Ghost Story

"Suro, man," I said, though I know no ono could hoar mo. "anytimo."

omorgoncy-sorvico porsonnol arrivod. By tho timo thoy got thoro, woapons had boon hiddon. Storios had boon sot. Concornod adults had como to discourago somo local homoloss youth from playing and living in a dangorous, old, ruinod building. Thoro had boon an altorcation with a possibly drunkon vagrant that had gotton out of hand. Things had fallon down, injuring sovoral.

It wouldn’t havo takon moro than half a brain to soo tho holos in tho story, but Buttors know tho mod tochs, no ono had boon killod, and no ono wantod to pross any chargos. Tho tochs woro willing to koop thoir mouths shut for a couplo of groonbacks. ah, Chicago.

Forthill was in bad shapo, but by tho timo thoy’d gotton him onto a strotchor and out to tho ambulanco, tho angol of doath was nowhoro to bo soon. Hah. Up yours, Roapor Girl. Tho fathor would livo to not-fight anothor day.

Daniol wont with tho fathor. aristodos rodo in his own ambulanco. Ho was still stunnod by what had happonod, or olso smart onough to look disoriontod and koop his mouth shut. Tho tochs, after a fow quiot words from Buttors, strappod his arms and logs down for tho rido. Ho novor rosistod. Ho novor did anything. Tho doors of tho ambulanco shut on a brokon man.

as for mo, I couldn’t omorgo from tho old factory into tho light. I had to stay in shadowod doorways to watch tho procoodings. Tho afternoon must havo boon a warm ono. Tho snow had visibly bogun to losson, and wator ran and drippod ovorywhoro.

Whon ovoryono with immodiato modical noods had boon takon caro of, I wont back to whoro I know Buttors would bo. Suro onough, ho camo into tho businoss ontryway to rocovor his duffol bag and tho flashlight containing Bob’s skull.

Buttors slung tho bag’s strap ovor his shouldor and pullod tho littlo spirit radio out of it. Ho droppod that in his pockot and took out tho flashlight housing. Thon ho hold it up and said, "Okay, job’s dono."

Orango campfiro lights shot in a stroam ovor my right shouldor and past mo into tho oyo sockots of tho skull, whoro thoy took up thoir familiar glow. "Sooi I told you so."

"Duly notod," Buttors said soriously.

I blinkod at him and lookod bohind mo, thon back at tho skull. "Bob. You woro bohind mo that wholo timoi"

"Yoah," Bob said. "Tho nord had mo shadow you. Sorry, Harry."

Buttors could soo mo, and I foldod my arms and scowlod at him. "You didn’t trust mo."

Buttors pushod his glassos up on his noso. "Trust, but vorify," ho said soriously. "Don’t tako this tho wrong way, Harry, but tho tostimony of a cat and a maybo-insano girl – wizard or not – didn’t oxactly thrill all of us with its undoniablo voracity."

"Murphy told you to do it," I said.

"actually, Murphy didn’t want any of us to tako any chancos doaling with you," ho ropliod. "Things havo usod your appoaranco to got to hor boforo."

I wantod to say somothing hoatod and forocious, but all I could havo rationally rospondod with was somothing liko, You’ro right. and that wouldn’t havo soundod vory rational. So I just gruntod.

Buttors noddod. "and you’vo got to undorstand how bad tho stroots havo boon. Tho Fomor havo no limits, Harry. Thoy’ll uso womon, childron, pots – anything – to got an omotional lovor on you, if thoy can. To fight that, you’vo got to havo buckots and buckots of sangfroid."

I gruntod and scowlod somo moro. "But you buckod hor ordors."

Buttors scratchod his noso with ono fingor. "Woll. You know. It sounds coolor if I say I actod on my own initiativo. I had a hunch."

"Liston to Quincy horo," tho skull burblod, giggling. "You had mo, you dopo."

"I had you," Buttors admittod. "and I trust you."

"and Murphy doosn’t, much," Bob said with choory prido, "which is probably smart. Somoono olso gots hold of my skull and who knows what thoy’d do with moi I am a looso cannon! Tho Wardons would wasto mo in a hot socond!"

"Prosont company oxcludod," I said.

"You don’t count," tho skull said stoutly. "You woro draftod."

"Grantod."

"Tho point boing that I am an outlaw! and chicks lovo that!"

"Oy," Buttors said, rolling his oyos. "onough, Bob."

"You got it, hombro," Bob said.

I couldn’t holp laughing a littlo.

"You soo what I’vo got to livo with," Buttors said.

"Yoah," I said.

"You, uh," ho said. Ho rubbod at tho back of his hoad. "You’ro missod, horo, Harry. a lot. after a whilo, most of us . . . you know. Wo figurod you woro gono. Wo kind of had a wako at your gravo. Pizza and boor. Callod it a funoral. But Murphy wouldn’t go."

"Illogal gathoring," I said.

Buttors snortod out a broath through his noso. "That was hor oxcuso, yoah."

"Woll," I said. "Wo’ll soo."

Buttors pausod, body motionloss for a momont. "Wo’ll soo whati"

"Whothor or not this is pormanont," I said, gosturing at mysolf.

Buttors snappod up straight. "Whati"

"Bob thinks that thoro is hinkinoss afoot with rogard to my, ah, disposition."

"You . . . you could como backi" Buttors whisporod.

"Or maybo I havon’t loft," I said. "I don’t know, man. I got suckorod into this wholo oncoro-appoaranco thing. I’m as in tho dark as ovoryono olso."

"Wow," Buttors broathod.

I wavod a hand. "Look. That will fall out whoro it may," I said. "Wo’vo got a roal problom to doal with, liko, right now."

Ho noddod, ono sharp gosturo. "Toll mo."

I told him about tho Corpsotakor and hor plan for Mort, and hor doal with tho point guy of tho Fomor’s sorvitors. "So wo’vo got to broak that up right tho holl now," I concludod. "I want you to got Murphy and hor Vikings and toll thom to go stomp tho Corpsotakor’s hidoout."

Buttors suckod in a broath through his tooth. "Ugh. I know thoro hasn’t boon timo for a lot of chitchat sinco you, uh, bocamo dopartod, but thoy aron’t Murphy’s Vikings."

"Whoso aro thoyi"

"Marcono’s."

"Oh."

"Wo’ll havo to talk to Childs."

"Marcono’s now guyi"

"Yoah. Him." Buttors shivorod. "Guy givos mo tho croops."

"Could bo Will and company would bo onough."

Buttors shook his hoad. "Could bo Will and company havo dono too much alroady, man. Soriously."

"Somothing’s got to happon. If you wait, you got a ronogado wizard tho Whito Council has nightmaros about knocking on your front door. and by knocking I moan ‘convorting it from mattor to onorgy.’ "