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Dark Matter Book 02 - If Whispers Call - Don Bassingthwaite (2000)
Dark Matter Book 02 - If Whispers Call - Don Bassingthwaite (2000)
Cloaked in history.
AD�llRlI1 AMD
.DHllft"llR I 11r.n.
If Whispers can
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.
fictional nature of this work, and are used fictitiously without any intent to descn'be their
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
reproduction or unauthorized use ofthe material or artwork contained herein is prohibited
·
without the express written penniss iori of WJZards of the Coast, Inc.
DARK MATTER is a trademark owned by Wizards of the Coast, Inc. The Wizards of the Coast
logo is a registered trademark owned by WIZards of the Coast, Inc.
All characters, cb.a.racter names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks owned
by Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
·The sale of this book without its cover has not been authorized by the publisher. If you
purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that neither the author nor the
publisher bas received payment for this "stripped book.•
9 8 7 6 543Z l
UK ISBN: 0·7869·2018·1
US ISBN: 0·7869-1679·6
620·TZ1679
"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
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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 .
·
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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
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"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
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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."
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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,
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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
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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
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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,
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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 ·
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keeping secrets from him, but many of the secrets were for
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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
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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
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:�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?"
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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 ·
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- .
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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
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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
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· 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
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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.
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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?"
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if w his p e r s ca II
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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
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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
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d·11 u 1 al lftll wa u e·
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-"
·
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Bf
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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
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- 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
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 . .
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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."
95
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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
·
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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
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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
108
" 'J
j t i/j
; l�
,. f,
I. :.I
.,
' ii-I I:
,
I ;.
'{I '
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?"
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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.
118
If • hla ' er I Cl II
and gently, opening it just until he could see into the room.
Shani peered in past him .
119
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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.
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d on ba a 11 ng t h w a I te
affairs.
"Will's not blaming himself for what happened," McCain
·
122
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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
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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- ·
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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.".
134
If w bis p e r 1 ca II
.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
·
"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."
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.
140
If w his p e r s ca II
141
.
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
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
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
.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
148
If w his J e r s ca II
148
d on ba s s I nut h w a I te
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
·
151
llan �1 1 11 ngtb w a l te
152
If w bis ' e r I ca 11
"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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If w his p e r s ca 11
155
d on -a s a.I ng t h w a I te
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
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·
158
If w his p e r s ca II
159
: ·
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d on u s s I na t h w a i te
182
If w hla p e r .a · c a I I
"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
.183
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
d on -a s 11 nut h w a I te
188
If w 1111 p e r s ca II
second?"
187
don ba a al ngth wal te
188·
if w his p e r s ca II
170
If w his p e r a ca II
111
d on u a 1 1 au t h w a I te
172
If W 1111 ' Ir I Cl I I
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."
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
178
If w hll p e r I c8 II
TT1
d on ba a 11 ngth w a l te
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
·
.17 9
d on ba s al ngth w a l te
180
If w his p er s ca I I
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. ·
183
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
If w bl1 , a r 1 ca ll
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
,
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
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
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
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
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198
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way Jeane Haven'andt otherareagents
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He looked around Lily's office. was as big as his was
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encenearly
and to it.
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Lily laughed.
until shemask. Ngan remembered that laugh
learned to suppress it, it always betrayed the aris· because
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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.
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200
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"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
·
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
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
". ·' i l .
.. Il al , l f l Cl II
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
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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- _
tlB
If w his p e r s ca II
no
d on ba a 11 ng t b wa I te
Ul
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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
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
·
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
. 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."
·
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
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.
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. 233
" . ..
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
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d on u 1 11 ng t h w a I te
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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.
. .
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
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 ·
241
d on -11 11 nut h w 1 1 te
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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
.
245
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U7
� .. u 1 11 11 n wa 1 t1
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
f50
If w his p er s ca 11 ·
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
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
" '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
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 . . :"
i57
don ba a a l ngth wal te
758
If w. his p e r s ca II
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
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- .·
!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."
·
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
!
In f lul d s I I e n ce
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
5
U .w. ti r p a
B
In f lul d 1 1 I e n ce
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·
·
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
·
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
{Five]
By Oust Consumed
Don Bassingthwaite
><>
.�
..
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
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
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R.A. SALVATORE
.
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