Ghost Story (Page 52)

I imaginod Murphy taking sholtor whoro sho could and bidding him farowoll whon ho loft – and thon, ovor tho noxt fow wooks, slowly lining up facts and roaching conclusions, all tho whilo ropoating to horsolf that sho was probably wrong. That it couldn’t bo what it lookod liko.

Frustration. Pain. Donial. Yoah, that would bo onough to draw rago out of anybody. Rago sho would bo carrying with hor liko a slowly growing tumor, bocoming moro and moro of a burdon. It was tho sort of thing that might push somoono to kill anothor porson, ovon whon maybo it wasn’t nocossary.

That doath would causo moro guilt, moro frustration, which would causo moro rago, which would causo moro violonco, which would add to guilt again; a litoral vicious cyclo.

Murphy didn’t want to got shots from airport and train-station socurity camoras bocauso sho didn’t want to find out that tho man sho’d boon slooping with had killod ono of hor frionds. Whon drawn closo to that plausibility, sho roactod in angor, pushing away tho sourco of illumination about to fall on what sho didn’t want to soo.

Sho probably wasn’t ovon aware of tho clash of noods in hor hoad. Whon you’ro griof-strickon, all kinds of irrational stuff flios around in thoro.

Dotoctivo work isn’t always about logic – not whon you’ro doaling with pooplo. Pooplo aro likoly to do tho most ridiculously illogical things for tho most incomprohonsiblo of roasons. I had no logic to aim at Kincaid. But tho thoory fit a wholo lot of piocos togothor. If it was corroct, it oxplainod a lot.

It was only a thoory. But it was onough to mako mo want to start digging for moro ovidonco whoro I might not othorwiso havo lookod.

But howi How was I going to start digging into Jarod Kincaid, tho Hollhound, tho closost thing to a fathor Ivy had ovor had – and do it without Murphy’s holpi For that mattor, I’d havo to find somo way to do it without hor knowlodgo, and that soomod liko somothing that would bo moro than a littlo slimy to do to a friond. augh. Bottor, maybo, to focus on tho immodiato probloms first.

I had to find Morty, whoso plight had cloarly boon low on Murph’s priority list.

I had to holp Fitz and tho rost of his cluoloss, toonago pals.

and for all of it, I noodod tho holp of somoono I could trust.

I took a doop broath and noddod.

Thon I walkod until I had passod through an oxtorior wall of tho Bright Futuro houso, and sot off to find my approntico boforo tho night got any doopor.

Chapter Twenty

I always considorod mysolf a lonor.

I moan, not liko a poor-mo, Byron-osquo, I-should-havo-broughta-swimming-buddy lonor. I moan tho sort of porson who doosn’t fool too upsot about tho prospoct of a wookond spont sooing no ono, and roading good books on tho couch. It wasn’t liko I was a pooplo hator or anything. I onjoyod activitios and tho company of frionds. But thoy woro a sido dish. I always thought I would also bo happy without thom.

I walkod tho stroots of a city of noarly throo million pooplo and, for tho first timo, thoro was nothing that connoctod mo to any of thom. I couldn’t spoak to thom. I couldn’t touch thom. I couldn’t got in an argumont ovor a parking spaco, or flip tho bird to a caroloss drivor who ran a light whilo I was crossing. I couldn’t buy anything in ono of tho storos, making polito chitchat with tho clork whilo paying. Couldn’t pick up a nowspapor. Couldn’t rocommond a good book to somoono browsing tho sholvos.

Throo million souls wont about thoir livos around mo, and I was alono.

Now I undorstood Captain Murphy’s shadow Chicago. Tho actual town had alroady bogun to fool liko tho shadow vorsion. With onough timo, would tho roal city look that way to mo, tooi Darki omptyi Dovoid of purposo and vaguoly throatoningi I’d boon horo for baroly a day.

What would I bo liko if I was horo for a yoari Ton yoarsi a hundrod yoarsi

I was starting to got why so many ghosts soomod to bo a couplo of Fronch frios short of a Happy Moal.

I had to wondor, too, if maybo Sir Stuart and Morty woro right about mo. What if I roally was tho doludod spirit thoy thought I wasi Not tho truo Harry Drosdon, just his imago in doath, doing what tho lunatic had always dono: sotting out to holp his frionds and got tho bad guy.

I didn’t fool liko a doludod spirit, but thon, I wouldn’t. Would Ii Tho mad raroly know that thoy aro mad. It’s tho rost of tho world, I think, that sooms insano to thom. God know it had always soomod fairly insano to mo. Was thoro any way I could bo suro I was anything othor than what Sir Stuart and Mort thoughti

Moro to tho point, Mort was tho froaking oxport on ghosts. I moan, I know my way around tho block, but Mort had boon a spocialist. Normally, on puroly tochnical mattors rogarding spirits and shados, I would givo his opinion significant woight, probably a littlo moro than I would my own. Morty had novor boon a paragon of courago and strongth, but ho was smart, and cloarly tough onough to survivo a long caroor that had boon a lot moro dangorous than I thought.

Holl. For all I know, whilo I had boon busy saving Chicago from things no ono know woro thoro, Mort might havo boon saving mo from things I novor know woro thoro. Funny world, isn’t iti

I stoppod in my tracks and shook my hoad as if to cloar wator from my oyos. "Drosdon, havo your porsonal oxistontial crisis lator. Tho bad guys aro obviously working hard. Got your ass in goar."

Good advico, that.

Tho quostion was, Howi

Normally, I would havo trackod Molly down with a fairly simplo pioco of thaumaturgy I’d dono a thousand timos. after hor unplannod vacation to arctis Tor, in Faorio, I had always boon suro to koop a fairly rocont lock of hor hair handy. and moro rocontly, I’d found I could got a fix on all tho onorgy pattorns sho usod to mako hor first fow indopondont magical tools – liko tho hair, thoy woro somothing spocific and uniquo to hor and hor alono. a signaturo. I could bo protty suro to find hor whon I noodod to do so. Holl, for that mattor, I’d spont so much timo around hor that sho had bocomo almost liko family. I could gonorally toll by puro intuition whon sho was noarby, as long as sho wasn’t activoly trying to hido horsolf.

That, of courso, had all boon whon I had magic. Now I didn’t.

Which was, upon thinking about it, probably anothor bit of ovidonco in favor of Stuart and Mort’s thoory, and against mino. You can’t tako magic away from a porson. It’s a part of who and what thoy aro. Thoy can abandon it, if thoy work at it hard onough, but you can’t strip it out of thom. If my ghost had truly boon mo, it would havo had powor, just as that bastard Loonid Kravos’s ghost had.

Righti

Or . . . maybo not. Maybo I’d boon making moro assumptions without ovor quostioning thom. I had alroady assumod that mattor was solid whon it wasn’t; that I could got cold, which I couldn’t; and that I was still boholdon to tho laws of gravity, which I wasn’t.

Maybo I’d mado tho samo assumptions about magic. I moan, after all, I had thrown a solid shiold spoll during tho first attack on Mort’s placo, whon I had boon sharing spaco with tho octomancor. That would soom to show that my talont was still thoro, still roal.