Good Lord, Deliver Us (23 page)

Embarrassed to be the only naked
person in the room, unable to find even the fig-leaf of his briefs,
Z got his pants from where he'd dumped them on his side of the
mattress. Put them on. Fastened his belt.

From another box, Z picked up a shirt,
shouldering that on, buttoning with one hand, stuffing the shirt
tail in his pants with the other.

Bending down, Z located, then put on
his socks and shoes.

By now, there could be no
mistake. Sounds were coming from one of the speakers, a sort of ...
crunching noise ... like footsteps on gravel, the sound through the
speaker not ... frightening ... though
any
strange noise was reason for
caution.

"The basement," Jamie said, turning to
look up at Z, her face in shadow behind the narrow beam of the
penlight. "If we labeled the speakers correctly, it's the mike at
the bottom of the basement steps that's piping in the sounds." She
pointed her light at the speaker lined up to the right.

"Somebody down there?" At times like
these, Z's "sizzle" of a voice was an asset.

"Or a mouse the size of a horse," she
whispered.

"If someone's in the basement, we've
got to walk carefully." Z was thinking as he spoke. "The floors
squeak."

There was a technique that sometimes
worked with creaking floors. When walking, hug the wall, floors
generally quieter near walls than in the center of rooms and
hallways. The taped off area -- fortunately -- where there was no
fluorescing powder.

As Z was hissing his caution about
floor noise, the sounds on the speaker had gotten louder. What was
making them, he couldn't tell, though it sounded like rugs being
dragged over sandpaper. "Not a ... ghost?" He knew better, but had
to ask.

"I'd like to think
it
was
."

Now that Z's eyes were
finally adjusted to the penlight, he caught the girl's feeble grin
as she turned back to him. "Finding a ghost
that
substantial would make me
famous."

While Jamie could still
joke, she wasn't happy; for all her experience in the "ghost
business," it was apparent she'd never heard noises like
these
.

Z, on the other hand, was
... grateful, grateful because he'd suddenly become more than the
toy who kept the
genuine
ghost hunter amused. At last, he'd get to perform
the task he'd blackmailed the Vice Chancellor into assigning him:
the protection of Jamie Stewart.

Mostly, Z was happy they'd found the
foreign presence so he could wind up this case. Put this
ectoplasmic baby to bed and Z just might recuperate.

Not that he was taking the intruder
lightly. Given the lack of anything in the house worth stealing,
though, he thought there wasn't much chance the person who'd broken
in was dangerous.

Who was it that Jamie had speculated
might be getting in? Someone knowing the previous owner? Possibly a
homeless person, wanting a safe place to sleep?

Probably.

Unless, what looked like just another
empty house was a drug drop.

Motioning Jamie to put on
real clothes, Z turned his back while Jamie dressed -- why he did
that, he didn't know, their relationship going way past modesty.
(If anyone knew why people did
half
the things they did, Z wished that person would
explain it to
him
.)

Waiting for Jamie to finish dressing,
Z remembered that his detective satchel was outside, locked in his
car -- an uncomfortable thought. (A few ghostless vigils with Jamie
Stewart had made him sloppy.) Z didn't mind confronting whoever
might be making those interesting, basement sounds; he just didn't
want to do it barehanded.

"Got to get my case," he muttered,
turning to find that Jamie had poured herself into a pair of old
slacks and a worn, but well-filled, work shirt. She even looked
good ... dressed.

"What do
I
do?"

"Nothing. Stay here."

"I'm going with you."

"No." As an afterthought, Z pointed to
the speaker. "Listen."

"You'll come back before you ... do
anything?"

"Yes." Z hadn't planned to, but it
might be a good idea to return to the bedroom speaker to check out
the latest sounds before trying the basement stairs.

That settled, taking out his own
penlight, switching it on, Z edged around the mattress to step
softly past a worried-looking Jamie.

At the wall, Z eased open the door and
peeked through the crack.

Nothing to be seen in the hall, Z
swung the solid door open so he could get a better look.
......

To find that all was sable-black as
far as he could see.

Next, he tried flashing his little
light down the passageway, this done in an effort to see past the
kitchen door, basement door, bathroom door, and through the
half-opened door of the other bedroom, his rational mind telling
him it was an impossible distance for the tiny penlight. ... And it
was.

Everything he
did
see, however, was
the same.

With nothing else to be tried -- with
Jamie's unnecessary warning about the powder, Z stepped through the
doorframe into the hall, determined to keep close to the wall to
stay within their taped-down walking path.

Turning, he signaled OK to Jamie, then
gentled the door shut behind him.

Taking his time, controlling his
adrenaline-enhanced breathing so he could hear the faintest sounds,
Z edged along the plaster-cracked wall, feeling his weight into
each footstep, ready to take off pressure at the first sign of a
creak of floor joists.

Inch by shaky inch, Z made the turn
through the hallway arch and into the front hall. There, using the
light as sparingly as he could, Z continued to soft-foot his way
back and forth within the zigzag course they'd taped, stopping
frequently to listen.

One thing he had going for him was
that the person (persons?) in the basement was (were) making enough
sounds to mask any small, floor squeaks, Z able to hear plenty from
down there, even without amplification.

Reaching the door after what seemed
forever, Z moved the lock-lever while silently twisting the door
handle, Z quickly through into the night, pausing to close the door
behind him.

