Ghosts

by Bill Noel

  Horns were blowing. The startled look of nearby drivers burned into my brain.

  Joan twisted the wheel to the left fifty yards from the steel and concrete barrier. There was a tiny window of opportunity. We were almost there.

  A Dodge minivan from the far left lane pulled in the opening Joan was aiming for. She yanked the wheel to the right to miss the Dodge. The seat belt and my grip on the door pull kept me from slamming into her shoulder.

  The ear-shattering sound of screeching metal on metal knifed through my head. The front of the Jaguar rode up the safety railing. The yellow-and-black cushioning barrier accordioned as easily as an elephant stomping on a Styrofoam cup. A huge steel light pole shattered the windshield.

  My world turned upside down. We spun sideways. The pavement raced below me. The air bag smashed my face. I heard screams. I didn’t know if they were Joan’s or mine.

  My world faded to black.

  CHAPTER 47

  Stark white light … Shut my eyes … Sledgehammer pounding my head … Voices … Who? … Why? … Don’t understand … God-awful ringing in my ears … fade back to black.

  Blink … bright lights … pain’s gone … What’s that irritating methodical beep behind me? Tube in my left arm … Why? Where am I? … Drifting away.

  I can turn my head—ouch! Is it good that my head hurts? Does it mean I’m alive?

  I try to speak—nothing. My lips sting; feel like I’ve swallowed sun-baked sand. There’s a door to my left. A white marker board’s beside it. Words and numbers are on it, but I can’t read them. Everything starts to spin …

  “Mr. Landrum … Mr. Landrum … can you hear me?”

  “Uh … water … dry …” I cautiously opened my eyes. The spinning had stopped. Someone was standing to my right. “Where? Who?”

  “Welcome back, Mr. Landrum. You’re in the hospital. I’m Dr. Schaeffer. Do you know what month it is?”

  “January,” I said tentatively.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Folly Beach,” I said.

  “Do you know what happened? Why you’re here?”

  “I … n-no,” I stammered. Isn’t that something I should know?

  “You were in an accident,” said the doctor. “You need to get some rest. I think you’ll be fine.”

  The back of his head was all I saw as he turned to leave. I raised my head from the thin pillow to ask him what had happened. What accident? A sharp pain radiated up my neck. I let my head fall back down, and darkness returned.

  * * *

  “So how long do you plan to goof off?” Charles’s familiar voice had come somewhere to my right.

  My eyes fluttered open. I remembered what had happened the last time that I raised my head, so I kept it still. An IV tube was taped to my left arm; I still heard the mechanical pinging from behind the bed. There were two vases of flowers on the small table under a window on the left.

  “Water?” My lips felt like sandpaper.

  “Sure you don’t want wine?” said Charles. He didn’t wait for an answer but filled the blue plastic cup with ice and poured water over it. He topped the exotic drink off with a flexible straw.

  I smiled. My lips stung. “Good job, bartender.” The water tasted better than any wine. “What happened? How long have I been here?”

  “Don’t you remember anything?” he said.

  I took another sip and shook my head.

  “You’ve been here three days,” he said. “The doc said you’re extremely lucky. Your seat belt and air bag saved you. A concussion’s all they’re worried about. I told them not to worry. Nothing could hurt your hard head. Other than that, you have a sprained wrist and a bunch of bruises. You’ve been in and out most of the time—mostly out.”

  A couple of memories drifted through the fog—a bridge, a yellow barrier … and … and nothing. “What happened?”

  Charles had pulled a heavy-duty green hospital recliner close to the side of the bed. “You really don’t remember, do you?” he said.

  I was afraid to turn my head, so I couldn’t see his face. “No.”

  “Oh, damn,” he whispered. He turned his head toward the door and then back. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What?” I interrupted.

  Upside down … in passenger seat … air bag in my face …

  “I shouldn’t say anything,” said Charles. “Let me get the doctor.”

  “Charles, what?” I was almost screaming.

  He reached over and put his hand on mine, something he had never done in all the years I’d known him. “You were in Joan’s car,” he said. He hesitated. “I don’t know where you were going, but she lost control at the end of the bridge. The car slammed into a concrete divider.”

  Screeching, ear-shattering sounds of steel hitting steel and concrete, upside down, sparks flying, car skidding to a halt, convertible top shredded, head inches from pavement …

  I slowly turned toward my friend. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  “Joan’s gone,” he whispered. He squeezed my hand.

  I heard his words, but nothing registered. I was chilled, and my head began to throb. I stared at a tear that slowly rolled down his face and fell to his University of Maryland sweatshirt.

  He slowly shook his head. “She’s dead, Chris. She was thrown out when the car flipped. She never had a chance.”

  I closed my eyes and let darkness suck me in.

  CHAPTER 48

  The soft touch of warm lips felt good on my forehead. I opened my eyes. Karen then leaned back over the side of the bed and delicately kissed my lips.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said.

  “Thank God,” I said. “I was afraid it was Charles.”

  She stood up straight and smiled. I blinked twice and then returned her smile. My lips stung, but it was worth it. Karen asked how I felt. I told her I felt terrible. She said she was sorry and then stepped back from the bed. A tall, burly gentleman in his thirties, wearing a navy blazer, a red-and-tan striped tie, and a close-cropped law enforcement haircut stepped to the spot that Karen had vacated.

