The Ghost Exterminator (4 page)

“Jo!” Wyatt shouted her name. Just that. It was enough.

Her concentration splintered, shattering at the last moment. Her gaze flew to where Wyatt stood in the corner, an expression of confused shock twisting his usual frown.

The portal snapped shut, hard enough to send an echo slamming through her. A high-pitched squeal pierced her mind and then two green streams of light, so tightly intertwined that she thought for a moment they were one, slammed into Wyatt’s chest, sending him stumbling backward against the corner.

He gave a shout of surprise, his hands reaching out automatically to brace on the walls on either side of him as the house began to tremble and roll. Jo wrapped her hands over her head and squeezed her eyes shut—as if that would save her if the ancient ceiling decided to come crashing down on top of her.

The earthquake lasted only a moment, there then gone, like the crashing of a wave. Then all was silent and still.

She opened her eyes, not bothering to get up from her position sprawled on the floor, and threw open her second sight.

Nothing.

The ghosts were gone. The air held only the natural chill of an October night. The force that had fought her for their spirits had vanished as suddenly as it had arrived.

It was over.

Jo rolled onto her side, the better to glare at the businessman in the corner. “Haines. Next time someone tells you not to talk or move…”

“I’ll do it,” he responded promptly.

Jo nodded wearily and let her head flop back down onto the floor. She closed her eyes, exhaustion sucking at her.
God, I need a vacation
. Then, so softly she wondered if she had heard anything at all, there came the unmistakable whimper of a child’s cry. Coming from Wyatt’s corner.

She opened her eyes and there it was. The faintest of ghostly green glows, inside Haines’s body, directly beneath his sternum.

Oh, that can’t be good.

Chapter Four: Good Karma

Ungodly early the next morning, Jo breezed through the tasteful front office of Karmic Consultants, smiled cheerfully at the latest in a long line of confused secretarial temps who never lasted more than a week, and waltzed right into her boss’s office without so much as a courtesy knock.

She marched up to the imposing black stone desk, full speed ahead, take no prisoners, boosting herself up to sit on the smooth, black marble and swinging her feet in a way that never failed to piss off her boss.

Luckily, her boss wasn’t in yet.

Karma, founder and executive dictator of Karmic Consultants, was still in the Bat Cave—as Jo had taken to thinking of the mysterious condo beneath the KC offices. As far as Jo knew, no one had ever seen inside it, save Karma herself. The only entrance was an elevator connected directly to her office and controlled by a biometric panel—which only increased Jo’s belief that Karma was leaping into black spandex and flying off to save Gotham. Seriously, who used biometric sensors besides the CIA?

The elevator itself had been painted to resemble a Japanese screen, blending seamlessly with the subtly Asian-influenced luxury of the rest of the office.

Jo smiled cheekily up at the most visible of the surveillance cameras that monitored Karma’s office twenty-four/seven. Somewhere, Karma was watching—if she wasn’t already on her way up to tell Jo to get the hell off her desk.

The elevator doors opened with a barely audible
shush
, and Karma’s one-nine-hundred-operator voice slid sensuously into the room in front of her. “Get the hell off my desk, Jo.”

Karma did not look like a stereotypical psychic, or a channel, or any other mumbo-jumbo magician. Her tailored grey power suit would not have looked out of place on a courtroom lawyer, and she wore it with confidence and ease. She was tall and slim, and her features possessed the same subtle Asian influence as her furnishings, but her skin was dark—more caramel than cream. Jo had never seen her black hair unconfined, but she always imagined it would be long and geisha-straight if Karma ever released it from its rigid chignon prison.

It was a pointless fancy though—Karma did not let her hair down. Ever.

Jo bounced off of the desk, an unrepentant grin ruining the effect of her instant obedience. “’Sup, boss?”

“You are, apparently. Rather early for you, isn’t it, Jo?” Karma slid into the executive chair behind her desk, as elegant and collected as ever, despite the hour.

