Spookshow V: Half-Boys and Gypsy Girls, page 5
“Weirdo symbols,” Latimer said. “Carved in with a knife.”
Mockler looked away from the grisly sight to the wall of trees at the edge of the clearing. Then, he forced his eyes back to the body. The whole tableau was a shock. The position of the body and the horns, the torches. Like something he’d seen in a medieval woodcut or a horror movie. He was grateful that he and Odinbeck had been at the bottom of the rotation when this particular call came in. “Is Hoffmann all right?” he asked Latimer. “He’s pacing a lot.”
“He’s keeping it together, but this kind of shit doesn’t sit well with him.”
“Where do you want us?” Odinbeck asked.
“Could you sweep the perimeter and work your way in. Just in case we missed something. Later, we can hit the woods around the clearing.”
Odinbeck agreed and he walked with Mockler to the edge of the clearing. Here, they tread slowly, side-by-side, eyes glued to the ground for anything. Mockler heard his name being called and looked up to see their Sergeant approaching them.
“Sarge,” he said. “Nice to see you out of the office.”
“I wish it was for a better reason.” Sergeant Gibson stood a little over five feet, but the respect she commanded gave her the stature of LeBron James. She nodded at the scene behind them. “Did you take a close look at the victim?”
“Not yet,” Mockler said. “Hoffmann hasn’t closed in yet. His case.”
“Of course.” Sergeant Gibson watched the lead investigator as he lingered outside the focal point. Her eyes stitched in concern, as if she didn’t like what she was seeing. “What do you make of it?”
“Hard to say without looking closer. It’s a nasty mess, I’ll tell you that.”
“Ballpark it for me,” she said. “From here.”
“It’s ritualistic. More of this stupid occult stuff we’ve been seeing.”
Odinbeck piped up, watching his colleague. “Why is Hoffmann taking so long? He’s dithering around like an old man.”
“He hates this stuff,” said the Sergeant.
“Since when does that matter?” Odinbeck spat. “He needs to get in there before it gets any colder.”
Sergeant Gibson turned back, looking to Mockler and then Odinbeck. “Would you consider swapping out on this one? Taking the lead on it?”
Both detectives bristled, exchanging glances. “Why?” Odinbeck sputtered. “Hoff and Latimer caught this one. It’s their case.”
The Sergeant fixed her eyes on Mockler, and Mockler alone. “You’ve had experience with this kind of thing. This spooky occult stuff. Hoffmann’s clearly uncomfortable with it.”
The younger detective’s jaw clenched at the term she’d used, the muscle in his cheek flashing. Spooky. Hating what he had been asked, he grasped for a way to be diplomatic. “I don’t have anything special to bring to this. Hoffmann and Latimer will do just as good a job.”
“You sure?” she asked, looking him in the eye.
“Sorry, Sarge. I can’t.”
“Understood. Stay close with them on this one. This is going to become a shit-show once the press gets wind of it.” Sergeant Gibson nodded a farewell and trudged through the weeds toward the pathway leading out of the clearing.
Odinbeck shook his head, watching their superior leave. “What the hell was that all about?”
Mockler wouldn’t speculate. “Come on. Let’s get back to the sweep.”
The two men resumed the ground search, but Odinbeck wouldn’t let it go. “Since when are you the spooky expert?”
The younger detective remained quiet. There were times when he wished his partner would learn to shut his trap.
Chapter 7
THE AFTERNOON SHIFT at the Gunner’s Daughter was all that was available and Billie was glad to get it. She had barely worked in the last few weeks and her bank account was looking frighteningly anemic. The evening shifts were better but Mario, the bar owner, could only offer her the afternoon one on such short notice. She jumped at it and showed up early.
Settled in behind the bar with its familiar smell of lime trays and draft spillage, Billie was grateful for the quiet predictability of work. The chaotic events of the last few weeks had left her rattled to the core and she craved routine, even if her boss had become wary of her since she’d been outed as a psychic. Mario was a gruff bear of a man, born and raised on the rougher side of town, and unafraid of anyone except when it came to Billie. The man was leery of her now, uneasy to be alone with her in the same room, but he was a decent man and had accommodated Billie’s absence over the last while. Another boss would have simply fired her.
