Unholy Magic (15 page)

Vanita had clearly decided to step up her game. Eyeballs in her car, two murders in one night. That was a lot. So … was it her fault? Had the little run-in with Vanita pissed her off even more, made her rush to build up some sort of eyeball stockpile?

She didn’t know, but the thought made her pills stick in her throat.

She forced them down and drove on.

Against the white sky the house looked even more threatening, as though the gray slate roof and the branches like bare, bony fingers were the only things keeping it from attacking her. She hadn’t had much time the night before to think about the ghosts she’d seen, about that axe rising toward the ceiling and slamming back down. Now the memory came back full force, and she shuddered as she stepped out of the car and handed her purse to one of the security guards.

“Merritt’s not here?”

“Later.”

Good thing she hadn’t brought her pills. His search was alarmingly thorough. More than she’d expected it to be, if she thought about it, but she didn’t say anything, not even when his hand brushed her breast a few more times than she thought strictly necessary.

There were more guards out as well. The one holding her purse—Taylor, his badge read—caught her curious stare.

“There was a break-in last night,” he said. “We think.”

“Oh?”

He shrugged and handed back her purse. “Have fun. You can go in the side.”

“Actually, I’d like to interview some of you guys first, if that’s okay.”

“Mr. Pyle didn’t say anything about—”

“And you can ask him if you want, but I have the authority to interview anyone and everyone on the premises. I’d like to start that now. If you can get me a list of all the guards’ names, please? And if you know anyone who’s specifically seen an entity, I’d like to talk to them first.”

He hesitated. “I’ll have to ask Mr. Pyle.”

Asshole. She was not in the mood for this today, not one bit. “Fine. Can you just show me where the security office is before you do? It’s cold out.”

That he could apparently do, albeit without speaking.

The security office hid behind the garage, an unobtrusive shedlike building with one-way glass. It distorted her reflection as she walked past it, twisting her torso, squashing her face, and making her forehead bulge.

Bright fluorescents of the same type as in the hallway connecting the house and garage hung from the ceiling. Added to the winter light through the windows, the room looked almost like one of the ritual rooms in the Church, pale and clean, waiting.

Along one wall sat a long gray desk, its surface stacked with small monitors. Security cameras. Fuck, she hadn’t even thought there might be outside cameras. Had they seen her? No, they couldn’t have. They would have caught her if they had.

But one of the cameras was clearly trained on the back of the house. Arden’s window was there, at the far end. So why hadn’t anyone been watching? Why hadn’t her presence been discovered until someone noticed the open bathroom window?

She glanced around the rest of the room, taking in the switchboard, the wheeled leather chairs, the smaller desk with its neat trays full of paper. A shelf half-full of radio receivers covered the thin slice of wall by the door. Beneath it was a gun rack prickly with rifles.

Taylor’s back was turned while he called the house, presumably to discuss her requests. Quickly she traced the wire leading from the back-of-the-house monitor down beneath the desk, where the recorders were. It was probably too late, but just the same …

The disk came out with a quiet click. Chess, her ears pricked for any change in Taylor’s voice behind her, tugged her nail file out of her bag and scraped a series of deep, quick slashes across the shiny surface. It probably didn’t matter. But she felt a little better for having done it.

The disk was back in and she was leaning against the low, cool rim of the desk before Taylor turned around.

“Okay,” he said, and the new coldness in his deep brown eyes told her he didn’t like what he’d just heard. Interesting. “Mr. Pyle says welcome back, and to give you whatever you need.”

“Those lists, please.”

“Uh-huh. But tell me something first, Miss Putnam. You don’t really think Mr. Pyle would fake a haunting in his own home, do you? Scare his wife and daughter like that, just for money he doesn’t need?”

She didn’t bat an eyelash. “I’m just here to help.”

“Uh-huh.”

Staredown was a game she’d learned to play very early in life, but it wasn’t a very interesting one and she really didn’t care enough to bother. “Are we going to have a problem?”

Just as she’d thought, he backed down. “No. I just want to make sure you know how I feel. Mr. Pyle’s a good man. He’s not some cheat.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“You should. Seeing as how I’m one of the only guards who’s actually seen a ghost here.”

“So tell me about it.” She spun one of the chairs around and plunked herself down, grabbing her notebook and pen. At the same time she turned the knob on the small recorder in her bag.

“What did you see?”

“I was making the three
A.M.
rounds in Mr. Pyle’s offices on the opposite end from the living areas. He leaves windows open there some nights, falls asleep at his desk or on his couch. He works hard, Mr. Pyle. So sometimes I have to go in there to wake him up, or close the windows and make sure everything’s locked.”

“Why? I mean, you guys keep the grounds here pretty closely watched, right? So why check inside too?”

