Poltergeist

"To you. Yes.”

I got up and left without another word between us.

Now I was puzzled, but no less frustrated. Maybe there was something in what he'd said, but it didn't help me with the immediate problem of Celia. Thinking in dismaying circles, I found myself parking the truck outside my office. Shaking my head, I considered that if my subconscious wanted to wander, I would take the rest of me out for a drink in the thronging weirdness of Pioneer Square. But I wasn't going to do it alone. The historic district was too ghost-riddled for comfort in my current state. I picked up my phone and made a call.

Quinton met me with a hug outside the Owl and Thistle—a noisy Irish pub tucked under a pretentiously Irish stepsister in what used to be a bank on First. How often does a bank go out of business to become a bar? At ten on a Friday night, the little pub was roaring. A "Celtic metal" band—they weren't quite metal, but you couldn't call it folk in spite of the fiddler—contributed to the general clash and thunder of a crowd already drunk on beer and rugby.

Quinton wangled a table in the back near the dartboard and far enough from the band to avoid having any of the people who insisted on dancing in the tiny space land in our drinks. Our conversation was underscored by the thunk of darts and the thock of pool balls as we leaned toward each other to be heard over the wailing of the band covering the Pogues' "Bottle of Smoke.”

I was half down the first pint before it occurred to me I'd had no di

"What's wrong?" Quinton asked.

"Missed di

Quinton laughed, then peered at me. "Hey. Really. What's wrong? You never just call and say 'Buy me a drink. “

"Are you saying we never just have a drink?”

"No. I'm saying you never insist. It's always 'Hey, let's shoot pool, or 'Hey, you wa

"You started it," I countered, suddenly awkward about how to continue this conversation. "I never shot pool until I met you.”

"Some people would say you still don't shoot pool. And you don't usually evade questions, either. So. . what's the matter? That case for the ego-hound?”

I found myself rolling my eyes without meaning to. "That case. . It's not even a case anymore. It's done. I'm paid. I'm out—and I owe you money, I know. But I ca

"That thing—the ghost they made—it's a serious problem. I've gotten tangled up with it, somehow, and now it's causing me trouble. It's vicious. I believe it killed one of the project members.”

Quinton choked on his stout. "How does a ghost kill someone?”

"The ghost was just the weapon. One of the remaining subjects controls it.”

I backed up and gave him a fast overview of how the poltergeist functioned and what seemed to have caused its jump to a different level of power and autonomy, how it had become cruel and vindictive as one disturbed individual gained control of it, growing even worse since Mark Lupoldi's death.

Quinton grimaced, shaking his head. "That's freaky.”

"It's deadly. Whichever of them controls it killed Mark. I don't think he or she is going to be content to stop now that they know what they can do—and I'm sure the killer knows by now.”

Quinton nodded and rested his elbows on the table as I went on. "The poltergeist's been raising havoc with everyone co

Quinton finished his beer and signaled for another round. "Why do you have to?" he asked, digging in his ever-present backpack for his wallet.

I let the waitress take my glass, then leaned forward again, pushing his wallet back into the bag. "You are not paying to listen to me talk this out. Look, this ghost is not going to fade away. It may get weaker if its collective stops believing in it—or if they're killed—but it has plenty of other power to draw on and its master is a psycho who's already done a lot of harm. This thing is not going to stop. And I don't know anyone else who can go after it but me.

"But I don't know how. I've tried to learn some way to follow it, but I can't figure it out. I don't know what to do when I catch it, or how to catch it in the first place. I seem to be stuck with the job of figuring out who controls the thing—which is the same as solving the crime I'm not even supposed to be investigating—and of convincing Solis of the murderer's identity. The real murderer, not the ghost.”

Quinton made a scoffing noise. "Why? Why are you stuck with doing this job for them? They can't understand that a ghost did it, but why does it matter? So long as it stops.”

"The family of the dead guy might not agree.”

"I'm not callous, but they're not going to buy this story and it's not up to you to sell it. You have to consider your own position first— 'cause you can't help anyone if you're dead. It's already taken potshots at you—those bookends you told me about could have knocked your head off. Whoever controls it is crazy and isn't too good at sharing his toys. Since the thing has another power source, at some point—even if it means weakening the thing a little—the killer is going to start picking off the competition—everyone who has a co

"You're fixated on a path to a possible solution, not on solving the problem. You're thinking of saving other people from the monster, not of getting rid of the monster for everyone's sake, including yours. That's what you need to be working for. It seems to me that you'll be able to find this ghost-thing hanging around its controller or its next victims. If you're going to keep it from being used, you need to separate the killer from control of the ghost. Once you've got the controller removed, it'll be easier to break the ghost. It's like unplugging the power before you start messing with the machinery. It may not be perfectly safe, but the other way is a lot worse.

"It's pretty obvious from what we saw on those early recordings that the ghost isn't very clever on its own and doesn't make decisions for itself. It gets a lot of its smarts from the group that contributes to it. If it's cut off from that, it'll get pretty dumb and be a lot easier to take out. If you can keep the controller distracted from the ghost, the ghost won't have that source of smarts or viciousness.”