The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told (14 page)

I went invisible, floated until I was exactly behind his chair, went solid while crouched down, and drew a big breath of my own. During the brief silence between his puffings I cut loose with loudest, juiciest Bronx cheer I could manage, then vanished.

In a tense, emotion-charged room it had a predictable effect. I slipped behind the screen to watch.

His rhythm abruptly shattered, Bradford looked around in confusion, as did the others. Some seemed scandalized, a couple were amused, and one guy suggested that perhaps there was a playful spirit in the room already. A more practical man got up to check my corner, which was the only hiding place, and announced it to be empty.

A few of them noticed the cologne and mentioned it. Much to their delight, Flora finally confirmed that it was James' scent hanging in the air. She sounded awful. Bradford made no comment.

After some excited discussion that didn't go anywhere, they settled down, and Bradford started his breathing routine again. I watched and waited.

Frère
Lèon eventually began to speak through Bradford, and to give him credit, it was a damned well-done French accent. His voice was rougher, deeper in pitch, very effective in the dark.

I ventured forth again, keeping low while he gave them a weather report for the Other Side, and went solid just long enough to call out a handy bit of French I'd learned while on leave in Paris. The loose translation was
How much for an hour of love, my little cabbage?

Or something like that, it had usually been enough to get my face slapped.

Then I clocked him sharp on the back of the noggin with the hairbrush, dropped it, and vanished.

I was back to the screen, going solid in time to see things fall apart. A few in the room had understood what I'd said and were either flabbergasted or trying not to laugh. Bradford's trance was thoroughly broken; he launched from his chair to look behind it, startled as the rest. He remembered himself, though, and flopped down again, apparently in a state of collapse. They fussed over him, and the electric chandelier was switched on.

Somewhere in the middle of it Flora spotted the hairbrush. She froze, screamed, and sat down fast, sheet white and pointing to where it lay on the floor.

It took attention away from Bradford, and I was betting he was none too pleased. The knock he'd taken bothered him—his hand kept rubbing the spot—but I'd hit to hurt, not cause permanent damage. He'd earned it. I kept myself out of sight for the duration, going solid in the next room over, which was empty. Vanishing took it out of me. I'd have to stop at the Stockyards before dawn for some blood or I'd feel like hell tomorrow night.

Some guy who seemed to be the one in charge of the Psychical Society was for canceling the sitting, but Bradford assured everyone that he was fine. Sometimes mischievous spirits delighted in disrupting things—unless, of course there was a more earthly explanation. With Flora's permission the ground floor was searched for uninvited guests. I had to not be there for a few minutes, but didn't mind.

Elsewhere in the house, probably the distant kitchen, I heard strident voices denying any part of the business. Abby's was in that chorus, her outrage genuine. Good girl.

This time it took longer for everyone to settle. Though the hour inched toward ten, none showed signs of being sleepy enough to leave. The entertainment was too interesting.

The hour struck and they assembled in the parlor again. On the long table fresh candles were substituted for the ones that had expired. The chandelier was switched off.

From my vantage point at the screen I tried to get a sense of Flora's reaction to things. She had the silver-backed hairbrush square in front of her and kept looking at it. She had to be the gracious hostess, but her nerves were showing in the way she played with that handkerchief. She'd rip it apart before too long. As she took her seat again close to Bradford she held the wedding ring out as before, but her fingers shook.

Third time's the charm, I thought, and waited.

Bradford did his routine without hitch, and before too long good old
Frère
Lèon was back and in a thick accent offered them greetings and a warning against paying mind to dark spirits who could lead them astray from the True Path.

That's what
he
called it. I just shook my head, assembling my borrowed weapons quietly on the serving table, a napkin scrounged from a stack at one end to nix the noise.

Flora gave
Frère
Lèon a formal greeting and asked if her husband was present.

“He is,
mon petit
. 'E shines like the sun and speaks of 'is love for you.”

She released a shaky sigh of relief and it sounded too much like a sob. “What else does he say? James? Are you sure? Tell me what to do!”

Bradford's old monk tortured her a little longer, not answering. He said he could not hear well for the dark spirits trying to come between, then:

“Ah! 'E is clear at last. 'E says 'is love is deep, and 'e wants you to be 'appy on this plane. You are to open your 'eart to new love. Ah—the 'appiness that awaits you is great. 'E smiles! Such joy for you, sweet child, such joy!”

Flora shook her head a little. Some part of her must have known this was all wrong.

Time to confirm it.

I'd pulled out the curtain material and draped it over my head, tying one of the napkins kerchief-like around my neck to keep the stuff from slipping off. It looked phony as hell, I was sure, but the darkness with this crowd it would lay 'em in the aisles.

Picking up Weisinger's things, I eased from behind the screen. Everyone was looking at Bradford. He might have seen me in the shadows beyond the candle glow, but his eyes were shut.

Made to order, I thought, and accurately bounced the keys off his skull. It was a damned good throw, and I followed quickly with the other things. The comb landed square in the cake, the pipe skidded along the table and slid into Flora's lap. She shrieked and jumped up.

