A Barricade in Hell (2 page)

Waiting to be noticed. Wanting to be forgiven.

The unit insignia on his sleeve was partly caked with mud, but recognizable as British. He'd volunteered to fight in the Great War against his father's wishes. Aiden was buried on a battlefield in France, an unmarked wooden cross at his head. I'd forgotten the memorial service was today.

Isadora rapped on the tabletop with long, lacquered nails, startling me. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Tell me if I'm boring you, Delia. I can call back another time.”

“I'm sorry.” I poured more tea in her cup and mine, added sugar and lemon, and offered her another cookie. We usually spent Dora's visits sitting at the kitchen table. Even on overcast days, my kitchen was the most cheerful room in the house, a good enough reason to spend time there. But the kitchen had also become my workroom, swaddled in layers of protections to keep spirits at bay. Dora felt more at ease here. So did I. “I'm listening, truly I am.”

She smiled brightly and tucked a strand of bobbed blond hair behind her ear. “No, Delia. You're not. I don't think you've heard more than ten words since I arrived. Now, why don't you tell me what's captured your attention so completely. Then I can go back to explaining what we can do for Mrs. Allen. Assuming you're still interested.”

“Oh I'm interested. I'm fairly certain all the disruption in Mrs. Allen's kitchen must be a poltergeist. Gabe is very fond of her and I promised I'd see what could be done.” Very little slipped past Dora, but the way I babbled was a sure sign something was wrong. She raised one perfect eyebrow and continued to smile, waiting for me to sputter to a halt. I squirmed and decided an honest confession was best. “But I am a bit distracted. I seem to have picked up a new ghost, one I can't easily send on her way.”

“Can't or won't?” Dora dug in her handbag, fishing out a tortoiseshell cigarette case and a box of matches. I slid a crumb-dusted saucer toward her for the ashes. She lit the cigarette, taking a long drag and exhaling clouds of blue smoke that wafted toward the kitchen ceiling. “You don't have as much knowledge yet, but in terms of strength and power, you're near my equal, Dee. I expect that one day you'll surpass me. There are very few spirits that you can't banish by yourself if you set your mind to it. Unwilling and unable are two very different things.”

“For the moment I'm unwilling to banish her. She wasn't more than four or five when she died. A little girl.” I folded my hands on the table and told Dora about my nighttime visitor. “I haven't tried to send this ghost on her way. If not for the voices weeping and calling out for help, I might have, but that didn't feel right. I need to know what she wants before I banish her. I can't take the chance.”

Dora reached across the table and took my hand. “Not every ghost wants you to right a wrong. I shouldn't have to tell you that. And there is a possibility that she's—”

“The baby we lost last summer?” I squeezed Dora's fingers. “She's not. I thought of that when I first saw her and I made very, very sure. You don't have to warn me, it's not my own grief haunting me. And I know how dangerous strong spirits are … how relentless. I've no illusions about how much trouble this ghost can bring me. But you've told me time and again to trust my instincts, and sending her away until I know what she wants feels wrong. Don't worry, I'll be very careful.”

She sighed and sat back again, letting her cigarette rest on the saucer. “Allow me to worry. Concern for your well-being saves me from a life of idleness. I'd feel better if I saw this haunt manifest myself, but that's likely too much to hope for.”

“I haven't sensed her presence anywhere in the house. Once the ghost left our bedroom, she was truly gone. But I'm not going to fool myself into thinking she won't return.” I toyed with the edge of the old checkered tablecloth, worrying at a frayed spot and no doubt making the damage worse. Annie, the housekeeper who'd helped raise me after my parents died, had given it to me, as she'd given me so many things for our kitchen.

This tablecloth brought back memories of living in the Larkin household and whispering secrets to my best friend Sadie at breakfast. I smoothed the fabric with a fingertip, remembering conversations about our hopes for the future. We'd been closer than most sisters. We still were.

All Sadie's heartfelt dreams, a loving husband and children, came true when she married Jack Fitzgerald. Her happiness brought me a great deal of joy. She was just as thrilled when I married Gabe, and for a time, it looked as if we'd both gotten everything we wanted.

