The Girl in the Glass (20 page)

A SWEET DEAL

I
t was black as a kettle in among the trees near the cabin. Schell had pulled off the road and hidden the car behind a natural wall of brambles some way off from number six. We stumbled through the dark, avoiding trunks and trying to steer clear of the other cabins. Somewhere high above us an owl sounded every half minute. I'd left my trench coat in the car and, wearing only my suit jacket, was freezing.

"I think this is it up here," said Schell as he struck a wooden match to life. The momentary flame showed us the way to the door of the place, and once we were standing in front of the small cabin, he lit another so we could check the number.

"Yeah, you found it," I said.

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the key Morgan had given him. He opened the door and we stepped inside. That dank mildew smell made me gag slightly, bringing to mind Charlotte Barnes's body in the tumbledown shack. Schell lit one of the candles on the desk, and the light chased the bad memory from my mind.

"Can you imagine living here?" I said to him, my breath coming as steam in the cold.

"Better yet," he said, "how about hearing someone prowling around outside and having to climb into a hole under the floorboards?"

"She's resourceful, I'll give you that. But she's also…" I was trying to think of a way to describe her eccentric nature without being derogatory.

"…a loon?" said Schell and laughed quietly.

"As a matter of fact," I said, "I think she's very nice, but the singing…" I shook my head.

"My favorite part is the singing," said Schell. "You have that slip of paper?" I handed him the list. He looked it over and shook his head. "Box with tartan jumper," he said. "What in Christ's name is that?"

I shrugged.

"I'm not going through all of this cargo," he said. "We'll take four boxes, two trips to the car, and then we're giving this place the air."

I grabbed a box and so did he and we headed out. On the return trip it was easier to find the cabin with the candle glowing in the window. Schell had had the trip to the car and back to reconsider his position on the clothes. Once inside the cabin, he took the list out of his pocket and lifted the candle off the desk to get a better look at it.

"Okay, maybe we can actually find some of this stuff," he said. I walked over to where the boxes were stacked and waited. Eventually, he said, "Here's one that sounds simple enough—box with black dress."

I went to work, moving boxes off the stack onto the floor, reaching in and flipping the folded clothes back to look. I was going to tell him to bring the candle closer when I heard something outside. Schell looked up from the list and turned his head. I froze. A second later, the door, which was unlatched, began to open. The first thing I saw was the muzzle of a gun. An instant later, I could see it was a machine gun. The man who held it, dressed in a black suit, yelled, "Don't move." Before the gunman could get completely into the cabin, Schell jumped to the side and kicked the door as hard as he could. It caught the stranger in the side, and he went down, the weapon flying from his grasp. Schell wasted no time and kicked the fallen man in the face. At the same time, another fellow was forcing his way in, pushing the door against his partner's body. He managed to get halfway in and began to raise the pistol in his right hand. Schell reached into his suit jacket pocket, took out a handful of something, and threw it in the air. Flash powder. The intruder was about to pull the trigger when Schell tossed the candle into the miasma of powder floating in the air. There was a dull bang and a bright explosion. The second man reeled backward, his gun going off, and the slug hit the ceiling.

"Now," Schell yelled to me, and I leapt across the narrow cabin and followed him out the door. As I passed the machine gunner on the floor, who was scrabbling to his knees, I kicked him again, this time in the ribs. Outside, the other fellow, temporarily blinded by the flash, was furiously rubbing his eyes. He heard us running past him and he squeezed off two shots that went high above our heads. We ran out, around, and behind the cabin, sprinting full tilt.

We'd run for about a minute, luckily not slamming into a tree or tripping on a branch, when something hit me from behind, and I went down. It was Schell who'd knocked me over. "Cover your head," he whispered. And then it came, a storm of machine-gun fire, chewing up the landscape all around us. Bark splintered off the trees and dirt and stones kicked up to the right of us. By the time the barrage ended, I was dazed and shaking. Schell got up, shoved his arms beneath mine, and lifted me. He offered no verbal command, but I instinctively began running. I couldn't see a thing. Branches were whipping my face, and I tripped and caught myself from falling more than once. We'd gone another twenty yards when we heard the machine gun come to life again. I didn't need Schell to tackle me. We hit the ground, and this time the gunman's aim was even farther to our right. When he stopped firing, in the accentuated silence that followed, I could hear distant footsteps on the fallen leaves, drawing closer.

