Paint It Black (13 page)

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) and it came away in her hand, the chain unspooling at her feet. The gates to the Wheele Estate swung inward with a rusty squeal.

She walked in the direction of where the main house once stood, her boot heels crunching on the overgrown drive. Weeds and small trees poked their way through the slowly dissolving layer of bleached shells.

She scanned the area for signs of derelict habitation or teenage lovers and came up empty. This surprised her. The abandoned five-acre estate was perfect for suburban youths to hide from the apathy of their parents and practice their drinking and sex, but she couldn't pick up the faintest trace of such activity. Instead, as she neared the blackened remains of the Wheele mansion, she began to receive psychic signals similar to those she'd experienced at Ghost Trap.

The place was haunted Big time.

Sonja wrinkled her nose. Even though the place had burned to the ground five years ago, it still smelled scorched. There wasn't a lot left of the house - she'd made sure of that when she set it on fire. She'd also killed everyone in it beforehand. And a lot of people in the surrounding area, for that matter. Sonja still felt bad about that part of the massacre. But it wasn't really her fault; the Wheele bitch was the one who'd kidnapped her and kept her in that shit-hole of an insane asylum for six months.

Wheele was the one who'd started it, not her. But she had finished it, by damn. Besides, the psychic shock wave she'd released that night only affected those with true darkness in their souls. At least, that's what she liked to tell herself.

There was a light moving amongst the ruins. It was a cold, unnatural luminescence, glowing greenish-white against the darkness. At first it was formless, a glob of pulsating light hovering amidst the collapsed timbers and fallen masonry of the destroyed house. The will-o'-the-wisp fluttered for a few seconds, then began to change, taking on shape and substance. It was a woman - or something that had once been a woman.

It had no eyes, no ears, no tongue; its skin hung from its phantom bones like an empty sack. Although it had arms and an upper torso, its legs ended in glowing tatters. Even though it had no eyes in its sockets, Sonja knew it could see her. And that it recognized her.

'Hello, Catherine. It's been a long time, girlfriend.'

The ghost of Catherine Wheele, erstwhile televangelist and faith healer, raised its glowing arms and howled like a damned soul. Which was only natural, since that was what it was.

'Can the spook routine, sister. It might work on teenagers

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) looking for a place to screw and bums out for a midnight tipple, but it doesn't cut any mustard with me.'

The ghost shrieked like an owl with its tail caught in a blender and swooped towards her, fingers crooked into claws.

Sonja held up her right hand and a burst of electric-blue light flew from her palm, catching the ghost in its reconstituted midsection. Catherine Wheele rolled up like a window shade, reverting to the pulsating ball of light.

'You're as ignorant dead as you were when you were alive,' Sonja sighed. 'The dead cannot physically interface with the mortal plane except on Mardi Gras, the vernal equinox, and All Hallows' Eve. And just because you're dead doesn't mean I can't kick your butt, lady.'

Catherine Wheele reassembled herself, scowling at Sonja from across the Divide. Smaller, feebler lights began to appear, floating through the night air like fireflies. One of the ghostly balls unraveled itself, taking on the appearance of Dr Wexler, the corrupt psychiatrist who first steered Shirley Thorne in Catherine Wheele's direction, then arranged to keep Sonja locked up in his sanitarium. Sonja was glad to see he was being forced to spend his afterlife in the company of his former lover. The other, lesser lights took on human forms as well, turning into the Wheelers, Catherine's private cadre; a mixture of religious fanatics, hired muscle, and stud muffins. Sonja had killed each and every one of them.

'It's nice to see you're not lonely,' she smirked, carefully searching the wanly glowing faces in search of one in particular.

When she did not find it, she heaved a small sigh of relief and turned to go. But she couldn't resist one last jab. 'You know, they called it "Jonestown in America". All the stuff about your parents dying under mysterious circumstances, your late husband's fraud convictions, the graft and corruption in your church - all of that got into the papers. The Wheeles of God Ministry is gone - kaput. All your worshippers jumped ship for other, less controversial preachers. And since Waco went down, you're old news. You're trivia for atrocity buffs, nothing more. Just thought you'd like to know.'

