Cold Blood, page 11
The cruiser seemed to have sheltered him from what was happening on its far side better than he’d expected. Once he was on the other side, everything was light and noise and ordered chaos. There were two OPP vehicles and a hearse. There was a whole string of people between the trees and the road, more than the number of cars suggested, or at least it seemed that way to Harlan. Maybe they carpooled, he thought, his exhaustion shifting from surly to giddy.
They’d set up floodlights in the trees, and the whole place was ringed with yellow police tape.
Two men in scrubs were carrying a pitifully small shape suspended in a body bag between them, and Harlan’s mood shifted again. He was tired and itchy, but a little girl was dead. He’d done his part to make sure she saw justice.
He watched them load the bag into the hearse and drive away. He saw no sign of her ghost, and he was glad.
Morgan got out of the car and shook their head. “I-I don’t think I want to help Grandma look for Fido anymore.”
Chapter Ten
It was after two a.m. by the time the OPP finished questioning them.
One of the OPP officers, seeing how tired the three of them were—especially Morgan, who looked wilted—suggested they spend the night at the nearby Elora Mill Inn. Harlan wanted to be home more than anything, but he didn’t want to have to travel there, even though he wouldn’t be the one driving. The last thing he wanted to do that night was dispel a spirit. He’d got so used to sleeping in ghost-warded rooms—or with Charles.
Harlan stumbled through the hotel’s front door. Hamilton checked them in, handed each of them a key card and shooed them in the direction of their rooms. Harlan only saw one ghost on the way, a simple repeater who seemed completely unaware of him or anyone else.
A lot of repeaters acted out their deaths over and over, and it was horrible to watch. Some—like the ghost girl he’d named Libby, who haunted the lobby of his apartment building—looped something that had taken place immediately before or led to their death. She’d never so much as looked at him, so he let her stay. He knew nothing about who she was—who she’d been—but from her retro clothes, he guessed she’d died in the sixties or seventies.
Or the week before he’d moved in, on her way to a costume party.
Even rarer were repeaters like the one in the Mill, who performed an action they’d done frequently in life that seemed to have nothing to do with their death. Harlan had always found those repeaters interesting. They were a tiny window into history, ordinary people going about their lives. Well…scenes from their lives, even if those lives were over.
It was hard to tell exactly what he was doing, because whatever objects he thought he was interacting with were long gone and had turned to dust, but after Harlan watched him for a while, he decided the ghost was unloading something heavy from a wagon and heaving it into a pile against a wall that no longer existed. He was whistling as he worked, but Harlan couldn’t hear it—not without focusing, and he wasn’t wasting his little remaining energy on that.
He was too tired for even that to hold his attention long, and he sighed with relief as his door shut behind him and locked automatically.
He wanted to crawl directly into the plush bed, but the memory of the tiny form in a flapping black body bag—not to mention his nap in the hay—forced him into the shower. He scrubbed himself thoroughly, trying to visualize the day running down the drain, comforting himself with the thought of his own bed the next day. Hopefully with Charles, too.
He didn’t have deodorant or a toothbrush. He’d never stayed in a hotel before. Based on movies, he thought they would provide them if he asked, but that would mean talking to someone.
Maybe in the morning.
He glanced at his phone and groaned. Hopefully closer to afternoon than morning.
He didn’t have pyjamas, either, but he didn’t want to sleep naked in an unfamiliar place. He reluctantly pulled his sweaty grass and probably bug-covered underwear back on. It completely undid taking a shower, but he was too tired to care.
He thought about texting Charles—who would be awake, but at the club with his phone on silent. He could send him a text for him to read later, but he didn’t want to get into the day’s events, not yet, and he also, selfishly, didn’t want to risk Charles waking him up when he replied. He wanted to get as much sleep as possible. He’d text Charles when he got back to the city.
* * * *
Hamilton called him at ten a.m.—a whole hour later than usual. Hamilton must have been tired.
Harlan groaned and rolled out of bed. He was glad that he didn’t have to worry about packing anything. He only had his clothes, which he wished he could have cleaned before putting them back on.
He lingered in the room, spinning in slow circles and feeling like he was forgetting something, even though he knew there was nothing to forget.
He found Hamilton in the hotel’s restaurant, devouring eggs and toast in front of a window. Tired as he was, Harlan had to admit the view was beautiful—trees in the distance and the river that had probably powered the mill beneath them. That was how mills worked, right? He momentarily considered asking the ghost he’d seen the night before.
He definitely needed more sleep, and he hoped Hamilton didn’t plan on them working their shift when they got back to Toronto.
Hamilton grunted by way of greeting and kept eating.
A few minutes later a waiter brought a bowl of oatmeal and fresh raspberries and put it in front of Harlan—one of his comfort foods. He was puzzled for a moment, just tired enough to wonder if he’d ordered it without remembering or if someone had read his mind—a useful skill in a restaurant—or it had been an amazing coincidence, then realized Hamilton must have ordered for him.
Someone else might have found it patronizing, but Harlan was honestly relieved Hamilton had taken care of that one small interaction for him, especially because of how gross and tired he felt.
