Ghost Guard (6 page)

FOUR

THOUGH THEY DIDN’T KNOW IT
at the time, Tommy Griffith and Valerie Bowman were riding their bicycles down a path that would forever change their lives. A lengthy tour through Forest Park culminated in a 10pm cruise on Tom McCall Waterfront Park, a narrow causeway alongside the Willamette River. Rolling past Salmon Street Springs, they admired the waxing gibbous moon rising over Mount Hood, striking a majestic contrast with the velvety silhouetted skyline brooding in the foreground. They pedaled at a casual pace, hugging the railing next to the seawall, beyond which loomed a precipitous drop to the chilly water below.

“Smells like rain,” Valerie held up her palm.

“God I hope not. I don’t have fenders on this bike,” Tommy complained.

“You and fenders.
We live in Oregon. We don’t use fenders in Oregon.”

“Yeah?
Then what are we supposed to do when it rains?”

“Get wet.”

They giggled and strode to some unknown destination. Maybe they’d find an all-night theater. Maybe a cute little brewpub. Maybe just steal away into a private place and share a caress. 

They came to an area which allowed vehicle traffic close to the gangway under the Burnside Street Bridge. It terminated in a stout turnaround and had two small parking lots for people to leave their cars and enjoy the park, though in Portland, fewer and fewer actually
drove to the waterfront. That’s why the couple was a little surprised and a whole lot concerned when they found themselves staring down a pair of headlights.

They braked abruptly. Valerie glanced at Tommy. He returned the gesture. Time seemed to stand still. Neither had the ability to do anything but
watch the car careen toward them, engine revving high, tires screeching. Valerie felt like her feet were stuck to the pavement. They were about to be pulverized. She knew it. Tommy, on the other hand, would think nothing of the sort. He was young and determined to survive, and equally stubborn about his companion’s life. So, without a moment to lose, he pedaled into Valerie, shoving her out of the way. He did it. Valerie was safe. But it was too late for him. He looked up and realized he was in the middle of the car’s lethal path. He had only time enough to throw his arms in front of his face as the old Cadillac skipped the curb, jumped over the protective barrier, and flew straight for him.

Valerie screamed something unrecognizable. She didn’t have the time to form words. Her boyfriend was about to be run over by some lunatic in a beat-up Coupe de Ville, and she couldn’t do a thing about it.
A most helpless feeling. It made her weak. But she couldn’t close her eyes. Tommy could. He tensed up, winced, and curled into a ball, convinced this was the last second of his life.

But it wasn’t.

Instead of crashing into him and breaking every bone in his body, the Cadillac didn’t touch him. He felt it go right past, a cold rush saturating him to the core. He even saw the woman who was driving. Older, but not too old. Looked upset, almost angry, like she was trying to hit Tommy on purpose.

The car skipped over the railing and dropped like a stone toward the serene water. They expected a tremendous splashdown. They heard nothing.
Simply. Quietly. Suddenly. The car vanished, and so did the woman driver. Just like that. Gone. Nothing hit the waves. The water remained still and calm as if nothing had happened. Tommy blinked, then blinked again. His mouth, open the whole time, dropped even wider. Valerie leapt off her bike and rushed to his side, panting.

“Tom! Tom! What happened! Are you
hurt!”

Tommy, still blinking, said nothing. He only stared at the river, where a large ripple and bubbles should have been rising to the surface. Headlights should have been cutting through the murky depths. Instead, the Willamette was dark
, quiet, peaceful.

“Did you see that crazy
ass!” Valerie was red-faced. “She tried to kill us, Tom! She tried to run us down…and you know why? I’ll tell you why—because we’re on bicycles, that’s why! This was an attack, pure and simple. A hate crime! Did you see that lady? She was aiming straight for us! Are you sure you’re okay?”

She
leaned against the wall and peered down. Maybe she missed something. But no. Not a wave, not even a ripple.

“Where’d it go!” she looked at Tommy. “Can you hear me? What happened to that car? Where did it go! It couldn’t have sunk that fast! Where is
it!”

“Vanished,” he squeaked. She blinked some more.

“What do you mean it vanished?” she was trembling, mostly from sheer terror. “Where could it have gone?”

At the same time, they straightened and turned their gazes upon one another.

“A ghost!”

THE REPORTER NODDED at the camera, serious as a heart attack.

“I’m Anna Costello. Bicycles are popular in the city of Portland. That’s a fact.
It’s also a fact that there’s a lot of friction between bicyclists and drivers. Friction that’s been building for years. That conflict may have reached a peak in one of the strangest incidents you’ve ever heard. I’m standing in the very location where two bicyclists claim they were targeted in a hate crime—by a spirit,”
she began walking.
“That’s right, a ghost. It might sound like a joke, but the alleged victims are serious, and so is the entire pedaling community.”

“It was terrible, just terrible,”
said Valerie. Tommy nodded vehemently.
“We saw headlights.”

“Blinded us
,”
Tommy added.

“That’s right. They blinded us.
Couldn’t see anything until the car was right on top of us.”

“We didn’t know what to do,”
Tommy’s eyes widened.

