Luther Cross Volume 1: The Reckoning, Page 2

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  At the speeds Luther drove, his black ’69 Camaro made the drive from the affluent western suburbs to Chicago’s Music Box Theatre in under an hour. The Music Box was a Chicago landmark, a classic movie theater. These days, the screenings were mostly limited to foreign films, with midnight showings of classic movies.

  Tonight’s midnight showing was The Exorcist. Luther paid for his ticket and entered the theater, quickly going to the back row, far from other viewers, and settled into his seat. The room darkened and the film began.

  “You owe me five hundred dollars,” he whispered as the opening credits rolled.

  The voice that responded wasn’t from any of the other patrons. “Five hundred? For crying out loud, you price-gouging bastard.”

  “Why did you screw up my séance?”

  “It wasn’t a séance, it was you using those demonic powers of yours to fool some grandma that her husband was talking to her.”

  Luther grunted. “You know just as well as I do that it’s best to just let the spirits rest. Now how are you going to pay me back?”

  “Sorry, Luther old buddy, but you know I don’t make that much money here.”

  “You don’t make any money,” said Luther. “You stopped working at this theater decades ago. Now you just haunt the place.”

  A spectral form appeared in the seat beside Cross. It was of an old man in a theater usher uniform. “Somebody’s gotta take care of this old theater.”

  “‘Remember to drink your Ovaltine.’ That the best you could come up with, Whitey?”

  “What, you don’t like A Christmas Story?”

  Whitey was the manager of the Music Box from opening night until 1977, when he came back to the theater to close, laid down on the lobby’s couch and never woke up. Since then, his ghost had remained at the theater that was such a huge part of his life. More than that, he was a valuable source of information for Luther.

  “Just tell me what you want already,” said Cross. “Or I’ll banish you from this place.”

  “There’s some big stuff going on in the spirit world,” said Whitey. “Bunch of spirits have crossed over as of late. Some big tragedy nearby. Could have some supernatural rumblings to it, given how restless things are behind the veil.”

  “That’s what couldn’t wait?” Luther glared at the spirit. “You cost me five hundred bucks just because you want me to play Ghostbuster?”

  “There’s some bad juju, Luther.” Whitey’s voice took on a serious tone. “I get the impression someone’s messin’ around with forces they got no business to be messin’ around with.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I dunno, just got a feeling. Some of the newbies who crossed over, there’s somethin’ off about them. Gives me the notion that maybe this wasn’t completely natural, y’know?”

  Luther could sense something emanating off of Whitey’s form. The vibe the spirit gave off wasn’t his usual cantankerous yet jovial form. “You’re really concerned about this, aren’t you?”

  Whitey looked at the screen. “I dunno what’s goin’ on. All I do know is that things are kind of a mess on the other side of the veil. Folks are restless and if this thing isn’t resolved, you know what kind of a problem restless spirits can be.”

  “So basically try to solve whatever problem these ghosts have before they start kicking up a ruckus.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Luther nodded. “All right. What can you tell me about this?”

  “The new spirits are pretty confused, barely know what’s happened to them let alone where it happened. But there’s one constant in all the stories I been hearing.”

  “Which is?”

  Whitey looked into Luther’s blood red eyes. “They’re all talking about being shot. In a school.”

  “A school shooting, wonderful,” said Luther. “And you don’t know where?”

  “No, but given how they all just came chargin’ through the door all at once, I’m betting it’s a pretty recent one. Smart guy like you, shouldn’t take too much time for you to find it.”

  “Fine. But you owe me, okay?”

  Whitey groaned. “What?”

  “Sylvia Bennett. Play the role of a poltergeist so I can make up for the money you cost me.”

  “Christ, Cross. You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

  Luther slid on his sunglasses and stood from the seat. “I know.”