. Wrapped in mist.

Cloaked in history.

Risen from the grave.

Something is out there,

getting closer,
moving in the darkness,
listening ...

AD�llRlI1 AMD
.DHllft"llR I 11r.n.
If Whispers can

A young family is the target of a force from beyond the

grave. The Dark .Tide intrudes on the already dangerous
and secretive city of Chicago, and the Hoffmann lnstitute's
newest investigation team comes face to face with a force
as impossible to believe as it is to destroy.
 (One)

In Hollow Houses
Gary A. Braunbeck

('&o)
If Whispers Call
Don Bassingthwaite

(Three)
In Fluid Silence
.G.W. Tirpa
March 2001

(Four)

Of Aged Angels
Monte Cook
July 2001

(Five)
By Oust Consumed
Don Bass!-Jtgthwaite
December 2001
TM
 IF WHISPERS CALL
Dark•Matter™
©2000 WJZards of the Coast, Inc.

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This is a work of fiction. Actual names, places, and events are used only to enhance the

actual conduct. All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any
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·
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eover art by Ashley Wood

Libraiy of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00·101967

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 In Hollow Houses

Michael McCain retrieves a jar containing fragments of

the brain of John F. Kennedy from a secret vault under the
National Archives in Washington, D.C., moments before the
building explodes.
Jeane Meara, an arson investigator for the Bureau of
Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, is sent to determine the
cause of the explosion but finds her theories as unwelcome
as they are impossible to believe.
Watching all this is the quiet form of Ngan Song Kun' -
dren, an experienced agent of the shadowy Hoffmann Insti­
tute, a private organization founded to investigate and stop
the rise of the Dark Tide.
McCain, Jeane, and Ngan are brought together when a
bizarre creature begins to prey on the homeless population
· of the nation's capital. As they work to learn the startling
truth of the thing below the streets of Washington, D.C.,
McCain disc.overs that he's a clone, Jeane is forced to leave
the ATF, and Ngan is put in charge of the Hoffmann Insti­
tute's newest team of investigators.
All three are sent to Chicago and must learn to work
together with hidden evils, secret agendas, and the forces
of the Dark Tide around every corner.
For Ole
>t.
- .lite autumn sun was bright and cheerful but
cool, barely warming the late October air at all.
It was the sort of light that made Laurel Tavish
dream of big piles of dry leaves and sprawling
pumpkin patches. Never mind that she was quite
certain that she had never in her life seen an actual
pumpkin patch. The big corrugated cardboard bins
at the grocery store that sprouted with water­
melons in the summer and pumpkins around Hal­
loween were pretty much the closest thing she
could think of. My nostalgia, she decided, is con­
structed entirely out of television reruns and after­
school specials.
The baby inside her stirred and kicked hard. Lau­
rel let out a little gasp. She stopped, hands on her
swollen belly.
Will was at her side in a second. "'Are you all
right?" he asked. "It's not-?"
1
 d on 'a a a I nu t h w a I te

"No, it's not." She smiled at him. "It just kicked. We've
got a soccer playe� in the making, love."
Will smiled back and leaned down to address her belly.
"Or a football player. Who's Daddy's little punter? Huh?
Who's Daddy's little punter?" Laurel couldn't help but
laugh. Will looked up again and said, "Seriously, though- .
y ou're okay? You didn't have to come out this afternoon."
'!Will, I'm pregnant, not an invalid. The walk is good for
me." She shifted one hand to rub her hip and said, "Though
I wouldn't want to walk too much farther without a break.
Daddy's little punter is no lightweight."
Wtll leaned in and gave her a kiss before taking her
other hand and leading her on down the gravel trail they fol­
lowed through the woods. "Don't worry, princess," he said.
"It shouldn't be far. The lady from the genealogical society
said it was only a ten minute walk in from the road."
"She probably wasn't eight months pregnant when she
walked it," Laurel grumbled, but she let him draw her on.
Television-induced �ostalgi.1 or not, it was a lovely day.
They had driven out from Chicago and parked on a quiet
street at the very western edge of the suburb of Midlothian,
right where the urban sprawl gave way to the trees of the
Rubio Woods forest preserve. Fortunately, the path that led
into the woods was broad and reasonably level, no worse
than walking down the sidewalk and a lot more pleasant.
Being with Will today meant a lot to Laurel. She wasn't
sure how long his fascination with genealogy would last once
the baby was born, but knowledge of its ancestors would be
a lasting gift to their child. Today w.is special. Will had been
able to trace his mother's family easily enough and his
father's family even more easily. The Tavishes had left a
small but not insignificant mark on Chicago for several gen­
erations. His paternal grandmother, however, had stumped
him.
·Johanna Tavish, nee Harvey, had been something of a

·2
 If w •11' era ca I I

puzzle until diligent research had ferreted her out. Jo�a

Harvey had been born in Midlothian, then an isolated com­
munity well outside of Chicago. Further research had
finally located her family as well, buried in a long-closed
cemetery that was now surrounded by Rubio Woods. In a
way, Will was going home.
"There." Will gestured suddenly. "I see the fence."
His grip on her hand tightened, and his steps became
quicker. Not too quick though. Laurel knew he was holding
back because of her. She walked a little faster for him.
Abruptly, they were there, peering through the rusted chain­
link fence that surrounded Bachelor's Grove Cemetery.
For a second they were both silent, then Will said softly,
"It's a dump."
It was. Of what must have been dozens of headstones
and memorials erected from the cemetery's opening in 1864
to its closing in 1965, only a handful remained upright. All
of the others had been knocked down. More than a few
must have been carried away entirely. Even the ones that
were still standing had suffered from time and vandalism.
The grass and weeds had grown long over the summer and
now lay matted on the ground, an irregular straw-colored
· carpet between the stones. The wind had piled fallen leaves
in long drifts against the stones and the fence. The scatter­
ing of trees that had taken root in the cemetery had been
stripped bare �d stood over the graves like thin, dark car­
rion birds.
Laurel sighed and hugged her husband. "The·genealog­
ical society said it was in rough shape," she said.
"I know. I just didn't expect it to be quite so bad." Will
hooked his fingers through the links of the fence and looked
across the cemetery with disappointment on his face. "I
don't know if there's even any point to going in. n
"You've come this far. You might as well have a poke
around."

3
 d on ba a a I nu t h w a I te

· The gate to the cemetery was locked, but next to it the

fence had been cut and pulled back in a tangle of wire. .
Laurel stepped through and said, "Come on. Have a
little look. You might find something."
After a moment, Will followed her. "It's still a d�mp," he
·

said.
"Just look at the stones, love."
He set off among the stones, glancing at the standing
few, pausing a little longer to clear grass away from the
ones that had fallen. Laurel watched him trace the weath­
ered curves of a name carved into one of the stones. He
looked up at her and smiled. "Robert Harvey, born 1928,
died 1932."
"A cousin?" Laurel asked brightly.
Then the_ dates of Robert Harvey's life clicked in her
mind and the levity in her voice sounded hollow. The boy
had died at four years old. What had his mother folt as she
saw her son laid in the ground? Laurel decided that if their
baby was a boy, they would not name him Robert.
The child's death must not have struck Wtll the same
way. He replied gamely, "Might have been. Nana was
already married to Granddad and living in Chicago then,
though." He moved on, spending a little longer at each
stone now.
Laurel looked around for a place to sit. It had been a
long walk in from the car, and her legs and hips were killing
her. She eyed a large headstone that had fallen nearby but
couldn't bring herself to sit on it. There was a log a little
farther along. The bark that clung to it looked damp and
crumbly, but at least it didn't mark a grave. Picking her way
among the fallen stones in the thick grass, she went over to
it and carefully lowered herself down. Getting off her feet
was a relief. She watched Will wander from gravestone to
gravestone for a moment, then let her gaze roam a�ross the .
·

rest of the cemetery.

4
 If w 1111 ' er 1 ca II

In spite of the neglect, Bachelor's Grove Cemetery was

really rather peaceful. The bright sun banished any hint of
darkness, and the cool air carried the comforting· smell of
dainp earth and leaves. Down at one end of the cemetery, a
pond-probably once a carefully tended ornamental lagoon,
but now filled with leaves and a few reeds-escaped the
fence to spill off into the woods. The trees thinned out on
the other side of the water into little more than a screen.
Laurel could see bright flashes and dark shapes as cars
roared by on the Midlothian Turnpike beyond. The sound of
their engines was a murmur in the background.
It was all ridiculously ordinary for what the woman at
the genealogical society had told them was rumored to be
the most haunted place in Chicago. Uh-huh. Laurel looked
back to Will on the other side of the cemetery. He was
watching her. She waved to him, and he lifted his arm to
wave back.
· And there was a sudden, very loud snap from the woods
behind her. Laurel's heart jumped, and all she could think
of were the stories the woman at the genealogical society
had spun about ghosts. She twisted around, staring into the
woods. There was nothing.
"Are you all right?" called Will.
Laurel laughed and waved to him again. "Just spook�d."
He smiled. "Probably just a squirrel."
"I know." All the same, she suddenly didn't feel like sit­
ting any longer. She stood up, stretching and turning as she
did so that she got a good look at the entire cemetery. The
sun was as bright as it had been moments before. The air
still smelled of autumn, and the cars on the turnpike still
rumbled. Silly, she told herself. She wandered across the
cemetery to investigate the leaf-choked water of the lagoon.

5
 d on ba s s I ng t h wa I te

Tucked down behind the broad trunk of a tree, Vanko

Dimitriat gave his friend Boone a hard glare. Boone was
crouched behind a thick bush nearby. Under his right foot
·

were the broken pieces-of a dry stick.

"Sorry, Van," Boone whispered.
"Knob," Dave grumbled. He and his girlfriend Tawny lay
conceale4 behind a log. ·
"I ha.d to move," Boone explained. "My knees hurt."
. "Shut up," Van whispered. He peeked out from behind
the tree.
On the other side of the fence, the man had gone back to
looking at the gravestones in Bachelor's Grove Cemetery.
The woman had gotten up and was walking down toward
the lagoon. They weren't looking into the woods.
"They didn't see us," Van whispered.
Tawny poked her head up to take a look. "Damn," she
said. "When are they going to leave? I'm laying in some-
·

thing wet." ·
Boone caught Van's eye. "Wouldn't be the first time," he
mouthed silently. Van close<;! his eyes for a moment and
gave his friend the finger.
He could already imagine Ma crapping bricks if they got
caught in the cemetery. "A senior in high school!" she.' d say.
"You should know better. You're not too old to be grounded,
you know!"
Of course, that was presuming the cops and forest pre­
serve rangers who included the cemetery on their patrols
didn't get them first. But then that risk was what made the
trip out to Bachelor's Grove worth it. That and the guilty
thrill of trying to conjure up one of the notorious ghosts.
Like they could put the cemetery off limits and figure
everyone would just listen to that. Van grinned to himself.
His backpack sat on the ground beside him. In it, jammed
among homework and textbooks, were the things they.
would need tonight. A Ouija board, a big square of purple

8
 If w his p er s ca 11

velvet, a few sticks of incense (carefully wrapped so that his

entire backpack didn't end up smelling like cheap perfume).
and an enormous, ugly quartz crystal that Tawny had bought
yesterday at a garage sale for five bucks. Van had his doubts
about the crystal, but Tawny was sure it would help.
Then again, it wasn't like they had gotten very far on
their first try last week either. Under the light of a full moon
they had sneaked out to the cemetery, joined hands, and
called out to the dead ... or at least that had been the plan.
Van grimaced at the memory. It had actually been cloudy
and cold, and Dave and Tawny had kept playing footsie with
each other in the dark. In spite of all their appeals to the
spirit world, the only thing that had happened all night was
a big spider crawling up Boone's pant leg.
About the only part of the plan that had worked at all
was stashing the seance gear near the cemetery during the
day and recovering it at night. That way if the cops stopped
them on the way to the cemetery after dark, they had noth·
ing suspicious on them. They had decided to do the same
thing tonight. Of course, they hadn't really considered what
they would do if they ran into anyone at the cemetery dur·
ing the day-the seance gear was just as i.llcriminating
before dark as after.
They had just reached the rusty fence when Dave had
shushed them. The voices of people coming up the path
behind them had been distinct. Cops? Rangers? Van had
been the first one off the path, diving for the cover of the
woods. Except that with the leaves fallen, the woods were
very little cover at all. By the time the man and the preg·
nant woman had appeared on the path, it was too late to
simply walk out and leave innocently. So they had stayed,
waiting for the couple to finish their tour of the cemetery.
Who knew it would take so long? Van glanced around
the tree again. Th� woman was beside the lagoon noy;. A
thin mist hung over the cold water, condensation drawn out
1
 d on · �a 1 11 nu t h w a I te

of the sun-warmed air. The woman squatted down awk­

wardly, reaching out to trill her hand through the water.
d
She shrieke , a ·sound so loud and abrupt it made .Van
jump. She scrambled away from the lagoon.
"Laurel?" the inan called as he came h urryill g across the
cemetery.
"Something grabbed my hand!" She was pale and shak-
.
ing.
"Easy," the man ·said with a smile.: He drew her into a
hug. "It was probably just a frog or a leaf in the water."
"Frogs and leaves don't grab and hold on."
Van could feel his heart rate picking up. He tore his eyes
away from the scene just long enough to glance over at
Boone, Dave, and Tawny. They were all peering up from
their hiding places, eyes wide. Everything was perfectly
still and perfectly silent except for the man and tlie woman.
And the mist. When he looked back to the couple there
was something different about the fog. It was thicker and
heavier. It was growing, spilling across the surface ·of the
water a.D:d wrapping around the thin· stems of the reeds
growing in it. It reached the bank. Long streamers wafted
out into the. cemetery, even though the arr, Van realized,
was absolutely, perfectly calm. A tendril of mist reached up
to brush against the woman's belly.
She gasped and started, breaking her embrace ·with the
man to brush away the mist as she might have brushed
away a hornet or a wasp. "Will!"
The man grabbed her hand and held it. They .saw the
mist now, too. How could they not? It was a blanket across
the ground, hiding their feet and continuing to spread
through the cemetery. For a second, they stood stone still,
then the man tugged the woman forward.
"Let's go," he said, and she didn't argue. ·
They headed for the cemetery gate. The hair on the back
of Van's neck was standing. There was a knot in his stomach.

8
 . '

If � bis p e r I ca 1 1

"Faster," Van whispered under his breath. "Faster. Get

out of there. n
Van knew he should be doing more, should be helping
them. He didn't move, but the man and woman were mov­
ing more quickly now, hurrying through deep mist that rose
to their knees and climbed higher with every step they took.
They were fifty feet from the gates. Forty. The mist-thick
fog now-was at their waists. Van didn't see which of them
started first, but suddenly they were running , and the fog
had risen to swallow them.
Van could see that quite clearly because the wall of fog
came to a sharp end at the chain link fence around the
cemetery. Not so much as a wisp slipped beyond it.
From inside the cemetery, there was a sudden gasp, cut
short by an ugly thump.
"Laurel!" It was the man's voice, wracked with anguish.
Someone was breathing hard. Boone was swallowing air
by the lungful. Van didn't turn to look. All he could do was
stare into the cemetery and the mist.
There was movement inside Bachelor's Grove, near the
gate, and the man staggered out of the fog, forcing his way
through the hole in the fence. The woman was cradled in
his arms. There was blood on her head. It smeared across
her face and soaked into the man's shirt. The man glanced
down at her once, then set off along the path at a lumber­
ing run. His eyes were very, very wide, and there were tears
on his face. He didn't look back.
Inside the cemetery, the fog swirled in turmoil, rushing
along the fence like water boiling in a clear glass pot. It
didn't reach after the man, didn't follow him at all.
Then, as suddenly as it had gathered, the fog began to
disperse. The roiling movement subsided. The fog thinned,
slowly drifting apart. 'Irees and gravestones in the ceme­
tery reappeared, and the whisper-of a breeze sent bits o� the
mist drifting through the fence. The eerie stillness was
9
 �•ii u 1 1 l 11tll w 1 I ti

gone, too, leaving Van with a sharp awareness of sensation:

the sound of Boone's breathing, the feel of rough tree bark
under his own tensed fingers, the smell of the autumn
woods. He moved for what felt like the first.time in hours
and looked over at his friends. Dave and Tawny were
clutching at eacll. other. Boone was shivering. Van realized
that the rough bark under his fingers was actually under
his fingernails· as well. He had dug his fingers deep into the
tree bark. He pulled his hands away from the tree. The
movement broke the stillness of the moment. The others
shifted as well. Van ran his tongue around inside his mouth,
searching for a little moisture. When he finally got his
mouth to open, his voice came out as a broken croak.
"I don't think I want to txy anything tonight."
Slowly the others nodded agreement, then a quickening
of the breeze blew a wisp of mist among tliem, and Dave
yelped loudly. They broke, leaping out of their hiding places
and sprinting for the path. Van snatched up his backpack. For
a split second; something seemed to hold it. He ripped at it
with frightened savagery-and the tree branch that tangled
the straps broke so sharply he nearly staggered and fell.
A tree branch. He almost laughed at the sheer crazfuess
of his fear. Almost, but not quite. He was still the first one
back to the path.

The paramedics finished strapping the. injured woman

onto the gurney, lined the cart up with the rear of the ambu­
lance, and pushed it inside. The spindly wheeled legs folqed
up underneath, and the locking mechanism snapped
sharply, securing Laurel Tavish in place. Her eyes were
closed, her skin pale and dull like the face of a wax dumm y.
The bandages that the paramedics had wrapped around her
head were already soiling through.

10
 If w bla ' e r I Cl I I

God, I hate scalp wounds, Officer Anthony Jessop

thought. There's always so much blood.
One of the paramedics nodded to him and said, "Ready."
She turned to the husband, Will Tavish, hovering in the
background. Will's jacket was also soaked with blood. It
smeared across one side of his chest, his shoulder, and his
arm, the red broken by sharp lines where the cloth had
creased under his wife's weight. A number of her long hairs
were matted into the blood.
"Do you want to ride with her?" Jessop asked him.
Wtll Tavish nodded with the sharp, quick movements of
a man who wanted something badly but had been afraid to
ask, then gulped air and hesitated. "Our car . . ."
Jessop stepped foxward. "Don't wony, Mr. Tavish,• he
said. "If you have an extra key, we'll drive it back to the sta­
tion for you. You can come down and pick it up when you
get a chance." He'd like to see one of the big city cops from
Chicago make that offer.
wm nodded again and fumbled his keys out of his
pocket. He struggled to release one from the ring until Jes­
sop took it from him and slid the key off himself.
"Thank you," Will said, but his eyes were on his wife
and the ambulance.
When Jessop handed the keys back, Will folded his hand
around them so tightly that his knuckles went white. He
climbed into the ambulance without another glance back.
The paramedic slammed the doors shut behind him .

"Next stop: Presbyterian-St:Luke's Medical Center,"

she said, then gave a final nod to Jessop and went around
and climbed into the ambulance herself. The driver gunned
the motor, and the vehicle leaped away in a swirl of flash­
ing lights. Jessop glanced down at the key in his hand. He
slipped it into his pocket.
"Damn." James Greene, his young partner, stepped up
beside him and said, "That's a kicker of an accident."

11
 d on ba a a I ng t ti w a I te

"Tell me about it." Jessop lifted his hat and scratched his
head.
They had been on the scene outside Rubio Woods within
niinutes of 911 receiving Will Tavish's panicked phone call.
Will had been sitting on the ground beside his car, cradling
his wife. All they had managed to get out of him was that
she'd fallen and hit her head. They used the arrival of the
ambulance a short time later to take him aside and get a
few more details. They had been running in "Bachelor's
Grove Cemetery, Laurel had tripped and slammed her head
on a stone.
"Damn shame," Jessop sighed. "We'd better go in and
·
have a look around."
Greene looked at him sharply. "You think it wasn't an
·

accident?"
"Maybe. Best have a look to be sure though."
Jessop glanced at the sky. Where it had been clear and
blue before, clouds were rapidly taking control. Big, dark
clouds coming down out of the north, building over the
trees of Rubio Woods. Almost like they were coming from
the woods-and the old cemetery hidden tliere. He gri­
maced and headed for the path that led from the end of the
street into the trees. Local ghost stories. He had spent too
much time chasing kids and freaks out of Bachelor's Grove.
They were only about eighty feet into the woods when
silence swept over them. It wasn't just the silence of a wild
place disturbed by human presence but an abrup,t, profound
stillness. The suddenness of it made him pull up so sharp
that Greene, following behind, ran into him.
"Hey," Greene complained, "keep it moving!"
Jessop p a i d him no attention. It was like being
watched-and not watched. Like being stared not at but
through, as though the watcher had its attention fixed on
something far away and he just happened to be in the way.
Through the bare branches overheard, he could see the

u
 If w his p er a ca II

looming clouds growing closer. The wind had picked up

too, and it was cold. No, the wind wasn't colder. It was the
temperature that had dropped, like a wave of cold passing
over them. His insides twisted themselves into a knot. For
a moment, he fought it, then looked back at Greene.
"Look like rain to you?" he asked.
Greene nodded. The younger cop's lips were pressed
tight together, and his jaw was clenched. "Maybe. Maybe
just a front coming through."
"We should get a camera. Take pictures of the scene in
case it does rain."
"There isn't one in the cruiser. We'd have to go back to
the station to get one."
Jessop shook his head. "Too bad. Better do that then."
He turned around and headed back down the path, out of
the woods. Quickly.
 Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends;
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing
To those that know me. Come, love and health to all;
Then I'll sit down. Give me some wine, fill full.
I drink to the general joy o'the whole table,
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss;
Would he were here! To all and him we thirst,
And all to all.

-Macbeth (Act III, scene iv)

Working late tonight, Dr. Doyle?"
· Dr. Shani Doyle smiled at the orderly in the
corridor and eased the door to room 923 of Pres­
byterian-St. Luke's intensive care unit closed behind
her.
"My shift's almost over, Jenny," Shani said. "Just
looking in on Mrs. Tavish before I go."
"Anything new?"
"No change, I'm afraid." Shani shook her head
and brought up her clipboard to make a few notes.
"Anything ... unusuaJ?"
.
Shani's pen froze on the paper, but she glanced
up with clinical detachment. "Such as?" she asked
lightly.
Jenny flushed a guilty red. "Uh . . . B-body tem­
perature?" she stammered. "Heart rate? Anything
the night shift should keep an eye on overnight .. ,
you know."

17
 d on ba a s I nu t h w a I te

"I know." Shani turned.her attention back to the clip­

board and said, "Don't worry, Jenny. If anything comes up,
I'.ll pass it on.Thanks." .
"Uh ... sure." Jenny shuffled nervously.Shani kept her
eyes on the clipboard. Finally, the orderly added, "I'm going
around and turning the lights in the halls down for the
night. You want me to leave this one on for you?" ·
"Don't worry about it.I'll only be · a minute." Eyes on the
clipboard.Voice distant and dismissive.
"Oh. Okay. Good night, Dr.Doyle."
"Good night, Jenny."
Shani waited until the orderly's soft footsteps had
receded down the corridor before closing her eyes for a
moment, drawi.Jlg a deep breath, and allowing herself to
relax. When had one of the friendliest doctors in the hospi­
tal started getting so nervous around the staff? Bad ques­
tion. She knew the answer to that.
She opened her eyes to stare at the top sheet on her clip­
board. All of the standard notes on vital signs and physician
obser\rations were there.This information would go into Lau­
rel Tavish's official charts, opened two weeks ago when the
woman in room 923 had been rushed in from Midlothian,
already deep in a coma. Shani put her initials at the bottom of
the page and flipped to the last sheet on the clipbOard. That
paper would go no farther than a private file in her office.
."Anything unusual, Jenny?" Shani muttered to herself.
"Hopefully not tonight."
Not long after Laurel's arrival at Presbyterian -St.
Luke's, things had started happening in · the intensive care
unit. As far as Shani had bee� able to determine, the first
to experience anything unusual was one of the nurses on
duty the night after Laurel was brought in. The nurse had
been walking down the hall outside Laurel's room when she
looked up and found herself surrounded by a drifting mist..
Others had seen the same mist since then, always some-

18
 If w his p e r s ca II

where around'Laurel's r0om, mostly at night, but sometimes

during the day. It showe<l up, lingered for a short time, then
vanished.There had been reports of a weird odor of wet dirt
and dry leaves sometimes as well. And a couple of people on
the night shift had seen a blue glow corning from wider the
door, as if a light was moving around in Laurel's room. Jenny
·· rui.d been one of the people who'd seen this light.
On her clipboard, Shani made a few quick notes. No
·
mist tonight. No odor. No glow. No ... Shani held her
breath for a moment and listened. All she heard were the
nighttime sounds of the hospital. No, she wrote on· the clip­
board, children.
Four nights ago, the patient in the room next to Laurel's
had woken to the sound of children playing and laughing.
He had blamed the noises on his medication, but two nurses
on duty that night had also heard .them. Last night, Shani
_
had heard the sounds herself, the only reported phenome­
non that she had experienced personally. The mist, the
odor, the lights-somehow she suspected that if she did
eventually experience them, they couldn't possibly be more
eerie than the disembodied sound of happy children.
And yet eerie or not, she wanted to know m·ore. She
wanted to see the mist. She wanted to smell dirt and leaves
and glimpse blue lights under :the door of room 923. More
importantly, she wanted to understand them, to figure it all
out. The intellectual challenge made her heart race and her
brain burn. The file in her office was slowly filling with
notes documenting every incident that she could ferret out.
Soon she would ...
Intellectual challenge or not, the sudden dimming of the
corridor lights made her jump, and it took her a minute to
realize it was just Jenny turning down ·the lights. Just the
lights-some investigator she was. How silly was that? She
shook her head as she made a last few notes. How silly was
·this whole thing? What had she been thinking? It would all

19

.\.
 d on •aa a I rig t h w a I te

probably turn out to b� nothing, just a series of coinci­

dences stru�g together by imagination. Or maybe not.
Either way, she wanted to know. She flipped the papers on
the clipboard back down and headed for· the elevators.
Her first step revealed that something was wrong. The
air around her ankles and shins was cold, as if she had
stepped-into a draft. She glanced down.
Drifting mist surrounded her. As high as her knee, cool
and clammy, it shrouded the corridor for a good fifteen feet
on either side of her. There was no motion to it at all. When
she took a step, the passage of her leg should have sent the
mist swirling. It didn't. The mist-everything in fact-was
very, very still. A shallow, tentative breath carried the taste
of wet earth and dry leaves. Shani swallowed. She had
wanted to experience the other phenomena that had been
reported to her. Well, here they were.
She turned slowly back toward the door of room 923', a
hollow feeling growing in her stomach. There was move­
ment by the door, a lazy swirling as mist spilled out from
under the door to feed the spreading cloud in the corridor.
What must it b� like inside the room? Shani stepped for­
ward and reached for th'e doorknob-reached and gasped.
There was something in the mist, something as cold as
the vapor, but dry and firm. It stroked across.her calves and
wrapped around her shins, tangling around her legs like a
cat in the dark .. Feet trapped, Shani swayed for a moment
and almost fell. Clenching her teeth, she recovered her bal­
a.J).Ce and thrust herself forward. She was going to open that
door. Her hand closed around the cool, condensation-slick
metal of the doorknob.
The touch in the mist was more than firm. For a
moment, it was solid. Horribly solid. It wasn't just tangling
her legs, it was tearing at them, pulling them out from
under her while reaching up to shove back on her torso.
The force was irresistible. It tumbled her like a ball of

lO
 If w 1111 p e n ca I I

fluff and slammed her hard into the floor. Breath fled her
lungs in one great, frightened gasp, and for a moment she
couldn't breathe: Dark.blobs of shadow swam across her
vision; and she couldn't see, but she could hear footsteps
come racing along the corridor, and Jenny was there. Jenny
helped her up. Shani was blinking and wheezing. ·
"Are you all right?" the orderly asked.
Shani glanced around. The mist was gone. Vanished.
Under the door of room 923, a blue glow winked once and
faded away. Had Jenny seen it this time? Shani looked up at
her, but the orderly's eyes were on her.
"Fine," Shani said. She managed a smile. "I tripped on
my own feet. Long day, I guess."
"You're sure you're okay?"
"Absolutely."
The shock of the impact with the floor lingered. Shani
felt nothing but a kind of stunned numbness as she went
down to her office, reVised ·her notes on the night, and
slipped the sheet of paper into her secret file. The shock
stayed with her on the drive home. It stayed with her as she
climbed into bed. It stayed with her through restless sleep
that saw her awake at dawn, watching the sun rise.
Her brain wasn't burning now. Her heart was racin'g,
yes, but not from intellectual challenge. What had she been
thinking? She was no investigator.
Fortunately, though, she knew people who were. At pre­
cisely nine o'clock she picked up the telephone, dialed a
number, then waited nervously, fingers twisting the phone
cord, until a voice on the other end of the line said brightly,
"Hoffmann Institute."

Michael McCain drew a deep breath and brought the

basketball up to his chest. He· held it there for a moment.

n
 d on ba a s I nu t h w a I te

Forty-sev�n feet away, the basket waited for his approach,

mocking him under the cold, grey mid-November sky.
McCain snapped into action, dropping the ball down into
a dribble and moving it up the court.At the twenty-two foot
line, he broke into a crossover dribble and zigzagged in
toward the basket. He imagined a defense spread out in
front of him. Crossover left. Crossover right. For a moment
he paused, confronted by another imaginary guard. A fast
reverse dribble and he was past, going for the basket. He
took two quick steps, planted his foot, and pushed off. His
arm came up, pushing the ball toward the basket. Up. Up.
Too high. Too close. The ball ricocheted off the back-·
board and went spinning across �he court. McCain bent
over for a minute, hands on his knees, blowing hard, his
breath making clouds in the cool air. The basket, towering
overhead, continueq its morning of silent mockery. McCain
watched the ball roll on across the asphalt-until a foot
came down on top of it.
"Yours?" A wmp.an in her late thirties with long, straight,
red-brown hair scooped the ball into the air wih
t a flick of
her toe and caught it. She passed it back to him, bouncing it
off the pavement in a smooth motion.
McCain scrambled to catch it.
"Jeane," he panted, "aren't you supposed to be at the
Institute today, doing something like ... oh, I don't know­
working?"
"I am working. I've been looking for you."
Jeane Meara walked onto the court so they could talk
wih
t out shouting. McCain watched her approach. Only a few
weeks ago, he had been a fresh young agent �f the Hoffmann
Institute in Washington, D.C. Jeane had been an.even fresher
recru1t even though she was almost ten years older than him
and a veteran of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and
Firearms. The Institute had a way of making even the most .
hardened veterans feel like rookie.s, at least for a little while.-

22
 If W hll ' Ir I ca II

That D.C. investigation had left Jeane with a disgraced

dismissal from the ATF and him with more than a few
uncomfortable revelations about his .past. It had also, how­
ever, made them a team, anp its resolution had earned them
a transfedo Chicago. Them and the third member of their
·
team.
McCain grimaced and said, "Ngan?"
Jeane stopped. "He sent me to collect you. He tried call­
ing you, but there was no answer, either on you:r home line
or your cell phone." .
McCain sighed and began dribbling the ball. "I had a
feeling you were going to say that. It 'is supposed to be my
day off, you know.•
"You shouldn't have stuck so close to home then. Nice
place, by the way." She gestured around them.
The basketball court was located atop one of the ware­
house-loft conversions that cluttered Chicago's River North
district. McCain had taken to the area m
i mediately on his
arrival in Chicago. It had required some work with his con­
nections to get his hands on the loft, but it had been worth
the effort.
"The security guy at the door told me you were up here,"
Jeane added.
"How nice of him," McCain muttered under his breath.
He turned around and aimed at the basket.
Jeane cleared her throat. "Ngan does seem kind of
eager," she pointed out. "Something's up. He's meeting us
at a hospital: Presbyterian-St. Luke's."
"I'm not finished with my workout." McCain jumped and
shot. The ball bounced off the rim with a dull ring.
"Graceful," Jeane commented as he went after it. "How
long are you going to be?"
McCain caught up to the ball and brought it back into a
tightly controlled dribble. "I'm out here until I get twenty­
one good shots.n
 d on ba s s I nu t h w a I te

. One of Jeane's �yebrows rose slightly, and suddenly

McCain was very conscious of the sweat that soaked his
workout clothes. -
"I'm not just shooting baskets,n he said defensively.
"I saw. How many shots have you got to go?"
"Six," McCain lied smoothly. He could almost feel the
basket smirking at him.
"All right." Jeane pulled off the fleece- jacket she wore.
"Just to get us out of here, I'll play you for them.n
"What?"
McCain's hand faltered on the ball and it bounced over
in.Jeane's direction. She captured it easily.
"Based on those last two shots, if I have to wait for you
to sink six more it's going to be an hour before you're even
off the court. And this gives you a chance to practice
against a real opponent." She paused, ball held at chest­
level, then said, "Worried?"
Mccain:s eyes narrowed. Jeane was thirty-eight. He was
barely thirty-one. She was wearing office shoes. He had
sneakers. She was coming in cold. He had the advantage of
being warmed up, and talking to her had given him a chance
to catch his breath.
"No," he said an� moved forward to block her.
Her feet betrayed a step to the left. He moved to inter­
cept. Jeane crossed one leg over the other and swiftly broke
right, driving past him and into a perfect layup. The ball
barely even touched the hoop as it sank through. Jeane
caught it underneath and tossed it to him. .
"One," she said as he walked back out to the three-point
·

line.
"Lucky,". he said as he walked around the outside of the
circle, dribbling slowly.
Jeane paced with him, arms spread. McCain executed a
fast crossover and moved inside the line before she could
block him again. She tried to reach around to steal the ball,
24
 If w his p e r s c a II

but McCain got free with a reverse dribble. Jeane was behind
him. McCain found bis balance, pushed offwith his legs, and
shot. The ball hit the backboard, connected with the· rim,
rolled around once . . . then slipped over on the far side.
Somehow Jeane was right there to tip it back in.
"1\vo," she called. "Remember to follow your shots in."
She threw the ball back to him.
"I'll do that." He faced her across the three-point line.
"All right, Agent Meara, 'the gloves are off."
She beat him With four more baskets in a row. After the
last basket, she threw the ball to him and asked, "Ready to
go?" She'd barely even broken a sweat.
McCain sucked in a deep breath, trying to get his wind
back. "Give me fifteen minutes to wash the egg off my face.
This way."
He led her back to the stairwell that went down into the
building. She glanced at him as they descended.
"You know, Fitz, you really suck at basketball."
The words echoed in the stairwell. He smiled. "Ah, now
there's the Jeane Meara I've come to know. Always sweet,
always tactful.�
··1 mean it." She looked him over and said, "You look like
you'd be better at football."
. "High school quarterback," he admitted. They reached
his floor. He held the door open for her. His loft was just a
little ways down the hall. "And my team won Yale intra­
murals five years running."
Jeane spread her hands. "So why play basketball now?"
"Because he· didn't."
"Who?"
"Never mind."
McCain unlocked his apartment door and sviungit wide.
To some eyes, bis loft might look sparsely furnished, stark
and minimalist. He liked it that way. A sofa with ·clean
straight lines, a few bookshelves, an entertainment stand

25
 d on b a a a l ngtb w a l te

with a miniature stereo system and a flat-screen TV: Simple

black-and-white photographs complimented the room and
the glass-panel warehouse windows.
Jeane pointed at one prominently displayed photograph
in particular, a striking cityscape that had been his most
recent purchase. "Dallas," she said. "Are you from there?"
"No."
"Ever been there?" she asked.
"Not as such," McCain said dcy'ly. He headed for his bed­
room and a hot shower. ·"Kitchen's through there. There's
water in the fridge and glasses above the sink. Knock your­
self out."

Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center was a tall and

sprawling white building just off the Eisenhower Express­
way at the Ashland/Paulina exit, barely fifteen minutes
away from Riv.er North and McCain's loft. Fifteen minutes,
that is, once Jeane finally had McCain ready to go. It took
him longer to dress and get ready than it ever took her.
Then again, she favored simple, practical fashions. McCain
had a predilection toward sharp, stylish suits, expensive
ties, and careful grooming. It must have been the lawyer in
him. At least he carried it off well.
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and
asked, "New haircut?"
"Yeah."
"Good." She stepped on the gas and moved smoothly
futo the exit lane, accelerating past a big moving van. "It
makes you look less like a damn JFK clone."
McCain coughed suddenly, almost choking.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded, clearing his throat. "It's just your driving. .
What's the speed limit on this expressway agaiJ:i?"

28
 Jeane smiled tightly. "Not high enough, junior." She sailed
around the Ashland/Paulina ramp without slowing down.
Ngan was waiting for them in the hospital's crowded
lobby. In spite of the busy masses of people Jeane didn't
have any trouble spotting him.
Ngan Song Kun'dren was a small man, Tibetan by birth.
He had to be close to seventy, though only bis oddly blue
eyes showed it. His face was leathery and creased, the
roundness of it emphasized by a smoothly shaved scalp. In
sharp. contrast to McCain's stylish suits, Ngan habitually
wore very simple, plain suits · of navy or grey. He always
seemed so calm and composed that it was almost eerie­
Jeane had never known him to even raise his voice. He was
so unassuming that it seemed he should just vanish into a
crowd. In fact, just the opposite was true. People seemed
to subconsciously avoid him leaving little pockets of space
,

around him. It was those pockets more than anything else

that made him easy to find. If he wanted you to find him .

He saw them coming from across the lobby and gestured

for them to meet him by the elevators. Easy for him,
thought Jeane. The crowd was, naturally, thickest near the
elevators, and while she and McCain were closer to them
initially, Ngan still got there first. The crowd just melted
away before him. He held the door of an elevator open so
that McCain and Jeane could squeeze into the car after him.
"Hello again, Jeane," Ngan said. "Good morning, Michael."
"It was until you pulled me in." McCain turned to face
the front of the elevator, putting bis broad back to Jeane and
Ngan. "There was a matter of a day off. I watched you sign
the paper yourself."
Ngan sighed. "I have a lot of papers to sign now, Michael."
"Yes, well, I guess the promotion wasn't alljust authority
and hobnobbing, was it?" McCain looked back over his
shoulder at them. "There's some real work involved."·
Ouch. Jeane held her breath, waiting for a reaction. The

t1
 d on �a a a I ng t h w a I te

comment even earned darting glances from the strangers in

the elevator with them. A pair of nurses exchanged know­
ing looks. They might not have known the whole story
behind McCain's comment, but they didn't have to. Some­
one was bucking under a new boss. Jeane on the other hand
did know the whole story.
With the team's transfer to Chicago, the higher-ups in
the .Hoffmann Institute had decided they needed a liaison,
and Ngan had found himself saddled with the title of agent­
in-charge. As far as she could see, the old man was the only
logical choice-it wasn't like McCain or she were even
potential candidates. They were inexperienced in institute
operations. Ngan had been around for years. No contest.
And yet McCain never missed an opportunity to needle
Ngan hard about his new responsibilities. Ngan never said
anything, just rolled along in calm serenity. n-ue to form, he
didn't say anything now. .
Jeane let her breath out in a puff and raised her eyes to
the flickering numbers over the door. Moving from the ATF
to the Hoffmann Institute hadn't been easy-quite aside
from the weirdness of aliens and ancient spaceships buried
under D.C. It was strange to be working for a civilian
agency. In the ATF, McCain's attitude would have gotten
him slapped down long ago.
She knew, That's what had happened to her.
The elevator car stopped on a floor of offices. Ngan led
them down a long hall lined with honey-colored wood doors,
There was a quiet hum in the background, the universal
office noise of fluorescent lights, distant air circulation sys­
tems, and radios turned low behind closed doors. Very nor­
mal, very professional. Strangely soothing. Jeane knew that
could be deceptive. She wondered why Ngan had brought
·them here. She had asked when he'd dispatched her to col­
lect McCain. His answer had been as distant as he was:.
"Your first investigation in Chicago'."

28
 If w hi•. ' e r s ca II

Very helpful. It was a relief when he finally knocked on

one of the doors. The simple plastic name plate read Dr. S.
Doyle-Neurology.
"Come in."
The doctor was already rising and coming around her
desk by the time Ngan had the door open. She was a tall,
attractive women with coffee-cream skin and long, luxuri­
ous black hair. Even in a lab coat, she had a sophisticated
elegance about her.
. "Mr. Kun'dren?" She had her hand out.
"Ngan, please, Dr. Doyle." He shook her hand. "My
apologies. We were delayed."
Jeane noticed he didn't even hesitate in his explanation.
No fuss, no blame. That was part of what made dealing with
him both a pleasure and a frustration.
"My colleagues," Ngan continued, "Jeane Meara and
Michael McCain."
Jeane offered her hand to the doctor, but McCain beat
her to the punch, slipping between them with the speed and
grace of a snake in an apple tree. "Fitz to my friends."
The doctor gave McCain's hand the briefest of squeezes.
"My friends call me Shani, but I'll let you know 'Yhen you
can." She reached past him and said, "Ms. Meara."
"Jeane." She liked this woman already. As th� doctor
retreated behind her desk and gestured for them to take
seats in the chairs arranged before it, Jeane fla.Shed McCain
a thumbs up.
"Stud," she whispered, brushing past him.
He growled at her. "Mylast prostate exam was warmer."
Ngan gave them both a look that made Jeane feel like
a schoolgirl caught passing a note. Shani didn't seem to
have noticed anything. She sat down at her desk, hands
resting lightly on top. It struck Jeane that they were too
still, as though she was trying very hard to keep herself
from fidgeting.

t9
/
 · don ba 1 1 1 ng t h wai te

Sh:alli looked to Ngan and asked, "Where should I start?

How much have you told them?"
"From the beginning, please," Ngan answered. "Michael
and Jeane know nothing at all.n
"Thanks." Jeane pulled out a notebook and pen. "I guess
·

that mea,ns I have a lot of writing to do."

Ngan had taken the chair closest to the doctor's desk.
He had to turn around to look at her and McCain. At least
he had the decency to look a little embarrassed this time.
"A poor choice of words. What I meant, of course, was
that I've told you notb.i:ng about this case. I wanted you to
start with an open mind." He nodded to the doctor and said,
"Perhaps the first thing you should know, however, is that
Dr. Doyle is a trusted ally of the Hoffmann Institute and has
been for several years. She called the office this morning on
a matter of some urgency-:--thus my rush to recall you,
·

Michael."
McCain didn't look impressed, but Ngan didn't wait for
his approval. He turned back to Shani and said, "Please tell
them exactly what you told me."
Shani took a deep breath, and her hands left the desk·
top to knot aroun� each other. "First," she said, "I want you
to know that I'm not the kind of person who's given to
imagining things. I'm a doctor and a scientist. I read biog­
raphies and mysteries-I don't even like science fiction."
The first word Jeane wrote down on her notebook was
"denial." She underlined it. The motion �ust have drawn
Shani's attention to her, though, because when Jeane
iooked up again, the doctor was looking at her. Her eyes,
Jeane noted, were hollow and afraid.
"Thirteen days ago," Shani continued, "I took on a new
patient who had just arrived in our intensive care unit. Her
name is Laurel Tavish. Her husband says that she tripped
and hit her head very hard." . .
"Oh?" asked McCain. He was sitting back in his chair,
30
 If w his p e r s ca II

legs crossed and a skeptical expression on his face. "What

does she have to say about it?" _

Shani turned to .McCain and said, "Nothing. Laurel

Tavish is in a coma."
"That must have been some whack to the head."
"It was."
Jeane tapped herpen against her teeth. Against the wall
behind the doctor was a fully loaded bookcase that included
several books on head trauma. "It was definitely an acci­
dent?" Jeane asked. .
"Definitely, " Shani said, sitting back. Her hands
unwound and came to rest on the arms of t4e chair. Jeane
could hear confidence in Shani's voice now. The doctor
knew what she was talking about. "I can see where you're
goingwith this. The wound was consistent with a very hard
fall-as were other bruises and scrapes on the patient's
body. The police investigated. It was an accident. Not
exactly routine, but mundane. I wouldn't have contacted
the Institute if that's all there was."
"Then why did you call?" Jeane asked.
'.fhe doctor brought her hands up again, steepling her
fingers and resting them against her chin. She tQok another
deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, then began to
speak. Jeane recognized the clinical detachment in her
voice. She had used the same cadence herself many times
in presenting evidence. She liked to think, however, that
the evidence she had presented was a little more substan­
tial than the events Shani described. Strange mists?
Lights? A funny smell? As the doctor's recitation continued,
Jeane glanced� over at Ngan. He looked back at her with
absolute neutrality. No help there. She kept writing, waiting
for all of the insubstantial evidence to present itself.
When Shani finally finished, an uncomfortable silence
fell in the room. The background hum of the office
reasserted itself in Jeane's ears. McCain was frowning.

31
 dDI u 1 11 nau wal te

Ngan was watching both him and her, clearly waiting for
some kind of response. Jeane looked down at her notebook
and the list of occurrences that she had jotted down. There ·

was a familiar pattern to the events.

"Dr. Doyle," Jeane asked bluntly. "Has the hospital been
doing any work on the ventilation system in the last two
weeks?"
The doctor gave a short laugh tinged with irony and
said, "That's certainly what I've been trying to convince
people of." She spread her arms wide. "It's all a coinci­
dence. Just a fluke of some temporary ductwork. Except for
the lights, of course-they're just reflections from lights
outside the hospital: A helicopter. Lights bouncing off the
building from traffic on 290. Spotlights from the United
Center-the room faces in that direction."
Jeane. looked at her carefully. "But you don't believe that
yourself. "
"Maybe I did once," Shani said, drawing her arms in
again and folding them across her body, "but not after the
attack last night."
"Then what do you think is creating these events?"
Jeane asked.
Shani didn't answer, but an embarrassed flush crept
across her face.
McCain leaned forward, looked at the doctor, and said
sharply, "It's a ghost."
�� ghost?" asked Jeane incredulously.
· McCain continued to look at Dr. Doyle as
he said, "Vapors, odors, weird sounds, strange
lights, unseen forces . . . Those are all elements of a
classic haunting."
"You've got to be kidding."
"I don't mean that there's literally a real ghost,"
McCain scowled. "It's all in how the mind interprets
events." .
"You've still got to be kidding," Jeane persisted.
Ngan cleared his throat. That was enough of
that, he thought. A team's strength was in its diver­
sity but also in its coordination. It was time to stop
the conflict before both agents lost their perspec­
tive. "An open mind," he reminded them both, "is an
investigator's best tool.n
Perhaps the advice was a mistake. Both Jeane an�
McCain immediately turned on him with expressions

. 33
 �II U I 1l 11t• Wll ti

that demanded to know why he was taking the other's side.

Ngan sighed silently. He had been with the Institute for
many, many years. He had done a lot of things in his time.
Management was not one of them. What did he know about
running a team? Some of the long-time managers with the
Chicago branch of the Institute had tried giving him tips.
R.A. Patterson, facility chief of personnel, had a tendency to
bully agents into line. Lily Adler, field director of the Obser­
vation Division and an old friend of Ngan's, led by force of
will-when Lily asked· for obedience it was hard not to jump.
Neither way was his way. He preferred to lead by example.
Not that he had much time to set any kind of example any­
more, unless it was the example of becoming buried in
administrative paperwork.
Why, he thought, did they have to promote me?
Ngan looked to the doctor, hiding behind her desk as if it
were some kind of shield. "Dr. Doyle," he said, "you've seen
these events with your own eyes. What's your opinion?"
i volvement with the
She shook her head. "My previous n
Hoffmann Institute hasn't been extensive but it has been
deep. I have a better idea than most people of what exists
in the world, and I still don't know for sure what's going on
here. It would be easy if all the things that have been hap­
pening were due to a ventilation problem, but I did check,
and there haven't been any major changes to the hospital's
ventilation system for more than six months." She turned
back to Ngan. "What do you think?"
"Yes, Ngan," chimed in McCain, "what do you think?"
He refused to rise to McCain's persistent baiting.
The young man had a knack for taking advantage of the
smallest misstep in a conversation, the slightest inconsis­
tency in a story, and turning t
i to his advantage. Ngan had
noticed even �ack in Washington that McCain· did not like
having secrets kept from him Ngan did sincerely regret
.

keeping secrets from him, but many of the secrets were for

u
 If w his ' e r a ca II

his-and Jeane's-own good. What they didn't know was

less likely to harm them. What they didn't know made them
better investigators. When the time came to know things,
they would learn them, just as McCain had learned the
biggest secret of his life in the basement of the National
·

Archives.
"I think," Ngan said, "that maybe it's time for us to look
at the scene ourselves. Maybe that will give us some idea
of how to proceed."
And, he thought, a chance to actually work on the inves­
tigation. His promotion had tied him to his .office for far too
long, and h� had the feeling he would be hea�g back there
all too soon.
Ngan rose and said, "Dr. Doyle, if you would show us to
the intensive care unit?"
They followed the doctor back up the long corridor of
offices to the elevators. As they rode up to the ninth floor,
she produced three guest badges for them. Ngan examined
his before clipping it to his lapel. "Consultant" was embla­
zoned under a violently purple bar. It see!Jled as appropri·
ate a term as any for a Hoffmann Institute team.
"What does the hospital administration believe we're
consultants for?" McCain asked.
. Dr. Doyle shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. We have
au kinds of consultants visiting constantly: management,
medical specialists, sales reps, technicians, physical plant.
As long as you're accompanied by a hospital staff member,
the badges should get you anywhere you need to go."
The elevator jerked and chimed and the doors opened on
the ninth-floor nursing station. A dark red sign across the
front of the desk read Intensive Care Unit, 'As if there
could be any doubt.
There was a quiet to this floor that was different fiom
the empty hall outside Dr. Doyle's office. The background
hum was there of course, and there were even more people

35
 d on ba a s I ng t h w a I te

around, but everyone pitched their voices low, and they

were all wearing soft-soled shoes or slippers. Worse, the air
itself was thick with the smell Ngan had come to associate
with American medical.facilities, a stifling, unnatural, joy­
less odor. This was not a place where he would want to
come to die.
Dr. Doyle nodded to· the nurses at the station and led
them past it down one of the corridors. Ngan looked back.
Were the nurses looking after them and whispering to
themselves? The hospital administration might not know
why Dr. Doyle had brought in these three consultants, but
the nursing staff did. Fooling management was one thing.
Fooling the working staff was quite another.
They turned a comer and stopped. Shani stuffed her
hands into the pockets of her lab coat and announced, "This
is it."
The corridor was quite plain. It was wide, the floor tiled
in big squares of white flecked with grey, the walls painted
a pale blue. A wide handrail was mounted on both walls. It
was broken at regular intervals by deeply inset doors. A
little way along the hall was an alcove that held a gurney.
Another gurney was positioned just outside it. Beyond the
alcove was a cross-corridor. Except for the spare gurney
and a couple of chairs ·sitting outside doors, the hall was
empty. Little plates beside. the doors displayed the room
numbers and held strips of paper printed with the names of
the patients inside.
Shani pointed and said, "That one. Room 923."
There was nothing to distinguish the door from any of
the others that led off of the corridor.
Jeane's pen was scratching in her notebook, and she
was nodding to herself. "Any marks?" she asked with the
detachment of a natural investigator.
"A bad-boy of a bruise on my elbow from the floor, but
nothing from whatever I felt in the mist." She shot McCain

38
 if w his p e r s ca 11

a sharp glance. "And I can guess what you're thinking, Mr.

