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“Is that what happened, Mr. Johnson? Did you bring on that stroke?”
“I might done. I don’t know, Miss Walker, and that is the gospel truth. I only know that after, I was sick in my guts and I got a touch’a gray in my hair.”
“Can you go out to the chicken coop with us, Mr. Johnson? We need a demonstration of your powers. We’ll eat that chicken for dinner, so it’s a necessary death.”
“Yes, ma’am. I could do.”
The cylinder stopped. Memphis quickly removed it and searched through the other cylinders for more of the mysterious Mr. Guillaume Johnson, who could draw the life from things. There was only one other. Quickly, Memphis threaded it and dropped the needle. This one was quieter. Mr. Johnson’s sweet, deep voice had gone rough around the edges, as if he’d been gargling with sawdust. They leaned forward to hear. “Miss Walker, them fellas in the suits, them Shadow Men… they been making me work for ’em.”
Pause.
“They want me to… to do things I don’t feel right ’bout doin’.”
“What sorts of things?”
“I… I’d rather not say, Miss Walker.”
“If you don’t tell me, how can I help you?”
The cylinder was nothing but pop and hiss for a few seconds. Then: “They want me to use my powers to… to hurt people. To kill ’em. They told me them folks was our enemies, but… I’m sick all the time, Miss Walker. All the time. Just look at me, Miss Walker. Look what they done to me.”
Footsteps. Muffled talk. A new voice.
“Miss Walker, if you’ve finished with Mr. Johnson’s examination, we’ll take him now.”
“Hey, I know that voice,” Sam whispered excitedly.
“Shhh,” Jericho scolded again.
Sister Walker’s words
crackled through the speaker. “Oh, I think Mr. Johnson should stay here. He’s… he’s ill.”
“We’ll take good care of him, won’t we, Mr. Adams?”
“Mr. Jefferson and I will take it from here.”
“Wait! Mr. Johnson! Guillaume!”
Pop. Hiss. And then silence.
A chill passed over Memphis. “What did they do to Mr. Johnson?”
“Who? Miss Walker or the Shadow Men?”
“Both,” Memphis said softly.
Sam paced in front of Will’s desk. “Those creepy fellas are the ones Evie and I saw when we broke into the old Paranormal offices. I recognize that fella Adams’s voice.”
“What about Guillaume Johnson? You think he’s still out there somewhere?” Jericho asked. “What if we could find him, talk to him?”
“I got the feeling this Mr. Johnson didn’t live too long. Sounds like his powers were making him really sick, and those Shadow Men didn’t care one bit. They’re bad news.”
Some unnameable dread tugged at Memphis’s gut. There was something so familiar about this Guillaume Johnson, something in the cadence of the man’s speech, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Besides, Sam was probably right: In all likelihood, poor Guillaume Johnson, the Diviner who could draw life from the living, had taken ill and died, killed by his own gifts.
“Memphis? You jake?” Jericho asked.
Memphis was hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. “Yeah. I was just thinking. Death. That’s an awfully strong power. The strongest of all, I suppose.”
