The Accused and the Damned
Author: Evan Ronan
Date: 2014-10-31 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Mystery Thriller; Mystery; Horror; Fantasy
Description: When the police arrest Anson Ketcher and charge him with murdering his wife, all he keeps saying is: "The ghost killed her." Nobody believes him. And nobody should, given Anson's violent past and rocky relationship with his dead wife. Everyone wants to see Anson convicted. Except Eddie McCloskey, paranormal investigator turned expert witness. Only Eddie can prove the man's innocence, but in doing so, can he find the real killer? The Accused and the Damned is the first of its kind, a paranormal legal thriller. It is approximately 80,000 words and is specifically formatted for Kindle, with an ac
Publisher: Calhoun Publishing

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Thriller writer Evan Ronan, author of The Unearthed, brings you the next edge-of-your-seat adventure in his paranormal series…

When the police arrest Anson Ketcher and charge him with murdering his wife, all he keeps saying is: "The ghost killed her."

Nobody believes him. And nobody should, given Anson's violent past and rocky relationship with his dead wife. Everyone wants to see Anson convicted.

Except Eddie McCloskey, paranormal investigator turned expert witness. Only Eddie can prove the man's innocence, but in doing so, can he find the real killer?

The Accused and the Damned is the first of its kind, a paranormal legal thriller. It is approximately 80,000 words and is specifically formatted for Kindle, with an active table of contents.

THE ACCUSED AND

THE DAMNED
by evan ronan

TABLE OF CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

“…that the soul acquires new characteristics and enhanced abilities after separation from the physical embodiment. But what if it did not? What if those abilities were always ingrained in the fundamental essence? Then logic dictates that we the living have the same abilities. And you can begin to see how reverse possession is not only possible, but likely.”

(QUESTION FROM AUDIENCE: Have you seen it happen?)

“I’ve done it myself.”

-Mirlind Krizi,
presenting at the EU Paranormal Society Symposium

Prague, Czech Republic in March, 1995

One

The woman looked like she was going to hit him.

Eddie’s clients, married couple last name of Chin, sat across from him in their cramped living room. The place smelled of fried food and incense. The Chins would have a tough time meeting the height requirements at Disney World.

But short as she was, Mrs. Chin cut an imposing figure. Upon hearing that all the paranormal activity in their home was most likely perpetrated by number one son, she shot off the sofa like a firecracker and thrust a finger in Eddie’s face.

“My boy no liar. My boy is good boy. He do well in school! He have girlfriend!”

Eddie put on his poker face.

“You call my boy liar! Why would he have beautiful girlfriend if he liar? You get out of here!”

Mr. Chin got off the couch and put his tiny hands on his wife’s tiny shoulders and spoke in a tiny voice full of the kind of patience and wisdom that comes from suffering, hard work and perseverance.

“Let me handle this. I will discuss with Mr. Closkey.”

They tried to get his name right but they kept leaving the Mick out of it. He didn’t take it too hard. Their English was infinitely better than his Cantonese.

Mrs. Chin cursed in her native tongue but her husband stared her down and she stormed out of the living room and proceeded to make loud noises in the kitchen about the no-good swindler Irishman who was probably a drunk sitting in her living room.

Mr. Chin started to apologize but Eddie cut him off.

“I know how hard this can be.”

The two men sat in relative calm for a moment, but then Mrs. Chin burst through the door. “Ask the guh-why-low about the feet! What about the feet in snow? You can’t unprove that!”

The woman held a frying pan. Deja vu. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had brained him with cookery if she hit him.

“Ma’am, your son said the footprints in the snow were at the end of November last year. I checked the weather reports. No snowfall was reported.”

She called Eddie a wangbadan. He figured it wasn’t a compliment.

Mr. Chin intervened again. “I will handle this.”

Tiger Mom looked ready to pounce but she retreated once more, loudly, into the kitchen. Several bangs and crashes followed like a poltergeist had set up shop.

Eddie smiled at the man. “I’m sorry, Mr. Chin.”

“Children’s job is to make their parents worry, right?”

Eddie’s parents had passed when he was only ten, but if they’d lived they would have done a lot of worrying over Eddie.

He took in the living room again. The TV had been state of the art, back when color was a luxury. Ratty old sofa that had been through at least two yard sales. Five children still in the house, three of them over seventeen. Two more adults in residence, one of them pushing ninety. And ninety was pushing back harder.

Mr. Chin looking older than his fifty years, which was saying something because he was Asian. Usually they aged better than tortoises. Eddie knew the man worked in a drycleaners that he didn’t own and drove a thirty-year-old American charity case he’d saved from the junkyard.

Mr. Chin was the proud sort, though. Already he was reaching for his wallet. “You said your fee was negotiable and there could be payment plan.”

Eddie could use the money. He could always use the money. The going rate for a paranormal job was better than minimum wage. But not much better. The bills were piling up. He’d have to take a part-time gig to make ends meet if this trend continued.

But he felt for these people. Maybe not Mrs. Chin so much, but he felt for dear old dad. They’d come over from the Motherland a few years back and they were hard-working and trying to chase down the American dream while supporting an extended family.

Before Eddie could say anything, Mrs. Chin’s voice boomed upstairs.

“We pay for school and you do bad and you liar about the ghosts! You no work and you no go to school and you spend all money on this stupid girl…” And then Mrs. Chin switched to Cantonese and Eddie knew the kid was really in for it.

Mr. Chin acted like he didn’t hear his wife’s tirade. His lips formed a thin polite smile.

Eddie could really use the money. And yet he found himself saying, “There is no fee, Mr. Chin.”

Already Mr. Chin was out of his seat. “Oh, no, no you must take something. You insult us—”

“You can pay me back by giving me a client testimonial for my website.”

“Yes, yes. I will do that! I will do that right away!” The grateful man shook Eddie’s hand and Eddie felt good but wondered if he’d been swindled.

The Chins’ son Eric came racing down the stairs, Tiger Mom in hot pursuit. She had a hair dryer in her hand and looked ready to bludgeon her son. Eric zipped past Eddie and burst out the front door. Mrs. Chin stuck her head out and yelled after him but if he had half a brain he wasn’t coming back till the Chinese New Year.

Mrs. Chin came back inside. “I’m sorry, Eddie. My boy is good boy. He just act up sometimes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem.”

Mrs. Chin approached him. “I get you drink? You like beer? You ‘Rish like beer, right? We have best Chinese beer, Tsingtao—”

“No, thanks,” Eddie said. “I’ll be leaving now.”

The Chins thanked him profusely, their gratitude genuine.

Eddie walked back to his car. It was a neighborhood of row homes in South Philly.

Small, concrete yards fronted small units. Cars double-parked on both sides of the street. A deli and catty-corner to it an Asian place offering Japanese and Chinese. Two pubs nearby. Everything you needed only two blocks away. He could smell the nail salons.

This area was changing from Italian to Asian. He could tell by the flags in the windows. The Itals proudly displayed il Tricolore. The Asians proudly displayed their American flags. They’d been here less time but their decorations were more patriotic.

Halfway down the block, he spotted Eric watching him from the doorway of another row home. The kid gave him the middle finger. Eddie was surprised—he thought that gesture had gone out of style ten years ago.

Now that Eddie was no longer Mr. McCloskey, Paranormal Investigator, sitting in the clients’ living room, he didn’t have to be professional anymore.

So he flipped Eric the bird right back.

The kid was not expecting this. It took a moment for the full import to register. Yes, that thirty-something white man who got me in trouble with my parents just signed Fuck You. Eric came out of the row home and four wannabe-Triads swimming in oversized basketball jerseys and sagging gym shorts followed him.

It was about to turn into a bad kung-fu movie.

Eric approached with hands and arms flailing away while cursing Eddie in a mix of Chinese and English, desperately trying to channel an R-rated Bruce Lee. Eddie met the kid halfway. You had to keep moving. If you stopped, the other guy owned you. Eric’s friends crowded behind him to watch the big show.

When they were a yard apart, Eric said, “Do that again, bitch.”

Eddie smirked, gave him the finger again.

Eric’s friends laughed. Eric did not. He gave them all a sharp look that was about as effective as a wet match. Eddie knew immediately that Eric lined up dead last in the group’s pecking order.

The kid had lost face and his boys were laughing at him. He had no choice but to get loud. Eddie wasn’t scared of the kid. A stiff breeze could knock Eric over.

After Sean McKenna had tried to kill him last year, Eddie had taken up krav maga. The ultimate self-defense system in the world, designed by the Israelis. It’s unique among the martial arts because there are no katas, no forms, no bullshit traditions. It’s all about the practical and ruthless application of necessary, sometimes deadly, force.

One of Eddie’s instructors liked to quip that it was sometimes harder to roll with an untrained fighter. When you sparred in class you got used to mixing it up with trained men who moved in patterns and used only techniques you expected. Whereas the fella off the street was unpredictable and did idiotic things you weren’t defending against because they were stupid.

That was why beginners were so often lucky.

Eric screwed up his face into a grimace. It didn’t work. He looked like he was in pain. “Bitch, I’m gonna fuck you up.”

“Okay, sure. Now I’m gonna do you a favor and give you a pass because you’re just a kid and you’ve got your friends to impress and your parents are my clients. And you aren’t going to take any advice from me because you think at the tender age of seventeen you’ve got it all figured out, but I’ll give it to you anyway: never pick a fight with a man who doesn’t give a shit.”

Eddie might as well have been speaking Greek for all the effect his words had on the kid.

Eddie saw the punch coming before Eric had even made up his mind to throw it.

He slipped the jab and switched from defense to offense in one motion, striking the kid in the gut as painlessly as possible and putting him down. Eric was more surprised than hurt, so Eddie put his foot on the kid’s back to hold him in place and looked up at the not-so-fantastic four.

Eric’s friends were in stitches. One was taking pictures with his cell phone.

No wonder the kid was trouble at home. Among his friends, he was the runt of the litter. Eddie almost felt bad for him.

But not quite enough to take his foot off the kid’s back. “I’m leaving now. Remember I could have done a lot worse to you.”

* * * *

Eddie walked into his apartment a couple hours later. He turned the TV on and made a salad for dinner and poured a glass of water. He sat on the couch and faced the TV.

Gracie Barbitok, ex-psychic and current fraud-buster, was on speaking to a live studio audience about an investigation. Eddie recognized the segment immediately because he’d seen it live several months ago and then had watched it on DVR many times. So this was a rerun, which meant one of the major channels had syndicated her program.

She was fifty but the plastic surgery made her look forty. She had long blond hair and wore a well-tailored suit that showed off her endowments but was still modest, and she pranced around on heels on stage, microphone in hand.

“They are out there,” she was saying. “They are out there.”

The audience cheered and clapped and whooped and Gracie let them, basking in the adulation. She smiled and luxuriated in their praise.

“Here we go,” Eddie said.

He wanted to change the channel but some perverse part of him wouldn’t. Gracie got off the stage and started walking the aisles, touching shoulders and shaking hands as she walked, looking like a politician.

“The world is full of charlatans and quacks and ne’er-do-wells. I know, because I was one of them, earning all my money through fraud and deceit and emotional manipulation. But I changed. Mended my ways. And today I’m here to expose these people so they can never prey on the unwitting again.”

Eddie mouthed the words as she spoke them. He’d watched her show a few too many times.

Gracie ran down the last aisle and hopped onto the stage and with great ceremony did a big sweep with her arms and pointed at the screen backing the stage.

“Today’s fraud is exposed. Giles Tyson!”

Eddie knew what was coming but he still cringed.

Giles Tyson used to work with Eddie and his older brother, Tim, years ago from time to time. Giles had big ideas and a bigger personality, and he and Tim had clashed on investigational protocol. Giles always tried to push the envelope and eventually Tim had told him he couldn’t work on the team anymore. Eddie had last seen the guy six or seven years ago.

A blown-up, unflattering photo of Giles filled the screen behind Gracie. In the picture, his usually coiffed hair was disheveled, he wore two days of stubble, and he was coming out of a nudie bar. Gracie’s team of vultures must have paid top dollar to get such a wonderfully damaging snapshot.

The audience booed and hissed. The regular chant began, “Fraud! Fraud! Fraud!”

Giles had already been proven guilty in their eyes.

Gracie Barbitok took her seat on the far right of the stage and turned to watch the broadcast of her own sting operation. She had the hard-charging style and good looks of Nancy Grace with none of the mainstream criticisms because she went after soft targets: psychics, mediums, paranormal hunters, makers of homeopathic wonder drugs, life coaches, soothsayers …

The footage cut to a long, angled shot of Giles meeting with the young homeowner in her living room about her complaints and fears of the paranormal activity in her house. She was a good actress, sounded just like the dozens of people Eddie had interviewed over the years. She even scared up some misty eyes and tears, prompting Giles to break the first rule of professional conduct:

Never touch the client.

He invaded her personal space and put a hand on her shoulder and in his affected, overblown voice said, “We’re going to get you answers tonight. You can rest assured.”

The live studio audience hissed and booed again. More chants of fraud.

Eddie shook his head. “Giles, as much as I love you, you always were a pompous windbag.”

The footage from Gracie’s sting switched to a montage of Giles running around the house, making outrageous claims, and invading the client’s personal space several more times. Eddie watched in horror. Giles was completely oblivious to his impending demise, about to be hoisted by his own oversized petard.

Throughout the montage, Giles made one ridiculous claim after another. A noise in the basement was the former owner yelling at his wife to keep it down during the ball game. The mysterious orbs of light captured on a photo were the essence of the neighbor’s teenaged daughter who’d “probably always liked the color gold.” The fuzzy, electrical feeling the missus got standing near the washing machine had nothing to do with the fuse box that was only ten feet away—this was the work of “some perhaps malevolent force, trying to make her uncomfortable.”

Giles went on. And on. He offered little proof. It was conjecture without qualification. All style without the CYA boilerplate. At one point, he told the woman that the spirits might be trying to activate the homeowner’s heretofore latent medium-abilities.

Eddie shook his head. Without anyone like Tim to keep the guy in check, Giles broke just about every rule of investigation. And he probably would have hit on the client if he’d gotten the opportunity.

“Giles, Giles, Giles …”

Eddie would have done everything differently. And yet, until this doomed voyage, Giles had enjoyed success and had somehow fostered a good reputation. He was well-known and well-liked by the national paranormal community, and he did a business.

When Giles finally stopped talking, the lights came on in the dark house and Gracie Barbitok was there, mike in hand and camera crew already filming.

Giles had the look of an animal that knows it’s just been trapped.

Gracie Barbitok revealed to the unusually quiet Giles that it was all a set-up and he’d been filmed the entire time. With a dramatic pause, she let that sink in. Her studio audience cheered.

Then Gracie motioned toward the front door. “You can leave now, Mr. Tyson. No one’s forcing you to stay. Or you can sit down and talk to me. Tell us your side of the story.”

Giles looked at the empty chair in the living room, then at the front door. He was forked. If he ran, he was a fraud. If he told the truth, he was a fraud.

Giles faced Gracie, straightened his tie and re-messed his stylish hair, and walked like Charles II on his way to the guillotine. Chin up, proud, stubborn.

And Gracie ruined him.

It was a hatchet job. Sure, Giles had exaggerated but he’d been set-up from the start. All of Gracie’s tricks were good enough that a cursory investigation wouldn’t expose them. Giles had no time to look at wiring or find hidden speakers or do any one of a million things. Not that he necessarily would have, but still.

And, even worse, Giles didn’t help himself during the interview.

“Clients call me for many reasons. But they all want the same thing, Ms. Barbitok. They want to feel special. They want to think wondrous things are happening in their otherwise quotidian existence. They want me to say yes. They want to believe. I give them what they want.”

“So you lie to them and take their money?”

“Lie is too strong a word. We know so little of our universe. We don’t know what happens beyond death. My job is to open their minds to the possibilities.”

Eddie said, “Giles, buddy, you always did speak in italics too much.”

After the episode had originally aired, Eddie had sent Giles a heartfelt email long on condolences and short on criticisms. The guy had helped Eddie out of a jam before, so Eddie figured it was the least he could do to repay the old debt.

Giles had never responded.

Two

Alice Ketcher could still hear her husband upstairs. She was waiting for him to pass out before she turned in. It had been three months since he’d been drunk but you never knew with men. Anson had a mean streak. They’d been in couples counseling at church for the last year. She’d thought that Anson had shown genuine remorse and a desire to change, but here he was back on the bottle.

No matter how much she prayed and tried to forgive him, she couldn’t forget the times he’d scared her. He’d put his hands on her twice. Never hit her, just grabbed her shoulders to shake some sense into her. Murder in his eyes.

The last time had been over a year ago but you didn’t forget a thing like that. He’d been boozed up that night. Alcohol and her husband were a dangerous mix.

Not to mention they hadn’t spoken more than five words to each other in the last two weeks.

“ … seen … shirt?” he yelled from upstairs.

Alice pretended not to hear him. She went into the laundry room. The washer was running and making a lot of noise. She could always lie and say she hadn’t heard him over the sound of the washer.

“Alice?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice. He’d poked his head into the doorway. Looking at him, you’d never know about his mean streak. He had a kind, soft face and sympathetic eyes.

“Yeah?”

“I …” Anson took a deep breath. “I know my drinking makes you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

She kept her distance. “That’s okay.”

The cycle was predictable. Falling down drunk followed by scenes of absolute terror then remorse and pathetic, weeping apologies. It was way past getting old.

Anson stepped into the tiny laundry room, blocking the door. She felt how very alone they were in this house. Nearest neighbor was half a mile away. It was times like these she grew furious with the church and her God for frowning on divorce. For pressuring her into staying with a man who frightened her.

Anson studied her, his kind eyes searching for something. She hoped it was for forgiveness. She fought herself not to look past his shoulder and give away how uncomfortable she was. That could send him into a rage.

“No really.” He shook his head. “I just … there’s no excuse.”

She realized he was crying. She closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his neck. Suddenly, not scared of him at all.

Had he turned the corner finally?

He spoke into her shoulder. “I want to keep with the counseling. I don’t think we should stop.”

“Okay, Anson. Okay.”

She rubbed his back till he collected himself. “I’m trying, hon.”

“I know.” She just wondered if people were actually capable of change. The fairy tales all said they did. But life was no fairy tale. “I just want this thing gone. I’m not comfortable in this house …”

“I know, baby. I want it gone too. Why don’t we ask Giles to come back out?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Because he’s my friend, right?”

His eyes changed. The soft sadness vanished and a hardness took its place.

“Anson, he’s a fraud. That lady proved it on national TV.”

Anson just stared at her. It was like he was deciding how to react. She wondered what the options were.

“It’s actually gotten worse since he came out,” she said.

Anson frowned. Not believing her.

“It’s more … aggressive now. Before it just used to visit.”

Anger filling his eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not a liar, Anson.”

Then she felt it.

The shift in the air pressure. A tingly current of electricity that bubbled over her body. It was here.

“What?” Anson asked.

Alice was a strong woman who had endured a lot in her short thirty years. Still the hackles on her neck rose every time this happened.

“Anson.”

He looked up. “It’s here?”

Alice instinctively reached for the cross that nested in the hollow of her neck. “Yeah.”

Since they’d moved in six months ago, they’d received increasingly frequent visits from something. Alice still didn’t know what to call it. She just wanted it to go away.

“Where?” Anson asked.

“It was here, but not anymore.”

“Kitchen,” Anson said.

“I want to get out of here.”

“Come on, it’ll be okay.”

“I mean it. It’s getting worse.”

“No, it’s not. It just feels that way because it’s around more often.”

“Anson, yesterday it started moving the furniture.”

“What?”

“I left the dining room for a moment. When I came back, two of the seats were moved out.”

Anson shook his head. “You probably moved them and forgot about it.”

“I was home alone. Why would I have moved two chairs?”

“Just come on. You need to face this.”

“I face it every day. I want the night off.”

“Come on.” He grabbed her wrist.

Reluctantly, she followed him into the kitchen. It was the spirit’s most frequent haunt.

Anson disconnected the camcorder from its charger, then made a face. “Did you forget to plug this thing in?”

She ignored him. She could just feel something … right there on the edge of her senses.

Anson was fussing with the camcorder. “Damnit, this thing’s dead.”

She closed her eyes. Felt. Tried to place the ghost.

The sound of her husband’s breathing, made heavy by drink. The hum of the dishwasher.

“Alice, are you sure it was here?” Anson right next to her.

“Anson, let’s just leave.”

“We need answers.”

“I don’t care what they might be anymore.”

Alice looked into his eyes and saw he wasn’t going to drop this. She wanted to leave. Run away. She could stay with her father. Or her cousin, Billy. She could just go. She wouldn’t miss Anson much.

But she couldn’t leave. She wasn’t supposed to. She was supposed to stay and make the best of things and pray.

Fuck it. It wasn’t often that Alice cursed.

She closed her eyes. She’d never channeled in front of him before. But now she wanted him to see how far this ghost had pushed her. What lengths she was prepared to go to.

Alice folded in on herself. Tried to shut down and open up. Like closing doors but opening windows at the same time.

“Alice, what’re you doing?”

“Quiet.”

Anson huffed and she ignored him, reached out as far as she could …

There.

“It’s close,” Alice said.

Three

Anson cursed his luck. The first time in a couple weeks—not three months like Alice thought—he’d decided to bark at the moon with the fellas at the watering hole and the spirit had decided to drop by tonight of all nights. Disinhibited by the booze, he’d reached out to Alice and she’d responded. Maybe she still did care for him. But then the ghost. Its visits had been driving them apart, Alice terrified and questioning her own sanity.

“Where is it, Alice?”

But Alice was off in Wonderland. He had no idea what she was doing. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her body tensed. Hands fisted. At first he thought she was praying but then he took a second look at her.

“Alice, honey…”

Her mouth moved but no words came out.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He put his hand on her shoulder. Through the shirt, her skin was icy. The cold made him jump.

“The hell?”

Alice’s eyelids opened and revealed only milky whiteness.

“Sweet Jesus!”

Anson grabbed her, afraid she was going to faint, but Alice stayed vertical. Her body was as hard and cold as a block of ice. He shook her because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Alice, honey!”

Suddenly her eyes rolled back down like sevens on a slot machine and her knees buckled. She collapsed against him, still icy cold like she’d spent ten minutes locked in a freezer.

“Anson…” Her voice was groggy, faraway. “She’s here.”

Anson got a better grip on his wife and propped her up. “You okay, honey?”

“Anson…”

Anson didn’t like the way his wife looked. Her skin was flushed, she looked about to lose consciousness, and she was unnaturally cold. Was it possible to get spontaneous hypothermia? Anson didn’t think so but he was no doctor.

“Okay, honey, we need to call the ambu—”

Something pushed him from behind. Anson toppled forward and he lost hold of his wife. She spilled onto the floor, almost as lifeless as a corpse.

Anson fell into the kitchen counter, sent the dishes flying. They hit the floor and shattered.

Anson wheeled around, fists ready. Somebody had pushed him. He didn’t know who, and he didn’t know how, but whoever it was the son of a bitch was going to get it.

But there was no one there.

Anson checked the floor where he’d been standing but it was clear. He hadn’t tripped on anything.

On the floor, Alice started moving. He kneeled, gripped her arm. “Slow down, honey. Just stay like that a moment.”

Her eyes were clenched shut and she gripped her stomach like she was about to vomit and she moaned.

Something knocked into Anson’s shoulder and he fell away from his wife. Okay, this time he knew he’d been pushed.

But there was no one or no thing in the room with them.

A chill ran down Anson’s spine. There was nobody else in the house. But that left one explanation, and that explanation terrified him.

The spirit had pushed him.

Alice was right. It was becoming more aggressive.

His wife opened her eyes and the color returned to her face. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Honey, I think it’s—”

Another shove. Anson slipped, kept his balance, then got pushed again. His ass hit the handle on the cupboard.

Another shove, this time from the side. He almost cartwheeled into the kitchen table. His wife screaming. Him yelling.

He was flung off the kitchen table through the threshold. Landed in the living room. The blows weren’t that powerful. If he could see where they were coming from he could have easily braced for them but he was fighting blind.

Then the invisible hand got stronger.

It forced him backwards. The back of his legs hit the couch and he flipped. His feet crashed into the coffee table as he fell off the couch.

“Anson!”

His wife hurrying into the room. Despite how lousy he’d been to her, she was rushing to help him. Her love shamed him. He didn’t deserve it. Like all the men she’d ever given herself to, he’d been a no-good son of a bitch.

But that would stop. From now on, he’d be the man she deserved. No more drinking. No more anger. No more intimidating her. He could be better than all that. He could listen. He could provide. He could be a better man. He just had to try.

“Anson, are you okay?”

“Honey, I love you. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes. “Hold on.”

“What are you doing?”

Alice didn’t answer. Her mouth started flapping again. Her eyes became white slits. Her skin translucent.

Anson felt a pressure on his arm, like the spirit was trying to pick him up. He readied for the next blow but it never came. The pressure on his arm suddenly gone. He looked to his wife.

Alice’s eyes fluttered, like they were trying to unroll. Her arm was cold to the touch again but he held fast.

“Alice, honey, I love you. Alice…”

Her eyes unrolled and she looked at him like she didn’t know him.

“Alice?”

He cupped her shoulders.

“Honey, are you okay?”

Alice’s mouth slid open and issued an unintelligible, inhuman sound.

“Alice!”

When she spoke it was with a voice not her own. “It’s. Not. Me.”

Anson felt a chilly breath on the nape of his neck and he didn’t know if it was the spirit or his own body working against him. His wife rose on unsteady legs and swayed back and forth.

Anson pushed off the couch and got to his feet.

“Not me,” his wife said.

“Honey…”

“NOT ME!”

Alice screamed like a banshee and flung herself away from him. She stutter-stepped back into the sliding door. The glass spider-webbed.

“Alice!”

She doubled over and gasped like someone had slammed her in the stomach and knocked the wind out of her.

Anson ran to his wife, but he was stopped by a shot to his jaw. The blow rang his bell but he managed to stay on his feet.

“Anson, I think it’s—” she started to say.

Alice was thrown violently and knocked the flat screen TV over. She got to her feet and screamed at him to run and was tripped by some invisible foot. She face-planted in the carpet and then her head snapped up like someone had grabbed her by the hair.

Anson raced to his wife, but then the invisible hand thumped him in the chest and he went down. But it was distraction enough for Alice. She got up and took off for the front door.

Anson didn’t know what else to do. He had his cell phone in his pocket. The reception in his house was awful. He prayed the cell would work as he frantically dialed 911.

Before he could say anything, the phone was knocked out of his hand and went under the sofa.

Four

Greg Tolliff had been working the 911 dispatch for three months. In his short time riding the line, the most bizarre call he’d gotten was from a man who’d accidentally driven a nail through his nuts, and the most terrifying call had been from a mother, sick with worry, about her seven-year-old who’d just ingested half a bottle of sleeping medication.

But the call he took that night was more bizarre and terrifying than those two combined.

“9-1-1 Dispatch. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“...help…stop, stop...”

The woman wasn’t near the phone but Tolliff heard the raw fear in her voice. He perked up in his seat.

“Ma’am, what is your name and phone number?”

The enhanced 911 system provided Tolliff with a phone number, name, and corresponding address, but Tolliff was following SOP in independently verifying this information. Though glitches were rare, sending EMS and local LE to the wrong place helped no one. LE especially didn’t like walking into a scene they didn’t understand. Some nutters were just waiting for the cops to show up so they could suicide-by-police.

“Stop…”

“Ma’am, are you there? Ma’am?”

“Anson…noooo!”

“Ma’am? Are you there?”

The line was still active, but there was no answer. In the background, Tolliff heard a crash and more screaming.

Tolliff connected to EMS and LE. “Unknown possible medical emergency. 225 Watoga, Cumberland. The nearest intersection is one mile away at Browning Road and Rural Route 57. Repeat, unknown medical emergency. 225 Watoga…”

Five

Dispatch contacted LE. The general call went out to all available units. Officer Billy Towson was on-duty that night, sitting in his cruiser only a mile down the road in his favorite bear trap in front of the local farming collective’s cornfield, passing the time waiting for speeders or drunks.

“225 Watoga, repeat, 225 Watoga. Unknown medical emergency.”

Towson’s eyes went wide. “Officer Towson. I’m a click away.”

Towson put the car in DRIVE and stepped on it. Not all his tires grabbed and the cruiser started spinning. He cut the wheel and got the tires to grab and he rocketed forward.

An oncoming vehicle took the bend in the road too wide and crossed the center line. It looked like a new model station wagon. Towson hadn’t seen too many of those in these parts, where everybody drove a pickup or SUV.

Towson slammed the brakes and swerved right. The wagon missed him by inches. Heart in his throat, Towson heard the screech of brakes from the other vehicle and righted his cruiser. He hit the gas and through the rearview saw the wagon had nearly gone off the road too, but was now under control and had kept going.

“Fucking drunk.” Towson activated his siren and lights and gunned it. Then he had a thought. “This is Towson. Anybody sees a station wagon near Watoga, make a routine stop. Could be related to the Ketcher call.” He doubted the two were related, but being a good policeman meant being thorough.

And someone else could handle the asshole driver. He was more worried about the people residing at 225 Watoga. Especially the woman, Alice.

She was his cousin.

Six

Towson knew from the call that this was an unknown medical emergency. A vague, almost useless classification that could apply to any number of ominous or harmless things and that 911 dispatchers used to cover all bases…and their asses.

Towson had to shout into the radio over the blaring of his siren. “You gotta give me more than an UME, Gary.”

“Possible home invasion.”

Home invasion? Towson hadn’t been expecting that. His first thought was that Anson Ketcher was up to no good again, wailing on his wife. Towson respected their pastor, but the guy was wrong to advise Alice against divorce. God might have frowned on that but Towson was pretty sure God would frown on sweet Alice being some drunk’s punching bag.

“Who called it in?” Towson asked.

“Hold on, the Chief wants to talk to you.”

The Chief was Towson’s father. He waited for his dad to come on the line.

“Son, we don’t know who called it in but we could hear screaming.”

Towson almost broke the steering wheel, he was gripping it so hard. “I’m going to kill the motherfucker if—”

“Billy! That’s enough. We don’t know what’s happened.”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“You’re going to be first on-scene. Two more units on the way, couple of minutes behind you. I don’t know what the hell’s going on there but make sure Alice is safe above all else. I don’t give a shit about Anson and nobody here is gonna blame you for having to choose between the two of them if this is a domestic dispute turning deadly. Understood?”

Towson had already thought of that. “Roger that, Dad.”

“Get her safe, wait for back-up, keep your lid on. If Anson’s responsible for something…we can’t afford any fuck-ups. Understood?”

Towson knew exactly what his father meant. No fuck-ups meant following the letter of the law carefully so there were no due process violations.

“Understood.”

“I love you, son. Be careful.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Towson shared his father’s worry. His cousin Alice was the sweetheart of their extended family. A nice girl, with the worst luck. At nine, she’d been diagnosed with epilepsy. At eighteen, she’d been in a horrible car accident that had nearly claimed her life. Some drag-racing punk had plowed into her head-on. At twenty, she’d been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer that had nearly taken her as well. She’d lost forty pounds she didn’t have and sat on death’s doorstep for a month until somehow her body rallied. She’d been a bright student and shown much promise but her medical conditions always kept her from maintaining her studies for any continuous stretch.

And she had the bad habit of falling in love with the wrong guy. In high school, that was the star running back on the football team, who tested positive for steroids one time and later developed a nasty cocaine habit. He was serving five to seven for armed robbery currently. Then there was the man accused of running a low-level internet Ponzi scheme who’d fled the state before he could stand trial. He’d taken some of Alice’s money, and most of her heart.

And finally, there was Anson.

Alice and her husband had a bumpy, on-again, off-again history going back to high school, and their marriage was well-known to the local police department and had been the subject of endless local gossip. More than once, Alice had reported domestic abuse, only to later recant and retract her complaints.

So when Towson had gotten the call, he’d assumed Anson had crossed the line again.

Everybody in the family felt for Alice. She’d endured so much and managed to survive cancer. If all that had been in vain, to come to an end at the hands of a loser like Anson Ketcher...

Towson and his father had been looking for a reason to bust Anson so Alice would be out of his reach long enough to come to her senses and leave him.

But if dispatch was correct, this wasn’t a domestic quarrel. It was a home invasion.

An unexpected visitor at this hour would have been strange, so the home invader probably hadn’t bothered with a disguise and cover story. Daytime home invaders usually pretended to be mail carriers or repairmen. It was an easy way to gain trust and push in. This guy had probably entered at some weak point in the house like the sliding glass door in the back, his weapon already drawn.

A knot formed in Towson’s stomach as he thought about it more. A home invasion was plausible. The Ketchers lived in a large, well-furnished, home that shouted money. The money came from Alice’s father, Towson’s uncle, who was a local, good old boy politician with a lot of clout and even more capital. That made Alice and her husband prime targets for burglars.

Towson had Alice’s cell phone number programmed into his. He called it, hoping to get lucky. The reception out here was shit though and the call wouldn’t connect.

A quarter mile out, Towson could see the Ketcher house. The sprawling home sat alone far off the road and was surrounded by a lot of acreage.

There was a mile of woods behind the home and a bevy of intersecting creeks. Somebody could disappear back there if they couldn’t use the road to get away.

Towson pulled into the mouth of the Ketcher’s long driveway and stood on the gas pedal. He braked to a stop in front of the garage, grabbed his shotgun, and jumped out of the car.

Towson didn’t see any unknown vehicles. Alice’s Beamer was parked in front of the garage next to Anson’s old pickup truck.

The garage doors were closed. The invader hadn’t come in that way.

Towson rounded to the front of the house and peered through the windows as he raced to the front door. The lights downstairs were on. The front door was shut. The windows along the face of the house all looked intact.

Civilians think burglaries and home invasions are synonymous, but they’re not. Burglars don’t want homeowners to be around during a robbery. They know what they’re after, so they want to get in and out undetected.

Home invaders, on the other hand, want the owners present so they can be shown where the expensive items are and so the safes can be opened. In a home invasion, robbers come prepared to administer violence.

The front door was open.

Towson bounded up the steps and angled his shotgun at the doorway. He didn’t hear anything.

“Alice? You in there?”

No answer.

He went in.

Seven

Towson swept his shotgun 180 degrees and back again to clear the corners of the room. No one in the foyer.

“Alice? Anson? This is Billy!”

He smelled the metallic odor of blood on the air. His heart slipped into fourth gear.

“Alice?”

No answer.

Towson pushed through the foyer, saw nobody and heard nothing except for the whirring of the dishwasher.

Towson left the foyer and made a right into the kitchen. Spotted the shattered dishes on the floor. He rounded the island to make sure nobody was hiding then went to the den.

The couch was out of place. He could tell by the exposed indents in the rug. The entertainment center was missing its flat screen TV. The sliding glass door was cracked.

“Alice?”

Shotgun aimed in front of him, Towson moved forward. The room was wrecked, but nobody was there.

He turned left and took the long hallway. Checked the bathroom. Empty. Kept going to the family room where Alice worked on her landscapes and portraits.

Her easel was on its side, one of her paintings face-down on the drop cloth. Next to that, Alice herself lying on her stomach.

Her head was twisted at a grotesque angle. Towson knew immediately her neck had been broken.

“Alice…”

He knelt beside his cousin, went through the routine of checking her vitals even though he knew there was no point. She was dead. One eye half-open, the other swollen shut.

If it weren’t for his training, Billy would have crumbled right there. But he knew he had to clear the house and find Anson, so he went cold, professional. Went room-to-room downstairs then checked the second floor. Then doubled back down to the basement. Nobody home.

He heard the sirens in the distance and got on the walkie.

“Officer Towson on scene. Alice Ketcher is dead. Husband is not here. You’d better stop anybody driving in this area.”

He didn’t know what had happened but it sure looked like a home invasion gone bad. Maybe the perp or perps had grabbed Anson to use as leverage in case they got cornered.

“Billy!”

He recognized Hank Grimm’s voice on the line. “I’m here, Hank.” His own voice sounded alien to him, like it was somebody else speaking.

“Billy, we picked Anson up. Coming to you.”

“What’s he saying?”

“You’re never going to believe this.”

Eight

Towson listened incredulously as Hank Grimm relayed the information.

Grimm said, “You heard me right. Anson said it was a ghost that did this. He was knocked unconscious. When he came to, he saw Alice dead and took off running. We almost ran his ass over, he was sprinting down the middle of the fucking street.”

Grimm was right. Towson didn’t believe it.

Towson rushed the squad car holding Anson. He had the door open and Anson out before two other cops intervened. Towson got some good shots in and Anson fell clumsily to the ground. Anson defended himself but didn’t fight back. Towson could smell the alcohol on him.

The cop managed to get one good kick in before a third patrolman helped the other two restrain him.

* * * *

Detective Mark Ross knew it was bad so he drove with reckless abandon to the Ketcher residence, hoping to beat out the fella from the neighboring Sheriff’s Office. Ross had nothing against the other guy, but Ross knew he was a better detective. He’d put in his twenty in the city, had worked over five hundred murders during that time, and knew how to get it done. The Sheriff and his deputy were good people, but they weren’t closers like him.

The District Attorney preferred him too, not that Ross cared about that. Prosecutors had a way of taking all the credit when it came to a conviction, even though the cops were the ones that did all the leg work that made it possible.

Ross had been awake in bed, reading the latest Lee Child thriller, when he got the call. He was in the car five minutes later and had caught the preliminary electronic chatter so he knew what he was looking at. Homicide. Husband-wife scenario. Home invasion practically ruled out.

And a husband that looked guilty as sin already.

Ross knew Anson Ketcher. Not personally, but professionally. Anson was a middling local contractor who sometimes did shoddy work and more often got into trouble. The guy was more violent than a zombie flick. There had been fights on three of his job sites over the last eight years. The pub was his boxing ring, and he’d put two men in the hospital in separate incidents. He also loved the fire water and had scored two Deweys in his early twenties.

The signs had always been there. He’d been in trouble plenty back in high school.

But here was the clincher: Anson Ketcher did not reserve his violence for men. Alice had twice filed complaints of domestic abuse. Sure, she had later retracted her statements, but there was a fancy term the shrinks and the lawyers had for that. Battered wife syndrome. Ross knew, as did every other cop who’d spent more than a minute on the job, that where there was smoke there was fire.

But even if you ignored Anson’s sketchy past, you still couldn’t get past the ridiculous allegation he was now making.

That a ghost had killed his wife.

Ross parked behind the squad cars and hopped out. Hank Grimm hurried over.

“We’ve got an issue.”

Ross didn’t like issues, but as a veteran he was used to them and knew how to work around them. “Lemme guess. Somebody roughed Anson up.”

Hank nodded. “One guess as to who.”

Ross already knew. “Before or after Anson said it was a ghost that did this?”

Hank smiled. “After.”

“Well, that’s a break.” At least Anson couldn’t claim the beating had turned him crazy. Ross spotted the man in the back of the squad car nearest the house.

“He say anything else?”

“He hasn’t asked for a lawyer yet.”

“Did we Mirandize him?”

“Once.”

“How drunk is he?”

“He blew a point one.”

Ross grunted. “Wait twenty minutes then drive him to the station. Then have somebody else Mirandize him again in front of a different witness. Then put him in a room for me. I don’t want him to later retract this bullshit story by claiming he was drunk.”

“Okay.”

“The Sheriff’s guy been here yet?”

“No.”

Another break for Ross. Jurisdiction out here in the unincorporated area was tricky and unofficial, but it usually boiled down to first-in-time. That meant this was unofficially officially Ross’s case.

Ross said, “How dinged up is Anson?”

“He looks like he’s been in a fight.”

“From our guy?”

“What do those ambulance-chasers say? Mostly pre-existing.”

Ross laughed. All lawyer jokes were funny to a cop. “Any lasting damage by our guy?”

“I doubt it. But you know defense attorneys.” Hank lowered his voice. “If you want, I can have three guys ready to swear under oath that Anson was non-cooperative and trying to flee.”

Ross grunted. “I don’t want. We play the hand we’re dealt. Where’s Billy?”

Hank nodded toward the lawn.

Ross walked over to Officer Billy Towson. The patrolman had his back to Ross and was staring into the night sky.

Billy Towson must have heard Ross coming. “Did I fuck it all up?”

Ross stood beside the young man. “We’ll see about that. How’s the house?”

“A fucking mess.”

Ross gauged the cop next to him. “No signs of forced entry.”

“Nope.”

“Walk me through it.”

“Alright, come on.” Towson started toward the house but Ross cuffed his arm.

“Tell me out here. Then I’ll see for myself.”

Towson’s recall was excellent, the memory and the horror still fresh in his mind. Ross didn’t interrupt Towson during the first telling. He made the young man do it again and interjected with some questions.

“Okay,” Ross said. “You did a good job especially considering the circumstances. Get back to the office and get working on that report. I want to see the phrase No signs of forced entry appear in the body at least five times. I want it to sound like nobody else has been in this house except husband and wife for years. Understood?”

Towson nodded.

“And it sounds like you’re telling me Anson was very drunk, right?”

“I was.”

“Then make that adverb your friend. You can’t file that report without approval of the watch commander, so make sure I see it before good old Bob has a chance to sign off. I want the draft ready in two hours. There’s nothing glamorous about paperwork, but this is how we make cases.”

“Ten-four.”

Ross put a hand on the patrolman’s shoulder before he could leave. “You know what I’m going to say next.”

“I do.”

“I’ll keep it short because you’ll hear it from everybody else too, including your pappy. You popped your cherry tonight. It happens to everybody, sooner or later. When I worked in the city, I almost took a guy’s ear off once. It earned me props with the boys but it almost fucked the collar.”

Towson grunted. Ross sensed a lot of emotion locked behind those sad, misty eyes and clenched jaw.

Ross said, “But get it under control. We live in a quiet area but you can bet your ass you’ll see the horror again. And we need good cops like you.”

Towson said nothing.

Ross said, “You’re gonna take a hit on this one. You have to, for the good of the investigation. For your cousin.”

“It’ll be worth it if Anson swings.”

“They don’t hang people anymore.” Ross patted Towson’s shoulder. “Nowadays we’re civilized and poison them.”

Ross went inside the house. The crime techs were already at it with their luminol and cameras, searching for trace amounts of blood. Ross followed the same path that Towson had described for him and eventually came to the body.

Alice Ketcher wore a long-sleeved t-shirt and pajama shorts that had ridden high up her thighs. Ross had an urge to pull those shorts down a few inches to give the lady back her dignity but of course didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene.

“Broken neck,” said a nasally voice behind him.

Ross nodded professionally at the lead tech, a relatively new guy by the name of Han.

Ross said, “Tell me how you know.”

Han carefully approached the body so as not to disturb anything and pointed a pen light at Alice’s neck. Ross didn’t need the technical details because even a layman could tell, but he wanted to gauge Han’s presentation. Never too early to start thinking about a trial.

“The line of bruising there is the first indicator. Consistent with a neck being violently twisted. Looks like she died instantly, so we’ve got a classic case of spinal shock. The spinal cord was severely injured, resulting in an immediate loss of nerve supply to the body. The nerves of the heart and vasculature are affected leading to a severe drop in blood pressure.”

Ross nodded. Han would have to work on his delivery before they put him in front of a jury but the guy knew what he was talking about.

“Any chance she fell and hit her head and twisted her neck?” Ross asked.

Han shook his head. “Doubtful. I’m certain somebody did this to her.”

“Righty or a lefty?” Ross said.

“The person that broke this woman’s neck used their left hand to twist.”

Nine

The District Attorney hated new cars.

Cornelius Spencer, Yukon to his friends, wanted a cigarette but most new cars, like his wife’s Mercedes, didn’t install cigarette lighters anymore. You could watch DVDs, plug in your iPod, make dinner reservations, look up a word in the dictionary, spy through the video cam mounted on the rear bumper, warm your ass to a balmy eighty degrees, or get directions to the fucking moon, but cigarette lighters were going to cost you extra either as an option or aftermarket accessory.

Spencer was last to arrive at the party. Ross was waiting for him on the front stoop.

“How is it?” Spencer asked.

“Tight.”

“Watertight?”

Ross smiled, a bit condescendingly for Spencer’s tastes. “You’ve got a five point lead with thirty seconds to play, and the other squad is out of timeouts.”

“Show me.”

Ross walked him through the house. First, the kitchen. “We think it started in here. Most domestic squabbles do. Somebody’s pissed off about having to do the dishes again, they flip out about something else, and boom you’ve got the makings of a fight.”

Spencer noted the shattered dishes, looked for the blood but didn’t see any.

Ross led him into the den. “You’re looking at a shoving match that escalates. Look here. The couch is off its grooves. The sliding glass door is cracked, TV is smashed. They did the ugly dance through here.”

“Mr. Ketcher was drunk?”

Ross nodded. “Already talked to his buddies. They’re still at the bar. Told us all about how much Anson had to drink. Bartender remembers him being loud too.”

“We Mirandize him more than once?”

“First thing I ordered.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Ross continued. “Alice gets her hands on the phone, manages to dial 911. The call connects but she and Anson must still be fighting. She drops the phone and it ends up under the sofa. Decision point. Either she goes for the phone or she gets out of the house. She does the smart thing and leaves the phone.”

Spencer nodded. So far, so good. It fit all the facts as he knew them, though he didn’t like Ross being presumptuous enough to connect the dots for him. It was up to him, as the prosecutor, to build a case that could be sold to the jury. Ross was a good cop but Spencer was the lawyer here.

Spencer said, “This reeks of heat of the moment. If he’d planned to do this, he would have had a plausible defense lined up.”

“I don’t think Mensa is going to ask Anson to join anytime soon.”

Spencer shook his head. “Nobody’s that dumb. No rational man would plan to use that as a defense. That means he had no plan. No plan means no premeditation. No premeditation, it’s not a capital case.”

Ross’s lip twitched. “That’s all backwards. You’re saying Anson won’t get death because his defense is weak?”

Spencer didn’t remember asking Ross for his opinion on the legal matter. “I’m putting myself in the defense’s shoes. All they need is reasonable doubt. I’m the one has to climb the mountain.”

Ross said, “Look at all her money. Look at the couple’s history.”

Spencer shook his head no. “Mr. Ketcher doesn’t see one red cent unless he’s acquitted. And he won’t be. Not with that defense. But even if it somehow worked for him, you can be sure as shit the Towsons will go the civil route. If I don’t get him, they’ll get him with wrongful death. Burden of proof is lower in civil court. Bye-bye money.”

“You give the guy too much credit if you think he planned that far ahead.”

“Let’s see the body.”

Ross led him down a long hallway, past a bathroom, into a family room filled with paintings. Used drop cloths covered most of the furniture and the hardwood floor.

Four guys from the crime lab worked the room. They moved out of Ross’s way so the cop and the prosecutor could see the body on the floor.

Spencer had seen murder vics before but it always turned his stomach. Alice’s face looked like a slab of bruised meat. One eye was swollen shut, the other half open. Her neck appeared both bloated and shrunk.

“Broken neck,” Ross said. “That requires a lot of force. Somebody grabbed her and twisted her neck.”

Spencer checked the area around the victim. One easel had been knocked over, a painting face-down on the floor. Signs of a struggle everywhere.

He’d seen enough. He motioned for Ross to follow him out of the house. “We’re positively certain nobody else was in this house?”

“As certain as we can be. My guys will keep looking.”

Spencer grew thoughtful. “Assume somebody else did this. Who would Mr. Ketcher take a fall for?”

Ross frowned. “He wouldn’t take a fall for somebody killing his own wife. And nobody else would do this. Alice was a saint. Anson’s the one that’s hated. The guys at the bar are only drinking buddies. The only real friend he’s got is Giles Tyson.”

Spencer chuckled. “Perfect. The last person anybody would want as a character witness right now is that quack.”

The two men shared a professional laugh. Then Spencer nodded at the detective.

“Nice work here. Your boy is working on the police report?”

Ross checked his watch. “It’ll be done soon.”

“Did you talk to Mr. Ketcher yet?”

“Waiting to see how you wanted to play it.”

“I’m staying away until he asks for a lawyer. Let’s play it silky. You ease him along.”

“Yeah.”

Spencer started to walk away then remembered something. “You got a light?”

“Don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I apparently.” Spencer was about to leave but another car pulled into the mouth of the long driveway.

“Shit. That must be him,” Ross said.

Spencer and Ross shared a look. It was never fun having to deal with the vic’s parents.

Ross barked orders at the patrolmen to keep the civilian away from the house. Spencer headed for the SUV to cut the man off at the pass.

Councilman Towson left the engine running and jumped out of the car. His voice was full of anguish. “Is my daughter in there?”

Spencer and Ross met him on the lawn with the other patrolmen. It took five people to hold the councilman back.

Ten

It was almost three AM when Ross entered the interrogation room. Anson sat facing the two-way mirror, his hands cuffed and folded on the table.

Ross shut the door and sat opposite.

Anson’s face was bruised. His hair was a mess. His eyes were red like he’d been crying. He smelled of sweat and cigarettes and alcohol, even though he was stone cold sober by now.