McCain. I did feel something in the mist last night."
McCain blinked. "I'm not doubting that for a second."
." I am," Jeane said, then folded her pen into her note­
book. "I don't know what you experienced, Dr. Doyle, but
there has got to be an explanation besides-" sh� made a
face- "a ghost." .
"Jeane," the doctor answered;"if you can find a way to
blame it all on the ventilation system, I will be a happy
woman. For now though, can we take this discussion
inside?"
�hani put her hand on the door and swung it wide.
Ngan wasn't sure what he had been expecting to see in
the small room. He had seen comas before. In his time, he
was sure he had seen all possible forms of unconscious­
ness, from the horrific trauma-shock.of battlefield injuries
to the flushed, hot stillness of fever, to the mindless
silence of the victims of a creature he still had no name
for. He had seen the .indignities of invasive tube�, wires,
and . catheters. Somehow what was in this very ordinary
hospital room made everything he had seen before seem
distant, remote.
Laurel Tavish looked as though she had been laid out for.
a funeral, the stark white crispness of the hospital linens
her shroud. Thin bits of tape held her eyes shut. A machine
breathed for her, air pressure forcing her chest to move
with unnatural, mechanical precision. Another machine fed
her, a third excreted for her..
And itwas all dominated by the huge, hard roundness of
her belly. Dr. Doyle had neglected to mention that. Jeane
looked away from the bed.
McCain just stopped. "Jesus Christ," he gasp�d. "She's
pregnant."
"Very," Shani confirmed. "Normally she'd be giving bi+fu
at the end of the month." Shani slipped around to the far

37
 d on . u 1 11 n u t h w a l te

side of the bed. Behind her, the respirator· hushed·and

sighed, Laurel Tavish's ohly voice. "We're waiting tO see
what. will happen. We may have to perform a cesarean sec­
tion and take the baby early, but in a situation like this
there could be complications."
"Such as?" asked Ngan softly.
"Malnutrition, infection . . . We're not putting any drugs
into her right now." She held her hands up like a balance.
"If we wait too long, we endanger the baby. If we act too
soon, the c-section might harm Laurel."
Ngan took a few more steps into the room, moving up to
stand by the head of the bed. He looked down on Laurel
Tavish. laurel's face was pale �der the wrappings of a
head wound dressing. Ngan guessed that she was in her
late twenties. She was young, though her haggard face and
the dark circles of illness that lay under her eyes aged her
badly. 1\vo weeks ago, she might have been beautiful, fook­
ing forward to the_birth of her child.
"Her first?" Ngan asked.
Shani nodded.
"Damn," said McCain. "What-"
He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. The door
opened, and a slender young man of thirty or so with a
shock of sandy ·brown haii stepped through. For a moment
he just stared at them as red swept across his face, then his
voice sputtered into angry life.
"Wh-what is this? What the hell is going on?" His eyes
sought out the doctor. "Dr. Doyle? Who are these people?"
If Jeane was a natural investigator, then McCain was a
natural lawyer-or a natural con man. Before Ngan could
even draw a new breath .to challenge the intruder, McCain
had stepped forward with his hand out. "Mr. Tavish?" he
asked.
It had to be a guess, but it took the wind out qf the
young man's sails. Suddenly, he sounded more suspicious

38
 If w his p e r s ca 11

than angry. "Yes,". he said but didn't take McCain's hand.

McCain pulled his hand back with ingenuous awk:ward­
nes�. "Sorry to intrude on you," he apologized. "I'm Robert
Neil of Windy City Ventilation anq Climate Control. My
associates, Ms. Stand and Mr. Kwon. We're very sorry .to
hear about your wife, sir. I hope she's better very, very
soon."
"Thank you." Mr. Tavish looked as if he wasn't sure
what to think . "What ar� you doing in n;tY wife's room?"
"The hospital has· been having some ventilation prob­
lems on this floor." Ngan noticed McCain managed to say
that with a ·straight face. Jeane almost smiled. McCain kept
right on without looking at either of them. "We need to
check the vents in this · room. I assure you, we are here
under hospital supervision." He flashed his consultant's
badge. "Dr. Doyle is watching over us."
Mr. Tavish blinked. "Oh. I guess that's all right,. then."
His anger had completely fallen now. "But do you think you
could do your check another time? I came to spend some
time with my wife."
"Absolutely. Good afternoon, Mr. Tavish." McCain ush­
ered Mr. Tavish into the room, then waved the others to the
door.
Dr. Doyle took his hand briefly as they passed and said,
"I'm sorry we had to intrude, Will."
Mr. Tavish nodded. "I understand."
Outside the room, Ngan led them down the hall, around·
the comer to the cross-corridor he had seen before.
"Well done, Michael," Ngan said when he was confident
·

they were out of earshot.

"It was," Shani added gratefully. "I could have been in
serious trouble there.n
"Thanks." McCain peered back around the comer for a
moment, then turned back. There was a cunning gleam.in
his eye that only Ngan recognized. "Did you see his reaction

39
 d11 u 1 1 1 11n wal te

when I guessed who he was? That's a nervous man in

there."
"He's just been investigated by the cops," Jeane pointed
out. "He might be having a bad reaction to strangers recog­
nizing him."
"But the cops cleared him," McCain said. "Does he know
anything about what's been going on here?"
Dr. Doyle shook her head.
McCain's eyes narrowed, and he looked at Ngan.
"There's something more. I think someone should have a
.
talk with him."
Ngan had a sense that it didn't matter whether he gave
McCain approval or not. He was going to do it anyway, but
it was a good idea. If Will Tavish was hiding something,'
McCain wohld find out. Ngan nodded.
McCain grinned and said, "Me and Mr. Tavish will be
down in the coffee shop. Jeane, you might as well do your
stuff in the room while we're out. Just come get me when
you're done."
He disappeared around the corner. A moment later,
there was the sound of a soft knock on a door.
"Wqw, " observed Shani. "Does he always work that
·

fast?"
"Michael is brilliant when he has a plan," Ngan admit­
ted.
And when he has a challenge, he added to himself. Put
McCain in his element and he was unstoppable. Some�es
his plans ended up as stupid, dangerous stunts, but his exe­
cution was always flawless.
"He's smooth," Dr. Doyle said quietly.
Jeane gave her a hard look, then groaned. "You've got to
be kidding."
"Jeane," cautioned Ngan, "I think Dr. Doyle can make
her own decisions. Our job is the investigation. Whether it's
the ventilation system that's responsible for these events or
(0
 If w hll p er I c a 11

something less mundane, we need to figure it out." He

thought of Shani's experience the night before and of the
pale figure of Laurel Tavish and added, "Quickly."

41
:�Cain c�uldn't really remember when he had
discovered his talent for interacting with
people. As a child, maybe, but everyone trusts
kids. High school? He hadn't really thought about it
then either, though when he and his friends got into
trouble, he was always the one who talked their way
out of it. Yale? Certainly that was when he had real­
ized how easy it was to convince strangers to take
him ni to their confidence. Law school? Sure he was
aware of it then, but with awareness also came the
realization that he had always had the talent. He
just couldn't remember when he had first con­
sciously employed it. It was a circuitous path. He
had learned quickly enough simply to accept the tal­
ent and everything he could do with it.
He knocked gently on the door of room 923, then
opened it just enough to stick his head in. ".Mr.
Tavish?"
43
 d on -a a a I nu t b w a I te

Will, sitting in a chair on the far side of his wife's bed,

looked up. McCain didn't give him a chance to say anything.
"I wanted to apologize again-I'm really sony we had to
disturb your wife." He opened the door all the way and
stepped into the room. "I know what it's like. My mom spent
her last three months in a coma after the stroke."
Will gave him a thin smile and a nod that was really
more of a weary sag. "Thanks . . ." He hesitated.
"Robert. Rob."
"I'm Will."
"Will. Listen," McCain shifted his weight nervously,
backing up his words with body language "Do you want to
go get a coffee? I mean, it might not seem like the right time,
but I know it helps to talk. I've been there. When you came
in-well, you looked like someone with a lot on his mind."
Will snorted. "That's an understatement." He shook his
head. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think I can."
Of course not. No one ever accepted an nvitation
i on the
first offer. "Come on, man," McCain pressed gently. "It'll do
you good."
Will just looked away and shook his head. McCain kept
his face relaxed, but inwardly he stifled a hiss of frustra­
tion. He was going to have to try another tack.
"You're not going to a support group, are you?" he asked
bluntly.
That brought Will's head back up fast. A little too fast.
Oh, yeah, �omebody had a secret all right. McCain pressed
his advantage. "You should give it a try. Just letting it all out
really helps." Gently, gently, don't frighten him.
"I can't."
"Sure you can." He smiled at Will. "If it's facing a crowd
that's wonying you, try it out withjust one person first. Come
down and have a coffee. I guarantee you'll feel better after."
Will glanced back down at Laurel. "I should stay with ·

her. That's why I came over."

4(
 If w his p e r s ca II

"Will," McCain said kindly, "you know she's not going to

begrudge you a few minutes." He reached back and pulled
the door open a bit. "Come on. I'm buying."

The chairs in the lobby coffee shop were hard and uncom­
fortable. And cold. The shop was separated from the lobby
and the hospital's front door by enormous glass windows­
glass walls really, Will supposed-but the outdoor chill still
managed to pervade the room. Or maybe that was just him.
It seemed so hard to tell lately.
Rob walked back from the serving· counter, two coffees ·

and two danishes carefully balanced n

i his hands. He
dropped everything in the center of the table and shook his
fingers in the air. "Hot." He nodded toward· the danishes.
"Cherry or cheese?"
"Neither." Will smiled, or at least tried to. Smiling was
the polite thing to do, but he just didn't have the energy to
put into it anymore. "I'm really not very hungry."
Rob shrugged. "Suit yourself." He took the cheese dan­
ish and ate it slowly, nursing both it and his latte. He looked
at Will with bright, sharp eyes as he chewed.
Will tried to return that gaze but couldn't. Instead, he
found himself looking everywhere but at Rob. He looked at
the tabletop, down into the steaming murk of his coffee,
and at Rob's coat slung over the back of a chair, then past
Rob to the other people who populated the coffee shop. The
place was fairly crowded, busy with life and energy as
people came and went. Here and there among the tables
though, there were people who sat alone-even if they hap:
pened to be sharing the table with someone else. They were
quiet and withdrawn, dull somehow, waiting out something
they knew would get worse before it got better.
They're me, he thought.
 d on ba s s I nu t h w a I te

Almost
He pushed the thought away, tried to push_ his despair
away, too. This was stupid. Rob had taken the time to come
back into the room, share his own experience with coma­
and what did he do? Sit here staring off into space. If Rob
was going to reach out, the least he could do was reach
back. Rob was right. Talking to someone would help.
So what exactly are you going to talk about? Will asked
himself. Are you going to tell him what happened in . . .
No! He wasn't going to give in. He wasn't going to lose
his nerve. Will looked up and blUrted out the first thing that
came to his tongue. "Has anyone ever told you you look a
l John F. Kennedy?"
lot ike
That was intelligent. He snatched up his coffee and took
a drink to cover his embarrassment. Rob just laughed.
"More than once. I do a great Nixon impersonation, too."
Impersonations. An image welled up in his mind: Laurel
with her hair dyed a rich, lustrous brown. She had done it
just after they met. It made her look like Julia Roberts. God,
how he. wished he could have those simple days back. Just
the thought of Laurel made him long for her. Made him
want her. Crave her.
I need her so much . . .
He shook his head. "Laurel," he said simply, "was good
. .
at impressions.n
"She's still good at them, Will. She's not gone yet."
That was looking on the bright side of things. Will's jaw
clenched. "Maybe we could talk about something else?"
Rob looked flustered. "Sorry. I shouldn't have . . ."
Will shook his head and waved away his apology.
Rob smiled. "So how long have you two been married?"
That was talking about something else? But it was so
good to be talking about anything at all that Will let it go
and just answered. "Three years. We met just as I was fin- .

ishing dental school."

48
 If w his p e r a c a II

"Oh, so it's Doctor Tavish." Rob leaned back. "Do you

have a specialty?"
So normal. So mundane. The sort of question a new
acquaintance might ask at a party. "Just call me Will, Rob.
I'm just a regular guy out of the office," Small talk had
never felt so wonderful. He could feel himself relaxing. "I'm
an orthodontist. Now if Laurel had just·broken a tooth when
she fell . : ."
But she didn't, did she?
The tension that had haunted him for the lasttwo weeks
came flooding back hard. Evexything that had happened
came back. Not that he could ever forget, but for just· a
moment, he had been thinking about something else, and
the memories came back that much more harsh. The corner
of his mouth twitched and fell. He shook his head. "I'm:
sony."
"Will." Rob sat forward again. "Whatever happened to
Laurel wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it?" The words slipped out. Will clamped his jaw
shut, but the corner of his mouth continued to twit�h. He
rubbed a hand across his face, scrubbing at it. "No. I'm
sony, Rob. You don't need to hear this."
"But maybe you need to tell it."
Maybe he did. The truth of it, not just the same story he
had told the police.
No!
Some part of him rebelled against the idea, the same
part that held his attention on that mad moment in Bache­
lor's Grove. He fought it away. There was a word for that
intrusive, persistent voice, and that word was paranoia. He
let his hand fall away from his face and settle to the table.
Where to begin?
Nowhere, he warned himself. Don't begin anywhere. All
you need to tell him. is the same thing you told the police.
No. He needed to get it all out, needed someone to tell

47
 don .. u a: 11 ngt. h w,al'te ·.

him he wasn't crazy. But he had told one story to the

police so many times that it seemed easiest to start there
again. .
"You noticed that Laur�! is pregnant?" he asked Rob.
Stupid question-it was impossible not to notice. But Rob
nodded,. so he continued; describing the fascination with
family that the baby had roused in him. "1\vo weeks ago, on
Saturday afternoon, Laurel and I drove out to Midlothian­
my grandmother was born there-to check out a cemetery.
Have you ever heard of Bachelor's Qrove?"
"It sounds familiar," Rob said slowly. ".It's . . . supposed
to be haunted, right?"
"Most haunted place in Chicago. If you believe in that
sort of thing. We didn't-don't." Will's mouth twitche�
again.
"But. . . . " prompted Rob. He was leaning forward,
focused eagerly on the story. Maybe too focused. Maybe too
eager to hear.
Why? Will thought. Why does he want to know? Why is
he pushing? Don't trust him. Don't tell him anything.
Will thrust back the wave of panic. He forced the words
out of his mouth-again, the same words he had spoken to
the police.
"But we got spooked anyway," Will confessed. "While I
was wandering around poking at gravestones, Laurel went
down to look at this lagoon at one end of the cemetery. All
of a sudden she screamed and said something in the water
grabbed her. I told her it had to be a leaf or something, but
she wouldn't believe me." He picked up his coffee cup and
began to swirl the liquid inside. "But then the wind blew
this mist that had been han gm
g over the water toward us
and we couldn't see and we . . . we . . . "
It was as if he was there again. He could feel his heart
racing, pumping adrenaline-saturated blood through his .
body. His paranoia was screaming at him. Why �ow? Why

48
 If w his p e r a ca 11

should he be so terrified now, talking to Rob, when he had

given this exact same stocy to the police half a dozen times
and walked away?
Maybe because he had never even tried telling the police
the whole truth. What difference did it make if Rob heard
the real stocy of what happened in Bachelor's Grove? He
was just a well-meaning stranger. There were things you
could say to a stranger. Like the truth. Like-
"Will! " ·
Rob was reaching out and grabbing his hands. Will
blinked. and the coffee shop seemed to come back into focus
around him. People at nearby tables were staring at them.
Rob nodded at all of them. "It's all right," he said. "He's
okay." Slowly they turned back to their own business. "You
are okay, aren't you?"
No. No, I'm not. The words floated in Will's mind,
strangely disjointed and separate from the paranoia that
made his ears ring. But he didn't speak those words.
Instead he nodded, and Rob let go of his hands. The mus­
cles in them were weak and aching, as if he had been trem­
bling hard. He didn't remember trembling.
"Yes," Will lied. "I'm okay. Sorcy."
"I pushed."
"No, you didn't." Will took a deep breath and picked up
where he'd left off. "This cloud of mist blew over us and we
ran like school kids. We shouldn't have. There was long
grass and broken gravestones all over the place. Laurel
tripped and fell." He drew another breath, ragged and
harsh. He could do this. It wasn't that big a deal. Now or
never, Will, he told himself. Now or never. Now or . . .
Never.
He couldn't do it. He didn't have the strength of will to
fight. His head throbbed, his heart was pounding, and he
could feel a tingle in his fingertips, as if they were fa.J.ling
asleep. The paranoia was a barrier all around him, cutting

49
 d on b a a a I nu t h w a I te

him off from the hope that simple confession would offer.
He was too weak to break through that barrier. }ie looked
at Rob, looked nto
i his open, earnest face and told him the
same lie he had told the police.
"She hit her head on a rock. I know I shouldn.'t have
moved her but I panicked. I picked her up and ran ·all the
way back to the car with her." He manage_d a twitchy smile.
"It must have been half a mile. I had a cell phone in the car,
and I called 911. They put her in an ambulance and sent her
straight here." He shoo!\ his head at Rob's look of surprise.
"The police were there. They had to investigate. It didn't
take long for them to realize it was an accident." ·
Now that he had given in to it, the paranoia was reced­
ing. He felt confident now, maybe more lucid than he'd been
in days. It was more of a relief than confessing tO Rob could
ever be.
Rob nodded and said, "I can see why you would be reluc­
tant to go. to a support group, though.n
The paranoia was back in a flash. "What do you mean?"
. Rob gave him an odd look, and Will realized there had
been an unintentional growl in his voice. He cleared his
throat and gulped some coffee before repeating, "What do
you mean?"
"Well, a police investigation?" Rob shook his head.
"That doesn't look good, even if nothing came of it."
"Oh. No. No, it doesn't." Will relaxed again, but this time
the paranoia didn't go away. It coiled up just inside his ear,
fretting and worrying.
You got lucky, he thought. End the conversation. Get
away.
But he liked Rob. He seemed like a solid, sensible guy.
If he had met him a few weeks ago, he might have seen if
Laurel wanted to invite him over for dinner.
The thought- of Laurel brought back the mage
i of her
lying in the mist, her head beside that deadly stone. He

50
 I .f w bis p e r s ca I I

hated himself, hated .his weakness. He slid his coffee cup

away �d said, "I should be getting back up to Laurel."
Rob blinked. For just a moment, he looked startled, but
an easy smile washed that away. "She'll be fine, Will. Stay."
"Aren't I keeping you from your work?"
"Hey, I'm the boss .." Rob pushed the remaining danish
toward him. "Here. That needs eating."
"You have it. I'm not hungry." Will stood. "Thanks, Rob.
This has been good.'"
Rob stood up with him. "Listen, anytime you need a
break from the bedside vigil, let me know. We can get a
drink, or maybe we can catch a game sometime. Basket­
ball? You a Bulls fan?"
"Sony. Bears."
"Yeah, how are they doing this year? Didn't I hear some­
thing about . . . "
·Rob looked past him, out through the glass wall of the
coffee shop. Will glanced over his shoulder in the same
direction. Rob's assistant, the old Asian man, stood on the
other side of the glass. For a moment, panic swept through
him. Someone else to confront? He felt a crushing urge to
flee.
No. He had given in to the paranoia and held his tongue
with Rob. Was he going to start being afraid of everyone?
He forced back the paranoia and nodded to Rob's assistant.
The old man smiled and nodded back. Thankfully, Rob was
talking again, and he had an excuse to turn away. It felt as
if he were turning his back on some menacing thug.
Rob had a business card out. "If you need to talk-about
anything, anytime-you give me a call." Wtll took the card
a little numbly. It was very stark, very minimalist, just a
phone number printed in fine, raised black type. Rob smiled
and asked "Have you got a card on you?"
"Oh, sure." Will fumbled for his wallet and slid out a
card. Next to Will's it looked like a short novel, its face

51
 d on b a a 11 nu t h w a I te

crammed with information. It had ridden around in his wal­

let so long the once crisp cardstock was crumpled and dog­
eared. He tried to smooth it out, then gave up and just
· handed it to Rob. "It was great talking to you. Thanks."
"You're welcome. And take care-I hope Laurel gets
better real soon."
He walked out, and his assistant joined him outside the
coffee shop door. Will watched them turn toward the lobby
doors, then glanced down at the card in his hand. The para­
noia urged him to destroy it immediately. Instead he slipped
the card into his wallet, into the place his own card had
occupied. It made him feel a little bit stronger, knowing it
was there.

"Did you learn anything?" Ngan asked as he came out of

the coffee shop.
McCain let out a slow breath. "That I feel really dirty
right now," he said honestly. Will seemed like a genuinely
nice, genuinely troubled man. He didn't deserve to be lied to
and manipulated. "Where's Jeane?"
"She's going to be staying on to examine the ventilation
system in more detail." Ngan ushered him toward the lobby
doors and a line of waiting taxis. "What did you learn from
Mr. Tavish?"
"Bachelor's Grove Cemetery." He repeated what Will
had told him about the events in the cemetery. "That mist
sounds familiar. It might be nothing, but I get the distinct
impression he was holding something back."
"He seemed disturbed when he saw me."
McCain blew out a breath and shook his head. "Ngan,
he's disturbed all around. I don't think he'.s handling all this
very well." He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "A
ghost?"

5t
 If w bis ' er I ca 11

"Are you backing away from your initial assessment?"

"No, but . . ." He sighed. "Isn't there someone at the
Institute better qualified for this assignment? I don't know
about you, but Jeane and I have never dealt with this before.
We don't know anything about ghosts."
Ngan stopped. "Michael, this is our investigation."
"But doesn't the Institute have a spook squad or some­
thing that should be handling this?"
"No," said Ngan. There was an edge to his voice. "The
Institute has us. We were assigned to Chicago to take care
of investigations of all kinds-ghosts included."
"Hey, easy!" McCain snapped back defensively. What the
hell had gotten Ngan's back up? "All I'm saying is that this
is outside our areas of expertise."
"Then you will have to learn something new. You might
want.to start with Bachelor's Grove Cemetery. I want you to
go there tomorrow."
McCain opened his mouth to protest, but Ngan turned
away before he could say anything. "I will let Jeane know.
Consider yourself debriefed." He walked on toward one of
the taxis, then paused. "I almost forgot. You learned some­
thing else today. Dr. Doyle asked me to give you this.•
He flicked a business card through the air as though it
were a bit of steel. McCain caught the card. It was the doc­
tor's hospital business card, but on the reverse was another
telephone number together with a very brief message:
Call me Shani.
He looked up. Ngan was already inside a cab and pulling
away from the curb.

53
 j
I
•

i.
. . ·'

A
"l�;amn!"
The ductwork caught Jeane's curse and sent
it echoing though miles of metal tubing. She bit
off her next words and pulled her head and shou1-
ders carefully back through the access port and
closed it behind her. Once she was safely out of the
duct, she gave her frustration full vent.
"What next?" she snarled finally.
.
Hany Fenn, one of Presbyterian-St. Luke's main­
tenance supervisors, scratched his forehead and
made a mark on the diagrams he carried. "There's
one more junction we cou1d check, then you're look­
ing at a main shaft. That might be a bit much for
such a localized problem."
"Let's check it."
She followed his directiqns through the gloom.
They were on an interstitial floor, built between the
other floors of the hospital. Cables, pipes, and ducts
55
 d on - a s 1 I nu t h w a I te

paraded in neat formation along the walls, color-coded like

a chaotic rainbow. The interstitial was a dim, cramped
place, built to provide maintenance access, not easy pas­
sage. Still, it was better than most of the places where
Jeane had carried out investigations for the ATF. Nothing
was burned here. Nothing was going to collapse on or under
her. It smelled . industrial and a little stuffy but no worse
than that.
At least the interstitial was clean. Most service access
areas tended, in her experience, to be dirty places. There
was barely a speck of dusfhere. "Regulations," Harry had
said when she commented on it. ·All the air gets treated to
minimize dust so it can't foul up the medical equipment.
The interstitials get the same air as the rest of the hospi­
tal." He'd looked at her a little bit funny, and Jeane had real­
ized she'd slipped up.
After McCain had led Will Tavish away, she, Ngan, and
Dr. Doyle-"Shani," she had said, "I think you can call me
Shani now"-had slipped back into room 923. Jeane had
immediately gone to work nspecting
i all of the visible
aspects of the hospital's ventilation system. Shani had
watched her for a few minutes before quietly placing a few
calls. When Harry had shown up, Jeane had barely been
able to contain herself. What had Shani thought she was
doing? Ngan's sharp gaze had kept her calm long enough
·
for her to realize that the 'doctor had done her an immense
favor. Harry knew the ventilation system inside and out and
was perfectly willing to play tour guide for a consultant on
.
the trail of an apparent problem. To Harry, she was Jeane
Stand of Wmdy City Ventilation and Cliniate Control, and
she suspected she was actually winning points for her
choice blue language and her willingness to peer into the
dirtier comers.
Unfortunately, while her arson investigation training
filled in most of the major elements of how a large scale

58
 If w his p e r s c a II

ventilation system worked, it was the small things that

could trip her up. She was finding a whole new respect for
the way McCain so easily assumed new identities.
Harry stopped and pointed to a new hatch. "Here," he
said, opening the hatch for her.
Jeane turned her flashlight back on, then put one arm
and shoulder through the hatch and slipped her head in
after them. The warm air rushing through the duct pushed
on her and caught at her hair. It carried the antiseptic smell
of the hospital already, courtesy of the building's air condi­
tioning systems at the head of the network.
She looked downwind first, back toward the hatch she
had just inspected and, ultimately, to room 923 and Laurel
Tavish. There was nothing she could see: no obstructions,
no breaks or tears in the skin of the duct that might alter
the air flow and produce anomalous events. There was
nothing but smooth, carefully seamed metal. The same
thing she had been seeing since starting her inspection. She
twisted around awkwardly, blinking against the air that
blew into her face. About five feet away the duct ended,
opening out into one that was even larger, a main supply
duct for this part of the hospital. The whole wing fed from
that shaft. Jeane sighed and pulled herself out. Harry closed
the hatch behind her.
"Well?"
"Nothing," she admitted. "Like you said, anything
beyond this is going to be too generalized to create such a
local problem."
"So what do you want to do now?"
Jeane caught Harry's eyes sneaking toward his watch.
They had been at this for several hours now, and she could
sympatbiU with him. He probably wanted to go home. So
did she. Her stomach was starting to complain of lack of
attention. The case, though, demanded priority.
"Give me a minute," she said, then turned away, leaning

57
 dlR U 1 11 ngtll Wll te

against the broad, blue-painted girth of the duct as she

thought.
On the surface it had all seemed so easy. There was
plenty of information. Shani had turned over all her notes
concerning the strange events. They were good notes,
too: what had happened, when it had happened, and who
saw or heard it happen. The only events that didn't sug­
gest a flaw in the ventilation system were the blue glow
under Laurel Tavish's door and the apparent force in the
mist.
And no offense to Shani, but Jeane was more than willing
to ascribe the mysterious force to imagination. Mist and
smoke could create optical illusions that the mind could build
on. In the course of her arson investigations, she had come
across more than one firefighter who swore he had seen and
felt things that later turned out to be just billows of smoke.
She had seen things herself in similar situations, though she
never let herself think too much about them, especially that
one time in particular. . . .
Snap out of it, Jeane, she told herself.
As for the lights, Jeane suspected that Shani had been
right all along that they were just reflections from some­
thi.Iig outside. The mist, the odor of earth and leaves, and
the sound of children, though, she could trace. If she could
find the cause of one, she was more than willing to bet she
could find the cause of the others.
It hadn't been that easy.
The simplest explanation for the sound of children was
eiminated
l first. She had suggested that the sound was
echoing through the ducts from the pediatrics ward. Harry
had pulled out his diagrams and shown her conclusively
.
that there was no way that could happen. Pediatrics was in
another wing entirely and though the maternity and neo·
natal wards were closer, just two floors down from inten­
sive care, the connection was indirect, and Shani was

58
 If w his p e r a ca 11

adamant that it was always clearly children, not babies,

that were heard.
Harry hadn't been able to prove quite the same thing
when it came to the odor that Shani had recorded. He had,
however, been able to show Jeane where the odor was not
coming from: The intakes for the hospital's air supply drew
across the roof of one of its lower wings. There was no wet
dirt or dry leaves in sight of them and the internal filters
were inspected and cleaned regularly.
That left the mist, which in itself actually presented two
problems: What was it and how was it getting onto the _ICU?
--:: Without a sample (somethillg Shani had tried to collect but
without any luck) . the first question was the thorniest. The
eyewitness accounts gave a few clues. The mist was con­
sistently white-grey, odorless, cold, and apparently heavier
than air since it had a tendency to stay low to the ground
and to resist drifting apart. Those characteristics had
allowed her to eiminate
l a number of possibilities immedi­
ately, including a whole range of gases and vapors that
were either colorless or had a distinct aroma. Shani's direct
exposure to the mist with no apparent side effects also
ruled out a number of corrosive and toxic gases.
It was possible that the mist wasn't actually a mist at
all. It could have been a dry particulate suspension like
smoke or a dust cloud. But if it was a particulate suspen­
sion, it would have left a residue behind, and there was no
residue visible. Just to be certain, Jeane had taken swab
samples from various surfaces for more detailed analysis in
the Institute labs. In light of the immediate evidence,
though, she had to admit that the mist appeared to be
exactly what it seemed: plain, ordinary, condensed water
vapor.
But if that was the case, what was doing the condens­
ing? Water vapor didn't just condense for no reason. Some­
thing somewhere was chilling the air.

59
 d on ba s s I nu t h w a I te

· That left her with the second question. Where was the
mist-whatever. it was-coming from? At least the eene
spill of the mist from room 923 into the hall that Shani had
noted was easily explained. Intensive care hospital rooms
were almost always kept at a positive pressure in compari­
son to the surrounding hallways. Air blew out when the
door was opened, protecting the often .vulnerable patient
within from airborne microbes that might be circulating in
the hallway. The same pressure would force mist in the
room out into the hall; where weight and temperature
would keep it low.
Unfortunately, that didn't fully explain the instances
Shani had recorded of the mist being away from the door of
Laurel's room. Nor did it explain the speed with which the
mist appeared and disappeared. Jeane had decided that s]?-e
would worry about explaining those points once she found
the mist's source. She tried not to think about the chain of
unanswered questions her investigation was leaving
behind.
Her initial disappointment, however, had led her to con­
sider other possible sources. The gas supply system?
There were supply valves mounted beside Laurel's bed,
one connected and feeding oxygen to her; the others
capped ·and securely sealed. A malfunction in the· life­
support equipment? Shani assured her it was working per­
fectly and that none of it had the capability to generate
anything like the mist unless it burst nto i flames and
poured smoke into the room. There would certainly be evi­
dence if that had happened.
On the other hand, Jeane wasn't quite sure exactly what
she had expected to find, either. Damage to the duct that
would indicate something being n i troduced into it from
outside? There was no sign of any break in the metal sur­
face. A hidden mechanical device as a source either for the
mist or for the kind of cooling effect that would produce a
80
 If w 1111 p e r a c a ·I I

mist in normal hospital air? Some substance lodged in the

ventilation system? No, that was just letting her imagina­
tion run away with her. Such a solution also implied that
there was a motive behind the events, and that was some­
thing on which she did not care to speculate.
In the end, there had simply been nothing else she could
do in room 923 for the moment. She had given the swabbed
samples to Ngan to take back to the Institute offices, and
he had gone to the lobby to collect McCain. Shani had
departed, and Jeane had followed Harry into the echoing
dimness of the interstitials and an endless maze of ducts.
An almost endless maze-they were almost through them,
·

and still there was nothing.

Jeane closed her eyes for a minute. Okay, she told her·
self, think about this from another perspective. The thought
reminded her of Ngan's advice about clear and open minds.
She ignored that. An open mind was one thing but accept·
ing some nebulous force as the cause for strange events
was another. She wanted to work the scientific explana·
tions to exhaustion first.
Exhaust. She opened her eyes. "Harry, is it possible to
run the exhaust system in reverse?"
"What?" he blinked. "Well, I suppose so."
"Where would the exhaust vent in room 923 lead?"
Harry rubbed his forehead. "To a decontamination sys·
tem first, then through a heat exchanger so the exhaust
warms up fresh air. Then it's drawn up an exhaust stack by
an impeller and ejected. But to reverse the entire system?
Jeez." He shook his head.
"What if part of the system was just turned off-<>r was
broken?" Jeane clapped her hands together as she thought.
"You've got a source of cold air and maybe some extra
humidity. The supply of air entering the system might
increase with the right wind." During the day, a broken sys­
tem might produce nothing more than a draft of untreated

11
 ·
d on ba s 11 ngth w a l te

air, but night winds changed and night air would be colder.
The backward flow of air might even cause some of the sim­
pler machines in·the exhaust system to move and produce
unusual sounds that might be mistaken for laughing chil�
dren. She glanced up at Harry. "How about it?"
"Nope."
She frowned. "No?"
·"Well, for one thing, you're looking at the same problem
as the fresh air system-it branches." He rapped on the
duct. "A break at the · end would send air into all kinds of
rooms. If that was even possible, which it isn't. We have all
kinds of monitors up in those stacks to keep track of
what's going out. If one of them was broken; we'd know
about it."
"Maybe something is broken deeper inside the system?"
Harry shrugged. "Maybe, but like I said, something like
that would get noticed. You know how the.ICU rooms have
positive pressure? Well, things like the laundry rooms and
washrooms have negative pressure. Air blows into them
from the halls. When the exhaust system breaks-and it
has happened-y�m notice it there first." He hesitated for a
moment, then added. "Jeane, it's getting late. If there's
more that you want to look at it, do you think we can do it
tomorrow?"
Jeane looked at her own watch. It was·aft er eight.
They'd been working on this far longer than she'd
expected-with nothing to show for it. Even her last bril­
liant insight had been nothing. She groaned and gestured
for Harry to show her the way out.

A cool -autumn night had fallen during her investiga­

tions. As she waited ·at the traffic lights to make the turn
from the hospital parking lot onto West Congress Parkway,

Bf
 If w his p e r 1 ca I I

Jeane looked up at the building. Presbyterian-St. Luke's

was lit from below with floodlights that swept up from· the
base .of the building. It gave the windows and ledges a
deeply shadowed look-like a kid making a spooky face by
holding a flashlight under his chin. Jeane clenched her
teeth. Too bad the events in the ICU didn't have such a con­
venient explanation.
A little way down Congress, she made a right onto
Damen Avenue. Her apartment in Ukrainian Village was
actually relatively close to Presbyterian-St. Luke's. Thank
God. She was looking forward to putting the day behind her.
There was one thing she should do first, though. One hand
dipped into her purse and came up with her cell phone.
Without looking, she dialed Ngan's office number. As much
as she disliked her lack of success, she would have to
report it. She might as well leave the message now and get
it over with. ·
To her surprise, Ngan answered. "What are you doing
there at this hour?" she asked.
"Wrestling with the demons of paperwork," he replied.
There wasjust a trace of weariness in his voice. "May I ask
why you are calling so late?"
She sighed. "I couldn't fmd anything wrong with the
ventilation system at the hospital."
"I'm sorry to hear that. It was a reasonable hypothesis."
"It still is a reasonable hypothesis," Jeane pointed out.
She slowed to a stop at a red light. "When the analysis on
those swabs is done, I'm going back. If there's a residue in
the room, I might be able to pick it up in the ducts: That will
give me a trail." ·
"As you wish. In the meantime, Michael has picked up a
trail himself. You're going out to Bachelor's Grove Cemetery
with him tomorrow.n
Jeane scowled at the phone in_disbelief. "You're pulling
me off the hospital?"
83
 �en u 1 11 agtb w1I te

"By your own admission, there's nothing to find there.

The cemetei:y is where Laurel was injured. Her husband
told Michael they saw a strange mist there. I believe it mer­
itS investigation. n

"Ngan!" Jeane slapped her free hand against the steer­

ing wheel. "A cemetei:y? That's the most ridiculous . . ·.

You've bought into this whole ghost thing, haven't you?"

"I wish to see all avenues of investigation explored,"
Ngan pointed out. "Evei:y one of those avenues should be
subject to skepticism, however, and I value yours."
"Thanks." The light changed from red to green. The
driver of the car behind her leaned on his horn almost
immediately. Just what I need, buddy. Jeane flipped· her fin­
ger. at him through the back window as she stepped on the
gas. "I'm glad you decided· to let me know about this little
.
field trip. n
"I left you a message at your apartment. Wherever you
were was interfering with your cell phone."
The steel of the ducts and trusses of the interstitial.
Jean sighed. "Sori:y, Ngan. It's been a long, frustrating day."
"My sympathies," he said sincerely. "Speak with
Michael. Perhaps you can make it a late morning meeting."
He paused and added, "Jeane, ti:y to keep an open mind.
Would you have believed in the Greys before Washington?"
· "No," she confessed. "But I did believe in the scientific
plausibility of alien intelligence. n
"Then ti:y to believe in the plausibility of other phenom­
ena."
Jeane smiled into the phone. ·"Bigfoot?"
"Not in Chicago." She couldn't tell if Ngan was joking or
not. "Good night, Jeane."
"Good night, Ngan."
She dropped the phone onto the passenger seat and
groaned loudly. There was nothing quite like having superi­
ors tell you what to believe. That had irked her more than

H
 If w bis p e r a ca I I

once while she was at the ATF-ultimately, it had actually

been a pigheaded superior telling her how to interpret her
evidence that had started the sequence of events that led to
her dismissal from the ATF. If the same thing was going to
happen in the Hoffmann Institute . . . For a moment she just
watched the lights-of Chicago flash by. No. It wasn't going
to happen this time. For one thing, Ngan wasn't telling her
what to believe, only to keep an open mind. And for another,
Jeane wasn't sure of what she believed herself.
D.C. had been easy. Hard evidence, very clear. There
was no question she had been right and they were wrong.
Here . . . Here it wasn't so clear and she had nothing to back
her case up but guesswork and gut feelings. And that only
took you so far in the real world. In the television cop
shows that had inspired her to pursue a career in law
enforcement, sure. Gut feelings were always right and
inevitably led to the collar. In the real world, you had to
·
work. You had to follow the evidence. You had to build a
case. You had to consider all avenues of investigation.
"Damn," Jeane muttered to herself.
If they were going to be investigating this kind of phe­
nomenon, she might as well be rational and professional
about it-even if the very concept of being rational and pro­
fessional about ghosts made her twitch. What she knew
about ghosts was limited to a string of silly horror movies
and novels. A professional knew when she needed to do
research.
She had seen a little-used bookstore with below-street
frontage along one of the streets in Wicker Park, the trendy
neighborhood just to the north of Ukrainian Village. The
sign outside claimed the store specialized in occult books.
It wasn't much out of her way. She swung past it, hoping
that it might be closed so she could put off the unpleasant
task. No such luck.. The lights were still on. She sighed,
parked her car, and walked down the steps to the front

85
 d on ba s sl ngth wal te

door. The name ofthe shop was painted in faded blue on the
glass: Devromme's.
The distorted, broken sound of a badly tuned television
se·t engillfed her· as soon as she opened the door. The
shop's clerk sat behind his counter on a high' stool, his
attention riveted to a tiny black-and-white TV set. Jeane
caught a glimpse of a chubby, laughing face with pouting
lips and a famous beauty mark. Marilyn Monroe. Jeane had
never liked the actress and didn't understand· her enduring
appeal. That the clerk.should be so intent upon her didn't
bode well for the quality of the shop. She cleared her throat
and asked "Occult books?"
One skinny arm came up, pointing to the far back comer
of the shop. The clerk's eyes didn't move from the television
screen.
"Thanks," said Jeane.
The aisles of the store were ridiculously narrow and
the shelves tall and frail. Jeane was glad there was no one
else in the·s tore. Trying to pass another person in the
aisles might have started a chain reaction, knocking down
bookshelves like dominos. More importantly, though,
someone might actually have seen her in the place. She
had been in slums where the housekeeping was better.
One entire long wall was dominated by dog-eared pornog­
raphy. A thin grey carpet lay over the floor like com- ·
pressed lint. It probably hadn't been vacuumed in years. A
stale odor, possibly oozing out of the carpet, lingered in
the air and mingled with the cloying stink of old incense.
The static of the clerk's television pursued Jeane through
the shop; the announcer drooling inanities about Marilyn's
life.
· There wasn't much she could do about the atmosphere
of the shop but there was something she could do about the
noise. She walked back up to the front.
"Excuse me," she said, "could you turn that down?"
88
 If w his p e r s ca 11

That got the clerk's rttention. He turned a jaundiced eye

toward her for a second, then spun the volume knob down
.so low it was barely audible. Feeling rather righteous, Jeane
went back to the far corner of the store.
Behind her, the volume on the TV set began to creep up
i
again. She clenched her jaw and gnored it.
She found the occult books easily enough. It was actu­
ally surprisingly easy. There were shelves upon shelves of
them, with only one battered rack groaning under the
trashy popular paperbacks she had been expecting. Most of
the books in the section were hardcovers, ranging from vol­
umes with colors so bright they must just have been pub­
lished to dusty, ragged tomes faded by time. She began
skimming through them. There didn't seem to be any sense
to the organization of the books. Everything was mixed up
together: Glastonbury and the Holy Grail, Atlantis and Free­
masonry, jaguar cults and were-hyenas, John Dee and Alis­
tair Crowley. By the time she reached the end of one of the
shelves, she had spotted only a few books on ghosts, and
only one of them, about the specters of New Orleans, had
ended up in her hands. She peered around the corner of the
shelves. More books lined the back wall of the store­
except for one section just at the corner that was covered
with a heavy curtain of deep purple velvet. She brushed it
·

aside to look at the books behind.

Abruptly, a hand reached past her and plucked the cloth
from her grasp. "Hey!" she protested. She spun ar9und
sharply, hands up, ready to defend herself.
A large man with a scruffy beard and messy black hair
glared at her. "These books," he said with a slight accent
she couldn't quite place, "are availab�e by invitation only."
He twtched
i the curtain back into place with one hand. In
the other, he held a greasy piece of fried chicken. He
pointed it at her. "I don't recall inviting you."
Jeane glared right back at him. "Who the hell are you?"

87
 d on -a a a I na t h w a I te

The man gave a little bow. "Ned Devromme. You might

have noticed my name on the door." He studied her as if he
were evaluating a bargain-brand deodorant. "My dinner is
getting cold. Is there something I can help you find before
you leave?"
She met his gaze dead on. He wanted to help her? Fine.
"Ghosts," she said imperiously. "I need a book on ghosts."
He· gestured to the rack of paperback trash. "There."
Jeane gave the pile a cursory glance. "You know, if no
one else is buying thos�. why should I? How about some­
thing with more substance?"
Ned pulled a thick, water-stained book out of the middle
of the rack. "Here. This has substance."
"So does your breath." She shoved the book on New
Orleans back in his face. "Got one like this on Chicago?"
Ned's eyes narrowed, and one bushy, black eyebrow
rose. He reached out without' looking and took a thin hard­
cover off a nearby shelf. "This one's good for stories at Hal­
loween." Jeane didn't even take it from him. His other
eyebrow rose. He put the book back. "You're a picky one,
aren't you?"
"Yes," said Jeane bluntly. She dropped the book on New
Orleans into his hands. "I want a book that tells me about
ghosts and related phenomena in. as much detail as pos­
sible. It doesn't have to be just one book-I'll take several
if it's necessary. First-hand accounts are preferable. I don't
want to wade through any New Age feel-good crap about
spirit advisors."
The New Orleans book went back onto a shelf together
with the thin Halloween book. Ned produced a thicker book
that shed flakes of paper. "Take a look at chapter five."
Jeane opened the book, leafing through the brittle
pages to a chapter that started opposite a gruesome illus­
tration of three men in Puritan clothing being hanged.
Whether the chapter was what she wanted or not, she·

88
 If w hll p If I ca I I

couldn't immediately tell, but she nodded to Ned and

tucked the book under her arm. Ned nodded in return.
"So," he said. "It's the raw stuff, then." He set his
chicken down on a shelf, wiped his hands on his pants, and
began walking along the shelves. He pulled another book
off and passed it to her. "Be careful. Some of the pages are
stuck together in that."
"Funny, I would have thought your private collection
would be on the wall with the other magazines."
He snorted and gave her another book. "Oh, you are the
�t. When we're finished here, let me get you a book on
hags and crones. You'll identify." · Another book went onto
the stack in her arms. "Is there anything specific you want
beyond just nasty stories, you bloodthirsty minx?" He
turned and fl.ashed her a smile. A really nice smile actUally.
Ned Devromme had a beautiful mouth.
Jeane's stomach spun into a knot. That was one obser­
vation she hadn't needed to make.
"Not really," she said. "I just need to research actual
details of ghost sightings."
Ned passed her yet another book. Their fingers touched
for just a moment. Ned's fingertips were warm. Jeane made
a note to wash her hands as soon as possible. "Books on
Bachelor's Grove Cemetery would be best, if there are any."
Ned stopped. "The Bachelor's Grove Cemetery?"
"There's another?" Jeane shot back defensively.
"Not that I know of." Ned stepped close and began tak­
ing back some of the books that he had given her before.
Jeane forced herself not to flinch. "You should have· said."
He replaced the books with others, then stepped away
down a side aisle and came back with a large green book.
"History of the Chicago area," Devromme said. "You
might find it useful."
He looked through the books in her arms, then glanced
up and into her eyes. Jeane almost jumped at the suddenly .

89
 d on u a 11 ng t h w a I te

unnerving strength of his gaze. Ned nodded, not so much at

her as in some kind of inner satisfaction, as though he had
just come to some important conclusion. .
"One more," he said.
He walked back to the purple curtain and pushed it
aside, reaching down to pull one book off a lower shelf.
Jeane caught only a glimpse of the other books behind the
curtain before it settled back into place. They didn't look
any different from the other books in the store, except per­
haps that a few seemed far older and more ornately bound.
The fat book Ned put in her arms was old, too, though still
modern looking. It. had a navy blue binding with the title
stamped in gold: World Unseen: Unexplained Events of the
Later Nineteenth Century by Brian Desmond.
"Take good care of that one," he said. "It has truth in·it."
He cocked his head at her. "You're going to see a lot of
truths in your life."
"Yeah? Here's one for you: Lay off the fried foods."
Jeane turne.d and marched quickly up to the front desk.
On the little television screen, Marilyn Monroe was croon­
ing Happy Birthday to John F. Kennedy. She dumped the
books on the counter with a bang hard enough to throw the
television into static.
"Cash," she snapped at the clerk.
"Half-price on the Desmond, Kaz!" called Ned.
Jeane looked back. He was standing at the end of the
aisle by the purple curtain, the cold and dusty fried chicken
back in his hand. Jeane desperately hoped he wasn't going
to start eating it again. She paid the clerk without flinching
at the price that came up on the cash register and waited
impatiently as he counted out change and shoveled the
books into a plastic grocery bag. He muttered something
thick that might have been "Thank you for shopping at
Devromme's" but she didn't stay for him to repeat it. Jeane
was out the door in a second, her skin still itching from the

70
 if w his p e r s ca II

repulsive encounter. Her apartment was only five blocks

away, and she set off briskly.
She was four blocks away and turning onto her own
street before she remembered that her car was still parked
outside the shop.

