by Noel Hynd
She also closed her eyes and held the moment, seeming to communicate with God knows what, God knows where. Then she opened her palm, gave O'Hara a cute lift of the eyebrows, and returned the jewelry to him.
“Yeah?” O'Hara asked. “Any messages?”
“Donna took a psychic imprint,” Rose said.
“It takes a few days,” Donna explained. “Eventually I'll feel something. Then I'll let you know.”
“Uh huh,” O'Hara said. He looked from Rose to Donna and back and forth again. He was waiting for them to burst out laughing.
Big joke.
But there was no joke. The ladies were in deadly earnest.
“I'm only letting you borrow my girlfriend because I love you, Franklin,” Rose giggled. Close-in, there was a blast of cheap perfume about her. Evening in Concord. O'Hara also had the impression that she had had a belt or two of sherry with the rest of the girls.
“May I take these?” He indicated five books on his arm.
“They're yours for however long you need them.”
“Thanks, Rose.”
He gave her a kiss on the cheek. Rose's friends made cooing sounds when they saw it. Then he was out the door as the party continued.
In an hour, after a lousy drive across some slick roads, he stopped back at his office in Nashua. There he looked through his list of phone calls. He'd missed about ten. Included among them was one from a woman named Carolyn Hart. From the two-one-five area code of the number she had left, O'Hara knew she had called from southeastern Pennsylvania.
Yet he didn't recognize the name and she hadn't divulged why she was calling. So he kept the number on his list of things for the following day.
Then he went home, made himself dinner, and spent a non-alcoholic evening prowling through the take-outs from Rose Horvath's library. With the fire glowing in his living room, for the first time in his life, he gave some intelligent thought to the prospects of a life after this one, and visitations from those who had passed on to wherever that life might exist. He did this until he was completely exhausted. Then he slept peacefully and without interruption.
The next morning, he made a call to Florida and spoke to administrative personnel of the prison where Gary Ledbetter had been executed. From the assistant warden, O'Hara obtained the name and number of the one individual to have visited Ledbetter regularly, a local priest, Father Robert Trintino.
Later in the day, O'Hara reached Carolyn Hart. When she spoke knowledgeably about Gary Ledbetter and his past, O'Hara made a decision. He wished to interview her in person. And for that matter, O'Hara further brooded, a visit to Florida and an audience with the final custodian of Gary's earthly fate might pay dividends as well.
“The State of New Frigging Hampshire,” growled Captain Mallinson when faced with O'Hara's request for travel expenses, “is not keen on financing Florida vacations for homicide dicks who are about to be let out to pasture. And I assure you that I'm not either.”
Mallinson followed this assertion with such a violent hacking cough that O'Hara worried about his commander's health. Fact was, these first winter days Mallinson looked like death warmed over. And pressure from the Negri case wasn't doing much good for anyone's respiratory system.
“Just three days, Captain,” O'Hara said, “and I’ll be back.”
“See that you are,” Mallinson said, fixing his spidery signature to a travel permit. “And see that you bring back results.”
O'Hara called Carolyn a second time and rang Father Trintino for an initial talk. He set times and places for meeting both. One of the civilian employees of the New Hampshire State Police booked a pair of flights. O'Hara actually began to look forward to the trip.
It was only three days and it was official business. But it would get him out of the New Hampshire deep freeze, and all that came with it, for seventy-two hours. It was only that night, in the quiet of his home as he packed, that he recalled a promise that Ledbetter had made on the night of Gary's most recent appearance.
As he packed, his hands froze for a moment, for the words seemed to tiptoe back to him. Something that he had forgotten came to the fore.
There? a lady gonna come see you, Frank. Or maybe you'll find her. Go with your instincts, man. Go with what you know is right.
“Who is she, Gary?” he asked aloud.
Predictably, a harsh, intimidating silence settled upon him in response. Several seconds later, far up in the attic of his home, there came one more of those damnable creaks on the floorboards.
Chapter Sixteen
O’Hara flew to Philadelphia the next afternoon. He rented a car at the airport and drove into the center city. Carolyn Hart had designated the northeast corner of Rittenhouse Square as the place to meet. O'Hara found the location easily.
He settled onto a park bench. It was just past three o'clock. He waited for several minutes, watching traffic move westward on Walnut Street. They had agreed upon three thirty as a time to meet.
Then, ten minutes early, he felt a presence near him. He began to wonder whether he was developing some sort of instinct about such things.
He turned. Standing nearby was a pretty woman in her late twenties. Dark-haired, very pale skin, dressed in heavy sweater and jeans. She smiled very slightly.
“Hello,” she said. “Is this seat taken?”