The ghost of Catherine Wheele threw its mouth open so wide it struck its breastbone, and issued an agonized shriek that told Sonja she'd better watch her ass come Halloween.

Sonja chuckled to herself as she sauntered back to the car.

Who says you have to be nice to people simply because they're dead?

Rolling Lawn Cemetery unlocked its gates at dawn. By that time, Sonja had been inside the grounds for a couple of hours.

But before crashing in a suitable tomb, she had a couple of visits to make.

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) She did Chaz first.

She wasn't sorry she'd killed him. She'd felt a little guilty about it at first, but she never really felt sorry. Chaz had been a deep-down, dyed-in-the-wool bastard. He'd betrayed her, sold her out for a suitcase of money. Not that it did him any good in the end. Instead of running off to South America, like he'd always dreamed of, the idiot hung around town, frittering his fortune away on hard drugs and rough boys. It was like he was waiting for her to find him.

Just like he was waiting for her now, perched atop his gravestone.

'Hello, Chaz. You're looking well.'

Truth to tell, he looked like shit. Composed of a grayish purple fog, his features'were beginning to soften, the eyes turning into empty smudges, the nose a hint of shadow. If she hadn't known him so well, it would have been difficult for her to identify him. He was still smoking, though. He remembered enough about his former life to cling to its habits, at least.

'Judd's dead. I guess you already know that, though.'

She expected some sign of malevolent glee on his part, but he gestured dismissively with one hand, leaving trails of ghost in its wake. He remained as ambivalent in death as he had been in life.

'Why haven't you moved on? What holds you to this plane?

Is it me?'

Something flickered in the smudges that were once his eyes.

As Sonja looked at the tattered shadow, memories rose inside her. Memories of when they had been friends, of times when they had been lovers. She closed her eyes to ease their stinging, but she still couldn't find it in herself to feel sorry.

When she opened her eyes again, Chaz was gone.

Claude was nowhere to be found. For that she was relieved.

His death had been an unpleasant one, and often such traumas keep the dead tethered to the mortal plane for years, even decades, after their deaths. But it seemed Claude Hagerty had managed to move on to whatever it is that awaits humans when they die. The same could not be said of all of Rolling Lawn's internees, whose after-selves flickered amidst the tombstones and vaults like phantom fireflies.

The sun would be rising soon. She went to the tomb she'd chosen as her crash space. Since the last occupant had been

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) laid to rest two decades before, she knew she could sleep without having to worry about being discovered by a grieving family member. The memorial sconces were empty and cobwebs hung from the ceiling in delicate tatters. It smelled pleasantly of graveyard mold and dead leaves. She curled up in the darkest corner, setting her watch alarm for four o'clock.

As she drifted off into what passed for sleep amongst her kind, she marveled at how little she'd thought about either Palmer or Lethe. That probably meant they were okay.

7.

Palmer couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a sober breath. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved or changed his clothes, either. He was certain he'd been sitting at the kitchen table, naked except for a pair of khaki safari shorts, for several days, but he wasn't sure exactly how long.

He staggered over to the calendar hanging next to the stove and squinted at it. He'd gotten it from a Pharmacia in Medina.

The calendar showed a handsomely muscled Aztec warrior, garbed in brilliantly colored feathers and a skimpy loincloth, shooting a bow at the coming twilight while at his sandaled feet lay sprawled a voluptuous Aztec maiden, wrapped in a diaphanous robe and looking more like a Vargas model than a virgin priestess. Palmer was unfamiliar with the myth the picture was supposed to represent. Was the warrior defending the fallen priestess, or was he the one responsible for her death? And what the hell was he shooting at, anyway?

Thinking about the picture on the calendar made his head hurt. Palmer wobbled back to the kitchen table and sat down with an explosive sigh. It took him a few seconds to realize he'd forgot to count how many days it'd been since Lethe disappeared into the cocoon and his life went into the crapper.