“It was the ghost,” Anson said.

Ross regarded the man. He’d questioned plenty of suspects over the years and could spot a lie pretty well.

And that was why he was convinced Anson had lost his mind. Because Anson didn’t look like he was lying. Either he’d mastered the art of deception in his spare time or he didn’t think he was lying.

If Anson believed the words that were coming out of his mouth, that meant he’d gone off the deep end.

The important question was when. Before, during, or after the murder?

Sorting that out would involve the lawyers, the shrinks, the judge. If Anson flipped his lid before or during the murder, the DA could expect an insanity plea. If Anson had checked out after the deed, the defense would argue that Anson wasn’t competent to stand trial. That wasn’t an acquittal but it would cause plenty of problems.

Ross didn’t like either scenario.

“Anson, you’ve been read your rights twice now. Do you understand them?”

He nodded.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Ross produced a police form. The Miranda rights were printed across the top. Ross put the paper in front of Anson and held out a pen. “Could you do me a favor and sign this sheet? It’s just your acknowledgement that you’ve been Mirandized and understand what’s going on.”

Anson didn’t even bother to read the pre-printed form. Just quickly signed his name.

“You were drinking earlier this evening. We’ve given you a couple of breathalyzers and now you’re under the legal limit.”

Anson said nothing.

“Do you feel impaired in any way?”

Anson shook his head.

“Is that a no?”

“I’m not drunk.”

Ross nodded. Took the paper back from Anson and folded it and put it in his pocket.

“Now tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t…” Anson’s voice faded and he started weeping. “It was the ghost.”

In his twenty-plus year career, Ross had heard it all. He didn’t think he could be surprised anymore. Anson proved him wrong. The man was going to proceed with this ridiculous story.

Ross let him cry for a moment. “Tell me about the ghost.”

Anson sat up in his chair, folded his hands. His eyes glued to the table.

“Anson, tell me what happened.”

Ross folded his hands, matching Anson’s posture. It was an old trick, handed down to him by the detective who’d shown him the ropes. The social scientists called it mirroring. Most people did it subconsciously. Ross did it to show Anson he wasn’t hostile and wanted to foster cooperation. Which was bullshit, but if it worked, it worked.

Anson sniffed and wiped under his eyes. “Alice felt it first, about six months ago. We didn’t know what to do. I wanted to bring somebody out to the house but she didn’t want word getting around. She was very religious. I mean, we both are. It was tough for her to accept.”

Ross said nothing.

Anson said, “I wanted to have Giles Tyson over, but she didn’t want that getting out either. With Alice being who she was, our relationship was always the talk of the town. Last thing she needed with all our…other problems so public.”

“You and Giles Tyson are friends, right?”

Anson nodded. “She spoke to our pastor, Jim Grohmann. He gave her the party line, that there were no ghosts and that if she continued to have these experiences, she needed to speak to a doctor.”

“What did she do?”

“She started to doubt herself and wanted to see a doctor. I told her not to because I believed her and by then, I’d felt something.”

Ross was a pro. He kept the skepticism out of his voice. “What did you feel?”

“It was like electricity. She was better than me, but sometimes I could feel it too.”

“Then what?”

Anson sat forward. Ross matched him.

Anson said, “We…argued. I wanted to bring somebody professional in, like Giles. But then that show aired, you know the one where he got discredited?”

Ross nodded.

“So then Alice really didn’t want him over. She worried about appearances and what other people would say and what the church would think. But we weren’t getting anywhere. And it was starting to scare Alice. She wondered if maybe we were both losing our minds…she wasn’t thinking clearly and it was affecting her work so I…”

“Tell me.”

Anson looked away for a moment. “I talked to Giles about it. Told him to keep it between us. He hadn’t worked in months and was dying to help…I felt bad for him. He was my friend going back to high school, the only guy who’d always been there, even when I did stupid shit.”

“You had him over?”

Anson met Ross’s eyes. “Yeah. I waited till Alice was out of the house. She used to do those spinning classes all the way over in Middleton. With the drive and the class, I knew she’d be gone two hours. I had Giles over then. He did his thing and was able to get the ghost to visit. He told me we had nothing to worry about, that the spirit wasn’t dangerous. But it was unlike anything he’d ever encountered, so he wanted to come back. I thought it would help Alice to know there was nothing bad about the ghost so I was going to break it to her that I’d had Giles over…but she came home early that day. She’d skipped her class to do a quick routine at the gym instead.”

Anson lowered his eyes. Ross waited.

“We got into it after Giles left, but I didn’t touch her.”

“Did you ever?”

Anson hesitated. “No. I never hit her. I…scared her a few times, I’m sure. I got a bad temper.” He looked up. “I know that doesn’t sound good, but that’s exactly why I’m telling you. I’m trying to cooperate and I’m going to tell you everything so you see I’m not guilty. I didn’t kill my wife. I loved Alice. Oh God…”

He descended into blubbering tears again. This time, Ross didn’t wait so long. He was a patient man but still he had his limits. A good woman was dead and it was nearing four AM.

“What happened next?”

Anson wiped under his nose and got himself under control. “We argued. Any time the subject came up or the ghost visited us, we bickered. There was a distance between us that had never been there before. She’d leave the house for stretches and not tell me where she was going. I figured she was going to talk to the pastor because that’s where she always went for help, but I never asked. I feared if I pushed too hard she’d leave.

“And the spirit visited more and more. It started coming at all times and…” Anson seemed to be thinking real hard here. “…it got worse, you know? Like erratic and aggressive.”

Ross had had enough of this bullshit but he kept his cool. “How did its behavior change? Give me some examples.”

It was the easiest way to spot a lie. If the subject couldn’t contextualize what they were saying, they were full of shit.

“Before it would show up once a week, stay for a few minutes. After Giles’s visit, it showed up almost every day, sometimes more than once a day. But it would only visit for a minute, sometimes less. It was like it was agitated. Or like it wanted to stay but couldn’t. I don’t know. It drove Alice mad. She couldn’t get anything done around the house or with her painting. She’d started leaving the house for even longer stretches.

“Then, two weeks ago, I came home from work early and found all the windows of the house open and the house smelled weird. Like she’d used incense. Before I could ask any questions, Alice said she’d just wanted to air the place out because it was a nice day and she’d burned some candles. We had a big fight and I stormed off. That night, I found these tiny ashes in random places in the house…I don’t know what they were but I figured they were from the candles that Alice had burned.

“Finally I told Alice that we were so bad off that we had nothing to lose by asking for Giles’s help—things couldn’t get worse. She still feared the public perception and what it would do to her in the church but after a week or so, she reluctantly agreed.

“Giles came out and attempted to summon the spirit. That’s when things got crazy. The spirit came and went a dozen times in the span of two hours. And Giles was…affected. He was exhausted like it had taken a huge toll on him. We ended the session without having figured anything out, but Giles wasn’t discouraged. If anything, just the opposite. He left excited, asked to come back.

“But Alice told him no.”

Ross said, “Why?”

“She thought he was just making it worse. And she’d never liked him really. She didn’t want him around anymore.”

“But what did you decide to do about it?”

Anson shook his head. “We couldn’t decide on anything. We weren’t communicating. The spirit visited more and more. It was showing up every two or three hours, almost like clockwork. Alice couldn’t take it. She’d contacted her realtor, said we needed to move. I told her we needed Giles’s help. She wanted her pastor to come and do an exorcism. She was gone the whole next day. We didn’t speak for a couple days after. Then last night, I was so fired up that I left the house and decided to have a few beers. I needed something to take the edge off.”

“Then what happened?”

“After I got home, it visited us again, and…you know the rest. I already told you guys.”

Ross stood and went to the door. “Anson, you’re not telling us everything. I want to know what really happened last night.”

“Why would I make this up? Why would I tell you this crazy story when I know no one’s going to believe me?”

“Double bluff, Anson.”

Anson wasn’t familiar with the term. He kept talking. “It’s the truth. I could have made up a million more plausible stories but I want to cooperate.”

“Then start cooperating.” Ross closed the door.

Eleven

Spencer was in his office at seven the next morning. Ross met him there. The cop looked like he’d logged three hours of sleep. Spencer, on the other hand, had gotten his usual five. He rarely slept more than that these days with his reflux.

“Well,” Spencer said. “I haven’t heard from anybody yet.”

“You will.” Ross sat down. “He finally lawyered up.”

“Green?”

Ross nodded. “But he didn’t use his call on Green. He used it on Giles Tyson.”

Spencer finished his first cup of coffee and went for his second. He refilled his mug and offered one to Ross.

“Trying to quit.”

Spencer shrugged and came back to the desk. “Your expert medical opinion: is Anson cracked?”

Ross squinted. “He’s lucid. He believes what he’s saying, or he’s a better actor than Daniel Day-Lewis.”

“Fuck.” Spencer fished out a cigarette. “And that fits with no premeditation. Sounds like the guy just had a break from reality and killed his wife. Or, killed his wife and checked out. I don’t like either scenario.”

Ross squirmed in his chair, decided to sit on his words.

Spencer indulged the cop. He was a good guy after all. “Councilman Towson is out for blood. You and I are in the same boat here. If we don’t deliver Anson’s head on a fucking platter, it won’t bode well for us. And believe me, Towson won’t be happy unless we get a life sentence.”

“He doesn’t want the death penalty?”

“Of course he does. But he’s on shaky ground and it’s an election year. He won’t come out and say that.”

“Okay, then.” Ross stood. “The report’s filed. Our guy has lawyered up. What are you going to do?”

Spencer took a long drag on his cigarette, felt the delicious poison enter his lungs. “Charge him now. Not much on the docket and I can get this expedited. Not even Green will buy this line of defense. He’ll push Anson to take a deal. Problem is we can’t offer anything less than life with the Councilman involved. So we’re looking at a trial. He’d plead Monday, get a month of discovery at most, then the big show. Trial could start three weeks from Monday. Anson Ketcher will be convicted before Labor Day. Everybody can drink to his life sentence on the long weekend, the son of a bitch.”

Before eight AM, Anson was booked and processed. They took his watch, wallet, belt, and cell phone. Asked for his keys but Anson didn’t have them. They checked his pockets to make sure. He had nothing else on his person. Then he was given the standard-issue jumpsuit and moved to a holding cell.

* * * *

Councilman Bennett Towson wore a charcoal grey sweater over black chinos and stood in front of his three-story house. It was unusually cold for an August morning. His breath came out in foggy gasps.

“We are deeply saddened by this tragic loss.” For once, he didn’t have to work up his emotions to play to the crowd of reporters on his lawn. “There are no words to describe a father’s feelings under these circumstances. My little girl is…gone. The District Attorney and local law enforcement are hard at work, and I commend them for their professionalism. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be with my family and I’d appreciate it if you could respect our privacy during this awful time.”

The politician turned and was halfway in his door when a reporter in the front of the crowd raised her voice above the others. “Councilman, do you think your son-in-law was responsible or involved in the death of your daughter?”

Towson hesitated the required political second before answering, so his true feelings didn’t surface. “I myself don’t have all the information that the police and the DA have, so I can’t comment yet. But I applaud the tireless efforts of the prosecutor and local law enforcement. These people are the glue that holds our community together.”

The politician went back inside and shut the door. His wife stood, teary-eyed and hugging herself, in the foyer next to the double staircase. He wrapped her in a hug.

“Spencer better fucking nail this guy, or I’ll find a way to kill him myself,” the Councilman said.

Twelve

Eddie turned the shower off and heard the phone ringing. He wrapped a towel around his waist and left wet footprints on the carpet as he hurried to answer it.

He didn’t recognize the number. “Eddie McCloskey.”

“Edward, old friend. I need your help.”

The voice was familiar but it took Eddie a moment to place it. “…Giles Tyson… how the hell are you?”

“Not good, Edward.”

“I gathered that, since you’re calling me.”

“How soon can you get here?”

“Upstate New York?” Eddie thought about it. “I need to eat something, pack, then drive. Seven hours.”

“Could you get here any sooner?”

“Faster than light travel hasn’t been invented yet. And I don’t own a DeLorean.”

“Please hurry. I hate to call in a favor like this but I need your help. It’s—”

“I know. It’s about that guy that claimed a ghost killed his wife.”

If Giles was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Yes. Anson will be convicted, unless you help him.”

Eddie laughed. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

* * * *

Eddie had read about it online when it first came to light. Some clown from upstate New York had been arrested following his wife’s murder and told police that a ghost had done the deed. Eddie would have forgotten all about it but for the fact that said clown’s friend was referenced in the article: Giles Tyson.

Eddie got his things together quickly and jumped in the car.

During the drive, Giles gave Eddie the background on the situation, the deceased, and the accused. It took three hours. They hung up and Eddie still had another two plus hours to drive. All told he traveled two-hundred and seventy miles by the time he exited I-87. He’d been to Giles’s house once before years ago and the terrain was still familiar to him. He followed his GPS and drove another thirty minutes through beautiful country.

Another town, another state, another job. He’d pushed hard the last eight months and had hustled six ways to Sunday to get his business up and running. A couple of months of smooth sailing, but now the bills were piling up.

Not good.

He was experiencing an acute case of Good Samaritan remorse and now questioned his decision to forego payment from the Chins a few weeks ago. The two hundred bucks from the last job would have at least covered travel expenses and food for a couple days. And now here he was, racking up the mileage, paying New York tolls, on what would probably be another charity job that offered the added bonus of endangering his professional reputation. All because he owed Giles Tyson a favor.

Eddie knew enough about himself to know he had to learn a lot more about business.

But Eddie had developed the good habit of repaying old debts, both financial and moral. And he reminded himself that it was another job. He’d worked steadily for seven months, which was saying something.

New town to explore, different mentality. He could add this experience to that ever-expanding autobiography. It would broaden him, stretch him.

The fields zipped past and the cows and horses couldn’t be bothered to turn around and watch him as he drove by. He’d call Giles’s town backwoods but that would sound derogatory. These people might not have had the culture of the hipsters strutting around the theater district in the Big Apple, but they had their own mores. Their own unique collective spin on the world and politics and customs.

The three Cs on the radio. Country, classic rock, Christian. Some crossover between the three, but nothing else. Eddie wasn’t religious. He didn’t believe in the all-powerful invisible man in the sky even though he’d experienced the paranormal. He didn’t mind other people being religious. So long as they weren’t flying planes into buildings or telling him what to do in his bedroom or blatantly ignoring the fossil record.

To his right, the trees broke and an old cast iron fence began. Eddie slowed and in the mid afternoon sun could make out the scores of tombstones, standing up like crooked rows of teeth that had never been braced. Many of them old, weather-worn, made illegible by time. This cemetery reminded him of the place his parents had been laid to rest over twenty years ago. The grounds consisted of a big, sweeping plain surrounded by forest off a quiet road. Big woods all around where a guy could get lost for days.

The cemetery gate was open. It looked like it had been left open fifty years ago and like you’d never get it shut now, not even with Schwarzenegger spotting you.

Eddie steered between the two gargoyled pillars and followed the main artery, driving slowly through the cemetery. They weren’t planting anybody today. In the distance, he could make out Giles’s home.

The deeper he went, the more recent the markers were. Private mausoleums popped up with family names displayed in proud Roman font. Eddie felt what he always felt inside a graveyard: isolation. The dead might be laid to rest in neat little rows next to one another, their graves decorated by floral arrangements and expensive stones, but they were all alone, rotting away in their coffins in the earth.

Giles’s house grew in Eddie’s windshield.

Giles had led a unique childhood. The son of the local caretaker, he’d grown up surrounded by dead people which in turn had sparked and fueled his interest in the paranormal. In the summers, he’d camped out not in the woods, but among the tombstones. His father, a reserved and aloof man, had not discouraged this. Giles had never spoken of his mother, but Eddie knew the woman had left when Giles was just a boy. As a teen, Giles took on the unpopular role of guardian, chasing away his fellow classmates who’d snuck into the cemetery to smoke up or vandalize.

Giles and his father had always lived on the grounds, but Giles lived no caretaker’s modest existence. After his father died at an early age, Giles inherited the house. There was no mortgage to pay, only the taxes. As Giles grew a lucrative paranormal business and made his book deals, he’d slowly expanded his home, installing an addition, a guest house and a pool. The result was a sprawling house that impressed but defied order and logic. From one side, it appeared more compound than home while from the other side, it looked like a country estate out of an Austen novel.

Eddie parked in front of the three-car garage next to a luxury class SUV that looked like it had come from the future and was so expensive it probably cost money just sitting there. It had vanity plates:

ESKWIRE

That would be the lawyer’s car.

The garage bays were all open, and Eddie saw Giles’s own SUV and hybrid.

Eddie got out of the car and stretched his legs. Followed the terra cotta steps that wrapped around the house and led to the entrance. A gargoyle knocker gave him the evil eye from the front door. Eddie opted for the doorbell. It rang loud and clear. He heard the methodical ticking of a grandfather clock in the foyer.

Giles opened the door. His hair was long and slicked back and he wore a day’s worth of stubble.

“Thank God you’re here, Edward.”

They did the man-hug and Eddie stepped out of the August humidity inside to the coolness of the AC. Giles’s house reminded him of Orson Welles’s in Citizen Kane. It was old, ornate, overly-furnished, heavily carpeted, heavily tapestried, and there were a lot expensive knick-knacks. Portraits on the walls with eyes that seemed to follow you. More gargoyles carved on the top of a mirrored bureau.

It was like Giles was going for the haunted house look.

The house was also a maze. It was a shame Giles had no children to play hide-and-seek with. Eddie lost his sense of place after the fourth turn, and they still hadn’t arrived in the den. Eddie thought of DC and that old bullshit urban legend about how the nation’s capitol was purposely designed to be confusing as a means of discouraging or thwarting an attack on the Federal government.

“I should have brought my GPS. I’ll need it to find the bathroom,” Eddie said.

Giles didn’t laugh but nodded his appreciation of the joke.

They made a final turn and Eddie stepped into the den. Cigar smoke hung in the air, and a squat, heavy-set man stood at the other end of the room. He’d been admiring some painting on the wall and turned with great ceremony to face Eddie and Giles.

He was seventy if he was a day.

“Counselor,” Giles said, “I’d like to introduce you to my good friend, Edward McCloskey.”

“Mr. McCloskey.” The lawyer’s voice rattled like an old engine trying to turn over. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Denard Green.”

Eddie shook the man’s pudgy, soft hand. “Likewise. Call me Eddie.”

The lawyer smiled, and Eddie could see the truth behind that smile. Already the man had classified him as unprofessional, possibly a liability. Lawyers were usually good at judging people, but they always got Eddie wrong because he didn’t fit any pre-defined stereotype. He was uneducated but intelligent. He was an ex-con but a business owner. That was fine with Eddie, though. He preferred to be underestimated.

Giles gestured toward the ashtray and sleeve of stogies sitting on the purely ornamental desk. “Smoke, Edward? They’re Cubans.”

“No thanks.”

The room was designed to impress. Which meant it didn’t impress Eddie. There was a pool table with leather pockets in the corner that looked as new as the lawyer’s SUV outside. A stuffed bear’s head in the corner, the mouth frozen perpetually in mid-roar. A dead owl, paused in flight, over the door. A rifle case affixed to the wall. Book shelves filled with old, dusty, expensive looking volumes, like Giles had robbed a Victorian home in England.

“Nice pad,” Eddie said. “Tim always loved this place.”

Giles smiled as if he didn’t expect Eddie to get the house. “It keeps the rain off my head.”

Green picked up a highball glass and swirled the brown liquid inside before sipping from it. Eddie waited for somebody to say something.

Giles finally did.

“We need your help, Edward. A good friend of mine has been charged with murder.”

“Interesting defense he’s got going.” Eddie looked at the lawyer. “Think you can make it fly in Court?”

Green grunted. “I’ve been a defense attorney for forty-five years. In that time, I’ve used every argument at my disposal. You’d be amazed at what I’ve been successful with. But this one…” He shook his head, took another sip of his drink. “This one I don’t know about. No Court has ever recognized a paranormal defense before. It will come down largely to the expert testimony we offer.”

Eddie felt the weight of the room on him. The lawyer approached him.

“If the jury believes you then maybe, just maybe, they’ll believe my client.”

“No pressure, right?”

The lawyer didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. Then the lawyer looked past Eddie at Giles, his eyes full of judgment.

“Let’s talk about the elephants in the room,” Eddie said. “Why not go for insanity? This paranormal defense has about as much chance as a blind man at a poker table.”

“Anson refuses.” Green shook his head. “And he’s not crazy.”

Eddie shrugged. “Okay. Why not plead this down?”

Green said, “He told me if I tried to plead this down he’ll fire me and rep himself. That would be even worse for him.”

“You’re a lawyer. Why not just lean on him? You’ve had almost two weeks to convince him otherwise.”

“He’s the worst kind of client, Eddie. He thinks he’s innocent.”

“Is he?”

Green grunted. Giles watched both of them over the rim of his glass.

Eddie smiled. “So he’s holding you emotionally hostage. You must be related.”

Green took a long pull from his cigar. “That boy is my grand-nephew and goddamnit I’m going to represent him to the best of my abilities.”

“I’m not judging, just asking. And the Courts are all over the place about the paranormal.”

The lawyer and Giles exchanged a look. Eddie smiled. He loved showing people how wrong they were about him.

“Some lady claiming to be a psychic sued a construction company after a beam fell and hit her on the head. She claimed she’d lost her psychic abilities following the accident and in addition to the usual claim for pain and suffering and medical expenses she tried to recover lost future earnings for her psychic business. The Court wouldn’t allow it.”

Green smoked his cigar and Giles gave the lawyer an I told you so smile.

Eddie continued. “My favorite is Stambovsky v. Ackley. New York case too, that limited the principle of buyer beware. Poor Jeffrey Stambovsky bought a house that the Ackleys forgot to tell him was haunted. The paranormal claims were probably bullshit, but the Court didn’t care. The Ackleys had advertised that the house was haunted, so this was local knowledge that diminished the value of the property. Stambovsky wasn’t from the area and had no way of knowing, short of the Ackleys telling him. The Court ruled that the house was legally haunted, a fact that should have been disclosed to the buyer during negotiations.”

The lawyer reappraised Eddie.

Eddie said, “I read a lot.”

Green grunted. “There’s no precedent in New York criminal law for what we’re doing. If this were a civil trial, you wouldn’t get anywhere near the witness stand but since we’re talking about a man’s life and liberty, the Court won’t exclude your testimony.”

“Let’s be clear on expectations here. I can’t prove a ghost did this. All I can hope to do is plant reasonable doubt and that won’t be easy.”

Green’s cell rang. The lawyer took out his smart phone. “Denard Green.”

Eddie gave the lawyer some space and walked to Giles, who leaned on the mantel of the fireplace. “You believe Ketcher?”

“Yes. But there are some things you should know about him.”

“Lemme guess. History of violence, right?”

Giles nodded. “But the man was reformed. He had turned himself around.”

Green ended his call and raised his voice. “The judge is going to hear the DA’s motion to exclude paranormal expert testimony this afternoon. I have to get to the courthouse.”

Eddie knew that motions on evidence were usually heard at the end of discovery, right before a jury was picked. “Hold on a minute. When’s the trial start?”

“Week from today,” Giles said.

Eddie shot them both an incredulous look. “Why the hell didn’t you guys call me sooner?”

Green grunted again. “We wasted time trying to convince Anson to take a deal and trying to get the DA to offer one. Both were dead ends.”

“That doesn’t take two weeks.” Eddie flicked a glance at Giles. “You called other investigators before you tried me.”

Giles wasn’t embarrassed in the least. “Only because of your criminal history, Edward. I don’t doubt your competence in the least.”

“Jesus.” Eddie paced to the other side of the room. “He only pleaded two weeks ago.”

Green killed his cigar and left it perched on the ash tray. “This is high-profile. When I told the judge what our defense theory was, he gave us two weeks of discovery. I had to bluff and say we’d work out a deal if he gave us a month and time to work on our client. He thought about it for a few seconds, gave us three weeks. Told us to cut a deal. Judge Metnick runs a tight ship. We expected Anson to change his mind but he hasn’t moved from his position. Now we’ve got a week.”

Eddie hadn’t expected to be on a witness stand so soon. “Ask for an extension.”

Green shook his head no. “Won’t get it.”

“I need more time than a week.”

Green continued as if Eddie hadn’t spoken. “You and I need to prep. The DA will be merciless, will exploit your criminal background, and will make you look a fool if you’re not careful. What do you need to do?”

He laughed. “I need to drop this fucking case like a bad habit.”

Giles spoke up. “Please, Edward, we need your help.”

“I’m not making any promises here. But for starters, I need access to the house and I need to meet with Anson Ketcher pronto.”

“You can’t see Anson without me being present, just a matter of process. I’ll give you a call when we can see him.” Green waddled over and the stench of cigar on his person was overpowering. He put his fat hand on Eddie’s shoulder and looked him dead in the eye, just like he must have stared down all those witnesses for the prosecution during his career.

“He’s a good boy, despite the majority opinion. No one in this town will back him up except Giles and myself. But Anson and I are kin, and he and Giles are friends. Our allegiances undermine our credibility. That leaves us in a difficult position.”

“I appreciate that.” Eddie squirmed out of the man’s grip. “But here’s the deal. Whatever I find, I turn over. Good, bad, ugly, indifferent, doesn’t matter. The DA gets it. I don’t have a horse in this race and I’ve got my reputation to protect. I’m not a lawyer’s hired gun.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Green said. “Now, about the house, you’d better get over there ASAP. I’ll take my time getting to the courthouse to argue against the DA’s motion and I’ll stall the judge. If you’ve got anything solid, it’ll be more difficult for the judge to exclude it.”

“Green, this is a process. It takes time. I’m not going to find anything in five minutes.”

“Just do your best.” Green patted his shoulder and they exchanged cell phone numbers. Green waddled out of the room.

Thirteen

“Have a drink, Edward.” Giles spoke with overblown gravity, like this would be the most difficult conversation of Eddie’s life.

“I’m on the clock. Have to get to Anson’s house.”

“It’ll relax you. Take off the edge and get rid of your inhibitions. That’s what you need for an investigation like this.”

“I’m off the sauce.”

Giles stopped pouring himself another bourbon and regarded Eddie. “For how long?”

“Long enough that the urge is almost gone. Not long enough that it still gets to me.”

Giles finished pouring his drink and raised his glass. “To your good health then.”

Eddie said nothing.

Giles took a healthy swig and screwed up a smile. Perhaps he’d relax a bit now that the lawyer was gone.

“Edward, before we get bogged down in all this I really wanted to thank you for coming.”

“G, for Christ’s sake call me Eddie. We have history. And speaking of history, you don’t have to thank me. I owe you.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was something,” Eddie said. “You bailed me out and you challenged Tim to keep me on the team after I’d fucked up. I’ll never forget it.”

Giles grew pensive. “I always liked your brother. It is one of my great regrets that our philosophical differences drove us apart. He was a good man and a good investigator.”

Eddie waited for the but.

“Perhaps if I’d listened to Tim more, I wouldn’t be in this position now,” Giles said.

“Don’t sweat Gracie Barbitok. You’ll bounce back,” Eddie lied through his teeth. “When’s your next book out?”

Giles’s “non-fiction” accounts of his paranormal investigations over the years had enjoyed much success in the paranormal market and had even made headway into the commercial market too. He wasn’t raking it in like James Patterson, but they were his main source of income and he supplemented through investigations.

Giles heaved a sigh. “Never, unless I self-publish. After the fallout from Ms. Barbitok’s entrapment, the publishing house cancelled the contract. They won’t touch me. Business is slow too. The only person to throw me a bone the last couple of months is Anson Ketcher.”

“You believe him?” Eddie asked.

“I do.”

Eddie laughed. “Well that makes one of us. I can’t believe Green is going to try and sell this to a jury. It’s like saying the dog ate his homework.”

Giles smiled. “I’m glad you brought this up because it’s exactly what I wanted to discuss.”

“Ghosts don’t kill people,” Eddie said. “That only happens in movies and books.”

“With that attitude, you won’t be of any help to Anson.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

“Listen, Eddie…” Giles hesitated like it pained him to bring the next thing up. “...I meant what I said before about your brother. He was a good investigator. One of the best. But his protocols were self-limiting. Sometimes you can’t find something unless you’re looking for it. Sometimes you don’t see until you realize you’re wearing blinders.”

“Tim’s methods weren’t sexy, but they were sound. Nobody got the job done better, more professionally.”

Giles put his glass of bourbon on an end table. “Tim didn’t take any chances. If you want to grab the big brass ring, you have to reach for it.”

“Giles, all due respect, but look at where your way of doing things got you.”

Giles took it on the chin. A rueful smirk turned one corner of his mouth up. “My ambition certainly exceeded my grasp, I’ll grant you that. But you are presented with an extraordinary hypothetical, Eddie. You need to think outside the box.”

“Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof, Giles. And don’t try to steer me. This is my investigation. Unless you want to take it from here.”

“You know I can’t because that’s exactly what the DA wants. Big, bad, fraudulent Giles Tyson on the stand. Mr. Tyson, aren’t you best friends with the defendant? Mr. Tyson, didn’t you recently appear on Gracie Barbitok’s program? Mr. Tyson, didn’t the local chapter of the paranormal society revoke your membership status? I can’t take the stand without endangering my friend’s life.”

“I don’t make a great expert witness either with my background. And it will come out that you and I have history.”

“Yes, but you’re more removed from the situation than I am. And you have a good reputation following that job in Pennsylvania. A jury will more likely believe you when you explain your biggest investigation to date was exposing a fraud.”

“My biggest investigation to date is when my brother was murdered.”

Giles didn’t miss a beat. “But really, Edward, you need to practice with Denard. He will make you come out sounding like me, only better.”

Eddie liked Giles. He forgave the guy his pompous attitude and presumptuousness. But a sharp line needed to be drawn between him and the investigation if this was going to work.

“You need to give me room to breathe. If the jury finds out you had a hand in this at all my appearing as a witness is pointless.”

“I agree with you, and that’s why we won’t speak of your work again after this conversation. So listen to me very carefully. We’re about the same age, but I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you. Unless you take a radical approach with this case, Anson Ketcher will be convicted. The only issue left for debate would be whether he gets life imprisonment or death.”

“Maybe that’s what the guy deserves.”

Giles frowned. “I’m not just worried about him. I’m worried about you. If Anson is telling the truth, and I know he is, then the ghost is dangerous. It could turn on you. You need to consider the possibility or you might not see what’s coming.”

“Duly noted.”

“If your brother had been more open-minded, maybe he would have seen what was coming for him.”

Nobody spoke ill of his dead brother, especially not a disgraced investigator like Giles who’d been all-but forced out of the business because of his own excesses and poor decisions.

Eddie threw a punch and was already thinking about the next one.

The only problem was, Eddie’s first punch didn’t connect. Giles suddenly wasn’t where Eddie wanted him to be.

The room decided to somersault and then Eddie was on the floor, his elbow locked painfully in an arm bar.

“Forgive me, Eddie,” Giles said. “I spoke out of turn about your brother, but did so out of concern for you.”

Eddie’s arm felt like it was going to break. His arm was caught between Giles’s legs and the pain immobilized him.

“Ease up,” Giles said.

Eddie let his body go slack, and Giles slowly released his iron grip. Giles jumped to his feet and assumed a defensive posture, right hand leading. Eddie waited for the feeling to return to his arm and for the nerves to stop screaming, then picked himself up.

“Where the hell you’d learn to fight?” Eddie windmilled his arm carefully.

Giles relaxed out of his fighting stance. “Here and there. Eddie, I’m sorry.”

Eddie bobbed his head at Giles. “I am too. You would have cleaned the floor with me.”

“I’m sure you would have put up a good fight.”

Eddie shook his head. “I hate lefties. South paws are a pain in the ass.”

Giles laughed without mirth. “Yes we are.”

Fourteen

Eddie followed his GPS to the Ketcher residence. He wanted to see the place in the daytime before he went dark that night.

On the way, he couldn’t find a good song on the radio so he settled on a program about mortgages and finances. The host and his guest spoke for ten minutes about rates, how the housing market hadn’t rebounded like it should have, and the impending economic collapse, which was sure to happen in the next year or two, or decade, or quarter century. Nobody was sure. The only thing they could tell you was that there would likely be widespread famine and rioting and general lawlessness. It was all wearisome and depressing and then the host started discussing how much of a factor God played in financial outcomes, reinforcing the power of prayer, and Eddie wondered if the guy was kidding.

He wasn’t.

“We are signing off now, but keep those thoughts in mind when you pray. God will reward you financially if you just listen to Him.”

“If it were that easy...”

Eddie’s cell buzzed. Denard Green calling. He let it go to voicemail because he was making the final turn and just wanted to get inside the house. The robotic GPS voice told him the house was 750 feet ahead on his right. It stood in the distance. Relatively new construction, two stories, nice wide expanse of green yard. A volleyball net set up on one side. It looked like a great place for a party, perfect in the summer for a barbecue, large enough for a winter get-together.

Real estate was cheaper up here but still Eddie figured the Ketchers had probably paid four hundred grand for it.

The next owners would get it for a lot cheaper.

Eddie pulled into the long driveway. Two police cruisers were parked near the garage, a cop sitting in one with the windows down. He was on his cell phone and cast a malevolent eye at Eddie.

Eddie ignored him and took the path to the front door. Another uniformed cop stood on the front steps, smoking a cigarette with casual indifference. Eddie’s breath nearly caught in his throat. Unlike the cop in the cruiser, this one was a woman.

Eddie didn’t like a woman in uniform normally. They usually appeared sexless under the tailored shirt and pants and hat. But no uniform could hide this lady’s femininity. She was tall, lean, and angular like a volleyball player. Even had the blond hair to complete the look. He could picture her on TV, digging into the sands with her toes, waiting for the serve in her two-piece bikini...

And then she smiled. It wasn’t a warm or even friendly smile but he would have felt it five hours away back in his apartment.

“Hi there. Who are you?” she asked.

“Edward McCloskey, the defense’s expert witness. You must be the law west of the Pecos.”

She took a long drag, looked at him like he was a new species to her. “Expert witness, huh?”

“I can hardly believe it myself.”

That delicate jaw line hardened. “You can’t come in.”

“Like hell I can’t. I brought my buddy with me. Due process. Maybe you know him? He’s an all-access pass that gets me in this door.”

She regarded him with detached amusement.

“Look, Officer…”

“Thieler.”

“Officer Thieler.” Eddie put on his best from across the bar smile. “I know how badly you want to nail Anson Ketcher. Even I have trouble believing him, and I work with the paranormal for a living.”

“Uh-huh.” She was so dismissive, it perversely turned him on.

“But the last thing you want, from a professional standpoint, is a DP charge. I know how defense attorneys work. If they can make a case that law enforcement isn’t playing fair they can get their client to walk. You don’t want Anson riding off into the sunset. Bad for your conscience and bad for your career.”

Her poker face was pretty. “Uh-huh.”

“So you should really let me in. Believe me, if I don’t find anything to support what Anson is claiming I’ll tell it to the judge. And I doubt I will find anything. The sooner you let me in, the quicker this thing will be over.”

Officer Thieler finished her cigarette and stamped it out. “Speaking of the judge, you should give him a call.”

Eddie hoped a name-drop would change her attitude. “Denard Green is doing that right now.”

“Glad to hear Mr. Green has to actually work for a change. Usually he’s just complaining about police brutality and getting his clients off on technicalities.” She shrugged like this was all academic to her. “Judge Metnick issued an order about fifteen minutes ago. I’m surprised Mr. Green didn’t let you know.”

That explained the call from the lawyer.

“What’s the order say?” Eddie asked.

“Why don’t you give Mr. Green a call…just not when you’re driving of course. Now you have a nice day.”

Winking was a lost art, very difficult to pull off in this politically correct age, but he gave it a shot anyway. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, Officer.”

She winked right back at him. “Shakespeare’s overrated. Marlowe was just as good.”

“Some people think Marlowe was Shakespeare.”

She was unimpressed. “Some people think a lot of things.” She put that professional smile on again. “Some people think ghosts exist and can do murder.”

Eddie walked back to his car, having been thoroughly disarmed by Officer Thieler. He wondered what the job was like for her, probably the only woman on a police force that was still part of the good old boys’ club. She was either tough, or a masochist, or both. But there was none of the expected chip on her shoulder. She didn’t act like she had to prove her gender and she didn’t overcompensate by trying to be the toughest person in the world. She’d handled him with the ease of a comfortable veteran, one not easily rattled by anything.

It made her an intriguing puzzle.

Eddie broke the law and called Green while driving.

“The lawyer answered on the second ring. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Eddie smiled. Everything was an emergency to a lawyer. “I just heard about the judge’s order.”

“You can’t get in the house until the DA’s expert arrives. The judge is naturally skeptical of any testimony on the paranormal. He wants both experts present in the house to keep an eye on each other.”

“Wait…the DA has a paranormal expert too?”

“Yes.” Green paused with lawyerly gravity. “And you might have heard of her. Gracie Barbitok.”

Eddie nearly drove off the road.

* * * *

The police station was like every other police station Eddie had ever seen, except maybe a little cleaner. Old floors, old ceiling, old fluorescents. The smell of stale coffee hanging stubbornly in the air. Thickset men hunched over computers, the older ones hunting and pecking on the keyboard with just their pointers. The younger ones were expert typists and could crank out a report ten times as quickly on their smart phones. A sense of relaxed inevitability to every action, like there would always be too much crime and too little police force and it was all a matter of just getting a reasonable amount of work done each day.

“Show me some ID,” the desk sergeant said. Eddie noticed the last name on the guy’s tag.

Towson.

Eddie knew that was the deceased’s maiden name and that the Towsons were a well-established fixture in this town. Her father was a big-shot local politician. Her uncle was the chief of police. Her cousin served on the force. This must have been him. The same dude who’d arrested Anson. He was about twenty-five and looked competent.

He examined Eddie’s driver’s license like a bouncer would at a campus bar. “Tell me again why you’re here.”

Eddie shared a look with Denard Green, who stood next to him holding a briefcase. “My client is here.”

“Your client is Anson Ketcher?”

“That’s right.”

“And what do you do?”

Eddie was a contrarian iconoclast at heart. He didn’t like cops giving him heat and it brought out the snide asshole in him.

“I do a lot of things. Most of them well.”

Green jumped in. “Mr. McCloskey is the defense’s expert witness, officer. He has a right to meet with Mr. Ketcher.”

Towson raised an eyebrow. “And I have every right to do my job to safeguard the internal security of this police station, counselor.”

“That does not mean—”

“I know exactly what it means and what it doesn’t mean.” Towson slapped his palm against the desk, and heads turned.

Eddie felt the eyes of local law enforcement on him. He was used to it. So was Green. A defense attorney didn’t make too many cop friends. A plain clothes detective stuck his head out of an office to gauge the scene, came out, adjusted his tie, and took his time getting to the front desk while Officer Towson stared them down.

The plain clothes cop put a hand on Officer Towson’s shoulder. The young cop got the message and backed away from the desk.

The older cop said, “Counselor. Nice to see you.”

“Detective.” Green nodded. Eddie could tell they weren’t old buddies, would never buy drinks for each other, but there was a mutual respect. “I’m here to see my client. This is my expert.”

The cop’s face was unreadably professional. He leveled neutral eyes on Eddie. “Detective Mark Ross. I’ll take you back.”

Eddie and Green followed Ross through the overcrowded station. Eddie wasn’t up to date on his tetanus shots, so he steered clear of the filing cabinets. The cops they passed looked ready to stone Green. Eddie paid attention to the names on the office doors. The last office belonged to Chief Towson. Through the glass windows, Eddie could see a big, fat man making an average-sized desk look like a children’s toy. Chief Towson did not get up, did not wave, did not do anything except watch them with barely concealed contempt.

“You don’t have too many friends around here, do you?” Eddie said to Green. He caught Ross smirking.

The lawyer gave him a flip smile. “Neither will you, Edward.”

“Good thing I don’t live here.”

Ross turned a corner. They approached a barred gate fronted by a desk. Ross waved to the skinny, pimpled kid manning the desk. The kid was swimming in his uniform and looked like he was playing dress-up. The kid pushed a button, locks tumbled, and Ross opened the gate.

“Nobody else in the lockup,” Ross said. “You’ll have your privacy in there.”

The lawyer thanked him and Eddie followed Green inside the holding area. They passed four dark, empty cells before getting to Anson’s.

Anson Ketcher had been working a sudoko puzzle. He put it down on the thin mattress of his cot and stuck his hand through the bars to shake Green’s hand and thanked him for probably the millionth time. Then, through the bars of his cage, he offered his hand to Eddie.

Eddie looked him in the eye and shook the rough, callused hand. Anson had a widow’s peak and a buzz cut with long sideburns. He wore a redneck’s Winnfield mustache surrounded by two days’ stubble. A half-moon scar over one eye. One canine missing from the upper jaw.

At least he looked innocent, Eddie didn’t say.

“Thanks for coming, man. Thanks. Giles has nothing but good things to say about you,” Anson said.

“He might be the only one.” Eddie smiled and looked at the lawyer. “Counselor, I have to ask Anson some questions now.”

Green raised a pair of caterpillar-like eyebrows and didn’t budge. “Go ahead.”

“I don’t know if you want to hear the answers to these questions.”

It took Green a moment but he got the message. He nodded sagely and shuffled away to give them some privacy.

Eddie knew from personal experience that most defense attorneys never asked their clients if they’d committed the crime in question. You could make a more compelling, plausible argument if you didn’t have to lie while doing it. Without knowing the truth, the lawyer didn’t have to deal with cognitive dissonance.

Anson frowned at Eddie. “What’s going on?”

“Did you kill your wife?”

The answer was perfectly timed. Not too fast, not too slow. “No, man. I didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“The ghost, man.”

“How did it happen?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“I want you to tell me.”

Anson put his hands on the bars and leaned against the cage. He looked like an animal who has just figured out what a zoo really is.

“It just went crazy. Started pushing me, this way and that. I don’t know why. Then Alice got all weird and—”

“What do you mean?”

“She closed her eyes and went very still and started mouthing something, I don’t know what.”

“You didn’t hear her?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I think the ghost, you know, took her over.”

“No, I don’t know. What do you mean?”

“You know, possessed her like.”

“Why do you think that?”

“She made these funny sounds, and her voice got deep and it sounded weird when she talked. Like it was somebody else using it.”

Giles had failed to mention that to Eddie. “Come on. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

“I’m not, God’s honest truth.”

“Speaking of the Big Man Upstairs, you and your wife are pretty religious, huh?”

Anson frowned. “Yeah. So what?”

It was Eddie’s turn to frown. Something about that bothered him.

“What’s that got to do with the price of tea in damned China?” Anson asked.

“You guys went to church?”

“We were heavily involved. We went every Sunday and then we volunteered for other things.” Anson said this as if it should earn him points in Eddie’s book. “Our church saved our marriage. The pastor helped us through our problems.”

Read: the pastor discouraged divorce. From Giles, Eddie knew that Anson had a history of domestic violence. Instead of helping them to part ways, the church had let no one tear them asunder, not the state and certainly not Mrs. Ketcher herself.

“What did Alice say, when she was possessed?”

“This is what gave me the idea she was possessed. She said, It’s not me.”

“Huh?”

“In that weird voice, she said it wasn’t her.”

Eddie scrutinized the man behind bars. He didn’t wither under Eddie’s stare. His eyes were telling the truth.

But Eddie didn’t buy it for a second. He got up and started walking away.

“Hey,” Anson said. “Wait a minute, man.”

The lawyer turned and saw Eddie approaching. “Where are you going?”

“I’m out. This little experiment is over.”

The lawyer cuffed his arm before he could pass. “Wait! Why?”

Eddie gave the lawyer a look that said don’t touch me. “You sure you want to know?”

Green let go of his arm. Thought about it. “Yes.”

Eddie dropped his voice. “Because he’s guilty as hell.”

* * * *

Outside, the sun was warm on Eddie’s skin, the air fresh. Summer still going strong. Autumn not even lurking.

Better to walk away from this one. Eddie’s initial instinct was bolstered by Anson’s nonsensical account. The ghost had possessed Alice, changed its mind, then killed her? It was hard enough to get people to believe in the paranormal at all. Getting them to buy this chain of events would require the talents of PT Barnum.

And the clincher was the strange words coming out of Alice’s mouth. If the ghost had possessed Alice and spoken through her, why would it then say those words? Or why would Alice speak those words in a strange voice?

And that was ignoring the monkey wrench that would be Gracie Barbitok.

Green called his cell. He ignored it and headed for his car in the municipal lot, feeling better with each step. He’d come out here to pay back the favor to Giles Tyson, found out Anson was a liar, so now he could leave with a clear conscience.

Shame that clear consciences cost so much in travel expenses and time.

On his way to the car, he spotted Officer Thieler hop out of a hastily parked cruiser. She’d taken her hat off to drive, and Eddie saw her pinned-up blond hair. He took a detour and walked to her car.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Eddie said.

She reached in the car for her hat. He took full advantage of her turned back to check her out. She put her hat on and faced him. “You’re right.”

“You off duty now?”

She smiled. “A cop is always on duty.”

Eddie didn’t feel like immediately jumping in his car and driving another five hours home. A hot meal would be good. Even better if she was sitting across the table from him.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

She sized him up. “I’m not into career suicide.”

Eddie wanted to tell her he was off the case, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough for her. “What are you into?”

“Mr. McCloskey,” she said with mock indignation. “I’m a lady.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying. Maybe under different circumstances we could have had a good time.”

She gave him that ironic smile. “Under different circumstances, I’d probably be arresting you.”

“You just can’t wait to get those cuffs on me, can you?”

She started walking. “Nice knowing you.”

He watched her go and tried to think of something to say. His eyes followed her all the way up the front steps.

Finally he thought of something. “Yours is a face that could launch a thousand squad cars.”

She turned at the entrance and made a grand bow like she was Helen of Troy and went inside.

Fifteen

Eddie couldn’t find a diner, so he settled on a pub. He ordered a sandwich and a glass of water and ignored the bar flies slowly killing themselves with the booze. Coming here was a bad idea. Since he’d gone cold turkey, he’d followed the conventional wisdom and avoided bars. Now he understood why.

Though the thought of guzzling a beer turned his stomach, there was a small part of him that said one wouldn’t hurt.

Green called his cell again, but Eddie ignored it. A few minutes later Giles buzzed him. Eddie figured he owed his friend an explanation.

“Your buddy is guilty as sin.”

“Maybe he is,” Giles said. “But why drop the case? Nobody’s asking you to lie. Green explained to me that under the rules of evidence, you have to turn over whatever you find now that he’s named you as his expert. We’re not asking you to be a lawyer. We’re asking you to give it an honest evaluation.”

“I already have.”

Giles ignored his comment. “Do you think Gracie Barbitok is going to play fair? You and I know how she operates. She has no qualms about playing fast and loose with the truth, twisting things to suit her own agenda.”

Eddie thought that was the pot calling the kettle black, but Giles had a point. Gracie Barbitok would do a controlled demolition job on Anson Ketcher’s claims regardless of the veracity of them. If Eddie bowed out, there’d be nobody to speak for the accused other than Anson’s uncle, Denard Green.

And it was true that Eddie wasn’t being asked to lie. Whatever he found, even if it was incriminating, would be produced. If he found enough damning evidence, Green wouldn’t call him as a witness at all. Maybe there would be no trial. His reputation would remain intact.

Giles saw the opening and jumped through it. “Just consider one thing for me before you go.”

“I’m hitting the road, Giles.”

Giles ignored him. “Check out the history of the house.”

“Giles—”

“Then make up your own mind. No hard feelings if you leave.” Before Eddie could respond, Giles killed the call.

Eddie finished his sandwich. Some poor old liver-spotted bastard with a drinker’s pudgy nose stumbled away from the bar. Eddie wondered if he’d already done enough damage to himself before he quit that he’d end up like that guy anyway.

So...the Ketcher residence had history. All houses had history but that was a fact favorable to Anson to add to the Maybe It’s True column. It wouldn’t hurt to chase down the information.

And what had been bothering him about Alice Ketcher swam to the surface. She was supposedly a Bible-thumping, God-fearing christian woman. And yet if Anson was to be believed, she’d done some strange things to make him think otherwise. That was worth double-checking too.

Eddie decided to call the lawyer back.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Green said. “The accused has a right to a fair trial, Edward. It’s one of the most fundamental princ—”

“Take it easy on the Con Law lecture, Green.”

Lawyers weren’t good at shutting up, though. If it weren’t for judges, lawyers would be talking all the fucking time. “Without you keeping things honest, Gracie Barbitok will run Anson over, then back up the car and do it again. You have to—”

“I’m assuming the DA took the Ketchers’ hard drive into evidence, right? Can you get an expert to search the Internet history?”

Green paused. “Of course. We have a right under—”

“Right. Got it. We need to take a look at it.”

“Sure. Anson can help us with passwords. We can look at all the files too.”

“I don’t need the whole kit-and-caboodle. Just start with an internet history.”

“What are we looking for?”

Eddie told him.

“I take it this means you’re still on-board.”

