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Being resident agent in Battle Creek had never been part of Milt's career plan. He knew his own abilities, his own worth, and he'd joined the FBI planning to ride that all the way to the top. But that had been before—before he'd learned that he was not completely infallible. Before he'd been forced to confront the consequences of skirting the rules, of using other people like pawns. Before he’d felt the bitterness of two teenagers’ deaths, knowing that he was responsible.
The old Milt, faced with this particular assignment, would have charmed his superiors into recognizing it as the obvious waste of his talents that it was. The new Milt, thoroughly by the book, had accepted the position with cheerful acquiescence. Someone had to do it, after all, so why not him? In some ways, it had seemed almost appropriate—a period of penance, payment for his mistakes.
Temporary acceptance didn’t mean, however, that he’d abandoned all ambition. He might not rise to the very top now, not with the way he was determined to play the game, but he could certainly go higher than Battle Creek, and he fully intended to. Fortunately, the FBI was an efficient institution in its own way, not inclined to waste a proven, talented agent forever. Milt had accepted the role knowing that Battle Creek was a detour, not permanent exile, and that knowledge had made the assignment palatable. It also meant that he wasn’t surprised when he arrived at the office to find a transfer offer waiting for him in his inbox.
What had surprised him was where they wanted to transfer him to.
He realized he’d been staring unseeingly at the form on his screen for several minutes. Now he read it again, wanting to be sure he wasn’t imagining things. But the words were still there, in solid black and white: Legal attaché, Rome.
It was the kind of assignment Milt had once dreamed of, a chance to prove himself on important, high-profile cases, to make the kind of connections that would boost him even higher. And as a bonus, it meant a return to the land of his childhood, or near enough—a place that lived on in his memories as a kind of paradise. It should have been a moment of pure triumph. Instead, his initial surprise had given way almost immediately to the sensation of his heart plummeting straight downward. Because going to Rome meant leaving Battle Creek.
Seven months ago, Milt would have laughed at the idea that he’d want to stay in Battle Creek any longer than he had to. Four months ago, he might have experienced mild wistfulness at the thought of roads not taken, but he would have accepted the transfer without a second thought. Then Brock had shown up, and everything had changed.
He contemplated the words for another moment, then he gave a decisive nod and pushed his away from his desk to stand up. He’d wanted to let things develop organically, but that was no longer an option. He’d have to take his chances. “I accept what life offers,” he said aloud, and headed across the hall.
He’d noted on his way in that morning that someone had decked out the detectives’ squad room in black and orange, but it wasn’t until he opened the door and stepped inside that he realized just how elaborate the decorations were. He paused for a moment, admiring the sheer effort that must have been required to string up silhouettes of black cats and ravens around the entire room, then ducked under a filmy white ghost and made his way toward the back, where Russ was hunched over his keyboard, his suit as rumpled as if he’d slept in it for a week. Milt had had to bite his tongue more than once to prevent himself from offering Russ the phone number for his tailor, but right now, all he felt was affection at the sight.
"Do you always go all out for Halloween this way?" he asked by way greeting.
Russ looked up with a scowl. "One day you have a new office manager who seems perfectly normal, if a bit intense, and the next thing you know, it’s October 1st and boom, Halloween city. I tried to talk her into at least waiting until after Thanksgiving, but she wouldn't listen."
Milt raised an eyebrow at that one. "Thanksgiving isn't until next month, Russ. It seems a bit late to decorate for Halloween."
The scowl deepened. "Canadian Thanksgiving. Michigan is right next to the border. What are our Canadian neighbours going to think when they show up here and see us decked out for Halloween before they’ve had their turkey?"
"Do you get a lot of Canadian tourists visiting the detective squad at this time of year?" Milt asked, deliberately dry. He was pretty sure the only thing Russ cared about in relation to Canada was hockey.
Russ looked back down at his keyboard. "You never know, man."
"Well, I think your dedication to positive international relations is laudable, Russ.” On another day, he might have pushed it further, just to see how far Russ would go in his newfound concern for Canadian tourists, but he’d come with a goal today, one that would be easier to accomplish if he didn’t piss Russ off. Or at least not any more than he already was. Instead, he lowered his voice to just above a whisper. Everyone would still hear him, of course, but it would pique Russ's curiosity. "Have you got a minute to talk?"
Russ waved his hand in a vague sort of assent, eyes still on his computer. "Go ahead. Talk."
"Not here," Milt said, still keeping his voice down. "Privately."
That got him another glance. "Why?"
