She saw Martin look surprised then thoughtful as he glanced down at his coat pocket. Rossiter gestured to Caroline and she stepped forward, reached into Martin's pocket and drew out a disposable lighter. "Damn!" Martin said and struggled to grab it. "Where did that come from?"
"I'm capable of teleporting small objects from nearby." Rossiter snorted. "You of all people should know some of the abilities spirits possess, Mr. Grey! One of the nurses in the Greville Wing smokes; I borrowed it from her locker."
"And the scalpels the patients used?"
"A similar source. There's a box of them, rusting away in a closet on the second floor."
Martin struggled to snatch the lighter from Caroline's hand, but she moved out of reach and the dark spirits held him, their near-faceless forms untroubled by his efforts.
"Good girl!" Rossiter waved a negligent hand. "Choose a spot and get to work. Once this place is properly ablaze, I'll release you all." He gave them a thin smile. "You can take your chances after that!"
A blaze of silver-white light suddenly flared, filling the hall with radiance. It dropped from on high like a meteorite and fell square on Caroline, who gasped and froze on the spot. Winfred's body materialized out of the glare, her arms clasped protectively around the girl. Claudia felt the dark spirits release her as the blast of pure light struck them. They screamed and fell back, and she staggered to her feet.
Winifred reached out and grasped her arm. "Run!" she yelled at Martin. "Go! I'll protect them!"
*
The door Winifred had spoken of was right where she'd described it. He threw off the weakened grasp of the spirits and ran to it, yanked it open, and fell inside. It gave onto a tight spiral staircase built into the solid walls of the central hall. Glancing back, he saw Winifred had grasped the arms of Claudia and Caroline and they stood together, arms linked, facing inward. He felt a stab of relief. They formed a triangle. It stood for Trinity: The Sign of Three. It was the symbol of Womanhood. It was an ancient and potent symbol—and he hoped it would help them hold off what was to come.
Rossiter looked outraged at the turn events had taken and had leapt back. The angry spirit hurled a blast of raw power at the white lady, but it rebounded to fill the room with an eerie, flickering green light. His features contorted with rage and determination, and he drew back his arm to try again. Taking a deep breath, Martin raced to the stairway and began to climb.
The light from the hall gave out after just one turn, and he found himself climbing in the dark. Reaching out, he could touch the central pillar and use it as a guide for his ascent, but in his haste his feet stubbed against the risers. A prickle on the back of his neck told him he was being pursued. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to greater speed. By raising his feet higher to miss the steps, he avoided stumbling at the cost of frequent jarring as his feet slammed onto the steps.
The prickling sensation grew more intense. With a snarl of pure anger, he turned and faced back down into the darkness, gathered his power—and waited.
Two spirits emerged from the gloom, taking form in the darkness as humanoid figures pulsating with an eldritch green glow. Their toothless mouths opened in silent wails as their bony fingers reached for him.
"By air, earth, fire and water, you shall not best me!" he growled, raising his hands, and hurling his energies in two coruscating bolts of blue light.
They slammed into the creatures and billowed out to engulf them in actinic light. The beings howled and writhed, but he left them behind as he turned and raced for the top.
Two more turns and he emerged in a small chamber located behind the statue of Samson. The smell of dust, dry rot, and decaying wood filled the air. A floorboard creaked with a weak little noise under his foot and sank down a disturbing distance before lodging on something and sticking.
Light flared from the hall far below, where the battle between Winifred and Rossiter was in full swing. Distracted as he was by the recent skirmish and the fight below, Martin felt something different in the air of the chamber as he regained his breath. Caroline had told him many days ago the atmosphere of the pavilion had felt restful, a place of calm. It seemed that influence extended below to the chamber where he stood. He felt the agitation in his mind lessen, and he could think so much clearer.
His senses tingled, and he turned to see one of the gray spirits emerge from the stairwell. It stepped toward him, its form writhing and scorched where his bolts had struck it—then it reeled back, moaning, arms flung up in terror as a barrier of energy sprang into being and lashed at it.
