Chapter 11

No Such Thing as Ghosts

Miles sat in the detective's car with his head down and his arms crossed over his chest. They drove for a long time and the detective tried to make him feel better by telling stories about being a cop. Miles wasn't really listening and he didn't say anything. After they left the city, the detective gave up too.

They drove past houses and shopping blocks, the suburban sprawl clinging to the edges of the city. It went on for a long while and then the highway narrowed and flattened and all there was to look at were farms and trees.

"Where are we going?" Miles said finally.

"Well," the Detective said, turning to glance at him, "We are trying to find out some information—so we can put your father's killer in prison. But there aren't any more leads."

"My dad never came out here," Miles said.

"No," the detective said, "The person who can help us lives out here—in an isolated town in the mountains."

"Oh," Miles said. Then he fell silent and morose again.

The detective paused and then said, "We'll get him, kid. We're doing everything we can to put that criminal away. Don't worry."

Miles watched the farms speed past and the forests crowd in as they climbed into the hills.

They stopped at a bus station that seemed to stand alone in the wilderness. The detective offered Miles his hand to lead him, but Miles only glared and shook his head. As they walked and the village came into view, Miles had the feeling that he'd been transported into the past. The village's stonewalls and thatched roofs were tidy and flourishing, even though there were no sidewalks or cars or anything he'd expect to see in a modern town. As they mounted the stairs to the largest house, Miles spotted a bicycle. It leaned against the stonewall in jarring juxtaposition to the rest of the village.

A woman stepped outside to meet them at the door; she was dressed funny—long baggy flowing robes and baubles and beads. She looked normal, Miles thought, if she went and put on normal clothes she'd be right at home in the city.

"Welcome to Kurain, Detective Gant," She had a pleasant voice and a comforting smile, "You must be Miles."

Miles nodded wide-eyed and nervous. They followed her inside and she talked about some ceremony that would be taking place. Two girls came running inside from a bright door that opened on an outdoor courtyard. One girl was taller than him and the other still toddling.

"Mamma," the taller girl said, "Can we—"

"Please, girls, they're here," the woman said, "I need you to stay out of the way. Take Maya and play in the garden."

"But—"

"Please, Mia," she said, "This shouldn't take took long, we'll discuss it then."

Miles stared after them in their strange village clothes. The detective put a big hand on Miles shoulder. The woman crouched a little to look Miles in the eye.

"This can be very difficult. You're very brave, Miles," she said.

"What's happening?" Miles said.

"Well, kid," the detective said, "This is Misty Fey, she's a spirit medium. She's going to contact your dad."

Miles' eyes opened so wide they nearly bugged from his head, "What?"

"We tried yesterday," Misty Fey said, "But he said he wanted to see you."

Miles looked at each of the adults in turn, "I don't understand. My dad?"

The detective chuckled and Misty led them into the channeling chamber.

"I'm serious," Miles said as they walked toward the park, "I've been ordered to get some batting practice in—do you think I want to be out here?"

"Well, if it were me," Phoenix said, "I'd pick batting practice over real work in a heartbeat. But somehow, I think you feel like recreation is punishment."

"This isn't recreation," Miles said, "It's a waste of time. I don't need batting practice."

Phoenix just made a face at him. Miles shoved his empty hand in the pocket of his sweatshirt and frowned.

"I just have one question," Phoenix said—he never seemed to like letting silence linger, "Who the hell plays ball in January?"

"The police department, apparently," Miles said.

"Why is this game such a big deal?"

"It isn't really," Miles shrugged, "Except to the Chief of Police. Since he's all about it, Chief Skye is all about it. It's been like this for the last two years. The Prosecutors never win—and somehow this year, it became my problem."

Phoenix laughed, "This is your first time playing in the tournament?"

"Yes," Miles said, "Usually, I'm in court this time of year. They assume that because I'm twenty-four and male, I must be good at baseball."

"Do you even know how to play?" Phoenix was at least kind enough to look surprised.

"It's not a very difficult game," Miles said.

When they found an open area in the park, Miles dropped his bag and knelt to pull out a canvas bag of balls, which he promptly passed to a very uncertain looking Phoenix.

"I wasn't sure if you were left or right handed," Miles said.

"Right," Phoenix said and Miles handed him a glove, "This one is left hand—"

"You wear it on the left if you're throwing with the right," Miles said, "That's my glove—don't ruin it."

Phoenix grinned, "Wow, your hands are pretty big."

Miles pointed at him and glared, "Keep in mind, Wright, I will be swinging a baseball bat—so don't be creepy."

"I only do it because it's funny," Phoenix said defensively, "Don't go thinking that I'm—"

Miles held up a hand to shut him up, "Stop."

Miles pulled off his sweatshirt and grabbed his bat; he swung and stretched his arms as he walked a ways away from Phoenix. When he turned and looked up Phoenix was staring back at him with a very deer-in-the-headlights daze.

