Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (23 page)

“Then who’s brought them here?” I asked, pretending not to know to keep him talking and distracted. “The poltergeist? How? Why?”

“I call bullshit,” Schenk interrupted. He started to scribble in one
corner of his notes, a triangle outline that he rapidly shaded in, seeming very interested in it. He wasn’t fooling me; Schenk’s
attention had been
riveted to my creeping bare hand the minute it appeared, an
incongruous
detail he was not about to dismiss. “You’re saying there are six
hundred killer ghosts here?”

“No.” Father Scarrow could not have said this with more
certainty. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

He turned slightly toward the pond to gaze out across it, and I darted two bare fingers to quickly pinch whatever papery thing was damn near sizzling at my Groping hand in his pocket, sliding the paper into my own without looking at it, and giddy with a blend of proximity to Scarrow and my own audaciousness. I'd never been a pickpocket before. It was kind of nifty, except for that “totally being observed by a cop while perpetrating it” part. Once it was safely tucked away, I avoided Schenk’s cop glare and asked the exorcist, “Then what are you saying?”

“The spirit responsible for the murder of Britney Wyatt, the one responsible for pulling all these melancholy entities back to their graves to witness the state of their resting place… I don’t believe that
spirit belongs here. He never did. He was not invited to hallowed,
sacred ground. He is a trespasser, an interloper, invading this space, claiming what was never his.” He tightened his grip on the dogs’ leashes. “He is our poltergeist.”

My mouth went dry and I licked my lips, stinging a spot that was becoming chapped. “You know who he is, Father?”

“I’m afraid I may.” He gathered his hounds and they got to their feet, looking up at him obediently. “We should not speak of him here. I will not say his name in this place. To do so would be to invite his
attentions. I will only discuss him in the parish hall. He’s not welcome there.”

“I’ve got time right now,” Schenk said. “I’ll follow you home.”

“Please understand, constable,” Scarrow said, “I am mourning the loss of this young woman, too, and need a chance to rest before I go into this mess again. Tomorrow, I will see you.” His eyes slid to the stretcher where the recovery team had placed Britney Wyatt's body. The dogs, now standing patiently at their master’s heel, didn’t so much as wiggle. They watched Father Scarrow for their cue to walk, and when he excused himself, they followed him away.

Schenk and I watched the three of them go. After a minute or so, Schenk indicated with a tip of his head that we should go back up the hill.

“Pick-pocketing a man of the cloth in front of a police officer? Really?”

“I know, right?” I shrank inside my parka, wishing the shivering would go away. “Ballsy.”

“Or stupid.”

“Or stupid-ballsy. Wait, that doesn’t sound better. Listen, it’s just
a piece of paper,” I said, but that wasn’t entirely true. It was a
laminated
card – baseball, poker, or Pokemon, I couldn't tell – and I didn’t dare take it out yet. Not until Father Scarrow was safely away. “I think I need it.”

“Give him your phone number and decided to take it back, eh?”

“Something like that,” I said. “Trust your psychic sidekick?”

“Nope. But you’ll show me when you’re ready. You’re not keeping things from me, right?”

“I’d never.” That was completely true, and he read it on my face. I put my glove back on.

“Good. I’ll see you to your car,” Schenk said.

When we got closer to the yellow tape twisting in the wind, I felt
the Blue Sense flare, and seconds later, absorbed a flicker of
exhaustion from Schenk. I focused on the reporters, aiming my glare at them until I felt my own impressions match Schenk’s frustration. I pointed
one of the reporters out. “That one. He’s your least favorite. Your
personal thorn-in-the-paw.”

The curl of his lip said I was right. “Perceptive, Big City Psychic.”

“Does he always do that notice-me dance by the perimeter?” I mimed listening for music by cupping one hand to my ear. I started shaking my booty to mimic the reporter’s boogying. “Or are they playing
What Does the Fox Say
to give your team some cover to talk? Ah wah wah wah wah oooo!” I'm pretty sure foxes actually howl and yip, but they tended to steer clear of my property, probably due to the combination of revenant presence and, more pragmatically, the two (
or
three, by now
, my brain reminded me;
we have half a guest at the cabin
) huge debt vultures that hulked in the trees.