His eyes narrowed. “We like to be thorough.”

“Okay, just asking. Go on.”

“On that night, Mr. Fletcher was here—you know who he is, right?”

When Chess shook her head he sighed and grabbed his own chair. “Oliver Fletcher is the producer of Mr. Pyle’s show. He’s Mr. Pyle’s boss, basically. But they’re good friends, too. Mr. Fletcher’s the one gave Mr. Pyle his start, way back when Mr. Pyle was still just doing stand-up in little clubs. Mr. Fletcher scouted him, got him on one of the TV talk shows he produces, kept inviting him back. Then he cast him on
The Monastery
, and … I guess you know the rest.”

She didn’t, really, but she could guess. Roger Pyle became a big star, and Oliver Fletcher had a hit show, and they both made pots of money.

She wrote Oliver Fletcher’s name on her pad. Might be worth a look into his financials, too, if he and Pyle were such
good friends
.

“Anyway, Mr. Fletcher was here and sometimes they’d stay up late, but not that night. I walked into the office, and … and it felt wrong in there, you know? It smelled funny.” He paled a little. “I tried the light switch but it didn’t work. I thought the overhead bulb was burned out and I should try the lamp. I didn’t want to. It smelled so weird and it was really cold in there, and it just …”

He smoothed his hands over his arms, a gesture Chess recognized. The tiny hairs there stood on end. People never seemed to notice it consciously, but they always tried to soothe themselves when it happened. Either Taylor was telling the truth or he was a damn good actor.

“It just felt so creepy in there. And it never has before and the light wouldn’t work. So I decided I was being stupid, I mean, getting freaked out because of a fu—freaking smell, when it was probably just the heating system in the house working out the kinks. So I took a couple more steps in and … and that’s when I saw them.”

“Them? More than one spirit?”

He nodded, but it looked like a reflex. He didn’t look at her, didn’t even seem to fully remember she was there. “A man. He was wearing kind of a … kind of a loose shirt, white or light-colored, and pants. But I couldn’t see all of the pants, you know, he kind of … turned into mist around the knees, and the light came through the windows around him. But he had an axe.”

“An axe?” A chill crept its way up her spine, interrupting the cozy warmth of her pills.

“An axe. A big one. And he … in his other hand was …” Taylor shuddered. “A head. Someone else’s head, a woman’s head. He held it by the hair, it was all tangled and knotted … and I think she was behind him, her body, with no head. It looked like a woman’s headless body behind him. Reaching for him.

“I ran. I turned and ran, all the way through the living room, into the walkway, and I kept running until I got out here, and I slammed the door shut and I … I waited for the man with the axe to come get me.”

He turned to her now, his eyes wide. “So you see, I know they’re real. I know Mr. Pyle isn’t lying. That thing saw me. It was coming for me. I know it was.”

Chapter Fifteen

A good Debunker is ready for anything, never surprised, never caught off guard.

—
Careers in the Church: A Guide for Teens
,
by Praxis Turpin

The security room door opened. Taylor leapt out of his seat, his broad face flushed. For a second he looked crazed, like he was about to pick up an axe himself, then his color normalized and he broke into a grin.

“Mr. Fletcher! What a pleasure to see you, sir.”

So this was Oliver Fletcher. Tall, slim, with striking salt-and-pepper hair swept back from a high, smooth forehead. Success and power wafted from him like expensive cologne, and he knew it. The smile he turned on her had the hint of cool appraisal men gave when they were trying to determine just how much they’d impressed her.

Her lip wanted to curl at the sight of it. Instead, she forced a bright smile. Best not to make an enemy of him quite yet.

“Great to see you, too, Taylor,” he said, but he didn’t take his eyes off her. “And who is your lovely guest?”

Taylor introduced her, while her cheeks started to ache from the stiffening smile.

Fletcher’s face darkened. “Ah. Roger’s ghosts. Such a terrible shame. He builds his dream house, and this happens.”

“Have you seen the entities, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Me? No. No, I haven’t. But I can assure you if Roger says they’re here, they’re here. Such an honest man, Roger is. He’d give you the shirt off his back if he thought it would help you.”

Was it her imagination, or was there a note of contempt in Fletcher’s voice?

Taylor certainly didn’t seem to think so. His gaze fixed on Fletcher as though the man had just announced the sun did in fact rise and set upon his order.

“He seems like a very nice man,” she said, hoping to keep him talking.

“He is. Always has been. A shame, though. It’s so easy for people to take advantage of a man like that. So naive … I’ve tried to tell him, but it’s no use. He’s determined to trust people.” Fletcher gave a little laugh. “What can you do with people like that?”

“Cast them in your TV shows?”