Mockler showed up at the end of her shift during the changeover hour when she worked alongside the evening shift bartender. Surprised, Billie lit up when she saw him walk through the door. “Hey,” she beamed. “I didn’t think I’d see you today.”
“We punched the clock 10 minutes ago.” Mockler dropped onto the barstool like he’d been carrying weights all day. “I thought I’d stop in before heading home.”
Billie could see the exhaustion in his eyes. She poured him a pint without asking and set it down before him. “Tough day?”
“Yeah. New job.”
Billie nodded. A new job meant a new homicide. She didn’t want to pry, but it was hard not to wonder about it. “A bad one?”
Mockler sipped his pint, reflecting on the grisly scene that had scalded his eyes earlier in the day. His sergeant’s words kept nagging at him, about being the expert in the spooky stuff. That was the last thing Billie needed to hear now. She’d been through enough already. “They’re all bad.”
A patron further down the bar waved at her for service. Billie excused herself, got the orders in and came back to the detective sitting rumpled on the barstool. She reached out and smoothed the hair that had fallen across his eyes. “You look pooped.”
“I am. I just wanted to say hi before heading home.”
That made her happy. Small things often did. “I’m just finishing up here. Do you want some company?”
“Aren’t you here till closing?” he asked, checking his watch.
“Nah. I’m done.” She tried to gauge his mood, the lethargy in his eyes. “But if you want to just go home and crash, that’s cool.”
“I’d love some company. Finish up. I’ll wait.”
They stopped in at the Owl on Main for a late dinner. With its stark fluorescent lighting and blaring TV in the corner, the place was neither romantic nor intimate, but Billie didn’t care. He was sitting across the table and that’s all that mattered. Mockler swore that the short ribs here were the best meal in town. She had never had Korean before, but she was happy to try something new with him, a spot off of her beaten path that could be theirs. She couldn’t get enough of the kimchi and that made him smile.
His place was a five minute drive away, but she asked if she could be selfish and go to hers instead. Stepping into her apartment on the third floor, he saw that the place had been cleaned and scrubbed. There was still a hole in the plaster where he had driven in Gantry’s skull, but contrasting that was a vase of fresh flowers on the table. “I like the daisies,” he said.
“I like things simple,” she said, heading into the kitchen. “Have a seat.”
She came back with beer for both of them and they talked quietly for a while. Nothing important, just idle chit chat while their meals settled in their bellies. Billie rose to her feet. “I got you something.”
“Me?” he said.
She held out her hand for him to take. “It’s nothing big. Come here.”
Leading him by the hand into the narrow bathroom, Billie opened the cabinet and took out a few items and laid them out on the edge of the sink. A new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, disposable razors and a can of shaving cream.
“It’s not much,” she said, looking at him with a spark in her eyes. “Just morning stuff, so you don’t always have to rush home before going to work.”
“You got that for me?”
Her eyeteeth clamped over her bottom lip. “Is that okay? Too presumptuous?”
“No. It’s sweet.” He picked up the tube of toothpaste. “You got the kind I use, too.”
“I peeked last time I was at your place.”
He appreciated small gestures, too. “Thank you.”
A quick kiss, interrupted by a noise from the other room. Billie looked out the door to see what it was.
“Is that your mysterious cat?” Mockler said, referring to the inexplicable sounds that always occurred when he had his back turned. What happened next confirmed forever the absence of any cat.
The toothbrush Billie had bought for him lifted vertically from the sink and spun in the air like a twirling baton. Mockler couldn’t even blink, eyes glued to the thing floating in the air. It levitated three feet to his right and then dropped as if released from an invisible grip. A small splash as it went into the toilet.
Billie turned at the sound, just in time to witness the toothpaste and razors rise into the air, spin about and follow the same trajectory into the bowl.
