."

I didn't know what to say.

"All I know is who was accused. The man I married, the father of my children. A criminal court finds him innocent. A civil court finds him guilty. And I don't know. I
still
don't know." Her voice rose, then she steadied herself and rubbed her face on her sleeve. "How am I supposed to spend eternity not knowing?"

If I opened my mouth, I was going to throw up. It's happened before. Just last spring, I almost lost my dinner on the scuffed shoes of a very straightlaced old man who'd cried as he begged me to contact his dead granddaughter and find out who'd raped and murdered her.

That's the price I pay—for every hundred people I console with fake reassurances, there's one whose heart I break by saying no. I used to think the balance was in my favor, that I helped more than I harmed. But lately, I've come to question that.

"I—I don't know what to tell you," I said finally. "I can't solve your murder."

"I know, but isn't there someone you can ask? Some… higher power who can tell me the truth?"

"If there is, I have no way to make that contact. "With the afterlife, I'm restricted to talking to ghosts like you."

She reached to take my arm, frustration and despair filling her eyes as her fingers passed through me. She met my gaze. "Then just tell me what you think. Did he kill me?"

As tempting as it was to tell Gabrielle what she wanted to hear, I didn't have that right.

"What if I tell you no, and you wait for him, only to learn I was wrong? What if I say yes, and you find out later I was wrong?"

"You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Do you… do you want me to leave now?"

I shook my head. "Walk with me, if you don't mind. I could use the company."

AS WE neared the house, my gut started twisting again. How should I handle our parting? If I said nothing, I'd lead the other ghosts to believe that while I might not have been able to help Gabrielle, that didn't mean I wasn't willing to hear their stories. I'd spend the rest of this job with ghosts hovering about, waiting for the excuse to pop in, only to be disappointed

But what was the alternative? Tell Gabrielle to bring them all by, like serfs granted an audience with the queen, telling me their stories, begging for help I couldn't give? I couldn't find a killer. I couldn't help a still-grieving spouse find love again. I couldn't take an inheritance away from an ungrateful child. I couldn't stop an unscrupulous partner from destroying the business they'd built together. Most time's, I couldn't even deliver a simple message—at best I'd have a door slammed in my face, at worst I'd be reported for trying to scam the bereaved.

I couldn't handle listening to their pleas, knowing I'd disappoint them. Selfish maybe, but every
no
hurt too much.

So what should I say? "Please tell all those other ghosts not to bother me"? How callous was that?

I tell myself that I
do
help—not ghosts, but the grief-stricken, with my show. But does it matter how many people I reassure if I raise the false hopes of one? By splashing myself on screen and stage, proclaiming my desire to help the grief-stricken make contact, aren't I lying to the spirits themselves? Misleading them into thinking that of all necromancers,
I'm
willing to help?

As we reached the drive, I turned to Gabrielle, to tell her… I didn't even know what. But when I looked, I saw only the empty sidewalk.

Part III

FIVE YEARS AGO, in this very room, when we first decided to escalate our search for knowledge to the highest level, we made a pact."

She looked around the circle of faces, getting a nod from each member. There was no need to remind them what that pact had been. They were all educated and rational people. Indeed, that very rationality was what had led to the pact.

For over a decade they had searched for the secret that would unlock the arcane mysteries of the occult. It had to exist. Countless ancient texts detailing spells and rituals could not all be mere works of fancy. They were too pervasive, coming from every age, every civilization, every corner of the globe and yet, in many ways, so similar.

They'd come close several times. Even found success with minor magics. But what good was a spell that would levitate a pencil an inch? What they sought was true magic—the ability to fully control inanimate objects, the elements, human behavior, everything those old books promised.

For a long time there was one thing they'd refused to do. An ingredient they would not collect, one that many of the darkest, most obscure tomes called for. Even if that was the key, they'd find another way.

When they finally accepted that their progress had stalled—that they could go no further without help—they agreed to one human sacrifice, to reassure themselves that this wasn't the answer.

To be able to say "we did all we could do," they had to follow the practice most often prescribed. Not just human sacrifice, but the sacrifice of a child.

First, though, they'd needed to protect themselves against one another. They must all agree this was necessary. They must all participate. If it succeeded, they must agree that it would be repeated and that they would participate for as long as the group remained intact. Anyone who refused or changed his mind would forfeit his life.

Harsh, yes. But sound. Sharing responsibility meant sharing blame. That was the iron wall that would safeguard their secret.

And now they didn't need to know why they were being reminded. They had only to look around the circle and see who was missing.

Murray had not bounced back from his breakdown. For a while, he'd seemed fine. But he hadn't taken his share of the ash. A week later, he'd been late for a meeting. Missed a second. Withdrew from the group socially. Found excuses, made apologies. The vacation they'd insisted on had only made matters worse, as if it gave him time to dwell on his misgivings.

"Don has come to me with troubling news," she said.

Don nodded, face grave. "Murray has asked for a job transfer. Out of state."

A murmur of alarm.

"He didn't tell me directly," Don continued, "but when I stopped by his house to speak to him last week, I saw Realtor business cards on his table, and overheard him on a call to his firm's Rhode Island office."

"Should we…?" Brian swallowed, as if his throat had gone too dry to continue. "Should we wait and see how it plays out, in case he changes his mind?"

She felt a twinge of annoyance, but reminded herself that this was the first time their pact had been tested. They were still civilized beings, capable of considering all options and allowing the possibility of mercy. So she nodded to Tina, ceding the floor to the psychologist.

Tina shook her head. "The only way to change his mind would be to remind him of the pact. To threaten him."

Brian shuffled, clearly uncomfortable with the option. As he should be—they weren't be thugs.

"And even if we resort to threats, given Murray's personality, he will pretend to acquiesce, but inwardly become more resolved to leave the group. He will cover his tracks better, so we can't find him. If cornered he'll be more likely to betray us.

She let Tina's words settle over the room. Waited for everyone to absorb the idea. Give them the chance to question it. Then, when no one did, she said, slowly and carefully, "Are we agreed?"

They were.

MURRAY CAME to the next meeting, and they'd done what needed to be done. Now the others were gone and his corpse lay on the gurney. She and Don would dispose of it. There was no need to involve the entire group in that process—and safer if they didn't. Take part in the killing, yes. Know where to find the body? No.

Don was examining Murray's naked body as if it were nothing more than a medical school cadaver.

"He's a lot bigger than that teenager," he mused. "I'd suggest removing the limbs and head and disposing of them as we did the boy—in garbage bags."

She agreed.

He glanced from his tools to the small oven, then over at her.

"Waste not, want not," she said. "The others don't need to know. It will be an excellent way to conduct a blind test of the effectiveness of adult material."

He nodded and lifted his scalpel.