Cold Blood, page 2
The odd thing was that Harlan hadn’t seen any sign of an actual ghost so far, not so much as a sparkle at the edges of his vision.
Hamilton, who’d been bent over one of the record players, abruptly straightened. Harlan could see that he’d been holding something, but he dropped it before Harlan could see what it was.
“Yeah, we tried that,” Simon said dryly. “Didn’t work.”
Harlan wandered closer to Hamilton to see what he’d been doing.
“Unplugged. They’re all unplugged.” Looking stunned, Hamilton pointed at the cable dangling from each player.
Harlan frowned. He didn’t know much about records or record players. A year ago, he never would have asked, but now he trusted Hamilton enough to suggest, “Maybe they don’t need to be plugged in all the time? Maybe they can run off a-a battery or something?”
Hamilton blinked thoughtfully. “Maybe.” He turned to Simon. “These need power to work, right?”
“Yep.”
As one, Harlan and Hamilton turned back to the row of spinning records.
“Well, that’s creepy,” Hamilton said, deadpan.
Harlan nodded. “It is, but it’s actually not all that uncommon.” He’d almost got used to the noise. Barely noticed it anymore.
“Not uncommon?” Hamilton waved a hand at the players.
“Well, not this, specifically… I just mean, ghosts are very good at manipulating energy, especially electricity. They can make electronics—even broken or unplugged ones—turn on, but not usually for this long. It takes a lot out of them to interact with the physical world.”
“Like he said, the call came in a few days ago, but no one was able to get to it until now.”
Harlan hadn’t thought Hamilton had been listening when Simon said that, but apparently Hamilton had heard everything. “That’s the weird part. A few hours, maybe. A few days, even if the ghost is only doing it while people are here and resting when it’s alone? Very weird.”
“Where is the ghost, anyway? I don’t know about you, but I’d really like to get outta here.”
“That’s another weird part.”
“Great. More weirdness. My favourite.”
Harlan ignored him. “I still haven’t seen it.” He let his eyes slightly un-focus and turned in a slow circle, without looking at anything in particular. His gaze was drawn to a pair of large speakers, one in each of the back corners of the shop. The music was blaring through them, but he could see their power cords hanging limp beside them.
Brushing past Hamilton and Simon, he inspected the turntables. All the headphones were connected.
“The music from the record players is only supposed to play through the headphones, right?”
“Yeah.”
Harlan tried to lift the needle off one of the records. It didn’t want to come, and he was afraid he would break it before it finally did, which wasn’t helped by Simon making little ‘gluhhh!’ noises of protest behind him. The record kept spinning—Harlan wasn’t sure if that was supposed to happen—but it sounded like there was one less song blasting out of the speakers. “That’s something, anyway,” he said, quietly enough that the others wouldn’t hear. He was making little enough progress otherwise.
He got his fingers under the spinning disc and tried to lift the record off the turntable, but it felt like something heavy was sitting on top of it or like it was glued down. He pulled harder, ignoring Simon’s increasingly frantic sounds. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering with this—it almost certainly wouldn’t solve the haunting—but he was stubbornly hoping that a series of small victories would add up and he’d be able to figure out how to stop it—or at least buy himself time.
Just as he was afraid the record was going to snap in half from the strain, it abruptly sped up. He pulled back with a hiss. Looking down at his hands, he could see a small friction burn on each finger.
“Are you okay?” Hamilton rushed over, and Harlan didn’t think he was imagining the way Hamilton’s elbow kept brushing his holster. If only this was a problem Hamilton could solve with his gun.
“I’m fine.” Knowing Hamilton wouldn’t let up until he’d seen the damage for himself, Harlan held out his hands.
Hamilton gave them a brief glance, then nodded. “What next?”
What next, indeed? Harlan was asking himself the same question. He just had to think for a minute, but it was so hard with all this music playing. When he’d first started working as a police medium, he probably would have stayed, telling himself he had to ‘tough it out’, but he knew that overstimulating himself would only be counterproductive. “I’m just going to step outside—”
Hamilton and Simon were right behind him. He didn’t know how Simon had stayed sane after a few days of this.
