Finding Magic

Chapter Ten

Gloria Waring’s Cross Town two-story looked peaceful in front of the preparing-for-sunset sky. A long porch, a tidy lawn, sleepy-eyed windows watching the world go by. Calm.

A direct contrast to how Chess felt, which was like someone had wired her up to an outlet of electricity and misery. She hadn’t asked Jillian and Elder Griffin about the names she’d written down, the ghosts who were Summoned. Not after that whole She goes off on tangents and isn’t a team player and is sexually frustrated bit. The last thing she wanted to do after hearing that was walk in with another special request, another “tangent.” It wouldn’t make her look on the ball and ready, it would make her look disobedient and like a fucking creepy nymphomaniac or something.

So she’d kept her mouth shut and responded to Jillian’s chitchat in the car with what she hoped were normal-sounding responses. Jillian accepted them, but then, she would, wouldn’t she? Rather than just tell Chess flat out that she was a failure?

Of course. And really, Chess was grateful, because now she knew Jillian wasn’t to be trusted, either. Just like everyone else.

Gloria Waring answered the door, her eyes red and tired, her face pale. Only to be expected, really. She stood back to grant them entry. “You have news?”

“We have more questions,” Jillian said. “Just some background stuff. We hope this is a good time?”

Gloria shrugged and waved them into a yellow-and-blue living room littered with toddler toys. And a toddler, a little boy in overalls putting a Barbie doll into a tow truck. Cute.

“Can I get you a drink or anything?”

Chess and Jillian both refused, and sat on the couch Gloria indicated.

Jillian pulled out a notebook and pen. Oh, right. Probably a good idea to take some notes. “Mrs. Waring—”

“It’s Paulson, actually. My married name. My husband’s just run to the store.”

“Sorry. Mrs. Paulson. We were hoping you could give us some more background on the New Hope Mission.”

Pause. “Why? It was all legal. My parents had licenses for the souvenirs, they didn’t—”

“No, no, of course. We know that. We were actually wondering if you could tell us anything about the other people there. Did your parents keep in touch with them?”

Gloria didn’t look like she necessarily believed Jillian, but she answered. “Not really, no. I guess they did with some of them—Uncle Mark, of course, and Tracy and Eric—”

“Tracy and Eric?”

“Ross, Tracy and Eric Ross. They live in Northside now. He runs some sort of delivery company. Ross Transports, I think.”

Ross Transports. Chess knew that name. She knew it because she was usually still awake at one or two in the morning when supplies were delivered and corpses were taken from the burial grounds behind one of the Church buildings to the Crematorium—the main one was in Downside, but there were a couple more on the outskirts of Triumph City, too.

Most of the vans that made those deliveries and pickups were Church-owned and driven by Church employees. But they occasionally needed extra help. And when they did, they called Ross Transports.

At least some of the time; they used another company, too, Oaktree Van Lines, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Ross Transports had specially made vans, iron-lined vans to carry magic supplies and corpses. And what mattered was that Mark Pollert had access to those vans—at least, she fucking bet he did.

Jillian didn’t pick up on it, just wrote down the name. “Any others that you’re aware of?”

“I don’t think so. Why are you asking this? Didn’t you say it was ghosts who killed my parents? You don’t think any of their friends could have somehow, what, set ghosts on them or something? I didn’t even think that was possible.”

“No, no, of course not,” Jillian replied, shifting in her seat. “We’re trying to get some loose ends tied up, is all.”

“And those loose ends involve my parents’ friends? No. You tell me, please. Am I in danger?”

“We have no reason to believe—”

“But you believe something, you think something is going on. What is it, please?” Gloria’s face grew pinker by the second; she perched on the end of the chair on which she’d been sitting completely a minute before. Shit. This was going nowhere fast, and they needed to come up with something, because Chess knew exactly what was going to happen when they left. Gloria was going to call Uncle Mark, and Uncle Mark was going to know they were on to him.

Of course, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe it was what Jillian wanted. How the hell was Chess supposed to know?

She certainly couldn’t tell from Jillian’s actions; she would have been impressed if she hadn’t already learned firsthand what a good liar Jillian was. Jillian didn’t answer Gloria’s question, instead pulling the picture out of the file she carried and handing it over. “Do you recognize these people?”

“Yes. These are the Mission employees. Will you please tell me what’s going on?” She looked at Chess. Panic rose in her eyes and in her voice. “You. Will you tell me what’s happening? Please? You—you talked to me in my bedroom, you—Please, just tell me what’s happening?”

Jillian kept silent. Great. How was Chess supposed to handle this without knowing what Jillian wanted her to do, what she had planned? And with knowing that Jillian thought she was some kind of sex-obsessed ditz?