71
 i.

;�Cain Street,pulled
in
his car over
the Chicago suburb oftheMidlothian,
to side �f 143rd
Illi-

trees,. nois.
lotsHeof fallen
lookedleaves.
around.It wasn'
A fewt onehouses,
of thesome
best
streets
places he had ever seen, but he could
think of worse
of town.to Atlive.theThewestern
street endpretty
was
of themuch
block,the143rd
edge
turned north to .become Menard Avenue and join up
with
angledthedown MidlO"thian
from South Turnpike
Pulaski.. The
Roadturnpike
and 294itself
past
Cicero Avenue. A little more than half a mile west of
Menard, it turned torun east-west againin a con­
tinuation
Between of theMenard
straightandlinetheofcurve
143rd Street.
in theWoods
turnpiFor­
ke,
though, the woods had taken over.
est Preserve squatted here. the summer it would
In
Rubio
probably
fall, underbea·quicold,
te acloudy
pleasant,sky,green place.stripped
the trees In the ·of
late

73
 d on -a 1 1 I nut h w a I te

their leaves and turned as grey as the sky, it was just

another starved landscape.
McCain looked at it glumly and scowled, "I wore the
wrong shoes."
"Told you so."
Jeane got out and slammed the car door behind her. She
was wearing sturdy hlking boots.
McCain sighed and got out of the car as well, wrapping
his overcoat around himself. Jeane looked at him without
commenting. McCain was grateful for that Naturally she
had worn her heavy fleece jacket with a cap for her head
and gloves for her hands. She'd be warm.
"I hate November," muttered McCain to himself. He
went around to the trunk of the car, unlocked it, and pulled
out two camera bags. The smaller one he threw to Jeane.
"For you."
"Too kind." She unzipped it and peered inside. "A
35mm." She looked vaguely disappointed. "I do have my
own digital camera, you know." She tapped the pocket of
her jacket.
"Film seems to be a little more traditional for this sort
of thing. The camera is loaded with high-speed film, the
ghosthunter's option of choice." He opened his bag and
pulled out a small camcorder with a built-in liquid crystal
display screen. "I tape the whole thing, you shoot anything
suspicious."
"And you say you did all of your research on the inter­
net." Jeane shook her head. "Amazing:"
"Better than lugging those books of yours around."
McCain jerked his thumb at the pile Jeane had left in the
backseat of the ear. She had spent most of the forty-minute
drive from downtown Chicago reading from one of them or
another. She had been rather. dismayed to learn that
McCain had done research on Bachelor's Grove Cemetery
as well-just by going on-line. When she tried to argue that

74
 If w hll p t r a ca II

she had depth of information and reliability on her side,

McCain had just glanced at the publisher of one of her
books. Yellow Bird Society Press, 1929, sounded very reli­
able to him. He had flashed her the color photos he had
downloaded and printed. They were five or six years old at
most. That had sent her into a snit.
He grinned at her now and said, "You're sure you don't
want to take them with you?"
"Ha ha." She pointed to the woods and the gravel trail
that was all that was left of the old route of 143rd Street.
"You can lead. n

Ten minutes later, they were standing outside the rusted

chain link fence of Bachelor's Grove. Jeane looked around
with distaste. "This is supposed to be the most haunted
place in Chicago?"
"It's not exactly what I expected either. And I have pic­
tures."
McCain turned on the camcorder and panned slowly
across the cemetery, watching as what was basically an
overgrown field SGrolled across the little screen. Only the
few surviving gravestones that still stood ·upright sug­
gested anytlllng different. Even the fallen gravestones
could have been mistaken for building debris.
"With the kind of rep this place has and after fortyyears
of being abandoned," McCain said, "you've go� to figure it's
going to end up a little run-down."
He slipped through the hole in the fence that was now
the cemetery's main entrance. Jeane squeezed in after him.
"If it's been abandoned for that long," Jeane said, "I'm
surprised it looks as good as it does. I'd have expected a
few more trees to take hold. Someone's looking after it."
McCain shrugged as he turned around in a full circle to
capture a sweeping view of the cemetery.
It was easy to see
how Laurel could have tripped. The ground was treacher- ·
ous with half-hidden stones and tangled, matted grass.

75
 d on u a a I ng t h w a I te

"Could be the forest preserve," he guessed, "could be

Midlothian's public works department. Could just be rela­
tives and genealogists like Will." He ·had told Jeane about
Will and Laurel's visit to the cemetery on the drive out. "I'm
pretty sure there's a law that says even inactive cemeteries
have to be kept up to certain minimum standards."
"Even when they're in the middle of the woods?"
"Respect for the dead." In the silence of the cemetery,
the words sent a chill up his back. He looked up from the
camera and asked, "How do you want to do this?"
"Your call. Wasn't this whole trip your idea?"
"I guess so, but you're th� professional investigator."
Jeane closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. "Okay.
What are we looking forr She held up a finger before he
could reply. "I'm not answering this one for you. If you
think there's a connection between the cemetery and the
hospital, you tell me how we prove it."
"Well . . ." McCain drew a breath and let it out slowly.
He looked across the dry brown grass of the cemetery. "Will
and Laurel were surrounded by a mist here. Now Laurel is_
in the hospital, and the same mist is manifesting there."
"So why aren't we back in the hospital or investigating
Laurel.?" Jeane asked. "She's the obvious link."
"But when the mist appeared in the cemetery, ·Laurel
was ine,
f so presumably it's not some extension of Laurel's
being injured."
McCain rubbed the bridge of his nose between his eyes
with one hand. Making the connection would have been a
lot easier if one of the stories about the cemetery had said
something in the lagoon touched her; then she was suddenly
engulfed in mist.
None did. Both his research on the net and Jeane's in
her dusty books had agreed on that, even though the vari­
ety of sightings associated with this one small cemetery
was startling.

78
 If w his p e r s ca II

He and Jeane had compared notes on the drive out. A

farmer dragged into the pond by his plow horse was seen
calmly guiding his plow through the water. A phantom car
was seen on the turnpike near the cemetery. A woman, the
White Lady or Madonna of Bachelor's Grove, was seen car­
rying her baby among the gravestones under the full moo�.
A white-robed, monklike figure was seen standing near the
lagoon on occasion, and a monstrous, two-headed figure
was said to emerge from the lagoon. A nonexistent farm­
house could sometimes be seen from the path, light burning
in its windows. Not ghostly, but still sinister, were the tales
of black magic rituals and opened graves that also clung to
the cemetery.
Of all the stories about Bachelor's Grove, though, there
were only two with associations to the lagoon, otie with a
baby, and none at all with mists or manifestations in broad
daylight. There were photos that had been taken in the
cemetery and apparently showed lights and patches of
glowing mist, but they were small and isolated and were
never visible to the naked eye. The mist connected the hos­
pital and the cemetery, but there was nothing to connect the
events at the hospital with the cemetery's history. They had
to start somewhere, though. McCain sighed in frustration.
"If we look around in the cemetery," he suggested, "we
may be able to find something that will at least prove that
the two appearances of the mist are the -same."
"And that something would be . . . ?"
"Damn it, Jeane, I don't know," he snapped. "I've never
tried to do this before. Do you have any ideas?" She was
silent. "Do you?"
"None," she admitted finally.
"Wonderful."
In the end, they divided the cemetery up into a rough
grid and methodically went through each· section looking
for anything, anything at
. . all, that was "unusual." McCain
.

17
 d·11 u 1 al lftll wa u e·

kept an eye on the screen of the camcorder in case some- .

thing revealed itself. Jeane flicked aside the long grass and
poked around gravestones, occasionally snapping photos of
what came to light: old chalk pentagrams and graffiti scrib­
bled on fallen stones, with the stubs of candles half-buried
by yea.rs of dirt nearby. A hole that had been dug down into
an unmarked grave and loosely filled again-some time
ago, Jeane observed, to judge by the way grass had grown
over the little pile of excavated dirt nearby. A whole nest of
empty beer cans and discarded cigarette packs. A very
weathered brassiere.
"Suspicious?" McCain asked Jeane as she prodded the
undergarment with a stick.
"Not particularly. I'd guess someone was just being
kinky and lost it in the dark." She brushed grass back over
the bra and stood up. "She should be seriously slapped for
having sex in a cemetery, though."
That left only one section of the cemetery still
unsearched. McCain looked down the length of Bachelor's
Grove to the leaf-choked waters of the lagoon. From the
look of the fragmented gravestones nearby, it lay in the old­
est part of Bachelor's Grove. And to judge by Will's story,
everything had started with Laurel dipping her hand in that
black, still water.
McCain glanced at Jeane. "Well?"
"It does seem to come down to this, doesn't it?"
Together they walked over to the edge of the lagoon and
stared into it for a moment.
"So," Jeane said finally, without taking her eyes from the
water, "what do you make of this two-headed monster
story?" ·
McCain didn't look up from the water either. "Sounds
like someone had too much to drink and passed out in the
wrong spot." He scanned the camera across the pond. "Ho�
about the farmer with the plow?"

78
 "Maybe," Jeane said with a shrug. "But I mean, dragged
in and drowned by a plow horse?"
"If the horse went in with the plow and was drowning,
the farmer might have gone in after it to cut the ties to the
plow." McCain shook his head. "In swimming class, they
told us never try to grab a drowning person to save them.
They can pull you under, too. Imagine what a panicky horse
could do."
He kicked a twig into the water. It bobbed about for a
second then sank. The water ·barely seemed to ripple.
"Our cat got stuck in the banister rails on the stairs when
I was a kid," Jeane said. "I got these two huge scratches
down my arm trying to get her- Oh, this is ridiculous!" She
stepped back from the water. "You touch it, Fitz."
"Hey, just because Laurel did it doesn't mean we need to
do the same thing." He glanced up from the camera. "On the
other hand, if we're going to be thorough we probably
should. And since you're a woman, too . . ."
"No way." Jeane dug a hand into her pocket and came up
with a quarter. "Flip you for it?"
McCain snorted. "This is silly. Look, it's just water.
Nothing's going to-"
·

"Call it." Jeane spun the quarter in the air.

"Tails.·
Jeane caught the quarter and slapped it onto her wrist.
"Damn."
She walked forward, knelt down beside the lagoon, and
asked, "Ready?"
McCain took a few steps back and to the side so that he
had a perfect view of the lagoon and Jeane. He zoomed in on
her, then looked up to watch the whole scene with his own
eyes. "Ready."
Jeane pulled her sleeve up, baring her right arm to the
elbow. McCain watched her inspect the dark water ca,re·
fully, then draw a deep breath.

71
 d DI U I 11 II t h W 1 1 te

"All right," she said, "Let's do this on three." She

stretched her hand out to hover over the glass-still surface
of the water. "One. 1\vo." She drew another deep breath.
"Three." Her hand dashed down and splashed through the
water, in and out like a leaping fish.
She looked up. "Nothing."
McCain realized that he had been holding his breath
and let it out. Jeane reached into the water again, more
slowly this time, letting her hand rest in the water then
stirring it around. After several long moments, she pulled
it out.
"Nothing at all," she reported, shaking water droplets
everywhere. "The water's damn cold but no more than
you'd expect."
"Damn it!" McCain cursed.
He stopped the tape in the camcorder, rewound it a little
way, then played back the scene again. The camcorder had
captured a perfect shot of Jeane getting her hand wet.
"Were you really that eager to have something grab
me?" Jeane asked wryly. She dried her hand off on her coat
and started back through the cemetery to the hole in the
fence.
"Having something to show for an afternoon of wander­
ing around in the cold would have been nice," he told her.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to have a look around on the outside of the
fence and see if I find anything. H anything grabs me, I'll let
you know.·
McCain grunted and sat down on the nearest fallen
gravestone. Jeane did have a point. What had· he expected
to happen? As he had said himself, he didn't know what
they were looking for. How did you investigate a ghost? He
chuckled ruefully as he rewound the tape all the way back
to the beginning and started it playing. He had even already
started thinking of the target of their investigation as a
Bl
 If w his ' e r a ca 11

ghost. Not eyen Will Tavish had gone so far as to call it a

ghost, and he had experienced the entire attack.
Of course, Will didn't work for the Hoffmann Institute.
The videotape had played forward to the point where they
had found the pentagram and candle stubs when suddenly
Jeane called out from the woods, "Hello! We have something!"
McCain twisted around to see her walking up to the
fence with a paperback book in her hand. He got up and
·

went over to her.

"What is it?".
"Macbeth. I found it back there behind a tree, half under
a bush. It's probably only been there a couple of weeks."
She flipped through it. "It's not too weathered, but it was
sandwiched between layers of fallen leaves."
She held it up so he could see. The edges and comers
had been wrapped in wide transparent tape to protect them
but not before they had seen some serious damage from
use. It looked as if the book had been used fairly heavily
even after the tape was put in place. "High school text
book?" he guessed.
Jeane checked the first few pages. "Right you are.
Senior year, local high school. Looks like it's been passed
around for a few years." There was list of names on the
inside front cover. She tapped her finger against the bottom
name. "Van Dimitriat."
"Interesting. I wonder-"
"Good afternoon, folks."
Both Mccain and Jeane turned sharply at the sound of a
new voice. Standing at the entrance to the cemetery were
two police officers. Well, thought McCain, the internet did
say the cemetery was heavily patrolled. A cover story was
already unraveling itself in his mind. He took a quick
breath, prepared himself, and started toward the officers,
not too slow, not too fast. Just casual, both hands loose and
plainly visible.

81
 don •1 1 al ngth wal te

"Afternoon, officers," McCain called. He stepped through

the gap in the fence to join them on the other side. "Is there
something wrong?"
The older of the cops looked him up and down, then nod·
ded to his partner. "No, sir. We keep an eye out for vandals
and nuisances in the cenietery, and when we saw your car
parked down on 143rd, we thought maybe we should check
things out." He eyed the camcorder in McCain's hand.
"You're not a nuisance, are you, sir?"
"Not unless you consider µiovie location scouts a nui­
sance. My name's Wade Maxwell. I'd be pleased to give you
my card." McCain reached into his pocket slowly and delib­
erately. He passed one of his anonymous cards to the older
cop. "I take by 'nuisances' that you mean people who come
out looking for ghosts, Officer-" he glanced at the man's
name tag-"Jessop. n
Jessop nodded as he examined the card. "Exactly. And
we saw the books in the back seat ofyour car."
"Research." Jessop started to hand the card back, but
McCain waved him to keep it. He nodded toward Jeane as
she came tramping <mt of the brush, the copy of Macbeth
·

just poking out of her jacket pocket. "My assistant is thor­

ough. We're looking for background material for a movie,
and Bachelor's Grove has quite the . . ·. Well, I'm sure you're
familiar with its reputation." He turned and held up the
thumb and forefinger of his free hand to frame the cemetery.
"Do you actually get that many vandals coming through?
I'll bet the local teenagers are more of a problem."
"Not really. They all know better than to mess around
out here."
McCain turned back and smiled. "And do people really
see ghosts around the cemetery?"
The younger man laughed, a short snorting sound. Jes­
sop just smiled and said, "We get reports once or twice a
·

year."

Bf
 If W hll p B r I ca II

"But we can usually trace them back to a bottle in a

brown paper bag," his partner added.
McCain laughed, too. That's right, it's all just a bigjoke.
He grinned at the young cop. "What about the times you
·

can't?" •

The young man snorted out another laugh. "We had one
guy try to off his wife by bashing her with a rock, then pin
it on her falling after they got spooked and tried to run out
of the cemetery."
McCain forced himself to keep his face neutral. If that's
what the police thought had happened, no wonder Will
wanted to keep their investigation of the accident a secret.
"Greene!" snapped Jessop, with a frown. He looked back
i ore that Mr. Maxwell. The case
to McCain. "I hope you'll gn
was investigated, and the man was cleared."
"There's a distinct difference between cleared and
believed, Officer Jessop," Jeane chimed in.
Jessop looked at her for the first time, and McCain
caught the look that passed between them. He had seen
that look before: between two cops, between senior part­
ners in a law firm, between dogs meeting for the first time.
It was the reaction to a threat ta dominance, probably unin­
tentional but definitely unwelcome. McCain pulled Jessop's
attention back to himself.
"Officer Jessop," McCain said, "I don't suppose I could
call on you sometime to hear about some of those brown­
bag reports, could I? It would be great background for the
movie."
Jessop shrugged, safely distracted. "I don't see why not.
What would this movie be about, anyway?"
"Oh, horror, of course," McCain improvised swiftly.
"Something like three teenagers investigating stories about
a ghost get lost in the woods, then the ghost starts hunting
them. We'd do the film as if it were a documentary."
This time it was the younger officer that frowned. "I

83
 d on bas a I ng t h w a I te

hate to burstyour bubble but I'm pretty sure that's already

been done."
"Of course, it has," smiled McCain. "We're not talking
big budget here. This would be strictly direct to video." He
rubbed his fingers together. "Pure money."
"Ah." Jessop looked distinctly less impressed. "Well, if
you're gomg to be back out here doing any more scouting,
you might want to let us know. It saves the hassle."
"Absolutely. Say, how about at night? If we want to
come out and have a look around after dark, is it okay?" His
smile just got bigger and brighter as Jessop's frown got
deeper. "It is okay, right? We just need to get a feel for what
the place looks' like at night."
"Yeah," agreed Jessop reluctantly. "But you're definitely
going to have to make special arrangements. The cemetery
is strictly closed after sunset."
McCain nodded. "No problem. In that case, we're done
for the day. Thanks very much f9r your help." He shook
·hands with the two officers and gestured for Jeane to pre­
cede him back down the path. "One other thing." He indi­
cated Jeane's 35mm camera. "Is there a one-hour photo
nearby? We need to get this developed ASAP."

"How come when you come up with these alia,ses, I'm

always your assistant?" demanded Jeane. They sat in a
doughnut shop in the same strip mall that contained the
one-hour photo Jessop had recommended. They'd managed
to get themselves a comer table-not a difficult task since
the only other people in the shop were a pair of old men
wearing faded bowling jackets and playing checkers.
"Because I'm the one who buys." McCain set a coffee in
front of Jeane, then took a seat himself. He sipped at the cof­
fee and made a face. "Weak." He pointed at the camcorder.

84
 If · w hts·p e r a ca II

They shared the table with it and several of Jeane's books.

"What do you think?" .
Jeane was holding down the fast-forward button, watch­
ing herself iip through the speed-blurred landscape of the
cei:µetery.
· "There's not much to think about, is there?" she said.
"You've got lots of scenes of me and of ijie cemetery and not
a hint of anything else." She juggled the camcorder into one
hand so that she could pick up her coffee. "Let's hope the
camera caught something, or this is going to be a wasted
day."
"Mmm," mumbled McCain into his coffee. "Not entirely
a waste. At least we made contact with the local cops.
They're always good to have on your side." He looked at her
over the rim of his cup. "What was that comment to Jessop
about anyway?"
Jeane returned his gaze. "I wanted to know if they
thought Will really attacked Laurel or not."
"We already knew they did. Their investigation might
have cleared Will, but Greene wouldn't have made a joke
out of it if they believed him." He looked at her sideways.
"Why? Do you think Wtll attacked Laurel?"
Jeane shrugged. "I don't know." .
McCain gave her a curious look, and she made a non­
committal face.
"Head injuries can be funny things," she said, "but for
Laurel to fall a.lid hit herself hard enough to put her in a
coma without also inducing early labor . . . " She shrugged
again, then shook her head.
"Naw," she said, taking a sip of her coffee. "That's a
pretty simple investigation. Even Jessop looks ike
l he
would have a hard time screwing-" She was interrupted as
the door of the doughnut shop banged open, accompanied
by the whooping calls of a crowd of teenagers. "Damn.
School's out. There goes the neighborhood."

85
 d on �as a I nu t h w a I te

The teens poured into· the restaurant, five boys and

three girls. Jeane was talking again, something about
angles· of impact. McCain didn't really hear her. He was
watching the teenagers. In a way, he missed high school.
Sure it had seemed like a tremendous pain at the time, but
compared with adult life, that was nothing. Just as these
kids had the doughnut shop, there had been a pizza place
near his school where he and his buddies from the football
team had huhg out. Some of the boys were wearing school
jackets and he glanced at them, idly curious if any of them
were on the football team.
. It took a minute for the fact that he was staring at the
name of a local high school to register.
He tunied back to Jeane sharply and said, "Can I take a
look at that copy of Macbeth?"
"Here."
Jeane reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the
book, along with a thick wad of crumpled old cash register
receipts. McCain snorted and knocked several more out of
the book itself. "Some people throw these things out, you
know." ·
"I don't like to litter."
McCain swept the receipts to the back of the table and
opened the book to the page that listed the students who
had used it-and the high school they attended. He
looked up ·at Jeane and a smile spread across his face.
"How much do you think this Van Dimitriat knows about
the cemetery?"
She blinked. "He has to know something. The woods
outside · a cemetery are a pretty strange place to read
Shakespeare."
"Good. Back me up."
McCain got up from the table, straightened his collar,
and approached the tables where the teenagers sat. "Hey,·
kids."

88
 If w his p er a ca I I

That shut them up instantly as they examined the

stranger-the adult-who had walked into their midst.
McCain had figured they would. It was certainly what he
and his buddies would have done. He kept right on talking, .
flicking copies of his card across the table.
"My name's Wade Maxwell,·An gel Station Productions.
I'm in town doing location research for a movie. I'm won­
dering if you can help me out with some information." He
caught the eye of the woman behind the counter and passed
her a twenty dollar bill. "I'm paying for them."
One of the girls looked at him suspiciously. ·�What do
you want to know?"
And we have a bite. He should have thought of this ear­
lier. He grabbed a free chair from a nearby table and spun it
around so he could straddle it. backward. "Bachelor's· Grove
Cemetery."
.
That got them a little more interested. "What about it?"
asked the ·same girl.
He smiled at her. Good girl, keep feeding me those lines.
"See, me and my assistant-Jeane, can I have my coffee?­
were out there today looking around. There's not much to
see, as I'm sure you know."
Jeane tapped on his shoulder and handed him his coffee.
She didn't look impressed. McCain shared his smile with
her as well before sipping his coffee and continuing, "We
ran into a couple of local cops, �d I asked them if they had
problems with teenagers out at the cemetery. They said you
all knew better than to mess around out there. Of course, I
know what that really means." He looked around the table,
then reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of ten
dollar bills. "Who's got stories?"
That started them all talking at once, of course. McCain
had to shout them down. "Hey! One at a time, and here's the
deal: ten bucks for every good story that we haven't heard
before. And don't try to make one up because I deal with

87
 � an u 1 11 na t h w a I te

bullshit every day and I can smell it a mile away." He cocked

a finger at a big kid with a wide grin. "You first, hotshot. n

Most ofthe stories that eatne out were repeats of what he

and Jeane already knew, of course. The Madonna, the monk,
a ghost car on the highway. A couple of times, Jeane had to
open up her books and point out stories that were being
repeated word for. word just to shut up the ones who chal­
lenged them. Sometimes McCain gav� a kid money even _for
a story he had heard-it kept them interested. But there was
some new information to be learned, even if it was mostly
just new wrinkles on the old stories. One girl who claimed to
have seen the Madonna with her own eyes got ten dollars for
a new detail: She swore that the ghost was crying as she cra­
dled her baby. A couple of other kids had seen lights moving
in the cemetery, blue ·among the stones, red out along the
path. The kid wih
t the grin supplied a tale about the ghostly
farmhouse someti.J:Qes seen· near the cemetery. Anyone who
dared to approach the house, climb the steps to the well-lit
porch, and pass through the door never emerged again.
Jeane had raised a skeptical eyebrow at that. "I don't
suppose you've ever heard of anyone who actually did go
into the house?" The kid had shaken his head. "Then how
do you know they never come back?"
But the biggest surprise actually eatne from one ofthe old
checkers player. As the kids were winding down, he stood up
and eatne over with a story of his own. When he was a young
man in 1952, he had seen the legendary ghost car .

"A big, black Ford Model A from the late twenties. A

mob car," he said. "One of the Chicago gangs used to drive
down to dump bodies in the lagoon."
The part about the bodies had caught McCain's atten­
tion during his research, but the information on the car was
new. Not very helpful but new. McCain gave the old man his
ten bucks and paid for his coffee, too. He turned back to the
teenagers.

BB
 If w his p e r s ca 11

"How about that lagoon?" he asked, watching them a,11

closely. "Anybody ever heard anything about something in
the water grabbing people?"
The kids glanced at each other, then shook their heads
almost in unison. Almost. At the end of the table, two boys
exchanged sharp looks. McCain remembered them: When
the other teenagers had been spinning tales, they had
remained strangely quiet. One had offered an old chestnut
about the white-robed monk. The other, a tall blond kid with
a patch of a beard on his chin and a Chicago Blackhawks
cap, had said nothing at all. McCain looked away from them
and shrugged for the benefit of the other kids.
"Too bad," he said. "There's something about seeing
people get pulled into water that makes an audience go
nuts."
The big kid with the grin waved his hand. "Hey, my
uncle told me about this two-headed monster that's sup­
posed to come out of the lagoon. Maybe it could pull some­
body into the water."
McCain squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't ever go into the
movie business, hotshot." He stood up. "Thanks for your
time. We have to go. If any of you come up with anything
else, you've got my number. Give me a call. " He went back
over to his own table and helped Jeane gather up her books
and the camcorder. "By the way, do any of you happen to
know a Van Dimitriat?"
All of their eyes shot to the tall, blond boy. He shifted
uncomfortably for a moment. "That's me," he said finally in
a voice that was surprisingly deep, "I'm Van."
McCain looked at Jeane. She nodded and handed McCain
the copy of Macbeth. As they left the doughnut shop, he
slapped it down on the table in front of Van. "We found that
out by the cemetery. Bet you're glad to get it back."
Van stared at it like it was alive. "Yeah." His big deep
·

voice came out more like a whisper. "Real glad."

88
- It .
. e knows something," Jeane told McCain bluntly
as the door of the doughnut shop closed behind
them. ·
McCain smiled and said, "I know he knows, and
I'll bet that he knows we know he knows. If he
doesn't, he at least suspects it." McCain unlocked ·
his car, then held open the back door so she could
pile her books inside. "Now we wait for him to
decide that he wants to tell us what he knows. n

Jeane groaned. "You're kidding, right?" She

stood up and turned to face him. "He knows. We
know. Why don't we just take him aside and ask
him?"
"Keep it down."
McCain looked around the PC1Iking lot. She fol­
·-lowed his gaze. They were alone. It was starting to
get dark, and the cool greyness of the day pron:µsed
a wet night. No one else was around.
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 d on �a a al ng t h wal te

"First," he said, "you're not a federal agent anymore,

remember? We don't have any legal right to take someone
down to the Institute and shine a bright light in their face
until they talk. Second, Van is a kid in the middle of a crowd
of his friends. Do you think they're going to let us take him
aside for a little chitchat?" He opened the passenger side
door and held it for her. "If we let him come to us, he's going
to be happy to spill everything."
"And if he doesn't come to us?" asked Jeane. She
remained standing outside the car. "We've lost a lead."
McCain sighed. "If he doesn't call us then we find out
where he lives, and I'll let you use the battering ram on his
door. Happy?" He let go of the car door and pointed to the
other end of the strip mall and the one-hour photo store.
"I'm going to go pick up the pictures. Promise me you won't
bust his ass before I get back?"
"I'll try to restrain myself."
McCain strode away across the parking lot. Jeane got
into the car and pulled the door shut. It was cool inside. Her
breath made short-lived white patches of condensation on
the windshield. From where she sat, she could see back
into the doughnut shop. Van and his friends had taken up
talking and kidding around again. No, she realized, Van's
friends were talking and kidding around. Van seemed quiet
in a way that he hadn't when the crowd first entered the
shop. He was focused on his coffee, stirring it relentlessly.
Occasionally one of his friends would say something to him,
and he would react briefly, interacting for a few moments
before lapsing back into silence.
"What do you know, Van?" Jeane murmured to herself.
"What have you seen in Bachelo(s Grove?" She watched
him finally stop stirring his coffee and lift it to his mouth.
The sudden opening of the driver's side door made her
jump. "Jesus Christ, Fitz!"-
"Sorry." He dropped down into the driver's seat and

92
 If W �II ' er I cI I I
.
pulled the door shut behind him "Let's see what the cam­
.

era saw."
He turned on the overheard light. The world outside the
car vanished in �eflected light. McCain pulled a thick stack
of photographs out of a green-and-white envelope and
began flipping through them. Eager anticipation quickly ·

faded from his face. Jeane leaned over to look at the pic­
tures shuffling between his hands. They were good, clear
shots with sharp detail. On any other n
i vestigation, she
would have been proud of them. This time, though . . .
"Nothing?" she guessed.
"Nada." McCain handed the photos to her and leaned
forward to rest his head on the st�ering wheel as she
looked through them. "I don't suppose I should be sur­
prised."
"I'm pretty sure ghosts don't give command perform­
ances." Jeane slid the pile of photos back into the envelope.
"Look at it this way, Fitz, we've got complete photographic
documentation of the scene. That's a reasonable start to
any investigation."
McCain grunted into the dashboard. "I was kind of hop­
ing that we'd be a little further along than just the begin­
ning by this point." He sat up and looked at her. "I want to
go back out to the cemetery. Tonight."
"You're joking." She turned to look back at him The . .

overhead light cast his face into sharp, earnest angles.

"You're not joking. Fitz, it's going to rain."
"I've got an umbrella in the glove compartment."
"It's dark."
"That usually happens at night." He reached under the
seat and brought up a long, black flashlight.
Jeane held back a growl of frustration. "Boy scout," she
snailed. "Look, in a few days it will be a full moon. The
Madonna appears on the full moon. You can either go out
and get wet tonight-oryou can wait a few nights, hopefully

93
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get nicer weather, and have a statistically better chance of

actually seeing something." She raised one eyebrow. "Well?"
McCain just stared out the windshield. After a minute,
he sighed and confessed, "I'd rather not get soaked just to
.
round out a day of big disappointments." He switched off
the overhead light, turned the key in the ignition, and
backed out of. the parking space. "I do want to drive along
the turnpike and look at the cemetery from the other side
of the lagoon, though."
"Did I mention that it's dark out?"
"I've got it covered."
"That doesn't surprise me."
Jeane put on her seat belt and spared one last glance .at
the doughnut shop. Van's crowd of friends was starting to
break up. Time to go home for dinner. Van was looking out
the window, watching McCain's car pull away. He was flip­
ping something in bis hand, maybe one of the .cards McCain
had flicked around the table. For just a second and in spite
of the distance between them, Jeane felt as though their
eyes met. It sent a strange, electric shiver through her.
There was something odd about the young man, something
she couldn't quite define.
McCain turned onto the street, and the moment was bro­
ken. The strip mall-and Van-disappeared beyond the
rear window. Jeane glanced over at McCain. Had he seen
Van at the window? It was hard to tell. The orange illumi­
nation of the streetlights under which they drove flickered
over bis face, throwing shadows on top of shadows and
obscuring bis features. Only when an oncoming car caught
them squarely in its headlights did bis face come clearly
into view-and even then the headlights cast new shadows.
For all of McCain's talk about not being able simply to
walk Van into the Institute for questioning, Jeane couldn't
help but wonder how he himself saw Van. Was the boy just
another contact to him, another source of information? Was

94
 If w Illa ' e r 1 ca II

he just another person for McCain to. mislead with his end­
less parade of aliases? Wade Maxwell. Robert Neil.
Michael McCain?
'Fitz' is the onJy name that he doesn't wear like an alias,
Jeane realized.
In a few minutes they had left most of the lights of Mid­
lothian· behind and drove through the semidarkness of the
suburban night. The houses and lights became fewer and
fewer as the road cut through the southern fringes of Rubio
Woods Forest Preserve. They thinned out · even more as
McCain turned north on Ridgeland Avenue, right up
through the heart of the preserve. Jeane watched the trans­
formation pensively. The night was very dark, and a breeze
sent the arms of the trees swaying. If the woods around
Bachelor's Grove had seemed innocen� and harmless during
the day, they had matured rapidly with dusk.
"I've been thinking about the stories those kids told us,"
she said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. "Espe­
cially the one about the Madonna crying over her baby."
"What about it?"
Jeane settled back down in her seat. "What if she's
mourning?" McCain shrugged and she elaborated. "Think
about all of the other apparitions that are associated with
the cemetery. What reason would they have to strike out at
Laurel and Will? The Madonna is, or was, a mother. She
lost her baby. Laurel and Will come into the cemetery, just
about to give birth to a baby. Could she be jealous? Maybe
the force we're looking for ·is the Madonna trying to take
some kind of revenge against the living."
McCain was silent.
,
"Well? ; she prompted.
"Aside from the fact that no story ascribes anything like
the events at the hospital to the Madonna, it's not a bad
theory."
"Thank you for that overwhelming vote of confidence."
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 d on �a a .a I nu t h wa I te

McCain turned again, heading back east on the Mid­

lothian Turnpike. "Look, there's even less evidence ink­
l
ing the Madonna to this than there is linking the hospital
and the cemetery. And there's the question of why now?
How far back do reports of the Madonna go? You can't tell
me that Will and Laurel were the first parents to walk into
that cemetery. There must have been babies and children
in Bachelor's Grove before now."
"You have a better suspect?"
"Not really." He glanced over at her. "I can't believe
you're the one proposing this."
Jeane grunted and rubbed her forehead.. "Neither can I.
But it's the only thing I can think of that makes any sense.
At least it makes sense right now. Ask me again in the
morning, and I'll deny everything."
McCain slowed down abruptly, looking across the seat
and out of the window beside her.
"Hey!" Jeane snapped. "Keep your eyes on the road.
What are you looking for?"
"A landmark. There was a big old forked tree near the
highway on the other side of the lagoon."
Jeane peered out the window, cupping her hands around
her eyes to block out the reflected lights of the dashboard .
"Nothing . Nothing. Whoa! There i t is." .
McCain braked sharply and pulled over onto the shoul­
der. "You're sure?"
"As sure as I can be in the dark. Just how do you intend
to see from here?"
"Get out," he said, "and I'll show you."
He opened his door and hopped out. Jeane sighed. She
zipped her jacket tight, turned up the collar, and got out of
the car. McCain already had the trunk open, pulling some- ·
thing out of a box inside. He pushed the trunk lid down and
held up his prize, a pair of night-vision goggles. Jeane·
looked at them doubtfully.

98
 If w his p e r a c a II

"Are they going to be good enough over this distance?"

she asked.
"Absolutely," McCain replie� as he carefuUy fitted the
goggles over his head. "Warn me if there are any cars com­
ing. I'd rather not get high beams blasting info these
things."
He began fiddling with the goggles, focusing the lenses.
After a few moments, he stopped and began slowly scan­
ning the darkness.
"See anything?" askedJeane. ·Even with her eyes adjusted
to the darkness, she couldn't make out any real details.
"The lagoon. A couple of the bigger, whiter stones. The
goggles work better without a heavy cloud cover." He
pressed a button on the side of the goggles, and the long
lenses spun and extended like binoculars. "Better," McCain
grunted.
"You've got something?"
"No," McCain admitted with a sigh. "It doesn't look ike
l
there's anything mov-wait . . ." His arm came up, pointing.
"There. There's a dark streak, and everything has gone
kind of hazy. It's veryfaint, kind of like it's only half there."
Jeane held out her hand, then looked up at the sky. A fat
drop of cold water hit her squarely on the forehead.
"Fitz? Does this haze disappear if you close one eye?"
She dug the cap she 'had been wearing earlier out of her
pocket and pulled it on.
McCain's face wrinkled beneath the goggles as he
closed first one eye then the other. "Um . . . yeah.�
"You've got water on one of your lenses, genius. It's
starting to rain."
"Damn!" He tugged off the goggles and ran a hand
through his hair. He contemplated the goggles. "For a sec­
ond I thought I really had something."
"Nice try." More rain was coming down now, and several
drops hit Jeane in rapid succession. She opened the car

97
 d on �a a a I ng t h w a I te

door, letting light spill out into the night, and sat back
inside. "Maybe we can try them again the next time we're
·

out here."
"If there is a next time.• McCain sighed again. "Like you
said, ghosts don't give command performances. We didn't
· see. any today. I didn't see anything tonight. How many
times do you think we're going to have to come out before
we spot some1:hlng? How long do people who are really
interested in hauntings hang around in cemeteries before
they catch a glimpse of. �ything even remotely-"
"Fitz, shut up for a second.• Jeane sat still in her seat
with the door open. She stared out into the darkness. "Do
you hear anything?".
He cocked his head. "No."
"Exactly." She stood up and looked .all around them.
Everything was perfectly, utterly still. There was no sound.
The breeze had died away into the night. The rain was
falling gently, yes, but it fell onto the leaves lying on the
ground ·and onto the metal hood and roof of the car. It
·

should have made some noise.

Jeane turned and looked at McCain. "When wa& the last
time you saw a car come by?" she asked.
"Not since well before we pulled over."
"There should be more traffic coming past than that. It
isn't that late."
"Do.you think . . ?" McCain nodded toward the cemetexy.
.

"No," Jeane said instantly.

But as soon as she said it, her breath caught in her.
throat. The stillness and silence were, if not unnatural,
then at least unusual. Wasn't that exactly what they had
just spent the entire day looking for? The rain started to fall
more heavily-not harder, just heavier and with the same
eerie silence. Jeane climbed back into the car, shutting the
door behind her.
"No," she said again.

98
 If W 1111 ' If I Cl II

She stared straight ahead through the rain-streaked

windshield. This was what they wanted. Something to
investigate. But . . .
. She realized that she had her fists clenched. Slowly and
deliberately, she forced her hands open.
"Do you think we should hang around and check it out?"
asked McCain as he got in. He set the night-vision goggles
carefully on the back seat, then turned back to her.
Yes. No. "I-"
A flash of light 1n the rearview mirror interrlipted her.
Both she and McCain twisted around at the same time. A
pair of headlights was coming up the road, moving rapidly.
"Well," breathed McCain with relief, "there you go." He
turned back around. "There's someone else on the road."
Jeane stared at the lights. There was something not
quite right about them. They were too high off the road for
one thing, and too close together for another. They were
dimmer than normal and diffuse, too, as if the car were driv-
·

ing through fog.

She blinked. It was foggy. A thick mist had come up out
of the rain.
"Fitz," she said, her voice low.
"I see it." He was already reaching forward and twisting
the key in the ignition.
Nothing. Jeane watched the lights come closer and lis­
tened to a sound like distant thunder. McCain turned the
key again and again.

Will Tavish blinked and refocused his eyes on the news­

paper for what seemed like the hundredth time. The text of
the day's Thoune crept along the page, the words and sen­
tences slipping away from him. He blinked again ·and
sought out the paragraph he had been reading.
99
 d on ba s s I ng t h w a I te

"Sorry, Laurel," he muttered over the paper, "I dj.dn't get

much sleep last night.n
The apology was habit more than anything else. Laurel
didn't respond, of course. She was as silent as she had been
since the hospital orderlies first laid her down in the bed.
Will fought the urge to glance 6ver the top of the paper and
look at her. He knew nothing would have changed.
The paranoia was the reason he hadn't slept last night.
Ever since his talk with Rob Neil yesterday, it had been
there, murmuring in llls ear. It had kept him up all night, it
kept him from reading, it even kept him from watching tel­
evision. And he thought it had been bad before he met Rob.
He had only found peace for a few short minutes today, and .
·
that had been when he let down his guard and the paranoia
had overwhelmed him. He hadn't meant to do it. The para­
noia was madness, and he would not give in to it. Not con­
sciously, anyway. But around eleven a.m., the caffeine buzz
from an extra-large coffee slowly fading, his feeble atten­
tion had wandered. He had shaken himself awake, alert
with sudden h�rror. Fifteen minutes had disappeared dur­
ing which all he could remember was the murmuring pres­
ence of the paranoia.
He had fled to the only sanctuary he knew: the hospital.
Somehow the paranoia seemed to ease during the time he
spent beside Laurel's bed. Even here it didn't give him much
respite, though what it. did yield was a blessing. He still
couldn't sleep, but he could at least relcix. He filled the time
reading to Laurel. Dr. Doyle encouraged it, actually"-she
said the stimulus was good for Laurel, that it might help
bring her out of the coma faster. Will wasn't so sure of the
accuracy of that. Or maybe the paranoia wasn't sure. Some- . ·
times he wasn't sure where he ended and it began.
Will forced that thought away and bent his attention
back to the paper. He blinked yet again, found his spot, and
began to read. The· article was some ridiculous bit of fluff

100
 If W 1111 J er I CI II

on blending your own potpourri. Laurel would have hated it

if she had been able to-
The text of the newspaper leaped off the page with a
sharpness and clarity that took Will's breath away. It was
as if he had suddenly been fitted with glasses that he never
knew he needed. Maybe a hearing aid, too, because
abruptly the room was alive with little noises he had never
noticed before.
The constant presence of the paranoia was gone. He
lowered the paper slowly. "Laurel . . . I'm . . ."
The slack mask of Laurel's unconscious face had been
replaced by a particular tightness he had seen too many
times on patients in his dentist's chair. Pain.
Her body moved, too. Small movements, tiny stirrings, a
slight shifting ofjoints. They only lasted a moment. Behind
the tape that held her eyelids closed, her eyes began flick­
ing rapidly back and forth. Will stood spellbound, watching.
Laurel made a noise, a low keen that crawled out from
the back of her throat. That broke the spell. He reached out
and slapped the call buzzer for a nurse, then slapped it
again. Nothing. Nothing! He jumped for the door and tore
down the hall to the nursing station. He almost slammed
into a nurse and Dr. Doyle running toward the room.
He grabbed Dr. Doyle and shouted, "Laurel's waking
up!"
The doctor shrugged him off and pushed her way into
Laurel's room, the nurse and Wtll right behind her. Dr.
Doyle glanced over Laurel, then went straight to the
machines that monitored her life signs. She frowned. Turn­
ingback to Laurel, she peeled offthe tape covering one eye,
then pulled back Laurel's eyelid. Laurel's eye continued to
dart about as if controlled by some unseen puppeteer.
"Rapid eye movement. She's dreaming, but there's no
change in her vital signs." Dr. Doyle looked up at Will. ·"This
shouldn't be happening."

. 101
 d on ba a s I ng t h w a I te

"Fitz!"
"I'm trying!"
Jeane stared at the lights. There was clearly something
behind them, a car maybe but taller and thinner than any
car she was familiar with. It was the source of the distant
thunder as well, now a roar that echoed in her head and
shook through her bones-she couldn't tell for sure
whether she was hearing the sound or simply feeling it. The
thick mist made it hard to tell how far away the lights were.
For a moment, she thought that maybe the lights would just
race right past them. McCain's car was pulled far over on
the shoulder and well out of range. Then the lights swerved
abruptly. Bright beams flashed h�r straight in the eyes.
"Bail!" she yelled, grabbing for her door.
"No!" McCain snapped back, "I've got it!"
The ignition roared to life, and McCain slammed his foot
on the gas. For a second, the tires spun, kicking up muddy
gravel and squealing like a wounded animal before catching
traction. The car shot forward and onto the road. Jeane
braced herself as the acceleration pressed her into the seat.
Something big and black rushed past the rear bumper and
plunged off the road.
The lights were gone as instantly as if someone had
flicked off a switch.
McCain stepped on the brake and brought his car to a
bone-jarring stop. The night vision goggles slid forward off
the back seat and onto the floor of the car with an unpleas­
ant crack, but McCain paid no attention to them. He was
staring out the rear window.
"What the hell was that?" he asked.
Jeane opened her door and jumped out. The mist was so
thick she couldn't see to the other side of the road, but at
least the rain had stopped. She followed the smear of rubber
10f .
 If w hla p e r a c a II

that marked the pavement all the way back to where they
h.id been parked a moment ago. There were no othermarks,
either on the asphalt of the road or the gravel of the shoul­
der, or among the grass and autumn-dead weeds that lined
the road. McCain jogged up beside her-she noticed that
this time he had left the car running.
"Where . . . ?" McCain started to say.
He stopped as soon as he realized there was nothing to
see. For a moment he just stared into the darkness and the
mist. Then his arm came up, he pointed into the distance off
the road, and said, "Look."
A pale blue glow illuminated the mist back in among the
trees, moving slowly but steadily. Jeane couldn't make out
the source of the glow, but she could guess. Something was
moving in Bachelor's Grove Cemetery.
It wasn't the only light in the mist, though. Back down
the turnpike, two more lights had appeared, the same color,
height, and size as those that had vanished moments
before. The only difference was that these were moving a
lot faster. Jeane could already sense the beginning of the
same horrible roar beating against her.
"Back into the car!" she yelled.
McCain didn't need any additional urging. He ran back,
trench coat flapping, and threw himself into the driver's
seat. He pushed the car into drive almost before Jeane had
her door closed. She wrapped the seat belt tight around her­
self and held on. The car's acceleration was smoother this
time, but it still sent the engine howling through rapid gear
shifts. McCain keptthe gas pedal pressed to the floor, push­
ing them faster and faster through the mist. Jeane glanced
behind them.
Somehow the lights in the mist were still gaining on
them.
"Fitz . . ."
"I know," he said grimly. His face was hard and his jaw
103
 d en -as 11 ngth wal te

was clenched. He looked down at the speedometer and

·

shook his head. "Damn. Look for a turn-off."

"Menard down to 143rd."
"We're way past it."
"There must be a ton of other streets. There's houses all
around here."
McCain shook his head. "I haven't seen any. Look for
Cicero Avenue. It should be impossible to miss." He glanced
briefly up toward the rearview mirror and gasped. "Holy
shit!"
Jeane looked back. The lights were right behind them
and holding pace easily. She could clearly see now that they
were headlights-old headlights. The car that. followed
them was built high off the ground, with a square grill and
a narrow hood slung between rounded fenders. The head­
lights were mounted on the sides of the car's nose. The
windshield was almost vertical and capped by a ridged
cloth top that shook with the speed of the car's passage. All
of the car that she could see was painted black. Even the
windshield was dark-anyone, anything, or nothing at all
might be behind the wheel. If Jeane had to make a guess,
she'd say it was a Ford Model A from the 1920s, a "mob .
car" as the old man in the doughnut shop had described it.
She swallowed hard. How was an antique like that
keeping up with them? There was one possible explanation,
and she didn't like it. Jeane, she told herself, there's a time
for scientific objectivism. and a time when you just have t9
go with what your eyes are telling you.
The roar of the Model A changed slightly in pitch and
the other car began slipping into the oncoming lane. "It's
moving up!" she warned.
"Like hell it is," McCain snarled. He pulled his car side­
ways to block the Model A . . . and went into a short, sharp
skid. Jeane felt her stomach rise and twist, and she grabbed
reflexively for the door handle. Even McCain gave a yelp.
104
 If w hla p e r a c a II

The skid probably didn't last for a second, but it was

enough. The Model A was up on their right now, overtaking
them with hideous speed and a fluid smoothness. The wire
spokes and wide, white sides of the old tires slid past
Jeane's window. She became aware of a new sound under­
neath the roar of the car. A terrified wailing and a hollow,
irregular pounding. She knew what it was instantly. Some­
one or something was trapped in that car, hammering at the
polished black metal and trying to get out.
The ·Model A began to ease toward them.
"Fitz!" ·
"Brace yourself!"
She reacted instinctively and just in time. A heartbeat
later, McCain's foot jumped from the gas to the brake. The
car screamed in protest, but it bucked and skidded to an
abrupt halt.
The Model A didn't even tryto stop. Before McCain's car
had even given a final jerk, the Model A had been swal­
lowed by the mist. Jeane drew a ragged breath and looked
to McCain. His face was ghastly pale in the dashboard light.
Except for their breathing and the muted growl of the car's
engine, the night was as silent and still as it had been by
the cemetery.
McCain leaned foiward and cleared his throat, spitting
helplessly onto the floor between his feet. "Is it gone?"
Jeanne nodded silently, but something made her look back
over her shoulder.
In the distance were two lights, approaching rapidly.
"Go!" she rasped. McCain slammed his foot back onto
the gas pedal, and they were going again, accelerating fast.
Jeane scanned the side of the road for any sign of a turn­
off-Menard, Cicero, an on-ramp for 294, a driveway, any­
thing. But there was nothing and the lights were catching
up with them faster than . . .
The mist fell away behind them. The transition was so

105
 d11 u a 1 l 1g t b wal te

fast it made Jeane blink and McCain start, bis twitch send­
ing the car swerving to the side of the road. The headlights
flashed. across a street sign. Jeane barely caught the name
as they whipped past it. Menard Avenue. They were barely
half a mile beyond Bachelor's Grove.
She looked back. The mist was nothing more than a tat­
tered mass of drifting wisps, rapidly vanishing into the
· night, and the only lights behind them came pullirig out of
Menard flaring red and white. The silence was shattered by
. the wail of a police siren. Jeane exchanged a sharp glance
with McCain.
"What the hell?" she breathed.
"I don't know."
He braked gently and pulled over to the side of the road.
The police car caught up to them in a few moments, slow­
ing to stop just behind them. Jeane caught the sound of a
car door slamming shut a moment later. McCain flicked on
the interior light and rolled down bis window. Night air
came streaming in, canying with it a hundred different
sounds, all the nocturnal rustling and twitching and distant
noises that had been missing
· before. It also carried the
measured pace of boots on asphalt as a figure, silhouetted
by the lights behind, came up on the driver's side and bent
down to the window.
"Evening, Mr. Maxwell," said Officer Jessop. "In a hurry
to get back to Chicago?"
Jeane found herself exhaling in a thin sigh of relief.
McCain was already giving the police officer a smile. "I'm
afraid we lingered a little too long over coffee then took a
wrong turn coming out of town. I've got an appointment
and I guess my foot's a little heavy with the road so . . ."
"Foggy?" supplied Jessop. "I saw you come barreling out
of that cloud just before it broke up. Strange place for a
·

heavy.foot."·
The light inside the car cast Jessop's face into shadows,

108
 If w his p e r a ca 11

but Jeane still eaught an odd look in his eyes. An odd,

knowing look.
She leaned forward to peer around McCain and said
quickly, "Strange piace for a fog, Officer Jessop."
McCain shot her a sharp glance.
Jessop studied the two of them silently. Jeane was sud­
denly aware of how McCain looked: pale and drenched in
the sweat of fear. She could feel cold perspiration running
down her back as well. She didn't take her eyes off Jessop,
though, and eventually the officer nodded.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, it is. You don't look like the type to
let anyone take a wrong turn, ma'am." He glanced back to
McCain. "Funny thing-your wrong turn took you right
past Bachelor's Grove."
"I guess it did."
"Some of the stories about Bachelor's Grove say the
road along here is haunted, too. Did.you read about that in•
your research?"
"It sounds familiar," McCain replied.
"A couple almost ran off the road near here back in the
seventies. Said they smashed into another car, but when it
was all over, they were fine and there was no sign of
another car." He looked at both of them. "You two look like
people who were almost in an accident."
McCain's eyebrows rose. "The ghost car?" he asked
innocently. Jeane kept her face neutral. "You know, after
our conversation this afternoon, that would have been the
last suggestion I'd expect you to make, Officer Jessop."
"It's a· suggestion that's a lot easier to make at night,"
Jessop replied. H;e caught Jeane's eye. "I think at least <;:me
of you knows it, too." He straightened up at!-d slapped the
top of the car. "Thy not to let your foot get too heavy the rest
of the way back to Chicago, Mr. Maxwell. And good luck on
your movie. n
He stepped away from the car, then turned back to his
107
 d on ba s s I nut h w a I te

own vehicle. After a few moments, the police cruiser turned

out on the road and sped on past them.
"Well," said Jeane, "that was interesting." She looked
over to McCain again. "Still think the day was a disap­
pointm�nt?"
He returned her gaze. "Still think the Madonna is the
ghost we want?"

