“Talk to me, Lindsey. Let’s have it, every bit of it, and let’s have it now. Otherwise, I’m going to take you back to the boathouse, lock you in while I go up to the main house and get the SS Tahoe anchor, then I’m going to take you and it to the middle of this lake, tie it around your pretty little ass and toss you overboard.” Ham paused to let his threat sink in, staring into her wide and frightened eyes.
Which his eyes quickly mimicked when he heard that animal growl behind him. He released Lindsey and slowly, without threat, turned to face the giant, heartbroken man. “Take it easy, Gordo. Nobody’s going to hurt her.”
“I don’t care what she done,” he cried. “She’s my Lindsey. Don’t you ever hurt her. I don’t want to have to hurt you, okay? Can’t we just forget about this? I’ll bet Lindsey’s sorry, aren’t you, Linds?”
Lindsey’s pained eyes softened despite the ache of her wounds and her soul as she nodded for Gordo’s benefit.
“See?” he said, “I told you. Blake, she wouldn’t have hurt you, or Russ, or anybody else. I know Lindsey, and I know she wouldn’t ever do anything wrong. Not on purpose. It had to be that Carson guy.”
Blake’s sad eyes blinked back tears but he said nothing until an air horn shattered the stillness within and without the cabin. Glancing out the side window, they saw Russ give a thumbs up and pull quickly away from the Tahoe Too’s side. With a loud “Hang on,” Blake goosed the engine and the ship, despite her impressive size, leaped forward as if eager to seize the distance. He swung her on a wide arc and kept the throttle open as he sped back to his pier where, they hoped, help would soon arrive.
Ham swerved around to find Gordo easing Lindsey into an oversized and overstuffed captain’s chair. No need to try to talk to her now, he decided, not over the noise of engine and wind. He wouldn’t hear any replies she might make anyway. Besides, it was an opportunity to turn his attention to Drew.
He still was uncertain, though not entirely. He rather believed Carson’s death confession that Drew wasn’t involved, but still, it was a bit curious that she’d cornered him, ended up working with him behind Ham’s back those first hours and days in Hawaii. Very strange, indeed.
Drew was sitting up, leaning against the wall, hand on her gut, blood oozing out between her fingers. “It looks worse than it is,” she grunted when Ham squatted down by her side. “Just a scratch.”
Ham pried her fingers away, saw the entrance wound and knew two things. One, this was no damn scratch. And two, without immediate medical care she’d either bleed out or develop a fatal infection. Either way, her time was short without the proper help.
“Hang in there, Drew, we’re almost back to the dock. Help is on the way.”
Drew coughed, spitting up some blood along with the breath. “I wasn’t part of it, Ham. I promise you. That little fucking weasel set me up.” Glancing over at his immobile body, she spat, “I wish he’d come back to life so I could kill him.”
“You can’t kill a ghost,” Ham smiled wryly. “I got that on the highest authority.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “So I’ve been told. But,” she added with a nod towards Carson’s lifeless form, “apparently you can if he’s just a trainee.”
DAY 5
19
LET IT BE
Ham awoke to sun washed brilliance, a heavenly gift so bright that it might have been sent especially to cleanse his battle torn body. Rays of warmth and beauty shafted through the picture window, unimpeded by the heavy draperies he’d left unfurled the night before. Eagerly, he bounded out of bed, ignored the sharp pangs of breathtaking frigid air nipping at his bare legs and chest, and stood immobile in front of those windows, the ones that framed Earth’s greatest treasure.
Daybreak at Tahoe, the sun toying with the glass-like water, alighting here, bouncing there, a merriment of beauty. Nothing could be more majestic, more exquisite, he marveled. Here in God’s paradise, captured by majesty, and all right in this world. His world, this unbelievable cocoon of grandeur and luxury that now would remain so to him, to the Superstar and his daughter, and to Blake’s millions and millions of fans. Here was God’s design perfected, pure and simple, no more and no less than that.
