Beneath the Mall of Madness (A Jaspar Windisle Mystery Book 1) (18 page)

“Sheriff Warren is trying to protect you, and so is your uncle,” I told her. “If they don’t take an aggressive stance cultists would overrun your town. That sucks for people like me, but it keeps you safe at night.”

“You mean, it’s okay if you get killed because you
might
be a bad guy?” Theresa wasn’t following my logic.

“Well, no. It’s not okay to kill me,” I told her. “I’m just saying they have a reason to be paranoid. Now, if that was the first thing you wanted to tell me, what was the second?”

“It’s about that Dr. Finch. He’s been sneaking around the hotel for the past few days.”

“How do you know what he looks like?”

“I didn’t at first,” she said. “I saw him in the bar last night and I heard you and Zebulon talking about him.”

“Why are you telling me this instead of your mom or dad?” She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“I don’t want to bother them if it isn’t important,” she said. “I thought you were investigating too.”

“Not all investigations are created equal,” I said. “I prefer to think of myself as doing a very particular version of land surveying.” I ate some of my French fries. “If Dr. Finch dies and gets buried at the construction site he’ll become my business, and I’ll ask him why he’s been sneaking around the hotel.” She kicked me under the table. Aren’t kids just adorable?

“So is it important or not?”

“Yes, it’s important. Listen, there’s a ninety percent chance he’s a murderer. If you see him outside the hotel don’t leave, okay? Don’t follow him, don’t talk to him, just stay away.” She nodded.

“I’m not stupid,” she said. “I just. . .we’re not usually the center of what’s happening.” She poked at her lunch. “Do you think this’ll be resolved before the reenactment?”

“Isn’t that in a week?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt it,” I told her. “Steve has some things he has to deal with before construction is officially halted, and I have no idea how Fiona is going to manage.”

“Is today dress like a pirate day?” The shorter FBI agent asked. Great, we’d caught their attention somehow.

“No,” I said.

“Then why are you dressed like a pirate?

“Because pirates are cool,” Theresa said.

“Oh, are the two of you on a date?” he asked. “How cute!”

“No way! Theresa said. “How old do you think I am? He’s my babysitter!” I laughed weakly.

“A pirate is babysitting you?” he asked. “I don’t know if I can allow that.”

“Leave them alone, Lucky,” his partner said.

“You’re no fun,” Lucky complained. “So what were you saying about a murderer?”

“There is one,” I said. “It isn’t safe for kids to wander around until they’re caught.”

“People are being killed in my backyard!” Theresa told him. “Plus, there were the fake police!”

“That’s crazy,” Lucky said. “So why does your babysitter think Dr. Finch is a murderer?” Theresa gave him a look that I would describe as uncharitable.

“He’s, like, the only person who’s gone on that illegal monster tour and come back,” she said.

“What kind of monsters do you see on an illegal monster tour?” he asked her.

“Illegal ones,” Theresa replied.

“I should have known,” he said. “Perhaps we can have them deported.”

“Are you real FBI agents?” she asked.

“Yes, we are,” the quiet one said. Theresa sized them up.

“You look less like FBI agents than the fake ones on TV.”

“We did our best, but Scully was busy,” Lucky joked. Theresa gave him a blank stare.

“She was the skeptical agent on the X-Files,” I told her.

“Oh, I’ve heard of that show,” Theresa said. “It’s like Lost, right?”

“Not really. . .”

“No! Don’t tell me watching the X-Files makes me old,” Lucky said.

“Okay, I won’t.” Theresa went back to her meal.

“At least I only watched it in reruns.”

“You
are
real FBI agents, aren’t you?” I asked the quieter one. He was tall and wide and despite his overall look, exuded an aura that screamed ‘federal agent.' He nodded.

“The police weren’t eager to take our word for it either,” Lucky said. “What happened to make you all so skittish?”

“There was a shoot out,” I said. “There have been quite a few lately.”

“Then where are the reporters?” The big one wanted to know. “I thought the police report was exaggerated.”

“We don’t get respectable reporters around here,” Theresa said. “And the ones showing up for the chupacabras are staying in the next town.”

“Wait, there’s a town closer to the mall?” I asked.

“No, but it has more amenities,” Theresa said, “and it’s got paved roads leading to it.”

“No kidding,” Lucky said. “Your town is hidden pretty well. I’m surprised you have so
many
tourists.””

“I’m surprised they haven’t left,” the taller agent said.

“They’re here for monsters,” I said. “Who knows what they’re thinking?”

“Not much,” Theresa muttered.

“I’m sure you’d like to get back to eating,” the taller agent said. “I’m Agent Steiner and this is Agent Starr. If you see anything suspicious call the police station, and we’ll be happy to investigate.” I bet he wouldn’t have said that if he’d known how many suspicious things were going on in this town.

***

Theresa was very quiet when we left.

“Do you think they’ll get to the bottom of it?” She asked.

“Your sheriff is already hiding things from them,” I said. “So I’d guess not. Then again, I don’t know how much you have to know about a murder to figure out who did it.”

“But you know,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Could you raise those guys as zombies to hunt down their killer?” She asked.

“No,” I said. That’s not how it works. I can only work with spirits, not physical matter. And based on my experiences with dogs, shades aren’t capable of revenge.”

“You’ve raised the ghost of a vengeful dog?” she asked.

“Sort of. What I meant was that shades aren’t very specific. A shade dog is like a prototype of all dogs. If I raised Lassie as a ghost she’d bark and wag her tail and follow humans around, and since she’s a collie she’d probably try to herd things, but if Timmy fell down the well she wouldn’t have a clue what to do.”

Theresa thought about that.

