‘Are either of them still around?’
‘Not for over thirty years in poor Edna’s case. Hit by a car on Main Street. Doc Perkins was pretty much retired even then, he’s been gone nearer fifty. There’s just me left now.’ She shrugged.
‘And what happened to the babies?’
‘They didn’t stay. What you have to understand, Mr Nightingale, is that there was a big...what can I say...market for young children, lots of people ready to adopt, and the younger the better.’
There were tears in her eyes now, and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief she’d taken from her purse.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘I just think of those poor girls way back then. You know most of them never even saw their babies once they’d given birth. Never even held them, they’d signed them away. It seems so awful looking back, but...but it was just the way things were.’
‘Times change,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s no good trying to judge the past by the standards of the present.’
‘That’s what I tell myself, and I’m sure people felt they were doing the best for the girls, but never to hold your own child. And all those babies, never to see their real mother.’
‘But surely, these days, an adopted child has the right to know who the birth parents are, to see the records.’
She sighed mournfully. ‘These days yes, but not back then. The records were sealed for good. Still, I guess there must have been records, perhaps they could be unsealed. Maybe.’
‘Where might the records be?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I really have no idea, maybe the county seat, Dodge, maybe the state capital, Topeka. I never dealt with that side of things. I was at the births, helped look after the babies, until they, until they went away.’
‘And there was never a problem with finding people to adopt?’
‘Not that I knew of, I think they had parents lined up before the birth, though they never came to Birchwood.’
‘You had a delivery service?’
‘Well, I guess it wasn’t like a Chinese restaurant, but certainly the babies went to their new homes, rather than the parents collecting them. Except...’
She broke off, but Nightingale said nothing, until it seemed as if she’d stopped for good.
‘Except what?’
‘Well, occasionally there was one we couldn’t place.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, perhaps because they weren’t really what the parents wanted, for one reason or another.’
‘Not what they wanted?’ repeated Nightingale. ‘In what way?’
‘Well, as I said, this was a long time ago. Occasionally we’d get a baby who was, maybe, not quite the right color. Half-caste, maybe. A family wouldn’t want that, of course. Or maybe, not quite right. They didn’t have all the tests then. Sometimes there was a Mongol.’
‘A what?’ said Nightingale.
‘I’m sorry, that’s what they called them back then. Downs syndrome they say now, though with all the tests you rarely see one. Or other problems. Then the adoption wouldn’t go through, and those babies went off to a home, I guess.’
A chill ran up Nightingale’s spine. He was beginning to get a very bad feeling about the way the investigation was going.
He stayed for another fifteen minutes while Janet Carpenter ran through some more memories of Birchwood, but Nightingale didn’t learn anything more from her. The memories were clearly upsetting, and she’d been on her second handkerchief by the time he’d thanked her and got up to leave. She gave him a watery smile, and he stopped off at the kitchen to say goodbye to her daughter, before getting back into the car and driving off down the track back towards the road.
He turned left at the mailbox, and drove back towards Little Bend, driving the old car on autopilot as he thought over what he’d managed to learn that morning. The baby farm that had once operated where Peacehaven now stood seemed like an appalling relic from the Dark Ages, but it had been just forty-five years ago, about the time the MGB had rolled out of the factory in Abingdon.
There was a fair-sized red truck up ahead, going pretty slowly. Nightingale didn’t rate his chances of getting past it on the winding two lane road, so he eased off the gas to hang back a reasonable distance. The town was only four miles away now. He took a casual look in his driving mirror and stiffened in his seat. There was another red truck about 200 yards behind him, this one looked like a mobile cement mixer.
By the time he focused back on the road ahead of him, it was nearly too late. The truck had pulled sideways across the road in front of him, blocking both lanes.