“For now.”

“We’ve also got a copy of Alice’s diary.”

“Good. Make a copy for me.”

* * * *

Eddie trudged to his car and called an old friend. Stan had been on Eddie’s brother’s team years ago, and they’d all grown up together. Stan had lucked out and hit the lottery awhile back and now spent all his time pursuing his many hobbies, most of which were quickly abandoned. Stan was married to Moira, the only woman Eddie ever loved.

Stan answered on the fifth ring. A baby wailed in the background. It sounded like somebody was strangling a cat and it was followed by a loud crash.

“I take it this is a bad time,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, what’s up, motherfucker?” Stan said.

“Language!” Moira yelled in the background.

“Sorry!” Stan dropped his voice. “She is only three months old for God’s sake.”

Eddie smiled as he pictured the crazed domestic scene in his mind. Stan’s baby girl was already three months old, and Eddie still hadn’t had a chance to see her. He really needed to get out there.

“I’m doing some—”

“I know,” Stan said. Eddie heard a door shut and then couldn’t hear the baby anymore. “I may be a new father, but I’m still plugged in. Your name popped up on the grid.”

“Always a step ahead of me. Or maybe you’re a cyber-stalker.”

“I’m married. I have to live vicariously. So what can I do for you?” Stan had become Eddie’s sounding board. Whenever Eddie ran into a wall, he called Stan.

“My client, Anson Ketcher.”

“Your client? Don’t you mean the killer?”

“Innocent until proven guilty.”

“He’s about as innocent as a priest in a boys’ locker room.”

“That’s pretty good. Can you do a quick check on the house history for me? It looks new, but I don’t know anything about it.”

“Already did.”

“You already did?”

“Old habits die hard. I figured you’d be calling.”

“You know me so well.”

“That’s right sweetheart. The house is twenty years old. Ketchers purchased it seven years ago. Previous owners were Lee and Mary Oliver. Mary died in the house.”

“Lee still alive?”

“The trail on him went cold. Mind you, I didn’t do much digging. Just a little.”

“Got anything on him? Where he worked?”

“The foundry up there. I forget the name.”

“You’re the man, Stan.”

“I know.”

“How’s the rug rat?”

“She’s only three months, but I think she’s cutting a tooth already if you can believe it.”

“I meant Moira.”

“Ha-ha. Funny. She’s good. I’m good. We’re all good, brother. You should come out.”

“I should come out.”

“You never do, though.”

Eddie felt the brooding part of him stirring. “Thanks, Stan. I’ll give you a call when I have a better picture.”

“Good. Because you know, I don’t have anything else to do.”

* * * *

Eddie used his GPS to find the Ketchers’ church, a towering structure that seemed to hold the sky up with its spires. Eddie marveled at the architecture and wondered how much money it had cost when it’d been erected sixty years ago. He parked illegally on the street and beheld the human ingenuity that had gone into the designing. The cathedral’s grandeur was enough to impress even Eddie’s skeptical mind.

He would have enjoyed studying the building more, but it was already four in the afternoon. He still had a lot of other work to do, and if he wanted to go dark tonight at the Ketchers’, he had to hustle.

The doors were unlocked. Nobody was going to rob or vandalize this church, all the way out here. It was warm and smelled of fresh smoke and decades of incense that had seeped into everything.

The sanctuary was wide enough to accommodate an SUV. The floor thickly carpeted. Eddie walked through to the transept. More than anything, the building felt solid, like it would withstand the vagaries of time, the ravages of weather, the fickleness of its congregation.

A thirty-something woman appeared in the narthex. “Can I help you?”

She wore a pair of jeans that had gone out of fashion in the eighties and a sweater even though it was eighty degrees outside.

“Hi, I’m Eddie McCloskey.” He put on his disarming smile. “I was wondering if Pastor Grohmann was available.”

She adjusted her glasses on her tiny, beak-like nose. “I can check. What is the…nature of your visit?”

Eddie kept that friendly smile firmly in place. He realized he was going to misspeak due to his Catholic upbringing. “I was trying to track down one of his parishioners.”

“Oh.” She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Give me a moment.”

She padded silently away down the transept. He heard a door open and shut. He stood in the main aisle, looked back down the sanctuary. The stained glass window hovered over the front entrance. In it, Christ was a pale Caucasian with light brown hair carrying a cross. Denizens of Jerusalem surrounded him, most accusatory, some sympathetic. Eddie realized that Jesus was probably the most famous ghost on the planet. If the Christians were to be believed, he rose from the dead.

Eddie heard the door open and he turned to look down the transept where the woman had gone. A man with salt-and-pepper hair sporting a trim beard appeared. He wore a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt and approached Eddie with a serious air.

“Hello, I’m Pastor Grohmann.”

Eddie shook his hand and introduced himself. He put the pastor in his mid-forties. He watched as the pastor sized him up too.

“How can I help you, Mr. McCloskey?”

“Call me Eddie, please. I’m actually here for a couple reasons.”

“Oh?” Behind the beard, the man was wary. Looked at Eddie like he was a door-to-door salesman.

“Denard Green hired me to help him defend Anson Ketcher.”

The pastor’s face fell.

Eddie said, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Grohmann nodded. “Follow me.”

Eddie trailed the pastor through the transept, a heavy wooden door, through another building, and up some stairs till they came to a cozy office. The walls were lined with overcrowded bookshelves. The pastor gestured to an empty chair, then sat behind his desk.

Eddie said, “Thanks for sitting down with me.”

“You have the mark of an atheist.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You were more impressed by the architecture than by me. You don’t revere the institution, but you admire the human work that went into it.”

Eddie was impressed. “Pretty good eye, Pastor. What can you tell me about Alice and Anson?”

“What they shared with me is confidential.”

“They were devout?”

“Yes.”

Eddie paused, hoping to draw the pastor out. He didn’t take the bait.

Eddie said, “Did they come to you about the paranormal activity in their house?”

The pastor’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. And I told them, there is no such thing as ghosts.”

“Except Jesus, of course.”

Grohmann sat forward and put his hands on his desk. “You come to me for help and you insult me?”

“Did Alice come to see you more than once about the ghost?”

“Just one other time. But I don’t think she liked what I had to say.”

Eddie frowned. “Anson could swing for this. What if he didn’t kill Alice? Is a man’s life, one of your flock, less important to you than your dogma? The existence of ghosts doesn’t necessarily lay waste to your beliefs.”

“Anson was a troubled man. I thought he was getting better, but…unfortunately he didn’t. No ghost did this. Anson Ketcher murdered his wife. And now Alice’s blood is on my hands. I must pray for forgiveness, just as Anson should.”

“You really think he did it?”

Grohmann nodded. “Now I’m afraid I can’t help you any further, Mr. McCloskey.” The pastor stood.

Eddie did too. “You and I don’t have to be enemies.”

“No man is my enemy.”

“Was Lee Oliver part of your congregation?”

The pastor hesitated.

Eddie took that as a yes. “Do you know if he’s still around?”

Grohmann came from around the desk and put a firm hand on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie was surprised by the man’s strength. The pastor herded him toward the door.

Eddie wormed out of the man’s grasp. “Why not tell me where Oliver is? If you’re right, then it won’t matter if I talk to him.”

“Lee has early onset dementia. Even if I tell you, you might not get much out of him.”

* * * *

Eddie used his GPS to find the nursing home. It was a forty-five minute drive from the church. No surprise because in this county, everything was a forty-five minute drive. Eddie parked and entered the sprawling, one-story structure. It was after five.

Inside, a gowned resident was screaming at an attendant to be allowed to go home, while the nurse explained to her that it was almost dinner time.

Eddie hoped when his time came he’d die quickly and suddenly. He didn’t relish the thought of wasting away, his faculties and bowel control in a race-to-the-bottom contest. Old age terrified him.

“Can I help you?” the young man in nursing scrubs asked him through the front office window.

“Hi. I was wondering if I could see Mr. Oliver? Lee Oliver.”

The attendant tried to place him. “Never seen you before. Are you family?”

“No.”

The man regarded him skeptically. “Then who are you?”

“Edward McCloskey. I’m doing a little research on the area and about the house he used to live in.”

“What kind of research?”

“Historical.” It wasn’t a lie.

The man at the desk folded his arms.

“I won’t take too much of his time. He used to work at the foundry.” Eddie hoped the vagueness of his comment would be enough, like a mentalist tricking a subject into believing their mind was being read.

“Hold on.”

The attendant slid the opaque window shut. Eddie listened and heard him speaking softly on the telephone. He wanted to get in to see Mr. Oliver today, before the DA got a load of what he was doing and especially before Gracie Barbitok burst onto the scene. He had a precious few hours left before she’d be looking over his shoulder the rest of the way.

The window slid open. “I’m sorry, Mr. McCloskey, but today is not a good day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Could you give me his room number? I’m not sure I can come all the way out here again, so I might just call inst—”

“Sorry, but no. Patient privacy. Have a nice day.” The window slid shut with a thud.

Sixteen

Councilman Bennett Towson leaned forward. “Say that again.”

Spencer, the DA, steepled his hands and kept the smile off his face. He had to remind himself that he was technically delivering bad news, even though it was good news for his prosecution of Anson Ketcher. Ross, the detective in charge of the investigation, stood in the corner of the DA’s office, sipping a soda.

“Trace samples of Anson’s skin under Alice’s fingernails,” Spencer said. “Either they had a fight or …”

Ross saved the DA the embarrassment of discussing Alice’s sexual activity with the councilman. “There is no or, Bennett. They weren’t on speaking terms the last month or so according to Anson. That means this is evidence of them fighting.”

The councilman got a faraway look in his eye. “I hate to say this but…good.”

Spencer and Ross exchanged the briefest of looks. Nobody said a word.

Towson pushed himself out of the chair, went to the window. It was after seven and the sun was on its way down. He checked the parking lot and didn’t see any news people. He normally craved media attention but didn’t feel like facing them right now.

Towson turned back around. “When’s Barbitok arriving?”

Spencer checked his watch. “They’re touching down any minute, so probably not here until eight-thirty, nine.”

The councilman nodded. “Is she going to the house tonight?”

Spencer smiled. “No.”

“No?”

Ross put his soda on the desk behind him. “I’m just gonna get some air. I’ll be right outside.”

Spencer waited till the door was closed. “Forgive the detective, Bennett. He’s a good cop but his sense of fair play is easily offended. He prefers not to know what I’m doing because otherwise he’ll feel compelled to do something about it.”

“I don’t understand.”

Spencer got up. “Drink, Councilman?”

“I could use five.”

Spencer poured two scotch and sodas, handed one to the councilman. “The judge handed us a present with that injunctive order today.”

“How so? I thought he only said both experts had to be present at the house at the same time.”

“He did. It’s to our advantage to limit Mr. McCloskey’s access to the house. The more times he’s there, the more opportunities he’ll have to fabricate things. I told Gracie to stop for dinner, and not check in to her hotel tonight until ten. If she doesn’t go tonight, he can’t go tonight.”

Towson chuckled ruefully. “You’re not afraid he’s going to find something.”

Spencer could see the councilman starting to get angry. “It’s my job to worry about everything, Bennett. I don’t think he’s going to find anything, but I’m not the jury.”

“You’re saying Anson could get off? I thought this was open-and-shut.”

Spencer felt the conversation taking a career-dangerous turn. It was time to reframe the argument and set the appropriate client expectation level. “Bennett, this is a good case. I’m just thinking of all angles.”

“You just told me that motherfucker’s skin was under Alice’s fingernails! What the hell more do you need?”

Rational jurors, Spencer thought. He just had to pick the right people and this would be a walk in the park. But picking good jurors wasn’t easy. You never knew with people. You just never knew.

“I need everything I can get, Bennett. I’m playing as fast and loose with the rules as I can. But, I’m not a miracle worker.”

Councilman Towson stepped back from Spencer’s desk and finished his drink. “If this guy walks…”

Spencer said, “Damnit, Bennett, I think I’ve got this guy. But there’s an old saying. You know never what the jury is going to do.”

The councilman stood there thoughtfully for a moment. Then he put the empty glass on the corner of Spencer’s desk. “Just get this son of a bitch. Or there might be a change in the DA’s office during my next term.”

* * * *

The councilman left the DA’s office and nodded at Ross on his way to the car. The detective told him not to worry.

Towson got in his Audi and started driving. He didn’t go home. He wanted to stop at a bar for another drink, now that the scotch at Spencer’s office had whetted his appetite. But he couldn’t be seen drinking at a bar right now. It would show weakness. Grief was okay. If presented correctly, it was even beneficial. Weakness was not. And in a few short months the good citizens of the county would decide his fate at the polls.

Spencer was a lawyer alright. Adept at talking out of both sides of his mouth. Last night, he was all guarantees, solemn assurances. Now, when he had more incriminating evidence, he was backpedaling because juries were oh-so-unpredictable.

Towson couldn’t stomach the thought of Anson Ketcher going free. The man had…

Towson had to pull over. He couldn’t see through the tears in his eyes. He slammed his fist into the steering wheel until his hand hurt.

He’d told Alice not to marry the dumb hick. That she was better than him and the rest of the local podunks who’d barely made it out of high school.

She hadn’t listened.

She’d taken all his other advice to heart. She did well in school. After she’d recovered from her cancer, she hadn’t used that as an excuse to turn into a wild child. She was a pillar of their church, understood the importance of family, and had helped him out on every campaign he’d had to run. She was the model daughter in every way.

Except perhaps in the way that mattered the most, he realized with grim morbidness. What did it matter now that she’d made the Honor Roll throughout high school? What did it matter now that she’d been the most devout member of the youth group? What did it matter now that she’d recovered from cancer and battled her seizure disorder with a stoic’s grace?

The truth was, none of it mattered. She’d picked the wrong husband and it had cost her everything.

If the councilman could take it all back, he’d encourage her to raise hell in her teens. He’d tell her not to worry so much about acing that chemistry exam, the only subject that had never come easily for her. He’d tell her it was okay to act out every once in awhile, to not worry about how it reflected on her or on him and his career.

He’d tell her a lot of things. But most of all, he’d tell her to pick a good man.

He’d tell her to marry someone who would make her happy. Because wasn’t that the most important decision of anybody’s life? What good was that A in high school chem doing for her now?

She’d still be alive if he’d just…

The councilman gripped the steering wheel till his knuckles whitened and he sobbed. He’d made a decision to get the majority of the grief out of his system right now. Sure, he’d cry at the viewing. The sight of his beautiful daughter in that coffin would move the hardest of hearts to tears. And he’d weep over her grave. But those emotional purges would be aftershocks to this event.

He had come to terms with his responsibility in this matter. He had failed, possibly in some crucial way, as a father. He had to accept that.

And he had to move on if there was anything to be done about the present situation.

Councilman Towson wiped under his eyes and slipped the Audi back into gear. He pulled off the soft shoulder of the road and drove to the old sandlot across from his office. He parked and thought about what he was going to do.

Then made up his mind.

He shut the car off and dialed a number on his cell. No part of him doubted the decision he’d just made.

“Bennett, my God, I’m so sorry.”

A huge lump formed in his throat, but the councilman swallowed it and put steel in his voice. “Hello, Alan, thank you for that.”

“I was planning on calling again … but I didn’t want to disturb you and your family.”

“Of course. I understand.” The councilman paused. Thirty plus years of the political life had taught him to carefully choose his words. “Alan, I know we’ve had our differences and haven’t always seen eye-to-eye but …”

The man on the other end of the line filled the pregnant pause. “Bennett, if there’s something I can do for you, you should let me know.”

“My daughter’s killer might go free. The DA is worried.”

“What? How? Don’t tell me—”

“All it takes is reasonable doubt. The defense is bringing in this expert on the paranormal…if the jury believes him, if he can put the tiniest doubt in their minds, then…”

Councilman Towson let Alan make the connection. There was a long stretch of silence.

Then Alan spoke. “There are things that can be done.”

The politician smiled. Over the years, he’d racked up a lot of debt but many people, like Alan, still owed him favors. On the whole, his political ledger was pretty balanced.

“If he can be…made to see reason,” the councilman said.

“He can be made to see a lot more than reason.”

“Nothing too serious. This has to be handled with a certain amount of delicacy.”

“I understand.”

“Of course, if this backfired and came back on me that might foul up the trial.”

“Councilman, it won’t come back on you. All I ask in return is that you keep us in mind during your next term.”

Seventeen

Eddie sat in the lawyer’s mess of an office in front of the mahogany desk. Green stood over him, like Eddie was in the witness box, and smoked a rancorous cigar.

“Mr. McCloskey, you were convicted of a felony, isn’t that right?”

Eddie turned to the imaginary jury on his left and pretended like he was looking Juror Number Six, a woman the same age as Alice Ketcher, in the eye. “Yes, it’s true. I was convicted of possession of illegal narcotics many years ago. I served and made early parole for good behavior. After I was released, I went through a rigorous rehab program to treat my …”

Green pointed the cigar at him and ash showered the carpet. “Say it.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Make yourself believe it.”

Eddie sighed. “After I was released, I went through a rigorous rehab program to treat my disease.”

“You have to say it like you mean it. Addiction is a disease like any other. You have to remind the jury of that fact so they’ll forgive you your sins.”

“I’ll do it on the day.”

“Do it now.”

Eddie jumped out of his chair and threw his notepad across the room. “I’ll fucking do it later. Let’s move on.”

Green eyeballed him for a long ten seconds. The lawyer puffed out a plume of smoke then waddled around his desk.

Green fell back into the role he was playing. “Mr. McCloskey, what objective evidence can you present to this Court that ghosts exist?”

“At this time, no one can agree on what constitutes objective evidence of the paranormal.”

“So the answer is none, I take it?”

“I guess the—”

“Stop.”

Eddie cursed.

“Never say I guess. Now answer the question.”

Eddie sat back down, took a deep breath. “The answer is nothing has been validated. We use a variety of methods that have only been field-tested. We amass as much evidence as we can, evaluate it, then draw tentative conclusions. The better investigators use the scientific method as their model.”

“Were you at the Ketcher residence on the night in question?”

“No.”

“So how can you say it was a ghost that caused Alice to die?”

“Why’d you say it like that? Caused Alice to die.”

Green perched his cigar on the ashtray like it was a pigeon sitting on the rim of a birdbath. “Would you rather I say killed Alice?”

Eddie saw his point. “Fair enough. What was the question again?”

“How do you know a ghost…”

“I don’t know. I—”

Green made a buzzer-like sound. “Wrong. Never say I don’t know.”

Eddie knew the guy was just trying to prepare him. All the same, he felt like punching the lawyer. “The testimony of Anson Ketcher is consistent with the physical evidence—”

“No.” The lawyer sat down. “You’re not a forensic expert. You can’t say that or the DA will completely own you.”

Eddie leaned forward. “Why don’t you save us some time and just tell me what you want me to say.”

“Eddie, that would be unethical.”

“I’m joking.”

Green squinted his disapproval. “Eddie, without your credible testimony, Anson—”

“Enough, Green. You’ve explained in painful detail something a four-year-old would get. He’ll swing if I don’t come through. No fucking shit, Sherlock.”

The lawyer arched his caterpillar eyebrows, clearly offended. “I think that’s all for tonight.”

“Finally we agree on something.”

Eddie stormed out of the lawyer’s office. It was almost nine o’clock. No word on Gracie Barbitok yet, so it looked like going dark at the house was off the table for tonight. He called Giles Tyson.

“I’m coming over.”

* * * *

Giles led him to the study and pointed to a black lacquer serving tray that had a jug of ice water and two glasses. Eddie poured them both a glass and took a big sip from his. He put the glass back down and noticed the corner of a map poking out from under the tray, the legend showing.

Block letters indicated that this was a map for the cemetery that formed a peninsula around Giles’s property. Red dots peppered the map and followed no logical pattern. There were four big clusters and the rest of the dots were spread out in random fashion.

“You thinking of moving some graves out there?” Eddie said.

Giles smiled. “No. Just a little research. You look tired.”

Eddie was curious about the map but after spending a few hours with Green, Eddie didn’t want to listen to Giles go on and on about another of his arcane, unprovable theories. He looked around the room at all the bookshelves. An old volume was open to the midway mark on the coffee table next to Giles.

Eddie said, “You might be the only man who reads more than me.”

“I’m a natural speed-reader.” Giles smiled sardonically. “And I have a lot of free time on my hands these days.”

Eddie examined the book. It was open to a page with two columns of writing and a schematic of a building labeled the Wheeler Court House.

It was late. Eddie wanted to dive into his cheap bed at his cheap motel. “So you went out to their house.”

Giles smirked. “I see this is not just a social visit.”

“I wish it were, pal. I wouldn’t mind shooting the shit and talking lit all night long. But I’ve got a job and I’m up against the old battle axe herself.”

“I heard.” Giles made a face. “Alice didn’t want me to come originally. Anson had to lean on her. She was worried about what their church would say.”

Eddie sipped his drink and waited for Giles to continue.

“The first time I went was a month ago. It was behind her back. Anson thought if I found something or could think of something useful, he could tell her about it and she’d be more inclined to invite me out herself. She came home before I left though.”

“On that first trip, what did you find?”

“I felt the spirit immediately. I was hardly done shaking Anson’s hand when it came to me.”

Eddie shook his head. “Giles, it’s me you’re talking to. Not some studio audience. What really happened?”

Giles looked offended. “I’m speaking the truth. I felt her right away.”

“Her?”

“Oh yes, I can tell it’s a woman, which—”

Eddie called bullshit on that. “No filling in the blanks for me, Giles. All I want from you are facts then I’ll draw my own conclusions. How could you tell it was a woman?”

“You’re not a medium. I can’t explain it with words.”

“Try real hard.”

Giles stood, started pacing. “All spirits have an energy. If you’re attuned to it, you can feel when they’re around. Over the years I’ve encountered ghosts of both sexes. You get a sense of gender. It’s no different than when you hear someone coming up the stairs. You can tell if it’s a man or woman by the sound of their footsteps and how they move, without even seeing them.”

“So what happened on that first trip?”

“I got the spirit to visit.”

Eddie gave him an incredulous look. “How?”

“I just reached out to her. You know, Edward, since I split with Tim, I’ve learned a lot of things. And discovered even more.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “You just reached out to her? Giles, you’re full of shit.”

Giles motioned with his pointer at his chest. “Cross my heart. I got her to visit. She didn’t stay long.”

“Hold on. You asked her or got her? Which is it?”

The man’s eyes went wide and he shook his head quickly. “Asked her. What did I say? Did I say got her?”

“What did she do for you?”

“Not much. Really, I just felt her there.”

“What did you tell Anson?”

Giles looked down. “I told him that they had nothing to worry about. That the spirit wasn’t dangerous.”

Eddie closed his eyes and shook his head.

“This is really my fault.” Giles’s voice was suddenly thick. He wouldn’t meet Eddie’s eyes. “I was wrong about the spirit and … I should have convinced Alice to let me do more work there. She and Anson were in a bad place, and I was worried about rocking the boat so I didn’t push as much as I should have.”

“But you went out there a second time.”

“I did.” Giles paced the room excitedly. The man acted like he was still on the hunt as he recounted his adventures at the Ketcher house.

“What happened?”

Giles stopped pacing. “It didn’t go as well as I’d planned. The spirit kept visiting then dissipating. I couldn’t get her to stay. Alice was at her wit’s end and was expecting more of me…but then I couldn’t deliver. She wanted me to get rid of the ghost. I told her I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

Giles tilted his head to the side. “Wouldn’t. What right do I have to do that? And in my defense there’s no surefire way of getting rid of a spirit. I could have tried any number of things and not been successful.”

“If you were trying to get it to dissipate, what would you have done?”

“There are ways.”

“Name them.”

“Some people use salt.”

Eddie tried not to roll his eyes.

“I like to use my life force.” Giles touched his shirt, near the belly button. “It’s stored here. We learn to harness it in martial arts. It also connects us to the other worlds.”

Eddie stood up. Giles had always been flamboyant and unorthodox, but now he was claiming to be able to summon and dispel ghosts and sense their presence without any of the traditional equipment.

“I’m calling it a night.”

* * * *

Ross stopped in the morgue on his way out the door. Han was in the attached office, reading something on his computer.

“Got any more good news for us?” Ross asked.

“My official report. Just putting the finishing touches on it.” Han punched a few keys.

Ross said, “You mind if I read over your shoulder?”

Han shook his head.

Ross stepped behind the man and bent at the waist to see the monitor. Han had filled out the standard form the medical examiners used and now appeared to be editing and revising.

“Any changes from what you told me before?” Ross’s eyes flew down the page. Most of the report was canned language that had been recycled dozens of times over.

“No. Her neck is still broken.”

Ross caught Han smiling as he cleaned up the spelling in the body of the report. The only new addition was the finding of Anson’s skin under Alice’s fingernails. It had gotten under three of the five nails on the right hand, indicating that it was no accidental or random scratch.

“Why would she scratch his right forearm with her right hand?” Ross asked.

“Because he was standing in front of her about to break her neck.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t she have scratched his other arm most likely?”

“I don’t follow.”

“You told me he used his left arm to break her neck. If he’s standing in front of her like you think, his right hand is cupped behind her neck, right?” Ross mimicked. “Wouldn’t she have naturally struggled against his left hand?”

“He’s a southpaw. That throws everybody off.”

“She’s not a trained fighter. She wouldn’t have instinctively gone for his right hand.”

“She would if he put his right hand on her first. Which he would have done to hold her in place.”

“But she’s his wife of seven years. She knows he’s left-handed.”

“She was scared out of her mind. Her husband was trying to kill her. She wasn’t examining the situation with cold reason. The guy had a hand around the side of her throat. Quit busting my balls, Ross.”

“It’s my job to make sure we give the DA enough to get a conviction.”

“I know. I was kidding. Sort of.”

“Still doesn’t feel right to me.”

“You know, it could have been some other time during the fight.” Han finished fixing the typos. “That’s not my call to make.”

Ross re-read the report. He realized there was no mention of what hand was used to break Alice’s neck.

An alarm went off in his head. He looked at the crime tech. Han was an honest, by-the-numbers man. Ross didn’t think he’d purposely conceal anything.

“Why didn’t you make a note in here about the hand that was used?”

“I don’t know with absolute, one hundred percent certainty.” Han finally ripped his eyes away from the monitor and gave Ross a long look. “So I can’t put it in here.”

Ross read between the lines. “Okay, pal. Thanks for letting me bust your balls.”

* * * *

Instead of going to his car, Ross backtracked to Chief Towson’s office. His boss was still there. Towson was a morbidly obese man who breathed heavily just when getting up from his desk. He hardly bothered to move when Ross came in. Just shifted his bulbous eyes in Ross’s direction.

“Just talked to Han.” Ross didn’t elaborate. He just let his deadpan face do the talking.

“I’m glad to hear that.” The chief cracked his pudgy knuckles, examined his fingernails. Ross was pretty sure the guy had never worried about a manicure.

Ross and the chief had butted heads before, and Ross wouldn’t rise much higher in Towson’s ranks because of it. The best Ross could hope for was to land a job someplace else, working for a Chief of Police who shared or was closer to his philosophy.

So Ross didn’t mince any words. “This is my investigation.”

“Han reports to me. Not you. And I won’t have any unsubstantiated facts creeping into his reports.”

“He was pretty sure about the killer’s dexterity on the night.”

“That’s great. He got unsure today after I asked him some questions.”

“Why?” Ross asked.

Chief Towson looked beyond Ross. “Shut the door if you want to have this conversation.”

“I prefer to have it in the open.”

“Good for you, Sir Lancelot. Now shut the fucking door.”

Ross held the chief’s stare as long as his pride dictated, then turned and closed it behind him. “Han was certain. The killer used their left hand.”

“You mean Anson used his left hand.”

“To break your niece’s neck, yes.”

Chief Towson’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Ross folded his arms. He’d taken heat from Towson before. It didn’t bother him. If it did, he would have bowed out long ago, taken some shit job elsewhere.

Ross narrowed his eyes. “I’m convinced it was Anson. Your son sealed the deal with his report and the crime techs confirm it as far as they can. Nobody else was in that house. Nobody else had a motive to kill Alice. Even if they did, there’s no chance they snuck into that house and killed her while Anson was passed out for all of thirty seconds, tops. Anson’s not covering up for anybody. Why would he?”

The Chief said nothing.

“If it comes out at trial, we’ll look bad and Anson has a better chance of walking. There’s no reason to hide—”

“I’m not hiding anything, Detective. After discussing the findings with the medical examiner, Han did not feel comfortable drawing that conclusion. Let the defense make their case. We’ve got our own to make.”

“Thanks for your time, Chief.”

Ross strode out of Towson’s office and ignored everybody he passed on the way out. He didn’t open his mouth because he didn’t trust his own tongue not to get him fired. It was tough to get a decent job at another department when your last chief didn’t back you.

* * * *

Eddie stopped in the lobby and used the old computer at the motel. He searched for a few items then took his copy of Alice’s diary back to his room.

The entries were undated. Eddie skimmed through the first few. They shed some light on some of Alice’s worries, about never having enough time to get the house in order, paying the bills. She complained about a couple of members of her church but the MPAA would have given it a PG rating. No bad language and nothing too derogatory about the people she wrote of. She was almost apologetic in her scorn as if she didn’t trust her own judgment.

He found an entry about Anson:

He tries. But I wonder if people can really change. I know I should trust in the power of the Lord to help Anson find his way but still…I wonder if he’ll ever become the good man that all men can be.

That was as sacrilegious as her entries got.

Finally, he came to a note about the ghost:

Sometimes I think You sent this spirit here to test our marriage. Other times I wonder if I’m going crazy. And, I really shouldn’t write this, really shouldn’t even think it, but it makes me question my beliefs. I thought all souls went one place or another. Unless this is Hell for some.

I don’t know what else to do. I’ve prayed and prayed and it’s only getting worse. I’m sorry but I have to try something else. I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me…I will pray for your forgiveness.

Eighteen

Tuesday morning, Eddie woke in his cheap motel room early. Since he’d stopped drinking, he’d turned into a morning person often up before six. He slipped on a t-shirt and shorts and sneakers.

The air was cool and damp for August. The motel sat on a rural route with a wide shoulder. He figured there wouldn’t be much traffic in the early morning.

He bent north at a good clip. The sun baked the air around him, and the temperature climbed during the first mile. He felt sluggish this morning but doggedly kept his pace up, waiting for the second wind to kick in.

He passed a small strip of stores and then a chain motel that looked a lot pricier than the mom and pop shit can eyesore he was staying in. He kept going.

Another half mile up the road his legs felt heavy. He’d learned to listen to his body and heed its advice, so he slowed a half-step.

Moments later, he heard quick feet slapping the pavement behind him.

The instinct was to run faster, but Eddie ignored it. He flipped a quick glance over his shoulder and saw a well-proportioned blond in her forties gaining on him. She wore a pair of runner’s shorts and a sports bra that was working overtime.

“I wasn’t sure I’d catch you,” she said.

Eddie stopped and waited for her to reach him. “Good morning, Ms. Barbitok.”

Gracie Barbitok looked forties, but Eddie knew from her online bio she was fifties. Her skin was a little loose and perhaps had been professionally tanned one shade too deep, but she was trim and looked great for her age.

“Mr. McCloskey.” She offered her hand. Her skin was soft and warm. “It’s a pleasure. I must say, I’m a fan of your work.”

She had to be referring to the big Pennsylvania job, where he’d uncovered a huge fraud. There wasn’t much else of note. If she was being honest at all.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t offer her the same compliment in response.

It didn’t faze her. “Mind if I join you?”

There was a challenge in her voice. He could tell that everything was a competition to her. This would be no friendly jog where both runners went slowly to accommodate each other.

“Sure.”

She broke into a run and set a brisk pace. Eddie matched her and was breathing heavily in a few minutes.

“I ran New York last year,” Gracie said, pride swelling her voice.

“That’s impressive.” Eddie had no desire to prove to himself or anyone else he could run twenty-six miles in one stretch. That was for fools or Olympians. Plenty of couch potatoes could build up to running a marathon. It was easy to go that far when you plodded along at a tortoise-like thirteen minutes a mile. He valued speed and power over a forced, miserable jog.

She shrugged. “Boston is the ultimate goal, but you know how it goes. The show has hit critical mass and now the publisher wants the next book. I’m trying to fit twenty-six hours into a day.”

“We all have our crosses to bear.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I should slow down. You probably already have a mile on me.” She took a deep breath. “I assume you’re staying at that other motel down the street?”

Eddie winked at her. “I was taking it easy on you. Didn’t want to impose.”

Gracie Barbitok laughed heartily. “Let’s get a move on then.”

She pumped her legs and flew down the shoulder of the road. Eddie hustled to keep up. They moved at a fast clip. Conversation was impossible.

They reached a long, slow bend in the street and instead of following it Gracie darted across the road and ducked through the trees. Eddie wasn’t interested in going off-road but he decided to play her game and follow her. By the time he crashed through the trees, she was well ahead of him in the forest slewing through the pines and sycamores.

He cut a sharp line through the forest and caught her in twenty seconds. As he came up alongside her, he saw how hard she was pushing. She gasped for air and her form was sloppy and her legs were unsteady on the forest floor that was covered by old dead leaves and rust-colored pine needles.

Gracie came to a stuttering halt and hugged a tree, panting like she’d just come up for air after a two minute dive. “My God this feels great.”

Eddie’s endorphins hadn’t kicked in yet so he didn’t agree. He put his hands on his thighs and gulped air. “You move well.”

“And so do you.” She coughed and turned to face him. “You should drop this, you know.”

“Running?”

She laughed.

Eddie straightened out of his crouch and put his hands on his hips. The air was fresh and cool in the woods. The early sunlight slanted through the tree limbs, barely making it to the forest floor.

Gracie said, “Like you said to that reporter after the PA job: ghosts don’t kill people.”

“Did I say that?” Eddie pretended to think about it. “You can’t believe everything you read, you know.”

“And you know it’s true. Ghosts don’t kill people. Because ghosts don’t exist.”

“And yet, over ninety percent of the people on this planet believe in a higher power.”

“Try selling that to a jury in this county and they’ll burn you at the stake.” Gracie coughed some more. “You’ve just started your career in earnest, and you take this case?”

“The difference between me and you is I’m not a hired gun, lady. Whatever I find, no matter how damaging to my client I’m gonna turn over. You’re just out for ratings and will savage anybody to get them.”

She laughed. “Spare me the knight in shining armor act. I know all about you, Eddie. You’re a recovering addict with no college degree and you work in this space because otherwise you’d be stuck in a mailroom or stocking the shelves at the local grocery.”

Eddie smiled ironically. His last gig, before he’d resurrected this career, was working at a grocery store.

Gracie shook her head. “I feel bad for you, Eddie. Despite your checkered past, I think you have a good head on your shoulders. That was a good job you did in Pennsylvania. But here you made a bad business decision and now you’re stuck with it. I’ll give you a little professional advice: never mix business and friendship. I know Giles called in a favor. You let that cloud your judgment.”

Eddie hated how right she was. “Let me ask you a question. I don’t think you’ll give me a straight answer but I’ll ask anyway because the cameras aren’t rolling.”

She twisted her torso this way and that to work out the kinks. Her breathing was almost back to normal. “Go ahead.”

“How much of a fraud were you?”

She stopped, mid-calisthenic. “What the hell did you just say?”

“Before you turned over that new leaf and cried foul on all your colleagues and got rich and famous. Were you a fraud the whole way, or just part of the way?”

She didn’t answer. Just gave him one of those up-from-under looks. “There are no real psychics. I figured a man as intelligent as you would know that, Eddie.”

All professed psychics were con artists. Maybe one in a thousand had any real ability from what Eddie had seen, but even these still resorted to tricks and guile to put on the show and separate the gullibles from their money.

“Reason I ask, I don’t know what’s worse. If you really were part-psychic and then switched sides. Of if you were just faking your way through it the whole time like you say you were. The latter is pretty bad, but people can forgive you because now you’re looking out for them and fighting the good fight. But if it was the former, then that means you’re still a fraud, going the other way. Just capitalizing on public perception instead of truth.”

If she could have hissed, she would have. But such a primal response had been trained out of her by years of marketing experts and handlers and practiced out of her by dozens of canned interviews and hundreds of live-television studio audiences.

Instead she screwed her face up into an ersatz smile, one that was almost good enough to fool him. “I wanted to head over to the Ketcher residence around six this evening. My people will be in touch with yours to confirm.”

Before she could turn and run off into the woods, Eddie said, “Sorry, that doesn’t work for me. I have an appointment at six. I wanted to get over there this morning at nine, and then again at midnight tonight.”

She shook her head. “Impossible. My team and I have other work to do before then.”

“I don’t give a shit if you can’t handle your case load. That’s not my problem. We’re here for a murder trial so that takes priority, not your bullshit ratings.”

“Not for other projects, Eddie. We have to do background on this one. You’ve been on the ground a whole day but we just got in late last night.”

Eddie smiled. “You were in the area by nine-thirty last night.”

He saw Gracie trying to think up a lie.

“It wasn’t hard to find out.” Eddie kept that smile in place. “You leave quite an electronic footprint.”

“When you get to prime time, that’s what happens.”

“You can’t bullshit me, Gracie.” Eddie stopped smiling. “We could have gone dark last night. But you played it safe and kept me away.”

The smallest flicker of surprise flashed in her eyes. She quickly composed herself.

Eddie said, “A man’s life hangs in the balance. The least you could do is give him a fair shake.”

“A murderer’s life hangs in the balance.”

Eddie went on. “You know how difficult it is to reproduce phenomena even in the most haunted of places. In all fairness, you know I should get a few shots at the house. Unless of course you’re worried that I’ll actually find something.”

She took a deep breath and that media smile returned. She knew exactly what he was doing. Her pride and her desire to win by any means warred. In the end, Eddie knew her cocksure attitude would win out. Gracie Barbitok didn’t want to just win. She wanted to crush her opposition. She knew if Eddie got multiple opportunities at the house and didn’t find anything, the absence of evidence would be all the more damning. She would have his head on a platter.

Of course, the more chances he got the more likely he’d find something. It was still a long shot but Eddie was playing her vanity off against her professionalism. There was no training that cardinal sin out of some people.

“I’ll see you at nine. Don’t be late.”

She took off into the woods faster than a spooked deer.

* * * *

After the run, Eddie showered quickly and put on a polo shirt and khakis. He made sure he had all his equipment, new batteries, and clean tapes for the digital recorder. Then he called Green.

“Did you get a look at the Ketchers’ internet history yet?” Eddie asked.

“Yes. Nothing on there about psychics.”

“Did Anson ever say anything about a psychic to you?”

“No. You gonna tell me what this is about?”

Damn. He’d been expecting to find something on the computer. Hoping to was more like it.

“It was just a hunch. I’m headed over to the Ketcher house at nine, meeting Gracie there.”

“Jesus, Eddie! I need more than an hour’s notice! I’ll meet you there. Be ready. The DA will be there too.”

Eddie smiled. Everything was always an emergency to a lawyer. “I plan on going out there tonight also but we’ll see what happens this morning.”

They hung up. Eddie was about to get in his car but stopped himself. The computer search hadn’t turned up anything, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He backtracked to the motel office.

The manager was a fifty-something smoker with a bald patch nestled among grey hair. He was watching some game show on a TV hidden from Eddie’s view.

Eddie asked him for a phone book.

“It’s a few years old,” the manager said. “They stopped giving them away.”

“That’s okay. It’ll still help.”

The manager grunted something unintelligible then disappeared in the back. Eddie really needed to invest in a new laptop. The one he’d accepted as a gift from Stan was five years old, or a hundred and five in computer years. It had crapped out not long after he’d started using it.

The manager returned carrying the phone book. He pointed to the year on the spine of the book. “Told you.”

It was three years old but looked brand new.

“Thanks, I’ll give it right back,” Eddie said.

“Might as well just keep it.” The manager made a dismissive, guttural sound and went back to watching his game shows and turned the volume way up to discourage further conversation.

Eddie sat in the one guest chair in the dingy reception area and flipped to the P section of the phone book. He scrolled through till he found a dozen listings for psychics.

Nine of them were for 800 numbers. The other three had regular area codes and gave addresses. Eddie went back up to the front desk and signaled at the manager.

The manager didn’t turn down the volume, didn’t turn in his chair. Just swiveled his mean eyes around to Eddie. “You can just leave the book there.”

“I wonder if you could help me with something.”

The man grunted and took a long time getting up. He kept the TV volume at full blast. Whatever he was paid, it wasn’t enough. Probably no amount of money would ever be.

Eddie turned the phone book around so the manager could read it. “The area code out here is—”

“Five-one-eight.”

“Right. So these three listings?” Eddie pointed to the psychics who didn’t have 800 numbers listed. “Two of them are five-one-eight. Are they close by?”

The manager sighed and deigned to check the addresses. “They’re in opposite directions, but you could get there in twenty minutes or so.”

Eddie translated that into thirty minutes. To a local, everything seemed much closer than it actually was. “What about the other listing? How far away is that?”

The manager sighed again and looked back down at the page. “Three-one-five…that’s going to take you longer.” The manager didn’t elaborate.

“How much longer?”

“Do I look like Google maps?”

“No. You look like an asshole to me.”

The manager was nonplussed.

Eddie closed the phone book and gave the manager his best shit-eating grin. “Thanks for all your help.”

Nineteen

On the way to the Ketcher place, Eddie called Green. The lawyer said it would take Eddie an hour, hour-fifteen to make it to psychic with the three-one-five area code. Green said he’d meet Eddie at the Ketchers’ in a few.

At 8:45, Eddie arrived and parked behind a double-decker tour bus. Either The Rolling Stones were in town or Gracie Barbitok and her team were already on the ground.

The professional, air-brushed glam shot of Gracie’s face, head slightly turned, smart smile curling her lips, nearly filled one side panel of the tour bus. Around her disembodied head, a squad of crew-cutted men and professionally sexy women, arms folded, feet shoulder-width apart, stood in V-formation and were there to let you know that Gracie wasn’t going to take shit from anybody. Five more designer SUVs were parked around the tour bus, rounding out Gracie’s gas-guzzling armada.

Handsome young men and devastatingly pretty young women wearing black dress shirts and black pants and black shoes hustled back and forth from the vehicles to the house. They ignored Eddie. He ignored them. Among Gracie’s fleet of vehicles, Eddie spotted Green’s SUV with the vanity tags, a prohibitively expensive Audi, and a jellybean sedan that had to be an unmarked cop car.

Eddie double-checked his backpack and equipment.

He’d come with a digital recorder, camera, K-II EMF meter, notebook, and his cell phone. Gracie’s team of trained monkeys lugged bulky tech out of the tour bus and SUVs, some of it he’d never seen.

The front door was propped open. Eddie had to shoulder his way in because nobody would get out of his way. There was a lot of noise. Orders were issued excitedly, hammers banged away, and somewhere a drill whirred.

Eddie spotted Green standing in the kitchen with a lawyerly-looking type in an expensive suit and Ross, the detective he’d met yesterday.

Eddie grabbed the arm of the nearest Gracie Barbitok male lackey. “Tell your team to stop everything they’re doing. I need to speak to your master right now.”

The young man didn’t budge. Just gave Eddie the bar room stare.

“Go get her now.”

The lackey’s eyes softened. He shrugged and went off to find Gracie.

Eddie raised his arms and boomed his voice. “STOP!”

Those nearest complied and gave him a strange look. The hammers kept banging in the next room and the drill still whirred deeper in the house.

Green realized it was Eddie speaking and met him in the foyer. The other lawyer and Ross stayed where they were and watched Eddie with interest.

Eddie pointed at the nearest member of Gracie’s team, an athletic-looking brunette with painfully gorgeous eyes. “Go tell them to stop with the hammers and the drill.”

She was stricken by indecision. She looked to her colleagues, who offered her no help whatsoever. Gracie wasn’t in the room to call the shots, and apparently the next highest-person in the chain of command wasn’t either.

“Better do it,” Eddie said. “Before we have a serious problem and your team compromises the integrity of the scene.”

The brunette’s beautiful eyes filled with terror, and she hustled away.

Green smiled at Eddie, like this was all part of the plan. Under his breath, the lawyer said, “What are you doing?”

Eddie winked. “Improvising a little.”

“I like your style. But don’t go overboard.”

Gracie’s team surrounded him in the foyer. He counted at least thirty of them. The shock of his interruption was wearing off. Now they regarded him with hostile eyes. Eddie met all their stares and said nothing. He had to establish his authority.

“What’s the problem, sir?” one of the older team members said.

Eddie faced the guy. “I’ll talk to Gracie about it.”

He wasn’t about to negotiate with the gophers, the interns, or even middle management. He’d only speak to Gracie.

They waited. It grew so quiet you couldn’t even hear a pin thinking about dropping.

Eddie smiled to himself. Gracie was taking her time. This was all part of the professional dance. She wouldn’t hurry to meet him. She had to make a grand regal entrance. The queen did not hurry to attend to her subjects.

Eddie looked over the hostile crowd. Gracie had trained them to be cynical. They, in turn, had been lured to her team with promises of fortune and fame. They could rise through the ranks and, when Gracie was ready to hand the reins over, assume her role in the enterprise. Or maybe they could get their own shows. Their own book deals. Leverage this experience to climb diagonally up the American corporate ladder.

They were hungry. Entrepreneurial. No sniveling navel-gazers expecting a hand-out. They wanted to impress their boss. They wanted to crush him. One minute ago, he’d been invisible. Now they circled like sharks, having recognized him as the enemy.

Finally Gracie appeared.

Unlike her team who were garbed like they worked for Mussolini, Gracie wore a grey pinstripe suit and pumps that lifted her a couple inches. Her blond hair was a perfectly coiffed combination of sexy and professional. Her TV makeup hid her age lines well, making her appear ten years younger. A hole formed in the circle surrounding Eddie and she walked up to him.

She beamed a Los Angeles smile, one bright enough to outshine the lights of Hollywood Boulevard outside the Grauman Theater.

“Mr. McCloskey.”

A three-man camera crew appeared behind her.

Eddie shook her hand. It was game time.

“Ms. Barbitok.”

She sized him up the way a cat might look at a cornered mouse.

Eddie spoke first. “Your people need to stop what they’re doing.” He looked around and met the multitude of eyes on him. “Rule number one of any investigation: control the scene.”

She smiled. “You and I must not have read the same rule book. Where I come from, you gather as much data as you can.”

He smiled right back at her, now feeling the eyes of Green on him as well. “We’ll get better, truer data if you don’t alter the environment. We don’t know why ghosts inhabit certain spaces but remodeling the house to fit your needs could interfere with that process, rendering this investigation null. I’ll make sure to put that in my report.” He raised his voice. “We should be treating this space like an Egyptian tomb, not as a studio that will later be used for some TV show.”

Gracie kept herself composed. “Or better yet, let’s treat it like the crime scene it is.”

“Let’s.” Eddie grinned. “I don’t mind you bringing your roadies in here, but I don’t want anybody getting in my way. There’s too many chefs in this kitchen. Whittle your team down to four, yourself included. It looks like you’ve got recording devices set up everywhere so you don’t need this many boots on the ground anyway.”

“I figured you’d want people in every room.”

He shook his head. “Your people will be watching me to make sure I don’t do anything inappropriate, but I want to watch them too. Your team will stay with me the whole way. Besides, the DA over there and Detective Ross and Attorney Green will be present as well. If we bring anybody else in, we’ll have enough folks to dress for Monday night football.”

Gracie projected an air of confidence that gave him pause. “That’s fine, Eddie. We can play by your silly rules. After all, we know exactly what we’re going to find.”

“If you go in with bias, you always know what you’re going to find, Gracie.”

Eddie started by familiarizing himself with the layout of the house. It was two stories, about three thousand square feet, with a finished basement. He started upstairs. Gracie made a crack about how nothing had allegedly happened on the second floor but Eddie gave her the silent treatment. He ventured into the Ketchers’ bedroom. Gracie and her retinue and the lawyers and the cop trailed behind him.

The bed was still unmade. On the nightstand, Eddie found a New Testament covered by a thin layer of dust. His fingers left dark trails on the cover of the book as he opened it.

The font size was a senior citizen’s nightmare. Every other page was dog-eared and marked up with pen.

Last night, on the cheap computer in the motel office, Eddie had refamiliarized himself with some of the more pertinent passages in the Bible. He flipped through Alice’s copy to the appropriate spots. As a devout Christian, she would have consulted scripture in her search for answers. And her copy of the New Testament confirmed this.

Matthew 8:16 was circled and underlined: “That evening they brought to him many who were oppressed by demons, and he cast out the spirits with a word and healed all who were sick.”

2 Corinthians 11:14 was highlighted in yellow: “And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing if his ministers also be transformed as the ministers of righteousness; whose end shall be according to his works.”

Eddie remembered from Sunday school his church’s position on ghosts, and the Ketchers’ pastor subscribed to the same thinking. There was no such thing. Any spirits encountered by the living were demons masquerading as the deceased with malicious intent.

Eddie was about to close the book when he spotted letters running in a column down the left side of the right page. He would have missed them altogether had he not opened the book as widely.

