Unholy Magic

Chapter Fifteen

The security room door opened. Taylor leapt out of his seat, his broad face flushed. For a second he looked crazed, like he was about to pick up an axe himself, then his color normalized and he broke into a grin.

“Mr. Fletcher! What a pleasure to see you, sir.”

So this was Oliver Fletcher. Tall, slim, with striking salt-and-pepper hair swept back from a high, smooth forehead. Success and power wafted from him like expensive cologne, and he knew it. The smile he turned on her had the hint of cool appraisal men gave when they were trying to determine just how much they’d impressed her.

Her lip wanted to curl at the sight of it. Instead, she forced a bright smile. Best not to make an enemy of him quite yet.

“Great to see you, too, Taylor,” he said, but he didn’t take his eyes off her. “And who is your lovely guest?”

Taylor introduced her, while her cheeks started to ache from the stiffening smile.

Fletcher’s face darkened. “Ah. Roger’s ghosts. Such a terrible shame. He builds his dream house, and this happens.”

“Have you seen the entities, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Me? No. No, I haven’t. But I can assure you if Roger says they’re here, they’re here. Such an honest man, Roger is. He’d give you the shirt off his back if he thought it would help you.”

Was it her imagination, or was there a note of contempt in Fletcher’s voice?

Taylor certainly didn’t seem to think so. His gaze fixed on Fletcher as though the man had just announced the sun did in fact rise and set upon his order.

“He seems like a very nice man,” she said, hoping to keep him talking.

“He is. Always has been. A shame, though. It’s so easy for people to take advantage of a man like that. So naïve … I’ve tried to tell him, but it’s no use. He’s determined to trust people.” Fletcher gave a little laugh. “What can you do with people like that?”

“Cast them in your TV shows?”

He laughed, but she caught the glint in his eyes. Damn, that was a mistake. Fletcher liked his women pretty and empty, vessels for whatever he wanted to fill them with. And she had a pretty good idea what that might be.

In fact, she knew it. He turned to say something to Taylor and, in the sleek dark back of his head, she realized she’d seen him before.

The night before, in fact. His had been the head buried between Kym Pyle’s legs on the couch.

Taylor trotted off somewhere at Fletcher’s command, leaving her alone with him. Good. Maybe he could tell her more about the Pyles—without the hero worship of the security staff.

He settled himself in Taylor’s abandoned chair and pulled a sleek gold cigarette case out of his pocket. His eyebrows rose. “Do you mind?”

Excellent. She shook her head, her smile becoming genuine as she pulled out her own pack and let him light her. She rarely got to smoke at work.

“So, Mr. Fletcher, do you come out to visit the Pyles often?”

“Not as often as I’d like. And before you ask, no, I’ve never seen anything out of the ordinary here.”

“But you’re so sure Mr. Pyle is telling the truth.”

“I know Roger. He wouldn’t lie.”

She sensed an opening. “Kym? Arden?”

“Arden is a troubled young lady, but don’t you think she lacks the sophistication to pull off something like this? Roger’s told me some of the things he’s seen, and Kym has seen. It sounds quite terrifying.”

“And Kym?”

“Kym lacks the intelligence.”

“You don’t think much of her?”

“I didn’t say that. Kym is a beautiful woman.”

Chess pretended that answered her question. “Do you think there’s someone else, perhaps? Someone who might have the sophistication and the intelligence?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Miss Putnam. Have you honestly ever seen a fake haunting on the level of what is apparently happening here? Do you think anyone is clever enough to stage such a thing?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

He stood up, his flat smile reflecting a satisfaction that rang alarms in Chess’s gut. “Well, please do say, if you find that person. I’d like to hire him.”

Two hours later Chess sat once again in the orange and ivory living room, before a cheerful fire, and checked her notes. After she’d had a few quick words with the Pyles she could leave, and not a moment too soon. She wasn’t itching yet, but it would take almost an hour to get home and she wanted to leave herself some room.

As long as she was checking her notes, she might as well check her phone. No calls. No texts. Nothing. She’d spoken to Lex that morning, but …

She closed her eyes, shook the thought from her head. This wasn’t the time to focus on anything but work, especially now her mind was clear.

Two other guards had seen ghosts. All of the descriptions were similar and matched what she’d witnessed herself. The smell—it still seemed to cling to her nose when she thought of it—the man in the loose shirt, another man, the woman she’d seen in the bathroom mirror.

A murderer and two victims. Only one man—she guessed it was the son—was still unaccounted for, unless he was the figure Roger had seen in the guest bedroom.

Then there was Oliver Fletcher. Interesting. Obviously a friend of Roger’s and an admirer of his talent. Just as obviously contemptuous of him and his family, no matter how many sex parties he attended at their house. She wondered if he’d flown in specifically for this one or if he had some other reason to be there. He and Roger worked together on the TV show. Was he producing the film as well?

She’d ask Roger Pyle. Who was just walking into the room, a big grin on his cheerful face. She checked his eyes. A little dilated, nothing big. Come to think of it, she hadn’t found any drugs in the Pyles’ room. Maybe he kept them in the office? Shit, she was going to have to come back with her Hand, put them all to sleep, and get into that room. Especially since another significant episode had occurred there.

This week was never going to end. Dead hookers at home, a cavernous house full of miserable people here, and not an answer in sight.

It could have been worse, yes. She knew that from experience. But the thought didn’t seem to help her the way it usually did.

“How are things going?” Roger asked. “Is everyone being helpful? They’re giving you everything you need?”

She nodded. “Everyone’s been great.”