Jo had visited Karma’s office at every possible hour of the day. If the boss wasn’t in the office when Jo arrived, she appeared within moments, always looking crisp and unflappable, whether it was two or ten, a.m. or p.m. Jo had no idea when, if ever, she slept.

She would wonder if Karma was human, if not for the fact that the big boss’s little brother Jake had recently gotten engaged to Jo’s cousin Lucy. Jake’s existence proved that Karma had not actually sprung fully formed from the head of Zeus, but rather in the more traditional way from the loins of a retired FBI Agent and a hippie from New Mexico.

Karma made a delicate throat-clearing sound, which immediately reminded Jo of Wyatt and his stick and the reason she was here at this dreadful hour.

“We have a problem.” Jo flopped down onto one of the high-backed chairs facing the desk.

“Do we?” Karma said without inflection, her voice pouring over the words like liquid.

“My client—Wyatt Haines?—he’s haunted.”

“Yes, dear, that’s what he hired you for.”

“No—I mean, yes, that is what he hired me for—but, no, that’s not what I meant. His house is fine—sort of. It’s him.
He’s
haunted.”

Karma blinked and slowly leaned forward in her chair. “Perhaps you’d like to explain that.”

Jo squirmed in her seat. “So…it isn’t
entirely
my fault.”

“Explanations first. Excuses later.”

Jo wiped every trace of expression from her face, trying to mimic Karma’s blank professionalism. “The client was already on site when I arrived at the designated meeting time. Preliminary examination of premises revealed abnormally high spectral energy emanating from the structure, but no indicators of the cause for this on the grounds. Client expressed reluctance to allow me access to the premises, stating possible demonic possession as grounds. No apparent signs of demonic energy. Client insisted on accompanying me into the structure and remaining present during extermination.”
And if he had just listened to me in the first place, none of this would have happened.

“Despite overwhelmingly high original readings, no ghosts were present upon immediate entry. The client and I followed sounds of activity to the kitchen, where I found an abnormal concentration of juvenile ghosts. I opened a window to let them out, but they resisted.”

Karma didn’t move, but Jo felt her attention sharpen to a razor’s edge at that little tidbit. Jo was tempted to add a pithy comment about how resistance was futile, just like the Borg, but she didn’t want to ruin her uber-professional recitation with too much Trekkie geekery.

“I then attempted to push the ghosts through the portal. After an initial measure of success, a secondary force began to forcefully draw the ghosts away from the window.”

Karma’s chair squeaked as she sat forward suddenly, but she made no move to interrupt Jo’s report.

“I exerted more force and directed the majority of the ghosts through the portal. At this point, the client interrupted the proceedings, splitting my concentration. I allowed the portal to close, believing that all of the ghosts had been expelled. A tremor passed through the house, after which I moved to check the wellbeing of the client and discovered two distinct spectral presences residing inside his body. In his diaphragm, to be precise.”

“I imagine he took that well,” Karma said dryly.

Jo winced. “He ran like the hounds of hell were after him, actually. I told him it probably wasn’t wise for him to take off while his stomach was still haunted, but he didn’t exactly react favorably to that suggestion. Couldn’t get away from me fast enough.” That had stung more than she cared to admit. It wasn’t like she’d
tried
to haunt him.

“I see.” Karma blinked slowly, thick black lashes sweeping down then up again with a deliberateness that spoke of patience, understanding, and contemplation. Jo’s eyelashes were never so eloquent. “Do you believe the client to be in danger?”

Jo pulled a face. “Not in danger,
per se
, but it probably isn’t a good idea to let a haunted executive run around town telling everyone we put a pair of baby ghosts in him.”

“But you do not believe the spirits to be malevolent.”

It wasn’t a question, but Jo answered anyway. “Naw. They’re kids. Whatever else was in that house might be a badass S.O.B., but the ghosts were just pranksters. Completely harmless.”

“I assume the presence in the house disappeared again after you closed the portal?”