Nightingale pumped the brake frantically, cursing the MGB’s old fashioned and inefficient drum-brakes as he skidded ever nearer to the truck, but finally offering a prayer of thanks that they’d been properly maintained, as the car halted two feet away from disaster. He took another look in the mirror, and wasn’t at all surprised to see the cement-mixer pull across the road behind him, cutting off any possible escape route. Both vehicles bore the sign Wharton Construction on the cab doors, together with an address and phone number. Nightingale had the distinct feeling that his whole day was about to be ruined.
Since he was going nowhere, and locking himself inside a convertible was a complete waste of time, he got out of the car and lit a cigarette, trying to look a lot more casual than he felt. He took a long drag, blew smoke and watched as two heavyset men in blue coveralls and black ski-masks emerged from the cab of the truck. He turned his head a little, to see two identically dressed figures climb down from the cement-mixer’s cab. Three of them were carrying baseball bats. The second man from the truck was not so much of a sportsman, but was brandishing the largest wrench Nightingale had ever seen.
Nightingale decided it probably wasn’t time to run through his repertoire of wisecracks, so just nodded at them. ‘Gentlemen.’
None of the men said anything. They moved closer until they were standing in a loose circle around him. Wrenchman spoke, his voice muffled by the mask.
‘We have a message for you, Nightingale.’
Nightingale dropped his cigarette. ‘Who from?’ he asked.
‘The who ain’t as important as the what,’ said Wrenchman. ‘So I suggest you listen carefully.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Then use them, not your mouth. You asking questions around town ain’t appreciated in certain circles, people who don’t care to be upset are getting upset. You understand?’
‘Pretty much,’ said Nightingale.
‘Your continued good health depends on you going nowhere near Mrs Wharton again, not pestering folk, and maybe getting yourself on a plane to somewhere else, pretty damned quick. You got it?’
‘I got it.’
‘This can be a dangerous road out here, you know. Accidents happen pretty easily.’
Without warning or lowering his gaze, he hit the inside of Nightingale’s left knee with the wrench. Nightingale screamed in agony as the nerve center sent waves of pain through his body, his leg collapsed under him and he lay grunting in pain on the ground. A heavy boot was pressed onto the back of his head, and his face was pushed down against the asphalt.
‘See what I mean? You don’t watch where you’re going, you could take a nasty fall. Maybe land on a rock, hurt a rib or two.’
Nightingale retched in pain again as a steel-capped work boot crashed into the right side of his chest.
‘Yes, sir. Plenty of rocks around here to land on.’
Another savage kick made him yelp.
‘Now, I have to ask, have you understood the message?’
‘Completely,’ croaked Nightingale.
‘You sure now, you don’t need to have it repeated?’
‘No,’ he gasped.
‘I heard you English guys were more polite than that.’
‘No thank you,’ groaned Nightingale.
‘Good manners c
osts nothing. My friends and I will be leaving now. Best thing you can do is drive this nice, shiny car to the airport and fly your ass out of here. Y’all have a nice day now.’
Anything after this will definitely be an improvement, thought Nightingale, as he lay still, trying to catch his breath and push the pain back down. He heard the two trucks start up, and dragged himself to his feet, before some passing car ran him over. He was relieved to see that the thugs had left the MGB alone, and climbed back in. He waited till both trucks were out of sight before starting up and heading back to town.
He’d rattled a few cages, it seemed. Someone was not keen at all on his line of questioning, and it would be no surprise to find his name was Wharton. Which meant he could probably save time on calling the police to tell Chief Wharton that his brother’s men had given him a beating. This time he’d been lucky, no bones broken, no visible injuries, but he was in no doubt that the men could have killed him, smashed up the car and it would have been written off as an accident.
One way or another, he needed to be finished with Little Bend.
* * *
Nightingale stopped at Domino’s for two pizzas and drove back to Gable Street slowly, turning the wheel gingerly to avoid aggravating his injured ribs. He left the car outside the front door, let himself in and went down to the studio. The red light was on outside, he pressed the button and waited, Around two minutes later, the light changed to green and he went inside. Jimmy Deadman was coming out of the control room, a guitar in his hand. It was black, carved into the shape of a pentagram, with the hills, valleys and mystical signs painted on in red. A green and red snake ran the length of the fingerboard.