But not all wishes came true, no matter how often you implored the brightest star. Having children was another piece of the life I'd wanted stolen by my connection with the spirit realm. Dora spent a great deal of time explaining why interacting with the restless dead and laying ghosts to rest made it unlikely Gabe and I would ever be parents.

Gabe refused to believe. But in my heart of hearts, I knew everything Dora said was true.

I tucked my hand into my lap, forcing it to lie still. “I've dreamed of this little girl before, Dora. I knew the face I'd see and the color of her hair before I opened my eyes. That must mean something.”

Dora rummaged in her handbag again. She pulled out a silver flask and poured a generous dash of whiskey into her teacup. Engraved with swirls of vines and morning glories, the liquor flask had been a going-away gift from Daniel, her paramour of the last six years. He'd gone home to Portugal, hoping to convince his family to flee the war and come live in San Francisco. Daniel had planned to be gone a month after sailing from New York, but that had stretched into six, then ten. Getting his family out of Europe had proven difficult.

I hadn't seen Dora without the flask since the night he handed her the slim package wrapped in burnished gold paper and tied with a pale yellow ribbon. Having a ready supply of whiskey at hand wasn't the sole reason she carried the flask.

She took a long swallow of whisky-laced tea. “I'm impressed, Delia. You have quite the talent for attracting difficult ghosts. How long have you dreamed about this little girl?”

The kitchen was chilly and quickly growing colder. Speaking of ghosts sometimes summoned them, accompanied by all the theatrics strong spirits were capable of displaying. I wrapped both hands around the china teacup, seeking to warm stiff fingers and disguise how they trembled. “The thing is … I'm not sure. I didn't remember the dreams until I saw her, but now I remember them clearly. She looked just the same each time, a happy little girl carrying her doll and playing in a stream. It might even be the same dream again and again.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if it is the same dream, Delia.” Dora set aside the whiskey and watched me, blue eyes narrowed and her expression intent. “I've no doubt that you're dreaming about the day she died. A healthy little girl playing in a stream is unlikely to have died a lingering death. My guess is an accident killed her, or perhaps something more sinister.”

“A murder?” I stared at Dora, not wanting to believe and praying I'd misinterpreted her meaning. “Who would kill a child?”

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop and crinkled her nose in distaste. “I didn't say she'd been murdered, but it's not unheard of, Dee. Not all the monsters of the world confine their hunting to adults. In any case, the more details you can gather from that dream, the more likely we are to find out who she was. Once we know her name, discovering what the ghost wants from you will be miles easier.”

Spirits who suddenly found themselves torn from a world they weren't prepared to leave were the hardest to deal with. Whether they were old or young when they'd died made little difference. These spirits often haunted those they wanted to stay with, unable to break the tie. Others sought out people such as Dora and me. We could see these lost, woeful souls wandering in search of a way back to life.

Giving them back the life they'd lost was impossible. When luck was on our side, we found a way to stop their wandering.

“And if I can't find clues as to who this small ghost was in life?” I stood and gathered soiled chintz napkins, the sandwich tray and plates, and stacked them on the drain board next to the sink. “What do I do then? I'm sure you must have a thing or two you can teach me.”

Dora looked up from brushing crumbs off the tablecloth and into her palm, her expression earnest and not a scrap of amusement in her eyes. “I've not exhausted my bag of witch's tricks yet. Just promise me you won't become attached to this haunt. Remember that no matter what her appearance, she's still a ghost and may have spent a hundred years harboring malice. Manifesting in the body of a child is no guarantee of innocence or that she lacks ill intent. The fact you're still grieving for your baby makes me even more suspicious of her motives.”

“I'll remember.” I leaned back against the edge of the cast-iron sink. “But I heard her mother weep for her, Dora. I find it hard to think badly of a child mourned that deeply.”

