A Room For The Dead (THE GHOST STORIES OF NOEL HYND # 3)

by Noel Hynd

  He punched a button on his radio. Rock music from Boston. No Sinatra anywhere. A sign of the complete boondocks. Couldn't even hear “Strangers In The Night.” He grinned, trying to rally his spirits. Truth was, Frank-the other Frank, Mr. Sinatra-hated that song.

  The snow was insistent. O'Hara was reminded of the day when the Negri case had begun, when he was drawn up Mount Monadnock in a similar blizzard.

  He watched the white stuff pour onto his windshield like so much cotton candy. This, he knew, was a prescription for death on the state roads. An unforeseen storm. Black ice on the roads. Freezing temperatures. No sanders or plows out yet. In his rearview mirror, he watched the snow close the road as he passed, metaphorically sealing his way back. This storm was arriving so hard and fast that signposts and reflectors at the sides of the road were quickly coated.

  There was no way to get one's bearings. He cut his speed to a crawl and knew that the one-hour trip could now take three if he arrived at all. He navigated by instinct. Lucky he knew the roads. Another twenty minutes and he was practically in a whiteout.

  Impossible to see fifteen feet in front of the car. He dropped his speed to ten miles an hour and readied himself to slide into a ditch. He had chains on his tires, but already the wheels were slipping and failing to hold. Several minutes later, he felt a bang on one of his tires and knew that one chain had broken. When its jangle disappeared, he knew that he had lost it in the snow. He had never before lost a chain. Moments later, the other one broke, and it, too, was lost. Under his heavy coat, O'Hara broke a huge sweat. He was miles from nowhere now. And he was afraid to stop the car. If he stopped, the snow could impact his tires within minutes. The car would be stuck. He would have to continue on foot. The eight-degree weather would close in on him, and he could freeze to death.

  He exploded in rage. A torrent of profanities cascaded from his mouth. And he contemplated his own death so clearly that he could visualize it.

  Ask yourself: What is your greatest fear?

  Lured out into the snow. . . !

  He would freeze to death.

  A policeman's funeral. Yours . . . !

  He could already hear what people would say: Poor old Frank O'Hara! Turned into an icicle at the tender age of forty-nine. Dumb bastard! What was he doing riding around the back roads on a night like that, anyway? Must have been drinking again! Should have known better.

  He wondered if Wilhelm Negri would give him an inch of obit space in his disreputable tabloid. He wondered if he would even want it.

  On the Pontiac, his rear tires danced. A cute little fishtail on the snow. Bad news. That meant that the snow was already at least six inches deep. Donna's prognostication already had him by the throat, and it was barely two hours old.

  He came to a break in the road and realized that he would have to take a terrible chance. The roads were so bad that the good ones were as slow to travel as the habitually poor ones.

  Only one thing could save him, he reasoned. He would cut through Devil's Glen. That would take ten miles off his trip. He made the turn and was half a mile into the isolated rural route when he realized how crazy it had been to even try.

  That route had been Stacey Dissette's fatal mistake on a similar night. And without chains-he was so rattled that he momentarily had forgotten that his chains were gone-such a route was akin to suicide.

  He slid twenty feet down one of the first hills. He must have slid thirty down the second hill. He was amazed that the old Pontiac had had enough gumption to hold the road. The car, too, must have had its own instincts. He blessed the old heap and prayed that they would live to see another morning.

  Then, up ahead in the road, he saw something that told him for all the world that another dawn was something that he might never view.

  There was a man in the road. Or the figure of a man. A surreal, supernatural vision right out of anyone's worst nightmare. Especially his.

  Gary!

  O'Hara's eyes widened like saucers and his heart kicked. There was Gary Ledbetter, solid as granite, standing in front of him. Gary was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, much the same as the night he had stepped out of the woods near O'Hara's home.

  Any living man would have frozen to death. But Gary had already died. So he couldn't freeze. Instead, Gary's bare hands were outstretched toward O'Hara, palms down amidst thick, tumbling snowflakes.

