Bitter Spirits
Page 55
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“No!”
“Oh yes. He—”
The sight blocking their path halted them in their tracks.
A short man stood in the middle of the tunnel, his face lit by the string of crude lights scalloping the wall. His suit was so wet, Aida could hear water dripping from his sleeves onto the concrete floor. His face was striated and bloated; his eyes were solid white—no pupils or irises.
It didn’t take Aida’s cold breath to prove to either of them that the bloated man was a ghost.
EIGHTEEN
NOT AGAIN.
Winter stared at the bloated corpse of Arnie Brown standing several yards down the tunnel while his mind flashed back to the day he died. It was almost three years ago, right after he’d married Paulina and moved them into their Beaux Arts home on Russian Hill. He’d been fighting with her about Bo. Winter thought she was worried about Bo’s character, as she complained that things were missing around the house, and the obvious culprit in her mind was a boy who’d been raised as a thief. But there was more to it. She didn’t trust Bo because his mind and mouth were both sharp. She also didn’t trust him because he was Chinese.
Winter and Bo had stayed out late one night making a deal at the pier—rather, trying to save a deal that Winter’s father had nearly lost after berating a client during one of his manic fits. After the deal was salvaged, Bo was telling Winter he’d rather move out of the Russian Hill house than have Paulina insult him with accusations of stealing. Winter knew he hadn’t stolen anything. Hell, he knew Bo’s character better than he knew his own wife’s. Spent more time with him, too. But Bo had his pride, and Winter was caught between it and the burden of having to placate his parochial wife.
That long-ago night, as Bo locked up the back door on the pier, Winter had walked the dock and came face-to-face with the man he’d just renegotiated the deal with—Arnie Brown. Arnie had a gun and was prepared to kill Winter so he could rob the booze being held at the pier. But the bullet grazed Winter’s arm when Bo sneaked around and grabbed Arnie from behind. The three of them grappled, but it was actually Bo who shoved the man off the pier. He couldn’t swim.
And now he was slowly shuffling down the tunnel toward Winter and Aida, bloated as he was the day the police found him floating a mile down the bay.
“Coins,” Aida said, already rummaging through his coat pockets.
As they backed away from Arnie’s ghost, he checked all his inner pockets . . . pants pockets. Nothing.
“Nothing tasted funny at dinner, did it?” she asked. “You aren’t poisoned again?”
“No, no—I felt strange almost immediately last time.”
Aida pulled off his hat and felt around under the band. “Shoes?”
“I’ve had those on the entire time we were in the room together.”
Arnie’s ghost picked up speed, shuffling with greater intent.
They backed up several feet, but Winter realized now that they were trapped. Couldn’t go back the way they came dragging a ghost with them into the middle of the raid. Couldn’t go forward. He hand went to his gun holster. The last ghost was solid—if Arnie was, too, could he be shot?
“No,” Aida said when he withdrew his handgun. “You might slow him down at best, might not. Let me see if I can send him away.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes. It’s a ghost, for God’s sake. This is my territory, not yours. Let me try.”
He hesitated. Released the gun’s safety. “I’ll stay right behind you.”
“Don’t shoot me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Aida stalked down the tunnel toward the ghost a little too fast for Winter’s preference. The inexperienced woman in the hotel room was all confidence now. No fear. Winter supposed it was good that he had enough for both of them.
The ghost was grotesque, his face an unearthly color. No life behind his eyes, yet he walked. And unlike the brutal shock Winter had felt when he recognized the ghost of Dick Jepsen, he felt something different now: a slow-building anger.
A few feet from Arnie, Aida blew out a hard blast of cold air and charged forward with one hand extended. The slap of her mortal flesh against his ghostly chest echoed off the tunnel walls. White sparks shot through his form. The tunnel lights dimmed and popped on and off.
“Arghh!” Aida jerked her hand back like it was on fire and shook it out. “That hurt!”
Enough of this bullshit. Winter grabbed her around the waist and pulled her backward, away from the ghost.
“He won’t budge,” she said, breathing hard as she twisted out of his grip and stood her ground. “Feels strange—solid, but unreal.”
“Move behind me or so help me God, I’ll put you over my shoulder. And do not touch that thing again. It’s dangerous, Aida. Jesus! Here he comes again. Move!”
“All right, I’m moving.” She ducked under his gun arm and started to shuffle past him, then grabbed his coat. “Buttons . . . Winter! Four of your buttons don’t match. They’re—”
He glanced down quickly, shifting his gaze back and forth from the coat to the approaching ghost. She was right—they didn’t match. They weren’t cabochon. In fact, they were embossed with dragon heads and looked as if they’d been hurriedly sewn, with loose threads sticking out like spider legs.
Four coins. Four buttons . . .
Some rat bastard had switched them out during dinner when he’d checked his coat. He’d been so desperate to get Aida’s clothes off—and back on, when the raid started—that he hadn’t noticed. That was careless and stupid.