He visibly relaxed. “Excellent. Excellent. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Actually, I was wondering something. Most of the staff members who’ve witnessed the entities report a particular smell. But you didn’t mention it when you told me your experiences. Was there an odor that you recall?”

Roger’s forehead creased. “Not … No, I don’t think so. I know I felt a little odd, but I assumed that was just because I’d drunk too much coffee. You know, caffeine makes me jumpy sometimes, a little fuzzy. But I didn’t notice a scent or anything.”

“Was that every time, or just that first time? The night of the attack in your bedroom, for example? You hadn’t been drinking coffee then.”

“No, no I guess I hadn’t. I don’t … I’m sorry, Miss Putnam, it was just so terrifying, I don’t remember if I smelled anything or not. I was so focused on Kym and her injuries.”

She nodded, smiled to let him know she understood. “Of course.”

“Have you read the articles? About the murders, I mean.” Roger shuddered. “I just don’t understand how someone could do something like that. And to think it happened here, on this land. Awful. No wonder they’ve come back.”

“Well, it isn’t always a matter of—”

“Do you think if we discover who killed them, they’ll go away? I wondered about that. Like in old books, you know, where they can let go of the trauma because the truth is known. Does that happen?”

She couldn’t help but smile. He looked so hopeful. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Pyle. It’s been tried, but we’ve learned it really makes no difference. Even if we discover the truth, the dead don’t feel that knowledge. It just doesn’t affect them or get through to them, so they can’t move on. The ones who are trapped by it, I mean.”

And that was conversation number three on that subject. Surely that wasn’t a coincidence? What was she trying to tell herself there, what was she missing?

“Have you been to the City? What’s it like?”

Her smile became fixed. “It’s very peaceful.”

Terrifying was more like it. Dark and cold and full of spirits. The remnants of life, moving silently through the cavernous space. It was emptiness.

Apparently she was the only one who felt that way. No one else seemed to have a problem with the City. But for her it was … a nightmare. Someplace so awful it was worth staying alive just to avoid it.

She changed the subject. “I met Oliver Fletcher. In the security office.”

“Oliver? That’s great. He’s an interesting man, Oliver. Helped me … Well, I guess he’s been the best friend I ever had, really. I owe my whole career to him.”

“Now, darling, don’t be so modest. You got where you are by hard work.” Kym Pyle knew how to make an entrance, Chess had to give her that. Today she wore a snug black sweater with a deep V neck and a pair of red cigarette pants, and her blond hair was swept up into a smooth knot on the back of her neck.

She ran crimson fingernails through Roger’s hair, giving him a smile much warmer than anything Chess would have expected to see. Perhaps she’d worked off all her tension at the party.

Or perhaps the Pyles had decided it would be less suspicious if Kym didn’t act quite so much like a dominatrix who’d had a bad day.

Kym turned to her, the smile fading. “Miss Putnam. I thought you’d left over an hour ago, didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Tell me?”

“The snow. Haven’t you seen? It’s an absolute storm out there. I thought one of the staff had let you know—”

Chess leapt from her seat, Kym’s voice fading to a drone in the background. Thick orange curtains covered the broad windows; Chess yanked them apart and gasped. It wasn’t just snow. It was a blizzard, huge fat flakes obscuring everything.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—

“I should go.” She snatched up her bag and yanked the zipper open. “I’m sorry, but I—”

“You can’t go,” Kym said. “It’s terrible out there. The roads—”

“But if I don’t try now, who knows when I’ll be able to get out of here?” Keys, where were her keys? The security room, on the hook. She’d relinquished them when they parked her car.

“But I don’t think you’ll be able to get out of here now.” Kym settled into a chair. “Arden says it’s been snowing for over an hour. I’m so sorry. I was napping, and I guess with the curtains closed … I can’t believe no one warned you. Roger, I’m going to have another talk with the security staff, they’re not being very attentive. What do we pay them for?”

“No, I’m—I’m sure it will be fine, I mean, I’ve driven in snow before, so—”

“They don’t salt the roads out here,” Roger said. “The plows will be along eventually, but not until after it stops.”

“I’m sorry.” Chess slung her bag over her shoulder, blinking back tears. Oh shit oh fuck how had she let this happen? “I really need to at least try, I can’t impose—”

“It’s no imposition, don’t be silly. You must stay here, Miss Putnam. Have dinner with us, stay the night. We have plenty of room. It’s so miserable out there, you can’t drive in that.”

“I’m just going to have a look,” she managed, before escaping from the room and throwing herself down the long bright walkway.

It was impossible. Snow fell fast and thick, clinging to her eyelashes, coating her clothing. Three or four inches of it already covered the ground; she couldn’t make out the wall at the edge of the property. Everything was white. No landmarks, nothing.

Nothing to look at. Nothing in her pillbox. Her hands shook as she raised them to her face, jammed her fist against her mouth.

How long did she have? Two hours, maybe three, before it started, and another couple of hours before it got really bad? There were a few hard candies in her bag, the sugar would help for a little while, but … a whole night?

Her eyes stung and she swiped at them, trying to will her heart to slow down. It was okay. It would be okay. The snow would stop in a few hours. It could stop any minute, right? And it was early evening. People would be commuting, the plows would come through, she could get out.

Surely the Pyles had a small plow or something, living out here. Maybe one of the security guys—maybe Merritt—would help her get out. If she could just hold on for a little while, an hour, two, she’d be okay. She’d planned on staying until six or so anyway, right?

Right. So she would be fine. All she had to do was wait it out, just hang out for a little longer, and she could go home and get her pills.

Just a little longer.