Wings to the Kingdom (Eden Moore #2)

Wings to the Kingdom (Eden Moore #2) Page 6

I groaned. “I live on top of a rock, Harry—not under one. How did you hear about it? Surely it hasn’t made anything past the local news?”

“I couldn’t say. I didn’t hear about it on the news; I heard about it via the Marshalls. They’re up there right now, aren’t they?”

“If they aren’t, they will be soon. And that’s just what the battlefield needs—more ghost hunters. Damn Yankees ought to stay home and chase their own ghosts.”

“Those damn Yankees are from one of the Carolinas, I believe.”

I shook my head, as if he could hear it rattle. “And what, pray tell, is your interest in the Marshalls?”

“Purely professional, I assure you. They did some fascinating research into a case in England a few years back. Friends of a friend. You know how it is. They’re not so bad, once you get to know them. Dana’s a tad abrasive, but you’d really like Tripp if you gave him a chance.”

“I’ll take your word for it. They were on the news here last night, throwing slogans around. If I hear how they’re going to ‘get to the bottom of things’ one more time, I’m going to start screaming. They’re not going to get to the bottom of squat.”

“So why don’t you, then?”

I’d walked right into that one, but I was prepared to walk right out of it, too. “Because I’m not interested in getting to the bottom of it. There’s probably nothing to get to the bottom of. It’s a battlefield, Harry. People died there. It’s haunted. End of dull and uncomplicated story.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he accused.

“No, I’m an excellent liar. You’re hearing what you want to hear. I’m done with ghosts. I’m tired of them. I see them plenty enough as it is; I’m not about to go looking for more. They’re like those crazy homeless people who hang out downtown—if you give them five seconds of attention once, they never leave you alone.”

“I doubt that’s a fair comparison.”

“It might be. What do you know, anyway?”

“Quite a lot that might surprise you,” he said. A very vacant pause followed, and I couldn’t tell if he was being dramatic or if he’d stopped to think.

The silence bothered me, so I filled it in. “I’m going to let the Marshalls take care of the battlefield. It’s not my problem. Hell, it’s probably not anybody’s problem. Some people saw some ghosts. Who cares?”

“The ghosts care, apparently. They seem to be going out of their way to try and communicate, but their success has been limited so far. It might be something important. In fact, I have to think that it must be—if the reports are right, and the sightings are so consistent.

“Really, dear,” he went on, “you’re in such a unique position to assist them. It’s a shame you don’t want to help.”

“I bet the Marshalls don’t want any help.”

“They might. I could make some phone calls.”

“Don’t you dare. They’re probably fakes, anyway.”

“No,” he insisted with a suddenness that surprised me. “They’re not fakes. They’re not as gifted as they want to believe they are, and they’re publicity whores of the highest caliber, but they do get real results. That’s one reason I think you should see about contacting them, or offering to help their investigation. It might do you good to meet other people like yourself.”

“And you want to hook me up with a play-date? Honestly.”

He let slide another one of those pauses, and I almost interrupted him when he continued. “You know,” he said, “you’re not alone. There are other people who can see things and tell things that most people wouldn’t believe. You ought to find a few of them and make some friends; it isn’t that hard. The social circles are small, but they exist. I could give you a phone number or two.”

“I watch late-night TV every now and again. I’ve got access to all the 1-900 numbers I can stand, thanks.” I tried to sound flippant, but it came off too dry to be careless.

“There’s no need to be catty. I’m not trying to hook you up with a psychic shrink; I’m trying to explain that there are people out there outside your immediate gene pool who might understand what it’s like.”

“To what end? I don’t need any pen pals, Harry.”

“For your own well-being, or peace of mind. You’re entirely too isolated up there in Chattanooga. It’ll make you crazy, being your kind of different and having no one to share it with.”

“Crazy like Malachi?”

I almost heard Harry’s eyes roll. “He is an easy example, yes.”

In the end, the phone call was pleasant, but less than productive. By the time we hung up, I was unconvinced that he’d put a stop to Malachi’s pestering—and he was unconvinced that I was uninterested in the battlefield.

We were both right to be suspicious.

