Spookshow V: Half-Boys and Gypsy Girls, page 26
Silence. All he did was close his eyes.
“I want you to tell me about her,” she said. “Not now, but when you’re ready.”
Gantry puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. “Okay.” He wagged his head to shake it off and then launched out of the chair. “Time to run.”
“Now? Don’t you want to see if Mockler’s okay?”
“He’s fine,” Gantry scoffed. He already had a cigarette in his fingers, impatient to leave. “There’s too many eyes here for me.”
Billie surveyed the empty waiting room. A ghost town. “There’s no one here.”
“There’s always someone. According to official records, I’m dead. I’d like to keep it that way for now.” He turned to leave. “Toodles.”
“Wait. Are you going back to Mockler’s place or mine?”
“Neither,” he called out, limping toward the stairwell door. He disappeared.
Billie fumed, but her indignation didn’t last long. A doctor appeared before her, looking down over the rim of his glasses. “Are you Billie?”
“Yes. He asked to see you.” The doctor pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Do you want to hear the details and confusing jargon or do you want to just go see him?”
Billie was already halfway down the corridor.
Gantry had said that he was a tough bloke but the detective didn’t look so tough in the hospital bed. He was pale and his eyes were bloodshot. The shroud of gauze bandaged over his ribs was stained with a few bloody smears, but he smiled when she burst into the room.
“Hey,” he rasped in a low voice. “You waited for me.”
“Of course, you goof.” She swatted at him and then smoothed her palm over his brow. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He saw the gauze on her hand and the raw cut on her chin. “You got hurt?”
“Just a few scrapes.” Her eyes went to the dressing on his torso. “How bad is it?”
“It looks worse than it is. The puncture didn’t go too deep. I didn’t even break a rib. What about Kaitlin and Gantry?”
“Kaitlin’s a little shaken up, but she’s not hurt. Gantry left.”
“Of course he did.”
“Don’t worry about him. Just rest up and heal.” Billie touched his cheek and a smile bloomed over her face. “This is like how we met. In a hospital room.”
“When I almost killed you?” he grinned. “You’re not gonna let me forget that one, are you?”
“Nope,” she smiled wider. “Not ever.”
Chapter 32
MOCKLER WENT WITH the lie that the injury to his ribs was caused by an accident at home. He told the staff sergeant and his partner that he had fallen from a ladder while repairing a light fixture in the garage. It wasn’t a complete fabrication, as he was currently in the process of fixing up the house. Odinbeck had called him a klutz, advising his younger partner to hire a contractor next time.
Over the following days, he paid close attention to the investigation into the fire at the Devil’s Punchbowl. Detectives Agostino and Mortimer were acting as primaries on the case and both were currently frustrated trying to piece together what had caused the fire in the bottom of the gorge. The remains of three individuals had been recovered in the ash and, given the charred state of the bones, any hope of identifying the victims looked doubtful. One of those individuals remained a mystery to Mockler, as he had only witnessed the fates of Owen Rinalto and Szandor LaVey. He didn’t know who the third person was, one of LaVey’s nameless acolytes was his best guess.
Curiously, there had been no mention in the incident report of any animal remains among the ashes. No deer skull, no antlers. Had it immolated completely?
It was excruciating to hold his tongue around Agostino and Mortimer as they puzzled over an arson involving three deaths. He hated to see them struggle, but revealing the truth wouldn’t help anyone. There was no way to corroborate the details. Despite the fact that he was supposed to be home recuperating, he had gone back to the church with the blackened windows. The door was unlocked and the place cleaned out. The big inverted cross over the altar was gone, along with every artifact within the sacristy. The carcass in the basement had been carted away and the floor scrubbed. They had been thorough, erasing any detail that could back up any claim he could make.
The only nagging point was the demise of the kid, Owen. He was still listed as missing and his parents would cling to a delusional hope that he might return some day. Discussing the arson case with Agostino, Mockler mentioned that he still had a missing person case on his desk. Maybe one of the remains found on the scene could be him. Agostino took the information from him and called the medical examiner about comparing them. It would take a while, but, at least, the boy’s parents would know the truth.
