Killing in C Sharp Page 25

  Gethsemane stepped into the just-arrived elevator car. “You’re giving almost as good as you get. Now I believe you’re recovered.”

  “You carry this.” Frankie handed her the flowers and balloons.

  “It’s from both of us.”

  “Which is why you can hand it to Niall as well as I can. Guy thing.” He batted a bright yellow balloon. “Bet he’d rather have a pint, anyway.”

  “You can’t bring a pint into a hospital.”

  Frankie tugged at the over-sized blazer he’d resumed wearing with wrinkled khakis, Venus’s style influence apparently having worn off with the sickness. He grinned. “You’d be surprised what you can hide in here.”

  The elevator door opened to reveal a nurses’ station—and a robust Niall leaning against the countertop, chatting up the nurses. He wore street clothes, and a duffel bag lay at his feet. His dimpled smile spread to his eyes when he saw Gethsemane and Frankie. “‘S that for me?” He nodded at the flowers.

  “No,” Frankie said. “It’s for the nurses who had to put up with you.”

  “Of course, it’s for you, Niall.” Gethsemane handed him the arrangement and pulled a greeting card from her purse. “But you don’t look like you need any get well wishes.”

  “Well enough to convince my sister to go back home to her husband. The doctor examined her while she was here, by the way. The baby’s fine. No signs of whatever it is that I had. They discharged me an hour ago. Taxi’s on the way.”

  “Cancel the taxi,” Frankie said. “I drove.”

  Niall eyed the other man up and down. “You’re looking fit.”

  “Slammed death’s door and locked it.”

  One of the nurse’s chimed in. “The doctor will call you, Niall, once the final test results come in. I hope they provide some clue as to what felled you.”

  Heads turned as Gethsemane made a noise. All the blood tests in the world wouldn’t explain Maja-sickness. “Sorry, something in my throat. Um, you know they can’t always identify the exact cause of an illness. They even invented a term for it, Medically Unexplained Physical Symptoms.”

  “MUPS? What kind of a name is MUPS?” Frankie asked. “Coined by an American, no doubt.”

  “You’ve a medical background?” a nurse asked Gethsemane.

  “Her ma’s a doctor,” Niall said. “And I don’t really care exactly what caused the dose, as long as it’s gone. Time to get back to my normal life.”

  “Cold cases, weekly poker games, and warning me to keep my nose out of dangerous situations?” Gethsemane asked.

  “You forgot craic at the pub and shoe shopping.” The inspector winked.

  “The nurses really do deserve those flowers more than you.”

  “No argument from me.” He presented the arrangement to the nurse who’d told him about the lab results. “For you ladies with apologies for any aggravation caused.”

  Blushes and giggles spread through the nurses’ station. “You were never any trouble, Niall.”

  “As for you two,” he said to Gethsemane and Frankie, “pints on me. Let’s head to the Rabbit.”

  A few days after celebrating Niall’s and Frankie’s return to health, Gethsemane gathered with Saoirse, Father Tim, and Venus around a table in the parish house. Venus’s phone lay mid-table, a grimoire next to it.

  “Eamon and Orla are in there?” Gethsemane ran a finger along the edge of the phone.

  “On the SD card,” Saoirse corrected. “But we can use the phone to communicate with them.”

  “Like the compass needle on the alchemist’s device,” Tim said.

  “Better than that, Father,” Saoirse said. “We can see them on the screen. Not very clearly, but clearly enough to tell it’s them. They can also use the energy from the phone’s battery to send text messages.”

  “Like one of those pods the paranormal investigators used.” Gethsemane snapped her fingers as she tried to recall the name. “You know, the whoosis whatchamacallit. The thing with the database programmed in so ghosts can choose words to display on its screen.”

  “Why don’t we use one of those instead of my phone?” Venus asked.

  The other three stared.

  “The phone’s not paid off yet.”

  “Kent’s crew took all of their equipment with them,” Gethsemane said. “I insisted on it.”

