"I'm English. I was curious as to what an American river looks like. Ours appear quite tame by comparison."
"That doesn't exactly answer my question," Walsh said with a slight smile. "That's the place where the kid went into the river and the nurse pulled him out, am I right?"
Martin sighed. "That, my friend, is something you'll have to ask the lady concerned. I was merely taking a breather."
"Are you a doctor here?"
"No, Mr. Walsh. I'm visiting a friend."
They walked together in silence. Martin was aware of Walsh, loping easily over the snow where he himself was finding it a slog. Use makes master, he thought wryly. Suddenly, Walsh stopped. Martin walked another two paces, then, puzzled and irritated, turned to look at the reporter. Walsh gave him a direct look. "Mr. Grey, do you know anything about a white lady?"
Martin blinked, and then shrugged in a non-committal fashion. "Isn't it a vodka cocktail?"
Walsh gave a dry chuckle. "Maybe it is!" He shook his head and grinned.
Martin knew Walsh had gained some information from their exchange but was blessed if he could guess what. Nettled, he resumed his trek towards the reception area. Maddeningly, Walsh kept pace, only stopping when they neared the doors. Celia the guard glowered at Walsh from within her booth and stood up in a menacing manner.
Finding an ounce of politeness to spare for the reporter, Martin turned and gestured at the doors. "Are you coming in?"
Walsh shook his head and held up both hands. "No, thanks! One encounter with the dragon-lady there is enough for me." He jerked his thumb toward the parking lot. "I'd better be heading back to the office. See you around, Mr. Grey."
"Yes, perhaps."
Martin went inside. The annoyance he felt at having to be so off-hand to Walsh was assuaged mostly through the fact that he was protecting Caroline; but also something in Walsh's nature offended even his sensibilities. The man seemed to invite a good kick in the pants.
Marjorie had also been watching through the glass. She studied his face and nodded slowly. "I see you met the reporter."
"Ye-es." Martin met her eye. "Much as I hate to admit it, I can't say I took to the chap."
"Don't worry about it, Martin. He tried to get in to see Caroline, and upset one of our patients in the process. Celia didn't let him in." She watched through the glass doors as Walsh reached his car and got in. "Worse than cockroaches, that bunch."
Something about her expression made him look at her carefully. "You've encountered the press before, I take it?"
"Yeah." Marjorie gave him a guarded look. "Hospitals tend to have trouble now and then, Martin. There was an accident here a couple years back and the press got interested. It blew over after a few days, but in that time we couldn't move around here for reporters." She frowned. "The staff found them bad enough; you can imagine how it upset our patients."
"Oh, yes, I understand." Martin regarded her. "Did the accident involve someone getting burned?"
Marjorie looked at him with surprise. "Yeah, it did. How did you know?"
"It was something Caroline mentioned."
"Oh." Marjorie shook her head. "I guess she was thinking about the accident down by the river. One accident made her think of the other."
"Do you think it was an accident?"
Marjorie gave him a half-smile. "I think it was a kid messing about by the edges of a dangerous river bank, that's all. Reading anything else into it is just wishful thinking to me."
Chapter Six
Martin found Caroline sitting alone in the staff lounge, drinking coffee and reading a magazine. When he entered she put the things on the low table in front of her and came over to him. "Marjorie told me you'd gone to look at the river. Did you find anything?" she asked, touching his arm and gazing up at him intently.
"There's something happening around here," he said with a frown. "I'm sensing a conflict."
"A conflict?" She tilted her head. "Between who—or what?"
"I'm not sure yet. From what I sense, it centers on the old building."
Caroline grimaced and drew him further into the room. "That may be a problem. I don't think we can get access to it."
"So Doctor Burwell said. With any luck I won't need to."
"I hope so." She touched his hand. "Brr! You're cold after being out there. Come and sit down. I'll get you a coffee."
*
As she prepared the coffee, she glanced over to where he sat. "What do you plan to do next?"
"You said this wing has a ward where something uncanny seems to happen to electrical items."
"That's right. It's one of the smallest wards. I think it was part of a larger room that was subdivided some years back by a partition wall." As she stirred creamer into her cup, a tingle of anticipation made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "It's empty now, of course. Would you like to go look at it?"
"Yes; I think it's the next step."
She took him his coffee, and his hand paused on the cup. He looked up at her with his sea-blue eyes and she felt the tingle again.
"Something tells me this knot needs to be unraveled a thread at a time," he said.
* * * *
The Greville Wing may have been the most modern block in the hospital grounds, but the term modern applied to anything built within the last fifty years. Martin walked alongside Caroline through broad, echoing passageways on the upper floor as she took him to the ward, and sensed the shabbiness, the general miasma of depression that infused the very air.
"I'm not keen on hospitals, but these institutions are worse. They're seldom very happy places," he commented.
"No, they used to be a lot worse." She shuddered. "I've seen some of the equipment used here on patients in days gone by." Her pretty face flushed, and the look she shot him was full of disgust. "Some of it was used until quite recently. Barbaric! Torquemada would've thought it too much."
"I know. It's lucky we live in more enlightened times."
