"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
The man showed a lively curiosity, which Martin wasn't going to dispel. He noted also his slight stress on the word reported; neither of them needed to openly acknowledge that several incidents would have gone unmarked by officialdom. When it was obvious he wasn't going to be more forthcoming, the assistant withdrew, and Martin turned to the first page.
* * * *
Returning from covering his story, Jay found himself driving along Morris Street and cursed his subconscious for sending him so far out of his way. The old hospital had wormed its way into his mind in a way few other stories had in the course of his career. Reluctant to waste any time, he made to accelerate as he neared the turn-off to the place—and found himself hitting the brakes instead.
Blue and red flashing lights showed beyond the screen of trees. Journalistic instincts began firing on all cylinders, and he ignored the blaring of horns as a car skidded past him and he made the turn into the hospital drive.
Pulling up in the parking lot, he could see two patrol cars were positioned to guard the approach to the main door, with an SUV in CSI markings beside them. Two cops stood watching him as he got out of his car, their gloved hands folded in front of them within easy reach of their holsters. Making sure his hand movements were in plain sight, he extracted his press ID and held it up as he approached them. "Hi, guys; press, Indianapolis Sun. What's going down?" he called.
Some cops didn't object to talking to the press, others treated him as if he was something stuck to the sole of their shoes. Here he got one of each. "Nothing to concern you, pal," one said, his face etched with disapproval.
"We got a death here," his buddy said after looking closely at the press card and nodding. "This is the outer perimeter. We'll be setting up a press liaison point soon and they'll give you the news."
"Who's in charge?"
"At the moment it's Detective Lovett, attached to CSI."
His buddy looked away, detaching himself from the interchange. Jay wrote the information down. "Is this connected with what went down the other day?" he asked.
"Can't say, pal," the unfriendly cop said with some relish. Jay cocked an eye at him briefly, memorizing his face for future reference. Sometimes the trade in information flowed the other way, and if this guy ever came calling…
A muffled gunshot echoed from the surrounding trees. In an instant the cops had their hands on the butts of their guns, eyes searching for the source of the noise.
Jay had sharp ears. He pointed toward the old building. "It came from over there!"
He and the surly cop set off at a run, soon modified to a steady jog after they skidded on the ice and slush and came perilously close to falling. The other cop went to the open security door and yelled something inside before joining the race.
It took a matter of moments to cross the open space, and all the while Jay scanned the frontage of the old Victorian building for signs of trouble. "Stay back!" the cop grunted, drawing his gun and thrusting out his arm to ward him away as they got close to the wall.
"There's no sign of entry here," Jay said, ignoring the command. "It could've come from around the side."
"Shit!" the cop said half under his breath and approached the corner with caution. His buddy came up, and he too waved for Jay to get back before covering his partner.
Together they glanced quickly around the corner before moving with even greater caution. Jay hung back; he reasoned he was a journalist, and his job was to report the news—which meant being alive to do it. He waited until the cops had moved along the side of the building a ways before following. They picked their way over the rubble and debris of the demolished wing, their eyes scanning the building and immediate area for threats, but Jay could see what the cops had already spotted.
One of the steel security mesh panels had secured the opening of what had once been a passageway joining the demolished wing and the old building. It now lay to one side. As a further security measure, a sheet of plywood had been nailed over the doors themselves; this had been split in two and one half tossed aside at the foot of the wall. One of the doors had been kicked in. As the two cops moved inside, flashlights on and gun muzzles sweeping to follow their line of sight, Jay paused and examined the door. Whoever had done the damage had to be strong, he thought with a growing unease. The doors were built to withstand punishment, possibly from deranged former inmates who may have tried to escape. Fumbling with his camera, he took photographs of the doorway and the damage before following the cops.
The passageway was dark and the only light source came from the men's flashlights. Jay held out one hand and let it brush against the crumbling painted plaster of the side wall, feeling his way over the debris-strewn floor with a careful tread, his senses alert to trouble. Darker doorways opened off the passageway into rooms on either side. The cops examined each with a slow sweep of their flashlight beams, taking it in turns and covering each other as they did so. Jay couldn't help but admire their steady professionalism. It imbued him with more confidence than he thought he could generate alone.
Eventually he saw light ahead. It was weak with a blue tinge, but it allowed his dark-adapted vision to see what lay ahead.
A narrow beam of light fell from some high place, illuminating the body of a man which lay sprawled on the dirty tiled floor. He wore a grubby overcoat, which had fallen open to reveal equally grubby jeans and a brown sweater. What drew Jay's horrified attention was the dark pool of glistening liquid that surrounded his head. As he drew closer, one of the cops held his flashlight beam steady on the face whilst the other used his to sweep the surrounding chamber. The man's face wore a seraphic smile, as if he'd been vouchsafed a vision of great beauty before he died; the back of his head was missing, blown out by the automatic pistol he still clasped. A reek of propellant still hung heavy in the cold damp air, mingling with the stench of blood and feces.
Jay began to raise his camera, but the friendly cop gripped his wrist. "If you even think about taking a photo of this, I'll throw you in jail," he said quietly.
