The Edge Of The Cemetery (5 page)

We arrived at the bar and entered through the double oak doors. Seymour's was located on the bottom floor of a Victorian building that had been beautifully preserved and restored. I'm a huge fan of San Francisco's historic architecture, which was one of the reasons I bought my apartment in an ornate 1920s building, and another reason I was so fond of Seymour's. The bar is loaded with Victorian charm, complete with tufted red velvet booths and chairs, ornately carved dark wood features, and electrified gaslight style fixtures.

The booth in the farthest corner was our regular spot and Billy headed toward it, ignoring the nod of greeting from the bartender, Ed. Although I was positive that Justine taught Billy manners, she rarely used them. I, on the other hand, used mine often. I walked up to the bar and greeted Ed with a smile and asked how he was. We traded pleasantries for a few minutes while he poured our pints. He no longer asked me about my occasionally bruised or cut-up face…I think Phil had told him I was a boxer, and not a very good one.

I took our drinks and sat next to Billy in the booth. She always picked the side against the wall so she could see the bar and the front door and anyone who came through it. Billy had been sullen and quiet on the walk over…sullen wasn't unusual, but quiet was. We sipped in silence, and finally I asked, “What's on your mind Billy? You're too quiet.”

She glanced over at me, and a spark of dread flashed in her eyes. “I'm worried, George.”

“We all are, but what's got you
specifically
worried?”

“That kid last night, the demon he was with, the recent attacks…they aren't surges, they're organized, and I have trouble believing it's some teenager that's behind it all. The fact that it's escalated to murder….” She blew out a hard breath, a telltale sign of her frustration.

“I've been thinking about him too, and everything else.” I was hesitant to say what was on my mind next because I knew it was too close to home for her, but I had to say it. “Billy, I don't think the kid was playing with a full deck.” She started to say something and I held my hand up to shush her. “You know what I mean…sometimes this ability happens to people that can't handle it or just aren't equipped to handle it.”

Billy's grandmother had been a person like that. She was a bright and intelligent child and young woman, but emotionally fragile. When she started seeing ghosts and killing them, it drove her insane for the most part, which spurred her father to institutionalize her, even though he was a ghost killer too and probably could have helped her through it. That turned out to be even worse, because it put her in Vokkel's hands, and we knew how that turned out.

“And I don't think it's anything like your grandmother. I think he's probably mentally disabled to some extent, or maybe he was on drugs like Pete suggested. Or maybe he's just a killer at heart and the demon knows it and enjoys the fact that the kid can use its electroplasmic juice.”

Billy cringed. She hated that term, but it was the best one I could think of to describe the jolts of electric-like charges the demons emitted when we touched them barehanded, or when they were so powerful they torched my pencils or her chopsticks when we stabbed them.

“As far as the other demons are concerned, I'm not sure what to make of them. But I'm pretty sure that kid deliberately lured us outside so we could get our butts kicked by his demonic friends. Did you notice that almost all the victims were healthy and well built…solid? That's not right…demons pick the weakest in the crowd. They're easier to possess and control, but last night's victims looked like they'd been in pretty good shape before they were haunted and possessed. What are the chances that a band of demons would assess the crowd and pick out the biggest and strongest? Let's not forget, the one guy tried to grab you before you kicked his ass. What was that? Was he trying to kidnap you?”

Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “You think that kid set us up? That he wanted us there, to kill us, or….” She paused and her brow furrowed deeply. “Why would they want to kidnap me?”

“I don't know.” I picked up my glass and drained half of my beer.

One of the front doors opened and Phil sauntered into the bar, looked in our direction, and tipped his hat in greeting. Phil was in his early forties, tall, with large, expressive eyes that appeared to protrude from their sockets when he spoke passionately, which was often. His hair hung in frizzy curls almost to his shoulders, and his beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. His apparel consisted of a few constants; he always wore a hat of some sort, and a vest with a silver pocket watch tucked into the left pocket, with the chain attached to a button. He usually paired these items with jeans, biker boots, and if needed, a long wool topcoat. He had an energetic personality that some might mistake for hyperactive, or at the very least enthusiastic about everything—good or bad.