Four days after the incident at the gorge, Detective Mockler stepped onto his porch to find a blanket of snow covering the yard and hatched in the boughs of the trees. An SUV had pulled into the driveway and he waved at the driver climbing out. “Morning.”
“I hope this isn’t too early,” said Cynthia Trucillo. “It was the only time I had to stop by.”
“Busy day?” Mockler asked as he crossed the driveway.
“I have three showings today. I don’t know how I’m going to manage it.” Cynthia opened the back of her vehicle. “Do you mind giving me a hand with this thing?”
“Sure.” Mindful of his injury, they lifted the sign out of the back and slotted the post into the base. Mockler nodded to the picture of the woman on the sign. “That’s a nice photo of you.”
“Thanks. I just had it redone. My old headshot was looking dated.” Cynthia took a step back, plodding through the snow in her expensive boots and took in the sign against the backdrop of the house. “There. That’s just a start. It’ll have your neighbours talking.”
“Thanks for dropping it off,” he said, regarding the sign with an uneasy eye.
“Nervous?”
“It’s just weird,” he said, “finally doing this.”
“It’s for the best,” Cynthia said, climbing back into her vehicle. “A new chapter, detective. Ciao.”
Mockler waved as she backed out of the driveway and then he turned back to the post planted in his snowy yard. A colourful realtor sign with a swinging shingle underneath that read: Home For Sale.
He still felt queasy about it, but tried his best to shrug it off. Going back up the porch steps, his phone rang. He smiled when he saw the caller display.
~
Billie was teetering on a wooden ladder, draping a wire over a nail, when she heard the door open. “Hi,” she said.
“Whoa.” Mockler dropped the heavy bag near the door and crossed the room, taking hold of the ladder to stop it from wobbling. “You should have someone hold the ladder when you do that.”
“You’re here now,” Billie smiled, threading out the wire along the top of the wall. “Did you bring the tools?”
“Yup. What are you doing up there?”
“Putting up some lights. I wanted something festive.” Billie descended the ladder, kissed him in greeting and then knelt down near the outlet in the baseboard. “Here goes.”
She plugged in the cord and the run of faerie lights twinkled across the top of one wall and down another. Billie turned off the overhead light and the atmosphere changed instantly, the twinkle of lights bathing the apartment in a warm glow. “What do you think?”
“I like it,” he said, nodding in approval. “Warms the place up. Are you getting into the holiday spirit?”
“I just wanted something different. Plus, it hides the damage.”
Mockler looked down to the patch of floor at which she was pointing. A black scorch mark was left on the floor from the flashbang grenade. “It won’t wash off?”
“It’s burnt into the wood.”
With the overhead light off, the string of ambient lights masked the ugly blemish on the floor. “It does hide it.” Mockler looked over the apartment. “Did you get the glass?”
“Near the window. I managed to get it home without breaking it.”
“Let’s get it fixed.”
The broken window had been patched over with a length of plywood, cut to size and tacked into place to block the wind. Billie popped the overhead back on and Mockler fetched the bag he had brought. “Here,” he said, handing her a package. “Knead this.”
It looked like white clay in a sealed bag. “What is it?”
“The glaze. Work it until it’s pliable.” Mockler took the piece of glass that Billie had bought from the hardware store and unwrapped the craft paper from it. Getting his cordless drill from the bag, he withdrew the few screws holding the plywood patch in place. “We’ll try to do this quickly, so that we don’t let in too much cold air.”
Wind blasted through the breach when the plywood came away. The temperature had dropped to below zero and the wind carried a frosty sting to it. The replacement pane was fitted into place and Billie held it still while Mockler pushed in the steel tips to secure it. “These old-style windows aren’t very efficient. The whole thing ought to be replaced.”