  Instinctively, O'Hara hit his brake. The car swerved but again held the road. It continued forward until it went right into Gary. Gary's outreaching hands firmly arrested the old hood and stopped the car cold.

  Then Gary's grip remained upon the car, holding it in place. And his eyes glared at O'Hara who was at the wheel and trying desperately to get some traction out of his tires.

  Ledbetter's eyes gleamed. Cobalt craziness. Big, blue, psycho peepers.

  Get out, the ghost demanded.

  O'Hara shouted back. “No! “

  You will!

  Gary's eyes burned. The engine of the dependable old Pontiac stuttered. Madly O'Hara pumped the accelerator and gunned the wheels. The wheels spun impotently in place. O'Hara hit the gas again. The car shook and stalled. O'Hara was as stuck as he had ever been in his life.

  He lunged for the car phone beneath his dashboard. He would have to have help. And he'd have to have it fast, though he could only vaguely figure out where he was. The snow was so thick that no landmarks were visible. All the road signs were buried. All he knew was that he was somewhere in the glen.

  His hand found the telephone. Then something like fluid ice invaded the car and landed on his hand, pinning his arm down, preventing him from drawing up the phone.

  O'Hara looked down, then followed his horrified line of vision up into the seat next to him. Gary was gone from the front of the car. Ledbetter was inside the car now. And it was his deathly hand that had settled upon O'Hara's.

  O'Hara screamed like an animal in a slaughterhouse. His back slammed against his car door. The ragged seat belt came loose, and the car door opened. O'Hara fell from the car, as if propelled by a violent force or pulled by strong, unseen arms. He landed hard on the snow and slipped trying to stand. The car door slammed in front of him, as if kicked shut.

  He put his hand on the door handle, trying to open the car again. But it was useless. The door was as tight and unyielding as if it had been bolted. Or frozen in place. A second scream of terror escaped his throat. Then he turned and Gary was there again in the roadway.

  No winter clothing. Grinning. Untouched by the snow.

  “You're not really there,” O'Hara insisted. “This isn't happening. When it comes down to it, I don't believe in you, Gary.”

  Too late. I'm in your head. You can't get rid of me!

  “You are NOT real! “

  I'm real. You know it.

  “You're . . . !”

  I'm angry, man! I'm real angry!

  “Angry how?” The snow flew in O'Hara's face. The bitter winter air was already seeping through his heavy sheepskin coat.

  You've got it all wrong, man. You think I'm still killing!

  Gary's voice was a holy terror. Like a primal scream, but not without a plaintive edge to it. Like a wounded angel.

  “You are still killing!”

  No, no, no! I'm innocent, man!

  “How can you be?”

  Very easily!

  “Then lead me to the truth! “

  The truth? Gary's voice was nearly a cry now. More like a man condemned. The ghost whacked his arm against the hood of the stalled Pontiac. Snow from the hood flew up into O'Hara's face.

  The truth! Gary howled again. His voice rode upon the wind. Near them, a bare black tree buckled under too much ice and snow. O'Hara heard a snap in the bough. An unpleasant snap like a broken bone in a human body. Gary raged, moving through the snow on the road. Here comes the truth!

  O'Hara's mouth opened to answer. The wind and snow continued to blast him in the face. But then, within the wind, he heard another noise. And he sa
w a yellow light roll across the road in front of him.

  He turned and not too distantly behind him were a pair of huge yellow eyes, coming ever closer, with a motor chugging at their rear.

  The eyes narrowed into beams within the snow. Headlights from a four-wheel. The vehicle put on its red flashers and stopped a cautious twenty feet behind O'Hara.

  O'Hara stared into the beams.

  Then the door of the four-wheel opened.

  O'Hara stared at the door, fighting the brightness of the headlamps.

  A man stepped out of the four-wheel. He was the same size as Gary and had a similar gait. He moved toward O'Hara. He was a very handsome man in a heavy, hooded, green parka, the hood pulled up against the weather.