“Can I see?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” she said. “I have a bunch of goldfish buried in the backyard. You could raise one of them.”

“I don’t think that goldfish will work too well,” I said.

“Please? I’ll give you all of my allowance.”

“How much is your allowance?”

“Ten dollars.”

“That’s how much you think raising the dead is worth?” She shrugged.

“They’re only goldfish. How about all my allowance for a month?”

We were in the hotel parking lot now. I sighed.

“I’ll do it for free,” I said, “since we’re friends and all, but don’t get your hopes up.”

“Great!” she cheered. “When do we start?”

“First we need a shovel,” I said. “They have to be exposed to air. We’ll have to hope they haven’t rotted away completely yet.”

“Oh, that’s all right. The biggest one died just a few weeks ago.”

***

Mrs. Whateley looked surprised when we came in to get the shovel. When Theresa explained what we were doing, she insisted on coming along to watch. I couldn’t blame her. As far as I know no one’s made a goldfish themed horror movie, but can you imagine the possibilities? And let’s face it, for a thirteen-year-old to have lots of dead goldfish those fish hadn’t been living the life of Riley. Those guys can live for twenty years if they’re treated right.

The goldfish weren’t buried deep, so I stopped Theresa as soon as I saw a fish bone.

“I’m surprised there isn’t a smell,” Mrs. Whateley said.

“Fish rot quickly,” I told her. I reached out and touched the bone, then slowly pulled my hand away.

“Look, Mom, it really is Barry!”

“Wow,” I said. Barry was ten inches long. He had a standard comet body type and a nice calico pattern. He was translucent like all shades, and like all shades he was attracted to me. Which was good because as soon as Theresa tried to pet him he zoomed across the yard to hide in a tree.

“I guess you were wrong about him needing water,” she said. She sounded disappointed.

“Goodness,” Mrs. Whateley said. “I had no idea he could move that quickly.” She looked down. “You certainly are good at raising the dead, Mr. Windisle.” Theresa started laughing. “And my daughter is even worse at raising fish than I thought.”

It had been a mass goldfish grave, and now the goldfish were rising up. Barry must have been an exceptionally tough fish. None of the other fish were anywhere near as big as him. Most of them were in the three to the five-inch range. The majority of them were comets; there were also orandas and bubble eyes. All of them were surrounding me to the point that it was disorienting. Sparks huddled against my neck. He gave me impressions of swimming endlessly around the same plants, waiting for food to fall from above. I got a general sense of contentment. Then, I got a sense of being eaten.

Getting bitten by a shade is impossible, they’re just not solid enough. It seemed that gentle nibbling was not out of the question, however. I waved my arms over my head to brush them away. Theresa laughed and held out her hands.

“Try it, Mom,” she said as a few fish came over to her. “They tickle!” Mrs. Whateley smiled and held out a hand.

“You’re right,” she said. “Oh, Barry’s coming back.”

“They don’t stay away from me for long,” I said. “You can play with them for a while longer, but I have to put them back.”

“What happens if you don’t?” Theresa wanted to know.

“Not much happens to them,” I said. “But
I
look weird.”

At that moment, Agent Starr came around the side of the building.

“There you are!” He called out. “My partner and I want to rent a room if you’ve got any. The other hotels are . . .” I could see him taking in the goldfish. “. . . weirder.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Whateley said. “We do have rooms available. You’ll have to pardon our flying goldfish infestation. I assure you, they’re quite harmless.”

“Flying . . . of course.”

“There aren’t any on the fourth floor if you’d like to stay there.”

“That would be great. Do you have a smoking room?”

“Our hotel is smoke-free, but you can smoke in the garden. I can rent you a room next to the stairs if you’d like.”

With Agent Starr there I didn’t dare try to stuff the goldfish back into their bodies, but I was tempted. I pretended to be enjoying them as much as Theresa.

“I think Barry likes you,” she said. “He’s swimming over your head.”

“Oh good,” I said.

When Mrs. Whateley and Agent Starr left, I started trying to put the goldfish to rest. I knew it wouldn’t be easy since I had to match the right fish with the right bones, but I hadn’t appreciated just how hard it would be. Barry, in particular, didn’t want to be handled again. By the time evening came I still had a dozen or so fish swirling around me. Theresa didn’t see what the problem was, and Zebulon was equally unsympathetic.

“That’s what happens when you humor little kids,” he said as he handed me a drink. “Don’t worry, they suit you.” He snickered. “They’re very cute.”

“What the hell is that thing on your head?” Earl asked when he arrived.

“A goldfish,” I said. “His name is Barry.”

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “I take it it’s an occult goldfish.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Behold, the fell power of necromancy.”

“Isn’t he adorable?” Zebulon asked.

“So how was your day with the FBI?” I asked, ignoring the bartender.

“Exhausting,” Earl said. “Although they weren’t around much. I think our town is stranger than they anticipated.”

“They’re staying at this hotel,” I said. “If the tourist stuff is too much, what kind of help are they going to be?”

“Hell if I know,” Earl admitted. “First they have to get up to speed. I wouldn’t be surprised if they spent the next week re-interviewing people. You should feel lucky you’re getting left out of it.” I nodded.

“Have you seen Steve lately?” he asked me.

“No, he’s busy with his company. I guess I should be glad,” I waved my hand at the goldfish. “Now I’m not going to leave until I’ve returned Barry and Co. to whence they came.”

The next few days were not productive. Returning the goldfish proved to be more difficult than I’d expected. They reanimated faster than I could put them back, and they could swim out of my reach. They were as eager to get back to their body as any other shade if I could get them close enough, but unlike birds or insects they never got there on their own. Next time I raised a fish it would be a catfish, or a halibut, or some other bottom hugger.