He actually teared up a little at this small gesture. Hamilton had known how much Harlan liked this for breakfast. Harlan didn’t remember telling him. Well…he would make a great detective someday.
Harlan couldn’t hold back a little laugh, but it wasn’t a very happy one. He knew he’d probably be assigned to a new partner when Hamilton was inevitably promoted.
Hamilton looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. When Harlan didn’t offer to explain the joke, he looked back down at his plate.
There was no sign of Morgan yet, unless they’d chosen to eat at another table or left early. Harlan wouldn’t have blamed them. They hadn’t asked to be dragged into this.
Just as Hamilton was starting to look restless, Morgan walked into the restaurant. They glanced at the empty tables but sat with Harlan and Hamilton.
Their clothes—the same ones as the night before, of course—were rumpled but clean…unlike Harlan’s. Hamilton’s uniform hid any dirt, but its normally razor-sharp creases were looking a little flat.
There were dark circles under Morgan’s eyes, and they turned a little green when the waiter returned to ask if they wanted breakfast, but they still looked better than Harlan felt.
After Morgan told the waiter they didn’t want anything, Hamilton said, “All right, kiddos, let’s get the hell outta here.” He stood, brushed off his hands and marched towards the front door. He didn’t pay, and Harlan assumed that he wasn’t doing a dine-and-dash and that either the OPP or the Toronto Police Service would cover the bill.
Morgan and Harlan fell in line behind him like good little zombie ducklings and followed him to the car.
“You can sit up front,” Harlan offered.
They just silently shook their head and climbed into the back seat. They stretched out across both seats, made themself the comfiest nest they could and closed their eyes. Damn. Harlan wished he’d thought of that and called dibs. Feeling a little cheated, he plopped down in his usual seat beside Hamilton.
Hamilton turned to glance at Morgan. “Before you fall asleep, what’s your address?”
They told him and Hamilton started the car.
“Are you okay to drive?” Harlan asked nervously.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve done way more with less sleep.”
Not exactly comforting.
“Besides”—Hamilton held up a truly enormous travel mug with the Mill’s logo on it—“I have this.” Grinning a little maniacally, he peeled out of the parking lot.
Morgan let out a little groan but didn’t open their eyes or move.
Harlan was beginning to think that their decision not to eat breakfast had been a good one. Oatmeal was supposed to be gentle on the stomach, but it just felt like a solid lump, banging around whenever Hamilton turned or changed lanes.
He had no memory of the route they’d taken to get there in the dark the night before—he’d got horribly turned around on the country roads, even before they’d driven to the Mill—so he could only trust that Hamilton had got directions before he’d come downstairs or that he remembered the way back. Hopefully a shorter, less circuitous way.
Hamilton didn’t check the map on his phone, which made Harlan nervous.
They pulled onto the highway. He could already hear Morgan’s gentle snores on the other side of the mesh. He hadn’t expected to fall asleep, but his eyes started drifting shut and, after a thorough glance at Hamilton to make sure he didn’t look like he would fall asleep too, he gave in.
* * * *
“We’re here.” Hamilton’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle, and Harlan realized he was talking to Morgan.
He yawned, stretching as much as he could in his seat. Being in the car for so long during the last two days was bad enough, but he’d also spent the trip out there holding himself very tense and forced to keep constant contact with Morgan. Combined with sleeping in an unfamiliar bed followed by a car, he was stiff all over. He was used to driving all over the GTA to hunt ghosts and spending hours in the car, but this was different.
They were outside an unfamiliar apartment building, and for a terrible moment Harlan was afraid it was another haunting they had been assigned to deal with, but when he saw Morgan sit up in the rear-view mirror, he realized it must be where they lived. He hoped.
Morgan opened and closed their mouth a few times, clearly trying to think of what to say in this situation. Finally they settled on, “Thank you,” and pulled the door handle. It didn’t open, and a brief look of panic crossed their face before it was smoothed away.
“Oh, shit, sorry, I’ll have to come around and open it for you. Hang on.” Hamilton opened the door from the outside and Morgan spilled out onto the sidewalk.
Morgan’s old, red-brick building was eerily similar to Harlan’s. Had the Centre rented it for them, the way they’d set up an apartment for Harlan, and they hadn’t bothered to move, or had they chosen it themself and it was a coincidence?
“Thank you,” Morgan said again, their gaze darting between Hamilton and their apartment building.
“You’ll be okay?” Hamilton asked in his talking-to-shocked-witnesses voice, which Harlan so rarely heard. “You’ve got someone to talk to if you need to?”
“Yeah. Someone… Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Hmph. Here.” Hamilton reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a business card.
Harlan hadn’t even known he had business cards.
Morgan stared at it like it was a dead animal, clearly not wanting to touch it.
“Here.” Harlan held out his hand.
Hamilton passed it to him with just a moment’s hesitation.
Taking it, Harlan fished a pen out of Hamilton’s immaculately organized glove compartment. He might drive like a maniac and be a little rough on it, but he loved his car and it was always pristine.
Harlan scribbled his number on the back, then passed it back to Hamilton, who offered it to Morgan again.
This time they took it, clutching it to their chest.
