"Go ahead," Charlie said, readjusting his headphones. He held up his Bible. "But this is the only light I need."
Lyle waved and turned away thinking how comforting it must be to believe that the answers to all questions could be found in a single book.
Envying the peace that must bring, he waded down the hall through a sea of turmoil. He'd hidden the uneasiness gnawing at the base of his throat. His home had turned unpredictable, a minefield of dread possibilities. The events of the day had left him jumpy and unsettled, but exhausted as well. Yet the idea of lying down and closing his eyes bordered on the unthinkable.
At least in this house. One night in a motel would do it—allow him a solid eight hours of sleep so he could return in the morning refreshed and ready for anything.
But he was not leaving his home.
Lyle glanced at his alarm clock as he entered his bedroom. It read 3:22. Still running backward. The real time was somewhere around 10:30. Lyle realized he was more than exhausted. He didn't feel well. He hoped the blood in that pool hadn't been contaminated… blood carried all sorts of diseases these days. But then, it hadn't been real blood, had it. Some sort of psychic or ectoplasmic blood…
Listen to me, Lyle thought. I sound like I've been listening to my own jive-ass line so long I'm starting to believe it.
But there'd been nothing jive ass about what happened this afternoon. That had been the furilla, as Charlie liked to say.
He rubbed his skin. He'd taken another shower when they'd got home after dinner, and still didn't feel as if he'd washed off the taint of his blood bath. It seemed as if it had seeped into his skin—no, through his skin and into his bloodstream. He felt changed somehow.
The past few days had changed his perspective. Any brightness only served to make the shadows look deeper. So you stepped around them. Trouble was, there seemed to be lots more shadows, so you did a lot more stepping around. Let that get out of hand and pretty soon you spent your whole day stepping around shadows.
Being in a spot where you feared you had only a couple of minutes to live had to change you some. Lyle had been sure he was going to drown in that blood this afternoon. But he hadn't, and he'd emerged from that crimson baptism with a new appreciation for his life, and a determination to make the most of everything he had.
And what he had at the moment was a ghost.
Pretty ironic when he thought about it: A devout skeptic who earns his daily bread by faking the existence of ghosts winds up owning a haunted house. The stuff movies of the week were made of.
But the fact was he'd chosen this house because of its morbid history, so if any place had a better-than-average chance of being haunted, it was Menelaus Manor.
So… how do we make the most of the situation? If this ghost is a lemon, how do we, as the cliche goes, make lemonade?
The obvious answer had struck Lyle in the restaurant. If these manifestations were truly the doings of the ghost of a child who had been murdered and buried in the house, and if she was trying to tell them something that would bring her killer to justice, or wanted to show them her burial place so forensic science could track down her killer, then she had a willing—no, an enthusiastic ally in Lyle Kenton.
Not merely because satisfying her needs offered a good chance that she'd go back to wherever she came from and leave the house in peace…
… but think of the publicity!
If he could find the body… and if the body led the police to her killer…
Psychic Ifasen Contacted by Spirit of Dead Child to Bring her Killer to Justice!
Not a news show or talk show in the world that wouldn't be begging him for an appearance. Hell, even Oprah would want him. But he'd be picky, accepting only the most prestigious venues with the largest viewership. He'd get a book deal, detailing his exploits among the spirits.
And his clientele! Everybody who was anybody would want to see him. He and Charlie would be set for life. They'd charge ten—no, twenty-five K for a private sitting, and have those sitters' limos lined up around the block and backed up all the way across the Triboro Bridge.
It would be like winning a fifty-million-dollar lottery.
With that wonderful fantasy dancing in his head, he stood in the middle of his bedroom and softly called out, "Hello? Anybody there?"
Not that he was expecting a reply, but he had to try to break through this knot of tension winding about him.
A chill rippled over his skin. Was it his imagination or did the temperature just drop? He sensed that he was no longer alone in the room. The degrees continued to fall. He might have welcomed it had he known his air conditioner was behind it. But the unit was off. And this was a different kind of cool… clammy, seeping to the bone.
Something was responding to his questions. He spread his arms in a gesture of openness.
"If you've got something to say, I'm lis—"
A drawer in his dresser slammed closed.
Lyle jumped and backed away. As he watched, another drawer slid open, then slammed closed. Then another, and another, faster and faster, harder and harder until Lyle feared they'd splinter and shatter.
Lyle caught movement to his left as Charlie, wide-eyed with his Bible clutched in both hands, edged into the room; he saw his lips move but couldn't hear him over the cacophony.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
"What was that all about?" Charlie whispered into the echoing silence.
Lyle rubbed his bare arms against the pervading chill. "I haven't—"
He stopped as he saw a dark line appear in the dust on the dresser top. They could well afford a cleaning service, but didn't like strangers in the house who might see something they shouldn't. So they did the work themselves, but not nearly so often as needed.
Maybe that was going to turn out to be a good thing.
Lyle stepped closer and motioned Charlie to follow him. He pointed to the letters forming slowly in the down of dust.
