P Deutermann - Nightwalkers

"Go make the call, please," I said, suddenly hoping that I didn't have a Kenny Cox loose end here. If my ghost was James Marlor, I was in truly deep shit.

Pardee handed me the rifle bullet. "You ought to keep this," he said. "It might ward off the evil it represents."

I drove out to Summerfield after rush hour to check on the house. The lawn had been mowed, so my money-hungry teenager was still on the job. One neighbor waved as I went by; another just stared. I had half a mind to go into the backyard and unload the SIG into the hillside, just to keep them all on their toes. On the other hand, who could blame them?

I let the dogs out and told them to go check out the yard. They both went up on the porch and curled up. So much for canine discipline. There were no signs of forced entry or any other disturbance in the house itself. I'd left the power and the security service on. The mailbox was full, but it was all junk mail addressed to Current Resident or Dear Occupant. I told the mutts to get back in the Suburban, but now they decided to go check out the yard. I was getting ready to yell at them when the neighbor across the street, another retired cop, came over with a package in his hand.

"Messenger guy on a motorcycle brought this out, asked me to give it to you the next time I saw you."

The package was the size of a fat FedEx envelope, entirely covered in brown shipping tape, with my name and address handwritten on a stick-on label. I took it from him and felt the weight.

"Classic letter bomb is what that looks like," he said. "I kept it out in the potting shed."

"I agree," I said. "The messenger an older guy?"

"Nope. Young kid. Riding a Kawasaki crotch-rocket in spandex bike shorts and a T-shirt. All I could think of was the road rash, he ever had to lay that thing down."

"They're invincible," I said. "Thanks for taking this. I think I'll take it over to the bomb boys downtown."

"You know what?" he said. "You should have them come out here, pick that thing up. They got the gear for that."

"The bomb squad shows up in this neighborhood, I'll never be able to show my face again. I'm already getting stink-eye from Mrs. Jameson."

He laughed. "That's not stink-eye; that's her usual expression, caused by going around with a corncob up her ass. Let those guys transport it. That's the smart move."

I thanked him again and made a call to Manceford County Operations. I told them it was not an emergency, but this thing needed checking out. They said they'd send the boom box and a crew.

Forty minutes later the bulky truck and an operations van showed up. They hadn't arrived with lights and sirens, so most of the neighborhood remained blissfully unaware. I handed over the package, which the bomb guys treated with far more respect than I had. They had a portable X-ray machine in the van. A tech brought it out, and they examined the package right there on the front lawn. The tech set up the machine, and then we all backed away before he turned it on. He went back to the van to look in the remote monitor.

"Hello-o-o, Houston," I heard him call from the back of the van. "We've got wires."

I felt another little shiver go down my back, especially since I hadn't really expected it to be anything more than-well, what? Surely my ghost would anticipate that I'd recognize the profile and not just go ripping off a dozen winds of package tape, finally getting to the one attached to the pull cord. The bomb crew put the thing in the truck's armored transport box. The lieutenant came over as the truck pulled away. I didn't know him, but he greeted me by name.

"A little obvious, wasn't it?" he said, taking off his vest and face shield.

"That's what's odd," I said. I told him about the motorcycle messenger, and we agreed we hadn't seen any of those in Triboro. Everyone used one of the usual package services. Messenger bikes were for big cities with big traffic.

"Your ghost again?"

I shrugged. "Who the hell knows," I said. I showed him the thirty-aught round and told him about finding it on my desk downtown.

He shook his head. "We'll try to take that thing apart, see what's what. Although I have to warn you, with all that tape it's just as likely to go off."

"Well, don't put anyone at risk," I said. "I'm cool with just assuming it's exactly what it looks like."

He laughed. "Us chickens won't be within a hundred yards. Igor von Robot will do it, and we'll watch via remote TV. Sometimes these guys, you know, if it's their first device? They make mistakes and we can ID a component, maybe link it with a source. We'll let Bobby Lee Baggett know what we find; you can check with him."

I thanked him, and they took off. The shepherds were waiting back on the front porch.

"I should have considered that thing dog food, let you guys open it," I said.

They wagged their tails. I'd said the food word. Useless mutts.

I opened the back door of the Suburban, and they jumped in. As I walked around to get in the driver's side, I dropped the rifle bullet. I made a clumsy grab for it and ended up catapulting it into the air instead. It arced out on the concrete of the street, and I winced when it landed, but it didn't go off. When I went to retrieve it, I found that it had broken at the neck of the cartridge, exposing the smallest printed circuit board I'd ever seen. Then I started laughing.

It wasn't a bullet. It was another tracking device, and I'd been carrying it around in my pocket all this time. My ghost had a sense of humor. I drove back to the country.

The next morning I got up at six, made some coffee, and wandered over to the barns behind the mansion at Laurel Grove, looking for Cubby Johnson. I found him in the stable, grooming what looked like the major's big horse. The uncomfortable-looking cavalry saddle and a bridle were sitting on a saddle rack. There were two other horses in the barn, busily doing what they apparently do best. Carol had pointed out that the most active muscle on a horse was its jaw muscle.

"Morning, Cubby," I said. "I'm getting the impression that you must live here."

He laughed and told me that he got here every day around seven, but that he and Patience lived over on Mill Street in town, next to the abandoned textile mill.

"Major getting ready for another scout?" I asked. The shepherds snuck off, hoping I wouldn't see them grubbing for horse apples.

"Ain't no tellin'," Cubby said without looking up. "He rides out, he rides back in, and he don't tell me nothin'."

"Are there days he doesn't ride out?" "Oh, yeah. Sometimes, Ms. Valeria, she'll come down here, say the major feelin' poorly. He gettin' old, you know."

"I saw him last night, as a matter of fact," I said. "Doesn't look that old."

Cubby looked up from his work. "You seen him at night? Over there?"

"Couple of times," I said. "You won't like what he calls me."

"What's that?

"Overseer."

"You shittin' me."

"First time we met, I told him I was the new owner of Glory's End. He said that was ridiculous, that the property belonged to the Lees, and that I must be the new overseer. I went with it."

Cubby nodded. "Overseer," he said, chewing on what had to be a highly charged word. The big horse moved around a bit and stomped at a fly. Cubby resumed the brushing.

"He seems locked into that last month of the war," I said. "Keeps talking about Union cavalry roaming the neighborhood, General Lee gone to ground, Sherman's hordes on the way up from the Carolinas."

"An' he's talkin' to you? Straight up?"

"Yup. Got that faraway look in his eyes, though. If he were to pull that hogleg of his, I'd be putting myself in motion."

Cubby nodded. "Yeah, me, too. Ain't nobody outside of us caught sight of the major, not close up, anyways, for years now. An' here he's talking to a stranger. Ain't that somethin'."