C

I

A

R

A

CIARA

It sounded like a name but the spelling was strange. Maybe it was a reworking of the name Sierra or an Irish variant of Keira, with the C being hard.

When he sounded it out, the word was meaningless but the letters seemed to hold import. They were scripted in caps and they ran in a column.

Maybe an acronym?

“Something the matter?” Gracie asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

It was an acronym that related to the ghost. But wh—

It suddenly came to Eddie. He swallowed a smile. He closed the book and set it down. He’d talk to Green about it later, when nobody else was listening.

Gracie said, “You’re stalling, and you know it.”

He gave her a flip smile. “Do you have a book signing this afternoon, Gracie?”

He finished searching the rooms upstairs and found nothing of interest. He went downstairs and now Gracie and her gang were turning into a peanut gallery, making wisecracks not-so-under their breath. Eddie ignored them.

He traced the path of the violence from the kitchen to the living room to Alice’s studio. The house was still a mess, signs of the struggle still noticeable even with the minimal cleaning that had been done.

Eddie examined every inch of the studio where the death had occurred. Was there something special about this space that she would have been killed in there, or was this just where she’d haphazardly ended up?

He saw nothing he hadn’t already read about in the police reports.

Eddie stopped and looked around at all the people crammed into the studio. Green’s face was impassive. The DA and Ross looked skeptical. Gracie gave him a shark-like smile like she smelled blood in the water. Her roadies looked smug, waiting to see their boss tear him apart.

“Let’s kill the power now,” Eddie said.

Gracie chuckled. “Is that supposed to make it easier for ghosts to manifest?”

Eddie smiled. “You should know it doesn’t. Killing the power limits the variables so there’s less potential interference with any of our gadgets.”

Gracie rolled her eyes.

* * * *

After killing the power Eddie went back into the kitchen. According to Anson, this was where everything had started. He looked around the room, feeling the heat already starting to build now that the AC was off. Gracie and her team crowded him.

Eddie removed his digital recorder and put it on the island counter. He unwrapped a new tape and put it in the machine and hit RECORD.

He spoke the date and time, then said, “This is Eddie McCloskey. We are starting in the kitchen. I have with me seven other individuals, whom I have asked to remain silent for now.”

Eddie removed his K-II meter and popped fresh batteries into the machine. It was the size of a remote control and had a series of five LCD bulbs that formed a row across the top, signifying the relative strength of the electromagnetic waves in the area. He turned the meter on, and the first light blinked, giving him a low, baseline reading.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie saw Green texting. That reminded him.

“Hey, everybody, I need you to turn off your phones now.”

Gracie rolled her eyes. One of her goons said, “This isn’t a hospital or an airline.”

Green finished with his text and put his phone away. Eddie waited for everybody to follow suit. After some more eye-rolling, they did. Then he checked the K-II meter again and still got the same baseline reading.

“This is Eddie McCloskey. I’m in the kitchen. Is there anyone else here?”

Eddie paused. He didn’t put much stock in electronic voice phenomenon because most of it was bullshit. But sometimes the digital recorder picked up intelligible EVP so he waited in case somebody was talking.

But nobody answered.

Eddie consulted the K-II meter. The first light was on, while the second blinked erratically. Nothing to write home about.

There was a rulebook for paranormal investigation. Tim, his brother, had followed it to the letter. Protocol demanded that Eddie be polite, respectful, ask harmless questions, establish a rapport.

But he wasn’t looking to make a friend. He was looking to evoke a noticeable, measurable response.

“Did you kill Alice Ketcher?”

“Mr. McCloskey,” Gracie said, “this is outra—”

The K-II meter lit up like a Christmas tree. Eddie held it out for everybody to see. Changes in local EMFs weren’t proof-positive of anything, but it was a start.

Eddie held the K-II out in front of him. “Can you make this meter light up?”

He waited, but the meter held steady at one light.

This wasn’t an exact science. Ghosts were notoriously inconsistent in their behavior. The spike on the K-II might have been a fluke. There was no guarantee the ghost could influence the meter.

The reading didn’t change. But the hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck stuck out like needles on a cactus. The air around him shifted.

He read the other faces in the room and registered that some had experienced the same sensation.

“Who else felt that?”

Green was quick to raise his hand, but nobody else did.

Gracie’s question came a second too late to be totally convincing. “Feel what?”

Eddie ignored them. The hostile crowd wasn’t going to admit to anything. He needed more objective evidence than a funny feeling on the neck and one flash from the K-II.

“Did you kill Alice Ketcher?”

A chill went down Eddie’s spine, but the K-II didn’t change.

“Did you KILL Alice Ketcher?”

There was no response.

“Eddie, I thought you had an approach more…professional in mind.”

Eddie pushed through the crowd and went to the living room. The couch was still positioned at an awkward angle, the TV missing from the entertainment center, the glass of the sliding door spider-webbed halfway between the handle and the floor.

“I know you’re here. I just felt you. Try to make this meter move.”

Eddie held out the K-II as the group flowed into the room behind him.

“You must have had your reasons,” Eddie said. “I just want to understand why you did it.”

No response.

“Talk to me. I want to understand.”

Eddie had only been working the scene for a few minutes but already he had that sinking feeling. Sometimes you knew right away when you weren’t going to get anything. He’d been on dozens of jobs where nothing had happened and all of them had felt like this. At best you got that itchy feeling that somebody was watching you or your camera might catch a stray orb but at the end of the day all you were left holding was your dick.

Next to him, Green glanced at Eddie. The DA and the detective did too. Gracie was eyeing him up and her team shot him challenging, skeptical looks.

Then the air shifted. Eddie’s skin tingled. He sensed motion, something riding the stagnant air of the Ketcher house.

He followed it to Alice’s studio. The final locus of the crime, hypothetically the most charged room in the house. It was possible that Alice herself was here. It was also most likely that the other ghost, whoever it was, was hovering in a tight radius around this emotionally charged spot. He’d been saving this room for last because he’d been hoping he wouldn’t need it.

The studio felt different. Eddie scanned the room but didn’t see anything. The easel was still on its side. The drop cloth in the middle of the floor was stained merlot with Alice’s blood.

Eddie walked to the end table next to the easel, where Alice had kept art supplies. He stood the digital recorder on the table and walked away from it.

“This is Eddie McCloskey. We’re all in the studio now—”

There was a commotion behind him. He turned and the crowd parted and the DA and Ross stepped away from the wall like it was a dangerous, violent thing.

Fresh, red brush strokes marked the wall. Drip lines dotted the space on the wall under where the paint had been applied.

Gracie tore her eyes away from the wall and whipped her head around. “When did you do this?”

Her voice full of accusation.

Eddie didn’t even look at her. “If it’s a fraud, it’s your people. I’ve had eyes on me since I set foot inside.”

Together, they walked toward the wall. The paint was a messy scrawl approaching handwriting, but it was as unintelligible as a doctor’s note. Eddie and Gracie stopped a foot shy of the wall. He stooped a little and she got on her tiptoes.

“Get your cameras on this,” Eddie said.

Gracie suddenly remembered she was there to debunk him. She snapped her fingers and her team got set up. Green, the DA, and Ross had their phones out and were snapping pictures.

“It says something,” Eddie said.

“It doesn’t say anything,” Gracie said, though her eyes were riveted to the paint. “Your mind is making connections that aren’t there. It’s a psycholo—”

“I know what the hell it is.” He pointed to the middle of the paint. “But that looks like an S.”

Gracie opened her mouth to protest but the words died in her throat. Eddie allowed himself a moment of joy. She was left speechless because he was right.

Somebody—something—had tried to leave them a message.

“It must have been someone on…” Gracie’s voice faded into nothing.

Eddie filled in the blank for her. “Someone on your team? I ordered everybody out of here…” Eddie checked the time on his watch. “…an hour ago. This is fresh paint.”

The red paint continued to drip and slide down the wall. Eddie searched the ground for a recently used brush but saw none.

Gracie gathered her wits. “That’s not an S. It could be anything and…” She examined it more closely. “…and it looks like it’s the joining of more than one line. Nobody uses more than one stroke to write an S.”

Eddie said, “Didn’t know you were a handwriting expert too, Gracie.”

She muttered something under her breath.

Eddie smiled at her. He had something and it was a hell of a lot more than nothing. The first seed of reasonable doubt for the jury.

Eddie turned to Gracie’s crew. The tallest one had a digital camera trained on the wall.

Eddie winked at the guy. “Make sure you get this, kid.”

Then Gracie screamed and nearly fell backward but Eddie grabbed her arm. When he turned back to the wall, he jumped too.

Letters began to appear in the wet, red paint as if someone were tracing their finger through it.

Eddie moved out of the way. “Tighten up with the cameras!”

The rest of the group closed, albeit tentatively. They were all intrigued and unnerved. Eddie himself had never seen anything like this except in the late night crap horrorfest movies.

Five letters formed on the wall.

itwas

Eddie perked up. Was he going to get a confession?

“Did you kill Alice Ketcher?”

“Hold on. You don’t even know what this writing is in reference to,” Gracie said. “You’re charging the communication.”

Strictly speaking she was right. But he had asked about the murder in the other room, a few minutes ago. It was the only question he’d asked several times. And if this was the intelligent haunting that Anson claimed, then the ghost knew why they were here. Therefore, if they got a name from the ghost, there was a good chance it was in reference to the murder.

After a five second stretch of eternity, another letter started forming after the others.

n

Green breathed an audible sigh of relief when it was clear the letter wasn’t an A, for Anson.

t

“It wasn’t?” somebody in the back asked.

Eddie hoped the next letter was an A. Maybe the ghost would come out and write that it wasn’t Anson.

But the next letter was m.

itwasnt m

Eddie looked to Green, hoping the lawyer would have a name or person in mind. But two lines formed between Green’s bushy eyebrows and a frown creased his old face. He gave Eddie a quick shake of the head.

The next mark was just a horizontal slash, but then the mark curved up and back to the left, slowly arcing down to meet the slash on the other side. It continued along its circular path under the slash and stopped.

e

Eddie’s face fell. He’d been expecting some kind of confession or, just as good, a name pointing to another suspect. With the latter, the DA would have had to drop the charges while Ross went looking for this other person.

Instead, the words read:

itwasnt me

“Then who did it?” Eddie asked. “Who killed Alice Ketcher?”

Twenty

Two hours later Eddie left the Ketcher residence with no other evidence. He kept picturing those letters appear in the paint. They were bad news but they reminded him of what Anson had told him about Alice on the night in question. She’d said, in a voice not her own, it wasn’t her.

Puzzled, he pulled off the road a few miles later and called Stan.

Stan sounded like he was in his car. “Eddie, did you wise up and drop that case?”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m in a real jam now and need your advice.”

“Lay it on me.”

Eddie told Stan about his preliminary investigation at the house and the writing on the wall that made his client look guilty as hell.

“Here’s my advice: get as far away from that trial as you can.”

“Not an option.”

“Listen, pal. I’m not kidding. It’s lose-lose. If Anson swings, you look bad. In the unlikely scenario that you get him acquitted, it still won’t look good for you because nobody outside of the jury will buy your story for one second. They’ll just see you as the guy who helped free a murderer.”

“I wish I could let this go.” Eddie watched as a police cruiser zipped past on the road.

“Give me one good reason.”

“You’re right. Anson’s probably guilty. But I’m not sure. I don’t have the whole picture and it pisses me off.”

“You pick the stupidest shit to get pissed off about.”

“You’re not going to talk me out of this, at least not on this phone call, but you can help me in another way.”

“The writing on the wall.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking of the Faces of Belmez and that other one…can’t remember the name.”

“I know what you mean. You sure you want to run tests on the writing? You might end up proving that it’s genuine and then you’re really up the creek.”

“I’m here for the truth, pal. I’m not a hired gun.”

“Remind me never to hire you to be my expert witness if I’m charged with a crime.”

“Can you help me?”

“Maybe the prosecution will test it themselves.”

“Doubt it. They’ll want to have their cake and eat it too. Gracie will argue the writing is probably fake, but even if it’s real, then it supports their case. They’re not going to put any expense into testing it, doesn’t help them.”

“Do I get to put on my resume that I provided expert, technical support to the defense in a high-profile murder case?”

“What resume? You’re never going back to work.”

Stan laughed. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Today, brother. I’m going back there tonight.”

* * * *

The foreman banged on the trailer door. Alan Balston shouted that it was open.

The door swung open. The foreman poked his head in and nodded at Alan and said nothing. Alan nodded back and the foreman disappeared.

Then one mean-looking son of a bitch stepped through the door. He was as tall as the ceiling and wider than the filing cabinets. Alan signaled for him to the shut the door.

The man was pushing six-five, probably three hundred and fifty pounds. Built like a linebacker. He was dressed in black athletic gear and wore sunglasses. His neck was inked with tattoos. His goatee hadn’t been trimmed in months.

Alan took his feet off his desk and tossed his hard hat on the filing cabinet by the window and stood up. He recognized the man from someplace. He carbon-dated his memory and the fuzzy feeling told him he’d met this dude awhile ago, maybe five, six years ago. He looked like muscle from some union.

“I know you,” Goatee said.

“I don’t know you, pal. And let’s keep it that way.” Alan grabbed a manilla folder off the desk. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Not really.”

“You see anybody you know as you came in here?”

“No.”

Alan wondered if this was a good idea. Last night the deadly mix of greed and sympathy had gotten the better of reason, and he’d made the offering to Councilman Towson.

Goatee said, “Are we doing business or what?”

Alan nodded. “There’s a guy stirring up trouble but not enough the cops can do anything about it.”

“We don’t like guys like that.”

Alan smiled. “You don’t look like you sing in the church choir, buddy. My question is, do you know how to play it subtle?”

Goatee took his glasses off. A scar bisected one of his eyebrows and his eyes were dark. “I don’t audition for business. Just tell me what you want. I’ll tell if you we can do it.”

Alan hesitated. He’d promised the councilman some extralegal help, but maybe Goatee wasn’t the right man for the job. Maybe there was nobody good for the job. Alan could either renege on his promise, try to find somebody else, or go through with it. Goatee came with glowing recommendations, though, from guys Alan trusted.

He said, “This guy needs to be discouraged from doing something. But it can’t be obvious to the cops that he was discouraged. Can you make that happen?”

“If the price is right, my boys can turn water into wine.”

Alan looked Goatee over for a good twenty seconds before handing over the manilla folder. “This is our guy. The particulars are in the folder. This can’t come back to me. Understood?”

“It won’t even come back to us.”

* * * *

Eddie kept to the speed limit and drove to Green’s office in silence. The lawyer met him there. Nobody said anything until they were inside Green’s private office.

“Now we’re fucked.” Green loosened his tie and undid his top button and sat stiffly in his chair. “I told Anson we shouldn’t go down this road. There was no telling what you’d find. Now I wish you hadn’t found anything. I could have put you on that stand and made you sing to the jury and we would have had an outside shot at planting the seeds of reasonable doubt. That was all the chance we ever had. Had. Now it’s worse. Now we’ve got a ghost saying it was Anson that killed her.”

Eddie shook his head. “That’s not what the ghost said. The ghost plead not guilty. It didn’t say Anson was the killer.”

“Who’s the fucking lawyer in here?” Green laughed ruefully. “Nobody else was in that house. We certainly can’t prove there was. Anson doesn’t even say there was. That leaves him, alone with his wife. He blacked out for one or two minutes at most. What are the chances someone else timed it so they could … Maybe the son of a bitch is …”

The lawyer derailed his own train of thought. Last thing he needed was to think his client was guilty.

“Anson and Alice. Nobody else was there.” Green put his double-chin to his chest and thought. He reminded Eddie of Merlin from The Sword in the Stone. All he needed was the long pointy beard. “Now the best I can do is argue that the police screwed up the crime scene and didn’t find evidence of a third party there. That’ll get me about as far as a pogo stick.”

Eddie folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “And you need a motive for somebody else to kill her, which’ll be tough. Alice was a saint.”

“I know what I need to do!” Green snapped, then seemed to remember that Eddie was the only guy on his side.

Green sat forward and put his hands on the desk. “Tell me you’ve thought of something.”

Eddie gave him one shake of the head. “It’s probably nothing, but one thing bothers me. Why did the ghost profess its innocence instead of just saying who did it? It had to be familiar with the Ketchers, so why not just say it was Anson.”

Green considered it. “Keep pulling on that thread.”

Eddie shrugged. “Okay … so the ghost said it wasn’t them because the ghost didn’t know who killed Alice.”

Green growled like a rabid dog. “I can’t put somebody else in the house for the jury. It’s impossible. First they need to believe a ghost was involved or a witness, then they need to believe someone else who had a motive to kill Alice was there, but that Anson didn’t know they were there …”

“Like I said, it’s probably nothing.” Eddie folded his arms. “And I want to follow up on the previous homeowner too.”

Green shrugged. “It can’t get any worse.”

“Time for Anson to consider a plea bargain.”

Green cursed. “The prosecution won’t offer one now.”

“I’ll take another shot at the house tonight. See if I can get anything else out of the ghost. And now I’m going to find the psychic Alice was seeing.”

“She wasn’t seeing anybody.” Green shook his head. “The lack of internet history tells us she wasn’t.”

Eddie thought about that. “Actually, it tells us the opposite.”

“How?”

“I’ll give you a call when I find something.”

* * * *

Eddie drove for seventy-five minutes, the whole way wondering if he was wasting his time. His GPS took him through an unincorporated area and a couple small towns and finally to his destination, a place that felt as empty and wide as where the Ketchers lived.

Eddie slotted the car in the gravel parking lot. The psychic’s business was double-zoned. The front of the two-story had an addition that served as her office. The building sat across the street from an adult video store and a check cashing outfit. If it weren’t for the forest on either side of the road, Eddie would have thought he was downtown and would have looked for a takeout joint offering specials on wings.

Ms. Beverly Magloin. Spiritual Advisor. She was the only soothsayer in the phone book in this area. Eddie didn’t see the usual gaudy neon lights in the windows, just a somewhat-respectable looking sign with the Madam’s name and bulleted service offerings: palmistry, tarot readings, medium, psychic readings, past-life regressions. The only graphic on the sign a wide-open eye.

Earlier, Eddie had figured that if Alice Ketcher was going to seek the counsel of a psychic, she would have picked the one farther from town to keep it on the down-low. If it got out she was consulting a psychic, it would reflect poorly on her in the church community and it would damage her father’s political career.

The search of their computer’s internet history hadn’t produced anything. Either Alice had outwitted an IT nerd or she hadn’t used the computer to research psychics. But then how had she found out about CIARA, if she hadn’t used a computer?

Eddie sat in his car a moment and watched the road in his rear-view. It was a matter of habit now, ever since Sean McKenna had tracked him down and tried to kill him on his last big job. He tended to attract the wrong kind of attention, make the wrong kind of enemies, and local law enforcement had a personal stake in the outcome of this investigation. Nobody, except Green and Giles, wanted Anson to walk.

One minute, no traffic.

Eddie double-checked the interior of his car to make sure he’d hidden all personal items in his glove box. He left the Packers jersey in the backseat and the Red Sox baseball cap sitting up against the rear windshield. He’d stopped a few minutes ago to switch out his Pennsylvania plates for his old, retired New Jersey plates.

Inside, the twenty-something receptionist sat behind a wall-to-wall counter and wore a cheery smile and trendy coat over a halter top. “Hi there, I’m Stacy. Are you here to make an appointment?”

“Hi, Stacy. I’m kind of in a jam. I have an urgent problem and would like to see the Madam—I mean, Ms. Magloin—right away if I can.”

“Ohhhh, I see. Let me check her calendar.” Stacy showed genuine concern and made a big show of flipping through an appointment book then double-checking the Madam’s calendar on her computer. Eddie smiled. There were no other cars in the lot, so unless somebody had walked to the office, Ms. Magloin wasn’t busy at the moment. Stacy was just stalling.

Incense caught in Eddie’s nose and he took one of the psychic’s business cards while he waited.

Stacy looked up. “Okay, just let me double-check with Ms. Magloin.”

“Thank you kindly.”

Stacy stood and smoothed her painted-on, knee-length skirt and strutted to a doorway covered by two heavy damask curtains. She slipped through and disappeared into the back.

Eddie did a quick scan of the waiting area. The casual glance didn’t reveal any hidden cams or mikes so the psychic had at least a minimum degree of competence. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Very often, clients came in groups. The elderly often required a driver. While in the lobby, they’d discuss the very problems they’d come to see the psychic about. These dialogs would be picked up by hidden cams or mikes, thus arming the Madam with everything she needed to put on the show.

Eddie didn’t see the equipment in the usual places, but as they say, absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence.

He read the Madam’s business card. She belonged to the Association of Independent Readers, which made for an odd acronym. Her business slogan was too long-winded for the  attention span of today’s Twitterverse: Coping with the Past and Present, Preparing for the Future.

He wondered if the Madam could get group health insurance coverage through the AIR.

The damask curtains parted and Stacy came out. She gave him a smile that almost knocked him on his ass.

“Ms. Magloin would like to help you and is available now.” She came back to her desk and leaned across the counter at him. “The fee is $50 per half hour.”

“I’m sure she’s well worth it.” Eddie handed Stacy a credit card.

Stacy’s nose wrinkled. “I’m sorry, sir, but I need to see some ID. Someone came here recently and used a stolen credit card.”

Eddie wondered why the Madam hadn’t been able to foresee that. He handed her his driver’s license. Stacy compared the names and signatures on the two cards, processed the payment, then handed his plastic back to him.

“Thank you, sir. You can go on back now, right through that door there.”

Twenty-One

Eddie didn’t spot any of the standard ruses as he entered the Madam’s office. No one-way mirrors he could see, no crystal balls. He could have been stepping into a small, professional-looking meeting space in a tiny but well-furnished office. Heavy drapes covered the windows, the lighting was glam-shot soft, and incense flitted through the air.

Ms. Magloin rose from the small, circular table in the middle of the room and met him halfway. She wore slacks, a blazer, a bright smile, and a blouse that was open one button south of modest.

Her voice was silky. “Welcome.”

“Thanks for your time.”

They shook hands. Her skin was creamy and smooth. She pointed him to a chair at the table and then sat in the opposite one.

She regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable. He maintained a neutral posture, his hands folded on the table.

She was stalling, Eddie knew. Right now, her receptionist was googling his name, possibly peering through the windows of his car to obtain personal information about him.

Then came the first gimmick.

“I can tell you’re a smart man.” She stood and put one hip on the table and smiled at him. “You’ve heard of phrenology?”

He couldn’t help himself. “You tell me, have I?”

“Mr. McCloskey—Eddie. This session will be much more productive if you’re receptive and cooperative.” She leaned forward, exposing more of her ample cleavage. He feasted his eyes, letting her think the distraction was working. And also because he enjoyed the view.

She put her hands on his head and massaged his scalp. “The messages I receive are not always clear so I’ll need your help to interpret them. I’m just a guide. You’re the expert on your life.”

He said nothing. Just basked in the attentions of her fingers.

“Oh yes,” she said. “There is a lot here.”

The scalp rub released endorphins. Eddie’s lizard brain was associating the feelings of pleasure and comfort with Ms. Magloin. It was all part of the con. She wasn’t actually reading the bumps on his head. And if she was, they wouldn’t mean anything to her. Maybe a forensic anthropologist would be able to discern his Irish ancestry. Or even further back, to his possible Viking blood.

Ninety-nine percent of the questions people brought to psychics fell into three categories: relationships, health, and finances. As if on cue, Ms. Magloin spoke.

“There are two areas that are now giving you concern.”

Eddie closed his eyes, pretended to be lost in the scalp massage. “What are my choices?”

“You know, but I will tell you anyway.” Slowly, she stopped rubbing his head and folded her hands in her lap. “You have a problem with relationships and with finances.”

Who didn’t?

“I guess this would fit into the relationship category.”

All communication was incomplete and required the recipient to play detective in order to divine the meaning of the shared information. Psychics relied on this and let their customers fill in the blanks, ignore contradictory information, and emphasize meaningful statements while downplaying communications that did not fit. Eventually the client would forget all the misses and remember only the hits.

Ms. Magloin got up and repositioned her chair so their knees touched when she sat. She held both his hands. Her hands soft, warm. Her fingers gentle.

“You prefer a certain amount of change and variety and become dissatisfied when hemmed in by restrictions and limitations.”

Eddie said nothing. She’d read his facial expressions and body language so far and had made a few guesses about him. Using that information, she’d selected one of her many prefabbed stock readings and was giving it to him now.

“You pride yourself as an independent thinker and do not accept other’s statements without satisfactory proof, but you have found it unwise to be too frank in revealing yourself to others.”

She surprised him with her accuracy in selecting an apt stock reading. She was on the money so far.

“You are not from here,” she said. “You’re not from anywhere.”

So that was how she’d decided to handle the conflicting information he’d given her: the old New Jersey tags on the car and the varying sports gear in the backseat. Not bad.

Either the co-ed had gone outside to check his car or they had cameras spotting the parking lot so she didn’t have to leave her desk. The Madam’s hair hid her ears so he couldn’t check for an earpiece.

The Madam’s hands roved from his and her fingers ran along his wrists. “You’re a good person, Eddie. You’ve made some mistakes, some pretty big ones in your life, but deep down you’re a good person. That’s why people like you. You know that brunette you fell for? She still really cares about you too, even though she’s with somebody else. And she’s your soul mate.”

That part of his mind looking to make sense of the world immediately made the connection.

Moira.

She’d been his first crush. Later, his first love. But he’d cocked that up, and now she was married to his best friend, Stan.

Then the rational part of his brain said, Wait a minute.

If he stretched the description a little bit, he could apply it to Ana, who was a dirty blond. They had developed a deep relationship on his last big job. And a cute girl like her didn’t stay single too long.

The Madam was a pretty good performer. She wouldn’t win any Academy Awards but she could have been a solid character actor. She wasn’t too theatrical. She was just unmannered enough to be credible.

She’d proudly displayed her fun bags for him, so she knew from his roving eyes that he was a heterosexual, red-blooded male. She knew from his appearance that he was in his thirties, so chances were good he’d been in several relationships in his life. And there were only four basic hair colors, with brunette being the most common so he was bound to have fallen for somebody fitting that vague description.

It made him laugh that he’d learned the psychic’s tricks by watching Gracie Barbitok’s show.

“You know who I’m talking about,” the Madam said, her voice still warm and even.

“There are a few girls that fit that—”

“Moira.”

Eddie was taken aback.

The Madam smiled at him knowingly. “Moira is your soul mate, but she is not yours. And this tortures you. It will always torture you until you find someone who reciprocates your feelings. Always remember, Eddie, that there is more than one soul for everyone.”

His head was spinning. Was it possible she fell into the less than one percent of psychics who had actual abilities?

“Souls have no age, Eddie. Don’t let physical years get in the way of your happiness with someone who is younger than you.”

She had him against the ropes. Now she was referring to Ana, who was a decade his junior.

She smiled sympathetically. “You have many questions, I know. But this will take some time. And love is a long-term problem. The more pressing issue is your business. It will flourish if you are successful on this job. If you are not, difficult times lie ahead.”

Also true. This case was high-profile, a career booster or buster, even before Gracie Barbitok showed up. Now the stakes were raised another tenfold. He was under the eye. If this went bad for him, he’d become one of Gracie’s many punchlines. No doubt the network’s writers and editors were already working on turning this into a special.

She let go of his wrists and put her palms on his thighs, near the knees.

“So you’re not just here because of Moira and Ana. You’re here to talk about Alice Ketcher, aren’t you, Eddie?”

She knew. She knew everything.

She had him convinced.

For a second.

He got up and gave her his back. Her name-dropping Alice Ketcher had him all hot and bothered.

Then he put it together.

He faced her and smiled. “Okay, you can cut the sideshow now. I have the same question for you as I did for Gracie Barbitok.”

The Madam remained perfectly still.

Eddie let his last comment hang, then said, “Your assistant got my name off my plastic. Very good idea to ask for corroborating ID. That was easy.”

She said nothing.

“For the few men who come in here you wear an outfit like that. It’s supposed to make us think with the wrong head. We’re more apt to believe you when we’ve got a view of the twin peaks there.”

She looked at him sideways.

“For the women, you play it modest. You put those lovely bosoms away and don’t hide your age lines so much. That way, the ladies don’t see you as a sexual threat and they’re more inclined to like you.”

Silence.

Eddie nodded at her. “There’s no bad blood here, Ms. Magloin. You’re pretty good. But I know the game.”

Finally she spoke. “You are a curious man. You come here looking for answers but then you insult me. I told you in the beginning, if you’re not receptive to the process, the process won’t work for you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I came here for information.”

Her eyes betrayed nothing. “Alice Ketcher … you want to establish contact with her.”

“How many times did she come to see you?”

Ms. Magloin frowned. “I’ve never met—”

“Please.” He smiled and looked around the room to make her uneasy. “Alice came to see you. Confidentially, of course, or else the lawyers and the police would have been through here like a pack of wild dogs already. Anyway, you pay attention to the local news so you know what’s going on in the community. Takes some of the guesswork out of your job. You read about the murder and since then you’ve kept a pulse on the criminal charges filed against Alice’s husband, so you knew I was involved and when Stacy verified my ID you knew it was Eddie McCloskey, paranormal expert for the defense, about to walk through the door. All good psychics know it’s better to have information ahead of time instead of resorting to the usual fishing expedition. You had your dossier prepped on me in case I showed up. Pretty good work. Then you went for the slow burn with me. Gave me a stock cold reading, made sure I was fully on the hook. And you had me for a second, lady. You really did. You took your time. Brought me under the spell. The name-drops of Moira and Ana had my head spinning. But then you mentioned Alice Ketcher.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Get out. Or I’ll scream rape. My word against the ex-con’s.”

A whisper. But a menace behind the words. Perhaps she’d been in this spot before.

Eddie smiled. “My word against the fraud’s. Or is it just part-fraud? That’s one of the things I wanted to know.”

“How dare you.”

“Take it easy, Ms. Magloin. You want to cooperate with me. Last thing your business needs is bad press tying you to a dead client who came to you for help about a haunted house.”

She folded her arms. “What do you want?”

“Same thing as any of your clients. Answers.”

She watched him thoughtfully.

“Let’s scale this back down to Defcon-Five. Why don’t we have a seat and talk like two grown-ups, if not professionals.”

She ran her tongue along her teeth. Then without a word moved her chair back to the other side of the table. There would be no more touchy-feely this session. Eddie was a little disappointed.

Eddie sat back down. “How many times did she come to see you?”

“Many.”

“She asked for help with the ghost, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but …”

Eddie sat forward. “Ms. Magloin, the woman is dead and her husband could hang. If he’s guilty, then I’ll make sure that happens. But if he’s not, then I want to get him a fair shake.”

The Madam looked away, unfolded her arms, let out a big sigh. “I do have the Eye, you know.”

“That right?”

“Yes. But it’s unreliable. For every ten clients I see, I get true insight on one of them, maybe two.”

“Must be hard.”

“Don’t mock me.” Two angry lines carved themselves between her eyes. “I do provide these people a real service. I can read a person better than any shrink can.”

“I’m not judging.”

“Oh yes, you are. I can tell by your tone, the pacing of your words, the way your eyes are. Even if you don’t know you are, I know you are.”

Eddie suddenly felt self-conscious so he changed the way he was sitting. “So what service do you provide?”

“The people that come here just want answers. They don’t get satisfactory ones from most of their outlets anymore. And I can read them better than their best friends can. I can tell who they truly are. If you know yourself, you know everything you need to be happy. I open their eyes to their own truth. I’ve helped a lot of people, especially those I’ve gained true insight for.”

“Or you give them false hope.”

“Spare me the holier-than-thou snark. If your client’s claim is bogus, do you refuse the money you’re due?”

Eddie thought back to the Chins. Old man Chin had offered him money but Eddie had turned it down.

“The difference between me and you is I don’t know if a claim is bogus till I do my job.”

She crossed one leg over the other, faced him diagonally.

Eddie said, “Now what did Alice ask you to do for her?”

“It took two visits to get her to open up. At first she didn’t reveal what was bothering her. When she finally told me, she asked how she could get rid of the spirit.”

Eddie’s ears perked up at that. Removing a spirit from a location was difficult, and it often backfired. When a ghost realized it was unwelcome, it could become agitated and dangerous. It didn’t turn ghosts into killers, but it could explain a lot.

“And you told her how to do it.”

The Madam nodded. “I counseled against it, but she just wanted it out of her house. She was very—”

“Religious. And she couldn’t square the existence of the ghost with her beliefs. Cognitive dissonance. Better to get rid of the ghost like it never existed than have to reevaluate her lifelong faith.”

Eddie knew the faithful weren’t necessarily better-behaved than the non-religious. And religion didn’t necessarily change behavior—usually a person’s faith drove it underground. Alice, not getting satisfactory answers from her pastor, had decided to seek the advice of a soothsayer discreetly.

Ms. Magloin watched him for a long second. “Like I said, I advised against it.”

“So what did you tell her to do to get rid of it?”

“It’s a slow, careful process. You don’t want to enrage the spirit so you take baby steps. At first, you simply explain the situation to them as nicely as possible: they are dead, this is your home now, they have to move on to the Light. Usually that works.”

Eddie couldn’t help himself. “Usually? You’ve got good metrics on that?”

She gave him a cross look. “If that doesn’t work, you try more … aggressive methods. Burn sage, call in God or the archangels …”

“But Alice had already called on God, probably his archangels too. That wasn’t getting her anywhere.”

“Right. So I also recommended a spiritual detox.”

Eddie let a silence grow. He decided to see how forthcoming the Madam was being with him.

“Do you know who Ciara is?”

The Madam frowned. “She never mentioned anybody by that name.”

“C-I-A-R-A. It’s a weird spelling.”

Ms. Magloin tilted her head to the side. Looked like she was thinking about it. “No, I’m sorry.”

Eddie smiled. “Lady, you’re not telling me the truth.”

Her cheeks reddened. “How dare you.”

“She didn’t go to the library and she didn’t search for CIARA on her computer. That means someone like you told her what it was.”

The Madam grew thoughtful. “Interesting. She was so worried about anyone finding her out I’m surprised she wrote it down somewhere.”

Eddie hid his surprise at her correct guess. “Clear, invoke, ask, receive, apply. The five steps for channeling a spirit.”

“Yes.”

And that confirmed Eddie’s suspicions that had been fermenting since he’d spoken to Anson Ketcher. According to her husband, Alice had exhibited odd behavior during the ghost’s most recent visits, all of which sounded like she’d either been trying to channel the ghost or had been possessed herself.

Eddie shook his head. “So let me get this straight. First you tell her how to get rid of the spirit.”

“Against my advice.”

“Then you tell her how to channel what is probably an angry spirit?”

The Madam’s eyes burned holes in him. “I told her it wasn’t a good idea. But she was insistent. If I didn’t tell her, she would have just gone elsewhere, maybe to some quack. Or worse, she would have looked for information online. I figured it was better if I shared my expertise.”

Eddie folded his arms. “For a price, of course.”

“I didn’t charge her for the last two sessions. I felt for the woman.”

Eddie was taken aback. She sounded sincere, but of course she was an actress. It could have been a lie.

He decided to be generous. “I believe you. What’s the difference between channeling and being possessed?”

“The first is consensual. The second is more like psychological rape.”

“Is it the same type of connection?”

She shook her head no. “With channeling, there is a give-and-take. The channeler and the spirit share control of the body, though the channeler should be able to sever the connection at will. With possession, the spirit is in control.”

Eddie chewed on that a moment. “But channeling didn’t work for her, did it?”

Ms. Magloin’s eyes slid away from him. He felt the wall going up between them. The only thing to do was wait and see if he needed to reference the police and the lawyers again.

“No, it didn’t. And we had an argument during one session about it. She stormed out of here early that day.”

Check. That must have been the same day Anson had invited Giles over.

“So what did you tell her?”

She looked up. “Channeling is a one-way street, but that’s not to say it’s the only road available in the spirit world.”

“Translation.”

“We all take it for granted that ghosts are capable of possessing us. But possession can work both ways.”

“You’re saying a person can … possess a ghost?”

“It’s happened.”

Eddie leaned forward. “You instructed Alice Ketcher to possess the spirit?”

“I didn’t tell her to do anything. I just gave her her options.”

“Come off it. You showed her the secret door to a room she didn’t know existed. She was at her wit’s end. Of course she was going to open it. But what good would possessing the spirit be? Like you said, possession is a form of rape for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, but this possession would have been done in self-defense. Remember, the spirit was wreaking havoc in Alice’s life. If Alice tried this, it was done as a last resort.”

“But why?”

“To understand. Whatever the spirit was trying to communicate, it wasn’t getting through. By possessing her, Alice could know her completely. Maybe it would have given them both some peace. Maybe Alice could have helped her. Or maybe Alice could have pushed the ghost into the Light.”

“Or maybe it killed Alice.”

“Ghosts don’t kill people, Mr. McCloskey. You know that.”

Eddie went on. “Did she talk about her husband?”

“Yes. I told her to leave him.”

Shit.

“Why?”

“They were like you and Moira. She was his soulmate, but he wasn’t hers.”

“After your little chat, did she make any plans to divorce him?”

“She told me she spoke to an attorney and was making arrangements.”

Eddie filed that away. “Okay, now give me a crash course in channeling.”

Twenty-Two

Eddie drove to the nursing home again. It took him thirty minutes and he relished the silence of the car ride. Armed with this information from the psychic, he was considering breaking all of the protocols his brother had taught him when he returned to the Ketcher house that night. Giles Tyson would be proud.

He planned to channel the ghost. Then see what happened. Things couldn’t get any worse for Anson. And no call from Stan yet, either, about how to test the writing on the wall.

For now he wanted to talk to Lee Oliver, previous owner of the house, about the man’s dead wife.

The same nurse was working the front office. The man was in different-colored scrubs and wore a bored expression. He and Eddie hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot yesterday. He’d be lucky to get in.

The nurse said, “You’re back.”

“Mr. Oliver having a better day today?”

“Why’d you want to talk to him again?”

Eddie caught the suspicion in the man’s voice. “I’m going to level with you. I’m here because a man has been charged with murdering his wife in Mr. Oliver’s old home. There’s a very good chance that Mr. Oliver’s wife still … maintains a presence in that home if you catch my drift.”

“I know who you are.” The man looked left and right to make sure nobody else was around then stood and put his head in the window and lowered his voice. “I’m a ghost-hunter too. Just an amateur, though.”

Eddie was surprised, but he quickly offered his hand. He’d take any help he could get. “Always good to meet a fellow hunter.”

The nurse pumped Eddie’s hand. “I’m Steve. I was bored and googled your name yesterday and found out what you’re doing. I read your blog from start to finish yesterday.”

Eddie felt embarrassed. “That probably took all of five minutes.”

Steve smiled. “No, no it was good. I loved all the info on the Pennsylvania job. Very cool stuff. How long have you been doing this?”

Eddie smiled. “Long time, but I’ve been on my own for less than a year.”

“Very cool, very cool. Working in a place like this, you know.” Steve looked around. “I’ve experienced a lot.”

All of it debunkable, probably. “I’ll bet you have.”

Steve smiled. “Mr. Oliver isn’t always with it but I’ll go talk to him. Wait here a minute.”

Steve disappeared and Eddie paced the waiting area. The nurse returned a few minutes later and opened the security door for Eddie. “I’ll take you back.”

Eddie followed Steve down a long hallway and ignored the impulse to look through every open door they passed. He heard somebody yelling profanities in one room. A wheelchair-bound octogenarian burst out of the next room and nearly clotheslined Eddie. A pleasant-looking old woman with thick glasses watched him approach and smiled and God blessed him.

Eventually they reached a wide auditorium filled with folding tables. The residents were spread out in the room, sitting one or two to a table. Steve took him to the far corner of the room where a tall, gangly man slouched in a wheelchair that looked too small for him. An oxygen tank sat next to him.

“Mr. Oliver, you should have your mask on,” Steve said half-heartedly. Eddie could tell this was a long-fought battle between the nursing staff and Mr. Oliver.

“Damned thing’s uncomfortable as all get-out,” Oliver said without malice.

“Mr. Oliver, this is the man I told you about, Eddie McCloskey. He had some questions about your house.”

Oliver offered a liver-spotted, skeletal hand. Eddie shook it and found it cold. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Oliver.”

“Don’t stand on ceremony, Mr. McCloskey. I could croak any minute and then wouldn’t be able to answer your questions. Have a seat and fire away.”

Eddie chuckled and sat. The nurse left them alone. “I’m very sorry about your wife, sir.”

“Mary was a great woman. Put up with me all those years. I even cheated on her once. Kissed Janey Albright, one of the typists, at the Christmas party in sixty-seven. Mary knew what I’d done before I got the words out. She said, I love you, but don’t ever do it again or I’ll kill you.”

Oliver broke into a coughing fit that lasted fifteen seconds. Eddie didn’t know what to do with himself. After the old man came up for air, he said, “C-O-P-D. Never even smoked a day in my life, you believe that? My lawyer thinks some chemical at the foundry did this to me but it’s impossible to prove. I don’t know what good a settlement would do me anyway. It’s not like I can go to Disney World. If I see any money, I’m going to be irresponsible for the first time in my life and blow it all on hookers and coke.”

Eddie loved the old man’s droll sense of humor. “What about your children?”

“My boys are both gone already. Car wreck killed the first. Industrial accident took the second. There’s nobody left but me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s how it is. The earth keeps turning. No use in trying to make sense of the senseless. We’re here for a short while, there’s no meaning but the meaning we make for ourselves. I doubt anybody’s upstairs watching over us. So what do you want to ask me?”

“Your wife, Mary. I’m told she passed away in the home?”

“Yes.”

“Was she very ill? Or was it sudden?”

Oliver laughed. “I have a sneaking suspicion that all death is sudden to the dying. She was very ill. Early onset Alzheimer’s. The docs tell me I have it now too. So if you come back tomorrow, I might think you’re my dead son.”

“I hope I don’t have to bother you again, Mr. Oliver.” Eddie leaned forward. “How did she pass? Was it painful?”

Oliver broke into another coughing fit so violent that Eddie feared the man was going to pass out. But none of the nurses in the room were concerned enough to come to the table.

Oliver’s coughing petered out. “That probably sounded bad to you, but it was par for the course.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Other than donating a lung?”

Eddie smiled.

Oliver brought his oxygen mask up and took a couple deep breaths before he spoke again. “Mary was pretty far along. The last few months of her life were horrible. Most of the time she was just checked out, but every now and then she’d have a moment of clarity where she’d realize what was happening to her. In one of those bright moments, she asked me to kill her.”

The old man broke off. His eyes watered up.

Eddie said nothing.

Oliver’s voice was thick with emotion when he spoke again. “I never owned up, but the cops must have suspected. Chief Towson’s a good man, never gave me trouble over it. I helped Mary on her way.”

Eddie tried to keep his eyes from bulging.

“I don’t regret doing it because it’s what she wanted. I couldn’t stand seeing her checked out, and she couldn’t stand being lucid so nobody was happy. But still it’s hard. I hope you’re never in a position to have to make that decision, mister. It weighs heavy on me some days.”

“I’m very sorry.”

Tears in his glassy eyes, Oliver smiled. “It is what it is.”

“How long did you stay in the house after she passed?”

“About a year.”

“Did you ever see her again, after she passed?”

Oliver made a face. “What? You mean like a ghost?”

Eddie nodded.

“There were times I felt like she was there. It was comforting. But I never saw her. And I think most people feel like that when they’ve lost a loved one. Everybody tells me she’s in heaven, dear old Mary, just waiting for me. I hope the fairy tale is true, and I hope the Admissions Committee sees fit to let me in.”

Eddie laughed. “Was Mary trained in the martial arts?”

“You mean like all that Jackie Lee, Bruce Chan stuff?” Oliver had a good laugh at that. “No.”

“Self-defense?”

“My Mary was too nice to hurt a house fly, kid.”

“No temper at all?”

“I can count how many times she gave me the third-degree on one hand and I’d still be able to play pinball.”

Eddie thought for a moment, not wanting to forget anything. He had Oliver lucid. Tomorrow or the next day might be a different story for the old man.

Then he remembered one last thing. “Was she right-handed, Mary?”

Oliver hesitated. “Not naturally. But they trained her to be in school. You know, sign of the devil and all that.”

Twenty-Three

“Tell me you’ve got something,” Green said over the phone.

Eddie pulled into the dirt lot of the steak house. It was an old joint, probably had saw dust on the floor. “It’s pretty fucking thin, but I do. Good news: Mary Oliver was a natural lefty.”

Green laughed sardonically. “Eddie, I have to get a jury to believe that a ghost killed Alice. I have to tell them to turn off their rational brains to get them there. Then in the next breath, I’m going to point to forensic evidence and science to convince them of the mysticism? It’s harder than you think, speaking out of both sides of your mouth.”

Eddie slotted the car. Lawyers never liked anything you had to say. “Alright, Green. I’m going back over there tonight. Any developments at your end?”

“Hold on a minute. You’ve been gone all day and that’s all you’ve got for me?”

“I’ve got more but knowing you you won’t like it. So here’s the ten thousand foot view. I think Anson’s probably guilty. The only thing keeping me here is that primitive, childlike desire to understand what happened. We’ll probably never know. But I’m staying. I don’t have the whole picture and that’s bothering me and I want to see it before I give up on Anson. That probably makes me a damned fool. Now, I don’t feel like listening to you bitch and moan anymore today. So I’m gonna go eat a steak and try to talk myself out of this fool’s errand.”

Eddie killed the call and ignored the phone when Green called back.

The steakhouse was loud, saw dusty, smoky. The waitresses all wore tank tops and shorts that left nothing to the imagination. They all wore friendly smiles and they all had perfect hair and bleached white teeth and if there had been a film studio within two hundred miles they would have all been waiting for calls from their agents about the part they’d auditioned for. They were between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four and they made Eddie feel like a dirty old bastard.

The speakers blasted country music. Eddie had nothing against country, except when he was forced to listen to it. He asked the hostess for the quietest booth in the place and she deposited him in the far corner, away from the front door and the bar but close to the johns. Every time somebody opened the door, Eddie was treated to a view of some fella standing in front of a urinal.

The waitress came over and started telling him about the drink specials. Eddie waited politely for her to finish then asked for a water, straight-up. The joke didn’t register with the young lady. She just looked at him like he was trying to get in her pants and scurried away before he could tell her he was just kidding.

Eddie felt eyes on him and inventoried the bar. He didn’t see anybody he recognized, though he felt a stare or two shift away as his eyes roved.

The waitress came back and pretended to be angry. “Here’s your water. Straight up.”

He winked at her. “Thanks. Give me a steak, done medium.” He signaled for her to come closer.

She looked over her shoulder as if wary of another dumb practical joke, then put her thigh against the corner of the table. “Yeah?”

“Is it all regulars in here tonight?” he asked.

“Uh … I’m still relatively new. But we sit on a big rural route, so we get a lot of through traffic. The regulars mostly hover around the bar.”

“Thanks.”

She left, once again giving him a confused look.

Eddie checked his watch. Already eight o’clock. He turned his phone back on. He’d missed two calls from Green. He tried to reach Giles because he felt like talking to somebody who’d sympathize, but got no answer. He put the phone on the table and went through the steps Ms. Magloin had taught him earlier about channeling. Maybe that way he could get some answers. If not, he’d tell Green it was time to cut a deal with the prosecution. Far as Eddie was concerned, Anson Ketcher was probably guilty but he didn’t want to leave any stone unturned.

The steak came out fast and hot. Eddie ate it ravenously and it reminded him of the steakhouse he and Tim used to go to back home. From there it was an easy trip down memory lane, from their last job together to Tim’s gruesome death to Eddie’s time inside the joint to the last big job to the here and now. Eddie marveled at his current position in the universe. Who would have thought he’d be in Bubblefuck, upstate New York working as an expert witness on a murder case. It defied all logic and sense of order. He wasn’t supposed to be eating this steak in this booth right now. He should have been helping other recovering addicts, or working in a lumber yard, or doing the things that most other ex-cons did. In some parallel universe, he was probably a recidivist, back inside the joint for his second or third offense. But somehow, it had worked out for him in this reality.

He just needed this job to go well to grow the business. He’d never be a millionaire doing this work but it interested him and paid the bills. That was more than most people had. Most schlepped to an office, sat in a claustrophobic cubicle, and worked a job they hated. For forty years. It was no coincidence the people that liked their jobs were usually good at them.

Throughout his meal, he felt the eyes on him again so Eddie started marking the men at the bar. A dozen characters sat behind their beers, most of them watching one of the TVs above the bar. He stared till he got who-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at reactions from some of the patrons. There were three other guys, not sitting together, who didn’t bat an eyelash or look at him.

Eddie figured it had been one of those three who’d been checking him out. He wondered if the interest was professional or not.

Giles called him back. “Any news, Edward?”

Any time somebody called him Edward it was like nails on a chalkboard. “I wanted to pick your brain a little. You ever hear about, Christ I don’t even know what to call it … reverse possession?”