“The landlord won’t do that,” Billie said. “If he replaces one, he’s gotta do them all.”
“We shouldn’t even be fixing this,” Mockler said, sliding in the last of the glazier’s points. “Your landlord ought to take care of it.”
“That would violate our unstated agreement.”
He looked at her. “Which is?”
“I don’t ask for anything and he doesn’t raise the rent.”
“I see—” Mockler winced as he straightened up, a hand shooting to his ribs.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked. “Maybe you’re pushing it too much.”
He waved it away. “It’s fine. Cut open that package and we’ll put the glaze on.” Once she ripped the packaging away, he tore off a piece of the dun putty and worked it in his hands. “Smooth it into a tube, and then press into the corner.”
She watched him apply the glaze along the vertical run and then scrape it smooth with a putty knife. With the material warm and pliable in her hands, she gave it a try on the opposite run. “Gantry’s coming over,” she said.
His hand slipped, smearing putty down the sash. “You talked to him?”
“He called earlier and said he’d stop in. He wanted both of us here.”
“That doesn’t bode well,” Mockler said. As usual, the Englishman had vanished when the smoke cleared. “I went back to that flat of his.”
“Was he there?”
Mockler shook his head. “The whole place had been cleaned out. Needless to say, there was no forwarding address.”
“Did you expect one?” said a new voice.
Billie snapped her eyes to the front door, as did Mockler. Neither of them should have been startled by John Gantry’s habit of popping out of thin air, but both were.
“Do you have to do that?” Billie huffed. “You could knock first, like a normal person.”
“What, and spoil the fun?” Gantry stood at the door with a paper bag in his hand and snow dusted on his shoulders. Scanning the apartment, he nodded in approval at the string of Christmas lights. “I like what you’ve done with the place. I expected worse after those arseholes firebombed it.”
“It hides the mess,” Billie said. “What’s in the bag?”
“Champagne.” Gantry pulled a bottle from the bag and took a closer look at the label on the bottle. “Or a close approximation thereof. I brought some lagers too, in case the bubbly is shite.”
Mockler got to his feet, a slight sneer to his features. “Are we celebrating?”
“What’s there to celebrate? I just felt like something festive, given the season and all.”
“We’ll toast to Owen’s memory.” Billie ushered her guest inside and took the bottle from him. “This is posh stuff. I wish I had flutes for it.”
“Screw the flutes,” Gantry said, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Bubbly is best served in a dirty glass.”
Crossing into the kitchen, Billie said, “I have a trick to show you.”
With the host gone, the tension ratcheted up between the two men left in the room. Detective Mockler studied the man he had spent almost two years tracking down. The Englishman seemed diluted somehow, a paler shade of his usual self. His guts balked at any compassion for the man, but he blurted out his question anyway. “You look a little green around the gills, Gantry.”
“Being dead will do that to you.”
The tension thickened as the silence crept across the room. Billie returned from the kitchen, dispelling the air of bad blood immediately. She held three mismatched glasses in one hand and a bizarrely large knife in the other. “Check this out,” she said.
“What’s with the machete?” Mockler asked, his eyes on the big blade.
“It’s called sabering. My old boss showed me how to do this,” she said, snatching up the champagne bottle. “He was French.” Holding the bottle horizontally, Billie laid the flat of the blade against the neck and tested it against the lip. With one stroke, the top of the bottle fired across the room, cork and all, and champagne spumed from the broken neck. She filled the glasses and handed them around. “To Owen,” she said, raising her glass. “Even though we failed him.”
The toast was sombre. Mockler watched the bubbles trickle up in his glass. “At least we put down that thing.”
“That’s nothing to celebrate,” Gantry warned.
Billie looked up at him. “Why not? We stopped it, didn’t we?”
“But we didn’t send it back to where it belongs.” Gantry nodded at the newly repaired window and the cold night beyond the glass. “It’s still out there.”
Billie lowered her champagne. “It’s still a threat?”
