“It could be a helicopter,” Mia said. “I’m not sure that’s much better for you.”
“Ugly humming birds,” Murphy said, kicking a dirt clod.
The wind picked up. Mia looked around and saw the loose leaves circling them. “Oh shit! I forgot! Murphy, stand close and hold on to me. Wyatt is sending a cyclone.”
Murphy grabbed Mia as she started to rise off the ground. The two of them clung to the other as the whirlwind tightened and spun faster as it lifted into the air and disappeared.
Wyatt walked in from the veranda. Nordin was waiting with his coffee. He took the cup and drank down the bitter brew before speaking. “That should do it. Two minutes tops, and they will arrive somewhere near Wichita Kansas.”
“I wish them luck,” Nordin said. “It turns out to be a good move. There is a rather ominous looking crow sitting and staring at the house from the top of the cell tower.”
“We may want to lure the spies in the wrong direction. I’m thinking a trip to NOLA.”
“It’s rather busy down there. Lots of people in masks if memory serves me,” Nordin agreed.
“Most people call it Mardi Gras, but unfortunately, we’re too late for Mardi Gras. But we’re right on time for spring break. Drunk college kids in masks should be enough distraction for the birds,” Wyatt said.
Nicholai and Angelo entered the Coopers’ brownstone to find it empty. They moved through the house, meticulously searching for anything that would identify the soul jumper who had taken the body of the young woman. They found an appalling amount of frozen meals and cartons of cigarettes. The bookshelves contained academic journals and old moldy books on various tribes in North and South America.
“There’s nothing here that proves the existence that a child lives here. Did we get the right house?” Nicholai called.
“I hit pay dirt. Come upstairs. Mind the ghost,” Angelo said, looking at the shaking woman in the corner of the room.
Nicholai didn’t know much about young American women’s habits, but this bleak drafty room with the ancient wallpaper wouldn’t be the place a daughter of his would live. There were some attempts at decorating, although it must have been years ago. Unicorns didn’t seem the go-to for a twelve-year-old. “Who’s the ghost?”
“She doesn’t know. She says the girl calls her Misty. Misty is close to the fraying point. We could end her torment now.”
“Angelo, we only have permission for a recon of this home. We’re supposed to be looking for proof of a soul jumper.”
“But this ghost is in pain. Look at her.”
“Meeeeeeah,” the ghost moaned.
“I think she’s more frightened of us than in pain.”
Angelo pulled open the drawers on the old desk. Inside, he found packets of school pictures going back to kindergarten. He looked at the child. She really was pretty. Her big moss-green eyes dominated her face. Her clothing wasn’t quite right. Didn’t American mothers fuss over their children on picture day? “There is only one picture gone out of each of these packets, except the last one and all of them are gone. I thought children traded them, gave pictures to grandparents?”
Angelo pulled out another drawer where he found birthday and Christmas cards. They were all signed by the same two people. “Ralph and Bernard.”
“I’m beginning to think your soul jumper theory to be solid. This child is basically forgotten. No one but this Ralph and Bernard would notice a change in her.”
“I knew that if I had found my marker in the mind of a child it had to have been there because I visited the mind before. I know every child I’ve helped. I’ve run across a few soul jumpers in my travels, so I put one and one together…”
“Don’t crow yet,” Nicholai said, flipping the pictures on the wall around. “I have found evidence of a normal girl.”
On the back of the frames of the cheap oil paintings were newspaper clippings of the local middle school’s sports teams. One name was circled again and again, Whitney Martin. Nicholai studied the team picture and one of the Big Bear Lake Post’s pictures of the star athlete and tapped the picture. “This is Whitney Martin.”
Angelo looked at the photo.
Nicholai flipped the last picture over. “She’s pasted the latest photo of her head on top of a Spring Fling picture. Under it she has printed Mia Martin. There are tiny hearts instead of dots for the I’s. Someone’s got a crush,” Nicholai said.
“Mia Martin? Why does that name turn my stomach?” Angelo asked.
“You have to let this child go. I think you should also have a little counseling,” Nicholai said to an empty room.
Angelo had run to the bathroom and was throwing up. The ghost was patting his back.
“This room is positively Dickensian. It reminds me of those old Polish homes after the occupation. Spartan but clean. I think the ghost has attached herself to Mia,” Nicholai said, opening the closet.
Angelo accepted the cool cloth the ghost handed him. He reached out and connected with the woman’s forehead with his hand. “She’s barely holding it together. She has maybe two years. She thinks that Mia is her baby. I think if it wasn’t for her, the child wouldn’t have survived the parents’ inattention.”
“She’s got a few magazines in her closet. The mailing labels all have Ralph Mendelssohn’s name on them and a Chicago address.” Nicholai carefully extracted one of the labels off the magazine. He looked through the closet and noted that it looked like the girl had two nice outfits for just about every year of her life hanging there. In between, there were clothes which looked more like hand-me-downs or purchased cheaply from thrift stores. He looked at a torn magazine picture that was pinned to an outfit. His eyes burned. Why
