Wolf picked up on his uncertainty. “Call it by name.”
“We didn’t know his name,” Rawls said, running a hand through his hair. “He was usin’ an alias. And he hasn’t felt like sharin’ his real name since turnin’ transparent.”
“Did the biitei offer you a name before it crossed over?” the elder asked.
“It called itself Pachico. Took a local cop’s name,” Rawls said.
Red-and-Yellow Sunburst nodded, as though the matter was settled. “This is the name it offered to you, this is the name you will summon it under.”
Okay . . . Rawls shifted uncomfortably.
Ah, what the hell. Squaring his shoulders, Rawls lifted his head.
“Hey, Pachico,” he said in a loud voice, and waited.
Everyone stared expectantly at the circle, but nothing manifested in the middle. Well . . . he was assuming it was supposed to show up in the circle. He took a slow turn, surveying the rest of the cavern. Nothing. He waited a bit longer.
“Again,” the lead elder said. “Concentrate. See his image in your mind and summon him to you.”
Feeling foolish Rawls closed his eyes and tried to visualize his ghostly stalker’s thin body and bald head. Didn’t it just figure that the one time he wanted the asshole to show up he’d turn all contrary?
Once the image was fairly clear in his head, he opened his eyes, focused on the white circle of rocks, and tried again. “Pachico, get your transparent ass over here.”
The forceful words echoed in the chamber. For a second it looked like his second command was going to have the same effect as his first—which was to say no effect whatsoever. But then a misty swirling stirred the dirt floor within the stone circle. Slowly, oh so slowly, a transparent form took shape. It wasn’t long before Rawls recognized the bald head and black knife sticking out of the translucent chest.
“So now you wanna talk to me.” Pachico’s hollow voice was filled with condescension. But then he noticed the four elders on their benches, and a surprised look crossed his face. The surprised look gave way to caution. “What is this? A welcoming party?”
Although the question was spoken sarcastically, Rawls could hear the tension in the ghost’s voice. Apparently death hadn’t stolen his instincts. He knew something was in the works. Something he wasn’t going to like.
“Ask the biitei its name,” Red Etchings said, his face calm and body still.
Rawls turned back to the circle of rocks and the translucent form caged within. “What’s your name?”
The ghost laughed, although there wasn’t an ounce of humor in his voice or on his face. “Seriously? You want to know my name? What the fuck do you think we are? Girlfriends or some shit?”
In unison the four elders reached into the pouches hanging at their sides, grabbed a handful of whatever was in there, and threw it on the fires burning at their feet. The four fires flared, their reflections glowing in the circle of rocks, and Pachico screamed.
The scream was so unexpected, Rawls jumped, watching in shock as the translucent form that had been tormenting him for the past seven days writhed in apparent agony.
What the hell . . .
“Ask again,” the lead elder said as the flames died and the translucent form in the rocks quit squirming.
Rawls cleared his throat. “Your name.”
“Fuck you,” Pachico snarled, his form going thin and so translucent it was barely visible.
The elders reached into their pouches and their fires flared again. Pachico’s scream echoed with agony.
“It has been bound to the circle. It cannot leave.”
Once again it was the guy with the red-and-yellow sunburst who spoke. Rawls was getting the distinct impression he was the only one of the four who had a voice.
“Ask its name.”
“I’m pretty sure they can do this all night,” Rawls told the rock circle, with its barely visible hostage. “Do yourself a favor and tell me your damn name.”
A snarl sounded from within the stones, but when the four elders reached for their pouches, a name erupted from the circle. “Robert Biesel.”
Well, look at that, they were making progress. He doubted the ghost had lied, because it would be too easy to check out the name. All it would take was a trip to the DMV.
The four men on the benches lowered their hands, but kept them on their pouches in a subtle threat.
“So, Robert Biesel, who were you workin’ for?”
Might as well get the big questions out of the way first, from there he could work his way down to the nitty-gritty stuff. When Biesel remained stubbornly silent, the four musketeers dug into their pouches again. Once the screaming stopped, Rawls stepped in with a not-so-gentle reminder.