  “You have a phone, why not use it?”

  “Because your phone’s better, Ms. James,” Saoirse said.

  Gethsemane bristled. “Why is everyone so down on my phone? It does what it’s supposed to do: sends and receives calls and texts, takes photos, and provides me with apps for when I’m in need of a timesuck.”

  Saoirse wrinkled her nose and stage-whispered. “It’s still not a very good phone.”

  Tim patted Venus’s hand. “I’m sure Ms. James doesn’t begrudge the use of her technology if it helps us communicate with the McCarthys.”

  Venus looked away from her phone but said nothing.

  “Proceed, Saoirse,” Tim said.

  She opened the grimoire to a page covered in the strange formulas Gethsemane had seen earlier at the theater. Some additional formulas, in a girlish handwriting, had been penciled in the margins. “I translated the alchemical formulas into mathematical equations, then solved them.” She tapped the phone’s screen awake then tapped numbers on its on-screen keyboard.

  They waited. Three seconds, five seconds, ten. Tim said a prayer.

  A soft, green glow emanated from the phone, followed by a faint image onscreen.

  “Eamon!” Gethsemane exclaimed. “Saoirse, you’re a genius.”

  “I know,” the girl said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  A text box popped up and words appeared: Hey darlin’. U miss me?

  “Can he hear me?” Gethsemane asked Saoirse.

  “Through the microphone.”

  She spoke to Eamon. “You’ve no idea, Irish. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  A text: Can’t see U

  Gethsemane turned to Saoirse.

  “The screen only displays images. It doesn’t receive them.”

  “What about the phone’s camera?” Venus asked. “Can’t we use it so McCarthy can see us?”

  “No, the camera won’t broadcast images into the phone. And photos and videos will take up storage space on the SD card.”

  The screen flickered and Orla’s image materialized next to her husband’s. Both images’ intensity diminished.

  “What happened?” Venus asked.

  Saoirse explained. “Two ghosts use more of the phone battery’s energy. So the images aren’t as sharp. And the texts won’t be as long.”

  “How do we get them out of the phone?” Venus asked.

  The others stared at her.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said.

  “Technically, they’re on the card and not in the phone. If you remove the card from the phone,” Saoirse said, “you remove the ghosts, too. But they won’t be able to communicate. They need the energy from the phone’s battery and the phone’s screen and keyboard for that. The card just stores them.”

  “Can you get them out, out? Out of the card, back floating around in the atmosphere or wherever?”

  The phone vibrated. A text: Ghosts don’t float

  “Sorry,” Venus said. “I’m still not well-versed in spectral terminology.”

  “Saoirse,” Tim said. “Can you release the McCarthys from the card?”

  The girl dropped her gaze.

  “Saoirse,” Tim said again.

  “It’s the silica bonds. I can manage the copper and quartz. But the spell binds the ghosts’ essence to the silica so tightly you couldn’t slip an atom between them. That’s the secret of getting the ghosts into the device. The silica bonds seem to be irreversible. None of the
writings I deciphered reported any success in breaking the bonds and releasing the ghosts from the device.”

  “You mean they’re trapped,” Gethsemane said.

  “That’s why the spell’s called ‘An Incantation, with Formulas, to Trap Ghosts.’”

  A text appeared: Shite

  Another followed: Language, dearest

  “There’s nothing you can do?” Tim asked Saoirse.

  “I’m not sure you want to hear the answer.”

  Another text: Say it

  Saoirse pulled a book from her pocket, a slim, red volume the size of an index card. “I found this.” She laid it on the table.

  Tim opened it. “German.”

  “A German monk wrote it. It’s mostly recipes for beer and bread and rules for living in the monastery, a few complaints about the other monks, lots of prayers but, also, a couple of spells.”

  “What kind of spells?”

  “For protection, for good beer—”

  Venus laughed. “Herr Monk knew what mattered.”

