What's a Ghoul to Do? (9 page)

"The very one," Gilley said happily.

"Well, gee, Stella. I'm glad you got your groove back, not that you ever lost it in the first place," I said with a grin.

Gilley came over to where I was standing and poured me a cup of coffee while he gave my hip a playful bump with his. "One last fling before we ship out," he said.

"Uh-huh. Say, I've got to ask you something," I said. "And you're not going to like it."

"Sounds serious," Gilley said as he peeked into the oven to check on the rolls.

"No, it's not. It's just that I may need you to help me inside the house when we do this bust rather than staying in the van."

It was a little-known fact that Gilley was terrified of ghosts. He was totally open to the idea of having me venture into spectrally inhabited places, but he'd be the last one to set foot in a haunted house until the ghost was clear. Lately he'd been begging off the smaller jobs and going with me only on the bigger busts, where his role was to drive me to the location and monitor my progress from the comfort and safety of the van. Gil had three monitors set up inside so that he could watch the feed from my night-vision camera and record the readings from my spectrometer and thermometer, but it was my firm belief that he turned off the video feed and only looked for spikes in temperature and electromagnetic energy.

We never spoke about it in public, so as not to embarrass him, but Gilley was clearly terrified of things that might go bump in the night. "You must be joking," Gil said, his voice tinged with a little panic.

"No, buddy, I'm afraid not. I need you to run interference with Steven so that he doesn't get in my way. My impression of him is that he's the curious type, and that he'll want to ask me all kinds of questions, so if you think it's okay for him to come along, then I'll need you to babysit him."

"Why can't he stay in the van with me?" Gilley asked, and I noticed an even sharper rise in his voice.

"You can try that, but my guess is that he'll want to be where the action is, and he won't like sitting in a van watching monitors all night."

"But… but… but…" Gilley stammered. I almost felt sorry for him, especially when I knew how scary some of my expeditions could be.

"No buts, Gil. I need you. End of story."

Gilley moved over to the small table in his kitchen and, sitting down with a thump, he gave me a rather pained expression. "But what if a ghost attacks me?" he asked.

I suppressed the urge to laugh. "Gil," I said softly. "No ghost is going to attack you. It's just Steven's grandfather, after all. I'll protect you." Gilley didn't look convinced, so I offered, "Listen, if Steven gets scared and wants out, you can leave too, okay?"

"You promise?"

"I promise." Just then there was a ding and Gilley jumped up from the chair. "That's our breakfast. M.J., while I get the rolls would you mind getting my slippers? My feet are freezing."

I looked at Gil's bare feet. "Sure," I said as I headed into his bedroom. Once there I stopped short. There was a snoring sound coming from under the covers. Tiptoeing over to Gil's bed I took a closer look and saw the top of a messy strawberry-blond head. Shaking my head, I grabbed the slippers and left the room. When I had traded Gil's slippers for a steaming-hot breakfast roll, I asked, "Is that the famous Bradley in there?"

Gil looked puzzled, then asked incredulously, "Is he still
here?'

"Yep. Snoring up a storm." I giggled as I popped a bite of bun into my mouth.

Gilley sighed wearily. "Honestly," he said. "I mean, it was bad enough that he wanted to stay and cuddle last night, but I thought for sure I'd woken him with all the banging around I did before getting into the shower. You'd think he'd have the decency to wake up and leave, already."

"Aww," I said, laughing at him. "A gay man's love. Is there a sweeter, more romantic kind?"

Gil heaved a sigh and said, "You know what I think it's time for?"

Knowing where this was going, I said, "You
wouldn't
."

"I think it's time for a fire drill," Gil said, and with that he walked determinedly into his bedroom as I followed, trying to stop him, but it was too late. He reached the head of the bed and shouted, "Ohmigod! Fire! Fire!"

Bradley sat bolt upright from the covers, his eyes wide and panicky as he looked around the room. "Wha… ?" he managed.

"Fire! "
Gilley hollered, waving his arms wildly above his head. "My God, man! Run for your life!"

