Unholy Ground Read online

  “Welcome to bureaucracy.” He got up from his big leather office chair and came over to her, hands settling on her shoulders so he could knead some of the knots away.

  Ah, that did feel better. The pressure building in her temples eased a bit, and she thought she might be able to survive this ordeal without developing a migraine after all. Then, because she didn’t want to think about the task at hand — or the demon who’d precipitated the situation — she asked, “How’s business?”

  “Good. I’ve gotten invitations from a couple more conferences, so I’m trying to decide whether to go or not.”

  Audrey wondered whether her presence here weighed into that particular decision-making process. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of a way to ask without leading into a discussion about how long she actually planned to stay at his house. Since she didn’t think she was emotionally ready for that particular conversation yet, she only nodded and hoped she looked neutral but interested at the same time.

  Judging by the way his eyes glinted at her, he’d already guessed what was passing through her mind. With a smile, he said, “How does a nice weekend in San Diego at the Hotel del Coronado sound?”

  Right then, it sounded heavenly. However, she made herself ask, tone casual, “It’s very haunted, isn’t it?”

  “Extremely. I went there once as a tourist, just to check it out. My EMF meter’s needle was jumping around like a seismograph during a 7.0 earthquake.”

  She grinned up at him. “Sounds like fun. When’s the conference?”

  “In July.”

  His voice hadn’t wavered as he told her the date. Was he really expecting her to be here with him five months from now?

  As he looked back at her, his gaze steady, she realized that was exactly what he expected. And, despite all the calamities and catastrophes that had occurred since they’d met, she thought there wasn’t any place else she’d rather be.

  “A good time of year to get out of the San Gabriel Valley,” she agreed.

  “Then I’ll let them know I’m interested, but that it might be a joint presentation with Audrey Barrett. Sound good?”

  A lot could happen between now and then. But she made sure she sounded firm and yet upbeat as she said, “Sounds perfect.”

  He bent and kissed her on the top of her head, his lips warm against her hair. A little shiver went through her. If only she didn’t have to do all this damn paperwork….

  His phone buzzed, and he stepped away so he could pull it out of his pocket. The moment was lost, but Audrey reflected that was probably just as well. She really needed to focus on what she was doing.

  But then Michael said, “Hi, Fred,” and she went still, knowing this was the call they’d both been expecting. She tried to tell herself not to get her hopes up, that Fred could simply be calling Michael to let him know he hadn’t made much progress yet and not to give up hope.

  However, Michael went over to his desk and sat down, expression intent. With one hand, he held the phone to his ear while he started typing furiously with the other.

  “Is that Ogilvy with a ‘y’ or an ‘ie’? ‘Ie,’ got it.” A pause while he typed some more. “So it’s Henry Waters who’s listed on the Underhill trust?”

  Underhill. That was the trust which supposedly owned the demon’s mansion in Idaho Springs, Colorado. Audrey set down her pen, all pretense of trying to work on the claims paperwork pushed aside. If they had a real name to work with, then it would be that much easier to try to track down his other assets, see what else he’d been plotting all these years.

  “Yes, go ahead and upload everything to the Dropbox folder. I’ll take a look and let you know what I think. Thanks, Fred. I really appreciate it.” Michael paused for a moment. “No worries. Next time you’re in town. ’Bye.” He ended the call, looking triumphant.

  “Well?” Audrey prompted him.

  He got up from his seat behind the computer and came over to her. “Fred’s contact actually hadn’t gotten back to him about the uniform insignia, but it turned out that wasn’t really necessary. While he was waiting for that info, Fred started running database searches for marriage licenses issued in October 1943 for any couples with the names Henry and Eleanor. Once he had a list of names, he cross-checked them against military records during the same time period.”

  “That’s how he tracked the Whitcomb-demon down?”

  “Exactly. Henry Clay Waters — that’s the alias our demon was using. He married Eleanor Ogilvie in Greencastle, Indiana, which apparently was where she grew up. He was stationed in a recruiting office in Indianapolis at the time.”

  Why was she not surprised? Audrey had already suspected that the Whitcomb-demon would have made sure he had a nice, safe desk job to ride out the war years, a comfortable place to hide himself while the real humans died on the battlefields of that monumental conflict. And really, in the photo he’d looked to be in his early thirties, which would have been too old to be drafted…or at least, she thought it was. She had to admit that her knowledge of the subject wasn’t exactly what one could call comprehensive.

  “What happened to him after the war ended?”

  “Fred didn’t go into that,” Michael said. “He’s uploading a bunch of documentation to the Dropbox folder we share. I’m sure it will shed more light on the subject. But Fred confirmed that the photos match — that Henry Waters and Jeffrey Whitcomb are the same person.”

  He looked so excited, Audrey wished she could share in some of his enthusiasm. They had a name, true — but there was no guarantee that the Whitcomb-demon was still using the same alias. However, now that they’d made the link between the two names, along with the connection to the Underhill trust, it should conceivably be easier to track down any name changes he’d made after that.