Miles adjusted his stance and gave a practice swing, and then he stood straight, "Ready?"

"Um," Phoenix said, "For something you think is silly, you sure seem very serious about this."

Miles gave a tight-lipped smile, "If they're going to make me play, I better win."

Phoenix stuck his hand in the bag and frowned at the ball he pulled out.

"Come on," Miles said.

"This is a baseball…" Phoenix said.

"Just throw already!"

"Yeah but," Phoenix said still staring at the ball, "I figured since you guys were just playing for fun—"

"All you have to do is throw it," Miles said.

"Um…" Phoenix said and stared.

Miles kicked at the grass and took his stance again, "Some time today, Wright."

Phoenix wound up and threw. Miles was frowning at the ball when it landed short and rolled toward his feet. Phoenix was looking like his client had just confessed on the stand. Miles picked up the ball and walked back toward him.

"You need to warm up," Miles said and dropped the ball into the mitt Phoenix was still wearing.

"I thought you were going to tell me that I throw like a girl," Phoenix said putting his mitted hand behind his head abashedly.

"No," Miles said as he dug around in the bag for another glove, "Most girls throw better than that."

"Way to go easy one me," Phoenix mumbled.

"Come on," Miles said, "I'll teach you how to throw."

"I'm sorry if you got the wrong idea—I never really—," Phoenix stumbled over the words.

Miles looked at him steadily, "It's been what—fifteen years?"

"Huh?" Phoenix said.

"Since we got to play outside together…" Miles said.

"Longer than that now," Phoenix said, "I don't remember you being very into sports… Well, golf, I guess… But—"

Miles put on his glove and started to walk away, like he was pacing for a duel.

"My dad taught me how to throw," he said as he walked with his back to Phoenix, "He didn't have time very often, but we'd play catch when he did."

Miles stopped and turned to face his friend, "I guess you didn't have that—with your dad being a fighter pilot and everything."

Phoenix's eyes went wide in surprise and then he laughed, "My dad wasn't a fighter pilot, Miles."

Miles stared at Phoenix for several moments with a very real amount of shock.

"Yeah but your mom told me—"

"And she told Larry he was a musician. A rock star. Mom never really liked to talk about him…" Phoenix said.

"Why would she make that up?" Miles said still reeling from the sudden revelation.

Phoenix shrugged dismissively, "I don't know why she does that."

Miles frowned, "You said he died in a plane crash... That's so sad..."

"Hey, Miles," Phoenix said, "If you just wanted to hang out, why didn't you just say so? Why'd you make up a story about—"

"I didn't make up anything," Miles said, "My boss really did tell me to get some batting practice in. But the cages are closed and I didn't know anyone else who's free to do this."

"Sorry I can't throw," Phoenix said.

"It's fine," Miles was rolling the glove with his free hand and staring hard at it, "Throwing practice is good too."

"Well, it's good to be outside," Phoenix said, "I spend too much time alone in the apartment."

"Think of this as a little payback for your counsel last month," Miles said.

"You don't owe me anything, Miles," Phoenix said.

Miles just looked at him. They stared at each other mutely for several moments. Then Phoenix cleared his throat—no doubt so he could say something stupid and incongruous. So Miles spoke first.

"Just throw the damn ball, Wright."

Miles shivered and slid away from her right into Detective Gant. The detective took him by the shoulder and told him not to be afraid. But Miles was afraid—the closed room, dark, but for the candles lining the walls; the smell of incense and burning candle wax; the feel of the woven mat underneath them; the way it sounded when they moved—it so very surreal. Misty Fey was sitting there with her head down, muttering under her breath and swaying slightly. Miles turned away and faced the wall, watching the candles flicker.

"Ah, you're back Gant," the voice was female; it was Misty Fey. But the inflection was male. It was different enough from her regular voice to be frightening.

"What do you want now?"

"I want you to try and remember that night again," the detective said, "Think hard. Who shot you?"

"I told you, I don't know—it was dark. The bailiff and I were suffering from hypoxia, it was hard to tell what was happening."

That was that Misty Fey lady, Miles told himself. But the more she talked the more he recognized the familiar nuance of that voice. Miles drew his knees up toward his chin and hugged them tight—this was too strange.

"How is my boy?"

"We took him out of the hospital, like you asked," the detective said, "He's in a state home for now."

"My sister—"

"She's not going to make it," Gant said, "I'm sorry."

Miles couldn't believe this—yet out of nowhere he let out a sob. This wasn't really happening.

"Miles?"

Miles refused to look, "D-daddy?"

He wasn't going to look. Dad was dead. Dead people don't come back.

Miles nearly jumped when Misty Fey put her arms around him from behind. He wouldn't look.

