Poltergeist

"Even Ian?”

She made a face and rolled her eyes. "Oh, Ian. Sometimes I think I don't even like him anymore. Sometimes he's mean and so selfish. He never spends any time with me anymore. He's always busy and we don't even— Our sex life doesn't exist except when it's bad. I only joined the project because he wanted me to and I thought we could see more of each other, and now he sometimes acts like he doesn't even want me to come to the group.”

This didn't jibe with Ian's version, but I wasn't surprised by that sort of thing anymore. And I remembered how Ana had flinched in the recordings as Ian pulled her hair from her earrings.

"Why wouldn't he want you to come?" I asked.

"So he can flirt with Cara Stahlqvist. He's such a dick.”

"If he's a dick, then why do you go?”

She scowled. "It's my project, too. Why should Ian get to scare me off? Besides. . he's not the only person there who matters.”

"You just said none of them meant anything to you.”

She looked at the side window. "I lied.”

'You're seeing someone else from the group?”

"No! Not outside the group, really. Sometimes we go out for drinks after…. And I like talking to him. He likes to talk to me, too.”

"Who?”

She blushed. "Ken." She kept looking out the window.

I nodded. "Does Ian know?”

"I don't know. I don't think so. Ken teases Ian sometimes and I know he's doing it because of me, but Ian just laughs it off. I think he'd be nasty to Ken if he knew, but he seems OK.”

"Do you plan to do anything about this?”

She sighed. "I don't know. I can't just leave Ian and start going with Ken right now. It would be bad. For the group. Ian's not the sort of guy who takes a breakup well. And besides. . it's hard, you know. Sometimes I just want to keep the peace. I don't want a big deal over everything.”

I shook my head, but kept my mouth closed. They'd cooked up a rotten little triangle. Misery not only loves company it makes its own. The whole group was full of sexual tensions and power plays, so far, and this seemed about par for the course.

"I just don't seem to pick the best men," Ana said. "But at least Ian was OK with my parents. If I started dating Ken, they'd be furious.”

"Why?”

"My father would say he's not good enough. And my mother always sides with my father—it's part of her role, you know. Traditional Chinese wife.”

"I'm still not getting it. Why is Ian—who's mean to you—OK, but Ken's not?”

She turned and blinked at me. "Because Ken's brown.”

"What?”

"Brown. He's not white.”

"You're not white, either.”

"I know that. But my father's racist. He thinks there's something. . dirty or bad about being colored if you're not Chinese—or at least Asian.”

"He doesn't know India is part of Asia?”

"It's not the right part. If the people are darker than he is, they're dirtier than he is. It's OK for me to date a white man or an Asian like us, but someone who's brown? No. It would be even worse if I wanted to date a black man. He'd never speak to me again. My sister went out with a black guy once and he's still angry at her. He'd go insane if he knew they slept together.”

"That's a bit over the top.”

"My dad." She looked grim. "So. . you know. . that's why I don't want to stop going to the group, although it would be the best thing. I wish I could just make it all change. Why can't we all be happy? If we can make a ghost, why can't we make ourselves happy?”

I grabbed the chance to get back on topic. "Are you certain that you're making a ghost?”

"Yes." She gave a hard, decisive nod. "I'm Chinese—we know about ghosts. They're all over the place. They live through us, so our ghost is real, too, even though we made it up.”

"What do you mean 'they live through us'?”

"I mean we give them strength—energy. We remember them and they continue. That's why it's important to remember ancestors and family, or they fade away. Or they become angry and then you're in trouble. We made up our ghost and we keep her alive by our thoughts, so if we stop believing in her, she'll go away.”

"How do you know it's not just a fake? That someone in the group isn't making it seem real when it's not?”

"That would make Celia very angry. It can't all be fake—there's no way for everything to be made by one person fooling us—so the part that's real would know when someone was faking. How would you feel if someone was pretending to be you? That's how Celia would feel and she would get even.”

"What about you?" I asked, turning the truck into PNU's west parking lot.

Ana looked surprised, her narrowly plucked brows arching upward. "What about me?”

"If you found out someone was faking anything, would you be angry?”

"Yes. Sure I would.”

"And would you want to get even with them for it?”

She gave me a bemused look. "No. I would tell them to stop, but Celia would be the one who would punish them, if they needed it.”

"Do you think she could?”

A deep frown took over her face. "I don't know. I really don't." She looked up again. "We're here. Good. Thanks for the ride," she added, opening the door and swinging out. "I hope I was some help.”

"Quite a bit.”

"Cool, cool. See you later." She closed the door and walked toward St. John Hall. In the dismal sunlight I could see the bright yellow thread around her, pointing toward the hot yellow spot on the window of room twelve like a compass toward north.

I stayed in the truck a while longer, thinking and waiting for the group to be assembled so I could sneak into the observation room u

I saw Gartner Tuckman heading for the building with his briefcase in his hand. He was playing villain again, wearing black and glaring. I followed him into the building, keeping far enough behind to give him a chance to round up any séance members loitering in the hall.

At the head of the stairs, an unca

Frowning, I let myself into the observation room. Terry ignored me. I stayed on my feet and looked out through the double-paned glass.

Tuckman was in the séance room, standing near the observation mirror with his back to us. Some of the participants had taken seats at the table, but others had chosen to sit on the sofa. Ana was seated at the table in one of the hard chairs, along with the only séance member I hadn't interviewed yet—Wayne Hopke, the elderly military man. Ian, I noticed, was standing near the sofa, which put him in position to both look down Cara's blouse and hover over Ken like some mythic avenger—so he wasn't oblivious after all. All attention was turned to Tuckman, as he spoke in a mellow, soothing tone I'd never heard from him before.

". . begin today’s session," he said. "Our friend Mark Lupoldi has died in an accident. This is… a tragedy, and since I know we were all very fond of Mark it is a blow both to our project and to our feelings.”

Tuckman must have had a bit of theater training himself, to judge from his posture and delivery as he counterfeited sorrow. His shoulders were slumped a little forward and bunched as if he anticipated a blow. The angle of his arms indicated he was clasping his hands together and I imagined his knuckles were white. He probably had a convincingly sad mask arranged on his face.

I looked at the rest of them. Each wore some expression of surprise, startlement, or shock. Cara closed her eyes. Even through the double filter of the glass, I could see Grey sparks and flickers of yellow, red, and the unhealthy green I was begi