Milt didn’t reply, just looked at Russ until at last Russ sighed dramatically and stood up. “Fine. Let’s go.”
The detectives’ file room wasn’t the place Milt would have chosen for this conversation—his own office would have offered greater privacy and actual chairs—but the environment was quintessentially Russ, which left him fonder of it than he’d otherwise have been.
Russ got straight to the point. “So what kind of trouble are you in now?”
“What makes you think I’m in trouble?” Milt asked, playing for time. He was nervous, he realized to his surprise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been truly nervous. He really should have planned this out a little better. At least given some thought as to the best way to deliver the message.
“There’s no other reason for you to ask to speak to me alone.”
Milt hesitated, studying Russ, locking an image of the man in front of him into his memory: the broad shoulders, the relaxed stance, the intelligent brown eyes with their direct, challenging gaze. Even Russ’s familiar frown, so often aimed his way, evoked a wave of warmth.
“I’m not in trouble,” he said finally. “I’ve been offered a transfer.”
He watched Russ carefully as he said it, tracking the expressions that flickered across his face, looking for the one that would determine his next steps. The decision he would make. Surprise, suspicion, anger—and then Russ spoke.
“Where?”
“Rome.”
That drew—something else. Resignation, maybe? With some underlying disappointment? He’d always found Russ more difficult to read than most people, perhaps because his perceptions were so often tinted by what he hoped to see.
“Well, congratulations,” Russ said with forced cheer. Milt thought it was forced. Maybe that was wishful thinking. “I’m sure you and Rome will be very happy together.”
Milt started to reply, but before he could say anything, the door behind him swung open just wide enough for Font to stick his head in.
"Russ? It's happening again. All hands on deck.”
That got Russ’s immediate attention. “Where?”
“That pop-up costume store on Main.”
Font ducked out, and Milt turned to Russ in confusion. “What’s going on?”
Russ was already moving toward the door. “The ghost of Halloween,” he called over his shoulder as he left the room at a near jog.
Bemused, Milt followed him.
***
They arrived to find a stream of panicked shoppers fleeing the costume store, encouraged in their flight by the shouting of the uniformed officers at the exit. The officers were keeping people off the sidewalk in front of the pop-up—a far larger building than Milt usually associated with the term—but the crowd on the opposite sidewalk was growing as the fleeing customers joined other local residents and a few reporters. Milt could sense the headiness of their excitement, with an underlying tang of fear that left him curious. He started to turn to Russ to ask for clarification, but then Aaron tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a tactical helmet.
They made their way into the building together, fighting through the declining number of shoppers, and entered as a group. Almost immediately, Milt felt Russ’s hands on his arm, pulling him down. A box flew through the air where his head had been a moment ago. Milt looked around automatically for where it had come from, and then froze as he saw what was going on. The whole store was a hurricane of costumes and wigs, items flying through the air in all directions, all of it with no obvious source. It was also eerily quiet, without even the sound of wind to explain the strange flight.
Milt drew in a deep breath and the world came into sharp focus, fear receding and senses heightening. “What are we looking for?”
“Anything that might be causing this,” Font said, crouching a little behind him. “Anything that’s out of place.”
It seemed like a vague sort of instruction, but Milt couldn’t imagine what else they’d do in this situation. He followed Russ further in, keeping low and looking around for anything that might hint at what was going on. They were halfway to the back when all of the items abruptly fell to the floor in a rain of accessories that left Milt grateful for the helmet. Milt glanced backwards, tracking the location of the rest of the team, making sure they were okay. The exit was clear now, he saw. They must have gotten all of the shoppers out.
Two hours later, the entire detective squad emerged with as little idea as to the cause of the storm as they’d had going in. Guziewicz was waiting for them outside.
“Forget going back to work,” she said. “Let’s go to O’Malley’s.”
Over drinks, Milt asked for details. “I take it this has happened before.”
“Every October,” Font confirmed.
“For how long?”
“This is the third year,” Guziewicz said. “I keep hoping it will end on its own, but—” She shrugged eloquently and sipped her club soda.
“Is it always Halloween stores that are targeted?”
“Once it was the corn maze,” Aaron volunteered.
“And there was the time all the ghost stories started flying off the shelves at the library,” Erin added.
“Always with no obvious cause.”
“None,” Font said. “We’ve talked to everyone we can think of: priests, rabbis, ministers, psychics, stage magicians. None of them could come up with an explanation.”
A thought occurred to him. “I don’t remember seeing any media stories about this.”