  “I hope you’re feeling better,” he said. His low, deep voice sounded much older than he looked. I’m Detective Adair, Charleston County sheriff’s office. Do you feel like answering a few questions?”

  I glanced at Karen, but she remained silent. I whispered yes.

  Detective Adair turned to Karen and nodded toward the door.

  “I’ll be outside,” she said, backing out of the room.

  Adair leaned over the bed. “I know you’re weak and hurting,” he said, “so I’ll keep this brief. I’m investigating the wreck.” He waved a small notebook in his left hand. “I’ve talked to three motorists who witnessed what happened, and I want to get your take. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, “but I don’t remember much.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “the doc said that’s not unusual. It may be weeks before you remember everything. Tell me what you can.”

  My memory was fairly clear on what led to the wreck. I remembered how happy Joan seemed to be despite seeing the mystery man the day before. I shared everything I could about both times she saw him. Adair asked if I believed that she was in danger or only imagined it. I said that I was skeptical at first, but she had convinced me there was someone.

  I also remembered what she had asked about us getting back together, but I didn’t tell him. I did say how desperate she had seemed when she discovered that the brakes had failed. I repeated everything twice at his request—or maybe to prod my memory of what had happened.

  He said that if I remembered anything else, I should call. He put his card on the bedside table.

  “I have a question,” I said. He had already turned to leave but stopped and looked back at me. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

&nb
sp; He shook his head. “No, Mr. Landrum, it wasn’t. The brakes had small cuts in them—both the front and rear lines and even the emergency brake cable. Someone wanted that car to wreck … but not until you had some time on the road. Unfortunately, they gave out at the worst possible time. I’m sorry.” He turned and was gone.

  Karen was back at my side before Detective Adair had time to leave the building. She pulled up the same chair that Charles had sat in the day before—or I assumed it was the day before. I was fuzzy as far as time. She was off duty and wearing the black jeans she’d had on in Gatlinburg, topped with a cream-colored sweatshirt.

  “Detective Adair is good,” she said. “If anyone can figure out what’s going on, he can.” She looked over at the flowers and then back. “I’m so sorry about Joan,” she said. “She seemed like a nice lady.”

  I fought back tears and nodded.

  “I saw Charles out there,” she said, motioning toward the corridor. “Did you know he’s been in this chair for hours at a time? He spent the first two nights here.” She tapped the side of the chair, looked toward the door again, and then smiled. “I had to threaten to shoot him if he didn’t go home last night. He said he would leave only if I stayed.”

  I dried my cheeks with the back of my right hand. I was touched. “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” she said. “He knew I’d stay here. He grumbled and grumbled and then finally left.” She grinned. “For what it’s worth, this is not a comfortable chair.”

  I halfheartedly said that nobody had to stay. She firmly said that yes they did, end of discussion.

  “Oh yeah,” she said, “Charles said they’re releasing you tomorrow. Said you’d need to take it easy, but they can’t do any more here.”

  “The doctor told Charles that? When were they going to tell the patient?”

  “They thought Charles would tell you. He pestered them so much that they finally told him to shut him up.”

  That I believed. I knew it violated some laws, but I also knew Charles.

  “Are you working with Detective Adair on this?” I asked.

  “No,” she said softly. “It’s a murder investigation, and I’m too close to one of the people involved. It’s in good hands.”

  Karen stayed another hour and helped me take a short walk a few doors down the corridor. I hurt, but it felt good to move on my own.

  Dosage of my meds must have been reduced. I couldn’t sleep. It wouldn’t do any good to wallow in self-pity about what had happened during our marriage. I couldn’t beat myself up about not saving her. I had a few flashbacks of the crash but even more flashes of anger. Joan was murdered, plain and simple. I had to do something about it—I had to.

  CHAPTER 49

  “Whee! This is fun,” said Charles.

  The nurse had experienced a serious lapse in judgment and had given Charles the reins of the wheelchair with orders to push me “slowly and carefully” to the car parked in front of the hospital. He was in his sixties, and she probably thought that his ever-present cane would hold him to a reasonable pace. Wrong! He was weaving the chair—with me gripping the armrests—around the brightly colored floor tiles and trying not to hit any of the patients walking down the corridor, slowed by the rolling IV stands they were pulling. He would never admit it, but I knew his antics were to distract me from the harsh reality of the last few days.

  As much as Charles’s childish driving jarred my already aching head and sprained wrist, I was glad to be riding to the exit. I declined his offer to help me in the car. I could see nothing good coming from his balancing the wheelchair, the car door, and me. He pouted but finally stood aside and let me maneuver inside unaided. The backseat was full of vases and flowers from my friends. Giving me fresh-cut flowers was like giving Ray Charles a portrait of Big Bird—they were useless to me—but it was the thought that counted. And I was blessed to have friends who cared. My stomach soured when I realized that Joan would not get to know them as well as I did.