‘Wow,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s certainly different.’
‘Isn’t it though,’ said Deadman. ‘Hand made for me in 1985, guy who did it was killed in a car crash three weeks later.’
‘Unlucky.’
‘For him,’ said Deadman. ‘Our manager at the time kind of leaked it to the press, made it seem as if the guitar was cursed. Only I was supposed to be able to touch it without being harmed.’
‘Anybody believe that?’
‘Not many, but it sort of backfired on us. Roadies are the most suspicious people in the world, not one of them would even load or unload the damned thing. Had to carry it myself.’
‘Bet it sounds good.’
‘You lose, it sounds like shit. All the points on it make it damned uncomfortable to play too, but I have to practise with the thing, everyone expects to see it in concert.’ He nodded at the pizzas. ‘Is one of those for me?’
‘If you’re not still juicing?’
‘I do feel healthier for Mary’s diet but I guess I’m due some comfort food.’
‘Mary and the kids gone?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Yeah. Helen and Sarah too. Sarah was sorry not to get to say goodbye to you, you might have made a friend there. Nice girl. So did you find out anything?’
Nightingale gave him a rundown of his meetings with the three elderly ladies, but decided to leave out the incident on the road back. He hadn’t been badly damaged, and maybe Deadman had many years left in Little Bend, no sense in setting him against two of its leading citizens. When he’d finished, Deadman let out a whistle.
‘Some kind of a baby farm, an adoption center? Shit, I never knew about that.’
‘Not many left who go back that far,’ said Nightingale. And maybe most of those who do would rather forget about it.’
‘Okay, so what? The place is haunted by dead mothers? Adopted babies?’
‘Doubt it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t know all the rules about ghosts, but I’m pretty sure they haunt the place they die, and I didn’t hear anything about anyone dying here. Could have happened of course, but I’m hoping Adrian Miller can shed some light when he eventually gets here.’
‘I hope so,’ said Deadman. ‘I need my house back, and my family.’
‘Maybe the state or county adoption service or whatever might have some records,’ said Nightingale. ‘Can I borrow your laptop?’
It took less than five minutes for Nightingale to find the numbers, but nearer ten to be put through to the right department in Topeka and ask for the information he needed. He hung up and turned to face Deadman’s inquiring look.
‘They don’t have any records at all for an adoption center or mother and baby home called Birchwood in Little Bend. In fact there’s no record of any adoption center in Little Bend, ever.’
‘So what does that mean?’ asked Deadman.
‘Apparently it means that Libby Wharton was operating privately. Under the radar, just in it for the money.’
‘That legal?’
‘Wouldn’t be now, is my guess, but maybe things were a little different back then. Anyway, the state is going to be no help. Let’s hope Miller will be.’
* * *
Adrian Miller was carrying a holdall and trundling a huge suitcase behind him when he walked into Arrivals at Wichita airport. Nightingale spotted the shaven head, and noticed the tattoos just showing at the left cuff of the man’s loose fitting gray jacket, worn over a black shirt and black pants. Nightingale was holding a piece of paper with Miller’s name on it and Miller smiled and nodded at it. ‘That’s me,’ he said. He looked tired and Nightingale took the suitcase from him after they had shaken hands.
Nightingale led the way to the MGB, tried and failed to get Miller’s case into the vintage roadster’s small boot, most of which was taken up by the spare wheel. In the end he settled for wedging it behind the two seats. ‘Planning on staying a while?’ he asked, climbing into the driver’s seat.
‘Not at all, I’d like to be home as soon as possible, but the case has all the equipment I might need. I assume it wouldn’t be available in Deadwood, or whatever the place is called.’