Hovering at the foot of Laurel's bed, watching Dr. Doyle

fuss over his wife, Will gasped as a thick, horrid pressure
exploded inside his head. For a moment, his vision shrank
to a tiny pinpoint, and anger poured through him No, not
.

just anger. Burning, blinding, unthinking rage. Then the

strange pressure had settled back into him and he was left
gasping for air beneath the crushing weight of his paranoia.
Except that it wasn't just paranoia anymore. The pres­
sure pulsed and seethed in his ears. It was anger. It was
urgency. It was need.
Will stifled a cry, just as Dr. Doyle stood up sharply. "It's
stopped. She's totally inactive again." She turned toward
Will. "I'm-"
It was too much. He fled the room, sprinting for.the ele­
vators and escape from the hospital.

108
" 'J

j t i/j
; l�
,. f,
I. :.I
.,
' ii-I I:
,
I ;.

'{I '

.f: or a time after Ngan had come to America in the

1950s, he had shared an apartment in San Fran­
cisco with fourteen other Tibetan refugees.
Actually, calling it an apartment was generous. In
his childhood, he had known Hlmalayan cav�s that
were larger, more generously appointed, and better
lit. The apartment in San Francisco was a dark,
damp basement room with a bare bulb, a leaking
sink, and a toilet down the hall that backed up every
time it rained.
His new office at the Chicago branch of the Hoff­
mann Institute was twice as large as the entire
place.
He closed th� policies and procedures manual the
Institute had given him to read and looked around
his office. In the squalor of his San Francisco apa[t­
ment, three grown men would have slept in th:e space
taken up by his desk alone. In Chicago, the desk was
109
 don u 1 ·1 1 ngt h w1 l te

merely piled high with papers, stuffed with files, and

weighed down by the cold new computer with which the
Institute had insisted on providing him. The television and
video equipment against one wall could have been moved to
accommodate another man, and an entire family could .have
sfopt where the big meeting table stood. No, he realized, if
there.had been a table in San Francisco, the landlord woul·d
have packed in two families, one on top and one widemeatli.
The office was too big. The comers of it were shadowed and
·

always empty.
Ngan sat forward in his chair and scanned the mosaic
of buttons on his new telephone for the one marked "inter·
com." After a moment, he gave up. He walked across his
'

big office, pulled open his big door with the big, bright
brass name plate on it, and stuck his head into the outer
office.
"Emma," he said, "has there been any word from
Michael or Jeane?"
Emma Kazmeryk, the secretary assigned to the team,
glanced up. Perhaps if there was one good thing about his
promotion, it was that somehow he had been fortunate
enough to acquire her services. The slim, dark-haired
wonian was a marvel of speed and efficiency. She ·could, to
use Fitz's words of awe, "field strip a photocopier and
reassemble it' blindfolded." Her desk, Ngan noticed, was
small, compact, and perfectly neat. No matter what she
was given to do, it never seemed to sit for long.
"Jeane came in about thirty-five minutes ago," Emma
answered, "but she's waiting for Fitz so they can make their
report to you together."
"Ah." The brushed metal clock on the wall behind Emma
·
read 10:45. "Is she in their office?"
Emma nodded, and Ngan crossed the outer office to the
door that bore the agents� names. It was closed. He
· knocked. "Jeane, may I come.in?"
110
 If w hla p e r a ca 11

"Report's not ready." Jeane's voice was muffled.

"It will only take a moment."
There was a muted sound that might have been a sigh
of annoyance, then Jeane spat out. "Yeah, okay-come in."
Ngan was always somewhat surprised that the Institute
would put two agents together in such a small office when
his own could so easily and comfortably accommodate all
three of them. But, he supposed, there was a hierarchy in
the way office space was assigned, even within an organi­
zation of such apparent good will and co-operation as the
Hoffmann Institute.
At least Jeane and McCain had done the best they could
with the limited space they had been assigned. They had
shoved their desks together in the center of the room, leav­
ing a narrow aisle around the room's perimeter. A filing cab­
inet, a short bookshelf, a coatrack, and a spare chair turned
the aisle into a tight maze. Jeane was seated at the narrow
computer workstation that capped the far end of both
desks. There .was a pencil in her mouth. She gave him a
weary, sour look. "I'm waiting-"
"For Michael. Emma told me." Ngan walked into the
room and squeezed through to sit on the spare chair. "I'm
very curious to hear about what you learned yesterday."
"Oh, you'll love it." Jeane went back to typing, her fin­
gers clattering over the keyboard.
"I regret not being able to go with you, but I had to
attend a meeting yesterday."
Jeane didn't look up. "Really? How was it?"
"It . ·. Ngan hesitated. Was it appropriate to tell the
. "

agents that he felt some of his. superiors and colleagues

were petty bureaucrats whose time might be more produc­
tively spent picking their noses? Would that promote proper
respect and the need for teamwork? " . . .was a meeting."
"Better you than me," snorted Jeane. "I'll stick to ·field
work, thank you very much."
111
 1111 U 1 1 1 ngtb Wll te

"That's a wise choice." Ngan leaned forward. "Was the

trip .to Bachelor's Grove worthwhile?"
Jeane paused in h.er typing and glanced up at him
sharply. He sat back again and said, "My apologies. I'm
eager."
"Ngan, Fitz and I will give you the report together." The
pencil in her mouth bobbed with each word. "Is there any­
thing .else until then?"
"No." Ngan stood. "I'll wait in my office."
He almost bumped into McCain on the way out. The
young man carried a rough-pressed paper tray with two tall
cups of coffee and a small paper bag.
"Doughnuts?" asked Ngan.
"Muffins, actually." McCain gave him a level look. "I'm
afraid-I only have two . Sony."
Ngan returned his gaze. "Of course."
He took long, deep breaths as he crossed the outer lobby
and reached for the handle of his own. office door. He was
disappointed, yes, but what could he really expect? McCain
shared an office with Jeane. He had been out in the field
with her yesterday. Certainly they were all supposed to be
one team, but the two agents did work more closely with
each other than with him.
Yet he had known McCain for virtually all of the young
man's life. When they had been reunited in Washington,
McCain had certainly seemed pleased to see him What had
.
·

happened to that rapport?

Ngan was not looking forward to this debriefing. He .
would have given his promotion not to be the one conduct-
ing it. . . .
An idea struck him and he returned to Emma's desk.
,

"Would you ask Lily Adler if she would be free in an hour?

And pass a message to Jeane and Fitz that they will need to
have their report ready for the same time." He gave Emma
a smile. "Don't mention anything about Lily to them."
- 1U
 If w hla p e r a ca 11

An hour later, he was rather pleased to watch Jeane

blink in surprise as she stepped through his office door and
saw the woman with silver-grey hair sittingbeside his desk.
McCain, just behind her, did the same double take and
straightened his posture.
"Field Director Adler," McCain said.
"Mr. McCain. Ms. Meara." Chicago Branch Field Direc­
tor of Observation Lily Adler nodded to both of them.
Ngan gestured for McCain and Jeane to seat themselves
in the chairs in front of his desk. Jeane placed several
printed pages on Ngan's desk, then reached across and
gave her own copy of the report to Lily.
"Thank you,• said Lily.
"You're welcome, ma'am." Jeane took her seat.
Nga,n watched both her and McCain as he skimmed
through their report. Both of them were now studiously
avoiding looking at Lily. Ngan concealed a smile. Lily Adler
was something of a legend among the staff of the Hoffmann
Institute in Chicago. She carried both herself and her com·
mand with an elegant, steely grace that spoke of long hours
at a blueblood finishing school. For many agents, Lily was
the last sort of person they would have expected to find
working.for the.Hoffmann Institute, let alone serving as a
field director of observation. Most of them never got used to
that or to her iron-willed style of management. When Lily
gave an order she expected it to be obeyed, just as a grand
matriarch might command her family.
Ngan had known her for years. She was one of his old­
est friends in the Institute, and when he had asked for her
help, she had been happy to agree.
He finished the report and looked up. "I've asked Field
Director Adler to sit in today. I felt her observations on this
investigation might prove useful." And, he hoped, support­
ive. He tapped the edge of the report on his desk. "Your ·

encounter on the turnpike concerns me." .

113
 d en bas a I nut b w a I te

· "It was an unexpected event," admitted Jeane. She spoke

in the official "report" voice she used around superiors­
with, he had noticed, the exception of him. "But it was also
fortuit6us." She glanced at McCain. "Just before we stopped
on the turnpike outside the cemetery, we had been speculat­
ing on the. possibility that the Madonna might be the Bache­
lor's Grove ghost most likely to be responsible for the events.
The appearance of the phantom car suggests otherwise." ·
Ngan raised an eyebrow. "So you have accepted the pos­
sibility that a spirit force is at work?"
Jeane lifted her eyes to the ceiling for a moment as if
considering the question. "It is a . . . possibility. If you
accept the existence of such spirits."
"Which you don't, Ms. Meara?" asked Lily. She leaned
forward, glancing toward Ngan for belated permi�sion to
intrude on the conversation.
"Under duress, ma'am. I'd register my objection to the
existence of ghosts, but there doesn't seem to be much
point. In this case, all available observations currently indi­
cate the involvement of such a force, and our investigations
have failed to suggest another alternative. If you'll forgive
me for quoting Sherlock Holmes, 'when you've eliminated
the m
i possiple, what remains, no matter how improbable,
must be the truth.' "
"Not one to jump to conclusions, are you, Ms. Meara?"
"No, ma'am," Jeane said with a little pride in her voice,
"I'm not."
If Lily's· orders, Ngan reflected, were obeyed as if they
came from a family matriarch, then even her smallest com­
pliments were accepted as if . they came from the same
source. Lily had a way forrewarding her agents with words.
Or at least rewarding most of her agents. He noticed
McCain sneaking Jeane a glance of disgust.
"Is there anything you'd like to add to the report, ·

Michael?" asked Ngan.

114
 If w hla p e r 1 ca II

McCain's attention ::.napped back to him. "Only that we

continue to lack any demonstrable direct link between the
hauntings at Bachelor's Grove and the events in the hospi­
tal," he said smoothly.
He was quick, Ngan had to give him that, but he did
have a tendency to leap without double-checking his facts.
"What if you knew that Laurel apparently experienced a
nightmare last night at the same time you were on the turn­
pike?" Ngan asked.
"What?" McCain looked to Jeane. She shook her head.
"What happened?"
"At the moment, that is the extent of my information,"
Ngan admitted. He describedwhat had happened exactly as
Shani Doyle had described it to him earlier that morning.
"Of course, no one knew until now that the duration of the
episode coincided with your encounter in the mist."
Jeane sat back as well, a stunned expression on her
face.
McCain closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath.
When he opened his eyes again, he said, "I asked you this
once before, and you didn't give me a straight answer. Do
you think it's really a ghost?"
Ngan considered both of them for a moment. Out of the
corner of his eye, he could also see Lily waiting on his
answer. Suddenly his idea of inviting her to sit in for sup­
·port felt like it had backfired. She had told him once that a
good leader only gave his agents facts, never opinions. He
wondered if that advice had ever trapped her like.this.
He looked at McCain and said, "I think you think it is."
McCain's eyes flashed with frustration.
Jeane rubbed her forehead and said, "No offense,
Ngan, but that's not much help. I couldn't find anything at.
the hospital that would explain the mist, and I can't think
of anything that would reasonably explain what we saw
last night unless I resort to saying that Fitz and I shared

115
 d on ba a 11 ng t h w a I te

a hallucination." She· threw up her hands. "Lacking any

other explanation, I'm willing to accept a ghost-or some
other paranormal force. Whatever it is, we need some
guidance."
McCain pounced into the opening Jeane had made. "If it
is one of the ghosts of Bachelor's Grove at work, we still
don't know which one it was. Remember, the mist doesn't
fit any of the stories about Bachelor's Grove, and there
haven't been any reports of ghost cars driving around Pres­
byterian-St. Luke's. And I've never heard of ghosts follow·
ing people home from the graveyard. We either need
another lead·or a new approach to the problem."
Ngan could feel a flush growing in his cheeks. He looked
to Lily for aid, but a quick dart of her eyes told him that this
was something he p.ad to work out himself. There was noth­
ing she could do to help him now that wouldn't make him
look bad in the agents' eyes.
He fell back on the only advice he felt fully confident in,
advice first given to him by an older mentor than Lily. .
"Patience," he said. He laid the report down on his desk.
"Jeane, continue with your research. You've made a good
start, and more research might reveal something else.
Michael . . ." He groped for a moment, trying to find instruc­
tions that would take full advantage of McCain's talents. ·

"Go back to Presbyterian-St. Luke's. Talk to Dr. Doyle."

McCain gave a cheerful little grunt. "That's the first
order you've given in a while that I like."
"Mr. McCain!" snapped Lily, and McCain blanched.
"Sorry, ma'am."
"I'm not the one you owe an apology to."
The young man turned toward him, but Ngan just waved
him toward the door. "Apology accepted. You have your
assignments-you're dismissed." He brushed his hand
across the report. "I'll digest this and let you know if ·

there's anything else."

118
 If w bll ' er I ca II

He waited until the agents were out of the office and the
door had closed behind them before he turned to Lily.
"I believe that went rather well," he sighed.

"Hold that elevator!• Someone inside caught the doorjust

before it closed and McCain ducked through. "Thanks." He
turned to the attractive black woman in the lab coat at the
side of the elevator. "Why, imagine running into you here, Dr.
Doyle-or may I accept your invitation and call you Shani?"
She smiled. "You may. And running into me on the floor
of my office is hardly a co-• McCain gave her a sharp grin
and she bit her tongue. "Let me rephrase that. Running into
me on the floor where my office is located is hardly a coin­
cidence. Did Ngan send you over?"
"More or less. I'm here for a follow-up." The elevator
stopped and the other passengers got out. McCain glanced
at the panel. "Going to the ICU?"
"Checking on Laurel. After last night, we've got a new
monitor set up on her, but I like to check in myself every so
often. I'm worried about her." Shani leaned against the ele­
vator wall. "Like I told Ngan, though, there's not much to
add to the story. "
McCain coughed discretely. "That's not actually the fol­
low-up I had in mind, though I do have some news for you.
What I really wanted was to ask you to dinner tonight."
"Your timing is perfect. I'm free tonight. How's seven?"
"You read my mind."
The elevator stopped at the Intensive Care Unit and
McCain followed Shani out.
"Sounds good," Shani said with a smile. "So what's your
news?"
"Something happened to Jeane and I last night at the
same-"
117
 d on ba s s I nu t h w a I te

"Dr. Doyle!" One of the nurses from the station by the

elevator came running after them. "Are you here to see
Mrs. Tavish?" Shani nodded. "Dr. Tavish is with her."
· "Thanks, Jenny." The nurse went back to the station and
Shani turned to McCain. "Do you want to talk to him?"
"I probably shouldn't. He might get suspicious if Rob
Neil keeps showing up in his wife's room. How about I walk
you to the door? On the way, I can tell you what ]eane an.d
I saw."
He only hit the higlilights of the events on the turnpike,
but it was more than enough to keep Shani in silence while
he spoke.
When .he was finished, she added quietly, "I don't like
it."
"You don't like it?" McCain grimaced. "You should have
been in my car."
"It's way too much of a coincidence that this should hap­
pen to you and Jeane. Have you thought that maybe what
we're dealing with knows who you are and what you're try­
ing to do? Last night might have been a deliberate attack."
"Maybe, but I don't understand how." They stopped out­
side the door of room 923, and McCain nodded toward it.
"How do you explain Laurel's nightmare at the same time
last night?"
Shani frowned.
"Well?" McCain pressed.
"Shh." Shani tilted her head. "Listen." She pointed at
the closed door.
It took McCain !!- moment to distinguish the sound that
came through it from the background noise of the hospital.
Someone was talking inside the room, a low, disjomted dia­
tribe. McCain looked at Shani.
"Will?" he whispered.
"I guess so. What should we do?"
McCain stepped up to the door and pushed very slowly

118
 If • hla ' er I Cl II

and gently, opening it just until he could see into the room.
Shani peered in past him .

He had crept back into the hospital at about one o'clock

in the afternoon, slinking into the ICU and his wife's room
like a disgraced gog. The night had become· a blur in his
memory. He couldn't remember. He couldn't concentrate.
He could barely think with the chaos that boiled in his brain.
He remembered clearly his flight from the hospital, but that
was all. He had gone home at some point, he was fairly ce�­
tain of that, but he had also driven around the city at ran­
dom for a long, long time, from the north side to south side
neighborhoods he would normally never think of going near.
He had circled the Loop and the seedy streets under the L
so many times that a watching cop would have thought he
was looking for prostitutes. He had gone out to O'Hare and
watched planes land. He had stopped·at some apparently
nameless twenty-four-hour diner, only to watch a cheese­
burger cool and congeal untouched in front of him He had .

eventually asked for it to be wrapped up to go-he still

wasn't sure if he had eaten it. Exactly where home had
entered into those roamings, though, he wasn't sure. He
only knew that he had gone there and tried to sleep. Sleep
hadn't come, and he had left again.
There had been one constant through the night, how­
ever. The whispers that he had once mistaken for paranoia
were more insistent than ever. More unified, too. Sometime
during the night, they had joined into a single voice that
drove him on, keeping sleep away, never letting him forget
the anger. The fear. The urgency.
I need her. Oh, how I need her.
Maybe it was that need that finally brought him back to
the hospital. For a long time, hours maybe, he had just sat

119
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beside Laurel's bed, letting the whispering voice flow

through him and watching her . . . sleep? Watching her body
"being driven by machines. The child shifting in the warm
liquid darkness of her womb seemed more alive than she
was.
He wasn't sure when the words started coming. They
were simply there, welling up from somewhere deep inside
him and pushing the whispers aside. :Maybe Laurel would
hear him. Maybe she would understand. He had to hope.
" . . . ·sorry, Laurel, I'm so sorry. We shouldn't have
gone-I shouldn't have gone. Why didn't I lea:ve it all
alone? We were so happy. But you had to come didn't you?"
His voice, he realized, had turned harsh, but he didn't stop.
"You had to. And now look at everything that's happened.
Look at it. Look at you!"
!need her.
He realized that he was standing, looking down at Lau­
rel. He didn't remember rising. His hands were wrapped
tight around the bed rails, the metal warm from the heat of
his grip and slick with the sweat from his palms. .He took
his hands away from the rail, rubbing them dry on the hips
of his pants. His right hand came away feeling grubbier
than before. Something greasy stained his pants. The
cheeseburger, maybe, nuzzled up beside him in the car.
"Look at me," he told Laurel. "Look at me." There was
a little sink built into the wall on the opposite side of the
bed. A mirror was mounted above it. He raised his head and
looked into the mirror.
Will Tavish stared back, almost unrecognizable. The
twitch that had begun to manifest when he had been talk­
ing With Rob had gotten worse-every so often, his lips
would twist and frown. His eyes were very, very pright,
their fevered sharpness highlighted by the dark circles of
insomnia. At least his hair was clean and he had shaved:
His shirt looked clean, too, though he had still managed to

uo
 If w his ' e r a ca I I

pull a pair of dirty pants back on. Unless they had been
clean when he put them on, and he had gotten the cheese­
'burger after he had been home. He couldn't remember.
"I need you," Will whispered.
He touched her arm through the rough hospital blan­
kets, slid his hand all the way up to her shoulder and her
neck. Where the blankets ended, her skin was cool. He
touched her ear and brushed her hair aside. The gauze on
her head was soft against his hand. He could feel the thick­
ness of her hair under the bandages. Spread out, his fingers
could cover the entire side of her head. He pushed gently,
turning her head to the side. There was no resistance.
There had been no resistance before. Bachelor's Grove
welled up around him again, and Laurel was lying in the
mist, the stone by her head. Will saw his own hand reach­
ing out to take her head, tum it toward the stone and . . .
Finish it!
"No!" He snatched his hand away and stepped back from
the bed, breathing hard. "I'm .not listening!" he screamed.
"I'm not listening!"
Last night he had fled without thinking. Now he fled
because he knew he couldn't stay any longer. When had he
given in to the voice? Just now, when he had stood and
touched Laurel, or earlier? Had coming to the hospital been
his idea at all? What else might he do? He couldn't stay in
the same room as Laurel. The voice pounding in his ears, he
grabbed his coat from the chair and strode for the door,
wrenching it swiftly open. He knew what he had to do.
The hall was quiet, and if he had not been so focused on
getting away from the ICU and Laurel as quickly as pos­
sible, he might have breathed a sigh of relief. What if some­
one had heard his outburst? What would they think?
"You're not crazy," he told �self. "You're not!"
But he did need help. He needed-
Her, supplied the voice.
Ul
 d on ba a 11 ng t h w a I te

"Shut up," he told it.

It didn't l,lelp.

McCain slipped his head around the corner of the cross­

corridor and watched wm stalk away down the hall.
"Clear," he told Shani.
She dashed past him grimly and darted into Laurel's
room. McCain followed. a little more slowly, alert in case
Will came back. There was no sign of him. He slipped into
Laurel's room after Shani.
"Is she okay?" McCain asked.
The doctor was checking Laurel and the machines that
surrounded her. "She's as good as she was before."
"Good." He sagged back against the wall for a moment.
Will's sudden cry had given him and Shani barely enough
time to scraµible away from the door and out of sight before
the·other man had come out of the room. "Any idea what set
·
him off?" he asked her.
"Stress? Trauma finally catching up with him? You saw
him. He looks awful."
"I heard him, too." McCain shook his head.
Maybe Will was just traumatized by Laurel's ordeal, but
there had been something in his voice that was particularly
disturbing, a tone that shifted too quickly from apology to
anger. McCain knew that tone. When he had been a child, a
friend's parents had gone through a very bitter divorce that
centered on a string of affairs his friend's father had been
having. When his friend's parents argued, though, his
father never accepted the responsibility-insisting his
friend's mother had been' the one who drove him to the ·
'

affairs.
"Will's not blaming himself for what happened," McCain
·

sai( "He's blaming Laurel."

122
 If w �II � e r I Cl I I

Shani shrugged. "Believe it or not, that's actually not an

uncommon reaction to trauma.· It's easier to blame the per- .
son who got hurt. It'll pass."
"Maybe," said McCain doubtfully. His cell phone rang.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end was mostly calm with only
the slightest edge of tension. The anger that had shaken it
a few minutes ago was either gone or well-concealed. "Rob?
This is Will Tavish."
Shani said, "You're not supposed to use those in-"
McCain waved her to silence. "Will!" he said as cheer­
fully as he could.
Shani's eyes went wide when he said the name, and she
darted to the door, glancing out into the hall. When she
looked back, she shook her head and shrugged.
"How are you doing?" McCain said into the cell phone.
"How's Laurel?"
"Not great-either of us that is."
There was quite a bit of noise in the background of
Will's call. "Hey, where are you calling from? A mall?"
"Actually, I'm in the lQbby at Presbyterian-St. Luke's.
I've just come from visiting Laurel." His voice caught for a
moment, then he cleared his thioat. "Will, I was wondering
if I could take you up on your offer to talk some more."
McCain could have choked. "Sure I can talk. When's
good for you? I'm not far away from the hospital. I can be
there in a few minutes."
"No!" Will coughed and repeated more calmly, "No. I
don't think I can talk right now. I need some time. What
about tonight?"
"Tonight?"
McCain really did choke this time. He looked pleadingly
at Shani. She shook her head and pointed sharply at the
phone. Her meaning was clear: Talking to Will was more
important. McCain groaned silently to himself.
lU
 d an ba s s I nu t h w a I te

"Yeah," he said to Will, "tonight should be fine. Where?"

"There's a place just around the comer from North and
Clyboum, down the street from the Golden Ox. It's an old
bar called Ellie's. I'll meet you there at eight o'clock. I fig­
ure maybe we can have something stronger than coffee this
time. I know I need it." He gave a bitter laugh.
"That sounds okay to me. I'll see you there." .
"Thanks, Rob."
"No problem. See you tonight." McCain broke the con­
nection. "Damn!"
Shani crossed her arms. "Unhappy with your work?" she
asked sarcastically.
"There was something else I was loo�g forward to
doing tonight." He slid the phone back into his pocket and
smiled hopefully at her. "Can we reschedule our .dinner for
tomorrow?"
"I'm on duty Thursday nights."
"Friday? Maybe with something after dinner-I've
found a club that has really good live bands on Friday."
"Done. But if you're not meeting Wtll until eight tonight,
we still have time for a quick dinner. My treat unless you
object to hospital cafeteria food."
"As long a I can buy you something better Friday."
"It's· a deal." She stepped in close and gave him a quick
kiss on the cheek. "Just leave your work at home."

124
Wh�n the In�titute had assigned the team to
Chicago and Jeane had gone looking f�r a place
to live, part of what sold her on the apartment
in the big old Victorian in Ukrainian Village was
the neighborhood. When she was growing up in
Parma, Ohio, her mother!s best friend · had been
Ukrainian, and while Jeane had never be�n a real
talent in the kitchen, she had fallen in love with
Ukrainian cooking and culture. Chicago's Ukrain-
. ian Village, with its little ethnic food stores arid
restaurants was like a bit of her childhood come
back. Since she moved in, she'd made a point of
shopping n
i the local groceries rather than the big
chain stores. She was starting to get to know the
strengths of each shop. Ann's Bakery had the best
bread and pastries, Corona had the best meat, and
Teslenko's was the best all-around for fruit, vegeta­
bles, and general items. And �e best pre-cooked,

125
 d on ba s s I nut h w a I te

ready-to-go food to take home was at a big, crowded place

called To The Table. ·
It was almost embarrassing to admit that she was start­
ing to become a regular there. In spite of her mother's best
efforts, Jeane still had no talent in the kitchen. Then again,
her mother hadn't had a job outside of the house with a
crosstown commute and the paranol;lllal thrown in. ·
Jeane walked down the canned goods aisle, considering
the range of soups on offer. After an afternoon of reading
and research, soup s·ounded good. She picked an old
favorite then paused at the end of the aisle to contemplate
a bag of sourdough pretzels. When she looked up, Van Dim­
itriat was watching her from the other end of the aisle.
She blinked and looked again. It was Van, though he was
turning away now as someone out of sight caught his atten­
tion. Jeane stepped quickly in the direction he had gone and
looked up the next aisle under the guise of examining a dis­
play of imported wafers. Van was trailing behind a woman
who bore a strong resemblance to him. His mother, maybe?
That answered the question of what he was doing there, .
anyway. The woman looked as if she was doing some shop·
ping-Dimitriat sounded like it could be a Ukrainian name,
and Jeane doubted if there were many Ukrainian specialty
stores in Midlothian. Van must have been dragged along for
the ride. .
So why did she get the feeling that he didn't seem sur­
prised to see her? The memory of meeting Van's gaze as
McCain pulled away from the doughnut shop rose unbidden
in her thoughts, and an eerie prickle touched the back of
her neck: Jeane shook her head sharply. No-something
odd might have happened to her last night, but she wasn't
about to let herself go all New Age sensitive just yet.
McCain had said Van would come to them. Fine. Let him
come. The next time Jeane caught Van peering at her, she.
very deliberately looked up, made eye contact with him, and
128
 If w hla p e r a c a 11

promptly stepped around a corner out of sight of both him

and his mother. She waited there, surrounded by tins of
soup and packets of boil-in-the-bag dumplings.
Aside from the setting, it actually wasn't all that differ­
ent from flirting with someone at a party. Tease them, play
hard to get, and they'll come right-
Exactly on cue, Van stepped around the corner and into
the aisle. .
"Hello, Van." The boy almost jumped out of his pants,
and Jeane felt a certain guilty pleasure in having gotten the
drop on him She gave him the same smile she had given
.

cocky rookies in the ATF-friendly but with just a hint of

teeth. "Imagine meeting you here."
"Uhh . . yeah. Hi." She could almost see him struggling
.

to regain the confidence she had just scared out him.

"You're Wade Maxwell's assistant, right? Jane?"
"Jeane. Jeane Meara." She didn't see any point in mak­
ing up another false name.
She held out her hand. After a moment's hesitation, he
reached out to take it. As soon as his hand was in hers,
Jeane squeezed. Not hard enough to hurt him but hard ,

enough to let him know she was in control. He let out a

little gasp of surprise.
"You're following me," Jeane said simply.
"No!" The word came out as little better than a squeak.
: Van glanced around nervously. Looking for mommy, Jeane
guessed. "I wanted to talk to you."
She didn't let go. "Why not call Wade? You had his num­
ber."
"He was so in your face at the shop it made me nervous.
I didn� want to call him. But you were less threatening . . . "
Jeane raised an eyebrow slightly, and Van backpedaled furl·
ously. "I mean you seemed less threatening, and I knew you
were going to be here tonight."
The prickle returned to her neck. "You . . . knew?"
U7
 don u 1 11 n g t h wal te

Van nodded, and the prickle.becruµe a shiver.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of
receipts, once crumpled, now neatly folded and Jeane felt
the eerie prickle on her neck turn into a very mundane burn
of embarrassment as she recognized them. She wondered
which of Van and his mother had really been dragged along
fot shopping at To The Table tonight. .
"You left these on your table at the doughnut shop," Van
said. "You.'ve shopped here every Wednesday night for the
last three weeks." He looked her straight in the eye, or at
least tried to. He ended up staring at her chin. "You're not
scouting Midlothian for a movie location, are you?"
The boy was perceptive. She considered stringing him
along, but that was definitely McCain's way and not hers.
"No. We're not." She let go of his hand. "How did you
guess?"
He looked around agam, then dropped his · voice low.
"Because you asked about a mist in Bachelor's Grove."· This
time he. met her eyes. "You want to know about the couple
that were there in October, when the woman fell and hit her
head." .
Jeane just looked at him for a moment. They hadn't said
anything about Laurel the other night. "You saw it," she
said.
Van nodded, He didn't look happy.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Jeane asked.
"More- than you'd believe," Van replied miserably. �I
would have talked to you in the doughnut store yesterday
except that my friends were around. I don't want them to
know about this-or my mom."
"Fine. Outside?"
"Give me a minute to ditch my mom, and I'll meet you
there." He ducked back into the other aisle .
. Jeane took her purchases up to the checkout and waited
impatiently as the line crawled forward. The store was
UB
 If w his p e r s ca I I

always busy at this time of the evening, but it had never

bothered lier quite this much to wait. Then again, she had
never had to rush out before. They had a witness. Finally
she was through and stepping· out into the cool night air.
Van was waiting for her already, pacing back and forth in a
tight little circle.
"Sony that took so long," Jeane said.
He shrugged casually, but Jeane could see a nervous
tension in his shoulders. "$'okay. I thought you would beat
me outside-I told my mother I wanted to get outside for
fresh air, and she decided to give me a lecture. She's been
paranoid about letting me out of her sight since my dad
left."
"I'm sorry to hear that." She nodded toward a sidewalk
bench. "Sit. I'm not going to stand here with groceries. How
long have we got?"
"Fifteen minutes at least. Ma's just getting wanned up,
and some of her friends are shopping tonight. She'll stop to
talk to them." They sat down, and Jeane dug into her coat
pocket for a little notepad she kept there. She flipped it
open, pulled the cap off her pen, and looked to Van.
"So," she asked, "what did you see?"
Van shifted and gave her an uncomfortable look. "A
couple of weeks ago, me and some friends were out in the
woods near the cemetery. We saw a man and a pregnant
woman poking around the cemetery and stopped to watch
them. All of a sudden, a mist came up out of the lagoon. The
man and the woman got scared and started to run. I didn't
see what happened next because the mist was so thick, but
I heard a sound like somebody falling. The next thing I
knew, the man came running out of the cemetery carrying
the woman. Her head was bloody."
Jeane tapped the pen against her teeth and contem­
plated Van for a moment. He wasn't wearing the ball cap
he'd been wearing the day before, but his blond hair was

U9
 don u 1 11 agth wal te

pressed down as if the cap "'7as a. semipennanent fixture on

his head. That hair and the patchy beard on his otherwise
smooth face belonged to someone young. The guarded eyes
didn't.
"That's a pretty simple story to want to hide from your
friends-especially if they were with you when you saw
this."
"Those were different friends. One of them was with me
at the doughnut shop, but he doesn'fbelieve the same thing
I do about what happened."
"And what's that?" Jeane asked. Van just looked down at
the scarred wood of the bench. She waited a moment, then
added, "Van, you were the one who wanted to talk about
this."
"Yeah, it's just that . . ." He stuffed his hands into the
pocket of his coat. "You're not a cop," he said bluntly, "or
you wouldn't be sneaking around getting stories about the
cemetery. And I don't think you're a private detective or
something like that because you'd be asking about that
couple and you're not." He looked up. "I think you want to
know about that weird mist. And. I � you know it's not
natural."
· "Maybe," Jeane said carefully. "Does that make a differ­
ence?"
Van almost looked relieved. "Yeah. It does. Because I
think I'm the one that caused it."

Finding Ellie's had been difficult. Following Will's direc­

tions had been easy-Clybourn and North was a busy
enough intersection, and the Golden Ox was a local institu- ·
tion. Ellie's, clearly, was not. McCain walked right past it
' twice before realizing that the grubby frontage actually con­
cealed an operating bar.

130
 If w Illa p e r a ca II

Ellie's was a throwback to a time when what was now

called the Clyboum Corridor had been a light industrial
zone. Some of the industry still lingered, but most of it had
left in the eighties, replaced by developments catering to
the young and trendy. In stark contrast to the bars that had
opened to cater to the area's new inhabitants, Ellie's was
old-fashioned. Or maybe just old. Rather than being dim or
strategically underlit, it was just plain dark. The flickering
neon signs above the bar advertised beers McCain remem·
bered his father drinking. There was an obnoxious haze of
. smoke in the air. The floor was uneven, most of the chairs
needed mending, and McCain was certain that some of the
myriad old photos that served as decoration also covered
over patches and holes in the walls. Ellie's wasn't just a
throwback, it was a throwback to a throwback.
· He found Will sitting at a comer table. There was a half·
empty pint glass on the table in front of him. Tojudge from
the slackness of Wtll's face though, he had drunk far more
than just half a pint. McCain slid into the chair across from
him, grimacing as he touched the tabletop. The old varnish
had gone soft and sticky with age and humidity.
"Evening, Will."
"Hey, Rob."
Will reached for the partial pint and drank deeply from
it. When he put it down again, the half glass had diminished
to a quarter. He stuck his hand up in the air, two fingers
raised. The bartender saw him and nodded.
Will glanced at McCain and said, "One of those is for
you."
"I'm glad to hear that." For this, thought McCain, I
skipped an evening with Shani. He cleared his throat. "This
isn't exactly the kind of bar I'd expect to find a professional
man hanging out in, Wtll."
Will finally looked up, a brief smile flickering across his
face. "Actually, 'professional' men did hang out here a lot at

131
 d on ba s s I ng t h w a I te

.
one time. It was a popular mob bar from the twenties until
about World War II."
McCain looked at Will appraisingly. "Sojust how did you
end up finding out about it?"
"It's kind of ironic actually." Wtll lifted his glass and
took a long drink of his beer. "Remember I said I was inter­
ested in genealogy? Well, it's my paternal grandmother's
family that's buried in Bachelor's Grove. The Harveys were
one of the leading families in Midlothian. But even the best'
families have their black sheep, and for the Harveys it was
Nana's twin brother, Jack. Nana moved to Chicago when she
married into the Tavish family. Turns out Jack moved to
Chicago to9, except he joined the mob as a small-time
goon." Will gestured around them. "I did some research on
him, and apparently he used to hang out here, so I dropped
by once to check it out. It seemed like a good place for a
quiet drink tonight.•
A waitress came up to the table with two fresh beers,
thin and watery heads slopping over the rims of the glasses.
Will smiled at her, drained off the rest of the glass he was
working on, and passed it to her. McCain noticed that
Ellie's didn't bother with such niceties as coasters.
"It might look a little rough, Rob, but the people are
friendly," Will assured him.
"I'll keep it in mind for my niece's birthday party." He
watched Will suck back another mouthful of beer. "Will ,
how many of these have you had?" ·
Will shrugged. "Enough." He set his glass down with a
thump that brought bubbles frothing out of the amber
liquid.
"Eriough?"
"Enough to get seriously drunk. Liquid courage, Rob.
Car's parked at home. I took a cab here, and I'll take a cab
back." He drew a deep breath, then cut loose with a thun- ·

derous, stinking belch.

lat
 If w his p er 1 ca II

McCain looked at him narrowly. "Will, I know dealing

with Laurel's accident is stressful, but this isn't the way to
cope. Therapy . . . "
"Don't lecture me, Rob." Will's eyes went dark and hard.
"I don't want to hear it."
This wasn't the Will he had had coffee with at the hos­
pital, the man whose vulnerability had made McCain feel
guilty for manipulating him. There was something harsh
and ugly in him now, as though he had been pushed to the
I
wall.
"All right," McCain agreed. "No lectures. You said you
wanted to talk. Let's talk. Why are you drinking? To forget?"
Wtll's laugh was as hard as his eyes. "To remember,
Rob. I'm drinking so that I can talk."
"You don't have to."
"Hey, do you know what's going on up here?" Will
tapped ·on his temple. "Do you? Have you ever had a secret
so big thaf just the thought of telling it to someone else
made you want to piss your pants, and yet you knew you
had to tell someone or you would go crazy?"
More than you know, thought McCain. He stared into
Will's eyes. "Drinking is not going to help. Keep it up and it
will only make things worse."
Will raised his glass in a mocking toast and said, "This
is a one-time prescription. I'm going to feel like hell tomor·
row, but I know I'll feel worse if I don't get this out of me."
He swallowed some more beer then set his glass down,
carefully this time. He leaned forward. McCain could smell
the beer on his breath.
"I didn't tell you everything that happened in the ceme·
tery, Rob," Will went on. "I haven't told anybody. Every time
I tried, something held me back. At first I thought it was
just because I was afraid. Then I thought it was paranoia.
Now I think it's something more. I've been drinking tonight
to make it quiet, just for a little while."

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 d on -11 11 nut II wa I te

His hand shot out and grabbed McCain's arm. His grip
was tight with desperation. "There's a voice in my head,
Rob. It started in Bachelor's Grove. When the mist" sur­
rounded us in the cemetery, when Laurel fell, something
spoke to me.n
The bar receded around them as McCain looked into
Will's face. There was a mad, terrified desperation there.
"What?"
· "Something was there in the mist, whispering to me.
�d it's still here." He tapped his head again. "It's what
· kept me from telling you everything before."
· "It . . . this voice . . ." McCain searched Will's drunken
face. "What did you hear in the mist, Will?"
" 'I need her.' " Will drew a long, shuddering breath.
"Whatever was in the mist, it wanted Laurel. It wanted her
any way it could have her. Even dead.".

Jeane gave Van a long look. "What do you mean, you

'caused' it?"
She would have liked it if the answer involved large
quantities of dry ice dumped into the cemetery lagoon, but
she had a nasty feeling that it didn't. ·
Van s�allowed. "Look, you know that the cemetery has
a big reputation for being the most haunted place in
Chicago, right? Everybody in Midlothian knows the sto­
ries-and not just the kids, either. You heard Mr. Hen·
dricks in the doughnut shop. I bet everybody who has .
· grown up in Midlothian has sneaked out to Bachelor's
Grove sometime."
"So that's what you did?" Jeane guessed. "You went·out
to the cemetery to try to see a ghost?."
"Sort of," Van admitted. "Except we didn't. want to just
wait around. So back in the summer when my mother

134
 If w bis p e r 1 ca II

dragged me into Chicago to go shopping w ith her, I ducked

into a used bookstore and found a: book on seanc�s." -
Jeane, just putting pen back to paper, started so badly
that her pen left a streak of ink across her notepad. She
glanced up sharply.
"Not a basement store in Wicker Park," she said.
"No, just around the corner from here." He jerked his
thumb vaguely over his shoulder. "Why?"
"Never mind." Jeane drew in a relieved breath. "So you
held a seance in Bachelor's Grove Cemetery?" she guessed.
"In a way. Nothing happened." Van shivered and Jeane
had a suspicion that it w asn't just because of the cold. "At
least, we thought nothing happened."
"But now you're doubting that?"
"Wouldn't you?" His brow furrowed for a moment then
he looked up at her. "We decided to try the seance a sec­
ond time," he said firmly. Jeane recognized the sound of
decision in his voice.There was no going back for him now.
He was letting everything come out. "So we went out in the
afternoon to hide the stuff we'd need at night.T hat's when
the couple came up the path, so we hid. And we saw what
happened."
He described again what he had seen that day in the
cemetery, though this time in more detail. Most of it agreed
w ith what Will had told McCain. Some details were new
though. The way the mist stayed so perfectly within ,the
borders of the cemetery. A stillness very much like what
Jeane and McCain had experienced the night before.
Finally, the sounds that had occurred in the mist: a gasp, a
·

thud, and Will's crying out.

When he was finished, Van was breathing hard, his
breath making big white clouds in the cold air. Jeane con­
sidered her notes, then looked up at Van. "So what did
Dave, Tawny, and Boone make of all this?"
"We were all scared at first and we ran. Nobody said

.135
 d on u 1 1 1 ngth w a l te

anything, and we all just went home. But the next day, Dave
and Tawny were already laughing about it; and saying that
they couldn't believe how scared we all were of a little fog."
He gave her a lopsided grin, trying to look confident. "But
I've noticed they haven't told anybody else around school
about it. Boone's pretty creeped out by the whole thing. I
don't think he really knows what to think."
"But he's keeping it quiet?" Van nodded, ·and Jeane made
a note on her pad, then studied Van for a moment longer.
,
"When did you . . . ; She hesitated.
Was it really possible that Van and his frierids had
roused 6ne of the legendary spirits of the cemetery? Come
on, Jeane, she chided herself, at least try to stay objective
here.
"When did you make the connection between your
seances and what you saw?" she asked.
"A few days later," said Van miserably.· "I was cleaning
out my backpack looking for my copy of Macbeth, and I
found the seance book. The more I thought about it, the ·
more itwas the only thing that made sense. We were trying
to summon a ghost in Bachelor's. Grove, ·and something
answered. Only we didn't know it. Or I didn't know it. I was
·

the one who led all the seances."

He sat back against the bench. Jeane sighed.
"You know; this might not be a ghost at all," she said . •

"There could be a perfectly rational explanation for every­

thing that's going on."
"Everything?" Van looked up instantly. "There's more?"
Damn. "Sharp, aren'.tyou?" she asked, dodging his ques­
tion. "Where are you going to college next year?"
He shook his head. "I'm not. Myparents were saving up,
but my dad took the money when he left. Now we can't
afford it. I don't qualify for the right kinds of assistance,
and I don't quite have the grades to get a scholarship."
"Oh." Jeane grimaced. "Sorry."
138
 If w his p e r 1 ca I I

"I'm over it. " Van stretched and pointed at her note­
book. "So did what I know help you?"
Jeane nodded slowly. "Possibly. I'm going to have to talk
to lllY partner and sort it all out. Is there a way we can get
in touch with you if w.e need to?"
·
"I have my own phone number." He gave it to her, then
paused. "The couple from the cemetery. Are they all right?"·
"No," Jeane told him bluntly. "The woman-her name is
Laurel-is in Presbyterian-St. Luke's in a coma. Her hus­
band is nuts with worry."
"I'm sorry. Really."
"Don't be, Van. Even if you did start this, it wasn't inten­
tional. And telling me was the right thing to do:" She
tucked her notepad back into her pocket and gathered her
groceries.
"I should go," she said. "Your mother is going to be out
soon. Thanks for your help." She shook his hand and turned
'
. to go.
"Jeane," van· asked suddenly, "who do ·you work for?
Who really wants to know· about Bachelor's Grove?" ·
"Nobody," lied Jeane. "Just me and my partner."

"Dead?" Rob asked, leaning forward. "How .do you

.
��·
Somewhere in the depths of Will's mind the voice
seethed.
He doesn 't believe you! Why are you telling him this?
The voice was virtually impotent now though, mired in
beer like an angry wasp in mud. Will let go of Rob's arm and
gave him a sharp smile.
"Ever read a book where someone looked at something
and just knew it was evil?" Will said. "It was like that." ·
The words came out a little slurred. God, he hadn't been
· 137
 d on •as a I nut h w a I te

this drunk since college. How desperate was he? Really

desperate. He had to get this out.
"Remember, I said I wondered sometimes if it was my
fault Laurel hurt herself?"
Rob answered slowly. "Yes, but it was just an accident."
He paused for a moment. "It was an accident, wasn't it?"
He's scared.
Will ignored the voice. He knotted his fingers tightly
together and pressed his joined hands against the tabletop.
He was going to say it this time. Ini;ide his .head, the voice
was wailing dire warnings and threatening him. He couldn't
shut it out but he could talk over it.
"I think Laurel fell and hit her head. Bilt I keep having
a vision of something else happening. I see her falling-"
You 're shouting. Do you want the whole bar to hear this?
"Shut up!" he snapped.
Rob sat back suddenly, surprise on his face, and Will
realized the warning hadn't been the voice trying to trick
him into silence. It had been Rob trying to calm him down.
He jerked his hands apart and grabbed for his beer.
"Sony," he whispered into the glass.
He took a long, long swallow, keeping his mouth full
while he fought for control. Was the voice breaking free? It
couldn't be.
Will set the beer down, put his hands flat on the table,
and said again, "I see Laurel falling . . . ".

He could see it all as if he were still there in Bachelor's

Grove. Laurel was on the ground. The fall had shocked her,
maybe knocked the wind out of her, but she was.okay. They
could still get away.
No! I need her now!
The ·desperation of the thing in the mist was over­
whelming. Invasive. Laurel couldn't be allowed to leave.
There was a stone near her temple. Will watched his h�d
spread itself gently across her head. Did Laurel look up?

138
 If w Illa ' e r 1 ca II

Did she know what he was doing? Did her eyes beg him to
stop? He didn't. ln one fast motion, he slammed Laurel's
head against the stone.
Will forced himself to describe the vision aloud. Every
terrible moment of it. When he finished, he was almost
choking. He stared down at the dark, cloudy varnish of the
tabletop as if his gaze could burn right through t
i
' "It's so real, Rob. As real as what I think I remember
about Laurel hitting her head."
For several long moments, Rob was silent, and in that
aWful, guilty void, all Will could think was that he had said
too much. Rob was scared. Rob thought he was a monster.
Will's stomach churned in terror. What have I done?
Finally, Rob drew a long breath and said, "Will, does . . .
does the voice still want Laurel dead?"
"The voice still wants Laurel, Rob," he said tightly. He
was sweating and shaking. "I would never hurt her!" He
squeezed his eyes shut. It was a bad idea. Suddenly every·
thing was spinning. He forced them open again. When he
talked, his voice sounded disembodied. "I'm worried that
it's waiting now. Waiting until I'm vulnerable."
Rob just looked at him. "Why are you telling me this,
Will?"
Will reached for his beer and swallowed yet another
mouthful. "Because you offered to listen. Because you don't
really know me from Adam. Because I had to tell some·
body!" He caught Rob's gaze and held it. "What should I do,
Rob?"
Rob was silent again, then he pulled out one of his cards
and wrote a name and number on the back.
"Will, I'm saying this because I really mean it-you need
to see a professional about this right away." He pushed the
card over in front of Will. "This is a psycmatrist I know."
Will glared at the card. "Well, I guess that answers the
question of what you think."