* * * *
Claudia pressed the cell phone to her ear using her shoulder as she negotiated traffic. Martin answered and she smiled, feeling a warm inner glow at the sound of his sexy English accent. "Hi, honey! How's it going?"
"Progress is being made at last," he said, sounding cheerful. "How's your morning been?"
"Pretty cool, thanks." She overtook a slow-moving sedan. "Either lead, follow, or get the hell out of my way!" she yelled at the driver. "I sold that commercial property down on Southside," she continued in a normal voice. "I've just had lunch, and now I'm heading out of town to look over another property."
"Excellent."
"And Marty? My pussy's still so very tender from making love this morning," she purred, feeling it twitch as she spoke. "I'm really looking forward to having that big bad boy of yours inside me tonight!"
"I look forward to putting it there," he said with a soft, warm chuckle, "but aren't you forgetting something?"
"Like what?"
"You were planning on seeing Caroline and your folks tonight."
She grimaced. "I hadn't forgotten. Do you want to come?"
"Do you think I should?"
"It'll show Dad you're not afraid of him, and it'll show Caroline you're definitely with me."
"Okay, then, that's what we'll do."
"We'll feel the need to make love when we get back from there, darling," she said.
"Friends and lovers are God's apology for having to have relatives!"
"Mmm! Friends—and lovers!"
"We're both."
"Absolutely."
She didn't speak for a few moments, savoring instead the love she felt for Martin, the sheer comfort of having him in her life, waiting for her at the end of the day. He didn't speak, and she knew he was thinking the same. "You say you're making progress?" she said at last. "You found something worthwhile in those dusty old files."
&
nbsp; *
Martin flipped idly through his notepad. He'd covered several sheets with notes and comments, and his intuition was beginning to stir. "Yep, I'm getting somewhere at last," he said. "These date beyond fifty years ago, and I'm beginning to feel the answer lies sometime in that period. From what I read here, there were over forty incidents involving patient deaths in the ten years from 1934 to 1944."
"That's awful!"
"Yes, it is." He tapped one note on the second page. "Only a few of them attracted inquiries from outside the hospital's own administration. I can only guess at how many episodes of staff brutality were hushed up or whitewashed."
"Different days, Marty," she said with a sigh. "Things are so much more out in the open now."
"A good thing, too. I'm just getting into the old patients' files." He looked at the stacks lined up along the table with a jaundiced eye. "The people here presented me with over three thousand of the things."
"Ouch! That's not good."
"No; it'll take me a few days to wade through them, but needs must if we're to get to the bottom of this business."
"So long as you're not too tired to make love at night—or morning—or anytime!"
"I'll never be too tired to make love to you, my darling," he said, a broad smile spreading over his face. He looked up as the office assistant came into the room. Something in the man's face told him trouble was afoot. "Ah, I think something's just come up."
"I'll help you with that later!" she quipped. "Possibly with some whipped cream!"
"I look forward to it! Now you take care on those roads, and I'll see you later."
"Yes, dear. Bye!"
The assistant stood a respectable distance from him as Martin completed the call, but hurried forward as he laid his phone aside. "Mr. Grey, I've been told to tell you there've been some developments at the Daniels LaRoche hospital."
* * * *
"Dear God!" Burwell looked down at the face of the man recovered from the old building.
Detective Lovett stood by, gaze fixed on him, and he gestured to the body. "Can you identify him, Doc?"
"He's Rod Barber, one of our former patients."
"Another patient?" Lovett narrowed his eyes. "What's going down here, Doc? Do all the ex-patients come here to die?"
"This is hardly a matter for joking, Detective!" he snapped, feeling thoroughly unsettled at the day's events.
"I'm not joking, Doctor. You had a case of a patient going berserk here early this week. We get a guy looks like he's killed himself this morning." Lovell's finger stabbed down at the corpse. "Now we get another guy looks like he's blown his fucking brains out! Something's going on here! Something caused these guys to flip, and I want to find out what it is and fast before any others turn up to whack themselves!"
"Okay, I'll give you that; there's obviously some common link and we'll have to find it."
Seeming satisfied that he'd got the message across, Lovett simmered down. "Okay, then. Can you access your records and see when Barber was discharged? Cross reference with the other two cases, see if there's any link between them."
"I can do that."
"Good, I'll sit in with you." Before Burwell could speak, the detective held up his hand. "I'll get a warrant, so it's all legal."
"I'll insist on that much, at least," Burwell said, feeling deflated, as if he'd lost a fight he hadn't been quite sure he was fighting. But the rapidly-cooling body of a former patient was being carried past him now to the waiting coroner's truck, and as Lovett had said, there might be more ex-patients on their way to the Daniels LaRoche Center even as he stood there debating with himself.
"Go get your warrant, Detective," he said, turning toward the entrance. "I may as well get started here."
* * * *
"Thanks for telling me," Martin said to the assistant, who nodded and withdrew. He waited until the door closed behind the man before turning to his notes, his mind busier than ever.
