Right. He looked over at O’Leary to find him slumped over the steering wheel. “Cal?” he asked. There was no response.

Check his pulse, Hugh instructed.

Gryphon rolled his eyes. “I can never find a pulse and you know it.”

Fine. Let me take over.

That idea was a relief, and he wasn’t sure why. No, scratch that – he knew exactly why. Even he was tired of being in his own skin. “Yeah, fine.”

The process of letting the others take over had become easier. It was just like letting go, although of what he wasn’t sure. He just felt like he was momentarily falling, and then he was in the back seat, a passenger behind his own eyes. It didn’t get any less disorienting with time, though.

Hugh looked at his arms and patted his chest before undoing his seat belt and reaching across to check O’Leary’s pulse. What the hell was that about? Gryphon asked.

“Trying to figure out if you were hurt,” Hugh said. “Your chest hurts a little.”

It does? He didn’t remember that.

“Yeah. It’s not a sharp pain, though, so maybe it’s just a bruise from the belt.” Hugh put a couple of his fingers on the side of O’Leary’s neck, and he found a pulse right away. How did he manage to do that? “He’s alive. His heartbeat’s a little rapid, but a guy his age and girth probably has hypertension.”

And now you’re the medical expert, Ray carped.

“Trust me, I know bodies,” Hugh said, opening the cab door and getting out. The big thing that hit them was slammed up against the guard rail, steam hissing out from beneath the crumpled hood. As Hugh crossed the street to the wreck, a young Indian guy driving a Volkswagen pulled over and shouted out his driver’s side window, “Need help?”

“Not me, but this guy might,” Hugh replied, approaching the wrecked SUV. He was about within a dozen feet of it when he saw a colorful display on the pavement, blue and red and yellow, and saw that a body was laying splayed out on the shoulder, half in some brush, about fifteen feet from the vehicle itself. Shattered safety glass sparkled like blue and white diamonds strewn at his feet. One of his arms was splayed out, and the other was bent under him in what would have been a painful manner had he been conscious.

It was a man, although he was laying face down on the ground, which added a bit of doubt. But women just didn’t have that type of pipe cleaner body shape, except in odd occurrences. He had short brown hair that sparkled with shattered glass. Hugh knelt beside him, and getting a good look at his bloody face, groaned audibly. “Kid, he’s about your age.” Hugh was right; beneath the hair and the blood, he looked about twenty or so.

Hugh found his pulse in his neck, but it was a lot more erratic than O’Leary’s. It was like a little hummingbird frantically beating its wings against the inner skin of his throat. He’s dying, isn’t he? Gryphon guessed. He supposed if he was in the driver’s seat, he’d be able to sense it, but he wasn’t quite connected to himself right now.

“Possibly,” Hugh reluctantly replied. “He did a header through the windshield, and that ain’t great for your longevity.” He leaned down, and whispered, “Don’t die, kid. I think Gryph’s at full capacity.”

The Indian guy came over, looking nervous enough to jump out of his skin. “I called 911,” he said, looking down at the guy splashed on the road. A brief wave of nausea turned his face pale. He was wearing the dark slacks, white shirt, and bright tie of someone in middle management, but everyone tried not to hold that against him. “Should we, uh, move him off the road ..?”

“No. He could have neck or head injuries that we’d just make worse, so leave him for the paramedics.”

The guy looked down nervously at the accident victim and nodded like his head was on a spring. He seemed relieved that someone else was taking charge. But he stopped his odd loose necked nod to stare at him wonderingly. “You’re bleeding.”

Hugh wiped his face, and saw small smears of blood on his palm. “Just glass cuts. We – I’m fine.”

Nice save, Ruby said.

“Fuck,” O’Leary snapped, getting out of the truck and slamming the door. He looked at the front of the truck, grimacing at the smashed headlight and crumpled front bumper, and grabbing his side as if he were in pain. “Son of a bitch.” He turned towards them, and fixed a laser gaze on the Indian man. “Did you do this? Did you hit me?”

“No, he’s a good Samaritan,” Hugh told him, and then pointed beyond the SUV. “The guy who hit you is over there.”

“Oh.” He saw the man’s body partly on the road and scowled. “Shit. My insurance rates are gonna skyrocket.”

“Wow, and they called me cold,” Hugh said.

O’Leary swiveled the scowl over to him. “I didn’t mean ‘cause of him, I meant … oh forget it.” He sighed and rubbed his broad forehead. “Is he dying?”

“He’s working on it.”

O’Leary gave him a look like he thought he was shitting him and he didn’t find it particularly funny. But then a new expression crossed his face, something akin to understanding, and he asked, “You ain’t Ashmore, are you?”

“Nope. Hugh D’Ancanto, dead guy, at your service.” Hugh added a small, sarcastic, two fingered salute to this. “What gave it away?”

