Kat Richardson - Poltergeist

My escort stopped me a couple of yards off, but not quite out of hearing range. He nodded at the plainclothesman facing us, who gave a curt nod back. I could just hear Solis's intense, quiet voice saying, "… very dangerous. You will make every effort to cooperate with us this time, Mr. George, and there will be no repeat of your previous mistakes. Or of ours."

Ken bit his lip and nodded.

"Good. Detective McBride will escort Miss Choi home. Now, you can all go."

They trooped past me. Ken, with his arm around Ana's shoulders, shot me a puzzled look. A deep crease pinched between his brows and he started to say something, then turned his attention back to Ana, pulling her tight against his side. Ana kept her head down, exhausted and miserable.

I watched them go, then turned back to Solis, who had turned to stare at me. He was seething.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

"I fell into a sewer."

"How?"

"I don't know." Which was the truth, and a more detailed explanation would just piss him off further. "How did you happen to get here so fast?"

He narrowed his eyes and turned his head a little, appraising me.

"Let me guess," I hazarded. "You sent Ana here with a wire and those keys to see if you could trip Ian Markine up."

The tiniest trace of a satisfied-cat smile pulled at his mouth. "Miss Leaman identified the keys." His expression darkened again. "But you surprised me—you and Mr. George. We weren't ready to make the arrest. You fouled us. What did you come for?"

Now I knew why so many faces in the lobby crowd had looked familiar—they were cops. "I had some questions for Ian. I didn't get a chance to ask him at the funeral."

"About what?"

I needed to fabricate something fast. I remembered the equipment in the loft. "About faking effects in the experiments and getting caught by Mark. That storage room is full of old equipment for rigging stage effects. He knew how, but he lied about it."

"That's not what you asked him about upstairs," Solis reminded me.

"No. I overheard his argument with Ana and things made sense. You told me Cara had rejected him and he already had a complaint against Mark. The guy has an ego the size of a Metro bus and it's fairly obvious he's unstable and violent—he has a history of cruelty to animals and that's just the start, I imagine." I remembered with a shudder the pleased memory fragments of pain and death Ian had projected and his parents' distress about the poisoning of their dog.

Solis was still glaring at me. "So you barged in," he stated.

I took a risk and said, "He had something in his hand and he was trying to get Ana close enough to strike her."

"What was it?"

"It looked like a pipe." A lie, but one impossible to disprove. There were dozens of bits of pipe in the storage room.

"How did you leave the room? When we came in you were gone and Markine escaped."

"What? You didn't arrest him?"

"No!" Solis shouted. His habitual calm shattered. He was furious enough to talk.

"Markine is a very dangerous man and I do not have him in custody. I do not know how he killed Lupoldi or how he disposed of you down whatever rabbit hole you fell through. He is not of right mind. His confession to you and Choi will not stand up alone. I have evidence, I have witnesses, and I have warrants. We will search and find what we can, but I do not have the man himself!" He rammed his hands through his hair. "And he will try. He will try to harm those two—Choi and George. He tried to harm you—some kind of explosion, some kind of smoke… What was it?" he shouted.

I gaped at him. The bright flare of orange frustration was back. My knee twinged and I insisted on sitting down, buying time before responding to that sudden burst of passion.

With the silvered alembic in my lap, I reached down to rub my aching knee. Solis pulled another chair around in front of mine and sat down, leaning forward, intent, with his forearms on his thighs.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"I don't know, exactly," I replied. I used his terms. "There was that explosion or whatever, smoke… It was confusing. I tried to follow Markine, to go out a door, but I didn't know which door I was going through. I fell through a trapdoor or a bit of rotten floor. I think I got into the basement, somehow. I thought I saw Markine and I chased after him. We ended up in the utility vaults, then the sewers. I lost him. Then I came back here."

"And what's that?" Solis asked, nodding at Celia's prison.

I looked at it. The alembic had acquired a patina of gunk and dirt, but I could still see the Grey mist and energy roiling around inside through the mirror tint. The truth was so bizarre no one would believe it. So why not?

"It's a ghost in a bottle," I said.

Solis narrowed his eyes, closing back down to his usual shuttered expression. His aggravated aurora dimmed to a thin orange line.

"Where did you find it?"

"In the sewer."

"While you were pursuing Mr. Markine. I'd like to have it, please."

"No."

"If it's connected to this investigation—"

"It's not anything you want."

"It is." He put out his open hands for it.

I stood up with the flask in my grip. His chair was blocking my way, but I'm slim enough and quick enough and doubted I'd have trouble slipping out, even with a dicey knee and a body covered in bruises.

"If you want it, you'll have to get a warrant."

He gave me a sharp look. I stared back, vacillating. I couldn't give him the bottle. Maybe I could put him on another track. "Ask Amanda Leaman to identify the person who argued with Mark the Monday before his death," I said. "I'll be surprised if she gives a positive ID on anyone other than Ian Markine."

Speculation flickered on his face. He hadn't forgotten the bottle, but he had other things to chase and he couldn't force me to give it to him without arresting me or getting a warrant. He couldn't intimidate me into giving it up, either.

"May I go now?" I asked.

"Where?"

"I need a change of clothes."

Solis gave a tight, annoyed nod. "I expect a more detailed statement from you, Ms. Blaine."

"Monday. If I can get the stink out of my hair by then."

The swirling, agitated thing in the flask drew my eye and I found it difficult not to stare at it as I drove to the Danzigers'. I wanted to get rid of the whole package—container and contents—but even this was a temporary measure. I wasn't quite sure how to be shut of it in a more permanent fashion. I hoped Ben and Mara would have some ideas.

I hadn't looked as bad as I expected after a shower. Quite a lot of my battered appearance turned out to be filth. I had to throw most of the clothes in the garbage—what was crusted on them smelled like sun-rotten salmon and didn't bear closer scrutiny—and I hoped my boots and jacket would be salvageable. I was amazed to note I hadn't cut myself beyond a few scrapes through my jeans. At least I didn't have to find out if I could develop some freaky infection from the ghosts of germs. It would have been my kind of luck to resurrect the 1918 flu or some extinct form of native-killing smallpox. Small mercies and all that platitude jazz. I'd popped a couple of anti-inflammatories, wound a light pressure bandage around my knee, and decided the shoulder would be fine on its own. I felt a bit stiff and sore, but figured I'd do.

When I started up the steps, Albert appeared beside me so fast he fizzed. He stared at the ghost-vessel, which reflected weirdly in his tiny glasses. I wondered how the bottle could have an image in the memory of a lens, but I supposed ghost-things might reflect other ghost-things just fine and maybe it was only what was inside the container that I saw in his specs. Mara opened the door and he rushed into the house, hovering behind her as if he expected me to pass him the jar like a basketball. I gave him a dirty look.