Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(117)

“You’ll have an office, too. Drake and Evans are having a spot cleared out as we speak.”

“Did someone leave?”

“Someone died.”

“Close enough,” I said.

“I trust you don’t mind inheriting a dead man’s office . . . ?”

I smiled a little. “If I did, I’d be a shitty medium.”

“That’s true,” he agreed. “But you’ve said it yourself, that you don’t enjoy the work.”

“I don’t. But I’m doing it, whether I like it or not. You said there’s people here who can help me learn to control it, or get used to it. I’d like that. It’s awful hard on me when the ghosts come and go. The spells always took a lot out of me. Even Father Coyle’s visits weren’t always easy, and I loved him very much. All these dead strangers trying to push through the veil . . . Jesus, they wear me out. I wish they didn’t, and if there’s any way to make talking to them easier, I want to hear all about it.”

“And you will, I promise. Not from me, of course. I don’t have that talent. My expertise lies mostly in my bullshit, but it’s kept me alive this long.”

He was trying to sound lighthearted, I think. He was trying too hard, and I knew why, but we had an understanding that we weren’t going to talk about Lizbeth, or whether I’d spoken to her. I hadn’t. If she was on the other side, she was leaving me alone. On the one hand, I appreciated it. On the other, I sure do wish I knew what happened to her.

In the end, she was just one more body that nobody ever found.

“Your bullshit is useful bullshit,” I told him, trying to be lighthearted back. “You’re good at what you do.”

“Thank you, dear. One day, I’ll retire from all this nonsense, and you can have my office instead of Allen West’s broom closet. It’s an old storage area they built out when the offices expanded back around 1910.”

He drew up short, like he’d said something he shouldn’t have. It was one more thing we hadn’t talked about, but maybe now was the time. There wasn’t much to say, so it wouldn’t take long.

I gave him the opening he obviously wanted. “As long as it’s not Storage Room Six, I’ll be all right.”

He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked underneath him while he bounced slowly, thoughtfully. He opened that drawer and pulled out the flask and glasses I knew were in there, and this time he offered me some. He didn’t ask if I wanted any; he just poured a slug into each glass, and pushed one my way.

I took it, downed it like a lady, and said, “You can ask, if you want to.”

“All right, since you’re allowing it: Whatever happened to George Ward? Did you ever . . . find out?”

“Nobody ever found out. He never went home, and I never heard from him as a ghost, either. Since that’s what you’re really asking.”

“No, no.” He sipped his whiskey, and I thought about teasing him about it, but I didn’t. “I want to know if he’s alive or dead, if he’s well or if he needs assistance. It’s a frustrating thing, this gift of yours; not everyone who ever dies decides to call you up, so an absence of evidence is merely . . . absence of evidence. Alas.”

“What do you think happened?” I asked. I wanted to know, too.

“What do I think? I don’t know for sure. Maybe no one ever will. But if I were forced to make a guess, literally compelled to write something down in a file for the sake of formality . . . I would guess that he stayed in Storage Room Six. I don’t think he ever left it. I think that weird room took him wherever it took everything else that vanished. But even if I’m right, there’s no proving or disproving it.”

“That makes as much sense as anything else. So, you know—not much, but it might be true.”

I started to say something else, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring down at an envelope on top of a stack. It was facedown, and on the back was written “Jefferson Starr,” and an address on Trout Street. He pushed it aside, and the next envelope had an Alabama address—which I noticed real quick, but I didn’t see who it was from. He gathered up his mail and straightened it by knocking it on the desk. He looked up at me again. “I’m sorry, yes. You’re right. Or I’m right, maybe. Perhaps we’ll never know.”

“Not until we’re dead.” I said it with a grin, so he’d know I was still playing along. He’d said that the folks at the Society often had a funny sense of humor, and I might as well get used to it. I was game to do that. I was game to join it, too.

The look on his face said he didn’t think it was funny, though. He went a little pale, then gave me a shaky grin in return. “That’s one thing to look forward to, I suppose.”

“Right.” I nodded. I hoped I hadn’t messed it up already and done something wrong.

He reassured me before I could give it a second thought. “No, don’t look worried. I’m sorry. I’m only distracted.”

His eyes darted to my neck, and his eyebrows were asking a question about the necklace I was wearing, but he didn’t voice it and I don’t know why. It was just a little present from Pedro, a good-bye present, you know. Just a round pewter pendant stamped with a constellation: Pisces, for my zodiac sign—since I was leaving to work with the witches, wizards, and spiritualists. Or that was how he put it, anyway.