There was a long pause. “What do you mean?”

“As in a person possessing a ghost.”

Giles started answering but the call went choppy. He must have been in a bad area.

“Where are you?” Eddie asked. “I didn’t think there were any bad areas for reception anymore.”

“ … in the car. Can you hear me now?”

“Loud and clear. Did you hear what I asked?”

“I did. I was saying that I read about it before. I think some team tried it in eastern Europe and claimed to have made it work. But that’s all I can remember.”

“You put any stock in it?”

Giles laughed. It was the first time Eddie had heard him laugh since he’d come up here and it sounded forced, like Giles was out of practice. “Not even I can go that far, Eddie. I don’t think it’s possible.”

Eddie had never heard Giles call something impossible before. “That’s more like it. Remember, my name’s Eddie, pal.”

“Ah, yes. You know me. Stuffy, arrogant Giles.”

Eddie flagged the waitress down and made a sign for the check. “I’m going dark tonight but maybe we can hook up this weekend?”

“Of course, old friend. We can recount war stories and maybe you can give me a taste of what you’ve been doing out here. I hate being on the outside looking in.”

“At this point, I don’t see the harm. Talk to you later.”

Eddie paid for his dinner and tipped the waitress twenty-five percent. He’d waitered for a summer in high school so he was a generous tipper, knowing how often the server got blamed for things outside of his control, like the ambience or the burger not being cooked right or the fact the soda fountain only had Pepsi but not Coke. He left the restaurant and sat in his car a moment, looking through the rearview at the front door.

Ten seconds later, one of the men he’d been watching came out. But he was not alone. He had his arm around the petite shoulders of some woman a third his size. The man didn’t even look in Eddie’s direction, just walked with the woman to the far side of the lot.

Maybe Eddie was just being paranoid. He’d had to grow eyes in the back of his head when he’d been inside, and somebody from his past had tried to kill him less than a year ago, so when he got that fuzzy feeling on the back of his neck he listened to it.

Twenty-Four

Chief Towson told Officer Thieler to shut the door behind her. She stood in front of his desk and half-snapped to attention. Three years in, she was still the new girl on the block and if the Chief liked her or disliked her, he kept his opinion to himself. He wasn’t exactly warm toward all the men, either, so she couldn’t call the department an Old Boy’s Club, though Towson had his favorites. His son, the M.E., Grimm, a couple of the other guys. He did not like Detective Ross. There was a rumor that Ross had sided with the DA one time against Towson. Far as she was concerned, Ross was good people and a better detective. Every time she spoke to him she learned something.

“Have a seat, Becky,” the Chief said.

She did.

He leaned back and folded his hands on top of his beach ball gut. “I have a special detail. You’ll get time-and-a-half. I want you to follow Eddie McCloskey, see what he’s up to, report it back to me.”

She tried not to act surprised.

“Any questions?”

“Where is he staying?”

The Chief told her.

“Am I looking for anything in particular?”

“The DA wants to ensure that everybody’s playing fair, putting all their cards on the table. After today’s developments, I wouldn’t put it past defense counsel to play fast and loose and not turn over everything they find. They’re in a tough spot and I have to assume they’re desperate.”

The news of this morning’s paranormal investigation at the Ketcher residence had spread throughout the department as quickly as gossip at the prom. Thieler had thought her fellow officer was playing a practical joke on her when he shared the news, it was so far-fetched.

“What is it?” the Chief asked.

“Detective Ross has always been … good to me. I don’t want him to think I’m going behind his back. Sir.”

A vein popped out on the Chief’s forehead. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “Detective Ross is busy with other important cases and Alice’s father, through the DA, has asked me to head this up personally. The Councilman is good to this department so I want to return the favor. Now if there are no other questions.”

Of course there were other questions but Thieler didn’t want to push it. She left the Chief’s office, didn’t meet Ross’s eyes as she passed the detective, and arranged to use an unmarked car.

* * * *

On the way to the Ketcher place, Eddie walked through the steps for channeling in his mind. He would be taking a major risk here. He was breaking professional protocol and he’d be doing it in front of Gracie Barbitok. The cameras would be rolling. If it didn’t work, he’d look like a desperate loon, just as bad if not worse than Giles Tyson had appeared during Gracie’s sting operation.

C-I-A-R-A

Clear: He had to connect with his center to feel the spirit within him.

Invoke: Then he had to invite the spirit to enter his space.

Ask: Next he had to verbalize his question and write it down.

Receive: The answer would come to him. It might just feel like he was thinking.

Apply: If he got an answer, he could act on it.

Sounded like a bunch of new age bullshit. But Eddie was out of options. The worst part? Anson was probably guilty.

Eddie’s phone buzzed. It was Stan.

“Give me some good news, brother.”

“This shit’s beyond even me. You’re going to need help, and probably from the crime lab.”

“Awesome. How do we do it?”

Stan told him. Eddie didn’t understand a word of it.

“Well that sounds easy.”

His phone beeped signifying another call. It was Green calling.

“Stan, I’m getting another call and there’s no way I can arrange this chemical testing tonight. It’ll have to be tomorrow. Let me get back to you.”

Eddie answered Green’s call as he turned onto Anson’s street. “I’m going to be there in five minutes, counselor.”

In the background, Eddie heard sirens and commotion.

Green said, “There is no there anymore, Eddie.”

“What are you talking about?”

Eddie rounded a bend and in the distance could see the flash of police and fire truck lights. He stepped on it, not wanting to believe his eyes.

A huge fire raged where the Ketcher house should have been. The flames twisted and reached high into the sky. Then he caught his first whiff of smoke and slid the knob for internal air only.

Green said something else, but the reception was bad here and the call dropped.

Eddie stopped short of the driveway and hauled ass across the lawn as firefighters blasted the house with water. The two streams of water looked pitifully small against the backdrop of the inferno.

Eddie could picture the insurance investigator’s report now: TOTAL LOSS.

He came to a halt, his legs heavy after the sprint. Firefighters and police rushed past him. Detective Ross and the DA and Denard Green stood in a tight triangle and argued. Gracie Barbitok caught Eddie’s eye. She pointed at him, then at the house and shook her head, as if he were responsible for the fire.

Eddie meant to hold up all his fingers at her, but only the middle one listened.

Then Green was at his side. He had to raise his voice over the din. “Tell me you weren’t anywhere near this house this afternoon.”

“Come on, Green. Why would I burn the house down? The evidence in hand is bad for us. I’d want every chance to get back in there.”

“The DA will ask. You’d better begin your answer with, No.” Green looked over Eddie’s shoulder and then cuffed his arm and moved him farther away from the crowd. “Where does this leave us?”

“Ghosts are usually geographically-limited. The destruction of the house might cause it to dissipate permanently.”

“Which means you won’t get any more information.”

Eddie nodded.

“When will you know?”

“A day or two.”

“We’re picking a jury on Monday,” Green said. “Judge Metnick won’t let us take longer than a day with that. Opening arguments on Tuesday. You’ll be in the box probably Wednesday. Then we hand it over to the jury.”

“Is Anson taking the stand?”

“Haven’t made up my mind yet. He makes a bad witness and he and Alice have bad history.”

“What does the fire mean for us? Can you argue we need more time?”

“No. Time’s up. There’s nothing left to produce except your expert report. It’s up to you, Eddie. It’s up to you.”

“Good to know you’re putting all your eggs in my basket.” Eddie left Green there, headed back to his car as the house fire raged behind him.

Twenty-Five

Detective Ross put his feet up and switched the desk phone to his other ear. “Okay, pal, I’ll dot the i’s and cross the t’s for you because that’s just the kind of guy I am. The title company says no defects. The county assessor values the Ketcher property at three-seventy-five. The tax records don’t tell us anything we don’t already know.”

The fire investigator, a guy named Sims, laughed sardonically. “And the surviving homeowner is currently locked up.”

“What do you have?” Ross asked.

“Origin: Alice’s studio. Cause: we think a box of matches.”

“You fucking with me?”

Sims went on. “Opportunity: the homeowners weren’t around, nobody else was there for eight hours that day. Motive … well, you’re the detective. Glad I’m not in your shoes right now.”

“Talk about a jolly-old clusterfuck. We’ve got both sides pointing fingers and motive everywhere. Who fucking knows. Thanks, Sims.”

“I’ll CC you on my report but you already know everything I’m going to say.”

Ross hung up. He’d spent the last sixteen hours forcing everybody involved in the trial to account for their whereabouts on the day of the fire. So far everybody had airtight alibis. He still had to double-check a few stories, but he was pretty sure nobody on the prosecution or on the defense had set fire to the Ketcher house.

And yet they were the only parties that stood to gain from the arson. Which meant that somebody had hired an unidentified third party to do their dirty work for them.

Ross poked his head out the door and waved at Fred Grimm. He’d landed desk sergeant duties that night. Grimm had a phone to his ear and a glazed look in his eyes, like he’d been on hold a long time.

Ross said, “Thieler in the building right now?”

Grimm put his hand over the phone. “You already checked the ladies’ room?”

Ross gave Grimm the finger and went out to his car to call Becky Thieler. She was a striking young woman and very bright. But not many of the guys in the department had tried to woo her because she gave off the not-interested vibe, which of course made every simplistic dumb-ass in the office think she played for the other team.

“Hello, detective,” Thieler said. In the background, Ross heard Christian rock blasting out of a radio. Sounded like she was in her car.

“Shit, Becky, you at a concert?”

She turned down the music. “What’s up?”

“Have you seen anyone else following McCloskey?”

“ … I don’t understand what you mean.”

Ross smiled. “It’s okay. I know what you’re up to.”

“Crap.” She paused. “I didn’t tell anybody. How’d you find out?”

“You can’t keep anything secret in a police station. So have you seen anybody else? Any faces keep popping up?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been looking.”

“Start looking.”

“Who exactly am I looking for?”

Ross thought about it. “Anybody following him. They’re probably not from around here, but I don’t want you to rule anybody out. You see anybody around him more than once, you make a mental note.”

“Detective, I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“Don’t be. The Chief put you in a bad position. Not your fault. You did the smart thing, I respect that.”

“What’s this about?”

“I’ll tell you but you have to keep it between us.”

“But we work at a police station.”

He laughed. “You and I are the outsiders in this department. I trust you, you trust me. So it’ll stay between us.”

“What if the Chief asks me—”

“Then you tell him the truth. I appreciate the loyalty but don’t jeopardize your career over me. You’ve got a long ways to go. I’ve already got my twenty and my pension is vested with the city. I just do this bullshit now for fun.”

“Okay.”

“The fire at the Ketcher place was arson. Sims knows the cause and can pinpoint the origin. Surprise, surprise, the fire started in Alice’s studio. I think the prosecution had more to gain from the fire than the defense. The evidence in hand is damning. They wanted to keep it that way. Somebody with a vested interest in Anson’s conviction is more likely responsible.”

Ross let his words hang in the air and let Thieler make the connection.

She said, “You think McCloskey would have found something exculpatory if he’d been able to investigate the house further?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, but then why the fire? It doesn’t follow. The only reason to commit arson to that house is to keep McCloskey from uncovering something. Nobody else cares what McCloskey finds except for the DA, or the vic’s father.”

“And this department.”

“That too.”

“Hold on. Maybe somebody’s worried about something embarrassing getting out. It might have nothing to do with the trial. Maybe something that wouldn’t …”

“Go on.” He wanted to hear her logic.

“It is an election year.” She went quiet.

Ross had already considered that. “I like how you’re thinking, but if there was anything like that I think we would have found it already. You know how many people have been through there?”

“But why do you think McCloskey would have found something if nobody else could have?”

“Becky, I’m not saying I believe in ghosts but the only thing Eddie would have uncovered would have been paranormal in nature. And that’s exactly the type of thing we would have missed.”

“So you think somebody’s trying to rig the game to help the DA get a conviction?”

“This is all pretty thin. But it’s possible. And if they’re willing to burn Ketcher’s house to the ground, what are they willing to do to McCloskey?”

“He’s the only leg the defense has to stand on. If you’re right, they’d be willing to do a lot to him.” She hesitated. “Detective, you sure you want to go down this road?”

“We have to make sure the game is fair, otherwise it’s all meaningless. How about you? You okay doing this?”

“Mine not to reason why, mine but to do or die.”

Ross laughed. “It’s not like that with me. I won’t throw you to the wolves. Just want to know if you’re comfortable.”

“I’ve been a cop for three years and this is the first chance I get to do real police work. So yeah, I’m okay with it.”

“Where has Eddie gone the last few days?”

“A nursing home to see Lee Oliver, previous owner of the house, and also a psychic.”

Interesting. “Lee Oliver was also a psychic?”

“No, I meant—”

“I know. I’m just having a little fun.”

Thieler laughed. “I asked the chief if I should question the psychic but he said no. I didn’t push.”

“Smart move on your part. You don’t want to get on his bad side for at least another five years.”

“All the years on the job and that’s the best advice you got for me?”

“Where’s the psychic located?”

Ross and Thieler talked particulars for a few minutes, and Thieler summarized Eddie’s whereabouts since she’d been tailing him. Ross jotted notes, got addresses and phone numbers. He thanked her and hung up, his anger at the chief already rising.

Towson had purposely kept this information from him, even though it was arguably part of Ross’s investigation. And if any of it was exculpatory, it was an automatic due process violation that could lead to Anson’s acquittal and release.

Ross shook his head in disgust then went back inside to speak to Grimm. The desk sergeant was still on hold and gave Ross a shit-eating grin.

“Grimm, is Billy Towson on right now?”

“Are you trying to set up a date?”

“No, I already have plans with your wife later.”

Ross checked the watch board in the hallway and saw that the Chief’s son was on patrol. Ross used the radio to get a hold of the kid then drove out to meet him.

* * * *

“It wasn’t our guys,” Alan said, hoping he sounded confident.

“I told you to keep it subtle. Jesus, Alan, what the fuck were your guys thinking?” Councilman Towson screamed at him through the phone.

“I’m telling you, the house fire wasn’t us. I made it clear what we wanted.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” The councilman went silent for a moment, spoke away from the phone to give instructions to somebody. “If this dicks things up for us, Alan …”

“Bennett, I swear it wasn’t us.”

The councilman sighed. “Then prove it.”

“How?”

A long silence. Alan could almost hear Towson thinking.

Finally the councilman spoke. “I want to meet your contact.”

“Bennett, that’s not a good idea.”

“Arrange a phone call.”

“Okay. But these guys have standing orders,” Alan said. “Do you want me to call them off McCloskey? If somebody goes after him right now, after the house …”

“Tell them not to move. I want to talk to your guy first.”

“Okay.”

Towson hung up without saying goodbye, and Alan just about broke the phone in his palm. Instead, he cursed and kicked his trash can across the trailer. It clanged against the side of an end table and landed top-down.

Alan got on the phone a minute later after he’d calmed down. It took him three calls to reach Goatee.

“Somebody wants to talk to you.”

“I’m not a big talker.”

“If you want to get paid the rest, you’d better take this call.”

* * * *

Because Anson Ketcher hadn’t pressed any charges, the fallout over Billy Towson’s beating of the suspect at the scene of the crime had been minimal. His dad, the Chief, had put him on administrative leave for a week, made him hump a desk for another week, then had released him back into the wilds of patrol. Ross had been happy about that, despite any misgivings he had about Billy’s dad.

But now Billy had to be treated like a suspect.

Ross pulled into the parking lot of the gigantic supermarket and parked next to Billy so the driver windows were next to each other.

“What’s going on?” Billy asked.

Ross studied the young man. There had been nothing in his tone approaching nervousness, just a natural curiosity.

Ross smiled to put the kid at ease. “Interesting turn of events this trial has taken, isn’t it?”

“A good turn. Now the defense can’t stall anymore by asking to see the house another dozen times.”

“Your pop has you back full-time on patrol, right?”

Billy nodded. “I told him it could wait. I didn’t want to screw anything up for the DA or the department, but dad insisted it was okay.”

“I hope you took it easy on your week off at least.”

“Exercised every day. Hit the weight room and got my ass on the treadmill. It was great.”

Ross pictured Billy running and it reminded him of Anson. They’d caught the man sprinting down the middle of the street the night of the murder. That had been bothering him for awhile.

Ross put that thought on hold for a second and frowned like he was trying to remember something. “When’s the last time I saw you, yesterday or the day before?”

Billy shook his head. “I was off-duty yesterday. Had to be a couple days ago. Why do you ask?”

The first tripwire went off in Ross’s head. Billy had the day off yesterday, and as a cop with insider information could have easily found out when the Ketcher house was under watch or unguarded. That gave him opportunity, and he already had motive.

Ross kept his smile friendly. “My memory’s going, just didn’t remember the last time I saw you. How’s it going with the DA?”

Billy rolled his eyes. “Nothing’s ever good enough for a lawyer, I’ll tell you what. The guy doesn’t like any answer I give him—” Billy’s eyes went wide. “—I mean, he’s not coaching me, he’s—”

“Relax, Billy. I know how the game is played.” As a witness, the DA had no business coaching Billy Towson and shaping his testimony. At least, that was what all the law books said. In reality, though, Ross knew things worked differently. The prosecution worked very closely with its witnesses to make sure their testimony was polished.

“The reason I came out here,” Ross said, “was I wanted to ask you if you’ve remembered anything else about that night.”

Billy frowned. “No. I remember it perfectly. I’ll never forget charging into that house and finding Alice like that. For as long as I live.”

Ross broke their eye contact and stared through the windshield like he was deep in thought. Ross knew he wasn’t a great actor, so he didn’t stretch the moment too long.

He faced the kid again. “Don’t mind me. The older I get, the more anal I am. I’m just wondering why Anson ran.”

Billy laughed but it was forced. “He was trying to get away.”

Anson shook his head. “I mean literally. Why would he pull a Usain Bolt? If it were me, I’d be Steve Fucking McQueen.”

“Who?”

“He was—”

“I’m kidding, Mark. I know who Steve McQueen was.”

Ross laughed but waited for the kid to answer the question.

Billy shrugged. “Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe he figured he could hide better on foot, you know?”

“But he was running down the middle of the street.”

He could tell Billy had heard him but the young cop pretended not to. “Maybe he figured  we’d find his car too easily. The manufacturer might have installed a locator on his truck for all we know.”

Very, very thin, but Ross decided not to rip Billy’s hypothesis to shreds. He didn’t want to come off as hostile or for Billy to grow suspicious.

Ross said, “It’s been bothering me. I didn’t ask him why he ran when I had him in the room. Didn’t even think to do it. Maybe I’m getting old.”

“Or maybe you want the defense to make their own case.”

Ross smiled but didn’t like the words coming out of Billy’s mouth. He was beginning to sound more and more like his father.

Ross decided to press a little more. “And he was running down the middle of the street. Weird.”

Billy took a long time to nod.

“I checked the log today.” Ross sighed like he was bothered by all this. “He didn’t have his car keys on him when we arrested him.”

Billy was quick to answer. “Of course he wouldn’t. He wasn’t thinking straight and decided to run instead of drive.”

“Or …” Ross looked away and let the words die.

Billy had grown anxious. “Or what?”

Ross was silent for seconds, then faced Billy again. “Forget it. When I was your age, I didn’t worry about a damned thing. Now I worry about everything. Thanks for your time, kid.”

“No problem.”

Ross drove away but had to pull over a few minutes up the road into a gas station. One thought kept popping into his head.

Anson Ketcher had wanted to get out of that house so much, he hadn’t even stopped to get his keys.

There was a plausible reason why he’d do just that. The man had just killed his wife, wasn’t thinking clearly, and had run.

But after the crime, Anson hadn’t been acting crazy. Ross recalled with utter clarity the calm, credulous way Anson had answered his questions several hours after Alice’s death, with no backtracking or qualifications. Later, the DA’s shrink had run a battery of tests and found him competent to stand trial, and Anson himself wasn’t trying to argue lack of competency or attempting to bail out with an insanity plea.

If Ross ignored everything else—the logic of the crime scene, the bad history between husband and wife, Anson’s violent past—and instead just focused on Anson, a man who fled his house in such a hurry that he hadn’t bothered to get his car keys and yet was somehow clinically sane ...

Then Anson could be made to look like a different man. Not one desperate to get away. But a man who looked desperate to get away from his house.

Twenty-Six

Thursday morning Ross didn’t stop at the station and instead drove out to see Beverly Magloin, real name Jessica Farnsworth, the psychic Eddie McCloskey had paid visit to. Her business was situated in an addition fronting a two-story home. The lobby was small but had new furniture. The Madam turned a tidy profit.

Ross badged the buxom intern. Her voice went up an octave as she futtered with the phone and intercom to get a hold of the Madam. Ross assured her this was just a routine inquiry, nothing to worry about. Finally another door opened and Ms. Magloin was there.

Ross had expected some old bat, hair dyed an unnatural color, who spoke with a raspy smoker’s voice and a contrived eastern European accent. But instead he found a woman shy of forty who dressed professionally and had the body of an aerobics instructor.

“Would you like to speak in my office?” she asked.

“Sure.”

Her office, where she told fortunes and preyed on suckers, wasn’t what he expected either. She sat at a round table and crossed her legs at the knees under her modest dress. No crystal balls or anything like that. The faint smell of incense in the air.

Ross remained standing. “What did you and Eddie McCloskey discuss?”

The Madam didn’t put up a fight. She described their conversation in detail.

“I’d like to see your books. Want to know how many times Mrs. Ketcher came to see you.”

“Of course. I’ll have Stacy pull that information for you.”

“Thanks.” Ross started to leave but followed the old habit of stopping and thinking of one more question. “Anybody else associated with this little drama come to see you? Mr. Ketcher, perhaps?”

“Not Mr. Ketcher.”

There was a tiny inflection in her voice when she spoke, belying a subtext. All Ross had to do was cock an eyebrow.

Ms. Magloin gritted her teeth. “I don’t mind sharing information about Alice. She’s dead and has no right to privacy anymore. But her husband is very much alive.”

Ross smiled. “I can get the information one way or another, Ms. Magloin. The law doesn’t recognize a psychic-client privilege.”

“I know it doesn’t but if I tell you I hurt my business.”

Ross just waited. The woman had no leverage.

“Giles Tyson.”

Ross took his notepad back out. “When?”

“Four or five weeks ago.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted a reading. He wanted to help the Ketchers. He wanted to know if Alice had figured out who the spirit was because if he knew, he could help them better.”

“What did you do?”

“I gave him a reading, told him I couldn’t share information about Alice.”

Ross chuckled. “And what did you see in Mr. Tyson’s future?”

“Increased notoriety. That man is going to be known again, nationally I think. I can tell that without even using the Eye.”

Twenty minutes later Ross was back in his car. He called Spencer and told him what he’d found out. It was potentially exculpatory evidence and Green was going to use it, so the DA needed to know.

Spencer said, “How’d you know McCloskey went to this charlatan?”

“Charlatan. Nice word, Spencer. Good police work is how I know that. Towson didn’t plan to share that with you but I figured you’d better know.”

Spencer was silent for a moment. Ross could hear the wheels turning.

The DA said, “I’ll keep it between us for now but it’ll come out at trial that we knew. No way to keep it from the chief then.”

“If I worried about the chief I wouldn’t have the stomach to be a detective.”

* * * *

The next afternoon, Eddie and Green went back to the police station. This time they were greeted by a desk sergeant named Grimm. The man had grey hair but a young face and mischievous eyes. He let them in without a fuss and led them to Anson’s cell.

Anson Ketcher didn’t look well. He hadn’t shaved since Eddie had arrived so now he had a week’s worth of stubble. He’d finished two books of sudoko and was grateful when Green produced another.

“Thanks, Denard. What’s going on, guys?”

Green smiled. “Eddie has some questions for you, Anson. It’s very important you answer truthfully.”

Anson looked offended. “Of course.”

Eddie and Green sat on some folding chairs outside the cell while Anson remained standing, his forearms sticking through the bars of the cell.

Eddie said, “Your wife went to a psychic. Did you know that?”

“Wh-what are you talking about?”

“Answer the question.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

Eddie tilted his head to the side. “You sure about that?”

Anson started to protest but just as quickly gave it up. “Listen … I knew about it.”

Green groaned. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Anson balled a fist. “I thought she was cheating on me. She kept going out, you know, for long stretches. And we weren’t talking. So I asked a friend to tail her.”

“Who?”

Anson didn’t answer.

Eddie shook his head. “Don’t tell me it was Giles.”

Anson nodded.

Green’s eyes were going to pop out of his skull.

Anson said, “I didn’t want people knowing I was keeping tabs on her. That wouldn’t look good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Green said.

“Alice didn’t tell me and the soothsayer was over an hour away, which meant she didn’t want anybody to know. When I thought about it, I didn’t want anybody to know. I figured a jury up here—especially if it’s anybody from our church—would think less of us if they knew that.”

“Well everybody is going to know,” Eddie said. “So you better get used to it.”

“Shit. Shit.”

“You never confronted her about the psychic?” Eddie asked.

“No. Not once. I asked her where she went a few times, but she just said the gym.”

“So you didn’t know that she was trying to channel the spirit, or clear the house, or anything like that?”

“We weren’t talking, man. The more time passed, the less we saw of each other. Both of us just made up reasons not to be in the house when the other was around.”

“So you thought what when you saw her pass out?” Green asked.

“That she fainted, or …”

“Or?”

“That she got possessed, like. I don’t know.”

“Did you tell your pastor about it?”

Anson nodded.

“And what did he say?” Eddie asked.

“That possession was unlikely, man. He said it was probably a medical condition, sin-something. Sin …”

“Syncope,” Eddie said.

“That’s it.”

“Why didn’t you tell us she’d talked to an attorney about a divorce?”

“I wasn’t sure she did. I thought it was just threats.”

Green sighed. “Believe it.”

“Hell.” Anson hung his head. “Man, that’s a kick in the balls. After all we went through, she was going to …”

Anson got choked up. Eddie looked away, embarrassed. Green kept his eyes on his client.

They gave Anson a moment. Then Green leaned forward. “Explain it to me again. How she died.”

Anson pushed away from the bars and laid down on his cot, one knee angled up and his eyes on the ceiling.

“The ghost started with me but turned on Alice in the family room. She was still out of it from her spell but started to come to. She seemed like she had something to tell me, but as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, it went after her. I tried to help her, but I couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t speak, and I realized it was crushing her windpipe. She was dragged into the studio and I grabbed her leg, hoping to break the thing’s hold on her. She was screaming my name, trying to tell me something. Something hit my head and I lost consciousness. When I came to I saw Alice in there with her neck …”

“And the ghost didn’t come after you then?” Eddie asked.

“No. I checked Alice’s pulse just to make sure then got the hell out of there. I was in survival mode, wasn’t really thinking.”

Eddie frowned. If the spirit was evil, why had it only killed one person and not the other? And why had it attacked Anson first, who was clearly less of a threat to it than Alice?

“Did you ever try to get rid of it?” Eddie asked.

Anson sat up on the cot. “I told you, man. No.”

“But it was driving you and your wife apart.”

“I always thought it would go away eventually. And I thought if me and Alice got through it together, we’d be stronger.”

“You never asked it to leave?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Never spoke bad of it, never called it names, never provoked it in any way?”

“Never.”

“And that night was the first night it ever touched you?”

“Yeah.”

“You drank that night for the first time in awhile,” Eddie said.

“So what?”

“Were you nasty to Alice?”

“No … we had a disagreement but it was nothing serious.”

“Did you threaten Alice in any way?”

“No, man.” Anson looked through the bars at Eddie. “I fucking didn’t.”

“Then why the fuck did this ghost start pushing you around?” Eddie stood and paced. “There has to be some reason.”

“You’re the fucking expert.”

“Okay, okay.” Green grabbed Eddie’s arm. “Take it easy.”

Eddie ignored Green. “He’s not leveling with us. According to him, Alice was the one trying to get the spirit to leave. So why the hell would it become violent toward him?”

“Maybe as a way to get Alice to stop,” Anson said. “It went easy on me just to get her attention, then turned on her when she tried to interfere.”

Eddie shook his head. “There was nothing preventing it from going after Alice in the first place. We know because it did later. This makes as much sense as trying to nail jello to a tree.”

“It went down like I told you, man.”

“I’m ready to walk.” Eddie looked at the lawyer. “This guy isn’t on the level.”

Anson reached through the bar. “Eddie, please. It’s the truth. I didn’t kill Alice. I loved that woman. I’m a no-good son of a bitch and maybe I don’t even deserve your help for all the shit I’ve done but I’m not a murderer. I couldn’t kill the one thing I loved in this world.”

Eddie stopped pacing. He was thinking about how years ago he’d ruined his relationship with Moira, the one woman he’d loved more than anything. “Like the fella once said, every man kills the thing he loves. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Please, Eddie.” Anson was in tears. “I didn’t kill Alice. If I could trade my life for hers, I would. She was good, she was decent. If either of us deserved to die that night it was me.”

Green waddled over. “Why don’t you take the weekend, Eddie? You don’t have to make a decision right now. Think about it for a day or two.”

Eddie looked from Green to Anson. “If Gracie Barbitok weren’t looking to burn your ass, I’d be long gone, buddy.”

* * * *

Eddie took Green’s call from his car fifteen minutes later. “Anson didn’t crack, even when we caught him in a few lies.”

Green sighed. “I told you. The man is innocent, Eddie. I really believe that.”

“Listen, Green. I was only part-acting in there. I’m still not convinced. Something else is going on, I just don’t know what. And I don’t feel great about taking that stand next week not knowing for sure.”

“You said it yourself, Edward. We’ll probably never know what happened. But listen, I wanted to thank you for a job well done so far. You’ve given Anson a fighting chance.”

Eddie was shocked. He didn’t know lawyers were capable of gratitude. “We’ve still got Mount-fucking-Everest to climb, Green.”

“Yeah, but not till Monday.”

“Tomorrow morning we’ll start again, right?”

“You bet. Take it easy tonight, kid.”

Eddie drove around. He didn’t feel like seeing Giles and he didn’t feel like going back to his cheap motel. He motored through town, past the tiny shops and old buildings and could feel the history of the place. First, settlers. Then, colonists. Then, the town had greatly expanded a hundred years ago, like a miniature Pre-Cambian explosion. There was work to be had. Then, the population leveled off and began shrinking and now it had found homeostasis as a quiet place where neighbors were good to each other and doors weren’t always locked.

Looking down one street, he spotted a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, doubled-back, and parked. The exterior looked ready to crumble, the place smelled greasy, and it was loud.

Inside, Eddie seated himself in the corner so he had a view of the muted TV. The Phillies were playing the Mets. Eddie still didn’t know how anybody could root for the Mets, even if they were from New York.

The waitress came over. She was pushing forty but brave enough to flaunt a belly ring. He ordered a water and a took a chance on a cheese steak. The likelihood of getting a decent cheese steak went down every mile farther away from Philly you were.

Much as he wanted to shut down for a few hours, his mind started running through his testimony. He agreed with Green that he needed to smoothen his transitions. His theory cut a jagged path through much circumstantial evidence and suppositions. It was his job to hold the jury’s hand and lead them to reasonable doubt. It would be easy to lose them along the way if he wasn’t careful, clear, and qualified in his testimony.

The waitress brought the cheese steak with his water. He was about to chow down when he saw Officer Thieler come into the bar. He waved till he got her attention.

She was out of uniform. Low-riding jeans, cute polo shirt. Her dirty blond hair was down to her shoulders.

“Hello there,” he said.

She jutted a hip. “You’ve got to do better than that if you want me to sit down.”

“Hello there.”

“Alright, but that was still weak. You’re not going to try and get into my pants if I sit down with you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Officer.”

She sat across from him. “You ordered a cheesesteak in this place? You’re a brave man.”

“Wanna share?”

She laughed. “No thanks.” She got the waitress’s attention and ordered a bowl of the french onion. “You still taking the stand?”

Eddie smiled. “No pun intended, but the jury’s still out. Tell me something. How does a smart, beautiful, literate woman like you end up a cop?”

“How does an ex-addict, ex-con, ex-alkie like you end up an expert witness on one of the most interesting murder trials the state has ever seen?”

“Touchee. Wanna go back to my motel room and have some fun?”

“With who?”

Eddie laughed. “Who else?”

“I told you, I’m not into career suicide.”

“Too bad. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to see a man about a dog.”

Eddie located the signs for the restroom and went down a narrow hallway. The john was empty and had two urinals and one stall. Following Piss Protocol, he assumed the position at the far urinal.

Seconds later, the door swung open and a burly man who was as thick as a linebacker came in. He closed the door behind him, leaving his hand on the knob a second longer than necessary. Then he ambled over.

He opted to use the other urinal even though the stall was open and his foot brushed Eddie’s. Eddie recalled that story about the conservative politician getting propositioned by a cop in an airport bathroom as part of a sting operation. He wondered if this guy was making a similar advance.

“The hell are you looking at?” the guy said.

Eddie hadn’t been looking at anything. He’d followed the men’s room SOP and kept his thousand-yard stare on the wall in front of him.

Eddie finished and zipped his fly. “I wasn’t looking at anything, pal.” He started toward the sink. The man turned away from the urinal and faced him.

“I said, what the hell are you looking at?”

Eddie stopped and immediately took in his surroundings. The john was ten-by-fifteen, not a lot of room to maneuver, and this guy was big.

“I said, I wasn’t looking at anything.”

“You trying to check out my junk?” The man halved the distance between them.

Eddie shifted his weight to his rear foot so if he had to throw a punch he could put everything behind it. The best defense was a good offense. There was no honor in a bar fight. Especially when you were dealing with a psycho who tipped the scales over three hundred pounds.

The man said, “Fag or not, you should keep you damned mouth shut. Or this will just be a taste of things to come.”

Eddie kept his eyes on the gorilla and reached behind him. The door was locked.

Game-changer.

His subconscious put it all together quickly. This thug had come here to deliver a message. Don’t testify. The locked door meant this was no random encounter with a homophobe.

The man moved fast for his size. Eddie didn’t have a chance to unlock the door so he just got out of the way. He avoided a tackle, but now the man was blocking his only way out.

Eddie went on offense. There was no point in hitting a three-hundred pound gorilla in the trunk. They’d barely register the blow. You had to go after the head, nuts, or extremities if you wanted any chance.

Eddie landed a glancing blow along the guy’s jaw. It wasn’t enough to slow him down, so Eddie heeled the guy’s knee cap. The gorilla howled and fell into him and wrapped Eddie in a bear-hug.

He crushed Eddie up against the stall. Eddie brought his knee up but missed the man’s groin. The man’s gut gave a little but then Eddie’s knee met hard muscle. Uh-oh. He was tumbling with a bona fide powerlifter.

Eddie went limp, letting the man take his full weight. It was an old trick to get out of a bear hug, but the gorilla was stronger than the average fella and it didn’t faze him. Eddie snapped his head forward and butted the man in the nose. He was stunned and dropped Eddie.

He roundhoused the guy’s knee. The thug howled again and went down. Before Eddie could do any more damage, somebody busted open the bathroom door and Thieler stormed in with her piece drawn.

“Hands up!”

Twenty-Seven

Eddie gave her one of those roguish smiles that normally would have zero effect on her. He said, “You have impeccable timing.”

“You know what they say. Ninety percent of life is just showing up. I was on my way to the bathroom and I heard you guys. He’s saying you started it.”

Eddie laughed. “I always pick fights with ex-linebackers that have over a hundred pounds on me.”

Thieler wanted to tell him more, but didn’t. They stood in silence outside the restaurant while the thug who’d attacked Eddie was slid into the back of a cruiser.

Eddie said, “Either way, thanks for showing up when you did. I had it under control, but you never know. I owe you. How about I buy you a drink?”

She took a drag from her cigarette then stamped it out. “How about a rain check? Maybe after the trial.”

“In all likelihood I won’t be anywhere near this town after the trial.” Eddie thanked her again and got in his car.

It was a shame how good-looking he was. And a reader to boot. But she couldn’t be seen out with him. Not unless she wanted to kill her career. She’d had no choice in the restaurant. She’d recognized the goon from the steak house the other night so had to follow him inside and there was no way of hiding from Eddie in that place. But her instincts had been right. When the thug had followed Eddie into the john she’d known.

She reported to the chief first. He didn’t seem convinced that it was related to the trial at all and completely discounted everything that Eddie had told her. Then she called Ross and shared the news with him.

“We have to take what Eddie says with a grain of salt,” Ross said. “Could be a coincidence you seeing this guy at the other place. But still, it supports the theory.”

“The man’s name was Jeb Markalow. He lives over an hour away and didn’t have any convincing reason to be in this dive restaurant, just that he was out for a drive, passing through, and stopped because he was hungry.”

“Still just his word against McCloskey’s. And let’s not forget that McCloskey is an ex-con.”

“They’re bringing Markalow in now.”

“I’ll take a look at him. You stick with McCloskey. Knock off if he goes back to the motel. If this is intimidation, they won’t try anything again tonight.”

Thieler shared what the chief had said then hung up. She got in her car and drove to Eddie’s motel. His car was parked outside his unit.

She was tempted to knock on that door. It had been almost three months since she’d been with a man. Her last date had been as much fun as a visit to the OB/GYN.

Thieler pulled into the lot and stopped short of Eddie’s unit. She could just slip inside, no questions asked, no expectation except one of mutual secrecy. He was an ex-con so normally she wouldn’t be interested but there was something different about him.

She went home.

Twenty-Eight

It still smelled like smoke.

The Ketcher house had been reduced to a pile of rubble, only part of one side wall still standing. Eddie wandered the grounds with his equipment but he knew it was a waste of time. Eventually Gracie showed up. It was just her and a driver, and the driver stayed in the SUV.

She met him in front of what used to be the house. “Ready to give up?”

“I have not yet begun to fight.”

“One professional to another, you’ve done your best. You can’t do anymore. You were dealt a bad hand here. You should walk away.”

“You sound scared, Gracie.”

“I like you. I’d hate to see your career ruined by one mistake.” She smiled a wicked smile. “But believe me I won’t have any sympathy for you when I’m on that witness stand. I’m out to prove Anson did it, I’m out to win, which means I’m out to crush you.”

“The truth will out.” Eddie smiled back at her. “And if it doesn’t, I’ll get it out.”

* * * *

On Friday, Green and Spencer took Lee Oliver’s sworn testimony. He was lucid and both attorneys agreed hauling him into court the following week would be too much a burden.

That night Eddie and Green shared a takeout dinner of Chinese food and spent the time fine-tuning Eddie’s testimony. Green grilled him six ways to Sunday, exhausting him with his interminable questions. The lawyer assured him that his mock cross-examination would be nothing compared to the real thing by the DA.

They quit at ten, and Eddie drove to his motel and fell into bed, exhausted. He was asleep in less than a minute.

* * * *

That same day, Ross hit brick walls everywhere he turned with Markalow. The suspect had been charged with a handful of petty crimes years ago but there were no convictions. He had no direct ties to the Towsons or the DA. He had one of those vague titles most middle-management guys employed by the unions had and there were at least five degrees of separation between him and this trial. That was two too many for Ross to plausibly connect any dots.

Ross looked over the DA’s composite list of potential witnesses appearing at the trial: Billy Towson, Ross, Gracie Barbitok, Han the M.E., Eddie McCloskey, Beverly Magloin, Giles Tyson, and Anson Ketcher. There were no other players in this game.

He’d hadn’t had a chance to speak to Giles Tyson yet. He’d stopped by two days ago to chat, but the disgraced paranormal guru wasn’t around. Yesterday Ross had been busy with a missing persons call that turned out to be a run-of-the-mill marital spat. Hubby hadn’t been seen for two days and upon returning reminded wifey that she’d chased him out of the house with a twelve-gauge.

That part of Ross that sought to eradicate coincidence immediately juxtaposed Giles’s absence at home to the arson committed at the Ketcher residence on the same day.

He laughed the thought off. Giles had no reason to burn that house down, especially when the evidence in hand was damning to his friend.

Unless Giles was afraid more incriminating evidence would come to light. Or afraid more evidence would tie him to the crime somehow.

Ross frowned as he left the station. He was pretty sure Markalow had gone after Eddie at the behest of someone friendly to the prosecution. If the Towsons were willing to do that, then it was likely that the arson had been their doing too.

Unless both sides were trying to rig the game to their advantage.

Ross got in his car, sat there a moment. “Well, shit, Mark. You gotta do something to earn all this pay.” He drove to Giles’s house because nobody else was going to.

This time Giles was home. Thirty seconds after the doorbell chimed, Giles opened the door and let Ross in. His long hair was wet like he’d just come out of the shower.

“Detective, would you like something to drink?”

“Just a water. Thanks.”

Ross took inventory of the house as they walked its long, shadowy hallways. Lots of furniture, paintings, other expensive-looking antique knick-knacks, thick rugs that made their footsteps silent. There were a million nooks and crannies to hide in and you could sneak up on somebody easily.

Giles lived high on the hog for a guy who chased ghosts for a living. In the den, Ross spotted the standalone shelf filled with the books Giles had written. There were a dozen copies of each.

Giles disappeared to get their drinks. Ross walked the length of the room and found a window behind heavy curtains. It opened to the south side of the cemetery, where the older burials were.

Ross didn’t believe in ghosts. He figured the strange events that had happened at the Ketcher place in front of Eddie and Gracie had been orchestrated by someone. The detective wasn’t superstitious. He rolled his eyes when wide receivers thanked God after scoring a touchdown. At most, he believed in a higher power that did not like to micromanage.

All the same, even he thought it was creepy to live in a house surrounded by a cemetery.

Giles returned with a water for Ross and a bourbon for himself. “Now, Detective. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Ross put on the everybody’s friends here smile. “Chief likes giving me busy work. He and I don’t get along. But you probably already knew that.”

“I’d heard something along those lines.”

Ross shrugged. “So he’s got me crossing the i’s and dotting the t’s. Did you know that Alice Ketcher was seeing a psychic?”

Giles watched him over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of his drink. “You must know I do, detective.”

Ross smiled. “Fair enough. So how’d you know?”

Giles took another sip. “Anson thought she was cheating on him and asked me to follow her. I’m his friend.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Not by Anson asking a good friend for help.”

Ross nodded his appreciation of Giles’s dodge of the question. “That’s not what I meant.”

Giles put his glass down on an end table and put his hands in his pockets. “Honestly? No. She needed answers and that church of hers wasn’t giving her any.”

“What did you and Ms. Magloin talk about?”

Giles blushed. “We talked about the Ketchers, what little she shared, and then I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone so I started asking her about me.”

“Been back to see her since?”

“A couple weeks ago. It was after Alice died.”

“And what did you talk about then?”

“The same things. I feel … guilty isn’t the right word. I could have done more. You must know what I’m talking about being in your line of work.”

“The senselessness doesn’t get to me. Some guys it cripples, hollows them out. I just take it as a given.” Ross thought a moment and then pretended to remember something. “Oh right, why the chief sent me out here. What were you doing Tuesday?”

Giles seemed confused. “Tuesday?”

“You know, the day the Ketcher place burned down.” Ross watched Giles’s reaction very closely.

Giles frowned. “Oh. Right. Let me think for a moment.” He put forefinger to chin and Ross found the gesture a bit forced.

But then again, everything about Giles was odd. “Take a moment. I know it’s hard.”

After a thoughtful pause, Giles said, “In the morning I trained. In the afternoon, I ran some errands. I got home around dinner time and stayed in the rest of the night.”

“Trained?”

“I practice mixed martial arts and BJJ at a school in Lumberton. The morning class ends at ten-thirty. I showered there and commuted home, so add another hour to that. I usually read for a little bit after a workout so I probably did that, then went out around two or three I guess.”

Ross smiled apologetically. “What errands did you run? Where did you go?”

Giles flipped a hand through the air. “The usual. Drycleaners, hardware store, library, I think I grabbed a bite to eat while I was out.”

“You said you got home around dinner time. When’s dinner time?”

“For a bachelor, whenever he’s hungry.”

Ross smiled at the joke.

“For me that night, I got home around five or six then made myself … steak, I think. You know what it’s like trying to remember routine things you do all the time?”

Ross had stopped by Giles’s place around three that day. “It’s hard. Go anywhere else that night?”

“No. I stayed in and just read, watched some TV.”

“While you were out, did you see anybody that you know?”

“Bonnie Dehmer at the hardware store. She was working at the time. I know Carl Harrington pretty well at the drycleaners. I saw him in the back but I don’t know if he noticed me.”

Ross jotted the names down. “Hey while I’m here I might as well ask. I just finished the new Lee Child book and I’m looking for my next read. What’d you get at the library?”

Giles shook his head. “You wouldn’t be the least bit interested in what I picked up at the library. I’m doing some research on this county. There seems to be an unusual amount of paranormal activity around here, higher than the statistics. I’m trying to establish patterns and figure out why the baseline here is inflated.”

Ross did his best not to roll his eyes. “What books did you get?”

“County digests, almanacs, I looked through some old papers. They still have some of them on microfiche if you can believe it. The library is very backed up on scanning and transferring all that old copy.”

“In five years we’ll be lucky if we still have a library. Thanks for your time.”

Twenty-Nine

“Corner pocket.”

Giles tapped the cue stick near the pocket he meant, then thread the eight ball through two of Eddie’s stripes perfectly. The eight fell. Giles was up five games to one.

“Let’s switch to nine,” Eddie said. “Keep it competitive.”

“Want me to spot you the nine?”

Eddie smiled. “Fuck you.”

By the third game, he was wishing he’d taken Giles up on his offer.

Saturday night, after eleven. Giles had put away five bourbons but was rock-steady on his feet. And his pool game was clearly unaffected.

The next game, Giles ran to the eight.

“What if Anson’s guilty?” Eddie said.

Giles missed the eight. “You do that on purpose?”

Eddie smiled. “Gotta get in your head somehow.” Eddie sank the eight, gave himself a nice leave on the nine for the side pocket, sank that.

“Do you think he is?” Giles went to the other end of the table to rack.

It was all Eddie had thought about the last few days. And his answer surprised him. “I don’t, but it’s the simplest explanation which means he’s probably guilty.”

“Like your brother, you love to worship at the altar of William of Ockham.” Giles finished racking, carefully removed the triangle.

“When a smart guy speaks, it’s wise to listen.” Eddie scattered the rack.

“I miss your brother. Very much.” Giles sat in the high chair near the pool table and rested his cue against his leg. “We had our differences but I really miss him.”

“You two used to go at it. Worse than me and him. Sometimes it was like you were his brother, not me.”

“Yin and yang, ego and id. Your brother and I were a dialectic. We didn’t make sense without the other.”

That was overstating it, but Eddie wasn’t in a disagreeable mood. The talk was good, as good as the memories.

“You remember the last New York gig we all did together?” Eddie said.

“Of course. How could anyone forget the time you ran through the house wearing the client’s double D bra?”

Not where Eddie had been going but he smiled all the same. He’d never do something like that now, which made him question one of his deeply held beliefs: people didn’t change.

He had changed. He didn’t drink, didn’t drug it up anymore. Was hard-working, honest. The old self-destructive Eddie was gone and replaced by a quasi-respectable professional. It pleased him but also made him a little sad, a little nostalgic.

“I was thinking about that night in the field …” Eddie let his mind go back. “It was us, my brother, Stan, that girl you were …”

“That lady who was a professional colleague. Sharon.”

“Right. Sharon. And the gun nut.”

“If by gun nut, you mean Ben, the patriotic, god-fearing, NRA-card carrying bloke, then yes. What made you think of this?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about protocol. How Tim did things and why. How you did things and why.”

“The fundamental tension,” Giles said. “Between order and chaos.”

Eddie lined up his next shot and sank the four. He stymied himself behind the seven, had to play a safe.

“Tim had us locked in, everything in order. I remember walking around, not a care in the world. Never thinking for a second that something could go wrong on a simple investigation like that.”

Giles nodded his appreciation at Eddie’s safe, then surveyed the table. Those eyes of his missed nothing. Eddie saw a way to the seven, which meant Giles certainly did too and probably had designs on the nine already.

Giles said, “One can never predict how any complex system will fail.”

“Get all of your philosophy out of Michael Crichton’s books?”

Giles started his run. “When a wise man speaks, I listen. Economists like to think they understand how human beings will act, and maybe they do on a macro level. But once you move from the herd to the individual, you get variances and a lot of unpredictability.”

Eddie watched with an amateur’s appreciation Giles’s expert run to the nine ball. He left himself a little bit too much angle on a cross the table shot.

Giles stood up to rechalk, looked at Eddie. “We’re not the rational beings we think we are, Edward.”

Edward. Nails on a chalkboard.

Giles split the pocket on his shot, ending the game. “Introduce a little fear, a little panic, and people start behaving instinctually, not with their brains.”

“Or as I like to say, the shit hits the fan.”

But Giles was having none of it. “Not necessarily true. Everyone forgets that the subconscious mind has evolved along with the rest of us. It is very good at picking up on warning signs that our otherwise rational minds might miss or might take too long to identify.”

He was really on an intellectual roll right now.

“The subconscious mind is the part of us that solves puzzles creatively. The rational brain is weak, stilted, too linear to be anywhere near as effective.”