“You’re smiling. Ashmore doesn’t smile.”

“Oh, I know. He’s a gloomy gus. Totally Goth.”

I am not, Gryphon protested.

You so totally are, Taneesha countered.

The Indian guy was looking between him and O’Leary nervously. “What are you guys talking about?”

Hugh opened his mouth to say something, and Gryphon was genuinely curious what he would say, but he never got a chance to find out, as a truck barreled around the corner at an incredible speed. It was newer and wider than O’Leary’s sad excuse for a truck, and painted an ominous shade of black. They were all standing in the road too, so O’Leary had time to curse, but Hugh remained where he was, and simply focused his will as he shouted , “Stop!”

The truck stopped all right. It hit an invisible wall about ten feet in front of him, coming to a dead stop as the front bumper curved like tusks and the headlights shattered into a gentle shower of glass dust, the body of the truck creaking and straining violently under the inertia of the sudden stop. The airbag deployed with a muffled “pop”, hiding the driver, and probably preventing them from seeing the hood of the truck crumple ever so slightly at the front. Smoke was starting to waft from under the hood in faint gray tendrils. “Hot damn,” Hugh said. “That’s fucking cool. I feel totally like Jean Grey.”

O’Leary was glaring at him in a complex mix of fear and disbelief. “Who?”

“Jean Grey. You know, X-Men.” O’Leary continued to stare at him blankly. “You never even saw the movie?”

“No.”

“I, um, I have,” the Indian guy said nervously. “What did, uh, what did you do to that truck?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Hugh lied, with a big shit-eating grin on his face. He then turned to O’Leary and asked, “Do you have a fire extinguisher?”

It took him a moment to focus on his question, but he finally said, “Yeah, a vehicle one, under the front passenger seat.”

“Good enough.” He went to get it as smoke started pluming out from under the hood of the black truck far more seriously. As Hugh reached under the passenger seat, he muttered, “I probably fried the wiring. But that was cool. Damn kid, you could have so much fun with these powers if you let yourself.”

They’re not my powers, they’re yours. You’re the dead ones, not me.

“But we’re all in you,” Hugh replied, finding the tiny canister and pulling it out. It was as red as your typical fire extinguisher, but was roughly the size of a summer sausage; it looked like a joke fire extinguisher. “There’s gotta be some benefit in that.”

Besides all our voluminous wisdom, Mr. Aronofsky joked.

As Hugh went to the black truck and opened the hood, spraying the contents of the fire extinguisher over a smoking, crackling nest of frying wires near the engine block, the driver of the truck was out and ranting at him. It was a middle aged woman with a strangely round figure and a rat’s nest of bottle blonde hair that made it look like she was wearing a poodle pelt on her head. “What the fuck didja do to my truck?” she ranted, growing angrier and more agitated by the second.

“Hey, lady, back off,” O’Leary snapped.

She ignored him, and got in Hugh’s face as he closed the hood. “This truck is new! What the fuck did you -”

“Back off!” O’Leary demanded angrily. “I’m a cop and this is an accident scene! Don’t make me arrest you for obstruction.” Funny how he didn’t mention he was a retired cop, and couldn’t actually arrest her for anything.

The woman frowned at him, giving him a death look, but backed off. By then, the scream of sirens was audible and approaching fast.

Gryphon let Hugh continue to be in control as the police and ambulance arrived, and Hugh chatted with the ambulance driver, a petite Asian woman, while the others worked on the driver of the SUV. Hugh was flirting with her, successfully it seemed, while she put bandages on his glass cuts and checked his ribcage for possible fractures. He did have a rather nasty looking bruise, but after listening to him breathe through a stethoscope, she winced and said, “Sounds like you have fluid in your lungs. It’s probably not worth bringing you in about, but you might want to go to the doctor as soon as you can.”

“Will do,” Hugh agreed cheerfully.

Not on your life, Gryphon snapped.

Once O’Leary was ready to go, he approached the truck, only to find the Indian guy waiting there, nervously wringing his hands. “What -” he began haltingly, so scared by his own questions he looked nauseous. “ – how did you stop the truck? Are you really … are you actually telekinetic?”

Hugh grinned at him, flashing him the winning smile that got him on the cover of a couple of firefighters charity calendars. “Come on man. That shit doesn’t exist outside of comic books.”

You are a cruel man, Sylvio said.

The car accident fucked up their day, so O’Leary just drove him back to Clay’s house, where Shane was. They’d responded positively to the home exorcism request, although Clay was still wary about it. Shane wanted to know if he was up to doing it tonight, and Hugh was going to say no, but Gryphon insisted on a yes. He just took the time to clean up and take back control of his body before they left, changing his shirt since his shirt was speckled with blood. It was only after he’d done that that he discovered Hugh had gotten the phone number of the paramedic. When had he done that?

I work fast, Hugh admitted.

