Beneath the Mall of Madness (A Jaspar Windisle Mystery Book 1) (7 page)

It’s a shame, really. Specters can always be counted on to pass on recipes even if they won’t give out the deceased’s name. They don’t answer my questions or share a highlight reel; they’re attracted to novelty. Every graveyard is full of people who’ve had affairs or hidden assets, or have gone to their graves without writing down in their will who they want to inherit their completed set of ceramic tea figurines. The real variety in the human condition is in our food. And if the specters won’t tell me a secret ingredient that’s useful information in and of itself. Usually, it means the secret ingredient is some sort of booze.

“You don’t need to visit the scene of the crime?” Steve asked. I’d always been a bit vague when explaining what I do to him.

“No. For useful information, I need the body. I only deal with dead things, and places can’t be dead.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” There was a pause. “Are you sure you’re not just avoiding going back?”

“Why would I? Real murderers don’t lurk at the scene of their crime waiting to kill again. I just want to get the bad part out of the way first.”

“Have it your way,” Steve said. “It works for me anyway. I may not have mentioned to my geologist that he was hired at the suggestion of a psychic. He can take his samples while you go talk to dead people.”

“Great,” I said. I meant it. I don’t like meeting new people, and it felt like I’d met half the town in two days. I was ready for a break.

“Sweet dreams,” Steve said. “If all goes well I’ll take you to see the corpses tomorrow.”

On that cheerful note, I couldn’t get back into my book. And I couldn’t sleep. Just like the last two nights, around ten o’clock a group of lights appeared at the edge of the swamp and went off to the forest. This time I didn’t go to bed after that. I was too nervous to sleep. I’d picked up a lot of useful information from dead people in the past, like the aforementioned recipes. Sparks and his kind love sharing secrets, but most people’s secrets just aren’t that bad. In the case of secret ingredients, they can be excellent. Murder was something else altogether. To say I wasn’t looking forward to it was putting it mildly. I paced for a long time, trying to work off my nervous energy.

The next morning I woke up lying on the floor. I had vague memories of dreaming of the meadow again, and a plaster bust of Fiona brandishing a pie. I got dressed and went downstairs.

Jeremiah was at the front desk.

“Earl is waiting for you,” he said. “Did you see those lights again?”

“Yes.”

“So did I. And only two came back.”

“Does that mean people are camping in that forest?”

“I doubt it,” Jeremiah said. “I’ve already spoken with Earl about it. It looks like one of the local cults is up to no good again.” That was nice to hear. I wondered how many local cults there were.

I went to the dining room and started assembling my breakfast. Earl waved when he saw me. He’d helped himself to a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs.

“You’re not looking bad,” he said. “I’m here to take you to the morgue. You can eat first if you want, but I’d recommend toast. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“Thanks for the suggestion.” I got some coffee and an English muffin with marmalade. If at all possible I was going to try to do my job without looking at the body.

“Before you go, would you mind going to Bishop’s Corner with me?” Earl asked. “I agreed to investigate those lights Jeremiah saw, and I don’t want you to get snatched away by someone else.”

“Who would ‘snatch’ me?”

“Any cultists who find out you have real psychic powers for one. Or the state police. They are convinced that you will confess if only they can interrogate you, preferably without us around.”

“What do you think?”

“Well, it ain’t really my case,” Earl said, “but I reckon a monster did it. That or a very stealthy group of cannibals.”

“A monster did it? Are cops even allowed to say stuff like that?”

Earl shrugged.

“I’m just offering my unofficial opinion.”

“What’s your official opinion?

“Whoever did this must be a monster.” I rolled my eyes.

“Come on, come with me. A little fresh air will do you good.”

“Fine.”

The marsh behind the hotel looked like a sea of mud up close.

“How is anyone going to recreate a battle here?” I asked after sinking to my knees in a mud puddle. Earl helped me out.

“You mean the Jericho thing? I think getting muddy comes with the territory there. It’ll be a bitch getting the wall out here, though, even if they are only doing one side.”

“So you’re not participating?”

“I’m not much of a churchgoer, to tell you the truth. I’ll be on the sidelines doing crowd control and drinking hot cider. It’s going to be close to freezing when they do the reenactment; it always is. Do you see any signs of someone coming this way?”

“No, but I’m not good at tracking things. In any case, the lights came from the mountains, not the hotel.”