“Just pick up the newspaper tomorrow,” Russ said glumly. “It will be all over the front page.”
“They cover the story every year that it happens,” Aaron said. “But since no one ever get seriously hurt, it dies pretty quickly after November hits and it stops.”
Guziewicz gave him a meaningful look. “If the FBI has anything to contribute, we’ll gratefully accept the help.”
Milt nodded thoughtfully and sipped his beer.
***
Reassured by Aaron’s comment that no one ever been seriously hurt in any of the incidents, he waited until the next day to being his investigation. Early Saturday morning, Milt slipped into his office and fired up his laptop. It took him less than an hour to find what he was looking for. He glanced across the hall as he left his office, but he knew there was only one detective on duty—Erin, today—and he wasn’t likely to need backup where he was going.
Sonja Wozniak was a harried-looking woman, dressed in jeans, blonde hair pulled back in an efficient ponytail. Studying her, Milt thought he could see traces of grief lingering around the edges, remnants of pain she hadn’t yet had opportunity to process. It lent her a melancholy sort of attractiveness, and he made a mental note to probe for new love interests if other lines of questioning failed him.
She led him to a somewhat shabby living room, dodging cars and trail of Lego along the way. Milt frowned a little at that; he’d expected an older child. The obituary hadn’t given ages.
“I don’t understand why you want to know about my husband’s death,” she said. “That was four years ago. The company was fined. We got the insurance payout. It’s all done now.”
“I know,” Milt said soothingly, doing his best to project a non-threatening air. “I’m not challenging the fine or the payout. I just want to hear what happened.”
“He was a carpenter. The hired him to work at a haunted house. It used to be a big thing here, you know. It was one of the best haunted houses in the state. The whole town would visit.” There was a note of pride in her voice, despite the horrific events that had followed. Judging by the numerous posters Milt had seen announcing the re-opening of the haunted house for the first time since the accident, it was a pride shared by most of Battle Creek.
“And then there was an accident,” Milt prompted.
Sonja nodded. “They didn’t hire a proper electrician; they got the owner’s nephew to do it instead. Jacob went in to work, and…” Her voice trailed off, not wanting to put into words what had happened.
Milt nodded understandingly. “And suddenly you were left with three children to raise on your own.”
“I don’t think it was so bad for the boys. They were so young—just three. But Maria was always the apple of her father’s eye. She took it hard.”
He felt like a hound that had picked up the scent. This was what he’d come here for. “How told was she?”
“Eleven.”
Which made her fourteen now. Just about the age Marjorie had been when the fires began.
Now to break the news to her. “Sonja, were you at the costume store yesterday?”
She frowned. “No, I was at a birthday party with the boys for one of their classmates.”
“Where was Maria?”
“She was with her friends. I think they were seeing a movie. Why? Did something happen to her?”
He shook his head, trying to quell the panic he could see rising in her eyes. If he was right, this was going to hurt her no matter what, but he wanted to do as little damage as he could. And he’d get more information if she was calm. “Did you read the story about what happened at the costume store?”
“I don’t much attention to the news. I don’t have time. What’s going on? Where’s Maria?”
He stopped and shifted mental direction. “She’s not here?”
“No, she went out. Early.”
He closed his eyes briefly, summoning up an image of the posters, trying to remember. “The haunted house re-opens today,” he said, as much to himself as to Sonja.
She nodded anyway. “For the first time since the accident. There are new owners now. Tell me what’s going on. What happened to my daughter?”
“Do you have a recent picture of Maria?” he asked. When Sonja hesitated, he stood up and went over to the far wall, decorated with framed family photos. “Is this her?” he asked, pointing to a dark-haired girl holding a spelling bee trophy.
Sonja’s expression was answer enough. Milt fixed the face of the girl in his mind, then headed toward the front door, ignoring Sonja’s increasingly frantic pleas for an explanation. Feeling guilt at her distress, knowing he’d feel worse if he arrived too late, he paused in the doorway, one foot already outside. “I’ll bring her home to you. I promise.” And then he was running for his car.
***
Russ answered on the third ring. “You know it’s Saturday, right? The day most of us relax. That means we don’t work.”
“Russ, I think there’s going to be another incident today. And I think this one is going to be more serious.”
“What are you talking about? What kind of incident?”
“Like yesterday,” Milt said. “But this time at the haunted house.”
“What are you—”
“Just meet me there,” he said, and cut off the call.