Where
"Look," he whispered. "Just like on the mirror Sunday night."
is
Charlie pointed to the growing string of letters. "She can sing a song, why don't she talk?"
the
Good question, Lyle thought. He shook his head. He had no answer.
"Look like the spirit writing we fake," Charlie said, "only a thousand times better."
nice
"Because this isn't fake."
Spirit writing… all it took was a fake thumb tip equipped with pencil lead, but now he was witnessing the real thing.
The sentence ended with a question mark.
Where is the nice lady?
Lyle heard Charlie breathe, "Gia. You was right. They connected."
"She went home," Lyle said in a voice that was perhaps too loud.
Why?
"She doesn't live here."
Will she be back?
"I don't know. Do you want her to come back? I'm sure she'll come if we ask her."
She is nice
"Yeah, we like her too." He glanced at Charlie. "Who are you?"
Tara
Lyle let out a breath. She had a first name. That was a start, but he needed more.
"'Tara' what? Do you have a last name?"
Portman
Tara Portman… Lyle closed his eyes and balled his fists. Yes!
"Why are you here, Tara? What do you want?"
Mother
"You want your mother?"
Lyle waited but no answer appeared. He felt the chill drain from the air, the tension uncoil from the room.
"Tara?" he called. Then again, louder. "Tara!"
"She gone," Charlie said. "Don't you feel it?"
Lyle nodded. He did. "Well, at least we know who she is. Or was, rather."
Lyle closed his eyes and realized he wasn't as tense as he'd been a few moments ago. He was no longer dealing with a nameless, violent entity. Knowing the name of the being that had invaded their house made her less threatening. She'd been someone
, and something of that someone remained. He could deal with what remained.
He could help her. And she could help him.
"Right," Charlie said. "We got her name. Now what we do with it?"
"First thing we do is get hold of Gia and see if the name Tara Portman means anything to her."
15
"Tara Portman," Gia said, rolling the two names through her brain for maybe the dozenth time. "I've known an occasional Tara and a couple of Portmans, but can't for the life of me recall a Tara Portman."
They'd returned directly from the restaurant in Astoria—no stop at Menelaus Manor per Jack's insistence—and settled down for a movie. Gia had found Stepmom on one of the cable movie channels and declared tonight her turn to pick. Jack grumbled and groaned, saying anything but Stepmom, but finally gave in. He turned out to be a poor loser, editorializing with gagging and retching sounds at the best parts.
He'd checked his messages before they headed for bed and found an urgent call from Lyle Kenton who'd claimed that the ghost had told them her name.
Lyle had read off what the spirit had written and Jack had copied it down. Staring at the transcription now gave her a chill. A bodiless entity, the ghost of a little dead girl, had mentioned her. She shuddered.
"Well, whoever or whatever it is," Jack said, "it thinks you're nice. At least that's what it says."
Gia was sitting at the kitchen table, the transcription before her. Jack stood beside her, leaning on the table.
"You don't think I'm nice?" she said, looking up at him.
"I know you're nice. And you know my agenda. But we know nothing about this thing's."
"Her name is Tara."
"So it says."
Gia sighed. Jack could be so stubborn at times. "Are you going to be difficult about this?"
"If being protective of you translates as difficult, then yes, I'm going to be very difficult about this. I do not trust this thing."
"She seems to want me to come back."
"Oh, no," he said. "That's not going to happen."
"Oh, really?"
Gia knew he was looking out for her, but still she bristled at being told what she could or couldn't do.
"Come on, Gi. Don't be like that. This is the Otherness we're dealing with here. Responsible for the rakoshi. You haven't forgotten them, have you?"
"You know I haven't. But you don't know for sure it's the Otherness."
"No, I don't," he admitted. "But I think the best course is to assume the worst until proven otherwise."
Gia leaned back. "Tara Portman… how can we find out about her?"
"Newspapers are the best bet," Jack said. "We can hit the Times or one of the other papers tomorrow and search their archives. Start in '67 and work backwards and forwards."
"What about the Internet? We can do that right now."
"The Internet didn't exist back in '67."
"I know. But it can't hurt to try."
Gia led Jack to the townhouse's library where she'd set up the family computer. She and Vicky were starting to use it more and more—Vicky for homework, Gia for reference stills for her paintings. She fired it up, logged onto AOL, and did a Google search for Tara Portman. She got over ten thousand hits, but after glancing at the first half dozen she knew this wasn't going to give her what she needed.
"Try 'missing child,' " Jack suggested.
She typed it in and groaned when the tally bar reported nearly a million hits. But at the top of the list she noticed a number of organizations devoted to finding missing children. A click on one of the links took her to www.abductedchild.org.
She read the organization's mission statement as the rest of the welcome screen filled in, and was dismayed to learn it had been founded in 1995.
"This isn't going to work. She's been gone too long."
"Probably right." Jack said. "But there's a search button over on the left there. Give it a shot."