Phil stopped at the bar for a beer, then strolled over to the booth and placed his glass on the table. “Hey man, how the hell are you?” He reached out to shake my hand, which was still bandaged; he grimaced and thankfully shook lightly.

Leaning past me, he murmured something to Billy, probably a compliment. He was a bit of a suck-up when it came to her, and the only man I'd met, besides myself, that actually enjoyed her abrasive personality. Billy, although she wouldn't openly admit it, liked him quite a bit too.

Phil got settled, took a gulp of his beer, and said, “So man, I heard that was some show in Marin.”

Billy and I nodded at the same time. Phil leaned closer and scrutinized each of us, then said, “Man, you got the lion's share of it, didn't you? Either that or Billy really is a better fighter than you.” He winked at her and a slight smirk spread across her lips.

“She didn't have to fight a possessed linebacker, and she didn't get thrown off a cliff,” I said defensively.

Phil held his hands up and said, “Just teasing, man.” He smiled and winked again. “So Pete said there were about ten or twelve demons, including the kid and the demon he had with him.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that was the largest attack so far, and the boldest. I mean, there were a lot of people there that weren't possessed and saw the whole thing. I can't imagine how Pete managed to spin it so the cops bought what he was selling.”

Phil nodded, but before he could say anything, the doors opened again and I said, “Aris is here.”

We waited quietly as Aris stopped at the bar and ordered his drink. As usual, he was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, a stark white shirt, and silk tie. Aris was about my height and build, but where I was just clean cut and not too hard on the eyes, he was handsome in an elegant and exotic way. He had dark, almost black eyes, olive-toned skin, and jet black hair with a touch of grey at the temples. His reserved personality and impeccable fashion sense added an air of mystery to him as well. When I first met Aris, I assumed his only employment was simply “head Watcher.” Turned out it was a lot more—he was a homicide detective with the SFPD. I wasn't sure how he found the time to be good at both things, but he did, and of course his career with the police department allowed the Watchers access to information that wouldn't be available through legal civilian channels.

Aris slid into the booth next to Phil and placed his drink on the table without saying a word. Once he was situated, he looked Billy and I over carefully and said, “I am told that was one of the worst attacks to date. However, I am very grateful that you both survived with…,” he paused, “
minimal
damage.”

I felt Billy stiffen and I grabbed her hand to calm her down. She and Aris had been acquainted for years, and Billy believed that Aris and the Watchers could have prevented some of the more unfortunate events in her life. She was partially correct, but Aris respected her a great deal and we agreed to work with him, so she usually kept her ill feelings in check. However, she was tired and frustrated today, and I had no doubt that she was about to say something offensive and obnoxious, and I didn't see any point in getting the meeting off to a bad start.

“Pete and Mr. Grant were kind enough to provide a full report of what they experienced. Is there anything you would like to add?” Aris asked.

“Well, George seems to think the demons we followed outside deliberately picked their victims, because they were healthy and fit, strong….” There was a little attitude in her tone, but I thought it was mostly directed at me. She relaxed a bit. “I guess they were, now that I think about it. He thinks maybe that kid and his demon communicated with the others with the intention of calling us out, using stronger victims so they could hurt us or kill us.” She looked at me. “They sure put a hurt on him.”

“That they did, no thanks to you,” I said mockingly. She elbowed me and I snapped at her, “Damn it woman that hurt!” We might heal quickly, but it hadn't even been twenty-four hours yet, and my ribcage was still suffering from last night's assault.

I turned back to Aris and Phil and asked, “Did Pete tell you that I'm positive this kid was in the Tenderloin the other night?”

They both nodded, and Phil said, “Yeah, he did. But I think all that confirms is that the kid is working with the musketeer demon.” Phil paused to take a pull off his beer. “But why?”

