Polich nodded. "That's what I said. You figure he's a jumper?"
"I doubt it." While they did occasionally get jump?ers off the Lions Gate Bridge, they hadn't had one yet who'd stopped to take his clothes off. Pointing her flashlight beam at the water, she slowly swept the cir?cle of illumination over the corpse. Bruises, large and small, made a mottled pattern of purple against the pale skin. Not very old-and not going to get any older, she told herself grimly-he hadn't been in the water for long.
"Funny what makes some of 'em float and some of 'em sink," Polich mused quietly beside her. "This guy's skin and bones, should'a gone right to the... God damn it! Would you look at that!"
The other two longshoremen crowded in to see.
Flung forward, Corporal Roberts tottered on the edge of the pier, saved at the last minute from a po?tentially dangerous swim by a muscular arm thrust in front of her like a filthy, cloth-covered, safety rail. Breathing heavily, she thanked Polich and snarled a warning at the other two.
As they backed up, too intent on the body in the water to be properly penitent, one of them muttered, "What the hell could've happened to his hands?"
Sunset the next night occurred behind cloud cover so heavy only the fading light gave evidence that the sun had set at all. At 7:23, Tony turned off his watch alarm and muted the inane conversation filling in a rain delay for a Seattle Mariners' home game. Who wanted to hear about a shortage of organ donors when they were waiting to watch baseball? He never dreamed he'd miss Fergie Oliver. Leaning back in his chair, he glanced down the hall, listening for the first sounds of Henry's return and straining to hear the rattle of ghostly chains.
As the sun released its hold and his senses slowly began to function, Henry sifted through and ignored a hundred familiar sensations. An impossible breeze stroked icy fingers across his cheek. He willed his arm to move and switched on the lamp.
The ghost stood where it had the day before-a nondescript young man, needing a haircut and shave, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Its edges were indistinct and although Henry could see writing on the shirt, he couldn't make it out-whether because the writing hadn't fully materialized or because the items on the dresser behind the ghost's semitranslucent torso distracted him, he wasn't sure. As far as Henry could remember, he'd never seen the young man alive.
He half expected the specter to vanish when he sat up, but it remained at the foot of his bed. It's waiting for something. If a noncorporeal being could be said to have posture, the ghost's stance screamed anticipation.
"All right." He sighed and leaned back against the headboard. "What do you want?"
Slowly, the ghost lifted its arms and vanished.
Henry stared a moment longer at the place where it had been and wondered what could have possibly happened to its hands.
"It had no hands at all?" When Henry nodded, Tony chewed his lower lip in thought. "Were they, like, cut off or ripped off or chewed off or what?" he asked after a moment.
"They just weren't there." Henry took a bottle of water out of the fridge, opened it, and drained it. The growing popularity of bottled water had been a god?send; while blood provided total nourishment, all liv?ing things required water, and the purifying chemicals added by most cities made him ill. Bacteria, his system ignored. Chlorine, it rebelled against. Tossing the empty plastic bottle in the recycling bin, he leaned on the counter and stared down at his own hands. "They just weren't there," he repeated.
"Then I bet that's what he wants-vengeance. They always want vengeance."
Raising an eyebrow at Tony's certainty, Henry asked just where he'd acquired his knowledge of what ghosts always wanted.
"You know, movies and stuff. He wants you to help him take revenge against the guy who took his hands."
"And how am I supposed to do that?"
"Jeez, Henry, I don't know. You worked with Vicki; didn't she teach you nothing?"
"Anything."
Tony rolled his eyes. "Okay, anything."
Vicki Nelson, private investigator, ex-police detec?tive, ex-lover, vampire-Henry had worked with her for one short year before fate had brought them as close together as was possible with his kind and then had driven them apart. He'd been forced to change her to save her life and forced, by the change, to give her up. Highly territorial, vampires hunted alone. She'd returned to Toronto and her mortal lover. He'd made a new life for himself on the West Coast.
Had she taught him anything?
Yes.
Did any of it have anything to do with handless ghosts?
No.
When he repeated his thoughts aloud for Tony's benefit, he added, "One thing she did teach me is that I'm not a detective. I'm a writer, and, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go write." Not entirely certain why memories of Vicki Nelson always made him so defen?sive, he headed for his computer, waving at the televi?sion on his way through the living room. "Your rain delay seems to be over."
Half an hour later, having realized that the expected staccato clicking of keys hadn't yet begun, Tony pushed open the door to Henry's office. Standing on the threshold, he noted that nothing showed on the monitor but a chapter heading and a lot of blank screen.
"This spook really has you spooked, doesn't it?"