Supersonic speed fast. Damn, he was dangerous.

Gryphon was surprised to find himself starving, probably because ceding control and the use of psychokinesis seemed to burn through his energy reserves. He grabbed some kind of granola snack bar from Clay’s kitchen (it wasn’t very good, but it was food), and then went out to join them in the Spirit Guide’s van. Shane had painted that on the sides of the blue van and everything – it looked very professional.

He got in the back and laid down amidst the inactive equipment as Shane and Clay sat up front, and Shane told him a bit more about the couple who now owned the house, the Jones’s, and the known history of the house. The most interesting bit brought up by Shane was that there were several deaths at the house over its history, although none were murders – there were three suicides, though, one in 1939, another in 1956, and the last in ‘72. (Hanging, slashed wrists, and drug overdose, respectively). Shane was of the opinion that the suicide in ‘72 was most likely the source of the poltergeist, which was a possibility, but Clay said that wasn’t a sure thing, as perhaps the poltergeist shoved the other people into committing suicide. It was possible, but Gryphon tagged it as unlikely.

He napped until they got to the house, and he woke up the second Shane and Clay opened the back door to retrieve some equipment. Clay studied him skeptically and asked if something had happened while he was out with O’Leary, and he lied and said no, as he saw no reason to mention the car accident. It didn’t matter right now. (He’d already lied and said the scratches were from stumbling into a bramble bush. Very lame as lies went, but explained the uncovered, tiny scratches on his face.)

The house looked old and kind of imposing, a converted farmhouse that still had the vague shape of a barn, with a high ceiling and squared off walls, with wild roses creating a serpentine nest of high shadows against the walls, creeping under the window frames like they were trying to break in.

But he barely noticed the exterior. As soon as he was on the cracked stepping stones that made up the front walk, he felt it. The house – no, something in the house – was just seething with reflexive hate. It wanted everyone to go away and leave it alone; it wanted to be all by itself. There was fear under the anger, but it was mostly aimless rage.

Gryphon didn’t think he reacted to it, but he must have, as Shane and Clay, who were bracketing him on either side, asked, almost in unison, “Got something?” They then shared the embarrassed glance of actors who had stepped on each other’s line.

“Stay here,” he told them. “Somebody really doesn’t want visitors.”

“You see them?” Shane wondered.

“Not yet; they’re hiding in the house. But they know we’re here.” As if to emphasize that fact, Gryphon walked through a cold spot on his way to the front door, a patch like the arctic in the dead of winter. But although he convulsively shuddered, he continued on through it, unimpressed.

“Is it safe for you to go in alone?” Clay wondered, although both remained at the head of the walk. They both knew by now when he told them to stay put, he meant it, and they had to listen.

Gryphon scoffed before looking back at the pair of ghostbusters with a rueful smile. “I’m never alone.”

As soon as he got up to the door, he tried the knob – which was, of course, ice cold – and found the door wouldn’t open. “They give you the house key?”

“They said the house key doesn’t work,” Shane reported. “They had three different locksmiths over here, who claimed the key should work, but none of ‘em could do it.”

“I see. Holding the door shut.“ He turned back to the whitewashed door. “Not very creative, is it Mr. Poltergeist? Guys, open it up.”

They hardly needed any prompting – Ruby was right there on the edge of his consciousness, ready to take over and kick some ass. He’d told her to wait for it, but he didn’t know if she would. He could feel the surge of energy leave him as the door suddenly slammed open, thudding against a wall and shaking the pane in the nearest window.

As soon as he was inside the foyer, which was naked of everything save for a coat tree that looked like it had been there since the beginning of time, he could see his breath coming out in plumes, the air so cold it was almost crystalline. The door slammed behind him with a loud, tooth rattling bang, but Gryphon hardly glanced at it. “You have parlor tricks? So do we. Guys?”

All the doors inside the house slammed. Every door, from kitchen cabinet to master bedroom, slammed shut as if on cue, the closed ones throwing themselves open and banging off walls. Gryphon got a sense that the angry ghost was upstairs. “See? We could do this all day. You’re outnumbered, friend. There’s one of you, and over a half dozen of us. Why don’t you talk to me, instead of hiding?”

He headed for a wooden staircase that looked dusty and positively ancient, and as he stepped on the first stair, an old Bell canning jar came straight out of nowhere, flying towards his face. Oh no you don’t, prick, Ruby said in his mind, as the jar froze in midair, inches from his face. As Gryphon reached out and took the jar, which fell easily into his hand, Hugh said, See? Isn’t this psychokinetic shit cool?

Gryphon put the jar down on the step, and continued up the stairs. “Nice try, but let me remind you once again, I look like one person, but I’m actually a torch wielding mob in a handy economic package. So stop the bullshit and reveal yourself. You’ll have to anyways.”