Okay, focus. This was another test, and Chess was not going to give Jillian another reason to tell Elder Griffin—or any of the others—what a useless twit Chess was. So what would she do if it was her case?

If it was her case, she’d want to flush him out. If it was her case, she’d sort of hint to Gloria what they knew, and wait for her to pass it on. Hell, if it was her case, she wouldn’t be bothering with Gloria; she’d have gone to check out Mark’s place.

But it wasn’t her case, and it was only the first case she’d ever been on, and Jillian hated her and she was only eighteen, for fuck’s sake. She didn’t even know what the regulations were for the Black Squad. So—because both Gloria and Jillian were watching her and making her feel like some kind of fucking game-show contestant or something—she said, “The ghosts are former members of the Mission. We know where they are and can catch them, but we just wondered if you had some additional background to help us.”

She waited. If Jillian had a problem with her lie, she’d say something, she’d say it right there and then, and yeah, it would make Chess feel worse than she already did, but at least it wouldn’t fuck up the case.

But Jillian didn’t speak. Did that mean Chess had done right, or was Jillian just too pissed to find words? She didn’t look pissed, no, but neither did she look cheerful and approving.

Damn it. She’d fucked up again. She’d thought telling the lie, giving Gloria a hint but making sure the information she’d pass on to Uncle Mark was false, would be the right thing to do, and it hadn’t been, and she’d just totally blown it.

More lousy shit for her file. What would it say now, in addition to comments about how unpleasant she was to work with? Maybe Cesaria is unsuited for working in any capacity that requires independent thought. Or Cesaria cannot keep secrets. Well, no, they certainly couldn’t claim that one. Chess had so many secrets they threatened to make her explode, so many she had to try to hold them down with vodka and work, but they never really quieted.

Not that it would matter when the only job the Church would allow her to have was as a Liaiser. The thought of working in the City all day hadn’t appealed before. Now? After having been there, seen it for herself? No fucking way. She wanted to be something, wanted to work for the Church, to be clean, to be part of something, so bad it hurt. No matter how much it terrified her, she wanted it. But she couldn’t do that, couldn’t work in the City. Not even to keep herself off the game.

If it came down to letting ghosts use her body in that cold hellish darkness or letting men use her body on the streets, she’d take the latter. A shitty choice, but life was all about that, wasn’t it?

Jillian’s voice cut into her thoughts. Shit, she’d let herself get distracted, lost track of the conversation. “That’s very helpful, Mrs. Paulson, thank you. And meanwhile, like we said, we don’t think you’re in any specific danger. We do ask you, of course, to keep the information we’ve given you to yourself. I assure you, we’ll be visiting the others, so please don’t call and alarm them. We’ll handle it.”

Gloria sniffled, nodded. “Sure, of course.”

Chess didn’t believe that for a second, especially not when Gloria’s gaze cut to the phone on her left. Twice, quick sneaky little glances, like her eyes were doing what her hands wanted to, like she was reassuring herself that she could do it any second.

It wasn’t the most pleasant thing in the world to realize that she herself had glanced at the flask in her bag that way.

Luckily, it wasn’t the time to think about that realization, either, because Jillian was standing up and holding out her hand and all that so-professional-and-brisk goodbye shit, and Chess did the same even though touching Gloria felt like opening a vein because the woman’s grief and anger and fear were so strong. The last thing Chess needed was someone else’s misery on top of her own.

The second she pulled the car door shut behind her and reached for her seat belt, Jillian turned to her. “That wasn’t a bad lie, you did well. Now what do you think will happen? What do you think we should do?”

Chess hesitated. Was that a serious question? What shit would Jillian report back if she disagreed with Chess’s suggestions?

“Oh, come on, surely you have some sort of ideas. Right?”

Amazing how Jillian’s eyes could still look friendly, her smile could still look genuine. But then, Chess could do the same thing, couldn’t she? Pretending everything was fine, pretending she actually liked the people around her, pretending—well, pretending all sorts of things, because when the penalty for not pretending was being beaten, pretending became second nature. “I think we should try going to the Rosses’ house and see if Gloria calls them. And ask someone to check on Mark and see if he’s home, because if Gloria calls him, he’ll know we’re on to him and he’ll probably make a move. To finish what he’s started.”

“You’re still convinced he’s behind this? You don’t think there may be some other explanation?”

Bitch. “There might be, sure. I just thought maybe you wanted to have every possibility covered, you know?” She widened her eyes just a touch, hoping she looked innocent and enthusiastic and not like she hated Jillian at that moment. “I mean, if nothing else, he could be in danger, couldn’t he?”