“Yeah. I think it’s what rattled the foundations, but after that the house was totally empty of paranormal energy of any kind. Not so much as an echo.”

Karma pursed her lips speculatively. “You did a sweep of the premises anyway, of course.”

“Yep. I snuck back in after the haunted CEO took off in his Bentley. No more ghosts, no more weird presence and no indication whatsoever as to why either had been there in the first place.”

“How many juvenile ghosts were present initially?”

“Over a hundred.”

Karma’s eyes widened fractionally, but her voice remained coolly unmoved. “So you exterminated a hundred ghosts last night. Quite an accomplishment.”

Jo shrugged. “Should have been one hundred and two.”

Karma made a humming sound acknowledging that and tapped one finger on her desk phone. “I’ll contact Mr. Haines and inform him that we will exterminate the ghosts in his diaphragm. Free of charge, of course.”

Jo stiffened, even though she’d known walking in that she was going to have to deal with Wyatt Haines again. “I don’t think he’ll be terribly receptive. He didn’t exactly believe me when I said there were spirits in his stomach.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Karma said, as if that settled it. In a way, it did. “You will need his permission to return to the house. You can obtain it when you exterminate his ghosts.”

“Return to the house?” Ignoring for a moment the fact that Wyatt had run from her last night like she was a leper chucking spare body parts at him, Jo focused on Karma’s second improbable request. “It’s clean.”

“It will be
clean
once we’ve adequately explained the anomalies present at last night’s extermination. You will determine what happened and why. With the client’s permission and assistance. Now, go get some sleep. You look like death.”

“I’m supposed to look like death,” Jo said cheerfully as she rose and strode toward the door. “I’m Goth now.”

When she turned back with her hand on the knob, Karma was eyeing her sunny blonde roots.

“Let me know how that works out for you,” her boss said dryly, already lifting the phone from the cradle to dial the haunted CEO.

Jo left her to work her magic. Maybe Karma could convince Wyatt that he was haunted. And that he believed in ghosts. And that he was deliriously grateful to the ghost exterminator who had cleaned out his house.

Hey, it could happen. For all Jo knew, mind control might be one of Karma’s mysterious abilities.

Chapter Five: The Horrible Haunting of W. Haines

Wyatt did not have time to be possessed. Or haunted. Or whatever the hell she called it. He was a busy man. He had the Grand Opening of a new inn to launch, the remodeling of the Victorian to oversee, and the daily operations of a multimillion-dollar corporation to head. There was no time in his life for ghosts in his stomach.

In his
stomach
, for Christ’s sake. Had she actually expected him to believe that?

After the debacle at the house, he’d gone home, drunk enough scotch to drown any ghosts in his stomach, and passed out in his bed.

At least, he
thought
he had passed out in bed. He’d woken up sprawled on the floor in front of the television with the SyFy channel blasting at an unholy volume. He
never
watched the SyFy Channel. He didn’t even know which channel it was. CNBC, ESPN, sure. But SyFy?

Wyatt had scoured the condo for signs that someone—perhaps a certain sexy Exterminator—had broken in to play a prank on him, but his scouring skills weren’t at their best, given the fact that he was still somewhat drunk from the fifth of scotch he’d swallowed only hours earlier.

The scotch provided an excellent explanation. Drunk and prompted by the previous day’s so-called ghost activities, he must have followed some subconscious cue to stop at a channel playing
The Twilight Zone
or
The X-Files
. Why he’d gotten out of bed to go watch television in the middle of a bender was still a mystery, but no cause for concern.

It didn’t mean he was possessed.

He’d been late into the office, which had his entire staff gaping at him in shock, including his flaky, new-age secretary who peered at him as if in fear for his soul. Since it was her usual expression, this morning it was actually somewhat comforting.

He’d grabbed the morning profit-loss reports and shut himself in his office with what was quickly becoming the worst hangover ever recorded in human history.

Then
she
had called.