“Call us—either of us—if you need anything,” Hamilton told them.
Harlan nodded.
Morgan managed a faint smile. “I will. Promise.” They turned and fled towards their apartment.
A moment later, Harlan got a text. It was Morgan, confirming they had the right number and giving theirs to Harlan in case he needed to contact them.
Hamilton leaned back in his seat with a groan, then slumped forward, actually resting his head on the steering wheel for a moment.
Harlan had never seen Hamilton look this tired. Before he could think better of it, he blurted, “I thought you and that Olympic-size swimming pool of coffee have been through worse.”
Hamilton laughed, flipping him off. “Yeah, yeah. Smartass. I’m getting too old for this shit.” He started the car and pulled out into traffic a little more smoothly than usual.
Does he actually drive better when he’s tired?
“Ready?”
“For what?”
“For the first ghost of the day.”
Now it was Harlan’s turn to groan.
“Ha. Sucker. You should see the look on your face. Nah, I’m shitting you. I’m taking you home.”
Harlan had never been so relieved in his life.
The drive seemed twice as long as it should have been, and Harlan cursed silently every time they got stuck in traffic or at an especially long light. And they all seemed especially long.
Finally, they pulled up in front of Harlan’s apartment.
About to get out, he glanced at Hamilton. He looked tired and, while Harlan thought he was only a decade or so older than him, he did look “too old for this shit”.
“D-Do you want to come upstairs?” Harlan offered, surprising himself.
“What?” Hamilton’s head whipped around to stare at him.
“You could crash on the couch. Or the bed. I could be on the—”
“I’ll take a rain check. I texted him last night, but I’m sure Matthew’s worried about me. Ugh. I guess he won’t be home. Fuck. I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay?”
Harlan nodded, shooting one last glance at Hamilton before going into his building.
He’d never been so happy to see Libby, the black-and-white floor tile, the shiny brass elevator doors…
He practically skipped out of the elevator, down the hall and into his suite—his beautiful, ghost-warded haven, with the comforting sounds of traffic and construction outside. He barely took the time to peel off his clothing before collapsing into bed.
It’s good to be back in the city.
Chapter Eleven
Harlan’s phone alarm went off. He rolled away from Charles to look at it and groaned. “I just want to stay in bed with you,” he told Charles, “but my coffee with the other mediums is in an hour.” There were three police mediums in the Greater Toronto Area besides Harlan—Beth, Benjamin and Leo.
“I should shower and get dressed soon. I could skip it, but I really… I think I need to talk to them…about Monica.”
Charles sat up, trailing his fingers down Harlan’s back. “Hey. It’s all right. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. If you need—if you want to go, you should go. I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah.” He had a thought. Charles’ hand was still on his shoulder and he put his own on top of it, turning to look at Charles. “You could come with me,” he said, very softly.
“What?” Charles laughed.
Harlan shook his head, sliding back down so he was sitting between Charles’ legs with his head tipped back and resting on Charles’ shoulder. “No, really. You said to Morgan the other day that you have an ability, and you’re right. You do. And if it’s not mediumship, it’s pretty fucking close.”
Charles stroked Harlan’s hair thoughtfully. “I guess,” he said slowly, “but isn’t this meeting for police mediums?”
“It’s not really a meeting,” Harlan assured him. He liked this plan more and more as he tried to convince Charles. “And you’ve met them. Well, you’ve met one of them. I don’t know if you remember him.” They’d met right after the incident with Samuel Harkness, but Charles had been in and out of consciousness.
“You don’t think they’d mind?”
Harlan shook his head.
“I’ll give you a ride,” Charles told him, “and I’ll at least come inside with you. But if I get the feeling anyone doesn’t want me there, I’m leaving, okay?”
Harlan nodded eagerly. “Wanna shower with me?”
Charles laughed again, kissing the top of Harlan’s head. “If we do that, I think we’ll be late…if we make it there at all.”
“I know you’re right, but…”
“Later, babe. Promise.”
It wasn’t until he was soaping his armpits that it occurred to Harlan that he didn’t think Charles had called him a pet name before. Definitely not ‘babe’.
Grinning, he hummed softly to himself as he rinsed off.
* * * *
“So, this is it, huh?”
Harlan paused with his hand on the door handle. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know…something more mystical, I guess? Some hole-in-the-wall place with scarves over the lights and crystals everywhere. Definitely not Tim Hortons.”
Harlan couldn’t help laughing at the image. “No. Beth would hate that. She likes a place she can, and I quote, ‘just walk in and buy a coffee without learning fucking Italian or something’ and knowing what she’s going to get. But,” he admitted, “we do occasionally meet at Starbucks or, like you said, some indie place, when we know she’s not gonna be around.”
Charles grinned. “I see.”
Beth waved from a table in the corner. She didn’t look all that surprised to see Charles, and she definitely did not look upset. “Called it!” she crowed. “Pay up.”
Groaning, Benjamin pulled out his wallet, slapped a five-dollar bill on the table, and slid it over to Beth.
“Uh…” Harlan glanced between the two of them.
“We had a bet about how long it would take for you to bring him. Hi, Charles,” Benjamin said.
