Poltergeist

“Sure.”

"Why was yesterday's session so much different than the others?”

"Well, it's Mark.”

"Excuse me," I said, putting up a hand to forestall him. "Are you saying that you think Mark's death is related to the events of yesterday?”

"Yes, I am. I think Mark's with us. Or at least the energy came from Mark in some way. Maybe because we were thinking of him or something like that, but whatever it is, you can't deny that yesterday's session was different and the only thing that had changed was that Mark was dead.”

"How do you explain the rise in phenomena before Mark's death, then?”

"Natural progression. We've been working on it, getting better at it. Putting in all our effort.”

"The change was very sudden, though. Do you think you're all contributing equally to the phenomena or is there something else going on?”

"If you mean fakery, I'd have to say no. We're all on the level. But I suppose it's possible that one or two people might be just better at it than others, or working just a touch harder. All teams have their workhorses—someone who leads the way or pulls a little harder to encourage others.”

"Who would that be, in your estimation?”

Hopke laughed. "Oh, that I don't know. Celia's mighty fond of Ken, but that doesn't mean he's got anything special to do with it. She used to have a bit of a soft spot for Cara, too. I must say, I was surprised Cara got hurt. She's a bit chilly at first, but she's not a bad gal. I suppose it was just an accident because we were all upset—Mark was a good guy and we all liked him, and if he's with Celia, he wouldn't hurt Cara deliberately.”

He paused to think, then went on, frowning. "All our sessions have been very pleasant up till now. But I know there's some hard feelings here and there—Dale's a jealous one and Patty's easily upset—so maybe we did it to ourselves. .? Huh. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?”

"Yeah, it does. Aside from Dale and Patricia, are there other. . hard feelings in the group?”

"Well, the kids are kind of fu

"What about Mark?”

"I'm not following you.”

"Did any of the group have a problem with Mark or a reason to hurt him? You suggested Mark might be 'with' Celia. Would he have reason to be resentful or angry?" I was pretty sure it wasn't the ghost of Mark Lupoldi who'd thrown the brooch, but Hopke's ideas might point in an interesting direction.

"Mark was the easiest guy you ever saw. If he had a problem with you, he'd say something, maybe make a joke about it, but he wasn't the resentful type or mean. If anyone had a problem with Mark, why would they take it out on Cara? Unless you think Celia killed Mark, which is ridiculous.”

"Is it?”

"Celia's made up of a bit of all of us, and since none of us would hurt Mark, why would Celia?”

Another can lofted and smacked into my skull.

"You OK there?" Hopke asked, leaning toward me.

I rubbed my head. "Yeah. It wasn't much.”

"Good thing the can was empty.”

I nodded and wanted to wrap this interview up and get out before Celia got any more "frisky.”

"I've just got one more question. You said you wanted something to do, but why choose this particular project?”

"Well, I've lost plenty of friends over the years and I still wonder if there's more to all of this than just struggling in the mud and the blood and the—the poop. You should pardon my language.”

"I've heard worse.”

Hopke nodded and went on. "See, I just want to know what's out there after this, if there is anything at all.”

"You're a braver man than I," I commented in all truth.

"I doubt that. You seem like a pretty gutsy gal.”

"Maybe, but I'm not sure I want to know what happens after this.”

He finished another beer. "You may change your mind when you're my age.”

I doubted it, but, then, Hopke didn't know what I knew.

"Are you satisfied with what you've learned so far?" I asked.

"So far, I guess I am. I still want to know more, but I feel a little better having some idea that we're not entirely powerless in this world and maybe not in the next.”

I stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Hopke. You've answered all my questions.”

"Already?" he asked, standing himself. "That hardly took any time at all." He gave me a hopeful smile. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay for a beer?”

I shook my head, smiling back. "I can't. Thank you for the offer, though.”

He walked with me to the edge of the boat and handed me over the side. As I started to turn, something shiny whizzed past my head and plopped into the water. Its passage made my head throb again.

"Oh, damn," Hopke groaned. "Those were my keys. Well, I guess I'll be fishing for them.”

I stared down into the murky green water of the marina. "How deep is it? Can you get them back?”

"Probably. The canal's shallow right here, 'cause this bit used to be the bay." He looked back into the water and picked up another can of beer from a cooler on the aft deck. "Well, better get started with the fishing. And you know how beer and fishing go together.”

I wished him good luck with the key-fishing and left him trolling a heavy magnet for the steel key ring and sipping beer. I kind of liked Wayne Hopke and I thought it was too bad that he probably wouldn't learn much about life after death from this experience. He'd have to pick it up when he got there, and I hoped that wouldn't be soon.

CHAPTER 18

Most people lie. They lie in little ways all the time—to themselves, to others, to the government, to their bosses and spouses and kids. Tuckman's project members had lied to me—it pretty well went with the territory and with their peculiar glib willingness to answer the questions of a stranger. What mattered was not the existence or the blackness of those lies, but the relevance. So I spent the remainder of Monday and all of Tuesday checking and double-checking biographies and backgrounds, looking for lies that mattered, for the cracks in the stories that might point to someone who could have moved the power line, boosted the poltergeists input, or skewed it in a murderous direction. Tuckman was wrong about a mechanical saboteur and I wasn't convinced he'd been straight with me about why he wanted me on the case. The pieces didn't make a picture; they just made another puzzle and I had a bad feeling about it. Besides, ru

Tuesday morning I hiked up the hill to the county records office and requested files. I made phone calls. I stared at microfiche cards and paid for photocopies. I listened to people grouse and gave them money, and I looked through every scrap of paper Tuckman had supplied and everything I'd picked up since I'd started. The pile of oddities was smaller than I'd expected, though it was interesting.

Quite a few of the group turned out to have skeletons in their closets. Patricia had been under a doctors care for depression and other psychological problems off and on since the birth of her last child—what kind of problems weren't given. She'd also filed for divorce once, but withdrawn the paperwork a few days later with no explanation.

Ken and Ian both had short arrest records with the SPD. Ian's SPD record was juvenile and therefore sealed now—except for a sexual harassment complaint lodged with PNU by one of the women in the dorms. That was being handled internally, and no one at the school would discuss it. The charge didn't surprise me, now that I had Ana's perspective on him. There was a rather odd note from the Humane Society in his file—a letter about a cruelty to animals complaint which seemed to have no follow-up. His project profile showed that his family had moved around a lot when he was a child—that might explain the lack of follow-up on the cruelty note—and I'd had no luck finding anyone who'd known him before college. His parents had moved to Idaho. When I tracked them down on the phone, they seemed vague and uncomfortable, rambling about their dog and the squirrel population and how they'd had to have the poor dog put to sleep when it ate a poisoned squirrel and how horribly the creatures had suffered. Their only comment on Ian was that they didn't get along with their son and they didn't seem to miss him. They would not discuss his juvenile record or the harassment charge with me. His mother seemed a little hysterical about it all and slammed the phone down at that point.