When his secretary buzzed to tell him Karmic Consultants was on line one, he’d experienced a brief flare of something—not quite excitement, but definitely not dread—at the idea that it was Jo, but the voice on the other end of the line had none of her sassy brass. Although there was a healthy helping of sex appeal to make up for the lack.

Then what the woman was saying in that fuck-me-suck-me voice registered and Wyatt found himself growling into the phone like an untrained dog.

“I am not haunted!”

He hadn’t meant to shout. He winced, images of his sane, normal employees pausing in their daily routines at the unexpected verbal explosion from their boss’s office running through his head.

“Jo is very good at what she does, Mr. Haines,” Karma purred soothingly. “If she suspects there is spirit activity within your body, it is in your best interest to allow her to deal with the phenomenon.”

Wyatt could think of a number of things Jo Banks could do with his body, but none of them involved spirits or could be repeated in polite company. Although, she had mentioned that some of the Karmic Consultants worked in the nude. Maybe there could be some overlap between her professional life and what he wanted her to do to him personally. Wyatt shook away a very graphic image and focused on growling at her boss.

“Ms. Karma—”

“It’s just Karma.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes.
Of course it is
. “Karma. I have tried to be understanding. I think I have maintained a very open mind up to this point. I allowed your employee access to the house. I allowed her to do…what she did, and I have every intention of paying your bill.” The last thing he needed was Kooks-R-Us publicly suing him for non-payment. “I do not, however, have time to entertain fantasies about ghosts and spirits when I have a business to run.”

Wyatt thought he’d been very clear. Very final.

Karma simply purred, “You fantasize about ghosts?”

He nearly swallowed his tongue. “Excuse me?”

“You said you don’t have time to entertain fantasies. I’d say it’s safe to guess that doesn’t refer to the ghosts, but the ghost exterminator.”

Wyatt cleared his throat, but it sounded more like he was choking.

Karma’s voice hummed throatily through the phone even as she scolded him soundly. “Jo Banks is a professional, Mr. Haines. The sooner you realize that she is just trying to do her job—her
legitimate
job—the sooner I believe you will realize that this isn’t about fantasies or delusions, but about a very real concern for our client’s wellbeing.
Your
wellbeing.”

“I’m well. My wellbeing is fine. I don’t need her.”

“We do have other mediums. None are quite as proficient in this particular area as Ms. Banks, but if it would make you more comfortable to work with someone else—”

“
No
. It has to be Jo.” Wyatt winced and backpedaled as soon as he realized what his mouth had said without his permission. “It has to be a
no
,” he stressed, lamely covering his tracks. “I don’t need anyone. Ms. Banks was perfectly satisfactory,”
every luscious, edible, mentally unstable inch of her
, “but I do not require any further assistance from your company.”

“Of course there would be no charge for this as it would be considered part of the original service,” Karma persisted.

“It isn’t the money,” Wyatt growled. He’d resigned himself to throwing money after folly before he’d called Karmic Consultants in the first place. “I simply do not need any distractions right now and this fiasco can’t possibly be anything else.”

“Mr. Haines…”

“This is not negotiable. Our business is concluded. Goodbye.”

Wyatt disconnected with a finality that would have been much more gratifying if he hadn’t had the uncomfortable sensation that their business was not as thoroughly concluded as he might wish. He squashed the tiny little voice of doubt and took a deep, cleansing breath.

He was fine. Completely unhaunted.

Wyatt shoved all thoughts of Karmic Consultants from his mind and focused on the profit-loss reports. Almost immediately, the numbers began to blur and bleed across the page before his eyes. Wyatt groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to battle back the hangover by sheer force of will.

It wasn’t a terribly scientific approach, but this morning it was surprisingly effective. The pounding receded slightly, but when he cautiously opened his eyes, the numbers refused to hold still, swimming in front of his eyes rather than sitting firm and stable in neat columns as they were supposed to.