He laughed, but she caught the glint in his eyes. Damn, that was a mistake. Fletcher liked his women pretty and empty, vessels for whatever he wanted to fill them with. And she had a pretty good idea what that might be.

In fact, she knew it. He turned to say something to Taylor and, in the sleek dark back of his head, she realized she’d seen him before.

The night before, in fact. His had been the head buried between Kym Pyle’s legs on the couch.

Taylor trotted off somewhere at Fletcher’s command, leaving her alone with him. Good. Maybe he could tell her more about the Pyles—without the hero worship of the security staff.

He settled himself in Taylor’s abandoned chair and pulled a sleek gold cigarette case out of his pocket. His eyebrows rose. “Do you mind?”

Excellent. She shook her head, her smile becoming genuine as she pulled out her own pack and let him light her. She rarely got to smoke at work.

“So, Mr. Fletcher, do you come out to visit the Pyles often?”

“Not as often as I’d like. And before you ask, no, I’ve never seen anything out of the ordinary here.”

“But you’re so sure Mr. Pyle is telling the truth.”

“I know Roger. He wouldn’t lie.”

She sensed an opening. “Kym? Arden?”

“Arden is a troubled young lady, but don’t you think she lacks the sophistication to pull off something like this? Roger’s told me some of the things he’s seen, and Kym has seen. It sounds quite terrifying.”

“And Kym?”

“Kym lacks the intelligence.”

“You don’t think much of her?”

“I didn’t say that. Kym is a beautiful woman.”

Chess pretended that answered her question. “Do you think there’s someone else, perhaps? Someone who might have the sophistication and the intelligence?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Miss Putnam. Have you honestly ever seen a fake haunting on the level of what is apparently happening here? Do you think anyone is clever enough to stage such a thing?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

He stood up, his flat smile reflecting a satisfaction that rang alarms in Chess’s gut. “Well, please do say, if you find that person. I’d like to hire him.”

Two hours later Chess sat once again in the orange and ivory living room, before a cheerful fire, and checked her notes. After she’d had a few quick words with the Pyles she could leave, and not a moment too soon. She wasn’t itching yet, but it would take almost an hour to get home and she wanted to leave herself some room.

As long as she was checking her notes, she might as well check her phone. No calls. No texts. Nothing. She’d spoken to Lex that morning, but …

She closed her eyes, shook the thought from her head. This wasn’t the time to focus on anything but work, especially now her mind was clear.

Two other guards had seen ghosts. All of the descriptions were similar and matched what she’d witnessed herself. The smell—it still seemed to cling to her nose when she thought of it—the man in the loose shirt, another man, the woman she’d seen in the bathroom mirror.

A murderer and two victims. Only one man—she guessed it was the son—was still unaccounted for, unless he was the figure Roger had seen in the guest bedroom.

Then there was Oliver Fletcher. Interesting. Obviously a friend of Roger’s and an admirer of his talent. Just as obviously contemptuous of him and his family, no matter how many sex parties he attended at their house. She wondered if he’d flown in specifically for this one or if he had some other reason to be there. He and Roger worked together on the TV show. Was he producing the film as well?

She’d ask Roger Pyle. Who was just walking into the room, a big grin on his cheerful face. She checked his eyes. A little dilated, nothing big. Come to think of it, she hadn’t found any drugs in the Pyles’ room. Maybe he kept them in the office? Shit, she was going to have to come back with her Hand, put them all to sleep, and get into that room. Especially since another significant episode had occurred there.

This week was never going to end. Dead hookers at home, a cavernous house full of miserable people here, and not an answer in sight.

It could have been worse, yes. She knew that from experience. But the thought didn’t seem to help her the way it usually did.

“How are things going?” Roger asked. “Is everyone being helpful? They’re giving you everything you need?”

She nodded. “Everyone’s been great.”

He visibly relaxed. “Excellent. Excellent. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Actually, I was wondering something. Most of the staff members who’ve witnessed the entities report a particular smell. But you didn’t mention it when you told me your experiences. Was there an odor that you recall?”

Roger’s forehead creased. “Not … No, I don’t think so. I know I felt a little odd, but I assumed that was just because I’d drunk too much coffee. You know, caffeine makes me jumpy sometimes, a little fuzzy. But I didn’t notice a scent or anything.”

“Was that every time, or just that first time? The night of the attack in your bedroom, for example? You hadn’t been drinking coffee then.”

“No, no I guess I hadn’t. I don’t … I’m sorry, Miss Putnam, it was just so terrifying, I don’t remember if I smelled anything or not. I was so focused on Kym and her injuries.”

She nodded, smiled to let him know she understood. “Of course.”