“So they make a circuit? That’s interesting.”

As we walked toward the forest, a low hill hid the hotel from us. The sky seemed darker than it had before, and shreds of mist clung to the ground.

“What kind of idiot would come here in the middle of the night?” I asked as I pulled my leg out of another mud hole.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Earl replied. “I don’t keep up with every crazy legend about this town. There’s probably some story about a monster or ancient ruins to lure people out here. I just know it’s one of the few places the locals genuinely don’t like.”

“Oh?” I tried to sound interested. Talking kept my mind off how cold and muddy I was. Why had I agreed to this?

“Every weird spot in town, someone’s found a way to take advantage of it, or else they ignore it as background noise. Just look at Fiona and her baby squid alien. Stuff like that shows up in her attic all the time, and she won’t hear a word about moving. But mention this place and she acts like you suggested a trip to Chernobyl.”

“It
is
creepy,” I said. The mountains were towering over us now, and I could see the trees. The swamp ended on a hill so steep that I didn’t think it would be possible to walk down it. The top half was covered in grass and blackberry vines, but the bottom was rocky and ended in a thicket. The thicket lasted a dozen yards or so; then there was a grassy clearing that gave way to a field of large, jagged rocks leading into the forest. The whole hill was wet, and a thin stream of water ran down one side. Despite the running water, it was quiet.

“Somebody else has been here,” Earl said. “The grass has been flattened.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. I just saw a wet green mess. “How are we supposed to get down there?”

“
We’re
not,” Earl said. “You’re going to stay up here and watch me. If something happens either help me climb back up or go get help.” With that, he made his way down the hill. At first he tried to stay upright. By the end, he was sitting down and sliding. At the bottom, he looked around and turned to look up at me.

“Someone definitely came through here,” he called. “A lot of somebodies and they went to the edge of the forest.” He walked towards the trees. “And then they disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the ground’s soft, but there are no more footprints.” He turned back. “I guess we’ll have to do a stakeout of-HEY!” I jumped a little and turned to find a man lunging at me with a knife. I ducked, lost my footing, and started to slide down the hill.

“Where is it?” the man demanded.

“Urgh,” I replied, clinging to the grass. “Where is what?”

“The key! We know you have it now. Hand it over!” He was saying that, but he slashed at my hands while he did it. I slid farther down the hill.

“Are you really attacking me in front of a cop?” I asked him. If I let go, I’d probably slide all the way to the bottom. There was no telling what kind of shape I would be in when I got there.

“Ha! Once I take the key human laws will mean nothing! And there’s nothing he can do to stop me!” I realized I was looking at a cultist. I’d never seen one before. He looked a great deal like an ordinary businessman. Rather than follow me down the hill he dropped the knife and reached into his breast pocket for something else.

“I’ll show you whaAAAh!” He pulled his hand away. Something fell to the ground; he ignored it in favor of clutching his hand.

“You bastard!” He screamed.

“Put your hands in the air!” Earl shouted. “I won’t tell you twice!”

“You’ll pay for that! You’ll-” What else Earl would do would never be known as Mr. Bad Guy’s left eye vanished in a puff of gore.

“I told him,” Earl said. He holstered his gun and started climbing back up the hill. There was a corpse blocking my way, so I moved to the side. On the way up I picked up the knife and the book he had dropped.

“Did he get you?” Earl asked when he got to the top.

“No, he missed every time. Do you often gun down unarmed men?”

“I only give one warning per person,” Earl said. “And he might have been reaching for a gun. Besides, the sheriff’s official policy is that we don’t humor cultists and between that knife and that speech he was obviously a cultist.”

“That’s really not going to stand up in court,” I said.

“True, but he’s dressed very sharply for a crazy person who just happened to be wandering around a swamp looking for someone to stab.” It was true. The deceased was wearing a tailored business suit. He must have taken a different route than us because his pants didn’t have a trace of mud on them.

“I wonder what kind of key he was looking for,” I said. “And. . . is that a revolver you’re carrying?” Earl unholstered his gun and showed it to me.

“Yes indeed.”

“I thought policemen used semiautomatics these days.”

“This is what I’m used to, and the Sheriff hasn’t made a fuss. As you can see, it works well enough.”

“Did you mean to shoot his hand?”

“Yup. I like to give people a chance. He just didn’t take it.”