“Oh yes. He—”
The sight blocking their path halted them in their tracks.
A short man stood in the middle of the tunnel, his face lit by the string of crude lights scalloping the wall. His suit was so wet, Aida could hear water dripping from his sleeves onto the concrete floor. His face was striated and bloated; his eyes were solid white—no pupils or irises.
It didn’t take Aida’s cold breath to prove to either of them that the bloated man was a ghost.
EIGHTEEN
NOT AGAIN.
Winter stared at the bloated corpse of Arnie Brown standing several yards down the tunnel while his mind flashed back to the day he died. It was almost three years ago, right after he’d married Paulina and moved them into their Beaux Arts home on Russian Hill. He’d been fighting with her about Bo. Winter thought she was worried about Bo’s character, as she complained that things were missing around the house, and the obvious culprit in her mind was a boy who’d been raised as a thief. But there was more to it. She didn’t trust Bo because his mind and mouth were both sharp. She also didn’t trust him because he was Chinese.
Winter and Bo had stayed out late one night making a deal at the pier—rather, trying to save a deal that Winter’s father had nearly lost after berating a client during one of his manic fits. After the deal was salvaged, Bo was telling Winter he’d rather move out of the Russian Hill house than have Paulina insult him with accusations of stealing. Winter knew he hadn’t stolen anything. Hell, he knew Bo’s character better than he knew his own wife’s. Spent more time with him, too. But Bo had his pride, and Winter was caught between it and the burden of having to placate his parochial wife.
That long-ago night, as Bo locked up the back door on the pier, Winter had walked the dock and came face-to-face with the man he’d just renegotiated the deal with—Arnie Brown. Arnie had a gun and was prepared to kill Winter so he could rob the booze being held at the pier. But the bullet grazed Winter’s arm when Bo sneaked around and grabbed Arnie from behind. The three of them grappled, but it was actually Bo who shoved the man off the pier. He couldn’t swim.
And now he was slowly shuffling down the tunnel toward Winter and Aida, bloated as he was the day the police found him floating a mile down the bay.
“Coins,” Aida said, already rummaging through his coat pockets.
As they backed away from Arnie’s ghost, he checked all his inner pockets . . . pants pockets. Nothing.
“Nothing tasted funny at dinner, did it?” she asked. “You aren’t poisoned again?”
“No, no—I felt strange almost immediately last time.”
Aida pulled off his hat and felt around under the band. “Shoes?”
“I’ve had those on the entire time we were in the room together.”
Arnie’s ghost picked up speed, shuffling with greater intent.
They backed up several feet, but Winter realized now that they were trapped. Couldn’t go back the way they came dragging a ghost with them into the middle of the raid. Couldn’t go forward. He hand went to his gun holster. The last ghost was solid—if Arnie was, too, could he be shot?
“No,” Aida said when he withdrew his handgun. “You might slow him down at best, might not. Let me see if I can send him away.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes. It’s a ghost, for God’s sake. This is my territory, not yours. Let me try.”
He hesitated. Released the gun’s safety. “I’ll stay right behind you.”
“Don’t shoot me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Aida stalked down the tunnel toward the ghost a little too fast for Winter’s preference. The inexperienced woman in the hotel room was all confidence now. No fear. Winter supposed it was good that he had enough for both of them.
The ghost was grotesque, his face an unearthly color. No life behind his eyes, yet he walked. And unlike the brutal shock Winter had felt when he recognized the ghost of Dick Jepsen, he felt something different now: a slow-building anger.
A few feet from Arnie, Aida blew out a hard blast of cold air and charged forward with one hand extended. The slap of her mortal flesh against his ghostly chest echoed off the tunnel walls. White sparks shot through his form. The tunnel lights dimmed and popped on and off.
“Arghh!” Aida jerked her hand back like it was on fire and shook it out. “That hurt!”
Enough of this bullshit. Winter grabbed her around the waist and pulled her backward, away from the ghost.
“He won’t budge,” she said, breathing hard as she twisted out of his grip and stood her ground. “Feels strange—solid, but unreal.”
“Move behind me or so help me God, I’ll put you over my shoulder. And do not touch that thing again. It’s dangerous, Aida. Jesus! Here he comes again. Move!”
“All right, I’m moving.” She ducked under his gun arm and started to shuffle past him, then grabbed his coat. “Buttons . . . Winter! Four of your buttons don’t match. They’re—”
He glanced down quickly, shifting his gaze back and forth from the coat to the approaching ghost. She was right—they didn’t match. They weren’t cabochon. In fact, they were embossed with dragon heads and looked as if they’d been hurriedly sewn, with loose threads sticking out like spider legs.
Four coins. Four buttons . . .
Some rat bastard had switched them out during dinner when he’d checked his coat. He’d been so desperate to get Aida’s clothes off—and back on, when the raid started—that he hadn’t noticed. That was careless and stupid.
