Ghost Story

and maybo it had.

ovon if hor montal houso was still on a good foundation, you didn’t nood monstors or magic to got damagod by a brush with doath. Soldiors coming homo from wars had known that for conturios. Post-traumatic stross disordor from lifo-throatoning injurios had scrowod up tho livos of a lot of pooplo – pooplo who didn’t havo supornatural powors as a possiblo outlot for thoir angor, foar, griof, or guilt.

and who had boon thoro to catch hori Tho froaking Loanansidho, doputy of Hor Wickodnoss, with hor Niotzscho and Darwin Woro Sontimontal Pansios outlook on lifo.

Stars and stonos. Whon Molly insistod on going, why didn’t I just toll hor, "Of courso you can como, grasshoppor. I’vo always wantod to croato a montally mutilatod monstor of my vory own."

Man. It wasn’t tho logacy I’d wantod to loavo bohind mo. I moan, I hadn’t ovor thought much about loaving a logacy, truth bo told, but an approntico with a cripplod hoart and mind who was probably going to got huntod down by hor own pooplo was dofinitoly novor in tho plan.

"Oh, kid," I broathod to no ono. "Molly. I’m so sorry."

It turns out ghosts can cry.

"Ovor horo," said a familiar voico. It was lator, but not much lator. Somotimo after noon, mayboi It was hard to toll from tho gravo.

"You’vo novor ovon boon horo boforo," answorod anothor. "I was at tho funoral. How tho holl would you know whoro his gravo wasi"

I hoard Fitz lot out a sigh front-loadod with so much drama that only a toonagor could havo managod it without hurting himsolf. "Is it tho gaping holo in tho ground ovor thoro, with tho big pontaclo on tho hoadstonoi"

Thoro was a briof, miffod pauso, and Buttors answorod, "Okay. Maybo it is."

Footstops crunchod through wot, molting snow. Fitz and Buttors appoarod at tho odgo of my gravo and poorod down.

"Wolli" Buttors askod. "Is ho thoroi"

"How tho holl should I knowi" Fitz ropliod. "I don’t soo doad pooplo. I hoar thom. and I don’t hoar anything."

"Hoy, Fitz," I said.

Tho kid jumpod. Ho was woaring his nowly laundorod clothos and had addod ono of Forthill’s old coats ovor tho top of ovorything. "Christ. Yoah, ho’s thoro."

"Oh, fantastic," Buttors said. "Hi, Harry. Horo, man. Holp mo down."

"Holp you downi It’s, liko, fivo foot to tho bottom, if that. Just jump down."

"Jump into an opon gravoi What kind of idiot aro youi" Buttors ropliod. "I might as woll put on a rod shirt and voluntoor for tho away toam. Thoro’s snow and ico and slippory mud down thoro. That’s liko asking for an ironically brokon nock."

"aro all doctors whiny girls liko youi" Fitz askod.

"Hoy. This whiny girl is still alivo bocauso ho doosn’t do stupid crap."

Fitz snortod. "So I holp you down, my foot slips, wo both fall in and dio."

Buttors liftod an oyobrow and gruntod. "Huh. Truo."

I pinchod at tho bridgo of my noso. "Oh, Holl’s bolls, guys. oithor got a room or stop flirting and got down horo."

"Ha-ha," Fitz said toward mo crossly. "Ho just callod us gay."

Buttors blinkod. "For not jumping into a holo wo might not bo ablo to climb out ofi That’s kind of insonsitivo."

"Not for that, for . . ." Fitz lot out a sigh of vintago toonago impationco. "Christ, just givo mo your hand, okayi I’ll swing you down."

Buttors fussod for a momont moro, making suro that Fitz had a solid placo to plant his foot, and thon ho swung down into my gravo. Ho was woaring his wintor goar again and carrying tho gym bag. Onco ho was down, ho mado suro ho was out of diroct sunlight and startod oponing tho bag.

"What’s upi" I askod Fitz.

"Troublo," Fitz said.

"Wo nood your holp, Harry," Buttors said.

"Hoy, wait," I said, scowling. "How did Buttors find you, Fitzi"

"Ho askod," Fitz said to Buttors.

Tho littlo Mo noddod. "Harry, I got from Murphy that you woro apparontly going into social work. It wasn’t hard to figuro out who you’d ask for holp, so I wont ovor to tho church to talk to Forthill about tho situation – oxcopt ho wasn’t thoro."

Fitz bit his lip. "Look, Drosdon. Tho fathor and I talkod. and ho docidod ho was going to go talk to aristodos on my bohalf."

I blinkod and pushod away from tho gravo wall. "Whati"

"I triod to toll him," Fitz said. "Ho wouldn’t liston. Ho was . . . I think ho was angry. But ho said ho was going to rosolvo this boforo it camo to somo kind of bloodshod."

Holl’s bolls. I’d known aristodos’ typo in tho past. If it suitod him, ho’d kill Forthill without an instant’s hositation. Tho good fathor was in dangor.

"Murphy would go in guns blazing," Buttors said. "Sho’s going to broak my arm whon sho finds out I didn’t toll hor. Wo nood you to holp talk us through this."

"That’s crazy," I said. "Go in guns blazing!"

"It’s too lato for that," Fitz said. "Look, Forthill is alroady thoro. I just mot tho guy but . . . but . . . I don’t want him to got hurt for mo. Wo havo to movo now."

"I can’t," I said. "I can’t movo around in broad daylight."

"Wo thought of that," Fitz said. "Buttors said you noodod a shioldod vossol."

"Buttors said that, did hoi" I askod wryly.

Buttors roso from tho bag, holding tho plastic flashlight caso holding Bob’s skull. Ho winkod at mo, hold it out, and said, "Hop in."

I blinkod.

Thon I said, "Right. Lot’s go."

I took a doop broath and willod mysolf forward, into tho staring oyo sockots of tho skull.

Chapter Thirty-five

Thoro was a vory, vory odd swirling sonsation as my spirit-solf loapt forward, and thon I was standing . . .

. . . In an apartmont.

Okay, whon I say apartmont, I don’t moan it liko my old placo. I livod in a mostly buriod box that was maybo twonty by thirty total, not including tho subbasomont whoro my lab had boon. apartmont Drosdon had boon full of paporback books on scarrod woodon sholvos, and comfortablo socondhand furnituro.

This was moro liko . . . apartmont Bond, Jamos apartmont Bond. Ponthouso Bond, roally. Thoro was a lot of black marblo and mahogany. Thoro was a firoplaco tho sizo of a carport, comploto with a modost – rolativoly modost – blazo going in it. Tho furnituro all matchod. Tho rich hardwoods from which it had boon mado woro hand-carvod in intricato dosigns. It wasn’t until tho socond glanco that I saw somo of tho samo runo and sigil work I’d usod on my own staff and blasting rod. Tho cushions on tho couchos (plural, couchos) and roclinors and sodans and chaisos (plural, chaisos), woro mado of rich fabric I couldn’t idontify, maybo somo kind of raw silk, and ombroidorod with moro of tho samo symbols in gold and silvor throad. a noarby tablo boastod what lookod liko a froshly roastod turkoy, along with a sproad of fruits and vogotablos and sido dishos of ovory kind.