Page 22 of Consumed
“On occasion. But Isaac…?”
“Yeah, well, he was asking me about ghosts. We got a lot of ’em. It’s an old hospital, right? And I figure most of the people that croaked were injured miners and weren’t really ready to go gentle into that good night. But I told him that we don’t mind the ghosts. One of ’em gets pissed if you move the furniture around too much in room 210, but even then, she just moans. The ghosts have been here longer than the hotel, so we figure live-and-let-, um, haunt.”
Con was trying his best to remain calm and patient. “That’s great. But where did Isaac go?”
“I told him if he really wanted to deal with something nasty, he should check out the old cemetery. That place is creepy as hell.”
“Is that where he went, then?”
“Guess so. He walked out that door and I haven’t seen him come back. I didn’t notice how long he’d been gone. I was in the john for about ten minutes and figured he might’ve returned then.”
Con’s breathing was starting to quicken. This didn’t feel right at all. “Where’s the cemetery?”
“Little over a mile from here. Just follow the highway through town and you’ll see a sign for it on your left. Can’t miss it. Um… do you want me to call the sheriff or anything?”
For a moment Con considered that, but then he dismissed the idea. Local law enforcement usually hated to get involved in the Bureau’s business—and the Bureau was rarely eager to bring them in. It would be embarrassing if nothing was wrong and Isaac had just decided to go for a stroll. And besides, the briefing papers said it was best if nobody but the coyote shifters knew why Isaac and Con were there. If Con called the cops, he’d have to explain.
He tried to remember if the Bureau had any rules governing this precise situation, but he couldn’t think of any. Technically speaking, Isaac wasn’t even operating on Bureau business—their mission was coyote shifters, not ghosts. Con could call the chief, but he didn’t want to risk getting Isaac in trouble. Especially since the argument that precipitated the whole thing had been at least partly Con’s fault.
Another option was for Con to go back to the room and go to bed. Isaac was a grown man. An experienced Bureau agent. He didn’t need help from a guy who spent all his time with microscopes and spreadsheets.
Con wished vehemently that he could simply call Isaac. But Isaac had left his cell phone charging in their room, and anyway, coverage was nearly nonexistent in Gerard.
Dithering in the lobby wasn’t going to help. Con walked outside, where the air was surprisingly cool, and saw that the Bureau’s Toyota was still parked in front of the building as if it, too, were enjoying the view. That was good news; it meant Isaac couldn’t have gone far. And assuming the keys were upstairs, it also meant that Con wouldn’t have to walk. He didn’t much relish the idea of limping down a mountainside in the middle of the night.
“I’ll be right back,” Con said to the clerk, who’d been patiently waiting. Then he took the elevator back up.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he spied the car keys near Isaac’s phone. After a brief hesitation, he went to his suitcase and pulled out a locked black bag. Per regulations, he checked it at least monthly to make sure it was fully stocked and that the items were in good order. But he’d never actually used any of the contents except for his mandated quarterly time at the Bureau’s firing range. The bag contained his Bureau-issued Glock and holster, which—feeling self-conscious even though he was alone—he strapped around his waist. The bullets were specially made and would take down not just humans but also an array of creatures resistant to ordinary ammunition. There were various other weapons, ranging from a long-bladed knife in a sheath to a sachet of herbs that repelled harpies and their kin.
There was nothing in the bag for fighting ghosts. One reason was that the Bureau almost never dealt with them. Like the resident specters in this hotel, the vast majority of ghosts were annoying at worst. On the rare occasions when their behavior became so obnoxious that it needed addressing, no physical armament would work. Ghosts were nonphysical entities, and anything you threw in their direction simply passed through them. Smudging sometimes helped, but inconsistently. What worked best was to call one of the several agents who had a special affinity for the spirits of the deceased—the ghost whisperers—who’d persuade the ghost to move on.
Con was not a ghost whisperer. Neither was Isaac.
Feeling ridiculous with weapons strapped to his body and tucked into pockets, Con grabbed the keys and headed back downstairs.
The clerk looked much more alert than he had earlier. Con paused and gave him a stern look. “If Isaac turns up before I do, tell him I’ve gone searching for him, and that he should park himself here and not move until I get back.”
“Yes, sir!” The young man seemed enthusiastic, as if, like in an old Western, he’d been newly deputized.
Maneuvering the SUV out of the parking lot and navigating the road that descended through town wasn’t easy. Con rarely drove anything bigger than his little Civic, and the roadway was narrow with very tight turns. Maybe during the heyday of the mines, downtown Gerard had been a hopping place late at night, but now all the businesses were closed up tight and he didn’t see a single sign of life. He drove very slowly, peering up and down the side streets and stairways that traversed the slope, but if Isaac was there, he was hidden by the shadows.
As the clerk had promised, there was a sign for the cemetery just before one of the hairpin turns. Con traveled down the gravel road, past a few small houses—all of them darkened—that clung to the hillside, and then down through a couple hundred meters of what he thought was mostly scrub. There wasn’t enough light to know for sure.
He almost went right past the cemetery. There was no sign that he could see, just a low chainlink fence. He parked next to the gate and, after pausing to fish a flashlight from the glove box, got out of the SUV. He took his cane, which meant he didn’t have a free hand. That was awkward, but not as bad as losing his footing on the uneven ground and splitting his head open on a rock. Or impaling himself on a cactus.
For a few moments, Con stood on the gravel and allowed his eyes to adjust. There was only a sliver of moon tonight and the stars offered little illumination. The air had a slightly bitter, herbal tang that wasn’t unpleasant. He’d been living in LA for a long time, but he’d grown up in a rural area—a small acreage about twenty miles outside Chillicothe, Ohio—so he knew the countryside wasn’t silent at night. It was just a different type of noise from the city. Here, insects chirped and small creatures rustled through leaves. Far away a coyote howled. He wondered if it was an actual coyote or someone from Trish’s clan.
Finally, feeling a little foolish and almost sacrilegious for marring the peace, Con shouted. “Isaac? Are you here?”
Nobody answered.
Which could mean Isaac wasn’t here, or that he was and didn’t want to respond. Or, a chilly voice inside Con’s mind reminded him,couldn’trespond.
The gate stood slightly ajar. There was no lock, so anyone could have left it like that, but it seemed somehow ominous.
Con swept the flashlight beam ahead of him. The cemetery sprawled across several rises, interspersed with narrow valleys. A gravel trail edged the area, and although it looked well maintained, the grounds themselves were overgrown. Grasses, aloes, cactuses, and other low plants grew between widely spaced graves enclosed by low, decorative iron fences. There were a few scattered shrubby things not tall enough to qualify as trees. He saw a lot of rocks that would be easy to trip over. Grave markers leaned drunkenly, when they were present at all.
The nearest grave was of a man with an Italian name who’d died in 1909 when he was twenty years old. Close to him was a baby girl who’d survived less than one month in April 1905.