  “Stuck?” he asked. He carried with him a sharp, hoe-like instrument. For chipping away ice, among other purposes.

  O'Hara was so surprised that he could only answer with a single word. “Yeah,” he said.

  “You got to be nuts driving through here,” the man said. “It's one hell of a night.”

  “Roads are bad everywhere,” O'Hara said. “I tried to cut through here.” He shrugged. The man was looking at O'Hara's car, his line of vision upon the tires.

  “You should use chains if you're trying this road. Otherwise, it's suicide.” The man's gaze found O'Hara's. There was something in the man's grayish-blue eyes that O'Hara instantly disliked. “As if the weather wasn't bad enough, there was a woman killed not too far from here. You hear about that?”

  “I heard,” O’Hara answered.

  The snow was relentless, but it was coming down without a wind now. Like big, puffy feathers from overhead.

  O'Hara turned to look for Gary. With a start, he saw that Gary had vanished. O'Hara searched in every direction. No sign. No trace. O'Hara looked toward the trees by the roadside.

  He scanned. He saw a forest ghost here and there. Just a quick movement at the edge of his vision. Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing blatant.

  Frank?

  O’Hara whirled. There was no Gary, anywhere. Except for his voice.

  “What?” asked O'Hara.

  Very careful, Frankie.

  “I didn't say anything,” the man said. “You hearing things?”

  “Must be the wind,” O'Hara said.

  “How deep are your tires stuck?” the man asked. “If you're in ice, maybe I can chip you out.”

  Confused, O'Hara looked at the tires. He couldn't see them well, so he began to crouch.

  Don't do it, Frankie.

  O'Hara never went completely to his knees. Gary's voice stopped him. And he sensed danger as the man moved closer. So O'Hara stood quickly, surprising the man. The man now had the bladed instrument up high. He could have been readying to use it. Or else he was steadying it on his shoulder.

  Shoot him, Frankie, Gary chirped. Shoot the fucker dead, man.

  Shaken, O'Hara eyed the man cautiously. “Who are you, anyway?” O'Hara asked.

  “I'm just passing through.”

  O'Hara looked to the man's four-wheel. It looked like a blue jeep, but in the snow and the glare, O'Hara couldn't be sure. “With a New Hampshire license?”

  “It's borrowed.”

  “Staying nearby?”

  “Yeah. Just up the road a notch.”

  “I can't imagine where,” O'Hara said. “There's nothing habitable through this road. I'm a cop. I know the area.”

  The man backed off slightly. “You must be new,” the man said. “There are places.”

  O'Hara played along again. “Yeah. I'm real new. Why are you even out?”

  “I like the snow. Beautiful, ain't it?” He paused. “Hey, what gives? I stopped to help, and you're grilling me like a criminal.”

  “Sorry.” O'Hara took a mental picture of him. And he

  memorized the license plate: WY-643T.

  “Why don't you see if your tires will dig in,” the man suggested. “We can exchange information at the top of the road if you want. But the snow's only getting worse while we stand here. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” O'Hara said again. He was still trying to correlate events. '1Just one minute. Let me check the front of my car.”

  “What's the matter with it?”

  “I might have hit something. I don't know.”

  The man stepped back several paces, retreating into the beams of his headlights. No longer could O'Hara see him very well. What O'Hara could see, however, was that there were no footsteps in the snow where Gary had stood. And, looking carefully in the other direction, there were plenty where the man from the four-wheel had walked.

  O'Hara slid back into his car. He took inventory on his service revolver in case he needed it. Next to his body, it remained warm. Then he prayed the car engine would turn over again. The Pontiac cranked properly on the first try, and the motor churned to life. Then, very cautiously, O'Hara tried the accelerator.

  The wheels started to spin.

  Easy, Frankie.

  Something hit the car in the back, but the man and the four-wheel remained ten yards away. O'Hara had the sense of being pushed. The Pontiac started to grip the road. As if invisible hands were assisting him, the Pontiac moved forward.