‘So, you dropped everything to fly out here?’ asked Nightingale as they drove away from the airport. ‘Joshua a good friend of yours?’ Nightingale thought he noticed Miller give a shudder at the mention of Wainwright’s name, but it could have been the firm ride of the MGB shaking him about.
‘Not exactly a friend,’ said Miller. ‘But he’s definitely the sort of person one obliges if one can. I’d rather be in his good books than not.’
Nightingale could relate to that. ‘Carrot or stick?’ he said.
Miller was quiet for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer at all. Finally he spoke. ‘How long have you known Wainwright?’ he asked.
‘Few years, give or take,’ said Nightingale.
‘Then you probably know how he operates. One rarely sees the stick, though there’s always the risk I suppose. And his carrot can be very enticing. In this case it comes with a satisfactory number of zeroes, so this particular donkey does what he’s bidden.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes, that sounds just about right.’
‘Anyway, to business,’ said Miller. ‘Why not save time and fill me in on what’s been happening.’
Nightingale obliged, confining himself to the problems with the twins, rather than going into the history of the house. He had no idea how a ghost-hunter operated, but decided Miller might prefer to go in with an open mind. If he needed to know more about the house, he could always ask. He didn’t.
‘Hmm. Sounds as if there’s certainly some kind of manifestation,’ he said. ‘Young children and animals can be far more sensitive to them than adults. Do they keep a dog or cat?’
‘Not that I’ve seen,’ said Nightingale. ‘So you’re saying kids can see things an adult can’t?’
‘It’s been well-documented, and it seems you’ve seen it for yourselves. Maybe there’s a trapped spirit associated with the house that we need to release.’
‘But it’s a new house.’
‘On the site of an old one, though. One of the oldest houses on Gable Street. I’ve looked into the history of it a little.’
Miller held up a hand.
‘No histories, no theories please. A spirit summoning
works better if I start with a blank slate.’
‘So you can summon a spirit even if you don’t know who it is?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Miller. ‘Whatever’s in that room, I’ll get it to come and show itself.’
Nightingale nodded. There was a fine line between confidence and over-confidence, and he hoped Miller could stay on the right side of it.
* * *
Nightingale parked the MGB in the garage, hefted Miller’s bag onto the floor, then led the way to the studio. This time the door was open, and Deadman was sprawled across one of the sofas, an acoustic guitar in hand, and a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the arm. Nightingale gave the cigarette a questioning look.
‘Cat’s away,’ said Deadman. ‘Light up if you want to gentlemen. The air conditioning will get rid of the smell long before Mary gets back. If she ever does get back that is.’
Nightingale introduced Miller and the two men nodded at each other, Deadman waved Miller to a seat.
‘Rough day, Jimmy?’ asked Nightingale.
‘What do you think? My wife and kids can’t live in the house I’ve always dreamed of. I’m free to eat all the pizza and smoke all the cigarettes I want, but it isn’t worth shit. If you guys can’t clean out whatever’s in this place, I might as well torch it and claim the insurance.’
‘They’d catch you,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’re probably right,’ said Deadman, and put the guitar down. ‘Adrian, I’m sorry, my manners are usually better than this, this thing has finally got me down. Help yourself to coffee from the machine, I can call for takeout if you tell me what you’d like.’
‘No thank you,’ said Miller. ‘I prefer not to eat or drink before a summoning, I find it sharpens my senses. I don’t smoke, and I’ll need to ask you not to in the room we use. Impurities can make things more difficult.’
‘Sure,’ said Deadman. He held up the cigarette. ‘This’ll be my last one for today, guess I’ve lost the taste for it. How do we play this?’ He took a last drag on it and stubbed it out in an ashtray.
‘Well, first I’ll need to see the room where most of the manifestations have happened. Maybe I can pick up some helpful vibrations. Jack tells me they’re mostly around midnight, so that’s when we’ll do the summoning. I’ll need an hour or so to set up my stuff. How many people are in the house?’
The House On Gable Street (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Page 8
