Dead Waters - Anton Strout [63]
“They all look turn of the century, 1900 more or less,” I said. “So?”
“That’s the thing,” Connor said. “If they were all suicides, they probably happened periodically through history. They should all be dressed in different styles reflecting all those times, right? But they’re not. Everyone who died here is from the same era.”
“So, something tragic happened all at once,” I said.
Connor nodded. “That would be my guess.”
“But what?” I looked down at the structure of the bridge, namely the two sets of train tracks that ran across them. “Train derailment?”
“I’m not sure,” Connor said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small stoppered vial, “but we’re going to find out.”
He walked around in the drift of souls until he narrowed his focus in on a man in his early twenties wearing a suit two sizes too big for him. Connor flipped the stopper off the top of the vial and the air immediately filled with the smell of patchouli. Tendrils of light brown vapors rose up from it and slowly snaked their way up and around the young man. When the smoke reached his nostrils, his face fell slack.
“Hey, friend,” Connor said, sounding quite collegial, “you mind telling me what you’re waiting for?”
The young man gave a slow nod as he continued to stare off along the distance of the East River. “Our steamer,” he said.
“You’re expecting a boat?” I asked.
The man nodded again, ever so slightly.
I looked over at Connor. “Are we talking metaphorically? Like a boat to the afterlife? I don’t think the East River qualifies as the River Styx, does it?”
Connor gave me a look. “Shush,” he said, turning his attention back to the ghost. “Where are you going today?”
The man smiled, a grin crossing his face from ear to ear like a cartoon character. “On a picnic.”
I had forgotten how exaggerated the features could get on a spirit when raw emotion came to the surface. Connor didn’t react; he just nodded along with him.
“Sounds nice,” he said. “When are you expecting it?”
“Soon,” the man said, but his face changed. Uncertainty crept into his eyes and his mouth twisted in concern. “But, my goodness, I thought it would certainly be here by now. You do think it’s coming, don’t you? Mr. Carter promised us and I’d hate to think that the St. Mark’s Lutherans were so unsound in their financial affairs that they had to cancel.”
Connor looked at me and gave a bitter smile. “Comforting to see that budget concerns have a long and illustrious history.”
“Do you think that the lady will know what the holdup is?” the young man asked, his voice barely an audible whisper on the wind.
“Lady?” Connor asked him.
The man looked around the expanse of the bridge through the crowd of his fellow ghosts, nervous. His face was pained. “I shouldn’t say anything more or she’ll hurt me.”
“I think I know what lady,” I said, stepping around to get in front of him. “A woman with dark hair, wearing a long green dress, yes?”
“Dark haired, yes,” he said, “and in a green dress that I daresay is a bit immodest on a woman.”
“Figures,” I said. “That dress of hers is no doubt scandalous by his standards.”
“Well, at least your little water woman is a bit of a fashion plate,” Connor said. “A killer, but still able to pull off the cover shot of Paranormal Quarterly. Nice.”
I turned back to the young man. “Why are you afraid of her?” I asked, but the look on his face was already enough to give me my answer.
The young man’s fear seemed to be agitating the rest of the ghosts around him. Like a ripple in a pond, frantic energy began to radiate outward from him until we were surrounded by a sea of nervous spirits. “Foul fortunes come on foul winds,” he said. “And together they blow twice as hard. She has risen, but the worst