  Saoirse continued. “And one spell—Ein Zauber, der ein großes Opfer braucht—that might do it. Maybe. Possibly. Sort of—”

  “All right, Saoirse.” Tim held up a hand. “We understand there are no guarantees. Tell us about the spell.”

  “What does Ein Zauber whatever mean?” Venus asked.

  Gethsemane knew some German. “‘A spell requiring great sacrifice’ is how the title translates. What kind of sacrifice? From who?”

  “One person can pass their energy to another person to save the other.”

  “Save the other from what?”

  “Death.”

  Venus lowered her voice. “But the ghosts are already dead. Aren’t they?”

  “The spell was written for humans, however,” Saoirse referred to the alchemical formulas, “I managed to re-calculate one of these and combine it with the sacrifice spell to make the spell work with ghosts. I hope. I haven’t tried it.”

  “Let’s assume your alterations were successful. What happens?”

  “One ghost transfers all its energy to the other. That should oversaturate the silica bonds and release that ghost.”

  A text: Great sacrifice?

  “The person who transfers their energy dies. The ghost who transfers their energy dissipates. Ceases to exist.”

  “A great sacrifice, indeed,” Tim said. “Such as a parent might make to save a child or a soldier to save a comrade.”

  Would one spouse make it to save the other? “What’s the alternative?” Gethsemane asked. “Stay trapped in the SD card? Isn’t that better than non-existence? Especially since they can communicate through a phone or laptop or tablet. Anything with an SD card slot, really.”

  “About that,” Saoirse said. “Every playback degrades their image quality. Every text does, too. I haven’t calculated how long it will take but, eventually, they’ll be reduced to static.”

  “Aren’t you a bundle of good news?” Venus said.

  “So,” Gethsemane said, “they can remain bound to the card, potentially forever—”

  “If no one deletes them.”

  “—but they can’t communicate with each other or the world without turning themselves into static.”

  “Not themselves, only their images. Well, they’d also turn their texts into nonsense. But they’d remain stored on the card.”

  “Incommunicado. Like old files no one’s able to access anymore.”

  “Yes.”

  “Or one of them could give up their existence for the other. And the one who was released from the card?”

  “Would be a regular ghost again. Like Mr. McCarthy was before.”

  Not much of a choice. Stay trapped in a prison smaller than a thumbnail knowing that every time you reached out to contact anyone, you moved one communication closer to becoming white noise. Or, stop being, period, to give the one you love a chance at— “The ghost who’s released?” Gethsemane asked. “Can they cross over or are they stuck on this side of the veil?”

  Saoirse shrugged. “Father Tim’s got a lot of grimoires I haven’t gone through, yet. One of them may contain a crossing over spell.”

  This was a choice Eamon and Orla would have to make for themselves. Gethsemane spoke to the phone. “Guys? This one’s up to you.”

  A text: Save Orla

  Another: No. Not without U

  Card worse hell than limbo

  Save Eamon

  No. Won’t let U do it

  Not asking, dearest. Telling

  Without U 2 long already

  Not 2gether in card

  But

  U stay. Have friends who ♥ U

  Can’t bear thought

  Ssh. All will be well, my ♥

  Would die 4 U

  I would cease 2 B 4 U. Save Eamon

  “Are you sure, Mrs. McCarthy?” Saoirse asked. “If this works, I can’t undo it.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?” Tim asked.

  “They might both stay trapped in the card or they might both cease to exist. I can’t say for sure. Some of my equations are, um, hypothetical.”

  Terrific. Her friend’s—she might as well admit it, her best friend—fate and the fate of the wife he loved more than life hinged on a twelve-year-old genius’s ability to translate German, Latin, and alchemical formulas into mathematical equations which she hypothesized would work. But if Saoirse didn’t at least try…would being trapped indefinitely and unable to communicate be worse than not existing? She remembered how ecstatic Eamon seemed when he first realized he could communicate with her after a quarter-century of isolation. She picked up the phone and spoke softly into the microphone. “Eamon, Orla, I’ll support whatever choice you make.”

