The Skinwalker Conspiracies - 02 (2 page)

“Get off!” I shouted. The ghost remained uncooperative and pinned me against a slick, granite tombstone. I could barely wiggle around. Fortunately, my left hand was still free and I shoved it into my pocket. Fumbling for a little plastic cylinder of iron filings, I popped the top on it and spilled the contents all over my damp fingers. Most wouldn’t think ground up bits of iron could be very useful, but it was what I needed.

The same energy that allowed me to interact with these spirits also charged the iron. Pulling my hand out, I grabbed the spirit’s hand, grinding the bits into his ghostly skin. Unlike my failed poke in the eye, he felt
this
attack.

“What the hell!”
The ghost shouted, jumping backwards like he’d been burned. I used the break to rub my hands together and spread some of the filings to the right one as well. His eyes darted back and forth, no doubt seeing the fiery glow.

I growled and stepped forward, saying, “Got your attention now, don’t I? Ready to be reasonable?”

He responded by reaching into a nearby tree and pulling out a thick, knotted rope – a hangman’s noose. My thoughts drifted back to Fredrick, Maryland and a beating I got at the hands of a bitter Supreme Court Justice with a bullwhip.

“We don’t have to do this,” I cautioned. “Let’s try talking this out.”

“You know who else wanted to talk? The deputy who said to meet him here and he’d help me. When I showed up, there weren’t nothing but a dozen men in sheets waiting! That’s what I think about talk!”

I guess he didn’t like ambushes either.

Amos came up alongside of me, looking pretty haggard.
“I’m sick of this! Let’s get him!”

He headed left while I went right. The slick, damp grass made traction difficult and, unlike Amos, I needed to dodge the headstones instead of running right through them. Okay, I probably arrived slower than Amos on purpose; he didn’t bleed like me. Sure enough, the big man went for my ghostly companion and was in the process of giving him a good thumping when I got there. One hand held Amos to the ground and the other forced the noose down over my panicked friend’s head.

Some of the filings had been lost due to the rain, but I still had plenty on my hands.

He sensed my approach and spun, tossing Amos aside like a rag doll. I closed the gap before he brought the rope around and plowed into him. His meaty paw glanced off my shoulder – and by glanced I meant damn near knocked me on my ass – but I grabbed onto his shirt with one hand and gave him some sizzle.

Six years ago, I was a pretty decent high school wrestler. I might have even earned a scholarship somewhere if I’d been able to stay on the team. The US Army added to my “short, tough guy” image before a roadside bomb sent me home to be patched back together and discharged. After that, I’d received some dubious martial arts lessons which helped toughen me up quite a bit. They weren’t as useful as I would’ve liked when I had to destroy the ghost who taught me. Not surprisingly, I hadn’t found another instructor since.

In close like this, I had an advantage - considering my palms were still coated with tiny bits of metal. To a phantasm, they might as well have been burning coals. If I’d been thinking, I would have brought the cotton gloves that had four or five times the amount of iron worked into the fabric. Planning ahead wasn’t one of my strong points. The gloves, along with all the other useful metal things, were sitting in a duffel bag in the back seat of Pastor Duncan’s Caddy.

He swung again, but I performed a textbook high-block to deflect it and then snapped my wrist around, grabbing his arm as his fist sailed by my noggin. He burned in two places now. Amos Sweet jumped on the guy’s back and had one arm wrapped around his neck. Amos pounded on the assailant’s head with the other. The rope slipped out of the angry ghost’s hand and fell to the ground.

I started feeling good about our chances until the bear of a ghost reached back and yanked Amos forward, flipping him into me and caused several words, most not suitable for the nearby church, to come out of my mouth.

Pushing Amos off of me and burning him a little bit in the process, I rolled out of the way before the big ghost pounced. Whipping my leg around, I got it tangled up in his legs and sent him sprawling. He fell half-through headstone and struggled to get up, but I was faster. Scampering around the grave marker, I drove my size eight sneakers into his ribcage and he fell back down. Leaping on his back, I put him in a headlock. It wasn’t one of those “friendly” holds either. If my old wrestling coach just happened to be walking by, I’d be off the team again.

The ghost tried that same weak crap that he used on Amos, but this time, I possessed leverage. There couldn’t be much iron left on my hands and the burning didn’t seem to injure him anymore, but I had him well under control.

“Amos, go back to the car and get the knife.” I said wondering if this ghost was too powerful for my phantom dagger to hurt him. Still, I was more than willing to find out. The pipe wrench would be better, but Sweet didn’t have the ability to carry real objects.

“Do you want talk now?” I demanded, scanning the grounds for that thick length of rope. “You’ve got about two minutes to convince me why I shouldn’t cross your ass over.”

“Don’t matter what I say, you’re gonna do it anyway!”

He deflated, but I didn’t ease up on my hold and yelled for Amos to hurry up. Staying in contact with a powerful ghost for too long worried me. It seems I have a bad reaction to that and I’m not just talking about a rash, though that occurred. In the worst cases I explode — some sort of energy overload as far as I can figure. It has happened twice before. The first instance knocked my heart out of rhythm and leveled a historical landmark.

Believe it or not, that was the more pleasant of the two experiences. The second time a few city blocks of Baltimore lost power, dozens of windows were blown out, and I had a heart attack; that wasn’t nearly as much fun.