Jillian shrugged. “I’ll give Trent a call and see what he thinks. Unless you want to ask Vaughn about it.”

“It’s probably better coming from you, don’t you think?”

“If you say so.” Jillian made a three-point turn and headed back the way they’d come, back toward 300, or so Chess assumed. “You know, I didn’t have much chance to look at the identities of the ghosts, the ones missing from the City. But they didn’t really live near each other or anything.”

Should she say something? Would it be better or worse? Did it matter? Jillian was obviously going to think whatever she wanted to think. “Um, I had a look at them, too, while you were talking to Elder Griffin. I think they’re connected to Mark Pollert as well. The—”

“Do you really think that if Mark Pollert was involved in some kind of plot against the former members of the Mission—people who are supposed to be his good friends, remember?—he’d be drawing such an obvious arrow at himself? Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?”

Yeah, it was a little obvious, wasn’t it? Chess hadn’t really thought of it that way before.

But then, she’d also been taught that the most obvious answer was usually the right one. And every day of her life had taught her that not only would people do all kinds of shit for the most specious or insignificant reasons, but people always, always thought they were smarter than they actually were. Certainly they always thought they were smarter than whoever was after them. And they were usually wrong.

She didn’t want to argue with Jillian. But neither did she want to just give up. “Maybe he wants us to know it’s him.”

“Why? Because he wants to get busted? Cesaria, I understand, and I appreciate, that you have a different viewpoint on this. I think it’s great you’re forming your own opinions. But really, I have a little more experience here than you do, and Trent and Vaughn have a lot more, and they don’t seem to think we need to keep a special eye on Pollert.”

Jillian was right. Well, no, she wasn’t right, because Chess couldn’t believe it was all a big coincidence. But she was right that there could be another explanation—someone out to get Mark Pollert, for example—and she was right that if three experienced investigators didn’t see what the big deal was, Chess should really just chill out a bit.

“So maybe someone should check on him. For his own protection,” Chess said.

Jillian sighed and picked up her phone. “Let me ask the guys.”

Chess waited, watching the tidy streets go from light to shadow, shadow to light, as they passed the streetlamps. Every street in Triumph City—every street in the world, pretty much—had extra lights, after Haunted Week.

“No, well, she gave us another name, another couple,” Jillian said into the phone. “We’re going to head over there now. But Cesaria says”—she shot Chess a glance—“that she thinks the Summoned ghosts might be connected to Pollert as well. Yeah, I know. But I kind of agree with her that at the very least it’s worth checking on him, isn’t it? Just making sure he isn’t in danger, too. We’re heading over to this other couple’s house now. Yeah, call me then.”

She clicked the phone shut. “Trent agrees that it’s a long shot, but he and Vaughn are going to head to Pollert’s anyway. Just for a minute. Okay?”

“Thanks.” Having to say it made Chess’s skin crawl. But she didn’t have a choice. “Hey, um, something else, too. The Rosses? Gloria said they own Ross Transports.”

“Yeah?”

“They do work for the Church. They move bodies and stuff sometimes. I guess when the Church vans are full, or when it’s a holiday or something.”

Jillian didn’t respond. Chess pressed on. “So they have special vans, you know, iron-lined ones safe for transporting ghosts and bodies. And if Mark Pollert is friends with them, he might have access to those. Right?”

Still silence. This time Chess let it ride.

“I guess he might,” Jillian said finally. They were at the entrance ramp to 300, about to head up to Northside. “We can ask the Rosses about it. But I don’t know why they would loan those vans to someone.”

“Maybe they didn’t. Maybe he stole it.”

Shit, she shouldn’t have said that, at least not so quickly. Jillian frowned and passed another car, almost cutting it off. “I guess we’ll find out.”

The Rosses weren’t as forthcoming as Gloria had been. And unless they normally stood around holding files relating to the Mission, clearly they’d been warned.

“We don’t know anything about anything,” Eric Ross said after he’d invited Jillian and Chess inside—just barely. He didn’t even offer them a seat.

“Did Gloria Paulson call you?” Jillian asked.

“Gloria? No. No one’s called. But we’re not stupid. We know what happened to Shannon and Joe. We’ve been expecting someone to come talk to us.”

“About what?”

Mr. Ross looked surprised. “About their murders. Don’t you usually talk to family and friends of the victims? You’ve questioned Gloria, obviously, since you just asked if she called us. And you’ve talked to Mark because he mentioned it before. So it only makes sense we’d be next.”

“You were close friends, then.”

Mrs. Ross dabbed at her eyes. She seemed sincere enough, too. “Of course. For years. We met … well, we weren’t even married yet, it was so long ago.”