Once outside, Harlan stepped around a corner into an alley, stopping where he could still see Hamilton, just in case. Of course, he promptly closed his eyes, but he was relying on the fact that Hamilton could see him, too.
The turntables were unplugged. The speakers were unplugged. It had been hard to lift the needle but raising it had stopped the music coming from that turntable. He couldn’t tell how new or old any of the records or players were, but the turntables all matched, as though they’d been bought at or near the same time.
He hadn’t been able to lift the record off.
Okay… That was the closest thing he had to a clue.
He opened his eyes and walked back to the shop. “Where do you get your records?”
Simon blinked. “Uh…all kinds of places. We order them online. People bring them in to sell or trade…”
Harlan shook his head. “Have you got any in the last few days?” Hopefully they hadn’t been scattered around the store’s stock already and were still sitting in the back waiting for…whatever needed to be done to them before they could be sold.
“Lemme check.”
Harlan was afraid they’d have to go back inside so Simon could look at his computer, but he just pulled out his phone and started scrolling through. “Ah, here we go. This woman brought in her dad’s old collection. If I’m thinking of the right person—she’s not a regular—he passed away recently, and she was clearing out his house. Really sad for her, but great for us. There was some really primo shit.”
Harlan and Hamilton exchanged glances. Bingo.
Hamilton definitely had an air of Couldn’t you have told us this half an hour ago? but Harlan was just glad they were making progress.
“I don’t suppose you could show us those records?” Harlan asked.
“Ohh-h! Yeah, that probably has something to do with it, eh?”
Harlan steeled himself and went back inside. It was even louder than before, and he groaned when he saw that the needle he’d managed to lift had dropped again, adding another song to the horrible medley.
He and Hamilton followed Simon as he darted them through the store like a hummingbird, flicking through boxes and displays of records and showing them the newest additions. Hamilton glanced at Harlan after each one, and Harlan had to keep shaking his head over and over. None of them held a hint of ghostly sparkle.
“That’s all of ‘em.” Simon slid his phone back into his pocket. “Is this going to take much longer?”
Harlan groaned in the quiet of his mind. They had to be missing something. He had to be missing something—but what?
“Hmm.” Simon nibbled his lip thoughtfully. “Wait a second. I wasn’t actually here the day they came in. Let me call Brianne. She’s the one who received them.” He flitted outside and had a brief, animated phone call with lots of hand gestures. “Okay, you guys, this might be it.” He led them to an office at the back of the store and opened a filing cabinet behind the overflowing desk. “Here we go.” He held up a record. It wasn’t in a sleeve, was bright blue and didn’t have a label. Definitely weird.
Harlan, who’d been straining his psychic senses since entering the shop, was nearly blinded by the ghostly sparks shooting from the vinyl. He blinked rapidly, knowing it wouldn’t really help, because it wasn’t his actual vision that was being overwhelmed. He dialled his senses way back—the psychic equivalent of squinting. “Oh, yeah. That’s it.” He held out his hands.
Simon glanced down at the record he was holding, a strange mix of horror and reverence on his face. He quickly handed it over.
The music stopped.
Simon threw his hands in the air. “Oh, thank fucking God!” He immediately looked ashamed for his outburst, but at least Harlan and Hamilton weren’t customers. Harlan also thought he was entitled to at least that after putting up with the non-stop blended music for days.
Hamilton grinned at Harlan and gave him a little golf clap.
Harlan turned away from both of them, concentrating on the disc. Come out, he told the spirit sternly. He was not in the mood for messing around with this haunting any longer, even if it was quiet now.
A long-haired young white man wearing clothes that looked like they were from the sixties or seventies slowly materialized. His arms were crossed, and he looked very unimpressed. “Dude, you’re like, majorly harshing the vibe here.”