Still using the little light, now
without fear of being heard, Z quick-walked down the tile path,
through the gate, and across the crumbling street.

At his car, keying open the door, Z
leaned across the driver's seat and hooked out his
satchel.

No sense looking through it
now.

Better to return to the house where
he'd be in position to protect Jamie if something went
wrong.

Recrossing the street, entering the
ghost house, Z retraced his steps through the front hall, then
toe-danced along the wall of the crossing corridor, eventually
reaching the bedroom hideaway.

Thinking it better to announce himself
than let Jamie wonder if "the big, bad wolf" was at the door, Z
rapped. Twice. Whispered, "Z."

Receiving a soft, answering knock, Z
opened the door, slid inside, and pushed the door closed with a
single motion.

"You were gone a long time," Jamie
accused, fussing at him but in a relieved tone.

Good! In some ways, Z was
pleased to see that the girl
could
be upset. ...... What it
didn't
mean was that Z was afraid of
overly confident, aggressive women like
some
men, only .......

No time for that kind of
introspection. "Had to go slow to be quiet."

"I suppose. It's just that waiting
here, listening to those ... basement sounds ....."

"The time to worry is when
they became
upstairs
sounds."

"
I
thought of
that
," she said, typically taking
Z's helpful suggestion as a put down, shaking it off.

Smiling inwardly at the girl's
irritation, Z asked, "Anything new?" at the same time nodding
toward the speakers.

The girl shook her head.

That settled, turning, Z set the case
on top a stack of boxes.

Putting his light away, motioning for
Jamie to hold her penlight so he could see, Z unlatched the case,
opened it and glanced over the contents from the prospective of
what he'd need to fight ... a ghost??

The sap, of course (just
in case Z ran into something
solid
down there,) Z slipping it from the elastic band
that held it, stuffing the lead and leather blackjack -- head down
-- in his right pants pocket, Z already feeling more in command of
what was still an unusual situation.

What else would he need?

The normal variety of
items were in the case, as wide a selection as possible since most
of a detective's stock-in-trade would prove useless on
any
given
job.

Uncertain about what he must face, Z
closed his eyes to imagine creeping down the hall; cautiously
opening the basement door, creeping down the warped cellar steps
....

The steps were a problem. Though walls
flanked the top of the stairs, the stairs broke free from cover
about two-thirds of the way down, someone walking down the stairs
at that point coming into full view of the basement trespasser. No
way Z could traipse down the lower stairs, then rush the intruder,
without whoever lay in wait having time to prepare an unpleasant
reception. What Z needed was ... something ... to cloak that final
onslaught. A light. Or sound .....

Perhaps both.

And that was the answer! Thank God for
American Independence!

Slipping a package of firecrackers
from its restraining band, Z shucked off the pack's crisp
paper.

Working carefully, Jamie doing a good
job anticipating where he wanted her to hold her light, Z found the
center fuse that was, in turn, threaded down the middle of the pack
so that it went past the interwoven tips of all the individual
firecracker fuses; carefully pulled the fuse away from the side of
the pack so he could find it in the dark.

What about ... something more ...
lethal?

What he'd just noticed was the outline
of Smith's gun bulging through the elasticized cloth of the soft
pouch where he'd put it ... a temptation ... an evil allurement
....

No! Z's manhood made it possible --
but just barely -- to resist the feel and heft of the coldly solid
pistol in his hand.

He
had
to get rid of that gun!
....

Ah. The short punk, the one he'd used
as a fuse for the Roman candle at Smith's apartment.

Z pulled out what was left of the punk
-- finding enough spongy, tan material above the bamboo stick
handle to do the job.

Sufficient dry-out time passing since
he'd doused the punk, Z dragged out his lighter. Snapped it
on.

Twisting the touchwood in the
lighter's golden flame for a moment, he fired up the tinder-stick,
its gray ash tip glowing yellow-red when he blew on it.

Holding the lit punk and the package
of firecrackers in the same hand, careful they didn't "meet" before
he was ready, Z slipped the lighter back in his pocket. Took out
his penlight. Snapped it on.

"What are you going to do?" Jamie
whispered.

So -- it was the
girl's
turn to feel like
the proverbial fifth wheel, Z finding that ...
satisfying.

"See who's there."

"And then?"

"Plan a surprise."

"I'm going, too."

"No."

"Yes."

"Too much noise."

"No. If you can get your incredible
hunk of a body all the way through the house, outside, then back
again without making enough noise to tip off ....." She pointed her
finger at the floor. "Then delicate little me can follow you
without snapping twigs." For Jamie to define herself as "delicate"
-- in any sense of the word -- was pushing it. Still
.....

She was probably right.
Anyway, Z decided it wouldn't do his (somewhat) bruised ego any
harm to have Jamie trailing along behind him, taking
his
orders for a
change.

"OK."

Jamie's presence agreed to, holding up
his hand to reinforce the necessity for quiet, Z opened the bedroom
door again and led the girl into the hall.

Jamie shutting the door behind her, Z
crept forward (practically oozing down the "basement stairs" side
of the narrow corridor,) the girl following.

An extended, heart-pounding period
followed as they slid past the kitchen to pull up at the warped,
paint-thick basement door, the sounds below, louder
still.