  At least, Audrey hoped that was how it would all shake out.

  “That’s awesome news,” she said.

  For a moment, he didn’t reply, only stood there and studied her face. “You don’t seem very excited about the whole thing.”

  “I am,” she said. “It’s just…what’s the endgame? What are we going to do if or when we locate him?”

  “I’m going to evict him from the body he stole and send him straight to Hell,” Michael replied, looking so grim that Audrey had no doubt he would do that very thing, if given the opportunity.

  And really, she couldn’t protest, tell him that was murder. Because it wouldn’t be. This demon — whoever he turned out to be — had caused enough havoc on this plane already. As for Whitcomb, once his body was dead, his soul would be free. He wouldn’t be forced to remain here, forever denied rest because of the evil he’d invited into this world.

  “I hope you have a plan for that,” she said, her voice remarkably steady, given the circumstances.

  “Of course I do,” he told her. “But for now, the most important thing to do is find out where he’s gone to ground.”

  As Audrey labored over her insurance forms, Michael opened up his Dropbox folder and downloaded everything Fred had put in there. Actually, he was a little astonished by the amount of material Fred had managed to amass in such a short period of time. There was a scan of Henry and Eleanor’s marriage license, a copy of his discharge papers…the deed to a house they’d bought in Greencastle. From what Michael was able to piece together, they’d lived there for seven years before selling the house, although there weren’t any records to show where they’d gone from there.

  Seven years. A long time for the demon to live a false life with his human wife. Michael tried to think whether he’d ever encountered a similar situation but knew he hadn’t. This was all unprecedented. Demons might possess a person for months or even years, but he was talking about decades here. More than that, as far as Michael had been able to tell from the documents provided, no one had noticed anything strange about Henry Waters or his wife. There were no children, but while at the time such a circumstance might have been regarded as tragic, there wasn’t anything terribly strange
about it.

  The Underhill trust had been set up in 1930 by Henry Waters, indicating that the Whitcomb-demon had been using his new name ever since Jeffrey Whitcomb’s son died in the sanitarium while wearing his father’s face. The world thought Whitcomb dead, which meant the demon needed a new identity. It would have been much easier to reinvent yourself back then — no computerized databases that tracked you from birth to death. He could have paid someone to create a fake birth certificate, used that to get a driver’s license and anything else he needed. If he traveled frequently enough, no one would have noticed that “Henry Waters” hadn’t aged a day in the past ten years.

  As far as his military service went, he probably enlisted to look like a good patriotic citizen, even though he was well past draft age. But someone like Henry could serve as a recruiter, doing his duty while the younger men were sent overseas to die on Omaha Beach or in the villages of Italy or the jungles of the Philippines.

  The Underhill trust operated all during this time, acquiring more properties in many different states. Michael noticed that several more people were added as trustees throughout the ’40s and on into the 1950s. More demons? Or humans duped into believing that Henry Waters was no different from any of the rest of them?

  He copied the list of names into a separate file so he could investigate them individually later. A pause as he stopped for a moment to look around the edge of his computer screen and see how Audrey was doing, but she was hard at work, head bent over her paperwork as she meticulously filled out each section as requested.

  They’d stopped at the bank after having breakfast at the Village Grille on Glendora’s quaint little main street. He could tell Audrey had been worried whether word of her house burning down had already spread, but either Glendorans weren’t as dedicated gossips as she feared, or no one thought it a good idea to bring up the painful subject to a woman who’d already suffered enough losses. Or maybe the waitress, who looked barely out of high school, didn’t have a clue who Audrey even was. Glendora might be a small town, but it wasn’t small enough for all of its residents to be acquainted with each other.

  He’d known Audrey to be organized and not easily rattled, but he was still impressed by the way she’d stored all her important documents away from the house, had everything carefully itemized. As long as the insurance company didn’t throw up too many roadblocks, she should have her settlement and be back on her feet in short order. What that exactly meant for the two of them, he wasn’t sure. He wanted to tell her to buy what she needed and bank the rest, but that there was no need to look into rebuilding her house or buying a new one, not when she could stay here with him. But, as much as he cared for her, he thought making such an offer would sound extremely presumptuous. There were probably people in the world who moved in together after knowing each other for less than a month, but he highly doubted Audrey Barrett was one of those people.

  After all, he would have said he was the same way…until he met Audrey.

  Because it looked as though she would be occupied for a while longer, he returned to the files Fred had sent him, trying to see if there was any pattern to the properties the Whitcomb-demon had acquired. As far as Michael could tell, there didn’t seem to be any. He owned — or at least, the trust owned — the mansion in Colorado, two apartment buildings in Cincinnati, a string of laundromats in Chicago, another large house on the outskirts of St. Louis that had been split up into flats, and impressive parcels of land in Wyoming and Montana that were leased to local ranchers for grazing.