Harlan wasn’t surprised that the ghost didn’t look old. It was pretty common for the deceased to appear as younger versions of themselves. “Good. The vibe is harshed. What were you doing?” He wasn’t usually this abrupt with ghosts, but he could feel a major headache coming on and didn’t feel like holding the ghost’s hand. Besides, anyone—living or dead—who would do something this annoying probably needed a firm touch.
The ghost sighed heavily. “I asked, like, a million times for them to put on the records I wanted to listen to, but everyone just ignored me. Then I realized I could do it myself. I realized I could listen to all my favourites, all at once.” He grinned dopily.
“I’m Harlan. I’m a medium, and I’m here to help you pass on today.” Emphasis on today. “What’s your name?” Harlan wasn’t sure why, but he hated introductions a lot less with ghosts than with living people. He also tended to remember their names more easily. Though he also didn’t have to remember their names for very long.
“Groovy. I’m Mike.” He held out a hand, but Harlan didn’t take it. He could have given him a handshake—unlike non-mediums, whose hands would have gone right through—but he already had enough nerve damage from touching ghosts, and he didn’t want to add more for something so pointless.
Mike didn’t seem offended and slowly pulled his hand back.
“It’s time for you to go,” Harlan told him solemnly.
“But I haven’t listened to—”
“You do realize you’re going to…a good place, right?” Harlan didn’t like saying ‘heaven,’ and he didn’t think it was entirely accurate. “You’ll be able to listen to all the music you want.”
“You mean it?”
“I mean it,” Harlan agreed gently. He could afford to be gentle now that he was this close to sending the idiot on.
“Groovy,” Mike said again.
Harlan opened the veil, blinking at the bright swirl of colours on the other side. He’d never seen a portal quite so…psychedelic. He was sure Mike was going to be just fine.
After one final glance back at the record store, Mike stepped through to his final resting place. Harlan wasn’t sure if he imagined a sudden swell of sitar music as the vortex closed behind Mike.
Harlan took a deep, steadying breath, then turned back to Simon and Hamilton—who, he realized uncomfortably, had apparently just been standing there watching him the whole time. “He’s gone,” he assured Simon. “But you should make sure this gets back to its rightful owner.”
“The dead guy?”
“No. His daughter. He had his ashes mixed in with the vinyl, and either she didn’t know or she got it mixed up with the others. It looks like it didn’t get a label by mistake.” Or she’d just thought it was creepy and wanted to get rid of it.
Hamilton took a surreptitious step back. Harlan didn’t think he’d even touched it.
“Cool…” Simon said.
Harlan could see him wiping his hands on his pants as if the ashes had left some kind of residue.
Mentally rolling his eyes at both of them, he handed the blue record back to Simon, who took it—though he held it at arm’s length, like it was a dead rat.
“Do you still have that Advil in your car?” Harlan asked Hamilton, both because his head was killing him and because he wanted to get out of there.
“Yeah, I think so.” Hamilton turned to Simon. “Feel free to call if you have any more problems, but you should be good to go.” He barely waited for Simon’s answering, “Thank you!” before striding toward the front door with Harlan hurrying to keep up with him.
There was plenty of Advil in the cruiser, but the only thing to drink was a miraculously unfinished cup of Tim Hortons coffee Hamilton had got before work. It was unpleasantly warm—worse than actually being cold—and Harlan didn’t like Tim Hortons coffee, even when it was fresh. He was pretty sure that made him a Bad Canadian, but it was true. But he gulped it down, only grimacing a little at the taste. “Thanks.”
“You know, we could’ve stopped somewhere and got you something to drink,” Hamilton laughed, shaking his head as he popped the pill bottle back in the glove compartment and started the car.
“Yeah, but…” He couldn’t explain that he’d, for some reason, decided using the coffee was a kind of personal challenge, because that sounded stupid, even to him. He grinned, changing the subject. “Well, you were right. That was a weird one.”