Russ would be there, he knew. Because Russ was curious now, and because Russ was his partner, and partners showed up for each other. That was Russ’s code.
Russ would also have questions—lots of questions. Milt wondered how much he could get away without saying. It wasn’t really his story to tell, but he didn’t think Russ would accept that answer. And then he remembered Rome, and the possibility that Russ might not want him to stay. At least, he told himself grimly, that would spare him explanations. He could hold off Russ that long.
He arrived at the haunted house to find no storm of inexplicably airborne objects, just a long, orderly queue of people waiting patiently to get in. Milt did a quick circuit of the perimeter, checked for Russ’s car, then flashed his badge and his best smile to cut in at the front of the line.
He realized very quickly why the house was the talk of Battle Creek. Whoever had designed it had a true understanding of both showmanship and horror. If the situation weren’t so urgent, he might have enjoyed it.
He made his way through the rooms quickly, dodging patrons, checking corners, stopping only to ask the costumed staff if they’d seen a dark-haired girl on her own. Periodically, he glanced instinctively over his shoulder, waiting for objects to start flying that weren’t meant to move. He was on his third room when Russ arrived.
“What are we looking for?”
“A young girl, about fourteen. Small, dark-haired. She’ll be here alone.” That by itself should make her stand out; no one else had come solo that Milt had seen. Except himself, until now.
“You think she’s behind all this?” Russ asked, following Milt into the next room, designed to look like an Egyptian tomb.
“I think she might be,” Milt confirmed.
“Why?”
“Her father died in an accident here four years ago. The timing fits, and the theme.”
“And how exactly is she doing this?”
“Adolescents have more power than we think.” And then inspiration hit. “Do you know about the accident?”
“Sure,” Russ said. “Everyone knows about that.”
“Where did it take place?”
Maria had climbed up onto the same platform where her father had died. They could see her from the ground, just barely.
“We won’t both fit up there,” Milt told Russ. “I’ll go.” He started climbing before Russ could object.
It really was a tiny platform. Milt felt his way carefully onto it. Maria didn’t look at him, after the first glance when he’d climbed up.
“How are you doing?” he asked. When he got no reply, he added, “Your mom is worried about you.” He watched her carefully in the dim light, looking for reactions, then tried again. “You must really miss your dad.”
It was apparently the right approach. “It’s not fair.”
“I know,” he said. “I lost my dad too. And you’re right, it’s not fair. But hurting the people here won’t make that better.”
“I’m not going to hurt them,” she said, turning back toward the crowds below. “I just want the house to close. It’s not right that it’s open after my dad died here. All those people who come here? None of them care about my dad. None of them care that he died so they could have fun.” She nearly spat the word out. “They want to be scared? I’ll scare them.”
“I imagine your dad loved this place too,” Milt said. “Did he ever take you here?”
She shook her head. “He said I was too young. He said he’d take me after I turned twelve. He said we’d go together.” And then she’d turned twelve and he was gone.
“When did you first realize what you could do?” Milt asked, hoping to distract her.
“A year after he died. My mom took us to the corn maze, and they had pumpkins everywhere, and all these Halloween decorations, and suddenly I was just so angry.”
“Have you ever talked to anyone about that? Being angry?”
“What’s the point?” she said. “Do you really think talking is going to make things better?”
“It might make you feel better,” Milt said, and then added, as gently as he could, “It’s not a betrayal of your father to live your life.” It was what he’d been told once. It hadn’t always helped, but sometimes it had. “He would have wanted you to be happy again.” All platitudes, but he’d learned long ago that platitudes delivered in the right tone could sound profound. Especially to a fourteen-year-old who hadn’t heard them all before.
Still, he was relieved when she finally climbed down.
***
“How did you even know where to start looking?” Russ asked later, tone as accusatory as if Milt had stolen the last doughnut rather than solving the lingering mystery of the Halloween ghost.
“Well, there was an obvious timeline,” Milt said reasonably. “I just read through the news stories for the previous Halloween and traced it from there. Basic detective work.”
“It’s basic detective work to know that a teenage girl can make things fly through the air with the power of her mind?”
“Just a little basic deduction,” Milt said. “It clearly wasn’t her mother.” He almost felt bad denying Russ the whole story, but Marjorie would never forgive him if he told. Not that they were on terribly good terms anyway, but while they both lived, there was hope.
“Deduction,” Russ repeated disbelievingly. “You know, Milt, that is one thing I definitely won’t miss when you’re gone. These ridiculous lies you tell to cover up what you’re really doing.”