“You heard someone weep, Dee. Whether the person crying had any relationship to this ghost or not remains to be seen.” She dumped the crumbs in the ash-strewn saucer and brushed her hands briskly. “I know I sound harsh, but you must take this seriously. I'd rather not watch Gabe mourning you. Now, let's get back to poltergeists. I promised I'd visit Sadie tomorrow, but we'll pay a visit to Mrs. Allen's boardinghouse the day after. We should be able to keep the rest of her crockery intact.”

I poured more tea and sat down to listen. The wind picked up, rocking the tall cedar tree at the side of the house and lashing the windows with small twigs and cedar cones torn loose. Strong gusts keened around corners and under the eaves. Voices rode the wind, mournful and sad, bringing memories of forgotten conversations to my kitchen.

One heartsick voice wept for a lost child—or so I imagined.

 

CHAPTER 2

Gabe

A murder investigation was never a good way to start his week.

Gabe perched on the edge of the backseat, peering over Patrolman Henderson's shoulder and out the front windscreen. Even after twelve years on the police force, there were parts of the city he didn't know all that well. He'd probably driven or walked down every street in San Francisco with his partner and best friend, Jack Fitzgerald, but there were still districts they hadn't worked in before or visited often.

The street he traveled now was unfamiliar, a part of the newer neighborhoods built after the 1906 quake and the resulting fire. More than a decade had passed since then, something that still surprised Gabe when he stopped to think about it. The city and people of San Francisco had changed forever that morning, a fact that wasn't altered by patching over the visible scars.

He still thought of the rebuilt areas as patches, poor replacements for what had been lost. Gabe wasn't sure what that meant and tried not to dwell on it.

Instead, he paid careful attention to his new surroundings, adding to the living portrait of the city he carried inside. Little things, like whether people stopped to chat with neighbors and pass the time, or rushed about their business without pausing, or the number of children playing from yard to yard, revealed a lot about the character of a neighborhood. The same things told him what he needed to know about the people who lived in the well-kept, brightly painted houses.

Front-step conversations stopped and heads turned to watch his closed car pass, open curiosity on most faces. People who didn't belong here would be noticed right away. And if he and Jack got a break, remembered.

He settled back in his seat. “One of the neighbors might have noticed strangers or something out of the ordinary late last night. You've spent time with the new rookies on the squad, Marshall. Who would you send out to knock on doors?”

“Randolph Dodd's the best of the new bunch, Captain Ryan. Some of the older men gave him a hard time for being a pretty boy when he first came on, but Dodd's winning them over. Tyler and Erickson's instincts are good. They ask the right questions.” Marshall Henderson braked and put the car into a lower gear before he rounded the corner. The engine whined, straining to climb the steep hill. “Those are the men I know best. Lieutenant Fitzgerald might have some ideas about who to send along with those three.”

Gabe rubbed the back of his neck and swallowed a yawn. He hadn't slept well last night or any night for the last week. Constantly jerking awake from nightmares left his head stuffed with cotton wool, his thoughts dulled and slow. Not being able to remember any of what he'd dreamed somehow made the fog in his head worse. “The lieutenant's been at the scene for at least an hour. There's a chance he's already sent men to question the neighbors. Find him right away and make sure we aren't covering the same ground twice.”

“Yes, sir.” Marshall hesitated, stealing glances at Gabe's refection in the driving mirror. “Are you all right, Captain?”

He must look bad if Henderson felt the need to check.

“I'm fine. Just a few too many late nights this week and not enough sleep.” Gabe cleared his throat and pointed down the block. “I think we've found our murder scene.”

A knot of black patrol cars clogged the narrow street in mid-block, wheels turned toward the curb or parked at an angle to keep from rolling downhill. The white coroner's van in front further marked their destination, a druggist shop with cheerful blue and white striped awnings over the wide front window. Three flagstone-topped wooden steps led up to the door from the street, a decorative iron railing on the open side opposite the wall.

The shop was located on a main thoroughfare that ran through a narrow maze of side streets and lanes that dead-ended. Most of the lanes were occupied by single-story cottages with red-tiled roofs and small yards. A smattering of larger houses sat at the end of cul-de-sacs. Neighborhood grocers, small storefronts, and shops occupied the main avenues. Given the number of families living here, merchants would have no shortage of trade.