“Always,” Gantry said. “But, it’s gone for the time being.”
Mockler went back to work on the window, finishing up the glaze. “Is that what you wanted to talk to us about?”
“No, that’s my problem.” Gantry settled into the armchair and stretched out his legs. “It’s about your nasty little pet.”
That snagged Billie’s attention. “The boy?”
“Aye.” Gantry looked over the apartment. “Is the little sod here?”
“He was here earlier,” Billie replied. As usual, the Half-Boy had appeared at sundown, but remained oddly quiet the rest of the evening. Coiled up in a corner, he simply watched her string up the lights with an aloof air. He vanished when Mockler walked through the door. “What about him?”
Gantry sipped his drink. “I did a little digging. The lad had a sister.”
The glass almost fell from Billie’s hand. “How do you know that?” A slight rise prickled her nerves. Had the boy chosen to communicate with Gantry instead of her? How could that be? He hated the Englishman.
“Last time we tussled, I came away with this.” Gantry held something small in his hand, pinched between a thumb and forefinger. “It remained solid when it came off him, which is odd.”
“What is it?”
He handed it across and Billie turned it over, examining it. The button was nothing special. A worn brass disk, green with patina. She felt nothing handling it, no eerie sense of its owner. She wondered if he was having her on. “You found out that he has a sister from this?”
“Sometimes, it’s the small clues that reveal the biggest secrets.” Gantry got up from the chair and scanned the apartment again. “Do you have a mirror? A big one.”
“In the bedroom,” Billie said. “Why?”
Gantry smiled. “So we can conjure the sister.”
“Hold on,” Mockler interjected. “No more of that stuff. It almost killed all of us.”
“Not your call, mate.” The Englishman turned to Billie. “Do you want to find out who he is?”
Doubtful, Billie chewed her lip. “Can we really conjure his sister?”
“We fished your old man out of the darkness, didn’t we? Same thing.” Gantry reached down to the clutter on the coffee table and swept the magazines, remote control and bottles of nail polish to the floor. “Fetch the mirror, yeah? I need a bowl of water, too. A metal one.”
The detective frowned at the mess swept from the table, but Billie raced to the bedroom without another word. He looked at Gantry. “The last time you pulled this trick, it went ka-blooey.”
“It’s not a science, Mockler. Things go tits-up all the time.” Retrieving the paper bag he’d brought, Gantry placed five thick candles on the coffee table and snapped open his lighter. “Get the lights.”
The overhead light was extinguished and the twinkle from the Christmas bulbs warmed the room with a cheery gaiety that ran counter to the proposed task. The metal bowl, filled with water, was placed carefully in the centre of the five lit candles. Billie had hesitated over using her good metal mixing bowl, the one she used for baking. She doubted it would be safe for mixing cookie dough once Gantry got through with it. She shrugged. A small sacrifice.
“Where does this go?” Mockler asked, holding the framed mirror. Another flea market find of Billie’s.
Gantry took the wooden chair from Billie’s makeshift work table and squared it on the opposite side of the coffee table. He stood the mirror on it, angling it so it reflected the empty sofa. “That’s the best we can do. If we all squeeze onto the sofa, we should be able to see her. Have a seat.”
Billie and Mockler settled onto the sofa. Gantry stepped in, waving the detective aside. “Scooch over.”
“I don’t want to sit next to you.”
“I need to be in the middle, mate. Scooch.”
Squeezing between them, Gantry produced a pearl-handled pocketknife and opened the blade.
“What’s that for?” Billie asked.
“Everything requires a small offering. Blood works best.” Hovering over the bowl, he carved the blade into the heel of his hand until it ran red. The blood fell into the water and diffused like coils of red smoke. “Do you have the button?”
She held it out to him. “Here.”
“You have to hang onto it. When I say so, drop it in.”
The expatriate mumbled something under his breath and Mockler exchanged a quick glance with Billie. The look of annoyance never left the detective’s face.
