Cid found Jesse sitting in the banquette of the trailer, transcribing his notes into a laptop. Jesse looked up. “Hell of a day.”
“Nice ending though,” Cid admitted, walking past him. “Would you like a snack before I call it a night?”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Jesse said. “How’s Sally?”
“Wonderful.”
“If you ever need privacy, just kick me out. But I’d appreciate it if I wasn’t left outside all night like a cat.”
“We’re not there yet,” Cid said, his ears turning red.
“Whatever, I’m just laying the ground rules.”
“When did you come up with the peashooter?”
“I spent some time in the Field Museum. I was looking at the ancient weapons and saw the various blowguns and got to thinking. As long as I didn’t inhale it, seems like an adequate way of launching a piece of iron.”
“Why not an iron arrow?”
“I could hurt a living person with a misfire of an arrow. Now, a little round ball of iron seems like a good idea, just as long as I didn’t shoot someone in the eye. This is why I figured the peashooter was a good idea.”
“Where’d you get the ammo?”
“Etsy of all places.”
“It’s a lot less dangerous than the pistol Tom gave Mia,” Cid considered.
“In my hands certainly. Guns and I don’t mix. My parents cursed me with, ‘You’ll shoot your eye out with that thing,’” Jesse said. “Guns are fine in the right hands - law enforcement and the military - but this cowboy packs a peashooter.”
“Small enough to fit in a tool belt.”
“The inventor mind has woken up,” Jesse observed.
“The only flaw is…”
“Here it comes,” Jesse said.
“Iron seems to only work once, a few times at most on the same ghost. They build up an immunity.”
“But what if I soaked them in salt water?”
“Holy water would be better,” Cid said, taking out the George Foreman grill from the cupboard. “Panini or quesadilla?”
“Whatever you’re making, I’m eating. It’s not that Sally isn’t a fabulous cook. I wasn’t feeling like eating after our little adventure,” Jesse said. “Being in that house made me a little queasy. I don’t know if it was nerves or…”
“You could be sensitive. We humans have latent warning systems we don’t normally use from the caveman days,” Cid said. “Like the ability to know when you’re being stared at. We nerds access that when we’re tweens.”
“Tell me more,” Jesse encouraged, closing his laptop.
“Mike Dupree gets a bad stomach when there is an overabundance of evil in a house. Mia taught him how to stop it.”
“How?”
“Visualization is the quickest answer. Pretend your mind is a house with open windows and doors. When you’re going through your normal day, the doors and windows are open so you can process ideas, memories and feelings. Evil is like a storm coming. Close all your windows and doors. If you feel that evil is already in and attacking your soul, you can fight it, and hopefully expel it, closing the door after you.”
“What if I’m possessed?”
“You need a priest or someone who can guide you better than me.”
“What about Mia?”
“When you see her, ask,” Cid said, putting the final touches on the panini before closing the top of the grill.
“I hope it won’t be too late.”
“You could call Becky Bealuieu. She helped us up in Michigan,” Cid said. “Have you ever met Sabine Norwood?”
“Not sure…”
“Pale as a ghost and twice as beautiful. Kind of airy-fairy.”
“No.”
“She’s an option.”
“How come this is the first I’ve heard about Sabine?” Jesse asked.
“She was sweet on me, but I wasn’t interested.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I think my level of immaturity needs a stronger female.”
“My god, you’re honest,” Jesse said. “Tell me more about Sabine.”
“She’s what’s called a dual vessel. She can house another soul within her for a long period of time. She taught Mia a few things. Sabine fell in love with Brian Norwich, a man who was dying of a wasting disease. They managed to have triplet girls before he passed. They would be school age now.”
“Three girls! No wonder you weren’t interested.”
“I like kids,” Cid argued. “Sabine is just too fragile and feminine for me.”
“Is she dating anyone?” Jesse asked.
“Yes. An Irishman named Patrick Callen. He’s distantly related to Murphy, so watch yourself,” Cid warned.
“Is he alive or a ghost?” Jesse asked.
Cid chuckled. “Alive. Think back to the conversations we had before we started working for Kiki. Do you ever remember asking if a person was alive or a ghost?”
“No,” Jesse realized. “Those Irish guys are tough.”
“Speaking of,” Cid started. He served Jesse his sandwich and put his own on the grill before continuing, “Faye says there is an Irish ghost named Jon O’Connor who isn’t crazy like the rest in the house.”
“Is our little ghostie smitten?” Jesse asked.
“I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”
“You’re chicken. I’ll ask her.”
“Anyway, I got to thinking about ghosts who go crazy and…”
Jesse looked up and waited.
“I better give you another instance of Irish ghosts first before I tell you my theory.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Years back, they unearthed an Irish pub in the heart of Chicago. It had sunk into the ground - sinkhole we think. Anyway, out walks Fergus, Roy, Grady and, later, Kevin Murphy, sane as you or me.”
“That’s not saying much,” Jesse said.
“Be serious. They were trapped for a hundred and fifty years, thereabouts. Not crazy. Stephen Murphy, not crazy. Jon O’Connor, not crazy. Mia says ghosts, if trapped, are most likely to go crazy. Is there an exception for Irish ghosts?”
“Seems like a theory you need to examine. Murphy, to my understanding, wasn’t trapped inside the farmhouse,” Jesse reminded Cid.
“He was trapped on the farm. Trapped is trapped,” Cid said, lifting his sandwich off the