“Maybe that’s true, but it was the gun nut’s lizard brain that almost got me and Stan shot by accident.”

Giles bowed his head. “I never said the subconscious was perfect.”

Eddie sat down.

Giles said, “You look like you want to say something.”

“I can’t help it. It’s just how my face looks.”

Giles smiled. “Anson’s not guilty, Edward.”

“Then who is?” Eddie asked.

Giles looked at him sideways. “Mary Oliver, of course.”

“Of course,” Eddie said.

But he didn’t really believe it.

Thirty

On Monday Green and Spencer took six hours to pick a jury. At that point, it was already three-thirty so the judge continued the hearing until the next day rather than try to squeeze in opening statements before close of business. That night, Green expressed delight at the composition of the jury. Seven women, five men. Women were good because the fairer sex statistically speaking did not like to send accuseds to their deaths. Eddie knew it wasn’t his place to question the lawyer’s infinite wisdom, but he couldn’t help pointing out that the victim in this case was a woman. No, no, Green assured him. Despite woman’s lib, men still saw themselves as protectors and were more likely to convict an accused woman-killer.

Eddie let it go and the two men continued to hone Eddie’s testimony, working into the wee hours of the night. Green gave him some more pointers and then proceeded to bitch about Judge Metnick, who’d apparently overruled every single one of Green’s objections for the last twenty years, ever since the judge had taken the bench. Eddie indulged the lawyer, listened to his exaggerated tales of all the miscarriages of justice till he could stand it no longer.

“You know what, Green? Nobody I met when I was inside was innocent.”

“Yes, but did the state play fair, Eddie? If not the whole system is flawed.”

“What do we tell children when they do something wrong? Own up to it, right? We don’t give a shit how they were found out. They’re supposed to come forward and say, I did it. Why should adults be less accountable than children?”

Green frowned. “But you’re talking about a man’s liberty and in this case, possibly Anson’s life.”

It was late. Eddie didn’t feel like arguing. Besides, he was right anyway.

* * * *

The next morning Eddie arrived at the courthouse early enough to avoid the throng of reporters that were expected. The name of the building was written in all capitals across the frieze on the front of the building:

WHEELER COURT HOUSE

He got a sense of deja vu but knew that was his brain playing tricks on him. He’d seen those words, or something close to them, somewhere recently. In a book maybe … yes, he could picture the book but nothing else … where was he that he’d seen this in a book recently …

A bailiff pointed him in the right direction down a long hallway. He found the right courtroom but didn’t go inside. Instead he backtracked till he found an empty conference room nearby. He went over his notes and looked again at the police report and Anson’s statements to the police after his arrest.

A few minutes later he heard Gracie Barbitok and her retinue come down the hall and settle in another room nearby. Green didn’t expect Eddie to testify that day, figuring the prosecution would take up the day to present its case, but there was always a chance. And Green wanted Eddie to hear the testimony of all the prosecution’s witnesses, not just Gracie Barbitok’s.

A little after eleven, Green opened the door to the conference room. “The preliminaries are over. The judge is opening up the court room now.”

Eddie followed the little old lawyer into the courtroom and took a seat on a wooden bench in the back. There was no leg room and the bench was as comfortable as a guillotine. Gracie and two of her assistants entered and sat across the aisle from him. She tipped her head at him. Eddie gave her a little wave.

Green crossed the bar and sat with Anson at one of the two tables. Anson wore an off-the-rack suit and was clean-shaven, his Winnfield conspicuously absent, the skin around his mouth a shade whiter than the rest of his tanned face. The accused looked over his shoulder and smiled at Eddie.

The DA stood over the other table and was reviewing some paperwork. Ross stood behind him on the other side of the bar.

The bailiff led the twelve jurors in. Seven women, five men. Aged twenty-one to sixty-five. All county residents, five of them from the town itself. They all carried tiny legal pads and pens and styrofoam cups of cheap coffee. Many of them did not look at Anson as if they were already distancing themselves from the criminal and any taint of the crime.

Eddie flashbacked to his own trial, years ago now. It had been a rote affair, both sides having already worked out a deal. No need for a jury. The judge listened to the details of the plea bargain, asked Eddie some questions like he was reading from an arcane script, approved the conviction, banged his gavel, sent Eddie on his less-than-merry way.

Eddie had known fear that day, when the justice system has used but a fraction of its might against him. Anson wouldn’t be so lucky. The full weight of the institution would be brought to be bear on him. The man must have been terrified.

“All rise.”

The ritual reminded Eddie of church. A robed authority figure would appear and the congregation was expected to stand and show respect. The leader resolved any disputes by referring to a set of heavily-disputed principles that had been in flux for thousands of years. The bar, like the chancel, separated the lay people from the initiated.

Judge Metnick wore the standard black robe and took the bench. He was in his sixties and his mouth was set in a permanent scowl but his eyes were sharp.

“Please be seated.”

The DA gave his opening statement. It was an impassioned plea for justice and an appeal to cold, immutable logic. Nobody else was in that house except Anson. Nobody else had a motive to kill Alice. There was no evidence to support a burglary or home invasion gone horribly wrong.

The DA referred to Anson as Mr. Ketcher, but called the deceased “Alice” or “the victim” in his gravest moments: “Alice, the victim.” Mr. Ketcher and Alice had a rocky marriage. Mr. Ketcher had a history of violence—a reference to which Green quickly objected.

Alice had tried to do right by her husband. Had tried to honor her commitments. It had been her idea to attend couple’s counseling, despite Mr. Ketcher’s initial objections and subsequent feet-dragging and later half-hearted participation. She had prayed and she had stayed. Prayed and stayed. It was a cheap catchphrase but it stuck in Eddie’s mind.

Ultimately the Ketcher marriage wasn’t working. At her wit’s end, she went as far to seek the help of a psychic—

All twelve heads on the jury turned at this.

—and Alice finally made the last resort decision to seek a divorce.

“Compare that to the behavior of Mr. Ketcher over the last year. He reneged on the couple’s agreement to attend counseling more than once. He took to drinking despite his alcoholic tendencies. He had his friend, Giles Tyson, follow Alice around to keep tabs on her whereabouts despite her years of model behavior.”

Eddie groaned inwardly. They’d known how strong the DA’s case was going into the trial, but to hear the words and watch their effect on the jury was staggering. The DA continued, painting a dismal picture of a bad marriage and a shining, glossy portrait of a good woman struggling to reconcile her faith with her marital unhappiness. By the time Spencer was done, they’d be ready to canonize Alice.

“Fact: No one else was in the Ketcher residence that fateful, tragic evening. Fact: No one else had motive to kill Alice. No one except Mr. Ketcher. Fact: There is no evidence that this was a robbery or home invasion. Fact: Alice planned to divorce Mr. Ketcher, and Mr. Ketcher became aware of this. Fact: Mr. Ketcher was the sole beneficiary of Alice’s life insurance policy and the primary beneficiary noted in Alice’s will. Fact: Mr. Ketcher’s contractor business has not turned a profit in two years. Fact: Mr. Ketcher was wounded the night of the Alice’s murder. Fact: …”

Eddie kept his poker face but mentally squirmed in his seat. He’d been so focused on the paranormal, he’d forgotten about Anson’s financial motives to kill his wife.

“And when questioned about his wife’s murder, do you know what Mr. Anson said?” The DA looked every juror in the eye before speaking again. “A ghost did it.”

Jaws dropped. Eyes bulged.

“A ghost did it. That’s right. And as we sit here today, the defense still contends that a supernatural being snapped Alice’s neck because … well, they’re not exactly sure why. Now you’re going to hear all manner of strange things from the defense. You may or may not believe any of them. But even if you do believe that ghosts exist, consider this: the only purported communication from this ghost was a denial of guilt.”

The DA summarized his points for the next few minutes, but the jury was still stunned by the revelation of the defense’s case.

Fifteen minutes later, Judge Metnick told defense counsel it was his turn.

Denard Green stood and smoothed his suit jacket and approached the jury with a shuffling gait and a smile.

“I find it amusing that the DA points out that we don’t know why the ghost killed Mrs. Ketcher.” He paused thoughtfully. “Don’t get me wrong, we have our theories. But the same can be said of the DA’s case against Anson. They simply don’t know why he would kill his wife.”

Several jurors frowned.

“They don’t know why he would kill his wife so they’re using what we call the spaghetti approach. Throw everything against the wall and see what sticks. They’ve painted Anson as a jealous man, one prone to fly into violent rages, a man governed by his primitive passions as opposed to his intellect … and in the next breath they suggest his motive was financial. They’ve drawn Anson as a failed businessman, one facing financial ruin if there was a divorce … and in the next breath they suggest he killed Mrs. Ketcher because of his violent nature, that he was unable to ignore his proclivities.”

Green turned to face the DA and held up his arms. “Well, which is it?”

Eddie wished he could see the DA’s face but he figured Spencer wasn’t the least bit flustered. The man was an old pro.

Green turned back to the jury. “Which is it? Are we talking about cold, premeditated murder? If so, why did Anson attempt to call 911 and then flee the scene on foot? You’d think any man who’d prepared to commit murder would come up with a better plan of execution and escape than that.

“Or are we talking about manslaughter? If we are, the financial motives dreamed up by the DA don’t follow. If this was done in the heat of the moment, then Anson wasn’t thinking about the money.

“Remember the burden of proof that Judge Metnick explained. It is the DA’s job to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Anson is guilty. It is the DA’s job to prove that this was murder or that this was manslaughter, and so far I haven’t heard one way or the other.”

Green mimed throwing something against the wall, right over the jury. “Spaghetti, spaghetti, spaghetti. Throw as much against the wall and see what you can get to stick.”

Green went on to explain the Ketchers’ history from Anson’s perspective, retelling and reshaping the DA’s story. He went on in his deliberate, almost ponderous way for twenty minutes.

“The District Attorney has drawn your attention to some facts. Well, he left out a few that you need to consider.”

Green put his hands in his pockets and stepped a little closer to the jury box.

“Fact: Mrs. Ketcher herself believed their house was haunted. Fact: Mrs. Ketcher herself went to see a psychic. Fact: After Mrs. Ketcher herself attempted to remove the ghost from the home, the ghost visited them on an increasingly frequent basis and became more and more agitated …”

Something shifted in the back of Eddie’s mind. That wasn’t exactly true. The ghost had become more troublesome after Giles had performed his investigation. Maybe it was something that Giles had done while on-scene that had agitated the spirit. Eddie filed that away for later.

“ … Fact: Mrs. Ketcher sought advice on spirit-channeling and reverse possession. Now let me explain what that is …”

Eddie drifted while Green rattled off the facts of the case the DA had not mentioned and in his mind went over his testimony for the thousandth time. He tuned back in a few minutes later.

“ … Fact: At this point, there is plenty of supporting evidence that establishes a ghost did inhabit the Ketcher residence. And here is where we get into theory because, unfortunately, we were not able to conduct a complete investigation of the Ketcher residence. Why? Because it burnt down before we had a chance to. Given the increasingly violent behavior of the ghost, it is not a stretch to believe that the arson was her work.”

Eddie gauged the jury’s reaction. He spotted a few eye-rolls. He and Green had argued for hours about how to approach the burning of the house. Eddie thought blaming the ghost for the arson was a stretch but Green argued that he needed to push the jury. To them, a ghost burning down a house might be implausible … but that would make their principal argument, that the ghost had killed Alice, a bit more palatable. Green likened it to asking for a grand when all you needed was a Benjamin. You were more likely to get the hundred doing it that way.

Eddie had told Green it was an apples-to-oranges comparison but the lawyer didn’t relent.

“Mrs. Ketcher attempted to drive the ghost from their house. Anson did no such thing. Mrs. Ketcher attempted to channel the ghost. Anson did no such thing. Mrs. Ketcher attempted to reverse possess the ghost. Anson did no such thing. We begin to see a pattern here.

“Mrs. Ketcher was the one who agitated the ghost. And the ghost retaliated against her. The District Attorney can’t put his finger on a motive for Anson to kill his wife—maybe it was financial, maybe it was personal—but we can point to a clear motive here with the ghost. It was threatened by Mrs. Ketcher. Rather than rely on professional, paranormal help, out of fear of community backlash, she took things into her own hands and suffered the consequences for it.

“Now, it is an absolute tragedy what happened to Mrs. Ketcher, but her own actions led to her death. Do not now compound the tragedy by convicting an innocent man. Anson has suffered enough already. He has lost the woman he loved more than anything, the person he planned to spend the rest of his life with.

“Many of you must think I’m batty. You probably have your preconceived notions about defense attorneys, the scum of the Earth who are willing to say or do anything to help their likely guilty clients beat a conviction. You’ve heard all this talk about ghosts, and psychics, and possessions. I’m not asking you to take my word for it. I’m asking you to consider the credible evidence that we will present and keep an open mind.”

Eddie sat taller in his bench. He was very interested to see how the jury was going to react to Green’s next comments.

“Some of you might think it silly, childish even to believe in ghosts.” Green smiled and paused. “But I ask you, how many of you believe in a higher power? Is there more evidence to support the existence of a god-like being than there is a ghost? Think about that.”

One juror frowned. Another shook his head.

“There is one more fact I’d like you to consider. The District Attorney mentioned that Anson was wounded the night in question. What counsel failed to tell you is that Anson was injured by one of the arresting officers on the scene.”

As the DA had, Green summarized his points and took a seat. Judge Metnick noted the time was one-fifteen and ordered an hour recess for lunch.

Thirty-One

Green placed an order with a sandwich shop that made all its business off the courthouse.

“Are we walking or driving?” Eddie asked.

“I asked for delivery. The DA and Gracie’s team will probably be there. I don’t feel like sitting across from them.”

“They didn’t like the religious argument.”

“I didn’t expect them to buy it first thing. We just have to keep working on them. If you hear something enough, you start to take it seriously.”

Eddie shrugged. “Or you tune it out.”

Green smiled. “It’s your job to help me make sure they don’t.”

The food arrived. Eddie and the lawyer shared a fast, quiet meal. When they were done, Green leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head.

“This is going to be my last trial.”

“How long you been doing this?”

“Too long.” Green smiled. “When I started out, I was barely making a living. There were three other well-known defense attorneys working in the county who gobbled up all the work. They left all the bum collars to the public defender, who was always understaffed and asking for help. I volunteered for all the cases I could to get my experience. Most of them were pro bono. I didn’t make any money for years. I didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. But eventually I got better at being an attorney and soon more clients were coming to me proactively and then two of the three big-wigs retired and I settled in.”

“How long did it take till you were making good money?”

“Four or five years. It was tough but I just kept working at it.”

Eddie had mixed feelings about Green, the attorney, but he admired Green, the businessman.

“It’s tough to grow a business.”

“You’ve only been doing this for less than a year. You’ll be fine. The exposure on this case will help you.”

Eddie nodded but he was thinking about Gracie Barbitok. Soon, he’d take the stand and his reputation would be on trial just as much as Anson’s liberty and life were. It was a make-or-break case for Eddie. He kept thinking about all those bills waiting for him back home.

The lunch hour was over too quickly and they returned to the courtroom. The prosecution put on its case first. The DA began by calling the 911 dispatcher.

Greg Tolliff was a gangly twenty-year-old who wore a poorly-ironed shirt and crooked tie and no suit jacket. He testified that he was unable to determine who’d placed the phone call, but that the first voice he’d heard on the call belonged to a woman’s. Before the trial, Green had explained to Eddie that Spencer wasn’t interested in Tolliff’s testimony. The DA just wanted him to validate the recording of the emergency call. After a short series of questions, the DA admitted the recording into evidence and used a computer to play it for the jury through the courtroom’s speakers.

Tolliff’s voice came on first. “9-1-1 Dispatch. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“... help … stop, stop ...” A woman’s voice, faint.

“Ma’am, what is your name and phone number?”

“Stop …”

“Ma’am, are you there? Ma’am?”

“Anson … noooo!”

“Ma’am? Are you there?”

There was no answer. In the background, there was a crash and more screaming. Eddie had listened to Green’s copy of the recording so knew it was going to be bad when presented to the jury. With all the screaming and with Alice yelling No, it sounded like the married couple was in the middle of a knock-down, drag out fight.

Tolliff’s voice came on again. “Unknown possible medical emergency. 225 Watoga, Cumberland. The nearest intersection is one mile away at Browning Road and Rural Route 57. Repeat, unknown medical emergency.”

On the recording, Tolliff repeated the address once and the DA stopped the playback.

“That was the call you took that fateful night, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Tolliff said.

“And again, do you know who placed the call?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Thank you, son. Nothing further.”

Before the DA took his seat, Green was out of his. “Mr. Tolliff, you don’t know who placed the call but you know whose phone was used, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And whose phone was it?”

“It was a cell phone registered to Anson Ketcher.”

“Thank you, nothing further.”

The DA then called Officer Billy Towson to the stand.

Billy wore his dress blue uniform and walked to the witness stand with his hat tucked under his arm. He placed the cover on the witness stand, was sworn in, and sat back down. He had a fresh hair cut, a professional-looking shave, and appeared calm.

“Officer Towson, would you start by explaining your professional background to the jury?”

Billy gave a synopsis of his few years on the force, including his current job duties. When he finished, Spencer approached him.

“What happened that night?”

“I received a general call from dispatch. Gary Gronaw was on the line. He reported an unknown medical emergency at 225 Watoga—the Ketcher residence. I was close, sitting in one of my speed traps, so I took the call and stepped on it. I was really worried. Alice is—was—my cousin. On the way, I asked dispatch for more information. Officer Gronaw told me they suspected a home invasion based upon the 911 call.

“I arrived in less than five minutes. I was running on pure adrenaline at that point. I didn’t see any forced entry. The front door was open. I entered the residence and went room-to-room. The kitchen was a mess, so was the living room, and I followed the path of destruction to Alice’s studio. There I found her—” Billy’s voice cracked. “—body. I checked her vitals to be sure she was dead. Then I searched the rest of the house and didn’t find anybody.”

The DA folded his hands. “Would you like to take a moment, Billy?”

Billy wiped under his eyes. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

“What happened next?”

“Next I got a call from Officer Grimm. They’d picked up Anson. He’d been running down the middle of the street. They brought him back and Officer Grimm told me what Mr. Ketcher had said. That some ghost killed Alice.”

“What did you do?”

“Exactly what I shouldn’t have done.” Billy shook his head and sounded sincere. “I lost my temper and went after Mr. Ketcher. It was inappropriate and unprofessional.”

“Why did you attack Mr. Ketcher?”

“I didn’t believe his story for one second, and Alice was my cousin. I’d just come from seeing her dead body splayed in her studio … that doesn’t make it right, what I did, but I was highly emotional. I should never have hit Mr. Ketcher.”

The DA didn’t let that last answer hang too long in the mind of the jurors. “Did you say that you found no sign of forced entry?”

“That’s right.”

“And upon your search of the home, you found no one else hiding?”

“Correct.”

“Did you find any physical evidence that someone else had been in the house?”

Green objected. Judge Metnick entertained a sidebar between the lawyers for a brief moment then overruled the objection.

After the lawyers had returned to their places, Judge Metnick turned to Billy. “Officer, you must answer the question.”

“No, I didn’t see any evidence that someone else had been in the house that evening.”

“Were any valuables missing from the home?”

“None were reported.”

“Was the safe intact?”

“Yes. That’s one of the things we always check.”

The DA moved a little closer to the jury. “In your testimony, you said that the kitchen and the living room were a mess. What did you mean by that?”

“There were broken dishes scattered on the floor of the kitchen. The TV in the living room was knocked off the entertainment center, and one of the couches was out of place. These were all signs to me of a struggle in the home.”

The DA went to his table and produced a document. He approached Billy and handed it to him. “I’m handing Officer Towson a document labeled Montgomery County, Police Report, R-1757. Officer Towson, is that the report you drafted following the events you just described?”

“Yes, sir.”

The DA moved to admit Billy’s report into evidence and without objection from Green the judge accepted it.

Spencer looked over the report for a moment. “Would you read your description of the scene to the jury, please?”

Billy did, word-for-word. Eddie watched the jury closely. Most of them were sitting forward, hanging on his every word.

When he was done, the DA reserved the right to re-direct. Judge Metnick turned to Green, who remained sitting.

“Officer, you don’t like Anson much, do you?”

The DA immediately objected, but the judge just as immediately overruled it. “Mr. Spenser, the defense is entitled to pursue a line of questioning about bias. You know that. Answer the question, Officer Towson.”

Billy Towson didn’t hesitate. “No. I don’t like him. He wasn’t a good husband.”

Green stood. “Did you two ever have an argument?”

“A few times.”

“How about a heated argument?”

Billy hesitated. “One time, a few years ago.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“I didn’t like how he dressed Alice down in front of the family at a party. He told me to …”

“To what, Officer?”

Billy looked at the jury apologetically. “…To go fuck myself.”

“And then you threw the first punch, right?”

“Objection!”

Judge Metnick did not even entertain a sidebar. He shushed the DA and told Billy to answer the question.

“Yes, I threw the first punch but he—”

“So the night of Alice’s death wasn’t the first time you attacked Anson, was it?”

“—he was in my face, I thought he was going to swing.”

The judge banged his gavel and told Billy to answer the question that was asked.

“No, sir. I guess it wasn’t the first time I hit him.”

“And your father is the Chief of Police, correct?”

Billy’s face reddened. “Yes.”

“Did you want Mrs. Ketcher to divorce Anson?”

Billy balked.

“Your Honor, would you direct the witness to answer the—”

“Yes,” Billy blurted out.

Green moved closer to the jury. “Now let’s back up a moment here. Counsel asked you a few minutes ago to describe what happened the night of Alice’s death. Did you leave anything out?”

“No.”

Green frowned. “Weren’t you almost in an accident right after you took the call from dispatch?”

“Oh, that. Yes, that’s true. But I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t relevant to what Mr. Spencer was asking.”

Green smiled. “I think we’ll let Judge Metnick decide what’s relevant or not in this courtroom. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Objection, Your Honor—”

Green waved a hand. “Withdrawn. Officer, why don’t you tell us what happened right after you took the call?”

“I wanted to get there as quickly as possible. I was worried about Alice. As I pulled out onto the road, another vehicle was coming around the bend. It crossed the centerline.”

“What did you do?”

“We both swerved. It was a near miss. I kept going. That’s all that happened.”

“Didn’t you put out a call about the other vehicle that almost hit you head-on?”

Billy frowned again. “I did. I ordered a routine stop on the car just in case it was related to the 911 call. At the time, all I knew was there was some unknown medical emergency at Alice’s house.”

“Do you know if anyone in your department made that routine stop?”

“We had Anson a few minutes later, and he was talking about a ghost.”

“Is that a no?”

“Yes, I mean, nobody made a stop.”

“Let me get this straight. Someone is driving erratically less than a mile from the scene of an unknown medical emergency and nobody followed up on it?”

“Like I said, Anson—Mr. Ketcher—wasn’t saying anything about a home invasion or burglary. He kept saying a ghost did it.”

Green let the jury think about that for a moment. The unknown vehicle was a non-sequitur in terms of the overall defense theory but it painted an unflattering portrait of local law enforcement. If the jury believed them incompetent, it would be less inclined to believe any evidence or conclusions drawn from their investigation of the crime scene.

“The Ketcher house burned down last week, right?”

Two deep lines formed between Billy’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“That was on Tuesday, right?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you that day?”

“I was off work. I was home most the day and ran some errands.”

“I see. And before the house burned down, were you aware of what Mr. McCloskey discovered there that morning?”

“You mean the writing on the wall?” Towson looked nervously at the DA.

“Yes. Were you aware of what happened during the initial paranormal investigation prior to the house being burned down?”

Towson frowned. “Yes.”

Eddie wondered how far Green would go or if he’d let the jury connect the dots.

“And in your opinion, was the writing on the wall damaging to Anson’s defense?”

Billy thought about it. “I guess so.”

“And after that writing came to light, the house burned down?”

“Yes.”

Green stared at him for a moment. “Now back to the night of Mrs. Ketcher’s death. In your earlier testimony, you said you attacked Anson. Does that mean you hit him?”

“Yes. Like I said it was wrong of me and I was put on administrative leave and slowly worked back into the patrol rotation.”

“How many times did you hit him?”

“It was a fight. I wasn’t counting.”

“Was it really a fight?”

Billy frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did Anson hit you back?”

“He protected himself.”

“Is that a no?”

“The fight only lasted a few seconds. If it hadn’t, he would have tried to hit me, I’m sure of it.”

“So you’re saying that Anson didn’t even try to hit you?”

“It all happened so fast…I don’t...”

“You don’t what, Officer?”

“Look. It was a fight. It was over fast. I don’t remember every single thing about it.”

“You’re telling me you don’t remember if Anson tried to hit you or not?”

“No…I don’t remember.”

“Strange, I’d think you’d remember if another man tried to hit you.”

“Objection. Your Honor, Officer Towson has answered the question several times now.”

“Sustained.”

Green didn’t even pause before his next question. “Mrs. Ketcher’s neck was broken, wasn’t it?”

Billy frowned. “Yes, that’s what Dr. Han told me.”

“Do you know how to break a neck?”

Billy shook his head. “I don’t.”

“But you’re trained how to fight, right? You’re a police officer.”

“I am but I never learned how to do that. I think that’s a very advanced technique.”

“It takes a lot of training then, doesn’t it?”

Billy looked at Green sideways. “I guess…I don’t have a black belt.”

“Did Anson have any martial arts training to your knowledge?”

“No.”

“And yet you think he broke Mrs. Ketcher’s neck?”

“There was no one else there, and no damned ghost killed my cousin.”

Green smiled. “I’m confused, Officer. You say Anson broke Mrs. Ketcher’s neck, so he must have had some expertise in fighting and yet, when you confronted him that night, he didn’t even try to fight back. Can you explain that?”

“I can’t tell you what that man was thinking. Maybe he was tough around the ladies but scared of men.”

Green shook his head. “But surely you’re familiar with Anson’s arrest record, are you not?”

“I am.”

Eddie couldn’t believe it. Green was actually going to use Anson’s history of violence to suggest the man’s innocence. Only a lawyer would try that, and Eddie thought that Green might just be good enough to pull it off.

“Then you’re aware of his charges for assault and battery and all the bar fights he’s been in over the years. Were any of these violent outbursts directed at women?”

“No.”

Green kept going. “So he fought men, many of them bigger than him, isn’t that right?”

“I don’t remember the size of these other guys, how can you expect me to?”

“And didn’t one of those fights start because Anson believed that the other man was threatening a lady?”

Towson hesitated too long for his answer to be credible. “I don’t remember the details of his fights … you know, there were a lot of them.”

Green gave Billy a contemptuous look. “I have nothing further.”

The DA went on re-direct and got Billy to harp on the fact that there was no evidence of a third-party in the house and that the other vehicle was irrelevant given what Anson had told them during and after his arrest. The DA also had the opportunity to question Billy about Anson’s prior history of violence, now that Green had opened that door. But on the whole, Green had cut Billy down. It wasn’t enough for an acquittal but it was something.

Thirty-Two

Detective Ross watched as Billy stormed out of the courthouse. Ross hopped out of his car and flagged the kid down.

“Fucking lawyers. Fucking Green,” Billy said.

“Breathe. Tell me what happened.”

Billy did. Ross put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Forget about it. No matter what you say, a lawyer will twist it. It happens to me every time I take the stand and I’ve been doing it twenty plus years.”

“He started asking me about the fucking car.” Billy’s face was bright red. “Who gives a fucking shit about the fucking car? Why would we fucking follow up on it when Anson’s screaming about a ghost? Fucking lawyers. And then he asked what I was doing the day the house burned down, like I fucking had anything to do with it.”

“You remember what kind of car it was?” Ross asked. “I know you didn’t get a great look at it.”

“It wasn’t a truck or SUV, I can tell you that. Looked sort of like a wagon.”

“A station wagon?”

“Yeah, sort of. Maybe it was one of those hybrids? I haven’t thought too much about it since because it’s irrelevant.”

Ross thought about that. “Are you on-duty tonight?”

Billy shook his head.

Ross handed him a twenty. “Then buy a few drinks on me. Job well done.”

* * * *

Eddie woke early the next day and went for a run to clear his mind. Today was the day. Green expected the DA to rest before lunch. After that, the defense would call its witnesses. Green was still toying with the notion of putting Anson himself on the stand, but either way, Eddie would be the main attraction.

He ran at a good clip for fifteen minutes, then turned around and tried to run the same distance in fourteen minutes. He was winded after twelve-and-a-half and walked the rest of the way to his motel. Officer Thieler sat in her cruiser outside his room with the window down.

“I love a woman in uniform,” he said.

“Morning, Mr. McCloskey. Are you ready for your testimony?”

“Not in the least.”

She laughed. He realized he hadn’t heard her laugh before. She said, “How about breakfast?”

“How about dinner tonight followed by a late night snack and breakfast tomorrow?”

“I thought you were leaving as soon as you were done with the trial.”

“I could be persuaded otherwise.”

She held his gaze. “Let’s see how breakfast goes.”

“Breakfast tomorrow?”

“Nice try.”

* * * *

The diner was fifteen minutes up the road, farther from the county seat. She ordered an omelet. He ordered pancakes and touched them up with a little syrup but didn’t overdo it because his stomach was already in knots. Last thing he needed was to trombone on the witness stand. Wouldn’t do much for his credibility.

“What do you want out of life?” she asked between bites.

“Wow. Couldn’t we start off with something easier, like my shoe size?”

“You’re leaving soon. We don’t have time for that kind of slow burn.”

“Je ne sais pas.”

“Oh, one of those.”

“I’m a simple man. I want to keep doing what I do and get better at it. And I want to be able to pay the bills.”

“You don’t expect that kind of honesty from men about money.”

He shrugged. He wasn’t embarrassed.

Becky said, “If you believe my last three boyfriends, they all made six figures.”

He laughed.

She said, “There has to be more to it than that.”

“Why does everybody sneer at a successful businessman, like it’s the dirtiest, basest pursuit in the world?”

“So you’re saying you’re just after money?”

“Not just.” He gave her an ironic smile. “You’re telling me you’d turn down a raise?”

She smiled.

Eddie studied her. “What are you having, a quarter-life crisis?”

She wiped her mouth with a napkin, looked at him. “Yes, and it’s hell. Know thyself and all that.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“You think?”

“Statistics. Most people do eventually.”

“You’re reducing me to a number?”

“I’m saying it’s more likely you’re like everybody else who ever lived and figured it out.”

“You sure are a romantic.”

“You sure are a ball-buster.”

She laughed. “I have a new big idea every five minutes. That’s my problem. You know last week I wanted to apply to medical school?”

“You should go for it. It’s only, what, six months to become a doctor?”

“Funny. Then yesterday, I was talking to Detective Ross and I was so impressed by how much he knew that I was recommitted to the job.”

“For what it’s worth…you look great in a uniform.”

She laughed again. “You don’t like cops.”

“It’s not that. I don’t like assholes.”

She made a face. “Most of us are good people. Hard-working, family-oriented. It’s just like any other profession. Some treat it like a nine-to-five gig but others, the really good ones, treat it like a calling.”

“I’ve had a few good friends that were cops. I’ve earned the begrudging respect of a few more too. Then there’s you.”

“Me?”

“I wonder what a woman like you would want to do with a guy like me.”

“Maybe nothing at all.”

Eddie smiled because he knew it wasn’t true. “Were you an English major?”

“Double major. English and French. So I already know the puerile philosophy of cherchez la femme and you can’t impress me with any Voltaire quotes and please, pour l’amour de Dieu, no Balzac jokes.”

“I wouldn’t dare. You’re way too sophisticated a lady for that. And besides, I prefer Hugo and Dumas to Balzac.”

“Of course you do, because they’re safe choices. Hugo was drowning in melodrama and there’s not one honest moment in any of his endings, and Dumas was nothing but a commercial hack whose collaborator, Auguste Maquet, did all the heavy lifting.”

“It’s kind of cute when you get all Snobby McSnobby.”

“I’m serious. Hugo for the most part and Dumas across the board wrote tripe—”

“I think you just like the name Balzac.”

“Hey! I said no jokes.”

“In terms of the Romantics, Hugo was the best. And Dumas … I mean Jesus every few years a new musketeer movie comes out. Both men have left a far more lasting impact on culture than Balzac. Don’t be such a cynic. It’s okay to like something more than five people have read.”

“What’d you major in?”

“I got a BS in BS.”

“No college?”

Eddie shook his head. “Wasn’t in the proverbial cards. But I read all the time.”

“Can you read me?” She gave him one of those cute looks.

“You’re in some beautiful ancient language that I haven’t learned yet.”

“You’re really swinging for the fences.”

“When you do you only have to connect once.” Eddie checked the time on his cell. “I’ve gotta hit the old dusty trail.”

“Last chance, Mr. Ghost Hunter. You can still leave before you have to testify.”

“I made a promise and…”

“What?”

“And I want to see what happens. I want to understand.”

She looked at him like he’d gone batty.

He said, “How about we talk after the trial?”

She batted her eyelashes. “You never know with me. Tomorrow I might be in medical school.”

“Tell me one thing. How did a gal like you end up with that job in a place like this?”

“Easy, silly rabbit. I grew up here.”

Eddie laughed. “So long, Officer. I hope we have dinner tonight.”

* * * *

Eddie sat in the bench behind the defense counsel’s table rather than in the back. He wanted a better view of the proceedings. Gracie and her team did the same and sat behind the DA. Councilman Towson and his wife sat in the row behind Gracie.

The members of the court performed the same ritual, rising for the judge, sitting when told. Then the judge told the DA to proceed with his case.

Spencer called Han, the ME, to the stand. Dr. Han was in his mid-thirties and wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and tie and had a buzz cut. He was sworn in and took his seat in the witness box.

The DA asked the ME to summarize his background to the jury. Han explained that he’d studied forensic science as an undergrad then went on to medical school. He’d been working crime scene investigation ever since. Han had a nasally, academic voice.

“Were you able to determine a cause of death for Mrs. Ketcher?” Spencer said.

“Yes.”

“And that was?”

“In laymen’s terms, Mrs. Ketcher’s neck was broken. As a result of the severe spinal cord injury, her blood pressure dropped quickly and then her brain ceased to function as a result. She probably died very quickly.”

The DA went to the computer on his desk. “Your Honor, I would like to refer to the crime scene photos now so Dr. Han can explain his findings.”

“Go ahead.”

Eddie waited for Green to object, but the lawyer didn’t move a muscle. Spencer clicked a few buttons and the first photo appeared on the projector next to the witness stand. Several groans and turned heads from the jury.

The picture was a close-up of Alice’s neck.

“Dr. Han, would you explain to the jury how you arrived at your conclusions and please refer to the photographs if necessary.”

Han stood in the box and pointed to the purplish marks on Alice’s distended neck. “The bruising here and the odd shape of the neck is the first clue.”

One juror put a hand over her mouth like she was going to barf.

Han continued. “I took an x-ray that confirmed the break in the spinal cord in the cervical spine—I mean the neck.”

The DA went to the next slide. “Is this the x-ray you’re talking about?”

“Yes, that’s it. The break is obvious in this picture.”

“Now is there any way, based upon the physical evidence, that the break in Alice’s neck could have been caused by a fall, or by her hitting her head?”

“No. It was a very clean break, and there was no physical evidence at the scene to suggest anything other than the intentional act of a third party.”

“What do you mean by clean break?”

“It requires a significant amount of force applied in the correct way to break a neck. The person who did this to Mrs. Ketcher had to be fairly strong and was probably taller than her.”

“I see. And how tall was Mrs. Ketcher?”

“She was five-six.”

Eddie watched as the jurors’ eyes all tracked to Anson. Not a good sign.

The DA asked a string of clarifying questions then reserved his right to redirect. Green stood up.

“Dr. Han, is it easy to break a person’s neck?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Well you just said it requires a significant amount of force and a basic knowledge of the procedure to execute the maneuver. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“So it requires certain skills?”

“I guess you could say that, though brute strength probably makes up for a lack of precision.”

“In your opinion, would the average man with no military, self-defense, or martial arts training know how to break a neck?”

“Objection. That goes beyond Dr. Han’s expertise,” the DA said.

Judge Metnick pondered it for a moment. “I agree, it is beyond his area of expertise. Objection sustained.”

Green didn’t bristle. He just went for the next question. “Dr. Han, I’ve read your report. It’s very thorough and detailed. But there is one thing not in the report I’d like to know. Was the killer right- or left-handed?”

Han kept his voice level. “The killer used both hands. I don’t think anybody could break a neck with one.”

A ripple of laughter in the jury box.

Green smiled. “I understand that, Dr. Han. As you explained in your report, this neck break was done from the front, with one hand primarily twisting and the other primarily stabilizing, I believe was your word. So the maneuver requires both hands, but based upon the direction of this break, can’t you tell which hand the killer used as the primary twister?”

“I can make an educated guess but then you can’t necessarily deduce from that the killer’s dexterity. They could have used their dominant hand as the stabilizer for all we know.”

“But when a person has to exert a lot of force with their arms, don’t they naturally use their dominant side to do it?”

“More often than not, I’d say yes. But that’s why I say we’d be guessing.”

“But wouldn’t such a guess be educated, based upon your experience?”

Han paused. “Perhaps.”

“Then, based upon your experience, would you say it was more likely the killer was left-handed based upon the nature of this break?”

“More likely, but in no way definitive and that’s why I left it out of my report. I didn’t feel comfortable making that determination.”

“And do you know Anson’s dexterity?”

Han shot a look toward the back of the courtroom. Ross stood by the double doors and leaned against the wall.

“I actually do.”

“And how do you know Anson’s dexterity?”

“We played in a softball league last summer. He bats and throws right-handed.”

“And based upon that, you can say it is more likely that Anson is right-handed, correct?”

“There are some people who switch hands depending upon the activity. It’s not uncommon.”

“I understand that, Dr. Han, but that wasn’t the question I asked.”

“Yes, it’s more likely Anson is right-handed.”

“And if you were naturally right-handed, Dr. Han, would you use your left hand as the twister and your right as the stabilizer in this extremely complicated maneuver?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled. I want to hear the answer. Go ahead, Dr. Han.”

“It’s possible,” Han said.

“Anything’s possible, Dr. Han. The world could end tomorrow. But is there any evidence to suggest that the killer used their right hand to perform the primary twisting motion?”

“Like I said, the evidence is inconclusive.”

“But what makes it inconclusive? From what you’re telling me, there’s evidence to suggest the killer used their left hand to twist but there’s no evidence to the contrary.”

“There are a variety of injuries to Mrs. Ketcher that make that kind of specific analysis difficult. If I felt confident in making that call, I would have put it into my report.”

Thirty-Three

The last time Eddie had experienced this sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach was in high school when he had to give an oral presentation. He’d pissed about ten times in the last hour. Show time was creeping up on him.

He was coming back to the courtroom from a recess and spotted Gracie Barbitok in front of the double doors. She was miked and one of her goons had a video camera trained on her.

“It has been a very interesting case,” she said. “I’ll be testifying shortly and I’m confident we’ll have a positive outcome. The scant evidence that could be construed as paranormal supports that Mr. Ketcher was guilty. I hope I can convince the jury of the truth.”

She paused a moment then made a swiping motion across her neck. The cameraman lowered the video camera. Gracie spotted Eddie over the man’s shoulder.

“Here’s your chance, Eddie. Would you like to add anything for the show?”

“Just one thing.”

He paused dramatically and winked at the camera.

“No comment.”

Eddie pushed through the double doors.

A few minutes later, Gracie took the stand and smiled prettily at the jury. The DA started by having her explain her background. Her resume was impressive. His would pale in comparison. It took Gracie fifteen minutes to tell her story and the jury seemed to lap it up.

“Mrs. Barbitok, based on your twenty-year experience, do ghosts exist?” the DA asked.

Gracie did the same thing that Green had instructed Eddie to do. She faced the jury when she answered.

“At best, all I can say is it’s possible. But as any honest ghost hunter will tell you, close to ninety-nine percent of purported hauntings are easily debunked with rational, reality-based explanations. So it’s fair to say that hauntings, if they do happen, are extremely, extremely rare occurrences.”

She was good on the stand. A natural communicator. On TV she came across a bit theatrical, flashy and argumentative, but in this courtroom she was more reserved, helpful, enlightening.

Her present testimony, however, differed wildly from the thought she’d shared with Eddie on their short-lived jog together. When they’d stopped for a breather in the woods, she had said there was no such thing as ghosts. Following the developments at the Ketcher house last week, she’d been forced to soften her testimony.

“How many paranormal investigations have you been on?” Spencer asked.

“Personally, I have performed over two thousand investigations over the last twenty years. Senior members on my staff, combined, have conducted over a thousand as well. All told, that puts the number for me and my staff at over three thousand.”

“And in how many were you or your staff able to verify the presence of a ghost at one of the sites?”

“None.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not at a single one.”

“But I don’t understand, Mrs. Barbitok. You just testified that, in your experience, there were probably ghosts. How can you say that if you yourself, and no one on your team, has seen any first-hand?”

“In a handful of cases, we were not able to explain the phenomena witnessed. The findings from those cases are therefore open to interpretation, and it’s possible that supernatural forces were involved.”

“But you can’t say definitively?”

“No. Many people believe it’s literally impossible to prove the existence of a ghost.”

The lights in the courtroom flickered like the power was about to go out. The DA paused and Gracie smiled and there was nervous laughter from the jury. Judge Metnick told the DA to proceed.

“Ms. Barbitok, you testified that this was the case in only a handful of investigations. What did you mean by a handful?”

“Five.”

The DA moved next to the jury. “Only five?”

“And that is a liberal estimate. If you do the math, five represents about a tenth of a percent out of the three thousand claims.”

Eddie couldn’t argue with her results. Almost all the claims he’d ever investigated had been debunked, most of them easily, many of them within a few minutes.

The DA continued. “On those five cases, did you ever encounter any evidence that a ghost had physically harmed a human being?”

“No. Not a single one.”

“Let’s take it a step farther. Do you know how many times someone claimed to be physically harmed by a ghost?”

“Out of the three thousand claims, maybe a dozen. None of those were ever verified.”

“What do you mean by verified?”

“We were unable to reproduce the phenomena described. In several of them, the evidence presented by the claimant was specious at best.”

Spencer smiled. “How was it specious?”

Gracie smiled back. “In this day and age, everybody has a cell phone that can take pictures. And yet, none of the claimants in question had any photographs of bruising, scratching, or other marks indicative of trauma. The claims of physical harm were literally just that: claims.”

“According to the paranormal literature, have you ever read of any instances where a ghost physically harmed a human being?”

“Not in any modern texts, no. We have accounts from the nineteenth century and earlier of physical harm visited upon humans by supernatural entities, but that literature is not scientific or reliable and the phenomena described in the texts have never been reproduced.”

“Have you had a chance to review Mr. Ketcher’s statement to the police?”

“I have.”

“And have you had a chance to examine the Ketcher residence?”

“I have.”

“And based upon your review of Mr. Ketcher’s statement and of the house itself, do you have an opinion as to whether the Ketcher residence was haunted?”

“I do.”

“And what is that opinion?”

“It is my opinion the Ketcher residence was probably not haunted. At best, the evidence is equivocal.”

“Can you explain why you came to that conclusion?”

“When investigating, we attempt to reproduce the phenomena described by the claimants. The Ketchers, collectively, described a set of subjective components that we were not able to reproduce upon investigation. In addition, we used objective testing as well and that testing returned no positive findings.”

“Can you explain what you found at the Ketcher residence when you investigated?”

“I will start by explaining what we did not find. None of my team reported any of the same symptoms that Mr. Ketcher described to police. There were no fuzzy feelings, or nausea, or lightheadedness. No one on my team felt any static electricity. We could not reproduce any of the subjective components of the haunting.

“Nor could we reproduce any of the more objective findings typically associated with a positive space. We captured no electronic voice phenomenon, there were no fluctuations in temperature. One weak variance in the electromagnetic fields was recorded, but it was so weak I wouldn’t consider it solid evidence of anything. There were no cold spots. Nothing was caught on the cameras we installed.”

“Could you explain to the jury what you mean by all those findings in laymen’s terms?”

Gracie took a few minutes. Several members of the jury scribbled notes while she spoke.

“Thank you, Ms. Barbitok. We’ve heard about what you did not find. Now please explain what, if anything, you did find at the Ketcher residence.”

“Mr. McCloskey—” Gracie pointed him out for the jury. “—is the defense’s expert witness and was leading the investigation that day. He used his K-II meter to read any changes in electromagnetic frequency. He started by asking questions. Many ghost hunters do this to see if they can elicit a paranormal response. In the living room, Mr. McCloskey addressed the ghost as if it was present and asked if it had killed Alice.”

“And did Mr. McCloskey get a response in the living room?”

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

“We eventually moved into the studio where Alice was killed. Mr. McCloskey attempted to elicit a response again, but before he could finish his first question writing on the wall suddenly appeared.”

“What do you mean writing on the wall appeared?”

“Letters formed on the wall as if some invisible person were writing them.”

“You saw the writing yourself?”

“I did. I watched as it appeared on the wall. I was no more than a yard away. Several other eyewitnesses saw it. It was also captured on tape.”

“What did the writing say?”

“The letters ran together.” Gracie spelled them out. “I took that to mean, It wasn’t me.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Nothing, actually.”

“Nothing! But you just said you saw letters appear on a wall that weren’t being written by anyone. Surely that must be something?”

“In my career, I’ve seen many hoaxes perpetrated similar to this. All you need to do is write the letters on the wall with some invisible chemicals that are later activated by a catalyst. It’s not as simple as invisible ink but it’s along the same lines. So it’s very easy to fake something like that. They do it in the movies all the time, often without any camera tricks.”

“Could you explain how that would work to the jury?”

Gracie did. She had an easy command of the material. She explained the chemical process to the jury in simple terms. No big words, and not a word wasted. She referenced the famous case of the Faces of Belmez, where this was thought to have occurred.

“Did you check the writing to see if any of these chemicals were present?”

“We never got the opportunity. If it were up to me, I would have tested the writing right away, but the defense expert was leading the investigation. He chose not to. He chose to continue with what he was doing.”

Eddie kept his face neutral but he wanted to burst out of his seat and explain how Gracie was full of shit. She was having her cake and eating it too.

Gracie was still testifying. “We didn’t have the right equipment with us. I sent some of my team members out to find what we needed while we continued our investigation of the premises. I planned to run some tests that day, but we couldn’t return to the premises until the defense expert did. By then, the house had been destroyed by the fire.”

“And now you have no way of verifying whether the writing was a hoax or not?”

“That’s right.”

“And the writing was the only potential paranormal evidence, for lack of a better word, that you encountered while on-site?”

“That’s correct. And Mr. Ketcher never described or reported activity like this, so this was new activity if it was paranormal at all. And that makes it even less likely that it was paranormal. Like I said, we could not reproduce any of the subjective components Mr. Ketcher told police about and none of the usual objective tests returned any positive findings. The writing on the wall is all we had, that can be easily faked, and we were unable to run any chemical analysis to determine its authenticity.”

Eddie had figured the DA would take this approach. If the DA convinced the jury no ghost was in the house, Anson’s only defense would evaporate. Better that than rely on the ghost’s self-serving denial of guilt because that was opening the door to the possibility of the paranormal. But even if the jury bought into the haunting, the paranormal evidence tended to inculpate Anson.

The DA finished with his questions, and all eyes in the courtroom turned to Green.

“Ms. Barbitok, there are different kinds of hauntings, aren’t there?”

“There are differences of opinion, but the general consensus in the paranormal community is that the three main types are residual, intelligent, and poltergeist. I have never seen intelligent or poltergeist hauntings. My five questionable claims were what would be described as residual.”

“And what is that?”

“Recordings, more or less. The ghost continues to engage in some behavior that leaves a tangible mark on the real world. We’re getting into wild theory here, but the idea is that the ghost is not even trying to haunt the premises. It’s just an imprint leftover.”

“Based upon your expertise, are residual hauntings the most common form?”

“The most common, yes, but remember hauntings are extremely rare.”

“Thank you, Ms. Barbitok. I do remember that from your earlier testimony.” Green stood up. “Now then, you say it’s possible that the writing you and others observed on the wall was paranormal in nature, is that correct?”

“Yes. With an emphasis on the word possible.”

“So then we can say it’s likely this writing was just a recording, because in your own words, most hauntings are just residual in nature. Isn’t that correct?”

Gracie shifted in her seat. “As I testified earlier, I don’t have an opinion on the writing because I was not able to properly test it.”

“But based upon the principles you just described, it’s more likely the writing was just a recording, isn’t it?”

The DA shot out of his chair. “Objection. The witness has testified that she was not able to test the writing so all of this is conjecture based upon conjecture and will not assist the trier of fact in any way. All we’re doing is discussing hypotheticals at this point.”

Green turned to the judge. “Your Honor, all we have are hypotheticals. The evidence was destroyed. Mr. Ketcher is entitled under the Constitution to explore and question any evidence brought against him in his defense against the charges.”