Bradley threw the covers to the side and leaped out of bed, buck naked as he darted first one way, then the other in a clear search for his clothes. Gilley, meanwhile had moved over to the foot of the bed and was tossing a shirt and pants at Bradley. "Here!" he said, hurling a pair of shoes at the poor man. "Now get out before the smoke gets too thick!" For emphasis he added a few loud coughs.

Bradley caught clothes, and rushed to shove his skinny legs into the pants, hopping around on one foot as he tried to edge toward the door. "What about you?" he asked as he finally got his pants up.

"We're right behind you!" Gil said, grabbing my hand and moving quickly toward the door. Bradley dashed ahead of us, rushing through the condo until he stopped cold in the living room and looked this way and that, as it appeared he was looking for something.

"Move, man!" Gilley shouted, waving him toward the door.

"My keys!" Bradley said frantically. "I can't find my friggin' keys!"

Gilley rolled his eyes and scooted over to the kitchen counter. "Here!" he said with another loud cough as he tossed the keys across the room. "Now run before we all
fry
to a crisp!"

Bradley nodded and plunged toward the door that Gilley held open for him, still hugging his shirt and shoes to his chest. I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. That is, until he paused a moment in the doorway and looked wide-eyed at Gilley to ask, "So you'll call me?"

Gilley stood smugly with his hand on the door handle and all sense of panic gone as he replied, "Of course," and shut the door in Bradley's face.

"That was terrible," I said to him, trying really hard to look serious.

"Welcome to the gay man's one-night stand," he said, stuffing a cinnamon bun into his mouth.

After giving Gilley a short lecture about his deplorable behavior, I went back to my place to pack enough clothes for a couple of days, get Doc ready for travel, and organize the equipment to load into the van.

Although Bill Murray and his gang needed lots of bells and whistles when they went on a call, true ghostbusting really requires only a couple of gadgets. Night-vision video cameras are neat little devices, but wicked expensive. We'd purchased ours on eBay, and the thing never really worked right. Digital cameras were an absolute must, as most spectral beings love saying, "Cheese!"

In fact, Gilley and I had quite a collection of interesting photographs. We had pictures of orbital lights in all colors, dark shadows, and even one or two transparent portraits where the facial features of the ghost in question show up remarkably well.

For proper ghost hunting one should also have several digital thermometers, voice-activated recorders, laser trip wires, and a good deck of playing cards—though these are used more to cure boredom, as ghostbusting can be a long, dull job at times.

After loading the van I called Steven to confirm our departure time and to slip in the fact that I needed a check to cover expenses. He told me he had to go out and run some errands, but that he'd leave an envelope with my name hidden under the welcome matt and I could pick it up anytime.

I'll admit that I was a little disappointed I wouldn't run into him that morning, then quickly shook that thought from my head and tried to focus on my lips—I mean my job. Yeah … my job.

I hit the ATM once I'd retrieved Steven's check and then raced across town to Reese's Camera and Video, where I retrieved our night-vision camera. "Hey, M.J.," Joe, the manager, said.

"How ya been?" I asked him as he placed the video camera on the counter.

"Good now that it's starting to warm up. I thought May would never get here. You and Gilley on another job?"

"Yeah, got one upstate, and I'm going to need this baby. Is she fixed?" I asked, indicating the camera.

"Sort of," he said skeptically.

"That doesn't sound fixed, Joe."

"Hey, it's not my fault, M.J. I think maybe one of them spooks got into your camera or something, because sometimes this thing works great and other times it don't. I've taken it apart and put it back together, and there ain't a thing wrong with it that I can see."

I scowled. "How often does it work right?"

"About every other time I turn it on," Joe said.

"In other words, it's only got a fifty-fifty chance of working?"

"I could sell you another one," he suggested.

"How much?" I asked, crossing my fingers that there was some kind of terrific sale on night-vision video cameras.

"For you? A grand."

"A grand? Are you crazy? I got this one on eBay for half that!"

"And it works half the time, so there you go."

I handed Joe a check for the repair and said, "Thanks, Joe, but I'll take my chances with this one for a little longer."

"We got payment plans, you know," he suggested.

I nodded and picked up my camera. "I'll keep that in mind."

