Good Lord, Deliver Us (7 page)

Yes. Clouds. A late afternoon breeze
had blown them in. Not the sort of thunder heads that menaced rain,
but thick enough to mask the moon and stars.

It was Z's pattern to show
up early for detective jobs, particularly for work that involved
someone he didn't know. If there was the slightest risk of a
surprise,
he
wished to do the surprising.

Showing up early, and
prepared.

When he'd gotten home after the
afternoon's reconnoiter, he'd removed his detective satchel from
the hiding place he'd made for it under his self-installed
fireplace. Had the dark leather briefcase on the passenger's seat
beside him.

Though he didn't see any reason he'd
need it, he'd put on his black "night fighter" outfit complete with
inky, skin-tight leather gloves. He hadn't pulled on the sable ski
mask (and didn't intend to in the 80-degree heat.) But had it in
the satchel, just in case.

Knowing that he'd need lock picks, Z
had put the lock pick case in his hip pocket.

His sap was in the satchel, Z not yet
so paranoid he'd have that on him at the outset of every
job.

Also in the briefcase -- wide elastic
bands securing most items -- was his jimmy, a straight razor,
container of lighter fluid, length of thin nylon rope, roll of
white athletic tape, dynamite fuse, and rubber siphon.

To complete his preparation, Z had put
in wooden kitchen matches and packets of paper matches, matches
better for some jobs than a lighter.

In his left pants pocket he had the
usual: penlight, bottle of aspirin, and cigarette lighter. (There
were jobs where a lighter worked better than matches.)

Just the general items. (For specialty
work, he'd have included other tools-of-the-trade; a small jack,
lock-breaker, glass-cutter, suction cup -- that kind of
thing.)

Fifteen minutes to
wait.
If
the
ghost hunter was on time -- and most people weren't.

It didn't matter. Z was prepared to
spend the night in any case. If he had to do it in the car, he'd
only be a little stiffer come morning than if he'd slept on the
floor inside the house.

Thinking ahead, Z fished out the
aspirin bottle; unscrewed the cap; and shook out a palm full of
pills, popping them in his mouth and crunching them up to wait for
the sour-acid taste of the powder to encouraged enough saliva for
him to swallow.

No one there to see him, he allowed
himself to grimace as he waited for his throat to cool after the
scorching aftereffects of the aspirin.

He'd also been having heartburn
lately. Maybe he'd better think about carrying a roll of
Tums.

Satisfied that he'd arrived first and
that he was alone, Z ratcheted back the seat as far as he could,
lying back until only his eyes showed above the window -- the
position he often assumed when doing surveillance work.

He'd decided to leave his camera
behind, also the long distance lens that doubled as a telescope,
any ghost worth watching needing to be big enough to see without
magnification. (Could it be that ghosts -- like aliens from outer
space -- were never photographed because they were crafty enough to
keep from showing up on film?)

Since stakeouts were as much a part of
a P.I.'s life as that of a cop, settling down at last, Z put
himself into his usual, sleep-like trance to dull the pain of
waiting, while at the same time, leaving him alert to changes in
the world around him.

* * * * *

Aroused by a distant sound behind him,
Z clicked the seat back forward, hunching up as the backrest
rose.

Adjusting the rear view mirror, he saw
a car coming down the street behind him. ... No. ... A small truck,
such tiny "trucks" made these days it was hard to tell them from
cars. This was definitely the sound of a light-truck engine,
though. Something imported.

Lights on, of course. Who, but a
private eye, would take the sort of "lights out" precautions Z
did?

A miniature truck, slowing to park a
ways behind Z, nestling to the curb in front of the ghost house,
the driver shutting down the engine, insect sounds reclaiming the
night.

Z heard the door latch being worked,
the dome light coming on in the truck cab, a shadow-shape sliding
out the driver's door. Followed by the door slamming
shut.

Though the brief glow of the truck's
ceiling light had showed Z nothing but an outline, the driver
looked ... small. Seemed to be dressed in dark slacks and a loose
work shirt.

Apparently not bothered by the
presence of Z's Cavalier, the driver walked to the back of the
truck where, after a momentary pause, came the sound of the
tailgate slamming down.

Equipment.

That was the only explanation for why
the ghost hunter (and who else could this be?) would need something
out of the back of the truck: equipment too heavy or too bulky to
fit in the cab.

Time for Z to help.

Switching from lethargy to action, Z
eased open his door.

Slipped out.

Pushed the door closed, the carefully
greased lock making only the tiniest of clicks as it
engaged.

Beginning the short walk to the truck,
Z meditated on the fact that soft-soled shoes were a must in the
detective business.

Meanwhile, the ghost hunter had jumped
up on the truck bed; had switched on a flashlight; was shining the
beam on some apparatus as Z rounded the back of the
truck.

"Evening," Z said in his strangled
purr.

"My God!" the ghost hunter gasped in a
high, frightened voice.

Whipping the flashlight wildly, the
man located Z's shadowy bulk in the generalized darkness behind the
truck. (If the guy hoped that shining the flashlight on Z's ugly
face would be soothing, he was mistaken.)

"It's just me," Z said, feeling guilty
for deliberately startling the principal player in the night's
adventure.

"Who
are
you? Why are you
here
?"

Irritating! To be low-rated this way.
Also, to have a light shined in his eyes and by the very person
he'd been hired to protect.

"Bob Zapolska."

"Is that supposed to mean something to
me?" Now that they were talking like people meeting under less
bizarre circumstances, the ghost hunter didn't sound as
frightened.

