Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (52 page)

“At least it’s over,” he said.

“Almost. One more thing,” I said, plunking down on my knees in the snow and hauling my backpack off my aching shoulders. I plopped the scrying board on the ground, but the zipper had been half-open and the planchette was gone, lost to the pond or the tunnel or the running. “Gimme your pencil.”

He didn’t ask, just handed it to me. I tapped it three times on the board,
taptaptap
, and then laid it to point at HELLO, and most definitely did not start humming the Lionel Richie song.

“Father Scarrow?” I called. “Renfield Aquinas Thackery Scarrow…”

Schenk moaned. “No more ghosts.”

“... Britney Anne Wyatt. Barnaby Allen Nowland.”

When the three figures appeared, I added, “Captain John Briggs-Adsit, I’m calling you. Do you hear me, John?”

The man who appeared in uniform before me did not look familiar; he was not cowering in a corner but standing upright, chin
high, wearing his hat slightly askew at a jaunty angle. The smile on his lips was beatific and serene. Britney’s spirit extended a hand toward me, and in it was a square shadow, the hint of a business card. Barnaby’s ghost stepped in front of her, looking first at the cop and then me, seeming confused and lost. Father Scarrow’s spirit put his palms together, tenting his fingers, and looked toward the Heavens.

“Really dude?” I drawled, giving a snort. “Okay, then. Good luck with that.” I glanced up over my shoulder. “Any last messages
for the departed, Longshanks?”

Schenk shook his head hard, and I realized he was choked up and didn’t want to speak for fear of being emotional in front of me. I
snapped that twig right away. “Come on, ya big soft softie of softiness. You found her, dude. She’s going to be at peace. Say goodbye.”

He rubbed his goatee hard and grumbled something at me that
sounded suspiciously like
shutthefuckup
. Then he crammed both
hands in his wet pockets, stamped his feet, and said, “Come on, let’s get this done. I’ve got white hair and hypothermia. Jesus.”

I nodded, took one long, final look at Father Scarrow, who was vamping angelic now, and moved the planchette to GOODBYE.

THE NEXT MORNING
was cold but sunny, and my mood was damn near delightful. The heated bench seat of the hearse was toasting my tush by the time Mr. Merritt cruised past the New Red
Hook Cemetery.
The gates were open. The path had been plowed and salted. There were media vans and cars outside the police cordon, and two uniformed officers oversaw the buzz of forensic crews going in and
out. There was no sign of Schenk’s midnight blue Sonata or his newly frosty locks. Mr. Merritt glanced at me for direction and I nodded to carry on. He did a circle in the crunching gravel just as some reporters noticed the hearse; not that it wasn't exactly the most inconspicuous vehicle in which to be traipsing around. I saw Jerry Formick go for his camera, so I powered the window down in time to shoot him a farewell finger. He snapped a few pictures as we sped away. I hoped he got a good one of my nifty new black and blue ghost hair.

“Do I owe you a grand for that rude hand gesture, Mr. Merritt?” I asked.

“Did you make a rude hand gesture, madam?”

“Nope.”

Combat Butler checked the rear-view mirror to monitor the
media vans, maybe to discern if we’d be followed. We weren’t. “Perhaps on your next visit we could work on your lying?”

“No need,” I said, slouching into a nice, relaxed slump. “I’m already a pretty good liar.”

“Begging your pardon, madam, but you’re a dreadful liar.”

“But you’ll miss me when I’m gone, right?”

“North House will not be the same without you,” he admitted, and I thought that twitch around his mouth meant he was wrestling back a smirk. “Tim Horton’s?”

“Yes, please.” I glanced behind us at the gleaming casket in the back. “Did Harry pay off my swear debt?”

“But of course,” Mr. Merritt replied. “Lord Dreppenstedt also included a hearty holiday bonus, including something he called ‘hazard pay.’”

“Hey, where’s
my
hazard pay?” I squawked. “I fell in dead
people water, was exposed to visions of drowning, slapped in the face with candy, had my hat destroyed by ghost goobers, slugged with dead frogs, nagged by my mother, found out my BFF is a grave robber, and nearly died of hypothermia feeding a poltergeist to a Demon King. Also, I had to promise to give up Timbits. Also-also, I found out that ghosts are scary. That’s not the kind of thing you forget, Mr. Merritt. Now I have to be scared of ghosts for the rest of my life. Don’t even get me started about the articles I’m going to have to write, and the videos I need to upload. Total nightmare. Plus, look at me!” I used a gloved hand to grab a lock of black hair and shake it in his general direction. “For cryin’ in the sink, I look like Lily Munster in Technicolor.”