Which meant it was time for the conversation.
“Do you want a drink?” Milt asked. They were in his office for once, which meant chairs, privacy, and decent whiskey.
“Isn’t it against regulations, having that stuff here?” Russ asked as Milt poured.
“No, there’s no rule against it,” Milt said honestly. “Besides, as you pointed out, it’s Saturday.”
“It’s barely noon,” Russ said, but he accepted the glass. “So when do you leave?”
Milt sipped and tried to parse his tone, to figure out where they stood. It was a fool’s game, of course. The only way he was really going to know would be to speak up.
At least if he was wrong, he wouldn’t have to see Russ again. It was too bad the thought pained him so much.
“You know, I haven’t accepted the assignment yet,” he said, carefully casual. “I could just stay in Battle Creek.”
Russ looked genuinely startled. “Why the hell would you do that? It’s Rome, Milt. This assignment is basically tailor-made for you.”
“Well, maybe there are certain things—certain people—in Battle Creek that I don’t want to walk away from.”
“Look who?” Russ asked, and Milt wondered if he was playing games or if he was really that obtuse.
All the cards on the table, then. He set his glass down and turned to face Russ squarely. “Like you, Russ.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that if you want me to stay—if you tell me you want me to stay—I’ll stay.” He was starting to feel a little giddy, in the face of his free-flowing confessions and Russ’s responding startlement. He wasn’t sure whether Russ was startled that he cared, or startled that he cared enough to give up Rome. He wondered if it would be faster just to kiss him and get it over with.
“That’s ridiculous,” Russ said after a beat. “You can’t make career decisions based on what I say. That’s—you’re Milt Chamberlain.”
He had not, Milt noticed hopefully, said he didn’t want Milt to stay. “So what? Does that mean I have to go to Rome?”
“You fucking golfed with Obama. I think it’s pretty clear that you aren’t going to spend the rest of your career in Battle Creek.”
“Maybe I like Battle Creek,” Milt countered.
Russ shook his head, apparently too outraged at the thought to summon words.
Milt took a chance. "Why can't you just admit that you want me to stay?"
“Because, Milt, this isn’t how things work. Guys like you don’t hook up with guys like me. And you sure as hell don’t pass up assignments in Rome for guys like me.”
Milt slid his chair closer, so that their knees were touching. “And what kind of guy am I, exactly?”
Russ huffed a laugh. “Well, that’s another thing, isn’t it? What kind of guy are you? You know, I wasn't surprised when the FBI let you come back to work after Brock like nothing had ever happened, despite all those laws and regulations you broke. But you and I had a moment, Milt. For once in your life, you actually told me the truth, and then you came back to work and acted like none of it had ever happened. And now you’re telling me—well, I don’t know what the hell you’re telling me. But what am I supposed to think about that?"
Milt hesitated, weighing answers, considering ways he could explain to Russ just how hard it was to be new Milt some days, how careful he had to be not to deviate from it or else the whole thing would fall apart.
Except, what Russ was really looking for wasn’t honesty at all; it was vulnerability. And so, with as much grace as he could muster, Milt gave it to him.
"When I was a kid," he said slowly, "we moved around a lot. You already know that most of my early childhood was spent in Monaco, and most of high school was in Tehran, but there were other places too, before and after and in between. The thing was, after we left Monaco, none of them ever felt like home. When I moved to the U.S. for college"—because it wasn't university here, one of thousand small differences he had to continually remind himself of—"I swore I'd settle down, that I wasn't going to move again.
“Then I discovered that after having moved around so much, I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere. There was nowhere that felt like home. So I joined the FBI, always moving, always searching for a place to call a home. I thought if I tried enough cities, one of them would fit. Except it never happened for me. No matter where I went, no place felt like home. And so I kept transferring, kept moving." He paused for a moment, drew in a breath. It was only partially for effect. "The thing is, Russ, what I've discovered here is that home isn't a place. It's people. And the first time I've felt like home since I was a kid in Monaco is with you."
He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected from Russ, but it definitely wasn’t for Russ to lunge from his seat and kiss him. After the initial surprise, he slid his arms round Russ and leaned into the kiss.
As surprises went, he’d had much worse.
When Russ finally pulled back, he looked even more shocked than Milt felt, as if he hadn’t planned that either.
“So,” Milt said, trying for casual and knowing he was failing, “should I stay?”
“You can do whatever the hell you want,” Russ said. “But if you choose Rome, you’d better be prepared for visitors.”
This time, Milt kissed him.