“I’ll remember that.” I looked at the book. “I wonder what good he thought this was going to do.”

“It’s probably his spell book. That or it’s booby trapped somehow.” I dropped it.

“This knife is weird too,” I said. “It looks like it came from Merlin’s Magical House of Discount Cutlery, but, you know, well made.”

“If a rich guy wants a glittery knife he can commission the best,” Earl said. “Do you want it?”

“Uh, no,” I said. “I don’t need a sacrificial dagger and I’d be embarrassed to get caught opening boxes or slicing up vegetables with that thing.”

“Suit yourself. I guess it’s evidence anyhow. We’re going to be here awhile, so you’re probably going to have to cancel on Fiona.”

“What?”

“Unless you want to help me shove this guy over the side and forget about him, you’re going to have to give a statement.”

“Oh.” While we waited for other officers to arrive, we speculated about the man’s last words. Earl found the dead man’s wallet and it turned out his name was Damien Smith.

“He never had a chance with a name like that,” Earl said.

“There’s nothing wrong with the name Damien,” I argued. “If that was enough to turn him evil, he deserved to get shot.”

“You should check your stuff for anything that might be a key,” Earl suggested. “Folks like this rarely show up alone, and it’d help if you knew what they were ranting about.”

“My pendant could be considered a key of sorts,” I said. “But if he could afford those shoes he could afford a chunk of amber. The cheese wasp is gone so it can’t be that.”

“Uh huh.” Earl sized me up. “Have you checked the pockets of those pants? Maybe it was something old man Fry had.”

“These are my old pants. Anyway, I checked them all before sending them to the cleaners, but I’ll check them again. I hope they’re not magic pants. I can’t afford to keep buying new clothes.” Earl shrugged.

“It was worth a try. Guess it’s still a mystery.”

“Why do you have a six shooter anyway?” I asked him.

“I used to be a train robber.” The look on his face was completely serious. “You can’t hold up trains without a revolver. No one will take you seriously.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“What could you possibly steal on a modern train that would be worth the hassle?”

“I didn’t say I robbed trains recently. For the other kind, you only need half a dozen like-minded fellows, some snazzy bandanas and a few crates of dynamite. Oh, and some horses. You used to be able to catch a train on horseback.”

“Sorry, I asked.”

“What did you do before you started talking to dead people?”

“I’ve always been able to talk to dead people,” I told him. “Before I got paid for it I was locked in a crypt.”

“Oh. That sucks.”

“It did.”

“Did you use necromancy to get out?”

“No. Someone let me out. I didn’t start the psychic business until recently.”

“What did you do in between?”

“Odd jobs here and there. I tried fishing for a few years, but I’m not cut out for it.”

“Too rough?”

“I gave it my best shot and my best was total crap. It’s a miracle I didn’t fall overboard.” There were many reasons commercial fishing did not become a career for me. The long hours, the hard physical labor, the unpredictability of the season, but mostly it was because I was afraid of being crushed to death by a tuna. That is definitely not something I want in my obituary.

“So when that didn’t pan out you went with the corpse
feng shui
?”

“No, after that I was a short order cook, a waiter, a mail carrier, and a fisherman again because I don’t learn from my mistakes. Then back to waiting tables, I was a barista for a while, and then I became a spiritual consultant.”

“Wow. I went straight from robbery to law enforcement.”

“What made you switch?”

“Too difficult. When was the last time you heard of a successful train robbery? And I like the hats. Modern bandits just don’t have interesting hats.” I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.

“Do you think his name is really Damien Smith?” I asked, returning the conversation to the dead man. “It sounds like an alias.”

“It’s on all the cards in his wallet. If you don’t think it’s his real name why don’t you ask him?” Earl was being snide, so I decided to do it. I pulled out my pendant. Sparks stirred from my shoulder. He’d never been able to resist his favorite toy. He chased it around while I swung it like a cat toy then he landed on the body for a moment. He came back to me full of news.

Mr. Smith had worked at Jesticorps. That was going to be awkward when I next spoke to Steve. He’d also been planning to kill me whether I gave him his key or not. He hadn’t known what the key looked like; he’d been counting on me to know what I had. He was from Chicago, and he’d never had to slog through a muddy field before in his life. Also, he hadn’t thought that Earl would shoot him. His mother made the best meatloaf he’d ever tasted, and he needed the key to get underground because. . .