God, he was so
tired
. Exhaustion swamped him suddenly, reminding him that he’d had no more than two hours of sleep and enough scotch to fell a horse the night before. The temptation to close his eyes and put his head down on his desk, just for a moment, was nearly overwhelming.

Wyatt grunted and shook his head sharply, trying to shake away the nagging exhaustion. For a moment, the world cleared, but within seconds he was nodding and bleary again.

Just for a second…not going to sleep…just closing my eyes…

“Wyatt!”

He jerked awake with a jolt. Shit. Had he fallen asleep at his desk?

Then reality sank in a little further and he realized he wasn’t sitting at his desk. He wasn’t sitting at all. He was standing in front of the sink in the three-quarter bath he’d had installed in his office for the nights when he couldn’t be bothered to go back to his condo.

Wyatt shook his head. If he was standing, he clearly hadn’t been sleeping. He was not a sleepwalker, never had been. So why did he feel as though he had just woken up from the deepest sleep of his life?

A pungent scent tickled his nose and he shook his head again to clear it. Had he been drugged?

Wyatt looked up and saw his secretary, whose shrill screech had woken him—except he hadn’t been asleep, so how could she have woken him?—standing over his shoulder, gaping at his reflection in the mirror. Slowly, she raised one finger, her mouth working like a fish, and pointed at his face.

Wyatt frowned, shifting his eyes from her reflection to his own. It took a moment to register that it was his reflection. The man frowning back at him had Wyatt’s eyes, his jaw, his frown, but thick black lines had been drawn across his face, making the features seem foreign.

Bushy black eyebrows were drawn in above his. Thick squiggles in a cartoonish imitation of a handlebar mustache marred his smooth shave. And to top it all off, wide black circles around his eyes, with a thick bar across his nose and lines extending toward his ears made him look like someone had drawn a caricature of Groucho Marx directly onto his face.

Wyatt’s hands fisted in anger at the thought of one of his employees drawing on his face when they caught the boss napping. He opened his mouth to demand that his secretary fire the prankster on the spot, but the feel of something clenched in his left hand stopped him. He glanced down, forcing his rage-curled fingers to unclench and his frown deepened as he tried to make sense of what he was looking at.

It was a marker. A black Sharpie with the cap off. The pungent aroma was the distinctive waft of ink.
Permanent
ink.

“I’ll call Karmic Consultants at once, sir!” his secretary called out as she ran from his office.

Wyatt stared at his inked face for several seconds before the realization that he had fallen asleep and
drawn on his own face
sunk in.

No, the ghosts did the drawing
, a little voice spoke in the back of his mind—his voice, not any ghost’s voice, thank God. He was
not
hearing voices. He was just drawing on himself. And had no memory of it. Sleep drawing. Surely that was a common phenomenon. Stress. Stress could bring on sleep-drawing. There were probably thousands of documented cases of stress-related self-impressionism.

Wyatt put the cap back on the marker, put it beside the sink like he might his toothbrush, and walked over to his desk to be ready for the call he was about to make. Every step of the way, he racked his brain for some explanation that did not include ghosts. It wasn’t entirely beyond the realm of possibility that he could have sleepwalked over to his vanity and drawn on his face in permanent ink. He was certain stranger things had happened. Just never to him.

“Karmic on line one, Mr. Haines.”

Jo. Jo will fix this.

Wyatt shook his head. She wouldn’t fix this. Because
this
was not about ghosts. There was a sane, rational explanation. He was
not haunted
.

Maybe she’ll fix it naked
.

Nothing to fix.
Not
haunted. He was a sane, rational man. Who had just drawn on his own face while he took a little catnap.

Wyatt picked up the phone and punched the button for line one, trying to think of what he could possibly say that would sound sane and rational, and still get across the point that he was clearly losing his mind.

He wasn’t haunted. Clearly not haunted at all.

Stress-induced sleep-impressionism. Fine. Perfectly understandable. But the marker was in his left hand.

And that one little thought would not stop repeating itself in his clearly addled brain. Wyatt wasn’t even left-handed.