She gave him a half-smile as they pushed through a set of double doors. "I guess there is that," she said and pointed ahead to a door at the left side of the passageway. "That's the room."
Martin paused and drew out a short but sturdy mercury thermometer and a small device in a dark gray case.
"What's that?" she asked.
"It measures background electrical energy." He gestured to the door. "If there's anything weird happening with the power in that room, this'll sense it. Normally I'd use a digital thermometer to record temperature, but it might be influenced by the other effect—if it shows up." He gathered his energy, focused on setting up a light defense, a kind of spiritual tripwire. Then he looked at her. "Are you ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be," she replied with a faint smile.
"Okay, let's go."
The unprepossessing door opened at his touch. Martin walked into a room some fifteen feet square, with a window that permitted a view of the distant riverbank through the slats of a blind. To his right a pair of plain hospital beds stood against the back wall, positioned so the patients could enjoy the view. They were devoid of bedclothes and mattresses; a paper label hung from the foot of each denoting future deployment to other institutions. A plastic chair was the only other item of furniture present. The décor was plain, institutional. Beige walls, white ceiling, skirting and window frames. The floor was tiled in a functional black and white checkerboard pattern.
"It feels cold, but not unnaturally so," he said, moving into the room and looking around.
Caroline followed him, and shivered. "Yeah. The heat in these rooms was shut down since this end of the building hasn't any patients left. Economy is the watchword," she added in a dry tone.
"Understood," he said with a wink, and checked the thermometer. "It's above freezing at least."
"It's kind of dark in here." Caroline tried the light switch. The neon tube on the ceiling flickered and came on. "The light usually works, even if nothing else electrical does."
Martin looked a
t the meter as he swept it slowly from side to side. "I'm getting a normal background reading."
"Do you sense anything?"
He opened his perception wider. "Ah! I'm beginning to feel something." Then the air around him grew thicker. He glanced at the instruments; the mercury was falling in the thermometer. "The temperature's dropping rapidly; the electrical energy's fluctuating and fading." He gave her a half-smile. "Something spooky this way comes!"
"Don't joke, Martin!" Caroline said urgently, clutching his arm and glancing around. She shivered. "Where's it coming from?"
He looked at the figure sitting up in the nearest bed. "I believe you're responsible for this, sir?" he said in the mildest tone he could manage.
The shriveled features of the old man stretched into a gape of surprise, and he stared back at Martin through rheumy eyes. Hands like claws gripped the blanket. "You can see me, young man?" he asked in an incredulous tone.
Martin nodded. "I can. May I help you?"
Caroline looked from Martin to the bed, her face a picture of wonder mingled with doubt. Her mouth opened to speak, but then she seemed to think better of it.
"I want to get out of here!" the old man said, his hands and mouth working feverishly. He made as if to get up, but the effort seemed too much for him, and he sank back with a groan that tugged at Martin's heartstrings. "I want to get out," the old man repeated in the tones of one tired beyond measure.
"What's preventing you from doing so?" Martin asked, crossing to the side of the bed.
The figure seemed substantial to his eyes; he could see the striped blue and white pajamas the man wore, even the food stains on the front of the loose-fitting jacket. The sour, sad odors of old age hung in the air. Yet there was something else, an almost intangible impression of chains binding the spirit.
Martin looked around. The walls, floor and ceiling of the room now appeared a formless black, as solid as fog but as forbidding as a high stone wall. The window was gone, yet light came from somewhere. He frowned at the walls and looked around.
Caroline was standing close by, shedding a pale luminescence that overcame the shadows in the room. "Martin?" she whispered, staring at his face. "What's happening?"
He stared back at her, surprised by the light she gave off. "There's a spirit here, that of an elderly gentleman," he told her. "He seems to be trapped. I'm going to try and move him to a better world."
A clipboard now hung on the frame at the end of the bed. Martin craned his neck and looked at the form clipped to it. Bold letters spelt the name Walter Chapman, and underneath was a list of treatments and medication.
The old man leveled an accusing, arthritic finger at Caroline. "They won't let me out! They call themselves doctors, nurses!" He trembled. "I keep asking and ringing and they ignore me—when they bother coming in here at all! They told me I had to stay here until I get better, and then they just ignored me!" Tears began to flow down the age-mottled cheeks.
"You are better." Martin paused, selecting his words with care. "You're better in a way that you might not be aware of, Mr. Chapman."
"How's that, young man?" The eyes swiveled to look up at him. "Are you a doctor?"
"No, but I'm an expert in what's troubling you," Martin said. He pushed a wave of positive energy at the old man, letting it flow around and envelop him. "You're better now; completely healed. You can leave here any time you wish."
The spirit seemed to soak up the energy, to take on a new solidity. "Will…will my family be here to take me home?"
Martin opened his senses wide, looked around and called. I ask for a friendly spirit to guide this lost and unhappy soul to a better world. Will anyone answer the call, in the name of peace?
An answer came instantly.
Yes!
An elderly woman walked out of nowhere to stand before the bed. Her clothing was that of the pre-war years, a long summer dress with a floral print pattern, and a shawl of white Chantilly lace. A look of infinite love and compassion shone in her pleasant, lined face. "Hello, Walter," she said.