A voice called then, not from behind us but off to our right. "Hurry, they're coming," it said, and a few seconds later, "This way," from even farther off in that direction. As the machine gun blared again, I realized the voice had been Schell's; he'd projected it in an attempt to confuse our pursuers, a classic séance technique. The shooting stopped, and we heard the men pass only ten yards from where we lay, heading in the direction of Schell's projected voice. Two or three minutes passed, and we heard the machine gun spray again, but this time at a good distance. The smell of gunpowder was everywhere. Schell tapped my shoulder, and we got to our feet. He whispered, "Don't run." We moved in the direction of our parked car, cautiously pacing, trying not to make a sound. A single shot from a pistol rang out in the distance, and I imagined a dead raccoon or deer. Wandering through the dark was like a nightmare, and it was only by blind luck that we found the Cord.

Once we were in the car, he said to me, "The minute I start this up, they're going to come running, so stay down." Then the engine turned over and it sounded louder to me than ever before. Without turning on the headlamps he backed out of the hiding place behind the undergrowth, whipped the wheel to turn the car around, and hit the gas pedal. We made the turn onto the road so sharply, I thought the car was going to tip over.

A few yards down on the left-hand side of the road, we saw their car. Schell stopped. He reached down somewhere near his shoe and came up with a switchblade. Pressing a tiny latch on the side, a long thin blade snapped out. "You've got to hurry," he said. "Slash a tire." I grabbed the knife, jumped out of the Cord, and was beside their car in an instant. I plunged the blade into their right front tire, and the air came hissing out. Schell hit the gas the moment I jumped back into our car, and we took off so quickly the tires squealed.

A shudder ran through me as I handed the knife back to Schell. He folded and locked the blade against his thigh and said, "How I almost died for a tartan jumper," as he finally switched on the headlamps.

"So far I've been chased on the beach, beaten up by that thing at Parks's place, and now shot at with a Thompson," I said. "And we're not even getting paid for this."

"It's a sweet deal, for sure," he said.

"Who do you think those characters were?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "This thing is so…I can't even think of the right word for it. It makes me wonder if the girl in the glass, who started it all, wasn't actually a real ghost."

"The ghost girl's the easiest part to believe," I said.

When we arrived home, we found Antony in the living room, entertaining Isabel and Morgan with tales of the traveling carnival life. There was a haze of cigarette smoke in the air and a bottle of whiskey on the table.

I slouched down on the couch next to Isabel, and Schell took off his trench coat and jacket, tossing them on a chair in the corner.

"How was the coroner?" asked Antony.

Schell didn't answer but went into the kitchen.

"Kid?" he asked.

I waved my hand to put off the question, leaned over, and took one of his cigarettes from the pack on the table. He looked as if he was going to say something, but I suppose from my expression, he knew I needed it. Instead he silently passed me the lighter. Schell returned from the kitchen with a tumbler and proceeded to pour himself a tall drink from the whiskey bottle. Before even finding a seat, he swallowed a quarter of it in one long gulp.

"Did you get the paisley wrap?" asked Morgan.

Schell took a seat across from her. "I don't know if we got the paisley wrap or the tartan jumper," he said. "We did very nearly get an ass full of machine-gun lead, though."

"At the coroner's?" asked Antony.

"No," I said, "out in the woods, at the cabin."

"Oh, no," said Morgan.

Schell nodded, and in between sips of whiskey, he related what had happened at both of the stops we'd made that evening.

"Sorry I wasn't with you," said Antony.

"That makes two of us," said Schell. He looked over at Morgan. "Those people you were mixed up with in the city that you told me about this afternoon, could this have been them?"

"I don't know," she said. "What did they look like?"

"Two guys in dark suits, hats, with itchy trigger fingers. We didn't stay around long enough to see their faces."