The reporter pointed the mic at her own mouth.

“The driver was a woman?”
she aimed the mic at the two again.

“Yes! She was. And she looked right at us with the most accusing, most damning eyes you’d ever seen.”

“Yeah. It was really unnerving. Like she was scolding us for riding bicycles. That’s the feeling I got. Plain and clear.”

“What!” Rev sat up.

“Shhh!” Abby was curt with her response. He shook his head and leaned back again. The video continued with Ms. Costello asking another question.

“This is all very interesting. But what makes you two think this lady was a ghost?”

“Because when a two-ton car barrels right at you, usually it doesn’t go through you.”

“Beg pardon?”
Costello tilted her head, forgetting to aim the mic at herself.

The interviewees repeated,
“The car went right through us!”

“It went through you? What do you mean exactly? Describe it the best you can.”

“It was the most intense feeling I’ve ever felt in my life.”

“Yeah.
Like a frigid wind slicing through me. Like it went right into my bones, you know? Right to the marrow.”

“So what happened next?”

The two looked at each other. Tommy turned to the camera.

“Then it disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vanished, just like that,”
he snapped his fingers.

The screen cut to
a different outside venue. A park setting. A woman with tight, purple curls and several silver rings through her lips as well as her nose sat on a bench. Her mouth was moving, but the reporter’s voice overrode hers.

“
I talked to Jan Yeager, director of Portland’s largest bicycling political action committee. She says the alleged attack was a serious matter that shouldn’t be ignored.”

“If we just sit back and let this kind of thing keep happening,”
Jan’s voice became audible.
“Then that will only embolden the haters and the bicycle bigots out there to commit even worse hate crimes.”

“Even ghosts?”
the reporter asked.

Jan nodded with emphasis.

“Especially ghosts. Like almost all large, old cities with a colorful past, Portland seems to be a hotspot for paranormal activity. We’ve got ghosts and hauntings all over from Mount Tabor to Pill Hill. There are hundreds, thousands of cases. We have to make sure these souls are going to abide by the same rules of society we all do. Intolerance is intolerable, even from a ghost.”

“I understand you have a rally in the works? What do you have planned?”

“It’s really important we get the word out to all the local ghost hunters, sensitives, and even priests or other members of the clergy who want to come and help and show support for the bike riding community in a time of obvious spiritual crisis.”

“Priests and ghost hunters?
What do you want to do, have an exorcism or something?”

Jan looked into the camera.

“We have a serious situation here. We believe there is a spirit haunting downtown, and it’s not at all friendly to bicyclists. We plan on confronting this ghost and teaching her a lesson in civility.”

The camera changed to a single shot of the reporter in the park at night. It looked like a live feed
. At least it was live when Morris recorded it.

“A ghost who allegedly attacks a bike-riding couple.
A pedaling community up in arms and mobilizing to do something about it. And the police can’t help because they have no jurisdiction over a dead woman. The question now is—who has the jurisdiction to hand out justice in the afterlife? Stay tuned to Channel Three for further updates on this story. Anna Costello. Eleven o’clock news.”

“Ha!” Morris
paused the video. “I’ll tell you who has jurisdiction,” he said to his teammates. “
We
do.”

“What!” Rev contended. “Why the hell would we want to touch this case? It’s so smalltime, it’s not even funny.”

“Rev,” Morris argued in return. “You know the Ghost Guard creed. We come to the aid of any spirit in need.”

“He just wants to flirt with millionaire’s wives,” Abby shot him a look. “Not every mission can be a five
-star event at a lavish estate.”

In her stilted, shrill way, Ruby reminded Rev he’d made a promise to be more cooperative. Stung by her chirpy tone, he frowned at her. Then Brutus grumbled in agreement, and Rev
narrowed his eyes at him.

“Et,
tu? Brute?” he made a stabbing motion at his own chest.

“All right, all right,” Morris clapped his hands, hoping that would snap them back to attention. “We have a sworn duty to help any ghost in distress, and as we can plainly see, this one is in a tremendous amount of distress. Sounds like all the usual suspects will be there.
Ghost hunters, psychics—amateur and professional. Plus it sounds like they’re going with the big guns…”

“Exorcists,” Abby said solemnly. Exorcists were trouble for a spirit. They all knew it.

Ruby repeated the word in her own way, shrieking and holding her stubby hands to her mouth. She shuddered at the very mention. Brutus felt a certain level of discomfort too. His smoky aura swirled with ever increasing turbulence. Rev, on the other hand, didn’t let it bother him.

“Bring ‘
em on,” he puffed his chest. “I’m not worried about exorcists.”

“You see?” Abby complained. “It’s that attitude right there that almost got you smoked last mission.
This caution to the wind bullshit. It’s getting really old.”

“I get the job done.
When it counts. My methods may be a tad unorthodox, but—”

“Unorthodox? Is that what you call it?
Because I can call it something else.”

“Look at us,” Rev pointed out. “Ghost Guard is nothing if not unorthodox. So don’t come whining to me if you don’t like the way I operate!” his eyes flashed with the intensity of tiny lightning bolts.