But did he? As he came to the top of the stairs and saw that the whole upstairs hallways was covered with a glossy white coating of ice, as unnaturally smooth and even as if an artist had been up here trying to paint a snowscape, he wondered if a poltergeist could actually resist his pull. And what would happen if it did.

Gryphon scoffed, rubbing his forehead. His head was starting to hurt, but in a weird way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Again, let me take you back to that point where you agreed that I wasn’t a screaming fraud. I’m not. I know about Jeff McCandless because he told me not to trust you. Now, do I hear your version of the story or not?”

“I told you to get offa my lawn,” the old dead guy croaked.

“We’re not on your lawn,” Gryphon snapped, casting an evil glance at him. “Now knock it off.”

“Who are you talking to?” O’Leary asked warily. “McCandless?”

“No. Some other ghost, who apparently haunts the lawns of this neighborhood.” He sighed, wishing for the billionth time that he could neither hear nor see the dead. “Now, Jeff.”

O’Leary looked around, as if appealing for help from an unseen force, but there was no one around interested in helping him. He made a vague gesture with his hands, and said, “We can’t talk about him here.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re here to look for Juliet Saltzman!”

He’s scared, Ruby said.

No shit, Ray replied.

“And yet, you’re dodging the question. I have no guarantee you’ll tell me the truth.”

“Yes, you do. I just wanna get this done. I’ll tell you whatever you want afterwards, okay?”

“Everybody’s always on my goddamn lawn,” the old man was muttering. “Always ignoring me, like they think I don’t matter. I do matter, lousy assholes -”

“No one is ignoring you,” Gryphon said, turning back towards the old ghost. “No one else can see or hear you. You get me? You’re dead. I’m sorry, deal with it.”

The old man glared at him, eyes swimming behind glass. “I’m not dead. What are you tryin’ to pull?”

He heaved a broken sigh. “Not another one. Look, friend, you’re dead; very, very dead. You’re what – eighty? This can’t be a shock.”

O’Leary took a step back. “You still talkin’ to that other ghost?”

Gryphon gave him a look that could have blistered paint – that was the extent of his answer. He gave the same look to the ghost, who didn’t seem to care. Or maybe Mr. Magoo just couldn’t see it. “There’s no need to get prickly about it, boy. I ain’t dead.”

“Yes you are. You’re so dead your shirt is out of style. “ Actually, he was wearing a polyester blend shirt, white with narrow green stripes, tucked into tan slacks that could very well have been Sansabelt. He wasn’t sure that was ever in style, or conversely out of style, as it was an “old guy” shirt, and those seemed to exist in a twilight area neither in style nor out. But that really wasn’t a debate to be having with a ghost who couldn’t give a shit about his fashion sense. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m talking to this guy now.” He turned back to O’Leary, only to find him giving him a look like he couldn’t believe what a freak he was talking to.

“Are you making this up just to freak me out?”

“I wish. You can answer some questions about you and Jeff for me as we walk the grounds. Okay? And you don’t get to say no.” Gryphon turned and stomped across the yard, not waiting for an answer. He assumed he followed, but didn’t care either way.

They walked the front yard, Gryphon not expecting anything at all, and being unsurprised by the lack of anything. He heard O’Leary tromping behind him, giving off a vague air of disgust. “Jeff was a cop,” Gryphon prompted, peering over the flimsy wooden fence that separated the front yard from the back. The back was overgrown and weedy, with the occasional mystery item tangled within the weeds, looking like the skeletal remains of some long lost robot.

“Yeah. He was an undercover narc,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Something went wrong,” Gryphon prompted.

“Everything went wrong,” he grumbled. “It was a sting, but somebody fucked up, and they knew we were comin’ in. We had to go in early guns blazing, as they’d already brought out their guns.” He paused, sighed heavily. “It was a fucking massacre. Five dead in all, seven wounded.”

“Jeff was among the dead.”

“Yeah. I think he was the first one shot.”

“Lying motherfucker,” Jeff said, suddenly reappearing off to one side. “He knows that’s not what happened.”

“I don’t think you’re being honest with me.”

He heard O’Leary stop walking behind him, and turned to face him. His face was starting to flush a violent red, which he was doing his best to hide. He swallowed hard, sweat starting to bead on his broad forehead. Gryphon felt obscurely bad for him – he was clearly tormented by his own guilt, and yet he couldn’t quite embrace the truth of what he’d done. He was uncomfortable in his own skin, with his own existence; he wore his own bulky flesh like an itchy sweater. “Have you found anything?”

“Besides the get offa my lawn guy? No.” He stepped up onto the porch, knocking on the white painted hollow metal door. “Although the lawn in back needs a good shaving, unless they’re planning to film the next Tomb Raider movie back there.”