"You can never enter this place with evil intent, spirit," he told it, as it wailed and gibbered at him from beyond the pulsating barrier. "Go, but not to that one who controlled you. You'll be released to a better world soon, I promise."
Ignoring the creature as it stood impotent, watching, he looked around the chamber. The statue stood tall on its plinth, outlined by the fiery battle below. Time was pressing; the statue was the most obvious feature, and he began his search there.
By the weak light of the flashlight, he soon located a small cartouche carved into the rear of the plinth on which the statue stood. "That's odd," he murmured, fingering the cartouche. Someone had engraved the same numbers in the cartouche that appeared on the back of the photo of the statue. To his English eyes it still looked like a date, and above it the initials O.T. had been carved. "What are you trying to tell me, Dan?" he whispered, feeling a growing urgency as precious seconds ticked by. "You'd make it hard but not impossible to find the key. So where is it?"
Taking a deep breath, he thought again of the setup behind Dan Spade and the pavilion. "Okay, we have a Carpenter," he told himself. "The place was funded by a member of the Carpenters Movement. Presumably they still hold some attachment to the craft of woodwork." He looked again at the statue and the plinth. Both were made of wood. "A hidden compartment? Secret drawer?"
He used his fingertips to feel the surface of the plinth—and found a narrow rectangular crack about a foot long and three inches high, centered on the cartouche. Hardly daring to hope, he put his thumb to the cartouche and pushed hard. With a click, a drawer appeared where the crack had been. Pulling it open, he looked inside and saw a leather-bound book. He took it out, held it up to the flashlight. Gold lettering gleamed. It was a copy of the Old Testament.
He looked at it then down at the cartouche. "O.T. Old Testament. And a date which isn't a date." He slapped his forehead. "Wait a moment! Of course it's not a date!" He swore. "Dan Spade was an expert at symbols. Even the photo taken of him with this statue had significance. Spade was a circuit court judge."
The gray spirit still stood, watching from beyond the barrier. "Are you still here?" he asked it cheerfully. "Not long now, old son." He laid the torch on the edge on the statue plinth and held the Bible open to the light. "Rossiter's got troubles of his own now; his hold on you is weakening." He peered at the fine print on the Bible pages. "Now, let me see…
"Samson features in the old testament. I remember that much from Sunday school." He looked at the table of contents. "The book of Judges. Yes!" He thumbed through the pages rapidly. "Chapter sixteen, verses four through thirty." he scanned the opening verses and grinned. "Samson was a judge, and came from the tribe of Dan!"
He looked up at the two pillars on either side of the statue—then further up, to the complex system of cross-beams above. The flush of triumph he'd felt at solving the clue faded rapidly. The end verses referred to Samson's destruction of the temple—and Dan Spade had just indicated the destruct mechanism for the pavilion. "The thing is—Samson died when the temple collapsed on him."
Appalled at the idea, he leaned on the plinth and looked down below. Winifred's barrier had grown much weaker during his search. Even as he looked, a clear patch appeared in the blast of negative energies shrouding it, and he saw the three women huddled together and looking up at him.
"Marty!" Claudia screamed. "Hurry! We can't hold on much longer!"
He d
rew back and looked up at the beams again, then at the pillars, and thought of the tons of wood and glass that would crash down onto the floor far below. "Dear gods!" he moaned. "How can anyone expect me to kill Claudia and Caroline?"
Winifred's last words to him came to his mind. Go! I'll protect them!
"Lady, I sure hope you can!" he muttered.
Clambering onto the plinth, he edged his way around the statue until he stood in front of it between the pillars. Closing his eyes to the horrible void below, he placed his hands on the pillars and began to push.
Sweat broke out on his brow and his muscles strained against the solid resistance of the heavy timbers. A scream from below made him hesitate, but he refused to look, redoubling his effort instead. Something creaked and shifted, and he opened his eyes and looked down. A strip of pale wood was showing at the base of the pillars. Heartened by the show of success, he braced his arms again and pushed.