He wasn't sure how long Sonja had been gone, either. He had been too drunk to cast his mind for her, but something told him he would not have been able to reach her, even if he was sober. Besides, the possibility of accidently locking minds with the Other again, no matter how distant, was enough to keep him from trying.

Palmer's gaze fell on the black mask, sitting atop a pile of unpaid bills and unfiled invoices. The empty eyes stared up at him, the lips parted as if in anticipation of a kiss - or a bite. His head continued to hurt, so he rested it on the table.

When he opened his eyes again, it was dark.

Palmer grunted and jerked upright in his chair, knocking the half-empty tequila bottle onto the floor. It shattered, spraying

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) his bare feet and legs with liquid gold. The color of the tequila made him think of Lethe's eyes. And the cocoon.

The cocoon. Time to check the cocoon.

He lurched to his feet and turned to face the patio door.

He always checked the cocoon at night. During the day it didn't seem necessary, but night was different. Strange things happened at night. Plus, he had to admit the cocoon was pretty once the sun went down. The weird glow that suffused it grew more intense, making it look like a piece of amber held in front of a flashlight. Sometimes he could see something moving inside the cocoon, as if someone was swimming around in there.

Palmer opened the door and stepped out onto the patio, expecting to be greeted by the cocoon's mellow glow. Instead, there was only darkness. The second thing he noticed was that its guardian was nowhere to be seen.

'Fido?'

He stepped forward hesitantly, looking around for some sign of the seraphim's bulky figure. Had it taken Lethe's cocoon someplace else? Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the dark, he saw something lying on the bricks of the patio.

At first it looked like a big, deflated balloon, the kind used by weather services. It lay there, limp and forlorn, like an octopus cast upon a shore after a storm. As he moved closer, he could make out a faint, yellowish fluorescence. He knelt and poked at the empty chrysalis. It felt like a cross between a freshly shed snakeskin and a wet blanket.

Palmer's head swiveled around drunkenly. 'Lethe? Lethe, where are you, darlin'?' He struggled to get to his feet, trying his best not to black out. The adrenaline in his system was now battling the tequila for mastery, but he was too far gone to sober up fast.

'Lethe?'

The light came from above, pouring down on him as if someone had switched on a tiny sun right over his head.

Palmer cringed and lifted a hand to shield his eyes. His first thought was that someone was hovering over the house in a helicopter, pointing a surveillance light down at him, like they do in Los Angeles. Then he realized that what he had thought was the sound of rotors chopping the air was his own pulse hammering away inside his ears. And then the light spoke Daddy.

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) The light lowered its wattage, became a steady glow, and Palmer saw the thing at its heart. Its form was that of a young woman, no older than sixteen or seventeen. Her hair was long enough to braid into a rope, floating free like a mantle buffeted by gentle winds. Her skin was dusky, her eyes golden without pupil or iris. Her breasts were full, her hips wide, drawing his eye to the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. She was beautiful. She was woman. Unbidden, Palmer felt his penis stir and grow heavy at the sight of the lovely, naked woman suspended above him like a vision of Venus. Or the Madonna.

'L-Lethe?'

The glowing woman smiled and when she spoke her lips did not move. Her voice was smooth as velvet, as comforting as a cool hand on a fevered brow.

My childhood is over. It is time for me to begin my work.

I owe you much for keeping me safe, for giving me love and treating me as your own, for showing me what it is like to be human. I owe you all this, and that is why I shall make you the First.

'First? First what?'

Father of the coming race.

Before Palmer could ask her what that meant, Lethe swooped down, catching him up in her arms. He was too drunk and surprised to protest, until he looked down and saw the tops of trees skimming by below his feet.

'Lethe! What the hell do you think you're--?'

He didn't finish the sentence because Lethe placed her mouth over his, her tongue darting inside his mouth. For a moment Palmer felt himself begin to respond, then he retched and tried to push her away.