139
 d en ba s a I nut h w a I te

"I'm sony, Will. I am . But you can trust her. I want you
to call her first thing in the morning, as soon as you're
sober." He looked into Will's eyes. "Are you going to be all
right until then?"
"I'm not going to break into the hospital and try to kill
Laurel if that's what you mean." Will took a deep breath and
stood up slowly "I think it's time for me to go."
"I'm sony, Will."
"Yeah. So am I." He pulled out some cash and threw it
on the table. "That wi
l l cover everything.'"
He turned, staggering toward the door. At least the
voice was silent.

As soon as Will was gone, McCain whipped out his cell

phone and punched Shani's number. It seemed to ring for­
ever before she picked it up. "Shani-it's Fitz."
"Hi!" Her voice was sunshine. "How's Will?"
"Bad . . ."
He gave her a synopsis of what had just happened.
"I gave him the number of an Institute psychiatrist. Can
you find a way to keep a guard on Laurel's room without let-
·

ting Will know something is up?"

"I'll make the calls." She hesitated, then added, "Fitz, I
don't know if the doctor who examined Laurel for the police
looked for the kind of bruising that an attack like that
would leave. n
"Would it leave any at all?"
"Maybe," Shani said doubtfully. "Laurel had thick hair
that would have cushioned her scalp. And you make it
sound like the motion used was relatively gentle."
"Can you look?"
"The attack in the cemetery was over two weeks ago: If
there was any bruising, it will have faded.n

140
 If w his p e r s ca II

He clenched his fist in silent frustration.' "Thanks any­

way.� .
"You sound rough."
"Don't worry about me, Shani." McCain glanced toward
the bar door. ''Worry about Will."

141
 .

:'M'-c Cain pulled n

i to the de�repit parhlng lot of
the Institute branch office hard on Jeane's
bumper. She glared at him as she got out of her
car.
"What gives?" she asked. �You've been tailgating
me for the. last five miles."
She had to shout over the rumble of one of the
innumerable jets passing overhead on approach to
O'Hare. Institute branchoffices were supposed to be
inconspicuous, but Chicago's, buried in the
labyrinthine industrial parks of Schiller Park, took it
·.

to extremes.
·"I've got news," McCain shouted back.
Jeane looked him over as she reached back into
the car and pulled out several of her books. McCain's
face was neutral, but his.body was as tense as a just·
wound clock spring.
"Well," she said, "you're not the only one."

143
 don -a i s I nut h. w a I te

· She hipchecked the car door shut and stepped up onto

the cracked sidewalk that ran across the front of the build­
ing. McCain fell into step beside her.
"Want to share?" he asked, opening the front door for
her.
"Only if you share first."
Jeane breezed past him. The receptionist stationed at
.the desk in the tiny public lobby nodded at them, then went
back to her work. Jeane juggled her books for a moment
while she waved her .key card over the electronic lock on
the inner door. She paused on the other side to give McCain
a chance to do the same.
She favored him with a smile when he came through and
asked, "So what have you got?"
"What have you got?" He closed one eye and squinted at
her with the other as they walked down the long hall to
their offices. "No, wait. Let me gl.iess. You brought the
books, so I'll say that you've found some information for
us."
"Not as such. The books are just research. Want to try
again?"
The hallway opened out into the outer office. Emma
looked up as they entered. She had a fax machine broken
down into pieces and laid out across her desk.
"Ngan wants to see you," the secretary said. McCain's
eyebrows went up in surprise, and his finger wavered
· between himself and Jeane. Emma gave him a weary look.
"It's not always about you, Fitz. He wants to see both of
you." ·
"When?"
Emma was already picking up her telephone. "ASAP"
·

She dialed Ngan's extension

"Oh, well, Fitz," Jeane chided, "looks like you won't get
to play twenty questions after all."
Jeane juggled books again and reached for the knob ·on
lU
 If w bis ' e r a ca II

the door of their office. McCain snaked his hand past and
opened it for her.
"Would it have been worth it?" he asked.
"Absolutely." Jeane smiled again.
It was actually a surprisingly pleasant feeling: She had
beaten McCain at his own game. McCain might have pre­
dicted that Van would come to them, but she was the one
who had made contact with him. What was better, a dive
through the books from Devromme's suggested that the
young man might aCtually be right' in his suspicions. At
first Jeane couldn't quite bring herself to accept that a high
school seance could produce any real effect at all. It was
too much like a bad movie. But after she'd left Van she had
gone back to her apartment and started checking through
her books. There was actually some truth to the power of
seances it seemed. Of course, with what she had seen
since joining the Institute, that shouldn't have surprised
·

her.
More importantly than simply one-upping McCain, it
also gave them a fresh lead in the investigation. Jeane had
all of the relevant research flagged. Perversely, she was as
eager to present it to McCain and Ngan as if it were care­
fully gathered hard evidence for a more mundane, scientific .
explanation.
"Don't you want to know what I found out?" McCain
asked.
He seemed a little put out. Jeane turned her smile on
him as she pulled off her jacket. "Maybe later."
It was hardly the attitude of a good nvestigator,
i but
for now she wanted to savor the moment of her own tri­
umph. She picked up the books again, ready to face Ngan,
and nodded toward the door. "After you," she invited
McCain.
Ngan, though, was already coming out of his office as
they stepped out of theirs.
U5
 d on . -a s s I nu t h w a I te

"Good," he said, closing the door 'behind him, "you're

here. I have news."
McCain grunted. "It seems to be the morning for· it." He
jerked a thumb toward Jeane. "If she makes you guess at
what she's got, I'd pull rank."
"Fitz," said Jeane smugly, "I can't wait for you to hear
·
·
what I've got." She turned to Ngan. "I-"
He held up a hand, gesturing for her silence. "Let me tell
you my news first. After the debriefing yesterday, I started
thinking about your encounter on the turnpike and about
something Michael .said in the hospital when we first
started the investigation. Michael, you were right: None of
us have dealt with something like this before. There is
someone in the Institute who is more qualified to deal with
what we seem to be facing."
McCain's eyes went narrow. Jeane felt her own heart
skip a beat. She had a nasty feeling she knew what he was
about to say. "Ngan, don't tell me you've-"
"I've called in a specialist."
For a moment, there was utter silence in the outer
office. Even Emma paused n
i her repair of the fax ma­
chine. All Jeane could do was look at Ngan. His face
betrayed nothing. It never did. She was the first one to say
·

anything.
"You did what?' she asked slowly.
"I've asked a specialist to step in. He's not one of our
regular agents, but he is attached to the Institute." Ngan
turned to his door and put his hand on the handle. "Come in
and meet him."
"Wait a minute." Jeane could feel the blood rushing in
her head. "I thought we were just getting a grip on this
investigation."
"And what happened to learning while we work? Did we
miss a pop quiz somewhere?" spat McCain. "Don't tell me
we got into a chase with a phantom car for nothing."

148
 If w his p er a ca 11

Ngan looked at McCain then -back at Jeane without

removing his hand from the handle.
"It is exactly because of your experience with the· ghost
car that I called him in," Ngan explained. "What would you
have done if the mist hadn't fallen away? And as your meet­
ing with Will last night indicates, Michael, the ghost pres­
ents a clear d;µiger-both to you and to others."
Jeane shot McCain a glance. A meeting with Will? Was
that his news? And h� had told Ngan first? She· clenched
·

.her jaw.
"Would you care to elaborate on that last bit, Fitz?" she
asked sarcastically.
Af least McCain looked a little bit embarrassed. Ngan
just shook his head and told her, "In good time. For now I
want to know that you understand why I did this."
Jeane took a deep breath. Back in the ATF, "specialist"
had· been a dirty word. When one _got called in, it meant
someone was going to be taking control of your investiga­
tion. She knew-she had been the specialist often enough.
No matter how courteous she tried to be, she was always
unwelcome from the start. Now she knew why. It hurt right
from the moment your chief told you a specialist was com­
ing.
Yet Ngan was right. They were fumbling their way
through the case. They needed guidance. Especially if evi­
cJ.ence had turned up that things were _getting ugly. She was
going to .have a talk with McCain about that. In the mean­
time, though . . .
She took another deep breath, swallowed her pride to
make room for professionalism, and said, "I understand."
Ngan looked to McCain. The young man was unusually
silent, but he finally nodded stiffly.
"I'll accept that," Ngan sighed.
He opened the door and led. them into his office. A large,
heavy man in a black blazer sat at the big meeting table. He

147
 d on ba 1 1 1 ng t h w a I te

looked up as they entered. A beautiful smile cut through his

scruffy beard.
"Well," said Ned Devromme. "Isn't this a coincidence?"
Jeane flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. "No . . ."
Ngan raised an eyebrow as he walked around to the
head of the table. "Since it appears you two know each
other, I'll skip that introduction. Ned, this is the third
member of my team, Michael McCain. Michael,
' Ned Dev-
romme."
"A pleasure." Ned shook McCain's hand without bother­
·ing to get up. "You must be the 'Fitz' I heard Jeane snarling
at on the other side of the door."
."Michael," corrected McCain coolly. He turned to Ngan.
"I want to talk about this."
"There is nothing to talk about. Ned will be joining your
investigati6n.." Ngan sat down.
While McCain glared balefully at Ngan, and the old man
took it all with 'the unyielding strength of a mountain, Jeane
steeled herself and stepped up to the table as well. There
were two free chairs-right beside Devromme or directly
across from him'. It wasn't much of a choice, but Jeane
opted for having the width of the table between them. She
moved for the chair beside Ngan. .
McCain, still glaring at Ngan, beat her to it. Before she ·
could sit, he pulled the chair out and sat down himself.
Jeane fought back a hiss and looked up to see Ned siniling
at her. He jumped up immediately and gallantly drew out
the chair beside him . Jeane looked around for another
chair-any chair-that she could draw up beside McCain.
"Jeane," said Ngan weari
l y, "please sit dowri."
That didn't leave her much choice. Feeling pretty bale­
ful herself. she edged around the table and slid n
i to the
chair that Ned held.
"Ngan has told me something about you and your inves­
tigation," he whispered as he took his seat beside her. "f

148
 If w his J e r s ca II

should have guessed .you were involved when he started

talking about Bachelor's Grove." ..
· "I should have guessed you were the spet;ialist when I
slipped on the trail of slime in the lobby."
Ned shivered. "Ooo. You know, I don!t think you need me
at all-the dead may be the only ones who can properly
appreciate your subtle wit.n
He smiled at her ·again, and if his shiver hadn't been
real, Jeane's was. Why did such a repulsive man have to
have such a beautiful ,mouth? Set againstthe rest of him, it .
was almost obscene. In fact, it brought a.kind of disturbing
sensuality to the whole package of �· His eyes were
sharp and challenging. His broad belly and hefty frame
spoke of someone who enjoyed life's pleasures. ·His hands,
resting lightly on the table, were big and heavy, his fingers.
· thick and strong. The image of him giving her a shoulder
massage flashed through her mind. She shook her head vio­
lently. That was an unwholesome image!
"I can't work with him," she snapped at Ngan.
"You have to."
"Why?" demanded McCain. "Why do we have to have
another person involved?"
"News flash, pretty boy. I'm already involved." Ned
reached. across in front of Jeane to tap her books. "Who do
you think got you as far as you've come? These came from
my bookstore . . . Fitz." He savored the nickname while
McCain flushed sunburn red.
Jeane shoved Ned's arm away and said; "Your bookstore
maybe, but we did the work."·
McCain spun around to look at Ngan. "Your specialist
owns a bookstore? Why does that not inspire my confi­
dence?"
.· Ngan frowned. "Would you have been happier if he had
been a lawyer or perhaps a former government investiga-
·

tor?" he asked gently.

148
 d on ba s s I nut h w a I te

Jeane C4Ught the. irony in Ngan's voice immediately­

and the tension. She even saw them. register on Ned, his
mouth snapping shut and his eyes focusing on Ngan.
McCain, though, didn't seem to notice anything.
"I would have been happier if you had asked us before
you called in a specialist," McCain said, gesturing dismis­
sively toward Ned. "Who is this guy, anyway?"
"Enough, Michael.". This time Ngan's voice, though still
quiet, was hard enough to break through even McCain's
anger. "First, I am in charge of this team, and I don't have
to ask your consent before bringing in outside help. Please
remember that."
Under the force of Ngan's voice, McCain was slowly sit­
ting back in his chair, the anger draining out of his face.
Ngan, on the other hand, was leaning forward, his voice as
perfectly controlled as sharp steel in the hands of a master
·

swordsman.
"Second, your complaining-and-" he shot at Jeane
and_Ned-"your bickering, have not left me the opportunity
to introduce him properly."
Ngan drew a tight breath and said, "Ned i� the best psy­
chic working for the Hoffmann Institute in Chicago."
McCain was flat back in his chair, silent but clearly not
cowed. His eyes were harsh, his jaw tight. His gaze flick­
ered from Ngan to Ned.
Jeane looked at Ned, too, giving him new consideration.
A psychic? Him? "You're kidding."
"No," Ngan said flatly. .
He sat back, his face as inscrutable as always, his voice
calm and uninflected once more. Ned coughed modestly.
"Actually, he is being remarkably unflattering in his
accuracy." A smile tripped on the corners of his mouth a.lid
sharpness came back to his eyes. "The best psychic in
Chicago doesn't work for the Institute. She's a reporter for
one of the alternative papers. The best psychic :workiitg

150
 If w his p e r 1 ca 11

for the Institute . . ah, well." His smile came on full. "That's
.

a matter for debate, but I like to think I'm in the top five."
Oh, so humble! Jeane bit back her sarcasm and said, "So
tell us-why do we need one of the Institute's top five psy­
chics helping us?"
Ned spread his hands. "Because you're dealing with a
ghost-a psychic presence-in the most haunted place in
Chicago. Because you've gotten as far as mundane investi­
gation is going to get you. And-" he glanced at Ngan­
"because I understand that what you're chasing is getting
violent."
"So you're our psychic bodyguard?" muttered McCain.
"Not just yours, Fitz," said Ned with a sneer. "I believe
there's a matter of a lady in a coma."
Laurel. Jeane ground her teeth together. Was he imply­
ing that they had forgotten Laurel?
"Ned," she said through her teeth, "I think you might
want to reconsider that statement."
"Touched a nerve, did I?"
McCain was sitting upright again. "Does he know about
Will?" he demanded of Ngan.
The old man nodded. "Ned, my agents do know what
they're doing."
Jeane could see McCain bristle at the concept of being
one of Ngan's agents, but she was bristling herself.
"You mentioned Will before, Fitz," she said. "What about
him?"
. Ngan and McCain exchanged glances. "You haven't told
her yet?" Ngan asked.
"You didn't give me a chance." McCain folded his arms
on the table. "Will and I got together for a drink last night,"
he explained. "In a nutshell, there's a voice n
i his head, one
that he's been hearing since the first attack in the cemetery.
It wants Laurel. Will thinks it might actually have
·

prompted him to injure her when she fell."

151
 llan �1 1 11 ngtb w a l te

She caught his meaning immediately. "She didn't hit her

head on a rock?"
McCain shook his head. "Will isn't sure. She might
hav.e-or Will might have listened to the voice and done it
for her while she was down, just ike
l the cops suspected. I
can't 'tell if he did or not. Even if he didn't, though, the voice
is· still hounding him. It still wants her." He looked around
the table. "I think it's the ghost."
"Either that," Jeane pointed out flatly, "or schizophrenia.
There doesn't have to be a paranormal cause. He is going
through a very rough time. That could have been the trig-
ger." · .
In spite of her frustration with McCain for talking to
Will without her, she found a strange reassurance in his dis­
covery. She had dealt with the consequences of mental ill­
ness before. Schizophrenia was real. It was treatable. It .
was, in some ways, predictable.
Yet none of those ways predicted impossible fog and
vanishing Model As on high-speed chases down �he Mid­
lothian Turnpike. Jeane realized that she was biting on her
thumbnail and quickly pulled it out of her mouth. She
glanced at Ned. He was staring at her. Their eyes met, and
he smiled.
·"Are you asking me?" He touched a hand to his chest.
"Are you asking my opinion?"
Jeane glowered at him with narrowed eyes.' The sleazy, ·
arrogant bastard. The . . . the . . . specialist! She let her
silence speak for itself. .

Ned just_ twitched his eyebrows at her. �Well? Are you

asking?"
"Fine," she growled. "What do you think? That's assum­
ing you're capable of thought, of course:"
"Ever the gracious one, aren't you?". Ned sat up to the
table as though settling in behind a lectern. �Jeane does
have a point," he said to McCain and Ngan. "It could be·

152
 If w bis ' e r I ca 11

schizophrenia. But in this case, I'd go with Fitz's opinion..

There's a good chance that it's the presence. The initial
attack in the cemetery points to its interest in Laurel, as do
the events at the hospital. If both the presence and the
voice want Laurel, there's a good chance they're the same."
"Is it trying to possess Will?" asked Ngan with a frown.
Ned shook his head. "Contrary to popular belief, ghosts
don't possess people."
"Ah-ha!" Jeane pounced on Ned's words. She grabbed
her books, flipping through them to find the passages that
would prove him wrong. She found the first. "Vodun­
voodoo. Practitioners believe spirits possess them."
Ned shook his head again and said, "Loa aren't ghosts."
"All right." She flipped to another spot in the same book.
"Automatic writing. It was popular in the twenties. Ghosts
possessed people and guided their handwriting."
"Sorry," ·smiled Ned. "Not possession. Not even ghosts
actually."
--
Jeane growled and reached for another book, the big
blue one Ned had pulled out from behind the velvet curtain
in his shop.
"1876. A newly ordained priest in Boston officiating at
his predecessor's funeral greeted each parishioner by name
and proceeded to give the final sermon that the late priest
had written but never delivered." She slapped the book on
the table and pushed it in front of him. "How about them
apples?"
Ned studied the passage, flipped a few pages forward
and back, then looked up. Jeane was surprised to see
respect in his eyes.
"You've only had this book for a couple of days," he said..
·

"I'm thorough."
"So it seems." He pushed the book back to her and cor­
rected himself. "Most ghosts don't possess people. But
when possession does occur-whatever the source-fr is

153
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fast and complete. The host is either possessed or it _isn't.

There's none of the continual urging that Will's experienc·
ing." Ned scratched at his beard. "It's more like the pres·
ence is simply talking to him."
"A sustained whisper can be a very effective psycholog­
ical weapon," observed Ngan.
Ned tapped his fingers on the .�bletop. "But that would
mean the .presence is manifesting in some form in t,hree dif­
ferent locations: at Presbyterian-St. · Luke's, in Bachelor's
Grove, and with Will. l'.ve never heard of such a thing." He
looked over at Jeane. "Unless you want to surprise me with
something, all the ghosts I'm aware of have been linked to
a place, or occasionally to a specific thing, or even more
occasionally to a specific person. Call it their focus. To
n
appear in three places implies three foci.
"Or a single one that we haven't identified yet," Jeane
suggested.
"Or that," Ned agreed. "Either way Bachelor's Grove is
where the presence originated, and that's where the answer
will be. It might even be possible to settle this question of
which of the cemetery's spirits is at work. :tfgan, we need to
go back out to Bachelor's Grove."
McCain made a strangled noise. "We?."
"Michael, would you just do it?" sighed Ngan. "The idea
might not have been yours, but it's still a good idea." He
nodded to Ned. "Go this afternoon."
"No." Jeane looked up at Ngan. He might have surprised
them by calling in a specialist and McCain might have gc;>t­
ten to him first with the information about Will, but she still
had her news. She had started off the day excited about it,
and she was damned if Ned's unexpected presence was
going to ruin that surprise. "Tonight."
Ngan did not look happy. "Jeane, please don't make this
difficult. n
"Trust me, Ngan, I have a good reason." She smiled at

15'
 If w his p e r s ca 11

McCain. "Remember Van Dimitriat? Well, you weren't the

only one to run into someone with a secret last night."
She described Van's confession of a seance in Bachelor's
Grove and his fears about what he had seen of the attack on
Will and Laurel.
"I think he should be there, too," she said, "but he'll be
in school this afternoon. We have to go tonight when he can
come. He may be able to fill us in on something important."
Ngan put his elbow on the table and rested his chin on
his fist. He looked at her for a long moment, and Jeane
could see weary frustration in his eyes. She felt no guilt at
all. It served him right for springing a specialist on them,
even if the specialist was turning out to be rather useful.
Finally Ngan turned to Ned. "What do you think?"
The psychic shrugged. "Frankly, I'd rather go at night
anyway. It's a better time for this kind of work."
"Do it, then. This meeting is over. I'll see you tomor­
row." Ngan stood up and gestured for them to go. "Jeane,
can you ask Emma if she'll give me a few minutes before
she brings in the next round of paperwork."
"Will do." Jeane stepped up to McCain as they filed out
of the office. "So what do you think? Was my news worth
the wait?"
He made a sour face. "Would have been better if I didn't
want to bust Ngan's chops so bad." He took a deep breath
and smiled. "It was good, Jeane. Pidn't I tell you Van would
come to us?"
"You didn't expect him to confess to raising the ghost
though, did you?"
"Gloating does not become you anymore than command
becomes Ngan." He glanced back over his shoulder. Ned
was just emerging from Ngan's office. "What do we do
about our psychic specialist?"
Jeane cringed inwardly at what she was about ta say.
She forced herself to remember Laurel and Will and the

155
 d on -a s a.I ng t h w a I te

cold fear of the phantom car pursuing them through the

mist. "The o�y thing we can do now-put up with him."

Once they were all out of his office, Ngan slid into the
big leather chair behind -his desk and covered his eyes with
the palms of his hands. It wasn't supposed to be this way.
He had listened to and weighed McCain's complaint that
they knew nothing about spirits, then acted on it, but
McCain just seemed more resentful than before. Jeane
clearly loathed Ned on some personal level, while the big
man took inordinate delight in taunting· her. To cap it all ,
he had all but told the agents directly that he was con­
cerned about their safety. The concept seemed totally lost
on them.
At least Jeane appeared willing to accept Ned's help,
however grudgingly. The cases she had so quickly pre­
sented to refute his argument had somehow impressed Ned
as welL His voice had lost its sharp edge when he talked to
her, as if he had accepted her as something approaching an
equal.
That just left McCain. Ngan groaned and pulled his
hands away to stare up at the shadows of his office ceiling.
What was he going to do about him? Twice now on this
investigation, McCain's constant pushing had almost made
him lose his temper. That wasn't a thing that happened eas­
ily, though it seemed tb be happening more easily since the
transfer to Chicago, since he had been shut away in this
room, doing paperwork and attending meetings instead of
being out in the· field where he belonged. He rolled his head
around to look at th� shadows and empty places of his
office. Getting out to Presb}rterian-St,_ Luke's. at the start of .
the investigation had felt good, but that blessed respite had·
been three days ago.

15,
 If w his p e r s ca II

The longing to be out with his team in the cemetery

tonight filled him up and for a moment he let himself wal­
low in it. Only for a moment, though. Then he put self-pity
away and reached for the newest pile of folders. Longing
did no good. He had his own work to do now. He opened the
first folder and settled in to a tedious report.
The phone on his desk rang before he was halfway
through the first page. He glared at the phone. The flashing
light and the insistent, incessant buzzing ring reminded him
too much of McC�. He took his time answering it, a petty
vengeance.
"Ngan Song Kun'dren," he said wearily.
"Ngan, it's Shani Doyle."
There was urgency in the doctor's voice. Ngan sat up.
"What's wrong?"
"The decision has been made to deliver Laurel's baby by
cesarean section." From Shani's· tone, Ngan guessed that
she had not been a part of that decision. "The operation is
scheduled for this eve.ning."
Ngan frowned into the handset. "Will the baby be all
right?"
"The obstetrician and the neonatologist think it'll be
fine. They barely even consider it to be premature-it was
practically at term when she went into the coma." She
sighed. "I'm more concerned about Laurel."
"You don't think she'll make it?"
"It will be hard on her, but I. can see where the OB is
coming from. Laurel isn't showing any improvement, and
her nightmare episode the other night doesn't put a good
face on things. We may need to start prescribing drugs that
could hurt the baby. If her body doesn't have to support the
baby, she might recover that much more quickly, but until
she does, she'll be weak. Veiy weak."
Shani's voice broke off as she lapsed into abrupt
silence. It didn't matter. Ngan_ had heard enough to hazard

157
 •DR u s 1l 11 t � wa l te

a guess at the reason for her urgent call. "You think the
spirit may b:y to take her tonight."
"Yes."
"Is Will going to be present?" It was almost a ridiculous
question. Of course he would be there. It was the birth of
his first child, no matter how unconventional. He asked the
question he should have asked in the first place. "Is she
under guard?"
·
"Someone is watching her; but I can't keep Will away
from her without having a good reason. McCain's say-so
might be enough for me, out it wouldn't be enough for hos· .
pital security." She hesitated, then added, "What about the
ghost itself? It did push me. Could it attack Laurel
directly?"
"It hasn't attacked her yet," Ngan pointed out, "and she
has been wlnerable for some time.�
Still, Shani's fears were reasonable. More than that, he
had a strong premonition that they were correct. He had
learned long ago to listen to his premonitions. They might
not have been as reliable as some of the other mental and
physical disciplines he had mastered during his youth at the
Monastery of Inner Light in Tibet, but when they mani­
fested, they were invari ably accurate. Someone who knew
what was going on needed to be at the hospital to watch
·

over Laurel.
He hesitated to reassign either McCain or Jeane. The
cemetery needed to be investigated again and the sooner
the better. Ngan's eyes fell across the folders and papers
piled on his desk. They needed to be looked after, but Lau­
rel's need was greater.
"What if someone from the Institute was present?" he
asked Shani. "What if I was there?"
"You won't be able to stay after visiting hours."
"Never mind that."
There would be a way, he was confident of that. And he·
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 If w his p e r s ca II

was growing more confident as the idea of leaving the office

for real work grew stronger. His head felt more clear than
it had in weeks. Even McCain's sullen moods seemed like
trifling things.
He said, "I'll be there."

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 : ·

·:t'i.e police cruiser came up from behind, passed

them, swung around at the end of 143rd Street
and came back, then slowed to a stop beside
McCain's car so that the driver's side windows were
facing each other. McCain rolled ·down his window
and nodded to the driver of the cruiser.
"Hello, Officer Jessop," McCain said. "Checking
up on us?"
Officer Jessop returned his nod. "Thought I
might, Mr. Maxwell. I didn't think you'd still be cool­
ing your heels on the street when you seemed so
anxious to get into Bachelor's Grove tonight."
"Still waiting for my assistant to show up,"
McCain replied with a cheerful grin.
Hadn't he told Jeane that having the cops on
their side was a good thing? One of the first things
he'd done after leaving Ngan's office was put in a
phone call to Officer Jessop. Wade Maxwell wanted

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to do a little location scouting in Bachelor's Grove after

dark. Jessop had been reluctant at first, but McCain was
able to talk him into it. There wouldn't be any surprise vis­
its from the police or the forest preserve rangers tonight.
There had been an unexpected side benefit as well.
When Jeane had called to arrange Van's attendance, his
mother had insisted. on knowing where h�r s.on was going.
Van told her that location scouts for a movie wanted infor­
mation from a local teenager. She was suspicious until
McCain told her to call Officer Jessop.
"Did Anna Dimitriat get in touch with you to check us
out?" McCain asked the cop.
"Yeah. I vouched for you," Jessop replied. he peered past
McCain to the passenger seat. "Who's this?"
McCain turned to introduce Ned, an alias rolling up in
his mind, but Ned leaned forward himself before he could
say anything. ·
"Edward Wells," Ned said quickly. "I'm the producer. Or
I will be if this lump ever gets his butt in gear. Flew in today
from L.A."
Ned shoved his bulk in front of McCain and thrust a
hand through the window toward Jessop. His fingers barely
cleared the window frame. Jessop just waved at him.
"Nice to meet you."
His voice implied he'd as soon be scraping something
noxious off the bottom of his shoe. Ned withdrew in a sulk.
McCain rolled his eyes in annoyance and not entirely just
for Jessop's benefit. Jessop gave him a little smile of sym­
pathy.
"Just let me know when you've finished in.the cemetery,
Mr. Maxwell," Jessop said. "Have a good
·
night."
"Thanks. You, too."
The cruiser pulled away, and McCain rolled the window
·

back up. "Producer?" he asked.

Ned looked down his nose at him. "You think I'm going

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 If w hla p e r .a · c a I I

to be another one of your assistants.? Forget that." He

plucked a box off the dashboard and opened it up. "Want
another doughnut?" ·

"No, thanks."
McCain slouched back down n
i his seat, staring up
through the windshield at the almost full moon that glowed
in the sky. Smooth, impassive, and swollen-just like
Ngan's head. The old man didn't wear command well. He
was pushy, annoying, and interfering. He had grabbed the
biggest office and lie never did the dirty work in the field
anymore. Paperwork and meetings, my ass, McCain
thought.
There was the whole matter of Ned, of course. Of all the
arrogant things Ngan could have done, bringing in the fat
man "in the team's best interest" had been the most insult­
ing. How had he expected them to react·to that? With grat­
itude? It was like a vote of no-confidence in their first
investigation as a team. .
It didn't help at all that, as Jeane pointed out, Ned might
actually be the right man for tbe job. McCain flicked a harsh
glance at him . Only to find that Ned was already staring at
him.
"What?" McCain growled.
"Nothing," Ned replied with a shrug. He wiped powdered
sugar from his beard. "You remind me of somebody, and I
was trying to figure out who."
Oh, that was all he needed. "John F. Kennedy?" he
snapped sourly.
Ned snorted sharply and dipped back into the doughnut
box. "Don't flatteryourself, pretty boy. I was thinking of my
uncle Wally. JFK? Please." His hand emerged with a dough­
nut frosted in a pale pink. He looked at it with suspicion.
"The man has been dead for almost fortyyears. Let hi!ll go."
McCain could only stare at him in amazement. For vir­
tually his entire life, everybody who looked at him had

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 d DI -1 1 11 nut h w a I te

almost instantly come up with "you look like JFK" or, at the
very least, "you look like a Kennedy.• To be compared to
Uncle Wally was an astonishing new feeling. Even more
astonishing was to be insulted 'for even suggesting that he
might look like the assassinated president.
Ned must have mistaken his stunned silence for shock
and anger, because he rolled right along, gesturing with the
doughnut. "I mean the significance you people attach to
this guy, the myths you've built up-it's a national obses­
sion. Get over it. The world couldn't care less."
McCain managed to find his voice again. "'You people?'"
he asked.
"There are advantages to being Canadian," Ned said,
"and one of them is getting to snicker at some of the stllpid
things you lot do." .
He consumed half of the doughnut n i one bite, then
made a face. "By the way," he mumbled around the mouth­
ful, "you also make lousy doughnuts. n
Several crumbs sprayed out of his mouth and landed in.
his beard. He brushed them away absently with his free
hand.
McCain sat back. "So you don't think I look like JFK?" It
felt strangely good to say that. Maybe he would have to
rethink his evaluation of the psychic.
"Only as much as Uncle Wally does.• Ned swallowed.
"Now Jeane, on the other hand-have you noticed h�w
much she looks like Marilyn Monroe? Without the blond
hair and mole, of course, and with about fifteen extra
pounds and a lot more attitude."
Now it was McCain's turn to snort in derision. "Uh-huh.
How long has it been since you've had a date, Ned?"
"That was an observation, not a statement of intent."
"Sure.• Headlights cast sudden illumination on them as
another car pulled up behind and parked. McCain twisted
around. It was Jeane's car.
18'
 If w his p e r s ca 11

"You know," McCain said, "I don't think I'd repeat that
observation to Jeane if I were you."
"Trust me," Ned agreed, "I won't."
Getting out of the car was a shock. In addition to being
an extraordinarily clear night, it was also bone-chillingly
cold. The temperature had plunged with the setting sun.·
This time out, however, McCain had come dressed for' it in
a warm jacket and stout boots. He had also come equipped
for nighttime investigation. The chase with the ghost car
had left his night vision goggles busted, but he had an
infrared camera for himself, another camera equipped with
high-speed, low-light film for Jeane, and flashlights for the
whole group. He hauled everything out of his car and back
to Jeane's.
"Nice of you to join us," he told her. He smiled at Van as
the young man emerged from the passenger side door. "Hi,
Van. If we're going to be working together, you might as
well call me Fitz."
- "Sure," Van said, sounding more than a little uncertain.
He carried a heavily stuffed backpack with him-his
seance gear they'd asked him to bring. He looked at Ned, a
rather sinister figure in the half-light, and McCain intro­
duced them. They shook hands without saying anything.
When Van released his hand; Ned turned away toward the
woods. ·
"Jeez, he's cold," muttered Van.
· "I would have thought he'd be friendlier, too." McCain
looked after Ned for a moment, then turned back to Van.
"Did your mother give you trouble about �oming out
tonight?"
Van gave the same noncommittal shrug McCain was
sure he'd used himself at that age. "Not really. When she
called the cops ·and they said you were legit she settled
down a lot."
"We're also paying him. five hundred dollars to ad as a

185
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consultant and we have to get him back by midnight." Jeane

glanced at her watch. "We should get going."
The walk in to Bachelor's Grove was silent. It was sur­
prisingly peaceful in the darkness of the woods. The gravel
path was quite clear, and one by one they turned off their
flashlights to follow it by moonlight alone. With no leaves
on the trees, the only shadows cast in the moonlight were
the narrow spiderwebs of the bare branches. Their own
thicker shadows slipped along the ground like intruders.
The cemetery, when they reached it, was even brighter. The
soft light erased the ravages of neglect and vandalism, and
made the cemetery seem almost timeless in its ruined
beauty. Ned hooked his fingers through the links of the
fence and looked around.
"So," he said, turning to Van. "This is where you decided
to try and contact the Other Side?"
Van nodded hesitantly.
"Ah," said Ned. He looked back to the cemetery-then
spun suddenly and grabbed Van by the front of his jacket
with both hands. "What did you think you were doing?" he
screamed into the young man's face.
"Ned!" McCain tried to push him away from Van, but Ned
was fast with his elbows and knocked McCain back. He ·

gave Van a hard shake.

"What were you going to do if something answered you?
Eh?" He shook his captive again. "Were you going to ask it
a question maybe?"
Van, stunned by the swift attack, nodded dumbly.
"What would you have done if it wanted to be paid?" Ned
insisted. "What would you have given it? Well?"
V� tried to answer but only managed a terrified chok­
ing sound.
"I thought so," spat Ned. "Ever heard of Gabriel Collins?
He was a spiritualist in New York in the 1930s. One night
he made contact with a ghost. A real ghost. It refused to·

188
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answer him, and he didn't have the willpower to force it to.

Know what it did? It ripped Ol.\t his tongue, then it reached
down his throat and tore out his vocal chords, too."
"Christ, Ned," McCain said. "You're terrifying the kid."
He tried to step forward again, but this time Jeane held
him back.
"Wait," she hissed. "Do you see what he's doing?"
All of the color had drained from Van's face. He didn't
look away from Ned's face though and his struggles to free
himself were weak.
Ned pushed at him harder, his voice like a whip. "That's
assuming you make contact with a ghost and not something
else-because there are more than just ghosts out there, you
know. Oh, yes." His voice dropped to a terrible whisper.
"There was a group right here in Chicago that · managed to
summon up something much worse than a ghost. No one
knows what they summoned because only one person sur­
vived. All the rest were just . . . gone. And the person who
survived, the leader, she had her mind totally burned away.
All she does now is scream and babble, and if she gets free
for even a second, she attacks anyone who comes near here."
He pulled Van in very close and said, "I presume you
don't want that to happen to you?"
Ned shoved him, and Van scrambled away. The fence
stopped him, and Ned stomped after him, anger Written
across his face. Then, as abruptly as he'd grabbed the boy,
Ned put out a hand and helped Van to his feet.
"You're nev:er going to try something like this again, are
you?" he asked.
"No!" Van said emphatically. He was trembling like a
dog in a thunderstorm.
. Ned nodded and said, "Good. Now pull yourself together.
We're going to need you in the cemetery." He passed Van to
Jeane, then caught McCain's eye. "Can I talk to you for a ·
·

second?"
187
 don ba a al ngth wal te

Neq led McCain a short distance away then said, "Sony

about elbowing you like that, but I wanted lo put the fear of
. . . well, something into that kid before he did something
stupid."·
"Well, I think it worked." McCain looked back at Van.
His skin had the pale and waxy look of a corpse. McCain
shuddered. "The stories make it. Tell me what book they're
in, and next time I want a good scare, I'll come buy it."
"They're not in a book, Fitz. They're real."
"You're kidding." .
"When it comes to amateurs messing around with sum·
moning and conjuration, I never kid," Ned said seriously. He
sighed. "There was another reason Ngan tapped me for this
job, Fitz, one that he didn't tell you. Be.cause of.the rumors
that linked Bachelor'� Grove to black magic rituals, he
wanted someone with a background in the arcane as well as
the psychic."
Ned spread his hands wide and said, "Before my psychic
skills emerged, I was a member of a group that practiced
diabolism-black magic."
"Woah." McCain flinched away.
Ned caught him "StQp that. It's not like it's contagious.
.

Besides, I don't do it anymore. I'm a vezy good· psychic, but

I was a very, very bad diabolist." He gestured toward Van.
"He reminds me too much of me at his age. If I can give him
a good scare now, he's not going to go screwing around with
something dangerous."
McCain looked at Ned, re-evaluating his dark presence.
"So those stories . . . "
Ned shrugged an.d said, "Just what I said. They're real.
Gabe Collins was actually an Institute operative. I met him
back-in the eighties. Tough old bastard."
Ned led McCain back over to join Jeane and Van.
"The other group was my old circle," Ned continued as
they walked. "Not long after I left they stretched them·

188·
 if w his p e r s ca II

selves a little too far. Nobody knows exactly what hap­

pened."
Jeane caught the words and looked at Ned curiously. .
"Never mind," McCain told her. "You okay now, Van?"
The teenager nodded and McCain gesture4 toward the
·
hole in the fence.
"Let's go then," McCain said.
Ned stepped through and McCain followed him. Jeane
and Van brought up the· rear. Ned sauntered slowly through
the cemetery, leading them along like a little troop of duck·
lings. Finilly he stopped near the cemetery's c:enter and
turned.
"Nothing," he reported.
"What?" Jeane looked around."'Weren't you going to . . ."
She gestured vaguely, hands in the air beside her head. "Do
whatever it is psychics do?"
"I've already done . . ." Ned imitated her waving gesture.
". . . what psychics do." He gave her a disparaging look.
"What were you expecting, Jeane? A little glow, �aybe one
of those sci-fi sound effects? Because, you know, until I had
them plug the hole in my head, my brain made a whistling
noise every time I used my skills."
He turned to McCain and said, "Since your partner is
apparently laboring under a bit of a misconception, let's try
telling this to you: I don't feel anything here."
McCain looked around the moonlit dimness of the ceme·
tery, shook his head, and admitted, "Sorry, Ned. I don't get
it either. What don't you feel?"·
"A presence." Ned swept his arm· around. "If there is
anything active here, I should be able to sense it. There's
nothing. All I can feel is the same impression I feel any time
I'm in a cemetery: old sorrow, th_e last lingering attachment
to bones. Even those are old and faded."
"So you're saying Bachelor's Grove isn't haunted?"
asked Jeane. Ned shook his head.
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 d on u 1 11 ngth w a l te

"You experienced something here. So did Van. So did

Laurel and Will Tavish. But if something was here, it's not
here now." He frowned. "The only strange thing . . ."
"What?"
Ned shrugged. "This cemetery was never consecrated.
It'.s an old sense I picked up from my . . ." His eyes darted
to McCain for a moment. " . . . previous training."
He shrugged again and said, "Bachelor's Grove origi·
nally served a rough community of immigrant workers. so
it's possible the cemetery just started as a burial ground,
and its use continued without ever being properly conse­
crated by the church. It's not uncommon for frontier ceme­
teries." He looked to Van. "However, it does mean that
trying to contact a spirit here is more dangerous than in
most cemeteries; so you're going to have to be .careful.
Where did you try your seance the first time?"
"Wait a second." Van looked so confused that he seemed
on the verge of panic. He took a step back, stumbling a little
on a piece of gravestone. "You want me to do it again? After
the rant you just gave me?"
"I wanted you to kriow that you shouldn't try it without
knowing what you're doing," Ned snorted. "If I say you
should try it again, then you should try it again. If you need
help, I'm here. If something you did was what called or
awakened the presence in the first place, we need to dupli·
cate it."
Van looked to Jeane and she nodded. He slid his back­
pack off. of his shoulders and went over to kneel in an open
patch of ground. The first thing out of his backpack was a
large square of purple velvet. He spread it carefully across
the ground, then looked up.
"I have incense." he said. "We were going to use it the
first time, but the matches got wet and we couldn't light it."
"Do everything as close as possible to the way you actu­
ally did it the first time," Ned instructed him.

170
 If w his p e r a ca II

McCain watched Van stab the unlit sticks of incense into

the ground at the comers of the velvet. He turned to Ned
and asked, "If there's nothing here, what good is this going
'
to do?"
"Like I said, there's nothing here noip. I'm hoping Van's
little seance will draw it back from wherever it's gone."
Jeane's eyes narrowed in the darkness. "You mean it's at
the hospital now."
"Or whispering in Will's ear," Ned replied, "or wherever
it goes when it's not active. If nothing else, we'll see what
Van's ceremony . . ."

Ned's voice faded· away as he looked toward Van.

McCain followed his gaze Van had ·takena small triangular
.

object from his b!ickpack and now was removing, and

unfolding, a large square board.
"Van," snapped Ned, "tell me that's not what I think it
is."
Van looked up. "It's a Ouija board."
"Oh, dear God!" Ned stalked over and plucked it out of
his hands to examine it up close. "It is."
"What's wrong?" asked McCain.
"A Ouija board? That's a kid's board game. It has noth­
ing to do with spirits at all. It's all people pushing the
planchette unconsciously. You can't actually make contact
with one of these things."
Ned squatted down and grabbed Van's whisker-covered
chin with one hand, forcing the young man to look up and
meet his gaze To McCain, it looked like Ned was just glow­
.

ering at Van, but then the psychic grunted in surprise and

let go.
"Or," Ned added, "maybe you can."
"Whatr Van blinked and rubbed at his eyes.
Ned handed him back the board and said, "Never mind.
Sometimes the words and motions are more important
than the paraphernalia. You'd just better not have a ccystal

111
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in that backpack." He sat back on his heels as Van set out

the Ouija board. "How many people di
d you have with you the
first time?"
"Three."
"Perfect."
Ned gestured for Jeane and McCain to join them around
the velvet and the board. McCain couldn't help noticing that
Jeane very deliberately sat on the far side of the board from
Ned. Ned reached forward and put his fingertips on the tri­
angular planchette. Va:n .shook his head.
"We have to join hands first."
They did it, though McCain saw Ned give Van a suspi­
cious look. He could guess what the psychic was thinking:
how were they supposed to use the Ouija board with their
hands linked? He also noticed that if the incense Van had
laid out had actually been lit, their'joined hands would have
been toasting over the glowing sticks. He looked at Jeane.
She didn't seem at all impressed.
After a last look around the circle, Van cleared his
throat and took a deep breath.
· "Hail, spirits of Bachelor's Grove," he said loudly. "We,
the living, the walkers in the sun, salute thee, the dead, the
dwellers in Paradise. We crave thy forgiveness for intruding
upon thine eternal rest-"
From Van's irst
f words, McCain had felt Ned's grip on
his hand squeeze tight in-frustration, but now the psychic
choked outright.
"Stop!" He closed his eyes for a moment and groaned.
"What the hell is that?"
"The ritual of the seance?" Van asked meekly.
"Did you get it out of a green book with a picture of two
hands joined over a glowing crystal?"
Van nodded without speaking, and Ned groaned again
loudly. "McLellan."
"Who?" asked Jeane.

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 If W 1111 ' Ir I Cl I I

"Let's just say you won't find any of his books in my

shop. He doesn't even understand how to use 'thou' prop­
erly in a sentence." Ned clenched his teeth. "Right. Start
again �d kee_p going."
Van started again, pouring through a droning monologue
of appeals and apologies. Mc<;ain could feel Ned flinching
with practically every sentence. He tried to ignore him,
instead waiting with a growing sense of anticipation for the
first drift of mist. And waiting.
After several long minutes, the only unusual thing that
he felt was a growing chill as the night air slowly stole the
heat from his immobile body and the sliglit dampness of
the ground soaked through the knees of his pants. He
risked a frustrated glance at Jeane, who rolled her eyes in
sympathy, then at Ned. The psychic just gave him a deep
frown, but at least he'd stopped flinching. Van continued to
chant. The young man's eyes were closed, and all of his
attention seemed devoted to the seance. McCain sighed
quietly. He forced himself to relax, closing his eyes as well
and letting his mind drift. That seemed to help. The ache
of cold slowly diminished until all he was aware of was a
clean, frosty bite. Sound· receded as well. Van's chanting
was-distant, fading into a stillness-
McCain's eyes snapped open. He knew that stillness.
"Ned!" he whispered.
"I feel it."
Ned's eyes were open, but he stared off into the night.
Jeane and Van were looking at the psychic as well, Van still
chanting relentlessly.
Ned gave him a slight nod and said, "Keep going, I feel
something." He lapsed back into silence.
"Talk to us, Ned," Jeane said.
Ned's face knotted in concentration, but he said nothing
more. McCain risked a fast glance around the moon­
shadowed cemetery. Nothing had changed. No floating
113
 d on ba a a I nu t h wa I te

objects, no spectral figures. No ghostly Model As. But the

stillness remained, as did the cold-and maybe something
else: Tiny pale blue specks flashed in the darkness. McCain
blinked and they vanished. A moment later, theywere ba'Ck
again, shifting away whenever he tried to focus on them. A
trick of the eyes in the dark? No. The blue specks clung to
things. They flickered on surfaces for half a heartbeat, then
faded away. He could feel the hair on the baclr of his neck
standing up.
Van's chanting faltered. "Ned?" he asked. "What-"
"Keep chanting!" the psychic snapped and Van, startled,
picked up the d!oning invocation once more.
McCain thought he could see the blue specks reflected
in Ned's unfocused eyes. He was, McCain realized, staring
in the direction of Chicago.
"There's a distant presence," Ned murmured. "Very dis·
tant. The seance isn't doing any more than drawing som� of
its attention, a,nd that's only because we're at the source of
its being. We're nothing. We're . . . "

He clenched his jaw, and his lips pulled away from his
teeth. He squeezed McCain's hand hard-then relaxed. At
the same moment, the eerie stillness and sharp cold van·
ished. The blue specks winked out.
Ned drew a long breath, blinked, and said, "l lost it."
"What's it doing?" McCain asked. "Where is it?"
"I don't know." Ned shook his head. "But I can tell you
this-it's not happy."