  O'Hara kept it in its lowest gear. He was too cautious to stop again in the glen. His vehicle climbed the next hill, then eased down the one following. The path repeated itself more times than he could count. And the yellow beams followed O'Hara for three miles until the road that had cost Stacey Dissette her life came out upon a wider highway.

  Miraculously, a sand truck had just come through. The path to Hancock would be nowhere nearly as bad.

  O'Hara eased his car to as slow a speed as he could muster without getting into more trouble. He waited for the yellow beams of the four-wheel to come up out of the glen.

  But, to O'Hara's shock, they never did.

  *

  It seemed like an eternity passed when O'Hara pulled his car into the driveway of his home. He cut the engine and sat at the wheel for a moment. The electronic door opener had frozen again. He had to raise the garage door manually, park, and then close the door again by hand.

  He accomplished this as if in a trance from the events of the evening. And he did all this with the notion somewhere in his head that he had not yet seen the last of Gary for the night.

  He entered his kitchen. He tossed his coat on a chair. The snow upon it turned to water and dripped to the floor. He stood for several seconds at his kitchen window, gazing out. He found a beer, then a second one, in the refrigerator and returned to the window. He began to settle his nerves with some good solid drinking.

  He tried to put in order the events on the snowy highway.

  The way his car had stopped.

  The stranger he had seen.

  The vision of Gary.

  The near fulfillment of Donna's dark prophesy.

  He shut his eyes tightly, trying to figure it out. He wasn't certain how long he held them closed, but he knew why he opened them again.

  He was listening to music. Piano music was emanating from his living room. No one had touched the old upright for years, but someone was damned well tickling the yellowing ivories right now.

  Soft music. Soulful.

  Slithery.

  He opened the kitchen door that led to the dining room. The piano music was louder.

  His normal instinct was to draw his pistol. Yet, even though his hand went to his weapon, he knew the act was useless. How could he protect himself against a man who is already dead? The very touch on the piano told him who was playing.

  Silky and seductive. A touch not quite human. A phantom's fingers upon the keys. An old hymn from a Southern church, a mournful Baptist elegy to those who suffered or those who were departed.

  A familiar voice hummed the tune as the pianist played.

  O'Hara moved through his dining area. There was a figure at the piano. Solid, not shimmering. As solid as if it were a man alive. For a few seconds, O'Hara thought it could have been the
man he saw out on the road, the man who had appeared after Gary.

  But then, in all the warped logic of the case, he knew that it couldn't be. He knew that the pianist was not a living man, but a dead one.

  Come in. It’s your home after all.

  “Thank you, Gary. “

  For some reason, O'Hara was no longer frightened. Maybe his fear had receded because now, finally, he was beginning to see his way through to the end of this.

  Maybe.

  Any requests?

  Gary communicated without turning. O'Hara slowly approached the piano from the rear.

  “No requests, Gary,” O'Hara said.

  Not even a little of this?

  O'Hara was a few feet from the piano now. He could see Gary's fingers, as nimble as they had been in life, as they danced across the keys. The same fingers that were said to have killed. The same fingers that had held swords and axes to women's necks.

  Ah, ah, ah, Gary said. I know your thoughts. I'm innocent, man. Remember?

  O'Hara had never turned a light on, but the room seemed to have its own soft glow.

  From the moon outside, reflected upon the two feet of ice and snow. From Gary. From wherever.

  No requests at all? Gary teased. Not even a little of this? I know you like this.

  Gary's hands changed style and tempo on the keys. A few bars of Sinatra. “My Way.” “Young At Heart.” And, most ominously, “From Here To Eternity.”

  Gary turned toward O'Hara. Oh, that face! That beautiful, disreputable, murderously seductive face. And those cobalt eyes. They glowed like a pair of piercing blue pilot lights marking a passage to a dangerous, dangerous soul. Gary's eyes lulled him and soothed him and made him tremble, all at the same time.