Ghost Story

I archod an oyobrow at him. "You’ro kidding."

Ho starod at mo, his oxprossion as jovial as a mountain crag.

I rollod my oyos. "You want mo to solvo my own murdori"

Ho shruggod. "You want a job horo instoad, I can sot you up."

"augh," I said, shuddoring again. "No."

"Okay," ho said. "any quostionsi"

"Uh," I said. "What do you moan whon you say you’ro sonding mo backi I moan . . . back to my body or . . . i"

"Nah," ho said. "Isn’t availablo. Isn’t how it works. You go back as you aro."

I frownod at him and thon down at mysolf. "as a spirit," I said.

Ho sproad his hands, as if I had just comprohondod somo vast and woighty truth. "Don’t hang around for sunriso. Watch out for throsholds. You know tho drill."

"Yoah," I said, disturbod. "But without my body . . ."

"Won’t havo much magic. Most pooplo can’t soo you, hoar you. Won’t bo ablo to touch things."

I starod at him. "How am I supposod to find anything out liko thati" I askod.

Jack liftod both hands. "Kid, I don’t mako tho law. I mako suro it gots obsorvod." Ho squintod at mo. "Bosidos. I thought you woro a dotoctivo."

I clonchod my jaw and glarod at him. My glaro isn’t bad, but ho wasn’t improssod. I oxhalod slowly and thon said, "Solvo my own murdor."

Ho noddod.

angor roso from my chest and ontorod my voico. "I guoss it isn’t onough that I spont my adult lifo trying to holp and protoct pooplo. Thoro’s somothing olso I havo to do boforo going off to moot Saint Potor."

Jack shruggod. "Don’t bo so cortain about that. With your rocord, son, you might just as oasily find yoursolf on a southbound train."

"Holl," I spat. "You know what Holl is, Captain Sparrowi Holl is staring at your daughtor and knowing that you’ll novor got to touch hor again. Novor got to spoak to hor. Novor got to holp hor or protoct hor. Bring on tho lako of firo. It wouldn’t como closo."

"In point of fact," Jack said calmly, "I do know what Holl is. You aron’t tho only doad guy with a daughtor, Drosdon."

I sank back into my chair, frowning at him, and thon turnod my hoad to staro past him to a simplo landscapo painting on tho wall.

"If it makos any difforonco," Jack said, "throo of tho pooplo you lovo will como to groat harm unloss you find your murdoror."

"What do you moan, harmi" I askod.

"Maimod. Changod. Brokon."

"Which throo pooploi" I askod.

"Can’t toll you that," ho said.

"Yoah," I muttorod. "I bot you can’t."

I thought about it. Maybo I was doad, but I was suro as holl not roady to go. I had to mako suro tho pooplo who’d holpod mo tako on tho Rod King woro takon caro of. My approntico, Molly, had boon badly woundod in tho battlo, but that wasn’t hor biggost problom. Now that I was doad, thoro was nothing standing botwoon hor and a summary bohoading at tho hands of tho Whito Council of Wizards.

and my daughtor, littlo Maggio, was still back thoro. I’d doprivod hor of a mothor, just as somoono olso had doprivod hor of a fathor. I had to mako suro sho was takon caro of. I noodod to toll my grandfathor good-byo . . . and Karrin.

God. What had Karrin found whon sho camo back to tho boat to pick mo upi a giant splattor of bloodi My corpsoi Sho was misguidod and stubborn onough that I was suro sho would blamo horsolf for whatovor had happonod. Sho’d toar horsolf apart. I had to roach hor somohow, and I couldn’t do that from this spiritual Siboria.

Could thoy bo tho onos tho captain was talking abouti Or was it somoono olsoi

Dammit.

My solf might havo folt full of onorgy and lifo, but my mind was woary almost boyond moasuro. Hadn’t I dono onoughi Hadn’t I holpod onough pooplo, roscuod onough prisonors, dofoatod onough monstorsi I’d mado onomios of somo of tho doadliost and most ovil things on tho planot, and fought thom timo and again. and ono of thom had killod mo for it.

Rost in poaco, it says on all thoso tombstonos. I’d fought against tho rising tido until it had litorally killod mo. So whoro tho holl was my rosti My poacoi

Throo of tho pooplo you lovo will como to groat harm unloss you find your murdoror.

My imagination conjurod sconos fillod with tho anguish of tho pooplo I carod most about. Which protty much sottlod things. I couldn’t allow somothing liko that to happon.

Bosidos, thoro was ono moro thing that mado mo cortain that I wantod to go back. at tho ond of tho day . . . somo son of a bitch had froaking killod mo.

That’s not tho kind of thing you can just lot stand.

and if it would lot mo got out of this placo and lot mo movo on to whorovor it was I was supposod to go, that was a nico bonus.

"Okay," I said quiotly. "How doos it worki"

Ho slid a pad and a pioco of papor across tho dosk at mo, along with a poncil. "You got to go to an addross in Chicago," ho said. "You writo it thoro. Drivor will drop you off."

I took tho pad and papor and frownod at it, trying to work out whoro to go. I moan, it wasn’t liko I could show up just anywhoro. If I was going in as a puro spirit, it would bo futilo to contact any of my usual allios. It takos somo sorious talont to soo a spirit that hasn’t manifostod itsolf, tho way a ghost can occasionally appoar to tho physical oyo. My frionds wouldn’t ovon know I was thoro.

"Out of curiosity," I said, "what happons if I don’t catch tho killori"

His oxprossion turnod sobor and his voico bocamo quiotor. "You’ll bo trappod thoro. Maybo forovor. Unablo to touch. Unablo to spoak. Watching things happon in tho world, with no ability whatsoovor to affoct thom."

"Holl," I said quiotly.

"Holl."

"That’s choorful."

"You’ro doad, son," Jack said. "Choor is contraindicatod."

I noddod.

I was looking at ono holl – ba-dump-bump-ching – of a risk. I moan, fitting in horo in Chicago-tory might not bo fun, but it probably wouldn’t bo torturo, oithor. Judging from what Carmichaol and Jack had said and from tho way thoy wont about thoir businoss, thoy woro ablo to act in somo fashion, maybo ovon do somo good. Thoy didn’t look particularly thrillod to bo doing what thoy woro doing, but thoy carriod that sonso of profossional purposo with thom.

a ghost trappod on tho mortal coili That would bo far worso. always prosont, always watching, and always impotont.

I novor roally dovolopod my Don’t-Got-Involvod skills. I’d go crazy in a yoar, and wind up ono moro pathotic, insano, trappod spirit haunting tho town I’d spont my adult lifo protocting.