“But did you not come here of your own volition, madam?” Mr.
Merritt asked with a baffled frown that I suspected was a Fakey
Fakerson faux frown, existing only to taunt me. The Blue Sense reported that Mr. Merritt was enjoying himself. “Did you not in fact
insist
on being part of this investigation?”

“So, what are you saying? I’m not allowed to complain about stuff that I demanded should happen?” When his eyebrows did a
little confirmation of this at me, I huffed playfully at him. “Since
when is that a rule?”

“Always accept your lumps without fuss, madam, when you have asked for them.”

I was
pretty
sure Harry hadn't told Combat Butler about our occasionally kinky sex.
Maybe
. I crossed my arms over my chest but
couldn’t help but smile. “I’m going to miss our little talks, Combat
Butler. When are you going to come live with us in Colorado?”

He laughed, then, a surprised hoot, like the idea tickled him.
“Oh, no, madam, I think not.”

“Because I’m a huge pain in the rump?”

“Not at all,” he said, and my empathy assured me he was being sincere. “I have three grandsons here who need their Pop Pop around.”

“Let me guess, Byron: those charming young lads are named Ewing, Fairfax, and Wordsworth.”

“They’re called Cody, Brent, and Tom.”

“Rats,” I said, and of course thought of Father Scarrow, and his
nipple-ripping name, and his lewd smile, and his flowing, outdoor-model hair, and his skinny jeans. I stopped my brain before it
showed me his headless body. Almost.

Mr. Merritt cruised down the Seaway Haulage Road heading north, past the rectory, but Schenk’s car wasn't there, either. There
were three
others there, and a crime scene van that looked like it had been
snowed
in last night. I recognized Malashock’s car at the side of the road
where the plows had gone through. Mr. Merritt did another U-turn without having to be asked.

After hitting the nearest Tim Horton’s and grabbing a few coffees and a bag of Danish for the road, he struck out to Lock One, where we caught the first glimpse of Schenk, standing past the torn down frost fence, beyond the yellow police tape, staring out at the last push of the Welland Canal. His car was parked exactly where it had been the first time I met him.

Mr. Merritt pulled the hearse in beside the Sonata and I took two paper cups of coffee out with me. I’d left my ski mask in the tunnel; some crime scene guy had probably scooped it and entered it into evidence. The wind was chilly but not as horrible as it had been, and it tossed my black hair around my bruised face as I headed for the big cop. The morning was topped with a weird mix of blue skies and white clouds stained along their bottoms by grey, like the Green Man had dipped them in sludge before setting them above us.

Schenk didn’t turn to look as I came up on his flank.

“There better not be a donut in that bag,” he said gruffly.

My boots scuffed slush as I came to a full stop. “I’m not even holding a bag. Left my Danish in the hearse. Some detective you are.”

He looked down at me, slate eyes seriously scanning my upper lip, which had ceased to be puffy but was still nursing a split. I knew how bad my face looked; I couldn’t wait to get the stink-eye from airport security. I handed Schenk one of the coffees. He took off his gloves and wrapped both hands around the cup. “Thanks. On your way out?”

“Unless you need me to help you with paperwork.”

“That’ll be the day,” he said. “I have no fucking clue what I’m going to say, but I’m looking forward to the break.”

He didn’t say whether that was a break from the paranormal
stuff or a break from me, and the Blue Sense was quiet about it. “What did Malashock say about last night?”

“That she no longer owes you a favor.” He tried to bend back the little bit of the coffee cup lid that's supposed to fold and clip, but he got a crappy lid and it wouldn’t stay. He ripped the plastic tab off and stuck it in his pocket. “Littering is a crime.”

I grinned. “I’m in awe of your complete and utter obedience to the law at all times, Constable FunTimes.”

“You should be,” he said, blowing off the coffee steam, looking over my head to the hearse. “He doesn’t mind waiting?”

“I pay him to do a lot worse,” I bluffed. “He’s an assassin after dark. Everything settled?”

He stared into the canal for a long while, and then sipped his
coffee. “Seems to be. No activity here. I’ve got a clean-up team
waiting for the
crime scene guys to finish at the tunnel.” He looked back at the hearse, and the Blue Sense reported a momentary struggle within him, an internal debate. “Father Scarrow left a note for you at the
rectory.”