“I saved it,” O'Hara said. “For you, I'd guess.” He moved to give her more room. Already, he sensed that there was something out of the ordinary about her. A distant voice of warning was screaming at him, telling him that, like Gary, there was something off-kilter about her.
She sat. He returned the woman's gaze, then stared straight ahead. He waited.
“Getting colder,” she said.
“Guess it is,” he said. “But you know what? For me, after twenty years in New Hampshire, this is a trip to the tropics.”
“New Hampshire,” she said, turning over the words that identified him. “New Hampshire.” She thought it over some more. “You came all the way to see me?”
“I did.”
“I'm flattered.”
“I was hoping you'd make it worth my while.”
She smiled again. “I promise to,” she said. “In as many ways as I can.” He offered his hand. “Detective Frank O'Hara,” he said. “New Hampshire State Police.”
She accepted his handshake. Her touch was tentative, a little chilly. There was something wrong with that, too.
“You're not from New Hampshire, are you?” she said. “Not originally.”
“Illinois,” he answered.
“I can tell,” she said.
“How?”
“I just can.”
“I'm complimented, I think,” he said.
“And you're a policeman,” she said next.
He nodded. “But you knew that.”
“I could tell, also,” she said.
“You're very perceptive.”
“I've had bad experiences with policemen,” she said.
“I'm sure this won't be one,” he said. “And after all, you chose to contact me.”
She smiled. And there was something wrong with the smile, too, he finally decided. Something a little off about her in every way. O'Hara's initial overall impression was that she might be wacko.
“Why did you contact me?” he asked.
“I had my reasons,” she answered.
“Could you share them with me?”
“No. Not entirely.”
He waited a moment.
“Then your name would be a good starting point,” he said.
“I'm Carolyn Hart,” she answered. “I told you that on the phone.”
“That's your real name?”
“It's the name I use now.”
“What's your real name?”
“Carolyn Hart.”
“We're starting to spin our wheels a little, aren't we?”
“Not too much too quickly,” she said softly. “Okay? I have my reasons for everything.”
&nb
sp; He held her in his gaze for several seconds. In the world of homicide investigations, some material witnesses needed gardeners. Some needed weed-whackers. The key to success was guessing which was which. There was something fragile about her spirit, something which told him that if he went too quickly, she would clam up. Or disappear. So he decided that if she wanted to be brought along slowly, he would have to honor her wish.
“And what do you and I have to talk about, Carolyn?” O'Hara asked.
“Gary Ledbetter.”
“What about him?”
“He's still around, you know.”
“Gary's dead,” he answered, almost out of instinct. Certainly he did not answer out of what he had seen and felt over the last weeks.
“Oh, I know that,” she replied. “The State of Florida executed him. For something he didn't do. But Gary is still around.” She said this in a plaintive voice, but very matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the previous day's weather: ‘Twas cool and milder yesterday, with some sunshine, and, by the way, the dead walk among us if you're drunk enough.
Sure.
He could almost hear her saying it. And so, involuntarily, he felt himself fighting off a chill. Not from the weather, which was in the low forties and tolerable, but from the thought that finally he had found someone else who might have shared his same demented vision of a dead man walking the mortal Earth.
“You see him?” O'Hara asked. “You see Gary?”
“Sometimes.”
“And he speaks to you?”
“Sometimes.”
“What does he say?”
“He asked me to contact you,” Carolyn said. “Gary didn't kill any girls, you know. Gary wouldn't do that. He was afraid of females.” Her intonation, her accent, had a trace of the bayou. Like Gary's, but not as prominent.
“You're a female. Was he afraid of you?” O'Hara asked.
“With me it was different.”
“How was it different?”
“It just was.”
“Did Gary love you?” O'Hara asked.
“We loved each other.”
“You were his girlfriend?”
“No. It wasn't like that. We just loved each other.”
“Soul mates?”
“Call it what you will, Mr. O'Hara.”
The detective again felt the conversation spinning around in circles. “Then why me?” he asked. “Can you tell me that? Why did Gary ask you to contact me?”
“‘Cause you're Gary's last hope,” she said to him. “You were the only one who ever thought Gary might not be guilty. See, they all ganged up and killed Gary for something he never did. But he still wants to be vindicated. And you're his last good hope.” She gave it a long pause. “Otherwise. . . .”
“Otherwise what?”
“Otherwise his spirit is just going to keep roaming the world. Can't get settled in his grave. How would you like that for your soul? Not being able to settle into your grave?”
The traffic backed up on Walnut Street. O'Hara watched it for a few moments as he let the enormity of what he was hearing settle in. Then he decided to try another angle.