If
Frère
Lèon had a good entrance, that was nothing to compare to that of Jack Fleming, fake-ghost for hire.

I vanished and reappeared but only just, holding to a mostly transparent state—standing smack dab in the middle of the table. The top half of my body was visible, beautifully obscured by the pale curtain. The bottom half went right into the wood.

It didn't feel good, but was pretty spectacular. The screaming helped.

With some effort I pressed forward, moving right
through
the table, candles and all, down its remaining length, working steadily toward Bradford. His eyes were now wide open, and it was a treat to see him shed the trance to see some real supernatural trouble. When I raised a pale, covered hand to point at him I thought he'd swallow his tongue.

Then I willed myself higher, rising until I was clear of the table, and floating free. I made one swimming circuit of the room, then dove toward Bradford, letting myself go solid as I dropped.

I took in enough breath to fill the room with a wordless and hopefully terrifying bellow and hit him like bowling ball taking out one last stubborn pin. It was a nasty impact for us both, but I had the advantage of being able to vanish again. So far as I could tell he was sprawled flat and screaming with the rest.

Remaining invisible was uphill work for me now, but necessary. I clung close to Bradford so he could enjoy my unique kind of cold. I'd been told it was like a death's own breath from the Arctic. Through chattering teeth he babbled nonsense about dark spirits being gathered against him and that he had to leave to before they manifested again. He got some argument and a suggestion they all pray to dispel the negative influences, but he was already barreling out the door.

I stuck with him until he got in his car, then slipped into the backseat and went solid. He screeched like a woman when I snaked one arm around his neck in a half nelson. I'm damned strong. He couldn't break free. When he stopped making noise I noticed him staring at the rearview mirror. It was empty, of course.

Leaning in, my mouth close to his ear, in my best imitation of the Shadow, I whispered, “Game's over, Svengali. Digging up that grave pissed off the wrong kind of
things
. We're on to you and we're
hungry
. You want to see another dawn?”

He whimpered, and the sound of his racing heart filled the car. I took that as a yes.

“Get out of town. Get out of the racket. Go back to the stage. Better a live magician than a dead medium. Got that?
Got that?
”

Not waiting for a reply, I vanished, exiting fast. He gunned the motor to life and shot away like Barney Oldfield looking to make a new speed record.

As the wrecked evening played itself out to the survivors in the parlor I made it back to the linen closet, killed the light, and parked my duff on an overturned bucket, to wait in the dark. I needed the rest.

The house grew quiet. The last guests departed with enough copy from tonight to fill their monthly pamphlets for years to come. Escott would have some interesting reading to share. I got the impression Flora was not planning another sitting, though a few people assured her that tonight's events should be continued.

The residents finished and came upstairs one by one. Flora Weisinger went into James' room and stayed there for a long time, crying. Abby found her, they talked in low voices for a time, and Flora cried some more. I wasn't sorry. Better now than later, married to a leech. Apparently things worked out. The sisters emerged, each going to her own room. Some servant made a last round, checking the windows, then things fell silent.

I'd taken off the spook coverings, folding the curtain and napkin, slipping them in with similar ones on a shelf. Retrieving my coat and hat I was ready to make a quiet exit until catching the faint sound of “Gloomy Sunday” seeped through the walls.

Damn.

This night had been a flying rout for Bradford, but Flora was still stuck in her pit. She might dig it even deeper until it was a match for her husband's grave.

Someone needed to talk sense into her. I felt the least qualified for the job, but soon as I recognized the music I got that twinge again.

I did my vanishing act and went across to Flora's room.

The music grew louder as I floated toward it, just solid enough to check the lay of the land. The lights were out, only a little glow from around her heavy curtains, enough to navigate and not be seen.

Quick as I could I re-formed, flicked the phonograph's needle arm clear, and pulled out the record. It made a hell of a crunch when I broke it to pieces.

There was a feminine gasp from the bed, and she fumbled the light on. By then I was gone, but sensed her coming over. Another gasp, then . . .

“James?” Her voice quavered with that heartbreaking hope, now tinged with anguish. “James? Oh, please, darling, talk to me. I know you're here.”

She'd picked up on the cologne.

“James?
Please
. . . .”

This would be tough. I drifted over to a wall and gradually took shape, keeping it slow so she had time to stare, and if not get used to me, then at least not scream.

Hands to her mouth, eyes big, and her skin dead white, she looked ready to faint. This was cruel. A different kind from Bradford's type of torture, but still cruel.

“James sent me,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “Please don't be afraid.”

She'd frozen in place and I wasn't sure she understood.

I repeated myself and she finally nodded.

“Where is he?” she demanded, matching my soft tone.

“He's with God.” It seemed best to keep things as simple as possible. “Everything that man told you was a lie. You know that now, don't you?”

She nodded again, the jerky movement very similar to Abby's mannerism. “Please, let me speak to James.”

“He knows already. He said to tell you it wasn't your fault. There's nothing to forgive. It was just his time to go, that's all.
Not
your fault.”

“But it
was
.”

“Nope.” I raised my right hand. “Swear to God. And I should know.”