Authors: F. Paul Wilson
The Haunted Air (46 page)
The foil-wrapped sandwich was cool under Jack's arm as he stepped into Julio's. The after-work crowd was building and smoke hung thick in the air. As Jack headed for one of the rear tables he waved to Julio and flicked his thumb above his fist in a pop-me-one gesture.
A minute later Julio plunked an open Rolling Rock long neck onto the table and stood watching as Jack unrolled his sub from the greasy foil. A vinegary odor seeped into the air. He'd swung into Costin's mom and pop on the next block and grabbed it on the run from the cooler; a pre-fab construction of spongy bread filled with sliced meat by-products topped with a cheeseoid substance that had never been within a hundred miles of a cow. But it was fast and promised to fill the void.
“Hey, meng, people see you they gonna think this some kinda bring-your-own-food place.”
Jack took a long pull on the beer. Damn, that tasted good. He'd stopped home to shower and change. A clean pair of jeans, a fresh shirtâan Allman Bros. concert T he'd picked up at a secondhand storeâand he felt halfway to a new man, ready to dig again.
“Nobody's watching and I'm too hungry and too short on time to deal with those wings and other finger foods you serve.”
The little man bristled and flexed his considerable biceps. “Hey, we serve the best food money can fry.”
“Your message said you had something for me?”
As Julio fished an envelope out of his back pocket, Jack bit into his sandwich. A pasty texture that tasted like oil and vinegar. Swell. At least he wouldn't be hungry when he finished.
“Old guy drop it off this morning.” He ran the envelope under his nose. “Mmm. Smells like money.”
“Old guy?”
“Yeah. He meet you here Sunday.”
Jack almost choked on his sandwich as he came half out of his seat, looking around. “He still here?”
“Nah.” Julio snapped his fingers. “He come and go like that. Like he don' wanna be seen.”
“Shit!”
“You lookin' for him?”
“Yeah. Big time.”
“He short you?”
Jack opened the envelope and flipped through the bills. The amount looked about right.
“No. But he owes me some answers.”
Like why he hired me and why he lied about who he is. Probably never know now.
Jack spotted a slip of yellow paper among the bills. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and read the handwritten note.
Thanks for taking care of my brother.
Edward
Edward
Was he mocking him or sincere? Jack couldn't tell. Despite his frustration he resisted the urge to ball up the note and fling it across the room. Instead he refolded it and put it back in the envelope.
“Yâknow,” Julio said. “I think Barney recognized him. I think I hear him say something like, âMy-my-my, look who's here.' Or son'thing like that.”
“Barney?” Jack scanned the room. He usually hung at the bar with Lou. “Where is he?”
“Working. Night shift this week. He be back in the morning.”
“Then so will I.” Jack shoved the remains of the sub into his mouth, washed it down with the rest of the beer, then rose.
“Gotta run. Don't let Barney leave before I get here tomorrow. Feed him, buy him drinks on me, whatever you have to do to keep him here till I arrive.”
Jack headed for the street. Time to dig again. He felt a certain amount of satisfaction. Two more questions left: Was Tara Portman truly buried beneath Menelaus Manor, and who had hired him to watch Eli Bellitto? By this time tomorrow he expected to know the answers to both.
Even through the heavy beat of Point of Grace's music Charlie heard the noise. He stopped digging. From upstairs. A slamming, banging sound, like some rhythm-impaired giant beating the house with a two-by-four.
He dropped his shovel and scrambled up the steps. He reached the kitchen in time to see the windows shut themselves with a bang. Then the back door slammed closed.
For one panicky moment Charlie thought he might be locked in. He jumped for the knob, gave it a pull, and it swung open. He let out a relieved breath. When he released he knob, the door swung shut again.
How 'bout that? Whatever used to want everything open must've had a change of heart. Now it want everything closed up tight.
Well, not everything, he thought as he checked the front
room. The windows were down, but the front door stood open. He pushed it closed but it unlatched itself and swung open again.
room. The windows were down, but the front door stood open. He pushed it closed but it unlatched itself and swung open again.
Weird how this sorta thing had spooked him a couple days ago but was just everyday stuff now. Showed you can get used to 'most anything.