4

ABC

The city of Chattanooga shifts and swells around the university, which is tucked away downtown. It used to be located in the middle of a nice suburb; but time and economic stagnation have taken their toll, and now the school perches on the edge of a ghetto. This less-savory part of town is shrinking away from the school in slow, baby steps; but the change will take more time yet, partly because investors around here don’t have a lick of sense. Real estate progress in the valley tends to swing one of two stupid ways: companies build in the wrong place, or they tear down the wrong things to start building.

But the university, downtown in the middle of the ghetto, is a marvel of hodgepodge architecture if ever there was one. As the school expanded, it ate up a couple of blocks unintended for academia, including an old hospital, a strip of historic suburbia, and a couple of cemeteries.

I parked out in front of one of them. A battered stone-and-ironwork fence hypothetically keeps the college kids at bay, and though I’d challenged the fence’s authority before with easy success, that night I was not there to visit with the dead.

Jamie’s nighttime poetry workshop was held on the second floor of the building across the street.

I’d gotten the world’s most pitiful phone call from him earlier that afternoon. His car was in the shop; he promised to buy me a drink and the burger of my choice if I’d pick him up and give him a ride to the Pickle Barrel. An acquaintance of ours was having a birthday party there, and the thing about Pickle Barrel birthday parties is that everybody stops by. Being on a first-name basis with the birthday person is not so much required; and, in fact, it might come as a genuine surprise.

Around here, a party’s a party—and I’d had my fill of coffee for the week. A night’s worth of alcohol would break up the monotony.

Jamie was late, as usual.

I leaned against the stairwell wall and tapped the back of my head against the plaster. I could hear him arguing with another student, and I could imagine him waving his hands and tossing his head—wielding his expansive mane as a weapon to invade the personal bubble of his opponent. Jamie’s not a huge guy, but he’s in excellent shape; and the way he throws himself around with all that manic, mobile black hair, people tend not to notice that he’s only five foot ten. He takes up a lot of psychic space.

I thought about leaving him and letting him hoof it. The party wasn’t but a mile or two away as the crow flies, and if he was feeling argumentative, I wasn’t sure I wanted his company. He’s usually fine so long as he knows you don’t plan to sleep with him, but when he’s on his high horse he can be more trouble than he’s worth. I was still weighing the pros and cons of going ahead alone when he burst from the workshop room in full princess mode.

“Eden, darling. Take me away from these philistines.” He tossed his satchel across his back and flashed one last ferocious glance at the stragglers still within the classroom. Then he squeezed my forearm and nearly dragged me down the stairs to escape.

“Philistines? Is that the new word of the week?”

“It is now.”

“Tore up your latest performance piece, huh?”

“Like piranhas on a quarter-pounder.” Someone less egomaniacal might have sighed at this point, but Jamie was indignant, and he snorted instead. “There’s just no explaining to this batch of six-toed inbreds that some poems are meant to be heard. It’s not the same if you simply read them. Mere words on mere paper have no soul. They have no fire.”

“They have no you,” I clarified. “But you can’t force a roomful of academics to become your own personal audience, you know.”

“Says who?” he grumbled, stalking to the passenger side of my car and waiting for me to pop the locks.

I opened my door and hit the button to let him in. “Says them, apparently. You’re going to fail the class if you can’t play nice. Maybe you should try a little harder to…I don’t know. Be less antagonistic. Fit in or something.”

“Because I don’t care—and I am too brilliant to fit in. This whole thing is ridiculous. I have more artistic genius in my right nut then they’ve got in that whole circle of posing wannabes. I shouldn’t have to have a degree to validate my creativity. I don’t need a piece of paper to prove that I’m great.”

“Sounds like you don’t need any humility, either.”

“Who needs humility when you’ve got talent?”

“People who need jobs.”

“Bitch,” he spit.

“Bitch? That’s all you’ve got? You must be losing your edge.”

He nattered fussily at me all the way downtown, which wasn’t very far, thank heaven. We took the sidewalk around to the front of the flatiron-shaped restaurant and bar. It’s built on the end of an old city block that once housed—what else?—a hotel. The hotel is long gone, and the space has been parceled out to several other businesses, including the Pickle Barrel.