Morgan shook her head and shrugged.

TAKE THIS

I
was standing in cabin number six, the candle flame dancing madly, weaving wild patterns of light and shadow around me. The man in the black suit brought the machine gun up and pointed it at my chest.

"Where's the fucking paisley wrap?" he said. "I don't know," I yelled. He pulled the trigger. I winced in expectation of a loud, rapid report and the pain of hot lead ripping through me. Instead, I heard the sound of a phone ringing. I opened my eyes into the darkness of the living room and sat up on the couch. It took a second for my head to clear, but it soon came to me that the phone in the office was actually ringing. I had no idea how late it was, but morning hadn't yet come. I pulled myself to my feet and went around through the kitchen.

I wasn't sure how many times it had rung and was anticipating that whoever was on the other end would hang up before I could lift the receiver. When I finally answered it, though, I heard a voice say, "Schell?" It took me a second to place the inflection: Barnes. "Schell, is that you?" he asked. I was resourceful enough to put on my Ondoo accent.

"One moment, sir, I will summon Mr. Schell," I said. I gently put the receiver down and went to the Bugatorium. When I flipped the light on, I was surprised to not find him lying on the couch. I made a quick check of the other rooms, flipping the light switches on as I went. Finally, I gave up and went to his bedroom door. When I knocked, he answered, "What?"

"Barnes is on the phone," I called.

I heard the sound of the bedsprings squeaking as he got up, and a few seconds later, he was at the door, wrapping a robe around himself. He glanced briefly at me as he passed, and I couldn't help but smile. Then he was gone down the hall to the office, leaving the door open halfway. Morgan Shaw's pallid body verily glowed in the dark. She lay, sleeping, completely naked, atop the blankets, her hair fanning out like a corona of sunlight around her head. That momentary glimpse of her burned my eyes, and I shifted my gaze, quickly pulling the door shut.

The phone conversation lasted all of five minutes. From where I waited in the kitchen, I could hear the low murmur of Schell's voice but was unable to make out his words. Finally the receiver landed in the cradle, and he appeared. Taking a seat across from me, he said, "Barnes wants a séance."

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

"I said we'd be there."

"Did he say why?"

"He thinks if we communicate with the dead, they'll tell us who murdered Parks and his daughter. He told me he'd seen his daughter's body, and he doesn't buy the strangulation story. He thinks Kern is innocent. Every attempt he's made to have the authorities launch a new investigation has been blocked."

"We could be taking a big chance going out there," I said.

"He promised me no cops. I told him to invite everyone on that list he'd given me."

"You still think it's someone he knows?"

"Not necessarily," said Schell, "but I'd like to see their reactions."

"When?"

"Tomorrow night…or I suppose I should say tonight," he said, glancing at the clock over the sink, which showed the time to be 2 A.M.

"Better get some sleep," he said. "We've got a lot to do. This has got to be a flawless performance."

"What happened to the couch?" I asked. "Too buggy in there?" Schell stared hard at me for a good thirty seconds. I couldn't read his expression, and I was unsure if he was amused, angry, or perhaps even hurt by my taunt. When he finally opened his mouth, a pale muslin bombyx flew out and fluttered in a spiral up toward the light. He stood and left the kitchen. "Sleep tight," he said once his back was turned. He flicked the switch off as he went by, leaving me to sit in the dark by myself. The bright moth flew in erratic circles around the entire room three times before landing in my hair.

When I got up, I didn't return to the living room couch but went to my room. Isabel awoke when I climbed into bed beside her. Suffice it to say, Schell's advice to get some sleep went unheeded, but when we had settled down and both lay back with our heads upon the single pillow, Isabel said, "You were nearly killed tonight when you went to the cabin."

"I'm trying to forget it," I told her.

"Did you ever think your luck has turned bad because you mock the dead by what you do?"

"I never really thought about it quite as mocking them," I said. "Besides, what do the dead care once they're dead?"

"Your Mr. Schell has taught you to doubt the power of the dead?"

"Well, he doesn't believe in spirits, if that's what you mean. And his argument is very convincing."