Free American Craftsmen by Tom Doyle

back and dressed like James Bond at Monaco. “And who is this exotic gem?” A craftless stranger like Scherie wouldn’t see or hear him, but he was annoying me.
    My phone interrupted us: the cab calling, lost only a house away. “Just wait there, she’ll be out shortly,” I said. Then to Scherie, “You’ve been a lot kinder than I deserve.”
    Renewed concern and embarrassed interest filled those large dark eyes. She handed me a card—a charming, old-fashioned gesture. “Give me a call if you want to talk.”
    “I’m afraid you heard what kind of talker I am.”
    “Call anyway,” she said. “We can go shoot stuff somewhere.”
    “After what I said and did?”
    “You seem … like someone I’ve known for years. That’s usually a good sign.” Her smile was a little crazy, and a lot beautiful.
    Then she left, and the weight of the day came crashing down on me. I wouldn’t be dating Scherie. The Pentagon was a hair trigger away from shooting me, and my death was a certainty if I found and killed Sphinx. Any friends would be at risk. And sleeping with someone? Despite the assurances I had given Hutch, I had no idea what the voices in my head were going to do tonight. Though quiet now, they had screamed for Scherie’s blood when I had first seen her.
    No, no dates. I had damage-control problems with my former employers. Even if the Gideons and the other agents reported the truth, it wouldn’t look good. I called Hutchinson. “We need to meet.”
    “What the hell were you trying to pull?”
    “Need to talk in person.” The House was more secure than any phone line. “Can you be here tomorrow?”
    “To Providence? I should have you hauled back in.”
    “You were going to come up here to check on me. Move it up.”
    “Dale, what’s wrong?”
    “Not over the phone, Hutch.”
    Once I was off the phone, I could hear all the voices. The House moaned in the wind for Scherie like a three-hundred-year-old teenager. The voices in my head returned, vengeful at their banishment, unhappy how my focus on Scherie had freed me from them, if only for a little while.
    The House kept my nighttime craft attacks contained, but the nightmare of the desert returned, and sleep felt like combat. Worse though was a soothing whisper from the subbasement, promising me an end to all my troubles, if I just set the Left-Hand spirits free.
    *   *   *
    In the cab back from Dale’s house, Scherie tapped her clenched fists against her thighs. She was angry at herself for so many reasons. She had practically thrown herself at a man who was return-to-sender damaged. Worse, he had given her the brush-off. Maybe it was an old-money thing—crazy and snobby at the same time.
    It had felt so right with him though, standing together in that ancient mansion. The only thing that troubled her was that it looked like a haunted house in the movies. Scherie enjoyed science fiction and fantasy, but hated ghosts. She had seen too many of them as a child.
    No one else in her family had seemed to notice them. They had thought the ghosts were her imaginary friends, but they were at least wrong about the friends part. Some of her childhood ghosts were uncles and aunts that she hadn’t seen before. They spoke mostly in Farsi, too fast and complicated, not like her parents had taught her. She told them to slow down, but that just made them upset.
    The other ghosts were worse. Years later she mentioned the ghosts’ names to her father. He got angry, but not with her. He had done bad things for Iran’s ministry of intelligence. After the revolution, the Shah’s secret police changed their name, but not their personnel or methods. The names belonged to those tortured and killed by one side or another in the revolution and aftermath—executed relatives and her father’s many victims.
    They had surrounded tiny Scherie, touched her, and she had felt the pain of their last moments. They had shrieked inside her and tried to crowd her out of her own