Ghost Story (The Dresden Files #13) - Jim Butcher Page 0,100
help you, my son?”
“Harry Dresden said you could,” Fitz said.
Forthill raised his eyebrows. “Ah. Perhaps you should come with me.”
Fitz looked around and then nodded. “I guess.”
Forthill beckoned and led Fitz back down some hallways to the neat, modest chamber where he slept and lived. It was maybe ten feet square and contained a bed, a desk, a chair, and a couple of lamps. Forthill let Fitz in, then closed the door behind the young man. “Please have a seat, my son.”
Fitz looked around for a moment, then sat down on the chair. Forthill nodded and sat on the edge of his bed. “First things first,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Should I give you a good set-up line for you to make a pithy comment about Catholic priests and sexual abuse of young men, or would you prefer to find your own opening during the conversation?”
Fitz blinked a couple of times and said, “What?”
“Such remarks are apparently quite popular. I wouldn’t want to deny you the enjoyment.”
“Oh, uh. No, that’s all right, Father.”
Forthill nodded gravely. “As you wish. Shall we talk about your problems now?”
“All right.”
“Well, then,” the priest said, “perhaps you should start by telling me when Dresden told you to come to me for help.”
“Uh . . .” Fitz said. He glanced around, as if looking for me.
“Go ahead,” I told him. “Just tell him the truth. It’s all right.”
Fitz took a deep breath and said, “About thirty minutes ago, Father.”
Forthill’s eyebrows tried to turn themselves into a toupee. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Fitz said, his eyes restless. “I, uh. I hear dead people.”
“That must be disconcerting.”
“I’m not crazy,” Fitz said quickly.
“I never thought you were, my son,” Forthill said.
Fitz gave him a suspicious scowl. “You believe me?”
The old man gave him an imp’s grin. “I’m well aware of the supernatural facets of our city—and that the streets have been particularly dangerous for the past six months or so.”
“That’s . . . putting it sort of lightly, Father,” Fitz said.
He nodded. “I’m sure your experience has not been a gentle one,” he said. “I won’t add to it with my own disbelief.”
Fitz bit his lower lip for a moment. “Okay.”
“I am also aware,” Forthill continued, “that Dresden’s shade is apparently taking a hand in things. I assume that’s who you’ve spoken to?”
“Yeah.”
Forthill nodded and looked around the room. “He’s . . . he’s here with you, isn’t he?”
Forthill chuckled. “He is—he was—a very determined young man.”
“Hasn’t changed,” Fitz said.
“I see,” the priest said. “My son, I am sure you understand that these are perilous times. I am afraid that I must ask for some kind of confirmation that this entity is who he says he is.”
Fitz looked at the priest blankly. Then around the room. “You hear that?”
“Yeah,” I said. I walked over to the far wall of the room and stuck my head through it. On the other side was a dark space, a hidden storage compartment just large enough to contain a couple of small file cabinets. The concealed compartment had been unknown to anyone but Forthill until I worked a case for an archangel a while back. Michael Carpenter and I had seen him open the hidden cabinet.
“Come over here,” I said. “Knock on the wall, right here. Forthill will know what it means.”
“Uh, dude,” Fitz said. “I can’t see where you are.”
I sighed. “Can you hear my voice?”
“Yeah,” he said, “but it’s just . . . like, this disembodied thing. There’s not much direction to it.”
Which made sense. He was not actually, physically, hearing me speak. Fitz’s gift to sense spirits simply expressed itself as something his mind could interpret—in this case, auditory stimulus.
“Uh, okay,” I said. “Walk over to the back wall of the room, the one you were facing when you came through the door.”
Fitz said to Forthill, “He’s trying to tell me how to prove he isn’t full of crap.” Then he stood up and walked across the room.
“Okay,” I said. “Put your hand out on the wall. Now move to your right. Little more. Little more. Too far. Okay, now about nine inches down, and rap on it with your knuckles.”
Fitz did all of that and finally knocked on the wall. Then he turned to Forthill and said, “Mean anything to you?”
The old priest pursed his lips and nodded. “Indeed. Indeed it does.”