Schenk made an indecipherable noise in the back of his throat and refrained from looking directly at the reporter.

“He looks like a coke-addled lemur being swarmed by fire ants,” I said.

Schenk snorted.

“You are a master of deep, meaningful conversation, Thag.”

He looked down at me and my relentless grooving.

“I’ve seen him on the news, right?” I asked. “What’s his stupid name again?”

At
stupid name
, Schenk’s eyes squeezed shut and he shook his head, like he couldn’t even bear to say it.

“Jerry something...,” I said. “Sounded like a porn actor's name. Foreskin? Foredick? Formick!”

This time his noise was an affirmative grunt. I mimed spiking
the ball after scoring a winning touchdown. There may have been extra booty shaking and finger guns. There may also have been
footage taken by the
compadres
of the object of our discussion. I'd have to ask Mr. Merritt to DVR it so I could share it with de Cabrera to show him how kickass my positivity was.

“Did you know that formic acid is the chemical in fire ant venom that makes their bites sting? He’s literally named after a pain in the
ass.”

He searched my face for a degree of seriousness. “That a fact?”

“I’m chock full of facts,” I promised, “and I hardly ever invent chemicals to amuse people.”

As he trained his eyes over one impossibly-broad shoulder at the reporter, Schenk’s smile crooked up on one side and slid towards nasty. For once I was seeing behind his cop mask to the true feelings beneath, and he let his irritation show on his face. The Blue Sense sprang up to offer a whiff of his satisfaction.

I liked it. “What’s next?”

“Waiting,” he said. “Coroner’s report should clear some things up. You don’t buy this murdered-by-poltergeist thing, do you?”

“I want to say no,” I admitted. “My science tells me that this doesn’t happen. I need to hear what else Scarrow has to say about
the so-called
interloping poltergeist.” I thought about that for a second.
“
Interloping Poltergeist
would make a great title for the research paper I’ll write if this murderous ghost thing disproves the idea that ghosts can’t affect the physical realm. Dear Diary: I’m going to be famous.” I stopped dancing to mime writing.

“Gonna keep it real and remember the little people?” Schenk asked.

I made an exaggerated boots-to-brows survey. “'Little people,' right. I’ll give you a signed copy of my autobiography.”

“Got a title for that, too?”

“
I Only Cried Once: The Marnie Baranuik Story
. It’s gonna be a big, big hit.”

“Bestseller.” Schenk gave a sarcastic little
I-buy-that
nod.

“I’d still really like to know what was in Scarrow’s bowling bag.”

“Is that why you asked him on a date to go bowling?”

“Oh, you heard about that, huh?”

“Mmhmm,” he murmured.

“Well, it’s not on account of his sparkling personality. Can I
come see him with you tomorrow morning?”

“We’ll talk about it later tonight on the stakeout.”

I refrained for showing glee in front of the media buzzards who were still clicking pictures of me in my knitted, goggle-eyed froggy cap and bright pink parka, gloved hands in my pockets for warmth, craning way up at the mountain of a cop. I saved the cheering and clapping for inside my head. “We’re going to do a stakeout? Like, you, me, too much coffee and not enough sense?”

“Bet your ass.”

“Where? When?”
And, most importantly, what do you hope to see?
He'd banked those coals, so I was only able to get a trickle of
expectancy through the Blue Sense.

Schenk adjusted his scarf to cover the hollow of his throat
completely and started past the barricades and yellow tape toward the BMW. I poked a button on the key fob to unlock it, and Schenk opened the
door for me while reporters made a crowded circle, pushing and
asking questions, all of which the cop blatantly ignored with the ease that came from practice.

Schenk said, “I’ll text you details,” before striding off, motioning to someone who had just arrived on the scene: Detective Sergeant Malashock. I recognized her snazzy red leather jacket.