  All of this, except the Colorado mansion, seemed to indicate properties bought purely for the income they could bring in. What did the demon need all that money for? Audrey had said he was angry with them for destroying the portal in the Glendora mansion, but he’d also made it sound as though the portal in the basement there wasn’t his only one. Where was he hiding the others? Fred had indicated in his notes that these were the complete holdings of the Underhill trust, so had their elusive demonic friend set up another trust under a different name?

  If that turned out to be the case, then they’d be back to square one when it came to tracking down those other properties. The photograph had been a lucky find, a clue that had allowed them to get this far, but he and Audrey really didn’t have any other solid leads.

  “You’re frowning,” she said, and he looked up to find her gazing at him as she tapped her pen against the paperwork before her. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m not sure. Fred provided me with a lot of information, but I’m not sure whether any of it really goes anywhere.”

  Audrey put down the pen and got up from her chair, then came over to him. Now it was her turn to knead the knotted muscles of his shoulders and neck, her slender fingers strong and sure. And although her nearness had always made his blood run a little hotter, now he was simply glad of her presence, of the way their jagged edges seemed to complement one another rather than create more friction.

  “Tell me,” she said simply.

  So he showed her what Fred had sent him, the list of properties, the other people involved in the Underhill trust. How, except for the Colorado mansion, all those properties were used for their income, and so clearly were either occupied or leased by regular mortals.

  “He didn’t say anything about the other portals? Any kind of details at all?”

  Audrey pursed her lips, clearly doing her best to recall everything the demon had said to her. Probably not the easiest of tasks, since at the time she had to have been nearly frightened out of her mind. Memory could be a slippery thing when those sorts of circumstances were involved.

  “No,” she said at last. “He mentioned they existed, but that was all. He did say that they weren’t as ‘convenient’ as the one in Glendora, whatever that means.”

  “Maybe he meant that they’re located in places where they’re harder to get to.” Michael paused for a moment, considering the problem. It would make sense to have those portals in out-of-the-way spots; the demon had been running some risk by keeping the one in the Glendora house, since, even though the mansion was large and its grounds equally so, that wasn’t quite the same thing as being stuck out in the country somewhere.

  And that meant he doubted any of the Underhill properties contained the alternate portals. There was a possibility they could have been hiding a portal on one of the large ranches in Wyoming or Montana, but in general, wide open spaces weren’t exactly the best spot for a connection between this world and the world of the demons. Wind and rain would wash the sigils away, and any permanent structures erected on what was supposed to be grazing land would be painfully obvious.

  He explained all this to Audrey, adding, “I can’t help thinking that he set up another trust, one even more hidden, so he could use that as the holding company for the properties he didn’t want anyone to know about.”

  “How would you even track something like that down?”

  “I don’t know,” he said frankly. “I could ask Fred to look into it, but…. He’s good, but he’s not a miracle worker. And it’s not like he would have the resources of the FBI or a similar agency to help him dig into this stuff. Movies and TV shows make it all seem easy, but the truth is, you usually need to have teams of people trained in forensic analysis to be able to ferret out the pertinent details.”

  Judging by the way she nodded but didn’t try to argue with him, Audrey had recognized the daunting truth of their situation, just as Michael had. For a moment she was silent, still massaging the tense muscles of his shoulders — considerably less tense now that she’d been working on them for a while — and then she lifted her hands away from him.

  “What was the alias he was using again?”

  “Henry Clay Waters,” Michael responded, wondering what she was trying to get at. “And no, you can’t really make a sensible anagram from it. I mean, I could get ‘Walter’ or ‘Carl,’ and a few other names out of the mix, but the last name never seemed to work.”

  “Maybe
it’s something even simpler than that,” she suggested. “Maybe he just switched things around — went by Clay Henry Waters or something.”

  “Or Clay Walter Henry.”

  She nodded. “You might give both those names to Fred, see what he comes up with.”

  That sounded like their best option. “I’ll have him work on it.” Even as he was speaking, Michael got out his phone and sent a quick text off to his hacker friend. Although “hacker” wasn’t exactly the right word to use for Fred, either. More like…“persistent tracer of information.” Once he was done, he looked up at Audrey, who still stood next to him and didn’t seem inclined to return to her paperwork. “How’s your claim going?”

  “Oh, I think I’m done with the first pass. I’m just letting it rest for a bit before I check it over. Then we can scan it in and email it to Lauren at State Farm — she said that was all I needed to do.”

  “Great. That’ll be a relief, won’t it?”

  Audrey nodded, but her expression was still troubled. “I guess so. But then it starts the clock ticking on waiting for them to get back to me. What if they find something incriminating after all?”

  “They won’t,” he said, more to reassure her than because he knew that was the absolute truth. “It’s going to be — well, I don’t want to downplay the situation by using the word ‘fine,’ but at least you’ll be able to move forward and decide where you want to go from here.”

  “That’s true.” She paused for a moment, appearing diffident. Was she waiting for him to step in and offer a permanent place for her to stay? No, he didn’t think Audrey would expect that of him, even though he would like nothing more than to give her the sanctuary she needed.

  He couldn’t tell what exactly had passed through her mind, because when she spoke next, she’d moved on to an entirely different topic.