"I've been hired to help." Z still
didn't want to admit he was excess baggage -- signed on, not to do
the job, but to protect the "doer."

"I still don't understand." The ghost
hunter's voice remained high, which figured. It was always the
smallest man who sang tenor in Barbershop Quartets.

"Vice Chancellor Ashlock hired
me."

"For what purpose?"

"Protection."

The man laughed. Which didn't make Z
feel any better.

"Protect me? From what?"

"Ghosts?"

"He must be as crazy
as
I
am."

Since Z had forced Ashlock to hire
him, Z couldn't blame the ghost hunter for seeing Z as the fifth
wheel Z was. "Could I help ... another way?"

"
That's
an offer I can't refuse," the
ghost hunter said,
finally
turning the light away from Z's face. "By the
way, what did you say your name was?"

"Bob Zapolska. Call me Z."

"I'm Jamie Stewart."

"The ghost hunter."

"If you like."

Z noticed the man made no
offer to shake ... which was probably just as well. Who knew what
diseases a man with that high a voice might carry. "And you
can
help me get this
battery pack down."

The guy turning the flashlight on a
long piece of equipment, Z saw a couple of stacked car batteries
web-belted on a two-wheeled dolly, the batteries looking like
they'd been wired in series, the wires neatly coiled and fastened
with twist ties, their ends tipped with metal jacks. Along side the
dolly was a large and lumpy, denim gunny sack; behind the
two-wheeler, a number of different-sized cardboard
boxes.

Mr. (Doctor?) Stewart now squatted to
pull up the two-wheeled dolly by its recurved handles.

Z's eyes adjusted to the dark, he
reached up to take hold of the bottom of the dolly, pulling it to
the edge of the truck bed. There, considering that the batteries
were heavy, the angle of the lift awkward, and Z's knee never that
reliable, it was fortunate that only a surge of strength lowered
the dolly's wheels to the street, Z taking control of the
two-wheeler, tipping it forward until it stood alone on its steel,
lifting plate.

Picking up the cloth sack, Stewart
jumped down. "I've got a battery-operated lamp and a hot plate in
here," he piped. "Also a battery coffee maker. A friend of mine
converted them from AC to DC. I do a lot of work in places without
electricity."

"Sounds good," Z admitted. "I'm not
sure about the light, though."

"One too many lights in there,
already," Stewart said, instantly picking up Z's
meaning.

"Frightens the neighbors."

"Particularly one neighbor." Stewart
waved the lighted flashlight at the Devaux house.

Wanting to be fair, Z was forced to
acknowledge that the ghost hunter wasn't stupid. Not much of a man,
maybe, but sharp enough to notice there were only two houses left.
Had put that together with the complaint about the ghost
light.

"I got the lamp problem fixed,
though," the man continued.

"OK."

"Shall we go up?"

"Got to get something first," Z
said.

Leaving the battery cart, Z walked
back to his car and opened the door to toss in his hot gloves and
jacket. (There was never any need for 90-percent of the precautions
Z took.)

Decidedly more comfortable, Z
stretched in to pull out his satchel, then shut the car
door.

Walking back, he laid the leather case
on the uppermost battery, sighing at how good the breeze felt on
his bare arms.

Ready at last, Z grasped the "pistol
grip," plastic-wrapped handles and rocked the cart back on its
wheels, balancing the weight over the dolly's axles. Paying
attention to any shift in load, Z trudged the two-wheeled cart
across the street to join the ghost hunter who'd already
crossed.

At the curbing, circling until his
back was to the parking, Z "walked" the cart wheels up and over the
curb.

Making a tight rotation again, Z
trundled the dolly after Stewart (the ghost hunter leading, looking
like a miniature Santa with the bulky gunny sack slung over his
shoulder).

Thumping the two-wheeler up the
irregular tile walk, Z turned again at the stoop to bump the dolly
up -- each -- step -- until he and the cart were safely on the
porch.

At the door, using his foot to "brake"
the wheels, Z tilted the cart forward on its front plate so he
could let go of it without it rolling.

"I can get us in," Z said, Stewart
waiting for Z to climb the porch, the man's bag already on the
stoop, a shadow within the greater darkness of the
porch.

Z reached in his back
pocket.

Took out the packet of lock
picks.

Digging out his small penlight, Z used
it to open the case of picks and select what looked like the
right-sized tools. Shutting the slim packet, Z slipped the case
back into his pocket.

Kneeling before the door, aware that
the ghost hunter was watching him intently, Z inserted the slender
steel blades in the lock; turned them delicately to the right; then
to the left, probing for the mechanism that would trip the tumblers
so he could turn the lock cylinder.

Not the right picks after all. Too
thin, perhaps.

Getting up from the paint-peeled
porch, Z fished out the container of picks again. Snapped it
open.

Stewart cleared his
throat. "We're trying to get inside, right?" Was the man still
nervous or was his voice
always
that high?

"All it takes is a little time and
some skill," Z said in what he hoped the guy would interpret as
understated modesty.

"Why don't we just use the
key?"

With that, the fellow stepped to the
door and fumbled at the lock.

A click, and the front door swung
in.

"Key?"

"From the Vice Chancellor. Didn't he
give you one?"

"Ah ... no."

So much for impressing the ghost
hunter.

Disappointed, Z's role again reduced
to "beast of burden," he pocketed the picks, levered back the dolly
handles, turned, and while Stewart held the door for him, thumped
the cart up over the sill and into the short hall beside the small
living room.