Urg.
“Was it private?”

“Very.”

“Did you read it?”

“Of course.” He took it out of his pocket and flapped it at me. I snatched it from his hand with a sigh.

“Dammit, Longshanks,” I said, giving it a quick scan. Since he’d already seen it, I read aloud, “Marnie, I write this knowing that this exorcism will most likely be my last. My home is not the sanctuary I had hoped. The poltergeist froze Drake and Wolf right in front of me. God forgive me, but I must assume His hand no longer protects the once-hallowed ground that I have without a doubt tainted. I’ve
tried to call you a hundred times since then, but I am no longer alone here, and everything I attempt is blocked, every battery drained,
every power source altered, every wire melted. By having the mourning
vial in my possession, I have opened the door to the entity that was once Elizabeth Briggs-Adsit, but I do not regret having done so. Understand, keeping this object in the police station drew her
attention to dozens of innocent men, and had the power to bring her to it. I had to remove it for their sakes. Since I assume Barnaby Nowland stole it from me, I hope you are now in possession of it. If I should die before this is
resolved, I will warn you here: when Mrs. Briggs-Adsit comes for her necklace, LET HER HAVE IT. She will kill you if you do not. I will do everything I can to banish her beyond the veil before this
happens.” I paused for a moment, fighting off a wave of sadness, and continued. “It is nine-thirty. I am heading to the Blue Ghost Tunnel to exorcise the area, and then I will move to the overflow pond to pay special
attention to the Briggs-Adsit gravesite. I am not confident this will work without the skull and the necklace, but I can wait no longer as my life is now at risk. I am sorry that my selfish curiosity has brought us to this, and hope you will find it in your heart to forgive
me. May whatever face of God you believe in bless and keep you, Marnie. I will pray for
you.” I dropped my arm as if the letter had become unbearably
heavy. “Well, shit.”

“He left funeral instructions,” Schenk said. “High noon. So the ‘unrepentant monster’ can’t attend.”

Harry
. I checked my watch. “Funeral? Father Scarrow was murdered by a poltergeist. Do you have any idea what that would do to tissue at the microscopic level?”

“No. And neither do you, I bet.”

“Damn right, I don’t. Nobody knows. This is unheard of. That’s
why Scarrow’s body, along with Britney Wyatt’s and Barnaby Nowland’s, will be at the morgue and then the Center for
Preternatural Forensic Sciences in Hamilton for a
looooong
time.”

“They’ve already called about it three times this morning,” Schenk agreed. “I want my guy to do his preliminaries
comprehensively first.”

“Who called?” I asked, opening my coffee and sipping carefully to see if it had cooled off enough not to scald my tongue. “Burns? Gyorkos? Mills? Souza?”

“Mills,” he confirmed.

“Fuckin’ Mills.” I gave Schenk the exorcist’s letter back, as he no doubt would need it for copies and paperwork and who knew what else. “I’ve had some run-ins with him. You do
not
want that guy to put you on his Christmas list, let me tell you.”

“Bad fruitcake?”

“You say that like there’s good fruitcake.” I glanced up at him while he finished his coffee. “And no, it wasn’t fruitcake.”

“Jelly of the month club?”

“Yes,” I said, “If by ‘jelly’ you mean ‘dick pics.’” When he looked mildly surprised, I said, “Hey, just because a guy’s a scientist doesn’t mean he’s not a fuckin’ weirdo.”

“True. After all, look at you.”

“Right—
heeeeeey
.” I smiled sourly.

“I’m not convinced you didn’t request those pictures.”

“Now, what you want to do is address all your files and
correspondence to Souza. Souza is thorough.”

“And no risk of naked pictures.”

“In fact, you might want to run those files to Souza in person,” I continued, thinking of Melinda Souza’s long, glossy chestnut hair
and startling green eyes. Last I’d heard, she was still single, probably on account of her serious nature, dedication to her job, fierce
independence, and her tendency to be brusque. Mindy was not a warm and fuzzy kind of girl, but that was nothing Schenk couldn’t handle. He had a good, if Anderson Cooper-colored head on his shoulders, and shared the same serious nature and work ethic. Could Souza be the answer to Schenk’s dreams? Feeling a bit like Cupid, I said, “Bring tea, not coffee. Souza drinks tea. English Breakfast, if I recall. Milk, no sugar. Maybe a cookie. Cookies are a nice touch. But not in the lab. No food in the lab.”