  I was in a haze for the next five days. Karen came by each day after work. She brought food from various restaurants. Her dad, Chief Newman, called each morning. I had a hunch his daughter made him call to see if I was alive. Dude called four times for a total of under three minutes although three minutes of Dude-speak was equivalent to about two hours of normal conversation. William Hansel stopped twice on his way home from school. Amber hadn’t called or visited, but Charles assured me that she had asked about me regularly.

  Cindy LaMond rode by several extra times when she was working and had her colleague, Officer Spencer, make extra runs when she wasn’t on duty. Finally, Cal got the biggest laugh from me when he called and sang three verses of “Drop-Kick Me, Jesus (Through the Goalposts of Life).”

  Regardless how many friends called or stopped by to cheer me, feed me, or just to see that I was still kicking, my mind kept going back to one of the last things Joan had said: “Do you think we could ever get back together?” Did she mean it? We had reconnected some during the last few weeks, but she didn’t know who I was or, more accurately, who I had become. True, I was developing feelings for her; we did have many years of shared experiences—mostly good times and, of course, a few bad. I had loved her deeply those so-many years ago, but … it didn’t matter now. She was gone.

  Charles was on my doorstep each morning at ten o’clock sharp. He had convinced Cal to let him work a couple of more weeks as long as he didn’t do anything stupid like grabbing a hot electric wire or spending the night alone in the bar trying to catch either a thief or a ghost. He blamed me for needing the extra weeks. The second day I was home, Charles and I walked around the block. It took longer than it should have, but I made it. Charles had never had a real need for the handmade cane he’d carried as long as I’d known him—until now. We were quite a pair: me with my bandaged wrist and walking at the speed of a tired turtle, and Charles still walking with a slight limp.

  The next three days, we walked two blocks to the beach and another couple of blocks in the sand. The winter fog rolled in from the ocean and was so thick two of the days that we couldn’t tell the sea from the sand and the sky. It felt good to be moving, and at the end of the fifth day, I declared myself well. I figured I could only hurt myself. Besides, all the phone calls and visits were driving me crazy. It seemed that I alternated between being depressed over Joan’s death and happy that I was alive. My friends were a great help and went out of their way not to mention the wreck. But I knew I had to do something—I owed it to Joan.

  “Chris,” said Charles after we had returned to the house from our walk the fifth day, “I know how the thief gets in.”

  “Really?” I said. I had asked him about it each day, but he had avoided answering. This was the first time he had brought up the topic since the wreck.

  “Ceiling,” he said.

  “And?” I prodded.

  “You know how the tables are messed up, cards everywhere, and a chair or two on the floor?”

  “Yeah, ghosts,” I said with a dash of sarcasm.

  We had grabbed our usual chairs around the table in the kitchen. I got each of us a Diet Pepsi, anxious to hear the rest of his theory.

  “Wants us to think it’s ghosts,” said Charles. “Here’s what happens.” He nodded his head like he was trying to convince both of us. “The water-stained ceiling tiles got me thinking, so I borrowed a ladder from Larry and pushed up a couple of them—those over by the wall are shared with Ada’s Arts and Crafts. I knew the thief wasn’t coming thorough a door. We checked the walls and found nothing, and the building sits on dirt and sand—no way short of digging a cave to get in from under it.” He pointed his cane at the ceiling. “So it had to be the ceiling. Did you know that Cal’s building is about a half story taller than Ada’s?’

  I could honestly shake my head no.

  “It is,” he continued. “There are plumbing pipes
in the space betwixt the drop ceiling and the roof. And here’s the key. There’s an entry hatch between the roof of Ada’s and Cal’s for plumbers to get to pipes and stuff. Can’t see it from the ground.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “Yep,” said Charles, who by now was feeling pretty full of himself—perhaps for good reason. “There are crossbeams in the ceiling and a four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood plopped down on two of them. And get this: there’s one of those screwed-to-the-wall ladders to the roof of Ada’s on the other side of her store. It’s behind the trash Dumpster, well hidden. The thief bops up the ladder to Ada’s roof, hops over and opens the hatch, works his way on the support beams, stands on the plywood, lifts a ceiling tile out, and drops down to the table.”

  “Isn’t the ceiling in Cal’s about nine feet high?” I asked. “He—I mean, your perp—wouldn’t be able to reach a tabletop, would he?”

  “Good thinking. Eight and a half feet to be exact. Measured it myself,” said Charles. “Getting in’s the easy part—just drop down a couple of feet to a table. Since the dead bolt needs a key, getting out’s a bear. That’s where the ghosts come in.” Charles folded his arms as if to say, So there.

  Maybe it was the effects of my concussion, or possibly I wasn’t as good a detective as Charles, but I needed more.

  “Okay, my brain-addled friend, I’ll slow this down for you. To get out with the loot—liquid and monetary—the thief has to carry it to the table he dropped down on and then put one of the chairs on the table and then use the table and the chair as a ladder so he’s high enough to set the loot on the plywood in the ceiling and then climb back out. Follow so far?” He held out his hands, palms up.

  I went to the gurgling coffeepot and poured two cups. “It’s Nick.”

  “Why’d you say that?”

  “You keep saying he. I figured that eliminated Dawn, and you said he was there the night before you were almost electrocuted.”