Kat Richardson - Seawitch

“So . . . you say that such things are real?”

“I wish they weren’t and I wish I wasn’t saying that, but I am. Most of the . . . paranormal is the best word for it . . . paranormal things aren’t strong or active or any kind of threat to regular people. Every once in a while, though, they are. Do you remember the Mark Lupoldi murder?”

“I will never forget it.”

“Did you ever really buy the explanation I gave you for how he was killed?”

“No, but the case didn’t go to trial, so . . . the rigor of proof was never needed.”

“But it bugs you still, doesn’t it? Like all the little odd things about me and my cases bug you.”

He nodded.

“That was one of the cases where the paranormal became dangerous. One of those moments when what should be impossible happened anyhow. And that’s pretty much where I fit in the world: working with the stuff that logic rejects but that exists nonetheless.”

“Are many of your cases like that?”

“No. Most are the routine investigative stuff, but there’s plenty of the other to keep me busy while a lot of my colleagues are looking for new lines of work—what with the Internet making it easier to invade anyone’s privacy. . . .” I slammed the lid on my gripes with that particular aspect of modern living.

Solis ignored that last bit and nodded, his expression thoughtful. I wondered if he actually believed me or if he was just doing a great job of humoring the madwoman. “You are implying you saw something at Reeve’s home that was . . . paranormal. That you see such things frequently.”

“Constantly, in fact.”

He turned his head suddenly and frowned at me.

“It’s always here. Most of it’s like air,” I explained, waving my off hand through the salt-scented breeze. “Most people can’t see it until it’s so thick they choke on it. But I see it all the time. And I can look harder at it to see more if I want, but then I tend to get a little . . . ghostly myself.”

He almost covered it up, but I still saw the rapid flicker at the corners of his eyes as he repressed the impulse to widen his stare in surprise. “You saw that at the boat and again at Reeve’s,” I said. “You almost said something, but then you caught yourself. Didn’t you?”

He hesitated—I’d never known Solis to do that. Then he tightened his mouth into a stubborn line, looking angry, and took in a long breath through his nose.

“Oh, damn it. Just look. Look at me. Look as hard as you can. This isn’t some kind of illusion,” I shouted, and I dropped into the Grey, letting it slam up over me like a steel trap snapping closed.

I hadn’t fallen that fast and hard into the Grey in years and I wasn’t entirely prepared for the sensation of dropping through cold water and mist, falling into the grip of something uncanny and ungentle. I lurched and stumbled onto uneven ground that seemed to shift and roll beneath me, and the sea of mist swirled into hints of faces and forms that snatched and snarled before they resolved into nothing more than raw ghost-stuff. I elbowed something icy aside, mentally counted to ten, and shoved my way back out to the normal world.

This time Solis actually did take a step away from me and his eyes were larger than they should have been. His right hand twitched upward and he stopped it and his movement away from me. Then he put his hand out and touched the edge of my coat.

“I told you it’s not a trick. I’m really here.”

“And a moment ago, you really weren’t.”

“Not quite. I was here but not in a state you could observe. At least that’s the best explanation I can make.”

He frowned, muttering as if to himself, “I didn’t see you, but then you were where you could not have been.” He pinned me with his gaze, as if having made up his mind: He wasn’t going to let me out of his sight now. “It startled me every time. I thought I must have missed your movement, but I’m not that easily fooled. This makes me no happier, but for now . . .” He shrugged, dismissing the rest of his thought. “But tell me what you think you saw at Reeve’s.”

I sighed and shook my head, letting the sound of the lapping breakers fill the pause while I pretended not to hear the insult of his doubt. “Something was watching us from the bushes and it wasn’t a cat. It was some kind of paranormal creature about the size of a large dog.”

Solis snorted. “A dobhar-chú?”

“Oh, now you’re scoffing . . . ? After I do the Harper Blaine, Disappearing Girl act?” I shook my head in exasperation, but I did notice his expression wasn’t as doubtful as it had been. I put off my annoyance for the sake of getting on. “Really, I have no idea. It wasn’t something I’ve ever seen before. It wasn’t a ghost. It was something smart enough and mean enough to frighten Reeve into a heart attack, though. It wasn’t me he was staring at but whatever was in the bushes. And then there was some kind of . . . magical smoke from the fountain and that’s when the shit hit the fan.”

“Huh,” Solis grunted, and turned his gaze away again. “If he were afraid of something watching him—be it a monster or not—that implies someone who feels threatened by what he said.”

“Or what he would have said if they hadn’t stopped him,” I suggested.

Solis nodded. “Possibly. But he had already departed from a logical discussion. . . .”

I scoffed this time. “According to you, everything you’ve heard and seen since Reeve sat down is a departure from logic. That doesn’t mean it’s not true and that he wouldn’t have—or hadn’t—given us useful information that would lead to someone who has an interest in keeping the truth of whatever happened aboard Seawitch quiet, whether the explanation is paranormal or not. That is, if you believe all I’ve told you and shown you and that I saw someone or something that frightened Reeve nearly to death.”

“I do believe that Reeve was frightened and I apologize for blaming you. I am . . . struggling with the rest.”

“There was something in the bushes and there is or has been something uncanny on that boat.”

“Perhaps. Can we stick to that which is provable in the world I inhabit for a while longer?”

“I live here, too, Solis. I understand the problem of legal and material proof. Believe me, there aren’t many people who have the fine grasp of this problem that I do.”

“Yes, I concede! But someone brought the boat to port and abandoned it,” he thought aloud. “Someone of flesh and blood, not a ghost.”

“Don’t be too sure,” I muttered, but realistically I knew that ghosts didn’t have the physical power to move something like the Seawitch .

He glared at me but ignored my jibe to say, “Someone wants this investigation to happen. . . .”

“And someone else doesn’t. Someone skilled brought that boat back to port—it didn’t drift in and it wasn’t brought in by a novice. Someone good at keeping secrets hid it for twenty-seven years. It’s possible they’re the same person, but I’m not sure of that.”

“Do you suggest that one of the crew or passengers is still alive?”

“I am not suggesting anything except that there are still living people to question. And when we run out of the living, I may have to start on the dead, whether you like it or not.”

Solis grunted again. “Let us start first with the log book—with the normal evidence. If Starrett was the hedonist his wife described, he may have written revealing and personal notes as well as maintenance records and the names of the marinas they stopped in.”

It was my turn to snort in derision. “Reeve would have been the one to write the actual records. If Starrett were writing it, I imagine that book reads like excerpts from letters to Playboy .”