Gryphon was suddenly overcome by a strange, familiar feeling, a cold wave down his spine that made him shiver convulsively as his fingertips went numb. O’Leary was saying something behind him, but his voice sounded frail and distant, noises from a hallway on the floor below. Standing beside him was an elderly woman, her hair a nimbus of blue rinsed curls, a small, frail body hidden beneath a loose pale blue dress and a tan cardigan held together by a chain clip in the front. She had on clear framed glasses that still seemed thick, riding on the end of her nose. Her eyes were almost colorless, her skin as thin as parchment and almost as pale, lines gathered in the corner of her mouth, at her eyes, under her eyes. Her lips were cracked and knuckles gnarled by arthritis. “I’d let you in if I could, but I don’t seem able to right now.”

Looking at her, he knew all he needed to. “You’re still inside, Hazel?”

“I think so. I’d thought one of my kids would have visited by now. Who are you?”

“No one; just an intermediary.”

“An angel?”

That startled a laugh out of him. “God, I’d hope not. But it’ll be okay now. I’ll make sure you’re found.”

She nodded, her mouth curving downwards in a skeptical frown, but she really had no choice in the matter. Who else was she going to appeal to?

O’Leary grabbed his shoulder, and once again the connection was gone, reality suddenly roaring back in a wave of noise, light, and color that seemed momentarily overwhelming. He shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to gather his foundering wits, as O’Leary continued to rant, “ – fuck’s the matter with you? Do you have seizures or something? You’re always doing this -”

Gryphon spun around and backed up a step, almost falling off the porch. “Call your cop buddies, let them know there’s a dead body in the house, okay?”

O’Leary just stared at him. “You found her?”

“No, I found the current resident, Hazel White. She died last week, from a stroke I think, and no one’s found her yet. If you want to open the door you’ll probably smell it for yourself, but I really wouldn’t advise it.”

“Is this normal? Do you find dead bodies wherever you go?”

“Generally. It makes sense, since I’m apparently death and all, but I must admit that finding someone who died of natural causes is a refreshing change.”

He walked back to the truck, only aware that he’d left O’Leary there on the porch when he asked in a small, disbelieving, “oh-my-god-I’m-with-a-crazy-person” voice, “What d’ya mean you’re death?”

Gryphon stared at him, and wondered if he could handle the truth. Jeff McCandless was standing behind him, arms crossed over his chest, scowling as deeply as Human possible. This man, handle truth? He wasn’t even handling his own very well right now. “I was kidding,” he lied. “Where’s your sense of humor?” He didn’t wait for a reply, just got in the truck.

I like this even less than usual, Hugh said, as Gryphon noticed the lawn ghost still glaring at him from the corner of his eye. But at least he was outside the truck.

“I ain’t crazy about it either, but so far it’s been a harmless diversion.”

Diversion? Ruby replied angrily. There’s some freakazoid serial killer out there! We should be finding him, not fucking around, helping some washed up cop assuage his guilt.

Assuage! Ray said. Wow, I had no idea twenty dollar hookers could use ten dollar words.

Before Ruby could justifiably bite his head off, Sylvio exclaimed, Would you just shut the fuck up? How dare a white trash fuck up like you put anyone down anyways! You were killed in the commission of a felony, you dirt bag asshole! What delusion are you operating under that allows you to feel superior to anyone?

There was a long moment of silence before Ray responded. You got a crush on the hooker, boy?

Did you just call me boy? Sylvio replied in disbelieving anger. It didn’t matter so much when you were dead, but when he was alive, Sylvio was mixed race, half-black and half-white.

Ray, I will figure out a way to knock you out if you don’t zip it now, Hugh warned. And go ahead and make any gay slur you want, but all you’re doing is convincing me you’re in the closet. I know a self-loathing queen when I meet one.

I ain’t no fag!

They all say that, Hugh replied witheringly. At first.

Ray didn’t seem to realize he’d already lost control of the conversation, and kept digging himself in deeper. I ain’t no queer, damn it! I fucked women!

So did I, Hugh said casually. I was once hit with a paternity suit.

You got a kid? Ruby asked in shock.

Possibly, but not that one. The DNA didn’t match. She got around a bit, let’s just put it that way, and I was the only one of the group of suspects with steady employment and health insurance. I think she went with the best case scenario at first, but the reality was probably ugly. The father was probably an unemployable hobo whose brain was so soaked in alcohol it was officially pickled.

Why’d she sleep with someone like that anyways? Ruby asked. Did he pay her?

No, I’m afraid the answer is simply tequila shooters night. Bars should just hand out morning after pills and tetracycline with them and the Jello shots.

This had completely taken the wind out of Ray’s sails – maybe he realized there was nowhere he could go from here, and also, in his brief time on Earth, Hugh had had more (unpaid) sex than all of them combined (Ruby excluded, for obvious reasons) with both men and women – so he was quiet by the time O’Leary got in the truck. The cop shot him a sidelong glance as he got in, only this time it wasn’t evil, just curious and a little scared. “Were you talking to yourself?”

