Poltergeist

The only time I was sure he was telling the truth as he saw it was when I asked him if anyone was faking the phenomena.

He shook his head, laughing. "Not possible. Tuckman's made sure of that. What we get is real." He'd convinced himself, in spite of his own disbelief in "murabo jumbo." Tuckman seemed to be right on track there.

I stood up and offered Stahlqvist my hand. "Well, that's all I needed to know. Thank you. I appreciate your time. May I call you if I have any additional questions?" I noticed that the little yellow thread hadn't wavered once and I was still wondering what it was.

He stood up, too. "Certainly, Harper. It was a pleasure to meet you." He shook my hand, leaving an odd cold spot on my palm, and watched me go.

I exited onto Fifth Avenue in the long, dark shadow of the black tower behind me as the streetlights came on. The road ahead was choked with cars trying to turn left onto 1–5 southbound. I was glad to be on foot. I turned and started up Fifth toward Westlake Mall, thinking about that thin yellow thread that looked so much like the strands of energy I'd seen wadded into a ball under the séance table.

The Pager Cart had gone out of business. I scouted around and found a kiosk selling mobile phone service, but not pagers. After two other stops, I emerged from a shop in the lower level of the Pacific Place Mall with a cell phone I'd been assured could accept my pages and receive forwarded calls from my office number, too. I was a little nonplussed about the two-year contract I'd had to accept to get the plastic marvel of miniaturization and modern convenience, but I'd been impressed by the fact that it got a signal at all two floors below street level.

I poked the phone, amazed to see that it was already working. I realized that the sun was well down now, so I tried calling Cameron. He sounded anxious when he heard it was me.

"So?" he asked.

"Your dead guy is just a dead guy. Nothing to see.”

"Good. Great. Thank you, Harper. I owe you.”

"Yeah. OK. But I'd like not to do that ever again.”

"Never on my account.”

I hoped not on anyone's account. I finished up my business with Cameron and made another call. It was two a.m. in London, but I was expected.

Will sounded tired when he answered.

"Hi, Will," I started.

"Hi, Harper. You sound far away. Usually, you sound close enough to touch. And I miss touching you.”

A mild flush heated my face. "I'm on a cell phone—that's why I sound odd. In the basement at Pacific Place. If I move I'll lose you.”

"Oh." His pause stretched as he shifted conversational gears and we talked about nothing much for a few minutes. Then he said, "Now I'm lying in bed, thinking I need to get up in four hours. . ”

"I shouldn't have called.”

"You always call on Fridays.”

"Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe—”

"Maybe you shouldn't call from the mall.”

"What?”

"I just mean we can't have much of a conversation when you're in a public place with bad reception. There are things I want to say to you that I can't say in those conditions. I want…”

"What?”

I imagined him shaking his head, some stray light from the street glinting off his pale hair in the early-morning gloom. "Never mind. Good night, Harper.”

My own good-bye was made to a dead phone. I felt tired, frustrated, and sad. I wandered into the bookstore in the opposite corner, hoping to raise my mood. My feet hurt and I hadn't eaten all day, so I bought food and collapsed into a corner of the bookstore's cafe with a Michael Co

One of the most pleasant aspects of that bookstore to me was its location so deep in the earth of the De

Chaos and I sorted laundry that had developed the sudden urge to levitate and move around the room, which amused the ferret, but just turned my dissatisfaction into irritation. I yelled at the moving clothes and swore at my purse, which spilled its contents all over the kitchen floor, sending coins and small objects everywhere, to the ferret's delight. I fell into bed late and in a mood so bad I had disjointed, angry dreams, and woke up swaddled as tight as a medieval baby.

CHAPTER 12

Later Saturday morning I was finishing my breakfast when Ken George arrived at the Alki Cafe. I already knew what he looked like, so I had no difficulty spotting him when he paused at the hostess's desk. She pointed him toward the back and I put up my hand to wave him over. Since the weather was lousy, the restaurant was half empty and no one had tried to rush me out as they often did on weekend mornings—a good thing considering I'd only just managed to kick my bad mood of the previous night by indulging in ridiculous amounts of coffee.

Ken was about my height, slim, and had a loping, slope-shouldered gait that made his leather jacket swing as he came toward me. I now knew from the file that Quinton had guessed right: he'd been born in India, and while his coloring was classic Indian—black hair, bronze skin, brown eyes—the presentation was Western and unconsciously hip—as if other people copied him—right down to the wire-frame glasses and the soft mustache with close-trimmed goatee.

He stopped at the table. "Hi. Are you. . Harper?" His voice reminded me of Sean Co

I nodded. "You're Ken George.”

He gri

The waitress passed by and he caught her eye with the same little-boy grin. "Hey, could I get a cup of coffee, please?”

She smiled back. "Sure.”

As he turned away from me, I peeped at him through the Grey and found myself stymied. There was a sort of glassy, shifting emptiness between us, giving only brief glimpses of color through its moving surface. It reminded me of my own Grey shield. Ken's barrier was incomplete and unstable and he didn't seem conscious of my probing. Like Solis's blank walls, it was turned to the world, not to the Grey, and had the worn ease of a habit. This piqued my curiosity and raised my mental hackles a little.

He returned his gaze to me, raising his eyebrows, and I reverted to a more normal view, smiling.

"I'm doing some additional background on Dr. Tuckman's project. I just wanted to ask a few questions.”

"Shoot.”

"How did you get involved in the project?”

He smiled and ducked his head, taking the silverware roll apart; then he looked me in the eye again. "I'm in love." Then he gave a short laugh. "No, that's not true—I exaggerate. I wasn't in love when I started.”

He went quiet, thinking and plucking at the edge of the napkin. Then he sat up, leaning forward, staring into my eyes without blinking.