What Haunts Me (8 page)

We walked through Lafayette Park and headed to Fillmore Street. I had expected her to tell me about the Watchers, but she deflected the topic again and insisted I tell her how and when all this started for me. She made few comments and asked no questions, but she did find it interesting that I'd managed to suppress it for so many years; however, she didn't offer any insight as to how or why.

“How come when we kill them and the victims get better, no one seems to remember they were ill in the first place?” I asked.

“You know when a friend or acquaintance shows up with a new haircut and you're not sure why, but you know there's something different about them, you just can't pinpoint it?” I nodded and she continued. “It's kind of like that. Their friends and family know something's different, but they don't know what. They just know the person is better for it.”

We'd reached Fillmore Street and turned north. She stopped in front of a bar with outdoor seating; it was only mid-afternoon and most of the tables were empty. Billy went to the one at the end and sat down. The sun was on its slow decline toward the horizon and the chair she took was bathed in afternoon light. She angled her seat so that it faced the warmth and closed her eyes while leaning back comfortably. She looked serene and at peace, something I wouldn't have thought she was capable of, considering her personality.

A waitress appeared and asked us for our order. Billy didn't flinch or otherwise acknowledge her, so I ordered two light beers. When she moved away to the only other occupied table, Billy's left eye opened just a slit and the green caught the sunlight and seemed to wink at me, then she closed it again and said, “Maybe I don't like light beer.”

“And maybe you shouldn't be so rude when a waitress arrives to take your order.”

She sat up straight and held her hand over her eyes to deflect the sunlight, then readjusted her chair to get it out of her face altogether. By the time she made herself comfortable again, the waitress had returned with our drinks.

I took a long pull on my beer and then said, “Why are you avoiding my questions about the Watchers?”

“I'm not avoiding the topic, I just don't want to talk about them,” she said matter-of-factly, as if that would end my inquiries, which of course it would not.

I let my annoyance show through. “Look Billy, I appreciate the fact that you came when Justine called you, but if you're not going to tell me what I need to know, then you aren't helping me and it makes me wonder why in the hell you're here in the first place!”

Her expression softened and she held her hands up in resignation. “Okay, okay, calm down. From what I know, they started out as a small group of ghost killers that somehow managed to come into contact with each other. This was a long time ago, like centuries and centuries. At some point they decided that they should become guardians of what we do, how we do it, and how we keep in contact with each other, sort of like a secret society I guess. For a long time all they did was keep track of what they believed to be active areas of ghost infestations…you know, like towns with sudden mysterious diseases and stuff. They would send a few of us to these places to check things out, and if the ghosts were the cause they'd take care of it and move on. Large cities are always a mecca for the ghosts, so they like to keep at least two or three of us in steady supply if they can.”

She took a drink of her beer and continued. “Part of what they do is to keep an eye out for new ghost killers like you, and that worked great for a while, because, as you've discovered, this can be quite a shock when it materializes, so having someone guide you and help you learn the ropes is good.”

She really had my attention and I wanted more. I let her take a breather for a minute while we sipped our beers, then I nodded at her to continue. “What's the other part?”

After a long sigh, she said, “There's not a lot of us and we're mostly the same…we see a demon, we kill it, we move on. But there are some of us that can do more, like the 'sharing' thing you did with Justine and the ability to communicate with the ghosts, good and bad. The Watchers want those people, the ones that can communicate.”

Phil had mentioned ghost killers that could talk to the ghosts, and Billy admitted to being one, so I'd assumed this wasn't an uncommon quality. I guess my confusion was evident and I either needed to work on my facial expressions or she could read my mind. Either way, she wagged her finger at me and said, “George, George, George…Aunt Justine said you were a smart guy, but I'm beginning to wonder….” Her sarcasm was back in spades.

My turn to glare, and I did my best, but I doubt it held a candle to her well-practiced icy stare. “Explain it then,” I said between gritted teeth.

She smiled, signaled the waitress for another round, and then said, “If you can communicate with the ghosts, it means you're a more powerful ghost killer and it also means you can probably do more than just talk to them…in some cases you can even control them. There are stories out there about super powerful ghost killers that can do unbelievable things. If that's true, imagine the kind of power they could wield. The Watchers want those types, and so do Vokkel and his people.”

Phil's comment about a “super-human” ghost killer being on the loose came back to me, and so did the part about him thinking it might be me. That, of course, didn't make sense; aside from the sharing thing, I was pretty sure I wasn't doing anything more than killing them. I was about to ask Billy about it when I noticed her attention was directed elsewhere.

A woman in a motorized wheelchair was expertly navigating her way up the street in our direction through the pedestrians, A-frame sidewalk signs, and leashed canines that were milling around the parking meters they were tied to. Billy leaned forward and reached into the shaft of her knee-length boot. She pulled something out and jabbed it at the woman as she passed by— but no, she wasn't jabbing the woman, she was jabbing the ghost that was following close at her heels, or should I say wheels. The bespectacled demon looked at Billy with only a second to spare. Horror passed over his face as he began to swirl away. As if nothing had happened, she replaced the ten-inch long stick into her boot and took a long sip of her beer.