He stretched lazily, drinking in the sunrise, before the icy air forced him back under the covers. Cocooning himself within their warmth, he inhaled the briskness, a smile of contentment chasing away the tight lipped chill of a few seconds ago. This, he decided, this was life. Not just “the life,” but life itself.
Ham inhaled another brisk lungful of alpine air, thankful for this morning, for the end of another work week. A work week that had found him in Hawaii, meeting one of the greatest and most famous rock stars in the world, witnessing a cop’s murder, meeting a ghost and her trainee—not to mention her acolytes—flying first class and private class, and ending with a shootout on a replica liner in the middle of Lake Tahoe. Then of course there was the $300,000 deposit he’d made to his account as payment for his work.
Yep, just another week. Another Day In The Life.
Despite the chill, the promise of freshly brewed coffee pulled him out from under the warmth and comfort of the blankets and into his robe and slippers. Though still chilled in the less than adequate clothing, he descended into the kitchen, set the pot to brew and waited patiently for the beep, beep that would indicate success.
All was well, as far as he was concerned, and he felt about as good as he’d ever allowed himself to be. A rush of optimism hit him and for once in his cynical life he not only allowed it in, he savored the touch.
And why not? His shoulder had required little more than a few stitches, and not even that for his right arm. As for Drew, she was going to be fine, just a few days in the hospital following the surgery she’d had yesterday to remove the bullet and to rearrange and fix some surprisingly minor internal damage. She had been lucky indeed.
As had he. Charlie had thanked him with a private dinner up in her room, complete with kisses and an unspoken promise for the future. Who knows, he thought, it could happen. It can always happen—if you believe.
He’d have more than enough money to pay his own way, too. Blake had made good on that second check, the one for the matching $150,000 late yesterday afternoon, in time for Ham to make an electronic deposit to his account…for $300,000. Unbelievable. But, he giggled, it really wasn’t that surprising. After all, he’d always believed, always expected that good things were just around the corner.
Hadn’t he? Wasn’t that what Martina meant by that “Walter Mitty of pessimists” crack?
Whatever, it had turned into a wild afternoon for The Superstars, him and Charlie. Blake and Russ were fairly drunk by the time Blake jumped the gun and forced the second check on Ham. He did it, he claimed, because he wanted Ham to have enough money to treat his daughter to a really good time tonight, maybe over at State Line, with a sumptuous dinner and maybe a show and besides, it was only a matter of hours before midnight when the check was due anyway. So take it, he insisted, and if I die before midnight you can return the balance to Charlie. Either way, you earned the first $150 thou, he’d grinned. And as for the show, just let him know, he’d arrange it. No need to worry about the show being sold out, not when it was Blake Garrett and Russ Porter asking.
Best of all, he’d solved it, he’d saved the day, he was a hero to the rock and roll world, even though that world was unaware of it. He’d saved the king and his court, and he’d brought the culprits to the fury of his justice. Even as he’d rushed with Drew to the hospital, having forced his way into the ambulance at gunpoint, he’d phoned his friend Danny at the California Highway Patrol, gave him a quick lowdown, and let him take care of the details for the arrest of Lindsey’s stepdad, one Barry Warren, late of Los Angeles, currently a resident of the Los Angeles County Jail. Next stop for poor Barry was Honolulu, where he’d face first degree murder charges in the death of the cop he’d shot before he’d left that fake bomb at Blake’s door. A busy boy was our naughty Mr. Warre
n, Ham sighed.
As for Lindsey, she was in intensive care. Her injuries were more serious than had appeared and she was a touch and go project according to the doctors at Barton Memorial Hospital. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted her to make it or not. All she had to look forward to, if she happened to live, was life in a Hawaiian prison for accessory and conspiracy to murder. At that, she and her stepdad were lucky. Hawaii had no death penalty.
The electronic notice of a brewed pot interrupted Ham’s reveries and he responded to its prompt by pouring himself a large cup before dashing up the stairs, back to his room and under the covers. He grabbed the long sleeved tee shirt he’d left on the nearby chair and threw it on so as to fend off the chill from his chest. Successful in that endeavor, he propped himself against the overstuffed goose down pillows and took his first and very large swig of steaming hot coffee. He felt it burn its way down his throat and sighed with contentment.