He shook his head. “To my people. They feel I’m wasting my time here.”

O’Leary sighed wearily. “Maybe we are. I know I’m just grasping at straws here, but when you run out of options …” He trailed off and laid his head against the steering wheel.

“Why is this important to you?”

He was silent for much longer than he should have been. “I’m sure Wax is still active, but I also know he’s smarter than your average trash; he knows how to play the angles. And I think he knows more about what happened to that girl than he’s ever said and ever will say. I need extra-legal means to get the truth out of him, and short of torture, there’s you. If you’re genuine … which I will admit you are, as far as I can tell. You certainly seem to know things you shouldn’t.” He let out a tiny snort of laughter. “Maybe you’re like that guy on that show, that guy who’s jut really observant but pretends to be psychic.”

“I won’t say it again: I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be psychic. And you know damn well I’m not, you’re just having a hard time accepting what I am. Are you also aware that you have condemned Wax to death? If he is guilty, my people will probably kill him.”

O’Leary sat back and nodded, looking tired but not surprised. “I could live with that. I’ve lived with worse.”

“Speaking of which, I haven’t heard the whole story about Jeff McCandless.”

He couldn’t work up indignance or defiance anymore; he was exhausted in both spirit and mind, beaten down by the horrible realities of his own guilt. “No, you haven’t. But I think I’ll need a few beers before I can tell you the rest of it.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go get some.”

O’Leary snapped his head around so fast he might have just given himself whiplash. “It’s not even noon.”

Gryphon shrugged. “So? Haven’t you ever heard of a liquid lunch?”

You’re such a fucking lush, Taneesha accused.

From the look on his face, O’Leary was thinking much the same thing. “Are you even old enough to drink?”

“Of course I am. I’m older than I look.”

Kid, I don’t think you’re of legal drinking age in this state, Hugh pointed out. And you’ve known and ignored this for quite some time. Your poor liver.

He’s with an ex-cop, Ruby pointed out. They’re not going to card him.

“Why do I think you’re lyin’ to me?”

“I have no idea. Do you think I’m lying when I say I need a drink?”

That made him scoff. “No. If you told me you needed a hit, I’d believe ya.”

Was that an insult? Taneesha asked.

I’m gonna guess yes, but only to the kid, Hugh said.

Yeah, well, he’d been called worse.

He leaned his head against the cool passenger window and closed his eyes, the uneven rocking of the truck cab on the rough road about the only thing keeping him awake. O’Leary was talking, but since he wasn’t saying anything of consequence he’d tuned him out. He wanted to believe the killer he was looking for was Wax, it would have made things easier, but his mind kept rejecting the name. His instincts knew something he didn’t, something he hadn’t formulated into words, something that hadn’t fully formed in his cerebral cortex yet. The killer he was looking for was no middle aged sex offender; he was looking for a younger, more methodical and even more deeply fucked up psychopath. Somebody slaughtering people like meat.

A butcher.

That made him wake up, open his eyes. Could it be that simple? No, it couldn’t possibly be. But this guy definitely had experience cutting large bodies into more bite sized portions. Gryphon also realized, with a convulsive shudder, that he honestly thought he was doing them a favor.

“You okay?” O’Leary asked.

“I dunno,” he admitted, rubbing his eyes. One of the victims, one of the ghosts left at the riverside, knew the killer better than they thought. He didn’t know why he believed that, but he did. He’d picked something up and hadn’t even realized it until now.

Clay had made pancakes and soy bacon for breakfast, which wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Clay made his pancakes with carbonated water, so they weren’t as heavy as some, and instead of syrup he poured loganberry jam on them. Again, not bad. And the soy bacon didn’t taste like bacon per se, but it didn’t taste bad.

Clay’s kitchen table was tiny – it could barely accommodate four chairs – and looked homemade from some kind of light colored wood. Still, he easily could have bought it; Clay had some good woodworking skills, and probably could have made furniture for a living if he hadn’t become obsessed early on with ghosts and the paranormal. Now he just did a day job to fund his passion – it had absolutely nothing to do with skill.

Hugh must have told him something about the thing with O’Leary last night, because Clay didn’t ask. Instead, he told him about a phone call that Spirit Guides had gotten last night. “It was from this couple that lives in Salem. They wondered if we did exorcisms.”

Gryphon took a sip of his coffee, and then decided to add about a half a cup of sugar to it. Clay liked his coffee strong enough to peel paint. “They have Linda Blair vomiting pea soup at them?”

A corner of Clay’s mouth quirked up in a smirk. “That’s what I wondered. But no, apparently they just bought this old house, and it has a violent poltergeist in it. They wondered if we could get rid of it.”

“Violent how?”

“The usual. Breaking things, cracking windows, exploding light bulbs, slamming doors until the jamb splinters.”