When I glanced up the sidewalk, wanting a glimpse of the woman, sans wheelchair, she was nowhere in sight. I wondered if her friends and family would compliment her on her new hairdo when they saw her.

Still wanting to know more about the Watchers and Vokkel, but now curious about something altogether new, I asked while pointing toward her shiny black boot, “So, what do you use?” She had put it away too fast for me to get a good look, but it most certainly wasn't a trusty number two pencil.

She reached down again, pulled it out, and placed it on the table. It was a hand carved chopstick, probably ivory from the looks of it. Justine and Billy had commented about Grandma Billy poking demons with chopsticks. “Was that your grandmother's?” She nodded in reply and put it back in her boot.

“You mentioned before, when you killed that lady…the bodyguard…” She flinched at my terminology, but what else would you call it, “accidental homicide”? I didn't feel the need to sugar coat anything with her, so I ignored her reaction. “You said it was like a sizzle went through you. You ever feel that before?” I hadn't mentioned my earlier experiences that prompted the need for my favorite yellow companion, and I wanted to know if she'd felt that before too.

She picked up her beer and took another drink, looking at me over the bottle as she did. “Of course, why else would I carry a chopstick in my boot?”

“So you expected it to happen when you touched the bodyguard? You knew it would hurt her?” The last question came out in an accusatory tone and I immediately regretted it.

“I didn't know it would do
that
!” She drained her beer and stood up abruptly. I had a feeling I'd gone too far, and I was right. Before I could even get the money out of my pocket to pay the tab, she had walked briskly down the street and was rounding the corner. By the time I made it to the corner, she was gone. I walked home, feeling guilty about how I'd phrased the question, but not guilty about asking it. I needed to know if Billy was dangerous, and more importantly, I needed to know if Justine was at risk.

There was also another nagging “need-to-know,” and that was this business about communicating with the ghosts. Since Billy admitted that she'd done it on at least one occasion, did that mean she could do it all the time? Did that also mean she was one of these more powerful ghost killers that everyone seemed to be after?

The walk home was uphill and the day was warm, and I was sweating pretty heavily by the time I made it to my building. I collected my mail and took the elevator up to my apartment. After a tall glass of water and a clean t-shirt, I went next door to apologize to Billy. I couldn't afford to alienate her at that point—I still had a lot of questions.

Anne was the only one home and she said she hadn't seen Billy since eleven-thirty, which would have been around the time she pounded on my door. When I asked about Justine, I was told she was out as well, and not expected to return until later that evening. I asked her to have either or both call when they were able.

With nothing better to do, I went back to my apartment and flipped on the TV. I wasn't in the mood to go out hunting for ghosts, and I was even more tired than I had been before Billy so rudely interrupted my earlier slumber. The next thing I knew, there was a familiar pounding on my door, a slight ache in my neck from falling asleep in an upright position on the couch again, and the daylight had all but drained from my apartment.

I stumbled up and made my way to the front hall. I was trying my best to put my most humble and apologetic expression on, because surely it was Billy attempting to destroy my front door with her fist. Without checking the peephole, I opened the door to an unexpected sight. Edgar, in all his glory, stood in the hallway—the hallway that could only be accessed if you had a key or had been allowed access via a tenant of the building buzzing you up from street level. Needless to say, I was startled and wondered, out loud, how he'd gotten in. “Who let you in the building?”

Edgar's flawless and ageless face didn't acknowledge my rudeness. Instead he said, in an exquisitely monotone voice, “Mr. Vokkel requests your presence. The car is waiting downstairs.”

Maybe it was the surprise of his unexpected visit, or maybe it was because I was tired and still fighting the cobwebs of my nap, or maybe I was scared and it was a knee jerk reaction, but what came out of my mouth next surprised even me. “Vokkel can kiss my ass,” I said as I began to close the door.

Edgar's arm shot out at the speed of light and prevented the closure. As I said earlier, I was a strapping young man, but I suddenly found myself putting both arms and all of my one-hundred and ninety pounds into closing the door against his one armed strength. When I realized I wasn't going to win, I simply said, “Not now, Edgar. Give me a number and I'll call in a day or two to arrange something.”

Edgar withdrew his arm and cocked his head slightly, then said, “Mr. Vokkel will be very displeased.”

Instead of trying to kidnap me or force his way into my home, he pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me. It only contained seven digits, no dashes and no words. What was it with these people and their cryptically numerical cards? As I began to close the door, I said, “Don't you or Vokkel
ever
enter this building again without my permission!” I wasn't really in a position to make threats considering his blatant display of physical strength, but I was feeling a little overconfident since he had given up so easily.