He had one real regret, the pain he’d caused Gordo. He was the one Ham felt most sorry for, the big lug of guy with a heart too large for even his supersized body. Despite his pleas, Gordo had been denied entrance to his wife’s bedside prior to surgery, had not been allowed entrance into ICU following surgery, and now they refused him visitation in her room. She was being held prisoner, permitted no visitors, had yet to be considered for bond, though she did have an attorney, a very good criminal attorney from Sacramento that Blake had hired for her, a generosity that spoke volumes about a certain rock superstar.
Fortunately, that had been it, just the three conspirators, in their well thought out and elaborate plot. Whether they really would have killed Blake he rather doubted, but they did kill the cop, so…
According to Barry Warren’s confession, they’d spent more than a year planning the extortion attempt. Every detail had been planned—except for the cop. Barry hadn’t meant to hit him. His aim, usually outstanding, as with through Blake’s windows, was off that one time, off just enough to cost a man, a good, honest cop, his life.
All they had wanted was four million dollars each, hence the total of twelve million in extortion. To them, four million was all the money they’d ever need, and Blake, with his wealth, wouldn’t even notice the loss of such a small amount. It was only fair, as far as they were concerned. He was an old man, older than Barry even, and they still had their whole lives ahead of them. And if Blake had died, Lindsey would get a few lousy bucks and be out in the cold whenever Charlie tired of her. Was that fair? After all her fierce loyalty and hard work?
Ham sighed at the pointlessness of it all, letting his gaze wander to the massive windows and the blue stretch of water beyond. It was all so beautiful. So gorgeous and peaceful.
Until Martina appeared. She just…appeared. One moment there was nothing in front of him save the sights out the window, the next there she stood, replete with white radiance and shrouded by the backlit sun.
After spilling hot liquid down his shirt, and after he caught his breath and his mind finally acknowledged the obvious, he shook his head in wonder and a newfound—and confounded—belief. “You’re real?” he marveled. “You’re really what you claim you are? Or is this another vision?”
“I’m really what I claim.”
“Can you…you know, disappear for a minute? Without moving, just…vanish.”
“And why would I do that, dear?”
Ham briefly perceived that she seemed to lack her usual humor, her normal wit, the sense of joy and playfulness he’d come to expect from her in his few previous encounters. Her answers, now, this time, came across as uninspired, offhand, as though the questions they addressed lacked importance enough to even acknowledge.
But that didn’t matter right now. He had to know.
“Just prove to me once and for all that you’re real. Carson told me that he wasn’t far enough along to be able to appear and disappear at will, that that took extensive training. So show me you have it.”
Martina’s once solid body sparkled in and out among the dots of light that floated in and through the window. She blinked in and out, once, twice…and was gone. “Satisfied?” came her disembodied voice from in front of the window. “Shall I return?” At his nod she did just that.
Ham jumped out of bed, clad only in shirt and underwear, unconcerned by his near nudity. He reached the window, jaw drooping, and demanded, “Again. Do it again.”
She did. He attempted to feel her, to wrap arms around the nothingness, but there was in fact a nothingness that faced him, with naught to touch. “Say something.”
He felt cold air brush his cheeks when she replied, “I’m tired of this game, Ham, and that’s not why I’m here.”
She reappeared and her eyes told him to prepare himself. “You’re going to need to get dressed,” she informed him. “Although there’s no real hurry, unfortunately.”
“What is it?” Ham asked warily. “What’s going on, Martina?”
“Get dressed, dear. Then we’ll talk.”
He did as instructed, pulling on long underwear, wool socks, boots, jeans, turtleneck and sweater. “Okay, give it to me. What’s going on now? Is Blake still in danger?”
Martina’s eyes were the saddest he’d ever seen, of anybody alive or dead. Her face fell as she informed him, “Blake has passed on, dear. He died early this morning, shortly after midnight. It was a heart attack, here at home, at Tahoe, in his bed, where he wanted to be when he went. It was peaceful. No pain. He died in his sleep.”