The look on his face was almost comical. Billie offered a sheepish smile. “We need to talk.”
~
“Who is he?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Billie said. Trying to explain Half-Boy was difficult. She kept it brief. “But he’s saved my behind more than once. Kaitlin’s too, when she was attacked in the hospital.”
They had withdrawn to the sofa. Mockler stared at the bathroom door, while she told him about the boy. His jaw muscles flexed as he listened. “He won’t tell you his name? Or what he wants?”
“He can’t speak,” Billie said, realizing how much detail she had omitted. “His tongue was cut out. I’m not even sure if he speaks English.”
“And he what, lives here? With you? How long has he been here?”
Billie shrugged. “He’s been here since it started. When I came home from the hospital and began seeing the, you know, the dead. It was like he’d always been here. Waiting for me.”
Mockler scratched the stubble on his chin. A scrim of annoyance was clouding his thoughts. Couldn’t they just get shed of this spooky business once and for all? “What does he want with you?”
“Again, I don’t know. He’s protective of me. He hated Gantry with a passion.”
“Good call on his part.”
“I’m surprised he’s turned on you,” Billie said. “Gantry I could see how he’d think he was a threat. I thought he was fine with you. Until now.”
“Now that Gantry’s gone?” He looked at her.
“Or,” she mused, “since you’ve been around more.”
His brow arced in disbelief. “He wants you all to himself?”
She folded and unfolded her hands, unable to answer the question. The playful mood of earlier had evaporated entirely.
Mockler glanced around the room. “Is he still here?”
She didn’t want to tell him that the little ghost was watching them. “Yes.”
“I see.” He turned to her, as if about to say something, but hesitated. Starting over, he asked “Aren’t ghosts supposed to cross over? Or move into the light or something? Isn’t that the goal?”
“I don’t know if there’s a goal. Or a point to anything. Are you asking me if there’s a heaven?”
“No. Maybe.” Another hesitation, another shifting of restless hands. “Have you ever seen a light?”
“Once. I didn’t see any light, I just felt this pull toward something. I saw the dead move into it. I almost wanted to go to it, too.” She left out the rest of the story, how it had happened shortly after the ability had surfaced in her. How she had encountered a malignant ghost with flies in his mouth and how it had attached itself to Mockler. How she had pulled free the souls of other ghosts it had devoured.
“So,” he went on, “how come this one hasn’t moved into the light, this half-thing?”
“Half-Boy,” she corrected him. “I don’t know why he hasn’t crossed over.”
Both of them fell silent. The only sound was that of the leaky faucet in the kitchen tapping the sink. The ghost on the ceiling remained still, his small eyes ever watchful.
Mockler stirred. “Do you ever watch scary movies?”
“I hate scary movies.”
“I used to love them when I was a kid,” he said. “There was one that always gave me the willies. It was about this widow who was being haunted by her dead husband. He died in a car accident, she was driving. The guilt was driving her crazy. She thought he was out for revenge but the story flipped at the end. She was keeping him around, trapping him here as a ghost because she couldn’t let go.”
His recollection made her bristle. “What are you saying? I’m keeping him here? I can’t let him go?”
“I don’t know; this is out of my depth.” He hadn’t meant to offend her. He took her hand in his. “Maybe he just needs help to move on. That’s all.”
“I tried,” Billie said. “I don’t know what else to do.”
The monotonous tapping of the faucet returned and he felt her slump beside him in defeat. He pulled her close and words were whispered into each other’s ears, punctuated with tiny kisses until, after a while, they rose and moved into the other room. Billie glanced back quickly as she closed the bedroom door, but Half-Boy was gone, fled from his roost on the ceiling.
Later, long after Billie had turned off the bedside lamp, Mockler couldn’t sleep. His slumber was disrupted three times by the eerie sensation of tiny hands pressing down on his chest, as if trying to collapse his lungs in his sleep. He related none of this experience to Billie the next morning. With his new toothbrush and shaving kit ruined, he left in a hurry to get home to change for work.