Not all ghost killers are good; some use their power to communicate and work with powerful ghosts and demons for personal gain. These have historically been seasoned ghost killers though, people who've honed their abilities over many years of practice and experience. So to have a mere teenager, a child really, with enough power to work alongside a demon as old as this musketeer was frightening. How did he learn to do it at such a young age? Who taught him? Based on my companions' pensive expressions, I guessed they were all contemplating the same thing.

“So tell us what you've found out about the kid,” I said.

Phil said, “Okay. Well, you know we ran that partial plate, along with a description of the car. We came up with hundreds of matches. We were already checking DMV registrations for owners with teenage drivers, and we found a woman in a town east of here with a seventeen year old. The car is a dark blue Volkswagen Jetta, so that fits. We ran the woman and her name is Gail Brelong…her son's name is Calvin Brelong.”

“All right, so what do we know about them?” I asked.

“They live in a small town at the base of the Sierra Foothills in Calaveras County, called Valley Springs. The mother, according to the county assessor, owns a house and has lived there since the kid was five years old. The assessor also shows that she owns another property about twenty-five miles away, up the mountain, near a rural town called Rail Road Flat. Looks like she might have inherited it based on the info on the assessor's website. Carol ran the previous owner's name and discovered that he died in 2013 in a freak accident at his home.” Carol was Aris's niece, a mid-level ghost killer and a damn good hacker/computer geek as well.

“The local newspaper wrote a small story about it, stating that he was found by his sixteen year old nephew, who'd been visiting for the weekend. They didn't disclose the kid's name, but the age fits our teenage kid….”

“How did this person die?” I thought I knew the answer, but asked anyway.

“The official cause of death was listed as accidental electrocution,” Phil said, his voice laced with suspicion.

“What, you think this kid killed his uncle?” Billy asked impatiently.

Phil wasn't fazed by Billy's frequently unpleasant disposition, so he just gave her a toothy grin and said, “Well, the guy died of electrocution, and we know this kid's playing with that demon, using its juice….” He shrugged, “But maybe it was just an accident.”

“What else?” I asked.

“Pete and one of his guys are up there now trying to confirm this is our teenager. The mother isn't home, but they talked with the neighbor, who said that the kid takes the car all the time. In fact, he got home last night around 3 a.m. The neighbor knows this because the stereo was blasting as the kid pulled into the driveway and it woke him up. The neighbor says the kid is strange and the mother lets him run wild most of the time. He said he thought the kid spent most of his time up the hill at his uncle's place. He has a beat-up old motorcycle he uses when he isn't driving her car, and had taken off on the bike an hour or so before Pete got there.” Phil paused for a breath. “Pete was headed up the hill to the uncle's ranch to check that out. He said he was going to swing by the mother's house again on the way back…hopefully she'll be home by then.”

Phil took a long pull off his beer; his usual enthusiasm had faded, and he seemed hesitant when he spoke again. “There might be a Vokkel connection…I found some references in Vokkel's journals. He'd really pared back on his research after he shut the German school down and moved back to the city. I think that's because he knew he was constantly under surveillance by the Watchers, so he didn't want to draw attention to himself. Plus we know he sort of became a recluse, barely leaving the house. But he didn't stop completely. He did stop dating the entries, but for the most part, I think they're in chronological order because of what he documented.” He looked at Billy. “He documented your college years via reports from Caleb.” Vokkel had hired a perfidious ghost killer to get close to her and determine the extent of her power and knowledge when she was in college. When Billy discovered Caleb's true purpose, she beat the crap out of him. He had rematerialized a few months ago, again hired by Vokkel, but this time it was to determine
my
power. He was a traitor to our cause and needless to say, an unscrupulous ghost killer.

“I remembered seeing some notations that I believe are from the early 2000s about a subject, a child that he'd located and coded C1, which could fit Calvin Brelong if he's our kid.” Vokkel had used a coding system to describe his patients, a first initial and a one, two, or three to describe the ghost killer's level (one being the strongest). He'd used the same system to describe a longaevus, but he used a four or five to reference their level of power.