“Will you two stop!” Morris tried to keep order. Rev and Abby fell silent and looked at him. He normally didn’t lose his temper, and that got their attention.

“Morris? What is it?
Something about this case?” Abby asked.

He cleared his throat and smiled as if nothing had happened.

“Not at all. This is just a routine job. Normal procedures,” he regarded each of his teammates individually. “We’ll go over everyone’s assignments, and when we do you’ll see that it’s all quite by the book. Nothing new or out of the ordinary. The only real challenge is the concentration of different threats all in one place.”

“Right,” Abby agreed. “We’ve never encountered all these
guys at the same time.”

“We can handle it,” Rev yawned.

“So glad to see your confidence hasn’t failed you,” Abby looked away.

“Nothing’s failed me,” he assured her. “Don’t you worry about
me.”

“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about Ghost Guard.”

He crossed his arms.

“Good to see your priorities are straight.”

“That’s right.”

“Guys,” Morris
peered over the top of his glasses. They abandoned the argument and flashed him awkward grins. “Okay,” he addressed the group. “Let’s get on with it. Ruby, the lights.”

Ruby circled up and up, then, with a fizzle and a pop, entered the electrical wiring, traveled to the light bulbs
, and siphoned their power, creating a dim, subdued viewing atmosphere. Morris pressed an icon on his tablet and the projector did the rest, displaying a black and white picture of a woman in her sixties wearing Coke bottle glasses and a giant beehive hairdo.

“Who is that?” asked Rev.

“That’s our at-risk spirit. We’ve been assigned to protect her.”

“Looks like my
fifth grade teacher.”

“Very perceptive, Rev” said Morris. “Her name’s Sheila
Coulson, and she used to be a teacher. Grade school, in fact. Born August 1914, died June 1975.”

“How did she die?” asked Abby.

Morris tapped some more icons. The projection screen showed a bird’s eye view of downtown Portland.

“Well, you see, that’s the thing. We know how she died. Took a wrong turn and drove her Cadillac right off the seawall. Ever since then she’s been haunting Waterfront Park.”

Abby perked up at this new revelation.

“Wait a minute. Sheila Coulson. If she’s been haunting the waterfront that long, there’d be stories. People would be talking about her. I haven’t heard anything about her until now.”

“That’s the anomalous part,” agreed Morris. “From what I can find, Ms. Coulson is a level three residual wanderer.”

“Level three?” Abby was confused. “If she’s a level three residual, how did those two bicyclists see her?”

“Good question,” Morris admitted his ignorance, something he hated doing. “Because you’re correct. The only living humans who are supposed to even sense a level three residual wanderer are people with highly-developed mediumistic abilities like you, Abby. There’s no real good explanation for it. All I can think is there must be some sort of disruption in the spirit world.”

“A disruption?”
Rev pondered aloud. “What kind of disruption?”

“I really don’t know. Why? Do you sense something?”

“No,” Rev answered. “Not really.”

“Well,” Morris continued. “Then I say we proceed as planned. Like we discussed, it’s going to be a large group with multiple threats. The ghost hunters will be up to their usual tricks. Night vision cameras and full spectrum imagers and EM detectors will be
ubiquitous. And, as you know, I’ve got devices that will confuse and scramble each of them. The mediums and other spiritual channelers we already know how to deal with, but they’re not the ones who really concern me. It’s the exorcists. And that brings me to the next phase of my briefing.”  

Morris rolled his chair away from his desk and dug his heels to stop in front of another worktop, this one overflowing with electronics, something the Ghost Guard crew was accustomed to seeing. He lifted up a
special gadget for everyone to observe.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce my latest toy.
The Stat-Mag Emitter.”

“Looks an awful lot like a gun, Morris,” Rev said flatly.

“That’s because, technically, it
is
a gun. It emits a localized beam of super-ionized, highly magnetized conductive plasma, originating in the psychokinetic field of—”

“Morris!” Abby had to interrupt. “Use English, would you?”

“Oh,” he adjusted his glasses. “Sorry. Well, in layman’s terms, it can strengthen a spirit with a boost of static magnetic energy on the spot. It works much like a Stat-Mag coil, only remotely, like a gun.”

Rev perked up quickly.

“Hold on. Are you saying we don’t have to sit in those damn torture chambers of yours anymore? Hallelujah!”

“Sorry, Rev,” Morris shook his head, much to Rev’s chagrin. “I’m afraid it only gives a ghost a temporary infusion of energy. A coil is still necessary for full-scale recovery. But
here’s what it
can
do,” he flipped a small switch on the emitter’s handle, and a green light near the sights turned red. “Not only does it
provide
energy, it can also extract it.”

“Extract energy?” Abby asked.
“From a ghost? Why would we want to do that?”

“
The emitter’s not just for ghosts. It’s designed to work on any supernatural entity, no matter how enigmatic.”

Rev had to interrupt again.

“Morris, what’s all this talk about disruptions in the spirit world and mysterious supernatural entities? You’re giving me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Yeah, Morris,” for once, Abby had to agree with Rev. “What do you know about this mission you’re not telling us?”