I secured the deadbolt and leaned against the door. My breath was coming in ragged, shallow gasps, not just from the exertion of working against Edgar's incredible strength, but also because he'd honestly scared me. Once my security and composure were in place, I went straight to my phone to make two calls. My first call went to Kevin Riley, our building manager and maintenance man. Kevin lived in the one bedroom apartment on the ground floor, courtesy of the building owners. It was his job to make sure everything was taken care of and our building was secure and nicely maintained. Since the association fees only covered Kevin's rent, utilities, and a small salary, he supplemented his income with a talent for computers. That little side-job was the reason we had such a fantastic security system, which he could monitor 24/7 from a terminal in his apartment or a link on his smart-phone. Kevin had the intercom system installed, complete with cameras that viewed all public areas and allowed a tenant to see who was ringing their apartment from the street. It also recorded and stored the comings and goings in our building and garage.

He answered on the second ring. “Kevin Riley.” After the identification and greeting process was complete, I dived in with my concern.

“Kevin, I just had a visitor at my front door, but I didn't buzz him up. Can you check your computer and tell me who let him in?” I knew Kevin could do this, because he'd held a meeting of all the owners explaining the extent of his ability to monitor all that we did. Initially, I'd found his access to our lives a bit on the Big Brother side of things, but I felt differently now that I needed to know how Edgar gained access.

The audible click of fingers on a keyboard went on for almost a full minute, then he said, “Black dude, bald head, wearing all black?”

“Yep, that would be the guy.”

“Huh, that's weird…no one buzzed him in. He just…well shit! He used the pass code that opens the front door.” Kevin had put in a key pad with an access code for those that didn't want to carry a key or that forgot their key. “Who the hell gave that out?” Kevin asked no one in particular, but he was clearly agitated by it. I groaned. The building was in Pacific Heights, which was a pretty affluent neighborhood and rarely subjected to criminal activity. My neighbors were also pretty security conscious, and I thought it was unlikely that any of them would have given that code out. Which meant Vokkel or Edgar or both was far more determined than I would have given them credit for.

“Okay, thanks Kevin. It's no big deal; he was harmless, but maybe you should change that code.”

“Damn right I'm changing it…uh, sorry for the language, boss man.” He called everyone boss, except Justine…she was just Miss W to him. “It's just that I do my best to keep everyone safe and this happens.” I could hear his frustration and wanted to put him at ease.

“Really Kevin, it's no big deal. Maybe he knows someone in the building and saw them put it in. He didn't seem to think he was at the right apartment anyway. I think if you change it, it will be fine.” I wasn't sure if my impromptu lie came out with much sincerity, but I really wanted to get to my next call. With an exasperated sigh, he grunted his agreement and we hung up.

My next call was to Justine's landline. She had a cell phone, but I really wanted to talk to Billy and figured this was my best bet. Anne answered and I made the same inquiries of her charges as I'd done in person just hours before, and I received the same answer.

“Anne, I know Justine doesn't like to be bothered when she's at one of her functions, but I really need to talk to Billy. Is it possible for me to call her on her cell phone, or maybe you could text her and tell her what I need? It's important.”

Anne hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Of course, Mr. Sinclair. I'll ask that she get in touch right away.” I thanked her profusely and then sat down to wait for either Justine or Billy to call me.

One minute turned into ten and I began to pace. If Vokkel was bold enough to get our building code—to break-in essentially—what else was he capable of? More importantly, what did he really want with me? He obviously knew about the sharing thing since Edgar touched my shoulder and saw the Victorian lady, but that didn't seem like enough. Was this just a follow up from my earlier visit to him? Too many questions and too much time on my own to think sent me straight to the liquor cabinet and the whiskey. I poured a shot, gulped it, gagged a little as it burned down my throat, then took a deep breath and let the fine Irish spirit relax me. Now that I was in a better disposition, I took my glass into the kitchen, filled it with ice, and added more whiskey…for sipping this time, not gulping.

My thoughts wandered to Grandma Billy's paintings. Was the second painting a premonition? After all, it was entitled
What Hunts Me
. I thought maybe it was and went to my computer to confirm some things. I recalled the gallery website had listed Grandma Billy's birth and death dates, but couldn't remember if the paintings were also dated. Sure enough, she had died in the same month the painting was completed. Phil had mentioned that Vokkel was implicated in a woman's suicide, and I was pretty sure that had to be Grandma Billy. Billy also said she didn't think her grandmother's death was a suicide. If Grandma didn't kill herself—who did kill her? Was it Vokkel or Edgar? Did they hunt her as the painting depicted? Or was someone or something else hunting her?

Unfortunately, that feeling of eminent cranial explosion was upon me yet again, and I was sure this time it was caused by entirely too much information, and at the same time, not enough information. I was beginning to get angry as well—how dare Billy and Justine drop off the radar after dumping all of this into my lap? Even more annoying was the fact that they really hadn't given me enough to understand what I'd become. Surely there was more.

All this pent up anxiety and mental energy was making me more nervous than a mouse in a room full of cats. There was only one solution…I needed to kill something.