"Miles," It really did sound like Dad. Miles stared at the arms that held him. He recognized the sleeves of the Fey Lady's robes, but those arms were big and the hands big, like his father's.

"Daddy?" Miles said again.

"My boy," His father held him close, like when he was smaller. When he'd had a nightmare or a bad day.

Miles turned and put his arms around his father's neck, but he refused to open his eyes.

"Daddy, I'm sorry," Miles said. He didn't notice the detective's shift in posture.

"Shhh. Don't worry about me, Miles," Dad said, "I'm in a good place. It's safe here. But you're alone in the world now. I'm sorry for that."

Dad paused and pushed Miles away so he could look at him. Miles looked into that face—it was Dad, but his hair was long and he was wearing those weird clothes that Misty Fey had. But those were Dad's eyes. Miles wiped his face.

"Daddy, I think I—"

Dad shook him a little, "No Miles, you didn't. Don't worry about it. You have to be strong. I've done what I could for you—but you're still so young. Be brave Miles, I'll do what I can to watch over you."

Dad put a hand on Miles' head and brushed his hair back with his fingers.

Miles stared at him, "Can you see Mom?"

"I'll find her soon Miles, don't worry about me. Don't forget about me," Dad said and he smiled.

Miles could only cry mutely in his father's arms.

"Mister Edgeworth," the detective said, "I don't want to seem insensitive but we don't have a lot of time. Who shot you? Who pulled the trigger?"

Miles sobbed and his father stared at him with his brows set in that worried look that he sometimes got when things were tough in court. Dad sighed and looked over at the detective.

"It was Yanni Yogi."

Miles looked at the folder opened next to his keyboard and entered another line into the document he was typing. He finished his report and did one final sweep for mistakes and then hit print. He was still standing at the printer when a knock sounded at his door.

Miles set the pages on his desk and went to answer the door.

"Chief Sky," he said and greeting and closed the door behind her only to have it pushed back.

"Chief Gant," he greeted the other visitor.

"Little Worthy," Gant said, "I'm sorry about the other day."

"Well," Miles said and he closed the door and went to collect the pages he'd just printed. Gant and Skye both sat on the sofa. Gant was grinning—but then he usually was—and Skye was impassive—also not unusual.

"I saw you on TV, Worthy," Gant said, "You were looking a little pale."

"It's January," Miles said by way of explanation. Gant let out his booming laugh and clapped.

"Don't worry, Little Worthy," Gant was still laughing, "You were still very handsome. Your hair was perfect."

Miles glared at him and then Skye, "What's going on?"

"We're just checking on you," Chief Skye said, "When Damon left you were lying on a gurney with your face covered in blood. He wanted to apologize."

"That's not necessary," Miles said suddenly feeling embarrassed again.

"But it is," Gant said, "I had no idea you had it that bad. I feel so guilty I took the stairs today. I had to sit in Lana's office for twenty minutes before I'd recovered enough to come over here."

Miles frowned, "Okay. I accept your apology."

"You were always such a sweet kid, Miles," Gant said and Miles' frown deepened.

"Have you made anymore progress?" Chief Skye asked.

"I just finished," Miles said and handed her the file folder now populated with his report.

"Sweet and punctual," Gant said.

"Chief Gant," Miles said, "Is there something you needed from me?"

"No, my boy. I only came to apologize and see if Lana had managed to get you back in court—of course, I saw on the news that an indictment had been filed, and my favorite High Prosecutor was at the courthouse. Caught on tape, weren't you?"

Chief Gant started laughing again and Miles turned toward the window and made a face. Chief Skye was still pouring over Miles' work. Miles crossed his arms and waited for Gant to stop laughing.

Chief Skye smiled, "I don't have any problems with this. But then I never expect anything less than perfect from you."

"Great!" Gant said, "So we'll see you in court tomorrow!"

Miles turned to look at them, "You're going to sit in on the trial?"

"The Legendary Duo lives on!" Gant said and stood to walk out of Miles' office.

"This is a huge case," Chief Skye said, "You should take the rest of they day and relax."

"Wait," Miles said as Chief Skye stood to follow Gant.

"Or maybe you can actually put in some time at the batting cages."

Miles glared at the door even after she'd closed it behind her. He had his case file in one hand and the other in his pocket. Miles had been looking forward to lunch, but the thought of Skye and Gant in attendance at tomorrow's trial brought on his nerves.

He was still standing there several minutes later when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered it without checking the caller id.

"Edgeworth," he said not a little coldly.

"Hello, little brother," Franziska said.

A/N: Thanks for Reading!

Miles visits Kurain village as a kid—I always wondered how the channeling of Gregory Edgeworth would have gone.

I figured Mia to be about 12 and Maya 3. Oh, and we're finally going to get a solid dose of Franziska—woot!

UPDATED 5 JUL2015- Took out a really bad pun... Minor corrections.