“Were you close to any of the others from the New Hope Mission?”

“A few of us stayed in touch.” Mrs. Ross’s expression hardened. “We didn’t do anything illegal, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jillian smiled, a fake kind of smile. Then again, did she have any other kind? “No, of course not. I wasn’t implying that.”

Was she going to ask about the vans and Mark Pollert? Chess tried to catch her eye but failed.

Okay, fine. She shouldn’t do it, and she knew that, but she was going to anyway. What the hell. Wasn’t like it could make things any worse for her, could it?

Besides, she was feeling kind of weird, kind of edgy. Like something was wrong but she didn’t know what.

“You own a van company, right? A trucking company?”

Mr. Ross looked surprised. “Yes. We’ve been in business almost twenty years now. We started just after Haunted Week.”

“Do you ever have any problems with people stealing your vans or anything? I mean, I just wonder how you keep track of all of them.” Chess pretended the question didn’t matter; pretended, too, that she didn’t see Jillian glaring at her.

Jillian wasn’t just glaring, either. She was fidgeting. Rubbing her arms, shifting from foot to foot.

“Theft is a problem in any industry,” Mr. Ross said. “Why?”

“I just—I know you guys do some work for the Church, and I’ve always wondered about the vans you have for that work. If you have to keep them somewhere special or anything.”

It was so lame she almost cringed. But Mr. Ross didn’t seem to think there was a problem with her asking; maybe being only eighteen had some advantages.

“Those are more attractive to thieves, yes,” he said. “It’s a problem. And of course we rent them out on occasion—it’s part of our business.”

Chess wanted to ask what sorts of things people rented iron-lined vans for. Really, what possible legitimate reason could there be? Iron usually related specifically to ghost magic, and ghost magic was illegal for anyone outside the Church to perform.

But she didn’t get to ask. Instead she got yanked to the side, almost falling, Jillian’s fingers wrapped around her arm and Jillian’s shout hurting her ears. “Get out! We all have to get out, hurry up, let’s—”

Too late.

The ghosts slid through the walls, silent and awful. Against the mundane surrounding of the room—beige sofa, brown carpet, ivory walls—their luminescent forms seemed even more terrifying, just from the sheer oddity of them, the sheer sense of—of not belonging, of strangeness. Like a clown at a formal dinner party.

Chess didn’t have time to think of anything else before she hit the floor. Jillian, to her credit, was moving, pushing the Rosses behind her to protect them, but Chess could see it wasn’t going to help. One ghost blocked the door; the other two had already grabbed weapons, were throwing lamps and knickknacks. Chess watched as one of them threw a framed photograph—it smashed against the wall where Eric Ross had been standing only a second before—and picked up a poker from the fireplace. Shit, wasn’t it iron? How could—Oh. A wooden handle.

Jillian threw something at the ghost by the door, shouted the words of power Chess had memorized the year before. “Arkrandia bellarum dishager!”

The ghost froze. Good. Except it was still blocking the doorway, and if anyone human touched it as they tried to get to the door, it would probably manage to unfreeze.

Jillian swiveled around, readying another fistful of what Chess knew was graveyard dirt and asafetida. Chess turned to Mr. and Mrs. Ross, standing stupefied a few feet away. “Where’s the back door?”

They didn’t respond.

Mrs. Ross was closer, close enough for Chess to see the horrible shade of white her face had gone, the fear-wide eyes and the way her nostrils flared as she breathed. “Mrs. Ross, where’s the back door? Where’s the other exit?”

Jillian froze the other two ghosts; Chess wished she had more of a chance to watch her in action, because she really was impressive. She paused and glanced at Chess. “Get them outside, and come back in to help me.”

Chess nodded. The Rosses still stood frozen with terror, but there had to be a back door, and back doors were by definition usually in the back, so she’d find the damn thing. She grabbed each of them by the arm and started pulling them away from the ghosts, through the Old West–style doors into the kitchen. The freeze Jillian had put the ghosts under wouldn’t last forever; the one by the front door would probably shake it off within a minute or two, so they didn’t have much time. And yes, there it was, the back door with its frosted glass panels and ivory curtains.

Even in the middle of all of it, in the middle of the heart-pounding scary reality of it all, she had a second to be proud of herself. She was handling it okay. She was doing what needed to be done, acting on instincts that seemed sound. She was scared, yes, but she wasn’t paralyzed, she wasn’t panicking. That was something to be proud of, it was, and she wasn’t going to feel bad about that or like it was the wrong time to feel that way.

All that pride evaporated when Mark Pollert opened the back door and walked into the kitchen with his gun drawn.