He was beginning to wonder just who was allowing him so much access to the records; who it was that ensured he was kept informed of developments. Burwell had no authority beyond the hospital, but it seemed he had highly-placed influence somewhere. Martin pursed his lips. Such influence cut two ways. He was pursuing the case primarily for Caroline's benefit, and also out of his own interest. If someone else, some shadowy authority figure was going to benefit from his efforts, then he preferred to know who—and why.
Such questions couldn't be answered for the moment, so he turned his mind back to the case. The ghostly activity in and around the hospital was becoming dangerous, of that he was sure. An attempted drowning, two deaths and the sudden breakdown of a fourth person couldn't be dismissed as happenstance. He had to find the reason; the source of the paranormal activity had to be found and fixed—for good.
He looked at the heap of files and sighed. Time was of the essence, but searching through all the patient records would take more time than he was prepared to spend. At first it seemed hopeless; no means of speeding the process presented itself, but then he thought of the lady in white. Seen first by the young boy and then Caroline on two occasions, she seemed to be a friendly spirit, yet had made no further appearances. Perhaps the driving force behind the fatalities kept her in check; he knew from long experience that ghosts could haunt other ghosts. But there was a way to bypass such influence.
Reaching for his phone again he dialed a number. "Caroline?" he said when she answered. "Are you really busy right now?"
* * * *
"You want me to do what?" she asked when he told her what he wanted.
"Channel a spirit."
"Martin, that's a…it's…" She pressed her hand to her head and stared out the window at the passing traffic. "I'm not sure if I can do that!"
"I'm sure you can, Caroline." His voice was gentle. "I can't; my talents don't run that way. Claudia can do it, I know; she channeled a spirit when we were investigating the hotel case. Such things run in the family."
"Why can't you ask her to do it?"
"Caroline, the woman's spirit appeared to you twice. That shows she has an affinity to you. I think she can help a great deal in this case, but she's being held in check by whatever is causing the trouble." He sighed. "Sorry, trouble's a mild term for what's happening. Caroline, I think I'd better tell you. I've just been told there've been two suicides at the hospital today."
"Oh, my God!" Poor John! she thought in anguish. How's he coping? "What happened?"
He told her the details. "You may be the key to stopping this happening. I have a heap of files here; somewhere amongst them is the answer to the case. The lady in white wants to help, I'm sure of it. Will you help her?"
She looked down at the vacuum cleaner, and the dusters and polish. "You caught me right in the middle of doing some housework for Mom," she said. He didn't reply, and she realized she was procrastinating. "Okay," she said with a sigh. "I'll do as you ask."
"Thank you," he said quietly. "Can you come over to the archives?"
"Sure. Give me the address."
* * * *
Some time later, Martin looked up as the assistant opened the door. "Miss Mackenzie to see you, sir," he announced, and ushered Caroline into the room.
"Thanks." As the man made to close the door after him, he called, "Wait. We're not to be disturbed, if you don't mind."
"Sure thing."
Martin didn't like the knowing look in the man's eye as he left.
Caroline smiled. "I guess he thinks we'll be up to no good in here," she said.
"We're both going to behave ourselves, Caroline," he replied, wishing he didn't sound so pompous.
She gave a soft snort and sat down at the desk. Clasping her hands, she leaned forward and gazed at the stack of files. "I can see why you need help."
"With any luck, we might just get it."
"Okay." She sat up straight, exuding the air of a keen schoolgirl. "What do I do?"
"Try thinking of the lady in white; see in your mi
nd the image of her as you last saw her, and imagine calling her here to you."
"Okay. Do I need to close my eyes?" she asked, and he heard the nervousness creeping into her voice.
"It might help. And, Caroline? Don't worry; I'm here, and nothing bad can happen to you."
"Until you said that, I didn't imagine it could!" she said with a wry smile.
*
She closed her eyes, and thought of the first time she'd seen the lady in white, floating across the ground in front of the boy. Then she thought of the time when Mr. Mendoza went crazy, and the lady appeared in John's office. As she concentrated, the room became quiet. The near subliminal sound of the ventilation system faded to nothing. Martin was sitting across from her, watching her closely; she could sense that somehow, without opening her eyes.
The image of the lady grew clearer in her mind's eye, and gently, feeling just a little stupid, she began sending out a mental call. "I see you. Can you hear me? Lady in white, can you hear me?"
* * * *
Across town, the spirit of Winifred Morgan stirred and looked to the north. Her senses prickled, and she felt a tug on her very being. Someone was calling her in that direction! She stood and faced the north, and concentrated, fine-tuning her senses until she was on the wavelength. The voice seemed familiar! The call had a certain flavor, a resonance she knew well.
"The young nurse!" she cried, and a great surge of hope washed through her. Eagerly she sent her thoughts along the wavelength of the mind to the source of the call.
* * * *
"She's here!" Caroline gasped, as she saw her mental image of the lady in white solidify into a whole person, as solid as life, her face one big, beaming smile of relief. "I see her!"
"Can you speak to each other?" Martin said in a low, soft voice.
"Yes! You're the nurse!" the figure said in her mind. "And I can hear him through you. He's the man with the bright spirit!"
Lady in White Page 17