She did. The next screen allowed searches by region, by age and physical description, or by name. Gia chose the last. She entered "Portman" in the last name field, 'Tara' in the first, and hit enter. The screen blanked, then a color photo began to take shape. Blurry at first, but increasingly sharper as more pixels filled in.
Hair… Gia felt her saliva begin to vanish when she saw that the child was blond.
Eyes… her breath leaked away as blue eyes came into focus.
Nose… lips… chin…
With a cry, Gia pushed back from the keyboard so hard and fast she might have tipped over if Jack hadn't been behind her.
Jack caught her. "What's wrong?"
"That's…" The words clogged in her throat. Her tongue felt like clay. She pointed to the screen. "It's her! That's the child I saw in the house!"
Jack knelt beside her, clutching her hand as he stared at the screen.
"Gia… really? No doubt?"
Her voice was a whisper. "None. It's her."
Jack reached for the abandoned mouse and scrolled down the screen.
TARA ANN PORTMAN;
Case Type: Nonfamily Abduction
DOB: Feb-17-1979
Height:5'4"-135cm
Weight: 60 lbs-28 kg
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Blond
Parents: Joseph and Dorothy Portman
Circumstances: Tara was last seen in the area of the Kensington Stables in the Kensington section of Brooklyn near Prospect Park after horseback riding.
Date Missing: Aug-16-1988
City of Report: Brooklyn
State of Report: NY
Country of Report: USA
The photo above is how Tara looked the year she was abducted. The photo below is age progressed to age 18. Posted 1997
The age progression showed a strikingly beautiful teenager, a classic homecoming queen if Gia had ever seen one.
But Tara Portman never made it to her prom. Gia felt her throat constrict. She never even made it to high school.
"I don't like this," Jack said. "Any of it."
Of course not. What was there to like? But Gia had never known Jack as one for obvious statements.
"What do you mean?"
"Abducted kids. First I get involved with one, now you. It bothers me. Too…"
"Coincidental?"
"Right. And you remember what I was told."
Gia nodded. "No more coincidences."
The mere possibility that such a thing might be true sickened her.
"You think Tara and Due might be connected?"
"I don't see how. I mean, there's such a long span between, but then… no more coincidences." He shrugged. "Let's see what else we can dig up on her."
The page listed an email contact and three phone numbers: a toll-free for the Abducted Child network, one for the local Brooklyn precinct, and one for the family.
"Abducted 1988," Jack said. "That doesn't fit with the sixties song, but if that's the girl you saw, we'll worry about the song later."
"That's her."
Gia stared at that nine-year-old face, wondering who could have a soul so dead that he'd want to do harm to such beauty, such innocence?
"Look," Jack said, pointing to the screen. "Posted in 1997, when she was eighteen. She'd been gone nine years and the family was still looking for her."
"Or looking for closure." She looked at him. "Jack, we've got to do something."
"'We'? You and the baby are staying far away from Astoria and that house, remember?"
"All right then, you—you or somebody else has got to find her remains and let her family bury her."
"I'll take care of it," he said. "Just promise me you'll stay away from there."
"Look at her, Jack. Look at that face. How could you believe that child could hurt anyone?"
"Something awful happened to 'that child.' Abducted and killed are bad enough, but who knows what was done to her in the time between? She's not an innocent child anymore. She's not even human. And I don't like that she appeared to you and no one else."
"Look what she wrote for the Kentons: 'Mother.' That's me. A mother of one and mother-to-be of another. She wants her mother and I was the closest thing to one in that house."
"Could be," Jack said slowly. "But I still don't like it."
"Jack, if she was looking for her daddy she might have appeared to you."
"Why isn't she looking for her daddy?"
"Maybe he'd dead, or her folks were divorced, or maybe she was raised by a single mother."
"Or maybe her daddy's involved."
Gia hated that thought but had to accept it as a possibility.
"None of that matters as much as finding her. We can let the police sort out the rest afterwards."
"I'll handle it," Jack said. "I'll be in touch with Lyle tomorrow and see how far he wants to take this. Maybe I can talk him into tearing up his cellar floor."
"And me?"
"You work on your paintings and whatever else you usually do on a Wednesday."
"Yes, Poppa."
He kissed her cheek. "Please, Gia. Stay safe and stay put."
Gia nodded. "Okay."
But she couldn't take her eyes off the Portman family phone number at the bottom of the screen… a 212 exchange… right here in Manhattan…
IN THE IN-BETWEEN
The being that was Tara Portman floats in the darkness between. She knows who she is, she knows who she was, she knows why she is here, she knows who must die.
But after that death—another death in this place of death—what?
Return to nothingness?
No… there must be more. She wants, she needs more.
Knowledge of her old self has awakened memories of the barely blossoming promise of her life before it was ended.
Knowing what she has lost… this is agony.
Knowing all that she will never have, never be… this is unbearable.
The being that was Tara Portman wants more.
WEDNESDAY
1
"It's called what?" Abe said, frowning down at the froth-filled cup Jack had just placed before him on the counter.
"Chai," Jack said. "They told me at the coffee shop it's very in."
"What is it?"
"Gal said it's an Indian thing."