His muscles strained, and sweat burst out all over his forehead. Another creak, and another, the pillars shifting under his hands an inch at a time, until the creaks became longer and closer together and a fine rain of grit began to fall on his head from above. Putting his all into one last mighty effort, he strained until his head pounded and lights began to flash behind his eyes.
There came an almighty groan of wood rubbing hard against wood—and suddenly the resistance ceased.
He opened his eyes just as something flashed past his nose, missing his head by a fraction of an inch. A huge baulk of timber swung out in a long arc and fell into the hall followed by a cascade of several smaller joists. The beam tumbled lazily end over end, and for a second everything seemed to stop. The blasts of energy from below died away, and he looked down with blurred vision to see the pale form of Rossiter staring up at him open-mouthed.
Then all hell broke loose.
With a growing roar, the wooden components of the ceiling spread apart like the petals of some strange flower. Moonlight poured down into the hall, striking through the crumpling shape of the great glass pavilion as it began to collapse in on itself and fall. Martin found his voice at last. He cupped his hands to his mouth. "Run!" he bellowed at the huddled figures of the three women.
Illuminated by silvery moonlight, the panes of glass shattered and splintered into great shards, each as long as a sword and every bit as sharp. They plunged past Martin in a tinkling, glittering rain of deadly intent, each casting a prismatic rainbow that flickered and spread the light throughout the hall. Rossiter screamed and flung up his arms and attempted to run out from under the cascade. But Martin saw Dan Spade's genius had accounted for the eventuality. He remembered an Air Force officer speaking on a TV news bulletin of saturation coverage of a target during the Second Gulf War. That man would recognize the same technique here. Nowhere in the hall was spared the impact of at least one glass spear—and Rossiter's spirit was impaled by far more than one.
The power held in the glass by the mysterious ritual enacted by Dan Spade so long ago worked just fine. Rossiter imploded; his dying scream was a thin, reedy, pathetic thing amidst the crash and tinkle of the ruin.
"And trouble not this Earth any more!" Martin roared in a flash of anger, hating the way the evil spirit had forced such a measure on him.
Moonlight filled the hall as the dust began to settle. The gray spirits of the former inmates dissolved rapidly into nothing with the destruction of their master. A great exhalation of pure relief filled the air as they departed, and he intoned the Celtic prayer for their final rest even as his eyes swept the area, seeking out the forms of Claudia, Caroline and Winifred.
Pearly white light began to infuse the air around him, each mote of dust sparkling like a small star. He looked around and saw Winifred standing close by, a broad smile on her face. "You did it!" she said. "Not that I ever doubted you would."
He smiled and bowed to her. "I had some excellent help, both from you and Dan Spade."
As he spoke the name, the air seemed to thicken, and the figure of a man materialized beside Winifred. "I never doubted either him or you, my darling," he said, looking at her with profound tenderness.
She turned toward him and gasped. "Dan!"
He opened his arms, and she flung herself into his embrace. Martin recognized the man from the old photograph. From the flowing locks of gray-shot dark hair to his patent leather shoes, Dan Spade looked unchanged since he’d posed for the image so many years ago. "I've come to take you home, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you!"
"I've missed you so, Dan," she said, stroking his cheek with her fingertips.
Dan held her close, then seemed to notice Martin for the first time. "You did good, young feller," the judge said over Winifred's shoulder. "I always knew it would take only the right person to decipher my clues and have the sheer guts to risk life and limb to stop that fiend."
"You foresaw all this?"
"I foresaw something like this, yes." He stroked his moustache. "I'm only too pleased to see it all worked."
"I'm glad too, and I was happy to serve," Martin said. "My own girlfriend is down there, and I'd do anything to save her."
"I know." Dan nodded. "It's especially good for us, knowing Winifred's kin are safe."
"Your kin?" Martin cocked his head. "You're related to Claudia and Caroline?"
Winifred released her clasp, and she gave him a mischievous look. "Their great-grandmother was a Morgan from the south of the state—my mother's sister, in fact," she said. "Claudia, Caroline and I are cousins."