The old man gasped, held out a palsied hand. "Agnes! You're alive!"
"No; I passed on, Walter; you know that." She moved to the other side of the bed and took his hand. "And so did you, my dearest."
"I'm dead?"
"Didn't you guess, you old fool?" Her tone belied the words, which were as caustic and loving as only a very long marriage could make them. "I've been waiting for you these many, many years; yet you kept to this room, and your earthly sorrow. Give it all up, my dear. Throw off those chains, get out of that darn bed, and come home with me!"
Swallowing noisily, the spirit of Walter Chapman pushed back the blankets and slid out of the bed, into his wife's arms. They embraced, and his spirit took on new energy until he began to glow. The years seemed to fall away from them both until he stood, tall and straight and young, with his wife in his arms.
Agnes Chapman nodded encouragingly, and turned to Martin, her arm around her husband. "I thank you for all your help, sir."
He gave her a short bow. "You're very welcome, Mrs. Chapman."
Walter Chapman jerked his head, as if trying to flick away an annoying insect. "These chains are still binding me!"
Martin looked at them. The links were clearer now, and thickening before his astonished gaze. "They shouldn't do that!" he said. "You've accepted your fate, you can move on!"
No, I will have him!
The air thickened until it became hard to breathe. Martin felt the evil emanating from the walls and the two spirits cried out in anguish.
The voice spoke in words like the drip of blood on a morgue floor. He's mine!
"No!" Martin rallied and faced the direction the evil seemed to speak from. "Walter Chapman is his own person, free to go as he wishes. It's not for you, who or whatever you are, to hold him here!"
We shall see about that!
The beds began to shake and rattle until they moved across the floor in skittering jumps. Across the space where the back wall had been there now flowed a deep, stinking darkness like the maw of an abyss.
Martin stepped back and drew on his power. "Go!" he said to the two spirits. "This pathetic evil has no power over you! Refuse it, and it can't do a thing!"
Walter Chapman looked in horror at the bed he'd spent decades trying to escape, then at the chains that bound him.
"Break your chains, Walter!" his wife cried, seizing them and tugging hard. "Do you want to remain here forever?"
Deep peace of the rolling wave to you! Martin intoned mentally, pushing against the roiling mass of evil that boiled out of the walls. Deep peace of the flowing air to you!
Caroline touched his arm and her light gained in strength until the radiance fell full upon the darkness. It seethed and boiled—and retreated from the touch of light.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you!
A hiss like a million boiling kettles filled the air, and the evil withdrew into the formless black. This time you win, it hissed as it faded. But next time, you'll be mine!
"I don't think so!" Martin snapped.
As he watched, the shape of the room reformed around him. The beds were exactly as they had been. Walter and Agnes stood silent, as if stunned by what had happened.
Caroline still stood, her hand upon his arm, her eyes wide and searching his face. "I see two lights, floating in the air around the bed. What are they? What happened, Martin?"
"The lights are orbs, Caroline. They're the spirits of an old patient and his wife. Something else made itself felt, too," he said, clasping her hand. "Something bloody nasty!" He glowered at the wall, daring the presence to return. "Don't worry; with your help I beat it back into its hole."
A cry of triumph split the air, and when Martin looked, Walter Chapman's chains had gone. "Free!" he yelled, punching the air.
Beside him, his wife looked exhausted. She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Walter, let's go." She looked around with an expression of deep disgust. "This wicked
place can't hold you now!"
"Thank you for everything, sir!" Walter said to Martin. "I know the young lady can't see me, but thank her too. What you both did then was beyond my poor words to describe."
"Don't mention it. Deep peace to you both," Martin said, feeling his reserves of strength waning by the second.
A light that was intense, yet not blinding, began to fill the room, the source somewhere beyond the window. After the stench and the darkness of the evil, the light was pure balm to Martin's raw nerves. The spirits turned and walked towards it, the wall melting away as they approached. Agnes paused, and gave him a knowing look. "'And strength was given,'" she said, before she and her husband faded into the light.
Chapter Seven
"Hi, honey! I'm home!" Claudia called as she walked through the apartment door.
"I'm in here, sweetheart," Martin called back.
Dropping her attaché case in the hall she went into the kitchen to find Martin with his nose in a cookery book as he stirred the contents of a pan. Stepping behind him, she slid her arms around his waist. "What's cooking?" she asked, nestling close as she kissed his ear. She inhaled the savory aroma of the steam rising from the pan. "It sure smells good!"
"It's biscuits and gravy." Martin dropped the wooden spoon into the pan and turned in the circle of her arms to embrace her. "You wouldn't believe the complications I went through to find out exactly what an American refers to as a biscuit!"
"Oh, yeah, your biscuits are what we call cookies. So what do you call our biscuits?"
He glanced through the oven's glass door at the biscuits. "They're somewhere between a scone and a dumpling. Hopefully they'll be edible, whatever they are."
His smile was as warm as it had ever been, but she knew her man well enough now to see the tiredness that lay behind it. She cupped his face with her hands and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I know they will. Have you had a hard day, lover?"
He let out a heartfelt sigh. "Hard enough. How was your day?"
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