“I take it they haven’t moved in yet.”

Clay shrugged, spooning more loganberry jam on his pancakes. Today, the shirt du jour was red plaid, and made him look like the Brawny paper towel guy’s cousin. “I dunno, I didn’t ask, but you’d think it’d be difficult.”

Gryphon cut a chunk out of his pancake stack, wondering why Clay gave him so many. Was he trying to fatten him up? “You take the job? ‘Cause I could handle that.”

The fuck you can! Hugh exclaimed. That bastard sounds way unstable.

I’m with the pretty boy, Ruby agreed. You’ve got enough fucknuts as it is.

Was that aimed at me? Ray asked defensively. Ruby didn’t bother to answer him.

Clay looked at him skeptically, brow creasing in concern. “Are you sure? ‘Cause from what you told us, you attract them. I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea since this one was violent.”

He shrugged. “Poltergeists are by nature violent. This one is probably just frustrated that their messages aren’t being understood.”

And some are just violent schmucks, Mr. Aronofsky pointed out. Some of them – and forgive me for saying this – but some of them deserve to be dead and stay that way.

Gryphon knew that; he felt he knew that better than all of them. But he didn’t say it, as he didn’t want to hear the responses from his crew. As it was, Clay’s continued scrutiny was bad enough. His eyes were full of concern and conflict, probably because his burning passion for the supernatural and the constant need for money were clashing violently with his fear that this was a psycho ghost that might attach itself to him. “Gryph, don’t you think … you’re dealing with enough?”

He ate a forkful of pancakes, buying time, but also relishing the taste of the loganberries. It was probably preserves, not jam, but they brought to mind the wild loganberries he’d sometimes collect as a kid. When did he last do that, when he was ten? Certainly before they moved to Edmonds, where every square inch was paved, and you were lucky to find a dandelion growing wild in the cracks in the sidewalk. Finally, he looked at Clay, and caught his eyes, holding them intensely. “One violent ghost is nothing compared to an insane asylum full of them. Lead me to the suburban ghost, Clay; I can take ‘em down without breaking a sweat.”

Or so you hope, Mr. Aronofsky insisted. You can’t get cocky, Gryphon, not when dealing with the dead.

Yeah, haven’t you learned anything by now, you stupid cracker? Taneesha taunted.

Would you knock it off with the racial slurs? Sylvio snapped at her.

Clay seemed dubious, but since he wanted to believe, Gryphon knew he’d get his way. “Are you sure?”

Don’t listen to him! Hugh shouted, making Gryphon almost wince. There was an odd noise, and he realized his coffee cup was shaking, rattling on the tabletop and threatening to slosh liquid over its sides. He grabbed it to steady it as Clay raised an eyebrow at him. “Everything okay?”

“I’m just arguing with my passengers. Nothing new there.”

He stared at him for a long moment, dubious of that, but eventually nodded and gathered up his breakfast dishes, getting up to put them in the sink. “They don’t want to do it?” Clay asked casually.

“They do, they just want to do it without me.”

What are you all worried about? Ruby wondered. I’ll kick its punk ass.

Funnily enough, that was something they could all agree on.

Finally, he asked the question he’d been waiting to ask. “You don’t happen to know of any abandoned stores around here, do you?”

He briefly glanced over his shoulder at him. “Store? Like a department store or a grocery store?”

“Yeah, anything like that.”

“Haunted?”

That made Gryphon smirk. “Is there a haunted one around here?”

“Not to my knowledge. But I’m not sure if I know of any.” Clay thought about it for a little while longer, rinsing out his coffee cup, and in that space of time, he recalled two, although he wasn’t completely sure if they were torn down yet or not.

Didn’t matter to him. Everybody needed a place to start.

****

O’Leary showed up less than hour later, dressed in a black turtleneck, jeans, and a black jacket that had some kind of official lettering on the back. He had a grim look on his face, like he was about to tell him his whole family had died in a fiery car crash. “Problems?” Gryphon asked, just out of polite curiosity.

O’Leary eyed him with a sort of bruised anger, like he thought he was being a deliberate smart ass. “I might need to take you in to make a witness statement. The team found Human teeth on one of the banks; they’re still dragging the river now.”

Gryphon nodded. “You’re surprised.”

O’Leary shrugged a single shoulder and looked away. “Maybe a little. I really didn’t expect a hit.”

“Are we past the whole “I’m a screaming fraud” thing now?” Gryphon openly glared at him until the pressure of his gaze on the side of his face made O’Leary look back at him.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Good. Now let’s go to Wax’s place.” He didn’t wait for a reply, he just tromped down the driveway and got in O’Leary’s truck. There was a faint smell of fried wiring in the air, and Gryphon figured Ruby had toasted some last night. Possibly on accident, and possibly on purpose – it was a kind of fifty-fifty thing.