“Amos, what’s taking you so long?”

“He was helping me,” a deep baritone voice answered. I looked up into the disapproving face of Brother Silas Parker, a tall gaunt man with short salt and pepper hair. Unlike me, he had the good sense to carry an umbrella.

“I’m a bit busy here, Silas.” The blind man saw ghosts and me as well, which unnerved me to no end. Sadly, Silas couldn’t hear them. Sometimes meaning I played interpreter.

“So what have you learned about this particular spirit, Michael?” Silas asked.

“Well, he’s not much for talking, but his actions speak pretty clearly. He tried to kill us.”

“Yes, I saw he was carrying a noose for a weapon. The gentleman might not be interested in speaking with you; however I hope he would consider having a conversation with me.”

“He’s with you?”
The ghost said, dumbfounded.

“Yes, he’s with me,” I replied. “You see, he’s the brains of the outfit and I’m the one who does the dirty work. Are you ready to be calm?”

He nodded as I released him, brushed some of the mud away and said, “Amos, the knife please.”

Sweet hesitated, but I walked over and took it. To the large black ghost, who had finished standing, I said, “Make a move I don’t like, and I won’t hesitate.”

Normally I’d joke about how Brother Silas has too much “blind faith” in people, be they living or dead, but I really wasn’t in the mood. Colonel Strong Vincent created this knife as a
bon voyage
gift for me, which kind of made up for the times he tried to kill me.

Yeah, I had an odd assortment of friends.

Silas gave me another sour look and said. “How about we start with introductions? I am Silas Parker. The Union private is Amos Sweet and you’ve already met Michael Ross.”

“Morris Solomon Jeffries.”
The ghost growled.

I repeated the ghost’s words to Silas and explained that Silas couldn’t hear him. We were treated to the life and death story of Mr. Jeffries. It went down pretty much as I expected – ignorant, bigoted, people didn’t like change and did something about it. They killed a man for nothing more than trying to make his way in the world.

“Walk with me, sir,” Silas said to the spirit.

“Do you need me to go with you?” I asked.

Silas shook his head and led the ghost off in the direction of the church. Amos shuffled around and looked at me before saying, “So, if Silas is the brains and you’re the brute strength, what about me?”

“I don’t know. How about comic relief?”

Amos laughed before responding, “That works. But think about this, who is standing out in the rain getting soaked? It just passes right through me. Kinda itches though.”

Sadly, he had a point.

Drying off in the car, I watched Silas and the ghost sit on a bench at the church entrance. After awhile, I drifted off, until the sound of the door opening woke me up. Silas, following Sweet’s lead, settled onto the passenger seat. He shook the umbrella off before closing it and then the door.

“Are we good? Where’s Jeffries?” I said looking out into the darkness.

“He’s gone. Faded away before my eyes and moved on.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and asked, “How’d you do that, Silas?”

“His greatest fear was being lost and forgotten. I told him about the struggle of our people – how far we’ve come and how far there is left to go. I told him the things he didn’t know, like the brave folks who marched with Doctor King and how no one who sacrificed would ever be forgotten. When it comes down to it, Michael, people facing their own mortality need to know they mattered in life. I even went so far as to mention that young Senator from Illinois who is running for President.”

“You don’t seriously think that guy can beat Hillary?”

“I won’t rule out any possibilities. Considering the influence of the spirit world on our own, I believe we shouldn’t rule anything out. Now, let’s go back to the hotel.”

“Did you happen to see that rope still around?”

He gave me a disapproving glare and I responded, “What? It would be useful for tying up a spirit. Handcuffs won’t work.”

“Perhaps Michael, but things like that are symbols and some are best…”

“Forgotten,” I offered.

“No, never forgotten. Consciously discarded because we have chosen to become better.”  

As I told the recently departed Mr. Jeffries, Silas was the brains of the operation – for a reason. I turned over the Caddy’s engine and started down the road.

We stayed at a mom and pop hotel just off of Interstate 65. I didn’t splurge on one of the chain hotels, mostly because I was a cheapskate. Growing up as poor white trash left its mark. Besides, after one complete and one half-finished tour in Iraq, I had low standards. It also helped that Brother Silas couldn’t see, but he sniffed the air a few times and shrugged. We were an odd couple, a tall, thin, aging black man and a scruffy short twenty-four year old white guy. We didn’t look like we had a thing in common, but appearances were deceiving.

Amos Sweet slept in the car, snoring heavily. Many ghosts maintain quirks from when they lived. Best I could tell, most spirits still imitated the actions of the living like sleeping and breathing. I found it somewhat reassuring because they’re clinging to their humanity. The ones that don’t, they’ve given up on being human. Those were the really dangerous ghosts.

“Remind me to call Pastor Edmunds in the morning and tell him our business at his church is finished.”

Toting the luggage, I grunted and said, “As long as he doesn’t mind the fact the graveyard looks like someone played a game of tackle football in the mud.”

He chuckled and I flipped my suitcase on a double bed and fished around for some clean clothes, while lamenting that we’d need to do laundry in a couple of days. Silas had found one very uncomfortable looking chair and sat down. The air conditioning unit struggled and made lots of noise, but did little else.