Chapter Two
Harlan realized that it was silly but, based on Matthew’s job description, Harlan hadn’t been able to picture him as anything but a white man in a three-piece suit and tie and shiny black shoes, even in his own home.
The man who opened the door could hardly have been more different. He was a tall Native man wearing well-worn blue jeans and a faded T-shirt with a logo for what Harlan assumed was a band. If it was, it was one that he’d never heard of.
“Welcome! You must be Harlan. I’ve heard so much about you. Hamilton said you probably wouldn’t want a hug.”
Harlan found it pretty funny that even his boyfriend called him ‘Hamilton’.
Harlan nodded, unexpectedly touched that Hamilton had noticed his preference and told Matthew, and that Matthew had asked rather than assuming. Harlan didn’t even like hugs from people he knew well, and he really didn’t like surprise hugs.
“Come in. Come in! Dinner is almost ready.” Matthew led Harlan to a large kitchen that had a distressed-wood island with a neat line of bar stools on one side.
“Can I get you something to drink? We’ve got water, wine, beer, pop, juice…”
Feeling a little overwhelmed, Harlan concentrated on the list. He could cross wine and beer off immediately. He occasionally had a glass of either, but alcohol tended to fuck with his mood the next day, so he generally avoided it. He wouldn’t have minded a pop, but he didn’t know what varieties Matthew had and he didn’t want to ask for something they didn’t have and make it awkward. “I’ll have a juice…please.” There were definitely juices that Harlan liked and ones he didn’t, but he could spend the rest of the evening sipping on a single glass of gross juice if he had to.
“Coming right up. We have strawberry passionfruit and good ol’ orange.” When Matthew turned, Harlan could see he had a long black braid down his back.
“Strawberry would be great.”
Something Matthew had said snagged in Harlan’s mind—“we’ve got.” He’d assumed they were meeting at Matthew’s apartment, not at Hamilton’s, but it hadn’t occurred to him that it might be both.
After bringing Harlan his glass, Matthew went back to cooking and Hamilton disappeared into the other room, calling out high- and lowlights of the day to his boyfriend. Finding himself alone, Harlan took a sneaky glance around, looking for signs of Hamilton in this condo. Of course, it would be easiest to check the bathroom—count toothbrushes, that sort of thing—but that almost seemed like cheating. And he didn’t have to pee, at least not yet. He was a terrible liar, and he couldn’t help thinking that Matthew would somehow know that he didn’t really need to go and was only using it as an excuse to snoop.
There. Hanging on the wall in the living room was some sort of official-looking police award covered in seals and signatures. He doubted Hamilton would give it to his boyfriend to hang in an apartment he didn’t live in. Once again, Harlan was stunned by how close Hamilton played his cards to his chest. He’d had no idea Hamilton had a boyfriend until the invitation the other day, let alone that they lived together.
Pleased with his little bit of deduction, Harlan took a sip of his juice and remembered he had a message to pass on. “Charles is running a little late. He got stuck at the club and now he’s dealing with traffic,” he told Matthew. Too late, Harlan realized what that meant. He was alone in unfamiliar territory, without Charles—who was almost as good at being Harlan’s people-buffer as he was at being his ghost-buffer. All of Hamilton and Matthew’s attention would be on him. Just him.
As though he’d sensed Harlan’s insecurity, Matthew turned from the stove with a big smile. “Oh good! Everything can simmer for a while, and we can chat a little. It’s so nice to meet you, finally! I’ve heard so much about you!”
“Oh. I, uh…”
Matthew laughed, bright and open. “That’s about what I expected. I didn’t think he’d told you much about me,” he assured Harlan.
At that moment Hamilton emerged from the bedroom wearing a crisp white T-shirt and jeans that were just as pressed as his uniform pants. He looked like he was wearing another uniform, actually—off-duty-cop chic.
He was also doing a terrible job of trying to hide his grin. He swept up to Matthew and gave his hand a brief squeeze, looking Harlan right in the eye as he said, “Why don’t we play a game or something instead?”
