Part 51 (2/2)
Jack stood and watched Roger lie spread-eagle on the floor, grinning and staring at the ceiling.
A little more waiting, accompanied by a lot more nothing.
Disappointment veered toward anger as Jack stepped through the door and s.n.a.t.c.hed the key chain from the floor. He suppressed the urge to turn and drop kick it onto the front lawn. He'd been so d.a.m.n sure sure.
Ah, well. It was a good try. And he had to admit he was somewhat relieved not to have to face proof that Bellitto was connected to Tara Portman. He'd come to fear coincidences.
He stuffed Roger into a pocket and followed the work noises into the kitchen and down the cellar stairs. Along the way he heard another sound. Music. Jazz. Miles. Something from b.i.t.c.hes Brew b.i.t.c.hes Brew.
Jack reached the bottom of the steps and stopped to watch the brothers Kenton at work. They'd ditched their s.h.i.+rts and looked surprisingly muscular for a couple of guys in the spook trade. Their black skins glistened from the effort as they pried at the sheets of paneling and hacked at the studs behind them. A ten- or twelve-foot span had been stripped away, exposing dull gray rows of granite block. Neither had any idea he'd arrived.
”Started without me, I see,” Jack said.
Lyle jumped and turned, raising his pry bar. He huffed out a breath and lowered it when he recognized Jack.
”Don't do that!” he said. ”Not in this house.”
”Yo, Jack,” Charlie said, waving. ”S'up?”
”Lots. Gia paid a visit to Tara Portman's father.”
”By herself?” Lyle asked.
”Without telling me.”
”That girl got game,” Charlie said. ”She learn anything?”
Jack gave them a brief rundown of what Joe Portman had told Gia.
”So,” Lyle said slowly, ”the riding clothes she was wearing when Gia saw her match the clothes she was wearing when she was s.n.a.t.c.hed.”
”Don't be fooled,” Charlie said. ”It's not Tara Portman.”
Lyle rolled his eyes. ”Not this again.”
”You won't listen, maybe Jack will. You had your doubts too, right, Jack?”
”Yeah, but...” What was he stepping into here?
”I spoke to my minister and he says there are no ghosts, only demons pretending to be ghosts to lure the faithful away from G.o.d.”
”No worry in my case,” Lyle said. ”I'm not among the faithful.”
”That's because you don't believe in anything,” Charlie said with some heat. ”Only thing you believe in is your disbelief. Disbelief is is your religion.” your religion.”
”Maybe it is. I can't help it. I was born with a skeptical mind.” He turned to his brother. ”Now I ask you, is that fair? If G.o.d gives me a skeptical nature and you an accepting one, then you're going to be a believer and I'm not. If belief is a ticket to eternal happiness, I'm definitely handicapped. G.o.d gives me a mind capable of asking questions and what?-I'm d.a.m.ned if I use it?”
Charlie's dark eyes were sad. ”You just gotta give your heart to Jesus, bro. 'Whosoever believeth in him shall not perish but have everlasting life.'”
”But I can't. That's my point. I'm the type who needs to know know. I didn't ask to be this way, but that's how it is. I am simply not capable of adjusting my whole existence to accommodate something that must be accepted on faith, on the word of people I've never met, people who've been dead for thousands of years. I can't live like that. It's not me.” He shrugged. ”h.e.l.l, I'm still not sure I believe in this ghost.”
”Wait a sec,” Jack said. ”What's this about not believing in your ghost? Why are you doing this demolition work then?”
He shrugged. ”I'm caught between. Certain aspects of this situation don't jibe.”
”Like what?”
”Well, like that song, for instance. I heard what sounded like a little girl singing. But how can a ghost sing? Or talk, for that matter?”
”If it can smash mirrors and write in dust, why shouldn't it be able to sing and talk?”
”It's got no vocal cords, and no lungs to push air past them if it did. So how does it make noise?”
Jack thought he knew the answer. ”Last I heard, noise is nothing more than vibrating air. If this thing can smash a mirror, I'd think it should be able to vibrate air.”
Lyle nodded, grinning. He turned to Charlie. ”See? That's what I need. An explanation I can sink my teeth into. Not simply saying 'It's G.o.d's will.' That won't cut it.”
”It will, bro,” Charlie said. ”When that final trumpet blows, it will.”
”So you believe.”
”I know, Lyle.”
”That's just it: You don't don't know. And neither do I. Neither of us will ever know until we die.” know. And neither do I. Neither of us will ever know until we die.”
This was getting a little heavy. Jack walked over to the exposed granite blocks and ran a hand over the stone. Cold. And clammy. He pulled his hand away. For a moment there it felt as if the surface had s.h.i.+fted under his touch. He looked at his hand, then at the stone. Nothing had changed. He tried it again and felt that same strange, squirming sensation.
”Looking for something?” Lyle asked.
”Just checking out these blocks.”
As he moved to another stone, he glanced back and noticed Lyle staring at him. More than staring-squinting at him, as if trying to bring him into focus.
”Something wrong?”
Lyle blinked. ”No. Nothing.”
Jack turned back to the stones. He found one with a cross-shaped pocket and noticed scratch marks in the granite around the depression.
”Didn't the Greek say some of the stones had inlaid crosses?”
”Right,” Lyle said, moving closer. ”Bra.s.s and nickel.”
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