Judge Metnick thought about it for a moment then faced the jury. “I’m going to overrule the objection, but I want to make this clear. Mr. Green is asking the witness to make an educated guess. Her answer does not reflect her opinion on this matter.”

Gracie said, “Statistically-speaking, if the writing was true paranormal activity, then yes it’s more likely it was residual in nature.”

“Thank you, Ms. Barbitok. And if it was residual in nature, then, according to your earlier testimony, it was just a recording of sorts. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And if it was a recording, then that means the ghost was not responding to Mr. McCloskey’s questions? Isn’t that correct?”

Gracie must have seen where this was going, but still she hesitated before answering. “Yes, that is possible.”

“You testified earlier that Mr. McCloskey asked the ghost if it killed Alice while everyone was in the living room, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And it was not until you went into Alice’s studio that the writing appeared?”

“That’s right.”

“How much time do you think elapsed from when Mr. McCloskey asked that question to when the writing appeared?”

“I wasn’t keeping track.”

Green smiled. He looked like a crocodile about to pounce on some unsuspecting gazelle drinking on the riverbank. “I understand that, Ms. Barbitok. I’m asking you to estimate.”

“I don’t feel comfortable guessing.”

“Less than ten minutes?”

”Yes.”

“Less than five?”

“Maybe.”

“Between three and five minutes, is that fair to say?”

“I guess. Yes, probably.”

“So Mr. McCloskey asked the question, and then at least three minutes passed before the writing on the wall appeared. Is that fair to say?”

“I wasn’t keeping track of the time, like I said. This is all guesswork.”

“But some time elapsed, correct? The answer didn’t immediately follow the question, if it indeed was even an answer.”

“That’s right.”

“So the phrase, if it was a phrase at all, that appeared on the wall wasn’t necessarily a response to Mr. McCloskey’s question, asked some three minutes earlier?”

“Ghosts don’t always follow the rules of polite society.”

“No, it appears they don’t.”

“OBJECTION!”

“Counselor…”

“Withdrawn, Your Honor. Ms. Barbitok, would you please answer my question?”

“I already did.”

“I asked if the writing wasn’t necessarily a response—”

“Yes.” An edge in her voice. “It wasn’t necessarily a response to Mr. McCloskey’s question.”

Green turned and went back to his table. Anson was on the edge of his seat. So was most of the jury. Green picked up a piece of paper and appeared to be reading from it.

With his back still to Gracie, Green said, “You used to make money by pretending to be a psychic, did you not?”

Gracie nodded. “That is a matter of public record and I’ve never tried to hide it. As a matter of fact, I let that be known in the beginning of every book I write, every interview I give, and every show we record.”

Green faced her. “But you did try to hide it, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When you were posing as a psychic, you were trying to hide your fraud, were you not?”

“OBJECTION!”

“Overruled.” Metnick looked at Gracie. “I want to hear the answer.”

“That is true,” she said. “What I meant was—”

Green cut her off. “How long did you pretend to be a psychic?”

Gracie kept herself composed. Eddie was impressed.

“For about six years.”

“And how much money did you make in that time, pretending to be a psychic?”

“Your Honor, objection!”

Judge Metnick handled this by conducting a sidebar. The judge turned on white noise so nobody could hear what the lawyers were saying. The discussion lasted several minutes. There was a lot of finger-pointing and gesticulations. Judge Metnick watched both lawyers with a cynic’s eyes, then finally cut off the DA and killed the white noise.

The DA sat back down, shaking his head. Green remained standing.

The judge said, “The objection is overruled. Ms. Barbitok will answer the question.”

“I don’t have my tax returns on me. I don’t know off the top of my head.”

Green smiled that lizard smile again. “Just estimate it for me.”

Gracie took a deep breath. “I made anywhere from sixty thousand to a hundred thousand dollars per year.”

Several members of the jury shook their heads in disbelief. The first crack in the beautiful, professional edifice that was Gracie Barbitok had appeared.

“And since then you’ve, for lack of a better phrase, switched sides and now spend your time catching frauds, both spiritual and financial, and debunking paranormal activity.”

“I’ve been trying to make up for my past mistakes. Yes.”

“And how much money do you earn per year now?”

Gracie blushed. “I don’t have any financial—”

“I’m just asking for an estimate, Ms. Barbitok.”

The DA stood up but before he could object, the judge told him to sit down. Spencer shook his head and asked that his objection be placed onto the record so it was preserved. The judge told him it would be.

“I earn between seven and eight hundred thousand dollars per year.”

Eddie immediately started counting the ways he would spend that much money in his mind. He could tell the jury was too.

“And that money comes from your show as well as the sales of all your books, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And isn’t it true you have plans to turn this investigation of yours into a special?”

“We’re considering it.”

“So you stand to profit financially and professionally from your involvement in this case?”

“Just like your expert, Mr. McCloskey, does.”

Green chuckled. “Of course. But Mr. McCloskey doesn’t have his own TV show, does he?”

She frowned. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

Suddenly, the lights flickered in the courtroom and one member of the jury gasped. Green pushed on. It was clear to Eddie that he didn’t want to lose the momentum of his questioning. He was working Gracie closer and closer to the ropes.

“Let me rephrase, Ms. Barbitok. Does Mr. McCloskey have his own TV show?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Aren’t your ratings contingent upon your exposing frauds and debunking hoaxes?”

“In part, yes. I’d say the entertainment factor and production values play as big a part.”

“Well, which is it, Ms. Barbitok?”

“I’m sorry?” She looked to the judge, then to the DA.

“Either you’re after the truth or you’re putting on a show. I’m asking, which is it?”

She blushed. “It’s both of course.”

Green just smiled at her. “But didn’t you say that your audience tunes in to watch you expose charlatans, uncover frauds, and debunk hoaxes?”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“You gave an interview with People magazine last year, don’t you remember?”

“I remember the interview, but…”

“Your Honor, may I read from the article to refresh the witness’s memory?”

Judge Metnick said, “This article has been provided to the prosecution?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Proceed.”

Green pulled the magazine out of a manilla folder on his table and flipped to an earmarked page. “Question: Why do you think people watch your show? Answer: They want to see conmen and grifters revealed. They watch because they want to see me expose charlatans, uncover frauds, and debunk hoaxes. I like to think it gives them some modicum of peace, to know that my team is out there finding these people.” Green looked up at her. “Those were your words, weren’t they?”

“Yes, but that’s not the only reason people watch my program.”

“But based upon what you told this interviewer, it sounds like it’s the main reason, isn’t it?”

“I can’t tell you why everyone watches my show, counselor. I’m not a mind-reader like some of these quack psychics claim to be.”

“Maybe I should call a market analyst from your network. Do you think they’d have a better idea?”

“Objection.”

“Withdrawn. But, Ms. Barbitok, uncovering fraud is the basic premise of your show, is it not?”

“That is the substance of the show, yes.”

“So then you have a great financial incentive, beyond your compensation for appearing as a witness here, to find that Mr. Ketcher’s claims are groundless?”

“I’m here to uncover the truth.”

“Regardless of that pure motive, though, you do have a significant financial incentive beyond your compensation as an expert witness, do you not?”

“We don’t know if we’ll turn our investigation here into a special. That decision hasn’t been made yet.”

“Your Honor, would you direct the witness to answer the question?”

Judge Metnick’s scowl deepened. “Ms. Barbitok, you must answer the question.”

Gracie was quiet for a stretch. “I have a financial incentive to expose fraud. That’s what I’m doing here.”

“So what will factor into your decision to turn this investigation into a special?”

“Many things.”

“Such as?”

Gracie took a deep breath. Green had really rattled her. “Whether the story will make for compelling television—”

“Excuse me, Ms. Barbitok. But don’t you think the story about a man who claims a ghost killed his wife would make for compelling television?”

“Yes, but that’s not the only factor we would consider. Even the best stories don’t always translate to the medium of TV or fit within the confines of our program. It depends on a lot of things.”

“Come on, Ms. Barbitok. You’re avoiding the question.”

“OBJECT!”

The judge motioned for the DA to sit down, and Green continued his assault. “The real reason you don’t know if this will make for good TV is because you don’t know the outcome of this trial yet. Or how you’ll end up looking to your audience. Aren’t those the deciding factors?”

“No.”

“You mean to tell me your marketing team doesn’t take into account the potential negative publicity you’d get if Mr. Ketcher goes free, or if my expert outshines you here, or if Mr. McCloskey establishes that there was a haunting?”

“The network will consider a variety of factors.”

“But when you come right down to it, Ms. Barbitok, doesn’t this special have a greater chance of airing if you look good?”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“What would be better for ratings, Ms. Barbitok? If you helped the DA get a conviction or if Mr. Ketcher was acquitted?”

“I think both outcomes would make for compelling TV.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t the former add to the Gracie Barbitok legend? Wouldn’t it further bolster your career and ratings?”

“I guess it would. But that’s not my purpose for being here today. I want to see that justice is done.”

“Of course you do.” Green shook his head and chuckled ruefully. “I’m sure you’re not giving your TV special a second’s thought right now, are you?”

“OBJECTION!”

“Withdrawn.”

Thirty-Four

Before he called his first live witness, Green entered into evidence Lee Oliver’s sworn statement. They’d taken it at the nursing home last week, with both attorneys present, due to Oliver’s mental condition. There was no guarantee he would be lucid for trial so they’d hastily arranged the deposition.

They played the sworn statement for the jury. Almost all of them reacted to Oliver’s account of euthanizing his wife.

Then Green called his first witness.

The Madam’s real name wasn’t Beverly Magloin. Surprise, surprise. Her birth name was Jessica Farnsworth, she was thirty-nine, she’d been a psychic for twenty years, the last fifteen of which she’d operated her own business.

She wore a pretty dress and no make-up and looked every bit the part of respectable citizen as she answered questions on the witness stand.

“Actually, Mr. Green, I have assisted the police before in St. Lewis County. They came to me on a missing persons case and with my insight I was able to point them in the right direction. They ultimately found the child.”

Green let the jury think about that for a moment. Then, “Was Mrs. Ketcher a client of yours?”

“She was.”

“How many times did she come to see you?”

“Fourteen.”

“And why did Mrs. Ketcher come to see you?”

“She believed her house was haunted. As our relationship grew, we also spoke about other things, like her future and her marriage.”

“Why did she believe her house was haunted?”

“She described a tangible presence in her house that would manifest itself and dissipate. There were sometimes inexplicable noises and fuzzy feelings. Later, she found objects that had been moved from their normal place. All of these are classic signs of a haunting.”

“And what did she want you to do for her with respect to the haunting?”

“She didn’t want to believe her house was haunted at first because that conflicted with her deeply held religious views. So our initial meetings were mostly attempts at explaining away the phenomena. Then she started asking me how to get rid of the spirit.”

“And did you tell her how?”

The Madam testified about everything she’d shared with Eddie during his visit. Green sat down, and the DA began his questions.

“Ms. Farnsworth…or do you prefer Ms. Magloin?”

Eddie smirked. It was a nice play by the DA that set the tenor of the cross.

She smiled at him and didn’t seem bothered. “Either is fine.”

“Okay, then. Ms. Farnsworth, you testified a moment ago that Alice talked to you about her marriage, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give her any marital advice?”

“I told her to leave Mr. Ketcher.”

“Why?”

“From what she told me, they weren’t a good match.”

“Did you use your Eye to know this, or did you just base your advice off what Alice told you?”

“I use both whenever I can.”

“I’m asking about this particular instance.”

“It was off what Alice told me. I never gained clear insight on her marriage.”

“Well what unclear insight on her marriage did you gain?”

“I really can’t say. The Eye doesn’t work like that. When it’s confused or unclear, you don’t know what you have.”

The DA grinned ear-to-ear. “So then you gave Alice marital advice in really the same manner a professional counselor would, right? You just absorbed what Alice shared with you and drew your own conclusions?”

“That’s right.”

“Except you’re not licensed as a counselor, are you?”

Ms. Magloin blushed. “No, but I’ve been helping people with their problems for twenty years so I’ve—”

“Do you hold any degrees?”

“…No.”

“You’re not a licensed social worker, correct?”

“No.”

“You’re not a clinical psychologist?”

“No.”

“Have you ever attended a class, formal or informal, on couple’s counseling?”

“No.”

“And yet you still derive a portion of your income from this type of counseling even when your Eye does not assist you, isn’t that right?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

The DA scoffed. “Please, enlighten us.”

“Aside from being a psychic, I’m very good at reading people. We all suffer from the delusion that we’re unique individuals, but that’s not the case. We all fit types. I’ve been reading people all my life so I’m able to discern who they truly are and what they truly want, even if they’ve forgotten it. I help them by sharing that knowledge. To date, no one has ever asked for a refund.”

“Have you heard of that old saying, extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof?”

“Of course.”

“Is there any way you can prove to this jury that you are truly a psychic, as opposed to a mentalist charading as a psychic?”

“If you’ll let me.”

“By all means.”

“Your full name is Cornelius Byron Spencer. Your friends and many of your enemies behind your back refer to you as Yukon. Your mother’s name was Penny, she was red-headed, and she raised you alone after your father left when you were ten—”

“That’s all well and good, Ms. Farnsworth, but isn’t all that information public knowledge?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look any of that up on the internet.”

Several members of the jury had a laugh. Even grumpy old Judge Metnick did too.

* * * *

Two-thirty in the afternoon. The heavy weight of the August sun. The cloudless sky burning, not really blue.

Giles Tyson in the parking lot stepping out of his hybrid. He wore an expensive, tailored, double-breasted suit that made him look like a flashy investment banker. He looked totally out of place. He always did. He nodded coolly at Eddie and met him at the stone bench under the massive elm.

“Edward.”

“G.”

They shook hands, like they hadn’t seen each other in years and were just now catching up at a funeral of a mutual friend.

Giles put his hands in his pockets and looked more awkward than usual. “Edward, I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you. No matter what happens in there, thank you. You’ve given Anson a fighting chance.”

Eddie chuckled. His stomach was all acid. “We’ll see about that. What are you doing here?”

Giles smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve been reduced to playing the part of a bluff.”

“Green’s threatening the DA with your testimony?”

“Yes. Denard is telling Spencer right now that I had many occasions to observe the marriage between Anson and Alice. The suggestion is that she wasn’t quite the saint everybody thinks she was.”

“Any time you want to switch places with me, feel free.”

Giles shook his head. “I’m no good to Anson on that stand. I have no credibility, Edward, and I’m his good friend.”

“And you’ve got an axe to grind with the DA’s expert witness.”

“Not to mention that. Anything I say contrary to Gracie’s testimony won’t hold up. The DA probably has that episode queued up on his fucking laptop.”

For a moment, Eddie thought Giles was going to cry. He looked away, giving the man a moment to collect himself.

Giles broke the silence. “A man’s reputation is worth more than all the money in the world…I’m afraid mine is gone and I don’t know how quite to get it back.”

Eddie didn’t know what to say. “You’ll find a way.”

Giles cupped Eddie’s shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I admire you, Edward. To be honest, I thought you were lost after your brother died.”

“I was lost before he was killed. I used his death as an excuse.”

“And his killer…I don’t know how you stomach the thought of him sitting in a hospital somewhere. If it were my brother…”

Eddie said nothing. He’d dreamed of vengeance for a long time. His brother’s killer, Eamon Moriarty, was untouchable, sitting in a psychiatric facility for the criminally insane.

Giles continued. “I thought you’d never rebound but here you are. You should be proud of yourself, Edward. Really.”

Yeah, he’d come real far. He had a pile of overdue bills and his career was flatlining less than a year after he’d started his own business. Eddie squirmed under the man’s earnest stare. “Thanks, pal.”

“You’ve got a good thing going. Keep at it and your business will thrive. I know it will.”

The doors of the main entrance to the courthouse opened and Green waved at him to come inside.

Eddie turned to say goodbye but Giles suddenly hugged him.

“Good luck, Edward. I hope you outshine that two-faced bitch.”

Giles released him and sullenly went back to his car. Eddie walked up the front steps and looked back once. Giles leaned against his car and stared into the distance.

* * * *

The reporters were in the hallway again. Eddie had no-commented them non-stop but still they asked him questions. He didn’t answer any this time either. He was fixated on both the present and the future.

He reached the double doors to the courtroom. Green had knocked Gracie Barbitok down a few pegs then laid some serious doubts in the jury’s minds about Alice Ketcher through the Madam’s testimony. There was no need to put Anson on the stand. The DA hadn’t tried to challenge Anson’s defense story factually. He’d treated the novel defense theory with contempt, dismissed it out of hand as if it wasn’t worth the court’s time, focused the jury instead on the overwhelming physical evidence and appealed to their reason. There was no such thing as ghosts, and the house had burned down before anybody could test the writing on the wall. Therefore, that evidence was useless.

As they’d figured all along, everything hinged on Eddie’s testimony.

He took a deep breath and smiled. What the hell, it was only his reputation and career at stake.

He pushed through the doors. Gained confidence with each step. He realized he’d been in worse spots before. Like when he was arrested. Like when he was convicted and put in prison. Like when he’d come to the realization that he was an addict. Later, that he was an alcoholic. Like when his older brother had been murdered. Like when his parents had died in that car accident, twenty years ago.

The one common denominator in all those situations?

He’d persevered and somehow come out better. There was a lesson in there. It probably had to do with the human spirit and the psychology of resiliency. He had a choice. He could look at those failures and think his life had been wasted. Or he could look at those shortcomings and realize how lucky he was. How equipped the human being was to handle adversity.

He was called to the stand and swore the oath and took his seat and examined the faces of the jurors. Mixed eyes: curious, skeptical, judgmental. Anson sat forward at the defense table, his hands clasped in a prayer-like pose.

It was up to Eddie.

The DA had his legal pad and pen ready.

Denard Green stood. “Mr. McCloskey, would you explain your background to the jury please?”

Face the jury. Look them in the eye. Eddie turned in his seat and treated the twelve members like they were his only audience. Like they were close relatives huddled around the dining room table on Christmas Eve, sharing stories both old and new. He met eyes and held gazes. Reminded himself to speak slowly, with authority.

“My name is Edward McCloskey. I’m thirty-three years old. I’ve been involved in paranormal investigation off and on since I was eighteen. My older brother, Tim, showed me the ropes when I was a young man. I was a member of his team for a decade until his untimely passing. During that span, we investigated approximately two hundred paranormal claims. Last year, I started my own ghost-hunting business and in that short time, I’ve handled over thirty claims.”

“What was your most challenging case?”

Eddie didn’t like to brag but Green had impressed upon him the importance of establishing his bona fides. Often the deciding factor was how much experience and prestige one expert had compared to another.

“I was hired to investigate a town-wide haunting allegedly occurring at multiple sites in northeastern Pennsylvania last winter. I had no team, no equipment, and not much help from local law enforcement until the end of the investigation. I was able to expose a multi-layered fraudulent hoax. The process I used in my investigation has been the subject of over a dozen articles in the most respected paranormal journals, and as a result I was asked to present at the Northeastern Conference at the end of year, the largest convention that usually boasts the best paranormal experts.”

“I see.” Green continued to qualify Eddie for the jury, really hamming it up and aggrandizing Eddie’s skills and expertise until the DA objected and the judge told Green to get on with the show.

“Mr. McCloskey, would you begin by stating your ultimate conclusion about Anson’s paranormal claims?”

Eddie took a deep breath and turned in his chair so he was looking directly at the jury. He felt all eyes in the room on him.

“Based upon the evidence gathered at the scene, eyewitness accounts, and other peripheral evidence, the Ketcher residence was most likely haunted and it is possible that the ghost of Mary Oliver, former resident who passed away in that house, killed Mrs. Ketcher.”

“Let’s unpack that for the jury. What evidence was gathered at the scene of the crime that would lead you to believe that?”

“During my investigation of the house, with multiple eyewitnesses present, writing appeared on the wall as Ms. Barbitok testified to earlier.”

The lights in the courtroom flickered again as they had earlier during Gracie’s testimony. Green paused until they returned to full strength.

“Perhaps someone else is trying to tell us something,” Green said.

The DA erupted out of his chair. “Objection!”

Judge Metnick shot Green a nasty look. “That’s enough, counselor. Any more stray comments like that and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“I apologize, Your Honor. My sense of humor, for better or worse, comes out at strange times.”

Metnick’s eyes bulged. “I don’t want apologies, I want assurances, Mr. Green. You know you just crossed a line. Do it again and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“You have my word, Your Honor.”

Judge Metnick faced the jury. “For the record, members of the jury, Mr. McCloskey is the witness offering testimony right now, not counsel. Mr. Green is permitted to ask the witness questions. He is not permitted to make off-hand remarks and observations like he just did. You are to give that last comment no weight in your minds. I want you to forget about it.”

The judge looked at Green again. “Proceed. And be professional.”

“Mr. McCloskey, can you explain what eyewitness accounts you were referring to a moment ago?”

“Anson gave a detailed statement to the police after they arrested him, describing what he and his wife experienced in the home. In addition, another individual by the name of Giles Tyson conducted an investigation of the house and discovered some evidence of a haunting. Mrs. Ketcher spoke about this haunting with her pastor. Finally, Mrs. Ketcher sought the services of Ms. Magloin, a psychic. I was in here listening to Ms. Magloin’s testimony but I’ll repeat the salient point for the sake of the jury: Mrs. Ketcher went to see Ms. Magloin because she herself, a non-believer in the paranormal, was worried her house was haunted and ultimately came to believe it was. Based upon what I discovered while investigating plus the eyewitness accounts, I believe the house was haunted.”

The double doors to the courtroom suddenly swung open. Eddie looked over Green’s shoulder to see who was about to enter, but no one was there.

Green looked nervously from Eddie to the judge while several members of the jury shifted uneasily in their seats.

“Proceed, counsel,” the judge said.

“Mr. McCloskey, you say it’s possible that the previous homeowner who is now deceased killed Mrs. Ketcher.”

“That’s right.”

“Can you explain that to the jury?”

“I’d be happy to.” Eddie turned in his seat to face them directly. “The previous homeowners were Mary and Lee Oliver. Mary passed away several years ago. Before she did, in the year or so leading up to her death, she developed early-onset dementia. She grew increasingly confused and her periods of lucidity became less frequent and shorter. Mr. Oliver explained all this in the sworn statement you played for the jury earlier.

“As Mr. Oliver testified, he euthanized his wife while she was in the thrall of dementia in her own home.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie saw one of the jurors cross herself.

“Hauntings are extremely rare and almost all the time they can be explained away by natural or man-made causes. I agree with Ms. Barbitok in that regard. However, there are some general principles of haunting that Ms. Barbitok failed to mention.

“First, ghosts are geographically limited. If the house was haunted, then it’s likely it was Mary Oliver. The inverse is also a principle we use. It’s unlikely that any stray, random ghosts wandered into the Ketcher residence and took up shop. No one else has lived in that house except for the Olivers and the Ketchers. During the Olivers’ ownership of the home, no one else died there except for Mary and there were no traumatic experiences that would account for a subsequent haunting. To summarize, if there was a ghost in that house then it almost had to be Mary Oliver’s spirit based upon our current understanding of the paranormal.

“Second, while it’s true that most hauntings are residual in nature, when it comes to intelligent hauntings, spirits tend to retain their last set of characteristics just prior to death. To put that into context, if Mary Oliver was haunting that house then she was likely the Mary Oliver that died in that house—sixty-seven years old, demented, in pain, dead by the hands of her own husband. It follows then that the spirit of Mary Oliver had its own moments of dementia and lucidity, anxiety and anger.

“Third, there are no hard and fast rules for ghosts. The field of paranormal investigation is still in its infancy. We don’t know much and what we do know is open to debate. The principles I’ve just set forth are only guidelines. The evidence accumulated by the experts over the last thirty to forty years tends to support those principles but a lot has changed over the years. Ghost hunters were ready to debunk alleged poltergeist activity across the board up until a few years ago, and now it’s considered possible again.

“Beyond that, we get into more hypothesis than theory.”

“Mr. McCloskey, before we get into the hypothesis part of your testimony, you did hear Ms. Barbitok’s testimony?”

“I did.”

“So you heard her testify that there is no evidence that ghosts kill people?”

“I did.”

“And do you agree or disagree with that?”

“I agree that it’s never been verified by any scientific investigation. But that’s not the same thing as saying it’s never happened. And we can’t dismiss accounts from the nineteenth century and earlier out of hand as she would like. I agree they should be treated with a healthy dose of skepticism but they shouldn’t be summarily ignored.”

“But, Mr. McCloskey, during the investigation in Pennsylvania where you uncovered a conspiracy to commit fraud, you said one of the things that led you to doubt the claims was the idea that ghosts don’t kill people. Isn’t that true?”

Green was right. Talking out both sides of your mouth was difficult. “That is true but I was speaking generally, not literally. It’d be like me saying, Nobody reads anymore. Obviously people still read. The point I’d be trying to make is that fewer people are reading. What I should have said was, ghosts generally don’t kill people.”

“I see. Now, will you explain to the Court why you think it’s possible that Mrs. Ketcher was killed by a ghost?”

“By applying the guidelines I discussed a moment ago, you can see how it’s possible. We have several people, including the prosecution’s own expert, observing what is likely paranormal activity in the Ketcher home. If there was a ghost haunting the residence, it is likely to be Mrs. Oliver because ghosts tend to be geographically limited. Mrs. Oliver’s spirit would have retained her state of mind around the time of her death. Her spirit would have been confused, demented, possibly in some kind of pain. She would not have understood necessarily that others had moved into her home. She would not have understood why Mrs. Ketcher attempted to remove her from what she saw as her home. Her last living memory would have been of her husband killing her. Now we know that Mr. Oliver did that out of love for his wife, but did Mary Oliver understand that in her final moments?

“Then we get to the fact that Mrs. Ketcher possibly attempted to reverse-possess the ghost. Based upon Anson’s statement to the police and Ms. Magloin’s accounts and testimony, we can safely say that Mrs. Ketcher was trying to do something to remove the spirit from the home. Ghosts are unpredictable if they are anything. Very often they’re connected to this world because of and by an emotionally traumatic experience. Mrs. Oliver’s last emotional experience on this planet can only be speculated on, but we do know she was euthanized by her husband. If she didn’t fully comprehend the reasons behind his actions or if she had a change of heart…you can begin to see her state of mind as a spirit. Hurt, demented, possibly vengeful. For all we know, it’s possible she saw Anson as her husband and Mrs. Ketcher as another woman. That would explain the aggressiveness toward both the Ketchers.”

Green questioned Eddie for another fifteen minutes. Spencer objected from time to time but they put on a good case. The real test would be cross-examination.

* * * *

Spencer smiled at him. “Mr. McCloskey, you testified earlier that you worked for almost a decade with your brother starting from when you were eighteen and then you resumed paranormal investigation last year. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re thirty-three now?”

“Yes.”

“So what were you up in those intervening five years, if not paranormal investigation?”

“Objection.” Green stood. “No relevance, Your Honor.”

Judge Metnick frowned. “You have introduced Mr. McCloskey as your expert witness. His qualifications as such are therefore subject to examination. Mr. Spencer is allowed to explore Mr. McCloskey’s work experience.”

Green sat back down. He’d told Eddie before the trial began that this dark period in his life would come out during his testimony.

“The witness will answer.”

Face the jury. Green’s words echoed in his mind. For Anson’s sake, Eddie needed to garner as much sympathy as he could.

“On our last job together, my brother was murdered. Until that time, he’d always been my support and life line. After he died, I fell into a self-destructive pattern, bounced around from job to job until finally I was arrested and convicted for possession of illegal narcotics. I was sentenced and served less than a year, getting paroled early for good behavior. After I was released, I cured my disease through rehab.”

“So you were convicted of a crime?”

“That’s right.”

“And during that time, you were not involved in paranormal investigation at all?”

“I was not.”

“So if you were only in prison for less than a year, what were you doing for the other four years when you weren’t involved in paranormal investigation?”

“Odd jobs. I bounced around. It took me some time to get my act together.” He flipped a look at Gracie. “But now I like to think I’m making up for past mistakes like Ms. Barbitok over there.”

Some smiles from the jury. He had their sympathy.

“Let’s talk about your last investigation with your brother.”

Eddie stiffened. He hadn’t expected the DA to go there.

“Objection,” Green said. “Again, relevance?”

Judge Metnick pointed a finger at Green. “Mr. Green, your expert’s experience in the relevant field is important for the jury to consider, so I’m going to allow counsel to explore it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“This court has been very lenient toward the defense. I’ve allowed testimony based solely on hypotheticals and suppositions. Therefore, I’m going to extend some latitude to Mr. Spencer in cross-examining your witness especially regarding something as tangible as his experience and qualifications. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Go ahead, counselor.”

Spencer moved closer to Eddie and leaned against the rail fronting the jury box. “You testified a moment ago that your brother was murdered. That was during your investigation, right?”

“Yes.”

“Can you explain how it happened?”

Eddie steeled himself. The passage of time had dulled the pain, but the old feelings of loss and guilt were still there.

“We were investigating activity at a residence where a triple-murder had occurred. Through our process, we discovered that the boy who previously lived at the house and who witnessed the murders was haunting the home.”

“And that boy, who you claim was haunting the house, was alive, was he not?”

“He was.”

“I don’t understand. How was he doing that?”

“No one understands. It’s the only incident of its kind that’s ever been recorded, as far as we know.”

“Can you clarify what you mean by haunted for the jury?”

“I can.” Eddie didn’t like where this was going. “He was residing in another home while his spirit either visited or still resided at the former residence.”

The jury watched him with skepticism.

Spencer returned to his table and opened his briefcase. Eddie couldn’t see what was inside. “And how did you come to that conclusion? That the boy was haunting the house through spiritual or psychic means?”

“It was a long, complex investigation. I’d have to start at the beginning.”

“Please do.”

Green stood. “Your Honor—”

“Sit down, counselor. The witness will answer the question.”

Judge Metnick faced Eddie and there was nothing friendly about his look.

“The current homeowners reported paranormal activity in the home. We began like we always do, by trying to reproduce the phenomena and by researching the home’s history. It was a fairly notorious crime, at least locally, so we already knew about it. We conducted our tests. We met with the boy and the boy’s adoptive family. During our investigation, we picked up some EVP. The voice on the EVP matched that of the boy. So we knew the spirit was his and that he was responsible for the haunting.”

“I see. And then what happened?”

Eddie shot Green a quick look, but the lawyer didn’t object. Eddie realized there was nothing he could do. He had to answer the questions.

“The boy had a psychotic episode and tried to kill his adoptive family.”

A murmur rippled through the courtroom. Spencer left his briefcase open but moved away from his table.

“Did you follow protocol during that investigation?”

“I did.”

Spencer frowned. “You did?”

“Yes.”

A paper slid off Spencer’s table and fell to the floor. The DA ignored it and approached Eddie.

“Didn’t you become aggressive toward the ghost?”

Eddie saw Green begin to scribble notes. “The current homeowners of the haunted residence were in apparent danger. Their son had become increasingly erratic and was threatening violence. It was no longer an investigation. It had devolved into a life-or-death situation. We acted quickly.”

“But against your brother’s advice, correct?”

“There was no time for a meeting. Someone was going to die so I had to act.”

“Was that a yes?”

Eddie gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

“How did you provoke the spirit?”

“I talked to it.”

“What did you say?”

“I don’t remember exactly. But I was angry. We were all on edge.”

Spencer marched to his desk and reached into the briefcase. Eddie finally saw what he’d brought with him. It was a copy of The Unearthed, a non-fiction account of that fateful investigation where his brother died. A local author, Evan Ronan, had penned it.

“Your Honor, I’d like to have the witness read a passage from this book.”

The judge asked the usual questions first. Green objected but the judge told him to sit down again.

“Can you explain to the jury what that book is?”

Eddie did.

Spencer held the book out to Eddie. “Would you turn to page three hundred and sixteen and read the highlighted passage?”

Eddie opened the book. He’d read it himself dozens of times so he knew it by heart. And he knew what was on page three hundred and sixteen.

“Mr. McCloskey, would you read the highlighted passages to the jury?” The DA was trying hard not to smile.

“This thing talking to you—he’s a loser…This thing is psycho…Do something, asshole…Wow, that’s really scary…I know who you are. You’re just a sick, pathetic asshole. That’s all you are and all you’ll ever be.”

“Those passages you just read, who was saying those words?”

“I was.”

The jury watched him with suspicious eyes. The hasty words spoken during a crisis all those years ago painted a nasty picture of him.

“Is talking to a spirit in that manner part of protocol?”

“It isn’t.”

“And yet you did?”

“It was an emergency. The kid had a knife and was ready to stab his father.”

“And then, less than two hours later, Eamon Moriarty had a psychotic break, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“So your words sent him over the edge?”

How many times had Eddie asked himself that question? Too many to count. Had he pushed Eamon to the psychological breaking point? If he had, wasn’t he indirectly responsible for his own brother’s murder?

Eddie said, “That’s impossible to know.”

“Well, what else happened between the time you spoke those words and Eamon Moriarty tried to kill his family?”

“Your Honor!” Green shot up. “Mr. McCloskey is not on trial here.”

“Overruled. Answer the question.”

“Any number of things could have happened. Eamon Moriarty was not well. He was psychologically troubled. His aunt or uncle could have looked at him funny and he might have snapped. We don’t know. We’ll never know.”

“You and your brother argued about how to proceed during the entire investigation, isn’t that right?”

“Not the whole time.”

“And despite his seniority and his admittedly better understanding of the paranormal, you disregarded his orders and failed to follow standard protocol?”

“Yes.”

“And the prevailing theory is that ultimately, following your break from protocol, the spirit departed the residence and returned to its host, correct?”

Eddie fought the tears. “That is the theory.”

The DA shook his head. “So you failed to follow orders, you broke with well-established protocol, and then Eamon Moriarty went on a killing spree, didn’t he?”

“That’s all true.”

“And your brother died as a result of this, right?”

“Was murdered is a better way to describe it.”

“All of this could have been avoided if you’d followed your brother’s orders, couldn’t it have?”

“Objection!”

“The witness will answer.”

Now Eddie was seeing red. “No one will ever know that.”

Spencer hardly paused. “You and Mr. Ketcher have a mutual friend, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. Giles Tyson.”

A few members of the jury shared a look. Eddie could feel the case slipping through their fingers like sand.

“How do you know Mr. Tyson?”

“He worked on my brother’s team off and on for a few years.”

“I see. So how long have you known Mr. Tyson?”

“About ten years.”

“Would you say you’re good friends with Mr. Tyson?”

He and Green had anticipated this line of questioning. Eddie knew not to hesitate in answering. “Yes.”

“Why did Mr. Tyson cease to work with your brother’s team?”

“There were a number of factors. But mostly he and my brother differed philosophically when it came to paranormal investigation.”

“Did your brother ever remove you from his team?”

Tim had never actually fired Eddie. But his considering it was a fact that ran throughout the book Spencer had in his possession. Eddie couldn’t twist the truth.

“He considered it but he never did.”

“What changed his mind?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t the fact that Mr. Tyson spoke out for you have something to do with it?”

“I’m sure it did. Though the decision was ultimately my brother’s.”

“Didn’t Mr. Tyson bail you out of jail once too, when your brother wouldn’t?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

The DA spread his arms. “And now you’re here, speaking on behalf of Mr. Ketcher, whose last remaining good friend in this world just happens to be Mr. Tyson?”

This was going about as well as the charge of the light brigade.

Eddie shrugged, downplaying the fact as much as he could. “It’s no secret I’m friends with Mr. Tyson or that he’s friends with Mr. Ketcher.”

The lights flickered again, like they had during Gracie’s testimony.

“And you’re here now, solely out of the kindness of your heart, in pursuit of the truth, is that right?”

“In pursuit of the truth, yes.”

“The fact that Mr. Tyson once bailed you out of jail and later fought to keep you part of your brother’s team has nothing to do with it?”

“That’s what brought me here,” Eddie said. “But the truth is what keeps me here.”

“So you admit an initial bias?”

“I admit a loyalty. Last I checked that was an admirable quality.”

One of the jurors smiled. Maybe there was still hope.

“Loyalty?” The DA’s eyes went wide with skepticism. “And hasn’t your loyalty to Mr. Tyson influenced your findings?”

Eddie shook his head. “No. Before I took this case on, I told Mr. Green and Mr. Tyson my terms.”

“And those were?”

“That whatever I found, good, bad, indifferent, would get turned over to you. Far as I’m concerned, my debt to Mr. Tyson is repaid by investigating these claims, not by getting Mr. Ketcher acquitted.”

The DA continued. “Mr. McCloskey. Let’s go back to this case then. To summarize, this chain of so-called logic you offered to the Court is supposition built on supposition built on supposition, is it not?”

Eddie choked back his anger and saw an opening. “Similar to your expert’s presentation, yes. And I didn’t present my findings as anything but, counselor. I believe the question of who killed Mrs. Ketcher can only be determined by the jury. But you’re the lawyer, not me.”

The DA looked ready to implode. He opened his mouth to speak but suddenly the lights in the courtroom went out. Someone in the jury gasped. Heads turned, people stood up, the judge rapped his gavel.

“Order, order. Bailiff, would you—”

The lights began flickering. Eddie felt the familiar tingling along his skin. That fuzzy feeling on the back of his neck.

Something was there.

Thirty-Five

One moment, Eddie had that mildly unpleasant feeling of a weak electrical current across his skin. The next—

All hell broke loose.

The windows above the jury box shattered. Glass rained on the jury as the members scrambled to get out of the box.

“Get everybody out of here!” Eddie yelled. He wasn’t following some long-learned protocol. He was just doing the first thing that came to mind.

Eddie met the DA in front of the jury box and together they helped a middle-aged woman over the banister and onto her feet. Anson fought with Green to help the jury, but the old lawyer held him back and shouted at him about being a target.

“What the fuck is this, McCloskey?” the DA shouted. “If I find out this was you—”

“It’s not me, asshole. Now get these people out of here.”

Past the bar, Gracie Barbitok spoke into a microphone in front of her cameraman. The audience and members of the jury hurried to the back of the room, where Detective Ross leaned against the double doors and had his gun out. Ross threw himself against the wood but the doors didn’t budge.

“We need to get everybody out of here!” Eddie yelled again.

There was an awful, cavernous groan.

Eddie whirled and saw nothing except Gracie, still speaking into the camera, as the judge and bailiff tried to coax her down the aisle.

“Gracie! Get out of here!” he yelled.

She looked past her cameraman at him. The cameraman began to turn so he could film everybody else. He shouldn’t have been surprised that she was thinking about her show and the potential special.

Then Gracie’s eyes went wide and she screamed.

She fell backward into the aisle. Before anyone could react, she was dragged away, back toward the bench and witness stand. She flailed her arms to gain purchase on something but couldn’t stop herself from sliding across the floor.

Eddie started running toward her, not sure what he could do.

Gracie reached behind her like she was trying to break the hold of an invisible man. The maneuver was useless. Eddie was too far away to help.

The back of her head collided with the wooden panel fronting the judge’s bench. He heard the sickening thud of bone on wood as he raced forward.

Gracie slumped down, unconscious.

He was still ten feet away.

With her eyes closed, Gracie’s chin lifted off her chest. The icy-hot feeling of nausea hit Eddie’s stomach as he realized the ghost was going to snap her neck.

He knew it was suicide but when he was close enough, he threw himself on top of Gracie. He didn’t know what else to do except grab her head and try to keep it in place. He felt some unseen force strain against his hold.

“NO! Please!” he yelled. “Please don’t!”

He was at the mercy of the ghost. There was nothing preventing it from turning its violence on him. He was as much a target as she was.

“Don’t. Please don’t!”

Slowly, the tension went out of Gracie’s neck until only Eddie was holding her head up. He held that pose, afraid the ghost would return to finish the deed. Finally, the lights in the courtroom came back on.

“Gracie, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered open. She couldn’t focus on him and her pupils were different sizes.

“Somebody call an ambulance! She might have a concussion!”

Ross was already on his cell phone, calling it in.

The remaining members of the courtroom—including the jury—watched him in stunned silence.

And when the initial shock of the encounter had passed he realized Anson Ketcher would probably go free.

* * * *

The paramedics took a confused Gracie Barbitok away fifteen minutes later. Green and Anson had retreated into a client conference room while the court remained adjourned. Eddie followed Gracie’s stretcher out into the hot August afternoon and watched the ambulance pull away.

Giles was standing outside. “What the hell happened? I saw the ambulance and…”

“Poltergeist,” Eddie said. He didn’t know how else to explain it. “It grabbed Gracie and was getting ready to snap her neck.”

“Dear lord.” Giles looked away. “Is she okay?”

“She hit her head pretty hard.”

Giles said nothing.

Eddie shook his head.

“What?”

The attack was bothering him for some reason but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Limited geography.”

“I don’t follow,” Giles said.

“Forget it.”

Giles put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Come over tonight, pal. Let’s sit down to a quiet meal and share old war stories. You’ve done all you can here.”

Eddie looked behind him. “The DA isn’t finished crossing me, I have to meet with Green…” He really needed a few minutes to sort this out. Why the hell had the ghost of Mary Oliver attacked Gracie Barbitok? For suggesting she wasn’t responsible for Alice’s death? That made zero sense in a case that made zero sense.

And if it wasn’t Mary Oliver’s ghost, why had some other spirit attacked Gracie?

“Eddie, you’re in shock. You need to go for a walk, clear your head. I’ll be home tonight. I do hope you’ll visit.”

Giles patted his shoulder and headed for his car. Ross appeared at Eddie’s side. His tie was loose and he gave Eddie a bemused look.

“You ever see anything like that?” the detective asked.

“No.”

“How about him?” Ross nodded in Giles’s direction as Eddie’s friend walked through the parking lot across the street.

“I don’t think anybody’s seen anything like that, except maybe Anson.”

Ross rolled his eyes.

“Detective, what the hell do you think just happened in there? That we used invisible wires and pulled Gracie down that aisle?”

Ross had a strange look on his face and didn’t seem to hear Eddie. He was still looking across the street, watching the parking lot.

“Something wrong, detective?”

It took Ross a moment to answer. “I don’t know what the hell happened in there, Mr. McCloskey.”

Without saying another word, Ross walked away.

Thirty-Six

Judge Metnick faced the jurors. “And have you reached a verdict?”

The foreman stood. “We have, Your Honor.”

That morning, the lawyers had made closing arguments. Green referred to yesterday’s events. The DA quickly objected and the judge sustained the objection but little good that did. The jury had heard Green and more importantly had seen the activity themselves. Any juror not sold on the existence of the paranormal at that point was in denial and would be browbeaten by their colleagues in deliberations.

The DA did his best. Eddie almost felt sorry for him. If the victim had been anyone other than the local councilman’s daughter or the police chief’s niece, Eddie got the feeling that Spencer would have dropped the case. Before closing, he’d approached Green with a new offer of manslaughter, sentence of three years, out on parole in two. Green didn’t even hesitate when turning him down, Eddie later heard. For his closing, the DA harped on the physical evidence and lack of paranormal evidence supporting Anson’s defense. He referred to Ockham’s Razor and argued again and again that the simplest explanation was the most likely. It was an impassioned presentation but doomed by yesterday’s events.

The jury began deliberations after lunch. They came back to the courtroom two hours later. Green had told Eddie before the trial that a short deliberation usually meant an acquittal.

The courtroom was packed with Alice’s extended family, one of Anson’s distant cousins, and a handful of reporters. The tension in the room was palpable.

“The defendant will rise,” Judge Metnick said.

Anson and Green rose together. Anson’s hands were twitching at his sides.

Eddie’s heart raced. After the inexplicable events yesterday afternoon, Eddie had come to believe that Anson was innocent though he still didn’t understand why the spirit had attacked Gracie, let alone shown up at that very opportune moment.

“And what is that verdict?”

“On the charge of murder, we find the defendant not guilty.”

Eddie held his breath.

“On the charge of voluntary manslaughter, we find the defendant not guilty.”

There was an outcry from the gallery and the judge yelled for order but Eddie didn’t really hear anything else. He’d done it. He’d helped save an innocent man. Numbed and unbelieving, he didn’t realize he’d gotten up and left the courthouse until he felt the humidity of the overcast August afternoon.

Officer Thieler was parked next to him, her window open. She wore civvies, had her blonde hair down.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Eddie.”

Eddie laughed. “And you wouldn’t let me make a Balzac joke. Shame on you.”

“Well?”

“They acquitted him.”

“Figured they would.” He couldn’t tell if she was pleased or upset by the news. “So are you hitting the road now?”

“How about I buy you dinner first?”

“Eddie! Hold on a minute!”

Green stood on the front steps of the courthouse and waved at Eddie excitedly. The old lawyer shouted for him to stay. Eddie turned back to Thieler.

“I have to make one stop, officer. Then let’s go someplace you like.”

She smiled. “Call me Becky, alright?”

* * * *

At the hospital, Becky waited in her car while he went inside.

Gracie was waiting to be discharged. She sat on the corner of her bed, thumbing her smart phone while one of her assistants spoke in hushed tones into a cell in the corner of the room. There was always something going on in the glamorous world of Gracie Barbitok.

“How you feeling?” he asked.

Gracie started, surprised to see him. Then she sprang off the bed and gave him a grateful hug.

“Thank you, Eddie.”

“Forget it. You would have done the same.”

She gave him a wry look. “How do you know?”

“Because it would have been good for ratings.”

She flicked his shoulder playfully, then went back to the bed a little unsteady on her feet.

“Easy there.”

“I’m alright,” she said, shooing him away, already back to the old Gracie. “I heard the news. I hope you didn’t come to gloat.”

“No. Just wanted to see how you were.”

“Good. Still have a bit of a headache.” She looked up at him. “I’ve been thinking. I’d really like to have you on the show for this special. We can talk about our different approaches and this surreal turn of events. I don’t mind sharing the spotlight, Eddie. It’d be great exposure for you. Maybe you could be a recurring guest from time-to-time. I know I can trust you to be an honest investigator.”

He knew the offer was being made out of necessity. This story would be too big for her show to ignore without her losing credibility. The old Eddie would have thrown that in her face. The new Eddie, the businessman, decided to be gracious about it.

“That’s very nice of you, Gracie. I’d be happy to.”

“Good. My people will be in touch then.”

Eddie walked to the window and looked out to the parking lot. He spotted Becky leaning against her car, her dirty blond hair swaying in the breeze. He wondered what a relationship with her might be like, and the thought saddened him because he knew it was all academic. After today, he’d probably never see her again. He’d never known of any long distance relationships that had worked. Aside from Ulysses and Penelope, and that had been a long time ago.

“What’s got a hold of you right now?” Gracie asked.

“Everything. Nothing.”

“I still don’t get where Mrs. Oliver learned how to break necks. It seems like a very unwomanly attack. It’s too…”

“Aggressive. Clinical.”

“And final.” Gracie sighed. “But the bottom line is, the bitch tried to break my neck in that courtroom. That’s for damned sure.”

Eddie smiled. “I like the uncensored Gracie Barbitok.”

She came up beside him at the window. He’d forgotten how short she actually was. Barely to his shoulder. And yet her presence was enormous.

She looked at him with kind eyes. “It’ll come to you. You just have to let it. And when you figure it out, let me know.”

Eddie had wanted to say this since he met her. “You know, you did a screw job on Giles.”

“He had it coming.”

“Most ghost hunters would have been fooled by your sting.”

“Then that makes them either incompetent or crooked. Proves my point.”

Eddie shrugged. “You didn’t give him a chance. After he had an opportunity to review the evidence, he might have changed his mind.”

“Would you have been fooled?”

“Probably.”

Gracie gave him a look. She knew he was lying.

He said, “I would have qualified all of my findings, even if I was fooled.”

“Fair enough.”

They gave each other a professional nod, an acknowledgement they needn’t be adversaries and could even be allies if not friends.

Eddie smiled. “Okay. That’s as far as my loyalty to Giles goes.”

“Eddie, you don’t know him owe anything else. You paid back the debt and then some.” She smiled too. “Don’t let a fraud like Giles Tyson pull you any further down. You’re one of the good guys, Eddie.”

He winked at her. “If you knew me from the age of fifteen to thirty, you wouldn’t have thought so.”

* * * *

He followed Becky’s car through town. His mind kept trying to fit the puzzle of the last two weeks together. He’d lay a few thoughts down into the beginnings of a foundation but then some piece of information would come to mind that would demolish the whole weak structure.

“Let it go, you damned fool. You won.”

Becky pulled into a quiet parking lot in front of an old inn that had been converted into a restaurant. He parked next to her and they went inside. The hostess recognized Becky and sat them in the back, away from the other patrons. The place was dark, the shelves were lined with books, and everything was made out of wood.

“So what’s good here?” he asked.

“Everything.”

“How about what’s not on the menu?”

She smirked. “What’s off the menu is off the menu.”

“Damn.”

They shared a pleasant silence. Enough that Eddie forgot about the trial and everything that was bothering him. It was good to share a meal with an attractive, intelligent woman, even if nothing was going to come of it. He’d been up to his elbows in work since the Pennsylvania job. His few relationships in that time hadn’t lasted much longer than a night.

The waiter came and she ordered eggplant parm and he got a roast beef sandwich. She sipped her wine cautiously, like she didn’t want to do it in front of him.