In his mind's eye, Ngan stood again in the shadows of a

viewing gallery, looking down into the operating room as
surgeons prepared Laurel for the cesarean section. Bit by
bit, they ·shrouded her body n
i blue-green sheets, then
raised a curtain of the same fabric between her head and

17'
 If w hll p e r I cI II

her body. When they were finished, all that remained was
an anonymous patch of flesh, a distended,
. disembodied
belly already marked for the surgeon's knife.
Ngan c9uldn't help thinking that this was not how birth
should be. Surely a mother and child that had suffered so
much deserved better.
Then the surgeon had a scalpel in his hand, and he
stroked the bright steel lightly across Laurel's belly, open·
· /
ing a dark gash in the wake of the blade. An assistant
stepped in with a broad, stainless steel instrument that
reminded Ngan of nothing so much as a hoe. The instru·
ment was hooked over the lip of skin and muscle, and the
assistant drew back on it, pulling the incision even wider.
The surgeon's gloved hands dipped inside, vanishing for a
moment nto
i Laurel's womb. Ngan leaned forward, alert for
any sign of interference by the spirit. This was the moment.
If it was going to act, surely it would act-
lt was over before he could complete the thought. The
surgeon pulled Laurel's child out of her body in one swift,
brutal motion, passing it to a waiting nurse while he sev·
ered the thick, blue-grey umbilical cord. Ngan fell back,
almost at a loss. So quickly and it was done? The child was
safe now, freed from the haunted prison of Laurel's body,
but it felt so wrong, so unnatural.
"Oh, Laurel," he murmured, "I'm sony it had to be this
way."
He had only the briefest glimpse of the baby before
assistants moved forward to cleanse it of Laurel's fluids. It
was moving weakly, wet red arms and legs thrashing
against the light and air. Fine black hair was plastered
against its delicate head. A warming table was brought for·
ward, and scales for weighing, and ink to take footprints. In
the background, the surgeon began to close the incision.
Laurel didn't move. No one took her baby to her. Ngan
bowed his head. Surely that was the most rending tragedy

l75
 �II U I II Ill� Wll ti

of all. Perhaps the child sensed the distance of its moth.er

as well. It opened its mouth, drew breath, and . . . chimed?
Ngan snapped out of a light doze to the sound of a quiet,
persistent alarm. Something was happening. Time came
rushing back to replace memory. He glanced at his watch
and quietly cursed the vivid dreams th.at bad held him in
sleep. Laurel's operation bad taken place hours ago. He
scrambled to his feet and swiftly made his way to the
access door that led from the interstitial floor out into a
stairwell.
!(eeping watch on Laurel during the day had been
simple enough. Be quiet, be still, be inconspicuous, and
people's attention simply slid past you. Not even Shani
Doyle had recognized his presence. The end of visiting
hours had brought a new problem, though. It was much
harder to trick people into ignoring you if they knew you
weren't supposed to be there. The maintenance area that
had given Jeane such frustration had proved to be the
answer.
In some ways, though, remaining nearby might not even
have been necessary. Will Tavish bad not shown up to wit­
ness the delivery of his first child. There bad been no sign
of him at all, not before the delivery, not during, not after.
And there was no way Will could get to Laurel with the hos­
pital closed for the night. .
Unfortunately, Will wasn't the only danger to Laurel.
Ngan slipped out of the stairwell and onto the floor of
the ICU. The sound of the alarm was louder here. It was
also overlaid with urgent shouts. From where he stood,
Ngan could see the elevators. He watched as the doors of
one crashed open and two big orderlies jumped out to run
in the direction of Room 923. Hard on their heels, another
elevator arrived, disgorging a harried-looking doctor.
Quickly but silently, Ngan followed them all.
Bright light flooded from Laurel's room into the dimmed·

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corridor outside. The light carried shadows from inside the

room as well, shadows that looked like they were fighting.
Ngan glanced behind him once. No one else was coming yet,
but they could come at any time. He stole up to the brightly
lit doorway and peered inside.'
Cold air poured out of the room along with the light and
shadows, chilling the entire corridor. H the nurses and order­
lies and doctor within felt the cold, they didn't show it. They
were too busy struggling with Laurel Tavish as she shook in
the grip of a massive seizure. For the first time since Ngan
had laid eyes on her, there was color around Laurel and
around her bed. Red.
A huge crimson stain spread across her gown where the
cesarean incision had been tom open again. The blood blos­
somed on the sheets as well. It made Laurel's skin-and
the hands of the nurses-slick.
Red wasn't the only color in the rooxp., though. Here and
there on the metal surfaces of the room clung tiny flashes
of pale blue light, like reflections of some unseen source.
None of the medical staff seemed to notice them: Ngan
remembered what Shani had seen, a blue light glowing
under the door of the room. He remembered what she had
heard as well: children playing. He could hear them himself
now, a haunting sound that was faint beneath the shouts of
the medical staff. But there was something else, as well. A
crying baby.
He paused, listening and trying to hear more.
The doctor chose that moment to look up. "Hey! Who
are--"
He hiid been seen. Ngan slid back into the shadows­
just in time to feel something brush past him. Not just a
gust of cold, but something with substance. He �napped his
head down, scanning the floor and caught a light streamer
of mist snaking away down the corridor. He didn't hear the
rest of the doctor's question. He lunged after the mist. ·

TT1
 d on ba a 11 ngth w a l te

Away from the bright illumination of Laurel's room, he

could see it better. Pale blue light flickered on the metal
that it passed, and Ngan could feel the chill that it left in its
wake. The mist sped back down the hall toward the nurs­
ing station . . . toward the elevators.
Then it stopped abruptly, hung still for a moment, and
dropped straight to the floor.
· No. Not to the floor. Through the floor.
Ngan knelt and touched the spot where the mist had
been· moments before. The tile was marked by a light.trac-
. ing of frost. Shani had never descnbed this. When the mist
had disappeared before; it always just dissipated. Now it
was passing through things? Why? Ngan ground his teeth
together. So close and it had vanished like . . .
A ghost passing through a wall. The mist hadn't dissi­
pated this time because the ghost was still present.
. Ngan heard the elevator doors opening. They were just
ahead around a comer. Anyone who emerged would see
him. A door nearby opened n i to a stairwell. He leaped
through it and eased it almost closed, leaving just a crack
that he could peer through. A security guard hustled past.
·

They wouldn't send a security guard for a medical emer-

gency. The doctor who had seen him . . they knew he was
.

here. He closed the door the rest of the way and leaned
against it for a moment. The mist had dropped straight
down. If he wanted to find the ghost again, it would be a
simple matter of checking the floors below the ICU for the
chill it left behind. With hospital security looking for him,
though, he didn't have the luxury of time.
Something stirred in his memory, something from
Jeane's report on her investigation n i the hospital. The
sounds of children in Laurel's room-they couldn't have
come from the pediatrics ward because that was in another
wing, and the closest children of any kind were in the
·

maternity ward and neonatal unit.

111
 If w hll p er I ca I I

'I\vo floors down from intensive care.

He ran down the stairs, vaulting over the rails from flight
to flight. He knew he had guessed correctly when he
reached the door to the seventh floor. The desperate wails of
a dozen babies and a thin draft of cold air cut through the
gaps in the door frame. Ngan opened the door just enough to
peer out. The narrow gap didn't give him a very wide field of
vision, but it did reveal one thing: another security guard, an
enormous mountain of a man, looking straight at the slowly
opening door. His hand dropped to his belt and the holster
that hung there.
It was too late for Ngan to simply duck back into the
stairwell. With the ghost now among the babies, how could
he? Ngan _pulled the door wide and stepped through. He
caught the guard's gaze and held it. Be quiet, be still, be
inconspicuous. If you can't be inconspicuous then dominate
their attention. The guard's hand stopped as he stared into
Ngan's eyes. Ngan let the door close behind him. Back to
the wall, he walked past the guard, 'holding his gaze the
entire way. The guard turned with him, helplessly caught.
The man who had taught Ngan the trick so many years ago
in Tibet had described it as the reaction of a goat watching
as a snow leopard stalked past.
Just beyond· the guard was a door equipped with a
punch-code lock. A sign on the door described the hospital's
desire to ensure the safety of new mothers and their chil­
dren. Authorized persons only in the maternity ward_:_
apologies for the inconvenience. The barrier would be
nothing to a ghost, but it stopped Ngan. Could he press the
awe in which the goat held the snow leopard? He looked
sharply at the guard and pointed at the. door.
"I want to go in there."
The guard leaped for the door just like a skittish goat
and rapidly punched in the entry code, swinging the ·door
wide for him. Ngan backed through slowly, his eyes still

.17 9
 d on ba s al ngth w a l te

holding the guard. When he was finally on the other side,

his free hand came up, pointing back past the guard. ·The
big man followed the gesture out of sheer instinct, and in
the split s�cond that his attention was elsewhere, Ngan qtP,­
etly pulled the security door closed again. ·

For a few moments, the guard would remember .only a

vague sense of disorientation but he would come to his
senses soon enough. A few moments was all Ngan needed,
though. He. followed the sound of the crying babies. Other
cries hadjoined them, mothers staying overnight in the hos­
pital concerned for the safety of their children. There was
one tiny wail that rose above all of the others, though. Ngan
followed that one, running along the corridor and around a
comer.
He froze.
Down at the end of this new corridor was the big window
that looked in on the nursery. Nurses ran around frantically,
trying to calm the babies and wrap them against the cold
that had settled in. Directly in front of Ngan, however, was
another window, this one smaller, and looking in on another
nursery where a number of tiny, frail infants .lay in the warm
embrace of incubators, crying weakly. All, that was, except
one baby. It was as big as the infants in the other nursery,
and it screamed loudly with healthy lungs. Under the bright
lights of the nursery, the mist and pale blue lights that sur­
rounded its incubator were almost invisible. Ngan squinted
at the name card that identified the child.
Tavish, Girl.
'!Wo nights ago, Jeane and McCain.had been attacked
near Bachelor's Grove. That same night, something had dis­
turbed Laurel Tavish's deathlike sleep. The team was in the
cemetery again tonight. Could it be coincidence that.some­
thing far worse had manifested? There was a telephone
mounted on the wall just down the corridor. Ngan snatched
up the handset and dialed a number as fast as he could.

180
 If w his p er s ca I I

Van had almost completed· yet another interminable

round of invocations to the spirits of Bachelor's Grove. The
boy's voice was cracking. McCain glanced at Ned.
"Anything?" he whispered.
Ned shook his head. "Just barely a stir. Not even the con­
nection we had before. That's more activity than I'd nor·
mally expect this drivel to produce but still not enough to
match what happen-"
The sound of McCain's cell phone was· so sharp arid loud
that they all jumped. Van broke off his ritual with a yelp.
McCain let go of Ned's hand to digthe phone out of his pocket.
"Hello?"
"Whatever you're doing, stop it!" Ngan's voice was fran­
tic. "Stop it now!·
McCain looked around. Van was silent. The circle of
hands was broken. The Ouij a board hadn't moved an inch
from where Van had first placed it.
"We have stopped," McCain said.
"It's no good . . ."
"What's no good?" He glanced at Jeane and Ned. "Ngan,
what's going on? Why do we have to stop?"
"It's the ghost. It-" The connection went dead before
Ngan could finish.
"Ngan? Ngan?" McCain looked up. "Something's wrong.
Something to do with the ghost."
"How?" demanded Jeane. "We didn't do anything."
"We didn't think we did anything,• Ned grumbled. He
snatched the iricense out ofthe ground on either side·of him
and snapped the sticks in half before hurling them onto the
Ouija board. "Get the other ones."
· Jeane grabbed and broke the other sticks as Ned stood
up. He stretched his arms wide and shouted something that
McCain couldn't understand. It might have been Greek. It
181
 01 U I 11 RI t � W 1 1 tt

might have been Latin. Whatever it was, it rolled off Ned's

tongue with a power and majesty that Van's babbling could
never have matched. At the height of the shout, Ned
brought his foot down hard on the incense and the Ouija
planchette, shattering it all and tearing the board beneath. .
He knelt and gathered up the edges of the velvet to make a
bundle, knotting the comers securely.
"Stand back!" he snapped.
Ned wound up ·like a discus thrower and let the bundle
fly-straight toward the lagoon. It landed with a splash and
sank below the surface.

The supernatural chill faded, and the urgent edge of fear

disappeared from the babies' screams. Ngan was fairly cer­
tain that two floors up, Laurel Tavish's seizure had sub·
sided as well. He desperately wanted· to turn around and
make sure that the Tavish baby was all right, but he wasn't
exactly in a position to do so. He glanced down at the pis·.
tol in the big security guard's hands. The goat had come
after the snow leopard.

18t
.. ""'
.
, sun was coming up as McCain walked
I �e
through the front doors of Presbyterian-St.
Luke's and up to the information desk in the
lobby.
"Where can I indf the security office?" he ask
wearily.
The young woman at the desk gave him the
directions, and McCain dragged himself off to an ele­
vator. There were mirrors mounted along the wall,
. and he took a moment to straighten his clothes and
hair before the elevator arrived. Too bad there
wasn't anything he could do about the whiskers that
stubbled his face. More than the hair and clothes­
still the same ones he had worn out to the ceme­
tery-they made him look as if he had just crawled
out of bed.
Then again, he thought, maybe that's not such a
bad thing. It certainly wasn't far from the truth. ·
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 d on ba s s I ng t h w a i te

The security office was down, not up; and for the first
time McCain descended into the hospital's basement. Aside
from the total lack of windows and a dour light-grey paint
job, it wasn't too bad. He found the security office and took
a deep breath, psyching himself up for the task ahead. He
pushed the do.or open.
The security office turned out to be a large, messy room
with a few desks and two separate offices at the back. A
big bruiser of a security guard was sitting at the desk clos­
est to the door. McCa.i.Il gave him the best smile he could
.manage.
"Hi, I'm Rob Neil of Wmdy City Ventilation and Climate
Control. You're sitting on one of my employees."
The bruiser turned around and yelled to the back of the
room. "Hey, chief-the old guy's boss is here!"
A burst of colorful language emerged from one of the
offices, followed a few moments later by an older security
guard with grey-speckled hair and a half piece of toast piled
with eggs in his hand.
"Always during breakfast," he grunted, wolfmg down
the toast. He picked up a clipboard as he walked up to the
front of the room. "Robert Neil? Wmdy City Ventilation?"
McCain nodded in confirmation and the security chief
grunted again. He looked over th� list attached to the clip­
board.
"No official job order from the hospital," the security
chief mumbled. "No listed phone n:umber. It took us a while
·
to track you down."
"So· I understand," McCain said dryly.
While Presbyterian-St. Luke's security had been. trying
to find him, he, Jeane, and Ned had spent most of the night
trying to find Ngan. After hastily leaving the cemetery and
dropping Van at home, they had raced back to the Institute
branch office. Nothing Ngan had left there had produced
any answers, nor had a hasty call that woke up Emma.

184
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Presbyterian-St. Luke's had been the next logical place to

look, but with the hospital closed for the night, they
couldn't look for themselves. Fortunately, Shani was on
duty, and the card she had given McCain iricluded her pager
number. When they got in touch with her, the only informa­
tion she had was that Ngan had been planning to visit the
hospital to watch over Laurel. She hadn't seen him at all.
That Laurel had even had the cesarean had left them all
stunned. Shani was at a loss. Hadn't Ngan told them?
"No," McCain had replied tightly, "he didn't."
"Then," Shani had guessed, "you haven't heard what
just happened here, either."
She filled them ih on the strange cold, the crying babies,
and Laurel Tavish's vicious seizure. Laurel had lost a sig­
nifi.cant amount of blood from the reopened incision, but
once they had her restrained, the sutures had quickly been
replaced.
Shani had heard nothing about an intruder apprehended
during the incident, however. That news had come only in
the wee hours of the morning as they wracked their collec­
tive brains thinking where else Ngan might have been.
McCain's cell phone rang, and he snatched it up only to dis­
cover it was hospital security. Ngan had spent the night
under watch at Presbyterum-St. Luke's. Sticking with the ·

ventilation consultant story McCain had first invented for

Will's benefit, he had given them McCain's cell phone num­
ber as the contact for his employer. McCain arranged to
come in shortly after the hospital opened in the morning.
Now he looked the security chief straight in the eye. "If
he gave you my number initially, why didn't you just call it
right away? We could have avoided a lot of this."
The security chief met his gaze uncowed. "We had to be
sure that you weren't just an accomplice who would con­
firm any questions we asked."
"Because, of course, someone would come up with a
185
 d oa �a 1 11. ngt-h w a l te

fake ventilation climate control company as a way to get an

old man into a hospital in the middle of the night."
The chief didn'flook amused. "Lucky for you, we did get
in touch with one of our maintenance supervisors who
worked with someone else from your company a couple of
days ago." He rapped the- bottom edge of the clipboard
agajnst the top of the desk. "It still doesn't explain why
your employee was wandering around the hospital after
hours on a night when the air conditioning systems on two
·

floors went haywire."

So that was how they were explaining the cold Shani
had described.
McCain shrugged and said, "Working late? Lost track of
time? I don't know. He wasn't supposed to be here, and he's
certainly not supposed to be doing anything to the heating
and air conditioning systems. What does he say about it?"
"He says you told him it would be fine for him to work
after hours."
"I told him I'd fine him if he worked after hours!"
McCain groaned and rubbed his knuckles across his fore­
head.
"Damn it," he said, then looked up. "Listen . . ." He
searched across the chief's chest and shoulders for some ·
indication of his name, something that would make him
easier to deal with. There was nothing. He fell back on the
next best thing. ". . . chief, we.'re a new company.- This is our
first big job, and I'm sure that my man had nothing to do
with your problems last ·night. I guarantee that he was
nowhere near the air conditioning controls." At least
McCain hoped he hadn't be.en. He grinned at the chie� hope'- ·
fully. "Do you think we could just keep this quiet and let me
look after· my man by myself? It would probably save us
both a lot of hassle."
If his hands had been behind his back, McCain would ·
have crossed his fingers. This was the best deal the security
188
. · chief could hope for, and McCain was willingto bet he would
go for it. After all, if he was going to turn' Ngan over to the
cops to be chat.ged with trespassing. he would have already
done it rather than mess around trying to verify his story.
Filing charges was bound to mean a ton of paperwork for ·

somebody.
The security chief considered him for a long ininute,·then
finally nodded.
"All right.n
The chief looked· at the ·bruiser sitting at the desk and
jerked his head toward the second office at the back of the
room. The bruiser unfolded himself-Lord, thought
McCain, I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley-and
went back to unlock the door.
"Just so you understand, though,". the chief said, "if my
men catch him, or you. anywhere you're not supposed to be
again, you're both going straight to the cops. n
"Gotcha."
At the back of the room, the big bruiser had released
Ngan from the other office, a bare little room modified to act
as a kind of cell, and was escorting him back up to the
front. Something harsh passed between them, nothing inore
than a glance, but for a moment, McCain got the impression
.that the huge man was somehow intimidated by the little
old Tibetan.
McCain turned his own most intimidating face on Ngan.
"We'll have a talk back at the office," he said sternly.
Ngan just nodded calmly. It was enough to make McCain
grind his teeth in real frustration.
McCain shook hands with the chief and said, "Thank
you very much. n
· Ngan was silent as a stone as they left the security
office and headed for the elevator. His body language spoke
for him however. Where his usual stride was subdued and
,

economical. now he walked with a barely contained fury.

187
 d on -a a a I na t h w a I te

His face was still a mask, but instead of Ngan's usual calm,
that mask reflected an icy control. A nurse they passed in
the hallway shied away, giving him a berth so wide that she
banged her shoulder into the wall. Ngan was clearly not in
a good mood.
"So," McCain commented as they reached the elevator,
"you got nabbed by the security goons."
If Ngan had intended to murder the elevator call button
with the stab of his finger, he might have succeeded. "I was
captured because I stopped to warn you of the danger to
Laurel and her child," he said. "The ghost was-"
"Shani told us what happened last night." McCain
stared at the blankness of the elevator doors for a moment
before adding, "She also mentioned that you knew Laurel
was having a ces<!-l"ean and that you were going to be here
to watch over her."
Ngan didn't reply. McCain waited. There was still no
reply.
"Don't you think that's the sort of thing your team might
want to know about?" McCain asked finally.
The elevator arrived, and they stepped inside-Ngan
slightly ahead of McCain. He turned just inside the doors,
taking up station beside the panel of floor buttons.
"Is it necessary that you know everything I do?" Ngan
asked.
"Maybe it is. Jeane is waiting at the Institute with Ned.
We can talk about it there. "
McCain reached forward to punch the lobby button.
Ngan knocked his hand away.
"Hey!"
"Laurel was attacked last night," Ngan said tersely. He
hit the button for the ninth floor. "I want to make sure that
she and the baby were not harmed."
"Shani said they're fine." The doors closed, and McCain
reached for the panel again.

188
 If w his p e r s ca II

Ngan blocked him a second time. He turned his head

just enough to catch McCain's gaze. "I want to see them
with my own eyes."
McCain stared at him "You did hear the security chief,
.

didn't you? We . . . you are not exactly an honored guest in

the hospital at the moment."
"I have to check on them."
He turned back to the front of the car just as it came to
a stop at the lobby and a small crowd flooded in. McCain
briefly considered squeezing out past them and leaving
Ngan to sneak around on his own. And let Ngan know he
had finally gotten to him? No way. He let the crowd squeeze
him to the back of the car, packing him in beside Ngan.
Somehow Ngan still found the room to keep a few inches of
space around himself. He continued facing forward, not
sparing another glance for McCain.
"Rough night in the holding cell?" asked. McCain sar·
castically.
A thin white line traced its way around Ngan's tightly
pressed lips. "You will never see the rough .nights I have
known,· Michael."
A couple of people arpund the� shifted nervously. A
glance at Ngan.'s face-and perhaps at his own-was
enough to make them turn away again. McCain rode the
rest of the way to the ninth floor in silence.
They stepped off of the elevator into anything but
silence.
"Laurel has never suffered a seizure in her ife
l and now
this!" Will Tavish shouted.
He stalked the space in front of the nurses' station. His .

fists were clenched and shaking. His face was red. His hair
was standing on end as though it hadn't seen a comb in days.
His clothes were wrinkled. A nurse.stood behind the counter,
but Shairi and another doctor stood in front of it, bared to
Will's rage. Fro� the flush on Shani's face and the pallor of
189
 the other doctor's, it looked as if they had been enduring the
assault for some time. None of them paid the new arrivals the
least bit of attention. McCain shrank back immediately, keep­
ing his distance. Ngan simply stood his ground and watched.
McCain hissed at him but he didn't budge.
"As I said, Will," Shani snapped, "the seizure was likely
a result of Laurel's injury. I haven't had a chance to exam­
ine her fully since it happened, but head trauma serious
enough to place her in a coma could be enough to-"
"Enough to what, Dr. Doyle?" Will stopped suddenly and
leaned closer. "Enough to what? What are you implying?"
McCain saw fear flash through Shani's eyes. She recog­
nized the same edge of anguished guilt in Will's voice that
he did and the same unspoken question. Before she could
reply, though, Will stepped back and ran both hands
·through his hair.
"No," he said. "I know what you mean." He looked up
again. "But how do you know the seizures are connected
with Laurel's head trauma and not with your unauthorized
·

cesarean section?"
Shani exchanged a glance with the other doctor, who
said, "Will, we talked about this when Laurel was admitted.
We agreed that it might be necessary. You consented."
"I withdraw my consent!" shouted Will. He stepped
toward the doctor, caught himself, and started pacing
again. "And don't tell me again you tried to call me about it.
I was home all day yesterday, and I didn't hear the phone
ring once. I missed the birth of my first child, and the oper­
ation has left my wife with seizures. n

"The head trauma left Laurel with seizures," Shani reit­

erated. "It's just not possible to develop seizures from a
cesarean section. n
"Then h<!w come Laurel didn't have any before you took
the baby?" growled Will. "How come you put her and our
child in danger without contacting me? How come when I
190
 If w hla p e r a ca ll

finally do hear that you've gone ahead and performed iJ.

cesarean section on her,. I also hear that an intruder was
caught snooping around my wife's room?"
This wasn't a good place for them to be. McCain pushed
the call button to get the elevator back, then grabbed for
Ngan's arm, trying to get his attention. Instead, the motion
succeeded only in drawing the attention of the doctor who
stood with Shani. He did a double take when he noticed Ngan.
"You!" Over his shoulder, he snapped to the nurse, "Call
security." He pointed at Ngan. "That's the man I saw last
night." .
Will spun around, and his eyes went narrow, first fol­
lowing the doctor's pointing finger, then darting to McCain.
"Rob?" he hissed. "What's going on? Why do I keep run­
ning into you here?"
McCain took a step forward, �g fast. "There was a
major air-conditioning malfunction last night, Will. We're
here to-"
Wtl) cocked his head. "But yolir assistant was already
here last night." His mouth twisted. "You . . . everything I
told you. ¥ou tricked me."
"No."
"Yes!" spat Will. He brought up his arm, pointing. His
hand was shaking. "Y9u tricked me. You set me µp."
The other doctor was looking stunned and baffled. Ngan
was just standing there like a stump. Shani at least was
doing something, reaching over the desk and taking the
phone from the nurse before she could call security. Good.
McCain drew a deep breath and walked forward another
step.
"Wl).l," McCain said, "you're not well. You need help.
Have you called that psychiatrist I told you about?"
Will laughed. "Not a chance. Do you think I'm crazy?"
He sobered abruptly, so abruptly it :was like watching.an
entirely different personality wash over him. "Of course you
191
 d on ba a s I ng t h w a I te

do. That's why she introduced . . ." He turned to point at

Shani-and caught her with the phone in her hand. "What
are you doing? Who are you calling?"
"Will-"
"No!" Will clasped his hands over his ears. "I'm not lis­
tening anymore! I'm not listening to anybody. I don't know
what's been happening here, but it's going to stop." He
snatched his hands away and glared at 8..11 of theip.. "You're
going to hear from my lawyer. And �o is the hospital. Some­
thing is going on, and· I'm going to find out what."
The elevator doors chose that moment to open, expos­
ing a trio of elderly women who stared at the chaos with.
open mouths. Will jumped for the elevator. McCain tried to
grab him, but Will slipped through his grasp and spun
inside the elevator to slap at the "close door" button.
"I'm going to sue this hospital until it's forced to close!"
He was still shouting when the doors shut on him.
McCain caught a last glimpse of the elderly women huddled
at the back of the elevator. He grabbed Ngan and said, "We
should go, too."
The old man looked down at McCain's hand then up at
his face. "Not until I've seen Laurel," he said.
The calm in his voice was so vicious that McCain
snatched his hand away without a second thought.
"Whoa, both of you!" The doctor stepped up to stop
them. "You're not going anywhere, and you're certainly not
going to see Laurel Tavish." He glanced back to the nurses'
station. "Shani, I don't know what you're doing, but I want
·

security up here ASAP! These two are-"

His words ended in a choked gasp as Ngan reached up,
grabbed hisjaw, and pulled his head around hard. He glared
at the doctor. McCain couldn't see the old man's eyes, but
he could see the doctor go very still, then very pal�. In only
seconds, sweat had started to bead on his forehead. He
didn't make any motion to move away, though. .
19!
 l.f : 11 tlil ' I f l C l ll

"What � you. want?" the doctor asked in a terrified

· whisper. ·
"Your silence." .
The doctor nodd�d as best he could. Ngan let him go,
and he fell back to lean against the 'wall, sucking in air as
though he had just run a marathon. Shani and the nurse
were staring at Ngan with wide eyes. He didn't look at
them, just started walking in the direction of Laurel's room.
"Michael," he ordered. "Come with me."
It was a command he· might have given a dog. Anger
burned a red line through McCain's brain. "No." He reached
back and hit the elevator call button again.
Ngan stopped. He didn't turn arqund. "Michael, come
with me. That's an order."
"No." .
"This is no time for your little complaints. I am in com­
mand of this team!"
Ngan started to turn. and McCain caught a glimpse of
his face. There was something dreadful about it, something
compelling and powerful. Something predatory. McCain
forced himself ·to look away just as an elevator opened.
Thankfull� n was empty.
"You can't command a team that isn't behind you, Ngan.
And you can ind
f your own ride back to the Institute."
He pushed the lobby button and, as the doors closed he
stared back into Ngan's dreadful, predatory . . . enraged
eyes.
McCain had actually succeeded in making Ngan _break
his inscrutable calm. That almost made him feel pleased.
Almost.

Lily Adler might not have been the most powerful ·per­
son at the Chicago branch office .of the Hoffmann Institute,

.193
 d on -a s 11 nu t h w a I te

but somehow her office door managed to carry the heaviest,

most highly polished brass name plate in the building. The
similar name plate that was mounted on Ngan's own office
door had been her gift. Ngan had never realized before how
intimidating those name plates were. Solid, cold, and
untouchable, th-eir polished surface created a distorted
reflection of anyone who· approached the door. Maybe he
should take his down. On the other hand, it had been a gift
from Lily, and he didn't; want to hurt her feelings. She was
one of his oldest friends in the Institute, and she genuinely
wanted him to succeed. He would, he knew, leave the name
plate up. He reached up and knocked on her door.
"Who is it?" Lily called in her blueblood voice.
.
"Ngan. "
"Please, come in. The door is unlocked."
He opened the door and stepped through, quickly clos­
ing it behind him. Lily was taking her lunch-several slices
of cold,. leftover pizza washed down with cola. She lounged
in a chair in front of her version of the AV equipment in
·

Ngan's office.
"Grab a seat," she said, shoving a chair toward him.
"The office is soundproofed, and I got a tape of last night's
match."
She flicked the buttons on a remote control and the big
screen of the television came to life with the garish roaring
·
and posturing of professional wrestling.
·And that, Ngan knew, was the secret of Lily's success as
field director of observation. Her private and professional
personas were completely different. To her agents, she was
never anything less than cool, aristocratic perfection, a
haughty force of nature that did not take "no" for an
·
answer. None of them ever saw this side of her. There were
probably a good number of her peers within the Institute
who had never seen this side of her, either. Technically,
Ngan was one of her agents now as well, but he had known

194
 If w his p e r s ca 11

her for too long, had watched her build the upper-c�st
image that was her professional mask. He was one of the
few people Lily trusted enough to see the rough and rau­
cous side that kept her sane in an insane job.
He slid into the offered chair and said, "How do you do
it, Lily?"
She looked at him over a slice of pizza thick with con­
gealed cheese and raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"How do you separate yourself so completely?" Ngan
elaborated.
Lily chewed for a moment, then shifted her food to the
side of her mouth. ·
"You didn't come here to eat pizza and watch big men in
silly tights, did you?" she asked. There was a reason she
was a field director besides being good at handling agents.
"I lost my temper today, Lily."
It was good to have someone around who knew him and
knew what losing his temper meant to him. Lily swallowed
her food and set the pizza down:
"McCain?" she asked seriously.
He nodded.
"I noticed he didn't come back with you this morning."
When he looked up, she was the one who nodded.
"I know roughly what happened at St. Luke's last
night," she said. "Why don't you tell me what happened
with Fitz?" .
· It was tempting to give her the kind version of events at
the hospital that was kind to him. He didn't. He told her
everything, from his less than gracious response to
McCain's arranging his release to his very ill-advised desire
to check up on Laurel and her child, to his vicious intimida­
tion of the doctor in the intensive care unit. The teacher who
had taught him about the snow leopard and the goat would
have been furious with him. Ngan was furious with himself.
He was, perhaps, even more furious that he would have

195
 d on -a a a I nut h w a I te

turned the leopai:d's gaze against McCain. He had known

the young man as a child. McCain trusted him. After
McCain had departed, Ngan turned his back on Shani and
the terrified, trembling doctor and gone to Laurel's room.
She'd been as silent and still as ever, the incision in her
belly freshly bandaged, the sheets of her bed just changed.
Confronted with the helpless woman he was trying to save,
he'd felt the anger drain away from him. It had been
replaced by a bleak regret and a deep feeling that he was as
helpless as Laurel.
He'd stayed with her for long minutes, then slipped out
of the room and away from the ICU. He'd taken the stairs,
avoiding the elevators and the nursing station. He left the
hospital without even trying to look in on the baby. The trip
to the branch office had been a tedious ride on the L, then
Metra trains followed by a long walk through the industrial
wastelands of Schiller Park. Somewhere along the route it
had become a pilgrimage of atonement. ·
When he was done, Lily picked up her pizza again, took
a small bite, chewed, and swallowed before responding.
"What about Jeane," she asked, "and Ned?"
"I told them to go home," Ngan sighed. "When they're
together, it's like watching two dogs snapping at each other
for alpha status." He passed a hand in front of his eyes and
sat back. "At the moment, I can't deal with that; too."
" What do you want me to do then?" Lily had reduced her
pizza to a thin strip of crust. She dropped it onto a crinkled
piece of tin foil and picked up the next slice. "Something
needs to be done about this investigation. n

"I know," agreed Ngan. "We will find the answer."

"Not squabbling you won't." She considered him for a
moment then asked, "Should I take your team off the· case?"
He knew the answer to that question m i mediately. "I
think it would disappoint Jeane and McCain immensely.
They were very defensive when I called in Ned."

198
 If w his p e r s ca ll

"What about you?" Lily asked.

Ngan found himself blinking in surprise.
. "How would you feel about it?" she pressed. "ff you're
concerned about the team, maybe a simpler investigation
would be in order. One they can solve easily, something to
make them feel good about themselves, each other, and
you."
Ngan eased himself slowly back into the chair as he
thought about that. A successful investigation could weld
them together, really make them a team. But the ploy
wouldn't fool McCain or Jeane. He knew that. They would
see through it immediately. Completing the current investi­
gation would make them a team just as surely, and besides
. . . He looked up at Lily. .
"The problem isn't just them," he said bluntly. "It's me.
I shouldn't have gotten caught at the hospital. I shouldn't
have snapped just because McCain was exerting himself. I
don't know how to react anymore."
Lily snorted. "You? I've seen you l;lold off trained
swordsmen using nothing more than a silver tea service!"
"And last night a security guard surprised me while I
was on the telephone." He rubbed his hands along the
smooth, polished arms of the chair. "Nothing I do lately
seems to work out right. I hesitate. I analyze my every
action for the example it will set. I'm thinking of Michael
and Jeane as my students, not my partners."
"They are your students," Lily pointed out.
"No," Ngan said, "if you were their agent in charge, they
would be your students. I can't separate myself the way you
can. I envy you that. When I'm in the office, I think of noth.­
ing but working in the field with them. When I'm in the
field, I think of the responsibilities and demands of the
office. The agents suffer because of that. I suffer."
"Ngan, the office is your field now. Haven't you always
had responsibilities in the field? Haven't you relied on a

197
 · don ba a al ngth w a l te

team
eyes thebefore?
way Jeane Haven'andt otherareagents
Fitz now?"been your hands and
He looked around Lily's office. was as big as his was
It

encenearly
and to it.
fill
as She
empty.stoodSomehow,
alone, though,
like a shethrihadvingtheatpres·
spider the
center of her" heweb.admitted.
He would"I guesshave toI'mlearn how to do that.
be the brain without having my handsjust notmesoapart.
to "Maybe, tear
sure how "
Lily laughed.
until shemask. Ngan remembered that laugh
learned to suppress it, it always betrayed the aris· because
·

tocratic
run
with"Iacan'
smile.t tell"Actuall
you how y, Itocan tellyour
youteam,
howtoNgan.your
run
" sheteam,
said
but Iown
their won't because
way
you'reofnotfinding
ofmanaging, me. Everyone
the field hasthetooffice.
in
find
Just
son. remember
We need that
your the Instituteandputexpertise
leadership you charge
in
now, formatter
no area·
how we get it."
theyNgan contemplated
grappled and gruntedthe wrestlers
with eachonother,
the television
torrents asof
sweatwaspouring
that just a from
bit of them.
pretty Sofiction.
much effort
A
for something
ridiculous amountupof
effort,
at Li"Mayreally. He cocked his head suddenly and glanced
ly. I make a suggestion?" he asked.

188
� �sense of deja vu hit Jeane the moment she
stepped out of the afternoon sunlight and
through the battered door into Ellie's. She knew
she had never been in the bar before, but she had
been in too many bars just like it while she was
working with the ATF. Ellie's was like a dip back
into the dirty bathwater of her old career, right down
to the suspicious glance that the bartender gave her.
There were some people who could smell a law
enforcement agent at fifty paces. Usually people
witjl something they wanted to hide.
Lucky for the bartender she had a newjob. Jeane
went up to the bar and sat down beside the only
other person there and asked, "Is this a private sulk
or can anybody join?"
McCain flicked a finger against the rim of the
amber-filled glass in front of him . The glass rang
like an out of tune chime. "Knock yourself out," he

198.
 d&R �1 1 11 n g t h w a l te

said. "How did you find me?"

"It's ca:lled 'investigation.' Strangely enough, they pay
us to do it." She flagged down the bartender and said, "Diet
Coke."
"This is a bar, lady."
"Wave a bottle of rum over it and charge me, then."
Jeane turned back to McCain. "I figured you'd be looking for
a drink, but l couldn't find you in any of your usual haunts.
Then I remembered you mentioning this place, and here you
are."
The bartender came back and slid her Coke across the
bar. Most of the glass was filled with ice. Jeane considered
complaining but thought better of it.
"You know, Fitz, it would be a lot easier to get in touch
with you if you left your cell phone turned on. n
"Well, that's kind of the idea." He picked up his glass
and swirled the liquid inside. "Of course, so was coming
here, and you managed to find me an"jWay. Will Tavish was
right, this is a good place for a really quiet drink."
He took a tiny sip from the glass. Jeane eyed him.
McCain was still wearing the clothes he had worn to the
cemetery the night before and to the hospital in the morn­
ing. He had developed a major case of whisker stubble, and
his eyes looked bleary.
She nodded toward his glass and said, "How long have
you been sitting here, Fitz?"
"Since I left the hospital this morning.".
He said it with such a perfectly straight face that she
actually believed him.for a moment. ·
"Don't be stupid," he snorted derisively. "I drove around
for a long time, went down to Streetersville and s�t beside
the lake, then drove back over to St. Luke's but thought bet­
ter of actually going in. By then it was opening time, I was
close to this place, and the rest is history. I've only been
·

here a couple hours."

200
 If w his p e r s c a II

"How much have you had to drink?"

He raised his glass in salute. "Just starting a second.
This is sipping whisky, and that's what I'm doing." He took
another drink, then set the glass down with a sigh. "I
walked out on Ngan."
"I guessed that. When he inally
f got back to the Insti­
tute, he sent Ned and I home, then vanished. He was even ·

more quiet than normal, almost subdued." She looked at

McCain questioningly. "What did you do to him?"
"I pissed him off:"
She blinked and breathed, "Wow."
Jeane stared across the bar at a mirror set behind a bank
of dusty bottles while McCain described what haq happened
at the hospital. When he was done, they sat n i silence for
several minutes, McCain sipping occasionally at his whisky,
she taking longer pulls at her pop.
"So," she asked finally, "you didn't see Laurel at all?"
"No, but I thought about going back to the hospital
before I came here. I feel bad about walking out when she's
in danger, but Ngan . . ." He clenched his fist. "Lately I just
can't stand him."
Funny, thought Jeane, I get the impression he's been
feeling the same way about you.
Aloud she asked, "So what's the problem?"
McCain shrugged. "I don't know. He interferes with the
investigation. He pushes us in the direction he wants us to
go."
"Wasn't that how he operated in D.C., too?" Jeane asked
dryly.
"But at least that was discreet. He might have been
manipulating us, but he was gentle about it. And it felt ike
l
he had some respect for me. Now he's just lording it over
us, always in our faces so we know who's supposed to be in
charge." He shrugged again. "I don't understand him any­
more. It's that damn promotion."

?01
 don bas s l ngth wal te

Jeane looked him up and down. "You're .jealous. You

can't stand that he's the leader."
"You're insane." He raised his glass again. "I don't want
to be the 'leader' of anything."
"Yeah?" Jeane couldn't hold back. a snort. Everything
McCain had done since she'd met him, the way he spoke
and dressed and carried himself . . . "It seems to me like it's
the role you were boqi to play."
McCain choked hard and blew a spray of whisky across
the bar. Jeane jumped away from the blast. "Jesus, Fitz!"
The hand that had been closest to McCain was soaked.
There were no napkins around, and she had to settle for
brushing it against the edge of her stool as she sat down
again.
"Touched a nerve, did I?"
"No," he lied.
He took a big gulp of his whisky, and she looked at him
with an eyebrow raised. "Go on and pull the other one.
What's up?"
"Nothing," he said firmly. He put the glass down. "Just
let it go."
"No. You've done this sort of thing a few times lately, and
that's more than a coincidence. Something's wrong. Spill it."
She crossed her arms and waited, trying to remember exactly
what had brought on these little fits. "You suck at basketball,
but you're trying to play 'because he didn't.' You've got a pic­
ture of the skyline of Dallas, but you've never been there 'as
such.' Just now I said you were born to-"
McCain sighed. "Look, Jeane, I'd appreciate it if you'd
just drop the whole thing."
He didn't look at her, just stared across the bar. She
could tell he was watching his reflection in the mirror there.
"I . . . found out something about myself recently, and
I'm not quite sure how to deal with it."
'A nd suddenly it all clicked in her mind, just as it should

to!
 If w hla p e r a ca 11

have from the beginning. She could guess exactly what

McCain was going through. She'd been there herself. She
reached across and patted him on the back.
"You're adopted, right?" she asked.
McCain blinked in surprise and Jeane couldn't help smil­
ing.
"It's a kicker when you find out, isn't it? 1· found out I
was adopted when I was a teenager," she said. "Must be
even weirder when you're ari adult."
McCain nodded slowly, tearing his eyes away from his
reflection to look at her. "It is," he admitted.
"It sounds like you at least know something about your
birth parents, though, right? You were born in Dallas? Your
bir:th father is the one you're rebelling against by playing
basketball?" He kept nodding. Jeane turned back to her Diet
Coke. "Congratulations. Not everybody gets to know that
much."
"How about you?"
"Cleveland. Single mom when thatwas a huge problem."
She sipped her drink. "I met her when I turned eighteen.
She was nice, but she told me to stay with my folks. They
were my real parents. I never saw her again." She looked
up. "Have you actually met your birth parents?"
"They're . . . dead.�
The ringing of her cell phone saved her from the embar­
rassment of having to respond to that. She dug the phone
·

out of her pocket in a hurry. "Hello?"

"Jeane, it's Shani Doyle. I've been trying to get in touch
with Fitz, but his phone's off."
"I noticed that myself."
"Your secretary gave me your number. Have you seen
him?"
"I'm with him now." She poked McCain and passed the
·

cell phone to him . "It's for you."

He grimaced. "Not Ngan . . ."

·203
 d• u a .a•"n .wat te

"N9. Shani."
His face changed ·completely, and he raised the phone to
his mouth. Jeane turned away while he chatted and took
another look around Ellie's.
It wasn't quite as bad a place as she'd first thought.
She'd been in worse bars, and Ellie's was no more than the
low end of neighborhood blue-collar drinking holes. McCain
had told her a little bit about the place's long and colorful
history. It was kind of interesting to see it captured in the
·

multitude of photographs hanging on· the walls.

Jeane drained her Diet Coke, then hopped off the stool
to get a better look at the photos. Many of them weren't
actually of the bar itself, but they reflected a diverse and
extended record of Chicago's history over the last-how
long had McCain said that bar had been here?-eighty
years at least. The city's historical society would have wet
its collective pants in excitement. There were photos of
some of Chicago's best-known landmarks past and present,
from the Tribune Tower to the stockyards. There were pic­
tures of young men posed with cars and somber older men
stanrung by storefronts, of children with wide, toothy grins.
High up in one comer she found a fascinating series of pho­
tographs from a: time when the bar mustn't have been quite
so grimy: laughing people posed in an array of finery from
the mid-twenties through the late thirties-party photos,
all labeled with a year and the names of the people who
appeared in them.
She was still looking at them when McCain came up and
handed her back the cell phone.
"Everything is good at the hospital," be reported. "Shani
was worried that WiU might follow through with his threat
to sue the hospital, but there hasn't been any sign of him
since this morning. Laurel-and the baby-are resting qui­
etly, the ghost seems quiet as well, and I have been
reminded that I have an overdue date tonight."
204
 if w his p er s ca 11

Jeane had to smile. "You're feeling better. n

"I'd say it was because I know there's someone I can

talk to, but that reminds me too much of something I told
Will, and look where it got him." McCain grinned and wig­
gled his eyebrows. "And let's face it, the real reason I'm
happy. is because I'm going out with Shani tonight."
He leaned past her to examine the photographs. "What
are you looking at?"
"A happy decade at Ellie's." She pointe4 out the party
photographs.
· "When ·the bar was a mob hangout," he commented. He
stopped his scanning of the pictures suddenly and focused
on one in particular. "Well, well. Look at this."
Jeane looked. It was a photograph of a New Year's Eve
party, 1933. 1\vo women in shimmering dresses hung on the
arms of two men in dark, broad-shouldered suits. All four
raised saucer-shaped glasses of champagne toward the cam­
era, but there was clearly a hierarchy of power represented
in the photo. One of the men stood in front of the other. His
suit was a little better, with a rose on his lapel. His woman
wore a more expensive-looking dress and a fancy hat. The
other man had also been caught glancing at the man with
the rose, and there was jealousy on his face. Jealousy or fear.
McCain pointed at the label on the photograph and said,
"Jack Harvey. They didn't even bother identifying the other
guy."
"There's something familiar about his face."
"There should be," McCain said. "He's Will Tavish's
great-uncle." He· frowned suddenly. "Except that Will said
he was a small-time thug."
Jeane shook her head. "Maybe he just got a good spot in
the photo?"
"I doubt it." He turned back to the bar and called to the
bartender, "Hey, buddy, do you know anything about the.mob­
sters that used to hang out here back in the thirties?"
!05
 don u 1 1 1 ntth wal t1

"Soxµe of them," the man grunted: He looked up from ·

stacking glasses on a tray. "Why do you want to know?"
"Somebody I know was related·to one, but he says the
guy was small time, and 'this picture makes him look big
time." McCain tapped the photograph. "Know anything
aboutJack Harvey?"
The bartender gave a short laugh. "The only time Jack
Harvey would have been small was when he was a baby. He
was a big man around here for a while. Don't take my word
for it though." He went down to the end of the bar and
opened a door to reveal a flight of stairs leading up. Warm
light spilled down from upstairs. "Hey, Gran. Come down
here for a minute. Some people want to know about Jack
Harvey."
Jeane blinked. " 'Gran?' Your grandmother lives above . . ."
She started to gesture around her at the· foul darkness
of the bar, but stopped before she embarrassed herself. The
bartender didn't seem to notice.
He shrugged as he went back to the glasses and said,
"Why shouldn't she? She owns the place."
There was movement on the stairs, and an old woman
came tottering down them. One hand held the banister
securely, and the other gripped a cane. She had the slen­
derness of age, but there was very little else about her that
seemed frail. When she reached the bottom of the stairs,
the bartender pointed her over toward Jeane and McCain.
"Hi there," she said, "I'm Ellie. What did .you want to
know?" .
McCain stepped .forward. "We were curious about Jack
Harvey. Did you know him?"
"Know him?" Ellie laughed heartily. She leaned against
a chair and poked her cane at the photograph. "Who do you
think that is sliding down his arm?"
A few minutes later, they were all sitting around a table ·
just under another photograph of Ellie, this one taken

208
 If w his p e r s ca 1 1

outside the bar on the day in 1956 that she bought it.
McCain had retrieved his whisky from the bar, and Ellie had ·
joined him n i a glass. Jeane had accepted another Diet
Coke. Ellie had listened intently as -McCain told her Wtll's
story that Jack Harveywas nothing more than a thug. When
he finished, Ellie chuckled and shook her. head.
"My grandson told you right," she said, nodding at the
bartender. "The only time Jack was small time was when he
first hooked up with the mob. He came up fast, and let me
tell you, that's a damn attractive thing to a young woman
living on the shady side of the street.n

· McCain nodded toward the bartender. "Is he related

to . . . ?"
"Oh, hell, no! We might not have had the pill in those
days, but if a woman got a bun in the oven every time she
kneaded the dough, there'd be a lot more people around,
wouldn't there?" She laughed. "I got married long afterJack
was gone."
Jeane leaned forward. "So, Ellie, if Jack wasn't just a
thug, what did he do for the mob?"
That sobered Ellie up quick. "He was an enforcer," she
said quietly. "He came up fast because he didn't hesitate
before he pulled the trigger and because he wasn't squeam·
ish when it came time to get rid of the bodies. n

That tugged at Jeane's .memory. "I don't suppose he

dumped them n i the lagoon at Bachelor's Grove Cemetery,
did he?"
"Good guess," Ellie confirmed. "I'll bet you've heard sto­
ries about Bachelor's Grove, haven't you?"
Jeane nodded.
"Well," Ellie continued, "Jack was the first one to dump
bodies. there. There's a good story behind that if you want
to.hear it." She settled back with her whisky in her hands.
"You already know that Jack and Johanna-"
"Johanna?" interrupted Jeane.
207
 d on ba s s i ng t h w a i te

"Jack's twin sister. Your friend's grandmother." Ellie wet

her mouth with a sip of whisky. "You already·know that they
grew up in Midlothian. So did I. Jack and me met up in .
Chicago later, after he'd joined the mob ·and I'd become a
y
music hall girl. Anywa , there was a story in Midlothian
that a corpse dropped into the lagoon at the cemetery would
never rise."
Jeane frowned. "I've never heard that story."
Ellie leaned over toward McCain and whispered, "Does
she always interrupt this much?"
McCain nodded. Jeane flushed. Ellie straightened up and
looked over at her. "You wouldn't have heard the story,
because Jack proved it was wrong. See, the first time Jack
needed to get rid of a body, he remembered the. story and
gave it a try."
She sipped from her glass again.
"It didn't work, of course. A couple days later, the body
floated up. It was never officially traced back to Jack, but
eve_rybody in the know knew about it and Jack got instant
respect as a hard ass. Dumping a body in a cemetery
lagoon-can you imagine?"
"So he kept using it?" McCain asked. Ellie made a gun
out of her thumb and forefinger and shot McCain with an·
approving click of her tongue. McCain scratched his chin as
he thought. "Didn't he ever get caught?"
"Not for that. Eventually he got busted for something a
lot smaller-like how they got Capone for tax evasion. But
when Jack went to jail, everybody lied and said he was less
of a crook than he was. Maybe that's how come your friend
thought he was a small timer."
"What happened to Jack?"
"Died in a prison fight." Ellie shrugged. "Like my Mama
said, bad blood always shows."
"Wait a minute." Jeane couldn't keep her silence any
longer. She looked at McCain and Ellie .questioningly. "I
208
 If w hla p e r s ca II

thought Will said his grandmother came from a good Mid·

lothian family?"
"Oh, they did," said Ellie hastily. Then she grimaced.
"Sort of."
"What do you mean, 'sort of?' " McCain asked.
Ellie sighed. "Listen, tell me you won't tell your friend
about this. It's probably the sort of thing he's better off not
knowing. It's not going to htirt him, but he mightnot take
kindly to it."
She shifted in lier chair, leaning forward and pitching
her voice low.
"After Jack died, I went home and visited my Mama for
the first time in years, and I told her about Jack dying. She
said, 'Thank God!' and crossed herself. Mama never crossed
herself. Then she sat me down and told me an old rumor.
See, Jack and Johanna were only children, and they were
only born after their parents had been married about five
years. The rumor was that Mrs. Harvey finally got desper·
ate and turned to a Steiner man for help getting pregnant."
Ellie rapped her hand on the table top. "You know what that
kind of 'help' means. Nobody could prove it, of course, and
nobody dared talk about it because Mr. Harvey was a pow·
erful man, and he was bound and determined to believe
those twins were of his own making."
"So Will isn't descended from the Harveys," Jeane said.
Ellie nodded. "What was wrong with the Steiners?"
"Oh, phew." Ellie took a gulp of whisky. "What wasn't?
Have you ever been to Midlothian? Yes? Have you ever
noticed that the actual center of town is a long ways from
Bachelor's Grove Cemetery? Well, . the Steiners lived by
there and always had. ·They were an old Midlothian family,
even older than the Harveys. They'd been·there right back
to the beginning. So far back that some people said that
Bachelor's Grove Cemetery started as their private l:iurial
ground and was never a proper church cemetery at all."
.209
 .
. ... .
. ':
' 11 11· la s 1t 11t� w a l tt . �

Ned had said that the cemetery had never been conse­
crated. Jeane shivered and asked, "What about the lagoon?
Was it always there?"
"My gramma knew a man who helped set up the ceme­
tery in 1864 when it. was officially founded. He told her they
dug the lagoon but that there was already something there,
a little spring-fed pond, and when they were digging it out,
they found . . . things. She wouldn't tell me what."
Ellie leaned even farther forward.
"Mama said Old Man Steiner, the one that came over
from Germany and started the family, was known as a witch­
man and the family had a reputation for witchcraft in the
blood. One of the reasons nobody talked about Jack and
Johanna having a Steiner fatherwas because they wanted to
believe the Steiner bloodhad died out. The man Mrs. Harvey
went to was the last of his family. He was found hanging
when Jack and Johanna were two. Everybody stopped telling
stories about the Steiners then, and by the time Jack and
Johanna were both away in Chicago, the only people who
remembered the Steiners were the old folks. They were glad
to see Jack and Johanna out of Midlothian."
Ellie went for her glass again, and the bar seemed
dreadfully quiet in her silence.
"Ellie," asked McCain, "I'm just curious: Do you know
the stories about hauntings in Bachelor's Grove?"
Ellie laughed again, the same full laugh she had met
them with. It pushed back the silence in the bar. "You can't
grow up in Midlothian and not hear some stories. I know
'em all." She winked. "And a couple that probably no one
else knows. One is something Mama told me about the
Steiners. The other is one I came up with myself."
'"Came up with?'" Jeane asked in disbelief. How was it
possible to come up with a ghost story?
Ellie shrugged. "It's more of a theory really. You've
heard about the car that haunts the turnpike, right?"

