Certainly not psychic shields.
Definitely not psychic shields that seemed to have grown naturally around the mind of a normal world person.
Hilario contemplated Marco the cop’s natural shield all the way to the home of Larry’s ex-wife.
Along with other things.
His thick sausage fingers clenched the steering wheel in what would have been a white knuckle grip if he hadn’t already been wearing white gloves. The musky scent of Marco the cop’s cologne clogged his sinuses. He would have preferred the fear smell. He was used to that odor. The bad places were full of it.
The van’s body creaked as Marco crawled to the back. He reached for the gun he’d kicked back there.
Better not touch me, pansy man, the gun said, I might go off. Accidental like, you know.
Marco shook a finger at the gun. “Don’t you fucking threaten me,” he said, “I’ll fucking melt you down and turn you into a fucking frying pan.
Least I’d see some action that way. Pansy man, the gun said.
Marco kicked the gun. It banged against the wall.
BLAM! the gun shouted.
Marco jumped back.
Got you. Pussy, the gun said.
The cop released a stream of profanity so blistering, it should have melted the gun where it lay.
The gun seemed unfazed. Started humming the theme to some reality show about cops.
Hilario slumped over the steering wheel. Where had this day gone wrong? Was it the flying cake? Or had it been his stomach, wanting an extra treat for a stomach churning day?
How was that working out for him?
Whatever it was, he needed to find a way to get some control.
“Officer Marco?” Hilario said.
Marco turned a savage look on him. “Detective!”
To Hilario’s blank look the cop spat out: “It’s Detective Marco, clown.”
“Ah, my apologies, sir,” Hilario said, “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Hilario. The Clown. I apologize for not shaking hands, but I’m not fond of personal contact.”
“I wouldn’t shake your hand anyway,” Detective Marco said, “And I’m still going to run you in after we talk to Mrs. Sparrow.”
Larry the ghost, still occupying the passenger seat, chose to pipe up. “She’s not Mrs. Sparrow any more,” he said, “She went back to her maiden name.”
Marco’s hand automatically went to his little leather bound notebook. But he seemed to be out of pens, because he yanked his hand away.
Or maybe he didn’t want to hear what his other pens had to say.
“Her maiden name?” Marco said, “Are you–”
“Smith,” Larry said, “She was pretty happy when we got married. She didn’t have to change her monogram.”
Marco gave him a blank look. “Smith? That’s not–”
Hilario gave Larry a shut up look. That Larry completely missed.
“She put her initials on everything in the house,” he said, “Told me not to touch anything that had her initials on it. How was I supposed to do that? Everything had her stupid initials on it. She even had special toilet paper printed up. RS, RS, RS…rolls and rolls of it. Seemed a little mental, if you ask me. Maybe even creepy. The only place I had was the kitchen. Though she used to love to cook when we first go to know each other.”
Marco continued to give him the blank look. Perhaps Detective Marco was contemplating the same thing Hilario was: where did my day go wrong?
Or maybe where his life went wrong.
Hilario drew a deep breath. There wasn’t any point in feeling sorry for himself. Moving forward was the only way. Even though he was a wooden ship trying to navigate an ocean filled with bad luck icebergs.
“Detective Marco,” he said, “Maybe we should wait until morning to talk to Mrs. Sp–Smith. We’re all very tired–”
“I’m not,” Larry said. He clapped his hands to his face. “Mama mia! Do ghosts sleep? Or eat? What am I going to do if I cannot sleep? What am I going to do with myself if I cannot touch the world?”
Hilario knew some of those answers, but now wasn’t the time. Somehow he had to defuse Marco the detective before the man became unhinged.
He tried probing the man’s shield again. Only to get stung by one of the mental spikes.
He withdrew with a fresh headache pounding the center of his forehead.
Which left him with Plan B.
Get the detective out of the van and then peel away.
Marco bent down and snatched the gun off the floor.
Hey! the gun said, What you think you’re doing, mother fucker?
Marco shoved the gun into the holster under his coat. The gun protested some more, but Marco turned. He gave Hilario a teeth clenched smile that did not look at all friendly.
“Get out of the damn van, clown,” Marco said, “We’re going to go see Mrs. Larry.”
Oh. Boogity poop.
12
The ex Mrs. Larry had a very nice house. At least from the outside.
The house was located in one of the nicer sections of town. Up on Bloubalt Hill, which overlooked the city. It was closer to the base of the hill, rather than the top. But it still probably had a nice view.
In the daytime.
Hilario shivered in the chill night air. Looked out over the twinkling lights of the city below. A half crescent moon hung above the horizon. Turned the calm waters of Korbahn Bay silver. Along with the Black River that bisected the city.
Scents of pine and roses tickled his senses. The city was famous for its roses. The signature blooms were small and vibrant. But the stems had especially large and vicious thorns. More than once he’d had to battle his way through them while escaping some flame-eyed supernatural being or other.
In the dim light he saw the narrow walkway leading up to Mrs. Larry’s