“Look, Carolyn,” he said. “The last thing I'd want in my line of work is to think I'd helped convict an innocent man. So I went through all sorts of evidence with Gary. Everything at the time pointed to his guilt. Everyone else thought so, too. And the courts agreed. Perhaps unfortunately.”
“You had your own suspicions. You know that.”
“But how do you know that?”
She glanced away, almost demurely. “I know that.”
“But how?”
“From him.”
He took a stab. “From Gary?”
Carolyn nodded.
O'Hara felt a chill. “Gary told you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Many times. He's been telling me that for years. He says that Detective O'Hara is the only man who had even the slightest suspicion that he was innocent. Gary told me that when I visited him in prison.”
The assertion grabbed O'Hara by surprise. “You visited him in prison?”
“Three times. When he first went on Death Row.”
“And when did you speak to him last?”
“The other day.”
“Come on, Carolyn. I don't believe in ghosts.”
She smiled. A strange, enigmatic smile now, one that gripped him. Brought him into her. “Sure you do,” she said.
A tingle in his blood again. “How would you know?” he asked.
“You believe in ghosts because you know you've seen Gary.”
O'Hara felt as if he were going to break a sweat. How had she so quickly pulled the rug out from under him?
“Even the last time Gary and I spoke,” she continued, “he said the same thing. Frank O'Hara is the man. He's the man who will prove I was innocent.”
“And when was that, Carolyn?”
“A few days ago.”
“So even though he's dead, he still talks to you?”
“He talks to you, too, doesn't he?” she asked.
“How would you know that?” O'Hara asked.
“Gary told me that, too. He comes to you in your home. In your bedroom. In your living room. See, in your home in New Hampshire, Mr. O'Hara, there is always a room for the dead as long as Gary's spirit is walking. That's where Gary's going to live until you do something. Do you understand? It's really very simple.”
He blew out a breath. He was developing a headache. His brain felt as if his skull had been whacked with a hammer. And he knew why. Carolyn, and for that matter Gary, too, were slipping into his head.
“I wish he'd stop killing women,” O'Hara protested. “Whether he's dead or alive.”
“But Gary is innocent,” she said. “That's why I'm here. To help you prove it.” He had to leap back into reality, before she pushed him over an unseen brink.
“I have two murder cases to close, Carolyn,” he said, almost running out of patience. “The cases are located in this world. The very real world of cars and taxes and city streets. That's where I have to close these cases, not in the realm of spirits. Are you going to help me do that?”
“That's why I'm here.”
She smiled. To make everything worse, he felt himself drawn to Carolyn, drawn against his better instincts. As if she had some surreal lure that she was employing toward him.
He knew he could fall in love with a smile like that.
So O'Hara looked away again, watching the time and temperature flicker alternately on the side of an office building, as he steadied himself and gathered his thoughts. He turned back to her in a mixture of confusion and anger.
“Did anyone ever suggest to you that you're crazy?” the detective asked. “That you see things that aren't there? And that you'd be better off under psychiatric supervision?”
“All the time,” she said. “I know I don't live in the real world.”
“Then what world do you live in?”
She shrugged. “Something midway between,” Carolyn said.
He worked up considerable courage to pose the next question. Courage, because it was a real question, not a facetious one. He wanted to know the answer.
“So are you a ghost, too?” he asked. “Like Gary?”
“Now it's you who are talking crazy,” Carolyn said. “I'm real.”
“Let's just see,” he said. “Let's find out if you're real or if I'm imagining you.”
He reached for her. She did not move. And although they had exchanged a handshake minutes earlier, he half expected his wrist to pass through her plane. Ice-cold, like the time he had reached into Gary.
So very gently, he placed his hand on her shoulder. To his relief, the feel of humanity was definitely there. Firm. Tactile.
A woman's body.
Something went through him that he didn't recognize. He had not touched a woman for so long. He moved his hand to her wrist and held it until he found a pulse.
“See?” sh
e said. “I wouldn't lie to you. I can't tell you the whole truth, because I don't know the whole truth. But I can point you in the right direction.”
“The right direction for what?”
“For Gary,” she said. “To prove he was innocent.”
Always winter, he thought to himself. Always these insane things happened in the winter.
“I can only steer you in the right direction,” she continued. “I can't take you directly to the answers.”
“Why not? Wouldn't that make everything easier?”
“Just can't,” she answered.
He wanted to ask her why, but instinct told him not to press. “So steer me,” he said.
“Got a car?”
“Yes.”
“I'll show you where,” Carolyn said.
They walked to his car which was parked in a metered spot within sight of Walnut Street. She gave the directions and O'Hara drove, straight ahead to West Philadelphia. The day remained clear and cool. Her presence in his car seemed strange to him, alien in a way he could not place, and again he wondered if he were sensing something.
