Spirit and Dust

Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore

1


THE LOCAL COPS kept staring at me. I couldn’t decide if it was the plaid miniskirt in subarctic temperatures, or the fact that they’d never seen anyone talk to the dead before.

At the moment, I was mostly shivering, but that had more to do with the gray Minnesota afternoon than residual psychic energy, though there was that, too.

“What do you see?” asked Agent Taylor, my FBI handler and the reason—other than the dead man—that I was there.

I had to swallow before I could speak. I like to pretend I’m all Daisy Goodnight, kick-ass teen psychic, when really most of the time I’m all Please don’t let me puke in front of the FBI.

The medical examiner had carted off the body of the man I was supposed to read, and a daylong drizzle had washed away any physical traces from the sidewalk. But an afterimage—one that only I could See—remained where he’d fallen, the vivid imprint of his violent death stamped into the intangible fabric of reality.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. I mean, the guy hadn’t been pretty even before someone had shot him in the head.

“One guy. Big, bruiser type.” I gestured to the curb. “Shot here, in the back of the head with a small-caliber pistol, I think.” Psychic traces of him smeared the sidewalk and grass beyond. Unlike bloodstains, they couldn’t be rinsed away by the rain. “Bruiser definitely died here, but it looks like maybe he was dragged out of sight, around the back of this building.”

Chief Logan, the local guy in charge, exchanged looks with Agent Taylor and his partner, Agent Gerard, but I already knew I was right. Not because I was Daisy Goodnight, kick-ass psychic for the FBI, but because the death was so recent that the details were way more clear than I needed.

Standard procedure was to let me read a murder site cold, with no prior information. And boy, was I reading this one cold. Like, icicles-on-my-belly-ring cold.

Four hours earlier I’d been in Texas—freshman chemistry lab, to be precise, trying not to blow myself up before I’d even finished my first college semester—when I’d gotten a 911 text from my uncle Sam. By which I mean Uncle Sam in the person of Agent Taylor. I’d given a cover-story excuse to my professor—because the feds are a little weird about the whole psychic-consultant thing—then headed outside, where a big black sedan waited for me on the street.

“Hey, Agent Tasty,” I’d said, when I saw Agent Taylor waiting beside the car. I liked Taylor, and not just because he was young and really hot for a buttoned-up guy with a G-man haircut and a newly minted FBI badge. I sort of like liked him, but we worked together and I was still three months shy of legal age, so it stayed within the boundaries of “sort of.” None of which kept me from noticing that he did not skimp on the FBI physical training program.

“Watch it, Jailbait,” he replied, like he always did. Then he sized up my outfit, which was perfectly adequate for a sunny San Antonio autumn day. “I hope you brought a sweater.”

I hadn’t. And his partner, Agent Gerard, stick even farther up his butt than normal, had refused to stop by my dorm for a jacket.

An hour later, the three of us—Taylor, Gerard, and I—were on a plane to the Midwestern tundra. Their haste made me uneasy, and not just because they’d whisked me off to hot chocolate country in my iced tea clothes. The feds like to exhaust all other avenues of investigation before they call in a psychic. Even me. Which made me wonder why I was risking hypothermia while I looked for clues on the mean streets of Elk Butt, Minnesota.

The college town was picturesque—dead-guy psychic slide show notwithstanding. Its biggest claim to fame, other than two liberal arts colleges, was that Jesse James botched a bank robbery there.

Taylor had briefed me on that much before we’d pulled up in front of a redbrick building on the Charleston College campus, where bright yellow crime-scene tape held back students who were taking pictures with their phones. It was a girls’ dorm, surrounded by lawn and overlooking a small lake in back. Not exactly the low-rent education district.

Bruiser did not look like a college student capped on the way to sociology class. He looked like a thug, his spirit traces felt vile, and worst of all, the freshness of his death had slammed me as soon as I’d climbed out of the car.

Agent Taylor and I had been called to a scene this fresh just that past summer, out in the desert, west of Sonora. One kid killed, another missing, the state troopers determined to find any clue, and fast. As soon as I’d gotten my feet on the ground, I’d known the little girl was dead, but it had taken me all afternoon and half of a heatstroke to find her body.

That had been a bad one.

“Hey, Daisy.” Agent Taylor’s voice yanked me out of memory. “What do you hear?”

He wasn’t really asking what the dead were saying. Nothing in his tone—only our code question—gave any hint that he could tell I’d taken a mental step offside. He’d suggested the code when he’d figured out I wouldn’t ask for help in front of other officers—especially Agent Gerard.

What do you hear? Was I that transparent, or was he thinking of the Texas desert, too?

“Nothing but the rain,” I said, the proper response for “Don’t worry, I still have both hands on the wheel.” I mean, what was a little ghost brains on the sidewalk?

Agent Gerard, hands on his hips, showing the butt of his sidearm in his shoulder holster, said, “Can we get this dog and pony show on the road before it ends up on the effing Tweet-book?”

He was right, which annoyed me. I had questions, but the whole reason I was there was to get answers the way only I could.

Ignoring the audience of students and cops, I blew into my icy hands, then crouched to lay my palm on the pavement where Bruiser had fallen. Over time, the imprint of his death would fade, but now it was a clear, sharp buzz of connection that raced up my arm like a hit to the funny bone.

Panic and prayer. Not much. Not long. Just Oh God. A millisecond of petition but no contrition. And then nothing.

“He didn’t see it coming,” I said, the image vivid on my closed eyelids. “I don’t get any kind of anxiety or fear. It seems like he was just minding his own business—whatever that was—when blammo. Out of nowhere.”

What was kind of weird was that for such a clear death imprint, there was barely a trace of Bruiser’s actual spirit, something I would expect only from a much older site.

“Anything else?” asked Chief Logan.

The question confirmed my hunch that there was more going on than just a dead thug on a college campus, but I forced myself to focus and search deeper and wider for any other recent psychic events strong enough to stick.

“No one else was killed. At least, not here.” I stood and shook imaginary cobwebs off my hand. I wished I could shake off my dread as easily, but the threads of suspicion had knit together too tightly. “There’s someone missing, isn’t there? A girl from this dorm?”

“We’ll ask the questions,” snapped Agent Gerard, making Taylor visibly grind his teeth. Before they could argue, Chief Logan overrode them both.

“The victim,” he said, nodding to the sidewalk, “was the driver for a girl named Alexis Maguire. Yes, she is a student here, and yes, she is missing.”

“Okay,” I said, but I was trying to convince myself. It’s okay. She’s not definitely dead. It’s not like the little girl in Texas.

Taylor had taken a small step closer, as if worried I was going to faint, which I was absolutely not going to do. I was Daisy “Talks to the Dead” Goodnight, and freaking out wouldn’t help anyone.

“Okay,” I said again, with more conviction. “Let’s go hablo dead guy.”