210
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.. Il al , l f l Cl II

· Jeane nodded uricomfortably. ·"A Ford Model A. A mob.

car."
"Not just any Model A," Ellie said with a snort. "And not
just any mob car. Jack Harvey's car. Jack dumped his vic­
tims in the lagoon. If he did .have the Steiner blood, maybe
it was like he was making a sacrifice that brought back the
ghosts of his victiins."
"Like a memory oftheir final trip to the cemetery," Jeane
observed. She remembered the car that had pulled up
beside them in the mist. She remembered the sound of
someone trapped inside. "What's the other story?"
"It!s about the-Madonna of Bachelor's Grove. Mama said
that in life the Madonna was a, Steiner woman, a daughter
of Old Man Steiner himself. On the night she gave birth, her
husband died." Ellie bent forward again. "Now, she really,
really loved her husband, and she knew that witching
would bring him back. The old man refused to help her and
told her she would regret it. But she sneaked into the ceme·
al.plot,. or whatever it was then-under
tery-or the buri
the next full moon and tried it anyway. She raised him all
right, but he was still mostly dead, and when she ran away
from him, he crumbled back into. dust. When she got home,
she found her father there waiting for her. He pointed at the
cradle. Her baby was dead, too. Horrified and distraught
over what she had done, she ran back to the cemetery and
threw herself into the pond. She drowned there, and they
say her body never came to the surface. She came back as
the first ghost in Bachelor's Grove, the Madonna, wander­
.

ing among the stones with her baby. Her husband comes
back sometimes, too, standing by the lagoon, wrapped in
his shroud and waiting for her."
Ellie took a sip of her drink, as if just talking about the .
Madonna made her nervous.
· "_There's an old story that says she controls all the
ghosts by Bachelor's Grove."

.m
 d IR -. . II •1t � w a l te

If the quiet had been bad before, the silence that fell
when Ellie finished her story was terrifying. It surrounded
them, daring them to make a sound.
Finally, Jeane cleared her throat and asked, "Do you
think that's true?"
Ellie shook her head. "I don't know, but I'll tell you some­
thing else my mother never told me: No Steiner woman she
heard of ever took her babies or children into that cemetery." .

They emerged from the bar and blinked in the late after·
noon sunlight. The wind had picked up and turned cold.
Shading her eyes and turning her back to the wind, Jeane
looked over at McCain. He looked back at her. Neither of
them needed to say anything. They'd been right that night
outside of Midlothian. It was the Madonna, but it wasn't
Van and his friends who had awakened her. Will carried the
Steiner blood. He'd passed it on to his child. It was the
presence of the baby, unborn but so close to term, that had
awakened the ghost.
A Steiner child. No wonder the voice in the mist wanted
W'tll to kill Laurel. And the Madonna's power explained why
the ghost car had pursued them.
"We need to tell Ngan," Jeane said finally. "We need to
figure out what to do next."
"That's Ngan's problem." McCain turned up the collar of
his coat and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Our assign­
ment was to investigate the events at the hospital, not play
Ghostbusters."
Jeane stared at him as offended surprise washed over
her. "Michael!"
He shrugged and said, "Don't worry. Knowing Ngan,
he'll probablyjust make that our next assignment anyway."
"Laurel's in danger."

2U
 If w his p e r s ca 1 1

"And she has been since this whole thing started, but
you know what? Nothing has happened to her yet. Will's
spouting off this morning will have backfired on him-the
hospital will be keeping a close watch on him from now on."
McCain squinted into the setting sun. "We've got an expla­
nation for what's been happening, and you can go right
ahead and file it. But I don't think you need to rush in and
do it."
She couldn't believe it. "This is because of your feud
with Ngan?" .
McCain smiled at her. "Maybe. It's not going to hurt
Ngan to sweat a bit. And it's not going to hurt me if I don't
have to run off on one of his errands. I have a date, and I'm
going to keep it this time. We can worry about the ghost
tomorrow. Call me then."
He whirled and sauntered away down the street. Jeane
could only stare after him. The pig-headed, self-centered
brat! Yet, there was a nagging voice that told her he did
have a point. Hadn't she been fighting an internal struggle
every time Ngan gave a command lately? Maybe his orders
had ultimately always turned out to be in the best interests
of the investigation, but the old man had changed with his
promotion. McCain was right. Ngan was becoming frustrat­
ing to work with. So far, though, all of her hard-fought deci­
sions had told her to do what was right for the team. For
·

Laurel.
But if Laurel wasn't in danger, if they knew what the
ghost was-if Ngan was only going to order them back into
activity tonight-maybe keeping the news until tomorrow
wouldn't be a bad thing. Jeane's cell phone was heavy in her
pocket. She looked down the street after McCain. The news
could wait. Nothing was going to happen.

!13
 d on u a 11 ng t h w a I te

Rob's appearance at the hospital had been the last

straw. More than two weeks of fighting with himself, with
the paranoia, and with the voice that murmured its unend·
ing need into his ear-then to find that things were hap­
pening behind his back. That the hospital would deliver the
baby without his k.nowle,dge. That Rob was somehow in
league with them. The revelation was like a stab in the
back. They knew now. They knew evetything. Maybe he
should have listened to the voice from the beginning.
It would be over soon, though. After a day of trying to
come to terms with Rob's treachery, he knew what he had
to do now. The voice would go away, and everything would
go back to the way it was before.
It will, the whispering voice reassured him. You know
what needs to be done.
Will dashed across the road and up to the staff entrance
of Presbyterian-St. Luke's. He ignored the tiny new whis­
per, taut with horror, that nagged in a comer of his mind,
asking how things could possibly go back to the way they
were. Could Rob's appearance at the hospital have been a
coincidence? Could the hospital really have tried calling
him to tell him about the plans for the cesarean? Maybe
they had. Maybe he hadn't heard the telephone because he
was still passed out from the previous night's drinking
binge. Or maybe the voice had drowned out the sound· of the
telephone. Maybe the voice didn't want him to know about
the cesarean.
No. That was just crazy.
The shiver that passed through him as he ducked inside
the door wasn't entirely affected. He had lost track of the
exact time, but it was after two o'clock in the morning and
cold outside. All he was wearing was a cheap polyester tech­
nician's uniform borrowed from his dental practice with an
old lab coat thrown over the top. The cold cut right through
both. Never mind. He had a warm coat and blankets waiting

214
 If w bl1 J e n c a ll

in the car. He stepped up to the security gliard's window and

rapped on the glass.
"Hey!" Wtll called.
The man behind the window looked up and switched on
the intercom. "I.D.?"
"I left it in the lab," Will whined. "I went outside for a
quick smoke, and the wind blew the door shut behind me."
"You know you ain't supposed to do that." The guard
reached for a phone. "You got a supervisor on duty?"
"Aw, come on. Just let me in. Trust me, I've learned my
lesson-I've been freezing my balls off out here."
The guard gave him a sour look but pressed a button,
and an inner·door buzzed open: Will nodded at him as he
passed. "Thanks, man."
"Don't do it again."
"I won't."
He went straight for the nearest elevator. He could
already feel a comfortable stillness settling over him. The
voice was still there, but it had receded just a bit. The relief
was bliss, just a taste of what was to come. It was all going
to be over soon. The stillness grew until it was like a haze
around him. A visible haze. A mist.
1\vo weeks ago, that kind of mist had terrified him. Now
it would help him. As he got off the elevator, the mist
drifted ahead to obscure the spying l�nses of security cam­
eras. When a locked door blocked his path, the mist seeped
around it, and the door swung open. The mist was there
waiting for him on the other side.
He came to her roon:i and went in. For a moment, he
.looked at her helpless form, then reached down and g�th­
ered her up. "I'm sorry, princess," he murmured, "but I need
you now." He turned and began to make his way out of the
hospital, the mist a calm blanket of comfort embracing him.

215
 ' ,i .
' '.
. ,i

{:
,

�·
l i� ·�
),\ji I
![·...\ii

.. ""' .
..
I .'t, et shrill,. scream of a cell phone shattered the
warm, gentle darkness of McCain's bedroom.
Apparently Institute .training and m_edical
school instilled the same kind of reflexes, because
both McCain and Shani shot upright immediately
and groped for their phones.
. There was a crack in the dark, and Shani yelped,
"How about some light?"
McCain fumbled for the bedside light and turned
it on. Shani found her phone before he found his.
'D:acking down the ringing probably helped her.
"Mine," she said. .
McCain felt his stomach jump. "Laurel?"
"I do have other patients." She wrapped a sheet
around herself and flipped open the phone. "Shani
Doyle."
He flopped back against the mattress, his heart
rate slowing down to something approaching normal.

217
 d un u a a I na t b w a I te

Moron, he told himself, it's not all about Laurel and the
ghost. Yet in spite of what he had told Jeane outsicie of
Ellie's that afternoon, what had been the first thing to jump
into his head?
Up until that moment, he hadn't regretted blowing off
Ngan and the Institute for a second. His date with Shani
had been incredible from start to finish. He hadn't even
� given Ngan a second thought. It was good to have a night
to himself. A night when he could feel completely . . . nor- _

mal. He let himself lapse into a light doze while Shani

talked on the phone. He didn't quite follow the conversa­
tion, but Shani's voice was agitated and she was asking
questions of the caller at rapid-fire speed. It was too bad
she would have to leave so soon. The bed had been very
· comfortable with her in it.
"Fitz, the baby's missing."
He blinked once, instantly alert. "What?"
"The Tavish baby is missing." Shani found his under­
wear and threw them at him. "I asked a nurse to call me if
anything happened tonight. About fifteen minutes ago,
security got a 'door open' alarm on one of the emergency
exits. It took them that long to realize the baby was gone.
There's no sign of who took her."
The look on Shani's face said that she disagreed with
that assessment. McCain's stomach twisted again as real­
ization crashed down on him.
·"Will," he breathed.
He got up and pulled on the underwear, then went to his
closet and reached into the back for the plain, durable black
clothes he kept there.
"How the hell did he get into the hospital?" he asked.
Shani shook her head. "I don't know. The nurse is only
going on what she overheard, but apparently the doors in
the maternity ward were opened from the inside and all the
security cameras showed was a white haze."

tlB
 If w his p e r s ca II

Damn. He jerked on a pair of socks "Or a white mist,

maybe?"
Shani's ips
l pressed tight. "Security is still trying to
piece it together. They'll think sabotage, not spirit."
"But I don't think it'll take them too long to come up
with the same mortal prime suspect as us." .
McCain pulled his pants up around his hips, grabbed his
cell phone, and ran out into the living room. On his book­
shelf was a big card file. He rifled through it until he found
the crumpled card Will had given him . He dialed Will's num·
ber with one hand while he did up his pants with the other.
Will's phone rang and rang and rang until finally an answer­
ing machine picked up. McCain didn't bother leaving a mes­
sage. He looked to the clock on his VCR as he dashed.back
into the bedroom. TWo forty-eight a.m.
"He's either not home or not answering," he reported. "I
need to go check."
He snatched up a black shirt and pulled it over his
head-then paused with it half around his chest. Shani was
getting dressed as well.
"You're not coming with me, are you?" he asked.
·�o. I thought I'd hang around here in the buff until you
got back." She twisted her hair back into a ponytail. "Relax.
I'm going back to St. Luke's. It seems like the ghost gets
riled up every time you people do something. Someone
needs to be at the hospital to hold things together." She
looked up at him as she fiddled with her hair. "Everyone has
a place on a team, and I know where mine is."
He knew it wasn't meant to be a rebuke, but it felt like
one. McCain gave her a fast kiss on the cheek, jammed his
feet into a pair of boots, shoved his car keys into his pocket,
and ran. He didn't bother with the elevator, just sprinted
down the stairs to the parking garage. He dialed Jeane's
number as he ran. Her voice was groggy when· she
answered.

no
 d on ba a 11 ng t b wa I te

"Good morning, starshine. Laurel's baby is missing from

the hospital." He repeated what Shani had told him and
read off the address of Wm and Laurel's house. "I'm on my
way there. Meet me."
"What about Ngan?"
McCain grimaced. "I guess we'd better." He crashed
through a final door and into the cavern of the building's
parking garage. "Did you tell him what we found out about
the Steiner blood?"
Jeane hesitated for a moment then confessed, "No."
He cursed then sighed. "He's going to be pissed."
He turned off the alarm and unlocked the doors on his
car as he ran toward it. There was no way around Ngan's
anger. The guilt he'd ignored all evening came crushing in
on him.
"Just get him and bring him to the Tavish's," he said.
"We'll worry about his reaction then. Don'.t waste any time
though-I'm going to go in if I'm there before you. n

He didn't have to go in alone. After a dangerously fast

trip through Chicago's nearly empty nighttime streets,
··
McCain pulled up outside Will and Laurel's house onlY. to
have Jeane come up behind him almost m i mediately. Ngan
hopped out of the passenger side of her car .

McCain blinked and said, "That was fast."

"He knocked on my door just as I was trying to call
him," Jeane explained.
"I woke up with a premonition," said Ngan simply. Of the
three of theID', he looked the least like he hadjust rolled out
of bed. "I was needed at Jeane's, so I went. I had Jeane call
Ned as well. He's on his way."
McCain grabbed him and kissed him on the forehead·.
"Bless your wrinkly little head and all its premonitions!"
220
 If W �II ' tr I Cl II

He looked up at Will and Laurel's house. It was a mod·

erately large semidetached, two-story brick structure with
a well-groomed little yard out front. No lights illuminated
its windows. It didn't look as if anybody was home. McCain
climbed the porch steps and tested the front door. It was
locked, of- course, and it seemed solid. It was going to be a
bugger to break down. He took a few steps back, but before
he could run at it Ngan caught his shoulder.
"May I?" he asked and produce a slim piece of metal. He
stepped up to the door and deftly picked the lock. Jeane
moved in behind him, an intimidatingly large. pistol at the
ready.
"Jesus, Jeane, where'd the elephant gun come from?"
McCain gasped.
"Souvenir from the old job. Just stay ·behind me."
She nodded to Ngan, and he swung the door wide. Jeane
paused, then stepped through and swept the room n
i two
sharp, economical movements. She looked back to Ngan
and him and motioned them inside silently. McCain slipped
through and Ngan came after, dosing the door behind them. ·

Streetlights outside cast bigpale rectangles through the

windows and onto the living room floor. Nothing was stir­
ring. The room was nicely decorated but had a lived-in
messiness to it. There were newspapers lying around and a
dirty plate and glass. sitting beside the couch. A pair of
shoes and a basket of laundry sat on a flight of stairs, wait­
ing to be taken up. McCain recognized the look of a man liv·
ing on his own. Will had more to worry about right now than
picking up after himself. Still, McCain r�membered how he
had spoken about the voice that whispered to him. If it had
really been driving Will as hard as it sounded, McCain
. would have expected things to be at least a bit more run­
down.
Jeane gestured for them to stay put while she stepped
through an open doorway and into the kitchen. McCain

Ul
 d on ba s s I nu t h w a I te

watched her cover that room with the same precise move­
ments. She advanced a little farther and peered around
another corner under the stairs, then came back to them.
"The garbage needs to be taken out," she whispered,
"but there's nothing else in there."
She gestured to the stairs and added, "The door to the
basement is through the kitchen and under there. Do you
want to look up or down?"
McCain realized that both of them looked to Ngan when
she said it. The old man hesitated for a moment. then
pointed up. Jeane nodded and led them upstairs.
The bathroom at the head of the stairs was empty. So
was the next room, neatly decorated and unused. McCain
assumed it was a guest room. That left two rooms, both
with their doors closed. Jeane chose one, and Ngan flipped
the door open for her again. It was the master bedroom. The
bed was unmade, and there were clothes on the floor, but
everything else seemed nonnal.
"I haven't seen any preparations for a baby," Jeane mur­
mured.
McCain bit his tongue. It was true. There was nothing.
As if someone had swept through the house, erasing any
evidence that Laurel Tavish had ever been expecting.
"The last room," Ngan suggested.
He led them back out of the bedroom swiftly. He didn't
wait for Jeane to cover him but just flung the last door wide.
It was clear that the room had been intended as a nurs­
ery. A changing table and a bassinet snuggled against a
wall decorated with a border of clowns. A crib, still in its
box, leaned against another wall. A cute little chest of
drawers had .clowns as well, and so did the curtains on the
window. Along with all of that, though, were things that
didn't belong in the nursery, all thrown in and jumbled
together. A high chair. Dishes with playful bunnies. Baby
bottles. · Books on babies. A package of diapers had been

Uf
 If w his p e r s ca ll

ripped open and ·strewn around the room. The drawers in

the chest had been pulled out and their contents emptied
onto the floor. Beside the door, part of the clown border had
been ripped away from the wall.
Jeane whistled and said, "This doesn't look good." She
stepped back toward the stairs. "I'm going to check the
basement."
"Make it quick. I don't think they're here at all." McCain
stretched out a foot and nudged a box, flipping it over. An
· infant car seat. The box was empty. He looked up. "I didn't
see a car in the driveway."
"Will's still out with the baby somewhere?"
"Not just somewhere. He's gone to Bachelor's Grove."
He stood up and faced Ngan. "We've got something to tell
you."
"Perhaps in the car?" Ngan was already leadingthe way
back downstairs. "Jeane, forget the basement. I think
Michael is right."
They left the front door unlocked. With a missing baby
and pretty clear signs that something was wrong with Will,
anyone conducting an official investigation would likely
make the assumption that he had left the door unlocked
himself. A strange car, abandoned on the street was less
likely to go unnoticed, however. Ngan climbed into the back
seat of McCain's car, and they followed Jeane as she drove
over a couple of streets. When she had parked again, she
trotted back to McCain's car and knocked on the driver's
.window.
"Move over," she said.
"What?"
. "We drove three blocks, and you couldn't keep up with
me. I'm driving."
McCain started to protest, but Ngan cleared hj.s throat.
"She's a better driver than you, Michael."
"Fine."

U3
 McCain shifted himself over into the passenger's seat as
Jeane got in. He glanced at his watch. Bachelor's Grove was
roughly a forty.minute drive from downtown. The door
alarm at the hospital had gone off fifteen minutes before the
nurse had called Shani. It had taken another fifteen minutes
for them to converge on the Tavish's house and search it.
"if Will's not at the cemetery already," McCain said;
"he'll be there soon."
Jeane bit her lip as she gunned the engine and headed
for the expressway south. "It's going to take us about
twenty minutes if we push it all the way and no cops stop
us," she said. "And that'll be dicey."
"I can take care of that," Ngan said, reaching forward
with his hand out. "Give me your telephone."
She fumbled the phone out of her pocket, passing it to
him . He sat back again and began placing his call. Jeane
glanced over at McCain very briefly.
"Maybe you should call your buddy Jessop in Midlothian.
They should be able to get someone over to the cemetery
fast."
McCain shook his head as he watched the scenery whip
past. "No. I don't think we want to bring the police in. It
could get messy," he said. "I want to keep Will out of
trouble as much as I can. The cops aren't going to try to
arrest a ghost, they're going to pin all this on the most
likely living person. Will doesn't deserve that."
"Fitz, he's already ·kidnapped his baby from the hospi·
tal."
"Fine." He glowered at her. "Think of it as keeping the
Institute from getting publicly involved, then. It's not like
we can testify in court that we're movie location scouts who
moonlight as air-conditioning repairmen."
Jeane frowned but didn't look at him again. She cut
across the street abruptly, up a ramp, and onto the Dan
Ryan Expressway. Even at this hour, there was traffic on

2U
 If w his p e r s ca 11

the expressway. Jeane didn't let that stop her from pushing
the gas pedal to the floor and picking up speed.
"I still think we need someone over at the cemetery
sooner." She pulled out and passed a fast little sports car.
McCain saw the driver's mouth go wide as they zipped past
him. "Get on your phone and call Van."
�What?"
"He's in Midlothian and he already knows something is
·

going on."
"It's too dangerous. . . ."
"Mucking about with ghosts is what he wanted, isn't it?"
She leaned on her .horn. "Just do it." She rattled off the
number.
"Fine. Whatever." He dialed the number and waited
. while it rang. A sleepy voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Van, this is Fitz. We need you now." He outlined the sit­
uation swiftly. "Can you get over to Bachelor's Grove and
keep an eye on things for us?"
. Van sucked n
i his breath. "I could get in so much trouble
for this!"
"More than you would have if your mother found out
about the seance?" McCain sighed. "Look, Van, you don't
have to do this. We found something out today. We know
that the Madonna's rising had nothing to do with you. You
don't owe us or Laurel anything, but we really need your
·

help now. Can you help us?"

He didn't even hesitate. "Yeah. I can take my bike and
be there in ten minutes. n
"Great." McCain nodded to Jeane. She smiled. "Don't go
into the cemetery. Just stay outside, watch and wait-and
don't do anything stupid." You're still young, he added to
himself, you'll get lots of chances to do stupid things. "We
should J:>e there in about twenty minutes." He hung up.
"Van's going to watch for us."

225
 d on ba s s I nu t h wa I te

"Excellent."
Ngan poked his head up and dropped Jeane's phone
back onto the front seat. "I'm not sure that's wise," he
said. "Things might happen tonight that a member of the
general public-especially a teenager-would be better off
not seeing."
McCain laughed. "Ngan, how many Institute agents
started off by seeing something they would have been bet­
ter off not seeing?"
"Except that Van is-"
Jeane's phone rang, cutting him off. McCain snatched it
up and answered. "Where the hell are you people?"
screamed Ned. "You drag me out of bed then when I come
to meet you, you're not there!"
"Change of plans, Ned. We're heading to Bachelor's
Grove. Meet us there." McCain held the phone away from
his ear as Ned cursed him loudly. "Yes, Ned, I love you, too."
The psychic groaned into the phone, and McCain heard
a car engine start in the background. "Just wait for me
before you try going into the cemetery. Where are you
now?"
"Heading south on the Dan Ryan, just coming µp on SS.
We'11 switch to S7 when . . ." Flashing lights in the rearview
mirror caught his atte11tion. "God damn it!"
McCain twisted around to stare out the rear window.
1\vo police cruisers were just coming down off the last on­
ramp they'd passed and were catching up to them fast.
Their lights were flickering like the sharp edges of knives.
"We're screwed, Ned," McCain said. "Just get.to Bache­
lor's Grove as fast as you can."
He hung up. Jeane was staring at the approaching
cruisers.
"Should I pull over?" she asked.
"Easy." Ngan was leaning back � his seat. "They'� for us.�
"What are you talking ab-"
228
 If w bis p er I cI Ii

Before he could even finish the cruisers had caught up

to them and split, one coming up on either side. McCain
caught a glimpse of the officers in the cruiser on the pas­
senger side. For a moment, they looked back at him with
the barely concealed curiosity of people obeying unex­
plained orders. Then they were past and taking up position
just in front of them.
"Match their speed," Ngan told Jeane.
She glanced down at the speedometer and shook her
head in disbelief. "Hot damn. Who did you just call?"
"The Institute has certain contacts it can call on in an
emergency." Ngan sat back. "Michael, you were saying
there was something you had to tell me?"
McCain swallowed and looked to Jeane, but she had her
eyes ixed
f on the road. Convenient for her. He twisted
around to face Ngan. He might as well keep it short and
simple.
"We found out something today that we should have
acted on right away. I persuaded Jeane-"
"You don't have to cover for me, Fitz."
He ignored her comment. "I persuaded Jeane that we
didn't need to act on it right away, that everything would be
all right. That was a mistake." He took a deep breath. "Wtll�s
ancestors aren't exactly who he thought they were. In fact,
there's a pretty good chance that that family, the Steiners, is
responsible for the hauntings in Bachelor's Grove, either
raising the ghosts or . . . well, being them. Apparently,
there's also more to the story of the Madonna, too. She inad­
vertently killed her own baby, and after that the Steiners
wouldn't bring their children into the cemetery."
McCain looked at Ngan. The old man seemed remark­
ably calm, as imperturbable as he had looked before the
move to Chicago. McCain crossed his fingers and hoped the
·
mood would last.
"We think," McCain continued, "that it was actually

. Ul
 . . .. .ll M •1. 1. 11 ..t.h"Wli. te .'

Laurel and Wtll 's visit to the cemetery that. roused the·
.

ghost. The baby.' was so close to being_ born that they were
essentially bringing a Steiner child into the cemetery. Its
presence woke the ghost, and it lashed· out at Laurel."
·

"No," said Ngan.

McCain blinked ap.d looked at him sharply. "What do you
mean 'no?' "
Ngan avoided his eyes. "There's something I should
have told you as well." He looked up again. "Did you know
that Laurel and Will's·child is a girl?"
. "I didn't. Jeane?" She shook her head. McCain turned
back to Ngan. "I guess nobody mentioned it. Does it mat­
ter?"
"Yes. What did Will tell you the voice whispered to him?"
"It wanted Laurel. It warited him. to bring her to it."
Ngan shook his head and McCain frowned. "That's what he
said. I'm sure of it."
"It may be what he said but it's not what the whispers
said,."
McCain tried to remember his conversation with Will
and the exact words the man had used. Whatever was in the
mist, it wanted Laurel. It wanted her any way it could have her.
Even dead. He shook his head. No. That was Will's inter­
pretation. It wasn't what the whispering v9ice had said. The
whispers had said . .. .
McCain's head snapped up. "Bring her to me. Oh my
God, the Madonna was never attacking Laurel. It wanted
the baby all along."

228
 .
.N
.

·:
.
gan nodded slowly and watched McCain fall
back in his seat, stunned. Jeane, he noticed, just
set her jaw and drove a little faster. He admired
her focus. The idea that the Madonna was after the
baby, not Laurel, had stunned Ngan as well when it
first came to him. He'd been back in his office, por·
ing over the agents' various reports and trying to
find the clue that would link everything together.
The revelation of what-or who-the ghost was
really after· had eluded him until late at night. The
solution seemed so obvious, yet they had been so
focused on Laurel and Will that the baby, only just
brought into the world, hadn't even seemed like a
separate consideration. And it had been the link all
along.
No, Ngan reminded himself, she had been the
link. It was still hard to think of her in terms .of a
person, and maybe that's why it had been so easy to

U9
 � on u I II nut h WI I te

overlook her significance. The ghost had known though,

and McCain and Jeane's discovery of the secret Steiner
blood answered the "how?" of that knowledge. It answered
Ned's mystery of how a ghost could manifest in three appar·
ently diverse places, as well.
Steiner. blood had drawn the Madonna from Bachelor's
Grove to Will, and in the hospital she hadn't been manifest­
ing around Laurel but around the Steiner baby inside her.
Ngan had even seen the ghost leave Laurel and seek out the
baby. He should have guessed then at the baby's impor­
tance.
He hadn't, though. He and McCain had been so busy
fighting each other that he hadn't even thought of it. Worse,
their enmity had put the child at grave risk. That shamed
him more deeply than he could ever tell even Lily. It was a
problem that needed to be fixed before it got any worse. He
sat forward, leaning between the front seats so that the
lights from their escort flashed in his eyes.
"You should have come to me, Michael," Ngan said.
It was the wrong way to begin, and he regretted it
instantly. He had meant it as a consolation, that McCain
could have told him anything, but as soon as the words
were past his lips he knew they could be too easily misin·
·

terpreted.
McCain did just that, his face twisting into a scowl.
"1\vist the knife a little more, Ngan.. I know· what I should
have done. I'm rather acutely aware of it at the moment."
McCain turned to glare at Ngan. Their faces were close
enough that Ngan could smell the sourness of interrupted
sleep on his breath..
"Of course," McCain continued, �you can do no wrong.
. You're the leader. We're your agents. You hold something
back from us, that's a completely different story."
He wanted to explain himself to McCain and Jeane, tell .
them what he had told. Lily, but all that fled his mind.

230
 If w his p e r s ca II

"Perhaps I wouldn't have held back if I knew you wouldn't

dismiss anything I did or said as a personal insult to you."
"Did you ever stop to realize that your orders really
were insulting?"
"Did you ever stop to think about why I gave them?"
,
"Stop iW Jeane shouted.
Her right hand left the steering wheel, her arm tucked
in and back, and her elbow whipped out, hitting McCain
hard in the back of his head. The blow sent his skull crack·
ing against Ngan's: They both fell back, blinking away the
haze of sudden pain.
"Do either of you ever actually listen to the other?"
Jeane snapped. She shot a harsh glance at both of them. "It
comes down to Ngan's promotion. Both of you have been
pissing vinegar since he got it. I don't think either of you
likes it, but you'd better damn well suck it up because
we've got bigger problems." The lines of her face were hard.
"Have either of you thought about why the Madonna wants
Laurel's baby?"
Ngan rubbed his head and fought to regain control over
his emotions. His argument with McCain was over. He had
told himself that this afternoon, and yet the young man still
had the power to stir him to anger. He would not let him do
it again.
"Our original theory of vengeance against the living still
holds true, I think," Ngan said. .
"It fits even better, now," McCain added. "The Madonna
lost her child, and Steiner mothers avoided Bachelor's Grove
because they knew she would strike out against theirs."
· He glanced back and met Ngan's eyes. McCain was rub·
bing his head, too. He snatched his hand away and turned
back around in his seat.
Jeane grunted. "It's nice to see you two can agree on
something. Even if you're both wrong. We've all missed
something crucial by focusing on vengeance. If the

231
 . d on ba s s I nu t h w a I te

Madonna just wanted to strike out against the baby, why

not attack her at the hospital?"
Ngan frowned, trying to follow Jeane's logic. "It lacked
the strength, perhaps? The only directphysical action it has
ever taken was pushing Shani-and possibly opening the
doors at the hospital tonight for Will. "
"And what do you call being chased down a n:ever­
ending highway by a dead hit man's car?" demanded
McCain. "Just a little nonviolent object lesson?"
"How do you know that . . . " Ngan's blood was rising
again. .
He took a deep breath. McCain would not drive him to
anger. The problem was resolved-McCain just didn't know
it yet. Ngan forced himself to answer calmly and without
insult.
"You don't know that the phantom car had any physical
form. What would have happened had it caught you? Per­
haps nothing." He turned back to Jeane and said, "The
involvement of the ghost car is another riddle answered by
the link of the Steiner blood. If the same power gave rise to
all of the ghosts in the cemetery, and the Madonna shares
in that power, it may have a measure of control over the
other ghosts of Bachelor's Grove." .
Jeane nodded. "It certainly seems to be most powerful
when it's manifesting n
i the cemetery. That. still doesn't
explain why .it wants Will to bring the baby to it, though. If
it has enough control over him to make him do that, it must
have enough control to make him harm the baby directly.
That's not what it wants."
She drummed her fingers against the rim of the steering
wheel. Her lips twisted as if there was something she knew,
but didn't want to say aloud.
After a moment, she said quietly, "Ghosts are often said
to be looking for a way to finish something they couldn't fin:
ish in life."

lU
 If w his p e r a ca II

McCain was the first to grasp the significance of what

she had said. "Oh," he whispered. "Oh, hell."
He sat back in his seat. Ngan gave him a questioning
look. McCain· just shook his head. Not out of malice or
obstinacy, but clearly out of shock. Ngan sat back himself.
What could the Madonna be trying to finish? Perhaps they
had its motivations wrong. Perhaps it wasn't trying to harm
Laurel's baby but to somehow make a.mends for the death
of its own child. But that didn't fit with its pattern of behav­
ior. He tried to think in a broader sense, of things left
undone. There were so many possibilities, though. They
knew so little of the Madonna's life as a living woman, only
that she had a child and a husband and that . . .
"Ah," Ngan said simply as the truth dawned on him.
What had the Madonna left unfinished? The resurrec­
tion of her beloved husband. The first unsuccessful attempt
had taken the life of her child. What manner of magic did
the Steiner blood cany? He couldn't guess. But how many
tales of magic from around the world told of one person
dying so that another might be reborn?
The death of a Steiner child for the life of a Steiner man.
And that was why the Madonna needed Will and Laurel's
daughter at Bachelor's Grove.
"How long until we reach the cemetery?"·he asked.
McCain glanced at his watch. "Maybe another ten min­
utes. It's hard to guess." There was no argument in his
voice now.

Time passed swiftly behind the wheel. Jeane kept her

eyes on the lights of their police escort, not paying much
attention to the other cars they passed or the urban land­
scape that blurred by in the night. It was hard to tell where
they were. When they switched from the Dan Ryan and 94

. 233
 " . ..

· tq I_-57•. the cbartge V{as barely noticeable. She was aware of

the little things . in the ca:r, though. · The way Ngan was
.
.
· absolutely still and silent in the back seat, gathering him­
self, she presumed, for what might lie ahead. The way
McCain checked his watch .with annoying frequency and
·

rubbed his head where he'd smacked skulls with Ngan.

Jeane felt a certain perverse pleasure in bringing that
particular skirmish to an end. After being caught between
Ngan and McCain for the better part of a week, finally being
in a position to do something about their interminable bick­
ering was satisfying.
The shrill ring of her cell phone broke the long tension
of silence. McCain picked it up off the seat and answered.
"Hello? Yes." He paused, listening. "Yes. Yes. I see.
Thank you very much." He hung up. "Time to slow down,
Jeane. That was our escort." He gestured with the phone.
"The exit to Midlothian is just ahead."
She nodded and moved her foot from the gas to the
brake. The exit came up on them sooner than she expected,
maybe because the police cruisers in front of them didn't .

signal a· lane change. When the exit appeared, she was the
only one to pull onto it. The cruisers sped away on down the
interstate.
"They're not coming any farther?" Jeane �sked.
"No," said Ngan from the shadows of the back seat.
"That's as far as they could take us. We're on our own."
"By the way," McCain added, "the officer I was talking
to asked me to pay his respects to you."
"That was kind of him." Jeane glanced into the rearview
mirror to try to catch Ngan's face, but all she could see was
a silhouette.
The exit ramp deposited them on the main road west
through Midlothian. After travelling so fast for so long,
driving at the speed limit felt like crawling. Any time they'd·
gained on the expressway would be wiped out if they were

234
 If w .hl1 p e r 1 c a. I I

stopped for �- ticket now, though, and Jeane held herself

'strictly to the limit." Midlothian crept by, �leeping in the
night. Her foot itched with the need to slam the gas pedal .
d9Wn and sp.eed to the· cemetery. .
Ngan reached up and touched her shoulder. "Easy," he
murmured. . . . ·
In fac� it was l�ss than five minutes before they pull�d
over on the shoulder of 143rd Street. There was another car
there already, the kind of sporty sedan. a young couple
might d.J:ive until they had a family. Jeane jumped out of
McCain's car immediately and ran up to the other car, lay­
ing a hand on its hood. The night was as cold as the wfud
outside Ellie's had promised, but the metal of the hood was
still slightly warm. ·
"He can't have been here long," Jeane observed.
"Assuining this s i his car." ·
.
"It's a safe bet," McCain said. He had the big black flash­
light from under his car seat. He shone it in through the car
windows. "Baby seat. Parking pass from Presbyterian-St.
Luke's."
"Ignore the car," Ngan said. "They will have ·gone
straight to Bachelor's Grove."
He walked up to the end of the gravel path that led into
the fox:est preserve. Away from the streetlights, it was pitch
black. The sky was clear, and the stars shone like brittle
bits of broken gla.Ss. Jeane had seen the moon riding high in
the sky from the window of her apartment, but now it hov­
ered at the western horizon. It had been entirely full
tonight. The Madonna's moon. She and McCain joined
Ngan, McCain swinging the flashlight along the edge of the
woods. The beam caught something bright half-hidden just
inside the line of trees-a bicycle. ·
"Van's here," McCain said.
Ngan frowned. "I fear for him."
McCain nod_ded and took the lead, the flashlight maJO.ng:

235
 d on u 1 11 ng t h w a I te

a pool ahead of him. Ngan hissed quietly and he switched

the light off. It was the sensible thing to do, Jeane knew.
They didn't need to alert Will-or the Madonna, though
Jeane suspected that a little light wouldn't be what would
give them away to a dead thing. But sensible or not, it left
them creeping slowly through the moon-tinted dark, mov­
ing as fast as they dared. She couldn't help noticing that in
spite of the friction that had kept them divided, they fell
easily into the coordinated silence of a team.
Her eyes adjusted to the dark after a few minutes, and
she found that she could see a little bit. It was quite a
change from the night before-had it really been just a little
over twenty-four hours since they had been out here? The
moonlight then had turned the woods into a place at once
beautiful and eerie. The long, deep shadows of the moon
just made it a void. Anything could be out there, or nothing
at all. Even the little sounds of nocturnal birds and animals
fell silent with their passage. No, that wasn't right. She
paused for a moment, holding her breath. Ngan paused, too,
and the black shape of his head turned toward her.
"What s i it?" he asked.
"It's still," she whispered.
It was There were no animal or bird sounds, but neither
.

were there sounds of tree branches moving in the wind or

distant cars rushing by on th� highway. The night was
utterly still, just as it had been in the mist on the turnpike
before the approach of the phantom car.
"Hey!" husked McCain urgently.
He was somewhere just a little ahead, but Jeane had lost
him in the dark. She caught a muted, ruddy glow as he
capped the flashlight with his fingers and flicked it on just
long enough for her and Ngan to locate him. He was kneel­
ing on the ground. Another shielded flash of his light
revealed why. Van lay huddled at the edge of the path.
"Damn!" Jeane knelt as well, and took the flashlight

UB
 If w his p e r s c a II

from him. "You two close your eyes. There's no sense in all
of us losing our night vision."
She turned the flashlight on. The glare was momentar­
ily blinding, but she forced her eyes open and bent over Van.
His skin was a little pale and slightly cool. For a moment
her heart skipped. She pressed her fingers against his neck
and sighed with relief when she found a pulse.
"He's alive.� she reported for the benefit of McCain and
Ngan.
She turne� Van's head and peeled back one of his eye­
lids.. His pupil contracted immediately. He jerked, his other
eyelid snapping up and his mouth opening as he sucked in
air. Jeane slapped her hand over his mouth before he could
scream.
. .

"It's Jeane-it's okay." She fumbled the flashlight

around so that it wasn't shining directly into his face. "It's
okay."
His panicked breathing slowed, and she took her hand
away.
"What happened?" she asked him.
He sat up and whispered, "Someone hit me from
behind."
Jeane .felt the back of his head. Van gasped as she
touched the lump that was forming there, but she didn't feel
·

any blood.
"There was already a car out on 143rd when I got here, "
Van said. " I grabbed the light off my bike and started in to
the cemetery." He felt the back of his head himself and
winced. "I heard a noise, but before I could turn around, I
got clobbered."
"Will must have still been on the path and seen your
light behind him," Ngan guessed. With his eyes screwed
shut, he looked like some kind of blind seer. "He must have
waited and ambushed you."
"I swear I didn't see anybody."

Hl
 d DI u I II ngO wa l_te

Ngan shook his head. "The shadows are deep-and Will

may have supernatural help just now."
It seemed as if the Maqonna had helped Wtll get the
baby out of the hospital. What else might she do to help
him? Jeane didn't want to think about it.
"How do you feel?" she asked Van.
"Like I got hit with a tree."
He started to stand up. Jeane caught him.
"You're staying here," she said. "This is dangerous."
Van gave her a look of disgust, the flashlight throwing
dark angles of shadow across his face. "But it was okay to
send me in to stand watch for you?"
He had a point, she realized guiltily. She looked over at
McCain and Ngan still kneeling down with their eyes closed
and asked, "What do you two think?"
"Bring him." McCain said. "He's earned it."
Ngan nodded his agreement, and Jeane helped Van to his
feet. "You're in, but do everything we tell you and stay out
of the way."
Van smiled and snapped her a cocky salute that only
made his eagerness more obvious. We'll see how long that
lasts. she thought. She snapped off the flashlight and the
night closed in again. Someone-Ngan-took her hand in
the dark, leading her as her night vision slowly returned.
At first she thought the luminous streaks of red among
the trees were just her dazzled eyes playing tricks on her.
They didn't go away when she blinked though. Red lights
dancing in the darkness. "Ngan . . ."
"I see them."
"What are they?" whispered McCain.
Van answered him. "Ghostlights. A couple of stories
describe lights in Bachelor's Grove. Blue in the cemetery
itself, red along the path."
The young man's description sounded vaguely familiar,
like something chased out of her head by the strain of the
UB
 If W 1111 ' Ir I Cl II

night. Maybe having him alon:g would be good. They

pressed on. The ghostlights stayed off in the woods, flick­
ering among the trees, sometimes a little ahead of the team,
sometimes marching beside· them. They reminded Jeane
uncomfortably of the flashing lights of the police. cruisers
she had spent so long following: an escort. Did the
Madonna know they were here? Had she sent the li-
One of the lights darted in very close, swooping up
beside the path. Old reflexes kicked in. Jeane had her gun in
her hand and trained on the flickering patch of light before
even bothering to wonder how much good the weapon would
be against it. Likely very little. She held the gun steady any­
way. The light came no closer, just hung there for a long
moment-then vanished. Jeane lowered the gun slowly.
"Should we be worried about that?" she asked.
"Not about the ghostlights, I think," Ngan replied.
He took the flashlight from her other hand and turned it
on, cupping his hand over the end as McCain had done.
Even that weak glow was enough to show her what she had
missed in her focused concentration on the ghostlight.
. Mist streamed along the ground, swirling up to her
ankles and climbing. It was getting thicker, too, and when
Ngan turned off the flashlight, the gathering mist was still
faintly visible, a pale luminescence in the night.
"How close are we to the cemetery?" Ngan asked.
"There's a bend in the pathjust ahead," Van said. "Bach­
elor's Grove is just around it."
For every step they took, though, the mist rose higher
and grew denser. The red ghostlights faded into it. After
only ten yards, the · engulfing dark of night had been
replaced by the radiance of the mist-light or dark, they
were still· effectively blind. The mist deadened even the
careful, muffled sounds of their footfalls and breathing. The
chase on the turnpike came back to Jeane, an unending race
·

through the mist.

238
 d on ba s sf nut h w a I te

"Join hands," she ordered, sliding her gun back into the
holster, She reached out and felt Van and Ngan connect
with her. "Fitz? Ngan?"
"Here," said a voice from behind Van-McCain.
"Shouldn't we be there by now? Have we missed the turn in
·
the path?"
"No." Ngan's voice was confident: "I'm still standing on
gravel. Which way does the path turn, Van?"
"Right. Bachelor's Grove is on the right, too."
They shuffled forward carefully, an eternity of tiny baby
steps, until Ngan stopped suddenly.
"I'm off the path now," he said. "Turn-I'll follow the
edge of the path."
More shuffling steps, Ngan making noise now as one
foot trailed through fallen leaves and the other debris of
autumn. Jeane searched the mist ahead for any sign of the
cemetery gates. Or anything else. There was nothing except
the starshine glow of the mist with occasional billows and
wisps that made her want to snatch her hand away from
Van and pull out her gun. She resisted the urge .and just
kept watching. For the gates: For the qemetery's chain-link
fence. For a tree. For Will. Anything.
"The mist is getting lighter," hissed McCain abruptly.
It looked. to Jeane as if the mist was as heavy as it had
ever been.
"You're imagin-" .
"No," McCain interrupted, "I can see my hand."
"Hard right turn," Ngan suggested. "Michael, lead us to
where the mist is thinnest."
Aftertwo steps, Jeane could see Van's back in front of her.
After three, she could make out McCain in front of him. And
on the fourth step, she was out ofthe mist almost completely.
The sagging, rusted gates of Bachelor's Grove hung only a
few feet in front of them. The sky was perfectly clear over­
head, stars shining down. All around the cemetery, the mist

!40
 If • bl& p e r s
. ca H .
.
.
... .
loomed like a wall but within the. boundary ofthe fence itwas
little more than a thin ground cover. A gentle blue glow per: . .
vaded the cemetery. It struck a frosty sparkle on the scat­
tered grav�stones and the bare br;in
ches of the tree. It· sent .
shadows reaching acros.s the ·shifting surface of the ntj.st.
And· it ill�ated two figures strolling slowly .among
the graves.· ·.
So peaceful, So calm. Will looked terrible-his face was
haggard and hollow, his hair stood on end, and his clothes
were in disarray-but he gazed with adoring serenity on the
tiny, blanket-swathed bundle in his arms. Beside him paced
a woman in a frontier-style dress, long and pale, its c�lor
washed away by the moonlight glow. She had long sandy
brown hair. only a little lighter than Will 's. It lifted and
stirred as if blowing in a breeze that affected nothing else.
A breeze, Jeane realized, or a gentle current of water, as if
it were still submerged. What had she expected the
Madonna to look like? A gaunt spectre? A terrible hag, still
dripping with water and wet leaves from her drowning in
the lagoon? The ghost was a woman. She looked at the
bundle she carried with exactly the same adoration as Will.
Or perhaps Will gazed with the same adoration as· her.
They matched each other pace for pace, walking with eerie
synchronicity. Where the Madonna stepped, Will stepped,
too. Where she turned, he turned. When she stroked a fin.
ger along her baby's face, Will touched his daughter and
smiled the Same joyful smile.
And while he played with the baby, the Madonna raised
her eyes toward the gate, and blue light flashed in cold,
empty eye sockets.
"She knows we're here," McCain said as he flung him·
self at the hole in the fence. "Will!." he yelled. "Stop!"
"Mic.hael!" Ngari went after him almost immediately but
he wasn't quite fast enough to keep McCain from slipping ·

through the hole in the fence.

241
 d on -11 11 nut h w 1 1 te

Jeane heard Ngan growl something incomprehensible,

then he went through himself. She was right on their heels,
drawing her gun as she moved, vaguely aware of Van com·
ing after her. If Will heard or saw any of them he gave no
indication of it. The Madonna turned away and he turned
witli her . . toward the lagoon.
.

"No!" screamed McCain. "Will!"