"That explains a lot!" He laughed.
"They've always been a witchy breed, these Morgans," Dan said, looking at her fondly. "The blood will out."
"I know. Claudia's a wonderful woman."
"I'm glad to hear it," Winifred said. She turned to Dan. "Can we go now, my love? I've spent too long in this place!"
"Yes, my darling, we're going now." He held up his hand in farewell to Martin. "Goodbye, young feller. It was good to meet you."
"Goodbye, Marty. Blessed be!"
"The Lady be with you both," he replied.
They faded, the light dimmed, and he was left alone in the dusty silence of the chamber.
Taking a deep breath, he turned and peered over the balustrade into the hall. At that moment, two familiar figures walked out of the passageway and into the moonlight. One was John Burwell. Caroline gave a cry and ran into his arms. John's face was a picture of astonishment that gave way to one of delight as he held her close. The other newcomer was Jay Walsh, who was rubbing his head as if it really hurt. From his lofty perch, Martin heard John Burwell say, "What the fuck's happened here?" quite distinctly.
And his heart soared when Claudia replied from the shadows below. "It's a long story."
Epilogue
Martin was lying stretched out on the sofa when Claudia walked in. "Oh, good! You're back. Did you get what you wanted?"
He smiled up at her. "Oh, yes."
"What was it?"
He winked. "You'll see."
"Hah! Hiding things from me, huh? Well, you're not the only one!" She held up a small bunch of keys and rattled them with a broad grin.
"What're those?" he asked.
"They're the keys to a ranch-style house on the outskirts of Brownsburg."
"Something you're showing a client?"
"Nope!" She stooped and kissed him tenderly on the lips. "It's for you and me. I described the kind of place I had in mind to John Kaminski and he found it for us." She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. "C'mon! He's waiting outside to take us there. Grab your coat, and let's go see."
"Wonderful!" he exclaimed, rolling off the sofa. "I'm surprised he found something so quickly."
"Pre and post-Christmas is the slack period in property movement," she said as he fetched his coat. "It's the time to grab a bargain, too."
"Everyone mortgaging or selling up to pay for Christmas presents for their wives and girlfriends, I suppose!" he said with a grin as he emerged into the hall.
> She smacked his butt. "You cynic! Let's go."
They headed outside to the parking lot where a tall, distinguished man with wavy iron-gray hair was leaning on a Cadillac. He waved as they came up, and he and Martin shook hands as Claudia introduced them. "Looking forward to seeing what we've got for you?" he asked Martin.
"Absolutely!" he replied. "I trust Claudia's judgment in everything except how to eat a steak."
She laughed and shuddered as he held the car door open for her. "I'm sorry, Marty; I just cannot understand how anyone can eat a well-cooked steak!"
"Okay, we'll agree to differ," he said, climbing in beside her and pecking her on the cheek.
John Kaminski got in the driver's seat and leaned back to look at them. "I guess you two are looking forward to putting down roots," he said with a smile.
"Oh, yeah!" Claudia said and gestured at the apartment block. "It was good of you to find us this place, John, but—and no offence to Mrs. Ellis—I couldn't stay in it for much longer. It's kind of hard to live a normal life knowing she can hear every sound we make."
He cocked his head and looked quizzical. "Mrs. Ellis?"
"Yeah," she pointed out the window. "She's the lady in the upstairs apartment."
John gave her a blank look. "Claudia, Mrs. Ellis died two months back. I know, because I dealt with the paperwork to release her apartment. No one's stayed up there since."
As one, they looked at the window of the upstairs apartment. The place was obviously empty.
* * * *
Brownsburg proved to be a pleasant, bustling township. The drive there had been quiet; Martin guessed Claudia and John were thinking over the strange tenant of the upstairs apartment, and he smiled.
They passed a row of stores and a high school complex before hanging a right and heading south into a residential area. John drove on until they reached the outskirts, where the houses favored the ranch-style with plenty of land, and pulled into the side of the road.
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