Before closing the door, I shouted, “Hey, Formick!” When he turned around, I shot him a grin and mimed his
I-gotta-pee
dance with my tongue sticking out. He paused, frowned, then aimed his camera and got a shot of me in a shimmy shake while shooting him a vigorous double-bird.

Mission accomplished, I closed the door and headed for North House and Harry.

THERE HAD BEEN
time for a quick bite to eat before my big stake-out adventure. I’d packed peanut butter sandwiches and Fig Newtons, and Mr. Merritt had filled a thermos for me. Now, sitting with Schenk as the last bit of heat faded from the van, I was glad for the hot beverage.

“Herbal tea?” Schenk said. “You? Seriously? If ever there was a time for coffee, it would be now.”

I blew into the travel mug. “That memo did not get through to my butler.”

“It’s so hard to find good help these days,” Schenk deadpanned.

I tried to rip a honey packet open with my teeth and it drooled down my chin and onto my parka.

“You’ve got goo on your chest, Cinderblock.”

“Honey,” I corrected.

“You’ve got goo on your chest, honey.”

I tried wiping it off with my napkin, but all that did was smear it around. Batten would have cocked an eyebrow and made my core
flare with helpless heat; Hood would have blushed like a fire
hydrant; And Harry? Harry would have put the honey in the tea for me in the
first place or spread it on my skin intentionally, later. Schenk made jokes; I could get used to a dude who was just a normal human being.

We were parked in a white utility van close to the pond, next to some trucks and service vehicles used by the employees of the canal. A big chain link fence blocked the road, with security cameras and
signs on every panel warning about trespassing and towing and
criminal charges. The gates had been shoved open for us, just wide enough to
walk through. The heat had been on for quite a while, but he’d
switched the van off to save gas. Mr. Merritt had suggested that I bring an afghan for my lap, which had tickled Harry; my Cold Company had been oddly punchy ever since repeated calls to my family had ended in rejection, if by “rejection” you meant “swearing and a hang-up.”

I propped the laminated paper I’d pick-pocketed from Father
Scarrow— which turned out to be an old-timey photograph —
between
the dash and the windshield. It was a portrait of three people: an
elderly couple and an adult son in uniform. I couldn’t tell the color of his jacket as the picture was grainy, faded, and black and white. On the back I could barely make out someone’s handwriting; two scrawled illegible names, and
John,
and the date, which looked like
1364
but must have originally read
1864
. It was a cool picture, but it raised more questions than it answered. Maybe Father Scarrow just carried an old picture around for luck, or maybe he kept it because he thought he’d need it, like me with my mini Moleskine. Groping the picture with my bare hands had told me squat, just like Groping my business card had told me nothing, and I knew if I was going to
be productive I’d need to relax. Being in Canada had my Talents more than a little numbed; the underlying anxiety that came with
pretending I wasn’t going to see my family, and the impending disaster that was my inevitable folding on the issue had my internal wiring buzzing with distraction. Maybe some soothing herbal tea was a good idea after all. I gave the tea a long sniff. Chamomile. Combat Butler was a wily genius, if totally lousy at stakeout etiquette.

I’d been on a lot of stakeouts in my life, some of which could
have
more accurately been categorized as “stalking,” since they weren’t
exactly related to official investigations. The way I figured, if Agent Batten didn’t want me watching him undress in his apartment he should maybe get some blinds.

“What are we waiting for?” I asked, more to pass the time than anything else.

Schenk answered, “To see if something happens.”

“What if nothing happens?”

“Then we saw it.”

“The nothing.”

“Right.”

I grinned over at him. “You’re a lot of fun.”

“I’m not here for your entertainment.” He didn't look disgusted, or bored, or like he was actively avoiding a bit of perfectly set-up
Godfather
line quoting. His reserved professionalism was catnip I had to swat at.

“You’re
totally
here for my entertainment,” I disagreed, moving the thermal mug to swirl the honey into the tea. “Other than the foot fetish that you should never have admitted, since I’m not going to let it go, and the knitting, which you were probably joking about, tell me something weird about you.”

Schenk sipped his coffee,
blew
into the lid to disperse the steam. “Why?”