Chapter 8
MOST OF THE day was spent assisting Hoffmann and Latimer in their new case, doing the grunt work of secondary area searches and canvassing the surrounding area, while the primary investigators focused on the body. The ruins at Crooks Hollow were fairly remote with few residences nearby, so the chances that anyone had seen or heard anything was nil, but the process had to be exercised. Mockler and Odinbeck rapped on doors until their knuckles were raw.
It was a washout. No one had seen anything, no one had heard anything, but all were curious about the police presence in the area and speculation ran wild. Surprisingly, the media had barely picked up on the story. Human remains found in the woods. That was the extent of the coverage. The details would be leaked sooner or later and, once they got wind of the gruesome circumstances, the press would descend on them like wolves. It allowed them some leeway, so the two detectives pressed on with canvassing before the locals would be tainted by the news coverage.
Five hours later, they drove back across the bay and into the city. The days were getting shorter as November crept on and the lights of the ambitious city were already twinkling at full capacity. Odinbeck grumbled a weary goodbye when he got out and Mockler drove home to his empty house on Bristol Street. Climbing out of the car, he discovered a mass of old furniture laid out on his neighbour’s lawn. He came around the hedge as two young men carried a sideboard from the house and placed it on the grass.
“Hi,” he said. One of them he recognized as his neighbour’s son, but the young man’s name escaped him. “Danny, isn’t it?”
“Darko,” the man corrected. They shook hands. “How are you?”
“Good. How’s your dad? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“He’s living with our sister now, over in Ancaster,” said the man named Darko. “He had a fall couple weeks back, broke his wrist. He’s been staying with her ever since.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mockler said. “I saw the realtor’s sign go up. I thought the worst since I hadn’t seen Ivo for so long.”
“The house is just too big for him now that mom is gone. Too many stairs.”
“Must have been tough for him to let go,” Mockler nodded. “Your dad was pretty proud of his home.”
“It took a lot of convincing,” Darko agreed. “Pop hates change.”
Mockler looked over the furniture tilted onto the grass. “So, you guys get the job of clearing the place out? You having a yard sale?”
“Most of it’s going to the Sally Ann. They’re coming by with a truck.”
The other young man hollered at his brother to get his butt in gear and Darko went back into the house. Mockler walked around the pieces on the lawn. The stuff from the dining room and kitchen was ugly or damaged, but the living room suite caught his eye. Old Ivo and his wife had a proper sitting room in the front of the house that was kept pristine because it was never used. Plastic covers on the sofa and armchair, a runner over the carpet. The family used the den in the basement as a living room. He remembered Ivo joking about his wife’s insistence on keeping the sitting room in such a pristine condition, in case the Pope ever dropped in for coffee. The pieces were all from the fifties, the mid-century modern stuff that some people loved. In fact, it was the kind of furniture that Billie decorated her apartment with. She’d go crazy for this stuff, he thought.
The two came back outside, placing a battered hutch onto the grass. Mockler waved at them. “Darko, how much do you want for this stuff? The sitting room pieces?”
“You want it?” Darko asked, surprised.
His brother jabbed him in the ribs. “See? I told you it was worth something.”
“I have a friend who loves this kind of furniture,” Mockler said. “What will you take for the whole suite?”
Darko looked over the sofa, sealed under its plastic shroud. “Gee. I dunno.”
“Two hundred,” said the brother.
“Sold,” Mockler said, “if you help me haul it into my place.”
The brothers agreed and Mockler ran to his house to prop the door open. He hoped there was some beer in the fridge to offer them for their help.
~
Bicycling season was coming to an end. The days were getting colder and the wind froze Billie’s hands on the bars so bad they would ache. Gloves did little to keep her fingers warm and mittens were impossible to bike with. Snow was on its way. There were some hardcore cyclists, mostly couriers, who biked through the deep winter, but Billie didn’t know how they did it. A higher pain tolerance, she guessed. Another week and she’d have to hang up the bike until spring and walk everywhere. Or worse, take the bus. Buying a car seemed impossible, given her finances.