O’Leary got in the truck wordlessly, casting a caustic sidelong glance before he started the truck. Did he think his people were going to start it up for him?

They were silent for the entire drive, and Gryphon got the idea that O’Leary was brooding. Why? Because of what happened last night? Because parts were found at the river? Both of those things? Neither? Because he still hadn’t gotten over being asked about being “touched by death”? Gryphon decided not to ask. If there was one thing he’d learned from the occasional cop ghost, it was people often talked to fill the awkward silences, and when they ran out of small talk, they could say something damning. Of course O’Leary used to be a cop and probably knew this too, so it’d be a waiting game.

In his mind, he pictured Wax’s home either being a creepy old shack – the Hollywood version of where convicted sex offenders lived – or just a quaint but somewhat isolated house (a tad more realistic), but where O’Leary took him to was a sprawling suburban housing estate, where the homes were all single level prefabs of the same basic design, and all painted in light colors that weren’t exactly pastels, but close. The lawns were all square and sharply green, and the street was neat enough that it had probably been recently cleaned. Why do child and family killers always live in places like these? Hugh wondered.

That’s not true, Mr. Aronofsky countered.

Hell yeah it is, Ray replied. I grew up in a place like this. There wasn’t anything else to do, ‘cept huff in the garage and drink someone else’s dad’s beer while they were gone.

Huff? Mr. Aronofsky asked.

Don’t ask, Sylvio said.

O’Leary drove them down to a pale green house at the end of a cul-de-sac that was , for some reason, spaced differently than the rest of the houses so it seemed to have a bit more distance between its neighbors. The lawn was a bit longer than most but still savagely groomed, and even from here Gryphon could see a whimsical frog planter full of ivy close to the welcome mat in front of the door. Hardly seemed like a threatening place, the former abode of a pedophile. “Who lives here now?” he asked, unlatching his seatbelt. “Have you asked permission for me to go over the grounds?”

O’Leary squinted at him, like it was a funny question. “You don’t need to go in, do ya? Can’t you just do it walkin’ around outside?”

Gryphon scowled at him. “Do what? What is it you expect me to do here?”

He wouldn’t hold his gaze for long. He looked away out the windshield as he shrugged and reached for the door. “Tell me if you get an impression that someone died here.”

“Someone’s died everywhere. Do you know how many people have lived and died since the beginning of humanity? If he killed someone inside the house, I may not know from the outside. I may have to go in. Are you prepared for that?”

He got out of the truck and kept his back mostly to him as he shrugged in a defeated, annoyed matter. “If we gotta, we gotta. But why don’t you try this way first.”

Fuck you, Ruby snarled. Let me kick this pocket dictator down, kid.

But as Gryphon got out, mulling over whether he should let Hugh take control for a bit – he’d be less violent than Ruby, but he wouldn’t put up with any bullshit – he saw an old man glaring at him openly from the far edge of the lawn. He was stoop shouldered and balding, with what appeared to be age spots freckling his mostly naked scalp, his watery brown eyes peering at him owlishly from behind large black framed glasses. “Get offa my lawn,” he croaked in a raspy voice.

“I’m sorry,” Gryphon said, humoring the guy. He wasn’t on the lawn yet.

“Sorry for what?” O’Leary asked, still sounding crabby, like he’d caught someone pissing in his Corn Flakes.

“I was talking to the guy.”

He looked around as he popped a toothpick in his mouth, chewing it anxiously. “What guy?”

The old man was still staring at Gryphon from the corner of his eye, and he realized with the slightest chill that the ghost had somehow managed to blindside him. He turned towards O’Leary to tell him that when he froze, mouth open with an unspoken word.

There was a man standing right next to O’Leary, so close he could have shouldered the big retired cop to the ground. He was young, maybe early thirties, with brown skin the color of milk chocolate, and close cropped curly black hair that was little more than a shadow on his scalp. His dark eyes were piercing and almost angry. “You don’t trust him?” The younger ghost asked, nodding his head in O’Leary’s direction.

O’Leary remained oblivious to this, and was now looking at him with a scowl. “What the fuck’s with you?”

But the ghost beside O’Leary said, “You think he’s holding back? You think he’s lying? Good. You should.”

Suddenly time seemed to jump like a bad cut in a film, and O’Leary was shaking him hard by the shoulder. “Ashmore, hey, you there?”

Gryphon shrugged out his grasp as the supernatural circuit snapped, and frowned as he staggered back a step, putting some ground between them. “I’m fine, Jesus.”

“You seemed to space out there for a moment. You get a hit?”

“Kinda.” Gryphon knew he wouldn’t like it, but he had no choice; he felt almost compelled to say it. “Tell me about Jeff McCandless.”

O’Leary’s pale, rheumy eyes widened, and his face paled in shock. Some people just didn’t like visits from old friends, did they?