“It’s okay. Go ahead.”

“Is it difficult? Not drinking?”

“Yeah, but not as difficult as drinking was.”

She put her glass down. “Were you in AA?”

He shook his head. “I looked into it but the program requires a belief in a certain higher power.”

She looked at him sideways. “You’re not religious?”

“When I was younger. Not anymore.”

“I’m a lapsed Protestant. I used to go to the same church as the Ketchers.”

“What’s your family think about that?”

“Mom’s upset, Dad puts on a show of moral outrage when Mom’s watching him. But I don’t think he really cares.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“Two older brothers. They terrorized me growing up. Especially in ninth grade.”

“What happened in ninth grade?”

“The worst of awkward phases. Braces, glasses, bad haircut, lots of freckles.”

“You’re drop-dead gorgeous now.”

She tried to play off the compliment but the blush betrayed her. “What about your family?”

“There’s not much family left. My parents died when I was a kid. Car accident. And my brother…you know.”

“I do.”

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m a cop so I’m supposed to believe in the rule of law. But I’ll tell you what. If somebody killed one of my brothers...”

He smiled. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

Seven hours away, in a psychiatric facility in New Jersey, the killer of Eddie’s brother resided. His name was Eamon Moriarty and he was nineteen years old. Eddie had imagined what killing the boy—now a young man—would be like for the last six years. And if he had the bottle for it.

Becky sensed his sour mood. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

The food came and they dug in. She wasn’t shy about eating in front of him. He liked her for that. They locked eyes between forkfuls and sips, and they shared laughs they’d be hard-pressed to explain.

* * * *

Detective Mark Ross coasted the cruiser to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Officer Billy Towson was parked in his favorite bear trap, about a mile from where the Ketchers used to live. Ross lined their windows up so they could talk.

“Figured I’d find you here,” Ross said.

Billy looked like he was a million miles away. He nodded absently. “Why?”

“I’m a detective.” Ross smiled. “And this is where you were parked the night of Alice’s death.”

Billy shrugged.

“You’re not on duty today.”

Bill shook his head. “I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t go…anywhere. I figured it was best for me to be doing something. I need the distraction.”

Ross liked that answer. The kid could have been at the bar or could have been brawling or doing any one of a million other stupid things to cope with the outcome of the trial. But instead he’d punched in, taken a shift that wasn’t his. He was good people, unlike his dickhead father.

“Listen, Billy. I need your help.”

* * * *

“You know what bothers me the most about this job?” Eddie asked.

“Do tell.”

“I did Anson a service but now nobody speaks for Alice. Her killer will never see justice. I feel like I only got half the job done.”

Becky put her fork down and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. He imagined what those lips felt like and what kind of kisser she was, how she liked to be kissed. What kind of sweet sensual sounds she made.

She said, “One of the first things I learned on the job is that we cops usually can’t make things right. The differences we make are small. That burns some out.”

Eddie smiled. “The last thing I am is a cop.”

“But the idea applies. You said that most hauntings aren’t real, and you can’t do much about the few that are.”

“It still burns me.”

She finished her wine. “As the saying goes, if you want justice go to a brothel...”

“And if you want to get screwed, go to a courthouse.”

She pursed her lips for a moment. “What do you get if you go to a psychic? Bad advice?”

Eddie shook his head. “I gave the Madam the third degree when I was there. But she made a good point. If she didn’t tell Alice, then Alice would have just gone online and looked it up herself anyway. Same result.”

“Or she could have told Alice she didn’t feel comfortable sharing that information with her and that Alice needed to seek the services of an expert like you. Going to the Madam only made things worse.”

What she’d just said struck a dissonant chord with Eddie. He’d had the same thought the other day.

“But things didn’t get worse after Alice went to the psychic…”

She gave him a funny look. “How didn’t they?”

The whole picture flashed in his mind briefly, then disappeared. He just needed to latch onto that thought again and maybe it would come back. Things didn’t just get worse after Alice went to the psychic—

“The visits didn’t change much after Alice went to the psychic, but they got worse and more frequent after Giles visited.”

She didn’t speak. She was letting him work it out.

The visits became more frequent after Giles showed up. Alice had tried channeling and this worked only temporarily. The spirit dissipated but would return and grow more agitated. This chain of events led to Alice possibly trying to reverse possess the spirit—

Then he had it.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“What’s Ross’s phone number?”

* * * *

Ross pulled through the cemetery. He passed the plot for one of the old-timers on the force, whom they’d buried a few months ago, on his way to Giles’s place.

He parked outside the garage sideways in front of both bays. It was an old trick. In case Giles was their man and he tried to run, Ross’s car was now blocking the way.

The bays were open. Giles’s cars were parked inside. Billy parked his cruiser behind Ross. Ross jumped out of the car and met Billy in the driveway.

“Okay. Remember what I said. Good acting is just believing what you’re saying.”

Billy was about to answer but he’d looked over Ross’s shoulder and his eyes had caught something.

“What?” Ross said.

“I don’t have to act.”

“What do you mean?”

Billy bobbed his head toward the garage. “Because I think that’s the car that almost hit me head-on that night.”

Ross turned. “The hybrid?”

“It looks like a wagon and it’s familiar.”

Ross felt the thrill of the hunt coming back to him. They were onto something. He’d decided to take a flyer and bluff Giles. Maybe now it wasn’t so much a bluff.

“How sure are you?”

“I wouldn’t swear to it in court because it was dark and I haven’t thought about the vehicle much since. But damn it sure looks like it.”

Ross smiled. “Follow my lead. You’re a natural, kid.”

“You really think Giles had something to do with this?”

“All I know is the defense’s story has holes in it and Anson, if we can believe him, was passed out when Alice was murdered. So maybe.”

It took Giles a long time to answer the door. He gave them both a surprised look. “Gentlemen.”

“Hey, Giles,” Ross said like they were old buddies. “Mind if we come in for a minute? It’s hot out here.”

Giles didn’t hesitate. “Please do.”

Ross stepped inside and his first thought was the place would make a great haunted house attraction. It was old, big, filled with antiques and grandfather clocks and doors. And dark. Not too much natural light in the foyer or in the hallways.

Giles led them to a study.

“Can I get you both something to drink?”

Ross smiled. “Water for me.”

“Same. Thanks,” Billy said.

Giles disappeared. The furnishings reminded Ross of one of those old Hammer horror movies. He could picture Vincent Price or Christopher Lee or Peter Cushing sitting in the high-backed armchair, a pipe or a drink in hand, while outside the wind howled and the darkness gathered and death lurked.

Ross surveyed the bookshelves and indeed found many of the old Gothic stories. Giles had several volumes of Poe in one row and a very old edition of Frankenstein.

Books filled the shelves and covered the tables in the room. A few were open on the secretary. Ross nudged some papers out of the way to see what Giles was reading. He discovered an old volume, its bindings coming apart. It was open to a page about the Wheeler Courthouse. A passage about how many had been convicted and sentenced to hanging or some other form of death.

“Creepy place,” Billy said.

Ross nodded. “Creepy guy too.”

Seconds later, the door opened and Giles appeared with a tray. He set it down and poured three glasses of water from the pitcher.

Ross took a glass. “Thank you.”

Giles handed one to Billy and took a sip out of his. “Now to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Ross gestured around the room. “Got any more suggestions for an avid reader such as myself?”

Giles forced a smile. “I don’t think I gave you any the other night.”

Ross took a sip and let an uncomfortable silence grow. He didn’t know where this was going but he was going to play the flyer because they had nothing to lose. Anson had been acquitted and they had nothing else to go on concerning Alice’s death.

Billy positioned himself by the door so they had triangulated with Giles.

Ross said, “Why were you out by the Ketcher place the night Alice died?”

Giles hesitated, just a little too long. Strike one.

“I’m sorry?”

Ross nodded at Billy. “He took the call from 911 dispatch. He was closest to the house at the time. He was sitting in that speed trap on Farrelly.”

Giles looked over his shoulder at Billy.

Billy nodded. “I shot out of that trap and almost got plowed by another car that had crossed the centerline.”

Ross watched as Giles went deadly still. Nobody stood that rigid naturally. Only the people putting on an act.

Billy continued. “Because of what Anson was claiming we didn’t follow up on the car. Didn’t seem to be connected. But then I saw your car today. At the courthouse.”

Ross smiled inwardly. Billy had played it to perfection.

Giles turned back to Ross. “Honestly, detective, that was almost two months ago. I couldn’t tell you where I was that night.”

Strike two. Alice’s death was a big deal. It would stick out in any local’s mind, especially Giles, who was good friends with Anson. Giles would have remembered where he was and what he was doing when he found out Alice Ketcher had been killed, which was only a couple hours after the fact when Anson called him from jail. Life-changing memory came with context. Ross still remembered where he was when 9/11 happened or when his father had called from the hospital with bad news about his mother eight years ago.

Giles sipped his water and moved toward the bookcase like he was deep in thought. Ross hadn’t seen any weapons around but all the same he put his shooting hand in the pocket of his blazer, where he’d stashed his gun for this visit. Just in case.

“Let me think…I was home that evening when Anson called me. So I can’t remember specifically but I don’t remember being anywhere near his house. And I think I would have remembered almost being in a car accident the same night.”

Ross stretched the silence. Billy stayed by the door, his thumbs fed through his belt loops.

Ross said, “Any reason why you might be out that way?”

“I can’t think of any other than to see Anson.”

Ross’s cell buzzed. It was Becky Thieler. She was off-duty so he didn’t know why she’d be calling. And it was a good time to let up on the questions for a moment so Giles could think about things.

He smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Giles, I have to take this.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Excuse me.” Ross felt Giles’s eyes track him the whole way out of the study. He gave Billy a knowing look that Giles couldn’t see before he closed the door behind him. In the hallway he got the creepy feeling he wasn’t alone. He went about twenty feet so he was out of earshot.

“What’s up, Becky?”

“Ross, it’s Eddie McCloskey. We need to talk.”

Ross would have hung up but the urgency in Eddie’s voice made him listen. “This better be good.”

“I think Giles killed Alice.”

Strike three. You’re out, Mr. Tyson.

Giles had probably lied twice to Ross and now Eddie McCloskey had the same suspicions about the disgraced paranormal investigator. Ross didn’t believe in coincidence. No cop did.

Ross told him to hold on and went back to listen at the door to the study. Giles and Billy weren’t talking. He couldn’t hear anything. He switched hands with his phone and drew his piece and flicked the safety off. Better safe than sorry.

“Ross, you there?”

Ross lowered his voice. “Why do you think that?”

“It’s too long to explain. Can you meet us there? We’ll bring the troops.”

“I’m already here with Billy.”

“Shit. If he knows you suspect him, he’ll kill you. Get the hell out of there right now.”

Ross put his ear to the door and heard nothing. Then he peered up and down the hallway. “Give me the executive summary.”

On the phone, Ross heard a car start.

Eddie said, “Giles figured out reverse possession. He was doing it to Mrs. Oliver’s spirit. That’s why the ghost’s behavior changed and became erratic. When a ghost possesses you, they know you in a complete way. I assume the same happens for reverse possession. Alice tried that on Mrs. Oliver the same time Giles was. When channeling or possessing a spirit you know everything about them. Giles must have feared Alice would know what he was doing, that he was reverse-possessing the ghost to create activity that he would later investigate and validate. He had to kill her to shut her up. This was his last chance to resurrect his career. If Alice exposed him doing this, he was totally finished. He didn’t plan to kill her, but when it was possible he’d been discovered he had to call an audible. He killed her using Mrs. Oliver’s spirit so the truth wouldn’t get out.”

Ross thought he heard something behind him. He whirled, gun out in front of him. Nobody was there.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Giles is highly trained in mixed martial arts. He’s more likely to know how to break someone’s neck than Mrs. Oliver was. And he’s left-handed.”

Ross got that feeling on the back of his neck. Some primitive part of him intuited that he was in immediate danger. Time to act. As a cop, your number one prerogative in a bad situation was to take control of it.

“Tell Becky to call it in now,” Ross said.

He killed the call and put his phone away so both hands were free and pushed open the door to the study with his gun out.

“Hands up, Giles!”

But Giles wasn’t there. Billy was passed out on his back on the floor. Ross hurried over, checked the kid’s vitals. Breathing okay. Good pulse. An angry red mark near one temple.

Ross smacked Billy’s cheek. “Wake up, kid.”

Billy came to, slowly at first then almost at once. “Son of a bitch…”

Ross helped Billy to his feet. Billy was a little wobbly. Put a hand to his head where he’d been hit.

“He didn’t take your gun,” Ross said. “He didn’t kill you, either.”

Billy drew his piece. “His mistake.”

Thirty-Seven

Becky was driving when she called it in. Dispatch confirmed they’d send all available units.

Eddie said, “Got an extra gun on you?”

“Civilians and guns are like oil and water.” Becky cut the wheel and they zoomed around a corner.

“That’s the liberal media confusing you.”

She shook her head. “We’ll get there and set up a perimeter.”

“No. I have to get inside. Nobody else can go in without me.”

Becky floored it. “Why?”

“Two reasons. First, if Giles is capable of reverse-possession you need a ghost hunter in there or you’re dead. Second, because Giles used me. That’s what this was about the whole time. He needed me on the stand so he could pull the strings behind the scenes and do his thing. He planned to put on that show for the jury, but he knew he couldn’t do it if he was in the box like me. I have a feeling he can’t multitask too well when he’s going Beelzebub on some spirit.”

“Your first reason makes sense. Your second is just personal.”

Eddie couldn’t argue with that. “I don’t like being somebody else’s pawn, wittingly or unwittingly.”

“This still doesn’t make sense.”

“We’re pretty sure ghosts are geographically limited,” Eddie said. “So if that’s true, why would some ghost other than Mrs. Oliver attack Gracie Barbitok in the courthouse? And why was it prepared to kill her?”

“You tell me.”

“Because it was Giles. He’d been doing research on the Wheeler Courthouse, fuck, right in front of everybody. He had all those books out on the courthouse and the county, he didn’t bat an eye when I looked at them. He reverse possessed some ghost in the courthouse and put on that show for the jury so Anson would be acquitted, and Gracie was the icing on the cake. He would have killed her if I hadn’t stepped in.”

Becky hit the steering wheel with the heel of her palm. “Giles burned the Ketcher house down!”

“Yeah. Once I elicited that response from Mary Oliver, Giles feared the ghost would be able to tell everybody about him. He had to burn the place to the ground to protect himself.”

“But why take the chance and let you contact Mrs. Oliver at all?”

Eddie took out his phone. “Guilt. He didn’t want to see his best friend convicted. And he was probably there, trying to control Mrs. Oliver’s spirit anyway. When that didn’t work out, he had to burn the place down. My theory is that the ghost’s erratic behavior was a result of Giles possessing and Alice trying to channel it at the same time.”

“Who are you calling?”

Eddie fished the business card out of his wallet. “We need some expert advice.”

“Not her of all people.”

Eddie dialed the number. “How far are we?”

“Three minutes.”

“It’s going to be a photo finish then.”

On the phone, the young receptionist answered. “Ms. Magloin’s office.”

“Stacy, this is Eddie McCloskey. I need to speak with the Madam right now. I don’t care what she’s doing, you interrupt her and tell her it’s life or death.”

Ten seconds later, the Madam was on the line.

“I need your help.”

“Why should I help you?”

“Because that’s what you supposedly do. Help people. And if you don’t, now’s the fucking time to start. We know who killed Alice and we need your help to catch the killer.”

No hesitation. “What can I do?”

Eddie explained where they were going and why. “Giles’s house is a fucking maze. We’ll need your Eye to find him.”

* * * *

Ross and Billy backtracked to the garage. Giles’s first instinct would be to get to his car.

They burst through the door and found Giles poking his head out of the bays, looking at their vehicles blocking him in. Ross smiled.

“Don’t move. Hands up.”

Ross had his piece leveled on Giles. Billy too. Billy went right and Ross went left. They came at Giles from his forty-fives.

“Please don’t shoot.” Giles slowly put his hands up. His arms were trembling. His voice fragile. “I don’t want to hurt either of you.”

Ross frowned at the non-sequitur. They had the guns, they had the power. Giles was unarmed. He recalled what Eddie had just told him, especially the bit about Giles having martial arts training. Why had Eddie been so scared for Ross?

“On your knees. Hands on the back of your head.”

Giles held his palms out. “Please, don’t. Please.”

“On your knees now!”

Giles dropped to his knees and closed his eyes. “Please don’t.”

“Shut up!” Ross kept his gun on Giles. Billy had his sidearm still out and approached Giles cautiously, rounding behind him.

“Please…”

“Shut up!” Ross closed the distance between him and Giles but didn’t get too close. He angled himself so his line of sight didn’t threaten Billy as the other cop approached Giles from the rear.

“Face-down, on the ground. Now!” Billy said.

Giles’s mouth moved but no words came out. Tears streaked his face. He’d taken on a ghostly pallor.

“ON. THE. GROUND.” Billy was five feet behind Giles and shot Ross a look. Ross nodded, letting him know it was his play.

Billy took a step forward and kicked Giles in the middle of the back. Not hard, just enough to topple the disgraced paranormal investigator. Giles face-planted on the concrete. But he didn’t give any indication of pain.

Billy moved quickly while Ross kept his gun on Giles. The younger cop safetied and holstered his gun and dug his knee into Giles’s back, pinning him to the floor of the garage. In the distance, Ross heard the first siren. He estimated the car was a mile out. Maybe closer.

Billy grabbed one of Giles’s wrists and was about to put the handcuff on when Ross was hit in the chest.

The blow wasn’t forceful but he wasn’t prepared for it so it sent him spiraling into the hybrid. He had no idea who’d hit him but he searched the garage for somebody else.

“Ross?” Billy said.

Another shove. Not hard, but Ross hit the back of the head on the hybrid and slumped to the ground.

* * * *

Billy had his knee in Giles’s back. Giles’s wrist had gone unnaturally cold in his hand. Then Ross was knocked into the hybrid and a moment later went down hard.

Billy didn’t see anybody else in the garage and knew immediately they were dealing with something supernatural, though he didn’t understand what was happening. But Ross being flung into the car proved too much a distraction.

Giles suddenly tensed under Billy, like he’d gotten all his strength back and then some. He rolled and Billy felt his own knee go one way while his body went another. There was a tiny pop behind his knee cap that went nuclear a second later.

He went down, clutched his knee. Giles disarmed him. Through the excruciating pain, Billy looked up. Giles towered over him, the gun hanging at his side, barrel pointed at the ground. Giles caught somewhere in the quicksand of indecision.

His knee hurt so much. “Put the…gun down.”

Giles didn’t respond. Just looked through him, a million miles away.

“Put it down, asshole. Don’t make it worse for yourself.”

Giles still didn’t respond. He examined the gun like it was a foreign object.

Billy saw an opportunity there. He gritted his teeth against the pain and swung his good leg around. Giles easily avoided the sweep and now the gun was aimed ambiguously, on the floor near Billy’s head.

Giles seemed to come back to the moment. “Please, Billy. Just don’t move.”

Then there was a gunshot.

* * * *

Ross was dazed but not down for the count. His head hurt and he probably had a concussion, but he was still vertical. And that was all that mattered. That and the fact that Giles Tyson was aiming a weapon at a fellow officer.

He drew his gun. It had been three years since he’d last drawn his weapon. It had been closer to six since he’d had to fire it and almost eight since he’d actually shot anyone. He was a good shot, kept up with practice, but his vision was playing tricks on him.

He brought the gun to bear. Aimed. Giles didn’t have Billy in his sights. Shoot first, ask questions later when it came to protecting a fellow officer.

He couldn’t keep his hands steady. The world was half a blur. He couldn’t tell if Giles was standing still or not. He fired when he thought he had Giles dead to rights.

He missed.

Giles whirled. Pulled the trigger.

Ross saw it happening. Felt it a second later. Something punched him in the midsection. Then the punch turned into a sharp pain that spread through his chest.

Giles fired again.

Ross went down. The gun beat him to the concrete. He flopped on the ground. There was blood everywhere.

In the distance, Ross heard the first siren. He knew it was too far away to be of any use to him.

* * * *

They were close now. Becky had activated the siren.

Eddie said, “Nobody else can go near that house without me. Tell them to set up a perimeter.”

Becky shot him a look. “How do I explain this?”

“You don’t. No time. Just tell them they’ll die if they don’t.”

“That won’t work.”

Eddie dropped it. “It’s also time for the bad news.”

Becky took her eyes off the road for a moment. “There’s more?”

Eddie waited for her to make the last turn. They were a minute out.

“You going to tell me?” she said.

The wrought-iron fence began as they sped along the street. The grave markers stood crooked two hundreds yard ahead. In the distance, Eddie could just make out Giles’s house.

“You’re looking at the bad news.”

“What?” She took her foot off the gas pedal.

“No. Don’t slow down. Drive into his fucking house.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re about to go through a cemetery.” Eddie shook his head. “This is where Giles got his start before he went to work on Mrs. Oliver. Plenty of spirits around here to practice reverse possession on.”

She looked over at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Time to be a hero, officer.”

Becky hit the gas and the fence posts whipped by as Giles’s house grew in the twilight. It would be full dark in an hour.

“Hang on, D’Artagnan,” she said.

“I think you’re enjoying this too much.”

“I finally get to be a cop.”

She cut the wheel and nudged the brake and did a video game slide through the cemetery gates. With some quick maneuvering, she righted the car and zipped down the narrow lane.

In the distance, Eddie heard more sirens. The cavalry on its way.

Becky drove dangerously fast through the cemetery. The path forked ahead in front of a private mausoleum. Eddie felt that fuzzy sensation again, like low-current electricity was running across his skin.

Becky’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and her arms went stiff. “I can’t turn the wheel!”

Eddie latched onto the steering wheel and peered through the windshield. If they didn’t turn they’d crash head-on into the mausoleum.

“Left or right?”

“Right!”

Eddie pulled. With their combined strength, the wheel started to turn, slowly at first, then abruptly as if the antagonistic force had let go.

The car jerked and they made the turn with no room to spare. A tree limb took off the driver’s side mirror. The belt snapped against Eddie’s ribs as he was thrown toward Becky.

“It’s got the wheel again!”

Becky’s arms were locked as she fought to steer the car. It was too late to avoid a collision with a row of markers along the passenger side of the road.

‘“Hit the brakes and bail!” Eddie shouted.

She did. Eddie was thrown against the seat belt. He unhooked the belt, threw open the door, and fell out of the car moments before collision. He went into a bone-crunching roll as the car plowed into a marker and careened into a tree.

The sirens in the distance brought him out of his daze. He realized he was on his side in the street, his hip on fire.

“Becky!”

He slowly picked himself up. His hip burned and his hands were raw.

“Becky!”

“I’m okay.”

His vision focused and she came into view. She was lying on the other side of the road, one knee in the air.

“We need to keep moving.”

He helped her up and they started running. Every step sent a jarring sliver of pain from his hip into his leg. One hundred yards to the house. Eddie didn’t know what else to do other than zigzag.

“Don’t run in a straight line.”

They separated and ran crooked and took unpredictable turns through the cemetery. Eddie whipped around the columns of tombstones. The chorus of sirens screamed as the other cops closed in. Eddie looked over his shoulder and saw one car was in the cemetery now.

“They’re coming in!”

But there was no way to warn the other cops, let alone actually explain what was happening. The best thing he could do was get in that house and put Giles down. No other way to keep everybody safe.

“Garage!” Becky yelled.

A cruiser and an unmarked were parked in front of the bays. They hurried into the garage and found Ross lying face-down in a puddle of his own blood. Dead.

“MY GOD!” Becky shrieked.

He spun her away from the gruesome sight and pointed at the interior door. “No time. We can’t stop!”

She nodded while tears ran down her face. Pulled her piece.

Eddie tried the knob. Unlocked.

He looked at Becky. “Sure you don’t want to give me a gun?”

“Yeah. Because I’m going to shoot this motherfucker.”

A feeling of doom came over Eddie. The last time he’d breached a home and stepped into harm’s way like this, it had been at his brother’s side. And Tim hadn’t come out of that house alive.

“You ready?” she asked.

Deja vu. Hadn’t Tim asked him the same thing on that terrible day, all those years ago?

This time his answer was different though. “You bet I fucking am.”

Thirty-Eight

Giles knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He’d killed a cop and there were cops everywhere now. He needed to get out of the house, escape in the woods like his emergency plan called for. It would be difficult.

Good thing, then, that he had all four aces up his sleeve. And some jokers too. He could keep the police at bay.

He hadn’t meant to kill Ross. It had been a reflex action. Someone had shot at him, so without thinking he’d fired back.

And Alice…he hadn’t planned on killing her. That was heat of the moment. She’d figured out what was going on. She would have told everybody. Once it got out that he’d used reverse-possession in a pathetic attempt to resurrect his own doomed business, it would be the final nail in the coffin of his paranormal career. He’d never work in that space again. And he knew no other space. It was kill Alice or find some shit job. Giles had gotten used to living a certain way and the thought of poverty terrified him. He couldn’t stomach the idea of not having money.

And it was all Gracie Barbitok’s fault. If she hadn’t set up that bullshit sting operation…

He hit the hidden button and the panel in the wall slid out of the way, revealing the gun cabinet. He had rifles but he left those. Instead he grabbed the shotgun.

Eddie and Becky Thieler had survived the cemetery. So they were in the house now. He didn’t want to kill Eddie. Or Becky. He didn’t want to kill anybody. But if anybody stood between him and escape…

Giles peered out of the nearest curtain. He saw cruisers entering the cemetery.

He slipped out of the utility room and slid into the tiny panic room under the main staircase. He closed his eyes and reached out, just like he’d done thousands of times now.

* * * *

Chief Towson and Hank Grimm weren’t sitting this one out on the sidelines. They drove separate squad cars out of the perimeter established along the road and hauled ass into the cemetery.

The Chief didn’t know why Eddie McCloskey had ordered everyone to stay back. But more importantly, he didn’t care. His son was inside. And civilian ex-cons didn’t tell him how to operate. Fuck that.

They cut through the graveyard. Grimm tailed the Chief. The word had gotten around that Ross and Billy were inside and nobody had been able to reach either. It wasn’t official yet, but the phrase Officer down was on everybody’s minds.

The Chief didn’t have any time to react like Becky and Eddie did. One moment, he was rounding a bend. The next, the steering wheel jerked and he lost control of his vehicle.

Grimm was too close to the Chief to avoid a collision. Towson’s vehicle made an unexpected sharp turn and the momentum sent it into a roll. Grimm slammed the brakes but it was too late.

More cruisers poured into the cemetery. Police eager to help their buddies. But nobody else made it to the house.

* * * *

Eddie and Becky were working their way through the first floor when they heard a horrible crash coming from the cemetery. Giles had caused somebody to have an accident, hopefully they were okay.

They had to find Giles fast. Eddie didn’t want any other cops driving through the cemetery and getting hurt or killed in a collision.

They had been through most of the ground floor and so far Eddie had managed not to get turned around. The upstairs would present a real problem. It was almost as big and Eddie had never been up there. And then there was the basement.

They padded quietly into the foyer and stopped near the staircase when Becky’s walkie blasted to life.

“Stay out of the fucking graveyard! Stay out—” A dropped walkie. Somebody else yelling. Screams in the background.

Becky snapped it off and they both dropped to a crouch.

Becky gave him a look. “We need to hurry.”

“If he’s not on the ground floor, he’s gotta be in the basement.”

“How do you figure?”

“There’s no way to get out safely from the second floor, unless he’s got a ladder.”

“Anything from Magloin?” Becky said.

Eddie hadn’t felt his cell buzz but checked it anyway. “Nada.”

Becky looked over her shoulder. “This house is a maze.”

“We don’t need to figure out where he’s hiding, we just need to think where we’d hide if we wanted to escape.”

“Maybe he’s not trying to get away. Maybe he has other plans now.”

“Come on. Let’s—”

Becky’s eyes went wide as if she’s seen Giles. Eddie looked around but didn’t see anybody.

She stood and whirled, gun out. “There’s something here. My skin’s crawling.”

“I don’t fe—”

Before he got the words out, the tingly sensation on his skin started. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Eddie put it together. The cops were staying out of the cemetery, probably setting up a perimeter till they figured out what to do. That meant Giles was free to focus on them again.

“We’ve gotta move,” Eddie said.

He grabbed her arm to lead her down the hallway they hadn’t explored yet, but she didn’t budge.

“Eddie!”

He turned and saw her. Becky was leaned back, like something was holding her from behind. She flailed one of her arms and her body strained against the invisible force.

Eddie used both hands. She came free, stumbled a few feet, then came to another stop. Eddie pulled harder, but this time the spirit held fast and wrenched her away.

“My head!” she screamed.

It was cocked to the side. She put her hands on her ears to keep it steady.

Eddie grasped her head too. He felt that invisible force working against him, the whole time fearing the worst. Together they fought and kept her head still, but they couldn’t stay like that forever. Eddie had to assume worst-case scenario: that Giles could move freely through the house while he controlled this ghost. The guy could hold them in place like this while he snuck away…or while he snuck up on them.

“Eddie.”

Becky gasped and put her hands up to her neck. Now it was trying to choke her.

“Don’t struggle,” he said. “This will work.”

Eddie closed his eyes and began the channeling process, knowing if it didn’t work that Becky would be dead in minutes.

CIARA

Becky’s body felt like one big tensed muscle against his.

In his mind, Eddie reached out. Imagined he was sensing the ghost in the room and then inviting the spirit into his psyche. He’d never been much a believer in that crap but now it was all they had.

Becky kept choking, her eyes bulging. She made a sickening gagging sound, like someone had stuffed a dry rag down her throat. Eddie focused all his consciousness on one tiny point in his mind and reached out. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing, he was just following the Madam’s vague instructions about channeling.

The veins in Becky’s forehead pushed against the skin. She couldn’t get any air. She was going to die.

Then Eddie felt it.

A fluid motion. Like a smooth ripple across a puddle. Then it grew into a rushing sensation, like rapids over a rocky bed. Then water going over a fall.

An excruciating, sharp pain blinded him. One moment he saw the dark foyer, the next an all-encompassing white light. And a coldness that seemed to fill him. Like he’d plunged into icy water.

It was working. He was right. In trying to channel the spirit, Alice had unwittingly severed the connection between Giles and Mrs. Oliver.

His vision came back to him, but that only made matters worse. He went dizzy. His legs turned to rubber. A strange energy both flooded him and sapped him of strength. Like too much electricity was traveling through a weak circuit.

Something fell.

He realized it was him.

“Eddie!”

His eyes fluttered open and he saw Becky’s face hovering above him.

“What?”

“Get up.”

He realized she was trying to help him to his feet.

“It worked?”

“Yeah. It’s—”

Then a gunshot boomed through the foyer.

Thirty-Nine

And another gunshot.

Becky fell on top of him. He couldn’t tell if she’d been hit. Without his strength, she felt like a thousand pounds. He realized he’d heard shots from two different weapons. Stuck his head up and found Billy Towson limping badly through the foyer, blood smeared on his uniform. Billy had his gun up and shouted something.

But it was drowned out by the next blast.

Billy was flung backward, like he’d been hit by a train. His gun fell out of his hand.

Now Becky was screaming.

She rolled off him and brought her gun to bear in the opposite direction. Eddie felt his senses coming back to him and realized now that Giles was shooting at them from one of the two hallways leading out of the foyer. Eddie rolled away from Becky, wanting to give Giles two spaced targets to worry about. He took cover behind an end table.

Becky fired from a doorway on the other side of the foyer. Eddie dared to peek over the end table. Giles was coming toward them, shotgun extended. At this range and with that weapon, Giles didn’t need to be a good shot. If they caught any of the blast, they’d be dead instantly.

Giles fired at the doorway. The blast chewed up the wood around the door and Becky was knocked back into the room. Then she started screaming.

She’d been hit.

Eddie didn’t have time to think but he knew in that instant he’d be dead if he didn’t act. Giles was armed. He wasn’t. Giles had killed Ross and just put down two cops. Who knew how many more in the cemetery. Even if they couldn’t pin the Alice Ketcher murder on him, now the law had him dead to rights.

Which meant Giles had nothing to lose.

Eddie had everything to lose. And nothing to gain by hiding or pleading for mercy.

As Giles crunched another shell into place, Eddie took the opening and tackled him. They got tangled up but Giles stubbornly clung to the shotgun as they went down. Eddie knew Giles would regroup quickly so he flurried before the guy had a chance. He elbowed and kneed and twisted.

Rule number one when tangling with an armed man: disarm him.

They both had their hands on the weapon, the barrel pointed toward the ceiling. Eddie realized he wasn’t going to wrest the shotgun from Giles so he did the next best thing.

He pulled the trigger.

The bang was deafeningly loud. A small bomb went off in his ear. The point-blank sound rang his bell. The world went half-silent. The blast was enough to surprise Giles. Eddie twisted and drove an elbow into Giles’s shoulder.

The shotgun was loose.

Now Eddie just had to—

Before he did anything, Giles landed a barrage of hands, elbows, and knees in Eddie’s torso. He was dazed, unsure where Giles was even though the guy was right next to him. He swung wildly, missed worse.

Giles grabbed his arm, flipped around, pinned Eddie to the ground with his legs. And pulled.

Eddie came to his senses when he realized he was trapped in an armbar. His elbow extended, then hyperextended. Sharp pain up his arm. Tendons and connective tissue in his joints being stretched beyond limit.

He’d been trapped in a few armbars in class before. He grabbed his held wrist and pulled it toward him to ease the tension at the elbow. But he couldn’t get much leverage against Giles. And now the pain was excruciating.

His eyes were lined up with the doorway in which Becky had disappeared. He didn’t know if she was alive. And if she was, how long she had. He needed to act fast. Every second he wasted fighting was one less second Becky might have to live.

“Edward, I don’t want to kill you,” Giles said very calmly, as if he was hardly breaking a sweat.

“Then don’t.”

He pulled his arm toward him as hard as he could but Giles was a skilled fighter, had the leverage, and held fast. Eddie’s arm was locked and it was about to snap in two at the elbow and the shoulder wasn’t feeling much better.

“Edward. You have no chance against me.”

Eddie knew all about having no chance. He’d played the long odds most his life and there’d been plenty of bumps in the road but he’d come out the other side. Maybe wounded, maybe scarred, but always alive. And always smarter.

This wasn’t how his life was going to end. Not in Giles Tyson’s fucking foyer. He knew it. He just had to let the answer come to him.

Giles pulled more and the arm was a million screaming nerves. The whole thing felt like it had been held over flames.

Think, goddamnit.

“Just let me run,” Giles said. “No shame on you. You’re outmatched, Edward. You did your best.”

Outmatched.

The word made Eddie recall one of his instructor’s recurring quips. Sometimes, it’s harder to fight Joe Amateur. The reason being, with a trained fighter you can expect them to fight certain ways. With an amateur, you have no idea because they’ll try any batshit-insane move.

So Eddie decided to fight like some guy off the street.

“Giles, you’ve always been a pompous fuck.”

Eddie gritted his teeth against the blinding pain. With his free hand, he dug in under Giles’s knee and twisted. There was no chance of the move working in itself, but Giles was distracted by the strangeness of it. Eddie pushed off the floor with his foot, feeling his elbow give a little more than it should have, and he jerked his hip violently and rolled toward Giles.

Giles lost his hold.

Eddie kept rolling. Giles brought his feet up in the blink of an eye and kicked Eddie backward. Eddie crashed into the banister of the stairway and landed on something long, hard, and metallic.

He reached under him and felt the barrel of Giles’s shotgun.

Giles scrambled to his feet.

“Interesting move, Edward. But I’m afraid luck only gets you so far in this life.”

“Good thing a gun gets you farther.”

Giles’s eyes went wide as Eddie, still on the floor, brought the shotgun to bear and pumped it. The weapon’s weight surprised him. It was awkward and solid and just holding it he felt the awful force it could unleash. All deadly potential energy.

“Edward…” Giles held his hands up but took a step forward. “...I didn’t plan on killing Alice, I swear. It was heat of the moment.”

“Doesn’t make a difference to me, Giles.”

Eddie didn’t know shotguns. He had no idea how many shells they could hold. But if there was no ammo, then Giles would have already rushed him. So maybe, just maybe, he had one shot.

Giles said, “Edward…Eddie, if you shoot me with that, this close, you’ll kill me.”

Giles was right. On the other hand, if he didn’t shoot Giles would get away. Eddie had gotten lucky with the armbar but he couldn’t take Giles in a fistfight. The police outside weren’t going to help. He couldn’t call them in without risking another scuffle with Giles. It was on him. Knowing Giles, he had an exit strategy already planned. He’d had all this time to think about it, ever since he’d killed Alice.

Giles took another step forward. “Eddie. I’ll disappear. I’ll never do this again.”

“Oh, you promise?”

“Eddie, please.”

“Don’t fucking move, Giles.”

Giles was only five feet away. Inside the danger zone. “Please, Eddie.”

“You killed Alice. You fucking killed her to protect your career. You fucking broke that poor battered woman’s neck to maintain your lifestyle.”

“Eddie, there’s nothing else I’m good at, nothing else I can do…please.” He was crying.

“You chose your career over a human being.”

“It was wrong, I know…but Eddie…you’re my friend.”

“I know. That’s what makes shooting you so hard.”

Giles lunged.

Eddie pulled the trigger.

Forty

Eddie made sure Giles was dead.

He was. Nobody was that good an actor.

Eddie felt a twinge of sadness. The dead man at his feet had bailed him out of jail. Had stood up for him when his own brother had been ready to kick Eddie off the team. They had history. Now all they had was history. Giles was dead.

But it had to be this way. Giles was a killer. And he would have killed more people if he’d been pushed.

Becky.

She suddenly appeared in the doorway, hand cleaved to her side. Her shirt blood-soaked. She leaned against the frame and looked two heartbeats away from fainting.

Eddie ran over and steadied her.

“Is he dead?” she asked.

“As disco. You okay?”

“Not really.” She tried to wink but instead she just blinked her eye a few times. “I’ve been shot.”

She fell but he caught her and leaned her against the wall. He hit the button on her walkie.

“This is Eddie McCloskey. Officers down. Giles is dead. Send the ambulance up now. Hurry.”

She smiled dreamily at him. “You just sounded like a cop.”

“Never thought I’d hear that.” His phone buzzed and he checked the text. “It’s the Madam.”

Becky shook her head. He could tell it was all her energy to carry on a conversation. “What did she say?”

Eddie smiled. “Her Eye is telling her Giles is in or near the foyer.”

Becky laughed but it came out as a groan and she pitched forward. He grabbed her, tried to stay calm but he was worried. She didn’t look good. She was pale like she’d lost a lot of blood. Now he could hear the armada of vehicles bearing down on the house. He threw one of her arms around his shoulders and took most of her weight.

“Come on, Officer, let’s go.”

They limped to the front door. Billy Towson was waking up. The pain must have hit him immediately because he started screaming. The kid was on his back, eyes closed tightly and writhing.

“Fuck...”

He’d been shot in the shoulder. But he was alive.

“They’re coming, Billy,” Eddie said. “Just hold on.”

The EMT crew burst through the door. Eddie handed Becky off and motioned behind himself to Billy. The emergency crew got Becky in the ambulance in record time and he waved off medical assistance and hopped in the back as another crew got Billy situated. Then both ambulances were off. He got the adrenaline shakes on the way and his arm felt like one huge exposed nerve as he reflected on the fact that he’d just shotgunned an old friend to death.

Forty-One

The live studio audience went wild.

Eddie had never received a standing O before.

He didn’t know what else to do other than wave. He hopped onto the stage where Gracie Barbitok sat. She flashed him a thousand-watt smile.

Gracie’s people had hooked him up with the new, tailored suit, then her makeup people had gone to work on him for half an hour. Some old barber gave him a shave with the straight razor. A young, sassy girl cut his hair, taking off less than a quarter-inch. But somehow he came out looking five years younger and dashing. They got him all dolled up then he met with Gracie backstage for a few minutes to go over the particulars, then it was show time.

The audience was still clapping when he reached the guest couch. Becky Thieler stood and they hugged. The women in the audience oohed and aahed. Then he shook Billy Towson’s hand. The young cop limped back to the couch. Anson Ketcher and Denard Green both hugged him. Eddie looked past Billy and Gracie at the blown-up photo of Detective Mark Ross. Eddie shook his head. The man’s pension had just vested a few years ago. If he’d wanted, he could have left the force and become a security consultant while drawing retirement pay from the department. Instead he’d stayed on because he was one of those lifers Becky had described, treating the job like a calling. A good cop, killed in the line of duty.

If only Eddie had figured it out sooner…but he forced himself not to play the what-if game. Things could have gone the opposite way too. What if he’d never put it together? Or figured it out after Giles had managed to escape?

You could go crazy playing those games. With age, he was getting better at not playing them anymore.

Over the noise, Gracie said, “Edward, thank you so much for coming.”

They were still clapping when he said, “Please call me Eddie. Just Eddie. Edward is the name of some king. I’m just a regular guy.”

Laughter. Cheers.

“So, Eddie. We’ve seen some of the footage but everyone is still asking the big question.” Gracie smiled over at him. Stretched the moment out to build the audience’s need. “Why?”

Eddie smiled back at her. “It’s all your fault, Gracie.”

The audience went silent. Gracie frowned but it was an act. She’d known he was going to say this.

“How is it my fault, Eddie?”

He shrugged. Wondered if he was being too theatrical. Probably not for her show. “Because you exposed him for the fraud he was.”

The audience relaxed. Eddie sat forward. “He couldn’t get a job to save his life. Then he stumbled upon this…ability. It was his ticket back to the big show. If he could make it work.

“He started possessing the spirits in the cemetery. There were plenty to choose from with his location. Who knows how far his abilities developed. But manipulating ghosts in his own home wouldn’t get him anywhere. Then he heard about Anson and Alice’s problems.”

Eddie faced the audience.

“So he went to work. He possessed Mary Oliver’s spirit. But what good was that? He needed to be able to do more. He needed to be able to push people, literally and figuratively, to their breaking point so they’d call upon his services. So that’s what he did. Through Mrs. Oliver, he attacked Anson. He figured that was the best way to get Alice to change her mind about bringing him out to the house, to see her husband getting knocked around by the ghost. He didn’t want to hurt Anson.

“But he never figured on Alice trying the same thing he did. He feared she’d know it was him…maybe he was right.” Eddie looked at Billy, whose eyes were moist. “I think Giles’s ultimate goal was to multitask. To be able to possess and investigate at the same time. That way, he could put on the most spectacular phenomena, while he was investigating. He’d never have to worry about being exposed as a fraud again. With his newfound abilities, he could discern with complete accuracy what was real and what wasn’t. He’d never have to worry about Gracie Barbitok setting up a sting operation. He could rehab his professional reputation and go on to be the most famous paranormal investigator the world has ever seen.”

Gasps. Stunned silence from some. Shaking of heads.

Gracie nodded at him. Then turned to the audience. All of them on the edge of their seats. “Right after this break, we’ll see what happened in the courtroom.” The monitors in the studio displayed the brief scene of chaos but cut off before the footage of Gracie getting dragged down the aisle. “We’ll be right back.”

More applause. The lights on the set dimmed and Gracie began a sidebar with Billy Towson, who’d once again buried his face in his hands, crying.

Officer Becky Thieler smiled at him. She still moved a little stiffly. The blast from the shotgun hadn’t done serious damage, but it had torn up her flank. He’d stayed at Green’s place and visited her several times during the week she’d been in the hospital. Even picked up a Balzac novel and read to her, affecting an amateurish French accent that made her laugh too hard against the stitches. Once she was discharged, Eddie went back home. Their mutual attraction was obvious, but it was like both had tacitly agreed nothing would ever come of it.

“How long are you in town?” she asked.

Eddie smiled. Since the events in upstate New York, he’d gotten so many calls that he’d had to turn away business. He had the pick of the litter. Only the most interesting, most legitimate-sounding claims he’d investigate.

“Just for the night. I’ve got a gig tomorrow.”

“Then let me take you out to dinner.”

“Sounds good. I’ll pay for breakfast.”

She swatted his arm playfully.

They were still on commercial break when his cell buzzed. His buddy Stan texting. Eddie knew Stan was watching the live broadcast of the episode so he was probably writing to congratulate him.

Eddie opened the text.

There’s this guy on TV that looks just like you, except he’s well-groomed and articulate. Call when you can.

Eddie smiled just as the lights came back up and the music swelled.

* * * *

“Did you appreciate the plug?” Eddie asked.

Over the phone, he heard Stan’s TV still on. Gracie’s special had concluded about fifteen minutes ago.

Stan said, “Wasn’t expecting you to mention me. Thanks a lot. Now everybody’s going to be asking for money.”

“You’re welcome.” Eddie was smiling but he heard the reservation in Stan’s voice. His friend had something to tell him. “What’s going on, brother?”

“Listen…Eamon Moriarty is no longer at Bayside.”

“Really?” Eddie frowned. He’d expected to be notified of a transfer. All the same, it wasn’t a big deal. Patients were transferred to other facilities all the time. Perhaps Eamon’s psychiatric care, now that he was older, required different specialties, different approaches. “Wonder where they moved him.”

“That’s just it.” Stan lowered his voice. “I don’t know where he went.”

“Patient privacy. Why would you?”

“I found out from the sheriff. He’s got a buddy moonlights at the hospital. It was done the middle of the night, without fanfare. Eamon’s own treating physician didn’t know about it.”

Eddie felt his world slowly start to spiral.

Stan continued. “I made some discreet inquiries. Nobody knows anything. Nobody knows where he is.”

Eddie’s throat had gone dry. For the last six years, he’d known where his brother’s killer was at all times. During that span, the damaged, twisted boy murderer had grown into a young man who was under the constant vigilant eye of security staff and constant professional care of a team of doctors. Now that young man was somewhere else.

“Son of a bitch.”

“I know,” Stan said. “Moira’s freaking out. She thinks he’ll try something.”

“Hold on, pal. He didn’t escape. Somebody picked him up, you said. He’s not wandering the streets plotting his revenge. And if it’s revenge he wants, he’ll come after me. I’m the one that put him in that strait jacket.”

“Yeah, but Moira’s the one who IDed his voice on that EVP recording. That’s what sent you and Tim to that house. Without that, Eamon kills that family and gets away.”

Eddie knew Stan was right. And because a book had been written about that fateful investigation, Eamon would know all the particulars. Would have studied them. He’d know about Moira and Stan’s involvement. And he was sick enough to blame them for his own crimes.

“Don’t worry, pal. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this. As family of one of Eamon’s victims, I can make a few calls. Something will come up.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear something already.”

“Why?”

“Because this happened three weeks ago.”

Eddie and Stan talked some more, but Eamon’s departure from Bayside Psychiatric Hospital cast a pall over the rest of their conversation. Eddie hung up, once again promising to visit Stan and Moira as soon as possible but without making any definite plans.

Becky Thieler had been waiting down the hallway for him to finish his call. Once she saw he was done, she gave him a little wave and motioned for him to get a move on. “Let’s go, D’Artagnan.”

He smiled. Tonight he’d share a meal with Officer Thieler. Beautiful, intelligent, quirky Becky Thieler. He could tell by the way she looked at him they would make love and he knew it would be good.

And tomorrow he’d begin searching for his brother’s killer.

* * * * *

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

BELLULIS MEIS. SEMPER VOBIS.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Fans of the legal thriller, law students, and attorneys will no doubt find some errors in this book. That is to be expected. When forced to choose between the demands of drama and legal reality, I chose drama.

If you feel compelled to vent about any legal errors you find in this book, send me an email at ronaniswriting@gmail.com. I might just compile a list and put them on my website…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Evan Ronan's stories don't always fit neatly into one genre. He reads widely and tries to write as widely. His paranormal thriller series, The Unearthed, features his favorite protagonist, Eddie McCloskey, a man who's constantly underestimated and always finds a way to beat the odds through a little hustle, a little brains, and a lot of hard work.

Evan also writes in the YA, historical fiction, sci-fi and mystery genres. He lives with his family in New Jersey, in the same town Eddie McCloskey grew up in.

For more information, visit his website: www.ronaniswriting.blogspot.com.

ALSO BY EVAN RONAN

THE UNEARTHED SERIES

The Unearthed

The Lost

The Accused and the Damned

The Hysteria

The Traveler

The Dream Machine (in the works)

The Missing (in the works)

#8 (in the works)

TOMAHAWK AND SABER SERIES WITH NATHANAEL GREEN

Language of the Bear

Through the Narrows

#3 (in the works)

SHORT STORIES

Morale Was Down

Effective Immediately

Not Safe For Work (coming soon)

In The Blood

In The Blood #2

In The Blood #3

In The Blood #4

Frontier Justice

Harm

OTHER BOOKS COMING SOON

Undo (YA / sci-fi)

OtherWorld (middle grade fantasy)

The Eighth Man (sci-fi noir)

THE ACCUSED AND THE DAMNED. Copyright 2014 by Evan Ronan. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Edition: October, 2014