Charlie wondered why this door was left open while everything else shut up tight, then decided, no matter. After tonight it wasn't his worry. Lyle's neither.
He went back to the cellar and the hole he'd been digging. He'd got down maybe four feet and so far he'd come up with the same as all the other holes: nathan. He figured on giving this one another foot or so before calling it quits.
As the shovel bit into the dirt, the music stopped.
“You're getting warm.”
Charlie yelped in terror at the sound of the little-girl voice behind him. He dropped his shovel and snapped around so quick his feet got tangled and he sprawled onto his back.
“No!” he cried as he lay in the cool dirt and looked up at the blond girl in riding clothes standing over him. He knew who she was and what was pretending to be her. “Demon! Sweet Jesus, save me!”
“From me?” she said, smiling and twirling a strand of her golden hair. “Don't be silly.”
“Stay away!”
Charlie's heart was a boot kicking inside his chest. He dug in his heels and palms and scrabbled away like a backward crab.
The little girl's face crinkled up and her blue eyes danced as she giggled. Her laugh was sweet and musical. “You look funny!”
“You can't fool me! I know what you are!”
She stepped closer. “You do?”
Charlie kept backing away, and then he banged his dome against a wall and that was it. Nowhere to go.
“Youâyou a demon!”
She laughed again. “Now you're really being silly!”
His mind screamed, What do I do? What do I
do
?
do
?
He couldn't think. He hadn't expected this, wasn't prepared, never believed that the demon would appear to him. Shoulda listened to the rev, shoulda took his advice and packed his gear and geesed.
Pray! Of course! Words from the Twenty-third Psalm jumped into his brain.
He raised his voice. “âYea, though I walk through the valley of death I shall fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff theyâ'”
“âValley of death',” she said, looking around and nodding. “Yes. That's where we are.” She pointed to the hole he'd been digging. “You're only seven inches from my head. If you keep digging you'll find me.”
Charlie slashed the air with his hand. “No! You can't fool me! You're not Tara Portman!”
The child frowned. “Then why are you digging?”
The question took Charlie by surprise. Why was he digging ? Because he'd made a deal with Lyle. And because â¦
“Because Tara Portman may be buried here, but you're not her.”
Her blue eyes turned cold. “Oh, but I am. And I'm not the only one down here. There.” She pointed to a hole Jack had dug half a dozen feet to Charlie's left. “Another foot deeper and you'd have found Jerry Schwartz. He was only seven. Right where you're sitting, five feet down, is Rose Howard. She was nine, like me.”
Charlie wanted to jump off the spot but couldn't bring himself to move.
Suddenly she disappeared, but immediately flashed back into view in a far corner.
“Jason Moskowski is here.”
Charlie blinked and she was in another corner of the cellar.
“Carrie Martin is here.”
She flashed to three more locations, naming another child
each time. And with each name her eyes grew icier and the cellar colder.
each time. And with each name her eyes grew icier and the cellar colder.
Suddenly she was in front of him, not three feet away.
“Eight of us,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lord forgive him, he was starting to buy her line. Maybe the rev was wrong. Maybe this wasn't no demon. Maybe this was the furilla ghost of a murdered child.
Or maybe that was just what the demon, kin to the Father of Lies, wanted him to believe.
Real cold in here now. His puffing breaths were smoking the air. He rubbed his bare arms. His sweaty T-shirt was freezing his spine. He saw his sweatshirt balled up by the junk pile.
He rose uncertainly. “I'm gonna get my shirt, okay?”
“Why are you asking me?” she said.
Good question. She hadn't threatened him or nothin', but just seeing her had turned him into a scrub.
He grabbed the hoodie and pulled it on. Better, but still cold.
“You want us to find your body and the others. That it, ain't it? That why you back, right?”
She shook her head.
“Then why?” Sudden fear slammed Charlie like a truck. “You want my soul!”
She laughed like that was such a wack idea, but the sweet sound didn't match up with her ice eyes.
Charlie's hand brushed against the pin on his shirt. He looked down at it. WWJDâwhat
would
Jesus do in a case like this?
would
Jesus do in a case like this?