  The phone’s screen went dark. Gethsemane set the phone on the table and they waited. A yellow glow surrounded the phone.

  A text appeared, all caps: SAVE EAMON

  Eamon never could win an argument with her.

  A second text followed: I’m nothing without him, anyway

  The screen went dark again.

  Saoirse turned to Gethsemane. “Release Mr. McCarthy?”

  Gethsemane inhaled deeply then exhaled until her lungs felt empty. She nodded.

  Saoirse sat and pulled the grimoire to her. She positioned the phone mid-table while she read the notes she’d made in the book’s margins. She brought the screen to life with a tap, then tapped numbers. She sat back. No one moved. Seconds passed, but nothing happened.

  “What’s wrong?” Venus asked. “Why isn’t it working?”

  Gethsemane laid a hand on Saoirse’s shoulder. “Try again.”

  The girl tapped more numbers. Still nothing. She pressed the phone’s power key and hit restart.

  All four held their breaths with an audible intake of air. A minute passed. Saoirse started to cry noiselessly. Another minute passed. Five.

  “It didn’t work,” Venus said. “Damn.” She reached for the phone.

  Gethsemane stopped her. “Just wait. What’s ten minutes versus eternity?”

  Seven minutes, eight. Just as Gethsemane began to lose faith, the phone vibrated. The acrid smell of an electrical fire filled the room. Gethsemane touched the phone.

  “Ow!” She drew back her hand and sucked the tip of her forefinger. “Hot.”

  The phone sparked, and a puff of smoke wafted from the battery compartment.

  Father Tim pulled Saoirse up from her chair and stepped back. “Perhaps we should go. I’ll call the fire brigade from the church.”

  “No, wait.” Saoirse broke free from Tim’s grasp and pointed at the phone. The service provider’s logo filled the screen. The sparks and smoke abated.

  Nothing else happened.

  “Is it over?” Venus asked. “What about
the McCarthys?”

  “I warned you it might not work.” Saoirse sniffled.

  Had they destroyed both Eamon and Orla? Had Maja claimed a pyrrhic victory? Gethsemane cursed the vengeful harridan. May she burn in—

  Venus dug her nails into Gethsemane’s arm. “Do you smell that?”

  Gethsemane took a deep breath. Leather. Hay. And the freshness of soap.

  Twenty-Four

  A new bottle of Waddell and Dobb hovered in mid-air in the kitchen. The bottle tipped and filled two old-fashioned glasses with a generous pour of bourbon. One glass levitated to Gethsemane, the other to Venus.

  Gethsemane raised her glass in toast. “Thank you, Irish.”

  Eamon materialized next to the range. “Anytime, Sissy.” He pointed at the oven door and it opened a crack. “What are you making?”

  Gethsemane slammed the door shut. “Chocolate chip cookies, what does it smell like?”

  “No comment,” Eamon said.

  Venus hid her laugh behind her glass.

  “I go away for a little while and you turn into a domestic goddess? What’s going on with that?”

  Gethsemane took off the apron she’d found in the linen closet and shoved it under the sink. “I’m just making some cookies for Niall and Frankie to celebrate their recovery. No big deal.”

  “I’m guessing they’d both rather have a bottle of their favorite.”

  She turned to Venus. “Aren’t you going to help me? Female solidarity?”

  “They’re burning.” Venus gestured at the oven.

  “Shite.” Gethsemane yanked open the oven and grabbed the cookie sheet. The searing pain in her fingers reminded her she needed an oven mitt. Hand appropriately garbed, she pulled out a sheet of steaming cookies with charcoal-colored edges.

  “On a positive note,” Eamon said, “Your brogue has improved.”

  She gave him a few more examples of how much her brogue had improved. She held up a cookie. “I’ll stop by the off license tomorrow.”