Next I headed to the pet store to pick up some bird food for Doc, then made my way back to my place to see if Gilley had gotten back from the office, where he was doing the research on Steven and following up on a few business leads.

Gil had taken my car while I took the van, and as I pulled into my condo complex I noticed he'd parked it in my slot. Good, he was home. I stopped inside and found him just coming out of his condo with a folder in his hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder. "Hey," he said when he saw me. "I was just about to call you on your cell. You ready to hit the road?"

"We have to wait for Steven," I said, moving down the hall to my own door.

"Did you get the camera from Reese's?" he asked.

"Yes, and it's still not fixed," I groused.

"We really need a new one," Gilley said.

"Then start playing the lotto, Gil, because that's the only way we're going to be able to afford one."

"One of the trip wires is on the fritz too," he added.

"What?" I said, turning to him as we entered my condo.

"And two of the digital thermometers aren't reading accurately."

"How is it that all of our equipment is failing at the same time?" I asked.

"You know how it is with this electronic stuff, M.J.," Gilley said. "They're very sensitive, and when you use them the way we do … well, they're not going to last."

Gilley was referring to the fact that many of the poltergeists we encountered screwed around with our equipment. Electricity is one thing that ghosts can control fairly easily, and that means that anything with a circuit board is fair game. "So, how do we operate if we can't even afford the basics?" I asked.

"You could do some readings…" Gilley suggested.

I groaned. "Gil, I am so burned out on that stuff. It's emotionally draining, and I don't have the patience for people who refuse to let guilt or anger or bitterness go." Many of the last readings I'd done had been with people who weren't interested in hearing from a specific deceased family member, and often that was the strongest energy coming through. I'd grown tired of trying to convince the living to please forgive the dead and move on. Dead people never hold on to resentment—only the living do that—and it pissed me off that a spirit could work so hard to try to communicate with someone who was deaf to the message.

"I know, M.J., but it is a means to an end. Will you at least consider it?"

"Fine," I said, and handed him Doc's cage while I grabbed my suitcase. "Come on; let's wait for Steven in the van."

Steven arrived less than ten minutes later. He looked freshly showered, dressed in jeans and a white button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled up to mid-wrist. In other words, he looked good enough to eat. "Good afternoon, M.J.," he said to me. "Gilley, good to see you again."

Gilley actually giggled before catching himself. "Steven, good to see you as well."

I cut Gilley a look and noticed that his face was bright red. The boy had a crush. How cute. "So where are we headed?" I asked Steven.

"We'll take the pike west to I-Ninety; then we'll want to take Route Twenty to Route Seven, and finally over to Route Forty-one. You got my directions this morning with the check?"

"I got them," I said, patting the folder under my arm.

"Good. It sounds more difficult than it is. Just pay attention to the signs once you get onto Route Seven toward Uphamshire and you will find it."

"How long will it take us to get there?" I asked.

"Not long—three and a half hours unless you slow me down," he said with a wink,

"Not to worry," I said, narrowing my eyes and turning the key in the ignition. "I've seen you drive. Gilley and I will wait for you at the lodge." And with that I stepped on the gas.

"That wasn't very nice, M J.," Gilley said.

"Hey, he started it," I snapped. "Besides, while he's off dragging his heels you can tell me what you dug up about his relationship with his father."

"It ain't pretty," Gilley said.

"How bad could it be?"

"Think disownment, and you'd be close," Gilley said as he opened his folder and began to read his notes. "Steven Andrew Jackson Sable—our Steven's father—was slapped with a paternity suit from an Argentinean woman named Rosa Sardonia in nineteen eighty-one. She claimed that she had been his mistress for ten years, and that he fathered her child. Senior denied the claim and fought the suit, refusing to give up his blood for a test, even going so far as to skip the country for a while when it looked like the judge was going to order him to give it up."

"I can't believe he would be such a jerk about it," I said.

"Did I happen to mention that Steven Senior has been married for thirty-five years to a Corrin Wharton?"

"The
Corrin Wharton of Michael Wharton's Miracle Mile?" I was referring to a woman who was the daughter and sometime spokeswoman of a massive collection of automotive dealerships owned by Michael Wharton, who was himself a New England legend.