“Have you read the articles? About the murders, I mean.” Roger shuddered. “I just don’t understand how someone could do something like that. And to think it happened here, on this land. Awful. No wonder they’ve come back.”

“Well, it isn’t always a matter of—”

“Do you think if we discover who killed them, they’ll go away? I wondered about that. Like in old books, you know, where they can let go of the trauma because the truth is known. Does that happen?”

She couldn’t help but smile. He looked so hopeful. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Pyle. It’s been tried, but we’ve learned it really makes no difference. Even if we discover the truth, the dead don’t feel that knowledge. It just doesn’t affect them or get through to them, so they can’t move on. The ones who are trapped by it, I mean.”

And that was conversation number three on that subject. Surely that wasn’t a coincidence? What was she trying to tell herself there, what was she missing?

“Have you been to the City? What’s it like?”

Her smile became fixed. “It’s very peaceful.”

Terrifying was more like it. Dark and cold and full of spirits. The remnants of life, moving silently through the cavernous space. It was emptiness.

Apparently she was the only one who felt that way. No one else seemed to have a problem with the City. But for her it was … a nightmare. Someplace so awful it was worth staying alive just to avoid it.

She changed the subject. “I met Oliver Fletcher. In the security office.”

“Oliver? That’s great. He’s an interesting man, Oliver. Helped me … Well, I guess he’s been the best friend I ever had, really. I owe my whole career to him.”

“Now, darling, don’t be so modest. You got where you are by hard work.” Kym Pyle knew how to make an entrance, Chess had to give her that. Today she wore a snug black sweater with a deep V neck and a pair of red cigarette pants, and her blond hair was swept up into a smooth knot on the back of her neck.

She ran crimson fingernails through Roger’s hair, giving him a smile much warmer than anything Chess would have expected to see. Perhaps she’d worked off all her tension at the party.

Or perhaps the Pyles had decided it would be less suspicious if Kym didn’t act quite so much like a dominatrix who’d had a bad day.

Kym turned to her, the smile fading. “Miss Putnam. I thought you’d left over an hour ago, didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Tell me?”

“The snow. Haven’t you seen? It’s an absolute storm out there. I thought one of the staff had let you know—”

Chess leapt from her seat, Kym’s voice fading to a drone in the background. Thick orange curtains covered the broad windows; Chess yanked them apart and gasped. It wasn’t just snow. It was a blizzard, huge fat flakes obscuring everything.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—

“I should go.” She snatched up her bag and yanked the zipper open. “I’m sorry, but I—”

“You can’t go,” Kym said. “It’s terrible out there. The roads—”

“But if I don’t try now, who knows when I’ll be able to get out of here?” Keys, where were her keys? The security room, on the hook. She’d relinquished them when they parked her car.

“But I don’t think you’ll be able to get out of here
now
.” Kym settled into a chair. “Arden says it’s been snowing for over an hour. I’m so sorry. I was napping, and I guess with the curtains closed … I can’t believe no one warned you. Roger, I’m going to have another talk with the security staff, they’re not being very attentive. What do we pay them for?”

“No, I’m—I’m sure it will be fine, I mean, I’ve driven in snow before, so—”

“They don’t salt the roads out here,” Roger said. “The plows will be along eventually, but not until after it stops.”

“I’m sorry.” Chess slung her bag over her shoulder, blinking back tears. Oh shit oh fuck how had she let this happen? “I really need to at least try, I can’t impose—”

“It’s no imposition, don’t be silly. You must stay here, Miss Putnam. Have dinner with us, stay the night. We have plenty of room. It’s so miserable out there, you can’t drive in that.”

“I’m just going to have a look,” she managed, before escaping from the room and throwing herself down the long bright walkway.

It was impossible. Snow fell fast and thick, clinging to her eyelashes, coating her clothing. Three or four inches of it already covered the ground; she couldn’t make out the wall at the edge of the property. Everything was white. No landmarks, nothing.

Nothing to look at. Nothing in her pillbox. Her hands shook as she raised them to her face, jammed her fist against her mouth.

How long did she have? Two hours, maybe three, before it started, and another couple of hours before it got really bad? There were a few hard candies in her bag, the sugar would help for a little while, but … a whole night?

Her eyes stung and she swiped at them, trying to will her heart to slow down. It was okay. It would be okay. The snow would stop in a few hours. It could stop any minute, right? And it was early evening. People would be commuting, the plows would come through, she could get out.

Surely the Pyles had a small plow or something, living out here. Maybe one of the security guys—maybe Merritt—would help her get out. If she could just hold on for a little while, an hour, two, she’d be okay. She’d planned on staying until six or so anyway, right?

Right. So she would be fine. All she had to do was wait it out, just hang out for a little longer, and she could go home and get her pills.

Just a little longer.