He sprinted forward. Ngan glanced back at Jeane once,
then ran forward as well. She ran, too, gun held low and
alert for hazards that might be hidden by the mist. What
good they were going to be against the Madonna, she didn't
know, but Will was mortal enough to tackle, and he was the
one they really had to stop.
The mist stretched up from the ground before they got
anywhere near close to the pair. At first Jeane thought the
pull at her feet was weeds tangled on the ground. The
resistance grew stronger, pushing against her shins, her
· knees, her thighs-the mist was rising, and it was like try­
ing to run through water. The faster she tried to move, the
greater the resistance. McCain, out in front, was struggling
even harder. Ngan had dropped to a walk and was forcing
his way slowly forward. Jeane spared a glance back at Van.
The young man had all but stopped, staring in horrified fas­
cination at everything that was happening.
Behind him, back beyond the gates and outside of the
cemetery, the mist was roiling like a storm front. Something
was moving in it, approaching the cemetery with a slow,
deliberate pace. Jeane froze. The Madonna had summoned
up the ghost car on the turnpike when all they had done
was investigate the cemetery. What could be in the mist
now?
The tale of the two-headed monster that McCain had
ridiculed leaped into her mind. Suddenly it didn't seem so
funny anymore. Behind them was an unknown danger,. in
front of them, unreachable, the Madonna and Will. Of all

fU
 If w his p e r s ca 11

the dangers in the cemetery, she knew there was one she
could do something about. She brought her gun up to firing
height and leveled it at Will, aiming low, aiming f9r his leg.
"Stop!"
Ngan's voice was like a whipcrack, impossible to ignore.
McCain stopped and turned. Jeane's eyes leaped to Ngan,
though her hand remained steady.
"We have to do something, Ngan," she said. "Look
behind us."
She saw his eyes flicker, then come back to her. "Not
Will," Ngan ordered. "You might hit the baby."
"I won't."
"You might." His eyes bore into her. A heartbeat passed.
Damn. She spun around. "Down, Van!"
She barely waited for him to hit the ground before she
fired three hard, fast shots into the swirling mist beyond
the gate.
Something yelped-then sho�ted, "Jesus H. Christ!
Hold your fire!"
Jeane's finger locked, just ready to squeeze down on the
trigger a fourth time. "Ned?"

U3
 .

;� Cain watched Ned Devromme emerge from the

mist. It literally parted before the psychic,
rolling away as though reluctant to touch him.
There was a look of intense concentration on Ned's
face.
"Don't you people wait when you're told to?" Ned
snarled.
"You're just lucky you still have your head
attached," Jeane spat back.
"Heyl Enough!" McCain shouted at both of them.
"Ned, can you stop them?" He turned and pointed
after the Madonna and Will.
They were still moving deliberately toward the
lagoon-mayl;>e even a little faster than they had
before. The mist didn't hamper them at all, thqugh
it was still cinging
l to McCain, Jeane, and Ngan,
dr.agging at their legs and holding them baGk .
McCain didn't know exactly how Ned was keeping

245
 d on ba a a I ng t h wa I te

the mist back, but he wasn't about to second guess him at

a time like this. Maybe Ned could do what they hadn't been
able to do.
The psychic didn't need any further instruction. He·
glanced after the retreating pair. The set of his face shifted
subtly for a moment, and he grunted.
"TWo can play at that game," he murmured and concen­
tration settled back over his features.
Will jerked to a sudden halt, his arms wrapping protec­
tively around the baby. For the first time, he looked up and
around, as if only now truly aware of where he was .

"Will!" McCain shouted again. He forced all the air in

his lungs into that cry, as if the extra effort might some­
how bring Will back to them. It made him twist around at
least.
Will's eyes went wide. "Rob? What-?"
The Madonna reached out and drew one finger down
Will's cheek. His head followed her motion, dropping until
he was looking at the baby in his arms once more. A happy
·
smile bloomed on his face.
"Will, no!" McCain started to shout.
He barely got the sound past his lips when the Madonna
whirled to glare at them. At Ned. Contentment was gone
from her face, and only hate burned there. She opened her
mouth and screamed.
At least it looked like a scream. There was no sound
that McCain could hear, but every inch of his skin crinkled
tight. The mist lying along the ground before the Madonna
rose up in waves and billows sweeping toward them.
McCain cursed and threw himself aside. His hands touched
the ground for just a moment as he tumbled, and he could
feel the earth trembling like a train was passing by.
He scrambled to his feet just in time to see the others
diving for cover as well-all except Ned. The psychic stood
his ground. He frowned, and the waves of mist parted

UB
 If w his p e r s ca II

around him, though the force of their passage made him

stagger.
"Go!" Ned yelled.
The Madonna's silent scream had cleared the mist away.
Ngan and Jeane were already up and moving. Van had fallen
·

back to stand closer to Ned.

"Hail Mary," McCain muttered and sprinted forward,
running straight for Will. He was still the closest. He still
had the best chance to grab Will.
But the ghost's cold blue eyes darted toward him and ,

suddenly a new drift of mist coalesced out of the night

between McCain and Will. It wasn't just a cloud or a wisp
this time, but a strangely cohesive arm as thick as the
trunk Qf a tree.
McCain dodged toward the end of it. The mist slid over
itself, more of it boiling out of thin air to block him. Nice try.
He dropped to roll under it.
The mist expanded that way, too, growing down as
quick as a thought. Hitting it was like hitting a packed
snow bank: solid and as cold as winter itself. Colder.
McCain's left shoulder and arm went instantly nump.
McCain gasped in shock and wrenched himself away: Hands
helped him to his feet. Jeane and Ngan.
"Don't touch it!" he spat.
"Double team," Jeane suggested shortly.
She went for one end of the mist. McCain moved for the
other. Good plan. It might not be able to stop all of them.
If all of them worked together.
Ngan hadn't moved. McCain felt a hot flash of anger.
Fine! Let the old man stand and do nothing. McCain jumped
at his end of the mist, faking left, then right as he might
have on a basketball court. The mist kept up with him, then
lashed out abruptly with a whiplike tongue of mist. McCain
fell back-and kept falling back as the mist pressed. in
toward him. Jeane wasn't faring much better.

U7
 � .. u 1 11 11 n wa 1 t1

"Ngan!" McCain snapped. "Help us . . ."

"Patience," was all the old man said. His voice was tight
and McCain realized that every muscle in his body was tight
as well. He stared.fiercely at the Madonna and Will. Pois�d.
Waiting.
On the other side of the icy mist, the Madonna turned
back to Will. She shifted her baby-for the first time,
. McCain saw that it was shriveled and grey, not a baby at all
but a tiny corpse-and held it in one arm while she reached
the other toward wm. With that action, sometltjng changed
about her. She had always looked real, but suddenly the air
of otherworldliness that had clung to her seemed to vanish.
McCain didn't know how, but he knew �at, just for a
moment, she was as solid as anything else in Bachelor's
Grove. She could touch things. She could hold a b�by.
Will looked up·at the Madonna and started to Jiand her
his daughter.
"No!" shouted Ned. "It mustn't take the baby!"
The ghost tm:ned her head toward Ned sharply. Instead
of screaming this time, she hissed. The sound was silent
again, but the action was unmistakable. The mist trembled
as if a sword had sliced through it, and the crinkling across
McCain's skin turned to a sharp, almost unbearable prickle,
like standing naked in a storm of sleet. Ned cried out in
agony and dropped to his knees, clutching at his head..
And in tl!at moment, Ngan leaped. �s muscles uncoiled,
pushing him up into the air, up to somersault entirely over
the bank of mist that had held them back, even. over Will
and the ghost herself. He landed in a soft . crouch, knees
absorbing the shock, hands barely brushing the ground
before he sprang up. He reached out and snatched the baby
from Will's arms.
The Madonna threw her head back in a soundless wail
and vanished. .·

The icy mist that had been holding him and Jeane back

248
began to sink and McCain rushed foiward. He caught Will
just as the other man sagged and started to collapse.
McCain shot a hard glare at Ngan and said, "You could
have warned us. What if that stunt had failed?"
"It seems to me I've heard similar words before," Ngan
replied calmly. "Except that they referred to a certain young .
agent."
Ngan cradled the baby gently. Her eyes were open, star­
ing at everything in silent wonder.
McCain flushed and turned back to Wtll. He was shak­
ing and crying, and like his daughter, he was staring.
McCain had the distinct impression, however, that Will
wasn't really registering anything he was staring at.
"Will?" he asked softly.
"Rob? Oh God, Rob, what have I done?" Will struggled
to sit up. "Johanna? Where's Johanna?"
McCain glanced at Jeane and frowned. "Your grand­
mother?"
"No," Ngan answered for him . He stepped foiward and
held the baby where Will could see her. "She's safe, Will."
A sharp whistle cut the night. Ned was hobbling toward
them, leaning on Van for support.
"Get your asses in gear!" the psychic shouted. "We need
to get out of here!"
"But . . . " McCain blinked and looked around. Every­
thing seemed peaceful. "The Madonna's gone, isn't she?"
Ned stamped his foot, sending little drifts of mist gust­
ing up. "We're not that good. She's just waiting. I can still
feel . . ."
His voice trailed off as he looked at the ground. McCain
followed his gaze. The drift of mist his foot had disturbed
was still moving. All of the mist that lingered in the ceme­
tery was nioving, streaming slowly over the ground, pour­
ing in the direction of the lagoon. More mist was rising up
from the water.

ue
 d on ba s s I ng t h wa I te

"Move!" Ned yelled. "Move!"

He let go of Van and shoved the wide-eyed young·man in
the direction of the gate, then went after him . Ngan fol­
lowed, the baby held tight. Jeane bent down and helped
McCain haul Will to his feet.
"Leave me!" the battered man moaned.
"Not a chance," muttered McCain.
They half-supported, half-carried Will after the others.
The mist was whipping past their feet faster now, and
McCain could feel a stiff breeze pressing against his face
and pulling at his back. It tugged at his hair and jacket,
growing stronger with every second. .
The blue light that had suffused Bachelor's Grove was
. changing as well. It was becoming harsher and shifting so
that it came from behind them. Stark shadows jumpe� out
in front of them, flickering as the mist rippled beneath. Up
ahead, Ned turned to look back. The light made his face
pale, and McCain saw it grow even paler. He reached out
and grabbed Van, dragging him back and into the shelter of
two large gravestones that stood close together.
"Everyone behind here-fast!" Ned commanded. There
was a tinge of fear in his voice that sounded strange com­
ing from the big man.
As they hustled Will over to the gravestones, McCain
risked a glance over his sb,oulder.
Back over the lagoon, the mist was whirling around,
squeezing together into a blue spark that grew as he
· watched. The breeze-now a wind-wasn't just blowing
toward the lagoon. It was air rushing into an unnatural
void, sucking leaves and loose clumps of dry grass into a
swirl of mist and blue light.
The last few steps that got McCain, Jeane, and Will
behind the shelter of the gravestone were a fight against a
howling gale. ·Heavier debris, twigs and thin branches, wa�
being plucked from the ground now. McCain spared a last

f50
 If w his p er s ca 11 ·

glance for the light over the lagoon as he dropped. There

was a gaunt figure forming there.
"She's coming back," he shouted over the wind, "and she
isn't happy."
"I can sense her anger," Ned confirmed. "I get the feel­
ing that all of you know something I don't know about her.
Anyone want to share?"
Ngan quickly outlined what they had guessed about the
Steiners, the Madonna, and her desire for Will's baby. It left
Will staring at them with his mouth agape. McCain took his
hand.
"I'm sorry you had to find out this way, Will."
Will shook his head slowly as if trying to clear it. "I
don't . . ." He sighed. "You don't really woi:k for a ventila­
tion company, do you?"
McCain shook his head. He could sympathize with Wtll.
Finding out so much, so suddenly-so drastically. He gave
Wtll's hand a squeeze.
Wil l looked up at him and said, "At least I know I wasn't
going crazy. In a strange way, everything makes sense
now."
"No, it doesn't." Ned was frowning. "I mean, it all makes
magical sense-except for the part about actually raising
her husband. I can see trying to finish the unfinished task,
but it's impossible. How can she hope that one ghost can
bring another back to life?"
Will drew a deep breath. "She doesn't," he said, tapping
his heaa. "I know it all. She told it to me. If she manages to
bring him back, she knows that he'll only die right away.
That's what she wants. Her failure the first time left him
trapped between life and death, but if he dies cleanly he'll
go on to the other side, and that will release her, too.
They'll be together again."
"But how?" insisted Ned.
"By teaching me the rite and having me perfonil it." He

f51
 d on ba a al nat.h w a l le

shook his head ag.µn.· "Ever �ince I took' Johanna, that'� all

·
· she's been talking about. She kept saying that only Steiner
blood could complete the maiic." There were tears in his
. eyes. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry this .is happ�ning. She told me
all I had to do.was bring Johanna here and everything would
be fine. Then she wouldn't let me. go. She started:telling me
about what I would have to do ·� . : what she had done!" He
looked to Jeane. '"That first day we were here, she tried to
make me kill Laurel and perform the rite before Johanna
was .even born. But she. wasn't strong enough. Since then
she's been waiting for the full m·oon and keeping Laurel in
a coma until Johanna was born-like La:urel was some kind
of incubator.·
He tried to sit forward. Jeane helped him with her free
hand. She looked to Ned and asked, "Do you think we can
make it out of the cemetery before the Madonna forms
again?"
"Against this wind? Not bloody likely."
Ned uprooted a handful of long grass with a heavy
clump of dirt still attached at its roots. He t9ssed it up into
the air. The vortex of wind seized it and swept it away
before it even completed its arc. "I might be able to hold her
off, but not for long and certainly not long enough for you
to get all of the way out of the woods. The Madonna is
strong. The best thing to do-"
The wind stopped, leaving behind an overpowering
silence and the oppressive stillness that was starting to
become too familiar. McCain twisted around. to peer over
the gravestone. Harsh blue light still radiated from over
the lagoon, so bright it hurt to look directly at it. The
Madonna was fully formed and drifting across the surface
of tlie water, heading stralght toward them. Her hair was
whipping and streaming as though the wind still blew. Her
arms and legs were monstrously long and thin, and her fin·
gers seemed like talons. Her dress hung in tatters. New

252
 If w his p e r s ca I I

mist was forming, too, a wispy tide sweeping across the

ground. It wasn't white anymore, though, but an angry
storm grey. .
McCain dropped back down. "Trouble has come looking
for us," he reported. "Ned, how about that best thing to do?"
The big man reached into his coat pocket and produced
a very1ong, rusted nail. "We have to pin her. Or rather Will
has to pin her. If the Steiner blood can make ghosts in this
place, it can trap them."
He put the nail in· Will's hand. Will just stared at it.
· "What am I supposed to �o with this?" he asked Ned.
"Drive it through her and into the ground. Or througl).
her shadow, though the other way is more effective. It's an
old Roman trick for dealing with ghosts."
Will looked at the nail dubiously. "It'll stop her?"
"For now."
"For now?" barked Jeane. "What do you mean, 'For now?' "
"I mean for now! It's a temporary solution. If someone
pulls out the nail, she's free.". Ned looked to Will. "It's
going to buy us the time we need to get away. But until
that ghost is laid, she's going to keep coming after you. If
she could reach you in Chicago, there's no place she
won't find you given time. Your heritage gives her a con·
nection."
"What about an . . . an exorcist?" Will asked. "Are they
real?"
"Real but rare and not always effective. The ghost's con­
nection to you might be too strong. If the Steiner blood is
what she needs to put her at rest, she's always going to
·. come after it." Ned risked a peek over the top of the stone.
·"Make your decision fast, Will."
McCain saw Will's eyes flick from the nail to his daugh­
ter, still strangely silent, and back again. A deep love
blazed suddenly in those eyes, and McCain felt a knot twist
his guts.

253
 �OR U I I I 19th W l l te

No, he thought.
"I've decided," Will said quietly.
He dropped the nail and grabbed Johanna away from
Ngan, leaping to his feet to hold her high. He shouted some­
thing McCain couldn't understand and stepped swiftly away
from them all.
"Will!" yelled Jeane. "What are you doing?"
She: reached out after him, trying to stop him. McCain
stopped her instead, holding up his hand to stop Ned· and
Van as well. Jeane was still struggling.
"Let me go!" she raged.
"Will's up to something," McCain said urgently.
He pushed Jeane away. How could Will have looked at
his daughter wih
t such love then just give her up? He turned
to watch Will-and caught Ngan's eye as he did. The old
man, he realized, had been the only one who hadn't moved.
Ngan nodded to him and McCain knew he hadn't been the
only one to see Will's eyes.
Will was walking purposefully toward the Madonna­
and she retreated before him, moving back to the lagoon.
About twenty feet away from the edge of the water, he
stopped. For the first time, the baby he held was starting to
squirm, and Will was forced to lower his arms and cradle
her against his chest. He looked down at her once, then
glared up at the Madonna and began to chant.
The language he spoke was resonant and deep, and it
rolled flawlessly from his tongue. � few words sounded
halfway familiar.
"It's German," supplied Van. "I've been taking it in
school." .
"Can you catch any of it?" McCaiii asked.
Van concentrated. "Some of it. It's a weird accent." He
ran a tongue around his lips as he listened. "He's repeating
himself. Something about the blood of tjle stone calls �e
dead from the earth. Come up out of your . . . sometlµng.

i54
 If w his p e r s ca II

Graves?" He went pale. "It's the Madonna's magic. He's per-

·
forming the rite."
"Keep translating," McCain ordered.
Something was happening· down by the lagoon. The
water was stirring, and another figure was forming. Unlike
the Madonna, this one emerged into the world gently. A
warm flicker lifted from the surface of the water, slowly fill-
ing out as Will chanted. .
Van's translation played counterpoint to the chant. The
blood of the stone calls the dead from the earth. Rise out of
your graves. Smell the wind, drink the water, feel the
warmth of fire. You should walk on the earth, not dwell
within it. You know it should be that way. From the earliest
days, the dead of the earth have come to the call of the
stone. Come back to the earth and take up your life again.
I prepare the way, I open the door, I am the price that bal­
ance demands. The blood of the stone calls the dead from
the earth. Rise out . . .
Ned stared at Will with awe and said, "He's naming him­
self, not the baby."
Jeane looked at him, puzzled, and Ned shook his head
without looking away from Will.
"Listen to those words," Ned told her. "This is an old,
old magic, but that key phrase about the way, the door, and
the price, that's common in many forms of magic. Magic,
even whitest magic, always demands a sacrifice or a holy
vow of some kind. But usually the phrase would be more
like 'I prepare the way, I open the d_oor . . . • "

" 'I pay the price,' " Ngan supplied. He was watching
Will as well. "Balance demands a· death for life reborn and
Will's blood has the same power as Johanna's."
"So Will . . ." Jeane's eyes went wide.
"Maybe not," said McCain. "Look."
WJ.ll was slowly stepping back away from the lagoon.
The figure over the lagoon was fully formed now, a man

i55
 d on bas s I nut h w a I te

wrapped in the windings of a shroud. The Madonna

smiled happily and began to walk toward .liim. Her harsh
blue light dimmed as she walked, and her figure began to
shed its angry shape. Her dress rewove itself. .H.er limbs
took on natural proportions. For the first time since
they'd seen her, her hair fell and did not move of its own
accord. Will glanced over his shoulder and gestured them
forward.
McCain stepped out from behind the gravestone with­
out hesitation and. sprinted over to where Will stood. He
sucked in his breath as he approached. Will was pale and
trembling. Dark-bruised circles had formed under his eyes.
His shoulders were slumped, and the struggling weight of
the newborn child he cradled bent him like a bow. He IJ,eld
her out to McCain and sighed gratefully when McCain
t9ok her.
"Is it safe to go?" McCain asked him in a whisper.
Will nodded. He put his hand on McCain's shoulder and
they turne� away from the lagoon. The others still waited
behind the gravestones, watching them with urgent eyes.
McCain took a careful step, slow so that Will could keep up
with him.
It wasn't slow enough. Will stumbled. Swiftly, McCain
shifted the squirming baby to one arm and .grabbed Wtll
with the other, steadying him. It kept him from going down,
but the jarring near-fall sent Will's teeth clacking together.
The chant faltered. For a heartbeat, silence fell again in the
cemetery.
The Madonna shrieked. It was a real sound this time,
and if her silent cries were bad, this was even worse. It was
high and thin, as if someone in the distance had cut glass
and was grinding the fresh edges together, trying to rejoin
them. .
McCain cringed. Will choked and doubled over, and th�
baby began to wail in terror. The b�ue light fl.ired in time

f58
 If w hll p e r I ca II

with the Madonna's shriek, and the mist sfured and began
to rise. Mccain· shot a fast glance back to the lagoon. The
shrouded figure of the Madonna's husband was drifting
apart.
"Will," McCain shouted. "Chant!"
"Leave me . . :"

"No," McCain said; trying to drag Will to his feet, but

Will managed to slip out of his grasp, sliding down to find
a seat on a fallen gravestone.
"I'll be fine. Get Johanna out. I'll be right behind you."
He looked up. "For the love of God, would you just do it?"
The Madonna let out another horrid keen. Will gasped
again, then took up the chant once more without waiting for
an answer. His voice was forceful and strong, and he gave
McCain a hard, hard look.
. There was nothing left to do. McCain took Will's hand
and gave it one last squeeze, then he turned his back.
"Go!� McCain screamed at the others. "Go!"
Van didn't need any encouragement. He was off like_ a
racehorse. Ned and Jeane hesitated only a moment, then
followed. Ngan stayed the longest, but after a moment he
turned and rilll as well. .
McCain followed them all, moving as fast he dared
through knee-high mist, hugging Johanna close to his body.
Behind him, the Madonna was still crying, and Will was try­
ing to shout her down with the chant. Was it working? He
didn't dare look. He picked up his pace, running faster and
faster. The. cemetery gates drew closer.
· Will's chanting was right beside him then, and an arm
reached out urgently, signaling for him to slow down.
McCain caught sight of Will's face. The other man's eyes
were desperate. He pointed down at the ground ahead..
Laurel had been running for the gates when she fell.
McCain stopped and reached out with his foot. He �arely
had to extend his leg at all before his toes connected solidly

i57
 don ba a a l ngth wal te

with a big chunk..of rock. He swallowed hard and nodded to

'
Will. .
. · Together, they walk�d cautiously 'out of the cemetery,
Will -chanting the whole way. The others were _waiting just .
beyond·the gates. Will led McCain past them and back down
the path. Some of the Madonna's radiance seemed to cling.
·�.him. pulsing as his voice rose and feli' in the chant, and
he moved easily through the darkness. All McCain had to
do was follow him. McCain was aware of the others follow­
ing_them now, but he didn't want to take the chance that he
might trip. on some unseen obstacle if he looked back. He
kept his eyes on Will and the ground until Will paused after
a few minutes and fell quiet.
S�ence surrounded them. Not the unnatural silence of
the Madonna but the entirely normal silence of the .woods
at night.
No, he i:ealized, of the woods in the grey of pre-dawn.
The sun would rise soon. McCain turned back to look at the
cemetery-and found the others staring at him.
"What?" he asked.
"Why'd you stop now?" asked Jeane.
"Because Will stopped."
He turn�d aroun.d again, but Will had moved on, leaving
the path and cutting through the trees toward an old farm­
house. .Ligh� spilled through an open door and across the
porch._Will start�d to climb the steps. McCain moved to fol­
low him, but Ngan put a hand on his shoulder. McCain
glanced back. Ngan's face was serious. McCain looked after
Will again. The house was gone. Will was gone.
"But . . ." McCain started.
Ngan looked at Ned, and the psychic's face grew distant for
a moment. "What I felt from the Madonna is gone completely,
but I can feel something new. That way." His hand came up,
pointing into the trees in the direction where the f¥Jllhouse
had been. "It's weak. Fading." He blinked. "It's gone."

758
 If w. his p e r s ca II

McCain looked at 14em all. "Will never left.the cemetery,·

did he?"
Ngan shook ·his head.
Steiner blood had laid the Madonna to rest.

259
 . ""
... I .'B, e sun was peering over the horizon when Ned
and Ngan stepped out of the woods and climbed
up onto the Midlothian turnpike a little distance
west of Bachelor's Grove. McCain and Jeane were
both there waiting for them, Jeane with McCain's car
pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway,
McCain with Ned's. Jeane had been verj particular
about that as they made their final plans in the after­
math of the night. She refused to climb into Ned's ·
car. That had led to the inevitable round of insults
between them until Ngan had put his foot down
firmly. They had decisions to make, and they would
make them. Unfortunately, of course, that had
prompted a sour look from McCain. Ngan had stu­
diously ignored it. There would be time for that later.
Ned was the first one up the bank. He glanced
over his car, then nodded apprcvingly to McCain and
said, "You know, from what Ngan told me about

Hl
 ',••

• an u 1 1 l 1gtll w a l te

Jeane's driving, you should be lucky your car is still in one

piece."
"From what I've seen of the rust on your car," Jeane shot
back at Ned, "you should be lucky it's still in one piece."
He winked at her, climbed into his car, and drove off.
Jeane glared after him. McCain let out a little chuckle,
and Jeane punched him in the shoulder hard enough to
make him stagger. She stalked around the car and got into
the passenger side. McCain slid behind the wheel, and Ngan
got into the back seat.
"The police came right on time," Ngan reported. "I imag­
ine the heavier one was your friend Jessop. n

"Probably." McCain started the car and pulled out onto

the road. "You got away without them seeing you?"
Ngan nodded.
"You might want to look out the window then," McCain
said. "Bachelor's Grove is coming up just over there."
· Ngan turned and peered through the glass. Beyond the
thin' screen of trees and across the still waters of the
lagoon, three men in blue uniforms stood over a body
sprawled on the ground, the mortal remains of Will Tavish.
There had been a fourth police officer, but before Ned
and Ngan had left their hiding place near the cemetery, they
had made sure she'd picked up the baby left just outside the
cemetery gates. She took the child back down the path to
meet the ambulance that would be arriving shortly.
Watching over Johanna Tavish had been their part in the
careful cover-up of what had taken place in Bachelor's
Grove. The circumstances ofJohanna's abduction. and Will's
death had to look as natural as possible-with no hint, of
course, that the Hoffmann Institute had ever been involved
·

at all.
After some discussion, Ngan and Ned had taken Johanna
back to the cemetery. Or at least as far as the gates. While
Ned insisted that the Madonna had truly been faid to rest,

ni
Ngan didn't want the baby going back into Bachelor's Grove
just in case. Outside the gates, they had kept her warm and
safe until the police arrived to find her.
Meanwhile, McCain had called Shani Doyle with
instructions that she was to wait ten minutes, then
approach the pol,ice at the hospital and mention that Will
had developed an obsession with the cemetery where his
wife had been injured. Ngan had been confident that the
poli�e would. snap at that well-baited hook. They hadn't dis­
appointed him. Call made, McCain had driven Ned'.s car to
the rendezvous.at the side of the turnpike.
Jeane's role, before going to the rendezvous as well, had
been to spirit Van and his bike home before his absence
there was discovered. Van had been flushed with excite­
ment after his adventure. Unfortunately, Jeane also had to
swear him to strict secrecy. Ngan knew that would be hard
.
for a young man who had experienced the most fantastic
event of his short life, but he also had a sense that Van
would stick to it. Jeane had described him once as percep­
tive, and Ngan guessed that Van would quickly grasp the
importance of keeping the Institute's work a secret.
"Van did make it home safely?" Ngan asked Jeane.
"I saw him walk into his house without setting off any
explosions. Whether his mother was waiting for him or not,
I don't know. Everything looked quiet, though. There were
no lights on." She twisted aro.und to look at him. "I think
Van might make the Institute a good agent some day."
Ngan nodded. "As do I. As does Ned. While we were wait­
ing with Johanna, he told me he had sensed something spe­
cial about Van, that he might have the potential to develop
psionic skills-that's why he thought there was a chance
Van's amateur seance might have aroused the Madonna."
"Wow." Jeane turned around again, but then t_wisted
back. "You know, Van would like to go to college bµt he
can't afford it. Do you think the Institute could . . . ?"

283
 ',•

d on ba a a I na t h w a I te

"A scholarship?" Ngan smiled. "I will see what I can do."
"Shani had news, too," McCain said. He met Ngan's eyes
in the rearview mirror. "Laurel woke up last night."
"When?"
"Sometime while we were fighting the Madonna. If Will
was right and the Madonna was responsible for her being in
a coma, maybe the fight with us took so much of her atten­
tion there was nothing left for Laurel. Shani says she looks
to be in pretty good shape considering she's been in a coma
for three weeks." He hesitated, then added. "Laurel wants
to see Will and the baby. They haven't told her exactly what
happened yet."
Jeane's face twisted. "That's not going to be easy."
"No, it won't." Ngan shook bis head slowly and folded
his hands in his lap. "Especially because we can't tell her
the truth. What happened here must be concealed. We will
be the only ones who know the truth of Will's sacrifice. The
rest of the world must see only the death of a madman who
kidnapped his own daughter."
McCain made a .face as well. "So everyone is going to
think Will was a psycho? Can't we at least tell Laurel?"
"No," Ngan said flatly, not at all happy. "The Institute
will keep an eye on Johanna as she grows up and perhaps
investigate the Steiner line, but that's all. "
"That sucks," McCain commented. His eyes in the
rearview mirror were challenging.
Ngan sighed. It was time to bring this problem to a res- .·

olution as well. "You have a problem with my leadership of

this team, Michael."
Jeane groaned with frustration, but Ngan put a hand on
her shoulder. He leaned forward so that he was inside
McCain's field of vision.
"Don't you?" Ngan pressed.
"I ·thought it was pretty clear," McCain spat back .
harshly. "I do."

!84
 If w his p e r s ca 11

"So do I.. " Ngan sat back. "That's why I resigned my pro·
motion yest�rday."
McCain twisted his head around so sharply that Ngan
wondered if he. might have done himself an injury. "You
what?"
"I resigned my promotion, and Field Director Adler
accepted. As of yesterday afternoon, I returlled to the rank
of agent, with only the additional responsibility of acting as
the team's. liaison with our superiors in the Institute." He
smiled. "I think tonight proved that we work far better as
equals than as leader and subordinates."
·

McCain looked doubtful. "You still found ti.me to issue a

few orders tonight"
"Which, I noticed, you obeyed without question."
McCain opened his mouth, but Jeane jabbed an elbow
into his side before he could say anything. "You might not
have management experience, Ngan," Jeane .said, "but
you've got field experience."
"And it's good to be back in the field," Ngan commented.
"Office work does not agree with me."
He knew it was the truth. He had felt more relaxed the
moment he left Lily's office yesterday, had felt his old habits
and rhythms returning through the night.
"Speaking of office work," McCain said, "I don't suppose
this means you'll be giving up your luxury, agent-in-charge
·

office?"
"In fact, that office was one of the things I hated most
about the promotion. It was too big. I am giving it up-in a
way." Ngan sat forward again, looking at both Jeane and
McCain. �I think it would be good for the 'team to share an
office. Don't you?"

(eN_d o� 2}

285
 DAR··•
.
. · nR
I '.
• I .
•
r

'
' .
I � TM

a· n e x c e r pt
.F: enton was what Jeane liked to think.of as � Post
Industrial Gentleman. He was courteous and
polite, refined .in a gruff, American way. He
moved quickly, but in a determined. fashion. He was
comfortable in his own home, but barely. He moved
from room to room like a teenager moved through a
mall-knoy;i.ng full well where everything was, but
aware that it was all put there by someone else.
His decorator might have used the term I'ost
Industrial Gentleman as well. The place was too full
of furniture that was too heavy for Jeane's more con­
temporary tastes. The furniture was all wood, var­
nished to a high gloss. Some of the pieces looked
ike
l antiques, but were more likefy .new pieces
designed to look like antiques.
The apartment was clean-professionally clean­
and there was none of the mundane evidence of �e
place being really lived n
i . There was no clutter.

1
 . ..

g .w. ti r p a

There were no magazines or mail laying around. There were

no television remotes balanced on the arms of chairs, no half.
finished projects or empty glasses. When Jeane followed him
into the surprisingly enormous living room, she saw that
their shoes made footprints in the bone-white carpet as if it
had been vacuumed every time someone walked across it.
There was no TV or stereo in the living room, no com·
puter or any other sign of technology. There was a cabinet
that might have been made two hundred years ago in Vrr·
ginia but was more likely orily ·a couple ·years old. Jeane
guessed the TV was hidden in there. The penthouse was big
enough that Fenton likely h{ld an office there, so that's
where the computer would be, a fax machine maybe, cer·
tainly a telephone.
One wall was dominated by French windows and double
French doors that opened onto a narrow terrace. Beyond
was the darkness of Lake Michigan at night. .
Jeane kept her hand on the little purse and managed to
remember to walk in what she hoped was an alluring fash·
ion. The rug was thick, though, and the heels made her
footing treacherous at best. She compensated by standing
in one place.
Fenton stopped, realizing she wasn't following anymore.
"We'll need to get some business out of the way, then," he
said with a smirk.
It took Jeane a second to process what he was talking
about, then she smiled and said, "That's okay. You have an
account at the service and they told me you understood the,
uh . pay structure.
. . n

Fenton laughed. He had a pleasant laugh. He came

closer to her, and she fought back the impulse to shrink
away. He was handsome and obviously successful, smart
and educated, but Jeane couldn't imagine having to sleep
with the man. She knew too much about him already, and .
the sight of him le(t a bad taste in her mouth.

!
 In f lul d s I I e n ce

"Then we should start with a drink," he said.

He looked at her, waiting for her to say.something. She
could smell alcohol-not a lot, but it was there-on his
breath. He hadn't had enough to dull his eyes or his senses.
Maybe just one or two after a long day at work.
"Wme?" she said quickly, knowing she could fake her
way through a glass of wine without getting drunk.
Fenton smiled and turned, crossing the room casually­
he ·was at home after all-to a i;mall bar set with sparkling
clean glasses and an array of crystal decanters. "Red or
white?" he asked along the way.
"white," she said, though she preferred red.
For some reason she felt that if she'd asked for red it
would have revealed too much of herself to him . She was in
character; and her character drank white.
She scanned the living room, taking in details quickly:
the three other exits, the white furniture, all leather, the
coffee table with nothing on it, and the wall of bookshelves
full of books both old and new.
"I have a reasonable Chardonnay," he said, and she
noticed just the trace of an accent that might have been New
York or Philadelphia, but a long time ago. "If that's all right."
"That's fine," she said, still not moving. "Thank you."
Fenton walked behind the little bar and bent to retrieve
the bottle. He placed it gingerly on the top of the bar and
reached down again. He was looking somewhere under the
bar when he said, "It's not chilled, Tm afraid."
Jeane shrugged, not realizing that he couldn't see the
gesture. He looked up, and she had to shrug again. She
smiled and knew it looked sincere because in a way it was.
She couldn'.t help being amused that he seemed genuinely
worried that a hooker enjoy her wine.
He returned her smile and said, amiably enough, "You
can come in. I don't bite. I'm sure they told you about me at
the service."

3
 1 .w. · u r , 1

They had. They'd told her that bis tastes tended toward
the mundane. He insisted on white women with certain fea·
tures. He liked large-breasted women with athletic bodies.
He liked certain facial features, blue eyes mostly but he
was flexible on that. None of the girls who'd gone with him
reported anything violent or kinky. It was all very ordinary.
Jeane nodded and said, "The girls all said you were a
gentleman."
This made him smile. He found what he was looking for
under the bar-a corkscrew-and started to peel the lead
off the bottle of wine. "The girls," he said quietly.
He started to uncork the wine, and Jeane ventured a few
steps into the room. She stopped next to a long white
leather sofa.
Fenton nodded at the sofa and said, "Sit, please."
She sat, crossing her legs and making a point of not
smoothing down her skirt. She figured she should show him
some thigh to keep the illusion intact.
The cork came out of the wine bottle, and Fenton poured
three fingers into a gleaming crystal glass.
"You look like someone," he said, putting down the bot­
tle of wine and taking up a cocktail glass. He opened a
leather-covered ice bucket and broke up some ice with pol­
ished silver tongs. "Marilyn Monroe, I think."
Jeane smiled. She'd heard that before but had always
ignored it. Most of the men who'd said that had been the
type who talked to her breasts, not her face. She assumed,
and still did, that the comparison stopped there.
Fenton poured a good three shots of a caramel-colored
liquor into the glass, then dropped a few ice cubes into it. A
few seconds later, Jeane could smell the whiskey in the air.
He put one hand on the bar and leaned on it heavily. He took
up his drink in his other hand and took a long sip, looking
at herwith eyes thatwere coldly appraising. Jeane had seeµ
men look at cars that way.

'
 In f lul d a I I e n ce

"You've never had anyone notice the resemblance?" he

asked.
She shrugged. "Men see what they want to see," she
said, trying to make it sound chatty and suaceeding well
enough. "I've been told I look like Cheryl Ladd."
Fenton's brow wrinkled and he said, "No, no, definitely .
Marilyn.".
He set his drink down and came out from behind the bar,
going to the bookcases. He wen.t right for the book he was
looking for and pulled off a tan, oversized hardcover. From
where she was sitting she couldn't see what was written on
the spine.
Fenton flipped through the book, looking for something
in it, as he came across the room to her. He sat down in a
chair across from her, and Jeane suppressed a sigh of relief
that he hadn't sat next to her. He found the page he was
looking for and nodded. He set the book down on the pol­
ished coffee table and turned it around so she could see the
photograph there.
On the left-hand page were two columns of text. On the
right-hand page was a full color photograph of Marilyn
Monroe. Jeane had never seen this picture. She wasn't too
interested in movie stars.
· "Her hair is different, of course," Fenton said, "but
there's· a-Jesus, I forgot your wine." He stood up and went
quickly to the bar as Jeane looked at the photograph.
Marilyn Monroe was standing on a beach, wrapped in a
green towel. She might have been naked underneath. She
was holding the towel closed with her left hand and holding ·
a glass. of wine-white wine-to her lips with her right hand.
She was smiling, and Jeane had to admit her own smile was
similar. She had the · same inward slope to her teeth she
always thought she should have had fixed as a kid. Marilyn's
nose was pointed in a way similar to Jeane's as well. It was
obviously windy the day the photograph was taken, and

5
 U .w. ti r p a

Marilyn's bleached blonde hair was gisheveled and dirty. Her

skin, like Jeane's, was freckled, but not too badly.
"I saw a movie," Fenton said, placing the wineglass on
the table next to the book, "where.there's a group of i;:all
girls who've all had plastic surgezy to make them look lj.ke
movie star�."
Jeane flushed, and didn't want to look up at him. She
looked back at the photograph in the book and noticed the
simple caption: just the year, 1962.
"Don't get me wrong,.of course," Fenton said. "I'm sure
that's not the case-you don't look that much like her, but
. . . anyway, I meant it as a compliment.".
"You don't have to-"
"I know," he said, cutting her off. .
She looked up at him , and he took another long sip,
pursing his lips. The look in his eyes changed, and Jeane all
of a sudden really felt like a whore.
He smiled, and Jeane couldn't help thinking he knew
he'd demeaned her in a vezy real, though vezy subtle, way,
and he was enjoying it.
"Have you been doing this for a long time?" he asked.
"You aren't young-don't get me wrong, you're lovely, and I
enjoy mature, sophisticated, experienced women, but . . ."
"Six years," she said, making this part up as she went
along, "give or take. I was a-" she almost said cop "-hair·
dresser for a while, but I got a divorce. He got evezything,
and there wasn't much, so after a while I got sick of living
paycheck to paycheck,"
Fenton nodded, obviously only pretending to under­
stand, and drank some more.
"What about you?" she asked, leaning back, letting her
dress ride another half an inch up her thigh. "What do you
do?"
·"That makeup you're wearing," he said. "What is it?"
Jeane knew to say, "Natura."

B
 In f lul d 1 1 I e n ce

Fenton nodded and said, "I'm the chief operating officer

of Natura Industries."
Jeane feigned being impressed. "That seems like kind of
an oxymoron," she said.
Fenton's brow wrinkled again, and he was just about to
say something when he swallowed the rest of the whiskey
in one gulp.
Jeane felt uncomfortable in the silence. She knew she
had to keep hiin talking. "I mean," she said, "Natura makes
you think 'natural/ but 'industries,' well . . ."
He smiled and nodded. "You won't want to know what
that really is that you're putting on your face," he told her
with a wink.
He put his empty glass on the coffee table, and she
reached for it, brushing the rough skin of his fingers with
hers. She picked up the glass and stood. Her dress clung to
her legs a little, and again she made no move to fix it.
"Can I get you another one?" she asked, letting her eyes
settle on his.
"Thank you," he said.
She went to the bar walking carefully on her till heels.
She knew he was watching her walk. She pulled the stop­
per from the decanter of whiskey and poured a little more
than he had poured for himself over the melting ice.
"Six years," he said. "That must be a lot of men."
She didn't turn around. Jeane put the stopper back in the
whiskey decanter and took the top off the ice bucket.
"If Y<?U don't want to talk about it . . . " he said. "The
other girls probably told you I would bring it up. I like to
hear about . . . it's part of . . . what I want."
She dropped two ice cubes into the nearly full glass of
whiskey and turned, a smile fixed on her face.
"It's okay," she said softly, not moving.
"You've been with all sorts of men," he said, looking at
· her body. "Men like me?"

1
 g .w. ·ti r p a

"Sometlµies."
"Rich men?"
"Sometimes."
"You don't know, though," he said, finally looking at her
face, "before yoi.; get to their houses or hotel rooms; what
they look like?"
She crossed to the chair and held the drink out to him.
He didn't take it at fust. .
"Lean over and hand it to me," he Said, his voice sud·
·

denly husky and threatening. .

. Jeane was sure she was smiling as she leaned forward
at the waist. She handed the glass to Fenton and he took a
long, unashamed look down the neck of her dress at her
black lace bra. "No," she said, "lt's not up to me."
. He looked at her eyes and sh� stood up. "You've had sex
with niggers," he said.
Jeane had expected to hear something like that. Both
Ngan and the woman at the service had prepared her for it,
but still she could feel her face turn red.
"Not if I can help it," she said, knowing it was what he'd
want to hear.
.
�-·"F:·�f��-;;·;��J$-IT.:---���,;-;:::;"':;:;::::�..
.

Michael McCain awoke with something lic�g .his face.

The name Sparky leaped to his dilll, half·asleep mind.
That was his dog's name, wasn't it? But Sparky died fifteen
years ago.
McCain opened his eyes, and bright light seared them,
so he clamped them shut. The dog stopped lickii)g him for
a moment, startled probably, then started up again. He was
licking McCain's bare chest now, moving down toward his ·
stomach. He could feel a thick, warm, viscous liquid cover·
ing most of his body.
He tried to push the dog away but couldn't lift his arm. ·

8
 In f lul d s I I e n ce

He'd never felt so tired. His head spun, but was starting to
clear at the same time. He opened his eyes again and the
light wasn't so bad now, he'd just been in complete dark­
ness for a long time.
Walls came info focus, sheet metal over thick wooden
ctoss beams. The sheet metal was fairly new, and the
treated wood still had a greenish cast to it. He looked down
at the dog and his body convulsed all at once-not from any
physical cause but from the shock of what he saw.
It wasn't a dog. ·
.
He was being licked by what looked at first like a little
child, but within the first second or so McCain could see that
this was no child. It was barely human, if it was human at all.
It looked like a little man, old, wrinkled, skin turning
brown streaked with grey. A wide flat nose dominated its
face, and its cheek� were pinched and drawn back. Its wide
eyes were closed. 'It had no hair.
Its tongue was· as wide and as long as a big dog's and it
was busily licking a thick, honeylike liquid off of McCain's
quivering, naked body. When McCain flinched away, the
thing looked up and opened its eyes, revealing black pits
that seemed to absorb light. McCain opened his mouth t9
scream, but no sound came out.
The thing reacted to the non-scream by fluffing wings
McCain had mistaken for a grey leather coat. The wings
were like the wings of a bat.
McCain brought one hand up, his arm responding now,
if weakly, and .the little man scurried backward. It bumped
into a steel barrel and tipped it over. A loud clang echoed in
the big, mostly empty space, loud enough that the little man
covered its ears with hands that were tipped by brown,
prunelike fingers. The golden liquid dripped from its
twisted, bloated lower lip.
"Is this . . ." McCain managed to almost bark, " . . . hell?
Am I in hell?"

9
 ·
I w . . tl. r ' a

The little man, who must have been no more than a foot
and a half tall, folded its wings and said, "Ich ausfiihren nicht
verstehen Sie."
McCain knew what he said, not realizing that he. wasn't
supposed to be able to understand German. He never stud­
ied the language in school, never spent any time in Ger­
many, or around Germans. But the little ma:n had said: I
·

don't understand you.

McCain wanted to know where he was, so he said, "Wo
bin ich?" though he still didn't remember ever learning to
speak Ge.rman.
The little man tipped his head at McCain, as if the que�:
tion made no sense. McCain went over the words in his
head and was sure he'd said it right.
·· He propped himself up on one hand and felt rough con­
. crete under him. He was suddenly cold and drew his arms
and legs into him. The strange liquid spread over him like
thick oil.
"Who are you?" McCain asked the little man. "Wer bst i
Sie?" .
"Nichts, " the little man said, his voice surprising
ly deep.
"Nothing?" McCain asked. "Sie haben null angeb racht?
You have no name?"
The little man took one small step closer to McCain,
who shied away, scraping his rear on the concrete before he
came to rest against a low stone wall behind him. The stone
was as rough as the cement floor. McCain's body started to
.
tremble, shivering violently.
"Ich heij,e Nichts, " the little man said.
"Your name . . ." McCain translated through chattering
teeth, "is Nichts."
The little man smiled, and McCain screamed, then
screamed again, only this time louder.

10
 I �
TM

(Four)

Of Aged Angels
Monte Cook

"They've been here for fifty some years, but they were
here before, too. Long ago, down the bottomless th!oat of
time, they came to the world, and they walked as gods
through the forests. The people of that time had no name
for these ancient angels, but they saw their effects. The
caress of these godS" put ripples in the world like a child's
light touch on the surface of a pool."
For a moment-just for a moment-McCain was caught
up in his poetry. For that moment, he believed that this
really was Jim Morrison.
"But then they left, for there was war in heaven," Mor­
rison said, looking at the ceiling. "Dark were the skies,
. heavy with the conflict of birds as seen by a snake. When
they fled back through the doors, they left behind some- .
thing cherished among them-and among us since then, at
least those few who knew that it truly existed."
"What was it?" McCain asked, his voice barely a whis­
per amid the darkness and stone.
Without a pause, Morrison told him, "The Holy Grail."

July 2001

©2000 Wizards of the Coast, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

 TM

{Five]

By Oust Consumed
Don Bassingthwaite

Ned looked over at Jeane and asked, "Are you sure·

you're ready for this?"
She snorted. "I was trained as an ATF investigator. I
have been shot at, burned, dropped, beaten, and damn near
bloWn up several times. I have been to crime scenes that
would make most people vomit. I have seen . .
·things
. . . .
that woiild make you wet yourself, Ned." She took a deep
breath and produced the key that Hollister had left for her.
"No, I'm not ready."
The safe deposit box was larger than she had expected.
The top clicked open when she turned the key in the lock.
She took another deep breath before lifting it any further.
Inside, two envelopes rested atop a plain beige ·file folder. A
yellowed newspaper clippmg had slipped partway out of the
folder, exposing the date: August 6, 1962. Just slightly less
than a month before her birth, the trained investigator in
her noted. The rest of her, though, was focused on the
smaller of the two envelopes and the words that were writ­
ten on it in a light, open hand forty years ago:
ForJeane.
December 2001

�2000 Wizards of the Coast, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

 r·k e PkoetJr�
rte.I'�"" P. !1tlllvan
The five Elemental Masters-
. the greatest magic-wielders of

Rokugan-seek.to turn back the

demons of the Shadowlands.

To do so, they must harness the

><>
.�
..
power of the Black Scrolls, and
.
perhaps become demons
·�
�- .
2001
themselves.
March

Tko Praaon
flu foG/�U
The most mysterious of all the clans of
Rokugan, the Dragon had long stayed
elusive in their mountain stronghold.
When at last they emerge into the Clan
War, they unleash a power that could
well save the empire . . . or doom it.

September 2001

Tko lton
!tel'�"" P. l'1tlflvan
For a thousand years, the Crab have Since the Scorpion Coup, the Clans of

guarded the Emerald Empire against Rokugan have made war upon each

demon hordes-but when the other. Now, in the face of Fu Leng

the Seven Thunders must band

greatest threat comes from within, the and his el)dless armies of demons,

Crab must ally with their fiendish foes

and march to take the together to battle their immortal

2001 November 2001

capital city. foe...or diel
June

LEGENO of the FIVE RINGS is a r119lstered ttademar!t owned by Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
C2001 Wizards of Iha Coast, Inc.
 COLLECT·THE ADVENTUREs OF
DRizzT· no'URDEN As WRITTEN BY
BEST-SELLING AUTHOR

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.
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evil city of Menzobarranzan
in the best-selling novels Homeland,
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Exil

JN PAPERBACK!

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02001 W1Zards of the Coast, Inc.
 About the Author

Born and raised in Meaford, Ontario, Don

Bassingthwaite now lives and works in Toronto,.
Degrees in anthropology and museum ·studies
didn't prepare him for a career in publishing, but
they are an excellent background for writing
speculative fiction. Don is a contributor to the
award-winning Bending the Landscape anthologies
and the author of the dark fantasy novels Such
Pain, Breathe Deeply, and Pomegranates Full and
Fine. He shares a home with his partner, two
cats, a wide assortment of books and games, and
a ridiculously well-stocked spice cupboard.

DARK•MArrER is a tr.1dernark owned by Wizards of the Coast, Inc.

The Wizards of the Coast logo is a registered rrademark
owned by Wizards of the Coast, Inc.