Simple: He'd tell this spook or demon to get back where it belonged. But Charlie didn't have Jesus' power. Still ⦠it was worth a try.
“Go back where you came from!” he cried.
The little girl blinked. “But I don't know where I came from.”
That shocked him. “Lie! You were in heaven or hell, one or the other! You gotta know!”
She shook her head. “I don't remember.”
Maybe she was telling the truth, maybe she was lying, but Charlie wasn't hangin' around to find out. If she wouldn't go, then he would. Right up those stairs. That was what Jesus would say: Highside evil. Don't even give it the time of day.
He started to step around her but she flashed out of sight and reappeared by the cellar stairs.
“You can't leave. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“You might ruin things.”
He could make a run at her, but what then? Could he knock her down? If she was a real kid, no problem. Couldn't be more than seventy pounds soaking wet. But she wasn't. Was there even anything there to knock aside? Or would he pass right through herâor her through him? That would put her inside him. He couldn't handle that. What if she stayed in?
Charlie shuddered and backed off a step. This little girl had him down and whipped. Couldn't scrap a lick against her.
“What you want with me?” He didn't like the way his voice soundedâall high up and scrub whiny.
She stared at him. “With you? Nothing.”
“Thenâ?”
She raised a hand and his voice died. He tried to speak but couldn't make a sound.
“Quiet now. I'm waiting for someone else, and I don't want you scaring her away.”
Point of Grace's vocals blared to life again.
Gia hears the voices as soon as she steps through the door. Children's voices, whimpering, sobbing ⦠lost sounds that tear at her heart. She recognizes the waiting room of Menelaus Manor but the voices are coming from the second floor. She rushes up the stairs and finds herself in a long hall lined with doors. Eight of them. The voices are louder here, and grow louder still as she moves down the hall. All the doors but one are open and as she passes each she sees a child, a boy or a girl, standing alone in the center of an empty room, sobbing. Some cry out for their mommies. Pressure builds in Gia's throat as she tries to enter the rooms to comfort them, but she can't stop. She must keep moving down the hall toward the closed door at its end. She stops before it and reaches for the knob, but before she touches it the door slams open and there's Tara Portman, the front of her blouse all bloody and her eyes wide with fear, and she's screaming, “Help! Help! Someone's hurt! You've got to come! Come now! NOW!”
Gia awoke with a start and the word
NOW!
echoing through her head. She looked around the darkening bedroom. Through the window she saw that the sun was down and twilight fading fast.
NOW!
echoing through her head. She looked around the darkening bedroom. Through the window she saw that the sun was down and twilight fading fast.
A nap. She hadn't slept well last night. She'd kept waking from dreams, remembering little of them except that they were disturbing. Being pregnant probably added to the fatigue. But as tired as she'd felt all afternoon, she'd fought Jack's suggestion of a nap until she could barely keep her eyes open. Finally she'd allowed herself a quick lie-down on the bed, just for a few minutes ⦠She'd just had another disturbing dream. What had it been about? She
seemed to remember something about Menelausâ
seemed to remember something about Menelausâ
Gia lunged to her feet as it all rushed back to her: Tara's terrified face as she screamed about someone being hurt and how Gia had to come now.
Now!
Now!
“Jack!”
A bolt of alarm shot through her chest as she ran downstairs through the dark house to the kitchen where she had Jack's cell phone number magneted to the refrigerator door. She found it, dialed, but was told by a mechanical voice that he wasn't available. She flipped on a light, grabbed her pocketbook, and dumped it onto the counter. She rummaged through the mess until she found the Ifasen brochure she'd picked up at Menelaus Manor. She punched in the number and hung on through the rings until the Kentons' voice mail picked up. She hung up without leaving a message.
Gia didn't know if someone was really hurt or if the dream had been nothing more than that, but she had this awful feeling that something must be wrong. Whatever the case, she couldn't simply sit here. She knew she'd promised to stay away, but if Jack was hurt she wanted to be there; if he wasn't, she could hang out and visit for a while. Promise or no promise, she was heading for Menelaus Manor. Now.
She picked up the phone again and called for a cab.
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