Ham fell back upon the bed, tripping over the side, not in control of his own body. His mouth opened, shut, opened, trying to form words, to find words, but nothing, nothing came out—except short anguished sobs of disbelief. “This can’t be happening,” he finally whispered. “You’re lying. Aren’t you?”
“I was by his side when he passed. It was his karma, dear. I was not allowed to interfere.”
When Ham’s voice returned in full, it returned with a roar. “What the fuck do you mean you couldn’t interfere? How the hell could you sit here and tell me that? You liar! You interfered out the freaking wazoo for the past week, you made everybody think Blake was going to be shot, you wait until I put a stop to it, until after Drew gets shot, Lindsey and her dad arrested and Carson dies, and then you tell me you couldn’t interfere? How dare you?”
“It was his karma.”
“How the fuck would you know what his karma was,” he responded bitterly. “You didn’t even know that Carson wasn’t a goddamn ghost.”
“Oh, honey,” she sighed. “Of course I knew. I can’t be fooled that way.”
“Then why...?”
“That was his karma, dear. He was fated to die in that way, at that time, and for those sins. I simply helped him along his path to spirituality.”
“So now will he be your trainee?” I’m babbling, Ham thought. An idiot.
“No, dear. He’s in another place. He’s got a lot to atone for. But I’ll be there when he’s ready, yes.”
Ham buried his face in his hands and let the tears fall unchecked, unnoticed even. His quiet heaving breaths soon swelled into loud, aching sobs of grief and disbelieving pain. “I failed him,” he whispered. “I failed him in the end.”
Martina perched herself on the bed next to him and wrapped one arm around his shaking shoulders. “Go ahead, dear, it’s healthy. But when you’re done, remember, he’s not really gone. He’s just gone for us.”
Ham’s head jerked up, eyes wide with hope. “Is he a ghost? Will we get to see him?”
Martina sighed as she shook her head. “I don’t know these things, honey. I’m not in that loop, so to speak. Blake was a very special man, a very good man, who earned a lot of consideration. Whether he sticks around for awhile as a ghost or not will be his choice. But even if he does, that doesn’t mean that we’ll see him. He’ll have reasons for staying if that’s what he does.”
“You mean like you,” Ham asked. “To teach, maybe, or to…what? What do you do except this psychic nonsense?”
“Well, for starters,” he snapped, “how about that he’s going to be shot and that it was supposed to happen yesterday? Pretty ironic, isn’t it?” he said sourly. “More than that, I was paid to protect him and now I find out I was paid to protect him from God. And that can’t be done, now can it?” Ham added gloomily.
Martina cradled his face with her hands, forcing him to look into her eyes. “Listen to me, Ham, and listen good. There are many things we are simply not meant to know. There are other things that we are intended to find out if we seek. That’s what I do, I seek. This enables me to help people along their paths.”
“You didn’t help Blake. Blake’s dead.”
“Yes, dear, he is, and he earned it. It was a test.”
“It was a test for me,” Ham whispered miserably. “I failed. I failed him.”
“Dear Ham, no. It was a test for Blake. And he passed. With such flying colors that it was time for him to come home. That’s what I meant by saying he earned it.”
“Jesus Christ. My dear God.”
“No. Just a ghost.”
Ham’s head snapped up and he opened his mouth, about to snap an angry reply, when he saw Martina’s gentle smile aimed his way. “Right,” he smiled. “But why did you think he was going to be shot? And why yesterday? Did I somehow screw this up? Is that why he’s dead today?”
“I saw a hole in his heart. I saw a gun. Both of those occurred, but not together. You see? As for why yesterday, that was a silly error on the part of the coroner’s department. When you go there today, as you must, you’ll see the desk calendar that I told you about, the one I saw in my vision. It will read Saturday, yesterday’s date. Someone in the office forgot to tear off the page. Of such small things are fates made.”
“What happens now, Martina? What does the future hold for the rest of us? Me? Charlie? Drew? You?”
The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1) Page 27
